Daise

@cursed(your)wombz huh?

He had a pitch-black profile picture and a layout with nothing of note, a banner as equally colorless and unnotable, and a simple bio stating: 

I know what you want…

- C.

And beneath that was a link.

It stood out stark against the black background. You don’t click on it, of course- for fear of being something malicious, you’re avoiding it like you’d avoid a minefield. 

You’ve already heard one too many horror stories on here about such things. One click and you’d find your address posted somewhere. Instead, your eyes drop to the number of followers he had…and your eyebrows are immediately shooting up.

0 Following.

581k Followers.

Now that makes you blink.

Okay- alright, maybe it wasn’t the most astounding number you’ve ever seen throughout your expansive time on the Internet - but it was still niche celebrity-status. Especially on this app. Especially to be stalking an account like yours…where all you did was repost the stray picture of a pretty landscape or yell into the aether about your missing assignments for your friends to comment on. 

Now that was a little strange.

And so you’re scrolling down.

And you never quite know what you’re in for whenever you enter the realm of a person’s account—fanfiction with tags you never knew existed, one part of an argument on social media that really shouldn’t exist, mpreg. 

Which was all fine and dandy to be quite honest- you just never expect to be met with the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The first picture you’re seeing- pinned.

Posted just an hour ago. It’s a mirror selfie taken at a low angle; of a man with his body angled towards the lens and his phone covering his face. In nothing but a towel. With nothing but his chiselled body. His beefy arms flexed as he takes the picture, biceps rippled with a few veins—though still lean and almost smooth to the touch. Pierced nipples. Defined abs. Your eyes linger on the sparse dusting of dark hair leading below, below, below his fluffy white towel…

The picture cuts off just a few inches past his navel. You know because you’re enlarging it.

The photo is almost vampiric in nature.

Somehow. 

Dimly-lit. Beautiful—he clearly knew his angles and lighting. It’s slightly blurry and you can’t make out much of the man’s features - nothing more than the slender length of his fingers, silver rings, and the outline of his dark (perhaps brown?) hair. Touching his shoulders. From just above the hem of his towel, the amorphous blur of a tattoo snakes down his left v-line - and no matter how much you’re zooming in, you can’t quite figure out what it is. 

Something twists at the pit of your stomach as you’re latching your eyes onto the very obvious bulge he was sporting through the towel - very.

The flash created a shadow of his lengthy cock—oh. Hanging between thick thighs, heavy and needy. And it also illuminated the slight dampness clinging onto his body; perhaps he’d just gotten out of the shower, or was about to take on after a workout. 

Whichever scenario it was, both made your thighs clench- fuck.

Fingers slightly shaky, you’re exiting out of the picture and scrolling down for more. 

The next post is a video seemingly taken from the very same instance: it was from the point of view of the beautiful man. Facing downwards, as he zoomed the camera in on his bulge and ran one vein-covered, ringed hand down his abs- down his pelvis- down to that throbbing erection and squeezed himself through his towel. 

And then through your speakers echoes out the most pornographic moan. 

Thank goodness your dorm had thick walls. 

And that’s when you decide that you’ve seen enough.

Not enough as in enough enough to block this strange man and move on with your life- of course, not. As quickly as your fingers would possibly let you, you’re exiting out of the video and scrolling up to a bio that seemed to have more to hide than the first time you read through it. 

The link stands mockingly stark - almost winking at you - against the dark background. You think you know what it is.

And you click on it.

Suddenly, your laptop screen’s flooding with a gaudy pink color. A loading circle swivels in the middle of it for a few seconds, before you’re met with a logo in swooping, slanted black script: C4mBoyfriends. Better than that boy in your dms.

Rapidly, you’re opening up a new tab and typing in the name.

“C4mBoyfriends is an adult streaming platform that hosts webcam performers that choose to label themselves as male. Here they can stream live video, post photographs, and interact on forums with a wide array of paying viewers—for a range of content catering to specific niches or sexual roleplays. C4mBoyfriends, since its recent launch, has shot up in the industry as one of the most-visited adult sites and the safest for its performers. All cuts go to the performers themselves and the site runs on separate donations from its audience.”

Ah- you’d guessed right.

Excitement burbles at the pit of your stomach for a few seconds. You’re clicking back onto the tab with the pink logo, and finding that it’d stopped loading.

It was in the layout of a streaming device, with static images of ongoing streams on one side of the platform, and different pages listed out on top. But what took up the majority of your screen was the vision of the very same man from before- from the mirror selfie, from the video.

This time, it was a stream.

@cursed(your)wombz is streaming—#1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends [101 week streak]. [Only solo]. Your internet boyfriend <3

0 Subscribed.

820k Subscribers.

455k Currently watching.

This time, he had his towel lifted up and his hands fisted around his fat cock.

Perfectly angled. 

Your jaw drops. He was about eight- maybe more inches, though you weren’t in the state to count. Way too entranced by the way his veiny, ring-decorated hands were wrapped around his cock. Large. He was just so loooong and standing tall between wide-spread legs, shiverin’ every time he’s gliding his hand up and down. Up and down. 

Again and again.

Getting faster by the second before he arches-

The edge of his thumb’s reaching for his ruby-red crown—then smearing the glistening liquid that just kept on foaming from the top. He lathers it upon his palm and drags it down his hot erection, making every inch gleam underneath the off-camera lighting.

You’re clicking on a button to increase your volume.

And just in time, too, because then he snakes his left hand down and squeezes his heavy balls- letting out a botched groan that leaves your shorts oh-so-wet. 

Deep and guttural; there’s a slight quiver in them as he whispers. “F-fuck.” Just so full and sensitive—the man’s head tips backwards and his hips buck off the cushioned chair. Sluttily. As though he was fucking something invisible. It’s creaking ever-so-slightly as he settles back down, composing himself just a little bit before he starts cumming.

Pearly white droplets of cum. 

Beading from the very top of his shaft - where he was the most pink n’ angry - shaking as he empties out. Globs of it start to glide down his length, and a few more collect where his silver Prince Albert’s piercing was positioned right beneath his mushroomy tip.

You’re just letting your eyes linger upon that little heap of satiny sap, when the man thumbs upwards and smears that, too. Such a mess.

And you think that might be all- but then he’s reaching his non-dominant hand upwards and pressing down on his frothing cockhead. Stopping himself from cumming - and as he leans to the side, you swear you’re glimpsing the twinkle of even more piercings on the upper side of his shaft. Was that…a Jacob’s ladder?

You’re rendered so damn speechless that you almost don’t register him speaking- “Awwww, did my pretty sluts wanna watch me cum?” 

A shiver runs down your spine at the hitched tone of his voice- drunk on lust. He’s slightly slurring. So alluring, you almost catch yourself nodding.

“Well, too bad.” The man meanly snickers, before he’s suddenly reaching out with his non-dominant hand and angling it higher. The screen shifts to display that very same mouth-watering body from the picture—though, this time with the addition of a black-and-white mask that covered his features from forehead to his sharp jawline. 

The only opening in it was a concave cutout for his mouth - almost reminiscent of a Phantom of the Opera mask. In the background was a clearly expensive bedroom of a clearly expensive home - far different from your single dorm - an artwork that you couldn’t name on the wall behind him. Something like a photograph or a portrait. Something about it was so precise- so cinematic. Like watching a movie scene. He continues, “Because you know why? You don’t deserve it.”

There’s a flurry of comments on one side of the screen, so fast that you wonder how he reads it.

“Didn’t I tell you to spam me with your nastiest stories in the chat?” He asks, and from beneath his mask you catch the outline of dark eyes shifting down those hurried words. Those needy comments. “None of you are nasty enough, so none of you get to see me cum…”

You’re tearing your eyes off of him to peruse what they were saying.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: nuuuuuu please, curse! i’ll get on my knees!!

@vampzo333: me too ME TOO

@likezmenpregnant: My story about the body pillow wasn’t nasty enough? TT

@CCpervnextdoor: AWWWW I’m begging~

@Curse’swifey: I’LL PAY YOU EXTRA PLEASEEEEEEE

@Curse’swifey donated 500 cherries.

“Tch- what a desperate bunch. Just fucking look at yourselves…” And though his words weren’t in the least bit nice, you couldn’t deny just how badly he made your cunt twinge. 

Curse…that’s what his name was, huh?

You’re squeezing your thighs together- your sleep shorts were definitely soaked. 

Curse rolls out the kinks in his neck just a little, and stares down at the camera with a crooked grin. “But that’s not gonna be enough. I said to be nasty- so be nasty.” The active chat becomes nothing but a blur once more: pleas, donations, stories half-typed in their urgency. “And in return I’ll moan whatever name you want me to moan when I cum.”

Before you know it, you’re opening up the sign-up page in a new tab.

Keeping Curse’s livestream playing in the background as you zip through your details. You’re picking out a username for yourself: Ietsmakeamovie and hastily going back to the ongoing stream with your newfound handle. Was it too obvious to make it the same username as your other account? The one that he had stalked?

Fuck- you’re too wound up to think of something else at this point. You decide that you’ll change it later…

Luckily, Curse’s stream didn’t have a paying threshold before you could comment. And you’re jittery with excitement as you pull the laptop closer to yourself and start typing out something—hitting send before you could overthink it.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Seeing you is the first time I’ve gotten this wet.

Curse’s eyes drift down the chat, and he seems to latch onto something. Eyes widening just a fraction.

“The first time?”

Fuck.

You’re feeling a jolt at the way he addresses you - never expecting him to pick out that comment amongst tens of thousands of others that were uttering even filthier things. Curse leans in and speaks with his deep tone, “Those other boys didn’t know how to treat a perfect pussy like yours, huh? This is why they call me the Internet boyfriend, baby.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Yeah.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Fuck, you’re so hot.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t even wanna look away to touch myself.

You feel embarrassed typing it all out - but you console yourself with the notion that no one here knows who you are. And you don’t know anyone here, either.

Curse leans back and starts pumping his cock even harder—taking his left hand off the drivelling top. His milky-white precum is frenzied n’ sticks to his hand like glue, and the chat grows more and more excited as Curse’s actions do the same.

“That’s alright, baby, you don’t have to finger yourself.” He chuckles, eyes locked on the comments. “I’d be doing that for you if I was there.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Wish you were. You’d reach so much deeper.

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 1000 cherries.

“Fuh-fuck—” He hisses, head throwing back in his chair. You take the time to admire the lines of his prominent Adam’s apple - the way it bobs every time he’s taking a shaky swallow. “No need to donate or anything, baby, just keep- ngh, talking t’me like this and that’s enough…”

@0003h0lesforCurse: holy shit. i’ve never seen him like this.

@CCpervnextdoor: Needy Curse I like it~

@bewbsRlife: KEEP GOING OP KEEP GOING!!

You giggle to yourself.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Enough to make you cum, Curse?

“Greedy, greedy girl…” Through the slightest gaps in his mask you’re catching the way his nose crinkles in amusement. A wolfish smile. “S’that what you all want?”

The chat explodes in agreement.

He cocks his head, “Movie?”

Was that your new nickname now? Hastily, you reply-

@Ietsmakeamovie: Mhm.

“Well then…” He grins, toned body arching off the chair. “Get ready for a show—” Darkened gaze narrowing at the comments, “And you better not take your eyes off of me for a single second- hump your damn pillows if you have to. I don’t care.”

Quickly grabbing your own puffy pillow, you’re stuffing it between your legs.

Right as Curse lets his head loll backwards- and his cum drizzles out of his cock. He’s been edging the poor viewers and overstimulatin’ himself for so fucking long now—all it takes is a few pumps to let the cascade of white coat his hands and his rings. Just the slightest bit of silver peaking through.

Hard and fast.

The man’s cockhead flushes even redder as he drags his high out deliciously. Every burst of dopamine. Every heaving pant. Every pretty moan escaping him. 

It seems to be ramming into him in waves- gooey ribbons of seed coat his digits. Getting smeared like a gloss across eeeeevery single inch, ridge, and vein—and since Curse’s pace was something furious, a few globs of cum splatter across the towel and onto his thighs. A mess that he’s seeming to love.

Because in the next few seconds, he’s wrung out just the final bits of pleasure in him- and is raising his cum-coated fingers up to his mouth and sucking. Staring straight into the camera lens as he does so.

You’re watching slack-jawed as those long, lacquered digits disappear between his lips. Finishin’ them off squeaky clean and letting his head tip to the side.

He mouths, “Movie—”

Part of your username.

Though you hadn’t asked for him to moan your name, as he’d promised to do to one of the viewers had they been nasty enough. And this special treatment…

Maybe he did it to every new viewer. Maybe he just liked how much you complimented him- though everyone else did, too. Either way, it’s perhaps what sets off the bursts of electricity between your legs—and soon enough you’re hurtling into a high you hadn’t even realized had been building up and up and up.

Your lashes flutter shut as the orgasm overtakes you. 

Hips ruttin’ away into the plushness of your pillow- you wonder just how much better riding him would be…

And that’s setting off a whole new layer of dopamine at your core, your cunt quiverin’ as white-hot pleasure makes your heartbeat throb in your ears. Chest pounding. Breaths heavy.

By the time you’ve finished pushing through your high, you’re coming to find that Curse had somewhat cleaned himself up with the towel and was bantering back n’ forth with the chat. He rests his head on one hand and sweeps his eyes down the usernames, “What happened to dear Movie, huh?” Curse pretends to pout. “The first stream wasn’t too much for her, right?”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: kekekeke you’re too freaky, curse!!

@CCpervnextdoor: So dirty~

@daddytoeknee: Must thank Movie for the show though…

Urgently, you’re gathering yourself and tapping a few buttons on-screen.

@Ietsmakeamovie subscribed to @cursed(your)wombz. 

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 2500 cherries.

@Ietsmakeamovie: It’d never be too much.

“Ahhh, there you are.” Such a beautiful smile smears across his face, and Curse’s leaning in to take a closer look at the comments. “And thank you for subscribing, same time tomorrow?”

You’re unsure whether that was directed at you or everyone viewing- but you’re chiming in agreement alongside the rest of the comments. And Curse reads through them, lingering for just a little while longer before he grins.

“Heh- bye, sluts.”

And he covers the camera, the stream cuts off. 

Yet your heart still thunders.

Ignoring the time at the bottom of your laptop screen, you’re then clicking on his profile and scrolling through what other videos he had…

.

.

.

It was your fault that you kept dozing off.

Honestly. 

You should have known better- and you know that you should’ve known better…but you couldn’t help yourself. After Curse’s initial stream, you spent some time browsing through the numerous photographs and short clips that he’d posted; there were even some saved streams that were each dirtier than the last—each with his attractive mask and his even more attractive voice, his sensual cock getting pumped over and over for the audiences.

And so you’d left a few comments, a few hearts.

Throughout all of them, you made the peculiar discovery that they were all more high-quality than the last. The standard of being the #1 on the site, you guess. But the lighting and angles were all just so perfect…

You’d watched them for just a little while- at least, what you’d thought was a little while. Because by the time you’re realizing that your laptop battery was dying, and your eyes were tired, you’re turning your head in the direction of the dorm windows and- fuck.

Why was the Sun coming up?

And so you’d rushed to get at least half an hour of sleep before you had to get up for your 8AM lecture. 

Professor Yaga taught Film 101 as though he was trying to scare everyone off it. Rigorous coursework and never-altered deadlines. Though you yourself wouldn’t consider him an unreasonable man, it was impertinent to be punctual and alert in his classes - and right now, you were feeling neither of those. 

By the grace of the universe, you’re somehow managing to stumble into class just two minutes after it starts. It’s not enough to rouse Yaga’s anger - and either way, you had made a name for yourself as one of his most avid students - though it does get you a sternly raised brow as you apologize and take the nearest open seat.

Just-so-happening to be in the very last row. 

At the very forgotten corner.

Right beside who you knew to be Yaga’s actually most avid student—Choso Kamo.

Had it been a race between the two of you - perhaps between the entire department - Choso would have finished five times before anyone’s even stepping past the finish line. You would’ve gotten second. And that wasn’t to diminish your abilities in any way - you’d long since proven yourself to be one of the best students this course had even seen - it’s just…Choso was a film nerd through and through. 

If there was anyone that could live up to such a title, then it was him.

Choso lived, slept, and breathed film and television. He could name any television show around the world with just a single frame, and most he could recite line-for-line. Oh, that? He learned Korean just to immerse himself in that scene in Parasite. That scene? It was from the 1957 Sri Lankan film Amba Yahaluwo, by the way did you know that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was filmed there, too?

Knitted vest. Hair in two messy space buns. 

Clunky glasses rested atop his nosebridge, and dark bangs covering most of his vision, you’d often see him tottering around campus with a column of books that was damn-near taller than him. And despite his towering demeanour - from your mental counting, Choso was around 6’2 or more - around most of the student body, he was the type that couldn’t meet your eyes no matter how many classes you shared with him.

Even now, as you seated right next to him and smiled- Choso softly yelps and turns away from.

You don’t take it personally, of course, as he was simply the shy type. And by the flush that rises to his high cheekbones, you know he - at the very least - doesn’t dislike you.

Situating yourself, you’re opening your bag and pulling out your laptop. Opening it- fuck.

The briefest flash of one of Curses’s previous streams—where he had his cock in his hands and his face contorted mid-ecstasy flashes across your screen. And you can’t slam your laptop shut fast enough- cracking it just the slightest bit to exit out of the numerous tabs, fingers nothing but a blur. Thank fuck your volume hadn’t been set on high.

Head ducked, you’re looking out from the corner of your eye to check whether Choso had seen anything. 

But if he did, he shows no indication.

Only keeping his back ramrod straight- his gaze ahead- his flush fiery as he listens to whatever Yaga was saying. 

And so you think you’re in the clear…for now…

Opening your laptop up once more, you’re logging onto your lecture platforms and attempting to forget about last night. Which was difficult when that smile upon Curse’s face, just beneath his mask - was the only thing running through your mind.

And before you know it, you’d been staring blankly at your screen for a few seconds—before Choso inches in just a centimeter closer. Unwilling to let himself take up even more space. He keeps his eyes trained ahead and his voice - fuck, you’d never heard his voice before but it was just so deep and measured, something you wouldn’t have expected out of him - low. 

Whispering to you, “H-he’s on Chapter 18 of Stone Butch Blues, we’re about to write a screenplay for the zoo scene.” 

“Ah…” You don’t know whether you’re more surprised at the timbre of his voice or the way he managed a proper sentence out to you. All your previous attempts at conversation throughout the semester had been futile—and you’d long resigned yourself to the idea that he was too nervous to ever talk to you. “Th-thank you.”

He doesn’t answer but nods in shy acknowledgement.

And as you’re opening up your file, you bask in the realization that Choso Kamo was actually hot underneath those glasses. If only you could see his features further…

Maybe you’re being a little delirious. Your eyes feel heavy. 

Heavy.

Heavier. 

Tap-tap-tap.

A shake.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

A warm hand on your shoulder, by the time you’re opening your eyes- you’re looking up into even warmer, molten chocolate-colored ones. They were framed by fawny eyelashes and thick glasses that made his shy gaze seem ever-so-slightly amplified. 

You think you’re stunned for a few seconds before Choso speaks, “U-um…class is over.”

“Oh.” That makes you dart your head up and look around, noticing that most of the students had filtered in or were in the process of already doing so. “Oh, shit-”

You’d seriously slept through all that?

And Yaga had left you alive?!

No, you weren’t going to question this act of mercy—thank goodness for the last row, because he likely hadn’t been able to see you. Shooting upright, you’re grabbing all your things and hoping you hadn’t snored next to the sweet boy - “Thank you so much for waking me.” You’re turning towards him and saying, earnestness seeping into your tone. “Knowing me, I would’ve slept right through till next class. Might actually have been more convenient.”

He startles into a laugh then raises a hand up to his mouth and quietens himself down, “It’s alright.” You’re staring closely at the little bells of laughter, and he turns his eyes downwards. Bashfully admitting, “Happens to me too, whenever I stay up um- studying. Long night?”

You sigh, “You could say that…” Not a long night studying, but…

And as the conversation quietens down and Choso worries down on his bottom lip, you’re hiking your backpack up on your shoulders and saying. “Well, I guess I should be going then. Catch up on the recordings of the lecture and everything-” Turning, “See you ‘round—and thanks again.”

You make all of five steps before Choso finally gathers up the courage to call out-

“Wait—!”

Confused, you’re facing him once more. “Yes?”

And his hand was out, his fingers were slightly trembling. He was mouthing out the words as though still debating whether to speak them into existence - whether he was capable of. “I…we-” Eventually mustering up the courage once you give a reassuring nod, “When will we meet up?”

That makes you pause.

Was he…

“F-for the assignment.” Choso clarifies, a flush rising to his cheeks as he likely realizes he should’ve led with that. “Professor Yaga’s mid-semester project he always does…”

Ah—you’re clapping a palm on your forehead. How could you have forgotten? Yaga had announced at the start of the semester that about halfway through, the class would be paired up or put into groups to work on a collaborative project that contributed to about 50% of your grade. This semester, it was to write a full-length movie screenplay for a book or musical of your choice. And you’d been excited for it, in fact, but after the…activities of last night it’d completely slipped your mind that he’d be delving more into it this lecture.

And the poor boy stumbles through his explanation, “H-he let everyone choose their partners, and I wanted to wake you up but…you just looked so peaceful.” He fidgets with his fingers and flushes, “I th-thought one of your friends would come up here and choose you but-”

Probing him gently, “But?”

“B-but I’m afraid you ended up paired with me.” Choso just looks so genuinely apologetic- “I’m sorry- no one picked me either. I should’ve woken you up, but we can go talk with Professor Yaga about changing partners if you’d like-”

“Hey—wait.” You’re cutting off his spiel, something in your chest aching at the utterly devastated furrow between his brows. You take a step closer to him, “I would love to do the project with you, Choso. No need to talk to Yaga about anything.”

He looks up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “B-but your friends…”

“I don’t really have close friends in this class, anyway.” You smile, “I’d much rather do it with you.”

“Really—?” Breathed. As if he couldn’t believe it.

And it’s after some time - and a deep inhale - that he speaks again. Finally sinking in that someone would choose him of all people—that you would, that he speaks again. “And um- would you like to work on the script at my place?” Before you can answer, his breath hitches and his head shoots up. “N-not that I’m pressuring you into…it’s nothing weird, I promise! We can meet anywhere else you like- the library, your place- wait, no that’s weird, too…”

“Choso- Choso.” You giggle. And if this was anyone else then you would’ve assumed that they were putting the moves on you. “I’m okay with your place.”

.

.

.

The apartment was a fair distance away from the campus dorms. 

Which made sense, you suppose, given the fact that less than half the people there would be able to afford the rent on such a place—especially after tuition. The highrise dove into the clouds, its vermicular body scaled in glistening windows and gold-accented furnishings within. You got the distinct feeling of being swallowed whole as you entered through the widely-gaped entrance, with several doormen and security that eyed you up and down, bowed at Choso.

You thanked them and made your way - slightly speechless - through the hallways.

This was everything you could ever dream of, and you’re sure you spot the odd actor or two down in the lobby. As you’re getting into an elevator the size of your entire dorm room, Choso punches in one of the highest floor numbers and turns to you-

Throughout the bus ride here, you’d been the one chattering away. And so it surprises you once he finally speaks, “I-I’m sorry…my place is a bit of a mess.”

“Can’t be as bad as mine. I won’t judge.” Who cares about a mess when he lives in a place like this? You couldn’t wait to go inside…

He pushes his chunky glasses upwards and gives you a shy smile, “Thank you.” Looking down at his polished shoes, “You’re so sweet.”

“Thank you.” 

And you rise upwards in silence.

Soon enough, you’re finding yourself being led up to his massive apartment. He’s punching in the numbers of the code and setting his backpack down—telling you to make yourself comfortable. And you shuffle inside awkwardly; past the lavish furnishings and the alien-shaped lamps that all rich places seemed to boast. 

He leads you in the direction of the master bedroom - where Choso said that his film collection was vast and likely to reveal techniques that the two of you would be able to incorporate into your own script.

“I even have a copy of Momijigari- it’s one of my most prized possessions.” He shoots you such a charming smile, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, over his shoulder. Heading inside. 

And you can’t help but follow.

A single step inside his not-so-humble abode and you’re feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu wash over you, rendering you unsteady on your feet. Not quite sure why, you’re sweeping your eyes around the space: the high-quality camera equipment in one corner (not unusual to see for a film student), the chic furnishings, and then over to the empty wall space above the king-sized bed, something in you remained dissatisfied as they find nothing there but white plaster.

Choso notices that you’ve stalled behind and looks over at you curiously—he was taking a seat on the carpet, laptop opened up on top of the coffee table. “Something wrong? I’m sorry, I know it’s really messy but-”

“No, you’re good.” You shake your head, “It’s actually not messy enough.”

He smiles.

That night, you went home and wondered why Choso’s smile looked so familiar.

.

.

.

The musical that you’d chosen for your ‘adaptation’ was The Phantom of the Opera, suggested by you, of course.

And if there had been any connection to the masked man you’d been watching the night prior, then you were just glad that Choso had no idea.

It was far easier, given the fact that it’d already been adapted from the initial novel—though that only meant that Yaga would be critiquing yours even harder. 

So you had to strive to be more cinematic, than the others in your class, stronger in ways than the ones before you - and though you doubt you’d ever match up to Schumacher’s visuals, there was little doubt as to whether you’d be the best amongst the students. This was a screenplay made to impress, and in the week since you’d pored over it—and Choso Kamo’s mahogany coffee table typing away at it, you only grew more determined in the fact. And throughout the week, you’ve been flitting in and out of that very apartment of his.

Choso had been a lovely partner for the project - the best you could’ve ever asked for - and you’re coming to find that he was actually far more funny than anyone ever gave him credit for. Far more open. Far more active when it came to something he was passionate about.

And of course, you knew that he’d be sweet.

Despite his initial insistence that he could do the project himself, you’d taken up half the work. And you’d joined him in browsing through his massive catalogue of movies, in searching up screenplays to read, and in annotating them for techniques when starting to write yours.

You’ve come to make friends with one of the doormen by now. 

Just today you’d watched the 2004 Phantom of the Opera adaptation. And after a few hours of occupying his space and getting to know the nerdy boy a little better, you’d go straight back home to…Curse.

Whenever Choso made you feel tingly with his sweetness, Curse would amplify that heat to right between your legs. 

It’s been a week of getting to know Choso Kamo, and a week of having Curse splashed across your laptop screen—cock furiously hard n’ his moans echoing. He’d smile and utter your username whilst wearing his iconic mask and it’d be a high strong enough to follow into the day after. And often Choso would ask you what you’re so happy about.

Today, in particular, Curse had just finished one of his streams - cumming aaaaaall over the desk this time - when he’d settled himself back down and started chatting with the comments. Responding to one or two of yours.

You’re just about to joke about why he was sticking so long after his orgasm when he speaks once more- 

Voice somewhat serious, “Alright, now…settle down, settle down.” Curse waves his hand airily at the camera, throwing a middle finger up when the chat only gets more frenzied. “Tch- what brats you all are, would you wanna roleplay that someday?”

@vampzo333: YES PLEASE.

@likezmenpregnant: How about you be the brat…?

@Ietsmakeamovie: I would like that. 

@sixeyesorsixh0les: ^^

@0003h0lesforCurse: ^

“Fine fine…” Underneath the mask, he rolls his eyes fondly. “But I really do have something to announce-”

@likezmenpregnant: You’re pregnant.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I’m the father-

@Curse’swifey: NO MEEEEEEEEEEE!!

“I’m thinking of getting a partner for these streams.” He finally admits, rubbing his chin as though still in thought. And your heart stops-

@bipplruletheworld: so down.

@Cursenoticeme44: Omg yeeeeeeeeees!!

@daddytoeknee: YESYESYES.

The chat practically explodes, and you’re unsure what to feel about it—after all, you don’t know Curse and it’d be strange to feel a little possessive over his solo streams, however, you did have your preferences. But then again, you can’t help but imagine just how much hotter it would be to have two people- perhaps to see him make expressions he never has before…

Ultimately, you’re quiet as Curse leans in and scans the chat. His brows furrow just a little as he sweeps through the blurring usernames, “I dunno…I’m still thinking about it- I haven’t even asked this person, to be honest. I just wanted to know what you guys thought.” Nodding his head along or huffing out laughter at some of the comments, “Movie?”

You jolt—at being called out.

He wanted your opinion specifically? You suppose you did contribute to about half his comment section most streams.

But you stall as your fingers reach for the keyboard. 

Biting down on your lip and contemplating for a little while. Though he waits as patiently as ever-

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t mind!!

Something seems to wash over him as he reads your comment, nodding. “I see.” 

He moves onto something else and his expression was indiscernible. 

You’re flickering your eyes to the artwork behind him, the small corner of it peaking into the frame, and it suddenly hits you that it’s the theatrical poster of The Phantom of the Opera (2004).

.

.

.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

There’s something your brain was telling you that you’re absolutely refusing to believe—after all, how many people in the world loved The Phantom of the Opera? Hell, how many people in the world have watched The Phantom of the Opera?

That didn’t mean that everyone you came across had a secret identity as one of the hottest streamers on C4mBoyfriends.

You were being paranoid, you told yourself. You were being utterly silly- and the next time you’re going over to Choso’s apartment was the very next day. Which wasn’t entirely ideal, given how much you’d tossed and turned after Curse’s last stream conjuring up all the possibilities…but Yaga wouldn’t accept a request for an extension even if you were set on fire in front of him. And so you went.

The pit of your stomach twists as Choso swings the lavish wooden door open and gives you a beaming smile. So innocent. So sweet.

He shakily pushes his glasses up as he welcomes you in. “Come in—s-sorry if I took a while to get to the door, I’ve been doing some decorating recently.”

His nervous smile is what makes you find your voice. And you’re dubiously looking around the luxurious apartment, “You need to do some decorating?”

“Believe it or not, yes.” Choso huffs. “Would you like something to drink? Or maybe to eat? I checked out that bakery you recommended last time and you’re right- they have the best Danish pastries.”

“Actually, Choso…” You’re shaking your head, shooting him a grateful smile. “I’m good. I’d think I’d prefer to start right away, if that’s alright? I really wanna get to Act 2 today.”

“O-oh, of course—!”

And he’s sweetly guiding you inside, whilst you attempt not to look like you’re taking two steps at a time. Back to that familiar room. Back to that familiar desk. Back to that (somewhat) familiar bed which most certainly did not have an artwork from The Phantom of the Opera on it—

You open the door and the first thing you’re seeing is the familiar plane of that white mask. The Phantom. 

Choso follows behind you and catches you staring at the poster. Gravelly tone echoing from behind, “I told you I did some decorating.”

And you jump-

Swivelling around to find him bearing you a sheepish smile, “Sorry if I startled you.” He pushes those chunky glasses up, “Tea?”

“S-sure…” You breathe, if anything for a thing to occupy your mouth with. Wait- not like that—!

And as Choso disappears down the hall, you’re taking a seat on the bed you’ve sat on countless, countless times before without a single care in the world. Now you’re sinking into the very - the very - edge as though it’d swallow you whole.

Body just resting on the plush comforter before-

“Hey, so I also have coffee if you would prefer?” Comes Choso’s sudden voice.

And you’re startling once more- “Just tea is fine, thanks.” Barely managing to get that through your lips, you’re watching as he disappears…as the sound of his footsteps echo…

Before darting off the bed and now heading towards the camera equipment you’d noticed in the corner the first time you’d been here. What you’d assumed to be part of another one of his classes or personal projects. Now, you’re leaning in and wondering with just which camera he showed his pretty cock off to millions, at just what height of his tripod he made your cunt so heated. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck this was real.

Now, you’re noticing things in the room that you’d never noticed before. Like the ring light kept underneath his bed, and the dresser in the corner with numerous rings- those weren’t costume props or anything. They were pure silver.

Heavy.

Heavy, like the pit in your stomach—excited and swirling. Just trembling at the tips of your fingers - ever-so-slightly - you’re reaching out as though to touch it, as though to feel the alternate version of Choso that you knew longer than you knew Choso-

“Ah, so you’ve realized.”

And then his voice permeates the room.

The room that suddenly seems smaller, the room that suddenly seems to rise ten degrees in temperature - though goosebumps skitter across your skin. And almost as though in a horror movie, you’re turning in slow motion to face the bespectacled man who was now holding up a tray of steaming hot tea. 

He walks over soundlessly and sets it on the coffee table with a slight click! And besides that, Choso walks over to the dressing table and puts his silver rings on.

One by one.

His eyes hold court with yours through the mirror, “How long?” Voice a deep timbre. 

You’re taking a step closer without even realizing, “Um…just last night. Just now- actually.”

He chuckles and you realize he’s asking how long you’ve known about Curse.

“I-I found you by chance. About a week ago, actually…” And then you say what’s been on your mind ever since you had, “Ever since you liked and unliked my repost.”

“Ah, a rookie mistake.” Choso comments. “I should have known better than to stalk using my public account.” And with all rings now put on and glinting in the lighting of his bedroom, Choso shuffles through his jewellery tray to pluck his earrings in and one eyebrow piercing. And then…one lip piercing—a lip ring that twinkles mischievously as he smiles.

He rises and you think you’ve never quite appreciated his built frame. 

His deep eyes as they’re locking in on you. Echoing out, “Though…you really can’t say much- can you, Movie?”

And though you knew that he knew- you can’t stop the zaps of electricity running through your body. 

Sputtering out, “Yeah-” Your fists clench and you’re looking up at the object of both your fantasies and your secret interest these past few days - melded into one. “Yeah, I really can’t. Choso you’re so…”

“Different?” He fixes his glasses, “Though I really am shy, I can’t deny that- especially around you. But it helps to be a little more antisocial when I’m around idiots.”

He leans in closer- so close that his scorchin’ hot breath wafts across your features. You have no idea how you’d diminished such a distance so soon…

“And if my memory serves me right-” Choso taps on the edge of his chin, in mocking thought. “-I seem to remember that Movie agreed to have a partner on my stream.” You shiver. And he looks at you adoringly, “So how about it? Wanna make a movie, baby?”

You step a little closer. 

“Only if I get to match wardrobes.”

He chuckles and picks you up to spin you around-

And then it’s getting to work. And then it’s shuffling through his closet to find a mask that matches his own. 

He stretches on the rubber a bit and brings it to you—“I bought this one when I first started, but it ended up being too tight- I think it’d be just the one for you.”

It was. It fit perfectly.

And then he paces around the room and starts to set up- before Choso’s gaze catches you hovering around the bed, and then he’s clicking his tongue and forgoing the tripods altogether. With just the professional lights and the high-quality camera, Choso places the camera on top of the coffee table. Facing the foot of the bed - everything and anything could be seen.

Just with a few clicks he’s started the stream.

And with just a little nudge he’s urging you to sit next to him. 

“Hello, my little sluts—” Choso- or should you say Curse croons towards the camera. On one of his monitors you can see him being projected there - waving, in his knitted vest that clashed with his mask. You stand off awkwardly out of sight from the camera. He smiles. “As you can see, things are a little different today…”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: uuuuuu change of angle!! change of angle!!

@bewbsRlife: ARE WE GETTING A SURPRISEEEEEEE??

@likezmenpregnant: Pls be pregnant, Curse <3

“No- no, I’m not pregnant.” He laughs, “But I have been thinking about what we talked about last night.”

@bipplruletheworld: omg this can’t be…

“And guess what? I did what you guys told me about- and I talked to her.”

@bipplruletheworld: yessssssss

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE^^

@bewbsRlife: WOOOOOO-

@daddytoeknee: Omg where’s Movie, Ik she’d love this- heh. Imagine this WAS Movie though…

“So, my little sluts…” Choso announces, “I’d like to introduce you all to my new partner—” And he’s reaching out and clasping your wrist, looking up to check for reassurance before continuing. Miming whispering to the camera, “And this is her first time on stream, so be nice…”

You’re sheepishly walking into their view. 

Slightly bowing your intrusion into the stream, “Th-thanks for having me?”

“Isn’t she cuuuuute?” He asks the commenters, and there’s a flurry of agreements. You’re even spotting a few questions about your name n’ interests, even kinks, amongst those - all of which Choso waves off with a laugh. “Now now—we can have the Q&A later. For now, let’s get to the fun part…”

@Curse’swifey: FUCK THAT’S MY FAV PART-

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Movie you’re missing out on a historic moment uwu

And the fun part consisted of clamoring onto the bed as fast as lightning. Letting the mattress dip n’ creak its protests out as Choso sits on it with his back turned to the camera, then lovingly pats his manspread thighs as a signal for you to climb on. Meaty muscles. Thick enough for you to want to sink your teeth into- how could you never have noticed?

Perhaps because this was the polar opposite of how he acted when he was on campus - always keeping to himself, never taking up too much space. Now he was practically vacuuming it all up so you had nowhere else to sit.

And you were more than happy to climb onto Choso Kamo’s lap.

Sitting your ass down on his readily-awaiting seat. From under your skirt you feel something hot—and throbbing between his legs. Cylindrically shaped and curved to the left.

Just the slightest movement makes his rock-hard erection twitch underneath- and you’re whimpering at the lewd sensation. At the way he drips out a hefty dollop of precum that seeps through his trousers and sticks to the front of your panties, making you gasp—“Ch-Cho-”

“Shhhh.” Choso wraps a hand ‘round your throat and cuts you off. 

And before you know it, he’s bouncing his knees to get you to slide your drippin’ pussy up and down his bulge. Up and down. Turning towards the camera, “Ya hear that?” Up and down. “My girl’s so needy- she’s already begging for it. But I dunno if she deserves it, huh?”

@bewbsRlife: I MEANNNN

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’m feeling mean today…

@daddytoeknee: Give her your mouth!!

“Mouth? I love that idea.” Choso titters.

And then he’s giving a teasing slap on the side of your ass cheeks—smack! 

“Please-”

“Sit on my face now, baby.” He purrs, eyes flickerin’ with pure need underneath his mask. Then leaning in to whisper in a loooow tone for only you to hear. “You know Choso, but let’s see if you can handle Curse.”

Then he leans back on the bed - his head pointing in the direction of the camera. 

And you’re shuffling up Choso’s toned, brick-hard body—straddling your knees upon either side of his head, veerin’ your hips right atop that pretty face. You’re sitting - right in front of the camera. Though nothing was revealed…yet. 

And Choso’s digging his tongue up to you instantly- he isn’t even making it past the fabric of your panties. But that doesn’t stop him from lettin’ his tastebuds take a looooong, luxurious lick of your swollen pussy.

Right down your sopping wet slit. 

Suddenly, the room echoes with one of his pornographic moans- the very same ones you’d listened to night after night through your laptop speakers. Now they’re even louder, and somehow even sexier, sending electricity shooting straight up, up, up from your core.

And even more treacherous was the way you’re feeling something cold…and metallic at the very middle of Choso’s tongue. Rock-hard. It takes whatever’s left of your rationality to realize that it’s a silvery tongue piercing smack-dab where his tastebuds kissed your pussy. Scraping alongside where you were most sensitive. 

Instantly; your head tips back and saliva starts bubbling at the sides of your lips. “Fuh-fuck…” And before you know it—you’re starting to drag your throbbing pussy up n’ down his features.

Short, barely-there jerks of your shy, shy hips.

And Choso chuckles huskily to himself at the cute way you were yearnin’ for his mouth. But what you didn’t expect was for him to reach one ringed hand up and squeeze the left side of your hips.

Your only warning.

Before he’s suddenly tightening his hold on you and reaching one more hand up- snaking it beneath your skirt like some pervert. Choso edges towards your throbbing cunt and places one good slap—

It’s the resounding smack! of skin-on-skin that makes you halt more than anything.

Jaw-dropped. Thighs quivering. The white-hot pleasure runs through your spine and leaves you barely hearing his roughened words, a tone lower than you knew his voice to be- as though drunk on the delicious taste of your pussy already. “Greedy, greedy girl…” Choso tuts, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to enjoy yourself without letting our dear audience in on the fun?”

Oh, shit.

You’re letting your head snap to where the camera was positioned and blinking its one gluttonous eye. Comments flooding the screen of the monitor so fast that you couldn’t read them-

You’d completely forgotten about the stream for a second. 

“I—oh, I um.” 

Yet another harsh smack! “Forgot, huh?” Amusement seeps into Choso’s words, as though he’d already guessed the situation.

You admit, “M-maybe…”

“I’m afraid I can’t blame you, baby.” Smack! “Curse’s mouth is too good, huh?” He yammers on and on, his tongue nudging deeper, his rippling tastebuds skidding into every ridge- as if trying to fuck you through your damn panties. “This pussy’s too good–she’s purring f’me already. Hear her?”

And you’re not sure why- but you’re nodding to whatever he says. “Y-yes—fuck.” 

“Mhm. So why don’t we let our lovely audience hear, too, huh?” You’re barely given the time to register his suggestion, before Choso husks out a command. “Lift your skirt up, baby.”

Your thighs squeeze around his head at the notion-

And your fingertips touch the short hemline of your skirt.

@Cursenoticeme44: Holy shit.

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’ve been waiting for thisssssssssss-

@daddytoeknee: WOW.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: bby’s so needy!!

@R€4leater: munch Curse #canon

The chat explodes as you let them bear witness to Choso’s face stuffed between your pretty legs- he’s redly-flushed and ravenous. They could see the slightest glimpse of his nose n’ the way he’s driving it between your sodden pussylips, diving and diving, they could see the glossy layers coating your cunt—and the way Choso’s pink lips come up to suck on it. 

Those handsome cheeks of his hollow out, as he’s makin’ out with your pussy through your panties.

Like a man starved.

Long canines slightly nippin’ at your folds- almost wolfish in mannerisms.

“Oh p-please…” You’re quivering atop him. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—just that it feels so good to have him veering his tongue hungrily against your cunt like this. And you wanted more.

More, more, and more.

Choso’s holding onto your restless hips with a clammy hand- he’s stuck to you almost like adhesive. And he guides your hips - he fucking slows them down - whilst you continue moanin’ and shaking atop his raw mouth. Glistening wet tongue extending even more than its usual length to slide-slide-sliiiiide your panties to the side-

And you’re gasping at the sudden whiff of cold bedroom air against your naked pussy. “Ch-” A spank. “I mean- fuck, Curse?”

“Mhm, m’here, baby.” He drawls out. Slightly slurring with all the extra globs of your pussy juices - pooling straight into your mouth, n’ Choso reaches up and smooches your soft swollen folds to smear it all around. Like some gloss. “M’here aaaaaand- so are 820k sluts that wanna watch you break.”

“B-break?” You’re gaping, “I thought you were just gonna- ngh, eat me out…?”

“Baby, Curse never ‘just’ does anything.” And you’re shocked to find him sliding his tongue out, tipping his head back to refer to the camera on the coffee table. “Isn’t that right, fuckin’ pervs?”

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah.

@0003h0lesforCurse: duhhhhhhhhh

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU’RE THE BEST CURSE

@Fishygurodad: Fuck, her pussy’s divine.

“Heh…” Choso smiles into your cunt, “And so whaddaya say? How many slaps before I stick my tongue in her?”

@vampzo333: 3

@bbynohuuuuzz: 14

@Ilikepr1menumbers: 29

“Since m’feeling nice- read your favorite one out, baby.” He murmurs.

To which you’re unable to do anything but- you tilt your upper half just the slightest bit closer to the monitor and pick out the first one you can read through the blur of words and numbers:

@Fishygurodad: Until she cries.

Oh.

Your blood runs cold.

Your cunt grows heated.

And before you can either rectify your recitation or beg for mercy—Choso doesn’t hesitate before fixing the rings on his fingers to be slightly higher than before. Making sure they’re in line of him planting one- two- three good, loud spanks on your sobbin’ cunt. “O-oh my god- fuck, mmm, oh my god.”

Until the skin of his fingertips seems to redden, and your pussylips feel raw - “How about that?” He asks- not from you, but from the viewers.

@daddytoeknee: I don’t see her crying yet…also idkkkkk I’m getting Movie vibes.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: movie would’ve loved this-

And then it’s one after the other. Again and again, Choso’s emblazoning the rude outlines of his rings against yours - until you’ve fucking memorized the ridges n’ patterns of the one ring on his middle finger with the carving of an octopus. 

Tentacles flared out.

“Shit, not that damn ring again.”

And as he’s doing so he can’t help himself- fuck, he can’t heeeeelp himself. His canines dig into the sticky fabric of your underwear like a damn dog - and throughout the duration of what his hands were doing, you’re hearing the sharp riiiiip of fabric tearing—!

Soon enough, your panties are tattered and ruined in Choso’s maw- just from his mouth. He spits it out and continues swerving his thickened tips inwards to give a loving pinch on your clit—and you can’t help but burst into peals of shrill, needy cries. Both pain and pleasure mixing as he doles out a final swat-

Before Choso swipes your pussylips apart and spits- the glutinous glob of his saliva landing directly on your hole. He doesn’t give it the time to seep back out—instead, he’s surging up and shoving his face between your legs.

This time, without the barrier of your panties in the way. 

@CCpervnextdoor: HE FUCKING RIPPED IT OFF WITH HIS MOUTH??

@bewbsRlife: HOLY SHIT CURSE-

@Fishygurodad: Shiiiiit, I’d do the same ngl.

And then Choso’s shoving his tongue inside and slurpin’ all around your wet hole like a damn animal…

In and out.

In and out.

Probin’ into slippery sweet spots.

Chin hitting the back of your slit. Plastic mask rubbing against your clit. 

Choso’s pierced tongue was going absolutely fucking wild inside of you. He wastes no time before gripping either side of your cute hips and slammin’ your pussy down onto his mouth- hard and fast. The perverted nerd is slashing his tongue inwards, smearin’ apart your glue-covered folds. As deep as he could go. He doesn’t care if it hurts, he just needs to make sure that loooong slick muscle of his tastebuds were scrapin’ every inch of your walls.

With the curved tip of it, he flexes it against a sweet bundle of nerves. Making you buck with a pitchy moan of his name—“Ch-Cuuuurse—!” And the sensation was made even more delicious with the way his orb tongue piercing presses in contrast against your hot cunt. “It feels so good, Curse.”

“I already know.” Choso pipes up- cocky in all the ways you never knew he could be. “I already know- but what about those fuckers watching, huh?”

“W-well…” Spit drivels down your chin, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes focused to read the urgent chat. 

@bipplruletheworld: they’re so HOT!!

@NERDSAREMYBABYGIRLZ: OHHHH WHAT A MUNCH

@daddytoeknee: Me next <3

And it was clear that they were seeing the effect he had on you- how could they not?

Your eyes were dazed and teary, your thighs were shaking like leaves in the wind, Choso was making your body twitch—just from the way he’s reeling his entire tongue out. And breathing out steadily and slowly against your twitchin’ pussylips, freezing cold air that leaves you even wetter on top of him.

He’s unfastening his mouth - leaving it wiiiiide open for all the satiny ribbons of your slick to enter his gullet. And once you’re done- that isn’t enough riling you up.

Choso leaves a good slap on your folds and asks, “So…what about it?” Muffled through his mouthfuls.

“They agree- they agree—” You’re keening out. Star-struck, seeing pleasure burst behind your shuttered eyelids at the sudden stinging. “Fuck- you’re the hck! best I’ve ever had, Curse.”

“I agree.” He hums. And as if this entire ordeal wasn’t sinful enough, Choso’s swashing around the silky-smooth sap he’d collected from your leaking pussy. Letting the flavor seep into his tastebuds, before he’s then spitting again on your pussy. A semi-opaque layer of lewdness that coats your inner thighs in a sheen that catches the lighting. 

Perfect on camera.

You’re squeezing your wettened thighs together and creating an audible squelch!

“Awwww, look- this pussy agrees, too.”

The gooey addition startles you- and you rut.

Only straight down onto his awaiting fingers.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: oh, shit is he…

@legsopenforcurses: With the rings on, too!!

@likezmenpregnant: My show is onnnnn

It’s such a fucking mess for him to navigate- even with his own fingers. Soon enough, you’re arching your back as you feel him intrude a single ringed digit between those utterly swollen pussylips of yours—almost difficult to find your snug hole between them. You’re damn lucky that Choso’s fingers were slender as well as incredibly lengthy.

Because he’s circlin’ your tight orifice a few times - only a few times - before inserting the sections of his finger. Quirking just right and hitting the exact bundle of your nerves.

That infamous g-spot that made you yelp once he starts and keeps on hitting.

And his rings- oh, fuck, his rings.

Just so chunky and textured. They were the perfect designs to press up against your walls and massage them stupid- every drag meant that you’re feeling them dig into ridges n’ crevices you hadn’t even known existed. 

Hitting and hitting. Curling his dexterous finger and scraping- “Fuuuuck, oh my god.” The doughy tip of his finger soon becomes damn-near molded to the area where it was, and your eyes flicker to the back of your head as you continue anglin’ your hips so he could hit it perfectly. “Right there, Curse- r-right there.”

“I know.” Choso rolls his eyes - at least what seems like it underneath his mask. “That’s why I’m hitting it. Honestly…is my girl dickmatized?” He utters as he sucks on your clit—ultimately erupting a sobbing slurp! that makes him nod. “Mhm, I think my girl’s dickmatized.”

Tipping his head back before you can refute his claims. He then addresses the audience-

“Whaddaya think, my little pervs? Dickmatized already…maybe I should go easy on her, huh?”

@olderandR4w: nooooooooooo

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: NEVER.

@Fishygurodad: Go even harder.

“Tough crowd.” And with that said, Choso’s stuffin’ in just a few more fingers. Each with their own numerous rings and sopping wet sounds accompanying them—slurp!

One. 

Two.

You’re counting about three of his prolonged digits pushin’ your tight walls to their limits, rubbing your sweet spots raw with his constant bashing rhythm, before lustful fogginess coils around your brain. And it’s around here that Choso catches onto the glazed look in your eyes and chuckles—

“Ohhhh, you really are dickmatized.” He hums to himself, though you’re sure the professional mic picks it up either way. “And so soon, too. Probably hasn’t had a good finger-”

A fourth being added so that he can scissor apart your velvety channel whilst still multi-tasking with his other fingers to ram into your g-spot.

“-or even a good mouth on ‘er…” To emphasize his point, he presses a dramatically loud kiss upon your clit. One that’s making you bounce n’ bounce your hips atop his clammy face, and grind your throbbing nub down on his pointed nose. The addition of his mask just makes that cool touch even more lecherous. “My poor girl.” Choso still mutters out despite the way he’s gluing your cunt to his mouth. He pulls away from your clit with a loud pop! “What do you think, my slutty audience?”

At the slurring question you’re letting your head down to watch him. “Ch…Curse, what’ve you got on your mind-”

“M’just asking what else you deserve, baby.” He coos. And questions them once more, “How about a little quiz? Which parts of Curse are going to make my poor, poor girl feel the best? A). My fingers. B). My mouth. Or…”

And he pretends to listen to your noisy wet pussy once more.

“Or C…”  You could practically feel the grin plastering against your needy pussy. The way his eyes narrow in sinful amusement beneath his mask- you didn’t have to see his full face to know that Choso was enjoying this perhaps way more than he should. “—all of the above.”

And it was futile to think that they would answer anything else.

C floods your vision.

You’re letting your mouth droop, and your gaze meet Choso’s own between your legs- but you’re finding that you don’t have to say a thing for him to already know the answer.

And as expected, he gives a final roll of his tongue atop your clit - before munchin’ on your aching cunt once more. This time, he’s tunneling his fingers deep into your cavern whilst still licking inside with his prolonged tongue—when stretched out, Choso’s tongue could reach almost as deep as his fingers could.

Your cunt was being stretched-out to lengths you never thought about before.

Not only were Choso’s fingers thicker than yours, but his tongue was something ravenous- no matter how much you’re flinching in sensitivity, he isn’t slowing down. “Mmm-” He groans, barely breathing through even his flared nostrils. You’re hit with the distinct feeling that he thinks he doesn’t even have to breathe as long as he had you on him like this - “Mmm, hold still.”

Taking advantage of the fact to lavish your sensitive inches with kiss upon kiss. To grind his nose down purposefully on your clit. To glide his metallic piercing across those hidden spots. To bash your poor g-spot in again and agaaaain with his fingers before his tongue’s coming to the rescue to soothe the slightly raw sting-

So it’s not long before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.

Perhaps the strongest you’ve ever felt when you’re in the throes of your high.

You barter your hips forwards and keep up a steady pace - one that’s making Choso hit the exact spots you wanted him to during the peaks of your high. The utmost peaks. “Shit—shit, just like that.” Breathless. “K-keep going, baby, it feels so good.”

And he doesn’t even answer - too caught up in fucking you through your orgasm.

In the way you shudder above him. In the way you’re only getting even sweeter by the second-

Bodyheat raising a few degrees in temperature; your heart sings and the bed creaks with how much you’re jostling from above. This was even better than touching yourself to videos of him, there were so many thrills of bliss that he’s wringing out of you- like he’d wring out of himself during his solo videos. 

With both his fingers and his tongue, slurpin’ and sliding. Those doe-like eyes of his are edging straight to the back of his skull as he feels your drenched walls cleeeeench around his pierced tongue, as though it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt. And you’re acting on impulse - you really are - because the coffee table was positioned right beside the foot of the bed.

And all you had to do was reach your arm out to grab the simple camera there. Turning it into your point of view as Choso’s sweaty brown bangs stick to his forehead, as sweat trickles down his temple, as he lets out soft yet unyielding moans whenever you’re squeezing your thighs around his head.

@cockycockowner: no homo but that’s the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen.

@theh0rniestsoldier: woah he’s PUSSYDRUNK

@Fishygurodad: Show me his POV.

@daddytoeknee: Don’t you know that she’s his girl now smh?^^

@daddytoeknee: Movie-core- wya ml??

Choso cocks his head and keeps making out with your pussy in all the ways that make your toes curl—pleasure elongating from your orgasm and spreading into every part of you. Your vessels, your cells, your atoms.

They’re all buzzing with pleasure and still aching for more once Choso finally pulls away with a loud pop! of his lips releasing. 

When they do, you’re sneaking a look down at him and noticing just how red n’ swollen they were. Even the skin around his jaw was flushed with the constant ramming contact. And the viewers are just gobbling it up - subscribing bells keep dinging here and there, and everywhere. 

Just a single look at his stats on-screen reveal that Choso’s climbed up to 870k just since you’d started this stream.

And it’s after a little while - after he’s had his fill - that the dark-haired man finally taps at the side of your thigh to gesture for you to get up. Though, even then, he’s tightening his grip on your body—going against his own fucking instruction to press a final few open-mouthed kisses before he’s done.

He chases after your pussy with his maw for a little- before he’s finally sitting up.

And it’s only then that he seems to notice the camera in your hand, blinking his glazed eyes a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming things up. Once it finally registers, the most attractive grin spreads across his face. “You changed POVs?”

“Had to.” You admit, “I wanted them to see how pretty you are…”

“Guess you finally learned about sharing, hm? Greedy girl.” He chuckles darkly to himself. And then he starts looming closer, “But you realize that the show’s not done yet, right?”

You gulp.

@Fishygurodad: Fuck her already, damn!! I’m only here for her.

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Hate to admit it, but he’s lowk right. I think I’ve discovered I’m bi…

@vampzo333: ^^

@girrrrrrrrrrth: ^^

“So impatient.” He looks at the monitor, reading the chat and tuts. “Honestly- so ungrateful. I should end the stream right here and fuck her on my own terms.”

There’s a frenzied flurry of comments- all of which you were sure were begging for Choso not to stop and bashing that one commenter for attempting to start a revolution. To which you’re only giggling and handing over the camera to him.

Choso - as the expert - then positions it somewhere by the edge of the fluffy pillows: where they’d be able to see the expanse of both your bodies and where you’d soon be connected…

And then you’re shedding your clothes in a hurry- making it to your smart blouse before he’s reaching a hand up and tearing through it. The buttons hit the floor, and at your noise of displeasure Choso merely lets out a half-delirious giggle. 

He leans in and whispers, “I-I have a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt I’d love for you to wear.”

The change in demeanour gives you utter whiplash, and you can’t help but stare at him open-mouthed.

“What?” Choso asks, next moving on to shrugging off his own fabrics. They’re landing on a heap beside the bed, and your lips slightly part at the display of his red-hot erection—it’s just as large and sensual as all those streams had proven him to be. Polished strawberry top. Slender veins along the middle. 

A happy trail of dark brown - nearly black - glistened with the splattered remnant of his precum. Just like the gleaming mess across his chin, mouth, and cheekbones that Choso wore like a medal.

He was slightly longer than even on camera- and even prettier up-close. Way up close- he shuffles his body up yours n’ fucks your tits a few times to dollop out glistening translucent precum across yours tits.

“Lighting’s not the best here.” Choso explains- or at least attempts to pin an explanation onto that. Onto something he’s clearly been wanting to do for so long. “Had to highlight ‘em, baby.”

You scoff, “It’s just…” Throwing a cautious glance at the camera, you lower your voice. “You’re so different from how you are in real life.”

“Oh? And how did you expect me to be, huh?” He positions himself between your legs - wrapping both of them around his waist. Before then thinking better of it and throwing them even more lewdly around his neck instead—his plush priggish tip kisses your entrance. “Did you expect me to be like…”

He trails off.

He doesn’t need to complete the rest of his sentence- and you don’t think you’d have heard him even if he tried.

Because in that very moment, Choso’s jerking his pale hips back a mere few inches—then plopping his globular tip between your pussylips and push-push-puuuuuushing. Fucking past the initial restraint of your first ring of muscle, he’s funneling in some thick inches that make your heels bang against the muscles of his back.

And he doesn’t even seem to notice.

He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he’s letting his cock swerve inside. Get suctioned inside. Get his Prince Albert’s piercing crept down your sensitive innards. Get gobbled up between your greedy legs-

You clench ‘round him and Choso throws his head back with a low, broken moan.

“Oh p-please—” He’s babbling out through unsteady pink lips, a lazy line of dribble starting up from one corner of his mouth. Those long lashes of his flutter as he’s reaching one bulky hand up to grip the headboard, and placing his right one on your hips- keeping you steady.

Fingers trembling. Muscles rippling.

@likezmenpregnant: Woah…make him do that again…

@sixeyesorsixh0les: SUBBY CURSE HELLO??

@whimperwhiteboywhimper: oh I am SO here for this

@Fishygurodad: Whatever…

Your eyes bulge once his throat cracks with what sounds like a whimper—“Please it feels so good.” And though you couldn’t quite make it out, even the chat seemed stunned as Choso punctures out a broken stutter of his hips. Delving a few inches into your goopy insides- though not enough to bottom out completely, as you’re still too wound-up for him to fit completely. And you’re able to pinpoint exactly where he’s using the orbed metal of his first piering. With more to come…“Ngh- oh.” Broken noises emanating into your eardrums and the mic. “It f-feels shooooo good, baby.”

Choso’s head drops into the crook of your neck, and there - and there - you’re feeling his cheeky grin.

And suddenly you’re understanding.

Oh—he was toying with you.

And he was doing it in a way that’d completely fooled you- and perhaps all of his viewers, too.

But before you’re able to open your mouth to bite back something at him, Choso staggers his hips back and gives you a vicious jackhammer with his cock, “O-ohhhhh, my god—” Your toes curl atop his shoulders, slippery with sweat. He hadn’t even rammed all the way inside yet, and yet the slightly left-leaning angle of his shaft was driving you wild.

Big and thick.

Running the slick globe of his tip down your walls, Choso probes a direct hit to that spot you loved so much. And he knew you loved it so much—he’d mapped out your entire pussy earlier, of course.

And yet, he’s still gasping as though the pearls gates of heaven had descended right here and there. He’s letting his sweet caramel eyes widen convincingly as he peers down at you, “I-is that…the spot, baby?”

@Curse’swifey: HE sounds SO NGH.

@daddytoeknee: Daddy likey…

@daddytoeknee: Also Movie would’ve really LOVED this, huh?

You hiss, “Curse, you should already know-”

“But how could I know—?” He exclaims. “This is my first time, after all…” Then Choso’s plastering his clammy tattooed hips - with a snake on the side - to yours, as though the two were connected by the force of the world’s strongest magnets: pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing. Every single battering ram of his mazing cocktip ends up lodged against your sweetly bruised g-spot, marking his circumference out with the sheer pace at which he was hitting it. 

“Shit—” Your nails clench on the sheets, and feeling jealous- Choso guides them to fist his hair instead. “Shit, right there. It f-feels so good-”

“There?” The once-nerdy man breathes out in awe. Disbelief every single time - or at least the mocking imitation of one. Swipin’ a line of precum down your nervy spot once more, “Th-there, baby—?”

Something breathy- octaves higher in his tone. “Yes- yes there-”

“There-” Choked up and ruined. Husky grunts hatching in the back of his throat. There was something there in his words that you couldn’t quite pinpoint—a sort of undertone of primal need, primal amusement as he ruined your pussy with his speedily pap-papping hips, but acted as though he had no idea what he was doing. Every single syllable uttered was met with a thorough whack of his curved cockhead against your particular spot- “There there there there- there-”

“Fuh-fuuuck-”

“So this g-spot’s really m-mine now, baby?” Choso asks. 

You whine, back arching off the mattress. “Yes-”

“Does she really have my mark on it now?”

“Yes…?” Eyes shooting open as you’re half-registering his question in your hazed brain. He bores his dark eyes down at you intensely. And as though to emphasize his point, you’re feeling his perfectly round tip squeezing into your throat by the next few thrusts. Deeper and deeper.

His Jacob’s Ladder starting to ease its frigid way past your entrance and glide across the roof of your cunt. It was a sensation like nothing you’ve ever felt before. 

Choso probes even more, “I-is she really shaped to the shape of my cock now?” 

“Cho—ngh.” Quickly shutting your cockdrunken self up. Quickly reaching a ringed hand up to squeeze your throat- before he’s languidly snaking his way up to squeezing your pretty cheeks together.

Smushing your face in a way that was almost disrespectful- though, not that you were in any state of mind to call him out on it. And there’s a mean inkling in Choso’s tone as he coos, “Awww, b-baby, why aren’t you answering me?” Another rude slap! of his hips make your own sear in flames- that damn strength of his. Those damn piercings of his. “Is your poor, poor Curse not good enough?” 

Before you can answer, he’s looking at the blinking camera. 

“My babies, my girl doesn’t love my cock anymore…”

“I do—I do-” 

Squeezing his doughy-soft restraints - those contrastingly mean fingers of his - around your cheeks. He’s managing to smush your mouth shut and make you echo out the most pathetically pleading whines—as he fucks you. Determined and targeted.

The glossy rotund edge of his tip presses against your g-spot a few more times before you’re managing to make yourself take a peek at the comments on the monitor. 

Almost too far away- almost too blurry with the tears in your eyes. 

@Curse’snewestharem: Awwwww poor bby </33

@CCpervnextdoor: I would LOVE your cock, Curse!!

@girrrrrrrrrrth: is it just me or is he teasing us?

@Fishygurodad: ^^Yeah, he’s totally a fraud.

@Curseswombmommy: ^^girl shut up

“Th-they really think you’re oh-so-innocent…” You’re whispering up at him. Overstimulated tears in your eyes.

Breath hitching every time he’s surging his tattooed hips forwards and hitting that one spot particularly hard. Though there was never such a thing as too hard…

And Choso’s shooting you a secret smile - one just between the two of you - before morphing his expression into that of picture-perfect innocence. Roleplaying the demeanor of his nerdy self on campus, mixed with the utterly sultry—sexual way he was draaaaagging his lengthy cock in and out of your cunt.

Eventually, Choso’s emptying his inches out n’ bruising the bottom of your pussy. All of his nine - you seriously felt nine throbbing inches - inches shaping out the in-betweens of your legs. All of the beaded barbells of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging inside- the slitherin’ feeling of them making themselves at home. Zig-zagging and slithering. 

He feels the sponginess of your cervix and presses a hand down on your abdomen just to make sure, before changing that excitement into one of almost-genuine bafflement- “I-I really bottomed out?” Choso’s pinkish bottom lip juts out and quivers dramatically.

“Of course, you did.” You’re ready to scoff-

But whatever sarcastic sound was in the back of your throat gets quickly dissolved at the sight of Choso with genuine tears in his eyes. Glistening. “But I never- ngh, never thought I’d be able to.” He puts some more merciless pressure on your stomach that makes you buck—

And the only thing you can do is let your head tip back into the pillows.

The only thing you can do is let out a few mottled moans as he rubs over the small tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushing his palm down so that he could feel it. 

Whispering out, “I-I never thought this pussy would claim my cock as- ngh, hers, hm?” And for the moment there, you’re completely sure that he isn’t talking to you. Rather, your pussy that was sobbing out squelches after every one of his jackhemmerin’ thrusts. “And it’s not too big, right?”

“N-never—”

“Because m’just a nerd with a- hngh, biiiiiig fuckin’ cock.” How pitiful, right? He’s letting his long, dark lashes flutter as Choso avoids meeting your eyes—as though in shyness. He drills his hips even deeper - one unforgettable strike after the other following every word he spoke. “Just a big- fat- fucking- cock-”

“Please—!” Eventually, your arms reach upwards and you’re grabbing ahold of whatever part of him it is you could reach first. Which just-so-happened to be his bulky deltoids.

Choso’s brows genuinely seem to furrow at the lewdness of you digging your nails into his muscles, leaving your marks for everyone and anyone to see even after this stream has ended. And so he continues in his faux-innocent tone, “Oh? Did that feel good, baby?”

Purposefully slidin’ his cock across your g-spot so that you’d have to cry out. “Y-yeeees—”

“I didn’t even know, baby.” His mouth hangs open, and the most lustrous squelches! echo between your two connected bodies. Your cunt n’ his precum were making such messes…“I had no idea…”

His Jacob’s Ladder leaves your channel feeling raw n’ overstimulated- you feel raw and overstimulated. 

And you’re laid-out on the bed dazed and feeling so fucking good as Choso’s picking his pace up even more, you notice for a split-second that his hands have moved. No longer was he holding onto your cheeks n’ watching you squirm—now, the nerdy man hooks both hands around your sweaty thighs and pins them close to his body.

Holding them in place as he leans down, down, dooooooown until the caps of your knees hit your tits. 

You’re keening at the stretch, and a searing burn spreads from between your pussy and along your hamstrings. How did he even hide such strength underneath those soft knitted vest? Such a body?

Before you know it, you’re being pressed into your first-ever mating press.

And Choso gapes as though he was just as bewildered as you, “O-oh…did I do that?” He’s fucking asking you—however, when your stunned expression bears no answer, he turns and asks the same question from the camera. The bursts of replies obviously agree n’ tease him. And he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly, “Did I really bend you in- heh-” A slight chuckle escapes him. “—half, baby?”

And what else can you do but nod and nod and nod—? 

“I think this is called a…breeding press?” He cocks his head ever-so-slightly, before shaking his head. “No wait- a mating press.”

“A m-mating press.” You’re repeating lamely.

“I c-can’t believe I’ve folded you into a mating press, baby.” Choso nearly snarls at himself, his hips accelerating until that rouge-tipped cock of his was almost nothing but a blur. “Can’t believe—s’like my body is moving before my mind, ngh. My fat cock’s not hittin’ you too deep, right, my girl?”

“Not in the l-least…”

And he really was long enough to make each and every probe feel as though it was slam-slam-slamming into your throat- the capped crown of his shaft was entering crevices n’ crannies you hadn’t even known you possessed. All marked out precisely by the silvery orb of his Prince Albert’s. 

Just then, after your answer, Choso reaches his left hand up to wrap ‘round your throat - and then hauls you back down to meet his slapping hips.

A thrust even harder than the ones before it.

Your breath gets snatched out of your lungs, dissipating into the heady air filled with the contact-riddled sounds of sex. Hard and fast. Only getting harder the longer you have your ankles looped ‘round his neck—“Not too hard, is it, baby?” Chosos asks you once more.

And you don’t have anything to spit out besides, “Oh f-fuck off.”

He gasps dramatically-

Well, not exactly dramatically. But in a way you knew was fake, and in a way that sends the chat exploding into comments.

The nerd pouts cutely, “Well, that’s not very nice…”

You’re rolling your eyes—right before Choso’s genuinely sending them rolling with his two fingers clamped around your clit. Using the silvery edges of his rings, he runs a few massages that end up with you sobbing and blabbering out your pleasure. 

@Curse’swifey: FUCKKKKKKKKKK they’re both so hot. THEY’RE BOTH SO RUINED.

@peepeesarebetterfictional: they both look like they’re gonna cum soon hehe

@bewbsRlife: CUM CUM CUM CUM CUM

Biting back. “I would argue th-that that’s not very nice, either.”

“But m’just trying to make my gorgeous girl cum…” And from where he’d been looming his pretty face above yours, Choso then lets his head droop down between your tits. During his ravenous pace, he’s roverin’ his mouth all over to kiss and suck at your tits, your nipples.

His cold lip ring drags across your left areola- and he catches onto the way you’re shivering. Before Choso then grabs your nipple between his lips n’ hollows his cheeks out sucking—“Promise m’just trying to make you feel- hah, good.” He mutters, slightly muffled. “Promise I just wanna fuck my cock raw if it means making my lifelong crush feel good…”

“Cho- Curse, are you…?” Your eyes widen.

And his own flap droopily a few times, “Hmmm?”

And that proved it.

That proved it.

Because Choso Kamo could be pretending to be a stuttering, panting, blushing mess on your heavenly cunt all he wanted- he could pretend to be pussydrunk out of his mind. But at the end of the day, it was impossible to hide when pretend turned into something…more. 

When the cocksure streamer that’d been driving you wild all this time morphs into the contentedly pussy-whipped nerd you expected him to be deep down inside.

His eyes genuinely glazed and blinking longingly.

His hair drenched in sweat.

His skin flushed with need- and only flushing even more fiercely the longer he kept his eyes on you. 

Without much ado, you’re throwing your hands around his neck and tuggin’ him as far as he could crane his neck when his entire body feels like collapsing onto you and into your maddening pussy. 

Choso pistons his hips slightly upwards to hear the slurp of his Jacob’s Ladder sliding across your walls, and he grooooans—

“Curse, baby…” You hum.

“Mhmmmm?” He replies with half-lidded eyes. Barely focused.

This was the big, bad #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends? As though sensing your thoughts, Choso’s fingers grow a little more frenzied on your clit. “I need you to cum inside, okay?”

He jolts at the idea- that sinful, sinful idea. Before chuckling, “Never had any other plan, baby.” And then he turns to the camera, “What do you think, fuckers? Think my girl deserves to cum?”

@Fishygurodad: Yes.

@Curse’swifey: YES.

@likezmenpregnant: Yesssss~

@girrrrrrrrrrth: yesyesyes.

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah-

He’s holding out a little longer to make sure there wasn’t a single ‘no’ in there - and had there been one, you’re sure that Choso would have stopped and edged your incoming orgasm until it was a wave of complete agreement.

Luckily for you, they liked you.

And all he does now is press down harder on your g-spot from inside, lingering, and massage a pretty heart on your clit once more, lingering—before a final, thorough stroke is all it takes for you to hurtle into your second high of the night.

For you to arch your body into his chest, and shutter your eyes. “Ch-Cho…” 

Barely a whisper. He’s crashing his mouth into yours to make sure that secret between you two isn’t revealed. And you’re moaning deeply into Choso’s mouth as you cum—“Feels so- oh. It feels so…”

“Mhmmmm.”

Unable to even find the words.

The only thing you can do is riiiiiide out the massive wave of your high. It’s torrential; pure bliss floods your system from head-to-toe, and no matter how much you’re squirming your overstimulated hips, Choso only succeeds in batterin’ away his pierced cock into eeeevery single hidden sweet spot inside of you. The ones that prolonged your bliss and left spikes of euphoria leading up to your brain.

Your cunt clenched so tightly around his cock- almost as though you didn’t want him to even pull out. And Choso’s sweaty head drops once more into the crook of your neck as he cums with a shudder.

The knot between his brows deepening, the bedsheet around his knees bunching up as he surges his body upwards. Almost animalistically.

Choso bottoms out his furious, twitching cock and keeps it there- “Oh, fuck…” It didn’t sound like he was acting once his bawling red divot starts splatterin’ out more milky white wads. Deeep in the back of your pussy, right where your womb was, Choso puddles out his ecstasy in long ribbons. “Oh fuck fuck fuck—fuck. Always knew it’d feel this good.”

Wave upon wave.

Toes curling. Eyes scrunching shut.

If you thought his moans were sensual before, then you weren’t prepared for the ones your pussy was able to drag out of him - ragged and hollow utterances of your name. Over and over like a broken record, like a mantra.

He’s fucking into you to milk them out of his hefty balls- then fucking you again just to pump those webbed wads right back in. From the top of his rotund tip and dooooooown to the tufts of hairs at his base. All nine inches of him being used to stuff you till the brim—

You’re sure your insides look like an utter fuckin’ mess by the time he’s slowing his tattooed hips down ever-so-slightly—still shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm. This was far stronger than anything he’s ever experienced before. 

Drunkenly, you’re blinking your eyes up at him. “Always?”

He smiles, “Ever since our first lesson of Film 101.” Admitting, he lovingly wipes off a bit of his cum you were foaming between your pussylips. “You referenced Pride and Prejudice when talking about the best lines of dialogue of all time, and I-I’d been a goner since then.”

“Corny…” You snort. Though you can’t help the flutter of your heart.

“So um- coffee after this?”

“It better be dinner.”

He laughs in agreement. “Also I bought a vibrating piercing the other day and have been dying to try it…”

Your eyes widen.

And once you’re helping him pull out- Choso reaches for the camera and gets a good shot of the cum leaking between your legs. Before you’re both waving at it, “Thank you for joining us, today—this was the most fun I’ve had on stream yet- heh.”

You’re shooting the camera a pretty smile, too.

And Choso kisses the corner of your cheeks, “Until next time. This has been Curse and Movie.”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: holy fuck??

@Curse’swifey: WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT NO WAY-

@bewbsRlife: HOLD ON-

@CCpervnextdoor: SAY SIKE RN?

@bipplruletheworld: oh my god that’s amazing.

@likezmenpregnant: Oh, a love story for the ages~

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU TWO LOOKING FOR A THIRD??

@Fishygurodad: Damn.

@Fishygurodad: Hmu when he messes up.

@daddytoeknee: Stfu he won’t.

@daddytoeknee: Also I totally called it <3

A/N. I did NOT plan to have me inserted and beefing with Toji Fushiguro but here we are-

"it's going to be fine," he said, and his voice was that low, lazy drawl that made everything sound like a joke, like life itself was just a long, amusing inconvenience that he was tolerating out of sheer boredom. "you're worrying too much, baby. you always worry. it's bad for your skin, you know. wrinkles. i'll have to trade you in for a newer model."

you didn't laugh. you couldn't laugh. you just squeezed his hand tighter, your fingernails digging into his palm, and he didn't even flinch, just turned his head and looked at you with those impossibly blue eyes, the ones that saw everything, the ones that had seen you at your worst and had somehow, impossibly, stayed.

"hey," he said, softer now, the lazy drawl fading into something quieter, something almost tender. "look at me."

you looked at him, and for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe this time would be different. maybe this time the little stick would show two lines, or a plus sign, or whatever stupid symbol it was supposed to show, and you could finally, finally give him what he wanted, what he had always wanted, what he talked about in the quiet moments when he thought you were asleep, his hand on your stomach, his voice a low murmur against your hair.

"i want a baby," he had said once, years ago, when you were both younger and stupider and the world had not yet learned how to break you. "i want a little you, with your eyes and your stupid laugh and your ridiculous way of crying at commercials about dogs. i want to teach them how to throw a baseball. i want to watch you hold them. i want that so bad it hurts, baby. you have no idea."

but you did have an idea. you had every idea. you had felt that hurt carve itself into your chest month after month, cycle after cycle, test after negative test, and you had watched his face fall each time, watched him hide it behind a smile and a joke and a "well, we'll just try again next month, right?" and you had smiled back and nodded and pretended that your heart wasn't cracking open like an egg, yolk and white spilling out onto the floor of your beautiful, expensive bathroom with its marble countertops and its gold-plated faucets.

the nurse called your name.

you stood up on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else, and satoru stood with you, his hand moving from yours to the small of your back, that familiar, grounding pressure that said i'm here, i'm not going anywhere, you're not alone. you walked down the hallway together, past the posters of smiling pregnant women and the diagrams of uteruses and fallopian tubes, and you tried to breathe, tried to remember how to make your lungs work, tried not to think about the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that.

the blood draw was quick, efficient, painless in the way that only a needle sliding into your vein could be painless, which is to say not painless at all but so familiar now that you barely registered it. the nurse smiled at you, that professional, sympathetic smile that said i see women like you every day, and some of them get what they want and some of them don't, and i have no way of knowing which one you are. you hated that smile. you hated this room. you hated the little plastic cup you had peed into in the bathroom down the hall, the one with the faulty lock and the scratch on the mirror that looked like a crack.

"we'll have the results in about fifteen minutes," the nurse said, and then she was gone, and you were back in the waiting room with its terrible white walls and its ticking clock and its plastic chairs that squeaked every time you shifted your weight.

satoru pulled you into his side, his arm around your shoulders, and you let yourself melt into him because what else could you do? you were so tired. you were so, so tired. not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind of tired that lived in your bones, that had made a home in your marrow, that whispered to you in the dark hours of the night that maybe you weren't meant for this, maybe you weren't enough, maybe your body was a broken thing that had failed at the one job it was supposed to do.

"tell me a story," you said, your voice muffled against his chest, and you felt him chuckle, felt the vibration of it travel through his ribs and into your cheek.

"what kind of story?" he asked, and you could hear the smile in his voice, that stupid, beautiful smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place, all those years ago when he had been nothing but a loud-mouthed rich kid with too much confidence and not enough sense.

"a happy one," you said. "one where everything works out in the end."

he was quiet for a moment, and then he began to speak, his voice low and rhythmic, like a lullaby, like a prayer.

"once upon a time," he said, "there was a man who had everything. money, looks, a truly exceptional amount of charm. he had a penthouse with a view of the city and a car that cost more than most people's houses and a collection of sunglasses that was frankly obscene. but he was lonely. so lonely. because what is money, really, if you have no one to spend it on? what is a penthouse, if you have to sleep in it alone?"

you closed your eyes, and you listened.

"and then one day," he continued, "he met a girl. and she was nothing like he expected. she was small and fierce and she cried at commercials about dogs and she laughed at his jokes even when they weren't funny, which was most of the time, honestly. and she looked at him like he was something more than just a rich idiot with good hair. she looked at him like he mattered. and he thought, oh. oh, this is it. this is the thing i've been waiting for."

his hand came up to stroke your hair, slow and gentle, and you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you didn't let them fall. not yet. not here.

"he loved her," satoru said, "more than he had ever loved anything. more than his cars, more than his penthouse, more than his truly ridiculous collection of limited edition sneakers. and he wanted to give her everything. the world. the moon. a hundred babies with her eyes and her stupid laugh and her ridiculous way of crying at commercials about dogs."

you choked on a sob, a small, broken sound that you tried to hide, but he heard it, of course he heard it, because he always heard everything.

"hey," he said, and his voice cracked, just a little, just enough for you to know that he was scared too, that he was hurting too, that this was breaking him in ways he would never say out loud. "hey, baby. look at me."

you looked at him, and his eyes were so blue, so impossibly, heartbreakingly blue, and they were wet, actually wet, and you realized with a start that gojo satoru, the man who laughed at everything, who never took anything seriously, who treated life like a joke and death like an inconvenience, was crying.

"i don't care," he said, and his voice was rough, scraped raw. "i don't care about the tests. i don't care about the babies. i don't care about any of it. i care about you. i just want you. you're enough. you've always been enough. you're more than enough, you're everything, you're the whole damn thing, and if you never give me a baby, i will still wake up every morning and thank whatever cosmic joke of a universe put you in my path because you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and i will not, i will not let you sit here and think that you have failed me because you haven't, you couldn't, you couldn't, do you understand?"

you stared at him, and the tears were falling now, hot and fast and unstoppable, and you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come, just a sound, a terrible, keening sound that came from somewhere deep in your chest, somewhere you didn't even know existed.

and then the nurse came back.

she was holding a piece of paper, and her face was carefully, professionally neutral, and you knew. you knew before she said a word. you knew in the way she held her shoulders, in the way she avoided your eyes, in the way she said your name like it was a question instead of a statement.

"i'm so sorry," she said, and her voice was soft, kind, the kind of voice you use with someone who is already bleeding, who is already on the ground, who cannot possibly be hurt any more than they already are. "the test came back negative."

the world went quiet.

not the kind of quiet that happens when a room falls silent, but the kind of quiet that happens inside your own head, when the screaming gets so loud that it cancels itself out, when your brain short-circuits and all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears and the sound of your own heart breaking into a thousand, million pieces.

you took the paper from her hand, or maybe you didn't, maybe satoru took it, you couldn't remember, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but stare at the little window where the result was printed, the cruel, simple word that had destroyed you so many times before.

negative.

you had thought you would be used to it by now. you had thought that after the third test, the fifth, the tenth, the pain would dull, would scab over, would become something you could carry without it cutting you open every single time. but it didn't. it was fresh every month, sharp and bright and agonizing, and you realized now that you had been lying to yourself, that you had been pretending that hope was a thing you had given up on when in reality you had been clinging to it like a drowning woman clings to a piece of driftwood, and now that driftwood had splintered in your hands and you were sinking, sinking, sinking into the cold, dark water.

the sob that tore out of you was ugly, raw, animal. it was not the kind of cry that looks beautiful in movies, with single tears rolling down porcelain cheeks. it was the kind of cry that convulses your whole body, that leaves you gasping for air, that makes your face red and swollen and your nose run and your throat ache. it was the kind of cry that belongs in a bathroom with the door locked and the water running so no one can hear you.

but there was no bathroom here. there was only satoru, and the nurse, and the terrible white walls, and the clock that kept ticking, indifferent to your pain.

"baby," satoru said, and his voice was broken, shattered, a mirror that had been dropped on a tile floor. "baby, please. please look at me."

you couldn't look at him. you couldn't look at anything. you buried your face in your hands and you cried, really cried, the kind of crying you hadn't allowed yourself to do in months, years, because you had been so busy being strong, so busy pretending that you were okay, so busy telling yourself that next month would be different, next month would be the month, next month you would finally be able to give him what he wanted.

but it wasn't different. it was never different. and you were so tired of being brave.

"i'm sorry," you gasped, the words tumbling out of you like broken glass. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, i can't, i can't do it, i can't give you what you want, i'm broken, i'm broken, satoru, i'm broken and i can't fix it, i can't fix any of it, you should have married someone else, someone who could give you babies, someone who wasn't so fucking useless—"

"stop."

his voice was sharp now, cutting through your hysteria like a knife, and his hands were on your face, pulling your hands away, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes were blazing, not with anger but with something else, something fiercer, something that looked almost like fury but wasn't, wasn't fury at all, was something so much deeper and more terrifying and more beautiful.

"don't you ever," he said, and his voice was shaking, actually shaking, "don't you ever say that to me. don't you ever say you're broken. don't you ever say i should have married someone else. don't you ever say you're useless. do you hear me? do you fucking hear me?"

you sobbed, and he pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you so tightly that you could barely breathe, and you thought maybe that was the point, maybe he was trying to hold you together, to keep the pieces of you from scattering across this terrible white room.

"i don't want someone else," he said, his lips pressed against your hair, his voice muffled but fierce. "i want you. i have always wanted you. i will always want you. you are not a baby-making machine, you are not an incubator, you are not a fucking factory with a production quota. you are my wife. you are the person i chose. and i chose you because you are you, not because of what your body can or cannot do."

you clung to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, and you cried and cried until you thought there could not possibly be any tears left in your body, until you were just dry heaving against his chest, making small, pathetic sounds that you would be embarrassed about later but couldn't bring yourself to care about now.

"i know it hurts," he said, and his voice was softer now, gentler, the sharpness gone, replaced by something that felt like a balm on an open wound. "i know it hurts, baby. i know. and i'm not going to tell you not to cry, because you have every right to cry. you have every right to be sad and angry and fucking furious at the universe for being so goddamn cruel. but i need you to know that i am not going anywhere. i am not leaving. i am not giving up on you. we are in this together, you and me, and if we never have a baby, then we never have a baby, and we will find a way to be happy anyway. we will adopt, or we will get a dog, or we will just be the two richest, most obnoxious, most deeply in love childless weirdos the world has ever seen. but we will be that together. do you understand?"

you nodded against his chest, and you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head, felt his arms tighten around you, felt his heart pounding against your cheek, fast and strong and alive.

"i love you," he said, and the words were not a consolation prize, not a there, there, everything will be fine, but a statement of fact, as solid and unshakeable as the earth beneath your feet. "i love you more than i have ever loved anything, and i will love you until the day i die and probably after that too, because i'm selfish and i don't believe in letting go."

you laughed, a wet, broken sound, and you lifted your head to look at him, and his face was wet too, tear tracks running down his cheeks, and his nose was red and his eyes were swollen and he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

"you're a mess," you whispered, and he grinned, that stupid, beautiful, unhinged grin that had made you fall in love with him in the first place.

"yeah," he said. "but i'm your mess."

he kissed you then, soft and gentle and sweet, and you tasted salt on his lips, your tears and his mingled together, and you thought that maybe this was what love was, not the grand gestures or the expensive gifts or the penthouse with the view of the city, but this, this moment, this broken, beautiful, terrible moment where two people held each other in a sterile white room and refused to let go.

the nurse had left at some point, you didn't know when, and the waiting room was empty except for the two of you, and the clock was still ticking, and the walls were still white, but somehow it didn't feel so terrible anymore. somehow, with his arms around you and his heartbeat under your ear, the world felt a little less cold, a little less cruel, a little less like a place where dreams went to die.

"come on," he said finally, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. "let's go home. i'll make you hot chocolate. the kind with the tiny marshmallows. and we can watch that stupid reality show you like, the one with the people who yell at each other about cakes."

"it's about weddings," you said, your voice still thick with tears, "not cakes."

"same thing," he said, and he helped you to your feet, and he didn't let go of your hand, not when you walked out of the waiting room, not when you got into the car, not when you drove home through the city streets with the lights blurring past the windows like falling stars.

and when you got home, he made you hot chocolate with the tiny marshmallows, and he held you on the couch while you watched the people yell at each other about weddings, and he didn't say it's okay or we'll try again next month or any of the things that would have felt like knives in your chest.

he just held you.

and that was enough.

it wasn't everything. it wasn't the baby you had dreamed of, the nursery you had painted in your mind, the tiny hands and tiny feet and tiny heartbeat that you had wanted so badly you could taste it. but it was something. it was warmth and love and the quiet, steady promise that you were not alone, that you would never be alone, that even if your body failed you, even if the tests kept coming back negative until you were old and gray and out of time, you would have him.

and maybe, you thought, as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, the marshmallows melting into the hot chocolate and the tv humming in the background, maybe that was enough.

maybe that was everything.

GETO SUGURU

the bathroom was too warm, the kind of warm that came from the heated floors and the towel rack and the soft, ambient lighting that was supposed to be soothing but instead felt like a fever dream, like the air itself was pressing down on your lungs, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to think, making it hard to do anything but stare at the small plastic stick in your trembling hands.

geto suguru stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair falling across his forehead in that careless way that made him look like a painting, like something from another century, like a man who had stepped out of a dream and into your life and had never quite figured out how to leave. he was wearing a black sweater, soft and expensive, the kind that cost more than most people's rent, and his feet were bare on the marble floor, and his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that would have been terrifying if it weren't so gentle.

you had been in here for seven minutes. you knew because you had counted. the test had a three-minute wait time, but you had spent the first four minutes just staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to pray, trying to remember if you even believed in anything that would listen.

"darling," he said, and his voice was low and smooth, like honey, like whiskey, like the kind of voice that could talk you down from any ledge, could calm any storm, could make you believe that the world was not ending even when you could see the flames licking at the sky. "it's been seven minutes."

"i know," you said, and your voice came out as a whisper, cracked and thin, like a piece of paper that had been folded too many times.

"look at it," he said, and it wasn't a command, not really, just a suggestion, a gentle nudge, the kind of thing he said when he wanted you to face something you were trying to hide from. "whatever it says, we'll handle it. together. like we handle everything."

you looked at it.

the little window was empty. no, not empty. there was a line. one line. the control line. the line that said the test was working, that you had done it right, that the little plastic stick was not defective. but there was no second line. no faint pink, no shadow, no hint of a maybe.

negative.

you had known. you had known from the moment you woke up this morning, from the familiar cramp in your lower abdomen, from the way your breasts had stopped hurting two days ago, from the way your body had been sending you signals for a week now, little whispers that said not this time, not this time, not this time. but you had ignored them, had pushed them down, had buried them under layers of desperate, foolish hope because that was what you did, month after month, cycle after cycle, year after fucking year.

the sound that came out of you was not a sob. it was something smaller, quieter, more terrible. it was the sound of something breaking that could never be fixed, not with glue, not with time, not with all the money in the world. it was the sound of a dream dying, not with a bang or a scream, but with a soft, almost polite exhale, like a candle being snuffed out by a gentle hand.

suguru was beside you in an instant, his bare feet silent on the floor, his arms wrapping around you from behind, his chin coming to rest on the top of your head. he didn't say anything. he just held you, his chest pressed against your back, his heartbeat steady and slow against your shoulder blades, and you felt the tears come, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks and dripping onto the plastic stick in your hands.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, and the words felt so small, so inadequate, like throwing a pebble into the ocean and expecting it to stop the tide. "i'm so sorry, suguru. i tried. i tried so hard. i did everything right. i took the vitamins, i ate the right foods, i stopped drinking coffee, i did the acupuncture, i did the yoga, i did the fucking meditation apps that you downloaded for me, and i still—" your voice broke, splintered into a thousand pieces. "i still couldn't. i can't. my body won't. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry."

he turned you around, his hands gentle on your shoulders, and he looked at you with those dark eyes, the ones that had seen you naked and weeping and laughing and screaming, the ones that had watched you grow older and softer and more desperate, the ones that had never once looked away.

"don't," he said, and his voice was quiet, so quiet, barely a whisper, but there was something in it that made your chest ache, something raw and wounded and unbearably tender. "don't apologize to me. not for this. not ever for this."

"but you wanted—" you choked on the words, swallowed them, tried again. "you wanted a baby. you said you wanted a baby. you said you wanted to see me hold our child, to teach them how to read, to watch them fall asleep on my chest. you said that was all you wanted. and i can't give it to you. i'm failing you. i'm failing you, suguru, and i don't know how to stop."

his hands moved from your shoulders to your face, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away your tears with a tenderness that felt like a knife in your ribs. he was so gentle, always so gentle, even when you didn't deserve it, even when you were falling apart in his arms like a doll that had been dropped one too many times.

"listen to me," he said, and his voice was firm now, not harsh but steady, the kind of steady that could hold up the sky. "i did not marry you for your uterus. i did not fall in love with you because i thought you would be a good incubator for my genetic material. i fell in love with you because you are you. because you laugh at my jokes when no one else does. because you leave your books open on the coffee table with the pages facing down, which drives me insane, and yet i find it endearing. because you cry at documentaries about whales and then pretend you have something in your eye. because you are the most infuriating, beautiful, impossible person i have ever met, and every single day with you is a gift that i do not deserve."

you sobbed, ugly and loud, and he pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine, holding you so close that you could feel the shape of his ribs, the warmth of his skin through the soft wool of his sweater.

"i want a baby," he said, and the words were not a confession or a demand, just a simple statement, like saying the sky is blue or water is wet. "i want a baby with you. i want to see you pregnant and glowing and impossibly, insufferably smug about it. i want to hold our child in my arms and watch you sleep and feel like the luckiest man who has ever lived. i want that. i have always wanted that. but i want you more. i want you alive and whole and here, in this bathroom, crying into my sweater, making it all wet and disgusting. i want you even when you're sad. i want you even when you're broken. i want you even when you think you have nothing left to give me."

you pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wet too, tears sliding silently down his cheeks, and you realized with a jolt that geto suguru, the man who never raised his voice, who never lost his temper, who moved through the world like a still pond in a forest, was crying. not sobbing, not heaving, just crying, quiet and dignified and absolutely devastating.

"you're crying," you said, your voice thick and stupid with tears.

"yes," he said, and he didn't wipe his face, didn't try to hide it, just let the tears fall, let you see him, let you see the full, terrible, beautiful weight of his love for you. "i'm crying because you're hurting. i'm crying because i can't fix this. i'm crying because i would trade every penny i have, every possession, every breath in my lungs, to take this pain away from you and carry it myself. and i can't. and that is the most unbearable thing i have ever known."

you stared at him, and the room was quiet except for your breathing and his, and the soft hum of the heated floors, and the distant sound of traffic from the street below. the plastic stick was still in your hand, the cruel little word still staring up at you, but somehow it felt smaller now, less significant, like a stone that had been rolled away from the mouth of a tomb.

"i'm scared," you whispered, and your voice was so small, so young, like a child's voice, like the voice you had used when you were little and you woke up from a nightmare and called for your mother. "i'm scared that it's never going to happen. i'm scared that we're going to keep trying and trying and trying and i'm going to keep failing and failing and failing and one day you're going to wake up and realize that you wasted your best years on someone who couldn't give you what you wanted. i'm scared that you're going to leave."

his face crumpled. actually crumpled, like a piece of paper being crushed in a fist. and then he was on his knees in front of you, his hands on your hips, his face pressed against your stomach, and he was shaking, actually shaking, his shoulders trembling with the force of whatever was moving through him.

"leave?" he said, and his voice was muffled against your shirt, but you could hear the disbelief in it, the hurt, the raw, bleeding wound of the suggestion. "leave you? i would sooner cut out my own heart and feed it to the dogs. i would sooner set fire to everything i own and walk into the sea. you are my home. you are my family. you are the only thing in this world that has ever made sense to me, and if you think for one second that i would leave you because of something as arbitrary as biology, as fate, as the cruel, indifferent randomness of the universe, then you do not know me at all. and that—" his voice cracked, broke, reformed. "that would break me more than any negative test ever could."

you sank to your knees too, until you were face to face with him, your foreheads touching, your breath mingling with his, and you reached up and touched his face, his wet cheeks, his jaw, the corner of his mouth where a tiny scar lived, a remnant of some childhood accident he had never fully explained.

"i'm sorry," you said again, but it was different this time, softer, less desperate. "i'm sorry i said that. i know you wouldn't leave. i know. i just—sometimes my brain lies to me. sometimes it tells me that i'm not enough, that i'll never be enough, that i'm just a broken thing that you're going to get tired of carrying."

he opened his eyes, and they were dark and deep and endless, like looking into a well at midnight, and he took your face in his hands and held it like it was something precious, something irreplaceable, something he would kill to protect.

"you are not broken," he said, and each word was a stone, solid and unshakeable. "you are not broken, you are not failing, you are not a disappointment. you are a woman who is trying to do something that is hard, something that is not guaranteed, something that millions of other women have struggled with since the beginning of time. and you are doing it with grace and courage and more strength than you give yourself credit for. and i am proud of you. do you hear me? i am so proud of you. i am proud of you for taking the tests, for hoping, for trying, for showing up every single month even when you know it might hurt. that is not weakness. that is the opposite of weakness. that is the bravest thing i have ever seen."

you kissed him then, not because you wanted to, not because it was the right thing to do, but because you couldn't not kiss him, because his mouth was right there and your lips were drawn to it like a compass points north, like a river finds the sea. and he kissed you back, soft and slow and deep, his hands sliding into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, and for a moment, just a moment, the world fell away, and there was nothing but the two of you, kneeling on the warm marble floor of your beautiful, expensive bathroom, holding each other like the only two people left in the universe.

when you finally pulled back, your lips were swollen and your face was wet and your nose was running and you were the least attractive you had ever been, and he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"come on," he said, and he stood up, pulling you with him, his hand warm and steady in yours. "let's get out of this room. i'll run you a bath. the big tub, with the jets and the expensive bath salts that you pretend not to like but use every time. and then i'll make you dinner. something terrible, probably. i'll burn it, and you'll laugh at me, and then we'll order takeout from that place you like, the one with the dumplings."

"the one with the soup dumplings," you said, and your voice was still thick, but there was something else there too, something that might have been a smile.

"yes," he said. "the soup dumplings. and then we'll sit on the couch and you'll fall asleep on my shoulder during the second act of whatever movie we put on, and i'll carry you to bed, and i'll hold you all night, and in the morning, we'll wake up and we'll try again. not because we have to, not because we're desperate, but because we want to. because hope is not a thing that dies, even when we wish it would. because we are stubborn and stupid and in love, and we do not know how to give up."

you looked at him, at his dark hair and his kind eyes and the small, sad smile that was playing at the corners of his mouth, and you thought that maybe this was what it meant to be loved, not to have someone fix your problems or make your pain disappear, but to have someone sit with you in the middle of it, to hold your hand and let you cry and tell you that you are not alone.

"okay," you said, and you squeezed his hand. "okay."

he ran the bath, and he put in the expensive bath salts that you pretended not to like, and he sat on the edge of the tub while you soaked, his fingers trailing through the water, and he told you a story about a man who had everything and a woman who had nothing and how they found each other anyway, and you listened, and you cried a little more, and you laughed when he got to the part about the cat, and when the water went cold, he wrapped you in a towel and carried you to the bedroom and laid you down on the soft, expensive sheets, and he held you until you fell asleep.

and the negative test sat on the bathroom counter, small and white and cruel, and you did not look at it again. not that night. not for a long time.

because some things are not meant to be stared at.

some things are meant to be left behind.

NANAMI KENTO

the living room was dark except for the single lamp on the end table, the one with the amber glass shade that cast everything in a soft, honeyed glow, and nanami kento sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together, and he was waiting.

he had been waiting for forty-three minutes.

not impatiently. nanami did not do things impatiently. he waited the way he did everything else: with a kind of quiet, methodical stillness, like a man who had learned long ago that rushing did nothing but exhaust the heart. he had taken off his watch and placed it on the coffee table, face up, because he wanted to see the seconds move, wanted to mark the passage of time in a way that felt real and tangible, wanted to remind himself that this moment, like all moments, would eventually end.

you were in the bathroom.

you had been in there for forty-three minutes, and he had not knocked, had not called out, had not done anything but sit here in the amber light and wait, because he knew that some things could not be rushed, that some doors had to be opened from the inside, that the only thing he could give you right now was the quiet, steady promise of his presence.

the test was on the counter. he knew because he had watched you carry it in there, your hands shaking so badly that the little plastic stick had rattled against the porcelain sink. he had wanted to go with you, had wanted to hold your hand, had wanted to be there when you looked, but you had shaken your head, had whispered "i need to do this alone" in a voice that was so small, so fragile, so unlike the voice of the woman he had married, and he had nodded and stepped back and let you close the door.

that had been forty-three minutes ago.

he thought about the first time he had seen you. it was at a bookstore, of all places, a tiny, cramped shop in a part of the city that was slowly being eaten by luxury condos and overpriced coffee shops. you had been reaching for a book on a high shelf, standing on your tiptoes, your fingers just brushing the spine, and you had made a small, frustrated sound that had made him smile despite himself. he had reached past you and pulled the book down, and you had turned and looked at him with those eyes, those impossible, beautiful eyes, and he had thought, oh. oh, this is dangerous.

he had been thirty-two then. careful. contained. a man who had built his life around order and routine and the quiet satisfaction of a job done well. he had not been looking for love, had not believed in it, really, had thought of it as something that happened to other people, people who were softer, more open, less afraid of being hurt.

and then you had smiled at him, and he had understood, for the first time in his life, what all the poets were talking about.

the bathroom door opened.

he stood up before he could think about it, his body moving on its own, and he turned to face the hallway, and you were standing there, in the doorway, and your face was pale and your eyes were red and swollen and your hands were empty, and he knew.

he knew before you said a word.

the sound you made was not a word. it was something else, something that lived in the space between a sigh and a scream, and then you were crossing the room, your feet bare on the hardwood floor, and you collapsed against him, your forehead pressed to his chest, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and you did not cry.

that was the worst part.

you did not cry. you just stood there, trembling, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you and waited for the storm to break, but it didn't, it wouldn't, and he realized with a cold, sharp clarity that you had cried so much already, so many times, that there were simply no tears left.

"kento," you said, and his name was a broken thing in your mouth, a piece of glass that you had tried to swallow. "kento, i can't. i can't do this anymore."

he did not say it's okay because it was not okay, and he did not say we'll try again because that was not what you needed to hear, and he did not say anything at all because sometimes silence was the only honest answer. he just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head, his hands spread wide across your back, and he breathed, slow and deep, hoping that his heartbeat would remind yours how to keep going.

"it was negative," you said, and your voice was flat, hollow, the voice of someone who had delivered this same news so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "again. it was negative again. and i don't know why i'm surprised. i don't know why i keep hoping. i don't know why i keep doing this to myself. to us."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, and your face was a ruin, your beautiful face, with its smudged mascara and its blotchy cheeks and its cracked lips that you had been biting all day, and he thought that he had never loved you more than he loved you in this moment, in this terrible, beautiful, unbearable moment.

"come here," he said, and he led you to the couch, sat you down, pulled the throw blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around your shoulders, and then he knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees, his eyes level with yours.

"tell me," he said. "tell me everything you're feeling. don't filter it. don't try to make it easier for me. just tell me."

you stared at him, and for a moment, he thought you might refuse, might shut down, might retreat into that cold, quiet place that you went to when the world became too much. but then your face crumpled, and the words came, not in a flood but in a slow, painful trickle, like water seeping through a crack in a dam.

"i feel like a failure," you said. "i feel like my body has betrayed me. i feel like every month, i get a little bit smaller, a little bit less, like i'm disappearing, like i'm becoming nothing but a collection of negative tests and broken hopes. i feel like you married the wrong person. i feel like if you had chosen someone else, someone younger, someone healthier, someone whose body actually worked the way it was supposed to, you would already have the family you deserve. i feel like i'm wasting your time. i feel like i'm stealing your future. i feel like one day you're going to wake up and look at me and see nothing but the years you lost, the children you never had, the life i couldn't give you."

his hands tightened on your knees, not painfully, but firmly, anchoring.

"and i feel angry," you continued, your voice rising, cracking. "i feel so fucking angry, kento. i'm angry at my body for betraying me. i'm angry at the universe for being so cruel. i'm angry at every woman who gets pregnant by accident, who doesn't even want a baby, who treats it like an inconvenience, who complains about morning sickness and swollen ankles while i would give anything, anything, to feel nauseous just once, to know that something was growing inside me. i'm angry at myself for being angry. i'm angry that i can't just be grateful for what i have. i have you. i have this beautiful home. i have more money than i could ever spend. and it's not enough. it's never enough. and i hate myself for that. i hate myself so much."

the tears came then, finally, not the silent, dignified tears of a woman who had accepted her fate, but the ugly, wrenching sobs of someone who had been holding back a flood for far too long. you bent forward, your forehead almost touching your knees, and you cried, and nanami did not try to stop you, did not shush you, did not tell you that everything would be fine.

he just stayed.

he stayed on his knees in front of you, his hands on your knees, his head bowed, and he let you cry. he let the sounds fill the room, the terrible, beautiful sounds of your grief, and he did not flinch from them, did not try to cover them with words, because he knew that grief was not something to be fixed but something to be witnessed.

when the sobs finally began to slow, when your breathing started to even out, he reached up and brushed the hair from your face, his fingers gentle, almost reverent.

"can i tell you something?" he asked, and his voice was low and rough, scraped raw by the sight of your pain.

you nodded, not looking at him, your eyes fixed on the floor.

"i am thirty-six years old," he said. "and before i met you, i had never cried. not once, not since i was a child. i had convinced myself that crying was useless, that it solved nothing, that it was a weakness that i could not afford. i had built myself into a fortress, you see. walls and walls and walls, and i was safe inside them, and i was alone."

he paused, and you looked up at him, and his eyes were wet, actually wet, and you realized with a start that nanami kento, the most controlled man you had ever known, the man who ironed his shirts and folded his socks and never raised his voice, was crying.

"and then you came," he said, "and you laughed at one of my jokes, a terrible joke, a joke that no one else had ever found funny, and you looked at me like i was not a fortress but a person, and something inside me cracked. not broke. cracked. just enough to let a little light in. and over the years, you have cracked me open again and again, not because you were trying to, but because that is what love does. it cracks you open. it makes you vulnerable. it makes you feel things that you spent your whole life trying not to feel."

he took your hands in his, and his hands were warm and steady, and he pressed them to his chest, right over his heart.

"do you feel that?" he asked. "that is my heart. and it is beating for you. not for a baby. not for a family. for you. you are the reason it beats. you are the reason i get out of bed in the morning. you are the reason i work, and cook, and fold my socks, and do all the other boring, mundane things that make up a life. because i get to come home to you. because i get to see your face. because i get to hold you when you cry and make you tea when you're sad and watch you fall asleep on the couch during movies that you insisted you wanted to see."

you shook your head, tears still falling, and tried to pull your hands away, but he held them fast.

"i know what you're thinking," he said. "you're thinking that i'm just saying this to make you feel better. you're thinking that deep down, i must be disappointed, must be resentful, must be wondering what my life would look like if i had married someone else. and i need you to listen to me very carefully, because i am only going to say this once."

he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

"i am not disappointed," he said. "i am not resentful. i am not wondering what my life would look like with someone else. because my life, right now, in this moment, with you crying on our couch and the test sitting on the bathroom counter and the whole world feeling like it's falling apart, is the life i chose. and i would choose it again. and again. and again. a thousand times. a million times. i would choose you in every universe, in every timeline, in every version of reality that has ever existed or ever will exist. do you understand? you are not a consolation prize. you are not a second choice. you are not a broken thing that i am tolerating out of pity or obligation. you are the love of my life. and that is not a small thing. that is not a but at least thing. that is the whole thing. that is everything."

you stared at him, and the tears kept falling, but something in your chest loosened, just a little, just enough to let you breathe.

"but you wanted a baby," you whispered, and the words were so small, so fragile, like a child's drawing held up to the wind. "you said you wanted a baby. you said you wanted to teach them how to read. you said you wanted to watch them learn to tie their shoes. you said—"

"i know what i said," he interrupted, gently, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. "and i meant it. i do want those things. i want them very much. but i want you more. i want you more than i want anything else in this world. and if the choice is between having you and having a child, i will choose you every single time. without hesitation. without regret. without a single backward glance."

"but what if—" you started, and he shook his head.

"no," he said. "no what ifs. no buts. no hypotheticals. this is the reality we live in. and in this reality, we are trying to have a baby, and it is not working, and it might never work, and that is terrible, and that is sad, and i am not going to pretend that it doesn't hurt. it does hurt. it hurts more than i know how to say. but the hurt does not change the love. the hurt does not make me love you less. if anything, it makes me love you more, because i see you, every month, getting up off the floor and trying again, and that is the bravest thing i have ever witnessed."

you let out a shuddering breath, and you leaned forward, resting your head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you, and you felt the tension in your body begin to ease, just a little, like a fist slowly unclenching.

"i'm scared," you said, your voice muffled against his shirt. "i'm scared that one day you'll wake up and realize that you wasted your best years on me. i'm scared that you'll resent me. i'm scared that i'll resent myself. i'm scared that we'll keep trying and trying and trying and i'll keep failing and failing and failing and one day i'll look in the mirror and not recognize the person looking back at me."

he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and his lips lingered there, warm and soft.

"do you want to know what i see," he said, "when i look at you?"

you nodded against his shoulder.

"i see a woman who gets up every morning and tries," he said. "i see a woman who takes vitamins she hates and eats food she doesn't want and goes to appointments that make her feel like a specimen under a microscope. i see a woman who hopes, even when hoping hurts, even when hoping has let her down a hundred times before. i see a woman who loves so fiercely, so completely, that she would rather blame herself for something she cannot control than admit that the universe is simply random and cruel and unfair. i see my wife. i see my home. i see the person i want to grow old with, whether we have children or not, whether we have anything or not, whether the world ends tomorrow or keeps spinning for a thousand more years."

you pulled back and looked at him, and his face was wet and his eyes were red and his hair was falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, softer, more human than he had ever looked before.

"i love you," you said, and the words felt different this time, heavier, more real. "i love you so much, kento. and i'm sorry that i can't give you what you want. i'm sorry that my body is broken. i'm sorry that i keep falling apart like this. i'm sorry that you have to keep putting me back together."

he shook his head, and a small, sad smile touched his lips.

"you don't have to be sorry," he said. "and you're not broken. you're just human. and being human means hurting, and hoping, and hurting again. and i am here. i am always here. i am not going anywhere. and if you fall apart, i will help you put the pieces back together. and if you fall apart again, i will do it again. and again. and again. for as long as it takes. because that is what love is. not the grand gestures, not the perfect moments, but the small, quiet, daily choice to stay. to keep showing up. to keep holding on."

he stood up then, and he reached down and took your hand, and he pulled you to your feet, and he led you to the kitchen, and he made you tea, the way you liked it, with honey and a slice of lemon, and he sat with you at the table while you drank it, and he did not talk about the test or the baby or the future. he talked about the bread he was going to bake tomorrow, and the book he was reading, and the ridiculous argument he had witnessed at the grocery store between two old men about the proper way to stack oranges.

and you listened, and you drank your tea, and slowly, slowly, the tightness in your chest began to ease.

later, after you had washed your face and changed into your softest pajamas and climbed into bed, he lay beside you, his arm around your waist, his breath warm against your neck, and you stared at the ceiling and thought about all the months that had come before, all the tests and the tears and the tiny, fragile hopes that had been crushed one by one.

"kento," you whispered.

"hm?" he said, his voice already soft with sleep.

"thank you," you said. "for staying."

he was quiet for a moment, and then he pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist, and he pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder.

"there is nowhere else i would rather be," he said.

and in the darkness, with his heartbeat against your back and his arm around your waist and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing in your ear, you let yourself believe it. just for tonight. just for this one, small, impossible moment.

you let yourself believe that you were enough.

and maybe, just maybe, you were.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

the bathroom smelled of expensive soap and something else, something sharper, something that might have been fear or might have been hope or might have been the particular, metallic tang of tears that had fallen and dried and fallen again. the marble floor was cold against your knees, though you barely felt it anymore, your body having long since surrendered to the numbness that came after the storm, after the shaking and the screaming and the ugly, wet sobs that had torn themselves out of your throat like they were trying to escape a burning building.

the test was on the floor in front of you, where you had dropped it, or thrown it, you couldn't remember which. the little plastic stick had skidded across the polished stone and come to rest against the base of the pedestal sink, and from where you knelt, you could still see the result, still see that single, cruel line, that absence, that emptiness that had become the defining feature of your life.

negative.

you had been here before. so many times before. the same bathroom, the same test, the same position on the floor, your knees aching and your hands trembling and your heart doing that strange, awful thing where it beat too fast and too slow at the same time, like it couldn't decide whether to keep going or just give up. you had lost count of how many tests, how many months, how many times you had convinced yourself that this time would be different, this time the universe would take pity on you, this time you would finally be able to look at your husband's face and see something other than the carefully hidden disappointment that he thought you didn't notice.

but you noticed. you noticed everything about ryomen sukuna. you noticed the way his jaw tightened when you came out of the bathroom with empty hands. you noticed the way his eyes, those deep, burning eyes that could make grown men weep with a single glance, would soften for just a fraction of a second before hardening again into their usual mask of indifference. you noticed the way he would reach for you at night, in the dark, when he thought you were asleep, his hand finding your stomach and resting there, palm flat, as if he could will something into existence through sheer force of wanting.

and you noticed the way he never talked about it. never brought it up. never asked. because sukuna was a man who did not believe in discussing things that could not be solved with action, and this, this slow, grinding ache of month after month after month, was not something that could be solved with action. it could not be bought, could not be fought, could not be intimidated into submission. it was simply… happening. or not happening. and he had no control over it, and that, more than anything, was what made him silent.

the door opened.

you didn't look up. you didn't need to. you knew the weight of his footsteps, the particular quality of the silence that followed him into every room. he stood in the doorway for a long moment, and you could feel his gaze on you, heavy as a hand, and you waited for the anger, the frustration, the cold, cutting words that he wielded like weapons against everyone else in the world.

but they didn't come.

instead, you heard him cross the room, his bare feet silent on the marble, and then he was kneeling in front of you, which was such an absurd thing, such an impossible thing, that for a moment you thought you must be hallucinating. ryomen sukuna did not kneel. ryomen sukuna did not lower himself for anyone. ryomen sukuna was the kind of man who made the world bend around him, not the other way around.

and yet here he was, on his knees on the cold bathroom floor, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his expensive black shirt rumpled, his eyes fixed on your face with an expression that you had never seen before, something raw and unguarded and almost, almost, afraid.

"look at me," he said, and his voice was not the voice he used in boardrooms, not the voice he used with servants, not the voice he used with anyone else in the world. it was softer, lower, almost gentle, and the sound of it made your chest ache with a pain that had nothing to do with the test and everything to do with the man kneeling in front of you.

you shook your head, your eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears leaking from between your lashes. "i can't. i can't look at you. i can't. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, sukuna. i failed again. i keep failing. i keep—"

"i said look at me."

his hand came up, not roughly but firmly, his fingers curling around your chin, and he tilted your face up, forced your eyes open, and you looked at him, and what you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

he was crying.

not weeping, not sobbing, not making any of the sounds that normal people made when they cried. but there were tears on his cheeks, actual tears, sliding down that sharp, beautiful face, catching in the corner of his mouth, and you had never, in all the years you had known him, seen ryomen sukuna cry. you hadn't even been sure he could.

"you think i care about that?" he said, and his voice was rough, scraped raw, like he had been screaming and you hadn't heard. "you think i give one single fuck about that piece of plastic on the floor?"

"it's not about the plastic," you said, and your voice broke on the words, shattered into a thousand pieces. "it's about what it means. it's about what i can't give you. it's about the fact that you married someone who can't—who can't do the one thing—"

"the one thing?" he repeated, and his grip on your chin tightened, just slightly, just enough to make you stop talking. "the one thing. tell me. what is this one thing that you think defines your entire existence? what is this magical, mystical thing that supposedly gives you value in my eyes?"

you stared at him, and the tears kept coming, and you couldn't speak, couldn't form the words, because the words were too big and too small and too terrible all at once.

"a baby," he said, and he said it like it was a curse, like it was a joke, like it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. "you think i need a baby. you think i married you because i needed an heir. you think i look at you and see nothing but a womb with legs."

"no, i—"

"yes," he said, and his voice was rising now, not in anger but in something that sounded almost like desperation, like a man trying to break through a wall with his bare hands. "yes, you do. you think that's what i want. you think that's what i'm waiting for. you think that every month, when you come out of this bathroom with that look on your face, i'm disappointed in you. but i'm not. i'm disappointed in the universe. i'm disappointed in fate. i'm disappointed in whatever cruel, stupid, cosmic joke decided that the one person i actually want to spend my life with would be tortured like this, month after month, test after test, hope after hope."

he let go of your chin and moved his hands to your shoulders, and he pulled you forward, not gently, because sukuna was never gentle, but carefully, like you were something fragile, something that could break if he handled you wrong.

"i don't want a baby," he said, and his voice was low and fierce, and his forehead pressed against yours, and his breath was warm on your lips. "i want you. i want you happy. i want you whole. i want you to stop looking at yourself like you're nothing, because you are not nothing, you are everything, you are the only thing in this godforsaken world that has ever made me feel like i wasn't just… existing. like i was actually living. and if you think i would trade that for a screaming, shitting, crying infant, then you are even stupider than i thought, and i thought you were pretty stupid to begin with."

you laughed, a wet, broken sound, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and fierce and so full of love that it made your heart hurt.

"there," he said. "there's that stupid laugh. i've been waiting all day to hear that stupid laugh."

"you're an asshole," you said, and your voice was still thick with tears, but there was something else there too, something that felt almost like a smile.

"obviously," he said. "i'm the asshole. the king of assholes. the emperor of being a dick. and i am telling you, as the emperor of being a dick, that you are going to stop crying over this. not because it doesn't matter. it does matter. i know it matters. i know it hurts. but you are going to stop crying because you are going to let me hold you, and you are going to let me take care of you, and you are going to let me remind you that you are the most important thing in my life, and that is not going to change whether we have ten children or none."

he stood up, pulling you with him, and then he lifted you, just scooped you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you out of the bathroom, past the test still lying on the floor, past the mirror that reflected your swollen face and red eyes, into the bedroom where the sheets were rumpled and the curtains were drawn and the world outside was still spinning, indifferent to your pain.

he laid you down on the bed, and then he climbed in beside you, and he pulled you against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you so tightly that you could barely breathe, and you thought that maybe that was the point, maybe he was trying to hold you together, to keep the pieces of you from scattering across this beautiful, expensive room.

"i'm going to tell you something," he said, his lips pressed against your hair, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "and you are going to listen. and then you are going to believe me. because i don't say things i don't mean. i don't have time for that. and i don't have the patience."

you nodded against his chest, and he took a breath, and then he began to speak.

"before you," he said, "i didn't believe in anything. i didn't believe in love. i didn't believe in happiness. i didn't believe in any of the soft, stupid things that people use to make themselves feel better about the fact that we're all going to die alone in the end. i believed in money. i believed in power. i believed in making sure that no one could ever hurt me because i was too strong, too rich, too untouchable for anyone to even try."

his hand moved up and down your back, slow and steady, and you felt your muscles begin to unclench, just a little.

"and then i met you," he continued. "and you were… nothing. you were a nobody. you had no money, no power, no connections. you cried at everything. you laughed at jokes that weren't funny. you left your books open on the coffee table and your shoes in the middle of the floor and your hair in the drain, and i should have hated you. i should have found you annoying and insignificant and beneath my notice. but instead, i found myself wanting to be near you. wanting to hear your voice. wanting to see your face. wanting to know what you were thinking and feeling and dreaming about."

he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you felt the warmth of it spread through you like honey.

"and then one day," he said, "i realized that i was in love with you. and i didn't know what to do with that. i had never been in love before. i didn't know the rules. i didn't know how to act. i just knew that when you looked at me, i felt like maybe i wasn't the monster everyone thought i was. maybe i was just… a man. a stupid, selfish, arrogant man who had somehow been given a gift he didn't deserve."

you looked up at him, and his face was so close, and his eyes were so bright, and you reached up and touched his cheek, felt the wetness there, the tears that were still falling, silent and steady.

"you are not a monster," you said. "you've never been a monster. not to me."

"i know," he said. "that's the problem. that's why i can't lose you. that's why i can't let this break you. because if you break, i break. and i don't know how to put myself back together. i never learned. i never had to. because i had you."

you kissed him then, soft and slow, and he kissed you back, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. there was no test, no negative, no cruel, indifferent universe. there was just this, just him, just the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your palm.

when you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, and his eyes were dark and deep and endless, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"we're going to be okay," he said, and it wasn't a question, wasn't a hope, wasn't a prayer. it was a statement, a fact, as solid and unshakeable as the man himself. "we're going to be okay, because i refuse to let us be anything else. do you understand? i refuse. i am the most stubborn, most arrogant, most infuriating person you have ever met, and i am telling you that we are going to be fine. not because it's easy. not because it doesn't hurt. but because i will not accept any other outcome."

you nodded, and you let yourself believe him, just for tonight, just for this one, small, impossible moment.

"i love you," you said, and the words were small, but they were real, and they were enough.

"i know," he said, and then, after a long moment, almost too quiet to hear: "i love you too. obviously. don't let it go to your head."

you smiled, and you buried your face in his chest, and you felt his arms tighten around you, and you let yourself drift, let yourself be held, let yourself be loved.

outside, the city was dark, and the world was cold, and the test was still lying on the bathroom floor, that cruel little word still staring up at the ceiling.

but in here, in this room, with this man, there was only warmth, and light, and the quiet, steady promise of forever.

and for now, that was enough.

that was everything.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the bedroom was too quiet, that kind of quiet that comes after a storm, when the rain has stopped and the wind has died and all that's left is the wet, broken things scattered across the ground. the curtains were drawn, thick velvet the color of wine, and the only light came from the small lamp on the nightstand, the one with the crack in the base that you kept meaning to replace but never did, because toji had bought it for you on your first anniversary, had handed it to you in a paper bag with a grunt and a muttered "here, don't make a big deal out of it," and you had cried then too, because that was just who you were, someone who cried at everything, who cried at commercials and sunsets and the way he looked at you sometimes, like you were the only real thing in a world full of ghosts.

toji fushiguro stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, and he looked like a man who had been carved from stone and then left out in the rain for too long, all hard edges and weathered surfaces and something soft underneath that he would never admit to. he was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, old jeans that had faded to gray, and his feet were bare, the way they always were when he was home, and his dark hair was pushed back from his face, and his eyes, those impossible green eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing, were fixed on you with an intensity that would have made anyone else look away.

you were sitting on the edge of the bed, your back to him, your hands in your lap, and in your hands was the test. the little plastic stick with its little plastic window, and in that window was the same cruel word you had seen so many times before, the word that had become a kind of punctuation mark at the end of every month, every hope, every desperate, foolish prayer.

negative.

you had stopped crying ten minutes ago. not because you were done, not because the tears had run out, but because your body had simply given up, had decided that there was no point in wasting any more water on a wound that would not close. your face was swollen and your eyes were raw and your throat ached from the sounds you had made, the ugly, animal sounds that had torn out of you when you had seen the result, when you had realized that this month, like all the months before, had been for nothing.

toji had found you on the bathroom floor, your back against the tub, the test still in your hand, your mouth open in a silent scream that had nowhere to go. he hadn't said anything. he had just picked you up, lifted you like you weighed nothing, carried you to the bedroom, and set you down on the edge of the bed. and then he had stood in the doorway, and he had watched, and he had waited, because toji fushiguro was not a man who knew how to comfort with words, had never learned the soft phrases and gentle reassurances that other men seemed to pull from thin air, but he knew how to be present, how to take up space, how to make sure you knew that you were not alone even when he couldn't find the words to say it.

"you've been sitting there for twenty minutes," he said finally, and his voice was low and rough, like gravel being poured over glass. "staring at that thing like it's gonna change its mind."

you didn't answer. you couldn't answer. your voice had packed its bags and left somewhere around the third sob, and you weren't sure when it was coming back.

he pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the room in a few long strides, and the bed dipped under his weight as he sat down beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off his body, the solid, undeniable warmth of him. he didn't touch you, not yet, just sat there with his hands on his thighs, his knuckles scarred and his fingers calloused, and he stared at the wall across from him, at the painting you had bought together at a gallery opening six months ago, the one with the blue and the gray and the suggestion of a storm.

"look at me," he said.

you shook your head, a small, jerky movement, and fresh tears spilled down your cheeks, though you hadn't even realized you had any left.

"baby," he said, and the word was strange in his mouth, too soft, too tender for a man who had built his life around being hard, around being untouchable, around being the kind of person who could walk away from anything without looking back. but he couldn't walk away from you. you had learned that early, had learned that the great toji fushiguro, the man who had never needed anyone, needed you like he needed air, like he needed the next beat of his heart, and the knowledge of that had both terrified and thrilled you, had made you feel like the most powerful person in the world and the most fragile, all at once.

"look at me," he said again, and this time there was something underneath the words, something that sounded almost like a plea, and toji fushiguro did not plead, did not beg, did not ask for anything from anyone.

you turned your head, slowly, and you looked at him.

his face was a mask, as always, but you had learned to read the small things, the micro-shifts in his expression that other people missed. the way his jaw was clenched just a little too tight, the way his eyes were just a little too bright, the way his hands had curled into fists on his thighs, knuckles white.

"there you are," he said, and his voice was softer now, almost gentle, and the incongruity of it, the sheer wrongness of toji fushiguro being gentle, made something crack open in your chest.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, and your voice was a wreck, a ruin, a burned-out building with nothing left inside but ash. "i'm so sorry, toji. i tried. i tried so hard. i did everything the doctors said. i took the pills and the shots and i ate the disgusting fertility smoothies and i stopped drinking coffee and i did the yoga and the acupuncture and the meditation and i prayed, toji, i prayed to gods i don't even believe in, and it didn't work, it didn't work, it's never going to work, i'm broken, i'm broken and i can't give you what you want and i know you said it doesn't matter but it does matter, it matters so much, and i can't—"

"stop."

his voice was sharp, a blade, and it cut through your rambling, through the hysteria that was building in your chest like a wave about to crash.

"stop," he said again, and he reached out and took the test from your hands, not gently, but not roughly either, just took it and set it on the nightstand, face down, so you couldn't see the word anymore. "you're gonna make yourself sick."

"i'm already sick," you said, and you laughed, a broken, hollow sound that wasn't really a laugh at all. "that's the problem, isn't it? something's wrong with me. something's been wrong with me this whole time, and i just didn't want to see it. i wanted to believe that if i tried hard enough, if i wanted it badly enough, my body would just… cooperate. but it doesn't work that way. it never worked that way. and now i'm just—" your voice cracked, splintered, fell apart. "i'm just a woman who can't do the one thing she's supposed to do."

toji's hand moved, faster than you could track, and suddenly his fingers were under your chin, forcing your face up, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes were blazing, not with anger but with something else, something fiercer and more terrifying and more beautiful than anything you had ever seen.

"the one thing you're supposed to do?" he repeated, and his voice was low, dangerous, the kind of voice that made you think of thunderstorms and broken bones and things that could not be undone. "who told you that? who told you that the only thing you're supposed to do is pop out babies? because i want their name. i want their address. i want to have a conversation with them. a short conversation. a very short conversation."

you almost laughed, almost, but the tears were still coming, and the sobs were still rattling around in your chest like marbles in a tin can.

"toji, you don't understand—"

"no," he said, and he moved then, shifting so that he was sitting directly in front of you, his knees bracketing yours, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears with a roughness that should have hurt but didn't, that felt instead like being held together, like being kept from flying apart. "no, you don't understand. you think i married you because i wanted a broodmare? you think i looked at you, at your stupid laugh and your stupid crying and your stupid way of leaving your shoes in the middle of the hallway where i trip over them every single morning, and i thought, yeah, she'd make a good incubator?"

"that's not—"

"that's exactly what you're saying," he said, and his voice was rising now, not in anger but in something that sounded almost like desperation, like fear, like a man who was watching the most important thing in his life slip through his fingers and didn't know how to hold on. "you're sitting there, telling me that your only value is in your ability to get pregnant, and that is so fucking stupid, so unbelievably, monumentally stupid, that i don't even know where to start."

you stared at him, and his face was so close to yours that you could see the small scar on his lip, the one he had gotten when he was seventeen and had gotten into a fight over something he couldn't even remember anymore. you could see the lines around his eyes, the ones that had appeared over the years, the ones that you had put there, with your laughter and your tears and your endless, exhausting love.

"i don't want a baby," he said, and the words were like a punch to your gut, like a door slamming shut. "i want a baby with you. there's a difference. a big fucking difference. and if it's not with you, i don't want it at all. do you hear me? i don't want a baby with some other woman. i don't want to adopt a baby with some other woman. i don't want to look at some other woman's face across the breakfast table and watch her cry at commercials about dogs. i want you. i want your face. i want your tears. i want your stupid shoes in the middle of the hallway. i want all of it, the good and the bad and the fucking fertility smoothies that make the whole apartment smell like a compost heap."

you sobbed, and he pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you like steel cables, like he was trying to fuse you into his bones, and you felt his heart pounding against your cheek, fast and hard, and you realized that he was scared too, that toji fushiguro, who had never been afraid of anything in his life, was terrified.

"i can't lose you," he said, and his voice was muffled against your hair, but you heard it anyway, heard every word, heard the way they cracked and broke and reformed. "i can't lose you to this. to the tests and the appointments and the way you look at yourself in the mirror like you're nothing. you're not nothing. you're everything. you're the only thing that's ever made sense to me, and if you disappear into this, if you let this break you, i don't know what i'll do. i don't know who i'll be."

you pulled back, just enough to look at him, and his face was wet, actually wet, and you had never seen toji fushiguro cry, not once, not in all the years you had known him, and the sight of it broke something in you and healed something else, all at the same time.

"toji," you whispered, and you reached up and touched his face, his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth where the scar was. "i'm sorry. i'm sorry i said those things. i'm sorry i made you feel like you weren't enough. because you are. you're more than enough. you're everything. you're my everything."

"damn right i am," he said, and there was a hint of his old arrogance in his voice, a flicker of the man who had walked into your life and turned it upside down and never apologized for it. "so stop crying. or don't. i don't care. cry if you want to. but stop thinking that i'm going to leave. i'm not going anywhere. you're stuck with me. for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do us part, all that bullshit. i meant it when i said it. i mean it now. i'll mean it when we're old and gray and you're still leaving your shoes in the hallway and i'm still tripping over them."

you laughed, a wet, broken sound, and he kissed you, hard and quick, his lips rough against yours, and when he pulled back, his eyes were still bright, but there was something else there too, something that looked like hope, or as close to hope as a man like toji fushiguro could get.

"we're not giving up," he said, and it wasn't a question, wasn't a suggestion, was a statement, a fact, as solid and unshakeable as the ground beneath your feet. "we're not giving up, and we're not giving in, and we're not letting this fucking destroy us. we're going to keep trying, or we're not. we're going to see more doctors, or we're not. we're going to adopt, or we're not. but whatever we do, we do it together. you and me. no more of this i'm broken bullshit. you're not broken. you're just… stuck. and we'll figure out how to get unstuck. or we won't. and we'll figure out how to be happy anyway. because that's what we do. that's what we've always done."

you nodded, and you let him pull you back into his chest, and you let yourself be held, let yourself be small and scared and broken and loved, all at the same time.

"i love you," you said, and the words were small, but they were real, and they were enough.

"i know," he said, and then, after a long moment, almost too quiet to hear: "love you too. obviously. don't make a thing out of it."

you smiled against his shirt, and you felt the tension in your body begin to ease, just a little, like a knot slowly coming undone.

outside, the city was waking up, the sounds of traffic and sirens and distant voices filtering through the thick velvet curtains, but in here, in this room, with this man, there was only silence, and warmth, and the quiet, steady promise of tomorrow.

and for now, that was enough.

that was everything.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

the study was dark except for the green glow of the desk lamp, the one with the brass base that higuruma hiromi had inherited from his grandfather, a man he had never known but whose presence he felt in the weight of the lamp and the grain of the wood and the particular, stubborn way the drawer stuck if you didn't lift it just so. he was sitting in his leather chair, the one that had cost more than his first car, and he was not reading the case file in front of him, though his eyes had been moving across the same paragraph for the past seventeen minutes. he was not thinking about the defendant, a woman accused of embezzlement who was almost certainly guilty but whom he would defend anyway because that was his job, because someone had to stand between the state and the individual, because justice was not a straight line but a crooked, stumbling path through a forest of human error.

instead, he was listening.

the apartment was quiet, the way it always was at this hour, the city outside muffled by the double-paned windows and the thick velvet curtains that you had picked out, the ones that made him think of theaters and old movies and the way your hand felt in his when the lights went down. but beneath the quiet, there was another sound, a small, terrible sound that he had learned to recognize over the past two years, the sound of hope dying in a bathroom with marble floors and a heated towel rack and a small plastic stick that held more power than any judge he had ever stood before.

you were crying.

not the loud, theatrical crying that people did when they wanted to be heard, but the quiet, desperate crying of someone who had learned that loudness was a luxury, that noise attracted attention, that attention led to questions, and questions led to words that could not be unsaid. you were crying the way you always cried now, with your hand pressed over your mouth, your shoulders shaking, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps that sounded like someone was slowly crushing your ribs.

hiromi closed the case file. he set down his pen, the expensive one that you had given him for his thirty-fifth birthday, the one with his initials engraved on the barrel. he stood up, and his joints protested, because he was thirty-six now, and thirty-six meant that sitting in the same position for too long made his knees ache and his back complain and his neck feel like it had been replaced with a rusted hinge.

he walked down the hallway, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floor, and he stopped outside the bathroom door. the light was on, spilling through the crack at the bottom, and he could see the shadow of your feet, the way you were sitting on the floor, your back against the tub, your knees drawn up to your chest.

he knocked. not loudly, not insistently, but gently, the way you might knock on the door of a room where someone was sleeping, not wanting to wake them but needing to know they were still there.

"love," he said, and his voice was calm, measured, the voice he used in courtrooms and boardrooms and all the other rooms where people expected him to be unshakeable. "it's me. i'm coming in."

he waited a beat, and when you didn't tell him to go away, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

the bathroom was a mess. not in the way that a party is a mess, with confetti and empty bottles, but in the way that a heart is a mess, with pieces scattered everywhere, sharp edges and soft places and no clear way to put them back together. the test was on the floor, face up, the little window showing that single, unforgiving line. there were tissues scattered around you, balled up and wet, and your phone was lying screen-down near the sink, and your face was buried in your hands, and you were shaking, actually shaking, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

hiromi knelt down in front of you, and the marble was cold against his knees, but he didn't care. he reached out and put his hands on your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from your face, and when he saw you, when he saw the red, swollen eyes and the tear tracks and the way your lower lip was trembling, something inside him cracked. not broke, not shattered, but cracked, a hairline fracture in the armor he had spent his whole life building.

"look at me," he said, and his voice was softer now, less the lawyer and more the man, the man who had stood beside you at the altar, the man who had promised to love you in sickness and in health, the man who had meant every word even though he had never been good at saying them.

you looked at him, and your eyes were so full of pain, so full of exhaustion, so full of something that looked like defeat, and you opened your mouth, but no words came out, just a small, broken sound, like a radio frequency that couldn't quite find the station.

"i know," he said, and he moved his hands from your wrists to your hands, holding them, feeling how cold they were, how small, how fragile. "i know. you don't have to say it."

"it was negative," you said anyway, and your voice was a ruin, a building that had been bombed and left to crumble. "again. it was negative again. i don't know why i thought it would be different this time. i don't know why i keep doing this to myself. i don't know why i keep hoping."

he squeezed your hands, and he waited, because he had learned that sometimes the best thing he could do was not to fill the silence with words but to let you speak, to let you empty yourself of all the poison that had been building up inside you.

"i did everything right," you said, and the words came faster now, tumbling out of you like water from a broken dam. "i took the supplements. i did the acupuncture. i stopped drinking coffee. i stopped drinking alcohol. i stopped eating sushi and soft cheese and all the other things they tell you to avoid. i did the yoga. i did the meditation. i did the visualization exercises, the ones where you're supposed to imagine the baby growing inside you, and i imagined it so hard, hiromi, i imagined it so hard that i could almost feel it, almost believe it, and then—" your voice broke, and fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. "and then i took the test, and it was like someone reached into my chest and pulled out my heart and showed it to me, still beating, and then crushed it in their fist."

hiromi felt his own throat tighten, felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes that he had been trained to ignore, to suppress, to push down into the dark basement of his psyche where all the inconvenient emotions lived.

"i'm sorry," he said, and the words felt inadequate, felt like throwing a single blanket over a person who was freezing to death, but they were all he had. "i'm sorry that you're hurting. i'm sorry that i can't fix this. i'm sorry that i can't make it better."

you shook your head, and you pulled your hands out of his, not cruelly, but desperately, like you couldn't bear to be touched, like his hands were a reminder of everything you thought you were failing at.

"don't apologize," you said. "don't you dare apologize. this isn't your fault. it's mine. it's my body. it's my failure. i'm the one who can't—" you stopped, choked, swallowed. "i'm the one who can't give you what you want. what you deserve. you deserve a wife who can have children. you deserve a family. you deserve someone who isn't broken."

"stop."

his voice was sharper now, cutting through your words like a blade, and his hands shot out and grabbed your shoulders, not hard, but firmly, anchoring you, keeping you from spiraling further into the dark.

"stop," he said again, and his voice was shaking, actually shaking, and he realized with a start that he was angry, not at you, never at you, but at the situation, at the universe, at the cruel, indifferent randomness that had decided to make you suffer like this. "do not say that. do not say that you are broken. do not say that you are failing me. do not say that i deserve someone else. because i don't. i deserve you. i chose you. i married you. and i would marry you again. a hundred times. a thousand times. i would stand in that courthouse, or that church, or that stupid garden with the roses that made you sneeze, and i would say 'i do' every single time, without hesitation, without doubt, without a single fucking regret."

you stared at him, and your eyes were wide, and your mouth was open, and for a moment, you looked like you had never seen him before, like the man kneeling in front of you was a stranger wearing his face.

"you're crying," you whispered, and he realized that you were right, that there were tears on his cheeks, that the carefully constructed dam he had built around his emotions had finally given way, that he was crying, actually crying, in a way he hadn't cried since he was a child.

"yes," he said, and he didn't wipe the tears away, didn't try to hide them, just let them fall, let you see him, let you see the full, terrible, beautiful weight of his love for you. "i'm crying because you're hurting. i'm crying because i can't fix this. i'm crying because i would trade every case i've ever won, every dollar i've ever made, every breath i have left in my body, to take this pain away from you and carry it myself. and i can't. and that is the most unbearable thing i have ever known."

you reached up and touched his face, your fingers tracing the path of his tears, and he leaned into your touch, closed his eyes, let himself be held by the smallest, gentlest gesture.

"hiromi," you said, and his name was a prayer, a plea, a promise. "i'm so scared. i'm so scared that it's never going to happen. i'm so scared that we're going to keep trying and trying and trying and i'm going to keep failing and failing and failing and one day you're going to wake up and realize that you wasted your best years on me. i'm scared that you're going to resent me. i'm scared that i'm going to resent myself. i'm scared that i'm going to become someone you don't recognize, someone bitter and sad and angry, and you're going to leave because you can't stand to be around me anymore."

he opened his eyes and looked at you, and his gaze was steady, unwavering, the same gaze he used when he was cross-examining a witness, when he was trying to find the truth hidden beneath layers of lies and half-truths and convenient forgetfulness.

"let me tell you something," he said, and his voice was low, rough, scraped raw. "in my line of work, i see a lot of marriages fall apart. i see people who loved each other, who built lives together, who promised to stay together until death, and then something happens, some stress, some strain, some failure, and they crumble. they blame each other. they blame themselves. they blame the world. and they walk away, because walking away is easier than staying, easier than fighting, easier than looking at the person they love and saying 'i'm still here, i'm not going anywhere, we're going to get through this together.'"

he took your hands again, and this time he didn't let go, held them so tightly that his knuckles went white.

"i am not going to be one of those people," he said. "i am not going to walk away. i am not going to blame you. i am not going to resent you. because you are not the problem. you are not the failure. you are not the reason this is happening. the reason this is happening is that the universe is random and chaotic and often cruel, and sometimes things don't work out the way we want them to, and that is not a reflection of your worth or your value or your ability to be loved."

you sobbed, and he pulled you into his arms, and you clung to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressed against his neck, and he held you, rocked you, made small, soothing sounds that he didn't even know he knew how to make.

"i love you," he said, and the words were not a consolation prize, not a there, there, everything will be fine, but a statement of fact, as solid and unshakeable as the foundation of the building they lived in. "i love you more than i have ever loved anything, and i will love you until the day i die and probably after that too, because i'm stubborn and i don't believe in letting go."

"you're a lawyer," you said, your voice muffled against his neck, and there was a hint of something in your voice, something that might have been a laugh, something that might have been hope. "you're supposed to be good with words."

"i am good with words," he said. "i'm excellent with words. i've won cases that no one thought could be won because i know how to use words like weapons. but with you… with you, words are not enough. they have never been enough. because what i feel for you is not something that can be captured in language. it's too big. too messy. too… everything."

you pulled back and looked at him, and your face was still wet, still swollen, still a ruin, but there was something else there too, something that looked like the first green shoot pushing up through scorched earth.

"what do we do?" you asked, and your voice was small, fragile, but there was a question in it, a reaching, a willingness to try.

"we keep going," he said. "or we stop. whichever you want. we take a break. we see another doctor. we look into adoption. we do nothing. we do everything. we figure it out together, one day at a time, one step at a time, and we don't make any decisions when we're crying on the bathroom floor at two in the morning."

you laughed, a real laugh this time, small and broken but real, and he felt something loosen in his chest, something that had been clenched tight for days, for weeks, for months.

"i love you," you said, and the words were small, but they were real, and they were enough.

"i know," he said, and then, after a long moment, almost too quiet to hear: "i love you too. obviously. that's why i put up with your terrible taste in television and your habit of stealing the blankets and your complete inability to remember where you put your keys."

you smiled, and he smiled back, and for a moment, just a moment, the bathroom didn't feel like a tomb. it felt like a room, just a room, with marble floors and a heated towel rack and a small plastic stick that meant nothing, that had no power, that was just a piece of plastic and not a verdict, not a sentence, not the final word on your future.

"come on," he said, and he stood up, pulling you with him, and he led you out of the bathroom, past the test on the floor, past the scattered tissues, into the bedroom where the sheets were cold and the pillows were soft and the world outside was still spinning, indifferent and uncaring.

he helped you into bed, and then he climbed in beside you, and he pulled you against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, and he held you, and he did not let go.

"tomorrow," he said, his lips pressed against your hair, "we'll figure it out. we'll make a plan. we'll call the doctor. we'll do something different. or we won't. we'll decide together. but tonight, we sleep. and we hold each other. and we remember that we are not alone, that we have each other, that no matter what happens, we are a family. you and me. that's a family. that's always been a family."

you nodded against his chest, and you felt his hand move in slow, soothing circles on your back, and you closed your eyes, and you let yourself be held, let yourself be loved, let yourself believe, just for tonight, that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

outside, the city was dark, and the wind was rattling the windows, and the test was still lying on the bathroom floor, that cruel little word still staring up at the ceiling.

but in here, in this room, with this man, there was only warmth, and light, and the quiet, steady promise of tomorrow.

and for now, that was enough.

that was everything.

CHOSO KAMO

the bedroom was too warm, the kind of warm that came from the radiator hissing softly in the corner and the weight of the silk duvet and the heat of two bodies that had been tangled together for hours, waiting, always waiting, for something that never seemed to arrive. choso kamo sat on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his hands folded in his lap, and he was staring at the wall, at the empty space where a photograph would go, the photograph you had both agreed not to put up yet, not until there was something to photograph, not until there was a small face and small hands and a small heartbeat that belonged to both of you.

the bathroom door was closed.

you had been in there for twelve minutes. he knew because he had been counting, not obsessively, not anxiously, but the way a man counts when he has nothing else to hold onto, when the seconds become the only thing he can measure, when time itself feels like an enemy that is slowly, methodically taking everything from him.

choso was not good at waiting. not because he was impatient, but because waiting meant thinking, and thinking meant imagining, and imagining meant hoping, and hoping was the most dangerous thing a man could do. he had learned that lesson early, had learned it in the cold, sterile hallways of a childhood that had been less a childhood and more a series of experiments, though in this world, in this life without curses and without sorcery, those memories were just echoes, just dreams that didn't belong to anyone. here, he was simply choso kamo, thirty-six years old, heir to a fortune he had never wanted, married to a woman he had never expected to find, and waiting for a sign that the universe had not forgotten him entirely.

he heard the sound before he understood what it was. a small, choked noise, like a bird with a broken wing, and then another, and another, and then the sound of something hitting the floor, something plastic and light, and he was on his feet before he could think, crossing the room in three long strides, his hand on the doorknob, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

"love?" he called, and his voice was steady, because choso's voice was always steady, always calm, always the thing that anchored you when the world was spinning too fast. but inside, inside he was anything but steady. inside, he was a storm, a tempest, a chaos of fear and hope and the terrible, gnawing certainty that this time, like all the times before, would end in tears.

the door opened from the inside, and you were standing there, and your face was a ruin.

your eyes were red and swollen, your cheeks blotchy, your lips trembling, and in your hand, hanging limply at your side, was the test. you didn't need to show it to him. he could see it in the way you held yourself, in the way your shoulders curved inward, in the way you looked at him like you were waiting for a verdict, like you had already been convicted and were just waiting for the sentence to be read.

"choso," you said, and his name was a wound, an open, bleeding thing. "choso, i'm sorry. i'm so sorry."

he reached out and took the test from your hand, not because he needed to see it, but because he needed to do something, anything, to bridge the distance between you. he looked at the little window, at the single line, at the absence that had become the shape of his life, and he felt something crack inside him, something deep and fundamental, like a fault line in the earth, like the moment before an earthquake.

but he did not let it show.

he set the test down on the counter, carefully, precisely, the way he did everything, and then he turned back to you and opened his arms, and you fell into them, your face pressed against his chest, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and you cried. not the quiet, dignified tears of a woman who had accepted her fate, but the ugly, wrenching sobs of someone who had been holding back a flood for far too long, who had run out of walls and dams and all the other things people build to keep the water out.

choso held you, and he did not speak, because he did not know what to say. he had never known what to say. words had always been difficult for him, slippery and unreliable, like trying to hold smoke in his hands. he had been told, once, a long time ago, that he was on the spectrum, that his brain worked differently, that the things that came easily to other people—small talk, social cues, the delicate dance of human emotion—were foreign languages to him. but he had learned, slowly, painfully, how to mimic, how to approximate, how to say the right things at the right times even when he didn't feel them.

but this. this was different. this was not a script he had memorized. this was not a situation he had practiced for. this was raw and real and bleeding, and he had no idea what to do except hold you and hope that his arms could say what his mouth could not.

"i can't do this anymore," you said, your voice muffled against his chest, and the words were so small, so broken, so unlike the woman he had married, the woman who laughed too loud and loved too hard and left her hair in the drain and her shoes in the hallway and her heart on her sleeve for anyone to see. "i can't keep doing this. i can't keep hoping and hoping and hoping and then… then this. every month. every single month. it's like being told i'm not enough over and over again, and i don't know how much more i can take, choso. i don't know how much more i have left."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands on your shoulders, his dark eyes searching your face with an intensity that would have been frightening if it weren't so gentle.

"you are enough," he said, and his voice was low and rough, scraped raw by the sight of your pain. "you are more than enough. you are everything. you are—"

"don't," you said, shaking your head, tears flying from your lashes. "don't say that. don't tell me i'm enough when i can't even do this one thing. when i can't give you what you want. when i'm failing you, month after month, year after year, and you just sit there and take it and never complain and never get angry and never—" your voice broke, splintered into a thousand pieces. "why don't you get angry, choso? why don't you yell at me? why don't you tell me that you're disappointed? why do you just… hold me? why are you so good to me when i don't deserve it?"

his hands moved from your shoulders to your face, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away your tears with a tenderness that made your chest ache. his hands were large, warm, the hands of a man who had spent his life learning to be careful, learning to be gentle, learning that the world was full of sharp edges and he did not want to be one of them.

"because i love you," he said, simply, as if that explained everything, as if those three words were the answer to every question, the solution to every problem, the key to every lock. "i love you, and love does not get angry about things that cannot be helped. love does not yell at someone for hurting. love does not demand that someone be more than they are."

"but you wanted—" you started, and he shook his head.

"i want you," he said. "i have always wanted you. i wanted you when you were crying at that documentary about the polar bears. i wanted you when you burned dinner and set off the smoke alarm and then laughed so hard you couldn't breathe. i wanted you when you woke me up at three in the morning because you had a nightmare and you needed me to hold you until the sun came up. i wanted you then, and i want you now, and i will want you tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, whether we have a baby or not."

you stared at him, and the tears kept coming, but something in your expression shifted, something that looked almost like disbelief, like you couldn't quite comprehend that he meant what he was saying.

"but you said—" you tried again, and he sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, and he let his hands drop from your face and took your hands instead, holding them in his, his fingers laced through yours.

"i know what i said," he said. "i said i wanted a baby. i said i wanted to see you hold our child. i said i wanted to teach them how to read and watch them fall asleep on your chest and feel like the luckiest man in the world. and i meant it. i meant every word. but i also meant it when i said that i wanted you. that i chose you. that you are the most important person in my life, and nothing, not even this, will ever change that."

you shook your head, and a fresh wave of tears spilled down your cheeks. "but it's not fair. it's not fair to you. you deserve someone who can give you what you want. you deserve someone who isn't broken."

his jaw tightened, and for a moment, just a moment, you saw a flash of something in his eyes, something that might have been anger or might have been pain or might have been something else entirely, something he had never shown you before.

"don't," he said, and his voice was sharper now, not cruel but firm, like a man drawing a line in the sand. "don't say that word. don't call yourself broken. you are not broken. you are a woman who is trying to do something that is difficult, something that is uncertain, something that is not guaranteed to anyone. and the fact that it hasn't happened yet does not mean that you are broken. it means that we are unlucky. it means that the universe is random and cruel and indifferent. but it does not mean that you are less. it does not mean that you are not enough. it does not mean that i love you any less."

you opened your mouth to argue, but he stepped closer, his hands tightening on yours, and he looked at you with those dark, earnest eyes, the eyes that had seen you at your worst and had never, not once, looked away.

"i need you to understand something," he said, and his voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, but there was a weight to it, a gravity that made you stop and listen. "i have spent my whole life feeling like i didn't belong. like i was different. like everyone else had received a manual for how to be human, and my copy had been lost in the mail. i didn't know how to make friends. i didn't know how to talk to people. i didn't know how to laugh at the right times or cry at the right times or feel the right things at the right times. i was alone, and i thought i would always be alone, and i had made peace with that. or i had tried to."

he released one of your hands and reached up to touch your face, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the soft skin beneath your eye.

"and then i met you," he said. "and you didn't care that i was strange. you didn't care that i didn't know how to flirt or tell jokes or read between the lines. you just… saw me. you saw me, and you stayed. and for the first time in my life, i felt like maybe i wasn't broken either. maybe i was just… different. and different was okay. different was even good, because different meant that i got to be with you, and you were the best thing that had ever happened to me."

you sobbed, and he pulled you into his chest again, his arms wrapping around you, and you felt his heart beating against your cheek, steady and strong, and you realized that he was crying too, that his shoulders were shaking, that his breath was coming in short, uneven gasps.

"i can't lose you," he said, his voice muffled against your hair. "i can't lose you to this. to the tests and the appointments and the way you look at yourself like you're nothing. you are not nothing. you are my everything. you are the reason i get up in the morning. you are the reason i try, even when trying is hard. you are the reason i believe that there is good in the world, that there is love, that there is something worth living for. and if you disappear into this, if you let this break you, i don't know what i will do. i don't know who i will be."

you pulled back and looked at him, and his face was wet, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes red and swollen, and he looked so young, so vulnerable, so unlike the composed, careful man you had married.

"i'm scared," you said, and your voice was small, so small, like a child's voice. "i'm scared that it's never going to happen. i'm scared that we're going to keep trying and trying and trying and i'm going to keep failing and failing and failing and one day you're going to wake up and realize that you wasted your best years on me. i'm scared that you're going to resent me. i'm scared that i'm going to resent myself. i'm scared that i'm going to become someone you don't recognize, someone bitter and sad and angry, and you're going to leave because you can't stand to be around me anymore."

he shook his head, and his hands came up to cup your face again, holding you so gently, so carefully, like you were made of glass.

"i am not going to leave," he said. "i am not going to resent you. i am not going to wake up one day and decide that you are not worth the effort. because you are worth everything. you are worth every test, every tear, every sleepless night. you are worth every negative result, every broken hope, every moment of doubt. and if we never have a baby, then we never have a baby, and we will find a way to be happy anyway. we will travel, or we will adopt, or we will get a dog, or we will just be the two strangest, most in love, most ridiculously wealthy childless people in the world. but we will be that together. you and me. forever."

you stared at him, and the tears kept coming, but there was something else in your chest now, something that felt almost like warmth, almost like hope, almost like the first light of dawn after a long, dark night.

"forever?" you whispered, and he nodded, his forehead pressing against yours.

"forever," he said. "and ever. and ever. and ever. until the sun burns out and the stars fall from the sky and the universe collapses in on itself. and maybe even after that. i'm not picky."

you laughed, a wet, broken sound, and he smiled, a small, tentative smile, the kind of smile that he reserved only for you, the kind of smile that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

"come on," he said, and he took your hand and led you out of the bathroom, past the test on the counter, past the mirror that reflected your swollen face and red eyes, into the bedroom where the sheets were rumpled and the radiator was hissing and the world outside was still spinning, indifferent and uncaring.

he pulled back the duvet and guided you into the bed, and then he climbed in beside you, and he pulled you against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you so tightly that you could feel every breath he took, every beat of his heart, every tremor that ran through his body.

"i love you," he said, and his voice was soft, almost sleepy, but there was a certainty to it, a finality, like he was stating a fact that could never be disputed. "i love you, and i am not going anywhere. and i need you to believe me. even if you can't believe it right now. even if it takes a long time. i need you to try."

you nodded against his chest, and you felt his lips press against the top of your head, warm and soft, and you closed your eyes and let yourself be held, let yourself be loved, let yourself believe, just for tonight, that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

outside, the wind was picking up, rattling the windows, and the city was cold and dark and full of strangers, but in here, in this room, with this man, there was only warmth, and light, and the quiet, steady promise of tomorrow.

and for now, that was enough.

"it's going to be fine," he said, and his voice was that low, lazy drawl that made everything sound like a joke, like life itself was just a long, amusing inconvenience that he was tolerating out of sheer boredom. "you're worrying too much, baby. you always worry. it's bad for your skin, you know. wrinkles. i'll have to trade you in for a newer model."

you didn't laugh. you couldn't laugh. you just squeezed his hand tighter, your fingernails digging into his palm, and he didn't even flinch, just turned his head and looked at you with those impossibly blue eyes, the ones that saw everything, the ones that had seen you at your worst and had somehow, impossibly, stayed.

"hey," he said, softer now, the lazy drawl fading into something quieter, something almost tender. "look at me."

you looked at him, and for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe this time would be different. maybe this time the little stick would show two lines, or a plus sign, or whatever stupid symbol it was supposed to show, and you could finally, finally give him what he wanted, what he had always wanted, what he talked about in the quiet moments when he thought you were asleep, his hand on your stomach, his voice a low murmur against your hair.

"i want a baby," he had said once, years ago, when you were both younger and stupider and the world had not yet learned how to break you. "i want a little you, with your eyes and your stupid laugh and your ridiculous way of crying at commercials about dogs. i want to teach them how to throw a baseball. i want to watch you hold them. i want that so bad it hurts, baby. you have no idea."

but you did have an idea. you had every idea. you had felt that hurt carve itself into your chest month after month, cycle after cycle, test after negative test, and you had watched his face fall each time, watched him hide it behind a smile and a joke and a "well, we'll just try again next month, right?" and you had smiled back and nodded and pretended that your heart wasn't cracking open like an egg, yolk and white spilling out onto the floor of your beautiful, expensive bathroom with its marble countertops and its gold-plated faucets.

the nurse called your name.

you stood up on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else, and satoru stood with you, his hand moving from yours to the small of your back, that familiar, grounding pressure that said i'm here, i'm not going anywhere, you're not alone. you walked down the hallway together, past the posters of smiling pregnant women and the diagrams of uteruses and fallopian tubes, and you tried to breathe, tried to remember how to make your lungs work, tried not to think about the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that.

the blood draw was quick, efficient, painless in the way that only a needle sliding into your vein could be painless, which is to say not painless at all but so familiar now that you barely registered it. the nurse smiled at you, that professional, sympathetic smile that said i see women like you every day, and some of them get what they want and some of them don't, and i have no way of knowing which one you are. you hated that smile. you hated this room. you hated the little plastic cup you had peed into in the bathroom down the hall, the one with the faulty lock and the scratch on the mirror that looked like a crack.

"we'll have the results in about fifteen minutes," the nurse said, and then she was gone, and you were back in the waiting room with its terrible white walls and its ticking clock and its plastic chairs that squeaked every time you shifted your weight.

satoru pulled you into his side, his arm around your shoulders, and you let yourself melt into him because what else could you do? you were so tired. you were so, so tired. not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind of tired that lived in your bones, that had made a home in your marrow, that whispered to you in the dark hours of the night that maybe you weren't meant for this, maybe you weren't enough, maybe your body was a broken thing that had failed at the one job it was supposed to do.

"tell me a story," you said, your voice muffled against his chest, and you felt him chuckle, felt the vibration of it travel through his ribs and into your cheek.

"what kind of story?" he asked, and you could hear the smile in his voice, that stupid, beautiful smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place, all those years ago when he had been nothing but a loud-mouthed rich kid with too much confidence and not enough sense.

"a happy one," you said. "one where everything works out in the end."

he was quiet for a moment, and then he began to speak, his voice low and rhythmic, like a lullaby, like a prayer.

"once upon a time," he said, "there was a man who had everything. money, looks, a truly exceptional amount of charm. he had a penthouse with a view of the city and a car that cost more than most people's houses and a collection of sunglasses that was frankly obscene. but he was lonely. so lonely. because what is money, really, if you have no one to spend it on? what is a penthouse, if you have to sleep in it alone?"

you closed your eyes, and you listened.

"and then one day," he continued, "he met a girl. and she was nothing like he expected. she was small and fierce and she cried at commercials about dogs and she laughed at his jokes even when they weren't funny, which was most of the time, honestly. and she looked at him like he was something more than just a rich idiot with good hair. she looked at him like he mattered. and he thought, oh. oh, this is it. this is the thing i've been waiting for."

his hand came up to stroke your hair, slow and gentle, and you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you didn't let them fall. not yet. not here.

"he loved her," satoru said, "more than he had ever loved anything. more than his cars, more than his penthouse, more than his truly ridiculous collection of limited edition sneakers. and he wanted to give her everything. the world. the moon. a hundred babies with her eyes and her stupid laugh and her ridiculous way of crying at commercials about dogs."

you choked on a sob, a small, broken sound that you tried to hide, but he heard it, of course he heard it, because he always heard everything.

"hey," he said, and his voice cracked, just a little, just enough for you to know that he was scared too, that he was hurting too, that this was breaking him in ways he would never say out loud. "hey, baby. look at me."

you looked at him, and his eyes were so blue, so impossibly, heartbreakingly blue, and they were wet, actually wet, and you realized with a start that gojo satoru, the man who laughed at everything, who never took anything seriously, who treated life like a joke and death like an inconvenience, was crying.

"i don't care," he said, and his voice was rough, scraped raw. "i don't care about the tests. i don't care about the babies. i don't care about any of it. i care about you. i just want you. you're enough. you've always been enough. you're more than enough, you're everything, you're the whole damn thing, and if you never give me a baby, i will still wake up every morning and thank whatever cosmic joke of a universe put you in my path because you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and i will not, i will not let you sit here and think that you have failed me because you haven't, you couldn't, you couldn't, do you understand?"

you stared at him, and the tears were falling now, hot and fast and unstoppable, and you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come, just a sound, a terrible, keening sound that came from somewhere deep in your chest, somewhere you didn't even know existed.

and then the nurse came back.

she was holding a piece of paper, and her face was carefully, professionally neutral, and you knew. you knew before she said a word. you knew in the way she held her shoulders, in the way she avoided your eyes, in the way she said your name like it was a question instead of a statement.

"i'm so sorry," she said, and her voice was soft, kind, the kind of voice you use with someone who is already bleeding, who is already on the ground, who cannot possibly be hurt any more than they already are. "the test came back negative."

the world went quiet.

not the kind of quiet that happens when a room falls silent, but the kind of quiet that happens inside your own head, when the screaming gets so loud that it cancels itself out, when your brain short-circuits and all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears and the sound of your own heart breaking into a thousand, million pieces.

you took the paper from her hand, or maybe you didn't, maybe satoru took it, you couldn't remember, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but stare at the little window where the result was printed, the cruel, simple word that had destroyed you so many times before.

negative.

you had thought you would be used to it by now. you had thought that after the third test, the fifth, the tenth, the pain would dull, would scab over, would become something you could carry without it cutting you open every single time. but it didn't. it was fresh every month, sharp and bright and agonizing, and you realized now that you had been lying to yourself, that you had been pretending that hope was a thing you had given up on when in reality you had been clinging to it like a drowning woman clings to a piece of driftwood, and now that driftwood had splintered in your hands and you were sinking, sinking, sinking into the cold, dark water.

the sob that tore out of you was ugly, raw, animal. it was not the kind of cry that looks beautiful in movies, with single tears rolling down porcelain cheeks. it was the kind of cry that convulses your whole body, that leaves you gasping for air, that makes your face red and swollen and your nose run and your throat ache. it was the kind of cry that belongs in a bathroom with the door locked and the water running so no one can hear you.

but there was no bathroom here. there was only satoru, and the nurse, and the terrible white walls, and the clock that kept ticking, indifferent to your pain.

"baby," satoru said, and his voice was broken, shattered, a mirror that had been dropped on a tile floor. "baby, please. please look at me."

you couldn't look at him. you couldn't look at anything. you buried your face in your hands and you cried, really cried, the kind of crying you hadn't allowed yourself to do in months, years, because you had been so busy being strong, so busy pretending that you were okay, so busy telling yourself that next month would be different, next month would be the month, next month you would finally be able to give him what he wanted.

but it wasn't different. it was never different. and you were so tired of being brave.

"i'm sorry," you gasped, the words tumbling out of you like broken glass. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, i can't, i can't do it, i can't give you what you want, i'm broken, i'm broken, satoru, i'm broken and i can't fix it, i can't fix any of it, you should have married someone else, someone who could give you babies, someone who wasn't so fucking useless—"

"stop."

his voice was sharp now, cutting through your hysteria like a knife, and his hands were on your face, pulling your hands away, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes were blazing, not with anger but with something else, something fiercer, something that looked almost like fury but wasn't, wasn't fury at all, was something so much deeper and more terrifying and more beautiful.

"don't you ever," he said, and his voice was shaking, actually shaking, "don't you ever say that to me. don't you ever say you're broken. don't you ever say i should have married someone else. don't you ever say you're useless. do you hear me? do you fucking hear me?"

you sobbed, and he pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you so tightly that you could barely breathe, and you thought maybe that was the point, maybe he was trying to hold you together, to keep the pieces of you from scattering across this terrible white room.

"i don't want someone else," he said, his lips pressed against your hair, his voice muffled but fierce. "i want you. i have always wanted you. i will always want you. you are not a baby-making machine, you are not an incubator, you are not a fucking factory with a production quota. you are my wife. you are the person i chose. and i chose you because you are you, not because of what your body can or cannot do."

you clung to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, and you cried and cried until you thought there could not possibly be any tears left in your body, until you were just dry heaving against his chest, making small, pathetic sounds that you would be embarrassed about later but couldn't bring yourself to care about now.

"i know it hurts," he said, and his voice was softer now, gentler, the sharpness gone, replaced by something that felt like a balm on an open wound. "i know it hurts, baby. i know. and i'm not going to tell you not to cry, because you have every right to cry. you have every right to be sad and angry and fucking furious at the universe for being so goddamn cruel. but i need you to know that i am not going anywhere. i am not leaving. i am not giving up on you. we are in this together, you and me, and if we never have a baby, then we never have a baby, and we will find a way to be happy anyway. we will adopt, or we will get a dog, or we will just be the two richest, most obnoxious, most deeply in love childless weirdos the world has ever seen. but we will be that together. do you understand?"

you nodded against his chest, and you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head, felt his arms tighten around you, felt his heart pounding against your cheek, fast and strong and alive.

"i love you," he said, and the words were not a consolation prize, not a there, there, everything will be fine, but a statement of fact, as solid and unshakeable as the earth beneath your feet. "i love you more than i have ever loved anything, and i will love you until the day i die and probably after that too, because i'm selfish and i don't believe in letting go."

you laughed, a wet, broken sound, and you lifted your head to look at him, and his face was wet too, tear tracks running down his cheeks, and his nose was red and his eyes were swollen and he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

"you're a mess," you whispered, and he grinned, that stupid, beautiful, unhinged grin that had made you fall in love with him in the first place.

"yeah," he said. "but i'm your mess."

he kissed you then, soft and gentle and sweet, and you tasted salt on his lips, your tears and his mingled together, and you thought that maybe this was what love was, not the grand gestures or the expensive gifts or the penthouse with the view of the city, but this, this moment, this broken, beautiful, terrible moment where two people held each other in a sterile white room and refused to let go.

the nurse had left at some point, you didn't know when, and the waiting room was empty except for the two of you, and the clock was still ticking, and the walls were still white, but somehow it didn't feel so terrible anymore. somehow, with his arms around you and his heartbeat under your ear, the world felt a little less cold, a little less cruel, a little less like a place where dreams went to die.

"come on," he said finally, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. "let's go home. i'll make you hot chocolate. the kind with the tiny marshmallows. and we can watch that stupid reality show you like, the one with the people who yell at each other about cakes."

"it's about weddings," you said, your voice still thick with tears, "not cakes."

"same thing," he said, and he helped you to your feet, and he didn't let go of your hand, not when you walked out of the waiting room, not when you got into the car, not when you drove home through the city streets with the lights blurring past the windows like falling stars.

and when you got home, he made you hot chocolate with the tiny marshmallows, and he held you on the couch while you watched the people yell at each other about weddings, and he didn't say it's okay or we'll try again next month or any of the things that would have felt like knives in your chest.

he just held you.

and that was enough.

it wasn't everything. it wasn't the baby you had dreamed of, the nursery you had painted in your mind, the tiny hands and tiny feet and tiny heartbeat that you had wanted so badly you could taste it. but it was something. it was warmth and love and the quiet, steady promise that you were not alone, that you would never be alone, that even if your body failed you, even if the tests kept coming back negative until you were old and gray and out of time, you would have him.

and maybe, you thought, as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, the marshmallows melting into the hot chocolate and the tv humming in the background, maybe that was enough.

maybe that was everything.

GETO SUGURU

the bathroom was too warm, the kind of warm that came from the heated floors and the towel rack and the soft, ambient lighting that was supposed to be soothing but instead felt like a fever dream, like the air itself was pressing down on your lungs, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to think, making it hard to do anything but stare at the small plastic stick in your trembling hands.

geto suguru stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair falling across his forehead in that careless way that made him look like a painting, like something from another century, like a man who had stepped out of a dream and into your life and had never quite figured out how to leave. he was wearing a black sweater, soft and expensive, the kind that cost more than most people's rent, and his feet were bare on the marble floor, and his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that would have been terrifying if it weren't so gentle.

you had been in here for seven minutes. you knew because you had counted. the test had a three-minute wait time, but you had spent the first four minutes just staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to pray, trying to remember if you even believed in anything that would listen.

"darling," he said, and his voice was low and smooth, like honey, like whiskey, like the kind of voice that could talk you down from any ledge, could calm any storm, could make you believe that the world was not ending even when you could see the flames licking at the sky. "it's been seven minutes."

"i know," you said, and your voice came out as a whisper, cracked and thin, like a piece of paper that had been folded too many times.

"look at it," he said, and it wasn't a command, not really, just a suggestion, a gentle nudge, the kind of thing he said when he wanted you to face something you were trying to hide from. "whatever it says, we'll handle it. together. like we handle everything."

you looked at it.

the little window was empty. no, not empty. there was a line. one line. the control line. the line that said the test was working, that you had done it right, that the little plastic stick was not defective. but there was no second line. no faint pink, no shadow, no hint of a maybe.

negative.

you had known. you had known from the moment you woke up this morning, from the familiar cramp in your lower abdomen, from the way your breasts had stopped hurting two days ago, from the way your body had been sending you signals for a week now, little whispers that said not this time, not this time, not this time. but you had ignored them, had pushed them down, had buried them under layers of desperate, foolish hope because that was what you did, month after month, cycle after cycle, year after fucking year.

the sound that came out of you was not a sob. it was something smaller, quieter, more terrible. it was the sound of something breaking that could never be fixed, not with glue, not with time, not with all the money in the world. it was the sound of a dream dying, not with a bang or a scream, but with a soft, almost polite exhale, like a candle being snuffed out by a gentle hand.

suguru was beside you in an instant, his bare feet silent on the floor, his arms wrapping around you from behind, his chin coming to rest on the top of your head. he didn't say anything. he just held you, his chest pressed against your back, his heartbeat steady and slow against your shoulder blades, and you felt the tears come, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks and dripping onto the plastic stick in your hands.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, and the words felt so small, so inadequate, like throwing a pebble into the ocean and expecting it to stop the tide. "i'm so sorry, suguru. i tried. i tried so hard. i did everything right. i took the vitamins, i ate the right foods, i stopped drinking coffee, i did the acupuncture, i did the yoga, i did the fucking meditation apps that you downloaded for me, and i still—" your voice broke, splintered into a thousand pieces. "i still couldn't. i can't. my body won't. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry."

he turned you around, his hands gentle on your shoulders, and he looked at you with those dark eyes, the ones that had seen you naked and weeping and laughing and screaming, the ones that had watched you grow older and softer and more desperate, the ones that had never once looked away.

"don't," he said, and his voice was quiet, so quiet, barely a whisper, but there was something in it that made your chest ache, something raw and wounded and unbearably tender. "don't apologize to me. not for this. not ever for this."

"but you wanted—" you choked on the words, swallowed them, tried again. "you wanted a baby. you said you wanted a baby. you said you wanted to see me hold our child, to teach them how to read, to watch them fall asleep on my chest. you said that was all you wanted. and i can't give it to you. i'm failing you. i'm failing you, suguru, and i don't know how to stop."

his hands moved from your shoulders to your face, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away your tears with a tenderness that felt like a knife in your ribs. he was so gentle, always so gentle, even when you didn't deserve it, even when you were falling apart in his arms like a doll that had been dropped one too many times.

"listen to me," he said, and his voice was firm now, not harsh but steady, the kind of steady that could hold up the sky. "i did not marry you for your uterus. i did not fall in love with you because i thought you would be a good incubator for my genetic material. i fell in love with you because you are you. because you laugh at my jokes when no one else does. because you leave your books open on the coffee table with the pages facing down, which drives me insane, and yet i find it endearing. because you cry at documentaries about whales and then pretend you have something in your eye. because you are the most infuriating, beautiful, impossible person i have ever met, and every single day with you is a gift that i do not deserve."

you sobbed, ugly and loud, and he pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine, holding you so close that you could feel the shape of his ribs, the warmth of his skin through the soft wool of his sweater.

"i want a baby," he said, and the words were not a confession or a demand, just a simple statement, like saying the sky is blue or water is wet. "i want a baby with you. i want to see you pregnant and glowing and impossibly, insufferably smug about it. i want to hold our child in my arms and watch you sleep and feel like the luckiest man who has ever lived. i want that. i have always wanted that. but i want you more. i want you alive and whole and here, in this bathroom, crying into my sweater, making it all wet and disgusting. i want you even when you're sad. i want you even when you're broken. i want you even when you think you have nothing left to give me."

you pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wet too, tears sliding silently down his cheeks, and you realized with a jolt that geto suguru, the man who never raised his voice, who never lost his temper, who moved through the world like a still pond in a forest, was crying. not sobbing, not heaving, just crying, quiet and dignified and absolutely devastating.

"you're crying," you said, your voice thick and stupid with tears.

"yes," he said, and he didn't wipe his face, didn't try to hide it, just let the tears fall, let you see him, let you see the full, terrible, beautiful weight of his love for you. "i'm crying because you're hurting. i'm crying because i can't fix this. i'm crying because i would trade every penny i have, every possession, every breath in my lungs, to take this pain away from you and carry it myself. and i can't. and that is the most unbearable thing i have ever known."

you stared at him, and the room was quiet except for your breathing and his, and the soft hum of the heated floors, and the distant sound of traffic from the street below. the plastic stick was still in your hand, the cruel little word still staring up at you, but somehow it felt smaller now, less significant, like a stone that had been rolled away from the mouth of a tomb.

"i'm scared," you whispered, and your voice was so small, so young, like a child's voice, like the voice you had used when you were little and you woke up from a nightmare and called for your mother. "i'm scared that it's never going to happen. i'm scared that we're going to keep trying and trying and trying and i'm going to keep failing and failing and failing and one day you're going to wake up and realize that you wasted your best years on someone who couldn't give you what you wanted. i'm scared that you're going to leave."

his face crumpled. actually crumpled, like a piece of paper being crushed in a fist. and then he was on his knees in front of you, his hands on your hips, his face pressed against your stomach, and he was shaking, actually shaking, his shoulders trembling with the force of whatever was moving through him.

"leave?" he said, and his voice was muffled against your shirt, but you could hear the disbelief in it, the hurt, the raw, bleeding wound of the suggestion. "leave you? i would sooner cut out my own heart and feed it to the dogs. i would sooner set fire to everything i own and walk into the sea. you are my home. you are my family. you are the only thing in this world that has ever made sense to me, and if you think for one second that i would leave you because of something as arbitrary as biology, as fate, as the cruel, indifferent randomness of the universe, then you do not know me at all. and that—" his voice cracked, broke, reformed. "that would break me more than any negative test ever could."

you sank to your knees too, until you were face to face with him, your foreheads touching, your breath mingling with his, and you reached up and touched his face, his wet cheeks, his jaw, the corner of his mouth where a tiny scar lived, a remnant of some childhood accident he had never fully explained.

"i'm sorry," you said again, but it was different this time, softer, less desperate. "i'm sorry i said that. i know you wouldn't leave. i know. i just—sometimes my brain lies to me. sometimes it tells me that i'm not enough, that i'll never be enough, that i'm just a broken thing that you're going to get tired of carrying."

he opened his eyes, and they were dark and deep and endless, like looking into a well at midnight, and he took your face in his hands and held it like it was something precious, something irreplaceable, something he would kill to protect.

"you are not broken," he said, and each word was a stone, solid and unshakeable. "you are not broken, you are not failing, you are not a disappointment. you are a woman who is trying to do something that is hard, something that is not guaranteed, something that millions of other women have struggled with since the beginning of time. and you are doing it with grace and courage and more strength than you give yourself credit for. and i am proud of you. do you hear me? i am so proud of you. i am proud of you for taking the tests, for hoping, for trying, for showing up every single month even when you know it might hurt. that is not weakness. that is the opposite of weakness. that is the bravest thing i have ever seen."

you kissed him then, not because you wanted to, not because it was the right thing to do, but because you couldn't not kiss him, because his mouth was right there and your lips were drawn to it like a compass points north, like a river finds the sea. and he kissed you back, soft and slow and deep, his hands sliding into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, and for a moment, just a moment, the world fell away, and there was nothing but the two of you, kneeling on the warm marble floor of your beautiful, expensive bathroom, holding each other like the only two people left in the universe.

when you finally pulled back, your lips were swollen and your face was wet and your nose was running and you were the least attractive you had ever been, and he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"come on," he said, and he stood up, pulling you with him, his hand warm and steady in yours. "let's get out of this room. i'll run you a bath. the big tub, with the jets and the expensive bath salts that you pretend not to like but use every time. and then i'll make you dinner. something terrible, probably. i'll burn it, and you'll laugh at me, and then we'll order takeout from that place you like, the one with the dumplings."

"the one with the soup dumplings," you said, and your voice was still thick, but there was something else there too, something that might have been a smile.

"yes," he said. "the soup dumplings. and then we'll sit on the couch and you'll fall asleep on my shoulder during the second act of whatever movie we put on, and i'll carry you to bed, and i'll hold you all night, and in the morning, we'll wake up and we'll try again. not because we have to, not because we're desperate, but because we want to. because hope is not a thing that dies, even when we wish it would. because we are stubborn and stupid and in love, and we do not know how to give up."

you looked at him, at his dark hair and his kind eyes and the small, sad smile that was playing at the corners of his mouth, and you thought that maybe this was what it meant to be loved, not to have someone fix your problems or make your pain disappear, but to have someone sit with you in the middle of it, to hold your hand and let you cry and tell you that you are not alone.

"okay," you said, and you squeezed his hand. "okay."

he ran the bath, and he put in the expensive bath salts that you pretended not to like, and he sat on the edge of the tub while you soaked, his fingers trailing through the water, and he told you a story about a man who had everything and a woman who had nothing and how they found each other anyway, and you listened, and you cried a little more, and you laughed when he got to the part about the cat, and when the water went cold, he wrapped you in a towel and carried you to the bedroom and laid you down on the soft, expensive sheets, and he held you until you fell asleep.

and the negative test sat on the bathroom counter, small and white and cruel, and you did not look at it again. not that night. not for a long time.

because some things are not meant to be stared at.

some things are meant to be left behind.

NANAMI KENTO

the living room was dark except for the single lamp on the end table, the one with the amber glass shade that cast everything in a soft, honeyed glow, and nanami kento sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together, and he was waiting.

he had been waiting for forty-three minutes.

not impatiently. nanami did not do things impatiently. he waited the way he did everything else: with a kind of quiet, methodical stillness, like a man who had learned long ago that rushing did nothing but exhaust the heart. he had taken off his watch and placed it on the coffee table, face up, because he wanted to see the seconds move, wanted to mark the passage of time in a way that felt real and tangible, wanted to remind himself that this moment, like all moments, would eventually end.

you were in the bathroom.

you had been in there for forty-three minutes, and he had not knocked, had not called out, had not done anything but sit here in the amber light and wait, because he knew that some things could not be rushed, that some doors had to be opened from the inside, that the only thing he could give you right now was the quiet, steady promise of his presence.

the test was on the counter. he knew because he had watched you carry it in there, your hands shaking so badly that the little plastic stick had rattled against the porcelain sink. he had wanted to go with you, had wanted to hold your hand, had wanted to be there when you looked, but you had shaken your head, had whispered "i need to do this alone" in a voice that was so small, so fragile, so unlike the voice of the woman he had married, and he had nodded and stepped back and let you close the door.

that had been forty-three minutes ago.

he thought about the first time he had seen you. it was at a bookstore, of all places, a tiny, cramped shop in a part of the city that was slowly being eaten by luxury condos and overpriced coffee shops. you had been reaching for a book on a high shelf, standing on your tiptoes, your fingers just brushing the spine, and you had made a small, frustrated sound that had made him smile despite himself. he had reached past you and pulled the book down, and you had turned and looked at him with those eyes, those impossible, beautiful eyes, and he had thought, oh. oh, this is dangerous.

he had been thirty-two then. careful. contained. a man who had built his life around order and routine and the quiet satisfaction of a job done well. he had not been looking for love, had not believed in it, really, had thought of it as something that happened to other people, people who were softer, more open, less afraid of being hurt.

and then you had smiled at him, and he had understood, for the first time in his life, what all the poets were talking about.

the bathroom door opened.

he stood up before he could think about it, his body moving on its own, and he turned to face the hallway, and you were standing there, in the doorway, and your face was pale and your eyes were red and swollen and your hands were empty, and he knew.

he knew before you said a word.

the sound you made was not a word. it was something else, something that lived in the space between a sigh and a scream, and then you were crossing the room, your feet bare on the hardwood floor, and you collapsed against him, your forehead pressed to his chest, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and you did not cry.

that was the worst part.

you did not cry. you just stood there, trembling, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you and waited for the storm to break, but it didn't, it wouldn't, and he realized with a cold, sharp clarity that you had cried so much already, so many times, that there were simply no tears left.

"kento," you said, and his name was a broken thing in your mouth, a piece of glass that you had tried to swallow. "kento, i can't. i can't do this anymore."

he did not say it's okay because it was not okay, and he did not say we'll try again because that was not what you needed to hear, and he did not say anything at all because sometimes silence was the only honest answer. he just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head, his hands spread wide across your back, and he breathed, slow and deep, hoping that his heartbeat would remind yours how to keep going.

"it was negative," you said, and your voice was flat, hollow, the voice of someone who had delivered this same news so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "again. it was negative again. and i don't know why i'm surprised. i don't know why i keep hoping. i don't know why i keep doing this to myself. to us."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, and your face was a ruin, your beautiful face, with its smudged mascara and its blotchy cheeks and its cracked lips that you had been biting all day, and he thought that he had never loved you more than he loved you in this moment, in this terrible, beautiful, unbearable moment.

"come here," he said, and he led you to the couch, sat you down, pulled the throw blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around your shoulders, and then he knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees, his eyes level with yours.

"tell me," he said. "tell me everything you're feeling. don't filter it. don't try to make it easier for me. just tell me."

you stared at him, and for a moment, he thought you might refuse, might shut down, might retreat into that cold, quiet place that you went to when the world became too much. but then your face crumpled, and the words came, not in a flood but in a slow, painful trickle, like water seeping through a crack in a dam.

"i feel like a failure," you said. "i feel like my body has betrayed me. i feel like every month, i get a little bit smaller, a little bit less, like i'm disappearing, like i'm becoming nothing but a collection of negative tests and broken hopes. i feel like you married the wrong person. i feel like if you had chosen someone else, someone younger, someone healthier, someone whose body actually worked the way it was supposed to, you would already have the family you deserve. i feel like i'm wasting your time. i feel like i'm stealing your future. i feel like one day you're going to wake up and look at me and see nothing but the years you lost, the children you never had, the life i couldn't give you."

his hands tightened on your knees, not painfully, but firmly, anchoring.

"and i feel angry," you continued, your voice rising, cracking. "i feel so fucking angry, kento. i'm angry at my body for betraying me. i'm angry at the universe for being so cruel. i'm angry at every woman who gets pregnant by accident, who doesn't even want a baby, who treats it like an inconvenience, who complains about morning sickness and swollen ankles while i would give anything, anything, to feel nauseous just once, to know that something was growing inside me. i'm angry at myself for being angry. i'm angry that i can't just be grateful for what i have. i have you. i have this beautiful home. i have more money than i could ever spend. and it's not enough. it's never enough. and i hate myself for that. i hate myself so much."

the tears came then, finally, not the silent, dignified tears of a woman who had accepted her fate, but the ugly, wrenching sobs of someone who had been holding back a flood for far too long. you bent forward, your forehead almost touching your knees, and you cried, and nanami did not try to stop you, did not shush you, did not tell you that everything would be fine.

he just stayed.

he stayed on his knees in front of you, his hands on your knees, his head bowed, and he let you cry. he let the sounds fill the room, the terrible, beautiful sounds of your grief, and he did not flinch from them, did not try to cover them with words, because he knew that grief was not something to be fixed but something to be witnessed.

when the sobs finally began to slow, when your breathing started to even out, he reached up and brushed the hair from your face, his fingers gentle, almost reverent.

"can i tell you something?" he asked, and his voice was low and rough, scraped raw by the sight of your pain.

you nodded, not looking at him, your eyes fixed on the floor.

"i am thirty-six years old," he said. "and before i met you, i had never cried. not once, not since i was a child. i had convinced myself that crying was useless, that it solved nothing, that it was a weakness that i could not afford. i had built myself into a fortress, you see. walls and walls and walls, and i was safe inside them, and i was alone."

he paused, and you looked up at him, and his eyes were wet, actually wet, and you realized with a start that nanami kento, the most controlled man you had ever known, the man who ironed his shirts and folded his socks and never raised his voice, was crying.

"and then you came," he said, "and you laughed at one of my jokes, a terrible joke, a joke that no one else had ever found funny, and you looked at me like i was not a fortress but a person, and something inside me cracked. not broke. cracked. just enough to let a little light in. and over the years, you have cracked me open again and again, not because you were trying to, but because that is what love does. it cracks you open. it makes you vulnerable. it makes you feel things that you spent your whole life trying not to feel."

he took your hands in his, and his hands were warm and steady, and he pressed them to his chest, right over his heart.

"do you feel that?" he asked. "that is my heart. and it is beating for you. not for a baby. not for a family. for you. you are the reason it beats. you are the reason i get out of bed in the morning. you are the reason i work, and cook, and fold my socks, and do all the other boring, mundane things that make up a life. because i get to come home to you. because i get to see your face. because i get to hold you when you cry and make you tea when you're sad and watch you fall asleep on the couch during movies that you insisted you wanted to see."

you shook your head, tears still falling, and tried to pull your hands away, but he held them fast.

"i know what you're thinking," he said. "you're thinking that i'm just saying this to make you feel better. you're thinking that deep down, i must be disappointed, must be resentful, must be wondering what my life would look like if i had married someone else. and i need you to listen to me very carefully, because i am only going to say this once."

he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

"i am not disappointed," he said. "i am not resentful. i am not wondering what my life would look like with someone else. because my life, right now, in this moment, with you crying on our couch and the test sitting on the bathroom counter and the whole world feeling like it's falling apart, is the life i chose. and i would choose it again. and again. and again. a thousand times. a million times. i would choose you in every universe, in every timeline, in every version of reality that has ever existed or ever will exist. do you understand? you are not a consolation prize. you are not a second choice. you are not a broken thing that i am tolerating out of pity or obligation. you are the love of my life. and that is not a small thing. that is not a but at least thing. that is the whole thing. that is everything."

you stared at him, and the tears kept falling, but something in your chest loosened, just a little, just enough to let you breathe.

"but you wanted a baby," you whispered, and the words were so small, so fragile, like a child's drawing held up to the wind. "you said you wanted a baby. you said you wanted to teach them how to read. you said you wanted to watch them learn to tie their shoes. you said—"

"i know what i said," he interrupted, gently, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. "and i meant it. i do want those things. i want them very much. but i want you more. i want you more than i want anything else in this world. and if the choice is between having you and having a child, i will choose you every single time. without hesitation. without regret. without a single backward glance."

"but what if—" you started, and he shook his head.

"no," he said. "no what ifs. no buts. no hypotheticals. this is the reality we live in. and in this reality, we are trying to have a baby, and it is not working, and it might never work, and that is terrible, and that is sad, and i am not going to pretend that it doesn't hurt. it does hurt. it hurts more than i know how to say. but the hurt does not change the love. the hurt does not make me love you less. if anything, it makes me love you more, because i see you, every month, getting up off the floor and trying again, and that is the bravest thing i have ever witnessed."

you let out a shuddering breath, and you leaned forward, resting your head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you, and you felt the tension in your body begin to ease, just a little, like a fist slowly unclenching.

"i'm scared," you said, your voice muffled against his shirt. "i'm scared that one day you'll wake up and realize that you wasted your best years on me. i'm scared that you'll resent me. i'm scared that i'll resent myself. i'm scared that we'll keep trying and trying and trying and i'll keep failing and failing and failing and one day i'll look in the mirror and not recognize the person looking back at me."

he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and his lips lingered there, warm and soft.

"do you want to know what i see," he said, "when i look at you?"

you nodded against his shoulder.

"i see a woman who gets up every morning and tries," he said. "i see a woman who takes vitamins she hates and eats food she doesn't want and goes to appointments that make her feel like a specimen under a microscope. i see a woman who hopes, even when hoping hurts, even when hoping has let her down a hundred times before. i see a woman who loves so fiercely, so completely, that she would rather blame herself for something she cannot control than admit that the universe is simply random and cruel and unfair. i see my wife. i see my home. i see the person i want to grow old with, whether we have children or not, whether we have anything or not, whether the world ends tomorrow or keeps spinning for a thousand more years."

you pulled back and looked at him, and his face was wet and his eyes were red and his hair was falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, softer, more human than he had ever looked before.

"i love you," you said, and the words felt different this time, heavier, more real. "i love you so much, kento. and i'm sorry that i can't give you what you want. i'm sorry that my body is broken. i'm sorry that i keep falling apart like this. i'm sorry that you have to keep putting me back together."

he shook his head, and a small, sad smile touched his lips.

"you don't have to be sorry," he said. "and you're not broken. you're just human. and being human means hurting, and hoping, and hurting again. and i am here. i am always here. i am not going anywhere. and if you fall apart, i will help you put the pieces back together. and if you fall apart again, i will do it again. and again. and again. for as long as it takes. because that is what love is. not the grand gestures, not the perfect moments, but the small, quiet, daily choice to stay. to keep showing up. to keep holding on."

he stood up then, and he reached down and took your hand, and he pulled you to your feet, and he led you to the kitchen, and he made you tea, the way you liked it, with honey and a slice of lemon, and he sat with you at the table while you drank it, and he did not talk about the test or the baby or the future. he talked about the bread he was going to bake tomorrow, and the book he was reading, and the ridiculous argument he had witnessed at the grocery store between two old men about the proper way to stack oranges.

and you listened, and you drank your tea, and slowly, slowly, the tightness in your chest began to ease.

later, after you had washed your face and changed into your softest pajamas and climbed into bed, he lay beside you, his arm around your waist, his breath warm against your neck, and you stared at the ceiling and thought about all the months that had come before, all the tests and the tears and the tiny, fragile hopes that had been crushed one by one.

"kento," you whispered.

"hm?" he said, his voice already soft with sleep.

"thank you," you said. "for staying."

he was quiet for a moment, and then he pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist, and he pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder.

"there is nowhere else i would rather be," he said.

and in the darkness, with his heartbeat against your back and his arm around your waist and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing in your ear, you let yourself believe it. just for tonight. just for this one, small, impossible moment.

you let yourself believe that you were enough.

and maybe, just maybe, you were.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

the bathroom smelled of expensive soap and something else, something sharper, something that might have been fear or might have been hope or might have been the particular, metallic tang of tears that had fallen and dried and fallen again. the marble floor was cold against your knees, though you barely felt it anymore, your body having long since surrendered to the numbness that came after the storm, after the shaking and the screaming and the ugly, wet sobs that had torn themselves out of your throat like they were trying to escape a burning building.

the test was on the floor in front of you, where you had dropped it, or thrown it, you couldn't remember which. the little plastic stick had skidded across the polished stone and come to rest against the base of the pedestal sink, and from where you knelt, you could still see the result, still see that single, cruel line, that absence, that emptiness that had become the defining feature of your life.

negative.

you had been here before. so many times before. the same bathroom, the same test, the same position on the floor, your knees aching and your hands trembling and your heart doing that strange, awful thing where it beat too fast and too slow at the same time, like it couldn't decide whether to keep going or just give up. you had lost count of how many tests, how many months, how many times you had convinced yourself that this time would be different, this time the universe would take pity on you, this time you would finally be able to look at your husband's face and see something other than the carefully hidden disappointment that he thought you didn't notice.

but you noticed. you noticed everything about ryomen sukuna. you noticed the way his jaw tightened when you came out of the bathroom with empty hands. you noticed the way his eyes, those deep, burning eyes that could make grown men weep with a single glance, would soften for just a fraction of a second before hardening again into their usual mask of indifference. you noticed the way he would reach for you at night, in the dark, when he thought you were asleep, his hand finding your stomach and resting there, palm flat, as if he could will something into existence through sheer force of wanting.

and you noticed the way he never talked about it. never brought it up. never asked. because sukuna was a man who did not believe in discussing things that could not be solved with action, and this, this slow, grinding ache of month after month after month, was not something that could be solved with action. it could not be bought, could not be fought, could not be intimidated into submission. it was simply… happening. or not happening. and he had no control over it, and that, more than anything, was what made him silent.

the door opened.

you didn't look up. you didn't need to. you knew the weight of his footsteps, the particular quality of the silence that followed him into every room. he stood in the doorway for a long moment, and you could feel his gaze on you, heavy as a hand, and you waited for the anger, the frustration, the cold, cutting words that he wielded like weapons against everyone else in the world.

but they didn't come.

instead, you heard him cross the room, his bare feet silent on the marble, and then he was kneeling in front of you, which was such an absurd thing, such an impossible thing, that for a moment you thought you must be hallucinating. ryomen sukuna did not kneel. ryomen sukuna did not lower himself for anyone. ryomen sukuna was the kind of man who made the world bend around him, not the other way around.

and yet here he was, on his knees on the cold bathroom floor, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his expensive black shirt rumpled, his eyes fixed on your face with an expression that you had never seen before, something raw and unguarded and almost, almost, afraid.

"look at me," he said, and his voice was not the voice he used in boardrooms, not the voice he used with servants, not the voice he used with anyone else in the world. it was softer, lower, almost gentle, and the sound of it made your chest ache with a pain that had nothing to do with the test and everything to do with the man kneeling in front of you.

you shook your head, your eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears leaking from between your lashes. "i can't. i can't look at you. i can't. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, sukuna. i failed again. i keep failing. i keep—"

"i said look at me."

his hand came up, not roughly but firmly, his fingers curling around your chin, and he tilted your face up, forced your eyes open, and you looked at him, and what you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

he was crying.

not weeping, not sobbing, not making any of the sounds that normal people made when they cried. but there were tears on his cheeks, actual tears, sliding down that sharp, beautiful face, catching in the corner of his mouth, and you had never, in all the years you had known him, seen ryomen sukuna cry. you hadn't even been sure he could.

"you think i care about that?" he said, and his voice was rough, scraped raw, like he had been screaming and you hadn't heard. "you think i give one single fuck about that piece of plastic on the floor?"

"it's not about the plastic," you said, and your voice broke on the words, shattered into a thousand pieces. "it's about what it means. it's about what i can't give you. it's about the fact that you married someone who can't—who can't do the one thing—"

"the one thing?" he repeated, and his grip on your chin tightened, just slightly, just enough to make you stop talking. "the one thing. tell me. what is this one thing that you think defines your entire existence? what is this magical, mystical thing that supposedly gives you value in my eyes?"

you stared at him, and the tears kept coming, and you couldn't speak, couldn't form the words, because the words were too big and too small and too terrible all at once.

"a baby," he said, and he said it like it was a curse, like it was a joke, like it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. "you think i need a baby. you think i married you because i needed an heir. you think i look at you and see nothing but a womb with legs."

"no, i—"

"yes," he said, and his voice was rising now, not in anger but in something that sounded almost like desperation, like a man trying to break through a wall with his bare hands. "yes, you do. you think that's what i want. you think that's what i'm waiting for. you think that every month, when you come out of this bathroom with that look on your face, i'm disappointed in you. but i'm not. i'm disappointed in the universe. i'm disappointed in fate. i'm disappointed in whatever cruel, stupid, cosmic joke decided that the one person i actually want to spend my life with would be tortured like this, month after month, test after test, hope after hope."

he let go of your chin and moved his hands to your shoulders, and he pulled you forward, not gently, because sukuna was never gentle, but carefully, like you were something fragile, something that could break if he handled you wrong.

"i don't want a baby," he said, and his voice was low and fierce, and his forehead pressed against yours, and his breath was warm on your lips. "i want you. i want you happy. i want you whole. i want you to stop looking at yourself like you're nothing, because you are not nothing, you are everything, you are the only thing in this godforsaken world that has ever made me feel like i wasn't just… existing. like i was actually living. and if you think i would trade that for a screaming, shitting, crying infant, then you are even stupider than i thought, and i thought you were pretty stupid to begin with."

you laughed, a wet, broken sound, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and fierce and so full of love that it made your heart hurt.

"there," he said. "there's that stupid laugh. i've been waiting all day to hear that stupid laugh."

"you're an asshole," you said, and your voice was still thick with tears, but there was something else there too, something that felt almost like a smile.

"obviously," he said. "i'm the asshole. the king of assholes. the emperor of being a dick. and i am telling you, as the emperor of being a dick, that you are going to stop crying over this. not because it doesn't matter. it does matter. i know it matters. i know it hurts. but you are going to stop crying because you are going to let me hold you, and you are going to let me take care of you, and you are going to let me remind you that you are the most important thing in my life, and that is not going to change whether we have ten children or none."

he stood up, pulling you with him, and then he lifted you, just scooped you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you out of the bathroom, past the test still lying on the floor, past the mirror that reflected your swollen face and red eyes, into the bedroom where the sheets were rumpled and the curtains were drawn and the world outside was still spinning, indifferent to your pain.

he laid you down on the bed, and then he climbed in beside you, and he pulled you against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you so tightly that you could barely breathe, and you thought that maybe that was the point, maybe he was trying to hold you together, to keep the pieces of you from scattering across this beautiful, expensive room.

"i'm going to tell you something," he said, his lips pressed against your hair, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "and you are going to listen. and then you are going to believe me. because i don't say things i don't mean. i don't have time for that. and i don't have the patience."

you nodded against his chest, and he took a breath, and then he began to speak.

"before you," he said, "i didn't believe in anything. i didn't believe in love. i didn't believe in happiness. i didn't believe in any of the soft, stupid things that people use to make themselves feel better about the fact that we're all going to die alone in the end. i believed in money. i believed in power. i believed in making sure that no one could ever hurt me because i was too strong, too rich, too untouchable for anyone to even try."

his hand moved up and down your back, slow and steady, and you felt your muscles begin to unclench, just a little.

"and then i met you," he continued. "and you were… nothing. you were a nobody. you had no money, no power, no connections. you cried at everything. you laughed at jokes that weren't funny. you left your books open on the coffee table and your shoes in the middle of the floor and your hair in the drain, and i should have hated you. i should have found you annoying and insignificant and beneath my notice. but instead, i found myself wanting to be near you. wanting to hear your voice. wanting to see your face. wanting to know what you were thinking and feeling and dreaming about."

he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you felt the warmth of it spread through you like honey.

"and then one day," he said, "i realized that i was in love with you. and i didn't know what to do with that. i had never been in love before. i didn't know the rules. i didn't know how to act. i just knew that when you looked at me, i felt like maybe i wasn't the monster everyone thought i was. maybe i was just… a man. a stupid, selfish, arrogant man who had somehow been given a gift he didn't deserve."

you looked up at him, and his face was so close, and his eyes were so bright, and you reached up and touched his cheek, felt the wetness there, the tears that were still falling, silent and steady.

"you are not a monster," you said. "you've never been a monster. not to me."

"i know," he said. "that's the problem. that's why i can't lose you. that's why i can't let this break you. because if you break, i break. and i don't know how to put myself back together. i never learned. i never had to. because i had you."

you kissed him then, soft and slow, and he kissed you back, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. there was no test, no negative, no cruel, indifferent universe. there was just this, just him, just the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your palm.

when you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, and his eyes were dark and deep and endless, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"we're going to be okay," he said, and it wasn't a question, wasn't a hope, wasn't a prayer. it was a statement, a fact, as solid and unshakeable as the man himself. "we're going to be okay, because i refuse to let us be anything else. do you understand? i refuse. i am the most stubborn, most arrogant, most infuriating person you have ever met, and i am telling you that we are going to be fine. not because it's easy. not because it doesn't hurt. but because i will not accept any other outcome."

you nodded, and you let yourself believe him, just for tonight, just for this one, small, impossible moment.

"i love you," you said, and the words were small, but they were real, and they were enough.

"i know," he said, and then, after a long moment, almost too quiet to hear: "i love you too. obviously. don't let it go to your head."

you smiled, and you buried your face in his chest, and you felt his arms tighten around you, and you let yourself drift, let yourself be held, let yourself be loved.

outside, the city was dark, and the world was cold, and the test was still lying on the bathroom floor, that cruel little word still staring up at the ceiling.

but in here, in this room, with this man, there was only warmth, and light, and the quiet, steady promise of forever.

and for now, that was enough.

that was everything.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the bedroom was too quiet, that kind of quiet that comes after a storm, when the rain has stopped and the wind has died and all that's left is the wet, broken things scattered across the ground. the curtains were drawn, thick velvet the color of wine, and the only light came from the small lamp on the nightstand, the one with the crack in the base that you kept meaning to replace but never did, because toji had bought it for you on your first anniversary, had handed it to you in a paper bag with a grunt and a muttered "here, don't make a big deal out of it," and you had cried then too, because that was just who you were, someone who cried at everything, who cried at commercials and sunsets and the way he looked at you sometimes, like you were the only real thing in a world full of ghosts.

toji fushiguro stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, and he looked like a man who had been carved from stone and then left out in the rain for too long, all hard edges and weathered surfaces and something soft underneath that he would never admit to. he was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, old jeans that had faded to gray, and his feet were bare, the way they always were when he was home, and his dark hair was pushed back from his face, and his eyes, those impossible green eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing, were fixed on you with an intensity that would have made anyone else look away.

you were sitting on the edge of the bed, your back to him, your hands in your lap, and in your hands was the test. the little plastic stick with its little plastic window, and in that window was the same cruel word you had seen so many times before, the word that had become a kind of punctuation mark at the end of every month, every hope, every desperate, foolish prayer.

negative.

you had stopped crying ten minutes ago. not because you were done, not because the tears had run out, but because your body had simply given up, had decided that there was no point in wasting any more water on a wound that would not close. your face was swollen and your eyes were raw and your throat ached from the sounds you had made, the ugly, animal sounds that had torn out of you when you had seen the result, when you had realized that this month, like all the months before, had been for nothing.

toji had found you on the bathroom floor, your back against the tub, the test still in your hand, your mouth open in a silent scream that had nowhere to go. he hadn't said anything. he had just picked you up, lifted you like you weighed nothing, carried you to the bedroom, and set you down on the edge of the bed. and then he had stood in the doorway, and he had watched, and he had waited, because toji fushiguro was not a man who knew how to comfort with words, had never learned the soft phrases and gentle reassurances that other men seemed to pull from thin air, but he knew how to be present, how to take up space, how to make sure you knew that you were not alone even when he couldn't find the words to say it.

"you've been sitting there for twenty minutes," he said finally, and his voice was low and rough, like gravel being poured over glass. "staring at that thing like it's gonna change its mind."

you didn't answer. you couldn't answer. your voice had packed its bags and left somewhere around the third sob, and you weren't sure when it was coming back.

he pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the room in a few long strides, and the bed dipped under his weight as he sat down beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off his body, the solid, undeniable warmth of him. he didn't touch you, not yet, just sat there with his hands on his thighs, his knuckles scarred and his fingers calloused, and he stared at the wall across from him, at the painting you had bought together at a gallery opening six months ago, the one with the blue and the gray and the suggestion of a storm.

"look at me," he said.

you shook your head, a small, jerky movement, and fresh tears spilled down your cheeks, though you hadn't even realized you had any left.

"baby," he said, and the word was strange in his mouth, too soft, too tender for a man who had built his life around being hard, around being untouchable, around being the kind of person who could walk away from anything without looking back. but he couldn't walk away from you. you had learned that early, had learned that the great toji fushiguro, the man who had never needed anyone, needed you like he needed air, like he needed the next beat of his heart, and the knowledge of that had both terrified and thrilled you, had made you feel like the most powerful person in the world and the most fragile, all at once.

"look at me," he said again, and this time there was something underneath the words, something that sounded almost like a plea, and toji fushiguro did not plead, did not beg, did not ask for anything from anyone.

you turned your head, slowly, and you looked at him.

his face was a mask, as always, but you had learned to read the small things, the micro-shifts in his expression that other people missed. the way his jaw was clenched just a little too tight, the way his eyes were just a little too bright, the way his hands had curled into fists on his thighs, knuckles white.

"there you are," he said, and his voice was softer now, almost gentle, and the incongruity of it, the sheer wrongness of toji fushiguro being gentle, made something crack open in your chest.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, and your voice was a wreck, a ruin, a burned-out building with nothing left inside but ash. "i'm so sorry, toji. i tried. i tried so hard. i did everything the doctors said. i took the pills and the shots and i ate the disgusting fertility smoothies and i stopped drinking coffee and i did the yoga and the acupuncture and the meditation and i prayed, toji, i prayed to gods i don't even believe in, and it didn't work, it didn't work, it's never going to work, i'm broken, i'm broken and i can't give you what you want and i know you said it doesn't matter but it does matter, it matters so much, and i can't—"

"stop."

his voice was sharp, a blade, and it cut through your rambling, through the hysteria that was building in your chest like a wave about to crash.

"stop," he said again, and he reached out and took the test from your hands, not gently, but not roughly either, just took it and set it on the nightstand, face down, so you couldn't see the word anymore. "you're gonna make yourself sick."

"i'm already sick," you said, and you laughed, a broken, hollow sound that wasn't really a laugh at all. "that's the problem, isn't it? something's wrong with me. something's been wrong with me this whole time, and i just didn't want to see it. i wanted to believe that if i tried hard enough, if i wanted it badly enough, my body would just… cooperate. but it doesn't work that way. it never worked that way. and now i'm just—" your voice cracked, splintered, fell apart. "i'm just a woman who can't do the one thing she's supposed to do."

toji's hand moved, faster than you could track, and suddenly his fingers were under your chin, forcing your face up, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes were blazing, not with anger but with something else, something fiercer and more terrifying and more beautiful than anything you had ever seen.

"the one thing you're supposed to do?" he repeated, and his voice was low, dangerous, the kind of voice that made you think of thunderstorms and broken bones and things that could not be undone. "who told you that? who told you that the only thing you're supposed to do is pop out babies? because i want their name. i want their address. i want to have a conversation with them. a short conversation. a very short conversation."

you almost laughed, almost, but the tears were still coming, and the sobs were still rattling around in your chest like marbles in a tin can.

"toji, you don't understand—"

"no," he said, and he moved then, shifting so that he was sitting directly in front of you, his knees bracketing yours, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears with a roughness that should have hurt but didn't, that felt instead like being held together, like being kept from flying apart. "no, you don't understand. you think i married you because i wanted a broodmare? you think i looked at you, at your stupid laugh and your stupid crying and your stupid way of leaving your shoes in the middle of the hallway where i trip over them every single morning, and i thought, yeah, she'd make a good incubator?"

"that's not—"

"that's exactly what you're saying," he said, and his voice was rising now, not in anger but in something that sounded almost like desperation, like fear, like a man who was watching the most important thing in his life slip through his fingers and didn't know how to hold on. "you're sitting there, telling me that your only value is in your ability to get pregnant, and that is so fucking stupid, so unbelievably, monumentally stupid, that i don't even know where to start."

you stared at him, and his face was so close to yours that you could see the small scar on his lip, the one he had gotten when he was seventeen and had gotten into a fight over something he couldn't even remember anymore. you could see the lines around his eyes, the ones that had appeared over the years, the ones that you had put there, with your laughter and your tears and your endless, exhausting love.

"i don't want a baby," he said, and the words were like a punch to your gut, like a door slamming shut. "i want a baby with you. there's a difference. a big fucking difference. and if it's not with you, i don't want it at all. do you hear me? i don't want a baby with some other woman. i don't want to adopt a baby with some other woman. i don't want to look at some other woman's face across the breakfast table and watch her cry at commercials about dogs. i want you. i want your face. i want your tears. i want your stupid shoes in the middle of the hallway. i want all of it, the good and the bad and the fucking fertility smoothies that make the whole apartment smell like a compost heap."

you sobbed, and he pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you like steel cables, like he was trying to fuse you into his bones, and you felt his heart pounding against your cheek, fast and hard, and you realized that he was scared too, that toji fushiguro, who had never been afraid of anything in his life, was terrified.

"i can't lose you," he said, and his voice was muffled against your hair, but you heard it anyway, heard every word, heard the way they cracked and broke and reformed. "i can't lose you to this. to the tests and the appointments and the way you look at yourself in the mirror like you're nothing. you're not nothing. you're everything. you're the only thing that's ever made sense to me, and if you disappear into this, if you let this break you, i don't know what i'll do. i don't know who i'll be."

you pulled back, just enough to look at him, and his face was wet, actually wet, and you had never seen toji fushiguro cry, not once, not in all the years you had known him, and the sight of it broke something in you and healed something else, all at the same time.

"toji," you whispered, and you reached up and touched his face, his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth where the scar was. "i'm sorry. i'm sorry i said those things. i'm sorry i made you feel like you weren't enough. because you are. you're more than enough. you're everything. you're my everything."

"damn right i am," he said, and there was a hint of his old arrogance in his voice, a flicker of the man who had walked into your life and turned it upside down and never apologized for it. "so stop crying. or don't. i don't care. cry if you want to. but stop thinking that i'm going to leave. i'm not going anywhere. you're stuck with me. for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do us part, all that bullshit. i meant it when i said it. i mean it now. i'll mean it when we're old and gray and you're still leaving your shoes in the hallway and i'm still tripping over them."

you laughed, a wet, broken sound, and he kissed you, hard and quick, his lips rough against yours, and when he pulled back, his eyes were still bright, but there was something else there too, something that looked like hope, or as close to hope as a man like toji fushiguro could get.

"we're not giving up," he said, and it wasn't a question, wasn't a suggestion, was a statement, a fact, as solid and unshakeable as the ground beneath your feet. "we're not giving up, and we're not giving in, and we're not letting this fucking destroy us. we're going to keep trying, or we're not. we're going to see more doctors, or we're not. we're going to adopt, or we're not. but whatever we do, we do it together. you and me. no more of this i'm broken bullshit. you're not broken. you're just… stuck. and we'll figure out how to get unstuck. or we won't. and we'll figure out how to be happy anyway. because that's what we do. that's what we've always done."

you nodded, and you let him pull you back into his chest, and you let yourself be held, let yourself be small and scared and broken and loved, all at the same time.

"i love you," you said, and the words were small, but they were real, and they were enough.

"i know," he said, and then, after a long moment, almost too quiet to hear: "love you too. obviously. don't make a thing out of it."

you smiled against his shirt, and you felt the tension in your body begin to ease, just a little, like a knot slowly coming undone.

outside, the city was waking up, the sounds of traffic and sirens and distant voices filtering through the thick velvet curtains, but in here, in this room, with this man, there was only silence, and warmth, and the quiet, steady promise of tomorrow.

and for now, that was enough.

that was everything.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

the study was dark except for the green glow of the desk lamp, the one with the brass base that higuruma hiromi had inherited from his grandfather, a man he had never known but whose presence he felt in the weight of the lamp and the grain of the wood and the particular, stubborn way the drawer stuck if you didn't lift it just so. he was sitting in his leather chair, the one that had cost more than his first car, and he was not reading the case file in front of him, though his eyes had been moving across the same paragraph for the past seventeen minutes. he was not thinking about the defendant, a woman accused of embezzlement who was almost certainly guilty but whom he would defend anyway because that was his job, because someone had to stand between the state and the individual, because justice was not a straight line but a crooked, stumbling path through a forest of human error.

instead, he was listening.

the apartment was quiet, the way it always was at this hour, the city outside muffled by the double-paned windows and the thick velvet curtains that you had picked out, the ones that made him think of theaters and old movies and the way your hand felt in his when the lights went down. but beneath the quiet, there was another sound, a small, terrible sound that he had learned to recognize over the past two years, the sound of hope dying in a bathroom with marble floors and a heated towel rack and a small plastic stick that held more power than any judge he had ever stood before.

you were crying.

not the loud, theatrical crying that people did when they wanted to be heard, but the quiet, desperate crying of someone who had learned that loudness was a luxury, that noise attracted attention, that attention led to questions, and questions led to words that could not be unsaid. you were crying the way you always cried now, with your hand pressed over your mouth, your shoulders shaking, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps that sounded like someone was slowly crushing your ribs.

hiromi closed the case file. he set down his pen, the expensive one that you had given him for his thirty-fifth birthday, the one with his initials engraved on the barrel. he stood up, and his joints protested, because he was thirty-six now, and thirty-six meant that sitting in the same position for too long made his knees ache and his back complain and his neck feel like it had been replaced with a rusted hinge.

he walked down the hallway, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floor, and he stopped outside the bathroom door. the light was on, spilling through the crack at the bottom, and he could see the shadow of your feet, the way you were sitting on the floor, your back against the tub, your knees drawn up to your chest.

he knocked. not loudly, not insistently, but gently, the way you might knock on the door of a room where someone was sleeping, not wanting to wake them but needing to know they were still there.

"love," he said, and his voice was calm, measured, the voice he used in courtrooms and boardrooms and all the other rooms where people expected him to be unshakeable. "it's me. i'm coming in."

he waited a beat, and when you didn't tell him to go away, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

the bathroom was a mess. not in the way that a party is a mess, with confetti and empty bottles, but in the way that a heart is a mess, with pieces scattered everywhere, sharp edges and soft places and no clear way to put them back together. the test was on the floor, face up, the little window showing that single, unforgiving line. there were tissues scattered around you, balled up and wet, and your phone was lying screen-down near the sink, and your face was buried in your hands, and you were shaking, actually shaking, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

hiromi knelt down in front of you, and the marble was cold against his knees, but he didn't care. he reached out and put his hands on your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from your face, and when he saw you, when he saw the red, swollen eyes and the tear tracks and the way your lower lip was trembling, something inside him cracked. not broke, not shattered, but cracked, a hairline fracture in the armor he had spent his whole life building.

"look at me," he said, and his voice was softer now, less the lawyer and more the man, the man who had stood beside you at the altar, the man who had promised to love you in sickness and in health, the man who had meant every word even though he had never been good at saying them.

you looked at him, and your eyes were so full of pain, so full of exhaustion, so full of something that looked like defeat, and you opened your mouth, but no words came out, just a small, broken sound, like a radio frequency that couldn't quite find the station.

"i know," he said, and he moved his hands from your wrists to your hands, holding them, feeling how cold they were, how small, how fragile. "i know. you don't have to say it."

"it was negative," you said anyway, and your voice was a ruin, a building that had been bombed and left to crumble. "again. it was negative again. i don't know why i thought it would be different this time. i don't know why i keep doing this to myself. i don't know why i keep hoping."

he squeezed your hands, and he waited, because he had learned that sometimes the best thing he could do was not to fill the silence with words but to let you speak, to let you empty yourself of all the poison that had been building up inside you.

"i did everything right," you said, and the words came faster now, tumbling out of you like water from a broken dam. "i took the supplements. i did the acupuncture. i stopped drinking coffee. i stopped drinking alcohol. i stopped eating sushi and soft cheese and all the other things they tell you to avoid. i did the yoga. i did the meditation. i did the visualization exercises, the ones where you're supposed to imagine the baby growing inside you, and i imagined it so hard, hiromi, i imagined it so hard that i could almost feel it, almost believe it, and then—" your voice broke, and fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. "and then i took the test, and it was like someone reached into my chest and pulled out my heart and showed it to me, still beating, and then crushed it in their fist."

hiromi felt his own throat tighten, felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes that he had been trained to ignore, to suppress, to push down into the dark basement of his psyche where all the inconvenient emotions lived.

"i'm sorry," he said, and the words felt inadequate, felt like throwing a single blanket over a person who was freezing to death, but they were all he had. "i'm sorry that you're hurting. i'm sorry that i can't fix this. i'm sorry that i can't make it better."

you shook your head, and you pulled your hands out of his, not cruelly, but desperately, like you couldn't bear to be touched, like his hands were a reminder of everything you thought you were failing at.

"don't apologize," you said. "don't you dare apologize. this isn't your fault. it's mine. it's my body. it's my failure. i'm the one who can't—" you stopped, choked, swallowed. "i'm the one who can't give you what you want. what you deserve. you deserve a wife who can have children. you deserve a family. you deserve someone who isn't broken."

"stop."

his voice was sharper now, cutting through your words like a blade, and his hands shot out and grabbed your shoulders, not hard, but firmly, anchoring you, keeping you from spiraling further into the dark.

"stop," he said again, and his voice was shaking, actually shaking, and he realized with a start that he was angry, not at you, never at you, but at the situation, at the universe, at the cruel, indifferent randomness that had decided to make you suffer like this. "do not say that. do not say that you are broken. do not say that you are failing me. do not say that i deserve someone else. because i don't. i deserve you. i chose you. i married you. and i would marry you again. a hundred times. a thousand times. i would stand in that courthouse, or that church, or that stupid garden with the roses that made you sneeze, and i would say 'i do' every single time, without hesitation, without doubt, without a single fucking regret."

you stared at him, and your eyes were wide, and your mouth was open, and for a moment, you looked like you had never seen him before, like the man kneeling in front of you was a stranger wearing his face.

"you're crying," you whispered, and he realized that you were right, that there were tears on his cheeks, that the carefully constructed dam he had built around his emotions had finally given way, that he was crying, actually crying, in a way he hadn't cried since he was a child.

"yes," he said, and he didn't wipe the tears away, didn't try to hide them, just let them fall, let you see him, let you see the full, terrible, beautiful weight of his love for you. "i'm crying because you're hurting. i'm crying because i can't fix this. i'm crying because i would trade every case i've ever won, every dollar i've ever made, every breath i have left in my body, to take this pain away from you and carry it myself. and i can't. and that is the most unbearable thing i have ever known."

you reached up and touched his face, your fingers tracing the path of his tears, and he leaned into your touch, closed his eyes, let himself be held by the smallest, gentlest gesture.

"hiromi," you said, and his name was a prayer, a plea, a promise. "i'm so scared. i'm so scared that it's never going to happen. i'm so scared that we're going to keep trying and trying and trying and i'm going to keep failing and failing and failing and one day you're going to wake up and realize that you wasted your best years on me. i'm scared that you're going to resent me. i'm scared that i'm going to resent myself. i'm scared that i'm going to become someone you don't recognize, someone bitter and sad and angry, and you're going to leave because you can't stand to be around me anymore."

he opened his eyes and looked at you, and his gaze was steady, unwavering, the same gaze he used when he was cross-examining a witness, when he was trying to find the truth hidden beneath layers of lies and half-truths and convenient forgetfulness.

"let me tell you something," he said, and his voice was low, rough, scraped raw. "in my line of work, i see a lot of marriages fall apart. i see people who loved each other, who built lives together, who promised to stay together until death, and then something happens, some stress, some strain, some failure, and they crumble. they blame each other. they blame themselves. they blame the world. and they walk away, because walking away is easier than staying, easier than fighting, easier than looking at the person they love and saying 'i'm still here, i'm not going anywhere, we're going to get through this together.'"

he took your hands again, and this time he didn't let go, held them so tightly that his knuckles went white.

"i am not going to be one of those people," he said. "i am not going to walk away. i am not going to blame you. i am not going to resent you. because you are not the problem. you are not the failure. you are not the reason this is happening. the reason this is happening is that the universe is random and chaotic and often cruel, and sometimes things don't work out the way we want them to, and that is not a reflection of your worth or your value or your ability to be loved."

you sobbed, and he pulled you into his arms, and you clung to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressed against his neck, and he held you, rocked you, made small, soothing sounds that he didn't even know he knew how to make.

"i love you," he said, and the words were not a consolation prize, not a there, there, everything will be fine, but a statement of fact, as solid and unshakeable as the foundation of the building they lived in. "i love you more than i have ever loved anything, and i will love you until the day i die and probably after that too, because i'm stubborn and i don't believe in letting go."

"you're a lawyer," you said, your voice muffled against his neck, and there was a hint of something in your voice, something that might have been a laugh, something that might have been hope. "you're supposed to be good with words."

"i am good with words," he said. "i'm excellent with words. i've won cases that no one thought could be won because i know how to use words like weapons. but with you… with you, words are not enough. they have never been enough. because what i feel for you is not something that can be captured in language. it's too big. too messy. too… everything."

you pulled back and looked at him, and your face was still wet, still swollen, still a ruin, but there was something else there too, something that looked like the first green shoot pushing up through scorched earth.

"what do we do?" you asked, and your voice was small, fragile, but there was a question in it, a reaching, a willingness to try.

"we keep going," he said. "or we stop. whichever you want. we take a break. we see another doctor. we look into adoption. we do nothing. we do everything. we figure it out together, one day at a time, one step at a time, and we don't make any decisions when we're crying on the bathroom floor at two in the morning."

you laughed, a real laugh this time, small and broken but real, and he felt something loosen in his chest, something that had been clenched tight for days, for weeks, for months.

"i love you," you said, and the words were small, but they were real, and they were enough.

"i know," he said, and then, after a long moment, almost too quiet to hear: "i love you too. obviously. that's why i put up with your terrible taste in television and your habit of stealing the blankets and your complete inability to remember where you put your keys."

you smiled, and he smiled back, and for a moment, just a moment, the bathroom didn't feel like a tomb. it felt like a room, just a room, with marble floors and a heated towel rack and a small plastic stick that meant nothing, that had no power, that was just a piece of plastic and not a verdict, not a sentence, not the final word on your future.

"come on," he said, and he stood up, pulling you with him, and he led you out of the bathroom, past the test on the floor, past the scattered tissues, into the bedroom where the sheets were cold and the pillows were soft and the world outside was still spinning, indifferent and uncaring.

he helped you into bed, and then he climbed in beside you, and he pulled you against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, and he held you, and he did not let go.

"tomorrow," he said, his lips pressed against your hair, "we'll figure it out. we'll make a plan. we'll call the doctor. we'll do something different. or we won't. we'll decide together. but tonight, we sleep. and we hold each other. and we remember that we are not alone, that we have each other, that no matter what happens, we are a family. you and me. that's a family. that's always been a family."

you nodded against his chest, and you felt his hand move in slow, soothing circles on your back, and you closed your eyes, and you let yourself be held, let yourself be loved, let yourself believe, just for tonight, that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

outside, the city was dark, and the wind was rattling the windows, and the test was still lying on the bathroom floor, that cruel little word still staring up at the ceiling.

but in here, in this room, with this man, there was only warmth, and light, and the quiet, steady promise of tomorrow.

and for now, that was enough.

that was everything.

CHOSO KAMO

the bedroom was too warm, the kind of warm that came from the radiator hissing softly in the corner and the weight of the silk duvet and the heat of two bodies that had been tangled together for hours, waiting, always waiting, for something that never seemed to arrive. choso kamo sat on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his hands folded in his lap, and he was staring at the wall, at the empty space where a photograph would go, the photograph you had both agreed not to put up yet, not until there was something to photograph, not until there was a small face and small hands and a small heartbeat that belonged to both of you.

the bathroom door was closed.

you had been in there for twelve minutes. he knew because he had been counting, not obsessively, not anxiously, but the way a man counts when he has nothing else to hold onto, when the seconds become the only thing he can measure, when time itself feels like an enemy that is slowly, methodically taking everything from him.

choso was not good at waiting. not because he was impatient, but because waiting meant thinking, and thinking meant imagining, and imagining meant hoping, and hoping was the most dangerous thing a man could do. he had learned that lesson early, had learned it in the cold, sterile hallways of a childhood that had been less a childhood and more a series of experiments, though in this world, in this life without curses and without sorcery, those memories were just echoes, just dreams that didn't belong to anyone. here, he was simply choso kamo, thirty-six years old, heir to a fortune he had never wanted, married to a woman he had never expected to find, and waiting for a sign that the universe had not forgotten him entirely.

he heard the sound before he understood what it was. a small, choked noise, like a bird with a broken wing, and then another, and another, and then the sound of something hitting the floor, something plastic and light, and he was on his feet before he could think, crossing the room in three long strides, his hand on the doorknob, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

"love?" he called, and his voice was steady, because choso's voice was always steady, always calm, always the thing that anchored you when the world was spinning too fast. but inside, inside he was anything but steady. inside, he was a storm, a tempest, a chaos of fear and hope and the terrible, gnawing certainty that this time, like all the times before, would end in tears.

the door opened from the inside, and you were standing there, and your face was a ruin.

your eyes were red and swollen, your cheeks blotchy, your lips trembling, and in your hand, hanging limply at your side, was the test. you didn't need to show it to him. he could see it in the way you held yourself, in the way your shoulders curved inward, in the way you looked at him like you were waiting for a verdict, like you had already been convicted and were just waiting for the sentence to be read.

"choso," you said, and his name was a wound, an open, bleeding thing. "choso, i'm sorry. i'm so sorry."

he reached out and took the test from your hand, not because he needed to see it, but because he needed to do something, anything, to bridge the distance between you. he looked at the little window, at the single line, at the absence that had become the shape of his life, and he felt something crack inside him, something deep and fundamental, like a fault line in the earth, like the moment before an earthquake.

but he did not let it show.

he set the test down on the counter, carefully, precisely, the way he did everything, and then he turned back to you and opened his arms, and you fell into them, your face pressed against his chest, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and you cried. not the quiet, dignified tears of a woman who had accepted her fate, but the ugly, wrenching sobs of someone who had been holding back a flood for far too long, who had run out of walls and dams and all the other things people build to keep the water out.

choso held you, and he did not speak, because he did not know what to say. he had never known what to say. words had always been difficult for him, slippery and unreliable, like trying to hold smoke in his hands. he had been told, once, a long time ago, that he was on the spectrum, that his brain worked differently, that the things that came easily to other people—small talk, social cues, the delicate dance of human emotion—were foreign languages to him. but he had learned, slowly, painfully, how to mimic, how to approximate, how to say the right things at the right times even when he didn't feel them.

but this. this was different. this was not a script he had memorized. this was not a situation he had practiced for. this was raw and real and bleeding, and he had no idea what to do except hold you and hope that his arms could say what his mouth could not.

"i can't do this anymore," you said, your voice muffled against his chest, and the words were so small, so broken, so unlike the woman he had married, the woman who laughed too loud and loved too hard and left her hair in the drain and her shoes in the hallway and her heart on her sleeve for anyone to see. "i can't keep doing this. i can't keep hoping and hoping and hoping and then… then this. every month. every single month. it's like being told i'm not enough over and over again, and i don't know how much more i can take, choso. i don't know how much more i have left."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands on your shoulders, his dark eyes searching your face with an intensity that would have been frightening if it weren't so gentle.

"you are enough," he said, and his voice was low and rough, scraped raw by the sight of your pain. "you are more than enough. you are everything. you are—"

"don't," you said, shaking your head, tears flying from your lashes. "don't say that. don't tell me i'm enough when i can't even do this one thing. when i can't give you what you want. when i'm failing you, month after month, year after year, and you just sit there and take it and never complain and never get angry and never—" your voice broke, splintered into a thousand pieces. "why don't you get angry, choso? why don't you yell at me? why don't you tell me that you're disappointed? why do you just… hold me? why are you so good to me when i don't deserve it?"

his hands moved from your shoulders to your face, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away your tears with a tenderness that made your chest ache. his hands were large, warm, the hands of a man who had spent his life learning to be careful, learning to be gentle, learning that the world was full of sharp edges and he did not want to be one of them.

"because i love you," he said, simply, as if that explained everything, as if those three words were the answer to every question, the solution to every problem, the key to every lock. "i love you, and love does not get angry about things that cannot be helped. love does not yell at someone for hurting. love does not demand that someone be more than they are."

"but you wanted—" you started, and he shook his head.

"i want you," he said. "i have always wanted you. i wanted you when you were crying at that documentary about the polar bears. i wanted you when you burned dinner and set off the smoke alarm and then laughed so hard you couldn't breathe. i wanted you when you woke me up at three in the morning because you had a nightmare and you needed me to hold you until the sun came up. i wanted you then, and i want you now, and i will want you tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, whether we have a baby or not."

you stared at him, and the tears kept coming, but something in your expression shifted, something that looked almost like disbelief, like you couldn't quite comprehend that he meant what he was saying.

"but you said—" you tried again, and he sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, and he let his hands drop from your face and took your hands instead, holding them in his, his fingers laced through yours.

"i know what i said," he said. "i said i wanted a baby. i said i wanted to see you hold our child. i said i wanted to teach them how to read and watch them fall asleep on your chest and feel like the luckiest man in the world. and i meant it. i meant every word. but i also meant it when i said that i wanted you. that i chose you. that you are the most important person in my life, and nothing, not even this, will ever change that."

you shook your head, and a fresh wave of tears spilled down your cheeks. "but it's not fair. it's not fair to you. you deserve someone who can give you what you want. you deserve someone who isn't broken."

his jaw tightened, and for a moment, just a moment, you saw a flash of something in his eyes, something that might have been anger or might have been pain or might have been something else entirely, something he had never shown you before.

"don't," he said, and his voice was sharper now, not cruel but firm, like a man drawing a line in the sand. "don't say that word. don't call yourself broken. you are not broken. you are a woman who is trying to do something that is difficult, something that is uncertain, something that is not guaranteed to anyone. and the fact that it hasn't happened yet does not mean that you are broken. it means that we are unlucky. it means that the universe is random and cruel and indifferent. but it does not mean that you are less. it does not mean that you are not enough. it does not mean that i love you any less."

you opened your mouth to argue, but he stepped closer, his hands tightening on yours, and he looked at you with those dark, earnest eyes, the eyes that had seen you at your worst and had never, not once, looked away.

"i need you to understand something," he said, and his voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, but there was a weight to it, a gravity that made you stop and listen. "i have spent my whole life feeling like i didn't belong. like i was different. like everyone else had received a manual for how to be human, and my copy had been lost in the mail. i didn't know how to make friends. i didn't know how to talk to people. i didn't know how to laugh at the right times or cry at the right times or feel the right things at the right times. i was alone, and i thought i would always be alone, and i had made peace with that. or i had tried to."

he released one of your hands and reached up to touch your face, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the soft skin beneath your eye.

"and then i met you," he said. "and you didn't care that i was strange. you didn't care that i didn't know how to flirt or tell jokes or read between the lines. you just… saw me. you saw me, and you stayed. and for the first time in my life, i felt like maybe i wasn't broken either. maybe i was just… different. and different was okay. different was even good, because different meant that i got to be with you, and you were the best thing that had ever happened to me."

you sobbed, and he pulled you into his chest again, his arms wrapping around you, and you felt his heart beating against your cheek, steady and strong, and you realized that he was crying too, that his shoulders were shaking, that his breath was coming in short, uneven gasps.

"i can't lose you," he said, his voice muffled against your hair. "i can't lose you to this. to the tests and the appointments and the way you look at yourself like you're nothing. you are not nothing. you are my everything. you are the reason i get up in the morning. you are the reason i try, even when trying is hard. you are the reason i believe that there is good in the world, that there is love, that there is something worth living for. and if you disappear into this, if you let this break you, i don't know what i will do. i don't know who i will be."

you pulled back and looked at him, and his face was wet, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes red and swollen, and he looked so young, so vulnerable, so unlike the composed, careful man you had married.

"i'm scared," you said, and your voice was small, so small, like a child's voice. "i'm scared that it's never going to happen. i'm scared that we're going to keep trying and trying and trying and i'm going to keep failing and failing and failing and one day you're going to wake up and realize that you wasted your best years on me. i'm scared that you're going to resent me. i'm scared that i'm going to resent myself. i'm scared that i'm going to become someone you don't recognize, someone bitter and sad and angry, and you're going to leave because you can't stand to be around me anymore."

he shook his head, and his hands came up to cup your face again, holding you so gently, so carefully, like you were made of glass.

"i am not going to leave," he said. "i am not going to resent you. i am not going to wake up one day and decide that you are not worth the effort. because you are worth everything. you are worth every test, every tear, every sleepless night. you are worth every negative result, every broken hope, every moment of doubt. and if we never have a baby, then we never have a baby, and we will find a way to be happy anyway. we will travel, or we will adopt, or we will get a dog, or we will just be the two strangest, most in love, most ridiculously wealthy childless people in the world. but we will be that together. you and me. forever."

you stared at him, and the tears kept coming, but there was something else in your chest now, something that felt almost like warmth, almost like hope, almost like the first light of dawn after a long, dark night.

"forever?" you whispered, and he nodded, his forehead pressing against yours.

"forever," he said. "and ever. and ever. and ever. until the sun burns out and the stars fall from the sky and the universe collapses in on itself. and maybe even after that. i'm not picky."

you laughed, a wet, broken sound, and he smiled, a small, tentative smile, the kind of smile that he reserved only for you, the kind of smile that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

"come on," he said, and he took your hand and led you out of the bathroom, past the test on the counter, past the mirror that reflected your swollen face and red eyes, into the bedroom where the sheets were rumpled and the radiator was hissing and the world outside was still spinning, indifferent and uncaring.

he pulled back the duvet and guided you into the bed, and then he climbed in beside you, and he pulled you against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you so tightly that you could feel every breath he took, every beat of his heart, every tremor that ran through his body.

"i love you," he said, and his voice was soft, almost sleepy, but there was a certainty to it, a finality, like he was stating a fact that could never be disputed. "i love you, and i am not going anywhere. and i need you to believe me. even if you can't believe it right now. even if it takes a long time. i need you to try."

you nodded against his chest, and you felt his lips press against the top of your head, warm and soft, and you closed your eyes and let yourself be held, let yourself be loved, let yourself believe, just for tonight, that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

outside, the wind was picking up, rattling the windows, and the city was cold and dark and full of strangers, but in here, in this room, with this man, there was only warmth, and light, and the quiet, steady promise of tomorrow.

and for now, that was enough.

It's a cruel thing, seeing everyone else's destiny but being blind to your own. He doesn't even know if he has a soulmate at all. As a teen, he convinced himself it was a test—maybe he just needed to work harder to find his soulmate. He spent far too much time researching old mythology about destiny and fated lovers.

Growing into young adulthood, he spent even more time watching people, searching for someone else who might be missing their own thread. With Caleb's good looks and charming personality, he's always been spoiled for choice when it comes to a potential partner. Many people throw themselves at him, not realizing their threads tug them back toward someone else entirely.

It's not like he needs to reject his admirers. He knows he could just be another passing tangle or knot in someone's connection with a true soulmate. But that doesn't appeal to him. He wants to feel that undeniable pull, that intimate connection that comes with finding the person who was made for him. So he continues waiting—and watching for patterns he can study.

He soon learns how to guess people's whole life stories just from the way their threads are woven. It becomes second nature to figure out someone is having an affair or if they've lost a loved one or are desperately trying to escape fate altogether.

When he bumps into you at a café, he initially thinks nothing of it. He plasters on his usual suave smile while reaching down to grab your fallen bag. And when he hands it back to you, he freezes in place.

Caleb has never believed in sparks flying or love at first sight. Especially not when he's witnessed firsthand how every connection is planned by some higher power. But when he sees your face—your apologetic smile and the way you look at him with genuine kindness—he thinks fate becomes inconsequential.

His eyes land on the red thread tied around your left wrist like a shackle, and his heart drops. For a fleeting moment, he hoped you'd have no thread like him. He almost turns away, until he notices the wrongness of it.

Your thread is…ugly. A weak, dull color as it yanks at your wrist like an incessant child, trying to tug you toward something you don't seem to have any interest in.

The moment you turn your back on Caleb to resume your order, his eyes never leave you. You become an obsession—half because of that immediate flicker of something he felt when he saw you, and the other half because he has to find out why fate feels different around you.

His feet carry him mindlessly behind you when you leave the café. Careful not to arouse suspicion, he follows you all the way to your apartment. And imagine his surprise when he realizes you live right down the hall from his own apartment.

Caleb doesn't believe in coincidence. So he takes it upon himself to learn even more about you.

Clearly, the universe is sending him a sign. Maybe it messed up when writing your destiny. Maybe some cosmic being needs his help in fixing the mistake. Either way, he's the only one who can correct that dreadful thing holding you back from having a true soulmate. He's the only one who could be your soulmate.

He watches you for weeks, taking his time to collect as much information about you as he can before he makes his next move. People, normal people, are hilariously predictable. Not only are they beholden to fate, but they also desperately cling to routine. Just another pattern that Caleb picks up on with far too much ease.

It barely takes him a month to have your entire schedule mapped out and memorized. Even on the rare occasion when you do something spontaneous, he's able to intuit where you might go, who you might be with, and what time you'll decide to head back home.

He takes advantage of one of the moments you're not home, picking the lock on your front door with ease. Knowing exactly how much time he has before you return, he's planned the perfect opportunity to plant hidden cameras in each of the rooms of your apartment.

He's so well-prepared that he even has a few extra minutes afterward to go through your most precious belongings. It's hard not to steal a caress of your soft bed, rifle through the diary hidden underneath it, or gingerly smell one of your hoodies hanging on the couch.

If you were here now, you would freak out. Caleb's not insane enough not to know that. But he also believes if you gave him a chance to explain—you're meant to be with him, duh—maybe you wouldn't be too mad. That's why he does something completely unplanned and leaves with your hoodie after double-checking that all the cameras work.

Luckily, you don't notice the missing item or the added tiny red dots peeking out from strategically placed spots. One of the things Caleb loves about you is how sweet and trusting you are. It's something anyone else could easily take advantage of, though. And he doesn't like the thought of that.

Being a guardian angel isn't enough for him. Watching from afar won't mean much if someone gets too close to you when he's unprepared or turns his back for a moment. He needs to make sure no one else slides into your life. Especially if that someone could be whoever is on the other end of that counterfeit bond wrapped too tightly around your wrist.

So Caleb manufactures more accidental meetings with you. You're neighbors, after all. When you take out your trash, Caleb times his exit perfectly, turning a corner just fast enough to bump into you. His charming apology makes you a bit flustered, and he thinks you're even cuter when you're within arm's reach.

The second meeting happens at a bookstore three blocks down. The one you frequent every Saturday around lunchtime to read a new book while snacking on something salty. He’s already browsing the shelves when you walk in, glancing at you with feigned surprise when you notice your neighbor likes one of the books you read last week.

After that, it becomes easier. He embeds himself into your routine until he's impossible to ignore.

First, he's a simple stranger who you notice every once in a while. Then, an acquaintance who happens—coincidentally—to love the same cafés, the same obscure novels, the same quiet walking paths you prefer at dusk. He laughs at the right moments. Listens when you speak. Remembers little details you share that you think anyone else wouldn't bother paying attention to.

Finally, he becomes a friend. A staple in your daily routine. A shoulder you cry on when days are hard and you need someone to rely on.

In those moments, Caleb wants nothing more than to confess his feelings for you. Everything is going so well, and he can sense that you'd reciprocate his confession.

With every cozy hangout, conversation that stretches past midnight, and shared meal where your knees brush his under the table, Caleb watches the subtle shift in your body language. The way you lean closer and your voice softens. You're falling for him.

But that grotesque thing around your wrist begins to thrash in protest whenever he gets too close. His teeth grit every time he sees its blatant disapproval.

Why is the universe resisting him now? You are his other half. He's never been so sure of anything else in his life. Is this the real test he mistakenly thought he'd been put through as a child?

At night, he lies awake and dissects every possible next step. No matter the scenario, he arrives at the same conclusion. There is only ever one outcome with fate.

He's seen it before in past observations: no matter how much fate veers off course, it always finds a way to correct itself. But perhaps that's only because no one with Caleb's gift has ever tried to intervene.

People believe fate does not bend for desire, or that it doesn't reward patience and effort. They believe it simply is. But when you grow up seeing its physical manifestation and the way people fight against it, it's hard not to come to the conclusion that even something preordained can be manipulated by someone strong enough.

If Caleb's been given such a gift…then it would be a shame not to use it.

He'll make sure there is no possible way the universe could pull you into someone else's orbit. Which means he needs to find the parasite at the other end of your tether. He needs to measure their worth. Even though deep down, he already knows what answer lies at the end of his calculations.

And he's proven right when he finally does find your dead weight. Your so-called soulmate doesn't seem to treasure true love or fate at all. Even worse, the man doesn't even add up to a quarter of the exceptional person you are.

Your destined counterpart spends his days slouched at a bar that smells like stale beer and desperation. Caleb watches from across the street first. Then from inside. Then a day later, from a camera discreetly installed in the man's messy home.

He scowls as he watches your fated half drown in cheap booze and women that barely stay the night before being kicked out onto the street like trash. One could barely call this a routine when it's more like a never-ending rut for a loser who thinks he's the shit when he actually just smells like it.

This is what pulls at your wrist every night? This is what dares to fight when Caleb leans into you with a look full of yearning?

The knowledge taunts him for three days. That's all it takes before he ponders something brand new about the universe while watching a belligerent idiot snore facedown on a stained mattress.

Can fate defend itself?

Caleb makes sure what he's about to do will look like a freak accident. It's just something that happens to a drunkard who no one will miss anyway.

It turns out it's easy to sever the very thread of fate that he always admired as a kid. In fact, he's a little disappointed by the lack of ceremony. There's no bolt of lightning striking him down, no divine intervention or a voice booming from above in anger of what Caleb has taken into his own hands.

Fate is weak and pathetic as it tries to resist its new order from a power more determined than a fickle thing like the universe. It bleeds and whimpers before the last rush of air leaves its lungs.

Caleb stares down at the broken thread, now unattached from the man you were never meant to meet.

It feels like a stupid thought now, but he knows he has to attach it to himself. He doesn't believe in its power anymore, but you might. You might feel its loss if it decays, the same way he's seen remnants of other people's bonds that ended when their lovers passed away too soon. Besides, he wants there to be no question that there is an unshakeable bond between you two—even if you can't see it for yourself.

Caleb works quickly, tying a knot around his left wrist a bit too tightly, like he's scared it might come undone if he isn't meticulous enough. Some strange bit of life still left in the thread resists him at first, stubbornly recoiling from the wrongness of what just transpired. But familiarity is a powerful thing. He has already watched you, memorized you, and diligently shaped his life around the edges of yours. He makes fate recognize effort now.

It stings for a few minutes, feeling like forcing a shape into the wrong space. Fortunately, his lack of a thread becomes an advantage. There is nothing to conflict, nothing to reject the intrusion other than your own thread trying to hold onto something irrelevant.

And after a few heart-pounding moments, the knot finally holds—and your thread stills. Caleb exhales for the first time in minutes. He leaves the unmoving body on the dirty mattress, smiling when he thinks of the next time he'll see you with a strengthened bond.

Your neighbor—and new best friend—is the sweetest man you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. You never thought you'd find someone like him in this day and age. A true gentleman, he makes you feel seen in a way that feels inevitable. Like he was always waiting for you to run into him on a busy day at your favorite café.

Lately, you've been unable to stop yourself from flirting with danger. And it really is a dangerous thing to fall in love with a neighbor. If things don't work out, then you'll have to bump into an ex every day just to go in and out of your apartment.

But if the only dangerous thing about wanting a man like Caleb is the possibility of a constant heartache, then you'll take your chances. Besides, your chest already tightens painfully every time he smiles at you. Your heart really does skip a beat when he laughs at your jokes, or hugs you when you're sad, or when his hands wander just a bit while he cuddles up beside you on your couch.

Caleb is different than any men you've ever met. He's better. Maybe he's the best you might ever get. And you're not going to let someone else snatch him up.

That's precisely why you've already put so much faith in him. Someone as gentle as Caleb could never hurt a fly, so you happily gave him a key to your apartment for emergencies. You let him come over even when you're looking like a mess after tiring days at work. You even fall asleep on him sometimes, so trusting that he would always protect you even in your most vulnerable states.

His easygoing charm and innocent puppy-like eyes make your heart beat only for him. But you're also a bit annoyed; no matter how much his touch might wander at times, he always holds himself back.

You've tried baiting him with shorts that "accidentally" ride up a bit between your thighs when you bend down in front of him. You've even let your hands trail his chest and abs while watching movies beside him.

It takes all your willpower not to jump him right then and there the moment your fingertips trace the quivering lines of his lower stomach. His breathing always turns heavier with cute little gasps of air when you touch him. But still, he doesn't take things further.

It's for this reason that you decide to take a leap of faith and ask him on a date. You're not usually this bold with your crushes, but something about Caleb makes you want to be brave. When the two of you meet up at your usual café for lunch, you take advantage of a quiet moment.

"Caleb?" you say, trying to keep your voice steady as he looks up at you over the rim of his coffee mug.

He sets the cup down, giving you his full attention like he always does. You stammer for a second, and he smirks, as if he can guess what you're about to say. That cockiness is what makes you turn a nervous question into a headstrong declaration.

"I want to go out on a date with you."

Immediately, you feel a bit stupid for the phrasing and the way you looked at him like he had no say in the matter. But Caleb—always the type to play along with your every whim—smiles, his dimples making you swoon a bit. You notice a flicker of something strange in his expression, but it's too fast to put to words.

"You do?" he asks with a chuckle, far too calm when you're over here sweating buckets and waiting for a proper response. "Well, I could never say no to you."

The warmth that spreads through you is immediate and dizzying. You laugh in relief, feeling ridiculous for ever doubting yourself or his feelings for you. Caleb wipes away any residual doubt the second he gets up from his chair and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.

He promises to plan everything for your date, even though you were the one who asked him out. The next weekend, he meets you at your apartment promptly on time, with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a small box of treats from that dessert place you love visiting.

Everything is perfect and effortless. Even more so than how it usually feels being by his side. He picks a restaurant you mentioned wanting to try weeks ago—one you hadn't expected him to remember. He holds doors open for you, rests his hand lightly at your back while leading you to the table, and looks at you like you're the only person in the room.

As always, conversation with Caleb flows easily. Since you've known him, he's always been able to guess what's on your mind, what might be bothering you or making you nervous. It's uncanny just how much he can stay in sync with you, as easily as breathing.

But this time, there's something just a bit different about your dynamic. Something charged with a heightened tension.

When your fingers reach across the table to brush against his hand, he doesn't pull away or avoid eye contact. He looks at you like what you've just done has sealed something he's been waiting to finalize for a long time.

It should scare you, that dark look in his eyes. Because for a second, he looks a bit unrecognizable. But all you feel is a sensation like something clicking into place.

You intertwine your fingers with his and ask, "Do you believe in soulmates?"

For the first time since you've met him, Caleb looks surprised. Nothing ever catches him off guard. Yet somehow, this simple question does the trick.

Wondering if maybe your question was a bit embarrassing, you backtrack. "I know it sounds silly. But—"

"Yes," he interrupts with a whisper. "I mean…I'm not sure if I did before meetin' you." His thumb rubs your knuckles back and forth as he holds your hand just a bit tighter. "But now I know."

If it was anyone else, you might have been amused by how cheesy his words are. But when Caleb is the one saying them—so earnestly, too—all you feel is a rush of heat through your body.

The rest of the date happens in a bit of a blur. Both of you can't seem to keep your hands off each other, even opting to skip dessert if it means getting back home quicker.

You really aren't the type to invite a first date inside your home, no matter how well the night goes. This time it's different because it's Caleb, the man you've already shared so much with. He's been inside your home before. He's seen you in every way but one. And you're desperate to show him that missing piece now.

As soon as you unlock your door, you push him inside, all pretense forgotten the moment your shoes and coats come off. You crash into him, feverish kisses stealing his breath away as he chuckles between them. You don't care how eager you seem, you just want his lips on yours.

Using his tie as a leash, you tug him backwards with you, blindly stumbling to your bedroom. But even when you think you might bump into a wall, Caleb redirects you with his eyes closed, like he's memorized the route you need to take without so much as parting from your lips. If you weren't getting drunk off his kisses, maybe alarm bells would ring in your mind—you've never taken him to your bedroom before now.

Nothing matters anyway. Nothing except getting him out of these stupid clothes and showing him just how much you've wanted him all night. When Caleb gently pulls you down onto your bed, you move with more roughness, your frenzied kisses pausing so you can shove him to sit back against the headboard and straddle his lap.

His eyes sparkle with mirth, but he lets you manhandle him. The realization makes your stomach flutter. Testing the waters further, you use his shoulders as leverage before grinding down on him. Caleb's hands fly to your hips with a gasp, but he doesn't control your movements. He just lets you rock at your own pace, basking in the weight of your core rubbing against his clothed erection.

His compliance encourages you, making you needy for leaving more kisses along his Adam's apple and neck. He moans for you while his hips buck instinctively beneath yours, and it makes another flood of arousal pool between your thighs.

"Mm, is this okay?" you mumble against his skin while grinding with more pressure, desperately chasing friction.

His fingers tighten on your waist, but he still doesn't stop you. "Y-you can use me however you want, baby," he replies through another breathy moan. "I'm yours. All yours."

How did you get so lucky, you wonder before biting down on his neck. You make sure to suck a mark worthy of being on someone who gives himself to you so eagerly. It's the least you can do for how sweetly he whimpers and claws at your hips while you hump him until you're nearly coming on his lap.

In the midst of your greed, you've undone his tie and ripped a few of the buttons on his shirt, making room for more licks and bites. When you lean back to look at your handiwork, both of you are panting, not nearly satisfied yet but needing a moment to catch your breath. And your sweet friend, no, boyfriend now, looks at you like he's ready to worship you.

He slides one hand up your body, taking his time to feel every curve until his fingers gently wrap around your left wrist. He holds his breath and glances at you with hesitation, like touching your arm is a sin.

It's cute how even after your frenzied touches and kisses, he acts like he still needs permission to reciprocate them. You nod, and then he carefully lifts your hand to his trembling lips before kissing the inside of your wrist.

The gesture seems deeper than you can understand, especially with the way he keeps glancing at you as if you know its hidden meaning. But you're lost for words, only feeling that aching throb between your legs and needing him to soothe it. He notices your confused expression but presses another kiss to your hammering pulse before smiling up at you.

"Let me take care of you now," he says, tugging you by the wrist to reposition you beneath him.

It's your turn to be maneuvered, and you let him. He kisses down your body, fingers still tickling that wrist he seems fixated on before he pins it to the mattress.

The two of you pull at each other's disheveled clothes until you're both bare. Until the tip of his cock nudges against your lower belly as Caleb continues showering you in love. But before you can feel it inside you, he seems to have other plans.

His kisses travel across your chest, against stiffened nipples, along the softness of your tummy, then finally between your thighs. When he pushes your legs apart, you shudder, feeling the cool air kiss your soaked folds a second before his warm breath does. Then he drags the flat of his tongue in one long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

The sound you make is obscene. Your hips jerk up before you can stop them, accidentally shoving your cunt harder against his mouth. But Caleb's only response is a needy moan, like he’s the one being pleasured, the vibration humming straight through your core.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your swollen clit as he speaks. “Let me hear you, baby. You're mine now—those sounds are mine.”

You barely have time to let the certainty of his words sink into your fluttering stomach before he dives in like a man starved. No teasing anymore. Just hungry, wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy.

It's like he knows exactly what pace to set and how much pressure his tongue should apply to make you wail for him. Could it be possible this man was sent from Heaven to satisfy all your cravings? You swear you might become religious after this.

His tongue nudges against your clit before his lips suction around it, and your back arches off the bed while you moan for him. One hand flies to his hair while your other fists the sheets, and still he doesn’t let up. If anything, the way you yank his hair only makes him moan louder against you.

There's a faint rustle of movement, and you glance down to see Caleb gently rocking against your mattress, so lost in the taste of you that he needs to hump your bed.

"Oh my god, I think I'm gonna come," you cry, feeling overwhelmed by how quickly he's able to pull this much pleasure from you. You fuck his face with more fervor now, shamelessly bucking your hips and pulling on his hair with a tightness you'll only regret after you come down from this high. "Caleb, please…need your fingers. Wanna come around them," you whine with each buck.

You peek down at him, and he's watching you with dark eyes, a scary determination in them while his hand snakes in between your legs. His fingers slide inside you with ease, curling in a rhythm that matches how he laps up your slick.

The soft smacks of his lips against your skin and the squelch of your wet pussy fill the room, mingled with your growing screams. And then you gush around his thick digits—coating his lips, chin, and palm with your orgasm. Caleb takes it all with a look of reverence on his flushed face, licking every drop you give him and gasping for air when he finally parts from your twitching body.

When he slides up your body to look at you with a satisfied grin, your pussy clenches again at the sight of his glistening mouth and pupils blown wide. He looks dazed, proud. His cock slides against your still-twitching pussy, smearing precum against the mess you already have between your legs—but he doesn’t rush you. Instead he kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Please,” you whisper against his lips when he pulls back just enough to breathe. “More, I need more. Need you inside me.”

He exhales a shaky laugh that turns into a groan when you wrap your legs around his waist. “Yeah…yeah, baby. I’ve got you, don't worry.”

Reaching down, he nestles the head of his cock between your folds and then finally pushes in. It's slow, so fucking slow, but you revel in the jolt of pleasure that shoots down your body as he stretches you out cautiously. He's bigger than any man you've had before, but every thick inch slides inside easily, filling you all the way until his hips are flush with yours.

Caleb curses beneath his breath, head falling to rest against yours while he pants and gasps at the feeling of you wrapped so tight around him. His eyes meet yours, locked and unable to tear away when he starts to move.

You both groan from the feeling, gripping each other tighter and starting to build up a faster rhythm. It's easy to get lost in this feeling, and you lose track of what you mumble and chant while Caleb picks up the pace. But while you struggle to keep your eyes on him, he can't stop staring.

He also can't keep his hands off you while fucking you nice and deep. His fingers toy with your nipples, rolling and pinching them to get more sounds out of you. And then they caress your stomach, pushing down slightly right above your mound to elevate the feeling of how he fills you up. You stutter and shake, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a breathless kiss.

His lips find yours again and again between thrusts, sharing his breath with you before he whispers, "Fuck, I love you."

That sentence sends your thoughts to a screeching halt, but your pussy clenches even harder around him. You should be appalled that he's saying such a thing so soon. You should reconsider this whole relationship and how quickly you've allowed it to escalate.

You should, but you don't want to. In fact, you think you love him too.

Feeling your second orgasm barreling toward you too fast, you crash your lips against his again, nails digging into his shoulders and leaving little red crescents.

“Hm, I…love you too,” you babble, after breaking the kiss. Your brain practically short-circuits with how close you are to coming. You can't stop the words spilling out of your mouth. “Love you so much. Don’t stop, oh, don’t stop—”

The second those words leave your lips, a switch seems to flip in Caleb's brain. His whole body locks up for one heartbeat, buried deep inside you, cock throbbing hard enough that you feel it pulse against your walls. Then he exhales a ragged sound against your mouth, and the slower, careful rhythm he’d been holding onto shatters. His hips snap harder, punching the air from your lungs and making your eyes roll back.

“You can't take that back now,” he growls, his voice alarmingly different from the sweet, hesitant Caleb who kissed your wrist like it was sacred.

He’s moving faster, rougher, but still so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into you permanently. Your foreheads stay pressed together, making it impossible to look away from the wild, glassy look in his eyes.

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he groans, like it's a fact and not a hypothetical. “I'll put a ring on this finger"—he snatches the same hand he’s been obsessed with all night and brings it to his lips to kiss the bare spot where a ring would sit—“and make sure everyone knows you belong to me.”

This is so wrong, god this is so wrong. Everything is moving so fast. You shouldn't like this. You can't tell if this is just dirty talk or something more serious, but that look in Caleb's eyes is a little terrifying.

And yet? Your cunt flutters hard around him at the words, more of your arousal gushing down and soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Oh, fuuuck, that's it," he says with a manic laugh, folding your legs higher until your knees are pressed up against your sweaty chest. "I can feel how much you like this, baby. It's okay if you do," he coos. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hear you moan like this. You’re mine—only ever gonna be mine. Say it again for me, sweetheart." His voice cracks, and it's the only thing making you refocus on his words while your ears ring from the pleasure. "Say you love me while I fill you with my cum.”

You’re beyond proper speech now, just broken whimpers and gasps, but you manage to choke out, “Love you—I love you, Caleb.”

He slams in one last time, hips grinding flush against yours, cock pulsing as he comes with a choked sob that makes your toes curl. Your pussy spasms and clamps around him, milking him dry as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

Turns out you're just as crazy in love as he is. And you don't have it in you to be ashamed right now.

Caleb's counting his lucky stars that he spent all those nights watching you touch yourself through the flickering camera feeds he set up. It's what helped him learn all the ways you like to be caressed, the speed you prefer when you have a silicone cock deep inside you, and the fantasies you'd whisper to yourself when you imagined someone above you.

You won't need fantasy anymore, though. He knows everything about you. That's why he's able to make you cream on his cock over and over again, while his hips move at a speed even he didn't know he was capable of.

The gravity of this moment—of finally claiming the person he's going to keep for the rest of his life—is heady. It makes Caleb insatiable and greedy for more. More of your addicting sounds, more of your shaking orgasms, more of his cum spilling deep inside you.

More, more, more. Caleb can't stop chanting it each time you melt and rake your nails against his back and allow him to take everything from you.

You're so pretty, so perfect, all his. It goes straight to his head, and his cock, when you beg for all that he's giving you even when your body is so weak that it can't hold itself up.

You like being pushed to your limit, it seems. Right when you become too exhausted to keep your eyes open, you sleepily tell him he can keep going if he wants to. He can't help but come inside you again just from hearing your whispered permission to use you while you fall asleep.

The fact that you trust him so readily…god, he knew you were made for him. He doesn't keep you awake too long, even though his cock already throbs insistently for more of your warmth after he pulls out with a groan.

Caleb is no stranger to patience. He's glad he waited to find you. Because now he'll never let you go—and there will be many more days to spend reminding you of that if you ever forget.

No matter what happens now, you're bound to him forever. Fate made sure of it.

a/n: thank you all for the 2k celebration votes 💕 I hope I made good on our wish for more scaryleb teehee

and none of this would be possible without my ride or die @heartyluv, who constantly inspires me with her takes on scaryleb and toxic!caleb. everyone say a big thank you to her bc she let me yap about this fic to her and she beta read it for meeee, ilysm Jay 😘

Want to be added to my tag list?

💕 tag list: @/heartyluv @doeeyes515 @lethalasylum @starryeyed-apple @craeatio @rafayelslittlestar @ruralamours @alyssac9 @alastor-simp @nezuswritingdesk @yoonights @ashirelle @jamfingers @decadentwastelandpoetry @yrdarlingpup @asiaticapple @spidermanlaalalalala @partycityyyyyyy @raendarkfaerie @sweetcalebb @mikenotmic @jenvhae @kaeyasfuturewife @purpleamethyst25 @grapeees16 @pepitesingulare @opalesquegirl @bitewiththis @crimsonsylus @brekkersgf @lamogliedizayne @gegesbabysister @wooasecret @dreamerofthewest @2004crows @amentallyillchild @sophcymone @mia-heartnet @sylvieisoffline @speedycoffeedelight @sunnybunnyxix @heartofafiend @luvleixo @themysticalbeing @angelicspaceprince @glitterykingdomangel @nickibunny23 @sarcastic-wit @enayvlis @shinxielan @kingraspberry12-blog @halfawakeblobbu @mylifedoesntexist

🍎 tag list: @walleeli @honeymoonfleur @stargirlygirl @floatinginaer @k-lq20 @potatughpudding @gravity-pilot @honeycrispangels @mcdepressed290 @cloudedangels @hdigditditdjgd @yansolivan @variadims @akaashisrightbicep125 @kiyadeleine @angeleclair @syncaleb @xiaprint @thesevro @aoinili @kkelsyyy @ghosts-hoe @ccalebb @zurechi63971 @seppys-return-to-madness @iamluminosity @laqueariaa

celebration tag list: @paintedperidot @pjselee

there's lowkey very little, but dw i will keep adding more :3 all of these aren't mine!!

ALSO, some of these will be on ao3 !!

misc.

jjk men

todoroki men x reader (ao3)

brother!natsuo (ao3)

dad!enji and brother!natsuo (ao3)

toji

birthday gift from deatbeat dad (ao3) (fav lowkey)

he thinks he’s funny

grimy stepdad

stepdad!toji drabble

his daughter!housewife

nanami kento

daddy's girl (stepdad)

he’s sweet (stepdad)

sukuna

dad!sukuna

uncle!sukuna

enji (endeavor)

diet mountain dew

lowkey not incest (ft. his sons)

doting daughter

small story on ao3 (mix of the whole family)

brother!natsuo

aizawa

riding dad's thigh (lowkey one of my favs)

erwin smith

no more boys

megumi

hide n fuck

gojo satoru

loser brother (i reposted it yes, but it is the works of sukunasuka who is currently deactivated rn)

younger stepbro & more

choso

very sweet

stepbrother

help me, stepbro !

big brother cho

iida brothers

stepbrothers

that had been three months ago. now, you found yourself looking forward to your tuesday and thursday afternoons with an intensity that bordered on concerning. not because you'd developed some crush on the six-foot-something jujutsu sorcerer with impossible ivory hair and an even more impossible smile. no, it was something else. something in the way he carried his strength like a casual coat, the way he made death seem like a minor inconvenience.

you adjusted the small bouquet of wildflowers you'd brought—something you'd started doing a few weeks ago, when you'd noticed the stark white vase in his room remained perpetually empty. the nurses had told you he rarely received visitors.

"delivery for the world's strongest sorcerer," you announced, pushing open the door to room 307.

gojo was sitting up in his bed, blindfolded as always, but today he had a pair of sleek black headphones perched over his ears. he tapped a finger against his wrist, indicating you should wait. you did, watching the subtle movement of his fingers as he apparently navigated whatever playlist he had going.

when he finally pulled off the headphones, a smile spread across his face that temporarily blinded you in more ways than one. "ah, my favorite volunteer! come to analyze me again?"

"something like that," you said, placing the flowers in the vase. "thought these might brighten the place up. hospital decor leaves something to be desired."

he leaned forward, sniffing appreciatively at the wildflowers. "nature's rebellion against institutional sterility. i approve." he paused, then added, "though i have to say, the flowers are nice, but your company is the real highlight of my week. don't tell the nurses i said that—they'll start charging admission."

you rolled your eyes, but couldn't suppress a smile. "flattery will get you nowhere, gojo. especially when you're supposed to be resting."

"rest is for the weak," he declared, though he made no move to get out of bed. "and boring. absolutely, mind-numbingly boring. you know, i think they're trying to kill me with monotony."

"or maybe they're trying to save your life," you countered, taking your usual seat by the window. "the doctors said you need to take it easy after that last mission."

he waved a dismissive hand. "pfft. 'last mission."it was a couple of curses—lower grades, at that. barely broke a sweat. though..." he paused, rubbing his temples with two fingers. "there might have been some minor exertion."

you studied him more closely. his usually impeccable posture seemed slightly slumped, and there were faint lines of tension around his eyes that the blindfold couldn't completely hide.

"minor exertion that gave you a migraine so bad you needed intravenous medication?" you asked, keeping your tone light but watching his reaction carefully.

gojo chuckled, but it sounded slightly strained. "it's nothing. the six eyes work overtime, that's all. processing all that cursed energy—it's like running a supercomputer at maximum capacity without any cooling. things get a little... overheated."

he said it so casually, as if discussing the weather rather than what sounded like a neurological crisis. you'd been volunteering long enough to recognize when someone was downplaying their symptoms. the other sorcerers who came through here did it all the time—pride, stubbornness, or some combination of both.

"have you talked to dr. shoko about it?" you asked.

"ieri worries too much," gojo said, shifting position wince slightly. "it's just a headache. happens to the best of us."

you didn't push, not yet. you'd learned that with gojo, subtlety was your best approach. direct questions about his health were deflected with jokes or changed subjects. but you made a mental note to mention it to shoko later—she was his regular doctor and had been more forthcoming about his condition than any of the doctors.

"soooo," you said, changing the subject. "what's on the agenda today? more 'rest,' or are we breaking hospital rules?"

he grinned, that infuriatingly charming smile that made you forget you were supposed to be monitoring his health. "how about we play a game? twenty questions, but with a twist. you can only ask about my love life."

you laughed. "is that supposed to be tempting?"

"extremely," he said, leaning back against the pillows. "come on, you know you're curious. the great satoru gojo—relationship status? single? dating? married to my work?"

"i'm not sure that's appropriate for a volunteer-patient relationship," you said, though you couldn't help but smile at his persistence.

"rules are made to be broken," he countered. "besides, i'm practically a guest here. not a real patient."

"tell that to the iv stand in the corner," you retorted, nodding toward the equipment that had been there since your first visit.

he glanced at it as if noticing it for the first time. "ah, yes. the evidence of my 'debilitating' condition." he made air quotes with his fingers. "it's just saline, you know. mostly. sometimes they add vitamins. makes it feel like a fancy smoothie."

you shook your head, but couldn't suppress a laugh. "you're so stupid."

"thank you," he said, bowing his head slightly. "i try."

the afternoon passed in a blur of conversation that ranged from the absurd (his theory that cats were actually cursed spirits in disguise) to the philosophical (whether strength was a gift or a curse). you found yourself opening up in ways you rarely did, sharing snippets of your own life—your struggles with university, your complicated relationship with your family, your dreams that felt increasingly distant with each passing semester.

and he listened. really listened. his blindfold never wavered, but you had the strange sensation that he saw more with those covered eyes than most people did with their sight wide open.

as the afternoon wore on, you noticed him growing quieter. the playful energy that usually surrounded him had dimmed, replaced by a thoughtful stillness. his fingers, which had been gesturing animatedly moments before, now rested lightly on the blanket.

"you okay?" you asked softly.

he blinked slowly, then shook his head as if clearing it. "just tired. these 'rest periods' they insist on—they're actually exhausting."

"maybe that's the point," you said gently.

"probably," he admitted. "but i hate feeling useless. being stuck here while everyone else is out there handling threats..." he trailed off, then added with forced lightness, "guess i'll just have to content myself with your sparkling company."

you stayed until the nurses came to give him his evening medication, watching as he accepted the small pills with a nod that was almost imperceptibly weary. as you were leaving, he called your name.

"hey," he said, his voice softer than usual. "thanks for coming today. i enjoyed spending time with you. more than you know."

you paused at the door, surprised by the sudden sincerity. "of course, gojo. i'll see you on thursday."

"looking forward to it," he said, and this time, his smile seemed to reach the eyes hidden behind the blindfold.

as you walked down the hospital corridor, the neon lights suddenly seemed harsher, the silence more profound. you thought about his earlier comment about feeling useless, about the way he'd winced when shifting positions, about the saline drip that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his room.

something was wrong. really wrong. and you had the sinking feeling that whatever it was, gojo was determined to face it alone.

the next morning, you found yourself seeking out shoko during your break. she was sorting medication in the supply closet, her movements efficient and precise.

"morning, shoko," you said, trying to sound casual.

she looked up, surprised. "what brings you here? not another bouquet for our favorite patient, i hope?"

you smiled. "not today, i've spoiled him enough. actually, i was wondering about him. yesterday, he mentioned having a headache, but he brushed it off. is he... okay?"

shoko's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "satoru is a private person. he tells us what he wants us to know. i don't think he's being entirely truthful about his symptoms."

"i understand that," you said quickly. "but i'm worried about him. he seemed different yesterday. tired."

shuko sighed, setting down the box she was holding. "the six eyes are both a blessing and a curse. they process cursed energy at speeds no human brain was meant to handle. for years, that idiot has pushed himself beyond his limits. the human brain can only take so much overclocking before things start breaking down."

you felt a chill despite the warm hospital air. "breaking down? what does that mean?"

she lowered her voice, glancing toward the door. "neurological degradation. it's rare, but we've seen it in sorcerers who've pushed their techniques too hard for too long. the brain tissue that supports the six eyes... it's wearing out. like a processor that's been running at maximum capacity for too long."

"can it be treated?" you asked, your heart pounding.

shoko shook her head slowly. "we've tried experimental cursed techniques, medications, everything. the degeneration is tied to his ability itself. it's irreversible." she paused, then added softly, "he doesn't have much time."

the words echoed in your mind, a death sentence delivered with the clinical detachment of a medical diagnosis. gojo, with his impossible strength and even more impossible smile, given "not much time" to live?

"he doesn't know, does he?" you whispered.

"not the full extent," she confirmed. "he knows something's wrong, but he's... compartmentalizing. satoru has always faced everything with confidence. this... it's different. it's something he can't fight his way out of."

you thought about his laughter the day before, his jokes, the way he'd made you feel like the most interesting person in the world. and beneath it all, this quiet unraveling. this neurological time bomb.

"thank you, sho," you said, your voice tight. "for telling me."

she nodded. "he cares about you. you should know what you're dealing with."

as you walked away, the hospital corridor seemed to stretch on endlessly, each step taking you further from the illusion you'd built around gojo and closer to a truth that felt both devastating and inevitable.

when you returned to room 307 that afternoon, you carried with you a knowledge that felt like a physical weight. gojo looked up as you entered, his blindfolded face turning toward you.

"there you are," he said, a smile already forming. "i was beginning to think you'd abandoned me for some exciting life outside this crappy room."

you forced a smile in return, placing the flowers—sunflowers this time, bright and defiant—on the nightstand. "never. you're stuck with me."

he chuckled, then winced slightly, rubbing his temples. "sorry, shit— these headaches... they're getting worse. like someone's digging into my brain with a drill."

you sat down heavily in your usual chair, the words shuko had spoken replaying in your mind. "gojo—"

"satoru."

"what?"

"you can call me satoru, if you want."

"okay then, satoru. have the doctors told you anything specific? about what's causing your headaches?"

he waved a dismissive hand. "just stress, they say. overexertion. nothing a good night's sleep won't fix." he paused, then added, "though i have to admit, even sleep doesn't feel like rest anymore. it's like my brain won't shut down."

you watched him, really watched him, seeing the exhaustion that lurked beneath the surface of his usual confidence. the way his fingers trembled slightly when he reached for the water glass. the way his blindfold seemed to sit crookedly, as if his head was too heavy to hold it straight.

"satoru," you began, then stopped. what could you say? that you knew he was dying? that you knew his brilliant mind was literally breaking down?

"yeah?" he prompted, tilting his head in your direction.

you took a deep breath. "i'm worried about you. that's all."

his smile softened, becoming something more genuine, more vulnerable. "i know. and i appreciate it. really." he reached out, his fingers brushing yours where they rested on the armrest of your chair. the contact was brief but electric. "you're good at this whole caring thing. maybe i should keep you around."

you pulled your hand back slightly, surprised by the intensity of the moment. "i'm just doing my job."

"not really," he said, his voice dropping lower. "volunteers don't have to sit with patients for hours. they don't have to remember how they take their coffee or bring them flowers." he paused, then added, "you choose to be here. with me."

the air between you suddenly felt charged, thick with unspoken words and possibilities you hadn't allowed yourself to consider. you looked into his blindfold, trying to see beyond the fabric to the eyes you knew were watching you with an intensity that was both unnerving and compelling.

"i do," you admitted quietly. "because i enjoy your company. even when you're being infuriating."

he laughed, a real laugh this time, devoid of the strain you'd noticed earlier. "good. because i enjoy yours too. even when you're trying to psychoanalyze me."

as he spoke, you noticed something new—a faint tremor in his hand that he quickly tried to hide by clasping it with his other hand. the casual mask was slipping, revealing the cracks beneath. and in that moment, you knew with certainty that this was more than just a volunteer assignment. this was something real, something that was growing between you despite the circumstances, despite the ticking clock you now knew was counting down the days until the inevitable.

you reached out again, this time taking his hand in yours. his skin was warm, but you could feel the fine tremor running through it. he didn't pull away, but turned his hand slightly, his fingers lacing through yours.

"hey," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "what's going through that pretty head of yours?"

you met his gaze, holding it even though you couldn't see his eyes. "just thinking," you said softly. "that you're not as invincible as you pretend to be."

he was quiet for a long moment, then squeezed your hand gently. "maybe not. but i'm still here. right now, anyways. that's what matters."

and in the sterile white room of the tokyo metropolitan curse technical hospital, with the afternoon light filtering through the window and your fingers intertwined with his, you knew he was right.

—

the days that followed shoko's revelation blurred into a haze of hospital routines and stolen moments with gojo. each visit became a delicate dance between the carefully constructed illusion he presented and the crumbling reality you now knew existed. you found yourself arriving earlier, staying later, inventing reasons to linger—offering to read to him, bringing books from the library, simply sitting in companionable silence as the afternoon light slanted across the room.

one tuesday, you arrived with a thermos of hot tea and a collection of short stories you'd been told were particularly engaging. satoru was already awake, sitting up in bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, the screen illuminating his blindfolded face.

"breaking hospital rules with unauthorized electronics?" you teased, setting down the tea and books.

he minimized his screen with a flick of his wrist. "just checking emails. the higher-ups can't seem to resist bothering me even when i'm supposedly 'resting.'" he gestured to the thermos. "is that that fancy jasmine blend you brought last week? the one that smells like a flower garden?"

"guilty as charged," you said, pouring two cups. "thought it might help with the migraines."

he accepted the cup with a nod that seemed more dulled than usual, his fingers brushing yours as he took it. the contact sent a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the tea.

"you're too good to me," he said, taking a sip. "keep this up and i'll turn soft."

you smiled, but your eyes were drawn to the way his hand trembled slightly as he raised the cup. the shiver was subtle, almost imperceptible to someone who didn't know what to look for, but to you, it was another crack in the facade.

"how are you feeling today?" you asked, keeping your tone casual.

"never better," he declared with his usual bravado. "though i did have a spectacular headache this morning. felt like someone was trying to rip out my medulla." he took another sip of tea, then winced, setting the cup down carefully.

you watched him, noticing the way he pressed his fingers against his temples, the slight tension in his jaw. this wasn't just a headache; this was something more, something deeper.

"satoru," you began, then stopped.

"yeah?" he prompted, turning his head in your direction.

you took a deep breath. "can i... can i see your hands?"

he looked surprised, but held them out, palms up. they were steady now, but you remembered the tremor from moments before. you reached out, taking one in yours. his skin was colder than before, but you could feel the fine shakes that had returned, running through his fingers like an electrical current.

"what are you doing?" he asked, though he didn't pull away.

"just checking something," you murmured, tracing the lines on his palm with your thumb.

he was quiet for a long moment, then his fingers tightened around yours. "you're different today," he said. "more observant."

"i'm always observant," you countered, though you knew that wasn't entirely true. something had shifted in you since shoko's diagnosis. you couldn't unsee what you now knew to look for.

"maybe," he conceded. "or maybe i'm just getting worse at hiding things."

you looked up at him, meeting his blindfolded gaze. "are you in pain right now?"

the question hung in the air between you, fragile and charged. gojo was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. then, slowly, he nodded.

"a little," he admitted. "it comes and goes. mostly in my head. sometimes... sometimes it spreads."

"where else?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he hesitated, then said, "my eyes. they ache behind the blindfold. like they're trying to burn through it." he paused, then added, "my hands too. sometimes they feel... disconnected. like they don't belong to me."

you wanted to ask more, to press him for details, but you could see the effort it was taking for him to even admit this much. instead, you simply squeezed his hand.

"i'm sorry," you said.

he shook his head. "don't be. it's not your fault. it's just... the price of power, i guess." he managed a weak smile. "though i have to say, i expected a more dramatic end. not... this. not fading away in a hospital bed."

the vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. this wasn’t the satoru you’d come to know—the flirty, overconfident jujutsu sorcerer who made death seem like a minor inconvenience. but there was something different now, a quiet understanding in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. it wasn’t shock. it wasn’t fear. it was just... awareness. the realization that he wasn't invincible—that, maybe, the end was closer than he liked to admit.

It made your chest tighten, a protective instinct rising within you, one you didn’t even know you had.

"i don't think anyone expects to fade away," you said softly.

"no," he agreed. "we all think we'll go out in a blaze of glory. fighting some impossible curse, saving the world, that kind of thing." he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "not like this. not with my brain turning to mush."

the room felt too still after he said it, like even the air didn’t want to move. he looked so small in that moment — so unlike the man everyone believed couldn’t be touched by anything. his shoulders were hunched forward just slightly, the posture of someone who had been fighting the inevitable alone for far too long.

you opened your mouth to comfort him, to reach for any piece of softness you could offer, but nothing felt right. nothing felt enough.

instead, you reached out gently, your fingertips brushing the edge of his blindfold right above his right eyebrow. the fabric was warm from his skin, damp with sweat, familiar in a way that made your throat close up. he leaned into the touch just a little, like it helped him breathe.

the silence stretched for a long, heavy moment — not awkward, not even painful. just… real. a rare moment where everything between you hung fragile and honest in the air.

then, quietly, you said it.

“there’s no we in this, gojo.”

he blinked, slow and confused, as if the words didn’t quite make sense at first.

you swallowed hard. “nobody else expects to die like that. nobody else lives with that hanging over them. it’s just you who thinks that way.”

the words felt sharper than you meant them to be, but they were true — painfully, unmistakably true. you saw it hit him, saw the way his expression shifted, the way something behind his eyes dimmed. not because you hurt him, but because you’d exposed something he never let anyone say out loud.

because he realized, maybe for the first time:

he had been carrying that belief alone his whole life.

his fingers tightened weakly in the blanket again. his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “oh,” he whispered, almost to himself. “i guess… yeah. it’s just me.”

there was a tremor in his voice — not physical, not from the illness, but emotional. a quiet unraveling. his façade cracked in a way even death hadn’t managed yet.

“i always thought that was just… how it was,” he continued softly. “that people like me don’t get to grow old. that we’re… built to die dramatic. quickly. violently. i thought that was normal.”

you shook your head, moving a little closer, your hand slipping from his blindfold to his cheek, your thumb brushing the faintest trace of fever-heated skin.

“it’s not normal,” you said. “you were just alone in it. that’s all.”

his lips parted like he wanted to argue, or agree, or just breathe, but nothing came out. he looked up at you with this expression you’d never seen on him before — a raw, bewildered kind of vulnerability. like he didn’t know what to do with the truth now that it was sitting between you.

for a moment, he wasn’t the strongest. he wasn’t untouchable. he wasn’t a legend. he was just a man who’d been conditioned to believe his life only had one possible ending.

and it wasn’t this one.

you wanted to comfort him, to say something that would make this better, but you knew there were no words. instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his blindfold, just above his right eyebrow.

"can i...?" you began, not sure what you were asking.

he didn't pull away. "what?"

"can i see?" you whispered. "just for a moment. your eyes. i won't tell anyone, i promise."

he was quiet for so long you thought he might refuse. then, slowly, he reached up and untied the knot at the back of his head. the black fabric fell away, and you found yourself holding your breath.

the eyes that met yours were not what you'd expected. they were a startling shade of blue, so pale they seemed almost translucent, like chips of ice. but it was the pain in them that struck you most—a deep, raw anguish that seemed to emanate from his very soul. the pupils were dilated, and the whites were webbed with fine red lines, as if the blood vessels had been strained to their breaking point.

"they're beautiful," you breathed, the words escaping before you could stop them.

gojo managed a weak smile. "that's what everyone says. though i think they're less impressive right now. they look like someone took a screwdriver to them."

you reached out, your fingers hovering near his face, not quite touching. "does it hurt? the light?"

"everything hurts," he admitted. "but especially light. even the soft light in here... it feels like needles."

you nodded, understanding. "i'll draw the curtains."

as you moved to the window, you felt his eyes following you, watching your every movement. when you turned back, he was still watching you, his gaze intense and unnervingly perceptive even in pain.

"you know," he said, his voice low, "you're not like the others."

"you're making me sound like a pick-me," you snorted, returning to his side. "how so?"

"the other volunteers... they come in, they do their job, they leave. they don't notice things. they don't care." he paused, then added, "you notice. you care."

you didn't know what to say to that, so you simply sat down on the edge of his bed, close enough that your knees brushed his. "i care because you're... you're important, satoru. to a lot of people."

he was quiet for a long moment, then said, "including you?"

you met his gaze, not flinching from the intensity in his eyes. "yes. including me."

something shifted in the space between you then, a current of understanding passing between you that needed no words. you reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly.

"thank you," he whispered.

"for what?"

"for seeing me. not just the satoru gojo everyone else sees. the real one."

you wanted to tell him that there was no other gojo to you, that this was the only one you've ever seen, the only one you've ever wanted to see, but the words caught in your throat. instead, you simply leaned closer, your forehead touching his.

the afternoon wore on in a blur of quiet conversation and shared silences. you read to him from one of the short stories, your voice soft and steady as he listened with his eyes closed. at one point, he reached out, his fingers finding yours and lacing through them, and you didn't pull away.

as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, gojo grew quiet, his breathing slowing. you thought he might have fallen asleep, but then he spoke.

"you know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "i used to think being strong meant never showing weakness. that if i was vulnerable, people would see me as less than." he paused, then added, "but being with you... it's different. it's okay to not be strong all the time."

you squeezed his hand gently. "no one is strong all the time. not even you."

he smiled, a real smile this time, that reached his eyes despite the pain. "maybe not. but it's nice to have someone who knows that."

as the nurses came to give him his evening medication, you stayed, watching as he accepted the small pills with a nod that was almost imperceptibly weary. when they left, he turned to you, his expression serious.

"you'll come back tomorrow, right?" he asked, the vulnerability in his voice making your chest ache.

"of course," you said, surprised by how much you meant it. "i'll be here."

"good," he said, reaching out to take your hand. "because i think... i think i'm starting to need you."

the words hung in the air between you, charged with a meaning that went far beyond the patient-volunteer relationship. you looked at him, really looked at him—at the pain in his eyes, the exhaustion in his posture, the way he clung to your hand like a lifeline—and knew with certainty that your life had changed irrevocably. you weren't just a volunteer anymore. maybe to him, you never were. you were someone who had seen beyond the mask to the man beneath, and in doing so, had found something neither of you expected.

as you left the hospital that evening, the city lights blurring past the window of the train, you found yourself thinking about him—about his laughter, his strength, the way he made the sterile hospital room feel like a place of warmth and connection. and beneath it all, this quiet unraveling.

you pulled out your phone, your fingers hovering over the contact list. you wanted to call someone, to talk about what you were feeling, but there was no one who would understand. no one who could comprehend the complexity of what was happening between you and gojo—the attraction, the concern, the impossible circumstances that had brought you together.

instead, you typed a message to shoko, asking if you could stop by her office the next morning before your shift. you needed to know more, to understand what was coming, to prepare yourself for whatever happened next.

as the train pulled into your station, you closed your eyes, seeing gojo's face in your mind—his blindfold, his smile, the pain in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide. and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that whatever came next, you would face it with him. because for the first time in your life, you weren't just watching someone else's story unfold. you were becoming part of it.

—

the next afternoon, you arrived to find him in a state of disheveled agitation. his bed was unmade, his laptop was open on the nightstand, and he was pacing the length of the room, his fingers pressed against his temples and his feet shuffling against the floor."

"satoru?" you asked, concern immediately flaring. "what's wrong?"

he stopped pacing, turning to face you, his blindfold askew. "they want to put me in a fucking coma. an induced one," he said, his voice tight with anger. "shoko said it'll give me more time."

you approached him cautiously, as if he were a wild animal that might bolt at any moment. "and you don't want to?"

he laughed — or tried to — but it came out cracked, jagged, nothing like a real laugh. it was a sound pulled straight from panic, scraping the raw edges of his throat.

“want to?” he echoed, like the word itself was offensive. “of course not. why the hell would i want that?”

his voice kept getting thinner, shakier, like he was losing grip on it second by second. his hands twitched against the sheets, trembling too hard to hide now. he pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth like he was trying to steady his breathing, but it only made it worse.

“it’s a waste of time,” he spat, eyes flicking wildly like he was searching for something to anchor himself to. “you know it is. i’ve seen what it looks like.”

his chest hitched — a tiny, broken jerk — and something in him just… buckled.

“it’s not natural,” he whispered, voice cracking halfway through. “it’s— it’s not even living. it’s just waiting. waiting to die while your body does… whatever the fuck it does.” he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head like he could physically dislodge the images. “i’ve watched people go into comas. i know what they look like when they take the— when they pull the plug.”

his fingers curled tightly in the blanket, knuckles whitening even through the tremor.

“don’t ask me to do that,” he choked out. “please.”

you reached out instinctively, but he flinched — not from you, but from the terror clawing through him.

“i don’t want to be—” he swallowed hard, breath stuttering. “i don’t want to be a body lying there while everyone pretends i'm gonna make it. i don’t want to be trapped in my head. i could…” his voice warped, thin and breaking, “i could just— never wake up at all.”

his breath came too fast, too shallow. he pressed a shaky hand to his chest like he couldn’t get enough air.

“they’re trying to put me away,” he whispered. “shoko wants to shelve me. like i’m already gone.”

his eyes shot to yours, wide and shimmering, panic clawing behind them.

you reached out, your fingers brushing his arm. "but it might help. it might give you more time, as shoko said."

he shook off your touch, his jaw clenching. "time for what? to lie in a bed, to be a prisoner in my own body? i won't do it. i'm not throwing away any months i might have left by laying in the hospital bed like— like i'm already dead."

you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you knew was coming. "satoru, listen to me. this is not brave. it's not strong. it's not like you'll be in the coma forever. it's just... you're being stupid."

he recoiled as if you'd slapped him, his eyes widening in shock. "what did you say?"

you held your ground, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "you heard me. skipping treatment isn't going to make you stronger. it's just going to make things worse. it's going to make you weaker, and it's going to make me and other people upset. we only want what's best for you"

he stared at you for a long moment, then laughed, a bitter sound that grated against your nerves. "upset? you're upset? you're just my nurse— no, not even that. jesus christ, you're a fucking volunteer. you're not my keeper. you're not my mother. you don't get to tell me what to do."

the words stung, but you refused to back down. "i'm not trying to tell you what to do, gojo. i'm trying to help you. i'm trying to keep you here, with me, with all of us, for as long as possible. but if you're just going to throw that away... if you're just going to give up— then— then i don't know what to say to you!"

he turned away from you, his shoulders tense. "you don't need to say anything. i know what i'm fucking doing. i know what's best for me."

you took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. "fine. if that's how you feel. but i can't... i can't watch you do this to yourself. i can't watch you throw your life away."

he was silent for a long moment, then said, his voice cold, "then don't watch. no one's asking you to."

that one hurt in a way nothing else had — not the distance, not the slow dying, not the fear. this felt like betrayal. like he’d taken every soft thing you’d given him and lobbed it back at your chest.

your laugh came out sharp and humorless before you could stop it. “yeah? no one’s asking me?” you said, stepping closer so he had to hear you. “that’s funny, because just a few hours ago you were talking about how you didn’t want to be alone. about how much you needed me here.”

his shoulders tensed even harder, but he still wouldn’t face you.

“but sure,” you went on, voice low, trembling with hurt and anger. “let’s pretend that didn’t happen. let’s pretend you’re not terrified and lashing out because it’s easier than admitting you don’t want to die without someone in the room.” you swallowed hard. “you want me here more than you’ll ever say, but your head’s shoved so far into your own ass you can’t even admit that.”

he flinched. actually flinched.

you stepped back, your hands shaking. “but if you wanna play it like that… fine. i won’t.”

you heard the breath he sucked in — sharp, panicked — but he didn’t turn around. didn’t call after you. didn’t take the words back.

he just sat there, shoulders trembling, as you walked away for the first time.

you made your way to shoko's office, pushing open the door without knocking. she looked up from her desk, surprise flashing across her face.

she said your name, standing. "what's wrong?"

you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "satoru. he's... he's deciding on skipping treatment. he won't listen to reason. he won't listen to me."

shuko sighed, rubbing her temples. "i was afraid of this. his pride... it's going to be his downfall."

"he says i'm just his nurse," you said, your voice breaking slightly. "he says i don't have the right to tell him what to do."

shuko was quiet for a moment, then said, "you're too attached to him. it's clouding your judgment. you need to distance yourself. for your own sake, and for his."

the words felt like a slap in the face, and you found yourself recoiling. "what do you mean? i'm just trying to help him."

"exactly," shoko said, her voice gentle but firm. "you're trying too hard. you're letting your emotions get in the way. you need to step back, let the doctors handle this."

you shook your head, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "no! i can't do that. i won't do that. i won't just stand by and watch him— watch him... fade away!"

shoko’s expression softened, but there was something tired in it too — something that told you she’d already had this conversation in her own head a hundred times. something that told you you weren’t the first person breaking over him.

“you think you’re the only one scared?” she said quietly. “you think you’re the only one who hates this? i’ve known him since we were kids. i’ve stitched him back together more times than i can count. i’ve watched him walk into hell with that stupid grin like he’s invincible.” she let out a hollow laugh. “this isn’t easy for me either.”

her voice wasn’t sharp — it was worse. it was honest.

you swallowed, but the knot in your throat wouldn’t budge. “then why are you acting like i should just… step aside?”

“because i know how he is,” she murmured. “he won’t stop. he won’t rest. he won’t admit he’s scared until he’s already drowning. that’s how he’s always been.” she paused, something wounded flickering across her face. “and every time he does it, someone else gets dragged down with him. usually me. now it’s you.”

that stung — not because she meant to hurt you, but because she was right. painfully right.

you shook your head. “i don’t care if it hurts. i don’t care if he doesn’t want help. he needs someone. he needs… someone who refuses to quit on him.”

“and you think i don’t?” she whispered.

the quiet in her voice punched straight through your chest. shoko wasn’t accusing you — she was grieving with you. the difference made it worse.

you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, frustrated. “you’re telling me to let him go because you’re used to this. because you’ve been watching him self-destruct forever.”

“i’m telling you to be careful,” she corrected softly. “he’s proud. he’s stubborn. he doesn’t know how to let himself be taken care of — not by me, not by you, not by anyone.” her shoulders sagged, and for a second she looked as tired as he did. “if you push too hard, he’ll shove you away. not because he wants to — because it’s all he’s ever known.”

you hated that. you hated how true it was.

“and when he does shove you away,” shoko added, glancing at you with something like sympathy, “you’re the one who’s going to bleed for it. not him.”

your voice cracked. “so what? i should just sit here and do nothing?”

“no,” she said, shaking her head. “you stay. you care. you love him in whatever way he’ll let you. but don’t make yourself believe you can stop him from being who he is.” she hesitated, then admitted, “if i couldn’t do it after all these years… you won’t either.”

that was the part that finally shattered something in you.

because she wasn’t pushing you away from him — she was warning you from experience. from heartbreak. from loving someone who never let himself be saved.

and for a moment, standing there in the dim hospital hallway, you realized it wasn’t just your heart on the line.

he’d been breaking hers for years too.

you left her office without another word, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind a whirlwind of anger, fear, and confusion. you knew she was right, knew that you were too invested, too emotionally entangled, but you couldn't just walk away. not now. not when he needed you most.

—

you spent the rest of the day avoiding gojo's room, instead throwing yourself into your other duties with a fervor that bordered on manic. you cleaned patient rooms, restocked supply closets, even helped with laundry, all the while trying to push thoughts of gojo from your mind. but no matter how busy you kept yourself, his words echoed in your mind, a bitter litany of rejection and anger.

you didn’t go back the next day.

or the day after that.

the silence stretched into a week — a cold, echoing gap that felt way too big, way too sharp, like someone had carved out a piece of you and left the wound open to the air. at first you told yourself you were still mad. that you needed space. that he deserved to sit with the consequences of pushing you away.

but that wasn’t the truth. not even close.

the truth was uglier: every time you even thought about going back, something twisted in your gut, a nauseating mix of fear and shame that made your lungs feel too tight. because yeah, he’d snapped at you. yeah, he’d been cruel. but it wasn’t his fault. not really. his brain was failing him. his control was slipping. and you’d walked out anyway — furious, hurt, convinced for one stupid moment that your pride mattered in the face of what he was going through.

shoko's words echoed in your mind: you're too attached. but detachment felt like a betrayal of a different kind. on the eighth day, the gnawing worry won out. it wasn't about forgiveness or pride anymore; it was a simple, biological need to know if he was still breathing.

you didn't bring flowers. instead, you stopped at a small, expensive bakery near the hospital and bought two slices of matcha cheesecake—his favorite, something he'd mentioned offhandedly months ago when complaining about hospital food. the box felt flimsy in your hands, a pathetic peace offering for a war you weren't sure you wanted to end.

the walk to room 307 felt longer than ever. the familiar scent of antiseptic and despair seemed sharper, more accusatory. you paused outside his door, your heart hammering against your ribs. no sound came from within. taking a deep, shaky breath, you pushed the door open.

the room was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. gojo was sitting up in bed, but he wasn't wearing his blindfold. he was staring blankly at the wall opposite him, his profile illuminated by the sliver of light escaping the drapes. and he was crying.

silent, steady tears tracked down his cheeks, glistening in the low light. his shoulders were slumped, his hands limp on the blanket. he didn't seem to notice you, lost in some private agony. the sight stole the breath from your lungs. you’d seen him in pain, frustrated, angry.

you’d never seen him weep.

for a long moment, you just stood there, frozen, the cake box dangling from your fingers. was it the physical torment? the relentless, grinding decay of his own mind? or was it the wreckage of your argument, the bridge you’d both burned with such furious precision?

a floorboard creaked under your weight. his head snapped toward the door, his startlingly blue eyes—now clouded with pain and red-rimmed from crying—widening in shock. he swiped hastily at his cheeks with the back of a trembling hand, a gesture so vulnerable it made your chest ache.

"you're here," he breathed, his voice raw and thick.

"i brought cake," you said lamely, holding up the box as if it explained your presence after a week of radio silence.

he stared at you, then at the box, then back at you. a fresh wave of tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back fiercely. "you came back."

"i..." you swallowed, stepping fully into the room and closing the door softly behind you. "i was worried."

a bitter, choked sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "yeah. me too." he looked away, his jaw working. "about a lot of things."

you set the cake box on the nightstand and pulled your chair closer to the bed, but didn't sit. the distance between you felt vast, charged with everything left unsaid. "satoru..."

"i'm sorry." the words rushed out of him, quiet but fervent. "what i said— calling you just a murse... it was a lie. the biggest lie i've ever told, and i've told some whoppers." he finally met your gaze, his eyes pleading. "you're not. you haven't been for a long time. i was just— i am— so scared. and i took it out on you! pushing you away, as stupid as that was, it was-" he pauses, gesturing helplessly to himself, "it was easier than letting you see me like...this. but it didn't work. nothing's easier. it's all just— everything's worse without you here."

the confession, so stark and honest, dismantled the last of your defenses. the anger bled away, leaving only a profound, aching sorrow. you sank into the chair. "i'm sorry too," you whispered. "for storming out. for calling you stupid. i didn't mean it. not really. i was just... so afraid for you."

he nodded, a tear escaping to trace the path of its predecessor. "i know. i am stupid. just not in the way you think." he was quiet for a moment, his breathing shallow. "the headaches... they're constant now. a white-hot pressure behind my eyes that never fully goes away. my hands..." he held them up; the fine tremor was now a persistent, noticeable shake. "i dropped a glass of water this morning. couldn't pick up the pieces. shoko had to do it." the humiliation in his voice was a tangible thing. "i can barely feed myself without spilling everything. i tried to wash my hair in the sink yesterday and almost passed out from the pain of leaning over."

his gaze dropped to his lap, his shoulders curling inward. "i feel so... weak. useless. i don't know how to— i don't know how to be who i've become."

without thinking, you reached out and covered his trembling hand with yours. he turned his palm up, his fingers lacing through yours with a desperate strength. then, slowly, as if the movement cost him immense effort, he leaned sideways, letting his forehead rest against your thigh. the contact was electric, a surrender so complete it stole your breath. you could feel the heat of his skin through your jeans, the slight dampness of his tears.

you let your free hand come up, hovering for a second before you gently carded your fingers through his hair. it was, as you'd noticed from the doorway, lank and slightly greasy at the roots. the strongest sorcerer in the world, brought low by something as mundane as being unable to wash his own hair.

"let me help," you said softly, the words leaving your lips before you could reconsider their intimacy.

he stiffened for a fraction of a second, then exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to deflate him further. "you don't have to."

"i want to."

he was silent for so long you thought he'd refused. then, a barely perceptible nod against your leg. "...okay."

you helped him shuffle to the edge of the bed, his movements slow and uncoordinated, leaning heavily on you. you guided him to the recliner chair by the window, draping a towel over his shoulders. you filled a basin with warm water from the bathroom sink, adding a few drops of the lavender-scented shampoo you'd brought for him weeks ago, hoping the scent might soothe his headaches.

kneeling beside the chair, you gently tilted his head back. he kept his eyes closed, his long white lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. his breathing was shallow, hitched.

"tell me if it hurts," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

he gave another small nod.

you began, pouring the warm water slowly over his hair, using a cup to wet it thoroughly. he flinched at the first touch, a sharp intake of breath, but then relaxed marginally as the warmth seeped in. you worked the shampoo into a lather, your fingers massaging his scalp with careful, deliberate circles. the intimacy of the act was overwhelming—the smell of lavender and clean sweat, the softness of his hair against your skin, the absolute trust in his stillness.

as you worked, you felt it—the subtle tremors running through his skull, the tension in the muscles of his neck and shoulders that no amount of gentle massage could ease. you rinsed, the water turning slightly cloudy, and repeated with conditioner. through it all, he didn't speak. but you heard it—the soft, hitching sniffles he tried to suppress, the occasional shuddering breath that betrayed the emotion he was fighting to contain.

it wasn't just the pain. you knew that now. it was the humiliation. the loss of control. the terrifying vulnerability of being cared for in such a fundamental way. for satoru gojo, who had defined himself by his effortless, boundless strength, this was a deeper agony than any curse could inflict.

after the final rinse, you wrapped his hair in a fresh, soft towel. you didn't move away. you stayed kneeling there, your hands resting on the towel atop his head. he finally opened his eyes, looking down at you. they were clearer now, but swimming with a pain that had nothing to do with his six eyes.

"thank you," he whispered, his voice cracking on the second syllable.

you just shook your head, unable to speak past the lump in your own throat. you reached up and carefully dabbed at a stray tear track on his cheek with the corner of the towel. he caught your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold it there, his thumb stroking over your pulse point.

"i don't deserve you," he said, the words raw.

"that's not your decision to make," you replied, your own voice thick.

you helped him back to bed, his body heavy and pliant with exhaustion. you fetched a comb and carefully worked through the tangles in his damp hair until it fell in its usual soft, chaotic waves. he watched you the entire time, his gaze a physical weight.

when you were done, you finally opened the cake box. you fed him small bites, your fingers steadying his trembling ones around the fork. he ate silently, his eyes never leaving your face.

you felt the room shrink around the two of you — the quiet hum of the machines, the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the faint sweetness of the cake mixing with the sharp, sterile air. he lay there against the pillows, chest rising in shallow, tired breaths, hair falling into his eyes. he looked younger like this, stripped of all the bravado he carried like armor.

his voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper.

“can i kiss you?”

you froze. you shouldn’t have — you knew better, you really did — but something in the way he asked it just… gutted you. it wasn’t flirty or smug or teasing. it was a confession. a plea. like he was afraid he wouldn’t get another chance.

“satoru…” you breathed, not even sure what you meant to follow it with.

he swallowed, throat bobbing. “i just—” his fingers flexed weakly on the blanket. “i don’t want to go without knowing what your lips feel like. please?”

you hesitated, the weight of every reason to say no crashing into you all at once — boundaries, professionalism, the messy tangle of grief already forming in your chest. but he looked at you with so much naked vulnerability that it felt like refusal might shatter him outright.

“okay,” you whispered finally. “okay. come here.”

you shifted closer, leaning in slowly, gently, giving him every chance to pull back. but he shook his head with a faint, breathless laugh.

“no. let me,” he murmured, determination flickering through the exhaustion. “i want to kiss you.”

he pushed himself up with trembling arms, gritting his teeth as the effort drained what little strength he had left. you reached out instinctively, steadying him at his waist.

“hey— take it easy—”

but he only shook his head again, stubborn even now. “please,” he said, and that single word undid you completely.

so you let him.

he brought one hand up to your cheek — slow, shaky, but purposeful — his thumb brushing just under your eye like he was memorizing you by touch alone. his palm was warm, but you could feel the tremor running through it. he leaned in until his forehead touched yours, breath coming uneven and fragile.

“you’re… so beautiful,” he whispered, the words ghosting across your lips.

then, with every ounce of strength he still had, he kissed you.

it wasn’t desperate in the way you expected. there was no rush, no heat, just an aching tenderness that made your heart lurch. his lips were soft, careful, reverent. like he was afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard. his hand cupped your face fully now, shaking just slightly as his fingers threaded into your hair. you felt him pour something into the kiss — something quiet and honest and devastatingly gentle.

you kissed him back just as softly, one hand gripping the front of his hospital gown because he was swaying, and the other bracing against the mattress. the whole world narrowed to the faint mint on his breath, the warmth of his mouth, the way he exhaled shakily against your lips like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

after a long moment, he pulled back, chest heaving with the effort. his eyes fluttered open — tired, bright, impossibly full.

“worth it,” he whispered with the ghost of a smile.

“you’re ridiculous,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, but your voice shook.

he sank back into the pillows, breath shuddering as though even that tiny moment had wrung him dry. you helped guide him down gently, adjusting the blankets around him.

when his breathing steadied, you reached for the cake box. the spell didn’t break — it softened.

you cut a small piece, placing it on the plastic tray, and held the fork out to him. his fingers trembled too much to grip it properly, so you wrapped your hand around his, steadying him as he lifted it to his mouth.

he ate each bite slowly, almost reverently. crumbs clung to the corner of his lips, and you reached out to wipe them away with your thumb. he leaned into the touch like it was instinct, eyes half-lidded.

“good?” you asked softly.

he nodded, chewing, then swallowed with effort. “only ’cause you’re feeding me,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours again — heavy, unguarded, almost glowing with something you weren’t sure you were ready to name.

you fed him another small bite. his fingers trembled again, and you steadied them without a word. he didn’t look away from you once, not even for a heartbeat. it felt like he was memorizing you — the shape of your face, the sound of your breathing, the warmth you never realized you were offering.

like he wanted to save all of it, store it somewhere inside him before anything could fade.

before he could fade.

—

the next morning hit you like a cold hand around your spine.

you walked into his room expecting him to at least be awake — maybe exhausted, maybe dim around the edges, but awake. instead you found him half-curled on his side, blindfold askew, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. the sheets were twisted around his legs like he’d been fighting the pain even in his sleep.

“'toru?” you whispered.

his eyelids twitched. he didn’t open them.

you stepped closer, trying to breathe normally despite the sudden spike of dread clawing through your chest. his skin looked paler than yesterday — not the soft, porcelain sort of pale he always joked about, but a washed-out, empty kind. his breathing was uneven, each inhale catching like something inside him snagged on the way in.

you touched his shoulder gently. “hey. can you hear me?”

he flinched. actually flinched. like your touch burned.

“sorry— sorry, i’m so sorry,” you blurted, but he grabbed your wrist weakly, fingers barely curling around it.

“’s not you,” he breathed, voice shredded. “just— hurts.”

the two words lodged in your throat like shards of glass.

you eased down onto the bed beside him, lifting the edge of the blindfold. his eyes were squeezed shut, lashes damp. there was a faint line of dried blood under his nose — he must’ve wiped it away in the night, too groggy to get help. you grabbed tissues and dabbed at the dried streaks, careful not to make it worse.

his jaw trembled.

“bad morning?” you asked softly, because saying anything heavier might break both of you.

he let out a small, humorless laugh, more air than sound. “y-you could say that.” his voice cracked. “feels like my brain’s… eating itself.”

your chest tightened painfully. “shoko’s coming in soon. i’ll get her—”

his hand shot out, clutching your sleeve with surprising desperation. “no. stay a sec.” he swallowed hard, throat clicking. “just… stay with me.”

you sank back into the chair, staying close enough that your knee brushed the edge of his hip.

“what can i do?”

he hesitated, like he hated the answer. “water,” he whispered finally.

you helped him sit up — or tried to. the second your arm slipped behind his back, he let out a strangled sound, half-gasp, half-whimper, immediately hiding his face in the crook of your shoulder as if that would muffle it. you froze, heart breaking cleanly in two.

he’d been in pain before — migraines, disorientation, the occasional wave of dizziness — but never like this. never so raw that he couldn’t pretend.

“hey, hey— it’s okay,” you murmured, supporting his weight. “i’ve got you.”

“shouldn’t…” he breathed shakily. “shouldn’t hurt like this.”

you bit the inside of your cheek. he’d always been the strongest person in any room — physically, spiritually, catastrophically — and watching him fold into himself like this felt wrong on some cosmic level.

you got him upright against the pillows, even though it left him trembling, teeth clenched. you offered the cup of water, but his hands shook too hard to hold it. so you brought it to his lips yourself, angling it slowly so he didn’t choke.

he drank a few sips, then leaned his head back, exhausted from just that.

“thank you,” he whispered, breath catching halfway through the words.

“you don’t have to thank me for helping you.”

“i do,” he murmured, eyes opening just a sliver — bloodshot, unfocused. “you… you shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“stop.” your voice broke on it. “don’t say that.”

his lips twitched in something that wanted to be a smile but died halfway. “i was more fun yesterday, huh?”

you set the cup down a little too hard. “shut up,” you whispered, suddenly angry in that helpless, scared way grief feels before it has a place to go. “you don’t have to be 'fun'. you don’t have to joke.”

his breathing hitched — not quite a sob, but close. “if i don’t joke,” he whispered, “i’m gonna fall apart.”

you reached for his hand.

he didn’t squeeze back.

not because he didn’t want to — because he couldn’t.

his fingers lay limp in your grasp, trembling faintly, warmth fading from them as if even holding your hand cost too much.

his eyes were half-open now, staring past you at something you couldn’t see, pupils unfocused like his energy was slipping away faster than he could pull it together.

“satoru,” you whispered urgently, brushing his hair from his damp forehead, “hey, look at me— stay with me, okay?”

he blinked slowly, clumsily, like it took effort.

“i’m here,” he murmured. “just… tired.”

tired. not the normal kind. not the stayed-up-too-late kind.

the kind that sounded final.

you cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the fever-warm skin. “i’m calling shoko.”

he shook his head — a tiny motion, barely there. “no— five minutes. please. just… not yet.”

tears pricked your eyes, hot and unwanted. “you’re in so much pain.”

“yeah, i am” he said softly, a broken little sigh. “but it's better with you here.”

you felt something inside you crack open.

he leaned into your touch again, weakly, like he barely had the strength to move but still sought your warmth. his breaths were uneven, shallow, every exhale shaking.

you could feel the tremor in his ribs each time he inhaled, like even breathing was something his body was starting to argue with.

you swallowed hard. “did you take your morphine this morning?”

he didn’t answer right away. his jaw twitched, the faintest shift. his eyelids fluttered, then lowered again like he didn’t even have the energy to lie properly.

“gojo,” you said softly, “did you take it?”

a beat.

then a tiny shake of his head.

your stomach dropped. “why not?”

that got a reaction — not a verbal one, but he stiffened just a little, shoulders tightening like a flinch. he looked away, face turning toward the wall as if he could hide inside the shadows it cast.

“i… couldn’t,” he murmured finally.

“what do you mean you couldn’t?” you pressed, keeping your voice gentle even though panic was starting to climb up your throat. “the cup was right there.”

he swallowed, throat bobbing painfully. “i couldn’t sit up.”

the words landed like a punch.

you stared at him, your hand still cupping his cheek, thumb stroking along his skin like you were afraid he’d fade if you stopped.

“why didn’t you call me?” you whispered.

nothing.

you leaned closer, trying to catch his gaze. “hey. why didn’t you call me?”

his lips parted, trembled, then pressed together again like he was trying to hold the words in. his fingers curled weakly in the blankets, fighting some invisible battle with himself.

finally, barely audible:

“i didn’t… wanna bother you.”

you blinked, staring at him because the sentence didn’t make sense. not here, not now, not after everything.

“bother me?” you echoed. “gojo— what are you talking about?”

he let out a shaky laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “i was… i was embarrassed.”

you felt your heart break — loudly, violently — right behind your ribs.

“embarrassed?” your voice cracked. “you think i'd feel burdened by you? because you needed help?”

he winced, not from pain — though there was plenty of that — but from hearing it out loud.

“i just…” he breathed, staring at the ceiling because he couldn’t look at you. “i used to be able to do everything. anything. sitting up wasn’t supposed to be—” his voice wavered, broke, “—something i need help with.”

you slid your hand down from his cheek to his shoulder, grounding him, grounding yourself. “you’re sick,” you said softly. “you’re allowed to need help.”

he shook his head again, smaller than before. “not from you.”

“why not?”

his breath hitched, and for a moment you thought he might cry — not loudly, not noticeably, but in that quiet way where someone’s entire face softens and collapses under the weight of the truth.

“because i don’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered.

you leaned closer, voice breaking right along with him. “i've already seen you like this. and i’m still here, aren't i?”

his chin trembled. he didn’t answer.

you brushed the damp hair from his forehead, fingers gentle. “you should’ve called me.”

he whispered, “i know.”

“i would’ve come right away.”

a beat. his voice came out thin, almost childlike. “i was scared you wouldn’t.”

your breath caught.

that was the first time he said something like that — the first crack in the armor that wasn’t pain, wasn’t exhaustion, but fear. real, human fear.

you slid onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him.

“i’m here,” you murmured. “i’m right here. you’re not doing any of this alone.”

his eyes finally met yours — glazed, exhausted, rimmed red — but there was something else there too. relief. shame. fragility.

“can… can you help me sit up now?” he asked, voice small.

“yeah,” you said, brushing your thumb across his cheek again. “of course i can.”

you shifted closer, slipping an arm behind his back. even that small movement made him tense, breath catching like a whimper he refused to let out. slowly, carefully, you lifted him, guiding his body upright a few inches at a time. every muscle in him shook.

“you’re okay,” you murmured. “i’ve got you.”

his fingers clutched weakly at your sleeve, more for grounding than support. you could feel how badly he was shaking — not from fear, not exactly, but from sheer exhaustion, pain threading through every nerve.

when you finally propped him against the pillows, he let out a shuddering sigh, sweat dampening his temples. you reached back to adjust them, making sure he wasn’t leaning at an angle that would strain him more.

but then he did something you weren’t expecting.

he scooted over.

slowly, inch by inch, like each movement took a whole breath to complete. he shifted closer until his shoulder brushed yours, then leaned into your side, curling into you like someone exhausted down to the soul.

you froze for a heartbeat — not because you didn’t want it, but because the gesture was so vulnerable, so unlike the gojo you used to know. the one who joked, bragged, teased—he wasn’t here. this was someone softer. smaller. hurting. trusting you anyway.

hesitating only for a moment, you lifted your hand and slid your fingers through his hair.

he exhaled — a tiny sound, almost a sigh, almost relief — and relaxed just a little against you. his head rested against your shoulder, the weight of it so light it scared you.

you kept running your hand gently through his hair, stroking the damp strands back, untangling a few knots with your fingertips. each time your nails grazed his scalp, his breathing steadied, just a bit.

he curled his legs up slightly, like folding in on himself made him hurt less, one hand clutching at the fabric of your shirt weakly. he was warm against you, but too warm — feverish.

after a long moment of silence, he spoke.

“can i… ask you something?” his voice was rough, barely above a whisper.

“of course.”

he hesitated. you felt his fingers tighten faintly, like he was bracing himself.

“do you…” he swallowed hard, breath trembling, “do you see me as… less of a man? like this?”

the question hit you straight in the heart.

you turned your head slightly, brushing your cheek against his hair as you kept stroking through the soft, messy strands.

“no,” you whispered immediately. “not even a little.”

he inhaled shakily — not quite relief, not quite disbelief, something tangled between the two.

“i feel like i should be stronger,” he murmured, his voice cracking on the last word. “i used to be… everything. untouchable. unbeatable. i don’t… i don’t know what i am now.”

you curled your arm around him more firmly, holding him so he wouldn’t have to hold himself upright.

“you’re still satoru,” you said softly. “you’re still strong. needing help doesn’t change that.”

he let out a broken breath, leaning more heavily into your side like your words had taken something unbearably heavy off his chest.

“i don’t want you to think i’m weak,” he whispered. “or pathetic.”

“i don’t,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair again. “i never will.”

your hand slipped down to cup the back of his neck, thumb brushing soothing circles. he shivered — not from pain this time, but from the softness of it. like he wasn’t used to being touched gently. like he didn’t know how to accept it without falling apart.

his voice came again, even quieter, barely there:

“thank you— thank you for not looking away.”

you turned your head, resting your cheek lightly against the top of his hair.

“nothing else is worth looking at,” you murmured.

and he curled into you just a little tighter, like he needed those words as much as the air he was struggling to breathe.

—

you didn’t sleep that night. you sat slumped in the stiff hospital chair with your head tipped back against the wall, staring at the pattern of tiny cracks in the ceiling tiles. the room smelled faintly of antiseptic and fading lavender — the little diffuser you’d snuck in weeks ago because he said it reminded him of “a nice hotel, not a deathbed.”

every so often his breathing hitched in his sleep, these tiny, stuttering noises that were almost whimpers. they slipped out before he could swallow them down, before he could turn them into a joke or a smug comment about how dramatic he was. each one struck you like a pin in the ribs.

by morning, your eyes burned, your back ached, and the gray dawn light through the blinds made everything look washed-out. but none of that mattered.

because the strongest looked worse.

so much worse.

his skin had gone a pale, waxy shade, like the color was draining out of him from the inside. the hollows beneath his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, bruised and sunken. sweat dampened the white hair at his temples, plastering a few strands to his forehead. his chest rose and fell in uneven jerks, each inhale a struggle, each exhale shaky enough to make your own breath catch.

you could tell right away — before you even touched him — that something had shifted overnight. something irreversible.

“satoru?” you whispered, barely breathing the name.

at first he didn’t respond. his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, like he wasn’t sure whether he was awake or dreaming. you reached out slowly, your fingertips brushing the back of his hand.

he flinched.

so faintly you almost missed it, but it was there — a startled, fragile twitch, like your touch was too much sensation for a body too close to shutting down.

“hey,” you murmured, scooting closer. “what’s wrong?”

he blinked. once. twice. each one slow, delayed, like his brain had to send the command twice.

when he finally turned his head toward you, it was sluggish, as if gravity itself had grown heavier.

his mouth opened a little. no words came out. he swallowed and tried again.

“i was gonna tell you something important,” he said, a weak, confused sound. “i— i forgot.”

it froze you.

it froze everything.

because even exhausted, even when his pain split his skull open, he never lost words. he lived in words — cocky quips, teasing insults, dramatic declarations. his mouth ran even when his body failed.

but now, lying there lost and blinking slowly at you, he wasn’t gojo satoru — strongest sorcerer in the world, living embodiment of arrogance and charm.

he was a scared young man who couldn’t remember what he was trying to say.

“okay,” you whispered. “it’s okay. just breathe for me.”

he tried. god, he tried. his chest rose but trembled, like the simple act of pulling in air was something he had to fight for. you shifted closer, adjusting the pillows behind him to lift him a little. his body moved like a ragdoll — light, limp, frighteningly easy to guide.

when his eyes finally met yours again, they were glassy. too bright. too wet.

“hey,” he mumbled. “is it time?”

everything dropped out under you.

the air. the room. your heartbeat.

it all fell silent for one excruciating second.

he’d never asked that. not once. he’d joked about it, teased you about worrying too much, shrugged off shoko’s stern lectures. but now he asked it with this raw fear, this quiet, helpless confusion that made your stomach twist.

you opened your mouth, desperate to say no, to soothe him—

but no sound came out.

and he saw that.

his expression shattered slowly, piece by piece, like glass cracking under pressure.

“it is, isn't it?” he whispered.

your throat closed so tight you couldn’t breathe. you shook your head too fast, too hard, your tears spilling immediately, hot and stinging. your vision blurred, but you kept looking at him because he needed you to.

“no— satoru, just— just wait, okay? don’t— don’t jump to conclusions—”

“hey,” he breathed, voice trembling with fatigue. “don’t lie. i can… i can feel it.”

he tried to lift his hand toward you. it barely moved more than an inch before dropping again. you grabbed it instantly, wrapping both hands around his, trying to infuse warmth into fingers that were frighteningly cold.

you wanted to be strong. to be calm.

but the panic surged too fast, too violently, clawing up your chest.

his breathing grew erratic, shallow. his gaze kept drifting to the side, losing focus. every few seconds he tried to form a word and failed — the syllables falling apart halfway, dissolving on his tongue.

“satoru,” you whispered, voice cracking. “stay with me. hey— stop! look at me. please.”

but he couldn’t.

his head rolled slightly, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth slack with confusion. you squeezed his hand harder, your tears dripping onto his sheets. each second felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

“please!” you cried, the word barely a sound. “don’t go yet.”

he blinked, slow and delayed.

then he tried to smile.

it was faint. broken. but it was him. still him.

you turned away.

“hey,” he murmured. “don’t… look away from me. please. i wanna… wanna see your pretty face.”

that shattered you.

your breath stuttered violently. you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing the cold skin just beneath his eye. he leaned into it — weakly, barely perceptible, but he did.

“good,” he sighed, his voice a thin thread. “there you are.”

he was slipping.

you felt it in the way his chest rose slower, in the way his fingers twitched but couldn’t close around yours anymore. every time you blinked, he looked softer, more unfocused.

“i… i was saying something, right?” he murmured, the fog swallowing half the words.

your heart pounded so loudly it hurt.

“okay,” you whispered. “try. i’m right here.”

he swallowed with difficulty.

“i was saying… that…”

his gaze drifted. his face slackened.

he blinked, looking at nothing.

you watched his mind lose the thread.

“i can't,” he whispered, ashamed.

you covered your mouth with one hand, trying not to break completely.

“it’s okay,” you sobbed softly. “it’s okay, satoru.”

his breath hitched.

and then — just for one heartbeat — his eyes cleared.

"i need to tell you this before i forget how to say it"

crystal blue. sharp. bright. unmistakably him.

and he said it:

“i love you.”

you collapsed forward, the sound you made nothing short of broken. he smiled, tiny and soft, like the confession relieved him of a weight he’d been carrying for too long.

you touched your forehead to his, your tears sliding onto his cheek. his breathing was collapsing inward now, weak and uneven, every inhale thinner than the last.

“i love you,” you whispered back, desperate. “i love you so much, please— p-please stay, please don’t—”

but he was already fading.

his eyes drifted. his hand slipped from yours, fingers falling limp. his breathing slowed to something fragile and irregular, like a candle flickering in its last seconds.

“satoru?” you whispered, voice shaking. “hey. hey— look at me—”

he looked one last time.

one slow blink.

one small, peaceful smile.

his chest lifted. once, twice, then it fell.

and it didn't rise again.

the silence that followed was unbearable.

your brain couldn’t wrap around it. it sat there in the space between you like something obscene, something unholy. your hand was still cradling his cheek. his forehead was still touching yours. your tears were still sliding down onto his skin.

but he wasn’t breathing.

your body knew it before your mind did. something primal inside you recoiled, screamed, twisted — but everything in your head went eerily, horribly blank.

you didn’t move.

you didn’t breathe.

you just stared at him.

at his half-closed eyes, still aimed in your direction but empty now. at the faint hint of a smile still on his lips, as if he’d slipped away mid-sigh. at the way his chest stayed still, stubbornly still, despite every instinct telling you it had to rise again.

it didn’t.

you didn’t know how long you stayed like that — seconds, minutes, a lifetime — before the door burst open.

“we got an alarm spike—!”

shoko’s voice hit you like it was underwater, muffled and distant. then more footsteps, louder, clattering equipment, the curtain being yanked aside, voices overlapping:

“get oxygen—” “he’s unresponsive—” “pulse?” “nothing—” “start compressions—” “move the volunteer out of the— wait—”

someone touched your shoulder.

you didn’t feel it.

your mind was trapped in this strange slow-motion loop, reliving the last second of his life over and over again — the way his eyes softened, the way his smile sagged, the way his chest fell and never rose again. time didn’t feel real. your body didn’t feel real.

a pair of hands grabbed your arms, trying to pull you back.

you didn’t resist. you didn’t help either. you were a statue they had to drag away, your limbs stiff, your gaze glued to the bed.

they moved you aside, but your eyes never left him. not even when someone stepped in front of you — you just shifted enough to keep him in view.

they laid him flat on the bed. his head lolled a little with the movement, and that — that tiny motion — made something inside you wrench violently. you wanted to scream at them to be gentle, he was fragile, he was hurting, he—

but your throat didn’t work.

you watched shoko climb onto the stool beside him, her face set, her eyes sharp, her hands steady.

you watched her lace her fingers together and place them over his sternum.

and then she started cpr.

hard. forceful. the sound of her compressions was awful — this sickening rhythmic thump of bone and muscle and skin being pushed down, over and over. his body jerked with every push, arms shifting, hair bouncing.

you felt nauseous.

the room swarmed with motion — machines beeping, nurses shouting vitals, someone tearing open an iv packet, another preparing a defib pad — but it all blurred together into meaningless color and noise. none of it touched you.

you just kept staring.

you couldn’t recognize him now — not the way he moved under their hands. he looked like a body. like something separate from the warmth you’d held only minutes ago.

your vision tunneled. all the edges of the world faded out.

someone knelt in front of you, saying your name with urgency, trying to get you to respond. but they sounded far away, like they were shouting to you from across a canyon.

you blinked once. slowly.

your eyes burned. your chest felt tight, too tight. your heartbeat thudded painfully against your ribs, a frantic drum that didn’t match the lifeless stillness you were seeing.

and still — you didn’t move.

you just watched.

watched shoko push and push and push, her jaw clenched, sweat forming at her brow. watched the nurses switch out, taking turns, their movements frantic.

watched the defibrillator paddles press against his chest, jolting his whole body off the mattress in a violent, horrifying jerk.

you didn’t flinch. not did you blink.

you just watched.

time lost all shape. your ears rang. the air felt thick like syrup. your hands tingled uselessly in your lap.

then — suddenly — everything stopped.

the movements. the shouting. even the rhythmic thump of compressions.

shoko slowed, her arms trembling slightly, then pulled back. she stared down at the body beneath her hands. her shoulders rose and fell with one long exhale.

“time of death…” she whispered, voice cracking at the edges as she spoke the words you weren’t supposed to hear.

your stomach dropped. not sharply — more like you were freefalling in slow motion, the ground disappearing beneath you without warning.

a nurse hesitated, glancing at you.

shoko didn’t look up. her voice was barely audible as she repeated it.

someone in the room sighed. someone else quietly stepped back. the beeping machines were turned off one by one until only the harsh fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

you stayed frozen in time.

your mind was empty and full at the same time — blank, but screaming somewhere distant, like the part of you that felt anything had been shoved behind thick glass.

his body lay still on the bed, his hair mussed, the sheets wrinkled beneath him, his skin already losing heat.

you watched the last spark of your world extinguish in real time.

and you didn’t move.

—

you’d been dodging room 307 like it was cursed.

for three whole weeks, you took the long way around the ward, pretended you suddenly cared about taking the stairs, ducked into supply closets just to avoid walking past that door. even shoko noticed — she cornered you one morning, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and told you therapy wasn’t optional anymore. you didn’t argue. you didn’t have it in you.

slowly — painfully slowly — you’d started to feel like a person again. you were sleeping a little more, eating a little more, breathing without it hurting so sharply in your chest. but room 307 was still a black hole you orbited in wide, terrified circles. you couldn’t look at it without feeling your heartbeat stutter, couldn’t imagine stepping inside without your stomach twisting.

you eventually went back because shoko said you had to — because two weeks of sitting in a chair and answering questions about crying in public had to mean something — but also because the avoidance was getting loud in your bones. therapy helped in small, practical ways — grounding exercises, naming things in the room until the room was just furniture again — but grief kept its own stubborn hours.

the hallway to room 307 smelled like bleach and nothing else. when you pushed the door open you expected it to be an obliterating museum of him — his mug, his blanket, a thousand little objects clinging to presence — but instead it was skeletal. the bed was made with hospital efficiency, a pillow plumped like someone had tried to fold air into a shape. the tv was off. the magazine rack sat empty. his blindfold was gone, his chair tucked under the tray table like it hadn’t been sat in for years. the diffuser you’d hidden? not there. even the sticky ring where the cake box had sat was gone; someone had cleaned it like you’d never been there at all.

it felt like the room had held its breath and then exhaled without you.

you walked the perimeter slowly because you were afraid to break anything — not furniture, not a glass, but the illusion that something of him might still be anchored here. the tile floor was cool under your shoes; the fluorescent light hummed a thin, insulting hum. you ran your fingertips along the bedside rail out of habit and found nothing but metal.

then your foot hit an edge. a tile — one of the square floor tiles near the bed — was slightly uneven, a hairline difference that made you stop. you crouched, knees protesting, and pressed at it. it gave with a small, private click, sliding up like it had been waiting for you to notice.

underneath, folded into the dark of the cavity, was an envelope. plain manila. your name written across it in a hand that made your throat seize before you could decide if it was cruel or merciful.

you sat back on your heels and stared at it for a ridiculous amount of time. your fingers trembled when you reached for it, because anything you touched that had his handwriting felt like stealing. you turned it over, checked for a stamp or a date — nothing. the flap was tucked in like someone had been careful to keep a secret clean.

you slid a fingernail under the flap and opened it.

the blindfold hit you first.

soft, worn, familiar — the fabric he always joked about (“my designer eyewear”) now folded neatly beneath the tile with the paper tucked inside it. your breath caught as you lifted it, fingers curling into the cloth. it still smelled faintly like him, that warm, subtle scent you’d pressed your face into more times than you could count.

the letter inside was creased, edges bent, the handwriting… oh god. it was bad. jagged. uneven. letters tipped sideways like they were trying to lie down and rest too.

he’d tried so hard to write this.

the paper smelled faintly of his shampoo — the scent of mint and something you could have sworn had been there since that first ridiculous night with the cake. his writing spilled across the page, messy in that same confident scrawl he used when he was being performative, the loop on his g’s insistently extravagant. you read and then read again, because your brain kept refusing to accept the pile of words in front of you.

"if you’re reading this… it means i’m gone. i’ve gone back and forth on whether leaving a letter would make things better or worse for you, but in the end… i couldn’t leave without saying what i never had the strength to say out loud. i’m sorry. for all of it. for leaving you with this weight. for making you open a goodbye instead of hearing one.

my handwriting is awful — that’s the one joke i get — but i needed to write this even if every line shakes and smudges. i wanted something of me to stay behind, something you could hold without it hurting the way my body did.

i keep trying to figure out where to begin. maybe with thank you. you don’t know how much you gave me, just by sitting beside me, just by talking to me like i wasn’t dying. you made the hours feel less sharp. you held me like i still had a future, even when we both knew i didn’t. you were gentle with me when i’d forgotten what gentleness even felt like.

i know it wasn’t easy. watching me fall apart piece by piece… i saw it in your eyes, even when you tried to hide it. i saw the fear. the grief. the anger at how unfair everything was. i’m sorry you had to see me like that. i’m sorry you had to carry the version of me that was more pain than person.

but you stayed. even when i told you not to. even when i tried to joke my way out of scaring you. you stayed. that… meant more than i ever said. more than i ever could say while i was still here.

there’s something i never told you, and i hate that i’m telling you now, like this. i wish we’d met sooner. before all the breaking. before the countdown. before every moment between us became something we had to savor because we didn’t know how many were left. i wish we’d had time. real time. the kind where we could’ve been in love without the terror of losing it before it even had a chance.

i think about it a lot — what we could’ve been if i had more months, more years, more anything. maybe we would’ve lived somewhere quiet. maybe i would’ve learned to cook something that didn’t burn. maybe i would’ve woken up beside you instead of in a hospital bed. maybe i wouldn’t have been so afraid to want those things if i wasn’t already dying.

you made me imagine a future i had no right wanting. and even if that hurts now, even if that tears you apart, i’m grateful you existed long enough in my life to make me dream of it.

i’m sorry the end was messy. i’m sorry i scared you. i’m sorry you had to see me go. i didn’t want that for you. i hope someday the memory softens, even a little. i hope you remember me before the shaking, before the forgetting, before the pain made me someone smaller than who i really was.

remember the way i looked at you — that was real. even when everything else was slipping away, that was real.

i love you. i need you to know that. i need you to never doubt it, even on the days when remembering hurts too much to breathe. i love you in ways i didn’t understand until the end. i love you in ways i didn’t get enough time to show you. if i had been granted more time, every second would’ve been yours.

please take care of yourself. please don’t carry me like a wound forever. you deserve mornings that don’t ache. you deserve nights that don’t hollow you out. you deserve a life that keeps going, not one that stops because mine did.

if you ever think of me, i hope it’s in a way that doesn’t hurt. i hope it’s in a way that warms you instead of breaking you. i hope you remember that even at my weakest, even as everything inside me was failing — i was never alone because you were there.

i’m glad it was you. right until the very end, it was you."

your hands trembled so hard the paper blurred. his voice — the cadence of his line breaks, the way he undercut a heart with a joke — was exactly him. absurdity wrapped around confession. he’d left you a map that was both practical and mischievous, like him trying to keep caring for you even when he couldn’t bend the world to his will.

you read it again because the sentence about the sunrise made your chest split in a new way every time. the instruction to keep the cake container felt like permission to hoard something silly and alive against the sterile civilization of the hospital. the “don’t be perfect” line hit with the force of a command you didn’t know you needed.

you curled the letter to your chest until it wrinkled. your body finally broke when the first full-bodied sob hit — a real, wet thing that left you shaking and empty. you didn’t notice when the nurse knocked and stepped in, a soft, awkward pause at the door, because your whole world had narrowed to that single sheet of paper and the taste of mint that clung to it.

someone offered you a box of tissues and you took it without looking up. shoko arrived a second later, quiet, her arms folded like she was bracing for impact. she crouched beside you, wordless, and for once there were no medical terms, no protocols — just the two of you and the letter you’d uncovered under a tile.

you unfolded it again, reading aloud because your voice needed to fill the room with him. and each line was both a wound and a salve: a joke to make you breathe, a command to keep living, a confession you hadn’t been given in time.

when you read the last line, you pressed the paper to your lips and made a promise into the mess of sniffles and whispered words.

outside, the hospital lights hummed the same indifferent tune. under the tile, a piece of him had waited to be found. you tucked the letter into your jacket, close to your heart, because a thing written by his hand felt like a small, stubborn anchor. you stood up slowly, fingers white against the paper, and for the first time since the day he died, you felt like you could walk out of room 307 without tripping over silence.

you left the tile slightly askew. some things, you realized, were better with a little gap — a place to slide memories into when the world felt too whole without him.

You jolt.

“Oh!”

A man in a white lab coat and slacks sits at a desk. He has luscious blond hair, glasses, and a face as stoic as a speculum. You’re taken aback by his handsomeness. Broad shoulders, defined features, chiselled face, and great height. How is it possible that he’s a doctor and not a Breeder?

The demand for his superior genetics would be through the roof. 

“H-hi, doctor. Forgive me, I didn’t see you.”

You’re grateful to be paired with someone young and attractive. One of your neighbours had an old man who she claimed should have retired decades ago. It’s a blessing to have nice eye candy.

As though he knows exactly what you’re thinking, he purses his lips. “It’s quite alright.” Then he jerks his chin, encouraging you to step in and close the door behind you. “I’m Doctor Kento Nanami, you may call me Doctor or Nanami or the two combined.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

His eyes meet yours. One glance up and down your body is all he needs, and he’s returning to his papers. 

Scribbling notes down on a pad, your eyes focus on the slenderness of his fingers and their length. Is he gentle or clinical in his approach?

Your older friend had a very gentle one and she said the process felt quite relaxing, almost therapeutic. Meanwhile, your other friend remarked how cold and unfeeling her doctor was, and that she was on edge the entire time. And another one of your friends said hers was actually rather rough, like a father scolding a child!

Which would you prefer, you wonder.

Doctor Nanami asks, “You have been informed about the due process, yes?”

The State mandated broadcasts are your bread and butter as a young woman; there’s no way you could forget the procedure. For the longest time, you’d been dreaming of this moment and finally it’s here. You won’t mess it up. 

“Yes, of course — I must strip all of my clothes, lie on the chair, and place my feet on the stirrups,” you recite, cheerfully. 

He raises a brow at you. 

Somehow you’re getting the impression that he’s not very impressed with your enthusiasm. Maybe it’s because he’s been doing this for so long. Maybe he’s seen it all, and more, and he’s just looking forward to getting it over and done with. Or maybe he just really doesn’t like you. 

Regardless, you’re undeterred. 

Humming under your breath, you shrug off your clothes and fold them on the table to the side, like you’ve seen in  the videos. It’s cold here, and you fight the shivers threatening to wrack your body. 

As an aspiring Female Breeder, nudity is something you’ve had to grow familiar and comfortable with but now that you’re faced with your first time being nude in front of the opposite gender, it feels a little too daunting. 

Heat flushes on your skin, embarrassment coursing through your veins, although one shy glance at him reveals he isn’t looking at you at all. 

Are you disappointed or relieved?

The nurses had thoroughly cleansed and prepped your body — you’re washed, exfoliated, and waxed from head to toe. You’ve never felt cleaner and softer, like a newborn baby. 

You climb onto the chair, the protective paper crinkling beneath you, and spread your legs. It faces him entirely, and you have to rationalise with yourself that he’s probably seen a thousand vaginas in his life and he won’t think yours look weird at all.

Bright, white light shines down upon you, and you squint at its blinding capacity. Then, you hear him put his pen down, and push his chair back.

“Alright, I will begin the examination now.” 

Craning to see him, you watch him roll his sleeves up revealing the thickness of his forearms, the light hairs, and the prominent veins that run up the length and bulge with his movement. Doctor Nanami snaps latex gloves on with expert precision, a rehearsed move that’s become a habit. 

He carries a clipboard and a pen, and he comes to stand over you, eyes roving over your body. 

“I’ll be making notes for your record, please don’t mind me,” he mutters, adjusting his glasses. 

You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze; it’s like you can feel the weight of his all-seeing eyes and where they land, where they skim, where they narrow in on, and where they return to. Does he find you attractive? If he saw you in the streets, would he be overcome with the need to breed you, hard and rough on the dirty ground?

“Forgive my touch,” Doctor Nanami says, reaching a hand down to press three fingers on the fat of your breast. He watches it bounce, and notes down his thoughts. “Your areolas seem to be quite average in size, neither too small nor too large per regulations. Its shade is also of interest.”

No one’s ever voiced out their assessment of your body like so. He’s so blunt, so matter-of-fact. Yet, you find that you don’t really mind it. It’s much better than the crude lies boys tell you. Many have tried to get under your skirt but you never let them. You vowed that your first time being touched would be by a respectable man who would accurately know your worth. And who would be better than someone whose whole occupation is dedicated to determining the worth of Breeders?

Doctor Nanami asks, “Do you touch your breasts?”

“Um, touch as in…”

He looks at you over the clipboard. “Do you play with your breasts? Do you squeeze them, grope them, tease your nipples, have you determined their sensitivity?”

“No…sorry.”

The State encourages you all to explore their bodies, to know your likes and dislikes as appropriate, but you never did. It seemed too scary for you. Virgins are not seen as especially good nor particularly bad in today’s climate. In fact, experience and skill is more valuable. That’s why you were hoping you could just leave it to the experts, when it came down to ‘getting down.’ At least then, they wouldn’t accidentally break something, like you fear you would.

Shaking his head, he says, “It’s nothing to apologise for. It simply means I will have to determine for myself.” He flicks to a different page on his clipboard and signs something. “Do you consent?”

“I consent.”

Board placed down on a metal table, he leaves both hands free. 

You gulp as they approach your breasts.

A finger brushes lightly against the underside. You stiffen. It ventures up, circling your nipple but not touching just yet. Voice deep, he asks, “You know the breeding term for your breasts, yes?”

Suddenly feeling like you’re back in school, you answer, “Tits, sir— sorry, I mean, Doctor.”

His lip twitches. “That’s quite alright.”

His finger flicks your nipple, the bud already hard due to the chill of the examination room. You gasp. 

Doctor Nanami nods, and does the same to the other. Now, both of your breasts are being groped. You writhe beneath him. “You have above average sensitivity,” he notes. “Are you partial to the sting of pain?”

“I-I don’t know,” you confess, distracted by the sensation of your nipples being flicked and rolled by latex-covered fingers. 

“Well, let’s see, shall we?” That’s all the warning he gives you before he pinches both nipples hard. You wince, body ever so slightly jerking away from his merciless touch. The doctor hums. “It does not appear to be your thing. I’ll have to conduct more tests to determine for sure you do not have masochistic traits.”

Quietly and with a drop of fright, you ask, “Tests? What kind of tests?”

He presses a button on the chair, and the top half of your body is lowered down until your eyes are at his crotch level. You avert your eyes. 

“Full-body tests. As per your records, you are a virgin and with little to no sexual exploration of yourself, correct?” He waits for your nod. He continues. “It means there is much information about you the State will be missing. It is my duty to fill in those blanks. You may revoke your consent now, but do be aware that you will have to rebook, and there is a backlog, so you may have to wait months before gaining your certification.”

You shake your head. “No, no, I don’t want to wait. You’re free to do whatever you’d like with me, Doctor.”

“Careful,” he rasps. “Those are Breeding words, Miss, and you are aware that, as per regulations, upon your consent to please, I have every right to take you up on that offer.”

Licking your lips, you allow yourself to eye the bulge that’s steadily growing in his slacks. Heat rushes to your pussy. You hadn’t meant to say those words, especially because you’re not yet qualified to do so, but you’re only one step away and, S.M.S.E. (State Mandated Sexual Examiners) have the privilege of being able to examine anyone they’d like — women who are not yet 21 but are at least 18, already married women, mothers, strangers on the street who wear the yellow pin to show they’re certified to fornicate in public. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to learn all about yourself before you step out into the wider world a real woman. 

Plus, it’d be nice if your first time could be taken by someone as hot as him.

“I’d like a full body examination please, Doctor. I understand the implications of my word and consent to leaving my body to your full scrutiny,” you recite the prepared speech. “Please take care of me.”

Doctor Nanami sighs and picks up the clipboard. He signs another random page and hands it over to you. The page is titled ‘Virginity Removal Consent Form.’

At the bottom line, you sign too. 

The dull thud of it placed back on the table signifies the finality of the contract. 

Your heart beats faster, palms sweating, and core tingling to life.

“Alright, let’s start with your vagina.” 

He drags his chair over to where your legs are spread on the stirrups, and sits there. You know he can see everything, and you know he’s properly looking now. You hope he’s not weirded out by how wet you are. His gloved hands rests on your knees, sliding down your inner thighs, rubbing warmth there, before they push them wider. 

“Do you know the correct term for your vagina?”

“P-pussy,” you answer.

He nods, patting your thigh. “Good. Will you describe for me what I’m doing right now?”

“You’re looking at my pussy, Doctor.”

His fingers stroke your puffy lips, assessing the shape, size and colour, you’re sure. He spreads them open then, revealing you fully to his watchful eyes. “And now?”

“You’re spreading my pussy lips open, Doctor.”

“And if I have an erection in my pants, it means?”

You’re breathless at the question, and you’re aware that, at the twitch of his lips, he saw the twitch of your clit. You want to hide from him, but you can’t. And he wouldn’t let you. Despite your nervousness, you reply, “It means you like what you see?”

“And if my mouth is watering?”

A gasp tears out of you. 

Countless videos have prepared you for your lines, but they’ve never prepared you for the real thing, never prepped you to be so openly desired by someone older and more experienced. How can he so easily say something like that? Doesn’t he know the effect he has on women?

His voice is so deep, so raspy, and his touch is warm despite the layer that keeps him from really touching you. Having such a hot doctor wasn’t a blessing, you realise; it’s a curse.

SMACK!

You yelp, thighs shutting around his hand. He’d slapped your pussy. 

Growling, he shoves them back open and says, “I will repeat myself once, and only once — what does it mean if my mouth waters at the sight of your pretty pussy?”

“You want to taste it.”

Doctor Nanami’s breath fans across your sopping cunt. His hands tuuuuug you down so you’re even closer to his face. He doesn’t touch you there yet. No, he’s taking his time. First, he tests you again. “What’s this action called, hmm?”

“C-cunnilingus?”

“Are you asking or telling me?”

His curt tone leaves no room for argument; he’s not the kind of man who’s playful during sex, or even before nor after, it seems. 

Eager to feel his mouth on you, to know what it feels like to be eaten out, to know for yourself if it feels as good as the couple you always see on the park bench on your way to school makes it seem, you whine, “Telling you, sir. Please taste me, please, Doctor.”

The scruff on his jaw rubs your inner thigh as he mutters, “You must be top in your class in Begging 101.”

Then, he’s tasting you.

A lap of his long, flat tongue covers your entire slit from hole to clit. He collects your wetness and gulps it down. Doctor Nanami mulls the taste over and says aloud, “Sweet. A 9.2 out of 10. I can tell you keep a healthy diet. Very good.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You feel his smile on your clit, lips mouthing against the pulsing thing. “Such a polite girl you are. You’ll make for a very good Breeder.”

That’s all you’ve ever wanted — to be taken so readily in the streets, to be watched as you’re fucked so good by a big, strong man who only wants to pump his cum inside your pussy, and be stretched out enough for another to slip in easily. You want to make your country proud.

Doctor Nanami laps up your juices precisely. 

He doesn’t hesitate to circle the rim of your other hole too, if an errant drop were to escape him. In fact, he lingers there for a moment, waiting until you’re absolutely squirming and whimpering for it. 

His tongue flicks your clit over and over again, sucking on the bud so you’ll hear the squelches! and feel the incredible pleasure of being eaten out by a pro.

Your hips rock towards his face, seeking the friction. The doctor’s gorging himself on your creamy juices, tasting you as if you’re just so delicious, so intoxicating. Tongue lashing through your cunt, he slithers it through, all while massaging your ass, kneading the flesh to comfort you.

He’s paying so much attention on your clit, it has you panting like a dog, and fighting to scramble away from him. “Ngh! Not there, please doctor.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” he scolds, yanking you back, and slapping your clit in punishment. You squeal. “The clitoris is where you’ll feel the most pleasure. Do not run from it.”

Squirming and blubbering, you confess, “It feels too scary.”

“Then I highly recommend you rub your little clit when you get home until you’re cumming all over your sheets. Grow very familiar with your pussy. I don’t want any arguments about it. You think a Breeder would go easy on your cunt?”

Of course the answer is no. You’ve seen from demonstrations in your college how relentless and cruel dominant Breeders can be — they’ll have you crying and begging and saying things you’d never say in any other situation. And by god, were you always so jealous. Like the other girls, you’d squeeze your thighs, soaking through your panties when piercing eyes would land on you, and scarred lips would curl into a smirk, as though vowing it’d be you next.

Delirious with the roughness of his slurrrping!, you can only nod and promise, “I will. I’ll rub my clit so hard later, Doctor.”

“Good girl.”

A dollop of spit lands with a thwack! right on your clit, sliding down your slit and mingling with your sloppy juices. Two fingers rub it in. He holds up his soaked hand, spreading the long digits to show you the translucent web it creates. Almost monotone, he quizzes you again, “What is the purpose of your pussy juices?”

“Lubrication.”

“Lubrication of what.”

“Of anything you want to put inside me, Doctor,” you mewl.

Doctor Nanami nods, pleased. “Clever girl. Most women answer with ‘cock’ or ‘fingers’ but the accurate answer is, the lubrication is to ease the entry of anything. Of course, there are a number of things you should not penetrate a pussy with, but in theory, anything goes. Now, relax for me.”

He pushes those two fingers in, pinning your hips with a heavy arm thrown over your belly so you can’t run away from the pressure.

They stretch you out, immediately curling upwards and finding that spot inside your gummy walls the broadcasts taught you was called a ‘g-spot’. It has you creaming even more on his fingers. 

The feeling of latex against soft skin is odd, though it doesn’t bother you. It’s not a very thick material at all. You can still feel the callouses on his fingers, albeit weakly. Still, you wish you could feel him bare.

A thumb rubs your clit in tight circles, all while his fingers press in from inside, thoroughly stimulating all around and you feel it building and building. The doctor clamps his mouth over your clit, resistant to shoving hands.

“S-shit, I think I’m going to pee!”

“No,” he says, dragging the word out like you’re a child. “It’s not pee. You know what it is. Say it.”

Your cunt clenches around him. “Cum! Doctor, I’m gonna cum.”

“Yes, yes you are. But you must hold it.”

Eyes widening, you stare down at him, bewildered. “No, I can’t. I can’t hold it in!”

His cold eyes pin you to the chair, and with challenge in those eyes, he doubles the speed and intensity in which he’s sucking your clit and curling against your g-spot. “You can, and you will. Do not come until I count to one, do you hear me?”

A strong wrist pistons his fingers in, never missing that sensitive spot inside you, never breaking eye contact and never letting your clit get a second to rest.

“Three,” he says.

The obscene squelches he’s wringing from you reach your ears, filling the room, and you have to wonder if anyone could hear what’s happening here from outside. They’d probably be so jealous, waiting for their turn. 

“Two.”

They’re imagining your lewd body played mercilessly by Doctor Nanami, and be incapable of deciding who they wanted to be more. 

You being fingered to your first proper orgasm or him, having the honour.

“One.”

You cum with a scream. Hot juices spring out of you, splashing and coating his arm and labcoat with the liquid. As the State recommends, he guzzles down as much of your cum as he can, even as it dribbles down his chin. Your whole body spasms. 

You’ve had orgasms before — accidentally realising you can feel good from humping your teddy bear in your bed, sitting on the washing machine as it was running, riding the crease of your jeans — but they’ve been weak in comparison to this.

The convulsions eventually slow. He gives your pulsing cunt a few final licks. 

Limp, you lie there, panting from the remnants of a mindmelting cum.

Doctor Nanami pats your pussy, and leisurely strolls over to the other end. “Well done. You did well. It’s a good sign that you can squirt so easily. 60% of Breeders value that in their partners; you’ll be quite a popular thing.”

His wet, gloved fingers drag over your naked body, circling your clit for the last time, climbing up your belly, the valley between your breasts, flicking a nipple and making it glisten with your spend, before finally arriving at your mouth.

He smears your own juices across your lips, humming with approval when you lick his fingers clean.

Soon, he rips his gloves off and a second later, cold, calloused hands are rubbing your cheek. Looming over you, he pulls your bottom lip down to watch it bounce back in place, and says, “Open wide for me, dear.”

Shining a flashlight pen inside your mouth, he inspects that part of you too. Satisfied, he stands up, and begins to unbuckle his belt. The sound of leather scraping and metal clinking has your thighs clenching tight together, feet no longer on the stirrups. 

His cock is freed and your mouth drools at the size. 

It’s bigger than the average penises they show on the broadcasts, in the school textbooks and live performances. Long, clean, thick, with two veins leading up to a pretty, pink tip. A Grade 1 cock for sure! 

Doctor Nanami taps the cockhead at your lips, and like the videos you’ve watched, you stretch your lips out into as big of an O as you can and readily swallow him in. You’ve practiced on dildos before, and even cucumbers, but none of your past experiences can compare to the feel of an actual cock.

The heat, the ridges, the salty taste of skin and pre…

It’s quite wonderful.

“No teeth,” he warns. “It will not reflect well on your record if you cannot blow a man properly.”

“I understand, Doctor.”

You shut your eyes tight, focusing on not gagging and throwing up all over him, like the textbooks warned against. To his credit, he’s going slowly, not shoving it all in one go. It’s an odd gentleness that contrasts with his usual harshness.

And when he’s about halfway in, he pulls out just enough to keep his tip inside your mouth, and inches back inside. Your hands clench into fists.

“Breathe through your nose,” he advises. “As soon as you are -hah- certified, there will be men wanting to take –mm, what a tight little mouth– t-take advantage of you. Be sure you warn them ahead of time you’re new and should not be deepthroated so casually, yes?”

You try to answer, but it comes out muffled, and when he groans, you realise maybe that was his intention all along. 

Doctor Nanami cradles your neck. His thumb runs up and down the column of your throat, and you know he must be admiring the bulge of his cock. “I have no doubt you’ll be a Special Grade whore very soon.”

A couple seconds later, he pulls out again. 

He doesn’t thrust back in. 

Instead, he keeps his tip inside and says, “Lick it, sweetheart. Around, and on the slit. Slow but firm, that’s how I like it.”

You do as he says — you tongue his slit, digging the tip of your tongue inside and swallowing the salty taste he leaks out. The doctor grunts, clamping down on his base, and then he’s pulling away completely.

It wasn’t the most comfortable experience, but you have to admit, there’s something rather addictive about having your mouth preoccupied. 

Back between your legs, he stands, tugging on his still-hard cock. It’s leaking precum and you almost want to lick it up again. 

Doctor Nanami drops his heavy cock right onto your pussy, and your sticky juices grab on immediately. Back and forth, he begins sawing your cunt, drawing back so that his tip will nudge against your clit on his way up. Each thrust of his hip has you gasping and moaning. 

“What do you call this act?”

He’s testing you again, and you don’t want to disappoint, so you answer, “Outercourse, sir. Or, pussyjob.”

“Good.”

Holding his cock down with a thumb, he makes sure the pressure and friction is just right. The squelches are coming back, so loud and so wet. He doesn’t make fun of you, doesn’t point out that you’re acting like a bitch in heat, he simply rubs his cock between your lips over and over again, until he’s smearing his pre on your lower belly.

Oh god, it’s so hot. His cock’s scalding against your pussy. You can’t believe you had to wait so long to be fucked.

The back of your knees are held. He pushes them back so that they’re grazing your chest. The position is uncomfortable, muscles creaking in complaint, and what’s more uncomfortable is the fact that he can see everything more clearly like this, even the puckering of your asshole.

“You will be bent in all sorts of positions,” he muses. “This is a personal favourite of mine, and soon you’ll have your own.”

That makes you smile. 

You wonder what position men will put you in most, and which you’ll find the most pleasurable. Maybe doggy, since men love it so much. Maybe missionary because you can stare into your partner’s eyes and know that they’re rolling to the back of their heads. Maybe you’ll love all of them equally.

“Show me why it’s your favourite, Doctor. I want to feel you.”

Doctor Nanami leans forward, stretching your legs out even more, until his nose skims yours. “Open,” he huskily mutters. And when you do, his spit lands on your tongue. You swallow it down with a moan. “What a good girl you are. It’d be my honour to be your first. I promise to make you feel very good. Hold on to my arms, if you need. It might sting a little.”

His fat cock prods your opening. He inspects your face for hesitation, and when he finds none, only the eager drool of a whore ready for cock, he pushes in.

A whine leaves your lips.

“Mm fuck! It’s too big!”

Tutting, he doesn’t stop. “Breeders don’t complain. Breeders are grateful to be fucked by big cocks, yes?”

Tears in your eyes, you peer up at him, panting and feeling like you might pass out. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I -ngh- really don’t think I can take it.”

He shakes his head. “You can. You can absolutely take it. Be a good girl, won’t you? Breathe and relax this pussy for me. Just bear with it for another second, and soon you’ll be begging for more.”

The doctor’s stretching you out so wide, spearing you whole with his cock, that you think he might break you. But you have to trust him. He wants the best for you. With no other choice, you have to cling onto his strong arms, digging your nails for purchase.

Soon, he bottoms out. His pelvis presses against your clit. Absentmindedly, your hips grind in circles, aching for friction there. 

“I’m going to start moving now. If you need to cum, you will tell me and ask for permission. Repeat it.”

“If I need to -hah- cum, I’ll ask for permission."

Doctor Nanami starts slowly, rutting his cock an inch at first, then two, then three, and soon he’s building up a clinical pace. His rhythm is consistent, unwavering, and it’s just what you need. 

The pain disappears, and you have to think hard to remember if it even existed at all.

Just like he said, you begin feeling good. Too good. 

Wantonly, you start moaning. Like something’s been awakened in you, you fuck back into him, eager to feel as much of him as you can. 

“Your body was made to be fucked,” he rasps, hips slamming into yours now. Skin slaps against each other, making a fwop! fwop! fwop! sound you can’t escape from. “Your body was made to take cock. A good little cockwhore. Say it.”

“I’m a good -hngh!- cockwhore,” you moan out. Your tits are bouncing with the force of his thrusting. It can’t even be called that anymore — he’s effectively ramming his cock in, ploughing you. 

His cockhead massages your inner walls, fighting against the pleats that try to hold onto him. He slides past your g-spot, constantly teasing the poor thing as he impales you on his fat, throbbing cock over and over again.

Doctor Nanami orders, “Look down. Tell me what you see.”

Your eyes fall to where you’re connected, and you clench hard on him. He grunts, hips speeding up.

“I see how deep you are, Doctor. I see my pussy taking you so easily now. Oh, fuck! Y-your cock, Doctor. I can see it pushing through my belly. You’re so big!”

“More,” he says.

You have to fight to keep your head steady, to make your glassy eyes clear enough to really see. “My juices and yours, they’re mixing a-and there’s a ring of cream at your base.”

Like he’d been waiting, he thumbs that cream and shoves it inside your mouth. It’s sweet, salty and tangy. You don’t hate it. You suck on it, bobbing your head up and down like it’s his cock. The doctor looks almost furious and he suddenly grabs your throat, squeezing hard enough to make you feel lightheaded. “God, you’re a filthy thing, aren’t you?”

Sweat layered over your skin, you know you’ve soaked through the paper beneath you. You slip and slide on the chair, kept in place by his firm hands. He’s ravaging you, rendering you a complete mess. No longer a woman, and just a slut for his cock. 

It’s the best feeling in the world.

Just as he had done before, you play with your tits, squeezing and pinching your nipples.

So caught in the pleasure, you don’t notice he’d moved until something cold touches your clit. You shriek, hips grinding up towards it. You look down and see he’s picked up a stethoscope from somewhere. He rubs it in circles on the bundle of nerves, watching drool leak out of your lips at the slight sting of the coldness..

He lifts his glasses out of the way, and licks your drool up. The doctor shoves his tongue inside your mouth.

For the first time in the appointment, he kisses you. Your tongues tangle together, and you think you’ve never tasted anything more amazing.

His rough hands gather you up, bringing you to a sitting position. “Wrap your arms around me,” he commands. 

Carried in his arms, he bounces you up and down on his cock, using gravity to do most of the work for him.

“Ngh! Y-you’re in so deep, Doctor!”

He huffs, glasses foggy with the humidity you two have created. You hold onto it, so it doesn’t rattle off. “You’re clamping down on me so hard,” he hisses. “You like this position, don’t you?”

“Yes! Yes! It’s so fucking good!”

Like this, he can push in even deeper. You swear you can feel him in your lungs. All the while, you’re still kissing him, sucking on his tongue and drinking up as much of his saliva as you can. 

One of his hands is carrying you up by the ass, and he repositions it enough so that his finger can circle your asshole. You moan into his mouth. “Doctor, n-no!”

“You signed the form,” he growls out. “Behave and take it.”

That finger pushes in, knuckle deep, and it’s enough to make you feel so impossibly full. 

“I’m going to cum,” you warn.

He shakes his head. “Wait.”

But you can’t. You cum again.

As you’re spasming in his arms, he doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you, splitting you with his throbbing cock. Only when you stop does he drop you back down on the chair, spinning you around so you’re face down on the soaked paper.

He thrusts back in, holding your hips and dragging it back and forth. “I told you to wait, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry, Doctor! I couldn’t help it.”

“Oh, but you could. You just didn’t want to, did you, you little cockslut?”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Heat blossoms on your ass cheek, where he’d slapped the rippling flesh. He grunts with every clench of your cunt because of the pain. You don’t hate the pain. You almost beg him to spank you harder, but you don’t. Too much is already happening. You don’t think you can take any more.

You can only moan and moan and moan some more as he uses you like a fleshlight. The doctor spits on your puckering hole and hooks his thumb inside.

“Hngh! N-not -hic!- there.” 

“Not here?” he repeats, mocking now. “But your pussy’s pulsing like crazy. It’d be wise if you learned to be more honest.” The doctor bends down, lips grazing the shell of your ear, and he whispers, “Like you should be honest with me and say you’re about to cum again.”

Drowning in your own wetness, his hand shoving your face down right where your pussy juices had pooled, you scream loud enough for the whole hospital to hear, “I want to cum again!”

“Go ahead, darling.”

You howl, hands ripping up what’s left with the paper and threatening to break through the foam padding of the chair. You’re beyond sensitive now after the numerous orgasms he’s given you, and the slapping of his balls on your clit is enough stimulation to have mini orgasms suffocating you from inside.

Doctor Nanami bundles up a handful of your hair, and he yanks. Your back arches, and your ass slams back onto his hips. Your gargled gasp echoes in the room. He’s in so fucking deep and you think he might never leave you again. Oh god, you hope he never does.

“You want to be creampied? Hmm? You want this dirty pussy filled with my cum?”

“Yes!” you cry. “I want you to cum inside me!”

“How kind,” he growls out.

Doctor Nanami spurts inside with a low grunt, hips still rutting. The force of his orgasm sends you over the edge again. You cum another time, yelling his name, and thinking you might actually die. 

When he pulls out, jerking his cock to wring out the last spurts on your back. He groans out, “Such a good girl, you took my cock so well.”

Eventually, silence returns to the examination room. You wonder how long it’s been, if someone’s waiting to take your place, and then decide you don’t really care.

Your knees give up and you fall to the floor. 

With a sigh, he picks you up and lays you back down on the chair.

Running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, he releases a breath and readjusts his glasses. As he fixes up his slacks, tucking his softening cock inside, he smiles warmly for the first time.

Doctor Nanami pecks your lips, fingers fucking the cum oozing out of you back inside your cunt, and keeping you plugged up.

“Congratulations. You’re officially a Breeder.”

꒰ series ꒱

i want to kiss you - satoru x suguru x reader - complete author: @veejiez summary: falling in love despite a language barrier. the premise of this fic is just so freaking sweet and wholesome!? satoru doesn't speak english and suguru is your translator. it feels so realistic to me bc my uncle and his wife actually fell in love too, despite their language barrier 🥹 this was the first ever fic i read on this hell hole of a site, hehe. jay is SOO incredibly talented. i always eat up her smut but this is just such a fluffy treat, so if you want a soft and sweet little story that will make you kick your feet, definitely check this out!! <3 it's so special, i just adore this story *sobs* i don't think i'll ever get over it.

silent serenades - satoru x reader - complete author: @madamechrissy summary: oh chrissy, my sweet, sweet chrissy... you KNOW i adore you and this fic bb! here we have a VERY messy arranged marriage fic with a cruel duke gojo. and lord... this fic is an ANGST fest... like it fucked me up BAD for a week 😭 i literally called my bestie and went on an hour long TANGENT after reading it lol 🙂‍↕️ it's so freaking good tho. chrissy manages to turn a toxic relationship into something SO beautifully healing. it's def the angstiest fic i've ever read and tbh, the only one that i will probably ever read bc i'm too damn sensitive for this shit 😭😭 i felt so raw reading some of these chapters but you can't make me hate satoru, i just love him sm 💖 ahhh to read this fic for the first time... i wish i could experience that again.

god & monsters - satoru x reader - ongoing author: @yenayaps summary: i ADORE this fic. basically, imagine satoru joined suguru's cult? and you're a sorcerer that's sent to spy on him. welp... he ends up catching you and locks you up in a basement. you're tortured, and he kinda becomes obsessed with you. major stockholm syndrome here and i fucking LOVE it!! yena writes satoru SOOOO good. i absolutely love him, hnngh. and i feel SO bad for him here!! my poor little pookie... like, i don't even care that he tortured me 🫠 idk i guess something must be wrong with me but... heh 🙂‍↕️

your life as a side character - sukuna x satoru x reader - ongoing author: @/yenayaps summary: hi again yena, hehe. your second series on my list... and listen - never. and i mean NEVERRR in my life did i think i would be reading a sukuna x satoru x reader fic but here i am 🙂‍↕️ it goes against everything i know and yet, i cannot stop myself bc i am literally eating this up like it's fucking candy. ugh, it is just SO fucking funny, HELLO?? i LOVE every single word yena writes and she even managed to make me love sukuna in this??? wow. such an entertaining read 🫶🏻 i can't wait for more!!

taking what's not yours - satoru x reader (oc) - complete author: @delicrieux summary: *sighs* i will never recover from this fic. it's beautiful but if you pick this up be prepared for the ending to ruin you 🥲 like pls... PLS be warned... okay? it's deceptively wholesome. this fic legitimately lives in my head rent free... satoru is so loveably annoying and UGH 😩 i adore this reader. she does have a name so you can consider is oc! but gawd... my heart aches remembering this couple soooo... yeah imma go cry now.

satoru's psyche surfacing -satoru x reader (oc) - ongoing author: @buttercupblu143 summary: where do i begin with this fic? my heart has never raced so fast in my LIFE. like... whenever i read a ch i often find myself having to force myself to stop from skimming ahead 😅 and it's just bc i'm so freaking ANXIOUS to find out whats gonna happen next. satoru is put in a psych ward and you are his nurse. reader does have a name though so you can classify it as oc but god... i just adore this writing sm!

꒰ oneshots ꒱

sperm donar of the year - satoru x reader author: @indiewritesxoxo summary: best friend satoru agrees to be your sperm donar and has NO sense of boundaries bc really he wants to be your baby daddy 😜 indie, i know you like... literally just posted this??? but lemme tell ya (and i'm not kidding when i say this) i've already read this three times and i know for a fact that i'm gonna be coming back to read it more 🙂‍↕️ this has become a staple fic to me. idk... it's just so beautifully written i can't tell you how much i adore this story indie 😭 i love your writing!!

seven days of satorucember - satoru x reader author: @sweethearticism summary: you go on a trip to greece with satoru for his birthday. reading this makes my heart feel SO full OML 😭😭 let me tell you, i lovelovelove smutty fluff. and this? this is the smutty fluff i LIIIVE for. like i need this injected into my bloodstream rn, tyvm - its so freaking good. i gotta say too, that eden's smut is always so poetically delicious AND filthy like hnnngh... plus how she writes satoru is perfection 🫠 i swooooon. i absolutely adore this little fic!!

drill me doctor - satoru x reader author: @cloudykumo summary: okayyyy... so like. i've reread this fic three times already too.... 🙂‍↕️ heh. my hubby is a dental hygienist so this fic is SUCH a guilty pleasure for me OMLLL. i think this fic was legitimately made for me, i need it tattooed to my brain. lemme tell you that i was both kicking my feet and blushinggg so damn hard. plus, the yandere reader is SO hot. my bisexual heart was fluttering into oblivion reading this (pls i need both of them 😔 🤚) but overall, this fic is just such a thoroughly entertaining read. i LOVE how satoru and reader match each others freak at the end 🤭 hehehe. kumo ILYSM BB!

want you like that - satoru x reader author: @lumieros summary: this is another staple oneshot that i go to if i just need some good old slow burn fluff 😭 this fic gives me such an overwhelming sense of comfort and omgg the TENSION is DELICIOUS. truly. it's masterfully written and everything feels so raw and real ?? i can't even put it into words. satoru is your brothers best friend. he is so annoyingly perfect in this. ack. just. PERFECTION! pure perfection. go read this fic!! 💖

just meet me at the apt - satoru x reader author: @nanamiskentos summary: omggg the characterization of gojo in this has me just... hnnngh i ADORE this fic!! it feels so realistic too!! like i can totally imagine this is how it would go down if you just ran into satoru in a bar... hehe 🤭 the smut in this is so real, i got soooo many butterflies in my tummy from this delicious little oneshot, and i love this songgg. n like... now every time i hear this song i think of this fic, hehe.

golden - satoru x reader author: @saatorus summary: bestfriend satoru how i love you soooo 🥺 this story literally PULLED at my heart. i'm in such awe with may's writing and the angst in this fic hurts so good... everything just feels so unbelievably realistic and i ache for this reader. those feelings of inadequacy is something i'm all too familiar with and it's just so relatable. the butterflies in my tummy are goin crazy reading this 💕

꒰ more blogs i adore ! ꒱

@/veejiez @/madamecrissy @/yenayaps @/indiewritesxoxo @/sweethearticism @/cloudykumo @/nanamikentos @/saatorus @/lumieros @nezuscribe @carienations @gojodickbig @fricks @joemama-2 @gojosoups @iamsoclone @satorus-princess @baepsays @cupidstrace @ssorasky @reignpage @fushitoru @lovelivision @hiraethwrote @coffee-and-geto @ohimsummer @feyrinnn @backinmyphase

——

For months and months prior to that, it'd been the same thing between you and Sato.

“She doesn’t mean anything to me, baby. You know you’re my favorite,” He’d say, cooing you with that manipulatively charming voice of his after you’d asked him about yet another woman he was talking to.

You weren't sure why you kept going back to him. He never told you how he felt about you unless he was inside you—and even then you’re certain those feelings were all sex-based and moderately untrue.

Yet something about him kept drawing you back in.

And if you had to guess what exactly it was...

“Fuuck, y’like that don’t you?” He’d groan, having one big hand clasped around your throat as he plowed you into the mattress. Sato rarely ever took his time during sex, too eager to make sure you cum & keep up his reputation of being a good fuck. “Like the way my cock kisses that sweet spot, huh?”

The rhythmic sound of his pelvis smack smack smacking! against your ass echoes throughout the room at a pitch almost louder than your sapped moans. “Mhmm,” You'd hummed in response, fingernails dug into the bedsheets below.

You couldn't bring yourself to think about all the other women that's been in this same exact position before you when his cock was far too busy gliding in and out of your soaking pussy. The same sheets your fingers are clawing at is also clasped in between your teeth tightly, drool wetting up the fabric pathetically due to how good you felt.

Only to be rudely interrupted by his hand gripping at your neck tighter and then tugging the upper half of your body allll the way up—his chest pressing into your back while his dick massages the gushiest spot inside you. “Don’t do that,” Sato huffs with that shit-eating grin on his face, “Speak up, pretty girl. I couldn't hear you.”

“Uhuhh, yes,” You pant, tongue beginning to dangle out of your mouth all whorishly, “I love it, Sato.”

Cocky like always, he'd let off that amused scoff and then nip at your ear playfully, “Yeahh, I know you do. Jus’ can’t get enough of me.”

Thinking back again, he had the biggest ego you’d ever seen.

Sato was tenderly humping the rest of his thick cock into you while you were nice and close, just to realize after the first few thrusts that you were trying to inch yourself away from him—your moans getting airier by the second.

His smile widened, “Hah, where’re you goin’?” He'd only made you cum three times since the two of you got here. Surely that wasn't enough to have you acting like this already. “Look at you, trying to run from me now," Sato scoffed with faux bitterness.

You barely got a moment to process what he was doing before you choked.

Warm lips pressing against your ear, “C’mon, I jus’ want one more outta’ you,” He purred, his arm slow to wrap around your neck while his bulking muscles pressed into the center of your throat. Whatever oxygen was on its way to your head all but died out as the man put you into a bullying chokehold and then flexed.

Your cunt squeaked juicily around him and his cockhead nudged in deeper because of the hold he had on you, otherwise rendering your body unable to escape.

That was one of many reasons why you always ran back to him. If Sato Gojo didn't know how to do anything else right, he damn sure knew how to fuck.

“Mhmm, that’s it, baby." His voice was huskier against your eardrums now and you felt your body shuddering with a sense of numbness as something slicker oozed around his shaft. "Take that fuckin’ cock—juuust like that.”

His thrust became slower while he held you in place and you'd never felt so full in your life. It wasn't until he suddenly snapped up into you that all air left your lungs and your eyes crossed.

Whatever sound you let out was beyond pathetic and only followed by a desperate, “S’too much,” that he could barely hear.

Rolling his eyes, he repeated the motion a few more times at a steady pace, letting you adjust to being arched and folded up how he wants you. “My dramatic girl, acting like you haven't been taking it just fine," He reminded you.

You almost believed him for a moment there until his free hand came snaking around your torso to press against your lower abdomen—right over the bulge his fat cock had created against your skin—and applying an egregious amount of pressure.

“M’gonna cum, Sato,” You cried out as his fingers slithered down to nudge against your clit. Never a firm rub or anything like that since he felt like his cock alone was enough to work what he wanted out of you.

He’d smile all victoriously and whisper, “That's it? Don't tell me you're still too scared to squirt on me?”

Truth be told, that was the one thing he couldn’t do for some reason.

He never said anything but he thinks maybe you’re just one of those women who need a little more effort put into in order to make you squirt. More effort of which he damn sure doesn’t feel like putting in.

Four orgasms in a row? That’s fine, he can do that no problem. Making you squirt? As badly as he wants to deep down inside, he just can’t.

You ended up leaving a creamy mess around his cock but it's not the spurting stream of wetness he was hoping for. After letting you tremble out of your high, he's slow with the way he unwraps his arms from around you.

You fall forward onto the bed and let out a heavy breath before smiling wearily in relief. No other guy on campus ever managed to make you cum even once so of course you didn't think much of the fact that Sato couldn't make you squirt.

Hell, you were unknowingly on the same page with him—thinking you might've needed extra effort put in for that kinda release. Which was fine, you didn't need that much from him. The fact that he could make you cum back to back was more than enough in your book.

Not his though.

Sato hated it. He hated how he couldn't make you squirt—the fact burned at his ego and wounded his pride greatly. He's made other women do it so he doesn't understand what the problem is. There were some nights where he wondered if maybe he was doing something wrong with you. Or maybe you'd found someone else who could—

He unknowingly scoffs at his thoughts, shuffling out of the bed and swiping up the nearest clean sweats to slip into. Who was he kidding? There isn't one other person on campus you'd go to over him.

And if he couldn't make you squirt, he knows there's no one else that could.

Amid his deep thoughts, you happen to look over and catch the way those white brows of his are neatly knitting together. He didn't even realize how his true feelings on the matter were written all over his face.

Your eyes had ran over him a couple times, pondering on all the scratch marks in various places. Places that your hands haven't touched.

And that's how the routine was with the two of you; high tension all throughout the day, let him fuck you 'til all your senses went numb, and then fade into quietness with little to talk about since Sato doesn't deem it necessary to get close with you in that way.

When you catch the way he's dragging his feet around the room, trying to clean the mess of clothes you two made prior to getting in the bed, your brows lifts with curiosity. Asking gently, "Hey, are you alright?"

Sato hums without turning around to you, running his a hand through his hair as if stressed out. "Yeah, m'fine." He grunts, glancing over at you after and adding a slightly comforting, "Are you?"

You nod in response to him and he stares for a moment longer than necessary, still deep in his thoughts about something he surely wasn't sharing with you anytime soon.

Why would he? You didn’t need to know that he was beating himself up over something so stupid. He’s well aware that he’s the best guy to ever sleep with you so, opening up to you about something so trivial wasn’t in his character.

There’d been jokes and banter between the two of you before—obviously—but it never went any further than that. The moment things threatened to dip into something real, something more tender or honest, Sato would shut it down with quick precision.

Which is exactly why you didn't try pressing for more of this dry conversation. Instead, you silently watched him tug a shirt over his head and then head over to the nightstand for his phone.

He's busy texting someone for a bit before he releases a huff and turns his head to see the way you've been quietly watching him, "Did you want me to run you a bath or—"

"No, no, I told you, I'm fine," You unintentionally cut off.

You weren't sure where the awkwardness had come from but it wasn't completely unwelcome since there was clearly something he wasn't telling you. You saw it in the way he pouted all grumpily just before looking at you.

Whatever was on his mind had to be eating him up on the inside.

Not that the frown pushed you to ask him anything else though. You ended up turning over and rolling off is bed a few minutes later to gather your things and leave, to which he'd peacefully helped you with.

Then Sato escorted you all the way out of his maze-like home and was "kind" enough to give you a kiss on the forehead before sending you off.

Little things like that always caught you off guard. Your heart would do that weird thing in your chest as you wondered if there was a possibility of experiencing more than just hook-ups with the man.

Though, reality is quick to slap you back to your senses when you see him with his arm around some other woman the next day while on your way to class.

You knew better than to get emotionally attached to Sato Gojo. Everyone did.

——

Some days later is when shit decides to hit the fan between you two.

It happens so randomly that you almost feel as though you dreamt the whole thing up. The day starting with him texting you to come over that night and somehow ending with you in thwarted tears.

In all the time you spent with Sato, there'd never been a moment where he was blatantly selfish. Something of which surprised you in the beginning of your relationship since he was known to be a fuckboy.

Yet, ending up in his bedroom for the nth time, as his thumb rubbed at your clit with unsteady, jerky motions, appearing otherwise annoyed about something—Sato had been selfish for the first time with you.

Foreplay was skipped entirely and you should've known something was up from that alone.

The most you got out of him prior to being stripped of your clothing was a messy kiss and a barely audible, "Need somethin' from you, baby," grunted into your mouth.

Then you were being carried all the way up to his bedroom, handled frustratedly down into the mattress, and soon fucked at a rate you weren't used to.

His thrusts were sloppy and needy, voice quiet since he didn't bother talking you through it or saying anything at all, and the only thing with a sense of normalcy to it was the way his thumb nudged over your clit as his cock dove in and out of you.

Midway through, you assumed he just had a bad day or something. Figured he wanted to take some of that stress out on you.

And that wasn't out of the ordinary for him, it's happened more often than not.

But as his thumb drew desperate circles around your twitching bud, Sato's cock twitched and he pulled out the moment you were about to cum. You were too dazed by his abrupt action that you nearly missed the way he stroked himself into finishing on your stomach and then scoffed. Bitterly.

Your eyes were glossed over since the taste of your own orgasm had been right there on the tip of your nerves, stripped away from you faster than you could blink.

Whatever had been bothering him about having sex with you was felt before it was understood.

He was already turning away by the time you pushed yourself to sit up, the sheets gliding down your arms as you watched him with wide, teary eyes. The room felt ten times quieter than it normally did. You saw how he crossed the room as if nothing had happened—as if this was just another unremarkable moment to be shrugged off.

"Sato," You say, his name tripping in your throat on the way out.

Only then did he pause, fingers curled around his drawer handle. Not sparing you a glance back, "What." he breathed out.

It was hardly even a response, more of a wall you'd audibly stumbled into. You'd never heard his voice so dull and flat with you.

Swallowing down whatever confusing emotions were building up in your throat, "Did I, um... did I do something wrong?"

Somehow that gets his attention. He glances back over his shoulder then, expression insipid and eyes casting over you all bored-like. "Don't start that," He said, irritation weaving into his voice, "You're overthinking shit already."

Your mouth opens to say something but it's like you'd been slapped in the face, leading your lips to seal shut for a second. His words were too heavy for you, coming off with weighted dismissiveness.

After a few beats, your words trail out slowly, "Sorry I'm a little confused, Sato. You asked me to come over for that..?"

He exhaled sharply, like the question itself had tired him, "What else do I ever call you over for?"

Something shrewd twisted in your chest, "Certainly not whatever the fuck that was just now."

Sato finally turned more fully and leaned back against his dresser, crossing his arms and letting his eyes meet yours firmly. "You sound upset."

"I feel used," You'd snapped back immediately.

His brow twitched, "'Cause I didn't make you cum?"

Again, the words came off blunt and careless.

Leading you to flinch internally, "I mean—yeah," You said as a humorless breath tiptoed out, "You normally do."

"Well, I didn't feel like it today. M'spent." He scoffed out.

It was almost as if that was supposed to be an explanation for everything.

You stared at him and felt the way your disbelief began to fade into something of anger, "You could've told me that."

"Would that have made you feel any better?" Every response came out of him like he'd rehearsed the entire conversation beforehand.

"We could've done something different," Your hands began to curl into the sheets a little, trying to steady yourself. "I could've-"

"I didn't want anything different." Sato cut off crisply.

You'd never been so utterly confused in your life. Everything was fine before this—for the most part—so what had come over him all of a sudden? Why was he acting like this?

The finality in his statement only made your stomach drop, your head shaking slowly in disbelief, "...So you wanted to use m-"

"No, sweetheart," The pet name sounds empty on his tongue, lacking its usual affection. "I wanted you to see how it feels to get into something thinking things are going to go like they always do, just to feel disappointed by the end."

The next sound that spreads throughout the room is your laughter as it exits you in incredulous fashion, "Sato, what the fuck are you talking about?"

He dragged a hand through the white tuffs of his hair, pacing only once before coming to a stop. "You..." Letting his words trail off, he released a long and stressed-out sigh, "Every woman I've been with has never had the problem you do."

That hits you square in the chest.

Head cocking back as you frown with immediate offense flaring over, "Excuse me? Are you... are you talking about squirting, Sato? You can't be serious."

"I am," He said without hesitation. "If it's just something you can't do, I'd rather you tell me than making me look like an idiot when we fuck."

"What?" Your eyes narrowed as your anger bled into something strictly hurt. "I... I'm sure I can. Maybe we're just doing something wro-"

"We?" Sato cuts you off instantly. Then his tone seemed firmer and you knew he didn't think things through when he said, "No, no, you've got shit backwards here. I can assure you I'm not doing anything wrong, that's all you."

Something inside you finally boiled over.

"All me?" You scoffed, pushing yourself out of the bed. The cold air wrapping itself around you felt like even more of a wake-up call than what he'd just said. "Oh, sorry for not being like all the other twenty girls you sleep with."

Grabbing your clothes with uncoordinated and janky movements after wiping away any lingering trace of what had happened, you subconsciously wished you could've erased the moment entirely from start to finish. Your hands trembled as you got dressed, seemingly more from the heated emotions waving through you than the embarrassment.

Sato stiffened upon hearing your words. For the first time—probably in his life—his confidence had cracked. "Shit—wait," He rushed out, trying to step towards you and stop you from leaving.

It was almost like he himself wasn't aware of how severely fucked up his actions and words were.

His hand reached out for your arm, "I-I didn't mean it like that, c'mon. I just—"

"Save it, asshole." You spat back at him, shoving his hand out the way and storming out his room before giving him a chance to say anything else.

He'd said more than enough to have your vision blurry and heart pounding in your chest as if pained.

The hallway was dim, your footsteps quickened to carry you as far away from him as possible, and your emotions buzzed all too loudly in your ears for you to think straight. You think you hear something clash against the wall back in Sato's room but you ignore it.

You're so wrapped up in your feelings that you're not even paying attention to where you're going. You only made it a few steps down the hall before you collided with something solid.

Someone solid.

Gasping as you stumble back, a pair of hands come up to steady you. "Ah, sorry," a voice hums out to you. The sound is soft as it reverberates throughout the hallway but your chest feels as though it's caving inwards since the guy in front of you sounded exactly like Sato.

There was a pitch of unfamiliarity in it, though. One that made you look up.

For a moment, you thought maybe you'd fallen off the bed earlier and that everything thus far had been some type of hallucination because surely Sato wasn't standing right in front of you right now.

...Except, with glasses? And a dorkier look in his eyes?

With the same snowy white hair, the same perfectly sharp jawline—that's somehow a tad softer—and the same dazzling blue eyes, he stared at you all longingly as if an angel had fallen right into his arms or something. The only difference between him and his brother being the black glasses sitting center on the bridge of his nose.

Despite the hallway's lack of lighting, you swear you see his cheeks flush with red as the moment of exchanged staring passes.

Prior to this, you'd only ever heard rumors of Sato having a twin brother but you never once imagined those would turn out to be true. The man's eyes widen slightly as he really looks at you, confusion flickering across his face whilst he takes in your flushed skin, the way your clothes are hanging off of you as though you'd rushed to put them all, and how your eyes are somberly glossed over.

"I-," You try to blink that wetness out of your gaze and then clear your throat. "Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going."

"It's fine," He replies as he thoughtlessly continues to hold onto your arms. Then, uncertainly, "You're... Sato's, uh—"

"Sato's what?" You cut off harsher than you meant to.

There was no way he was about to refer to you as that asshole's girlfriend or anything like that, right?

His mouth visibly goes taut, realizing he was about to step into something fragile. Instead of responding, he just stands there awkwardly enough to piss you off even more.

Groaning, you push past him and continue storming down the hall. You didn't have time for whatever that was about to turn into.

Unbeknownst to you, he'd stood there and watched as you walked away—cursing himself out for letting his opportunity to talk to you pass him by like that. He'd known who you were for months prior to this. Out of all the women Sato brought over, you were the only one Toru took a genuine interest in.

It's unfortunate for him that Sato's a stingy asshole who doesn't care to introduce the two of you. Because of that, Toru had to go out of his way just to get glimpses of your personality.

He was always home when Sato brought you over, always in his room that's just one wall over while the two of you fucked—listening and secretly getting off to those gorgeous moans you let off. Toru knew it was perverted of him to do so, but he truly couldn't help himself.

Now here he is with sagging shoulders at the fact that he totally fucked up his first interaction with you.

He heard the whole argument between you and his brother and came out into the hallway hoping to come to your rescue or at least cheer you up, even if only for a second. Yet, all he managed to do was piss you off with his awkwardness and lack of confident social skills.

After a few minutes, Toru straightens up and settles his jaw in a way that says he'd made some type of silent decision. That wasn't going to be the last time he interacted with you—no matter how badly his brother fucked up—he knew you'd be back eventually.

As he turns back to his room, he promises to himself that next time he sees you, he won't hesitate or fumble things with you.

——

A few weeks pass before anything else noteworthy occurs.

In that time, things between you and Sato remain rocky, to say the utmost least. Conversations between the two of you were more careful, apologies came far slower than they should've, and some semblance of trust had been rebuilt in uneven steps.

Sometimes he was sweet and more attentive than he had been before that big argument, kinda like he was afraid it'd happen again. Other times he'd slip up and those old habits would seep through, any excuse he gave you dressed up charmingly enough for you to ultimately end up forgiving him again.

The fact that you both were trying had to be enough to count for something, otherwise the two of you were better off calling it quits months ago.

Somewhere in the middle of that relationship, Toru became familiar to you. You went out of your way to see him whenever you visited the Gojo estate, even if you were only there for Sato.

He was almost always cooped up in his room, drowning himself in his studies—textbooks stacked neatly on his desk, handwritten notes color-coded and meticulously organized.

It wasn't long before you realized he and his brother were complete opposites. Where Sato excelled in partying and socializing, Toru peaked in academics and hobbies that were far more niche.

You remember poking your head into his room one time to say hi and catching him lost in Digimon reruns with strategy guides pulled up on his nearby laptop. He was so engrossed in it that he hadn't even heard you saying something to him.

Situations like that are what got the two of you to be something close to friends.

Though, you still didn't know him any more than you knew Sato. You were still kept at an arm's length from either of their personalities beyond what was noticeable. Sato made sure of that where both he and his twin were concerned.

While he did soften up with you, he still wasn't interested in keeping you that close—not close enough to know him. And he damn sure wouldn't let you go off and try to find that in Toru.

Anytime you and the nerdier Gojo sibling were alone, Sato was intruding minutes later. Always interrupting.

Even when you ran into Toru on campus.

One time when you found him outside the library, standing near a vending machine and ran up to talk to him, Sato seemed to spawn out of thin air with his arm around you is if to silently tell his brother to fuck off.

You weren't sure what had gotten into him as far as that was concerned. He didn't care when you talked to anyone else.

This was but another unfortunate thing for you since you were quite fond of Toru. He remembered little things about you; your major, your favorite cafe, and even your preferred place to sit in lecture halls.

If you asked Sato questions about any of those things, he'd probably shrug and ask you why any of it matters in the first place.

But you bet that dick for brains could tell you which position makes you cum the fastest...

It's regrettably because of that as to why you're currently standing at the large front doors to his home, having rung the bell only a few seconds ago due to an earlier text requesting you come over.

In said text, Sato promised that he only wanted to talk to you and you chose to believe him.

Just for Toru to swing the door open with a surprised look on his face.

"Oh, hey." He began, pushing his glasses further up on his face so that he could get a proper look at you. "If you're looking for Sato, he's not here. I actually think he's been gone for the past three hours or so."

Disappointment settles into you and you roll your eyes, already annoyed. "Of course he has," You sigh.

Toru offers you a half-comforting grin before stepping back a bit and opening the door wider for you, "He'll probably be back soon though, if you wanna come in?"

You debated leaving but the prospect of being able to spend some alone time with Toru is what swayed you into staying.

Which is how you ended up in their living room.

The rest of the house was quieter than Sato ever allowed it to be. There was no music blaring, none of his restless pacing or constant yammering about fuck knows what. The only thing heard was the low hum of the TV ahead of you and Toru.

He'd put on a movie a few minutes ago and although you'd agreed to watch it with him, you kept glancing towards the front door hoping to see Sato walk in any moment now.

It never happens.

Sitting on the opposite ends of the couch, you and Toru are steady to find comfort in one another's presence. You eventually let yourself focus on what he'd put on, snorting whenever he laughed at the unfunniest bits of it and finding yourself mused by the easiness of it all.

You noticed how Toru also tried to sneak his eyes onto you here and there, lacking that smoothness his slightly older brother had and always catching your attention when he did it.

The two of you even shared those warm moments where you'd catch him staring and then whisper, "What, is something on my face?"

To which he'd swallow thickly and shake his head, "No, not at all. Sorry..."

His shyness is probably what drew you in the most about him. You loved how often he avoided eye contact with you, how gentle his voice always came out, and the way he'd begin to adjust himself against the couch due to the smallest of things.

The night was going well enough for you to forget all about—

Your phone rang and Sato's name was lighting up your screen.

At the sight, your shoulders went tense and you were unsure if you should answer it or not. Toru looked over at you but he didn't say anything.

The movie continued to play ahead as you picked up the phone and quietly spoke to Sato, "What?"

Whatever was said to you on the other end made your jaw clench—something of which Toru noted instantly. He didn't mean to be nosy but it was hard not to when minutes passed and you were clearly getting frustrated about your conversation.

"You sound drunk," You're heard muttering, making Toru's ears perk up and then strain to hear more.

Sato is just barely heard grumbling in response, "M'not drunk, baby."

Your shoulders slump, "Did you even mean to text me?"

There's a long pause. Toru tenses up and Sato's heard burping.

"I texted you?" The man on the phone asks, making your entire mood sink. "Hahhh, fuck. I don' remember doing that.. What uh, what'd I say?"

"You said you needed to talk." You reply rigidly.

He nods even though you can't see him, "Ah... I mean, I do need to talk to you but," Pausing to grumble, "Don't see why I didn't jus' call.. Anyway, s-so yesterday I was with this girl 'n she said m'not doin' anything wrong."

His early attempt at trying to convince you he wasn't drunk fell flat in that instant. You stare into space for a moment, "What?"

"Remember how we got into it about your squirting problem?" Sato blurts out in response.

You could feel yourself getting irritated with him all over again. You hated the way he said that like it was truly an issue on your end alone, even though the two of you have talked about it after the argument.

"My squirting problem? You mean the fact that you can't get me there?" You snapped back, matching his energy for just a second and unintentionally gaining the dull attention of his nosy brother.

At this point, you don't think you cared whether or not he overheard.

"No, no, I cannnn..." Sato drags out drunkenly. Then you hear this giggle in the background before he adds, "This girl told me it really is you 'n not me. Because like-"

You hang up the phone before he can continue.

The last thing you wanted to do was entertain whatever the fuck he was about to tell you for any longer than you had to. Your phone falls down into your lap and you feel it buzzing a few seconds later but you only swipe it back up to silence it entirely.

After which, the room falls into a thick quietness that swallows up both you and Toru. Even the movie playing ahead had switched to a soundless scene that only added to the shift in moods.

A few minutes of this stillness pass before you feel the weight on the other side of the couch shifting. Your eyes flick over and you see him readjusting himself in his seat.

You don't question it nor say anything but his sudden movements do manage to pull you out of your funk for a second. Ignoring it, you pick your phone back up to see that Sato had texted you a bunch of gibberish—the only sensible message you can make out being one of him begging you to text or call back.

As soon as you start typing, his twin decides to clear his throat again.

“I mean, it can’t be that hard.” Toru says all timidly, his words catching enough to snag your attention away from your phone.

Your thumb goes idle against the screen and you look up at him to see his cheeks colored over with bright red. He was looking off to his left and you could tell by the rapid rise and fall of his chest that his breathing had gone off-track.

Clearly, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

You chuckle as if intrigued by his words, humming, “Your brother said the same thing."

Toru scoffs and then speaks without thinking again, “He doesn’t care enough.”

Cocking a brow, “Doesn’t care enough to make me squirt?” You ask.

The sound of the man’s breath hitching was clearer than the dense tension between you both. “Obviously not,” Toru continues, lifting two slim fingers up to the center of his glasses to adjust them against his nose. “If he did, he would’ve made sure you… uh, did that.”

Never would you have expected to have this kind of conversation with the same man who can barely look you in the eye. But it was clear something had changed. Even in his body language, you saw how he'd sat up a bit straighter against the couch and let his legs sprawl out wider—almost invitingly so.

He was still avoiding your gaze but the sturdiness in his voice is what intrigued you the most.

“Did what, Toru? Say it,” You pressed, putting your phone down and turning on the couch to face him fully.

You watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat with the way he gulped thickly. “He would’ve uhm..." Toru pauses to take a deep breath—mentally reminding himself that he swore not to embarrass himself in front of you again—and then clears his throat one more time, "He would've made sure you squirted.”

Too shy to look at you just yet, he misses how the look in your eyes changes entirely. It was like seeing him in a new light.

Not that you hadn't thought about it before. He does look exactly like Sato and there's been a few times where you've wondered what it'd be like to be the cause of his glasses going crooked 'n foggy.

Biting back a smile, “Well, he makes me cum a lot.” You explain to him casually. Certainly Toru wouldn't have started talking to you about this if he didn't at least have some advice for you, “Like, back to back.”

He nods, nimble fingers fidgeting over one another in his lap, “Then, he just doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

You bat your lashes at him all cluelessly, “But—“

“As I said the first time,” Toru looks at you all of a sudden, his eyes mildly terrified behind his frames despite the attempt of confidence spreading over his face. There was a devilishly sexy blend of sureness and hesitancy plastered all over his features, “It can’t be that hard.”

The direct eye contact and few inches of space between where you two were sitting made everything feel hot all of a sudden. Blush melts itself into his skin again and it was clear that this initiated flirting of his was a first time thing.

You knew Toru found you intimidating and that subconsciously accepted fact only made you want to see more. More of your affect on him.

Sliding closer to him on the couch, your voice slyly dips into something more taunting, “You sound like you wanna try.”

Watching the way his jaw flexes, teeth tightly gritted within his mouth, and throat struggling to conceal the high-pitched sound that threatened to jump out of him—your affect on the man was as clear as day.

Somehow, Toru manages to maintain his confident facade, “Would you let me if I did?”

“Do you?” You ask quicker than he expects you to.

His head felt like it was spinning already. Is this what it's like to do drugs? Does his brother get to experience this all the time?

Toru gulps again, “Do I.. what?”

Now he was playing dumb on purpose, as if he wasn't the one who commenced this whole thing with his earlier statement.

Which makes you giggle, “You’re the smartest guy I know, Toru." Your compliment makes his heart skip a few beats. Then your head tilts and your tone softens, "Don’t start acting dumb just to appeal to me.”

He bats those pretty white lashes at you with his eyes all doe-like on you for a moment before he looks down, “I just… I wanted to hear you say it.”

You stand up from the couch all of a sudden and he freezes up. Then you walk over and stand right in between his legs, moving a hand to his chin and forcing his head up. “Do you wanna try making me squirt?”

Toru shakes his head and your brows furrow. His face nuzzles into your hand, forcing it to spread open as his cheek presses into your palm, “It’s not something to be tried, it’s just something I can do for you.” He explains.

Your thumb brushes against his cheek and his glasses slip down his nose a bit. Smiling, “Someone's confident.”

He merely whispers, “‘Can’t be that hard.”

——

Ten minutes later and you're wondering why he wasn't the first Gojo twin you met.

Loong fingers stretching your pussy out crudely, hot tongue attacking your clit like he wanted to lick you into numbness, and eyes still doe-like as they remain glued up on your face—Toru was nothing like his slightly older brother.

No, no, he aimed not only to please but to learn how you like to be pleased.

Whereas Sato would just sleep with you the same way he did with anyone else—beyond confident in his own abilities to bring a woman pleasure—Toru was the kinda man who took his time to work you up specifically.

“Taste s’good,” He praised in a tone deeper than you knew to be capable from him. You were laying across the couch now and he was stuffed neatly in between your legs. Whining, “More,” as he tugged at your thighs, his jaw going slack, and his mouth smearing against your cunt. “Gimme’ more—mmpfh. Please?"

You weren't sure what more he could be referring to when his fingertips were already twirling something sinful against your g-spot. You had a hand buried into his hair, your other behind you as you held onto the couch to steady yourself with the way he feasted on you as if your pussy was the best thing to wet up his tongue.

“Ah, T-Toru, fuck!” You cried out, unconsciously pulling away from him when his fingers focused in deep against that soppy spot—addicted to the way your slick gushed out around his hand and left a sweet mess against the couch.

His fingers leave your insides for only a second and a half before he's shoving them into his mouth to suck the taste off. Toru's eyes rolled back for a moment before he let both of his hands redirect to your inner thighs and then spread you out wider just so nothing was obstructing your view of the way he sloppily kissed your cunt.

Small strings of aroused filth would hang in between his mouth and your puffy pussylips, all of which would get licked off by his eager tongue before he dove back in for more.

Before you'd let him make his way down there, you recall the way he oh-so-awkwardly kissed you. He hardly had a clue what to do with his tongue when it was against yours but now that he was in between your legs, he became an entirely different person.

Suckling the dewy tastes into his mouth and guzzling it down his throat just to let it linger, Toru was nothing short of desperate to make you feel good. So much so that his brain practically turns off as he moves his hands to grip your hips and then lifts the lower half of your body up against his face.

His mouth nuzzled harder against you and you felt the wiggling tip of his tongue slap against your clenching walls. He softly humped the couch as he ate you out, letting the sounds of your moans coax him into giving you everything he could.

Toru only pulled away from your cunt when his glasses fogged up too much for him to see your face. And before you could offer to wipe them off or anything, you met his gaze with the way his head angled for you to do so.

His voice deep and aching, “Sit on my face,” He requested before whining again. “Pleasepleaseplease,” the man panted almost puppy-like and then seared his next words right into your clit with the edge of his tongue, “Need it s’bad.”

You don't think you had it anywhere in you to deny him when he was asking so nicely like that.

But by the time the two of you had flipped over and you were left hovering over his pleasantly flushed face—his shaky hands tight against your hips—you were a little too nervous to sit down.

Toru had caught his breath by now but nothing about his starved appetite had changed. Those previously soft blue eyes of his seemed to pierce straight through you in a way that Sato's sometimes would. You know they're twins and all but fuck, it was nerve-wracking to experience that hungry look from the alleged "shy" twin.

“Ride it," Toru husked out all of a sudden, giving your body the faintest pull.

Your eyes went all wide, “…Your mouth?”

Instead of clarifying things or being patient with you, he snatches your frame down with a strength you didn't know he possessed. Moaning before your core even reaches his lips again, “Want you to feed your pussy to me.”

Then he was practically suctioned to you again, eyes rolling back far enough for the whites to be visible beneath the foggy frames of his glasses.

“Ohfuck,” You cry out, the upper half of your body slumping forward a bit as your thighs squeeze around his head.

You felt the way Toru smiled at the feeling, almost like he was exactly where he'd wanted to be. His tongue skated up into you with a vigor you'd never felt before.

The man ate pussy like he wanted the results of your release plastered all over those pretty glasses of his, leaving him with sogged vision and a numbed tongue. It was yet another thing that made him so much different than his brother because although that man had stamina like no other and knew how to use his cock, he never once ate you out.

Meanwhile Toru couldn’t seem to get enough.

He even left a needy smack to your ass, encouraging you to do as he initially asked of you and ride his face. It wasn’t until his tongue was constantly plunging past your glissading folds that you unconsciously rolled your hips forward and earned a whimper from him in response.

Then the hands on your hips began to tug at you again, not even begging you for more but demanding it now.

You could no longer focus on the way he looked with splashes of your slick spread out on his glasses in nasty droplets since the tip of his nose had bumped up against your clit, and his jaw went slack just to adhere to your drooling nerves.

The sensation made your entire body flinch, but he wouldn’t let you pull up. For the nth time, you were stunned by Toru’s strength.

His tongue was thick and gathering against your pussy, not letting a singular drop of your taste escape his mouth until something light ghosted out of you.

“S-Something feels-, nngh,” Your struggles were just the cutest thing. “Different.” You tried to warn him.

His head tilted slightly and you felt his lips curve against you again as he smiled knowingly. Plucking his mouth away from you for the first time in forever with a wet pop!, Toru let his warm breath pat your quivering hole as he whispered, “It’s supposed to feel different, sweet girl. That’s what happens when you come to the right twin.”

Cocky. You never knew Toru had that in him—must be a trait that runs into family.

Except, it’s not like he was wrong. Once he lathered his tongue back in and sucked on your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him sane, you felt that coiling burn building up inside you. You knew you were gonna squirt despite never experiencing it before.

But it felt like too much, made you feel dirty as you neared that shattering edge. So much so that you tried so hard to snatch yourself away from Toru, whining excessively only for each sound to fall on completely deaf ears.

Your legs had clamped around his head so tight that he was getting lightheaded from his lack of oxygen—not that he cared. He had one singular goal and nothing was gonna stop him from reaching it.

It wasn’t long before it happened as his complimenting moans turned into graveling groans. The sounds vibrated against your pussy and you were tongue-fucked right into something blissful. Bleary white streaks coated your vision and you think you would’ve fallen over if not for the mean grasp he had on you.

Toru had done it, he managed to make you squirt.

By the time your brain feels like it’s functioning enough to hold a conversation, you let your vision come back to you and look down to see his soaked face.

His eyes are dazed whilst they peer up at you, appreciation swirling through his pupils. Those same glasses you’ve managed to squirt over are now crooked and you wonder if that’s from the way you unconsciously started rutting your hips forward just a few minutes ago.

Toru didn’t do anything but pant heavily—his breath stuttering here and there due to how long he went without breathing properly. When he finds the energy to send you another boyish grin, you feel a wave of embarrassment flutter over.

“Shit,” You huff, slowly moving from over his face and then grabbing his glasses.

With his face revealed, you saw how unfairly pretty he was with content written into his skin.

Then he chuckles softly, “You don’t have t’clean those.” Toru tells you, tone mumbled.

You were trying to wipe his glasses off with your shirt but he’d moved his hand to your wrist to stop you.

“I like the mess,” he added.

After which you’re stuck staring at him while he takes the wet glasses out of your hand and puts them back on his face. Surely there’s some hygienic concerns to take into consideration here but he’s not at all worrying about that right now.

Not with the painfully hard cock he’s got twitching in between his legs.

He wasn’t gonna tell you out of fear you’d assume he was some kinda loser (he is) but, not only did he cum half-way through eating you out, he also got hard again when that messy stream came pouring out of you.

Toru’s never made a woman squirt before but he did study enough videos to—clearly—figure out how it’s done. He didn’t think it would work so easily with you since all he had to use was his tongue but considering the way you just-

“Can you do that again?” Your voice hits his ears all of a sudden and his eyes widen.

“W-What?” Toru chokes, “You uh, you want me to make you squirt again?”

You nod and then move to sit back a little, not exactly in his lap but still close enough for your body heat to mingle. Your finger trails down the center of his torso slowly as you speak, “It felt really good. I wanna do it again,” You requested almost innocently. “But, on your cock this time.”

He doesn’t know how he managed not to cum at the sound of that.

Toru knew you were bold, he knew you could be a bit of a ditz at time, but fuck—did you have any idea of the things you were asking for sometimes?

Mustering up that faux confidence from before, he leans up and hums. “Alright, yeah… I can do that.” He thinks. Not that he’ll admit his lack of assuredness to you though. His hands simply move against your body and you hardly realize what’s going on until he’s swooped you up in his arms. “But not here.”

You blink dumbfoundedly, “Why not?”

“I have a better idea.”

——

When he said that, you didn’t think the better idea in question would be having sex in his brother’s room.

You recognized the path there as Toru carried you, felt the familiarity when he laid you down on the bed, and smelled the same scent of Sato lingering around even as Toru tried to distract you with kisses.

It seemed to be surprise after surprise with this man.

“I think after all the times I’ve had to hear the two of you fuck,” Toru’s hands were running down your body—his touch smoother than his brother’s ever were. “It’s only fair that I make you squirt in the same place he never could, right?”

Too many thoughts of sin swirled in your head for you to answer that properly so all you did was nod your head again. Which was yet another thing he found cute.

It’s no wonder Sato kept you to himself all this time.

That realization becomes even clearer by the time Toru’s got his cock freed from his clothing, his pinkish tip dribbling precum down onto your cunt while he gapes at the sight.

With his clothes all gone, you realized that he’d been hiding a ripped body under all those baggy, nerdy-branded tees he wore. His muscles would flex without him even trying and he didn’t even notice how badly you were drooling over him until he stopped looking at your weeping hole and remembered to redirect his gaze up.

Seeing how you’re staring at his abs like you wanted to take a bite out of him, he leaned all the way up and allowed himself to be on full display for you. His cock bobbed with its hardness due to the way you admired him.

He was only reminded again that his brother got this time and time again and was too selfish to share.

What an asshole.

Toru scoffed and let his head cock to the left, peaking down at his length still hanging over your lower abdomen. “Hm,” His hand moved and he began to measure himself in comparison to how deep inside you he’d be within the next few minutes—hand stopping only a few inches short of your belly button. “Does he reach this far?”

You flinched out of your gawking thoughts and moved your attention to where his hand was, gasping at the debauched sight in between your legs.

Truth be told, the fact that they were twins clearly applied to every inch of their bodies. But if you looked hard enough, you could notice that Sato’s is a bit longer while Toru’s has that veining thickness.

To avoid making the man jealous, you shrug and make eye contact with him again, “Put it in and find out.”

Toru laughs dryly and you throb. Something had changed from before. His shyness seemed like it hid itself away considering there was nothing shy about how he wrapped his hand around his cock and then let it slap slap slap! against your swollen folds.

Your body twitched at each slap but what caught his attention most is how your cunt salivated with each one.

“Huh. I think I figured it out,” Toru breathed, his glasses slipping a bit.

Then he guides his dick up to swab around your clit for a couple seconds just to see the way your hips instantly squirm up for more. The smile that drags out across his face is chillingly close to the one Sato wears while he fucks you.

“There it is,” Toru whispers, hauling his cock down and letting his plump tip poke against your hole to feel you clench, and then slide back. “That’s what you like. You like being teased.”

You were so needy that you felt your slick wetly sliding down your skin to pool beneath you, “N-No, I just—“

“Shhh, focus on how this feels, pretty girl.” He instructs. All the shakiness you normally heard in his speech was gone and replaced with something sinfully commanding—yearning only to teach you true pleasure. “See how my cock keeps slipping out? Mmgh,” He repeated his action from before and your hips bucked for more this time, making him huff. “Don’t you want it inside you sooo badly?”

Your hand reached down for him, trying your damndest to angle him into you, “I do. Toru please,” You pleaded delightfully.

His naturally submissive nature leads him to slip an inch in but the dewy warmth of your pussy makes him let out a stuttered gasp. Then he lets his cock slop right out of you with another ringing sound of filth spurring out into the air. Then his deft cockhead thwacks at your quivering hole again and your eyes roll back.

"Say that again." Toru grunts, slapping your parted folds with his cock again to emphasize his words, "Beg me for it."

Your back arches up off the bed this time and you’ve got the prettiest look of desperation on your face, "Mnh, please?"

Fuck. He was not strong enough to drag this out any longer.

Nor was he reader for how welcoming your cunt is for him. Swallowing him in inch by stretching inch, Toru’s left with a slacked jaw as he finally slides into you. Choking on his own breath, “O-Ohh… Oh fuck.” he pants, “You’re so wet. F-Fuck, were you always this wet? Shit..”

You let off a pleasant string of moans that make his cock twitch wildly inside you before he even makes it halfway in.

Managing a short breath, you smile up at him, “Didn’t know you could curse s’much, Toru.”

He knew right then and there he was fucked.

“G-Gonna cum,” He whimpers as he drops his face down into your neck. The singular utterance of his name is what did it for him.

You thought he was just being dramatic but when you feel velvety ropes of creamy cum flooding into you followed by his throaty grunts against the crook of your neck, you realize he was being everything but.

The man could barely move his hips and all he had to offer you was thick loads in sporadic spurts and whiny groans.

By the time you feel his cum escaping where the two of you are still connected, you’re slow to snort, “…Toru?”

“Shit,” He gasps immediately, “Shitshitshit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to cum,” His head flies up, white hairs sticking to his forehead from sweat and eyes all wide and apologetic on yours, “I just-, you felt so good. I couldn’t-, fuck. I’m—“

“It’s okay,” You giggle, moving your hands to cup his face, “Just keep goin’.”

“But-,” His eyes travel back and forth between your own as he continues to stare. It takes Toru a long moment to realize he’s… still hard.

With a breathless oh tumbling out of his kiss-bitten lips, he rolls his hips forward and pushes his cum deeper into you as a creamy squelch rings out. “O-Ohh, fuck. That sounds s’nasty...” He murmurs, arousal decorating his expression from the sound.

“Mhm,” You whir, tugging him down to kiss you.

If Sato had good stamina then, as twins, Toru should too, right?

A very intimate mess of his hips rocking down into you carries on with your lips sliding over one another. Unlike his older sibling who typically fucked like his every thrust guaranteed pleasure (it did), Toru moved inside you in the same way his mouth moved over yours—awkward but careful.

The streeeetch from his cock definitely made up for his lack of hurried strokes since his steady pace forced you to feel every prodding inch.

He may not have lasted long inside you without cumming but he was able to bring you to an orgasm of your own, whispering things into your mouth about how perfect you were—how his brother never deserved any of this.

It made your heart feel heavy and your cunt sloppily sang around his cock up until the sound of something dropping made you both gasp.

“What the fuck.” Sato’s voice was heard seething, having dropped the bag he had hanging off of his shoulder.

When Toru pulls away from you and glances back, you manage to move your head enough to catch a glimpse of how Sato stuck was staring at the way his twin steadily fucking you to gentle tears.

“S-Sato,” You sputtered out, suddenly feeling Toru’s hand move to press down your lower abdomen—tightening the pressure around his cock and making him feel impossibly bigger inside you. “Ohmygod-,” Both men heard the way you choked, “M’gonna cum.”

Only to be interrupted by Toru scoffing, "Not yet. Someone has to teach this guy how to make you squirt, right?"

“No one has to teach me shit,” Sato argued as he fully entered his bedroom.

What a sight—his own brother fucking his favorite girl. Sato never thought he’d see the day, honestly.

Hell, he didn’t even know what to say. The sight of you two wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Toru had his face so it was like seeing himself fuck you. But, y’know, with glasses…

“Clearly someone does,” Toru’s delayed response came after he’d tugged his cock out of you, watching his cum sap out and soil his brother’s bedsheets. “Especially if I was able to do it.”

Rolling his eyes, “Bullshit.” Sato spat without letting his brother’s words register properly. When they finally do, an appalled expression colors over him, “Wait, what? No way, show me.”

Toru moves a hand to scratch the back of his neck, looking off to the side dorkishly, “Uh, we didn’t record it or anything–”

“No, I mean do it again, four eyes.” His older brother clarifies rudely.

You sit up at that. Glancing back and forth between the two for a moment and then settling your eyes onto Sato, “What?”

“I don’t believe him,” Sato huffs as comes to sit on the edge of his bed. Throwing his eyes onto you, “So, if he really made you squirt then surely he has no issue doing it again.”

You blink. “You want him to do that in front of you?”

“I want to see you squirt, period,” He admits, “I don’t care who gets it outta’ you at this point.”

You and Toru then exchange glances before looking at him.

“Well?” Sato scoffs. “If you’re gonna go out of your way to fuck in my bed, don’t stop now that I’m here. Put on a fuckin’ show for me.”

Ever so demanding he was…

——

Not that you or Toru seemed to care.

The next position you end up in is rather… precarious, to say the least.

You thought you were left stretched before but that feeling was utterly pale in comparison to what you felt now. Toru had you bouncing up and down his heavy cock, letting it talk you through every pummeling thrust by leaving sweltering smooches against the deepest crevices of your cunt.

Your maw was left to dangle open and you looked like a true slut in the eyes of the Gojo twins. As one fucked you beyond dumb, the other was sat in front of you with his hands wrapped around his shaft, his palm running up and down that wildly long cock of his as sticky precum glistened out from his tip.

Drool and spit trickled all down your jaw and fell onto the floor below and you couldn’t move in any way to escape Toru’s desperate thrusts.

The sound of sweaty skin slacking and clashing against one another echoed through Sato’s large bedroom whilst he watched and got off to the sight.

Your arms and legs were locked firmly in Toru’s grip and he was just using your pussy to satisfy that swollen ache he’d been dealing with for fuck knows how long now.

The remnants of his cum sobbed downwards and left a messy ring around his base, the pearly color nearly mocking the white happy trail of hair he had.

"Tighter-, hahh.. squeeze around me tighter, please." Toru muttered into your ear, having found himself pussydrunk and slopped. The walls of your pussy narrowed around him and his hips snapped up a little faster, "Good girl, just like that. F-Fuuck... you're gonna make me c-cum." Toru whimpered.

A singular gasp of, "Inside.” from your horribly sore throat makes both him and his brother groan.

"Again? Shiit," Toru sent a bragging smile ahead before bucking his hips up into you faster as if to prove a point. Still talking into your ear, "Y'want me to breed you in front of Sato? Damn, you're sluttier than I thought you'd be."

You feel his weighty balls pounding up against your skin as his cock bullied in deeper, your pussy stretched into the prettiest shape and molded perfectly around him.

Sato couldn’t take his eyes off the errotic sight and his hand moved faster, his own hips thrusting up as he reminisced on that feeling of positioning into you. The man swears he could feel you wrapped around him just from watching his brother handle you.

It was so different to see things from this perspective but fuck was it sexy. Your tits bounced as Toru dragged you up up upp and then let his hips meet you halfway with a needy thrust as he let your body come back down.

"Mmngh, Toru!" You moaned softly.

To which his teeth nipped at your ear, "It's so cute when you say my name like that," He huffs, "Do you like me that much? Hm? Like the way Toru treats this pussy?"

You weakly moved your head in agreement, tears running down your cheeks, "Uhuhh… f-fuuuck, Toru. M’cummin.”

His movements grew faster then, ruder. The plump crown of his cock mashed into that sweet spot of yours over and over and over as if to make the spot his new home—imprint himself there permanently.

Breathing all heavy against you, “S’okay, let it out, sweetheart. Show him what he should be making you do, yeah?”

Sato cums a split second before it actually happens, based on the fact that it was about to happen. Thank god you were too drunk to see it because he’s watching with teary eyes as you squirt all over Toru—his dick slipping out of you because of it and the mess spraying ahead filthily.

Your pussy quivers from the release and you’re whining all through it, the cooing sound of Toru whispering you through your high prominence in your ear. You could barely think, barely breathe because of the intensity of it all.

When you calm down from it, Toru’s still got you in his arms and all you’re left to focus on is Sato’s pouty face as he continues to stroke himself.

“Well, fuck. Look at you,” He spoke hoarsely the moment he noticed your attention on him, his head resting back against his headboard, “Just a whore for some Gojo cock, huh?”

Your head barely bobs in response—far too dazed to answer that with a properly functioning brain.

Sato’s hand squeezes around his tip and his brows furrow, “Yeahhh? Y’liked watching me jerk off like some pathetic loser while I let my brother fuck you?” He hardly waited for another answer out of you before nodding his chin, “Bet you do. Look at that pussy, so fuckin’ wet from this.”

Toru’s easing you down on the bed in between the both of them, puffing, “Unfair of you to keep her all to yourself, Sato.”

Keeping things simple, “I’m willing to share now.”

…

Things should have ended there. Seriously.

But, allas, the hold these two have over you appeared to be much stronger than you thought.

“Wrap those lips around me, baby.” Sato had requested, watching your shaky limbs move in between his legs.

Toru was somewhere behind you, diving his face back into your cunt to… clean the mess he left in there, apparently.

Out of both of them, Toru was definitely the more perverted one—currently eating his own cum out of your cunt after giving you some bullshit excuse about wanting to keep you clean.

All he wanted was to stick his tongue inside you again. You weren’t that dumb.

While you gathered Sato’s cock into your palm and let your lips press into his tip, he hissed as his face twisted up due to sensitivity. Easing a hand onto your head, “Atta girl. Choke on this dick while he cleans you up. Wanna see every inch down that throat.”

His words never failed to leave your cunt soused, a physical reaction of which met Toru’s compliant tongue.

Sato’s bed was a mess of all sorts of fluids—overly due for a washing after all that had taken place thus far. His cock was somewhere in the back of your throat and he felt your moans tremble against him whenever Toru slurped against you just right.

The three of you were lazy with everything by now and the only thing that made the Gojo siblings perk up was when you ended up gifting Toru’s mouth with another raining mess.

Oh, Sato was in awe at the sight all over again. So much so that it’s what caused his next orgasm. He was so dazed by your squirting that he didn’t even bother to ask you to swallow what he’d just unconsciously thrusted into your throat.

Normally that’s his favorite part; watching or asking you to swallow his seed. Yet, he’d missed all of that because seeing his brother’s face smothered in your wetness left him shocked.

“Ohhh, shit. That was more than the first time.” Toru said as he finally pulled himself from in between your legs.

Sato’s ears twitch and he cocks a brow. Daze broke completely, “First time?” he asked. It was clear he still didn’t believe that his geeky, clumsy, and overall awkward sibling made that happen before he walked in.

Toru looks at his brother, “Yeah… More than the first time she squirted.”

Sato stares. “You… You made her squirt before I got here?” Disbelief was evident in his tone.

He chuckles, “You asked me that like it’s hard or something, of course I did.”

You pull yourself up from Sato’s softening cock just in time and give the two slow blinks while transferring your gaze back and forth. Sleepiness wasn’t slow to overcome you.

Sato met your eyes with his pointed ones and puffed all brat-like, “Soooo… you’re gonna do that for only me next time, right?”

There’s not a singular thought inside your head as you blatantly ignore him. Then, you turn over and plop onto the bed to lay down—back facing the two of them.

“Hello?” Sato taps your shoulder and then jokingly adds a comedic, “Chat, am I muted…?”

Toru snorts with a shake of his head, getting out the bed to start cleaning up the mess you three collectively made within the past few hours.

Then, you’re wondering if the roles had reversed for a second when he grumbles, “Fuckin’ loser…”

perm gojo tags (1/2);

@imyourightnow @cupidstrace @billiondollarworth @navyllll @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @sugo-jo @etsuniiru @not-a-glad-gladiator @2kool4skoolll @yulissacastillo11

@daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @oookore @blubearxy @wonderfullymickey @iaintblockinnobody @anothergojostan @kitassecretgf @nanasukii28 @iam-souless

@nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend @kunababy @withersworld @suguphile @megottheswaskikacooooke @kvsqkiii @forest-nymph666 @yourlocalcatscammer @viiennie

@1stmagnoila @moonmilk102 @v33326 @lucy-lulu @sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @serenadesvt @bloxdhawks @riameriash

@arminseas2 @palanggaaa @makingtimemine @theodoresvalentine @salmon-ella @miss-f0rtun3 @jinjen @blcknebula @babblybebe @iluvatsumuuuui

(if u wanna be tagged for future gojo works pls lmk here—it is almost full though!)

note: never wrote watersports before. just really wanted to fuck that old man.

Naoya was late, again. 

You weren’t surprised, honestly. The moment he realized these meetings were meant to be just the two of you, he stopped bothering to arrive on time, and sometimes he wouldn’t show up at all. When your father or Naobito were present, Naoya was all platitudes and courtesies, polite to the point of exaggerated excess. But alone, any pretense of effort dissipated, and his true colors came out; he didn’t like you, didn’t think you were worth his time, and would pick your appearance apart head to toe. 

You had learned to swallow his personality and insults, burying them under your own fake smiles. It’s not like you had a choice in the matter; the decision for Naoya to be your future husband was made a long time ago without your input. All you could do was what was expected of you. 

So you waited, sitting with your legs tucked beneath you, drumming your fingers against your thighs as you fought off boredom. Every now and then, the sound of shuffling footsteps or whispers would catch your attention, thinking maybe he would show up this time after all.  

But when the door finally slid open, you were surprised to find that it wasn’t Naoya at all, but his father. You weren’t entirely sure if that was relieving or not, having only met him a few times during formal meetings. 

“Ah,” Naobito entered the room, a gourd in one hand, his other inside the kimono draped off his torso as he scratched his belly. He looked far more disheveled than you’d expect a clan head to appear even within their own home. You were shocked at how fit he was for a man his age, especially one with such a fondness for the drink. His torso was all broad muscle with patches of silver hair coiled together. Even his face, that was sharp, still managed to look handsome, the wrinkles adding to the appeal rather than taking away anything. You did your best to focus on his eyes, feeling stupid and ashamed to have let your own wander. “Still waiting on my son?”  

He sat across from you without waiting for your response, taking a swig of his drink. “My son has terrible manners,” he spoke plainly. “Not sure where I went wrong with him, honestly.” He paused for a moment. “Keep that between us, alright?” He winked at you. 

You laughed easily at his words, never having seen this side of the Zenin head before. Normally it was all praise of his baby boy; hearing him speak so plainly almost felt like a conspiracy. It put your nerves at ease, even if you knew better than to openly agree. 

“It’s alright,” you said, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t mind waiting. He must be busy, being heir and a sorcerer.” 

Naobito laughed at that. “You don’t have to cover for him.” He shook his head, twisting his mustache between pinched fingers. “He shouldn’t have kept you waiting. Probably off picking a fight with his brothers or harassing a maid.” He poured sake into a small porcelain cup from the set beside him and slid it toward you.  

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “Don’t give me that look. One drink won’t hurt.” 

Not wanting to be rude, you accepted the cup. The alcohol burned as it went down, stronger and more bitter than you expected. You coughed, eyes watering, and shook your head trying to ignore the aftertaste. Warmth burned in your belly, spreading outward until a flush reached your cheeks.  

“He do this often?” He asked, already refilling the glass and placing it back in your hand. “Leave you alone like this?” 

So much for one drink. You hesitated to answer that question, opting to down the second shot. This time it burned less and made your head feel nice and fuzzy. 

“I don’t mind,” you said.  

“That’s not what I asked,” he chided. “You don’t have to be timid with me, I’m not the one you’re marrying.” 

“He does,” you corrected. “But Naoya has responsibilities, I understand that.” 

“So do I,” he replied. He lifted the gourd, gesturing to himself. “Yet here I am.” 

You laughed easier this time, feeling the smile stretch across your face as you did. The third drink went down perfectly, making the tips of your fingers tickle. 

“There it is,” he raised a brow. “Such a pretty smile suits you, sweetheart.” 

You swore it was just the alcohol, but the pet name combined with the compliment made you giggle like a school girl. “Thank you.” 

He refilled the cup again. “The way I see it, if my son wants to keep you waiting, the least I can do is keep you company.” 

Your vision was starting to swim now if you moved your head too quickly. You didn’t consider yourself a lightweight necessarily, but you didn’t often drink strong alcohol, especially not so quickly. He didn’t ask if you wanted more, just continued to pour more glasses and pass them back to you. The urge to pee hit you all at once, your bladder heavy from the nonstop liquid. You didn’t excuse yourself immediately, trying to hold out for better timing. 

“Well s’appreciated,” you slurred, trying your hardest to remain coherent. Words felt sloppy on your tongue. You shifted your weight from one knee to the other to abate the feeling. 

“Getting restless?” He smirked, jostling the gourd in his hand, making the liquid slosh around. The sound didn’t help your situation. 

“The sake’s just very strong, sir,” you murmured. 

“Is that so?.” He shrugged. “Drinking it pretty well for a woman. Should finish this one too.” The ceramic skidded across the tatami as he pushed it towards you again. “Half sips aren’t good.” 

You knew it wasn’t a good idea to drink anymore. You were no longer in that buzzed zone, but teetering on being drunk. It wouldn’t be becoming of yourself. But his praise made you want to comply; it was nice for someone to be nice to you for a change. You drank it down like the rest.

When the weight in your bladder grew too heavy, you couldn’t hold it anymore. You needed to go before you were too sloshed to walk. 

“Scuse me,” you said, speaking slowly as you wobbled to your feet. The tatami flooring felt unstable beneath you. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asked, twisting one side of his mustache. “Going somewhere?”

“Just gotta, use the restroom, sir,” you murmured, taking an unsteady step forward. The alcohol hit you all at once making your feet feel like sandbags. Stumbling, you fell forward nearly faceplanting, if not for the strong arm that caught you. 

“Watch it,” he cooed. “Can really hit ya all at once if you’re not careful.” 

The world felt like it was spinning, the lines on the walls twisting with your vision as he hauled you into his lap instead. He was warm, his pointed stache stickling your neck. His thick arm was wrapped around you, one hand splayed over your tits. Your drunk brain not quite registering the inappropriateness of that. 

“Naoya’s too soft,” he spoke. One hand continued, sliding beneath your kimono to squeeze the soft flesh there. “Dyes his hair, gets all dolled up. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows what to do with a woman. Or maybe he does, since he acts so much like one.” 

“Ah, sir?” You squirmed, something poking you from behind. You tried to move your limbs to get out of his grasp, but he held you there with ease. Your bladder cramped, the urge to go getting worse from the angle. 

“Such a pretty girl like you deserves a real man. Too bad you’re stuck with my son.” He chuckled humorously. 

“Sir, I really have to—” you slurred. 

“I know what you need, been watching you squirm in place for the past 10 minutes,” he cut you off, this time placing the gourd directly at your lips. Alcohol poured out without warning, making you sputter and choke. Some going into your nostrils burning. Your hands came up, trying to claw at the clay in an uncoordinated need for air. It was agony trying not to piss yourself with every cough once he finally eased up. Your vision was tunneled and unfocused, your stomach displeased with the sudden addition of more alcohol. 

“There we go,” he used two fingers, scooping up some sake spilling from the corner of your lips and licking it off. “Now that’s a face my son wouldn’t deserve to see in a million years.” 

“Please—” 

"In a minute," Naobito barked, hauling you back against his solid frame. The unmistakable feeling of his erection dug into your ass through layers of fabric. "Can't have my future daughter-in-law running off mid-conversation. That'd be downright rude.” 

Your thighs trembled violently as you locked every muscle below your waist. The strain brought fresh tears to your bleary eyes, vision swimming with both intoxication and panic. Every time you shifted, the world blurred making you nauseous. 

Naobito’s hand pressed to your lower belly making you groan, the pressure agony. Your muscles weren’t as easy to control when everything felt warm and sluggish. 

“Well now,” he whistled, both hands massaging your tits. You hadn’t even noticed him undoing the front of your clothes, brain too foggy to keep up. His calloused fingers scraped over your nipples, sending little shocks of pleasure outward. “These might be the finest tits I’ve ever seen.” He rolled his thumbs over them again, slower this time. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart. I’m going to fuck you so good that you’ll be begging for my cock every time my son fumbles between your legs.” He kissed your neck, pinching one of your nipples a little too hard. “And then you’ll come crawling back to me whenever you need relief.”

You moaned, feeling the telltale sparks of your own arousal warring with the need to piss between your legs. The filthy words he spoke went straight to your cunt. Your head flopped back against his shoulder, trying to get the nausea feeling to go away while not losing the contents of your bladder. 

“P-please,” you tried again. “Gotta pee—”

“That’s ok,” he said, fingers worming between your legs to press against your clit. “I like messy girls.” The pleasure that radiated from his touch almost made you give in. You clenched tighter, wincing, his fingers continuing to rub circles on your arousal. 

“Look at you, so wet already. Soaking my hand, clenching so hard,” he cooed. “Think you can cum before you piss yourself?” He asked, not easing up. 

“N-no, no,” you shook your head, eyes rolling back. Humiliation burned, acid shame washing over you. Despite your squirming, his fingers continued, prodding against your most sensitive spot with skilled determination. “Ah—” you whimpered, feeling that building pressure making your toes curl. 

“Let it all out,” he commanded, his fingers never relenting. 

You tried your hardest to keep clenched, to ignore the burning, desperate need to relieve yourself. But when the pressure spilled over, the orgasm rough and forced, you lost control of all sensations. Pleasure wracked your body as warm liquid spilled out of you, coating your thighs, making a mess all over the floor and his lap. The sound of your stream dribbled to a stop, leaving you boneless against him, tears spilling from your eyes. 

“Atta girl,” he praised, pushing you forward into the cooling pile of your own mess. The wet back of your kimono pushed upwards to reveal you to him from a new angle. Your sopping panties were tugged down your thighs, he didn’t bother to remove them. Naobito whistled again. “Might be the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen too. Bet she’ll pop out the cutest grandkids.” 

Your front half just lay there, cheek pressed to the tatami. He lifted your ass for a better angle, pressing a quick kiss to your oversensitive clit. You gasped at the sensation, but stayed pliant. When he dropped you to the floor again, he wasted no time in chasing his own pleasure. His cock prodded at your entrance, sliding in and out a few times shallowly before slowly pressing all the way in. The stretch stung, you were sure you could count every inch of him. His balls smacked your clit with the motion, causing you to shudder. It felt so good, warm, full. 

Naobito moved quickly, pulling out before slamming back in, the mushroomy tip kissing your cervix with each thrust. You silently wondered if Naoya was as big as his father, if he could make you feel like this just by sinking into you. If so, maybe there was at least something to look forward to. 

 Even his movements were surprisingly agile for his age. You were too cried out and drunk to care anymore, enjoying the way he rutted into you, hitting every sensitive spot. 

“Tight too, perfect little cunt. Just swallows me up. Might put me in an early grave if she won’t let go.” His hands held your hips so tight you were sure he left bruises. “Can’t wait til you’re wandering around the estate. Maybe get lucky and fuck a baby into you myself.” 

You groaned shamelessly at that, clenching around him. “S’good,” you slurred, half out of it. “Feels s’good. So fuckin’ good…” 

“Yeah? More honest when you’re stuffed full, aren’t ya?” He punctuated the question by grinding slow and deep that time, a sensation that made your already hazy vision go spotty. “That’s a good girl.” 

The praise made your chest warm, tongue lolling out of your mouth, unable to speak again. 

  His movements grew wild and uneven, the sound of skin slapping and liquid moving was the only noise as he fucked you deeper into the ground, your stretched panties making your thighs hurt from the strain. 

“Maybe I should’ve eased up on the sake myself. Then I could fuck this little hole all night…” Naobito grunted, pounding into you with a few more deep, slow thrusts, his hips rocking against your ass. 

He groaned when he spilled into you, filling you full with his hot cum. Naobito waited a moment before pulling out. You made a noise at the loss of contact, feeling his spend leaking out of you, trailing down your thighs to meet with the rest of the mess. Your lower half collapsed into the puddle beneath you, leaving you motionless against the ground. 

Footsteps sounded off behind you, the shoji door sliding open. You couldn’t move, stiff and jelly at the same time.