just someone

Normally you can hide it under layers of sarcasm and annoyed eye rolls. You’ve perfected the art of looking at him like he’s a mild inconvenience instead of someone you want to climb like a tree.

But now…. with this curse? You’ll take one look at his stupid face and probably confess everything.

absolutely the fuck not.

So you’re avoiding him. Hiding like a coward.

You told him you’ve been “sick” for two days. Haven’t answered his texts and turned off your location. You’re pretty sure he’s tried to come by your apartment but you pretended you weren’t home, hiding behind your couch like a fugitive.

“This is pathetic,” you tell yourself on day three, eating cereal for dinner in the dark. “I’m an adult. A fkn sorcerer who fight curses and I’m hiding from a man.”

“I should just tell him to fuck off,” you say out loud to your empty apartment.

Then, because of the curse… “except i don’t want him to fuck off, i want him to fuck me, ideally against a wall, maybe that window in his office….”

You drop your spoon.

One more day. You just have to make it one more day.

***

Day four

You’re so close. The curse should break by tonight. You’ve successfully avoided Gojo for ninety hours.

A feat of willpower that should qualify you for sainthood.

You’re getting coffee at the campus cafe… it’s risky, but you’re losing your mind cooped up and you need caffeine….. when you hear it.

“There you are.”

Fuck. fuck fuck fuck.

You turn. Gojo’s standing there in all his annoying glory. Sunglasses on, that stupid smile on his face.

“Been looking for you,” he says, casual as anything. Like he hasn’t been blowing up your phone.. “You sick? you look fine to me.”

“i’m….” you clamp your mouth shut so hard your teeth click.

Because what you’re thinking is…. you looks so good i’ve missed you and please rail me on this table…. you CANNOT say any of that.

“You okay?” he steps closer. “you’re being weird.”

“FINE” it comes out too loud, several people look over. “Totally fine! Actually i have to go….”

You try to leave but he catches your wrist and the touch sends electricity up your arm like you’re a fucking cartoon character.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on?” his voice is softer now, concerned, and that’s somehow worse. “You’ve been avoiding me for four days. Did i do something?”

“no,” you manage through gritted teeth.

“then why….”

“i’m cursed,” you blurt out, your mouth is moving without permission. “Truth curse. I say everything i think for 4 days. It’s been hell but it breaks tonight.”

His eyebrows go up above his sunglasses. “Everything you think?”

“yes.”

“for four days?”

“yes.” You sigh

“and you’ve been avoiding me because…?”

Your mouth opens. You can feel the words forming.

No. No. No. No

“Because i have a crush on you and didn’t want to accidentally confess” it comes out in a rush.

Silence.

Gojo just stares at you. His mouth is slightly open. He looks like you just told him santa isn’t real.

You want the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

“I’m leaving,” you announce. “leaving the country, actually. Changing my name. You’ll never see me again….”

“wait wait wait.” he’s grinning now. full megawatt smile. “You have a crush on me?”

“I will kill you.” you’re backing away “i will actually murder you and make it look like an accident”

“How long?” he’s following you, that stupid grin getting wider.

“I’m not answering that…. six months…. FUCK.”

He’s laughing now, hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“This isn’t funny” you’re mortified. Dying. Deceased. “This is the worst day of my life”

“It’s pretty funny.”

He steps closer, backing you against the counter. His hand comes up to rest on the surface next to your hip, caging you in “You have a crush on me?”

“Had. It just died of embarrassment.”

“liar.” his other hand comes up to cup your face and your brain completely stops working. Blue screen of death “What are you thinking right now?”

Oh he’s evil. He’s genuinely evil. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“That you’re an asshole,” you say. Then, because curse: “and that i want you to kiss me. I’ve thought about this moment for months except in my head i was smoother and you were less smug and…..mmph….”

He kisses you.

Gojo Satoru is kissing you.

His hand is in your hair and he tastes like sugar. His other hand is on your waist pulling you closer and closer and…

“Oh my god,” you breathe when he pulls back. “oh my god…. ”

“What are you thinking now?” he’s smirking like an anime villain.

“That i want you to do that again. Your mouth is even better than i imagined. I…. Why are you smiling like that?”

“Because i’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you that i’m in love with you.” His smile has gone soft.

Your brain stops working. Windows shutdown noise.

“What?”

“Yeah.” he says it casual. “Was gonna take you to dinner first. Even had a speech planned.” he smirks. “But this works too.”

“You…. You love me?” You blink

“yep.”

“With me.” you point at yourself like there might be another you standing nearby.

“That’s what i said.”

“i’m gonna say something stupid any second…” you warn him, but your voice is shaky.

“Good. Wanna hear all of it.” his thumb brushes your cheek. “What are you thinking right now?”

“That i love you,” it spills out like water. “REALLY want you to take me home and…”

He kisses you again. Harder this time, deeper. His hand tightens in your hair and you forget what you were saying. Forget your own name. forget everything that isn’t him.

“Been waiting months to hear you say that.” He murmurs against your mouth.

“I would’ve told you eventually. Probably…. Maybe….. in like five years when i was drunk enough.” Your say, blushing slightly.

“Good thing you got cursed then.”

“I hate this curse.” You huff, trying to hide your smile.

“i love this curse.”

He kisses you again, and again, and you’re both laughing between kisses like idiots. His hands are everywhere and you’re pretty sure you’re both making a scene in public but you don’t care.

“We’re leaving” he says, smirking like he already won.

“Where are we going?”

“My place. Gonna make you say every single thought in your head.” he’s already pulling you toward the exit.

“The curse breaks in like six hour…”

“Then we better hurry.”

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, pulling you toward the exit, and you’re laughing, stumbling after him.

And for once, you don’t mind the curse at all.

Turns out some truths are worth saying out loud.

Even the embarrassing ones.

Especially those.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated 🫶🏻✨

a compression shirt clings to your frame, damp with sweat from the match. and even worse, your mini athletic skirt shows way too much of your thigh for his dick to possibly stay down. and he has to pretend not to notice how it tends to ride higher up your thighs every time you shift your balance.

to top it off, right now you have him pinned down under you as you’re straddling his chest. your hair has fallen loose from its rubber band, messy strands sticking to your temples as you glare down at him, completely unaware of the X-rated thoughts currently unfolding inside his brain.

satoru swears he can distinctly feel every single nerve ending where your weight presses into him. your knee. your thigh. your palm pinning his wrists down.

god help him.

he tries to briefly adjust his pants, praying to any deity that’ll possibly listen to him right now that you wouldn’t notice how bricked he is. you’d never let him hear the end of it if you’d found out—but even worse, you’d potentially find out how he really thinks about you.

normally, he isn’t the type to shamelessly get turned on by a girl just because of what she’s wearing. but the fact that it’s you changes everything.

you—the girl he’s been quietly and hopelessly in love with since he was a hormonal teenager.

you—the one person who’s stood beside him through everything. high school missions. late-night training. the mess of the jujutsu world.

his best friend.

which means, logically speaking, this situation is absolute torture. because you don’t see or feel anything that he is. you’re too focused on the match, on winning, on proving you can take down the strongest sorcerer alive.

meanwhile, satoru’s calculating how much longer he’s allowed to let you straddle him before you get suspicious and figure out how big of a perv he really is.

“are you even trying?” you finally quiz, snapping him out of his lustful reverie

“what?—of course I am!”

“bullshit.” your grip tightens slightly on his wrist. he bites back a grin. “you’re going easy on me.”

“I’m not—”

“where’s that energy you usually have when you’re fighting curses?” you interrupt. “or are you just too weak to keep up with me now?”

his lips curl upward, slow and dangerous. god, he loves when you get competitive. the fire kindling in your eyes that only a good competition could bring out. right now, you’re trying to bait him. and it’s working.

“all right,” he exhales, rolling his neck against the mat to work out the kinks. “fine. let’s run it back.”

you release his wrist and push off his chest, stepping back to give him space. you scrutinize his clearly exhausted form. how the hell did the idiot manage to tire himself out so easily with this lacklustre performance?

satoru sits up slowly, brushing stray dust from his uniform like he hasn’t just had his ass handed to him for the past half hour.

“I’m not pulling any punches this time,” he announces cockily, flexing his fingers. “so don’t count on another easy KO.”

“oh don’t threaten me with a good time.”

your stance lowers. the training yard is quiet except for the wind moving through the trees and the occasional hum of a bird. you move first. a fast step forward, aiming a strike toward his shoulder.

satoru blocks it easily this time, catching your wrist mid-swing. his other hand hooks around your waist to redirect your momentum.

you twist sharply, trying to flip the hold, but suddenly the ground disappears beneath you. the world tilts as you lose your balance, and before you can react

THUD.

this time, your back meets the mat. hard. your breath leaves your lungs in a startled rush. and this time, satoru is the one above you.

his knee slides between yours to keep you pinned, one hand pressing your wrist beside your head, the other braced on the mat near your shoulder.

neither of you dare to move for a long second, a bead of sweat slides down the side of his neck, falling directly onto your forehead. your chests are practically a hair away, rising and falling in synch.

satoru stares down at you, face tinged pink, and murmurs:

“you’re surprisingly easy to beat for someone who was talking so much shit a minute ago.”

“you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.

“mm,” he hums, leaning just a little closer. “and yet you keep training with me.”

your legs shift slightly under his hold, testing the strength of the pin. he tightens his grip instantly, making you let out a little squeak.

and now he’s smiling.

“say, you wouldn’t mind it if i just…”

he acts instead of vocalizes his idea, his palm lays flat on your sternum, then slowly inches downwards, turning over when he reaches your navel.

an involuntary shiver overtakes your body. but along with the sensation of his warm fingers slowly dragging down your body, you feel something else.

something poking at your pelvis. something warm.

oh?

“are you—?”

“yes.”

he doesn’t even bother to shift, unabashedly rocking his hard-on against your hips, which elicits a sharp whine out of you.

he grins like he’s struck gold, continuing his ministrations while his fingers move lower until they reach your skirt, hooking onto the fabric and yanking them downwards.

now your bare, plush thighs are on full display for him—though clearly the lights were too bright. and something tells you his sudden moment of boldness has completely left his body the second he freezes. blood draining out of his face almost as fast as his prior-confidence.

“fuck. i’m so sorry.. i should’ve like—asked or somethi—”

you roll your eyes and grab his palm, placing it back onto your thigh, “already tapping out?” you tease “don’t tell me you’re too weak to even finish what you started.”

he sighs in relief, “don’t get cocky. you know that turns me on.”

a firm pressing of his fingers to your panties cuts off any response you would’ve had, a gasp leaving you instead. your body betrays you, subconsciously arching up into his fingers.

the familiar cheeky grin finds its way back onto his face as he redoubles his efforts, circling your clit through your panties. your head tips back in pure ecstasy, soft sounds leaving your mouth in continuous waves. the noises spur on his motivation. he wants to make you feel good, more than anything. even though he’s so fucking hard it hurts, your pleasure comes first, always.

“y’gonna cum through your panties? hmm?” he goads

you’re too overwhelmed to even speak, instead resorting to moaning intelligibly, something almost sounding like please. i need more.

“that’s alright, baby. i’ll take good care of you, don’t you worry.”

a/n: coming back after one of the WORST weeks of my entire life with some satoru slop👅

tags ; @s0ngofthebaddest @tartartagliaboo @kissysatoru @akumatizedmuffin @softtashoney @purityswan @fairygardenprincess @satoruslvut @loowyinsixeyes @luvleyliaxx @nokyia @arrozyfrijoles23 @lady-of-blossoms @gojofucker7 @skin2bone111 @lovelylovecin3monn : @postresfresitas @softtashoney @dreamydaredevil @vanillasatoru @loowyinsixeyes @cherrys-wrld @bride0fchucky @lemonjuicie

he isn't planning on trying to get in your pants by undressing you. well, maybe he literally is getting in your pants, but it's not like he's trying to fuck you, really.

he'd already gotten your new set of clothes out—your snoopy pajama pants and one of his shirts that fits like a blanket on you—but, it just so happened when he kissed your tummy after sliding down your pants, you just had to whine his name so prettily and tilt your head back like you're expecting him to touch you.

"my love..." he's not asking you to address him or even take the energy to speak. no, not when you're so sleepy. he just can't help but murmur in adoration because satoru loves how you relax under his touch and get just needy enough to whine a little. and thats it, that's all it takes for him devote all his energy into making you feel good.

a soft kiss is planted on your head before he changes you fully, prioritizing making you comfortable before giving into your carnal desires. then, he's settling on the bed, back pressed to the headboard, legs spread for you to nudge yourself right between.

you're a sight to behold even in your comfy clothes and messy hair and tired eyes.

he hums softly, then pats his thigh like a calling because you know where he wants you. gingerly, you crawl onto the mattress, back pressed to his chest, feet placed on the outside of his legs because you already know he's gonna make you keep your thighs open the whole time.

your friends had asked you once if it bothered you knowing satoru was older and probably had so many more women before you. for a moment, you'd let the jealousy slip in; the possessiveness held by young people like you who haven't had all that time yet. but after you let him feel you like this, and fuck you like you really needed, you realized you were thankful for this. thankful for someone who knows that you don't need to be asked what you want all the time, and instead might want decisions just made for you.

his lips find your neck and your head naturally lolls to the side, soft and slightly wetted and making soft chu, chu, chu sounds when he peppers little kisses along the sensitive skin. he doesn't let his hands wander yet, just rests them on your arms, letting you bask in the warmth of him.

satoru's hands are large, a heavy but comforting weight that slides down the sides of your arms as his hands find yours. his kisses slow and soften and he watches your expression when he takes one of your hands in his, guiding it up and up and up until your hand is resting on your own breast, his over yours as some kind of guide.

a shaky, short-lived sound escapes your lips as he makes you squeeze the soft flesh. his other hand snakes around you, over your ribs, your tummy, and right under the waistband of your shorts. your muscles immediately tense with need, which makes him pause just to make sure you're ready. "relax, sweet girl," he hushes gently, warm breath grazing your ear.

you oblige of course, letting the tenseness uncoil, earning you some soft praise, "my good girl... so obedient." he smells like laundry, cologne, and tea, you think. sometimes you think about how he describes his younger self: incredibly playful, chaotic, a bit unconventional, but overall, lonely. you can't help but think how now, that's the furthest from the truth. he's calm, organized, so sweet and gentle with you. though, you must admit he still hasn't lost his playful charm.

"are you there, baby?"

the sound of his voice pulls you from your thoughts. you nod gently, back arching a little to encourage him on. his lips find your jaw again, trying to keep you in the moment. he knows how it can be after such a long day. you feel his fingers then slip under your panties, brushing over your mound to tease.

"please, hngh—"

then his finger is on your clit, pressing down enough to startle you. before you can try to clamp your thighs together, he's already locking them apart with his own legs. you feel your eyebrows knit together, your head throwing back at the sparking sensation. he's barely moving his finger, only slowly pressing down a bit more just to coax sounds out of you. "yeah," he hums, "i know, sweetheart." like he's listening to you reprimand him.

your hand tries to grab his wrist but to no avail, he overpowers you by too much. his other hand over yours, still resting on your breast, makes you gently pinch the sensitive peak there, aching and begging for stimulation.

your wetness soaks your panties without him even getting to finger you yet. the room buzzes with the heat of your bodies and the indulgence of your desperation. he thinks about the way he has to refrain from rutting his cock against your ass, how you're the only woman in the past twenty years that he's had to refrain from cumming in his pants just from watching you get off.

you feel the tips of his fingers rub tight little circles on your clit, manipulating the little bundle of nerves to make your head completely throw back against his shoulder and your cries louder. the sensation has your hips bucking into his hands as you melt under his touch, practically begging for him to go faster. "sah-tor-u, please, ngh—"

you're heaving at the feeling, chest rising and falling almost dramatically as he uses your own slick to his advantage. he sees how desperate you are for it, how bad you need to be filled so you can forget about today. of course, he's not one to deprive his sweetheart of anything she so desperately needs.

before you know it, he's coaxing your hole open, watching as you cry out and try to grasp at anything: his shoulder, your own breast, his wrist again. he's reacting over your shoulder, in your ear with faux gasps and exaggerated sounds almost as if he's lightheartedly mocking you. even when he's trying to make you feel good, he can't always help himself.

"look at that, so pretty." his finger pulls out just enough to show how it glistens from your slick before he's sliding it right back in, feeling the plushness of your pussy.

your walls immediately tighten around him, sucking him in like he's a necessity for your pussy. "jesus christ. so damn tight." he can't help himself but to let himself rut against you just a little, maybe a lot. pre is oozing out from his cock over and over in drips, soaking his own boxers like he's a teenager again, getting so worked up just from how you feel on his fingers. when his digits curl a little bit, you do the work for him, letting your hips rub against his groin and he can't help but give in.

everything around you is a blur. the once-defined shadows of the room seem more like a gradient now, and the sunset peeking through the curtains is almost blinding. the way satoru is so relentless, determined to make sure you release all that stress, only makes it hard to focus on anything but him.

he swears he's trying to focus on your pleasure. you're bowing off of him, gripping your own breast like it's form of support. maybe it is. when he reaches that one spot, the one that makes you sob out, eyes glossed over with pleasure, lips shining with your own spit, he has to abuse it.

his fingers curl right on it, pressing down and keeping his long digits knuckle-deep, making beads of sweat form and drip down your temples. satoru swears that if for the rest of his life, he had to serve you just like this, he'd be happy to. the print on the tips only adds to the sensation, his experienced fingers rubbing that one spot, not letting up even when you try to pry him off.

"hah, i'm gonna pee, waitwaitwait, fuckfuck—!"

"just let it happen, sweetheart."

it hits you all at once. your vision goes white and you can't be sure you're even breathing. a choked little sound is all you can manage after your muscles coil tight enough to feel as if you're trying to keep the feeling forever. he's just working you through it, making sure you absolutely forget about your day and anything else but him and your orgasm.

the gushes go on for what feels like hours, squirting out in spurts that dampen your shorts completely, the warm heat spreading from your shorts and dripping down your legs, pooling on the comforter of the bed. your vision is completely blank from the white-hot pleasure rattling every nerve in your body.

it's gone as fast as it came. all good things come to an end, you guess. but now you're petrified you just pissed yourself in front of your very hot and very experienced boyfriend.

"did i just...?"

"squirted, baby. not pee."

toru doesn’t wait. he slams in all at once, no mercy, burying himself balls-deep in one brutal thrust. the stretch is obscene, his thick length splitting you open, veins dragging against your walls as he bottoms out. “oh shit, yeah—take that dick,” he growls, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt you toward satoru. your mouth opens wider on instinct, and satoru slips in further, the taste of him flooding your tongue—musky, clean, with that hint of sweetness.

“easy,” satoru murmurs, his free hand stroking your cheek as you adjust to the dual invasion. “breathe through your nose… that’s it. now suck a little, just the head first.” he’s so patient, watching your lips stretch around him, eyes half-lidded like he’s memorizing every detail. you hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling under the sensitive ridge, and he moans low, hips twitching forward just a bit. “fuck, that’s good—keep doing that, yeah? feels amazing.”

behind you, toru’s pace is relentless, each thrust pounding into you like he’s trying to break you. his balls slap against your clit with wet, filthy smacks, the sound echoing in the room mixed with your muffled gags and his grunts, and the relentless thump-thump-thump of the party below, like the whole frat house is cheering him on. “goddamn, this cunt’s gripping me so tight,” he pants, one hand coming down to smack your ass—hard, the sting blooming hot and making you clench around him. the chain swings forward again, grazing your back. “you like that? huh? getting fucked like a slut while you suck off my brother? dirty girl. bet they’re all down there wondering where i disappeared to. little do they know i’m up here owning this pussy.”

satoru’s grip tightens in your hair, but it’s not rough; he’s steadying you as toru’s thrusts push you deeper onto his cock. “don’t listen to him,” satoru whispers, voice breathy now, guiding you with soft tugs. “focus on me. take more… can you? open wider—yes, like that. use your tongue on the underside, right there.” you do as he says, laving at the throbbing vein, and he rewards you with a shaky praise: “perfect, just like that. you’re doing so well for me.”

toru laughs, breathless and mocking, as he grinds deep, rolling his hips to hit that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. “doing well? she’s choking on your dick like a pro. look at her.. tears in her eyes, drool everywhere.” he’s right; your mouth’s a mess, saliva dripping down your chin, coating satoru’s shaft as you bob your head in time with toru’s brutal rhythm. every slam from behind forces you to take satoru deeper, his tip nudging the back of your throat, making you gag wetly. the bass from downstairs pulses harder, vibrating up through the bed frame, making everything feel even more obscene.

“shh, it’s okay,” satoru soothes, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “you don’t have to deepthroat yet. just… relax your throat a little. breathe… good girl.” he eases you forward gently, inch by inch, until your nose brushes his pelvis, the coarse white hairs there pressed up against your nose, his cock bulging in your throat. “hold it there… count to three in your head. then pull back slow.” his voice is calm, coaching, even as his thighs tremble from the effort of holding back.

toru’s not holding back at all. he’s fucking you like an animal, hands bruising your hips, cock pistoning in and out with squelching sounds—your arousal dripping down your thighs, making everything slick and nasty. “fuck, i can feel you creaming all over me,” he rasps, reaching around to pinch your clit between rough fingers. he rolls it harshly, tugging, making you scream around satoru’s dick. “gonna cum already? do it then, milk my cock, baby. show me how bad you need it. let the whole damn party hear you fall apart up here.”

the contrast is dizzying: satoru’s tender guidance, his soft moans and praises—“you’re incredible, taking me so deep”—versus toru’s filthy taunts, his cock slamming into your g-spot over and over, building that pressure in your core until it snaps. you cum hard, vision blurring, body shaking as your pussy spasms around toru, gushing wetly. “hell yeah, that’s it — squirt for me, you nasty girl,” toru groans, riding it out with erratic thrusts, chasing his own high. downstairs the music hits a drop right as you shatter, like the party’s timed it perfectly.

satoru pulls you off him just enough to let you gasp for air, strings of spit connecting your lips to his glistening tip. “catch your breath,” he says gently, stroking your hair. “you okay? we can stop if you’d like..”

“nah, she’s fine,” toru interrupts, yanking your hips back as he pounds through your aftershocks. the chain clinks again as he leans down, lips brushing your ear. “keep sucking him off. i’m not done yet.” he spanks you again, twice, the slaps ringing out over the muffled bass, your ass jiggling with each impact. “c’mon, open that mouth.”

satoru hesitates, but you lean forward willingly, tongue out, and he slides back in with a sigh. “alright… a little faster now? bob your head… yes, fuck.” he’s losing that composure, voice cracking as you work him, following his cues: suck harder here, swirl there, hum around him to vibrate. “shit, i’m close… wanna swallow? or I can just—”

toru cums first, sudden and violent, burying deep as he floods you with hot jerks of his cum. “take it all, fuck—every drop,” he growls, grinding against you, cock twitching inside. he pulls out slow, watching his cum leak from your puffy hole, then smears it over your ass with his tip. “messy little thing.”

you focus on satoru, cheeks hollowed, eyes watering as you take him deep again. “gonna cum,” he warns softly, fingers petting your face. “pull off if you want—oh god.” but you don’t, swallowing around him as he spills down your throat, thick and warm. he moans brokenly, hips stuttering. “thank you… fuck, that was…”

toru flops down beside you, smirking as he catches his breath, chain pooling on his chest. “told you she could handle it.”

satoru eases out, gentle as ever, helping you lay down between them. “you were amazing,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead.

you’re still trembling from the first orgasm, pussy clenching around nothing now that toru’s pulled out, his cum already starting to drip down your inner thighs in thick, warm streaks. the bed’s a mess; sheets twisted, air heavy with sex and the faint smell of toru’s cologne mixed with sweat. downstairs the party hasn’t let up.

“fuck, that was hot. but we aren’t  done, baby.” toru props himself up on one elbow, eyes flicking to his twin. “yo, satoru! your turn. switch with me. let her feel what it’s like when the nerd actually lets loose.”

satoru’s cheeks are flushed, glasses slightly askew, hair even messier than usual from your fingers earlier. he hesitates for half a second—always the thinker—then nods, swallowing hard. “okay… yeah. if you’re still good?” he asks you softly, voice gentle even now, brushing damp strands of hair off your forehead.

you nod, breath shaky, already aching to be filled again. “please.”

toru laughs low, patting the bed. “c’mere then, nerd. get behind her. she’s all prepped for you, nice and sloppy from me.”

satoru moves carefully, like he’s afraid to break something fragile. he kneels behind you, hands tentative at first on your hips, much softer than toru’s bruising grip. you feel the difference immediately: his palms are warmer, less calloused, fingers tracing slow circles over the red handprints toru left. he lines himself up, cock still hard and slick from your mouth earlier, and nudges the head against your entrance.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear as he starts to push in. slow. deliberate. inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge, every vein as he stretches you open again. it’s not the brutal slam toru gave you. it’s deep, controlled, almost reverent. when he bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, he pauses, letting you adjust, one hand sliding up your spine in soothing strokes. “you feel… incredible,” he breathes, like he’s in awe. “so warm. so tight even after… after him.”

toru’s already shifting, crawling around to kneel in front of you, heavy cock bobbing near your face, still glistening with your slick and his own cum. “open up, pretty girl,” he says, voice rough and cocky again, fingers wrapping around the base to tap the tip against your lips. “my turn to fuck that mouth while my brother finally gets to take you proper. c’mon—don’t make me wait.”

you part your lips and he doesn’t hesitate. slides right in, not gentle, not careful. the head hits the back of your throat on the first push and you gag wetly, eyes watering instantly. toru groans, hips rocking forward in shallow thrusts at first, letting you get used to the angle. “fuck yeah, just like that. choke on it. let me hear you.”

behind you, satoru starts moving, slow rolls of his hips at first, dragging his cock out almost all the way before sliding back in deep. every thrust is measured, angled perfectly to rub against that spot that makes your thighs shake. “like this?” he asks quietly, almost like he’s checking his work, one hand slipping under you to circle your clit with feather-light touches. “tell me… faster? harder?”

you can’t answer with words—toru’s cock is stuffing your mouth, sliding over your tongue with every push—but you moan around him, pushing your hips back to meet satoru’s next thrust. he takes the hint. his pace picks up, still controlled but deeper now, each snap of his hips driving you forward onto toru’s length. the chain around toru’s neck clinks rhythmically with his movements, as he fucks your face.

“shit, look at her,” toru grunts, fingers tangling in your hair—not yanking, but holding you steady so he can thrust a little deeper. “taking both of us again like it’s nothing. you’re so fucking greedy. pussy clenching on him, throat squeezing me. bet you’re gonna cum again real quick, huh?”

satoru’s breathing is ragged now, losing that careful composure. “she’s… fluttering around me,” he gasps, like he’s surprised by how good it feels. his hand on your clit speeds up, rubbing tight circles while he fucks into you with long, steady strokes. “i can feel it… gonna cum for us again? please… wanna feel you.”

the dual sensation is overwhelming: satoru’s cock dragging against your walls in perfect, deep strokes, his fingers working your clit with nerdy precision, like he’s solved the exact equation to make you fall apart, while toru uses your mouth like it’s his personal toy, hips snapping faster, balls tapping your chin with wet smacks. drool spills from the corners of your lips, running down your neck, mixing with tears as you gag and moan around him.

“fuck—gonna fill that throat,” toru growls, pace turning erratic. “you ready? gonna swallow every drop for me?”

satoru’s thrusts get sloppier, hips stuttering. “i’m… close too,” he warns, voice cracking. “is it okay if i do it inside too?”

you push back hard against him in answer, and he groans, burying deep as he cums; hot, pulsing spurts flooding you while his fingers keep rubbing your clit through it. the combination tips you over again: you shatter around his cock this time, pussy spasming, muffled screams vibrating around toru’s length.

toru doesn’t last after that. with one last rough thrust he holds you down, cock throbbing as he unloads straight down your throat, thick, salty ropes that you swallow greedily around him. “fuck—yes—take it all,” he hisses, plump bottom lip caught between his teeth as his hips jerk through the aftershocks.

satoru stays buried inside you for a few extra seconds, grinding slow to milk every last tremor from both of you, murmuring soft praises against your shoulder—“so good… you did so good for us…”—before he finally eases out with a shaky exhale. toru pulls free from your mouth last, letting you gasp and cough a little, strings of spit and cum connecting your swollen lips to his tip.

the three of you collapse in a sweaty heap, chests heaving, the party downstairs still thumping away like nothing happened. toru reaches over your body first, arm stretching across you toward satoru. his palm is open, expectant.

satoru blinks, then breaks into a small, breathless laugh, half shy, half proud. he lifts his hand and meets toru’s in a solid, resounding high-five right over your back. 

despite your frustrations, you are able to say that satoru is not incapable of having a serious conversation. you've seen it happen before, of course, the way his tone dips into something low and weighted as he speaks with a sharpness in his eyes that he does not even begin to think of tearing away. satoru would never speak to his students in such a way, unless to intimidate them into thinking with complexity in the midst of a fight.

you've seen him take that tone with the higher ups, though, when he's beyond angry with them, when he's forced to talk all business and strategy and they dare to even suggest that he should allow his students die if the council ever decided that it's time to destroy sukuna's vessel or anyone else.

and outside of work, he's only spoken to you that way a handful of times. in fact, you can count the instances on your finger. he only really gets that serious with you if your wellbeing is put to question or is at stake, and he has to pry answers out of you before jumping to protect and look after you.

you're the one thing that satoru really, truly does not play about, and yet he has developed this habit of dismissing you or brushing you off when the roles are reversed - when it's you worrying about him and not the other way around.

satoru does not mean to make it seem like he doesn't care about your feelings. it's quite the opposite, in fact. there's not a thing he cares about more in this world, but even so, he just can't seem to get it sometimes. he can't seem to understand where you are coming from, especially when it's his safety that you begin fussing over. satoru knows no other way to react but to coo and cradle you like a baby, practically laughing you off, as if you wanting him to be safe is such an insane thing. as if it's silly for you, gojo's girlfriend, to worry about when or if he's coming home.

because of course he's coming home to you after every mission in one piece. he's satoru gojo. no one's ever bothered to show the decency of worrying over his wellbeing because there's never been any reason to. satoru is treated like a god among men, like a machine, a robot, a weapon, and weapon's don't have weaknesses. machines don't feel pain. and satoru is far from an ordinary human being, therefore, he admits that it's so confusing when you get angry with him for coming home so late one night after he called to tell you not to wait up for him. when literally nothing bad was ever going to happen to him.

satoru hates fighting with you. he hates when you're mad, but sometimes, he can not help but fall into the daunting rhythm of heated back and forth with you, especially when you throw accusations and worries about him that satoru has never experienced, never paid any attention to.

and what you genuinely can not stand is that stupid, perplexed expression on his face when you snap at him. the way his sapphire hues shine with what you dare to identify as annoyance, his brow quirking, his lips turned downward in the way it did back in high school, when he was far more bratty. like you're the crazy one for waiting up all night with fears swirling in your mind, with anxiety a heavy pit in your chest, and your heart pounding in your ears as you prayed for him to walk through that door any second.

how could he question you? how could he judge you with that gaze as if you're blowing things out of proportion? making a big scene for no reason when he's right there in front of you, fine, like he always is. like the world knows him to be, so why don't you?

"princess, i don't understand," satoru's laughing, a sound of exasperation and dismissal that you fucking hate. you feel your blood boiling as you stand before him with brows angled so hard that you can feel the skin around them begin to ache.

it's so late. close to four in the morning, and satoru has only just returned home. you're fuming, buzzing with the adrenaline of having waited hours for him as well as your brewing anger.

satoru is all lightness and jokes and weariness that begins to harden the former into something more impatient. "i'm home now, aren't i? i'm fine! i told you i would be late, so i don't know why you're so upset."

"that's all you ever fucking say when i bring this up, satoru. that you don't understand." your words are harsh, cutting through the air like knives that pin satoru to a corner by the hem of his shirt fabric. satoru hates it. hates the way you say his name with venom dripping from your tone. hates the way this argument has already gone on for ten minutes, and he still doesn't know what for. he just wants to get in bed with you and go to sleep after a long week, and here you are, shouting at him in the middle of the night over something he couldn't even control.

"i don't, (y/n)," he exhales, and when your name falls from his lips instead of one of the plethera of nicknames he prefers to address you by instead, you know that he's reached his limit. he can no longer react breezily as you push harder and harder, stubbornly refusing to back down from this fight. your heart is heavy, and you make up for the tears you shed out of fear in the way you bite back. "because you know i come home to you every night, after every single mission. without fail."

"that's not the point! you're not even trying to understand me!"

"well how could i when you just start yelling the second i walk through the door?"

"satoru," you hiss, as you feel tensions rising, emotions escalating. you can see satoru's expression hardening, his greivances now apparent on his face as he frowns at you, abhorring the way his name falls from your mouth yet again. "you called me to tell me that you would be a little late at eight pm. it's now fucking four in the morning. how could you even think that i wouldn't be up waiting for you? that i wouldn't be terrified?"

"maybe because i gave you the heads up hours in advance."

"how was i supposed to know that meant you wouldn't be back until damn near dawn?"

"you think i knew that when i called you?" he scoffs, throwing his arms out. "come on, (y/n), give me a break. what the hell do you want from me? you knew what you were getting into when you even started dating me, so why's this a problem now all of a sudden?"

you scrunch your nose. "it's not all of a sudden! i've been worrying about you since fucking grade school, you idiot!"

"who do you think you're talking to?" you hear it. that drop in his voice that you rarely ever encounter. you see the way his eyes darken, his jaw tight, but you don't care. he can get angry all he wants, but it doesn't matter because the hell that he put you through tonight alone is enough to justify talking to him any way you'd like, in your mind. "be mad all you want. scream at me, hit me, but don't go calling me names. you know i don't like that shit. not from you."

any other time, you would have listened. you would have taken his tone as a warning, but tonight, you ignore him the same way he always ignores your worries. the same way he always brushes you off when you tell him to text you when he gets to a certain location, calling you cute and silly in the head for even thinking of showing him concern.

"then don't talk to me like i'm a child," you snap. "you talk about me being angry like i'm throwing a fucking tantrum, and it drives me crazy."

"i'm not talking to you like a child, (y/n), but this is getting ridiculous."

"is it really?" you lean back with raised brows and a snarky smile. satoru's lips flatten into a line as he examines your coutenance, irritated. "oh i'm so sorry. it's just so ridiculous that i want you to come home unscathed at a decent hour. it's ridiculous how i want you to be safe when everyone wants to throw you into the pit of hell all the time." you roll your eyes as you speak cynically, and satoru sours with every second.

he hates fighting with you because when you're angry, you get so cruel. so mean, when normally, you are such a contrast. so sweet, doting, and understanding. you rarely get like this, which should mean that satoru has done something very wrong, but he just can't see it. he doesn't get it. he almost refuses to.

and it's so hard to fight with the ivory haired man because you know he doesn't hear the words you are saying in the moment, but how you are saying them. he does not do well with your harshness, especially when he's already beat. he fumbles, slips up, and eggs it on without trying.

"that's my job," he says sternly. "that's what i've always done."

"okay, and when do you slow down?"

"i don't get to."

"you're satoru gojo," you cry, his name pouring like a curse from your lips. "of course you get to! you can do whatever the hell you want! anything, apparently, except fucking get back to your worried girlfriend on time-"

"on time for what? you never told me to be back at a certain time, (y/n)," he cuts in. "and clearly you don't understand me at all if you think i can just drop everything and come running to you because you're scared for nothing."

you tilt your head, squinting your eyes as you run your tongue over your teeth. your hands reach your hips, satoru's words striking you coldly. "so that's how you feel," you start slowly. "i'm scared for nothing. i don't understand you."

satoru clicks his tongue and looks to the sky. "you're twisting my words."

"really? 'cause i'm just repeating the exact words that came out of your mouth."

satoru catches wind of the way your voice has mellowed out, and he can see that he's struck a nerve. but so have you. "(y/n)-"

"so just - let me get this straight," you bring your hands together. "all of a sudden i don't understand you because you can't deal with the fact that there's someone in this shitty ass world who actually bothers to think about the toll all of your responsibilities take on you."

"that's not-"

"i don't understand you because i spend every waking moment of my life when you're away hoping that something bad doesn't happen to you. hoping that you aren't caught off guard, that some kind of weakness hasn't been exploited to hurt you."

now, your boyfriend is offended, for it is starting to sound like you think that he isn't strong. satoru's ego gets the best of him as he reels. "who the hell is gonna catch me off guard or exploit me? shit like that doesn't happen. people give me these jobs for that reason."

"and i'm telling you that i don't fucking care," you stamp. "i don't care that you're the strongest. i don't care that you're the honored one. i don't care that you're the only person who could save this planet from doom if it ever came down to it. i don't care about any of that shit. satoru, i care about you. and god forbid i do, or else you'll start basically calling me stupid."

"what?! i didn't call you stupid, (y/n). you're the one who called me an idiot!"

"you don't have to actually say that i'm stupid to make me feel that way. i can tell by the way you always laugh when i tell you i'm worried, satoru. you laugh."

"so what if i laugh? that doesn't mean i think you're stupid when i do, (y/n)."

"then what do you think? that i'm adorable? that i'm silly? because those are basically nice ways of calling me stupid! and that's what you think of my feelings!"

"you're blowing things way out of proportion. i don't think you're feelings are stupid. i would never think that," he argues desperately.

"but you do! you don't even know you do!" you point accusingly. "i know you're the strongest, satoru, but damn! think about yourself for once! think about me!"

all satoru can really hear is your blame - the fact that he thought you understood, and you don't. he's tired. he's angry. he's missed you, and you're yelling at him, and he feels like shit.

but he doesn't realize that this is you understanding and loving him at the same time.

"i do think about you," he growls lowly. "every damn day. every second. every minute. every hour. i feel guilty enough for leaving in the first place, but clearly that's not enough. i have to juggle the world on top of this shit now, too. i'm doing everything i can. i would have thought by now that you'd understand and actually support me. but i guess i was wrong. i can't even come home and go to bed with my girlfriend without her pulling this. if you knew you couldn't handle it, then maybe you shouldn't have agreed to be with me."

he gestures between you like you are the very thing getting in his way, and you fall silent as you watch him with wide eyes. his words hang in the dim silence, and your throat tightens with all your frustrations, all your anger, all your heartbreak, and all your love.

granted, you can understand where he is coming from. it isn't like he didn't call you at all, and he likely expected you to have gone to bed when he told you to over the phone, but it's assumptions like those which get you so heated. how can he think that you'll be able to sleep without him safe and sound beside you? the man jolts awake when you fucking get up to use the bathroom, so you can't fathom how he can't fathom where you're coming from.

yes he's the strongest, and you are physically weaker than him. satoru frets over every ache you experience, every sickness you develop, every frustration you express except for when it comes to him, and you can't believe the sheer hypocricy. does he think that you don't love him? does he think that since the rest of the world doesn't, you shouldn't blink an eye when a higher up sends him straight into danger?

you get that he is damn near impossible to touch, but satoru is not just the strongest to you. he's your boyfriend. he's the love of your life, and whether he's invincible or made of stone or what, you'll fuss over him at any chance you get. you love him. you only feel stable when you know he's okay, and yes, you can see how that puts an extra strain on satoru's shoulders, but it does not give him the right to dismiss you. it does not give him the right to practically swear you off like you're a plague.

your mouth clamps shut, and you smile. something so calm. so threatening that has satoru's anger buffering. you take in a deep breath, looking all around the space in an attempt to distract from the way your eyes begin to sting.

satoru sees it immediately. the shine of your eyes in the half darkness. he's instantly breaking, reaching his arms out as his face falls. "are you... about to cry?" he asks urgently, stepping toward you. "please don't cry. i didn't mean-"

"yes you did," you step back from him, leading him to freeze in his spot. you blink hard, pressing your lips together tight. "it's alright," is all you say, voice noticeably soft. "good night."

when you fight, satoru feels like his world is caving around him as he watches you turn your back and retreat into the bedroom stiffly, without another sound. just gone.

you rarely fight, but when you do, it lingers. it burns. nasty words said in the heat of the moment stain the open air, and satoru is left to mull over everything that was said with a logical and emotional eye now that it's all died down.

his heart aches, and his mind is swarming now with panic as he settles down in the aftermath, having snapped out of his haze the moment he saw tears spring to your eyes. he can't have that. he can't have you that upset because of him. he can't have you crying because he didn't think before speaking.

he exhales heavily with a frown, thinking hard as he scratches the nape of his undercut with curled brows. satoru didn't mean to get so angry with you, but how else was he meant to react? you were talking so mean about the one thing in satoru's life that is non negotiable. the one thing that he was trained to do since birth, since the world first laid its greedy, demanding eyes upon him.

but then, satoru realizes that you've never shown that you aren't accepting of his role in this world. you are always checking in on him, making sure he's fed before he leaves and when he returns, massaging aches in his body that he did not even realize were there until your soft hands met certain weak spaces - and when it comes to your touch, every ounce of his flesh is considered a weak space.

since the moment he met you, you've been nothing but supportive, a rock, the foundation of his mental strength. you're there, thinking about him, worrying about him even when you don't have to, and that is not because you don't understand him but because you care for him as deeply as he cares for you.

satoru tries to envision it from your perspective. how would he feel if you did not return home until four in the morning? hell, satoru would never even let an hour pass without tracking you down himself, whether you had called him to let him know or not. he does not think twice about checking in on you if he is unsure of your whereabouts or your safety... but you don't have the privilege of doing that, do you? you can't teleport. you can't spy on satoru from afar with the gift of tripled vision. you can't really do anything but text him, sit, and wait.

and it's only then, when satoru pictures how he would feel if the roles were reversed, that he finally starts to piece it together and actually get where you're coming from. you don't care that he's the strongest, you had said, because his strength does not change the fact that he is flesh, bone, and blood at the end of the day and he is nothing if not yours first. he is nothing if not the man you intend to marry one day, as he's already got the whole thing planned out, and you worry out of love. not because you think he's weak. not because you don't understand him.

and not because you aren't cut out to be his girl.

satoru cringes. he shouldn't have said that. he really shouldn't have said that. he can't imagine what you're thinking now, in this sudden godforsaken silence. his words echo through his head on repeat, and it hasn't even been twenty minutes before satoru is caving, trudging hesitantly into your bedroom to make ammends.

the two of you can't sleep without the other, after all. he doubts that either of you will get any rest if you don't make up now, for your teary eyes are burned into his mind and will not relent if he goes to lay his head without another word to you.

when he enters your shared bedroom, he sees that you have blocked him off. your back is to him and your legs are curled up to your chest, the blankets and pilows are bunched beside you in the middle of the bed, leaving satoru with no room to touch you if he is to settle down beside you.

his heart plummets. you're really pissed.

ignoring the mountain you've shoved next to your body, satoru rounds the bed to crouch down beside you. the second your face comes into view, he catches you knuckling hard at your eyes as you rush to close them, sniffing softly. satoru's eyes run over the traces of tear stains on your moonlit skin, your nose flushed as your dewy lashes flutter. the sorcerer tilts his hand with a frown, settling his knees on the carpet before you.

he pouts, lifting a hand to slide over your arm. you stiffen like his touch is cold, and it crushes him. "i know you're not asleep yet, princess," he murmurs, voice soft and steady through the haziness of the wee hours of the morning. you don't move. your arm just twitches, rejecting his touch as his hand slides from your skin. he sets his chin on the empty patch of sheets beside you, hypnotic eyes gazing at your face sadly. "(y/n), please open your eyes. i don't want us to end the night like this. i'm sorry, okay?"

you turn over your shoulder, your back to him once more as you face the opposite direction. satoru's heart cracks a little more on the inside. he hates this. he hates being shut out by you. he hates not knowing what's going on inside of your head.

so he does not yield. satoru proceeds, sliding his hand over the warmth of your back to soothe you. you tense again, but do not push him away, as you have nowhere to go.

"baby, please," he begs. there it is again. that rare severity in his tone, now laced with something sweet and yearning and apologetic. he speaks delicately, like he's afraid to reach the volume that the two of you were arguing at only minutes ago. "please, don't shut me out. i want to talk about this. i didn't mean what i said about you not handling being with me. that was so mean. i don't know why i said it. you're the perfect girlfriend. you're always perfect to me. gonna marry you one day, you're so perfect. i'm just tired, baby. i'm really tired and i hate when we fight. i know it's not an excuse, but i don't know how to react when you tell me you worry. i'm not used to that..."

"you should be," you murmur, a croaked response. satoru clings to it, leaning in further as he caresses you. "we've been together for years. this isn't new. i've always been like this..."

"i know," he says gently. "i know. you're always thinking of me. you're always making sure i'm okay."

"but it's not just that," you stiffen before turning over your shoulder to meet his eyes with glassy ones. he watches you closely, carefully, eyes full of things that you can't begin to name as you shift. "i mean... i know i can be overbearing and that - that you can handle yourself-"

"you're not overbearing."

you give him a look. "but still, i can't help worrying, satoru. what if someone actually manages to hurt you one day? what if you get trapped somwhere and i don't know how to help you?" you ask, voice so gentle that your boyfriend fears it may break if you speak any louder. "i wouldn't be able to handle it. and when i hadn't heard from you for hours after that one call, i just - i panicked. i always panic, but i really panicked this time."

"oh baby," satoru sighs, ocean eyes swollen with love. "i'm sorry. you know that if any of that stuff were to happen, i'd fight with everything in me to get back to you."

"i know," you sigh, shifting to turn fully around to face him again. satoru's hand adjusts, settling over the curve of your waist as you plop your head back against the pillow. "and i know none of that would ever happen. and i know... that maybe i am silly for even thinking about that stuff-"

"you're not," he is swift to say. "i should've never said that you were. or made you feel like that. i love you so much. sometimes when you get all anxious, i just get distracted by how sweet you are and... it's not fair. you're a human being with emotions, and i should respect them whether i agree with the reasons behind them or not."

your nose flares as satoru tilts his head to look you in the eye properly. the stream of moonlight that filters in from the behind curtains casts a soft glow around the outline of satoru's figure. his white strands fall messily over his eyes as he looks at you, his lips curving with a comforting, light smile.

you're still angry, but not so much in the moment. instead, you're overwhelmed with sadness. with grief for the idea of losing satoru. the sentiment makes you feel crazy, and the fact that he is the strongest only makes you worry for the people seeking to overpower him, to find his weakness, to kill him.

your mouth wrinkles as you look over him, brows knitting together as your lips tremble. satoru's smile falls when he sees, and his hand moves to smooth over your hair. "what is it, baby?" he frowns, and you whimper.

"i don't want to lose you," you admit. "i'm so terrified of losing you, satoru."

he completely melts to sap. "come here."

satoru is quick to his feet, moving around to fix the pillows back into place so that he can shuffle into bed next to you, wrapping you up tight. his strong arms slip around your waist and he presses his back flush to you. he presses a warm kiss to the space behind you ear and to the crook of your jaw, nuzzling is face there to soak your warmth. he feels you tremble gently with soft sniffs and tears, and he feels foolish for not seeing how deep this feeling runs for you.

he lets the closeness settle over the two of you, the silence holding you snug. and while you are still angry, you can not afford to pretend like you don't need this, like feeling satoru pressed to you with his warm breathing fanning against your neck, spreading goosebumps over your skin is not easing your heart and mind. he holds you tight, squeezing softly.

"you're not gonna lose me," he mumbles into your skin, just next to your ear. "not ever. i promise you that. i may be the world's strongest, but i'll be damned if i don't always come back to you."

"i know," you sniff, voice shaky and whispered. "i know. it's not that i don't trust you. and i don't think you're an idiot. i'm sorry i said that too."

"it's okay, pretty girl," he kisses your neck. "i am a little bit of an idiot."

"...you are."

"yeah, yeah," he chuckles something tender against your back, and the corner of your mouth twitch. "listen. i hate to say it, but i'm not always gonna be able to pick up the phone to answer a text or give you a call to tell you i'm okay. i won't always have the time or that privilege. and when that happens, what i don't want is you stressing yourself out so badly every time i have a mission. you have your own life to live, princess. don't spend it worrying about me," he says. "trust your man, baby. you do your job and take care of yourself and i'll do mine. i'm not letting anyone get close enough to keep me away from you."

you nod slowly, solemnly. "i'll do my best."

"that's all i can ever ask you," satoru smiles, thumb smoothing circles over your abdoment as his fingers brush over your ribcage. "i'm sorry i haven't been taking you seriously. i never meant to make you feel dismissed," he apologizes. "you're so good to me. i've never had someone like you, (y/n). you look out for me in a way no one ever has."

he solidifies each word, each promise with a peck, pink lips pillowy to your flesh as he savors you, holds you, caresses you. "i'm sorry, baby, i hate fighting. i'll be more considerate, yeah? i'll do everything i can to keep all that stress as low as possible."

and after a while, you finally give him a sign that you are okay by snorting. he smiles along with the sound against the curve of your shoulder. "impossible when you're the one stressing me out all the time."

"baby," satoru groans. "i'm dying here. please."

you laugh lightly, something halfhearted and breathy. “i’m sorry for starting a fight so late. i’m just… i'm really upset.”

“it’s okay, baby, i know,” he sighs. “no more apologizing. you need some sleep. okay? can we talk about this more in the morning?”

you exhale slowly before sniffing once more, swiping the back of your hand over your face. satoru lifts to prop himself up with his elbow, looking over you from over your shoulder to ensure that you're okay. your glittery eyes snap to his when you see him. you press your lips together to wordlessly agree, and the ivory haired man dots his lips to your cheek, watching you softly with heavy eyes.

"i'm not going anywhere," he reiterates. "you know that right?"

you nod. "yeah. i know." your hand slides over top of his around your midsection. "neither am i."

satotu smiles. "of course not. i would never let that happen."

suguru geto:

arguing with suguru leaves your feelings hurt.

you've known the dark haired cult leader long enough to know exactly how he gets when he is angry with you. it's rare, of course, as the hazel eyed man is more often than not gazing at you with rose colored vision, caring for you as a man should care for the woman he loves more than anything on this acursed world. suguru aims to dote on you at any given moment of any given day, as that is what suguru deems his role in your life should be.

being with suguru is like living within constant steadiness and pampering. he made it known from the very beginning that he had no intention to be casual with you, nor give you a shortage of the life he knows you deserve - the life he can and does give. he believes that you should never have to do any heavy lifting of any kind, for a life with him is a life of easiness, relaxation, and warmth. it's a life of being known so well, silently seen in a way that continues to stun you every day, that captures your soul and lulls you into that blissful hum you call being with suguru.

it is not that suguru rarely gets angry, however, but that he is rarely angry enough with you to start or engage in an argument. ordinarily, all of his frustrations point directly to his place of work. the role of a cult leader so well esteemed is taxing, especially for someone like suguru geto, who can not stomach the mere sight of his followers for more than a consecutive thirty minutes at a time.

hell, suguru has been angry plenty of times, shown in twitches of the brow, tight yet dark smiles, and a shadow over his eyes that emerges each time his shoulder so much as grazes the fabric of a pitiful non-sorcerer's frame. those who are at fault for the veins that spring to his otherwise smooth skin of his forehead only have a few seconds to make peace with the path their course of life has taken before they're facing his cynical wrath.

but on those days, the moment he steps through the doors of your home, and the smell of something savory cooking on the stove rumbling beneath the sound of his girls' lively chatter, the vision of you greeting his sore eyes first as he rounds the corner to the kitchen, all of those aggravations from the day are washing away. he crosses the threshold into sanctuary, tender, lived in life, and the man is all sweet smiles, silky words, and soft kisses.

the only time suguru ever really gets angry with you is when he feels like you aren't listening.

despite being a hardworking father and loving partner, suguru does not have remarkable patience for things that he does not find tolerable.

the girls want to dress him up in pink and make him sit down in a tiny ass chair for a fake tea party? of course he has all the time in the world. you can't decide on a dress that you want to get for an upcoming fundraiser for the time vessel association, and want to try on every single option for suguru to see? he's more than happy to settle in that lounge chair with his cheek resting in his fist, a slow smile creeping over his face as his eyes survey you in the next tight fabric.

having patience for those things comes easily, as he loves his family deeply, but he does not have patience for when any of you are in a mood. it's easy for suguru to discipline his girls if they step out of line, for they have learned respect. they're young, still learning, therefore each moment they make a mistake is a lesson, and they handle so without complaint when suguru is occasionally forced to give them that pointed look. where his brow raises and his eyes sharpen as a gentle warning, one that is never taken lightly.

but you... you are not as cooperative when you have pushed suguru's buttons.

you test him the most.

god, suguru loves you, but he wishes that you would learn when to quit while you're ahead sometimes. he would never blame you for when his attitude gets a little out of hand and words slip that should have remained unsaid, but he would think that you would have begun to learn the patterns by now, to surrender before it's to late.

sometimes, however, suguru thinks that is his ego talking. at work, suguru is worshipped, praised, feared. he lifts a finger and money comes pouring in without struggle or question but with eagerness. sometime ago, something in his brain snapped, and humility warbled. scattered. often, without trying, suguru displays such snarky superiority, and it can flutter into spaces it shouldn't. when he wonders why you have to fight against him when you don't agree on something instead of just listening and accepting. when he subconsciously expects subservience from you and is shocked when he doesn't get it.

it's not something he does often with you, but it does slip. and with the explosive combination of your fiery resolve and suguru's potent frustrations, you explode when you bump heads.

it starts with something suguru does or says that pulls a reaction from you that you can't control. the kind that slips before you even realize that you are reacting physically, and suguru is ever so quick to catch on. he'll let silence swallow the two of you for a moment as you continue on with your task, moving about as though unbothered, while the energy around you says completely otherwise.

then his question comes: "is there a problem?" like he dares you to let something else sassy slip instead of just using your words and telling him what you have an issue with. that brow will quirk and his eyes will look hard and still on you as you move around.

and of course, no matter how many times you continue to prove that you are not one of his little cult members that he can boss around or treat like children, his muscles still tighten with aggravation when you do it, you say something else like: "what do you think?" or "i don't know, is there?"

suguru can feel the headache coming on. the little twitches in his forehead that he has to focus hard to calm down. from there, it only escalates. he'll close the newspaper he's reading or put his pen down to the surface of the table and rise to his feet. what bothers him more is the fact that you don't even look at him. you show him that you don't even care enough to spare him a passing glance, when there are people far less worthy who would kill to get just a glimpse at him, to be corrected by him for their betterment.

you, of all people, the one person who actually matters, don't give him that satisfaction.

and it drives suguru insane.

he takes the tone he knows best when it comes to you. it's strict yet soft, but his voice is clear like he's practiced this response before to different crowds.

oh, and you're familiar with this tone. it's the tone of a man who is comfortable in his dominance, who thinks he can give you a countdown to actually speak your mind like an adult before there are some serious consequences. this is when you know that suguru is not taking your frustration seriously enough, as he's caught in his own world of trying to prove you wrong.

you hate it when he gets like that with you, when he forgets who exactly it is he's talking to, and while he begins to formulate a plan for control, you shatter it by speaking over him with your own opinions and thoughts. snappy. disrespectful.

suguru will stare at you with wide eyes and downturned brows pressing into his milky skin, and that patience that was barely holding on by a thread snaps. suguru transitions from attempting to gently guide you into understanding and giving in to snapping back at you, reciprocating your energy and tone.

your concentration is finally broken as your energy is focused into arguing, and it's the kind of back and forth that is venemous, sharp. it stings with each witty blow intending to be heard over the last. it's a battle for the last word, for the final say, for who is right.

so the two of you won't relent. you - because you aim to deconstruct suguru's arrogance every time he shows signs of it anywhere outside of his cult, where its appropriate, and him - because your boyfriend simply hates to lose.

accusations fly, your words overlap as neither of you want to give the other a moment to explain, to speak. in both of your minds, you're each right, and you'll be damned if the other tries to convince you otherwise.

eventually, you'll grow increasingly desperate to get suguru to back down. your voice will raise, but suguru will absolutely not have it. he warns you to knock if off, his countenance so cold, like he's speaking to someone he can't stand. this only provokes you emotionally, and you're biting back with anything at all.

then, after however long the two of you have spent disputing, suguru will end it with words so cruel, so empty, so mean that you remember what suguru has been through. what he's lost. the things he's done to get to where he is now. the man that he is when he steps out that door every morning, though you love him wholly.

and it's not that he ever insults you. he never calls you names or attacks you in such a way. no, its cruelty in the way he twists his tone around to make it seem like you are the one who will never understand his genius. like a professor who is tiresome after hours of trying to teach a student something they simply can not grasp. like you aren't his girlfriend, his woman.

the one who has to press her head to the inside of his outstretched arm for him to be able to fall asleep every night. the one who prepares and packs every single one of his lunches to give him a taste of home and comfort that he so desperately clings to through troublesome days. the one who he gazes up at softly as she cradles his head in her soft lap, threading fingers through buttery strands of midnight hair. his lashes fluttering when he catches her palm and brings it to his lips, kissing over the lines of her inner hand as she smiles.

the woman who followed him into hell. the woman who helped give him the life that he has now.

you hate it when he gives you a glimpse of how he would treat you if he didn't love you.

and suguru doesn't mean to. he's only playing his role as top dog, falling into it like it's muscle memory every time he feels like his intelligence, his control, your love is threatened.

perhaps that's all his stubborness is. a knee jerk reaction when he feels that you've begun to look at him as though he is an ordinary person. with no color or magic. just him. bare, naked, and free for you to judge, free for you to decide that you no longer trust him, that you no longer need or look up to him for stability.

you and his girls are the only people on this planet who question him. and deep down, it frightens him a bit. it shakes him, rattles his confidence in what he provides for you.

it isn't healthy. it isn't kind. it's just suguru, and in typical suguru fashion, your little "fuck you" and the way you storm off, ignoring his calls of your name makes him take it as a sign that he's won.

...but at what cost?

after the front dorm slams, he does not panic just yet. he's still fuming, hyper with the rush of your argument and the triumph of making you yield. he calls you three times, each one unanswered. he takes to texting you, telling you to come home. he waits for you to reply with his fingers thrumming against the counter. when you do, he rushes to read -

for once in your life, stop bossing me around like you do everyone else.

his brows knit as he hurriedly types.

? what does that mean?

you don't reply. not to that, or to any other text he sends or call he gives. only in your prolonged absence, he feels the weight of his words and yours sink over him in the middle of a task, and he stills. anger, once so unrelenting, dissapates. he rubs a hand over his face with a long exhale, staring hard at the wall as he mulls over every moment, every word.

he was harsh.

really harsh.

suguru doesn't know where it comes from. how he gets there. he gets so caught up in everything, he falls into rhythms that are reserved for those who deserve it, and you are not one of those fools. you're his angel. you're the love of his life. you are everything good that contrasts the bullshit he goes through every day, and yet, he's hurt your feelings. he's pushed you away. he's shoved you into a corner. he's taken out his frustrations towards other things on you simply because you challenged him, and instead of addressing it with maturity, he let himself snap.

no matter how angry you make suguru, no matter how much of a brat you behave like, you don't deserve that. even if he's angry with you, it doesn't last long.

when an hour passes, and you still do not return or answer his calls, the panic begins to set in at full capacity. the fear of losing you hits him hard, and he starts to wonder if this is enough to make you want to leave him. if it's enough to crumble the love, time, and effort forth you've put forth to to build this.

he starts to wonder if you're safe. if you've eaten. when the hell you'll be back.

pacing, he clenches his jaw and closes his eyes hard, willing the bad thoughts away as his thumbs hover over the keyboard with anxiety. they twitch, eventually moving quick. his tone immediately shifts.

angel. i know you're angry. you have every right to be. but i'm asking you. please come home. or at least let me know that you're safe and turn your location back on.

he's sitting on the couch now with legs spread wide, his back hunched over the phone between his thighs. the screen casts his face in a soft glow as he watches, doing the very thing he hates most in this world - waiting.

the bubbles appear and disappear countless times from your side. suguru bites down hard and types again.

i'm sorry.

after a few more grueling minutes, a message from you pops up.

you're not sorry. you're just saying that to make me come back.

suguru | now

i'm not baby.

i mean it.

suguru pauses, uncertain, trying to find the proper words.

i should have never spoken to you like that.

you | now

then why did you?

you get like that whenever you don't agree with me about something. it's so fucking annoying.

suguru | now

i know. i don't realize in the moment, but there's no excuse. i'm sorry, (y/n).

where are you?

you don't have to come home now, but at least tell me where you are so i can find you.

please.

eventually, you cave and turn your location back on. you put your phone down with a sigh, kicking your legs out over the bench you currently occupy. hardly ten minutes pass before your boyfriend is approaching slowly with his hands in his pockets, dark clothes baggy over his frame.

his warm eyes shine as yours meet his, and suguru can still see the anger clear on your face. the walls you've put up. the betrayal and sadness in your glossy eyes.

you look over him in firm, grounded silence. you feel every muscle in your face and body is tight from exertion and emotion.

you study the picture of his face as it steps into street light. shadows and colors sweep over his skin, lips curved in a frown as he looks at you with remorse and the humility you were searching for earlier.

you push air out hard and cross your arms, looking away. suguru keeps his eyes on you as he steps forward, moving to sit close next to you on the bench. suguru does nothing but sit there and make himself known to you, known that he cares, known that he's here despite lingering tensions and wounding words.

your arms brush. his knee hits yours. your perfume tickles his nose.

you take your time as you crane your neck, turning slowly to look up at him. suguru follows the feel of your eyes on him, turning to face you as well.

"i'm sorry," he says, verbalizing so for the first time, letting it linger and seep. "you're right about what i do... it's not okay."

your brow twitches as you eye him. "and what is it you do?"

suguru blinks, hunching over with elbows to his knees and interlacing his fingers. he sighs, vulnerable. "i expect you to always agree with the things i say because i want you to trust me."

"i do trust you, suguru," you urge. "how could i not? you're always there for me. you gave me this life with you."

"i know you do, angel."

"then why is this even a conversation?"

"because i clearly get in my head without realizing. i'm used to things operating a certain way and-"

"i’m not going to always be on the same page as you. that doesn’t give you the right to be mad when i’m not. I’m not your employee, suguru," you declare sternly. "i'm not a member of your cult. i'm not someone you can throw plans at or toss around.”

"no you aren't," he nods, urgently, agreeing. "you're my sweet girl. you're everything. words don't begin to describe all that you are."

"you surely weren't talking to me like you felt that way before."

"and i can't apologize enough for that," he straightens himself up as he looks at you. "you’re right about everything. i’ve just been so irritated lately with the the cult. the second it felt like you didn’t take me seriously, i wasn’t thinking straight. i took out my stress on you.”

“that’s not fair,” you frown. “just because i don’t like something doesn’t mean i don’t take you seriously, suguru.”

“i know, (y/n). i know,” your dark haired boyfriend deflates, all that fire he had in him dissipating in the humility of your words. “i have a lot to work on. but i’m willing to do the work, angel. i don’t want you to pull away or feel like you can’t talk to me because of what just happened. i don’t want to risk losing you over something like this.”

the mention of him thinking about losing you has you easing up slightly, your face relaxing into something soft and tortured as you look over his guilty expression, the kindness you know suguru to possess resurfacing with the smothered fear of not having you in his life.

"...i'm not going to leave you over this, sugu," you tell him gently. suguru immediately detects the shift in your tone. his gaze turns slightly hopeful, his body shifting toward you more. you exhale gradually upon searching his eyes, finding that his headstrong will has toppled in your presence, an hour or so after he's sat with his words. "you don't think i would, do you?"

the hazel haired man chuckles dryly, uncertainly, turning his head forward with the sprinkle of dark strands over his face. "i'd hope not."

another thing that you've noticed about your boyfriend is that he has the tendency to guilt trip you after arguments, whether it is intentional or not. you furrow your brows as you watch his eyes blink back to you, tendering at the very sight of you as he tries his damnedest to make amends.

you see that gentle quality, the way he's stepped down from that pedestal of his to see you eye to eye. the honesty. the humiliation.

the soft spot in your heart takes the sudden lead, and you reach out for suguru's hand, sliding yours over top his conjoined ones. your warmth bursts through suguru's body, exaulting him from everything he's ever done wrong, though there's only a few things.

the hazel eyed curse user smiles something weak, hesitant, and grateful. "i wouldn't," you emphasize lovingly. "i just wish you'd be kinder when you're upset."

"i will be. i promise," he nods. he unlocks one of his large hands to take yours in his, sliding the heat of his palms over your slightly cool hand. he looks up at you with stars in his eyes and you fall apart. "as long as we can agree that if you're upset with me, you should tell me properly instead of immediately getting an attitude."

you still with a deadpan stare, the lightness in your chest fading in an instant. sugury waits, this time patiently, for a response. his lips curl slowly when he notices that you've fallen silent, and he can't help the amusment that overcomes him as his brings your knuckles to his lips in a lingering kiss.

"well?" he muses.

you glare at him, then rip your eyes away with the click of your tongue. you know he's right. you know it's only fair that you treat him with the same respect that you demand, but you can't stand the smugness that comes with acknowledging that even just a part of your boyfriend is right about something.

"come on, angel. we have to work together on this."

you roll your eyes to the sky, then look down at the ground. "fine. m'sorry for snapping at you the way i did."

that's enough to bring a wide smirk back to suguru's face. "that's alright, sweet girl. i probably deserved it," he kisses the back of your hand again, then your wrist as you grumble incoherently under your breath. "i love you."

he sweetens the circumstances with those three words, chipping away at your now shaky willpower. you feel his warm lips meet the inside of your wrist, and you shudder.

"i'll be more patient. i'll be nicer. you've only ever been nice to me. i'm an asshole, i know. you deserve so much better."

he grabs your other hand, turning you fully to him. he holds your hands within each of his tightly over his thigh, swiping his thumbs over your skin.

"i'm sorry," he apologizes again, meaning it more and more every time. "i love you."

despite your frustration, your wounded pride, your still teaming anger, the love you have for your boyfriend swallows everything whole, as you know suguru better than anyone else. you know he's truthful. you know he didn't mean it. you know he loves you in a way that no one else has or ever could.

as long as he makes mistakes, you'll be there to correct them. whether you fight, or don't speak, or can never come to an agreement. you'll stay and argue for what you know is worth it.

"i love you too," you exhale like you've failed to hold it back, and suguru grins.

kento nanami:

arguments with kento aren't loud and proud things. they aren't screaming matches. they aren't vile words spewing from either direction. they aren't the swipe of aggravated hands through the air with bold words. they aren't loud slams to a surface in the house or heavy footsteps.

arguments with the blonde aren't some huge, daunting spectacle. they are conversations, strained, teetering over the edge of something bigger that never crashes through the barrier of steady, calm voices laced with importance.

kento has never been the kind of man to tolerate being cruel to one another. he does not believe in such a thing. when either of you are upset, which you rarely are with one another - as your communication skills are normally polished to perfection, he'll let the two of you go back and forth for a little bit until stopping the conversation altogether when he feels that it could get out of hand at any moment.

the suit turned sorcerer never raises his voice. never even scowls at you. his irritation shows itself in rigid posture, an exasperated hand to his hip, the pinch of the bridge of his nose, and the tightening of his lips. the chocolate eyed man does not like being cross with you, ever, but he is no better than the ordinary person. he's just as much of a human being as you are, therefore, sometimes, feeling a bit of frustration toward you is inevitable.

nanami certainly handles your arguments better than you ever could. he's incredibly efficient when it comes to controlling the course your disputes take, controlling his emotions so that they don't blow over. kento likes steadfastness, pace, and understanding. the most he will do if he is too heated is tell you that he thinks you both should take some time on your own to cool off before recalliberating after some time has passed.

you, on the other hand, are much less inclined to follow this syncopation when you are all wrapped up in grievances that you don't even know how to begin to express to your well mannered boyfriend.

it's not that you want to fight with kento. you hate it. you hate when the two of you find moments where you don't see eye to eye, but you can not deny that there is a part of you that wishes kento would meet you where you are in terms of how you want to go about solving certain issues. where he prefers quiet and calm, you take to the impulse to fight more lively. yet, kento never gives you that chance. the second he feels that you or he will shout, he's shutting it all down. you know it's for the best, but sometimes you think that he needs to let go. that he needs to fight back a bit more bolder from time to time. you don't want to get into it horribly with him, but you want him to express some more of that passion to you when you feel it bubbling up in your own chest.

kento, however, does not understand that notion in the very slightest. fighting with more passion means fighting without reigns, and he does not want to do that with you. he doesn't even believe in doing such a thing with the woman he loves. he has too much love, too much respect, too many morals to even think to allow himself to snap at you or yell at you. he does not even feel urges to do so when he gets upset.

he does not know why you say such a thing either, for the aftermath of your arguments always leaves you in tears. fighting with kento is such an uncommon thing that it takes a toll on the both of you, shadowing you in the sensation of aching chests and the yearning to forgive, to make up, to forget everything that led you to such a place.

if kento ever made you cry because he yelled... he doesn't think he would ever recover.

this time around, you're fighting about his overtime, the one thing about kento that truly brings such a reaction out of you. it's been three consecutive months of him staying at work late, holing himself up in his office to complete paperwork that his employer does not have the decency to let him finish the following day, in the morning.

dinner has always long been put away when he returns, the scent of spices and something sweet lingering in the empty air when he walks in to see you scrubbing dishes rather aggressively in your pajamas. dark shadows trace under his eyes, and locks of his hair threaten to fall out of slicked place, exhausted from a long day's work.

ordinarily, you find some kind of peace with it. nanami works hard for you, to keep a nice roof over your head and to give you the life that you deserve. nanami is one of the most dedicated, hardworking men you've ever met, whether he is happy to do the work or not. the only thought that gets him through the day is that you'll be at home, waiting for him, there to greet him with a kiss the second he steps foot through the house.

and you do. you're not cruel enough to deny him such a thing when he sets his briefcase at the door to saunter over to you with slow steps. you can hear the fatigue in the way he moves, and that observation alone is enough to build onto what you've already been feeling.

you turn your head subconsciously when his arms come around your middle from behind, and he cranes down to press his lips to yours. you return the peck, but keep your eyes forward on the way you scrub angrily at a stubborn stain on one of your good pans.

kento notices your detachment immediately, but does not say anything yet. he just lingers, absorbing the feel of your warm frame against his chest, closing his eyes to breathe in a soft, long intake of air, expelling it with relief.

"how was your day, honey?" he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with weary.

you hate the toll his job takes on him. you hate the way it makes him behave like a walking zombie at the end of the day, hours after the time he is meant to come home.

stupid overtime. always taking your husband away from you. always beating him down until he can barely think or move any longer. it's merciless. it's time consuming. it's a problem.

and yet, he still comes home with the goal of catering to you, though all he can really do is collapse to the bed with your limbs entertwined until it is time for him to get up and do it all over again in the morning.

you grind down on your teeth, blinking hard at the thought. this can't go on. you don't want to go on rarely seeing your husband, letting work sweep him away like they own him, letting them drain every ounce of energy from his body. it's inhumane, and what bothers you more is that kento does not seem to care. he works mindlessly. it's his job, he always says. it's what he's used to doing.

but just because he's used to it doesn't mean he should continue at this rate. he deserves a promotion, paid time off, something to make up for the way his place of work fucking siphons his spirit.

you're so busy cursing out nanami's circumstances inside your mind that you don't realize you haven't answered his question. nanami still holds you close, but he begins to wonder if you're ignoring him on purpose or are just too distracted with your thoughts.

you never fail to greet him when he comes home from work. usually, the moment you hear the lock turn, you're jumping up and rushing to him, helping him out of his coat and putting his bag down so that you can hug him tight.

tonight is different. you're acting as though he does not exist. he could blame the chore of doing dishes for taking away your attention, but he somehow feels that there is more to it. and he's sure he already has a good idea of what is on your mind.

you feel one hand leave your waist to move your hair from your shoulder thoughtfully. he leans over to get a better look of the side of your face, watching as your eyes dart up only for a second before shooting back down to the sink.

"(y/n)," he calls your name, and you hum distractedly, flatly. "how was your day?" he elects to ask again. playing it safe. searching for the roots of your dull mood.

"it was alright," you mumble after a few seconds of nothing. you can feel kento studying you, watching close with an eventual hum and the fiddling of your hair.

"just alright?" he asks, and you shrug. kento takes the sign and removes himself from you slowly.

he moves to stand beside you, a few inches away, with his hip pressing into the counter as you lift drenched dishes onto the drying rack.

you don't ask him in turn how his day was. you don't even budge when he moves away from you. the blonde can feel what is beginning. he can sense every tell that you are about to bring something to his attention that you don't like.

and he knows it's about work. he's been skating on thin ice long enough to know that there is no other explanation for the way you are behaving now.

yet, still, he asks, giving you the opportunity to voice what is on your mind instead of feeding you the answer. "is something the matter?"

"no," you say quickly.

kento lifts a brow, crossing his arms. "are you positive about that?"

"yep," you clip, scrubbing hard.

kento sighs tiredly. "you are very clearly upset about something, (y/n)."

"why would i be?" you ask sarcastically. "it's not like i have any reason to be upset. it's not like this is the umpteenth night you've worked overtime and left me alone during dinner." you push out your bottom lip and lift your brows as if to portray feigned indifference. dishes clatter loudly with your low words, as if to speak on behalf of the fire building inside of you. "why would i care about that, ken?"

your honey eyed boyfriend does not respond right away. he lets your tone sink in as he observes your mannerisms closely. you're tightly wound, punishing already clean plates with the brutal swipe of the sponge over the surface, your mind hardly even cognizant of what you are doing. it moves on autopilot as it swarms with other, more pressing matters, and kento sees it all plainly before him.

he's not surprised. not even offended yet. it's only natural that you feel this way, for you have a point. he's been at work more than he's been at home lately, and it has been eating away at him slowly from the inside. he tries to make it up to you when he is able to be present but even then, he is not given much time of his own to do so.

the blonde reaches for the sink knob and twists it, cutting off the hot water that was splashing up into your face. you are forced to freeze your actions when he does, leading you to cut your eyes up to his face pointedly.

"turn that back on, please," you say sternly. "i'm not done."

ken stares back at you calmly. "i think you've cleaned enough. you should stop so we can talk about this."

"i don't want to talk about this. i want to finish washing dishes and then go to bed."

you reach a dripping hand toward the knob, but nanami does not budge. "no, honey," he denies you, composure stricter than before. "i said that's enough."

"that's what you said, huh?" you suck your teeth, dropping your unfinished dish back into the sink and turning hot on your heal to wipe your hands dry. "you know what i don't understand, kento?" you start, turning back to look at him as you dry your hands hard with a dish towel. "why you think you can tell me when to quit stuff when you don't even bother to listen to me when it comes to your job."

"(y/n), that's different. we've talked about this," nanami exhales, tilting his head slightly with heavy eyes. you see the exhaustion swimming in his hues, and you frown, the sight only making you more upset. "you know i hate being away from you all day, but i have to do what i have to do."

"no, you do not have to work overtime every damn night, ken," you counter with palpable insistence. "that's not okay. you're at that office all the time. your bosses don't even care whether you live or die."

"i know you're frustrated, but mind your language, my love. i don't want to fight with you," he advises, and you scoff, turning back to put the towel where you found it.

"you're focused on the wrong things," you shake your head. "i don't want to fight with you either, but this is getting out of hand."

you turn back to face him, watching as his expression hardens in just the slightest.

"look at you," you gesture toward him grandly. "you're exhausted. and yet you keep letting them toss you around like nothing."

"no one is tossing me around. i'm fulfilling the responsibilities that i signed up for"

"that goes both ways, kento. your place of work should not be drilling you all the time like this. as an employee, you have a right to time off. and you never take it. you never even vouch for it," you say. "when's the last time you came home at a normal time?"

nanami thinks about it, but finds that he honestly can't remember.

which does not help his case.

you toss your hands out. "see? you can't even say!" you cry. "it was three and a half months ago. three, kento. i've spent three months cooking dinner that you don't even get to touch when you get home because you're so tired. three months missing you, hoping that you'll come home only for you to text me again and again that you'll be late. do you know how long that is? how long that feels?"

"sweetheart," kento begins wearily. "i'm not sure what you want me to say. if i could control such things, i would, but i can't. i'm sorry that i've made you feel neglected. i'm sorry i can't be home more. none of this is ideal, but it is only temporary."

"then how long will this keep going on?" you challenge. "hm? tell me, how long."

"i don't know that, yet."

"exactly. and you're fine with that, aren't you? you won't ask any questions as you wear yourself down to the bone for people who don't even bother to give you the decency of checking in."

"we don't live in a world where we i have the luxury of asking questions," he starts to lecture, and you avert your gaze, huffing impatient air. "obviously i am not fine with such a thing, but without these jobs, i can't look after you. i would much rather have the means to support us than not."

"you're not looking after me, though. you're just throwing things at me in hopes of them distracting me from the fact that you're not here."

that statement is what throws kento off kilter a bit, his steadiness put to question as he looks at you with insulted question in his eyes as you avoud his gaze, his lips parting and his brows turning down. "i'm not looking after you? really? is that what you believe?" he asks.

you hear the tonal shift, and dare to look him in the eye. maybe now, he'll finally hear you. "how can you look after me when you're not present? and who the hell is supposed to look after you when you're at work?"

kento hears everything you are saying, but is still stuck on the fact that you think he doesn't take care of you properly. he has to determine whether you really feel that way or if you are just saying so to get a rise out of him. nevertheless, the thought cuts him, that you feel like he is not doing his job as your boyfriend well. that you feel uncared for. unnoticed. unseen, when day in and day out, you are the only reason kento can even push through the way that he does. when every ache in his back, crick in his neck, stack of papers, line of curses are pushed through for the sake of you.

and you think that he isn't looking after you?

if you only knew.

"you aren't being fair, (y/n)," he speaks. "everything i do is for you. for us."

"is it, though?"

"yes," says rigidly, quickly. "i'm surprised that you would even ask me that."

"if you're really surprised, then you're not paying attention."

oh, kento does not like the accusations you're throwing. not when he studies you so closely, that he could name every thought flowing through your brain before you voice them.

the blonde can feel himself getting more upset, so he aims to settle things down instead. "i'm not going to argue with you about whether you think i take care of you properly or not."

"of course you're not," you grumble under your breath.

kento twitches. "and that is supposed to mean...?"

"you don't fight about anything," you groan. "not with your boss about getting a more flexible schedule. not with me about this. nothing."

"why would i want to fight with anyone about anything when i don't need to? especially with you?"

"you do need to, kento. you need to fight for the right that you have."

"and risk losing my job?"

"you're not gonna lose your job, for god's sake. you're the best employee anyone has ever seen. when you let people walk all over you, they just take advantage of your work ethic."

"what you call letting people walking all over me is simply me picking and choosing my battles. and i choose a steady income and a life where i can give you what you want over anything else."

"what i want is you!"

"you have me."

"no, i don't! not anymore," your arms slap to your sides loudly. "your job has you. not me. you say you're still present, but you're not. i should know, kento. i'm the one spending all this extra time alone."

kento steps toward you when he hears a subtle quiver in your voice as it breaks at the end of your sentence. you turn away, shaking your head and waving him off, but his hand proceeds to reach for your arm, cradling it softly, dragging down to reach for your fingers.

his eyes stay glued on your face, catching every twitch, every wrinkle, every inkling of sadness and longing.

kento does not want either of you going to bed like this. you're very clearly shaken, having been shouldering these feelings for longer than you are willing to admit. no matter his personal frustrations, kento can not help but to empathize with you when you get like this, when you are feeling too much to name, when the very solution of your greatest problems is to just have him near you again.

the second your boyfriend is touching you, you feel yourself weakening, as this is what you've been deprived of. the closeness. the intimacy. you've been yearning for your future husband like no other for months, and it has been killing you that the very reason for him being torn away from you is because he is being burnt out in an environment that could never appreciate him the way you do, the way so many others would.

arguments with kento never last long. whether it is because nanami has encouraged the two of you to step away, or because true emotions interfere, they're quick things that always lead into more in depth, cherished discussions.

"tell me, sweetheart," he encourages tenderly, cupping your chin in his fingers and holding you still, keeping your eyes on his. up close, you can see every detail of his weariness in the lines that crease beneath his lashes and in his forehead. "tell me everything."

your lips wobble as you look up at him. "i'm tired of barely seeing you," you breathe. "i hate it when you come home late, kento. you know i do. it wasn't always like this before. and i hate seeing the toll your job is taking on you. i just want you here. i don't want it to feel like you're a stranger anymore."

"do you think i'm a stranger now?" he asks you softly.

your brow curls. "no," you say. "but it feels that way sometimes."

"i didn't know that," nanami says, tracing your jaw with thick fingers. "i sincerely apologize."

"why do you do this to yourself?" you question, voice hardly above a whisper now. "i'm more than supported by you, ken. saying it's for me isn't an excuse."

"it isn't an excuse, (y/n), it's how i feel."

"but i'm telling you now that i don't want that. i don't want you to put all this pressure on yourself for the sake of me. i'm good. i work too, kento. we support each other. we work together. it doesn't have to be just you carrying all this weight, and yet, you force yourself to. it's like you don't even hear me."

"honey, this is just how i am," he confesses. "this is how i have operated all of my life. it is engrained in me to work to give you more. and i am happy to."

"you are not happy at that place."

"i'm happy to work," he says again, sliding his index finger over your brow, following the curve of your cheekbone back to your chin. "for you."

"can't you just admit that living this way is exhausting?"

"it's more than exhausting," he finally agrees, and you're almost shocked that he does so easily. "absolutely it is, but exhaustion is not enough to stop me from doing what i need to do. you say it's not for you, but it is. because it is you who i think of to help me through. without you, i would have given in a long time ago."

"so give in now," you bring your hands to his face, holding his cheeks softly. nanami blinks down at you with care, sinking into the comfort of your palms as he fiddles with the hem of your shirt. "you don't need to quit. i'm not saying that, but at the very least, call in sick tomorrow. let me take care of you for one day. let's spend time together. we can sleep in, and i'll make us breakfast. i can give you a massage... we can take a bath... and you can relax. for one day."

your arms loop around his neck as you talk. nanami's hand slips around you and brings you into him like muscle memory, closing the distance between you with brushes of your nose and the twirl of his blonde hair around your pinkie. nanami sinks into the plea of your pretty eyes, your contact numbing him to the previous irritations. his exhaustion hits him tenfold like this, as though you have the power to strip him down to his truest self before you.

your descriptions are soothing, your voice and your promises making his lashes flutter as you attempt to sway him with the heat of your chest and your touch.

it's working.

"...then after," you hum. "you can talk to your boss about giving you better hours."

kento sighs. "(y/n)-"

"it doesn't have to be the day after tomorrow. it can be any time within the next week," you say. "please, baby. consider it. if you're doing all of this for us, then you can do this for us too. because i don't know how much longer i can handle this."

you smooth your thumbs over his cheekbones, pouting at the way his eyes close, your hands enough to make him fall asleep right there. "look at you. you're so tired. you're always moving so fast, you don't even get to feel how tired you are."

kento kisses the inside of your palm, bringing his other arm around your waist. "you worry about me too much, my love," he rumbles.

"i don't think i worry about you enough."

the skin at the corner of your boyfriend's eye crinkles with the expulsion of a soft breath.

he takes in your concerned face, how beautiful you look even when you're upset, how desperate you become when you just want him to be okay.

he hates that he has made you feel unseen so many times. he'd been so focused on taking care of the financial aspects of your relationship that he's been neglecting the physical and the emotional. he has not even had time to think about how distant he has been due to how much he has been working, and he admits that he does need a break.

nanami operates as though everything will fall apart if he stops for one second, perhaps because he knows it will be hard to return to his rigorous routine once he's gotten a taste of freedom.

he needs a vacation. badly. the both of you do.

kento does not have the strength to continue arguing with you. not tonight, not with you looking at him and holding him the way you are now, not when all you're asking for is some quality time with the man you love. how can he continue to deny you such a thing when he's subconsciously withheld it from you for so long?

"i'm sorry for neglecting you," he apologizes again. "that was never my intention. i knew me working so much bothered you, but i did not know all the reasons why. i'm sorry, honey."

you waste no time pressing your lips to his snugly. kento hums gently, lethargically holding you tighter, pressing in close as your lips move daintily, languidly over his.

you pour in every hope for his wellbeing, every second you've spent longing for him, every day you've spent praying that he'll take care of himself instead of staying late. you pour in every ounce of love that at times feels too great to name. you pour in every bit of care, every ounce of anger and sadness and desolation you've felt.

the kiss softens into something precious, something sweet and fragile and tame and promising. the two of you sink into the familiar, yet foreign rhythm, and nanami pushes in firmer as your lips to his make him realize just how long it has been since he has kissed you like this.

your fingers tangle eagerly in his hair, sliding over his undercut as he tilts his head, savoring you, seeking you. what was a bubbling argument mere moments ago has turned into a moment of long awaited affection, rekindling, a breakthrough.

you break away to breathe hot against him, lids heavy, eyes hazy and forlorn. you can no longer tell where his scent starts and yours ends, and you are thrilled, for this is all you want. this is all you need to get by.

"please, ken," you murmur so sweetly against his mouth. "please just stay with me tomorrow."

"i will, honey," he nods, pressing his forehead to yours. "i hate that i've made you beg for such a thing."

you fall into a plethora of kisses that don't end, warm pants, and contented sighs. "i'm sorry for yelling," you moan against him between lingering pecks.

"i'm sorry for making you yell."

the dishes are left forgotten in the sink as nanami picks you up with grace, keeping your lips locked as you wrap your legs around his torso, clinging like a koala as he walks you back to your bedroom.

the two of you fall into the sheets, wrapped up in each other, as nanami seals promises to be better with loving strokes and searing kisses over your bare skin. when you fall asleep, the sound of each other's heartbeats lull you both, and nanami decides as his eyes close over the ethereal vision of you that it is time for some kind of change.

choso kamo:

choso would honestly rather die before he argues with you.

and that much is a fact. you know it from the way he chokes up the second you're sending a glare his way, the way he hastily rushes out a string of apologies before you even get the chance to say anything, his hands coming around you and pressing you to his chest to erradicate any semblance of anger from your body.

the brunette does not do well with conflict surrounding you. not at all. ever the emotional being, choso will drop to his knees before you in devastation, pleading for forgiveness simply to avoid you ever having to be angry with him. choso's goal going into every single day is to please you more than he has the previous day, to make you as happy as you make him because he loves you so much that it makes him dizzy and giddy headed. if he ever makes you mad, if he causes you to feel something toward him other than joy and admiration, he'll feel as though he has done a poor job as your partner. he'll kick himself for days, wondering why he did such a thing and how he could fix it - though you've already told him that none of it was a big deal in the first place.

besides, you don't ever get angry with him. not really. you find yourself lecturing the half curse more than you do actually arguing with him, as the said violet eyed man actively works his way around any sign of so. when you get upset with choso, it's usually due to poor communication or some kind of misunderstanding that is cleared up within a matter of seconds.

choso, on the other hand, never finds fault in anything you do. he loves you fiercely, proudly, and he is so enamored by all of you that it's impossible for you to even get him mad. not that you actually try to do so.

this time around, however, is the one and only exception.

it hits him fast.

choso can be irritated rather easily, but normally only when he is in the presence of people he does not want to be around, or when he's overstimulated. he'll mope to himself with a little storm cloud hovering over him, brows and jaw tight as purple hues glower into nothing.

he's never displayed this particular side to you, as you have never given him reason to stew in such annoyance, but today he finds is the horrified exception, as he had already been annoyed about being roped into another short mission with yuki, having been stolen away from time with you. the course of today's events had him in a rather sour mood, and the text he sees pop up from you on his phone is the very icing on the cake.

he's strolling behind yuki as he opens his screen eagerly, hoping to be relieved by something you've sent. instead, he stops dead in his tracks as he stares with wide eyes at your messages.

he blinks once in disbelief, clicking hard on the photo you sent and zooming in.

no. it can't be. you didn't. you wouldn't.

captured in frame is an image of your hand clutching a buttery pastery in the camera, your freshly done nails pressing softly into the crust, the sun shining over your (s/c) from behind the phone. that alone is not choso's issue, but that hand that hovers next to yours in a similar fashion, holding the same pastry.

and that is not the hand of one of your girlfriend's. in fact, it is not even a woman's hand at all. no, instead, it is the well sculpted, rigid hand of a man that choso does not recognize, does not know. and suddenly, his mind is wiping blank as his bright eyes glare daggers into the screen. his heart booms in his chest, which tightens over the organ.

he does not like this feeling. he knows what it is, but he does not like that it is arising because of you. and though choso is still learning a few basic human concepts, he's been with you and around the other students long enough to know that this is not a coincidence. that you aren't just sending this picture to be sweet, to give your boyfriend an update on what you are doing.

not when you left things the way you did before he left the house earlier that day.

choso had promised to accompany you to this new bakery's grand opening weeks in advance, and today was finally the day. the brunette remembers how excited you were, how you bounced on the balls of your feet when you hovered over him that morning, shaking him awake so that the two of you could beat the line. the pale skinned man had shared your enthusiasm, not because he really cared about the bakery, but because you cared. he liked the way your eyes lit up when you talked about it, showing him the menu and scrolling through each delicious item on your phone.

it was a date that you had set long ago. a full day you would make out of it. a reward for the hard work the two of you have been putting in lately.

only, your plans were cut short when choso got a call from yuki. your stomach sank and your face fell when you overheard the conversation, watching as choso's face tightened with aggravation as he scratched the back of his hair and sighed heavily with defeat into the phone. with great remorse, enough remorse to make it look like it was killing him, choso broke the news that he and yuki were called in for a quick, last minute job.

you masked your disappointment very poorly. for this isn't the first time something like this has happened. it has seemed as though lately, at the worst of times, your boyfriend is always needed for a mission with the blonde special grade sorcerer that seemed to pop up from out of nowhere.

you know choso well enough to know that he could not care less who he was partnered up with or why, as you are the only woman he even looks at with hearts in his eyes and his face flushing red. hell, you're the only woman he even thinks about on a daily basis. nevertheless, you could not help but to feel threatened, as the beautiful woman sweeps him away at least once a week, and it was beginning to drive you crazy.

and you knew in that moment that choso was not to blame for such a thing, nor was yuki. the two of them were simply fulfilling the roles that they had been assigned. even so, your throat tightens with frustration and envy as your date spirals down the drain so that your boyfriend can run off with another woman.

it's really starting to get on your nerves.

but you know that this is something that is difficult for choso to understand. not because he does not understand your desire to be with him and to honor your plans, but because he feels like there is absolutely no reason for you to feel threatened by yuki. or anyone at all. the man is so obsessed with you, others would deem it unhealthy, but you can not help the power of your insecurity and the sadness that you try so hard to swallow down when he asks you to forgive him with a hand cupping your face and those big puppy dog eyes boring into yours.

it is difficult for him to leave you when you only give him halfhearted, mumbled assurances, but he has no other choice when fifteen minutes of him saying goodbye and promising to make it up to you pushes back his schedule and makes him run behind.

choso had been thinking about that kicked look on your face all day, pondering over what he can do to cheer you up when he gets home as he claps his palms together and spears a line of blood into his target's head without struggle or thought.

he's sleepy. and he misses you. and he wants to go home, but then he sees your text.

and instead of feeling guilt, something in his mind snaps to instant displeasure.

he calls out to yuki to tell her that he'll catch up to her while he takes a call, and she nods with a wave over her shoulder and a hand on her hip as she continues back toward the school.

choso clicks the phone icon under your name quickly, pressing the device to his ear whilst gnawing the inside of his cheek. it takes a while for you to call, and choso is growing impatient until you eventually pick up on the second to last ring.

there's shuffling on your side of the line over distant, buzzing chatter. he hears your unmistakable laugh, his ears ringing and his pupils shrinking as your giggle flutters so easily into his ears, but you're not laughing with or for choso this time. you're laughing with someone else.

"hello?" you finally greet with the rumble of humor in your lazy voice. your tone has dropped to speak with your boyfriend, he notices, and he thinks this might be the day his worst nightmare comes true.

"where are you?" he asks hastily, wasting no time. "who are you with?"

"i'm doing good, choso, how are you?"

you purposely dodge choso's questions to be smart, to act as if he is imposing, and though he does not completely understand that that is what you're doing, he hates the way you're talking. he hates the whole situation before he's even been given an explanation.

"i'm not good. where are you and who are you with?"

"i'm just out with a friend."

you're being vague. you're blocking out any chance for choso to figure out just exactly who is accompanying you, and he feels his blood begin to boil at the mere secrecy of it all. the two of you never keep secrets from one another, nor do you spend time with people of the opposite sex that the other does not already know as one of your friends.

"what friend," choso interragtes, his voice low as he listens hard.

"a friend, choso. jeez."

"do i know him?"

"does it matter?"

"yes. do i?"

"i don't know who you do or don't know."

"the way you're acting tells me that i don't," he concludes. "(y/n), did you go with him to the bakery that you and i were gonna go to?"

you stall for a moment, letting the silence consume the both of you as there is more shuffling. choso hates that he can't see what's going on. hates that he's not there instead of this stranger. hates that you've taken this attitude with him, this lilt of sassiness that you've never shown him before.

"(y/n)?" he calls you again, with more bass in his voice this time.

"so what if i did?" you drone on. "it's not like you were gonna go with me. you know, even though we had planned to go together for weeks."

"how could you do that?" choso grits his teeth. "you knew i was looking forward to that with you too. i couldn't control that i wasn't able to go. why would you go with some other man without telling me, then send me a picure of what i'm missing?"

his lips tug downward as he runs it all over in his mind, bristling with betrayal and rage at the thought of another guy getting to do the things with you that are only reserved for the two of you.

he swallows down hard, this pill much too difficult to swallow. this isn't like you. this isn't something you do. it's completely out of the ordinary, out of character, and choso thinks that is one of the reasons as to why this is hitting him so hard. he feels like the wind has been knocked out of his lungs, but he is not going to beg for your sympathy this time. no, instead, it's him he feels deserves an apology.

this is wrong. so mean, so hypocritical. you know how choso gets. you know how he clings to you. you know how sacred he considers time with you, or with anyone he cares deeply for.

with you, however, it's different. choso already does not like doing things without you, being left out of adventures and outings that involve you, so for you to do this is a low blow. it stings. it puts a further damper on what had already been such a miserable day, and he never would have expected you to contribute to his negative feelings.

choso is needy, choso is possessive, choso does not like to share. you've never done anything to make him act out of line due to feeling as though someone is looking to take his rightful place by your side so this is new. this feeling is strange. he's not entirely sure what to do with this anger and frustraton and jealousy that's building within him, and he's sure that something will slip without meaning.

by the way this conversation is already going, something is sure to go wrong.

"i don't know what to tell you, choso," you exhale. "i was excited too, but you had stuff to do. so i decided not to wait for you for a change."

your words crash into choso's heart like rushing water breaking into a dam, and choso is completely frozen in his spot, your voice echoing in his mind like some taunt. like a ghoulish nightmare that will cease to end.

"you're being mean," he snaps. "i don't like it."

"i'm not being mean. i'm just doing what i want."

"like we don't always do what you want."

"what?"

his own response came spewing before he could even think it over, but now that it's out there, the brunette can not necessarily take it back. it's not fully true. he knows that. he's only saying such a thing to throw it back in your face. you do plenty of things for choso, as you enjoy entertaining his hobbies as much as he enjoys entertaining yours.

but you hurt his feelings. there's no coming back from that. so now, his mind jumps to defend himself, to fight against the thought of you replacing him.

"no, say it again. what did you say?"

"i said we're always doing what you want," he repeats slowly. "you didn't even think twice about how any of this made me feel. you just thought of yourself."

he hears you scoff, then there's more shuffling, likely as you move to somewhere more private. choso assumes so by the way the background noise softens. "i can't believe you're trying to call me selfish. me. of all things."

"i didn't say you're selfish."

"then what exactly were you trying to say by telling me that i didn't bother to think about you?"

"(y/n), you're out with another man. you did not think about me when you chose to do that."

"i told you, he's a friend."

"then why is this the first time i'm hearing about him? what does he look like? where is he from?"

"giving you all that information isn't going to change the fact that i'm with him."

"are you breaking up with me for him?"

"wh - no? i'm not breaking up with you, choso."

"it's hard to tell, the way you're acting," he frowns. "i don't want you there with him anymore. i want you to leave."

"like hell i will. you can't tell me what to do. i told you, i'm done sitting around and waiting for you to come home from being with yuki."

"what does she have to do with any of this? she's just my partner."

"ohhhh, she's your partner?" you mock. "i didn't realize that i was cutting into precious time with your partner. forgive me."

"stop it. i don't like you like this, (y/n). you're acting so weird."

"now you don't like me?"

"i don't like the way you're acting. i'll always like you."

you hesitate for a moment, momentarily caught off guard by his honesty. "i'm hanging up now, choso."

"don't hang up," he demands. "if you're not going to leave, then the least you can do is tell me his name and show me his face. i'll be there soon."

"i'm not doing that," you shut him down. "and i don't want you here."

that's the first time he's ever heard you tell him something like that. he feels as though invisible scars litter his body as each of your cruel responses cut and slice mercilessly. "you don't want me there...?"

"no, choso. you're busy anyway. just do whatever you're doing, alright?"

"we're practically done," he mumbles. "why don't you want me there anymore? because i'll ruin your date?"

"because you weren't here in the first place. i don't want you here now."

"you're punishing me for no reason."

"i'm not punishing you. if you feel punished, then that's not my problem."

"(y/n). go home. i'm serious."

"no."

"then i'm coming to get you."

"no, you aren't."

"yes, i am."

"goodbye, choso. have fun with yuki."

he's halfway through calling your name when the line cuts and you are gone. the brunette stands there for a second more, ruminating, heart hammering.

that was your first real argument.

the first time you've ever spoken to each other that way. the first time he didn't rush to fix things before they could get worse, the first time your frustration did not melt away with the sound of his voice, the first time either of you had been so separated, so cold, so distant.

ordinarily, tears would have sprung to choso's ears from the sheer emotion of it all, but he finds that none are coming. what he feels now is something dark, something engrossing that swallows him whole as he pulls up the location to that bakery from your messages, a growl building in the back of his throat as he swipes past that godforsaken picture.

choso loves you, but he's never witnessed you act like such a brat before. he hates to say it, he hates to call you that, but he can not find any other word to describe just what exactly it is you think you're doing.

the brunette does not have the capacity to think that you're just using some guy to fill his place and make him angry. all he sees, all he knows, is that you are with a man who is not himself, and he's acting on impulse as he normally does, rushing to meet back up with yuki so that he can wrap things up.

you're not sure what made you think that your words were enough to keep choso from finding you. normally, the man is so obedient, so willing to do whatever you say, but you think you've really crossed a point of no return when you're waving goodbye to your old high school friend, and you happen to turn your head to see your boyfriend fastly approaching.

you've never been scared of choso. he's your sweet boy. the kindest, gentlest being you've ever met. what makes choso feared by others is not something that he's ever been keen on revealing to you.

so when you catch wind of him walking toward you down the street, plum eyes sharp as he locks them onto you, you freeze. the marks on his face are shifting and morphing with his rage, and he wears so rather openly on his expression.

your boyfriend is pissed off, and he was not joking about getting to you by any means necessary.

you notice that the closer he gets, he does not slow. it is only when he is a few inches away from you when you realize that he is not yet walking to you, but going after your friend who has already made it inside of his car.

your eyes go wide as you catch choso around his built torso, blocking him from proceeding further as he lets your touch will him away. if he really wanted to, he would have plowed through you without question. but you're still you. you're still (y/n). there's no need to risk taking your arm off by accident because he's worried about some guy. besides, he's not the one who can give him answers. you are.

choso steps back with firm stomps as you lightly push him away. flaming wine hues glow hard down at you once he's hovering over you, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as the veins in his neck poke and his fist clenches and unclenches at his side.

"what the hell are you doing?" you hiss. "i told you not to come, choso."

"where is he going?" he points past your smaller from. "who was he, (y/n). where is he going."

"for the love of - he's a friend, okay? i was serious about that. he was just a friend from school that i ran into."

"ran into?"

"yes, here. at the bakery."

"so you went by yourself. he didn't go with you?"

"no, choso. i'm not in regular contact with him. he just appeared."

he hums in disapproval, shaking his head. "i still don't like it. i don't like how you didn't want to wait for me."

"choso, you knew how much i've been wanting to come here for their grand opening. i was gonna go with or without you. the way things turned out, i had to go without you."

"i would have waited for you to go to any store."

"i'm not you, choso. i didn't want to wait for you to be done hanging with some girl-"

"hanging? we were working."

"i don't care. you left me to be with her and it hurt my feelings."

"it hurts my feelings that you did something that was meant for us with another guy."

"like you don't do the same with yuki?"

"i don't. we work together."

"but you always have to go off with her when we're about to do something."

"i do what the sorcerers tell me to do, (y/n)."

"so you wouldn't feel a way if i was always out partnered up with some guy for work? if he always called me saying that he needed me during to worst possible times?"

"i would not like it, but that's not the same as you choosing to spend time with someone outside of work to get back at me."

"it feels the same."

choso no longer wants to continue on with this out in the open. he reaches for your wrist, tugging you slightly. "we're going home."

you try to pull your arm from his grasp, but it's no use. "i don't want to go home! let go of me."

he turns back to give you a harsh look, one so foreign to you on his soft features. you pause. "we're going."

the two of you fight some more when you get back home, caught up in the hectic cycle of your first dispute. it ends eventually with the two of you storming off into different directions, followed by tears that the both of you shed in private.

in the silence, you're both hit with the awfulness of arguing with one another, as it is such a strange, new thing to you. it feels ten times worse now that it is over.

choso was right. you were being mean. you knowingly weaponized choso's vulnerability to use it against him, and you got the reaction that you wanted, but you still do not feel any better about how the day went. you were miserable when you went to that bakery by yourself, moping as your mind swarmed with images of your boyfriend and his pretty blonde partner together while you were left to fend for yourself. in truth, your high school friend had saved you, and the urge to get revenge for how choso made you feel surpassed any semblance of logic as you snapped that picture and pressed send.

it wasn't planned. you just did it.

it doesn't take much to get choso wound up emotionally, and you know it, but this anger of his was new. and it spun your mind around in circles, then before you even knew it, you were fighting.

you wish you could take it back. the whole reason why you did any of this was to get his attention, and you got it, but now what? your boyfriend is angry with you for the first time ever, and suddenly, your resolve does not seem as pressing as the aforementioned matter.

all you wanted was to spend the day with your boyfriend, and you lost it when you couldn't even get that.

but that was no reason for you to do what you did. you can see that now.

"choso?"

the soft call of his name brings choso's head turning on a swivel as you stand bashfully in the doorway. you sniff hard as you fiddle with a piece of paper you found on your floor.

the brunette looks at you with big eyes, his anger, too, long gone. and he waits.

you breathe in sharp. "i'm really sorry. i hated arguing with you. i shouldn't have made you feel like i was replacing you or like i was gonna leave you. i just got so upset about today. it was no one's fault but i blamed you. and i'm sorry. i shouldn't have said all that about you and yuki, either. i didn't know how else to express what i was feeling. i really wanted to spend time with you. i didn't have nearly as much of a good time as i would have if you were there. the pastries weren't even that good. i love you... i got carried away."

before you can blink, choso has already scrambled to his feet and tugged you into a tight hug. he buries his face in the crook of your neck and presses your body to his tightly, screwing his eyes tight with a shuddering exhale.

the second choso hears an apology, he doesn't care anymore. he's just happy that this can finally end. that you're back to your sweet self, and choso has nothing more to worry about. all he wants now is you.

he doesn't say anything. he just holds you tight. a whimper slips from him when you hug back, breathing him in deeply as you nuzzle your face against him.

"i'm sorry, cho," you say weakly into the fabric of his chest. he hugs you tighter.

toji fushiguro:

arguing with toji is... common.

toji fushiguro does not back down from a challenge. he never has. he's never had any reason to. he talks a lot of shit, and he's able to back it up with those remarkable gifts he carries. as far as toji is concerned, he is superior to every other non sorcerer there is. hell, he might as well be humanity's symbol of perseverance. he fights, and he fights willingly.

and as much as you love toji, you love him through his crudeness, his snarkiness, his disrespectful attitude that tends to come to the surface when he's spent and worn.

if the two of you are being honest, you argue probably more than the average couple. there's something about the sway of it, the rhythm it carries, how breezily it flows between the two of you. you don't necessarily like to argue, but arguments find you like you're their home. like they were made for the two of you to engage in, therefore, you fall into this back and forth quiet often. half the time, you aren't even sure why.

being with toji is like constantly living within some kind of arena. energy is high at all times, a constant buzz underlying your emboldened passions. you're entertained day in and day out, tossed around by your opponent in bed so often, you find that your legs have trouble keeping you standing when the two of you are through. you and toji both like competition, and you go head to head with each other as much as possible. most of the time, it's heated, exciting tension. the other times, its just shouting, trying to be heard over top of the other. two stubborn, hardheaded, sore losers fighting to win.

you like the fire that carries the two of you. you like how it burns so brightly between you, having yet to diminish over the years you've known each other and been together. when you and toji fight, you fight for yourselves, for your relationship. fighting, in your opinions, is a sign of strength, a sign of diversity within your conjoined lives. it's a sign that the two of you care enough about your bond and about each other to stand ten toes down as you fight about whatever nonsense it is you're on about now until either one of you yields by winning, walking off, or jumping the other one's bones.

toji does not like being wrong. even if he knows he is, he'll still give you a hard time. that's just the kind of man that he is. he's not going to admit that he could have done something differently until he's learned some kind of lesson, and usually that lesson comes when you've shut him out completely by giving him the silent treatment for as long as you possibly can, longer than he had believed you would last.

there's one thing toji hates more than being wrong, and it's you paying him no mind, acting like he isn't right next to you, greeting him with silence when he asks you a question. he can't fucking stand it when you do that. it drives him crazy, and the only way he really knows how to fix that is with how he fixes most of your problems - by fucking them out of you.

but then, there are times when the words are too harsh for sexual reconciliation. insults fly that meant nothing but landed like everything, and the space between you grows with something colder than fire. those moments, when the arguments are real and bruising, the two of you do not always reach the same, affectionate conclusions.

"christ, girl," toji seethes, rolling his eyes to his skull as he tosses his head back with exasperation. he's lounging on your couch with his legs crossed and arms outstretched on the cushions behind him. maybe forty five or so minutes have passed since the two of you have gotten into it, and the vibe between you feels off. like no amount of sex or cuddling can save you from the direction this is headed. "y're always finding some shit to be mad about. don't you ever get tired?"

"tired of you?" you snap, standing next to the coffee table before him. "yeah, all the fucking time."

"you think i don't get tired of your moanin'?"

"too damn bad, fushiguro, you're stuck with my moaning forever. what are you gonna do about it?"

ivy hues hold yours with slimming severity. "keep talkin' and find out."

"fuck you. you don't get to fuck me after all this shit you put me through tonight."

toji turns out one of his palms, quirking one side of his mouth as if to question your wellbing nonverbally. "the fuck are you on about? i ain't do shit to you."

"yes you did, toji! why do you think we're fighting now?"

"'cause y're a goddamn pain."

you groan, searching around you for the nearest object, which happens to be a crumpled napkin sitting atop the table surface. you reach over and lunge the paper at toji's face, watching as it bounces off of his chest and rolls down his massive frame, onto the floor. the ebony haired assassin glares up at you, as if to dare you to throw something else.

"throwing shit now, huh?" he raises a brow.

"you're lucky it was just a napkin and not a rock."

"will ya give it a rest already?" your boyfriend sneers. "all i said was that you aren't cut out for any life like mine. what's the big deal? you're mad 'cause i told the truth?"

"it wasn't just that," you chuckled, eyes blown as you swipe your hand over your chin. "you said it like you think i could never be able to lift a finger on my own, let alone do something like that."

"you know i ain't mean it like that," he exhales, annoyed.

"then why say it like you meant it like that?" you question. "i can handle myself fine, fushiguro. you think i can't take care of myself?"

"nah. i don't think you can handle an assassin's job. much less mine. i'm already two times your size doll, and that don't even account for our difference in skillsets."

"obviously i can't be like you. nobody can be like you. but we're not just talking about how you operate, we're talking about people who fight and kill for a living as a whole."

"why are you so damn worried about bein' qualified to be an assassin?"

"since my boyfriend made it very clear that he doesn't believe i'm capable of doing anything on my own!"

"i do think you can do shit on your own, (y/n). that's not what i said."

"you're lying."

"y're actin' like a lunatic."

toji rises carelessly to his feet with a grunt, hands pressing into his knees, and you take the opportunity to toss another napkin at him. this time, it bounces off his head and goes flying into another direction. toji's face flattens as he stares down at you like you're a pest.

"and you're acting like a dick!" you counter. "no, you're not acting like one. you just are one."

"you done yet?" he squints his eyes. "you get that shit out of your bratty fuckin' system?"

"don't talk to me like what i'm saying doesn't matter."

"well, it's hard to listen to ya when you're spouting all this nonsense, darlin'."

"it's not nonsense!" you march over to him and block his path when you see him begin to turn away to walk off. toji clicks his tongue, looking off with irritation as you hold him hostage. "why don't you think i could train to do something like be an assassin? i was a great sorcerer."

"do you hear how stupid this conversation sounds? we're arguin' about hypotheticals."

"hypotheticals lead to truths, and you don't believe in me."

"you're nuts."

"you're a liar."

"so what if i don't believe in you, eh?" he lifts a fist to his hip and tilts his head with cloudy eyes. "what're you gonna do? your world gonna end?"

you gasp. "so you admit it. you admit you think i'm weak."

"for the love of - just move." he goes to step around you, but you step in his way again. "move, before i make you."

"you'd like that, wouldn't you? proving how fragile you think i am by picking me up and forcing me out of the way."

"the only reason i'd like doing that would be because i'd finally get some fuckin' peace and quiet." toji goes to move around you again, but you block him once more, leading his temper to burst. "(y/n), the fuck is your problem?"

"my problem is that i know exactly what you were trying to say about me, but now you don't have the balls to stand on it."

"you're tryin' really hard to get your feelings hurt. let it go."

"i'm not letting shit go until i hear you say it."

"i'm tellin' ya now, you don't want to hear what i have to say."

"oh i promise you, i really do."

toji is immovable before you, glowering down at you with lazy eyes and formiddable stillness. he's giving you the chance to back out before he says something that he can't take back, before his words become so mean that the argument takes a hard left turn.

in these moments, when toji's agitated and tired, he does not really care what comes out of his mouth. with you, ordinarily, he's gentler in a rugged kind of way. he'll still talk his shit, but he'll do so with a humor and sappiness that is nowhere to be found right now. he's sweet on you, careful with you, thoughtful with you, and while his love for you would never change or be swayed by something so damn stupid, it's hard to find those remnants of him when he gets in a bad mood.

he loves you to death, but right now, all he can hear is the way your mouthing off at him senselessly, fighting hard over something that toji would never in a million years think of allowing you to do. sure, you're not being serious about turning your life around to go back to doing dangerous work, but the very thought of it grinds his goddamn gears, for that's not the kind of life you need to be living. this, this calmness, this steadiness you've built with toji is good, it's right, it's where you're meant to be. the dark haired man will be damned if you set foot back into that kind of life after you'd successfully escaped it, returning to the risk of death that toji can not afford to fathom.

after all, it had been a life threatening experience that made you want to turn your life around, away from constant risk.

so fuck no, toji does not think you're cut out for it. he doesn't want you to be cut out for it. you're his woman now. you have a life. you're loved. if you think he wants you even so much as touching another weapon to fight, you've got another damn thing coming.

"leave it," he sneers. "it's the last time i'm tellin' ya."

"psh. coward."

you're playing with fucking fire.

toji narrows his eyes at you in disbelief. "you think so?" he dares you.

you cross your arms, eyes pointed. "yep. you're a coward, toji."

oooh, and it's enough to make toji completely forget that you have feelings he should protect. now that you've pushed the right buttons, he's dropping the filter and talking freely.

"says the girl who chickened out of sorcery."

all of the air within the room seems to shrink up as your face falls in shock, reeling. "...are you serious?" your voice is lower, quiter now. "you're throwing that back in my face?"

toji shrugs. "i'm not the one who kept pushin'. you wanted what i think, so here it is."

"i got injured you fucking asshole," you emphasis your last word with a shove to his pec, one that does nothing to move him or throw him off balance. "how dare you say i chickened out?"

"you healed and ya didn't wanna go back. what else do ya call it?"

your mouth drops with incredulity, doing your best to combat the way your heart has sunk with grief. toji knows that this is a difficult topic for you, which is likely why you feel so offended by the prospect of him refusing to believe that you could return to that kind of life. hearing him express the fact that he feels that you are not brave, that the reason for you backing away had not been valid enough, whether it's true or he's trying to hurt you or what, it insults you.

especially because toji knows that you were a damn good sorcerer. that you put your heart and soul into your work before blooming love, a desire for a conjoined future, and the daunting reality that the universe allowed you to live simply by chance rather than by fate after a mission gone horribly wrong, swayed your motivations, and you took your opening. your one and only chance to live a normal life was seized, and you don't regret that decision for a second.

nevertheless, you still experience doubts. you still play that day over in your mind, thinking about how if you had never gotten hurt, you never would have left the field. you could have been dead by now. or not. you'll never know. but there are times when you yearn for that purpose again, for that action, that thrill, even though you know that you went down the right path.

toji knows you aren't weak. or at least, you've always desperately hoped that he doesn't believe that you are. you feel that you have always had that underlying insecurity, the lurking fear that your boyfriend thinks little of you. that you do not stand out in his eyes, that you are not strong enough, exciting enough. you fear the way he judges your life choices, if he does at all, and you're greatest insecurity comes to life in his words. in his glare.

you thought you wanted the truth, but this fucking hurts.

and toji isn't teling you the truth. of course he's not. he doesn't think you're weak. he doesn't think you're a coward for choosing life instead of death. he respects, honors, and fucking thanks your decision to have left like no other, as the real reason behind his malice is the fact that he does not want to you die or disappear on him.

plus, you've been working his last nerve all night.

he just wants to teach you a lesson, is all. but he takes it too far.

"i'm not a coward," you grit, tightening your fists.

"sure ya aren't," he smirks. "you aren't cut out for this shit, girlie. it's not for you anymore. you couldn't cut it, so like your old man said, let it be."

"fuck you, toji," you jab an angry finger at him.

"i thought you didn't wanna do that tonight, darlin?" his smirk grows, baiting you into a bigger reaction, and he gets just that.

"i hate you," you shout.

ouch.

toji doesn't let it show how much that stung. "yeah, yeah," he murmurs as his smile dwindes. "i've heard it all before."

"if you think i'm so fucking weak and useless, then why the hell did you stay with me? you should have just left me the fuck alone."

you're gone with a shoulder check, the quick swipe and jingle of keys, and the slamming of the front door. in the moment, toji does not think to follow you. he merely rolls his eyes and continues on with his business, acting first as though this will blow over soon, as though this argument hadn't been one of your bigger onces, as though his heart isn't aching at the sound of your voice crying out that you hate him.

by the second and third hour of your absence, toji is restless. he hasn't heard a thing from you. you haven't texted, called, turned your location back on, or anything. you vanished, and you clipped off any line of contact between the two of you. you're gone, and toji grows anxious in the silence that you have left behind.

the ivy eyed man does not like not knowing what is happening. he does not like not being able to have his eyes on you, not being able to check in with you, to talk to you, to see you. what if you're hurt? what if you don't come back? what if toji broke something in you that is unfixable, all because he wanted to get you to shut up? all because he hates even thinking about you putting yourself back into harm's way?

he should have corrected you when you left. he doesn't think you're weak and useless like you said. he would never think such things of you. the way you have him wrapped around your pretty little finger, the way you're able to juggle work, helping look after his kids, cooking for everyone, filling the home with love and warmth all at once, the way you keep your eyes ahead of you instead of on the past, pushing through the traumas of your previous occupation to be present, are all tells of your great strength. your tenacity. your passion.

those are just a few of the reasons why toji fell so hard for you, and to lie about that so boldly to your face... well, it was sure to hit you hard. he knew it would, but what he did not considere was how hard it would hit him in turn. like a boomerang effect, or deserved karma.

toji knows he's an asshole. he knows he hardly deserves you. he knows he's not good at expressing his fears, the things that haunt him, the truths much harder to admit than the 'i love yous' that come so easily.

and sometimes, it's just easier to fall into that negative title than it is to breathe life into the things he does not want to accept.

when night comes around, and you're still not back, toji's calling you over and over, wandering the streets to look for you. his concern is growing by the second. he gets it. you're angry, but he hopes that's all it is and you're somewhere safe. he wishes you'd at least tell him you're safe.

he is soon nauseous with fear, increasingly desperate to find you, when he finally spots you across the way, sitting on a vacant park swing.

the moment he sees you, his heart is exhaling and he's running to you. "the hell is wrong with you?" he barks, bending over to gather your shoulders in his hands once he reaches you, stilling you on the swing as you look up at him with wide eyes. "i've been callin' you for fuckin' hours! i didn't know where the hell you went. it's dark out, girl, what the fuck are ya doin? are you tryin' to give me a heart attack?"

you look over his face emptily, and in the darkness, toji can make out the sparkle of tears dotting your lashes. he pauses.

"you don't need to come running to me. i'm not some fragile thing you need to protect. i'm fine."

your tone is cold, void of that fire it had earlier. now, you just sound so sad. "(y/n), come on," toji breathes out. "i wasn't worried 'cause i think y're weak-"

"you said it yourself that you do. there's no need to keep denying it. you look down on me because i stopped being a sorcerer. you don't think i could do anything like that ever again, and it's cool. i get it. what i don't get is how you could love someone you view like that. are you lying to me about that to?"

"alright, slow it down," toji shakes his head, dropping down to a crouch before you. "we ain't gonna jump to conclusions all night."

"i'm not. you said it yourself."

"that i don't love you? that's bullshit, babe."

"that you think i'm a weak coward. so you must be thinking other things like that. it's only logical."

"this crap is everything but logical," he grunts. "when i said all that shit, i wasn't being for real."

"sure, whatever," you tch with the roll of your eyes, pushing past him to stand up and walk toward the playground balance beam. you don't hear toji follow you, but you know he's there as you step onto the metal with outstretched arms, eyes stinging.

"i'm serious," you hear him say just behind you as you put one foot in front of the other, brows furrowed hard. "i don't think that shit about you doll."

"then it's even fucking crazier that you would say some shit like that to me, toji," you scoff.

"what do you want from me?" he rounds the beam so that he's waiting at the end of it, facing you as you walk down. "you weren't gonna stop until i said what you were thinkin' about yourself in your head! you wanted me to agree with whatever the fuck y're lyin' to yourself about, so i did."

you stop in your tracks, keeping your balance. "because genuinely what else was i supposed to think when you first said that you didn't think i could do what you people do?"

"that i don't want ya to get fuckin' hurt? that i don't want you repeating something that already happened?"

"sorcerers, assassins, whoever the fuck get hurt all the time. so what?"

"don't be hypocrite. you left after that shit happened to you."

"i did! but that doesn't mean i didn't know the risks! that doesn't mean i hadn't gotten hurt before! just 'cause i left doesn't mean i couldn't do that shit again with my eyes closed!"

"i fuckin' know that, (y/n)!"

"then what's the problem?!"

"i don't want you to die, that's the problem!"

"i'm not gonna die! i'm not even serious about going back!"

"i don't care! i almost lost you once, girl, i ain't gonna let there be a second time!"

you freeze, stunned into silence by the sheer zeal carrying his confession to you, and your arms slowly melt down to your sides as you maintain perfect balance thoughtlessly.

toji exhales, threading his veiny hand through his messy locks as he searches the ground as though it will give him answers, will help him with what to say next. the corner of his mouth creases as he presses his lips together, eyes sunken like a gaping wound.

"i get it. i shouldn't have said all that shit to you. i shouldn't have let you get to me like that. but fuck, (y/n), i clearly don't think that way about you. i'm crazy about you. even if i didn't agree with the choice you made, which i do, would still respect ya."

"how am i supposed to know that if you just told me otherwise?" you ask softly.

"i've been tellin' ya for years that i'm proud of you."

"that's different from right now. from what you said today."

"i-" toji clenchs his jaw. "you got a point. y're right. i get it. 'shouldn't have said any of it. none of it was true. i was just angry."

you stare at him silently, and toji caves.

"i'm sorry," he swallows hard, softening. "i'm sorry, doll."

"you should be," you look down.

"i am," he starts to move around again, approaching you from the side as you turn to look up at him. even with you elavated on the beam, he still towers over you. "had me losin' my mind when i couldn't find you. when i hadn't heard from you," he frowns. "be pissed all you want, but don't do that shit again. i don't care how mad you are at me, you turn that location on and send me a text. that shit is dangerous."

"but i was-"

"i don't. care," he punches each word. "don't go doubting how crazy i'll get behind you, doll. i worry about ya like i worry about my own kids. it ain't because i don't think you can handle yourself. it's 'cause i love you. i'm sorry i made you start to think otherwise. that's one thing you should never question. but seriously, don't do stupid shit like ignoring my calls when your out at night. it's pitch dark out here. i don't care how strong you are, i'm not for it."

you want to combat him more, but the look on his face shows you that he is not joking, that he is dead serious about your safety, so you choose not to poke the bear any further tonight. "fine," you grumble.

"yeah?" he lifts a large hand to hold your hip, rolling his thumb over the curve of it. your mouth twitches, and you duck your head to look away as toji comes into you. "i love you, doll. i always will. 'm sorry. i don't wanna lose ya."

you feel your eyes well with tears as you bite down hard on your teeth. your nose flares involunitarily as you fidget, the opposing warmth of your boyfriend sinking over you in a time you need it most, deep down - a time where you began to doubt this tenderness, this sweetness, this love that you cherish so fiercely, no matter how angry you are with each other.

the ebony haired man leans in to kiss your forehead gingerly. you close your eyes when his lips meet your skin, and you release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

when toji pulls away, he looks down at you tenderly. "you don't hate me, girlie, do ya?"

you lift your teary eyes with a confused expression before you remember that you had declared such a thing to his face in the heat of the argument. you sigh. "sometimes."

"come on," his other hand comes to your other hip. "throw me a rope."

you roll your eyes. "no. i don't hate you. you just deserved to hear it."

"mmm, and it stung like it was meant to."

you purse your lips. "sorry."

your apologize comes out as a snap, and toji almost laughs. "you still angry?"

you think about it. "yeah. you were a dick."

"alright," he sighs, turning to bend his knees and hunch his back, holding out his arms toward you. "you can be angry at me in the house. get on."

you stare at his back for a moment, leg bouncing. toji turns to his shoulder, quirking a brow.

"not a request, doll. we got more arguin' to do. can't do it on an empty stomach either."

you huff, eventually obliging as you climb onto your boyfriend's broad back. you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up, locking his arms under your thighs.

he tilts his head to you, your nose brushing his cheek. "good?" he asks lowly.

you hum. "yeah."

he hoists you up again, ensuring that you are secure, before starting to walk. you rest your chin against his shoulder with an exhale through your nose, tilting your head against toji's neck as you look to the sky.

"i love you, too," you mumble abruptly mid walk, and toji hums.

arguments with toji may get nasty, and he may say rude things, but in the end, there's nothing the two of you aren't willing to work on in order to get stronger. you're just competitive like that.

ryomen sukuna:

surprisingly enough, arguments between you and ryomen don't happen all that often.

the two of you bicker frequently, going back and forth about little things, often because you are having little disputes about your contrasting understandings of either of your habits or traditions. the king of curses is often poking questions or fun at the undeniably human things that you do, like thinking you'll help contribute to chores when sukuna will literally curse an entire population before he allows you to do such things, or expecting him to subconsciously understand and empathize with your emotions or reactions that he literally does not comprehend or care to comprehend.

but those are normal, every day occurences. harmless (hopefully), yet lengthy conversations about things either of you are learning about the other. neither of you really take things like that seriously.

and though sukuna has the ability to make you angry quite frequently, you don't really seek out arguments with him, because it isn't often the kind of angry that makes you blind with rage, but the kind in which your love for his unique insanity pesters you the most. if you're feeling such a way, you'll give him a little eye roll and let it be known, and the salmon haired curse handles it by either teasing you, fucking you, or demanding you to tell him what is pestering you.

at the end of the day, those moments are never enough for you to dare to argue with the king of curses. unfortunately, you know that you would lose. and you can envision a couple of ways how.

your boyfriend isn't the type you typically want to enrage. you're not scared of him by any means, but you know him incredibly well. sukuna doesn't argue with you because there is not any reason to. you both have mouths, you both can speak. conflict does not always have to end in some loud match that would only infuriate him more.

sukuna is the type that tolerates absolutely no nonsense from anyone. while you are the woman he has grown to love, and the woman he intends to have by his side until the rest of time, he tolerates your attitude enough because he knows that you aren't going to cause a big commoton when it all comes down to it. arguing, in sukuna's a opinion, is fruitless. and childish.

he has the power. he controls how things go, and to think that he would allow such things to transpire between you on an ordinary basis is laughable.

sukuna is big on words. he's big on unapologetic bluntness. he's big on solving things within a matter of minutes or seconds when issues do arrive. he is not the type to enjoy wasting time on running around in circles with you in conversation.

and though you are in love with a brute, a beast, a monster, life with sukuna otherwise is rather calm. he takes care of you. he elevates your way of living like it's your birthright, and you can't say that you have many complaints when you exist in such luxury under his terrific care - terrific as in the very thought of how vigilantly he cares for you is terrifying.

you're not a pushover. the two of you talk and talk like two adults about things all the time. you never hide how you feel. you call him out when he says offensive things. he lets you click your tongue and scoff when you don't agree with him. but it's fine. it's whatever. you rarely ever get angry enough to pick a fight with him.

but... when you do...

it really does not end well.

because why argue? with fucking sukuna of all people?

the being who snaps his fingers to split someone's body open without a single second of hesitation? the being whose eye twitches when he even so much as thinks someone is looking at you the wrong way in public? the being who marks his possession over you in the visible, open spaces of your skin so that everyone who glances as you knows that you are undeniably, aggressively, proudly taken? the being who has no time, whatsoever, for any semblance of absurdity?

really, you don't know what you think is going to happen.

when sukuna does pinch a nerve, when his words have come across a bit too carelessly or his countenance has left you feeling displaced, you don't hold back. you don't try to hide it or overcome it. you just start mouthing off. snapping. throwing out something bitchy that only sukuna could handle, and the room all but completely stills.

and you don't care. you really don't as something that sukuna says lowly gets you going even more, because why would you start caring now, of all times? sukuna's given you enough freedom and comfort for you to feel safe doing such a thing, when the servants who have frozen solid in their places upon overhearing you wonder how you aren't dead yet, how much sukuna truly loves you let you speak to him in such a way.

when that happens, your arguments usually start with ryomen eying you with a deadly gaze as he responds to you with low, gravelly warnings, and grimaces like he does not even know who he is looking at. you're so aggravating when you get angry with him like this, and that patience of his that has built such remarkable immunity over the years of being with you is wearing thinner, and thinner, and you don't even realize how fucked you are as the string frays alarmingly fast.

and then, before you know it, it snaps. he's stooping to your level, saying the most heinous things with a smoothness that chips away at you, that reminds you just how easy it is for sukuna to be callous.

you could never win an argument with sukuna, because if you aim to hit him low, he aims to drop to the very depths of hell to strike you lower. the curse does not have anything to lose. he does not have to protect you from the consequences of your own actions. he does not have to coddle you and feed you delusions to only make you think that this is okay and you should do it more often.

no, he reciprocates your energy with a chilling vengeance, making sure that this ends with you regretting even daring to speak out of turn to him in the first place.

and you always do. for whenever sukuna looks you dead in the eye, and with a straight face speaks so clearly and insultingly, with such heartless vulgarity, like it isn't even hard for him to do so despite claiming to care for you, tears spring to your eyes automatically. like a trigger has been pulled. your eyes cloud with blurring with water that spills like a broken faucet.

sukuna's crimson eyes glance at the tears like they don't mean a thing to him, and yet, he looked the moment he noticed. and he struggles to look away, bringing his eyes back up to yours after a solid few seconds of staring.

he acts unmoved. untouched by the sight. he acts like your tears are a pestilence, like they're a pity to be seen. he utilizes them as proof that you shouldn't have gone and started a fight that you could never finish.

he acts like he doesn't care how the pearls stain your face as they trickle down past your chin. he doesn't care how your glossy eyes look up at him with the stubborness you cling to, past the heartbreak in your trembling gaze. he tries to look past it. he tries not to see it. he tries to hold onto that mask of cruelness that had worked so effectively. tries not to let such power fold under the pressure of your broken gaze and trembling lips, as you try to hold it all back without success.

he really tries. but no matter his roots, sukuna can not help the way his heart shakes for you when he sees that he has made you cry once again. he can't stand when you cry. he hates the way it makes him feel, how weak it renders him on your behalf.

hell, he wouldn't have had to get to this point if you hadn't started the fight. it's your fault. he chooses to blame you in order to dull the blow of his responsibility, but it is no use when you walk away silently, locking yourself away inside of the library, claiming the territory as your own.

you've always loved that room. he did not realize how much you would when he had it built for you. he supposes it is some sort of comfort to you now, which is why you retreat there instead of your bedroom. you're claiming a space, one that you remind belongs to you as much as it belongs to him.

i have a right to be here. don't treat me like i don't.

he can practically hear your words in the way the door closes with a tightness behind you, clicking with the adamance of the lock.

what is important, for you and sukuna, however, is not always the argument itself, as those are always destined to plummet into the wrong direaction. what is important, for you especially, is how you reconcile. how you return from such a place of hostility. how to trust sukuna once more as your partner and not some tyrant who rules over your behavior with a tight collar.

and sukuna is infamously terrible with words. he loves you with his presence, his protection, his actions, but he does not often speak of his affections. it's just not something the king of curses is quite equipped to do.

nevertheless, you put him to work. you force him into spaces that he hates being in, that he never thought he would be in before, and you re-establish your control as the woman who is able to reduce him to such humility.

standing before the library doors, ryomen knows better than to speak to you brashly, though every bone in his body is screaming at him to do so out of instinct, out of discomfort. why the hell did you have to go and cry on him? now he has to go and fix things because his chest won't stop tightening at the memory of those tears on your face, and he doesn't know how without the possibility of making things worse.

sukuna always makes these kinds of things worse.

it's why he prefers teasing. it's why he prefers fucking. ryomen is not an emotional being. he knows he loves you, and that's it. that's all you get from him. that security and the physical care and promise that comes with it. not apologies. not big, tear jerking confessions of love. not verbal reassurance - not when he's at fault.

so instead of speaking, he merely turns and presses his broad back to the door, slumping down the surface into a cross-legged position. his head knocks back against it as he glares ahead into nothing. just waiting. just there.

you heard him move against it a while ago, startled by the noise. you let hours pass, and you still do not here any motion. having long cried your eyes out, you slowly step toward the door with a gentle hand to the surface, pressing your ear flat against it to listen.

"must you insist upon making me wait any longer?"

the rumble of his voice startles you, and you jump away. your skin warms when you realize you've been caught.

you decide not to speak, remaining silent as you cross your arms. you hear him exhale loudly. "very well. brat," you hear him grumble the name, and you glare into his head past the door. "fix your face."

you shiver, face dropping as you question how in the hell he knew you were looking at him like that.

you huff, shuffling back toward the door to sit down against it, bringing your knees to your chest as you now want to see just how long sukuna is willing to wait in silence for you.

another hour passes, then some thirty minutes, and you turn your head. curious. lonely. sad.

"ryomen?" you call his name. you only use his name like that when you're serious, instead of calling him ryo or kuna.

you aren't sure if he's still there, and you are quick to decide that he is not, when his voice speaks up.

"what?"

you blink, truly shocked. "you haven't moved." your words come out as something between an observation and a question. you aren't sure which.

"nor have you."

"yeah, but... i didn't... tell you to wait for me."

"do not speak to me like i am a fool. i am well aware. i do as i please."

his words are calm, but a bit snippy, and you angle your brows on instinct. "then why are you still here?"

there's a beat. "did you not hear when i said that i do as i please?"

you suck your teeth, turning your head forward with your head knocked back. "alright, ryomen."

"you have not cooled down, i see."

"i did cool down, but the sound of your mouth pissed me off all over again."

"that is why i have been silent, woman. you called my name."

"i-" you pause before deflating. "yeah. i did," you admit aloud.

another moment of silence passes before sukuna speaks again. "was that all you had to say?"

"i don't know. i guess."

"will you be coming out soon?"

you exhale, thinking back to the way sukuna's words hit you. "i don't know," you answer honestly.

"...are you hungry?"

your stomach grumbles. "...i don't know."

"good lord. what do you know?" you can hear sukuna's tongue click, and you frown.

"i know that you're mean as fuck."

he hesitates. "perhaps," is all he says.

"perhaps?" you echo, turning your head to the door. "you are. not perhaps."

"alright," you imagine he's gritting his teeth and looking to the sky as if this is the very worst kind of torture for him. "i will resume silence until you are no longer angry."

"no you won't, ryomen, you made me feel like shit. why do you say the shit you say? do you realize how hurtful you can be? do you even care?"

"if i did not care, then i would not be sitting here after you dared to think that raising your voice at me was something i would tolerate."

"i didn't raise my voice at you-

"do not lie to me-"

"-i was just trying to-"

"-i know what you were doing."

you growl, turning your head forward with tightly crossed arms and outstretched legs after having talked over each other. "i don't care if you didn't like the way i was talking to you. there's better ways to handle things."

"you must not know how stubborn you are, woman."

"not more stubborn than you."

"impossible."

"whatever."

he groans. "why do you not listen unless i hurt you?"

you scrunch your face. "i'm not a pet, ryomen."

"i do not think of you as a pet."

"then why are you trying to train me into obedience?" you ask. "i get it. we don't argue, but i was pissed off and i wanted to argue. and your way of dealing with that was to break me down. like always."

"i do not always do such things. only when you get like that."

"still, i don't care how rare it is. i don't like it. you hurt me. and you don't even-"

"i do care," he interjects. "stop spreading lies."

"when you get like that, it really doesn't seem like it," you sigh, looking down at your hands in your lap. "like, at all. you say that stuff so easily. how can you talk like that to someone you love?"

sukuna no longer knows what to say. he never does when you ask him things like this. what is it he's supposed to say? how do you want him to react? what if his answers don't help?

of course he loves you. he wouldn't be with you if he didn't. he wouldn't put up with this. he wouldn't feel this way.

but he can't just come out and say it. how can he?

"you take my words much too harshly," he frowns.

"your words are harsh."

"what is it you wish of me?" he questions. "what will make this go away?"

"this won't just go away. you can't just make this disappear like you do with everything else. i'm going to be upset for a while."

"for what?"

"you really have to ask me that?" you shake your head. he doesn't say anything. "you fucked up. deal with it."

"(y/n)," he calls your name with a heavy sigh. "when will you be leaving the library?"

"i don't know if i will," you say. "i think... i may sleep in here tonight."

you look over the array of lounge chairs and sofas in the large room, deciding you'll be just fine dozing surrounded by stories you love. surrounded by something kind that sukuna did for you, reminding you that he's only like this during his very worst moments.

you expect more push back from your boyfriend, but he gives none. instead, you hear him shuffle as he stands, the door creaking behind you with the release of his weight.

"are you hungry?" he asks you again.

this time, you don't lie. "a little."

"i will have uraume bring your meals here until further notice."

"...okay."

you hear him begin to walk away, then pause. silence. "i will try not to speak to you in such a way, as long as you communicate instead of picking fights with me," he declares. "is that a deal?"

it is, but you don't want him to think so just yet. "maybe."

"tch," he clicks. "i shall... leave you be. come find me when you are ready to do so." another beat. "i apologize," he grits.

you almost laugh at how strained it is. "i'll see you tomorrow, ryomen."

he grumbles, and then he's gone. respecting your boundaries, something he's struggled through learning over the years and has finally begun to master.

and when the time comes for you to make up, when you've laid awake all night thinking about how complex sukuna is, how complex his values and his love for you are, you creep up the stairs and into his chambers early that morning.

he turns to look at you from where he sits propped up under silk sheets, curtains blowing around the creaked balcony door, morning sun pouring in through streams of gold. his chest is bare and the sheets hang low over his naked hips. he looks at you calmly, like he almost had not expected you to come so soon.

you blink at him, closing the door behind you gently. "i'm sorry for yelling at you," you apologize steadily. "it wasn't right. but neither was what you did."

the salmon haired curse only watches you with hypnotic ruby eyes, kissed by crisp dawn. he stretches an arm out, wordlessly beckoning you to him. you crawl over cool sheets, and sit with your knees folded under you as ryomen's arm snakes around your waist, holding your lower back.

"took all night for you to squeeze that out, hm?" his sleep laced voice teases lowly, and you push pitifully at his shoulder. his skin is warm.

"it's called taking space."

"i am aware. that is why i gave it to you."

your lips quirk up. "did you mean it? about not talking like that again if i don't start arguments?"

he looks up at you lazily, quirking a brow. "yes, or else i would not have said it."

"you think you can keep that promise?"

"as long as you do."

you press your lips together. "okay. deal."

you stretch your hand out as if to shake his. he looks down at it, back up at you, before securing your wrist in his grasp and yanking you over top of him. you yelp, landing over his large, rigid frame ungracefully.

fingers clasp around your face and tilt your head up. soft lips meet yours, a gentle contrast to the way he ordinarily kisses you, and you blink fuzziness away when he pulls back. "do not doubt that i care for you. doing so is doubting me, and i do not-"

“you’re late,” you said, not looking up from whatever you were aggressively chopping on the cutting board. the knife moved with practiced precision, each cut deliberate and sharp. your hair was pulled back in that messy way that meant you’d been cooking for a while, little wisps escaping to frame your face. you wore his old dress shirt over your clothes, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and normally the sight would have him crossing the room to wrap his arms around your waist from behind.  

today, even that looked wrong somehow. the shirt was wrinkled in a way that suggested you’d been moving around the kitchen for hours, and there was a small stain on the sleeve that looked suspiciously like turmeric. why couldn’t you just be more careful?  

“traffic,” he bit out, the word sharp enough to cut glass. his fingers worked at his tie with jerky, aggressive movements, the silk suddenly feeling like a noose around his throat. “apparently half of tokyo decided to drive like they learned from a cereal box.”  

you paused mid-chop, the knife hovering over what looked like carrots. expensive carrots, the kind that cost more than most people’s lunch, cut into perfect uniform pieces because you knew he had opinions about vegetable consistency. finally glancing up, your eyes narrowed as you took in his rigid posture.  

“what crawled up your ass and died?” you asked, setting the knife down with a soft clink that somehow sounded accusatory. “and don’t say traffic. you teleport half the time anyway.”  

“maybe i wanted to drive today,” satoru snapped, his voice rougher than usual. he yanked the tie free and tossed it aside, watching it land on the marble counter with unnecessary focus. the silk crumpled against the expensive stone, and he felt irrationally annoyed that it didn’t land properly. “maybe i wanted to experience the joy of sitting in gridlock with a bunch of people who think turn signals are optional.”  

“oh, so you chose to be miserable,” you said, turning back to your chopping with deliberate calm. “how very mature of you.”  

“i’m not miserable,” he said, which was a lie of such epic proportions that even he didn’t believe it. “i’m fine. perfectly fine. can’t a man come home without getting interrogated by the food network?”  

your hands stilled on the knife handle. in the three years you’d been married, satoru had never once referred to your cooking as anything other than perfect, divine, or life-changing. he’d never mocked your careful preparations or compared you to cooking shows. he’d certainly never used that particular tone of voice when talking about something you’d spent hours working on.  

“excuse me?” your voice dropped to that dangerously quiet tone that usually made him backtrack and grovel. the same tone you’d used when you’d caught him eating the last of your ice cream at two in the morning, or when he’d accidentally shrunk your favorite sweater in the wash because he’d been too confident about his laundry skills.  

today, it just made him more irritated. even your anger seemed performative, like you were trying to make him feel guilty for having a bad day.  

“you heard me,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch with unnecessary force. the expensive fabric wrinkled on impact, and he felt a petty satisfaction at the sight. “i’m tired, i want to eat, and i don’t want to play twenty questions about my day. is that too much to ask?”  

you set the knife down with deliberate precision, the kind of movement that screamed ‘controlled fury.’ your knuckles had gone white where you gripped the edge of the counter, and satoru found himself fixating on the way your chest rose and fell with carefully measured breaths.  

“oh, you want to eat? how convenient.” each word was articulated with the kind of precision that meant you were fighting to keep your voice level. “i’ve been cooking for the past hour because my darling husband texted that he wanted my famous curry tonight. silly me, thinking i was being thoughtful.”  

“i didn’t ask you to spend an hour on it,” satoru said, the words coming out harsher than he intended. the curse was making everything sound like an attack, including your genuine care for him. “i just said i was craving curry. that doesn’t mean you had to go full iron chef about it.”  

your face went through several expressions in rapid succession—confusion, hurt, then something that looked dangerously close to rage. “full iron chef?” you repeated, your voice rising slightly. “i’m sorry, are you complaining about the effort i put into making you dinner?”  

“i’m saying maybe you don’t need to make it such a production,” satoru said, immediately regretting it as your expression shifted to something that could freeze hell over. “it’s just food.”  

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him like he’d grown a second head, and satoru felt a small part of his rational mind screaming that he was being an ass, that you were trying to do something nice for him, that he should shut up and apologize right now.  

instead, he doubled down.  

“what?” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of false innocence. “i’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be a whole event every time. sometimes simple is fine.”  

“simple,” you repeated, and there was something in your voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “you want simple.”  

“i want to eat dinner without feeling like i owe you a standing ovation,” satoru said, the curse twisting his words into something cruel and ungrateful. “is that really so unreasonable?”  

you stared at him for a long moment, and he could see the exact moment you decided you were done with his attitude. your shoulders squared, your chin lifted, and that dangerous calm settled over your features like armor.  

“you know what?” you said, your voice reaching that pitch that made neighborhood dogs howl. “you’re absolutely right. simple is better.”  

you grabbed the cutting board and dumped the half-chopped vegetables directly into the trash, pot and all. satoru watched, horrified, as you tossed the expensive ingredients he’d specifically requested—the organic carrots you’d driven to three different stores to find, the specialty spices you’d ordered online, the grass-fed beef that cost more than most people’s grocery budgets—into the garbage with the efficiency of a woman who’d reached her limit.  

“what are you doing?” he asked, the curse making even his genuine confusion sound accusatory. his eyes—usually the color of summer sky, bright and endless—had gone stormy, like the ocean before a hurricane.  

“keeping it simple,” you said sweetly, the kind of sweet that preceded natural disasters. you pulled off his dress shirt and tossed it at his chest, leaving you in just your tank top and jeans. “since apparently i’m just making everything too complicated.”  

“that’s not—” satoru started, catching the shirt reflexively. it still smelled like you, like vanilla and that perfume he’d bought you for your birthday, and for a moment the curse’s grip loosened enough for him to realize what he was doing.  

“no, no, you’re right,” you continued, moving around the kitchen with purposeful destruction. “why should i waste time making special trips to find your favorite vegetables? why should i follow that complicated recipe you love? why should i light candles and put on music and wear your shirts because i know it makes you happy?”  

with each rhetorical question, you disposed of another carefully prepared element of dinner. the candles got blown out. the music got turned off. the recipe, bookmarked and stained from multiple attempts to perfect it, got shoved back onto the shelf.  

“stop,” satoru said, but his voice came out wrong, still sharp and irritated instead of apologetic. “you don’t have to—”  

“oh, but i do,” you said, spinning around to face him with your hands on your hips. “because apparently i’ve been making things too complicated for you. apparently, my husband thinks putting effort into making him happy is some kind of burden.”  

“that’s not what i said,” satoru protested, but even he could hear how weak it sounded. the curse was making it impossible to find the right words, turning every attempt at explanation into another attack.  

“isn’t it?” you asked, and your voice cracked slightly on the words. “because it sure sounded like you were complaining about me caring too much about you.”  

“i wasn’t—” satoru started, then stopped. because he had been, hadn’t he? he’d taken all your thoughtfulness and thrown it back in your face like it was an inconvenience instead of a gift.  

“you know what the really stupid part is?” you said, and now you were crying, tears streaming down your face while you tried to maintain that fierce expression. “i was actually excited about tonight. i thought, ‘oh, satoru’s having a rough day, let me make him something special.’ i thought it would be nice to spoil you a little.”  

each word hit him like a physical blow, and satoru felt the curse’s influence waver as genuine regret started to seep through. you were crying because of him, because he’d taken your love and twisted it into something ugly.  

“baby—” he started, stepping toward you, but you held up a hand.  

“no,” you said firmly, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you don’t get to ‘baby’ me right now. you wanted simple? congratulations. you can order takeout like a simple, uncomplicated person who doesn’t have to worry about anyone making too much effort for them.”  

you stomped past him toward the bedroom, and satoru felt the inexplicable urge to follow you just to continue the argument. the curse was making everything feel like a personal attack, including the way you were clearly giving him the silent treatment.  

“where are you going?” he called after you, his voice echoing in the sudden emptiness of the kitchen.  

“to bed,” you shouted back, not even turning around. “alone. since you’re clearly too mature and sophisticated to appreciate having someone who gives a damn about you.”  

“that’s not—” satoru started, but you were already disappearing into the bedroom.  

“and don’t you dare follow me,” you added, your voice muffled by distance and tears. “i’m too complicated for you right now. wouldn’t want to burden you with my excessive caring.”  

the bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the expensive artwork on the walls—pieces you’d chosen together during lazy saturday afternoons, arguing playfully about colors and compositions. the sound reverberated through the penthouse like a gunshot, and satoru was left standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of your thoughtfulness.  

the fancy ingredients you’d specially ordered, now sitting in the trash like expensive garbage. the cookbook bookmarked to his favorite recipe, pages already stained from previous attempts to perfect it. the apron you’d been wearing that said ‘kiss the cook’ that he’d bought you as a joke but secretly loved seeing you in. the way you’d lit his favorite candles, the ones that smelled like clean laundry and summer rain, now sitting cold and forgotten.  

he should apologize. he should explain about the curse. he should bang down the bedroom door and grovel until you forgave him. instead, what he actually did was stand there feeling sorry for himself and getting progressively more irritated that you were making him feel guilty for having a bad day.  

the curse twisted his regret into resentment, his love into annoyance. by the time he ordered takeout, he’d convinced himself that you were being just as unreasonable as he was, that maybe you were both just having a bad day and tomorrow everything would be fine.  

the thai food tasted like cardboard. the silence felt oppressive. and every time he heard you moving around in the bedroom—the soft sounds of you getting ready for bed, the way you pointedly didn’t come out to say goodnight—he felt a strange combination of longing and irritation that made his chest tight.  

he slept on the couch, if you could call it sleeping. mostly he lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city below and wondering why everything felt so wrong. his neck cramped from the awkward angle, and his feet hung off the end of the couch, but the discomfort felt deserved somehow.  

at some point in the night, he heard you get up to get water. heard you pause in the hallway, probably looking at him sprawled across the couch in his wrinkled work clothes. for a moment, he thought you might come over, might cover him with a blanket or wake him up to come to bed properly.  

instead, you went back to the bedroom and closed the door softly behind you. the sound was somehow worse than if you’d slammed it. 

satoru woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck driven by his own stupidity.  

the couch had left him with a crick in his neck that felt like divine punishment, and his designer suit—still wrinkled from yesterday’s disaster—clung to him like a polyester hair shirt. he blinked at the ceiling, reality crashing down on him with the subtlety of a meteor. his hair, normally defying gravity in perfect tufts of winter moonlight, now lay flat against his skull in greasy defeat.  

”she hates me,” he whispered to the empty living room, his voice hoarse from a night of tossing and turning on furniture that cost more than most people’s cars but apparently wasn’t designed for sleeping. his fingers clutched the throw blanket you’d probably covered him with at some point during the night—because even when you wanted to strangle him, you couldn’t let him freeze to death. the realization made his chest cave in on itself like a poorly constructed soufflé.  

he fumbled for his phone with the desperation of a man checking his life support systems. the screen blazed to life, and there it was: absolutely nothing. no texts. no passive-aggressive memes about husbands who didn’t appreciate home cooking. no angry face emojis that somehow conveyed more disappointment than actual words ever could.  

this was worse than fighting. this was the kind of silence that preceded relationship extinction events.  

satoru’s brain started spiraling in that particular way that made him question every life choice he’d ever made, starting with the decision to get out of bed yesterday morning. maybe if he’d just called in sick, claimed food poisoning, faked his own death—anything would have been better than whatever possessed him to insult your cooking like some kind of emotionally constipated neanderthal.  

he dragged himself off the couch, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. his reflection in the hallway mirror showed a man who looked like he’d been put through a blender set to ’existential crisis’—hair sticking up at angles that defied several laws of physics, eyes the color of winter storms instead of their usual clear-sky brightness, stubble making him look less ’mysterious and attractive’ and more ’recently escaped from somewhere with poor hygiene standards.’  

the bedroom door loomed ahead like the gates of judgment day.  

he knocked with the tentative approach of someone defusing a bomb. ”baby?” his voice came out smaller than intended, almost childlike in its uncertainty. the silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush him. ”sweetheart? love of my life? reason for my continued existence on this mortal plane?”  

nothing. not even the courtesy of telling him to go away.  

his ear pressed against the door revealed the soft sounds of you moving around—the whisper of fabric, the barely audible pad of bare feet against hardwood. you were awake. you were choosing to ignore him. somehow, this felt worse than active hatred.  

satoru started pacing the hallway like a caged animal, his hands working through his hair until it achieved new levels of chaos. the motion was automatic, nervous, the same way he’d fidget during particularly boring clan meetings when he wanted to teleport straight through the floor. except now he was fidgeting because his wife—his brilliant, sharp-tongued, perpetually grumpy wife who somehow loved him despite overwhelming evidence that she shouldn’t—was giving him the silent treatment, and he deserved every second of it.  

he caught a whiff of your perfume clinging to the throw pillow he’d been clutching, that familiar vanilla-and-something-else scent that made him want to bury his face in your neck and never come up for air. the smell wrapped around him like a accusation.  

”she really hates me,” he whispered to his reflection, which stared back with the hollow-eyed desperation of a man who’d royally screwed up the best thing in his life.  

that’s when his brain, in its infinite wisdom, decided that teleportation was the answer.  

the bedroom materialized around him in a shimmer of cursed energy, and there you were—a fortress of blankets with only the top of your head visible, dark hair spilling across the pillow like spilled ink. you were curled away from where he’d appeared, and satoru’s heart did something complicated and painful when he realized you’d probably sensed his incoming presence and rejected it preemptively.  

you didn’t flinch. didn’t speak. didn’t even acknowledge that your husband had just violated several laws of physics to grovel in your general vicinity. the indifference was worse than anger. anger he could work with. anger meant you still cared enough to feel something about his existence.  

”hi,” satoru said weakly, his voice cracking like he was thirteen again and asking someone to the school dance. his hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for you even though he’d probably get his hand bitten off. ”please don’t kill me.”  

the blanket mountain remained unmoved, a monument to his spectacular failure as a husband.  

he sank to the floor beside the bed like a deflated balloon, crossing his legs in the world’s most expensive timeout corner. the hardwood was cold against his tailbone, but discomfort felt appropriate. deserved, even. his brain was doing that thing where it replayed every terrible moment from yesterday on an endless loop, each replay making him cringe harder.  

the way he’d snapped at you for caring. the way he’d dismissed hours of effort like it was nothing. the way your face had crumpled before you’d gotten angry, that split second of pure hurt that he’d caused with his stupid, cursed mouth.  

”okay,” he began, staring at the curve of blankets that contained his entire world. his voice came out rougher than he’d intended, scraped raw by a night of self-loathing and couch-sleeping. ”i was cursed. cursed! and not even in a cool, tragic, romantic way where you have to kiss me to break it or i turn into a beast with fabulous hair. just cursed to be the absolute worst possible version of myself at the worst possible moment.”  

still nothing. the silence stretched between them like a chasm, and satoru felt himself falling into it.  

”i hated everything yesterday,” he continued, his fingers picking at a loose thread on his shirt cuff. ”the elevator music made my teeth itch. my reflection looked like it owed me money. the hallway carpet seemed personally offended by my existence. and your carrots—” his voice broke slightly, remembering the precise way you’d cut them, each piece exactly the same size because you knew he noticed things like that ”—your perfect, beautiful carrots that you cut with surgical precision because somehow, inexplicably, you know that i have opinions about vegetable consistency.”  

he crawled closer to the bed, his knees protesting against the hardwood. the movement felt pathetic, but he was beyond caring about dignity. his hands gripped the edge of the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.  

”the curse made everything feel wrong,” he said, his forehead pressed against the mattress. the fabric smelled like you, like home, like everything he’d almost lost because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. ”it took all your thoughtfulness and twisted it in my head until it looked like judgment instead of love. but that’s not an excuse. there’s no excuse for what i said to you.”  

a small shift in the blankets. barely perceptible, but satoru had made a career out of reading the subtlest changes in cursed energy. he knew the difference between sleeping movements and listening movements, and this was definitely listening.  

his heart did something acrobatic and desperate in his chest.  

”i would eat every single curry you ever make,” he continued, emboldened by that tiny sign of life from the blanket fortress. his voice picked up speed, desperation making the words tumble over each other. ”i would drink turmeric straight from the jar and ask for seconds. i would kiss the cutting board you used if it meant i get to hold you again. i would let you practice knife skills on my credit cards. i would learn to appreciate smooth jazz if it meant never seeing that look on your face again.”  

”you said it was just food,” came a muffled voice from somewhere in the depths of egyptian cotton and righteous indignation, and satoru’s entire nervous system short-circuited.  

your voice was rough with sleep and tears and the particular brand of hurt that came from having someone you love dismiss something you’d put your heart into. the sound of it made something crack open in his chest, spilling guilt and regret and desperate, pathetic love all over his ribcage.  

”no,” he said, scrambling to his knees like he was physically trying to climb out of the hole he’d dug. his hands moved frantically, gesturing at nothing, his hair catching the morning light streaming through the windows and turning it into something that looked less like moonlight and more like the aftermath of an explosion. ”no no no. i was lying. that wasn’t me talking, that was the curse and my own stupidity having a baby and raising it wrong.”  

you turned over slowly, like a glacier deciding to shift, and one eye appeared over the edge of the blanket. it was puffy from crying and narrow with suspicion, but it was the most beautiful thing satoru had seen since his own name on a wedding certificate.  

his eyes, normally the kind of blue that made people think of summer skies and endless possibilities, had gone gray around the edges with exhaustion and self-recrimination. they were wide and desperate, pupils dilated like he was in actual physical pain.  

”that curry was art,” he said, his voice cracking with sincerity. ”that curry was love in edible form. that curry was better than—” he paused, his brain catching up with his mouth ”—okay, not better than sex, obviously, because sex with you is like winning the lottery while riding a unicorn through a field of diamonds. but like, tied for second place. with puppies. and that thing you do with your tongue when—”  

”satoru,” you warned, but there was something different in your voice. less ’i want to murder you’ and more ’you’re an idiot but you’re my idiot.’  

he immediately flopped face-first onto the bed beside you, his long limbs arranging themselves in what could generously be called a full-body apology. his voice came out muffled by the duvet, but no less dramatic for it.  

”i don’t deserve you,” he said, and meant it. ”i don’t deserve the way you remember that i like my coffee with exactly two sugars, or the way you buy the expensive vanilla extract because you know i can taste the difference, or the way you cut carrots into perfect little pieces because somewhere in your beautiful, patient brain, you’ve catalogued the fact that i’m a perfectionist about the stupidest things.”  

you shifted again, and he felt the mattress dip as you turned to face him properly. when he lifted his head, you were studying him with that particular expression that meant you were trying to stay mad but finding it increasingly difficult.  

”you smell like takeout and self-pity,” you said, and your voice was still rough around the edges, but there was something softer underneath it. not forgiveness, exactly, but maybe the possibility of eventual forgiveness.  

”do i smell like redemption?” he asked hopefully, lifting himself up on his elbows. his hair was doing that thing where it defied gravity in seventeen different directions, and there was a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase, and somehow he still managed to look unfairly attractive in that rumpled, pathetic way that made you want to either kiss him or throw something at him.  

you studied him for a long moment, taking in the ridiculous hair, the wrinkled shirt, the way he was literally prostrating himself on egyptian cotton like he was worshipping at the altar of your forgiveness. his eyes were doing that thing where they went soft and pleading, like a very tall, very expensive puppy who’d chewed up your favorite shoes but was really, really sorry about it.  

”maybe,” you said finally, your tone carefully neutral. ”if you do the dishes. and the laundry. and never, ever call my cooking ’just food’ again. and if you stop looking at me like that.”  

”like what?” satoru asked, even though he knew exactly what you meant. he was looking at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars, like you were the answer to every prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud.  

”like i’m made of something precious that you’re afraid you’ll break,” you said, and there was a slight flush creeping up your neck that you tried to hide by pulling the blanket higher.  

”but you are,” satoru said simply, and the honesty in his voice made your chest tight. ”you’re the most precious thing in my entire existence, and i almost broke you yesterday, and i’m terrified i’ll do it again because apparently i’m capable of being that stupid.”  

you were quiet for a moment, processing this admission. when you spoke again, your voice was carefully controlled, but he caught the slight waver underneath. ”you’re an idiot.”  

”your idiot,” he corrected, scooting closer until he could rest his head on your pillow. the movement brought him close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin was paler than usual, the slight tremor in his hands that suggested he’d been running on anxiety and caffeine. ”forever and always, your idiot.”  

the curry took four hours.  

not because it was supposed to take four hours, but because satoru kept getting distracted by the way you moved around the kitchen, the efficient grace with which you handled knives and spices and the complicated choreography of cooking something properly. he’d stop mid-chop to watch you toast cumin seeds, fascinated by the way you knew exactly when they were done just by the smell.  

”you’re burning the onions,” you said without looking up from the spice grinder, and satoru startled back to attention.  

”i’m not burning them, i’m caramelizing them,” he protested, quickly stirring the pan.  

”those are two different things, and what you’re doing is the first one.”  

”how can you tell without even looking?”  

”because i have functioning senses and twenty years of cooking experience,” you said, but there was fondness in your voice that took the sting out of the words.  

satoru abandoned the onions to wrap his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on top of your head. ”teach me,” he said.  

”teach you what?”  

”everything. how to tell when onions are done. how you know exactly how much salt to add without measuring. how you make everything taste like home.”  

you went still in his arms, something soft and surprised flickering across your face. ”satoru...”  

”i’m serious,” he said, his voice quiet against your hair. ”i want to learn. i want to know how to make the things you love. i want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me.”  

you turned in his arms, studying his face for any sign that he was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. but his eyes were clear and earnest, that particular shade of blue that reminded you of deep water, and you could see he meant it.  

”okay,” you said simply.  

”okay?”  

”okay, i’ll teach you. but you have to promise not to get frustrated when you mess up, because you will mess up. repeatedly.”  

”i promise,” satoru said solemnly. ”i will be the most patient student in the history of cooking education.”  

you raised an eyebrow. ”you once threw a tantrum because i asked you to fold fitted sheets.”  

”that was different. fitted sheets are clearly designed by sadists who hate happiness and functional linen closets.”  

”everything is going to be fitted sheets to you when you’re learning to cook properly,” you warned.  

”then i’ll suffer through it,” satoru said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. ”for you, i’ll suffer through a thousand fitted sheets.”  

the curry was, objectively, the best thing either of you had ever tasted.  

maybe it was because you’d made it together, satoru’s hands covering yours as you showed him how to bloom spices, his careful attention as you explained the difference between adding salt at the beginning versus the end. maybe it was because he’d actually listened, asked questions, tasted and adjusted and learned in a way that made your chest warm with something that felt dangerously close to pride.  

or maybe it was just because food always tasted better when it came with a side of forgiveness.  

you sat on the kitchen counter afterward, legs tangled together, sharing bites from the same bowl because satoru claimed it tasted better when you fed it to him. he’d managed to get turmeric stains on his shirt and somehow in his hair, and you had curry under your fingernails and a constellation of spice stains across your apron.  

”this is better than sex,” satoru said solemnly, accepting another spoonful.  

”no, it’s not,” you said, rolling your eyes.  

”okay, you’re right,” he said, grinning. ”but it’s at least in the top five.”  

”what’s the other four?”  

”sex with you, obviously. that thing you do with your tongue. watching you sleep when you don’t know i’m looking. and the face you made when i proposed, like you couldn’t believe i was serious but you were happy about it anyway.”  

your cheeks went pink, and you hid your face against his shoulder. ”you’re ridiculous.”  

”ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, his arms tightening around you. ”ridiculously, pathetically, embarrassingly in love with you. the kind of love that makes people write terrible poetry and do stupid things like teleport into bedrooms to grovel.”  

”your groveling needs work,” you said, but your voice was muffled against his neck, and he could feel you smiling.  

”i’ll practice,” satoru promised. ”i’ll become the most accomplished groveler in the history of marriage. i’ll grovel so well that people will write legends about it.”  

”just don’t give me a reason to make you grovel again,” you said, pulling back to look at him seriously.  

”never again,” satoru said, and he meant it. ”from now on, i’m going to worship every curry you make like it’s a religious experience. i’m going to appreciate every chopped vegetable like it’s a work of art. i’m going to be so grateful for your existence that it makes people uncomfortable to be around us.”  

”people are already uncomfortable being around us,” you pointed out.  

”then i’ll make it worse,” satoru said cheerfully. ”i’ll be so obviously, disgustingly in love with my wife that small children will ask their parents uncomfortable questions about why that tall man is looking at that woman like she invented happiness.”  

you laughed despite yourself, the sound bright and surprised, and satoru felt something settle in his chest that had been twisted up since yesterday. this was his favorite sound in the world, your laugh when he caught you off guard, when you forgot to be grumpy and let him see the soft parts of you that you usually kept hidden.  

”you’re so stupid,” you said, but you were smiling now, really smiling, and your fingers were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck in that absent way that meant you were happy.  

”stupidly in love with you,” he corrected for the third time, because apparently it bore repeating.  

you kissed him then, soft and sweet and tasting like curry and forgiveness, and satoru thought that maybe being cursed had been worth it if it led to this moment, sitting in his kitchen with turmeric stains and tired eyes and the woman he loved more than breathing choosing to forgive him for being temporarily terrible.  

you find that having a goal does wonders for gojo's attention span. you feel somewhat like you're dangling a carrot on a stick in front of him, what with the promise of two orgasms by the time the credits stop rolling, but it's kept him relatively still throughout the film.

he's been a good boy, and you plan on rewarding him as such.

until, of course, the movie ends and the first name flashes across that damn screen. you couldn't have been thrown onto your back faster.

"satoru—!" he's got you pinned back against the couch, hanging half off as he jackhammers into you like he's on speed. it's so sudden that you wonder if whiplash will be your next sex-fated diagnosis.

"hated that movie," gojo groans, reaching down between your bodies to start rubbing gnarly circles around your clit. the wave of sensation that hits you after three hours of being stuffed full is... sinful. "we are never watching that again."

"oh my god."

"right? and don't get me started on the casting—hey, open your mouth."

with only half a mind left at the rate you're being fucked, you oblige. gojo is quick to push two fingers into your mouth, playing with your tongue as the push and drag of his cock tugs you to orgasm.

it's intense, to say the least. if your mouth wasn't full you'd moan and beg for a little bit of reprieve, but satoru likes to choose the best moments to occupy every inch of you. he made an analogy about it once, compared using you during sex to making the most of a meal. let nothing go to waste, lick the plate clean, blah blah blah.

your orgasm is followed shortly after by his. while you're still breathless and struggling to right your vision, he cums ropes into you with a loud groan and a rather pathetic 'i love you' to boot.

and then, he pulls his fingers from your mouth. he's panting too, grinning wide. "much more intimate than cockwarming."

you roll your eyes, and crane your neck awkwardly to catch a glimpse of the TV. "i was supposed to be rewarding you," you say. "making you cum. still need another orgasm out of you before the credits end."

"you did make me cum," gojo kisses your forehead. "can't do that without your pretty body to get me going. you know, last time i tried to jerk off without you in the room it took me—"

"four hours, i know," you smile. he'd called you on the verge of tears because of how frustrated he was. the second you answered the phone he was able to cum. "i've ruined you."

"yes you have. you also owe me another orgasm."

his two fingers, still slick with your spit, trail down your neck and chest in a gross sort of claim on your body, before reaching the base of his cock, where he's still sheathed inside of you.

"what are you doing?" you eye his movements.

"stretching you out some more," your boyfriend hums. "you just had three hours to get used to my size, baby. can't have you thinking you can take me without a struggle now, can i? it'll wreck my fragile ego."

"fragile?" you snort, though it's short-lived. gojo works one of his long fingers inside of you right alongside his cock. "fuck, toru."

"i've got you," he soothes, delivering a feather-light kiss to the tip of your nose before pushing in that second spit-coated finger. "you take me so well, even like this."

"i'm gonna die like this," you close your eyes, revel in the way he always manages to make you feel something new. it burns a little, how wide open he's got you, but you also feel so full of the man you love. you know you'll miss this when it's over. "i love you."

"sentimental much," gojo toys, moving his fingers in and out of you the best he can with his cock in the way. "i love you more."

"you can... god, you can move," you nod. "i'll tell you if it's too much."

satoru takes the green light and hits the gas, pumping his thick cock in and out of you. he's slower than before, and a hell of a lot more careful, but enthusiastic nonetheless.

"shiiiit," he drops his head down to hide in the crook of your neck. "i don't deserve you. feels so good, baby, all stretched out for me."

you don't know how you could ever feel this full again, but it's a new craving in your stomach that you'll need to digest. satoru moves his cock in tandem with his fingers, creating a dreadful friction that sends electricity bounding through the trellis of your spine.

he's louder this time around, too. moaning pretty into your ears as he fucks you deep and fast like a man chasing something shiny. his orgasm washes over him quickly, makes his hips jerk and stutter against you in a rhythm that somehow pushes himself impossibly deeper.

all you can feel, smell, taste, see, is him. your orgasm hits you harder than ever before, has you shaking beneath his sweating weight and rolling your own hips up to meet his despite the overstimulation. you'll be sore tomorrow.

"too much?" gojo asks as he slowly pulls his fingers, and then his cock, out of you. "you're shaking, baby."

indeed you are. "i'm okay," you catch your breath and check the TV to find the credits still rolling. "with time to spare."

"mm, overachiever," gojo presses a kiss to your parted lips, and then another two to each cheek. "this is so much better than cockwarming."

you'd argue if you could... or if you actually disagreed with him, but you've been fucked boneless. you might never walk again at this rate. forget ever functioning normally again.

satoru pulls back a little to look at you, his gaze intense but his smile soft, before moving his head down between your thighs. probably without considering the possibility of sending you into an overstimulated frenzy, he flattens his tongue out and presses it right against you with a deep moan.

"fuck!" you gasp, your hand shooting down to grab at his soft hair. "what are you doing? i'm sensitive!"

satoru just looks up at you. "i'm licking my plate clean."

you hear something drop. a shuffle. a door creaking open. and then—

“oh.”

a pause, thick with implication, like his brain just caught up to what his eyes were seeing.

“ohhh.”

you don’t even have to turn around to know he’s grinning like a perv.

“don’t even think about it.”

you hear him step closer and instantly regret everything. should’ve just let the damn lip gloss go.

“think about what?” his voice is all mock-innocence as he pads into the room, but you can already feel the heat of his body behind you, towering presence radiating smugness. “i was just coming to help my sweet, helpless little girlfriend.”

you glare over your shoulder. “you better help me out, not help yourself, you manwhore.”

but instead of pulling you free, he drops to his knees behind you and blows a cool breath across the curve of your ass.

“hmm,” he hums, tapping a finger to his chin. “maybe i should take a look at what’s causing the problem.”

“i swear to god—”

his hands squeeze your hips, thumbs rubbing circles just beneath the band of your shorts. “looks like the problem’s got a fat ass and a loud mouth.”

“gojo—”

“shhh,” he interrupts, dragging your shorts and panties down to your knees in one swift tug. “lemme focus, baby. i’m diagnosing.”

“you’re diagnosing my ass?”

“with my mouth, yeah.”

you shriek in indignation, but it quickly dies out when his tongue presses a long, slow stripe over your folds, warm and unreasonably talented.

“satoru—!”

“mm?” he hums into your pussy, one hand coming up to grip your thigh as his nose nudges your clit. “can’t talk with my mouth full, angel. you know that.”

you squirm, stuck in a stupid fucking washing machine while your equally stupid boyfriend tongues you like he’s trying to win a contest.

and he’s fully aware of what he’s doing to you.

you let out a shaky whimper when his tongue flattens and circles your clit just right. he chuckles low against your cunt.

“bet you’re regretting yelling at me now, huh?”

“fuck off,” you grit out, breath hitching when he slips a finger in without warning.

he starts slow, curling it deep and fucking it into you at a maddening pace. you can feel him watching, taking in every stutter of your breath, every twitch of your thighs.

“you look so cute like this,” he coos, adding a second finger. “bent over and needy and stuck- god, this is like one of my search history tags.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re dripping,” he smirks, fingers pushing deep and pulling slick from your soaked pussy. “jesus, baby. what if your neighbors hear?”

“they’ll hear you getting kicked out if you don’t finish what you started,” you spit, though your hips are already rolling back into his hand, shame heating your face.

he grins like you just made his whole week.

“so demanding. and in such a vulnerable position, too…”

“you’re unbelievable- ah!”

his mouth is back on you in an instant, tongue swirling and tapping, fingers thrusting deep in a rhythm that makes you clench around him helplessly. your moans turn breathy and desperate, barely muffled by the drum of the washer you’re half convinced you’ll die in.

“gojo, ’m close, don’t stop!”

“not planning to,” he purrs, licking into you harder, faster, until your thighs are shaking and your vision blurs at the edges. “give it to me, sweetheart. cum all over my face while stuck in your lil appliance prison.”

“you’re such a freak, oh my god—”

you come with a strangled cry, legs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers while his tongue helps you ride it out. he groans into your pussy like he’s enjoying this just as much— probably because he is.

you slump forward, brain scrambled, still halfway inside the damn washer.

and then you feel him slide your shorts completely off.

“what the fuck are you doing now—”

“round two,” he shrugs, pushing his sweats down just enough to free his dick, already hard and leaking. “can’t waste a perfectly good opportunity. i mean, how often does your girlfriend get stuck in the washing machine ass-first?”

“this is not a porno, satoru.”

“not with that attitude.”

you don’t even get the chance to argue before he’s nudging your legs wider, cockhead smearing precum along your folds.

“at least pretend to try and unstick me,” you hiss, bracing yourself against the machine.

he just laughs. “after. promise. i’ll help you… real good.”

then he sinks in.

a broken gasp escapes your throat, hands scrambling against the cold metal drum as his cock splits you open inch by slow, greedy inch. he gives you no time to adjust— just buries himself to the hilt in one fluid thrust, until his hips are flush against your ass and you’re whining like he’s knocked the air out of your lungs.

“shit, baby,” he groans, gripping your waist tight, thumbs pressing into your hips. “still so fucking tight. you missed me, huh?”

you grit your teeth. “you literally ate me out two minutes ago.”

“yeah, but your pussy missed my dick,” he mutters, giving a shallow thrust that makes your knees buckle.

he doesn’t wait after that.

starts pounding into you so hard he’s damn near trying to shake the washing machine off the wall, rough and hungry, cock dragging along your walls with ruthless precision. the sound of skin slapping echoes off the laundry tiles, mingling with your ragged moans and his breathless groans.

your body jolts with each thrust, still bent awkwardly inside the washer but way past the point of caring. the coil in your gut tightens fast— too fast— and he knows it. of course he knows it.

“look at you,” he pants, dragging your ass back onto his cock with one hand, his grip firm and unrelenting. “trapped in a washer and still begging to get fucked stupid. lucky for you, i’m a generous boyfriend.”

“you’re not,” you spit, whining when his pace stutters just enough to tease.

he grins. “say that again and i’ll make you cum so hard you forget how to spell your name.”

you try. really, you do. but the way his cock bullies into your sweet spot over and over again makes your brain fizzle, mouth dropping open in a silent scream.

“‘toru, mmphh fuck- i’m- i’m gonna—”

“yeah, you are,” he growls, fucking you harder. “go on, baby. make a mess on my cock.”

you shatter around him with a cry, pussy pulsing tight, thighs trembling as your orgasm hits like a wave. he groans, hips jerking at the way you clamp down on him, losing his rhythm just long enough to grab a fistful of your shirt and yank you back onto his dick with a low grunt.

“fuck, you feel too good, gonna fill you up, sweetheart—”

you moan something unintelligible, hazy with pleasure, your body still trembling from the rush of release.

“yeah? want me to cum in you? fill you while you’re all bent over and helpless?” he’s panting heavier now, reckless, one hand landing a sharp slap to your ass as his thrusts grow sloppier. “don’t even need to pull out, huh? you’re already stuck.”

your pussy flutters at his words, a whimper spilling from your lips— and that’s all it takes.

he buries himself deep one last time with a strangled groan, cock twitching as he floods you with thick, hot, creamy ropes, stuffing you full with every pulse. he stays like that for a second— just breathing, your soaked cunt spasming around him, milking every last drop untill his cum’s dripping out around the base of his cock.

and then, with a smug little sigh:

“okay. now i’ll help you out.”

“fuck you,” you mutter weakly.

you're storming—no, stomping—down the cracked pavement path that leads to the shared dorms, the cool, gritty concrete biting into your bare soles with each deliberate step— god, your feet ache, but not as much as your pride—or whatever's left of it after that disaster of a date. your high heels dangling from one hand like defeated trophies, their strappy black leather swinging with each furious step. your feet are bare against the cool, rough concrete, toes curling slightly with every gritty contact, the pavement's uneven texture scraping just enough to remind you how utterly pissed you are. god, it feels grounding in the worst way, like the earth’s way of saying hey, girl, snap out of it, but all it does is fuel your grumble, a low, muttering rumble that spills from your lips in fragmented curses.

your dress—oh, this goddamn dress—this slutty little number you picked out with such wicked intent, clings to your body like a second skin, slutty in the best (or worst) way possible, the kind of outfit you picked out with mischief in mind, envisioning tangled sheets and breathless moans until the sun peeked over the horizon; is a deep crimson slip of silk that clings to every curve like it's painted on, the fabric so thin it whispers against your thighs with each movement, riding up just a tad too high to be innocent.

it's got a plunging neckline that dips dangerously low, framing the swell of your breasts with lace-trimmed edges that scream come and get it, and the hem barely skims mid-thigh, leaving your long legs exposed to the night's breeze, flirting with the edge of indecency, short enough that a gust of wind could expose the even sluttier lace thong underneath. underneath? even sluttier—a matching black thong that's more string than substance, paired with a bra that pushes everything up and out like an offering to the gods of debauchery, the kind that screams fuck me without you having to say a word.

you shaved everywhere, smooth as silk, and doused yourself in that vanilla-caramel perfume that always turns heads, the scent lingering like a sweet, seductive trail. your makeup's still flawless, smoky eyes and red lips that could make a saint sin, hair tousled just right from the wind and your earlier anticipation. you are a vision, honestly — you're a walking fantasy, so fucking pretty you could blind someone with a glance, curves in all the right places, skin glowing under the dim campus lights. but tonight? all that effort wasted on some idiot who couldn't appreciate the masterpiece in front of him.

your face is a storm cloud of upset, brows furrowed deep enough to carve permanent lines, lips pursed in a pout that's equal parts adorable and menacing, eyes narrowed like you're plotting murder—which, honestly, you kind of are. each step comes with a grumble, words tumbling out in a heated whisper to yourself, “fucking idiot, who does he think he is?”

the date had started so promising: a cozy little restaurant downtown with dim lighting and candles flickering like they knew the vibe, the guy across from you all chiseled jaw and charming smile, handsome in that generic way that makes your pulse quicken. food was great—steak juicy and rare, wine smooth and heady, conversation basic but bearable, small talk about classes and cursed techniques that didn't bore you to tears. and you? you were geared up for the main event, ready to get dicked down until dawn, body primed and eager, imagining hands on your skin, moans echoing through some cheap motel room. but no. nope. hell no.

the conversation veered into bedroom territory, and he hits you with that stupid question: can you squirt? you're honest—“not sure, never have, no guy's ever made me—and suddenly his face twists like you just confessed to being a cursed spirit in disguise. calls you broken, says he likes girls who can make him feel drowned, like he's some aquatic fetishist who needs a fucking flood to get off. the fuck was that? you're not broken just because squirting's not in your repertoire; it's a stupid, shallow reason to bail, as if your body's some defective toy he can return.

you could do so much better than squirt, anyway—hell, you could clench around him like a vice, milk him dry with those kegels you've been practicing, ride him reverse cowgirl until he's begging for mercy, deepthroat like a pro and swallow every drop without spilling, or arch your back in doggy so perfectly he'd see stars.

you could moan his name in ways that shatter egos, scratch down his back leaving marks that last days, or even edge him for hours until he's a whimpering mess. squirting? please. that's amateur hour compared to the symphony of pleasure you could orchestrate. and the fucking guy can squirt himself if he's so obsessed—shove a hose up his ass and drown his stupid self in it.

you grumble louder now, voice rising in the quiet night, “if he wants to drown so bad, he can jump in the fucking ocean, not hunt for girls like they're goddamn fountains.” the words echo off the dorm buildings, your bare feet slapping the pavement harder, frustration boiling over until you spot a trash can by the path—rusted metal, overflowing with soda cans and wrappers—and you kick it, hard, the clang ringing out like a gunshot in the silence, the can wobbling but not toppling, your toe throbbing but the satisfaction worth it.

“take that, you symbolic piece of shit,” you mutter, pushing through the double doors of the dorm with a shove that makes them bang against the walls.

inside, the lobby's dimly lit, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like annoyed bees, the air thick with the faint scent of instant ramen and lingering cursed energy from earlier training sessions. you stomp deeper, into the communal living room where mismatched couches sag under invisible weights, a tv flickering static in the corner, posters of old jujutsu missions peeling from the walls.

it's college life at its finest—messy, chaotic, shared among sorcerers who pretend they're adults but act like overgrown kids. but your dramatic entrance gets halted mid-stride by voices, two of them, lazy and teasing, cutting through the quiet like knives dipped in honey.

“look at that, strolling in like a lost little slut after curfew,” comes the first voice, smooth and mocking, belonging to gojo satoru, that white-haired menace sprawled on the couch with his long legs kicked up, blindfold pushed up to reveal those piercing blue eyes glinting with mischief. he's in his usual casual getup—black shirt hugging his lean muscles, sweatpants low on his hips—looking every bit the pervert he is, a smirk playing on his lips like he owns the damn room.

“yeah, what happened, princess? date ditch you 'cause you couldn't keep up?” adds geto suguru, his dark hair loose around his shoulders, lounging beside gojo with that infuriatingly calm demeanor, but his eyes—sharp and hungry—rake over your form, lingering on the way your dress clings, the bare feet, the upset flush on your cheeks. he's in a simple tank top that shows off his broad shoulders, gauges glinting in the low light, voice dripping with that mean sweetness that always gets under your skin.

you freeze, heat rising in your chest—not just from anger, but from the way they look at you, like predators toying with prey, affectionate in their filthiness, loving in their menace. enemies? sure, on the surface—always bickering in class, clashing during missions, their teasing pushing your buttons since freshman year. but there's something deeper, stupid and sweet, a dynamic where their perversion feels almost caring, their insults laced with unspoken want. you whirl on them, heels still dangling, face twisting further into that grumble-pout. “shut the fuck up, both of you. not in the mood for your bullshit tonight.”

gojo laughs, that high-pitched, deranged cackle that echoes too loud, like a fucking hyena leaning forward with elbows on knees. “aw, come on, don't be like that. you look all dolled up and slutty—that dress? damn, it's practically begging to be ripped off. but your face says the night bombed. what, pretty boy couldn't handle you? or wait, did he call you broken too?” he mimics your earlier grumble, voice pitching up in dramatic mockery, and somehow he knows— damn you gojo and his stupid six eyes. . . while geto chuckles low, filthy and soft, “nah, satoru, look at her grumble. bet she scared him off with that attitude. or maybe she promised the world and delivered a drizzle. pathetic, aren’t you?”

you step closer, bare feet padding on the worn carpet, anger flaring but mixed with that weird, playful heat they always spark—stupid, affectionate, like they're mean because they care too much not to be. “fuck off, idiots. he was the broken one, obsessed with squirting like it's the holy grail. and you two? calling me a slut? pot meet kettle—you're the perverts who stare at my ass during training.” your voice rises, dramatic and crazy (must be loose her mind’ both men thought), hands gesturing wildly, but there's a spark in your eyes, a flame pull toward their teasing, the way gojo's gaze drops to your cleavage, shameless. . .  while geto smirks, “oh, we're perverts? says the one barefoot and fuming in lingerie disguised as a dress. tell us more, sweetheart—did he at least make you moan before bailing?”

“moan? ha, as if,” you snap back, crossing your arms which only pushes your breasts up further, drawing their eyes like magnets, the argument heating up in that ‘make me mad but i know you are gonna fuck me later’ way—mean words flying but softened by the underlying affection, their shamelessness, rude. . . fucking meannnn wrapping around you like a warm, sticky post-sex hug.

gojo stands now, towering over you with that dramatic flair, like he knows he is better than anyone— he is, he soooo fucking is. “come on, admit it, you're upset 'cause you wanted to get fucked silly, and now you're taking it out on us. poor thing, all dressed up with no one to drown.” geto joins in, voice sweet but cutting, “yeah, but we could fix that—if you're not too broken for us.” 

your frown deepens, carving sharp little trenches between your brows, lips twisting into something so pouty and stormy it could summon rainclouds inside this damn dorm. you're more upset than you thought possible, chest tight and hot, because—of all the fucking people to run into tonight—it's them. gojo satoru and geto suguru, the undisputed strongest duo on campus, the ones every girl whispers about in the locker rooms with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

especially gojo, they say. especially, the gojo fucking satoru. that white-haired freak apparently fucks like he fights: relentless, overwhelming, leaves you shaking and stupid for days. and you hate that the thought even crosses your mind—hate that you can't believe that idiot from the date couldn't handle you, yet these two perverts have probably ruined half the female population with their dicks. it's unfair. it's infuriating. it's making your thighs clench in the worst way. it make your pussy cry for thier said 'magical' cock. . . or cocks???  yeah, you can definitly do both. . . wink, wink. 

you let out a long, dramatic groan that echoes in the empty living room, shoulders slumping as you spin on your bare heel. “fuck off, both of you,” you mutter, voice low and gravelly with exhaustion and lingering rage, before turning toward the elevator at the end of the hall. your heels still dangle from your fingers, swinging like pendulums counting down to your escape, bare feet padding softly against the cold linoleum now, each step a little stomp because you're still pissed.

behind you, gojo lets out the most pathetic, high-pitched whine you've ever heard from a grown man. “whaaat? you're just gonna leave us hanging like that?” he yells with that gangly, dramatic flair, long legs carrying him after you in two big strides. geto follows at a more leisurely pace, hands in his pockets, but you can feel his dark eyes burning into your back like brands.

“i wanna get away from you idiots,” you call over your shoulder without looking back, voice flat and mean, jabbing the elevator button repeatedly like it's personally offended you. the doors finally ding open with a tired groan, and you slip inside, pressing your back against the far wall, arms crossed tight under your chest—which, of course, only pushes your tits up higher in that slutty crimson dress. key word; purposely (you try to get fucked but too shy to ask).

but peace? nope. not tonight. gojo barrels in right after you, all boundless energy and smirking lips, while geto slides in smooth and quiet, the doors closing with a soft thunk that traps all three of you in this tiny metal box. instantly, the air thickens—cursed energy, perfume, and the faint musk of their cologne mixing into something heady and dangerous. geto's on your right, leaning casually against the wall, while gojo crowds your left, towering and unapologetic.

geto glances at the panel, that lazy smirk curling his mouth as his dark eyes flick to you. “12, right?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rough, not even waiting for confirmation before his long finger presses the button for floor 12—your floor—and then 8, theirs, right below. the elevator lurches upward with a soft hum, and you exhale a tiny, relieved sigh, thinking thank fuck, they'll get off first, leave you alone to stew in your room with a vibrator and some spite . . . lie, you rather stew, stir, anything with cock, or cocks.

“thanks,” you mumble under your breath, barely audible, staring at the floor numbers lighting up one by one.

geto hums in response, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through the small space. “anytime, princess.”

but gojo—fucking gojo—can't let anything be peaceful. he's staring at you openly, head tilted, blindfold pushed up so those stupidly bright blue eyes can rake over every inch of you. he's leaning sideways now, one palm flat against the wall right beside your head, caging you in without touching, his body heat radiating like a furnace. that signature smirk stretches wider, lazy and filthy.

you finally snap your gaze to him, frown sharpening. “what the fuck are you looking at?”

he shrugs, slow and exaggerated, eyes dropping deliberately to your chest. “your tits,” he says, voice dripping with casual perversion, like he's commenting on the weather. his smirk grows even bigger, sharp canines glinting. geto snorts beside you, a soft puff of laughter he doesn't bother hiding.

“fuck off, satoru,” you hiss, cheeks burning despite yourself, arms tightening across your chest like that'll hide anything in this dress.

but gojo doesn't listen—never listens. instead, his free hand lifts, fingers bold and unhesitating as they hook into the plunging neckline of your dress. he tugs it down slow, deliberate, the silk sliding lower until the lace edge of your bra peeks out and even more cleavage spills into view, the cool elevator air kissing newly exposed skin. both of them let out twin hums of approval—gojo's high and teasing, geto's low and rumbling—like they've just uncovered buried treasure.

“fuck, that's better,” gojo breathes, eyes hooded, thumb brushing the swell of your breast for half a second before you react.

you slap his hand away hard, the crack echoing in the tiny space, your voice rising sharp and dramatic. “you're both disgusting! absolute perverts—get your filthy hands off me!”

gojo whines again, cradling his slapped hand to his chest like you mortally wounded him, bottom lip jutting out in the most over-the-top pout. “owww, so mean! we were just appreciating the view you put on display, sweetheart. walking in here all slutty and grumpy—it's practically an invitation.” that's right. . . i'm inviting you two to fuck me, please take the goddamn bait' you thought.

geto chuckles darker this time, shifting closer on your right until his shoulder brushes yours, voice soft and sweet like poison. “he's not wrong. that dress is begging to be messed up. and you're the one who came home all worked up and unsatisfied… we can smell it on you.”

your breath hitches, thighs pressing together instinctively as the elevator climbs agonizingly slow, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, thick enough to choke on. they're so close—gojo's fingers still hovering near your chest like he might try again, geto's gaze heavy and knowing on your face—and you hate how your body's reacting, how the anger's twisting into something hotter, needier, nastierrrr. the burn is excruciating, every second stretching into eternity as the floor numbers tick upward, and you know—you just know—they're not getting off on 8 without dragging you into whatever filthy chaos they have planned— hope it's fuck you till you cry domain.

the elevator dings like a smug little bitch, doors sliding open with a soft whoosh to reveal the dimly lit hallway of floor 8—their floor, all muted blues and grays under the flickering fluorescent lights, posters of old missions taped crookedly to the walls, the faint smell of instant coffee and boy-sweat lingering like a signature. geto steps out first, smooth and unhurried, turning to plant himself right in front of the doors with his arms loosely crossed, that dark hair falling over one shoulder, smirk sharp enough to cut glass as he blocks any hope of escape. gojo's still glued to your left side, body heat pouring off him in waves, that stupidly tall frame crowding you against the wall like he owns the damn elevator.

you tilt your head at him slow, deliberate, one brow arched high in that silent, universal language of get the fuck out, now. your bare toes curl against the cold metal floor, heels still dangling uselessly from your fingers, crimson dress riding up just a little higher from all the shifting.

gojo blinks those ridiculous blue eyes, points at his own chest with a long finger, then jabs it toward the open door like he's genuinely confused. “me? out?” he mouths dramatically, lips forming the words in exaggerated slow-motion.

you nod once, firm and pissed, lips pressed thin.

he nods back, all solemn and fake-serious—then in one fluid, idiotically strong motion, he ducks low, arm hooking behind your knees, the other around your back, and suddenly the world flips upside down. your stomach drops as you're hoisted over his shoulder like a goddamn sack of cursing, squirming girl. the breath whooshes out of you in a shocked yelp, your heels clatter to the elevator floor forgotten, hair tumbling down in a wild curtain as blood rushes to your head.

“what the fuck are you doing, satoru?!” you screech, voice echoing off the hallway walls, fists pounding uselessly against the broad, annoyingly solid plane of his back—muscles flexing under your palms like he’s enjoying the massage. upside down, you catch geto strolling behind, one hand in his pockets while the othe now holding your heels, laughing low and rich, eyes crinkled with pure satisfaction.

“put me down right now or i swear to god i'll scream!” you threaten, kicking your legs, bare feet flailing in the air, thighs brushing dangerously close to gojo's face with every swing.

geto tilts his head, voice all velvet and filth as he walks backward down the hall, keeping pace. “go ahead and scream, baby. everyone on this floor already thinks satoru's fucking you good when you make noise like that. they know his reputation.” he winks, tongue flicking over his lower lip like he's tasting the idea already.

you go dead silent for a beat, dangling there like a furious cat, staring at geto upside down—blood rushing louder in your ears. “are you fucking kidding me?” you finally hiss, incredulous and hot-cheeked. “you’re both disgusting—absolute animals—put me down!”

you kick harder, one heel connecting with gojo's abs— which does absolutely nothing except make him grunt a pleased little “mmph”, and you slap at his back again, nails scraping through the fabric of his shirt. but he's the strongest for a reason—your hits are mosquito bites to him, and he just chuckles, the vibration rumbling through his chest into your belly where it’s pressed against his shoulder.

gojo strides down the hall like he’s carrying a prize, long legs eating distance until he stops at a door—their shared dorm, you realize dimly, the one everyone jokes is basically a brothel disguised as student housing. he kicks it open with one foot, the bang loud and dramatic, revealing a messy, lived-in chaos of clothes strewn over chairs, empty energy drink cans, two unmade beds pushed together into one massive one because of course they share, posters of cursed techniques and half-naked models taped side by side. the air smells like them—clean sweat, mint, and something darker, muskier.

he finally lowers you, slow enough that your body slides down his front, dress hiking up embarrassingly high, thighs brushing his hips, until your bare feet hit the soft rug. the world spins for a second—head rush making everything tilt—and before you can steady yourself or spit another curse, gojo's hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks soft and sudden, and his mouth crashes onto yours.

fucking yesss.

it’s not gentle. it’s hungry, stupid, overwhelming—lips hot and demanding, tongue sliding in without asking, tasting like the strawberry candy he’s always sucking on. you groan into it immediately, a low, betrayed “nngh” that vibrates between you both, hands flying up not to push but to grip—fingers digging hard into his biceps, anchoring yourself as your knees threaten to buckle. the door clicks shut behind you—geto locking it with a deliberate turn that echoes like a promise—and then his presence is at your back, heat radiating, but for now it’s just gojo devouring your mouth like he’s been starving for it.

you kiss him back just as filthy, teeth nipping his lower lip in retaliation, tongue tangling messy and wet, another soft moan spilling out of you, “mmph, fuck.” because god damn it, he tastes good, feels good, and all that earlier anger is melting into something molten and stupid between your thighs. your body arches instinctively, pressing closer, nipples tightening against the silk of your dress as his chest molds to yours.

geto’s low chuckle ghosts over your ear from behind, affectionate and mean all at once. “look at her, satoru. already moaning like she’s been waiting for this all night.”

gojo pulls back just enough to grin against your lips, breathless and wrecked. “told you we could fix that bad date, sweetheart.” then he dives back in, deeper, hungrier, one hand sliding down to palm your ass and squeeze like he owns it, while your head’s still spinning from the kiss and the carry and the fact that you’re in their room now, door locked, no escape—and honestly, you’re not even sure you want one anymore. bitch, you never do.

you feel geto before you even hear him move—his chest pressing flush against your back like a wall of warm, solid muscle, the thin fabric of his tank top doing nothing to hide the heat pouring off him. those big hands, calloused and rough from endless hours gripping weapons and throwing punches during training, slide up your bare arms slow and deliberate, fingers dragging over your skin like he's memorizing every inch. goosebumps erupt in their wake, your body betraying you instantly as his palms glide higher, over the delicate curve of your shoulders, thumbs brushing the thin straps of your crimson dress. he leans down—god, he's sooo tall—and his lips find the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there, one, two, three, each one lingering longer than the last, his breath hot and minty against your skin. the faint scratch of his stubble makes you shiver, a tiny, involuntary “mmh” slipping from your throat.

you melt. like, actually melt—knees going soft, body sagging back into him until your head thuds gently against his chest, hair spilling over his collarbone as you let out a long, shaky sigh that sounds way too needy for your own pride. geto's chest rumbles with a low, pleased hum, one arm banding around your waist to hold you up while his lips keep working, sucking lightly now, leaving damp little trails that cool in the dorm's air-conditioned chill.

gojo, never one to be left out, crowds in closer from the front, that stupidly pretty face dipping to pepper kisses along your cheek—soft and teasing at first—then down to your jaw, nipping playfully before his mouth finds your neck on the opposite side from geto. he's not gentle like geto; he's greedy, lips sucking hard enough to bloom bruises almost instantly, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting before he latches on again. “nngh,” you moan softly as he marks you, one hickey, two, three, dark little claims blooming across your throat like he's signing his name in purple and red. his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in just enough to bruise tomorrow, pulling you tighter against him so you can feel how hard he's already getting, the thick line of him pressing insistently against your lower belly through his sweatpants.

geto's hand starts wandering—slow, filthy exploration—from your shoulder down the front of your dress, palm cupping one breast through the thin silk, giving it a lazy squeeze that makes your nipple pebble instantly against his touch. “ah—” you gasp into gojo's mouth as he steals another kiss, geto's fingers rolling the sensitive peak just enough to make your back arch before his hand slides lower, over the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, until he's cupping your pussy right through the dress. the fabric's so thin it's basically nothing— lingerie in disguised' quote gojo, his heat searing straight through to your thong-clad folds as he presses two fingers along your slit, rubbing slow and testing.

he pulls his lips from your shoulder with a wet little pop, breath ghosting over the damp skin there as he mutters a soft, incredulous “huh,” like he's just discovered the most baffling thing in the world. his fingers press a little harder, parting your lips through the layers of fabric, searching for wetness that should be flooding by now if that date had gone anywhere good.

“you're not dripping,” he says, voice low and velvet-rough, almost disappointed but mostly amused, fingers circling your clit lazily through the silk. “like, not even close to ‘just got fucked full’ dripping. sweetheart… did that guy even touch you?”

you groan, breathless and wrecked, head still lolling against geto's chest as gojo keeps sucking another hickey just below your ear, his teeth grazing in a way that makes your thighs clench. “nngh—no,” you manage, voice cracking as geto's fingers keep teasing, the pressure maddeningly light. “he didn't fuck me. the idiot didn't want to… said i was broken because i told him i've never squirted. as if my pussy's suddenly less because i'm not a fucking fountain.”

gojo pulls back just enough to laugh against your neck, the sound high and unhinged, vibrating through your skin as he licks a stripe up to your earlobe. “that's the dumbest shit i've ever heard. baby, you're soaking through your dress just from us kissing you—feel that, suguru?”

geto hums again, deeper this time, pressing his fingers harder until the fabric of your thong is wedged between your folds, the wet spot growing under his touch. “yeah… starting to now. but still, poor thing came home all dressed up like this and didn't even get properly railed. what a waste.”

you whine, hips rocking forward into geto's hand without permission, chasing more friction as gojo's mouth finds yours again, swallowing the sound with a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. “mmph— shut up,” you mumble against his lips, but there's no heat in it anymore—just needy, desperate want as both of them press closer, sandwiching you between their bodies, hands and mouths everywhere, the slowburning feelings finally catching fire and threatening to burn the whole damn dorm down with how stupidly, sweetly, lovingly mean they're being about fixing your ruined night.

gojo breaks the kiss with a wet, obscene pop, lips shiny and swollen as he grins down at you like the cat that finally caught the canary—except the canary's currently sandwiched between two very hungry cats and not even pretending to fly away anymore. his forehead rests against yours for a second, breath coming in hot little puffs that mingle with yours, those stupidly long white lashes fluttering as he stares into your eyes with that unhinged, affectionate gleam. “broken? because you don't squirt?” he echoes your earlier grumble in this high-pitched, mocking voice that's somehow still dripping with sugar, like he's teasing a toddler who dropped their ice cream. “baby, that's the funniest shit i've heard all week. guy probably couldn't find your clit with a map and a flashlight.”

geto laughs behind you, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your spine like thunder wrapped in velvet, his big hand still cupped possessively over your pussy, fingers lazily stroking up and down the dampening silk of your dress as if he's petting a needy little kitten. his other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you harder against him so you can feel every inch of how affected he is too—the thick, heavy ridge of his cock pressing insistently against the small of your back through his loose pants, hot and throbbing like it's got its own heartbeat. “seriously,” he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing the shell before he nips it lightly, making you jolt with a tiny “ah—”. “if that's his standard, no wonder he's out there drowning in mediocrity. meanwhile you're here, all pretty and aching, and we haven't even gotten you out of this dress yet.”

you whimper, a soft, broken “nngh” that you can't hold back as geto's fingers finally slip under the hem of your dress, pushing the fabric up your thighs slow and teasing until his rough palm meets the bare skin just above your thong. the contrast—his calloused warmth against your smooth, shaved legs—makes your hips twitch forward into gojo's grip, chasing more touch like the desperate slut they've been calling you all night. gojo's hands slide down to join the fun, grabbing fistfuls of your ass and squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints, spreading you just a little so geto has better access.

“feel that?” gojo whispers, voice dropping low and filthy as he grinds his hips forward, letting you feel how impossibly hard he is, the thick length of him dragging against your lower belly. “that's what a real cock feels like when it meets a perfect pussy. no stupid requirements, no fountain bullshit. just wants to be buried inside you until you're crying and clenching and coming all over it.”

geto's fingers finally hook into the thin string of your thong, tugging it aside with zero ceremony, and the cool air hits your slick folds for half a second before his middle finger slides through them—slow, deliberate, gathering wetness from your entrance to your clit in one long, dragging stroke. “fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent, circling your swollen clit once, twice, making your thighs tremble. “listen to her. already so wet just from some kissing and teasing. that idiot really fumbled the bag.”

you moan louder this time, head falling back harder against geto's shoulder as your body goes liquid between them. “mmh— pleaseee,” you manage, voice cracking, not even sure what you're begging for but knowing you need more. your hands scrabble at gojo's shirt, fisting the fabric like it's the only thing keeping you grounded as geto sinks one thick finger inside you without warning—slow, steady, curling just right to stroke that spot that makes your vision spark white.

gojo watches your face like it's the best show on earth, eyes blown wide and dark, licking his lips as he leans in to suck another hickey right over your pulse point. “aww, look at her,” he coos, mean and sweet all at once, one hand coming up to pinch your nipple through the dress until you squeak. “already falling apart and we've barely started. bet we can make you come so hard you forget that loser's name existed.”

geto adds a second finger, scissoring slow and deep, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet dorm room as he pumps them in and out, thumb grinding against your clit in tight circles. “we're gonna ruin you for anyone else, princess,” he promises against your neck, voice soft but edged with that loving menace that makes your pussy clench around his fingers. “no more dumb boys with dumb standards. just us. just this.”

you cry out—a high, needy, “ah, fuck— suguru,” hips rocking shamelessly between them now, chasing the building pressure as gojo drops to his knees in front of you without warning, shoving your dress higher and mouthing at your inner thigh, teeth grazing dangerously close to where geto's fingers are working you open. the slowburn is gone now, replaced by a wildfire licking up your spine, and all you can do is cling to them and let it consume you, moaning their names like prayers as they take you apart piece by stupid, affectionate, filthy piece.

but oh, they are your enemies for all the right, stupid reasons—the kind that started with bickering over mission rankings freshman year and snowballed into years of relentless, mean-spirited teasing that always skates the line between hate and something way too hot to name. they love pushing you, love watching your cheeks burn and your eyes gloss over until you're one sharp word away from actual tears, then swooping in with that soft, affectionate crap that makes it impossible to stay mad. tonight, with you already bruised from that idiot's rejection, they smell blood in the water and decide—without even needing to speak—that yeah, this is the perfect time to be extra fucking relentless.

geto's fingers slide out of you in one cruel, sudden motion, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing, a pathetic little flutter that has you gasping in shock. your eyes fly open, wide and confused, head whipping around to find his face in the dim light. “huh—?” because why the fuck did he stop? his dark eyes are glinting with that particular brand of loving cruelty they both wear so well, the one that's been your personal torment since the day you met these two assholes. he's staring down at you with that half-lidded, dangerous fondness, dark hair falling forward as he leans in and presses the softest, most mocking kiss to your forehead—like he's comforting a kid who skinned her knee.

“not yet, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and syrupy, thumb stroking your cheek like you're something precious he's about to break. “just for research. for fun. let's find out if you really can't squirt… or if you just needed better motivation.”

your stomach drops, heat and dread twisting together, because you know that tone—it's the same one he uses right before he corners you in training and makes you tap out five times in a row just to prove a point.

gojo, synced up like they're sharing one perverted brain cell tonight, lets out a delighted little “yes!” suddenly you're being turned, manhandled with that effortless strength and spins you toward the massive, unmade bed with hands on your hips. the sheets are a tangled mess of navy and black, pillows half on the floor, scattered everywhere from whatever dumb pillow fight they probably had last night, the whole thing smelling like boy and sleep and them. gojo's hands are on your hips, urging you forward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. “dress off, princess,” he demands, already yanking at the hem himself, fingers brushing your thighs in teasing little grazes. “let's see the full outfit. come on, come on, don't be shy now.”

you huff but obey—because arguing feels pointless when your body's already humming like a live wire—sliding the crimson straps off your shoulders, letting the dress pool at your feet in a whisper of fabric. the cool air hits your bare skin, nipples tightening instantly under their hungry stares. gojo whistles long and low, dramatic as ever, eyes raking over the black lace thong and matching bra like he's appraising a masterpiece. “fuuuck, look at you. all shaved and pretty and wrapped up like a present.” his fingers hook into the waistband of your thong, tugging impatiently. “these too. off. now. don't be shy—we've seen tits before, promise.”

you huff—half annoyed, half turned on but obey because arguing feels pointless when your body's already humming like a live wire—and shimmy out of the crimson silk, letting the dress pool at your feet in a whisper of fabric. the cool air hits your bare skin, nipples tightening instantly under their hungry stares. the second your matching black lace thong and bra come into view, gojo whistles long and low, dramatic as ever, eyes raking over the black lace thong and matching bra like he's appraising a masterpiece, spinning you slow like you're on display. “fuuuck, look at these. shaved, wrapped up in slutty little bows—someone was hoping to get fucked tonight.” his fingers snap the strap of your thong against your hip, the sting making you yelp. “these too. off. now. don't be shy—we've seen tits before, promise. i wanna see tits.”

you roll your eyes but obey, unhooking the bra and sliding the thong down your legs until you're completely naked, flushed and trembling between two fully dressed idiots who look way too pleased with themselves. it's unfair—gojo in his black shirt and sweats, geto still in that tank that clings to every muscle. it's unfair, it's humiliating, and it's doing horrible things to the heat pooling between your thighs.

geto drifts over to the nightstand drawer, pulling it open with a casual rattle that makes your heart kick. he lifts out a thick, curved wand vibrator—shiny black silicone, clearly expensive and mean—and a smaller bullet vibe for good measure,  with a flared tip clearly designed for g-spots and ruin. your voice comes out smaller than you'd like. “suguru… what exactly are you planning to do with those?”

he turns back, smirk slow and filthy, holding the wand up like a trophy. “told you. scientific experiment. wanna see if that idiot was right… or if we can make you squirt so hard you forget his name. purely scientific.”

before you can protest, gojo's behind you again, his blindfold already off his face and dangling from his fingers, the soft black fabric warm from his skin. in one smooth, practiced motion he loops it over your eyes and ties it snug at the back of your head. everything goes dark—pitch black, no hints of light, no shape, just sudden, overwhelming nothingness that spikes panic through your chest.

“satoru—what the fuck—why are you blindfolding me?!” you squeak, hands flying up to tug at the knot, heart racing. “take it off, i don't—”

they both burst out laughing—gojo's high and manic, geto's low and fond—like you've told the world's cutest joke. “shhh, relax, sweetheart,” gojo coos right against your ear, hands sliding down your arms to calm you even as his voice drips with mockery. catching your wrists and pinning them gently to your sides. “it's better this way— it's more fun this way. no seeing, just feeling—feel everything. no peeking, no distractions. just us and that pretty pussy. trust us.”

“yeah,” geto adds from somewhere lower, voice dripping with fake reassurance, “stop freaking out or we'll have to tie your hands too. be a good girl.” i'm a good girl.

you whine, a soft, frustrated “nngh”, that only makes them chuckle harder, but you stop fighting because the darkness is already doing things to you—heightening every sense until the air feels thick, every breath louder. you feel the mattress dip as gojo guides you to sit on the edge, his chest presses against your back a second later—he's climbed behind you, sitting up against the headboard and pulling you between his spread legs so your back is flush to his front, his hard cock nestled hot and heavy against the curve of your ass through his sweatpants. his hands splay over your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles, holding you open and pinned.

geto settles on the floor between your legs—you hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the rug, feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your inner thighs. “come here, baby,” he murmurs, big hands wrapping around your thighs and tugging you down the bed until your ass is right at the edge, legs draped over his broad shoulders. “spread for me. wider. there we go… fuck, look how pretty she is.”

you can't see a thing. just feel—feel geto's rough palms keeping your thighs forced open, the cool air kissing your slick, exposed folds; feel the anticipation coil so tight in your belly you're already trembling; gojo's chest rising and falling against your back—heart thudding against your spine, his cock twitching every time you squirm; his fingers tracing lazy, teasing circles over your ribs and stomach, brushing just shy of your breasts.

geto hums, satisfied and mean. “let's find out, yeah?”

the vibrator clicks on with a low, ominous buzz that fills the quiet room like a threat, and before you can brace yourself the rounded head is pressed right against your clit—steady, relentless pressure that has your hips jerking up with a sharp, broken “ah— fuck!” you cry out instantly, hips bucking hard, the sudden intensity ripping a sharp, broken moan from your throat as pleasure slams through you white-hot and overwhelming.

gojo laughs softly behind you, one hand sliding up to cup your breast and roll your nipple between his fingers. “there we go. no squirting yet, but listen to those pretty sounds. we're just getting started, baby. hold still… or don't. makes it more fun when you thrash.”

the vibe circles slow, then faster, geto's free hand coming up to spread your lips wider, exposing every sensitive inch to the torture. your world narrows to vibration and heat and their voices—sweet, filthy, affectionate torment promising they're nowhere near done finding out exactly what your body can do tonight.

geto circles the wand slow, then presses harder, the vibrations sinking deep into your clit until your thighs shake against his grip. “feel that? all for science,” he teases, voice affectionate and utterly merciless. “gonna keep you right here until we figure it out… or until you're crying and begging. whichever comes first.”

they are so fucking relentless—like twin devils who've decided your body is their new favorite toy and breaking you is the only acceptable outcome tonight. the wand never stays in one place long enough for you to chase the high; geto wields it like he's dumbledore with a particularly filthy spell, swirling it in tight, maddening circles over your clit one second, then dragging it down to buzz against your entrance the next, then pulling it away completely just to watch you whine and buck into empty air. every time that coil in your belly tightens, every time your breath hitches and your pussy flutters with the promise of something huge, he eases off—slows the vibe to a teasing hum or lifts it entirely, letting the sudden loss punch the air from your lungs in a frustrated, trembling sob.

“nngh— please, fuck. . .” you cry out, voice cracking high and desperate, hips chasing the wand like a pathetic little puppy. your thighs are already shaking uncontrollably, muscles jumping and quivering against geto's shoulders, slick dripping down your ass to soak the sheets beneath you.

geto hums, low and thoughtful, like he's conducting an actual experiment. “hmm, not yet. she’s getting close though—feel her twitching?” he murmurs, and you feel one of his big hands leave your thigh, the sudden absence making that leg slip off his shoulder and fall toward the bed. before you can close it even an inch, gojo's hand is there—long fingers wrapping around your thigh from behind, yanking it back open and pinning it wide against your chest so you're spread obscenely, pussy on full display for geto's torment. asshole.

“gotcha,” gojo chuckles right against your ear, breath hot and teasing, his grip iron-strong as he holds you splayed for his best friend. “wider, baby. suguru needs room to work his magic.”

geto takes the invitation immediately—of course he does—pressing the wand harder now, sliding it lower to nudge right against your entrance, letting the thick head buzz just inside your hole without pushing in, just vibrating against your sensitive walls until your back arches off gojo's chest with a broken wail. "ahh— suguru, pleaseee," you sob, eyes squeezed shut so tight behind the blindfold that you see stars anyway, hands scrabbling blindly for something, anything to hold onto. your fingers finally find purchase behind you, nails digging into the warm skin of gojo's neck as you clutch him like he's the only solid thing in the spinning dark.

"aww, look at her," gojo coos, voice all fake sympathy and real amusement, tilting his head to nip at your jaw while his free hand roams your stomach, tracing the trembling muscles there. "shaking like a leaf already. poor little pussy can't decide if it wants to come or cry first."

"both," geto answers for you, voice calm and cruel as he pulls the wand away again right as your hips start grinding down desperately, leaving you empty and aching. "definitely both. listen to her—whining like we stole her candy."

you are whining—high, wet, pathetic sounds spilling out with every breath, "please, please, don't stop, i was so close. . . " tears actually gathering behind the blindfold now because they're edging you so ruthlessly, building and building like a fucking Fix-it Felix, Jr— that pressure until it's a physical ache low in your belly, then ripping it away like it's a game, crumble like they are Wreck it Ralph. your whole body is shaking uncontrollably, thighs spasming in their grips, pussy clenching around nothing so hard it hurts.

gojo's cock is a steel bar against your lower back, throbbing every time you moan his name or dig your nails deeper into his neck. "fuck, you're cute when you're desperate," he whispers, lips brushing your temple in a kiss that's way too soft for how mean they're being. "gonna keep you right here on the edge all night if we have to. science takes time, sweetheart." science my ass.

geto drags the wand up again, pressing it directly to your swollen clit and cranking the speed higher—merciless, unrelenting vibration that has you screaming almost instantly, a raw, “fuck— ah, ah, ah—!" ripping from your throat as your hips jerk wildly. he holds it there for five agonizing seconds, ten, letting the pleasure crest so high you're dizzy with it—then pulls it away again, just as you're teetering right on the brink.

"no—no no no—pleaseee," you sob outright this time, actual tears soaking into the blindfold, body thrashing between them as the ruined orgasm pulses through you without release, leaving you wrecked and empty and shaking harder than ever.

geto leans in—you feel his hair brush your inner thigh—and presses a soft, affectionate kiss to your dripping folds like he's praising you for taking it so well. "good girl," he murmurs against your pussy, voice vibrating through your clit. "we're getting somewhere. just a little more data. . ."

gojo tightens his arm around your waist, holding you steady as you tremble and cry and beg, his lips brushing your ear in that loving, menacing way only he can manage. "shhh, we've got you. not done playing yet. gonna make you squirt so hard you see stars behind that blindfold—or we're gonna die trying. either way, you're ours tonight."

and they dive back in—wand buzzing to life again, gojo's fingers pinching your nipples in time with geto's ruthless patterns, their voices overlapping in filthy praise and mockery as they edge you over and over and over, relentless and mean and so stupidly affectionate about every sobbing, shaking second of it.

after what feels like hours of their stupid, relentless edging game—your body reduced to a quivering, sweat-drenched wreck, blindfold clinging wetly to your tear-streaked cheeks, every muscle twitching like a live wire, voice hoarse from begging and sobbing their names in broken loops—they finally take pity. or maybe they just decide the data is conclusive, or finally decide you've suffered enough for their little ‘experiment’. . . geto presses the thick head of the wand flush against your clit again, no more games, no more teasing circles or cruel pull-aways, just brutal, steady pressure on the highest setting he'd dared so far— high-speed vibration that sinks straight into your core like a lightning strike. the buzz so intense it feels like it's vibrating your bones.

gojo's grip on your thigh tightens, his other hand back to sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple in time with the rhythm, whispering filthy little encouragements right against your ear like, “come on, baby, give it to us. soak him. show us how much that dumb fucker missed.”

the orgasm doesn't creep up—it crashes, it detonates. your whole body locks up, spine snapping into a harsh arch as the pleasure rips through you like a tidal wave. one second you're teetering on that agonizing edge again, hips grinding desperately, and the next your entire body seizes up with a violent, full-body shudder.

“fuck— ah, ah, aah— i'm—!” you scream, the sound raw and ugly and perfect, back arching off gojo's chest so hard your spine bows like a drawn bowstring. your pussy clenches hard, then gushes—a hot, forceful rush of liquid that sprays out in messy arcs, splattering geto's face and soaking the front of his tank top in seconds. he doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away; if anything he leans into it, mouth open just enough that some of it hits his tongue, a low, satisfied groan rumbling out of him as he keeps the wand pinned right where it hurts-so-good.

you squirt and squirt, longer than you thought possible, wave after wave, thighs shaking so violently gojo has to brace you or you'd thrash right off the bed or to keep you from kicking geto in the face. “nngh— stop, stop, too much,” you sob, actual tears streaming down your cheeks under the blindfold now, but geto doesn't care—doesn't even pretend to.

he keeps the wand exactly where it is, buzzing mercilessly against your oversensitive clit and laps at your dripping folds between the sprays like he's savoring every drop— broad, filthy strokes of his tongue dragging from your spasming entrance up to your clit, swirling around the buzzing toy like he's trying to drink you dry. his tongue is hot and rough, dragging from your entrance up to swirl around the vibe, pushing you straight into a second, even more brutal climax before the first has fully faded. the overstimulation is excruciating, pleasure twisted into something almost painful, and you scream again, high and broken, “no, no, ahh— fuck, suguru!" as he assaults your pussy without a shred of remorse.

“that's it, pretty girl,” he praises between licks, voice muffled and vibrating against your folds, hands gripping your ass to tilt you higher into his mouth. “give me everything. fucking drown me—good girl, so good."

it isn't long before the second wave hits—the second squirt is obscene—stronger, messier, your body barely recovered from the first before hitting geto's chest in thick streams. geto finally pulls his face back just in time to watch it, eyes dark and hungry, lips shiny with you as he cranks the wand to its absolute highest setting without warning. the sudden spike in vibration rips a scream from your throat, "suguru— no, no, please, i can't— ahh!"

geto hums, tossing the wand aside for a second but not done—not even close. his fingers replace it immediately, rubbing fast, tight circles over your throbbing clit, slick and relentless, forcing the last spurts out of you in messy little bursts. “come on, baby, one more. empty it all out for us.”

the squirt erupts in a powerful stream, clear and hot, splashing across his chest and collarbones, rolling down in rivulets that disappear into his waistband. gojo whistles low and impressed behind you, fingers digging into your thighs as he watches over your shoulder.

your hips jerking so hard your ass lifts clean off the bed, whole lower body suspended in the air, leaning entirely against gojo's chest as you shake and gush and fall apart all over again.

“holy shit,” gojo laughs, breathless and delighted, nuzzling your neck. “that idiot you went on a date with? he'd be eating his own words right now if he saw this. ‘girls who can't squirt’—yeah, right. look at you, turning suguru into a fucking fountain show. guy must feel so stupid, passing up all this."

you think—hope—that after this you'll finally get peace, get to float down into that soft, boneless quiet. but no. these are your enemies, after all, mean and perverted to the core, and they love nothing more than pushing until you're crying for real.

gojo's hand comes down in a sharp, wet slap against your hypersensitive pussy—light enough not to bruise, but stinging like fire on raw nerves. you jolt with a strangled wail, another surprised gush squirting out in response, and he does it again—slap, slap—each one perfectly timed to make you spray more, body convulsing violently between them. "satoruuuu— stop, please, i can't—" you sob, but it's useless; your hips lift clean off the bed on instinct, whole lower body suspended in the air from the force of the shaking, leaning entirely against gojo's chest as your ass clenches and your thighs spasm out of control.

one hand flies forward blindly, fingers tangling desperately in geto's damp hair, tugging hard for any kind of anchor as the pleasure-pain overwhelms you. the other claws backward, nails digging deep into gojo's forearm where he's still holding you open, leaving red crescents he's definitely going to brag about later. you're a complete mess—whimpering, shaking, squirting in weak little pulses now with every slap until there's nothing left but tremors and the wet sounds of your ruined pussy.

gojo laughs, breathless and delighted. the impact forces another surprised spurt out of you, smaller but no less humiliating, and you wail as your hips buck involuntarily. "fuck, look at that," he croons, voice dripping with smug affection, slapping again—once, twice—each one making you squirt a little more until your thighs are trembling so badly you can't hold the position anymore. your ass collapses back onto the soaked sheets with a wet thud, body going completely limp against gojo's front, chest heaving, little aftershock twitches rippling through you every few seconds.

finally, mercifully, gojo stops the slapping. his fingers turn gentle instead, tracing soft, soothing figure-eights over your clit, easing you down with slow, feather-light strokes that make you twitch and whine but in a softer way now. "shhh, there we go," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your sweaty temple. "good girl. fuck, you're perfect."

geto finally—finally—clicks the vibrator off and tosses it aside fully, the sudden silence deafening except for your ragged breathing and the wet sounds of him licking his lips. he leans in again, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your inner thighs, your fluttering entrance, your abused clit like he's apologizing and praising all at once.

"good fucking girl," he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with want, hands stroking soothing patterns over your shaking legs. "told you we could make you. that guy you went out with? he'd be kicking himself so hard right now if he knew how much you can squirt when someone's actually competent."

gojo snickers, nuzzling into your damp temple, fingers idly tracing the mess on your stomach where some of it splashed back. "seriously. imagine his dumb face—'i don't fuck girls who can't squirt'—and here you are, turning suguru into a human sprinkler twice in a row. idiot probably couldn't find a g-spot if it had a neon sign." he slaps your pussy one last playful time, lighter now, just to watch you jolt and whimper pathetically. "bet he'd cry harder than you did if he saw this."

you can't even form words—just little broken sobs and whimpers, body utterly spent and boneless between them, blindfold still on, world reduced to the feel of their hands petting you down from the high. geto climbs up onto the bed properly, knees slotting between your trembling legs, hands sliding under your knees to push them up and back until you're nearly folded in half—ass lifted, pussy still dripping and exposed.

he lets one leg slide off his shoulder gently, then reaches up to finally—finally—untie the blindfold. the fabric falls away and light floods in, dim and warm from the dorm lamps, but still blinding after so long in darkness. you blink sluggishly, eyes watery and unfocused, vision hazy with lust and exhaustion and that floaty, drunk kind of bliss. everything feels soft around the edges, like you're underwater—geto's face swimming into view first, hair damp and falling forward in dark strands, a few droplets still clinging to his lashes and lips, that affectionate menace softened into something almost tender.

he leans down slow, presses the gentlest butterfly kisses to your forehead—one, two, three—lips lingering each time like he's tasting the salt of your tears and sweat. "there you go," he whispers, voice rough but impossibly soft now, thumb stroking your cheek. "hi, pretty girl. you back with us?"

you laugh—it's breathless, watery, a little hysterical around the edges—and nod slow, words thick and fuzzy in your throat. "yeah... so good. fuck, so good."

gojo chuckles behind you, arms loosening to cradle you properly now, one hand petting your hair like you're a kitten. "look at her, all fucked out and smiley. cutest thing ever."

"proud of you, princess," geto adds quietly, crawling up to cage you between them, both of them still fully dressed while you're a naked, shivering mess covered in your own slick. "experiment success. conclusion: you're perfect exactly how you are, and that guy can go drown in a puddle for all we care."

you manage a weak, watery laugh that turns into another hiccuping sob, burying your face in geto's neck while he spoons you from the front, their arms wrapping around you in a tangle of warmth and lingering menace. they're not done with you—not even close—but for now they let you come down, murmuring sweet, stupid, filthy praise into your skin until the shaking stops and all that's left is the slow, heavy thud of three hearts beating way too fast in the quiet dorm room, sheets absolutely ruined and no one giving a single damn.

for a moment it's just that—soft and sweet, their hands gentle, voices low and fond, letting you float in the afterglow while your body twitches with little aftershocks. geto's still between your legs, chest glistening with you, tank top absolutely ruined, and gojo's cock is still hard as steel against your back, but they're giving you this tiny pocket of peace, murmuring praise like "did so well for us" and "perfect little mess" and "love how you shake when you come undone."

but of course it doesn't last. they're mean, after all—lovingly, affectionately, stupidly mean.

geto's warm smile twists slow into something wicked again, eyes glinting as he picks up the discarded wand, still slick with you, and bops you lightly on the nose with it—boop—like it's a toy hammer. "aww, look at that face," he coos, voice dripping with fake innocence. "all hazy and happy. but now that we've proven you can squirt like a fucking champ... think you're ready to take some real cock, princess?"

he tosses the vibrator away from within reach, somewhere across the room—it lands with a thud on a pile of laundry—and leans in closer, hands sliding up your thighs to spread you wider again, cocky grin sharp and hungry. gojo laughs high behind you, fingers dipping down to tease your dripping entrance, already plotting round two.

because peace? rest? not tonight. not with these two. they're just getting started ruining you properly, and the look in their eyes says you're not leaving this bed until you've forgotten every dumb boy who ever made you doubt how fucking incredible you are.

especially now when geto rises from the bed like some kind of dark god finally shedding the last of his mortal clothes, tank top peeled off and tossed somewhere into the corner with a wet slap—still soaked from your earlier mess—and his sweatpants follow, kicked aside without ceremony. he's butt naked now, all lean muscle and cursed energy humming under inked skin, cock standing proud and thick in his hand as he strokes it once, slow and lazy, precum already beading at the flushed tip like he's been edging himself just watching you fall apart. his hair is still damp, strands clinging to his forehead and neck, and that wicked, affectionate smirk hasn't left his face once.

behind you—no, under you—gojo has maneuvered you both to the edge of the bed, his long legs planted firm on the floor like he's anchoring the whole damn world. he's naked too now, shirt and sweats vanished in that effortless way he does everything, pale skin and ridiculous abs on full display, cock hot and impossibly hard against the curve of your ass. his hands are on your hips, big and steady, guiding you to straddle him reverse—back to his chest, thighs spread wide over his—so you're sitting pretty on his lap like a throne made of pure torment. the position leaves you completely exposed, pussy still twitching and dripping from everything they just did to you, and gojo doesn't waste time lining himself up, the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance, slick and insistent.

but god, you're sensitive—every little brush feels like fire and electricity and too much all at once, your folds swollen and raw from the wand and the slapping and the squirting until you're a whimpering mess before he's even inside. “wait— fuck, satoru, i'm so sensitive, please, slow. . . " you complain, voice cracking high and pathetic, hands flailing for something to hold as your thighs already start shaking again. they don't listen. of course they don't and your whining only makes their eyes gleam darker.

gojo chuckles low against your ear, breath hot and teasing as he circles his tip through your folds, gathering wetness just to torture you more. "aww, poor baby, too sensitive? but look how you're still dripping for it. you can take it, princess—we know you can. you've been begging with that pussy all night."

geto steps closer, still stroking himself slow, thumb swiping over his leaking slit as he watches gojo tease you. "yeah. . . don't be weak now," he adds, voice all velvet cruelty and fake sympathy. "you just squirted like a champion—twice, or three times? this is the reward. real cock, like we promised. be good and take it."

you curse under your breath, but your hips are already rocking back instinctively, chasing the pressure despite the overstimulation, and gojo takes that as permission. he pushes in—slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretching you open, your walls fluttering wildly around him from how sensitive you are. it's too much and perfect and overwhelming, the drag burning in the best way until he bottoms out with a final thrust that seats him deep, balls pressed against your ass.

a full, broken whimper tears out of you, “fuck, satoru, you're—" your thighs shaking harder now, weak and jelly-like as the overwhelming fullness hits you all at once. your hands scramble blindly forward for support, fingers finding geto's hips, then his hand, clutching desperately as you try to breathe through it.

geto threads his fingers with yours immediately, squeezing gentle and steady, letting you grip as hard as you need while you adjust. "there you go," he murmurs, soft for a second, thumb stroking your knuckles even as his other hand keeps lazily pumping his cock. "breathe, baby. you've got him all the way in. look at you—taking it so pretty."

both of them chuckle at the same time—gojo's high and unhinged, geto's low and fond—when your legs keep trembling like you might collapse any second.

"so weak already," gojo teases, hands sliding up to grip your waist, lifting you just an inch before dropping you back down slow, making you feel every ridge of him. "one orgasm—or three—and you're shaking like a leaf. cute."

"fuck you both," you manage to gasp out, voice wobbly and hoarse, but there's no heat in it—just needy frustration as your head falls back against gojo's shoulder.

another soft whisper of a moan slips out, "mmh," as gojo starts moving your hips for you, slow ups and downs that have his cock dragging against your oversensitive walls in the most filthy, perfect way. geto steps even closer at the sound, until you're face-to-cock with him, the musky heat of him filling your senses, precum dripping in a slow bead down his shaft.

but he doesn't force it—not yet. instead he lets you lean forward, forehead pressing against the warm, hard plane of his stomach, breath coming in hot little pants against his skin as you try to ground yourself. his free hand comes up to pet your hair, fingers threading gentle and soothing, nails scratching lightly at your scalp while his other keeps stroking himself right in front of your face, slow and deliberate, the wet sound of it mixing with your whimpers and the slick slide of gojo inside you.

"good girl," geto praises softly, voice rough with want, tilting your head just enough so your cheek brushes the side of his cock, leaving a shiny streak of precum on your skin. "just relax. let satoru fuck you open a little more. then you'll take me too—gonna fill you from both ends until you're crying again, but the happy kind this time, yeah?"

gojo laughs breathlessly behind you, hips starting to roll up to meet the slow drop of yours, pace picking up just enough to make you moan louder. "fuck, she's clenching already. hear that, suguru? all that big talk about being too sensitive, and her pussy's trying to milk me dry."

you whimper against geto's stomach, thighs still shaking, hand squeezing his tighter as the pleasure builds again—slow, deep, relentless—sandwiched between your two favorite enemies who are finally, finally giving you what you've needed all night, mean and sweet and stupidly affectionate about every second of it.

geto lets gojo have his moment, because that's what best friends do—share the spotlight, especially when the spotlight is a trembling, cockdrunk girl impaled on one of their dicks and making the prettiest broken sounds against the other's stomach. he's patient like that, a saint in pervert's clothing, standing there with his hand wrapped loose around his throbbing cock, stroking slow and steady, thumb swiping over the slick head every few pumps to spread the precum that's been leaking nonstop since you first squirted all over him.

his dark eyes are heavy-lidded, fixed on the scene in front of him like it's the best porn he's ever seen: you, forehead pressed to his abs, lips parted and drooling a little onto his skin from how overwhelmed you are, while gojo's hips roll up slow and deep from underneath, fucking into you with that lazy, relentless rhythm that makes your pussy hug him tighter and tighter.

every thrust drags a new sound out of you—high, wet moans that turn into little cries, your breath hitching hot and damp against geto's stomach, leaving shiny trails of saliva that cool in the dorm air. it's filthy and perfect, and geto doesn't mind the mess one bit; if anything it makes his cock twitch harder in his fist, another bead of precum dripping down his shaft as he watches gojo's face twist in pure ecstasy. gojo's head is tipped back against the headboard for a second, white lashes fluttering, mouth open on a silent groan before he lets out this low, drawn-out "fuuuck" that rumbles through his chest and into your back.

geto hears it all—your moans climbing higher, gojo's breathing getting rougher, the wet slap of skin where gojo's lifting and dropping your hips just enough to make his cock drag against every sensitive spot inside you. it's intimate in the dumbest, dirtiest way, and geto is patient, stroking himself to the rhythm of gojo's thrusts, letting his best friend chase that edge while he enjoys the show. but god, the sounds you're making—those broken little whimpers vibrating against his skin, the way your fingers keep flexing in his hand like you're barely holding on—are starting to chip away at that saintly restraint.

he's heard gojo fuck before, plenty of times actually, thin dorm walls and all that. random girls giggling their way in, then moaning their way out hours later, gojo's voice carrying through the plaster with cocky laughter and the occasional dramatic groan. but this? this is different. you've got gojo making sounds geto has never heard from him—deeper, more desperate, like you're pulling them straight from his soul. his eyes are rolling back now, blue peeking white under half-closed lids, lips parted on gasps that turn into your name chanted like a prayer.

geto snorts, low and amused, dark hair falling into his eyes as he tilts his head. "that good, huh?" he asks, voice rough with his own want, hand still moving slow on his cock. "never heard you sound this pathetic, satoru."

gojo laughs—breathless, wrecked, absolutely unhinged—as he snaps his hips up harder, making you cry out sharp and sudden against geto's stomach. "fuck off, suguru— she's... nngh... she's perfect. like her pussy was made for me. gonna wife this shit up, keep her full forever—romantic as fuck, right?"

it's the dumbest, most gojo thing anyone's ever said—stupidly romantic and utterly disgusting all at once, like he's proposing marriage mid-stroke while balls-deep in you. geto bark-laughs, head shaking, but his cock jumps in his hand because yeah, he gets it. you're clenching again, pussy fluttering wild around gojo from the praise or the thrust or both, and the sound you make is so cockdrunk and ruined that geto feels his patience snap like a frayed wire.

you can't even respond to gojo's idiot declaration—just another wet, open-mouthed moan against geto's skin, drool pooling at the corner of your lips, eyes glassy and unfocused like your brain's checked out and left your body on autopilot. you're too far gone, too stupid on cock, and seeing you like that—knowing he helped put you there—makes geto greedy in a way that's almost mean.

he lets go of your hand gently, both of his sliding up now—one fisting your hair at the roots, firm but not painful, angling your face away from his stomach and up toward his cock. the other guides the flushed, leaking head to your lips, slapping it once, twice, wet and heavy against your mouth, leaving shiny streaks of precum across your cheek and lower lip. "open up, princess," he murmurs, voice velvet and dangerous, thumb stroking your jaw like encouragement. "you can multitask, right? been taking satoru so well—now take me too. greedy girls get both."

you whimper—high and needy, muffled against his cock as he taps it again, smearing more precum over your lips until they glisten. your tongue darts out instinctively, licking at the tip, tasting salt and him, and geto groans low, hips twitching forward just enough to slide the head past your lips. "mmh—" you moan around him, the vibration making his thighs tense, and gojo laughs breathlessly behind you, hands tightening on your hips to speed up the slow grind.

"fuck, look at her," gojo gasps, voice cracking as your pussy clamps down harder from the new stretch in your mouth. "taking both like she was born for it. our perfect little slut."

geto slides deeper—slow, letting you adjust, feeling your tongue flatten against the underside of him as you suck messily, drool already spilling down your chin to drip onto your chest. his hand in your hair pets gentle now, affectionate and guiding, while gojo keeps bouncing you on his lap, the two of them finding a rhythm that has you stuffed full from both ends, moaning nonstop around geto's cock while your body shakes and clenches and drips between them.

it's overwhelming and perfect and so stupidly loving—the way geto's thumb wipes the drool from your chin even as he fucks your mouth deeper, the way gojo's whispering absolute filth about keeping you forever while his hands bruise your hips, both of them watching you fall apart with that mean, fond gleam in their eyes like you're the best thing that's ever happened to their dumb, perverted hearts. and maybe you are.

they keep fucking you like it's a competition to see who can wreck you sweeter—gojo from below, hips rolling up in that lazy, deep grind that makes his cock kiss your cervix on every upstroke, hands gripping your waist like he's steering a particularly fun ride. geto in front, feeding you his cock inch by thick inch, the salty taste of him flooding your tongue while your drool spills down your chin in messy strings. the room is nothing but wet sounds—skin slapping skin, your muffled moans vibrating around geto, gojo's breathy laughter mixing with low groans every time your pussy clamps down like it's trying to trap him forever.

they're high on praise tonight, drunk on how perfectly you fall apart between them. "fuck, listen to her," gojo gasps, voice cracking as your walls flutter again. "pussy's singing for me—nngh—good girl, keep squeezing like that." geto hums agreement, eyes dark and half-lidded as he watches his cock disappear between your swollen lips. "taking us so well, princess. look at you—mouth full, pussy full, still greedy for more."

geto's hand tightens in your hair—fingers twisting at the roots just hard enough to sting sweet—before his other slides forward, long fingers wrapping around your throat in a firm, possessive collar. not squeezing hard, just there, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point so he can feel how fast your heart's racing for them. the pressure makes you groan deep in your chest, "mmph." the vibration humming straight into geto's cock, and your pussy reacts instantly, clamping down hard on gojo like a vice.

gojo jolts behind you, hips stuttering as he lets out a wrecked, "fuuuuck, yes." his nails digging crescents into your hips. "did you feel that, suguru? she just tried to milk me dry when you choked her a little. kinky little thing."

geto definitely feels it—feels his own cock sliding deeper into the wet heat of your throat, feels the way your muscles flutter and swallow around him every time gojo thrusts up. it pulls a rough groan from his chest, low and filthy, hips twitching forward involuntarily. "shit— yeahh. . . i felt it. throat's doing the same thing. greedy on both ends."

he tugs your hair sharper, angling your head back just enough to push deeper, sliding past your tongue until the head nudges the back of your throat. he holds you there—patient but merciless—watching your eyes water, feeling your throat spasm open and close around him in panicked little swallows.

"that's it," he praises, voice gravel-rough with affection, thumb stroking your cheek even as he keeps you pinned. "relax your throat, baby—fuck, there we go. feel you opening up for me. perfect fucking girl." he only pulls back when your chest starts heaving, when the first real choke bubbles up around his cock—slow, letting you gasp wetly around him before he slides out with a filthy string of spit connecting your lips to his tip.

you cough hard, collapsing forward against gojo's shoulder as you suck in desperate breaths, face messy with drool and tears and precum. "you—cough—fucking asshole, i couldn't breathe," you rasp, voice hoarse and wrecked, but your hips are still rolling back onto gojo like your body can't decide if it wants to fight or fuck.

geto just hums, low and amused, petting your hair once like you're a bratty cat. "now you can," he says simply, tugging your head back up by the roots until your lips brush his cock again. "open up, princess. we're not done."

you do—because of course you do—tongue lolling out obediently as he slides back in, easier this time, your throat already pliant from the abuse. gojo keeps fucking you through it, slow and deep, cooing soft praise into your ear about how pretty you look choking on suguru while riding him.

after a while—minutes? hours? time's meaningless when you're stuffed full like this—geto pulls out with a wet pop, hand stroking your cheek as he looks over your head at gojo. "switch," he says, voice calm but edged with hunger.

gojo whines immediately—high, dramatic, ridiculous. "nooo, i'm just getting into it—fuck, her pussy's perfect right now, all swollen and hot—"

geto snorts, already pulling his cock from your mouth with a slick slide. "you've been balls-deep in her pussy for ages, satoru. my turn. if you don't wanna share, go fuck your fist like a big boy."

gojo groans long and suffering, but he obeys—hands sliding to your ass, giving it one sharp, resounding slap that makes you yelp around nothing and your pussy clench on empty air. he spreads the cheek, presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the stinging skin like an apology, then grumbles as he lifts you off his cock with a filthy wet sound. you whimper at the loss—high and pathetic—legs shaking harder now that you're not filled.

geto wraps an arm around your waist immediately, strong and steady, hauling you up to stand on wobbly feet. "up, baby," he murmurs, turning you around slow until you're face-to-face with gojo's dick—glistening with your slick, flushed angry red and twitching in his fist as he strokes himself lazily by the bed. gojo grins down at you, all sharp teeth and affection, thumb sliding into your mouth to press on your tongue. "hallo again, baby," he coos, using his cock to tap your nose lightly—boop, boop—like it's a game. "miss me already?"

geto snorts behind you, hands nudging your thighs apart wider, wider, until your legs are spread obscenely and your knees threaten to buckle. "spread, princess," he orders softly, voice gentle but firm. when your thighs start trembling harder, threatening to give out, he presses his chest to your back, arm tightening around your waist to hold you up. "no, you can do it. just a bit more—there we go. good girl."

he lines himself up slow—thick head nudging your dripping entrance, gathering your wetness before pushing in with one smooth, deep thrust that has you crying out around gojo's thumb. gojo pulls it out with a pop, replacing it immediately with his cock, sliding into your mouth as geto bottoms out behind you.

sandwiched again—geto buried to the hilt in your pussy, gojo feeding you his slick-coated cock until your lips stretch wide around him. they find their rhythm fast, gojo's hands in your hair now, geto's arm banded across your stomach, both of them moving like they've done this a thousand times— maybe in dreams, maybe in fantasy, but now it's real and overwhelming and so stupidly loving.

"fuck, taste yourself on me?" gojo groans, hips rocking shallow into your mouth. "sweetest thing ever."

geto thrusts deeper, hand sliding up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple in time with his strokes. "pussy's even tighter from this side," he mutters against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin. "gonna ruin you for anyone else, baby. just us from now on."

and you believe him—believe both of them—moaning broken around gojo's cock as they fuck you standing, legs shaking, body held up only by their strength and greed and that mean, affectionate way they have of never letting you fall.

after a while, the rhythm settles into something hypnotic and brutal—geto behind you, cock buried deep in your pussy with every slow, deliberate thrust that drags against your oversensitive walls like he's trying to map every inch of you from the inside; gojo in front, feeding his slick-coated dick into your mouth in shallow, teasing pumps that make you choke and drool and moan around him like a desperate little thing.

your legs are barely holding you up anymore, thighs trembling nonstop, knees threatening to buckle with every roll of geto's hips, but his arm banded across your waist keeps you pinned upright, impaled and helpless between them. the dorm air is thick with the smell of sex—sweat and slick and precum—and the sounds are obscene: wet slaps from behind, gagging whimpers from your throat, their mixed groans overlapping in filthy harmony.

geto starts losing it first, the patience he's been clinging to finally cracking like thin ice. it begins with a low groan rumbling from his chest, deeper than before, eyes fluttering half-shut as his head tips back for a second. then his eyes roll—just like gojo's did earlier—white peeking under dark lashes as your pussy clamps down on him again, fluttering wild and greedy from gojo's cock nudging the back of your throat. "fuuuuck," he breathes, voice rough and wrecked, hips stuttering for the first time. "okay, i get it now. i fucking get why you were making those stupid sounds, satoru. this pussy—shit—it's heaven. gripping me like it doesn't want me to leave."

gojo laughs breathlessly around a moan, fingers tightening in your hair as he watches geto's composure shatter over your shoulder. "told you, asshole. she's unreal. wait till she comes again—gonna suck your soul right out."

geto doesn't answer with words—just a rough, affectionate growl as his hands slide up your arms, grabbing your wrists and pinning them behind your back in one strong grip, arching your spine and forcing your chest out. the new angle changes everything; his cock hits deeper, harder, dragging against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids even with gojo still fucking your mouth. "hold still, princess," geto mutters against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin before he bites down lightly. "gonna fuck you proper now."

and he does—merciless. hips snapping forward faster, harder, the wet slap of his balls against your ass echoing loud in the room as he rails you standing, your body jolting forward onto gojo's cock with every thrust. you choke around gojo, "mmph— guh. . . " drool spilling down your chin in thick strings, tears streaking your cheeks from the overwhelming fullness. your pussy's making the filthiest sounds, squelching wet and loud, and geto groans like he's dying, eyes rolling again as he pounds into you.

"nngh— fuck, take it, take it," he pants, voice cracking with affection and menace. "pussy's so fucking good—milking me already. you love this, don't you? stuffed from both ends like our perfect little toy."

you can't answer properly—just muffled, cockdrunk moans around gojo, your tongue swirling sloppy and desperate because it's all you can do. gojo's hips start moving faster too, matching geto's brutal pace, fucking your throat in shallow thrusts that make your eyes water more. "yeah, she loves it," he gasps, thumb wiping a tear from your cheek even as he pushes deeper. "look at her—crying and still sucking like she needs it to breathe."

it's too much and perfect and stupidly loving, your body shaking between them as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter, pussy fluttering wild around geto, throat swallowing convulsively around gojo. you're close again—teetering on that edge they've been dancing you along all night—and they feel it, both of them groaning in unison as your body tightens.

"fuck— she's gonna come," geto grits out, thrusts turning erratic, grip on your wrists bruising now. "pussy's clamping—shit—gonna make me—"

gojo pulls out of your mouth suddenly with a wet pop, hand fisting your hair to tilt your face up as he strokes himself fast and sloppy. "wait—fuck, me too—gonna cum, baby, gonna—"

they both curse at the same time, voices overlapping in desperate, filthy harmony, "fuck, fuck, coming. . ." and geto pulls out of your pussy with a slick rush that leaves you empty and whining high in your throat. your legs finally give out, knees buckling as the sudden loss hits, but gojo's there instantly, hauling you down to the rug with strong hands under your arms until you're on your knees between them, shaky and wrecked and dripping.

gojo drops down from the bed too, both of them standing over you now—tall and flushed and gorgeous, cocks in hand as they stroke themselves fast and frantic, eyes locked on your face like you're the only thing in the world. "open your mouth, princess," gojo pants, voice sweet and mean all at once, free hand cupping your jaw to tilt your head back. "tongue out—yeahhhh, just like that. good fucking girl."

geto groans beside him, hand still pinning one of your wrists behind your back even on your knees, keeping you arched pretty for them. "gonna paint you, baby," he mutters, voice rough with affection. "deserve every drop after taking us so well."

you obey—mouth open wide, tongue lolling out obedient and desperate, eyes glassy and adoring as you look up at them. "please," you whimper, voice hoarse and small and needy. "want it—want your cum—please—"

that's all it takes. gojo comes first—high, broken moan of your name as his cock pulses, thick ropes of cum striping your face in hot, messy bursts—across your cheeks, your nose, your waiting tongue. "fuck— take it, take it all," he gasps, aiming the last spurts right into your open mouth, watching with hooded eyes as you swallow greedily.

geto follows seconds later—deep, guttural groan that sounds like it's punched out of him, hips jerking forward as he paints your face too, cum mixing with gojo's in sticky lines over your lips and chin, dripping down your neck. "shit— perfect, so perfect," he praises, voice cracking soft at the end, thumb smearing the mess across your lower lip like he's marking you.

they milk themselves dry onto you—stroking slow through the aftershocks, making sure every drop lands on your face, your tongue, your chest—until you're glazed and messy and utterly ruined, kneeling there panting with cum dripping off your chin and the biggest, dopiest smile tugging at your swollen lips.