Lil Dumby Dumb

MC, pans the camera to Sylus: My husband before he got hit by a car.

Sylus: What..? I didn't-

MC, pans the camera to herself: I haven't done it yet.

Sylus, out of frame: Babe?

The ring on your finger feels heavy. 

Not in a bad way. Just in a way that makes you very aware of its presence. There’s a weight on your finger, your favorite gem, carefully melded in gold. And in a few months, it’ll be another ring, one that matches your fiance’s. 

Fiance. 

It tastes weird in your mouth. Not unpleasant, weird. And you like it. 

“Fiance.” You whisper, staring at the ring he had slid on your finger just hours before. 

You glance at your boyfriend-now-fiance, watching as he works in the kitchen. Sleeves rolled up, apron tied around the waist, and you lean on your hand as you watch him from the couch. 

It’s silent. The only noise being him in the kitchen as he prepares dinner, and you feel it. The familiar pinch in your heart, the heavy feeling that you call love resting heavy in your chest. It invades, creeping out from your heart, to your ribs and slowly, slowly, slowly, it envelops your entire being. 

“You know.” You murmur, loud enough for him to hear. The sounds in the kitchen quiets. He doesn’t turn to you, not yet, but you hear him hum. A smile tugs on your lips, and you raise your hand up next to his figure. The ring glints under the light. “I can’t wait.”

“For what?” You hear him smile. 

He turns to face you, soft eyes, smile on his lips, and you hum. “To say ‘I do.’” 

You watch as he pauses for a brief second, before putting down whatever he was holding to round the kitchen counter to you, seated peacefully on the couch. His smile mirrors yours as he kneels in front of you. Both knees. He takes your hands in his, thumb carefully rubbing on the ring, and he raises your left hand to his lips. 

“Me too.” Your breath hitches as he looks at you over your hand, and he smiles. “I truly cannot wait for the day I can officially call you my wife.”

©ahnaiee [do not repost, copy, translate, or modify]

note. ough i want to pull for the cards but i cant i have no space im going to CRY

you don’t mean to talk so much. you never mean to. but something about being around nanami makes it hard to stop.

like the silence he keeps between you two is a kind of warmth, a quiet invitation—not a cage. he’s not the kind of man who needs to fill space with words, but with him, you feel like your words can stretch out and breathe. like they can exist without being pruned down or apologized for.

and that’s dangerous. because you’ve always been a talker.

not in the “life of the party” way, not exactly. more in the way of someone who notices things and says them before deciding if they were worth saying. you narrate your own life, muse aloud about the sky and the way your toast burned and how you once had a friend who sneezed like a kitten.

you do this with nanami while he makes tea, while he reads the paper, while he unbuttons his shirt one button too slow after a long day—

you do this even when you know he’s tired.

and one day, halfway through a story about your neighbor’s parrot learning to curse in three languages, you stop.

you stop because you realize: what if he’s only being polite?

you’re curled up on the couch beside him, his thigh warm where it brushes yours, and you freeze in the middle of the sentence.

“—and then she said he was banned from the window, which is hilarious because—”

you blink. you swallow.

“actually. never mind.”

nanami looks up from where he was folding his glasses in his hands, brow slightly furrowed. “what happened?”

“nothing. i’m just…” you shrug, tucking your feet under you. “talking too much again.”

he’s quiet. not unreadable quiet, not the kind that says you’re right, but thoughtful quiet. the kind that means he’s carefully, quietly disapproving of that thought.

“do you feel like you talk too much?” he asks.

you laugh, but it’s a little hollow. “i mean, don’t i?”

“not to me, sweetheart.”

you look over at him.

he’s leaning back against the couch, looking at you with the kind of patient sincerity that undoes your insides. the kind of gaze that doesn’t flinch or waver, even when you try to hide how self-conscious you’re suddenly feeling.

“but you’re so quiet,” you say. “and you come home from all that work, and i’m just… rambling about parrots and the weird dream i had and that weird bakery guy who always gives me the wrong pastry—”

“i like hearing about those things.” he says it simply, like it’s a fact. not a compliment. not a favor. just true. “i like knowing what your day was like. what you dreamed. what you noticed that i missed.”

your heart squeezes. “yeah, but i go on for so long sometimes.”

he smiles, soft and tired and full of something so fond it borders on worship. “you talking my ears off is the best part of my day.”

you blink. “seriously?”

“seriously.” he turns to you fully now, pressing his knee a little more firmly into yours. grounding you.

“i spend most of my day dealing with cursed spirits or paperwork. everything is bleak or loud or dangerous. then i come home, and you tell me about the bakery guy and the rude parrot and how the sun looked on the windowsill. and for a while, everything feels… fine.”

he hesitates, then adds,

“you make things feel alive again.”

you can’t speak for a second. you just stare at him, wide-eyed and a little overwhelmed, because how is this man real?

and as if sensing that you’re two seconds away from short-circuiting, nanami shifts forward and reaches out, thumb brushing your chin to tilt your face back to his.

“don’t hold back with me,” he says softly. “don’t ever think you have to shrink yourself to keep me comfortable. i want all of it. all of you.”

your throat closes a little. your hands curl into his shirt, right over the center of his chest, and you rest your forehead there, hiding your face.

“…okay,” you mumble into the fabric. “i am going to finish the parrot story. you don’t get to back out now.”

his laugh rumbles beneath your cheek.

“i wouldn’t dream of it.”

and when you start talking again, you swear his arms around you tighten a little. like he’s holding something precious.

like the sound of your voice is exactly what he’s been waiting for all day.

it’s nanami’s birthday, and he tries very hard to ignore it.

he wakes up at 7:30am like he always does, brushes his teeth in methodical circles, slicks his hair back with quiet precision. the mirror reflects a man who’s turning thirty-five and looks like he hasn’t aged since turning thirty, which sounds nice, until you remember the way stress preserves you like an ancient fossil.

you peek your head around the bathroom door. “happy birthday,” you sing, sleepy-eyed and grinning.

he softens immediately. “thank you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and lets you wrap your arms around his middle even though he’s mid-toothpaste rinse.

he tries to keep the day simple. he plans to go to work, quietly do his paperwork, review cursed object reports, and come home. no fuss. no cake. no streamers. maybe a bath. maybe you curled against his side on the couch. that would be enough.

but you have other plans.

he notices something is off when you kiss him goodbye with a suspiciously innocent little smile and say, “don’t forget to check your desk drawer when you get in.”

he’s suspicious. rightly so.

the moment he sits down in his chair, the drawer reveals its contents with dramatic flair: a small, handwritten note (in glittery gel pen, no less) that says “happy birthday, my grumpy old man 💕”, and beneath it—a handful of his favorite imported chocolates, a tiny plushie of a panda in a tie, and a very official certificate that says “world’s sexiest jujutsu sorcerer (redeemable for 1 kiss upon presentation)”.

nanami stares at it all. sighs. takes a picture. sends it to you with a simple text:

“i’m being harassed.”

you reply with:

“romanced. 🥰”

the day continues in similarly ridiculous fashion. gojo sings happy birthday, makes sure it’s off-key so nanami’s ears bleed. yuuji hugs him so hard his spine cracks. shoko gifts him a bottle of wine with a smirk. there’s confetti in his desk drawer. someone leaves a single candle taped to a can of premium coffee with a note: “don’t say we never spoil you.”

he is mildly annoyed. secretly delighted.

but the best part comes when he gets home.

the lights are off when he steps through the door.

“hello?” he calls, setting his briefcase down. “why is it dark?”

you leap out from the kitchen in a ridiculous party hat with a kazoo. “surprise!” you yell, even though he clearly heard you snickering before you jumped.

on the table: a lopsided cake you made yourself (dark chocolate ganache cake, his favorite), dinner still warm, and a bottle of wine. there are exactly two party hats. one is forcibly placed on his head.

“i told you,” he says, trying not to smile, “i didn’t want anything big.”

“this isn’t big,” you say, eyes sparkling. “this is just right.”

you feed him cake. badly. there’s frosting on his nose. he doesn’t complain. you dance with him in the kitchen, barefoot and swaying to a song playing on your phone, and when he kisses you—it’s slow, tender, full of all the quiet things he never says out loud.

when the night winds down, he opens your final gift: a small photo album you made, titled “reasons to live another 35 years”, filled with pictures of you, of the two of you, scribbled captions like “reason #12: you haven’t tried cheese fondue in switzerland yet” and “reason #28: we still haven’t raised a dog together.”

his hands tremble a little as he turns the pages. you watch him, heart tight and soft.

“you’re ridiculous,” he says quietly, but he kisses you like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

“happy birthday,” you whisper against his lips. “you’re stuck with me.”

he smiles then. thinks, it’s exactly what he wanted.

and for the first time in a long while, kento is not just grateful to be alive—

he’s very happy about it.

guys i love nanami so much this just hurts, im not ok

his hands are resting on your hips, heavy and sure, but trembling just slightly—just enough that you might think it’s the aftershocks of your rhythm. but you’ve been riding him slow for minutes now, your knees on either side of his hips, thighs aching, spine curving into the soft arch that makes his breath catch each time you grind down. it’s not a frantic fuck. it’s not desperate.

it’s the kind of movement that says i want you to feel this—each inch, each wet, sweet clench, each time your body opens around him like it knows his name.

nanami’s head is tilted back against the pillow, throat flushed, golden skin glowing in the amber haze of the bedside lamp. he hasn’t opened his eyes in a while—like if he does, the spell might break. you’re bent over him slightly, hands planted on his chest, the soft drag of your pelvis against his keeping the pace low and warm and intimate.

his breath comes in quiet gasps. not harsh, not needy. just overwhelmed. like this—this exact rhythm, your skin on his, your fingers tracing down his neck—is too much. not from lust. from love.

you notice the shift when his hands move—not to guide your hips, not to speed you up, but to pull you down, gently, into his chest. one palm flattens between your shoulder blades. the other presses at the small of your back, urging you to lean into him. you do. your bare chest presses against his, your heartbeat loud in your own ears.

his mouth finds the crook of your neck like he’s seeking shelter there. not to kiss. not to bite. he just breathes you in—deep, like you’re the only thing tethering him to this moment.

and then you feel it.

not from his breath. not from his body.

from the slow, sudden warmth that seeps into your skin.

your movement falters, just slightly. you don’t ask. not yet. your hand slides up, cradling the back of his head, fingertips threading through sweat-damp hair.

“kento…?”

he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t lift his head. he just stays there, arms wrapped around you, cock still seated deep inside you—so snug, so full, like you were made to hold him.

but the wetness spreads. soft. persistent. and your heart twists.

you shift just enough to pull back, hand slipping to his cheek, your thumb brushing gently under his eye.

his eyes are open now.

and they’re full. not just with tears, but with everything. pain. relief. awe. something ancient and breaking apart like waves finally reaching shore.

“you’re crying,” you whisper. not accusatory. just gentle. worried.

he blinks, and another tear falls. his voice, when it finally comes, is wrecked—quiet and cracked at the edges.

“i didn’t mean to,” he breathes. “i just… i don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.”

you brush your thumb over his cheek again. “nothing’s wrong.”

he exhales, jaw tightening like he’s fighting a thousand things he can’t name.

“you love me like i’m not broken,” he says softly, like he’s ashamed of the truth. “like i’m not exhausted. like i didn’t give up on myself years ago.”

you don’t speak. you just kiss him. soft. slow. with your body still wrapped around his, like you can pour all your love into him that way. like if you kiss him deep enough, he’ll finally believe you.

and he melts.

right there beneath you.

arms curling tighter around your waist, lips parting against yours, tears slipping freely down his temples now as you begin to move again—slow, slow, like the pace you started with.

like you’re telling him i’m here. i’m not letting go.

he sobs once. just once. not loud. not harsh. a small, broken thing that escapes against your shoulder, and then—

“i love you,” he chokes out. “god, i love you. i didn’t think i was allowed to have this.”

you pause, breath catching. your hips grind down, slow, deep, pressing your foreheads together.

“you are,” you whisper. “you are.”

his hands hold your face now, trembling slightly as he kisses you again, tears wetting both your cheeks. and still—you’re joined. still, you move together. no thrusting. no hurry. just the soft slide of your bodies in sync, like he’s being reborn between your thighs.

his voice cracks again.

“you’re my everything,” he whispers. “you’re the only thing that makes me feel like a man. not a weapon. not a machine. just… someone worthy.”

you cry too, then.

not loud. not messy. just tears against his skin, mouths pressed together, arms wrapped tight like if you hold each other hard enough, the world might stop spinning.

and in that room—low lit, hot skin on hot skin, your name tangled in his lips and his love spilling raw from his chest—you both stop pretending.

he’s yours.

you’re his.

and the tears? they’re just proof he finally believes it.

you talked about your husband all the time.

nanami this nanami that

“oh, my husband makes the best lunchboxes”

“he stayed up to help me with my report”

“he walks me to the station when i stay late”

you weren’t annoying about it. not really. just a little too consistent. always saying things like “he’ll pick me up after work today, we’re going to get pastries!” and showing off texts that made your coworkers tilt their heads and squint.

kento nanami sounded fake.

a little too nice. a little too attentive.

and when you tacked on the fact that he was hot — “blond, tall, glasses, kinda quiet but really handsome, you know?” — people at work started to think that maybe you were pulling everyone’s leg.

just a little.

not out of malice — no, never that — but maybe you were lonely. maybe you just needed a sweet little fantasy to get you through the day. who could blame you?

because no way someone like nanami existed. not the way you described him. it just didn’t sound real. not in this world. not in this economy.

but you never let up.

you beamed like a lovesick fool when your phone lit up with his name. you refused to make afterwork plans on fridays because that was “friday pasta night with kento.” you sighed wistfully every time someone so much as mentioned a bakery and then whispered, “kento always remembers my favorite,” like you were in some fairytale.

you weren’t smug about it either. it was just… relentless. like you were trying to manifest it into reality.

and maybe it would’ve stayed harmless water cooler gossip — “hey, what do you think her husband actually looks like?” or “maybe it’s just her roommate who makes all the food?” — if you hadn’t mentioned that he’d be picking you up from work one day soon.

“he’s on leave,” you’d said, head bent over a spreadsheet, smiling to yourself. “wants to take me out for dinner. he’ll be here early. maybe you’ll see him.”

you said it innocently. with that dreamy lilt you always got when his name was on your tongue.

but that set off everyone.

bets were placed. theories floated. some said he’d never show. others swore they’d catch you whispering to your reflection in the hallway like a crazy person. one guy from accounting said he saw you with a facetime open to a picture of a k-pop idol and he swore it was nanami. it was all harmless. mostly.

people just didn’t believe it.

until the elevator doors slid open.

and nanami stepped out.

he wore a tan wool coat, fitted slacks, button-up half undone at the throat — all that fine-tuned, elegant masculinity that seemed sculpted into place. hair slicked back, wristwatch glinting, and an expression that was all quiet restraint, the kind that turned heads on instinct.

and his eyes — sharp, deep, familiar — scanned the room once, then softened the moment he saw you.

“you ready, sweetheart?” he asked.

your coworkers went silent.

someone dropped their pen.

you lit up instantly. grinned, grabbed your bag, waved at everyone with a cheery, “see you tomorrow!” like this wasn’t the most monumental moment of vindication in the history of your office.

nanami took your coat from you before you even shrugged it off fully. guided you with a hand on the small of your back. leaned in and brushed a kiss to your temple so naturally that your coworker audibly gasped.

he glanced up then. noticed the sea of frozen faces.

“good evening,” he said politely, like he didn’t just obliterate the collective doubt of your entire floor with one gentle peck.

you left with him. smiling, chatting, looping your arm through his as he opened the door and held it for you.

and behind you — a stunned, stunned silence.

“…so,” someone whispered, finally. “that was nanami?”

“the nanami?” another croaked.

“that man’s real?”

“she wasn’t even exaggerating,” came the hollow, awe-struck reply. “she was under-selling him.”

and in the elevator, nanami turned to you and smiled, faint but amused. “you were right,” he murmured, “they really didn’t believe i existed.”

you snorted and leaned into his side. “i told you. now they’ll think i made you in a lab.”

“i wouldn’t be bothered by that,” he said, tugging you closer, kissing your knuckles as the doors closed. “you did a perfect job, if so.”