Kicomi🩷

The estate itself was vast. Larger than some villages, with courtyards filled with carefully arranged stones, pavilions carved from ancient wood, and hallways that stretched for too long . Yet despite its size, it offered no refuge.

Every doorway had a guard stationed beside it, eyes trained straight ahead yet always, always aware of you. The maids moved quickly, quietly, their soft slippers whispering across the floor. New faces replaced old ones every few months, sometimes every few weeks. You were not allowed to know their names. You were not allowed to speak more than a handful of words to them, and they were not allowed to talk to you.

Connection, the Elders believed, led to weakness. Attachment muddied the threads. Familiarity was a danger they could not afford. Everyone around you existed only in passing, present just long enough to remind you how quickly they would be removed.

You knew better than to measure your days. Meals arrived in delicate porcelain bowls — always small, never enough to fill you, but always enough to keep you upright. Too much food, they warned, would dull your clarity. Too much sleep, they insisted, would cloud your visions. So your nights were limited to five hours, your body trained to rise before it wished to, your mind pulled awake before dreams could take root.

There was no proof for these claims. They never offered any, never needed any. Their authority was its own evidence. Their fear of losing control masqueraded easily as divine instruction. And you obeyed — not because you believed them, but because disobedience had no meaning here. There was nowhere to run and there was no one to run to.

Today, like every day, you knelt in the center of the inner chamber, the polished blackwood floor reflecting your stillness back at you, if only you could see it. Your posture was perfect, carved into your bones after years of training, correction, and silent expectations. Your palms rested lightly on your knees. Your head bowed just enough to appear reverent but not so much that it suggested sleep. Even your breathing was measured — quiet, shallow, intentional. You had not chosen any part of this posture. It lived in you now the way instinct lived in animals. To resist it would be like resisting your heartbeat.

Then the threads came. Your only guiding light in the vast expanse of your sightless mind. Crimson filaments unfurled across your vision, shimmering violently as they tangled themselves through the air. They looped around the people you knew. The guards lining the walls, the maids in the back, the Elders seated on their cushions. Each thread pulsed with secrets, consequences, and endings. You saw the guard whose daughter would not survive the winter, a tiny thread fraying at the end. You saw the maid destined to fall in love with a man who would leave her for a more suitable bride. You saw the Elder whose ceremonial robes masked a heart that would betray him in six years, collapsing him mid-sentence in a room not unlike this one. Every destiny hummed with its own quiet violence, and you saw it all — always, relentlessly, without permission or pause.

But nothing showed on your face. Years of deprivation and containment had carved a stillness into you deeper than obedience. Your calmness was admired, it as a sign of divine poise, but you knew better. It was not calm. It was hollow emptiness. The result of living too long in a world where every warmth was rationed, every comfort withheld, every human connection severed before it could blossom. The Elders thought your composure meant power. In truth, it meant endurance.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between the rituals and the watchful eyes, your mind wandered toward the parents you barely remembered. Not with longing, longing requires memory, and yours had been taken from you too early for that. You were too young when you were taken for grief to fester. At first you had wondered about them often: what they were doing, whether they still asked for you, about you, whether they blamed themselves or the sky or the gods for your gift and in turn you being taken away, or if they even remembered you at all. But years had stretched that wondering thin. Now your thoughts of them were soft, occasional, almost accidental.

You didn’t miss them. Maybe once you had, for a small moment in your earliest days here, but not now. Missing requires something to hold onto. The Elders had made sure you never held anything long enough to lose it.

They always said your gift made you precious. Sacred. Chosen. But as you knelt in that suffocating chamber with fate slicing through your vision in threads of red light, you saw the truth with painful clarity: precious things are not cherished here. They are kept. Protected. Displayed.

And never freed.

The only semblance of control was your smile. It was a small, placid curve of your lips, the one they called the "seer's smile." It unnerved them, which was its purpose. Let them think you were privy to a divine joke. It was better than them knowing the truth, that you were drowning in a sea of their collective destinies, and the only thing keeping you afloat was the secret you clutched to your chest like a shard of ice.

A voice cut through the threads, brittle with the authority of the aged. It was Gakuganji, his thread a stubborn, gnarled thing, tangled with the fates of so many he had condemned.

“The vessel, Yuji Itadori. His condition. We require a reading.”

It was not a request. It was a command. They did not ask you for your opinion, your comfort, or your will. They presented a subject, and you were to trace the threads emanating from that name, from that concept, and report on their strength, their direction, their inevitable end.

✮✮✮

So here you were again — set in the center of the Elders’ assembly, kneeling while their circle tightened around you, awaiting the reading they had already decided you would give.

You inclined your head slightly, a gesture of acquiescence. You did not need to be told who Yuji Itadori was. His thread had blazed into your perception months ago, a terrifying, brilliant thing, intertwined with the ancient, monstrous thread of Sukuna. It was a knot of such catastrophic potential that looking at it directly felt like staring into the sun. You had learned to observe it from the periphery, like one watches a coming storm through shuttered windows.

You reached for it now. In the tapestry of your mind, you let your consciousness drift toward that violent, pulsing nexus. The threads were a mess of conflict, Sukuna’s dark, malevolent strand trying to choke out Yuji’s brighter, more resilient one. But the boy’s thread was stronger than it appeared. It bent, but it did not break. You followed its path, seeing the connections he was making, the bonds forming with the other, fainter threads — a dark-haired boy with fierce loyalty, a brown-haired girl with a quiet strength. But there was another thread, brightest of them all, of any you had ever seen — Gojo Satoru’s, a blinding, chaotic silver-blue, wrapped around Yuji’s like a shield.

“The vessel is stable,” you said, your voice soft but clear, carrying in the hushed room. It was the voice they expected — ethereal yet detached. “The King of Curses’ influence is contained, for now. The boy’s spirit is…uncommonly resilient. His thread is anchored by the bonds he is forming.”

“For how long?” another Elder, a woman with a voice like scraping stone, interjected. “When will Sukuna break free? When will he overpower the boy?”

You let your smile widen a fraction, just enough to hear the faint, nervous intake of breath from one of the younger attendants. “The threads of a being like Sukuna are not so easily read. They are old, and they carry the weight of too many possible ends. To ask for a specific date is to ask when a mountain will choose to crumble. It will happen when it chooses to.”

It was a non-answer, wrapped in the language of prophecy. They hated it, but they accepted it. The unknown was a part of their doctrine; it was why they needed you. You were their flashlight in the dark, and they could never quite be sure if you were illuminating the path or leading them toward a cliff.

The council murmured amongst themselves, a low, discordant hum of threads brushing against one another. You tuned them out, letting your awareness drift from the violent knot of Yuji Itadori. It was then, in the relative calm, that you felt it. Or rather, you felt him.

Gojo Satoru.

His thread was unlike any other. It didn’t simply exist in the tapestry; it seemed to warp it, to bend the rules of the loom itself. It was a shimmering, mercurial ribbon of pure, untamed power, constantly in motion. It never settled into a single, predictable path. One moment it pointed toward a future of cataclysmic destruction, the next toward one of serene, almost boring peace. It was the only thread that felt… alive. Conscious. As if it knew it was being watched and was delighted in being unpredictable.

His thread was familiar. In the endless map of possibilities, one of them showed his path intertwined with yours. It was the only thread that ever led to a place that wasn't here. A place without stone walls and silent maids. A place where the air didn't smell of incense and fear. In every variation, in every possible future you had ever glimpsed for yourself, his thread was the only constant that ever led to freedom. It was your north star, your secret compass. And it was currently a distant, brilliant flicker on the edge of your perception.

A plan, cold and desperate and years in the making, crystallized in your mind. This was it — it was a gamble of monstrous proportions. To tie your fate to his, you had to first get his attention. And the only thing that could possibly get the attention of Gojo Satoru was a prophecy that placed him squarely at the center of everything.

The Elders were finishing their deliberations about the vessel. You knew this audience was nearly over. You would be returned to your estate, for another span of days or weeks in silent isolation, waiting for the next summons. The moment was slipping away.

You took a slow, silent breath, feeling the weight of the lie you were about to tell settle in your bones. It had to be grand. It had to be terrifying. It had to be something they could not ignore.

As Gakuganji began to speak the formal words of dismissal, you lifted your head. Your silver eyes, unseeing yet all-seeing, seemed to look through the dais, through the walls, to something far beyond.

“The Honored One shall rise not as their savior, but as the blade that severs their reign.”

Your voice was no longer a soft murmur. It rang out, clear and resonant, filling the chamber with an unnatural force. It was the voice you used only for True Prophecy, the one that felt like it was being pulled from a place deep within your soul, a place even you could not fully access.

The silence that fell was absolute. It was the silence of a tomb.

You could feel the shock radiating from the Elders, a psychic tremor that shook the very threads around them. Their own destinies, once so assured and complacent, suddenly quivered with new, terrifying possibilities.

You continued, each word a hammer blow. “The Elders will fall, not by curse, but by the hand they once revered.”

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, chaos.

“What is the meaning of this?” Gakuganji’s voice was a whip-crack, all pretense of calm gone. “Who gave you the permission to speak such filth?”

“Is this a true seeing?” the woman Elder demanded, her thread vibrating with a frantic, fearful energy. “Answer me, Seer!”

You did not answer them. You simply lowered your head, the ghost of that infuriating, serene smile still playing on your lips. Inside, your heart was a wild, trapped bird beating against your ribs. You had done it. You had thrown the stone. Now, you could only wait for the ripples to reach him.

The reaction was swift and severe. You were taken to a more secure wing of your estate, your usual maids and gaurds replaced by four silent, grim-faced sorcerers whose threads were thick with the intent to guard and, if necessary, to kill. The atmosphere around you changed from one of reverent imprisonment to one of active, paranoid containment.

They interrogated you for hours, their questions sharp and desperate.

“What did you see? What was the catalyst? How does he plan to do this?”

To each question, you gave the same, maddening response. “I see only the threads. I have spoken what they revealed.”

It was the truth, in its own way. You had seen his thread, and you had chosen to interpret it in the most inflammatory way possible. The lie was in the intent, not the vision.

Days bled into one another. The isolation became more profound. The food brought to you was tasted by a guard first. The air in your new enclosed chamber was colder, the threads of the people around you taut with fear and suspicion. You had upended their world with a single, calculated sentence.

And then, you felt it.

A shift in the atmosphere, a change in the pressure of the world. It was a feeling like the air before a lightning strike — crackling, electric, alive. The chaotic, silver-blue thread you had been waiting for, the one that was your only hope, was suddenly no longer on the periphery of your perception.

It was here.

It was close.

A slow, genuine smile touched your lips for the first time in years. It was not the placid oracle’s smile. It was the sharp, fierce smile of a prisoner who has just heard the first pick strike the lock.

The stone had been thrown. The ripples had reached him.

Gojo Satoru had come.

✮✮✮

The sound of the main gate shuddering on its ancient iron hinges was a thunderclap in the delicate silence of your prison. It was not the quiet, respectful slide of the door you were used to, but a violent, protesting groan of wood and metal that sent a physical vibration through the floorboards beneath your knees. The threads of the four guarding sorcerers, which had been a steady, vigilant hum, suddenly flared into sharp, panicked spikes of crimson. You could feel their postures stiffen, even though inside the chamber, their hands flying to the hilts of their weapons. The air, once thick with incense and stagnation, was now ripped apart by a raw, incoming breeze that smelled of cold night and distant, chaotic energy.

You did not move from your kneeling position in the center of the room. You simply tilted your head, at the sound of the door to your chamber opening, your focus turning inward to the brilliant, mercurial thread that had just exploded into the heart of your perception. It was like a comet had streaked into the room, its light so intense it momentarily dimmed all the other threads around you. Gojo Satoru.

“This is a restricted sanctum!” one of the guards barked from outside the room, his voice strained with a fear he tried to mask with authority. “You cannot enter, Gojo-sama!”

“Can’t I?” Came a voice from the doorway. The voice that answered was a lazy, melodic drawl, utterly at odds with the tension saturating the air. It was a voice that knew its own power, that treated obstacles like amusing suggestions. “See, I heard a little rumor. A really, really interesting one. And I figured, who better to ask for clarification than the source herself?”

You could trace his movement through the threads. He didn't walk so much as he flowed, his chaotic silver-blue strand cutting a swath through the guarded space as if the sorcerers were nothing more than reeds in water. Their threads strained, pulsing with the urge to act, to block him, but they were frozen — not by a technique, but by the sheer, overwhelming pressure of his presence. He was a force of nature, and they were just men.

He turned to you after you heard a distinct thud of the door locking and stopped a few feet from you. You could feel the distortion his existence created in the tapestry of fate, a localized whirlpool where probabilities bled and twisted. For the first time in your life, the threads directly around another person were not just unclear, they were actively unreadable.

“So,” he said, his tone conversational, as if you both were sharing a pot of tea. “You’re the famous Seer. The one who’s been causing my bosses so much heartburn. You’re a lot… smaller than I expected.”

You kept your head bowed, your silver eyes fixed on the space where his feet would be. You could see the faint, shimmering ends of the threads that connected to the floor, the air, the very molecules around him, all of them bending toward his gravity. “Gojo Satoru,” you said, your voice soft, betraying none of the frantic calculation churning inside you. “The Strongest.”

“That’s what they tell me.” He took another step closer. You could still feel the guards’ threads shiver with panic though the door. “Now, about this prophecy of yours. Care to elaborate? ‘The blade that severs their reign’ has a certain dramatic flair, I’ll give you that. But it’s a little light on details, don’t you think?”

“The threads do not lie,” you recited, the words a familiar, hollow shield. “They reveal only what is woven.”

“Uh-huh.” He sounded deeply unimpressed. You heard a faint rustle of fabric, the creak of a floorboard as he shifted his weight. You imagined him crossing his arms, his head cocked to the side, those impossible eyes — the ones you could not see but could feel the weight of — boring into you from behind his blindfold. “See, here’s the thing. I have plans. Big, complicated, system-overhauling plans. And nowhere in my five-, ten-, or even twenty-year projection does ‘killing the Elders’ feature. It’s messy. It’s inefficient. It creates a power vacuum that annoying little curses just love to fill. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little skeptical about this particular bit of destiny.”

This was the moment. This was the crack in the door you had created with your lie. You had to wedge it open.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted your head. You let your unfocused gaze travel upward, past the shimmering chaos of his own thread, as if you were looking at something just beyond his shoulder, something only you could perceive. You allowed your serene smile to return, the one that hinted at unbearable knowledge.

“Your plans are threads, just like any other,” you said, your voice dropping to a near-whisper, forcing him to listen closely. “They are subject to change, to snap, to be rewoven by a stronger hand. You see a path of reform. The threads see a catalyst. You believe your will is your own. The threads whisper that it is merely a current in a larger river.”

You paused, letting the words hang in the charged air. You could feel his attention sharpen, the lazy amusement receding, replaced by a focused, razor-edged curiosity. You had insulted his intelligence, his agency, the very core of his being. And for a man who understood everything, the one thing he could not tolerate was being told he was wrong about his own mind.

“Is that so?” His voice had lost its playful edge. It was flat, cool. Dangerous. “And I suppose this ‘larger river’ is you?”

“I am merely the one who reads the current,” you replied, bowing your head again, a picture of false humility. “I do not control its flow.”

He was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the frantic beating of your own heart. You were playing with fire of the most profound kind. You were manipulating the most powerful, most intelligent man you would ever encounter, and the slightest misstep would see you not just returned to your cage, but utterly annihilated.

“They’re moving you,” he stated abruptly, changing tack. “Did you know that? The Elders. You’ve scared them so badly they’re building a new cage for you. Deeper underground. More seals. They’re even talking about putting you in a permanent state of suspended animation, only waking you for prophecies. A living, breathing tool to be used and stored.”

A cold dread, sharp and immediate, pierced through your carefully constructed calm. This was a possibility you had not foreseen. A thread you had missed in your single-minded focus on him. Suspended animation. A fate worse than death. An eternity of silent, conscious darkness, with only the threads of your own frozen demise for company. Your plan, your one desperate gamble for freedom, would be for nothing.

You could not stop the minute tremor that ran through your hands, folded in your lap. It was a tiny crack in your seer’s facade, but you knew a man like him would not have missed it.

“I see,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” Gojo said, and you could hear the smirk return to his voice, laced with a new, calculating interest. “I bet you do.”

He took a step back, and the oppressive weight of his direct attention lessened by a fraction. “Well, this has been enlightening. Truly. You’ve given me a lot to think about. Mostly about how incredibly annoying it is to have my future narrated by a blind girl who only speaks in riddles.”

He was leaving. Desperation, cold and sharp, clawed at your throat. You had to say something, do something, to keep him engaged, to make yourself valuable enough that he would intervene before the Elders could enact their new plan.

“Your student,” you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Yuji Itadori.”

Gojo’s thread, which had already begun to recede, stilled. “What about him?”

You reached for the violent, brilliant knot of Yuji’s fate, the one you had examined for the Elders. You focused on the points where Sukuna’s dark thread pressed against the boy’s light, seeing the specific, grinding points of conflict. “The King of Curses… he tests the edges of his cage. Not with brute force, but with patience. He whispers in the spaces between heartbeats. There is a moment, soon, in a place of reflection… a window, overlooking water… where the boy’s resolve will be tested. Sukuna will offer him a truth wrapped in a memory. The outcome… is a fraying thread.”

It was a real prophecy. The first completely true, unsolicited one you had given in years. You were giving him actionable intelligence, a piece of the future he genuinely cared about. You were proving your worth, not as a threat, but as a potential asset.

The silence from Gojo was different this time. It was thoughtful, heavy. You had given him a puzzle, a threat to his student, and in doing so, you had made yourself infinitely more interesting than a mere political problem.

“A place of reflection, huh?” he mused. “Noted.”

You heard the soft crunch of his footsteps on the tatami as he turned to leave. He opened the locked door, paused, and his final words were not for the guards, but for you, spoken in a tone that was neither friendly nor hostile, but held a promise of further scrutiny.

“Looks like I’ll be seeing you around, Seer.”

The door did not slam. It simply shut with a definitive, quiet click. The chaotic silver-blue thread receded from your immediate perception, but it did not vanish entirely. It lingered on the edge of your awareness, a watchful, unpredictable star.

The four guards let out a collective, shaky breath, their threads slowly returning to a baseline of vigilant anxiety, now tinged with a new kind of fear. They had just let two forces, they could only pry to understand, have a confrontation, and they didn't stop it.

You remained kneeling, your body trembling with the aftershocks of the encounter. You had done it. You had drawn his ire, his curiosity, and perhaps, a sliver of his strategic interest. You had planted a seed. The lie was now a living thing in the world, growing in the soil of his mind.

But as the cold dread of the Elders’ new plans settled back into your bones, you realized the stakes had just been raised immeasurably. You were no longer just a prisoner trying to escape. You were a player in a game with Gojo Satoru, and you had just made your opening move with a lie that could destroy you both.

The first thread of your gambit had been woven. And all you could do now was wait, and hope it was strong enough to hold.

Author's Note (pt 2) — Hope you liked it <3

I am open to receiving constructive criticism as long as you are nice about it and just any reviews in general, would be really helpful <3

This fic will be a series, so comment to be added to the taglist.

Message me if you want someone to talk to 🫶🏻

And it rattles them more than any tantrum ever could.

One of the men — the eldest, his skin stretched thin and saggy, stops in his tracks. He has a son your age. Had, anyway. He left the boy behind as a necessary sacrifice before the Tanuma purge turned snow into blood.

“Why is she smiling?” he mutters, almost to himself.

“I’m smiling because I already saw this coming.” your voice light and airy, like bells caught on the wind.

The old one freezes. “How long have you known?”

You tilt your head, a slow, fluid motion, as though listening to something only you can hear.

“Since the thread broke,” you whisper, voice like silk unraveling in still water. “The one between me and my mother and father. It snapped — sharp and fraying. When love turned to grief. I saw it rise, in the air. A fracture. A wound. A crack across the sky where fate bled through.”

Your smile doesn’t waver. “And I knew then… what was coming could not be undone.”

A silence falls. Cold. Dreadful.

Fate Threads.

They realize what you are.

A prophecy made years ago. A cursed seer. A divine aberration. You don’t see the past or present. You see what matters most. How time fractures into consequence. How decisions tangle and tighten, like cords pulling a thousand ways toward the inevitable.

One path. One truth. No escape.

They’ve waited lifetimes for you. To keep you. To use you for their gain.

They have plenty names for you.

Shinra-no-miko.

Oracle of the Scarlet.

Fate’s Marionette.

But your mother called you Y/N. Her little girl.

And she screamed.

Hers was the only scream heard that day while your father couldn't even turn back to watch you leave.

They didn’t let you say goodbye. Didn’t let you speak again until you were beneath the bone-carved ceiling of Jujutsu High’s oldest sanctum, where spells etched deeper than memory, watched you from stone.

You sit in the temple doorway like you’ve done it a thousand times, legs folded like a priestess, posture rehearsed even though you've never been here before. Dirt speckles your white yukata. Leaves cling to your tangled hair. But your face... your face is calm. At peace. As if you were waiting.

And your eyes.

They don’t need covering like the cursed ones. No blindfold. No gauze. No ceremonial mask. Just pale silver, almost glowing in the dusk, like looking up at the moon through tattered clouds.

And there, in that cold, airless hush, they asked:

“What do you see?”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you lift your face to the unseen, head tilted slightly, eyes unfocused, as if the question was not meant for you at all, but for something higher. Something watching just beyond their reach.

Then you lifted one hand and pointed south. Toward the corner where the eldest councilman had sat on his woven mat for decades.

“You die in thirty-three days,” you whispered. “Your tea is poisoned. By a disciple you failed to protect. His anger is bitter like clove.”

A pause, sharp and horrified.

“Why would you say that?” another councilman hissed, as if your words had turned to ash in his mouth.

You only offered a small shrug, your voice calm, almost amused. “Because you asked.”

Silence followed — heavy and unnatural. A stillness bloated with breath, dread, and the sting of things foretold.

By morning, the disciple was dead. A quiet execution. Swift, without ceremony. They called it justice, though doubt lingered in their eyes. They weren’t sure whether to believe you, but caution, they decided, was safer than regret.

And yet — thirty-three days later, the councilman sipped his tea and never rose again.

He had brewed it himself, still cautious. From the same pouch.

They blamed the leaves. They blamed you.

But from that day forward, they never dared ask you a question so directly again.

✮✮✮

They kept you behind sliding doors that never opened from inside. In gardens without wind. Your world narrowed to sacred threads, gleaming and drawn taut through time. Days passed in silent footsteps, yours and the maids, kept only to keep you alive — not company, in whispered mantras. They fed you in fragments, afraid too much would dull your gift. Sleep, too, was rationed. Never enough to dream. Only shadowed prayers.

But you kept smiling.

Because somewhere, pulsing in your veins like a stubborn ember, you knew: Your fate wasn’t sealed. Not yet.

One thread glowed brighter than all the rest.

Wild. Unwritten. Shifting every time you tried to follow it.

You didn’t know his name.

But you knew one thing...

He was the only thread that could ever lead you out. The only one you wouldn’t want to cut. The only one you’d never lie to.

Even if it killed you.

Author's Note (pt 2) — Hope you liked it <3

I am open to receiving constructive criticism as long as you are nice about it and just any reviews in general, would be really helpful <3

This fic will be a series, so comment to be added to the taglist.

“There’s my wife,” he said, that low rasp in his voice already lighting a heat under your skin. You loved that voice. The one he used only at home.

You smiled up at him, fingers reaching to smooth down the strands of his hair falling across his forehead. While his hand circled your waist. “Welcome home, Kento.”

He leaned in and kissed you. Soft, at first. Familiar. Lips pressing against yours like punctuation to a long day. Then he deepened it just a little, tongue brushing yours, fingers curling around your waist.

You melted into his chest, breath catching when he pulled back and murmured, “Something smells good.”

“I made Chicken katsu with shredded cabbage,” you said, face warm, “and the lentil soup your mom gave me the recipe for, last dinner. Thought I'd finally take a shot at it.”

“Why don’t you go wash up, hm? Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll have everything served by the time you’re back.”

✮✮✮

They sat across from each other like always, legs brushing under the table, eyes soft, the comfort between them built on routine and affection.

“How was brunch with Mom?” he asked, lazily swirling the red wine you both always shared with dinner before taking a slow sip. His chin rested in his palm, posture relaxed, eyes on you with quiet curiosity, the kind that came when the day was finally behind him and he could just... be.

“She kept asking when we’re giving her grandkids,” you said with a soft laugh, cutting a bite sized price of the chicken.

He chuckled. “Of course she did. And you told her?”

“That I’m still selfishly in my housewife era,” you said with a grin, tilting your head, “and that we’d think about it seriously once you wrap up that overseas project in 6 months, you’ve been drowning in deadlines and late-night calls, so it’s not exactly the best time right now. But mostly the first part.”

“You’re in your spoiled era,” he teased, nudging your foot gently under the table before leaning back with a soft smile. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dinner was cozy. Familiar. You told him about how his mother had complimented your new bracelet, that he had gotten for you a month ago at his last business trip in Geneva. He told you about a new acquisition in Singapore and how the deal had finally gone through after a month straight of negotiations.

“Oh, and,” he said casually between bites, “I booked us a table at Mirabelle next Friday. 8:30.”

Your wine glass paused mid-air. “Anniversary dinner?”

He nodded.

“Since the trip’s not happening anytime soon…”

Anniversaries were usually marked with plane tickets, quiet stays in lake towns or coastal cities, just the two of you. But this huge overseas project had put all that on pause, indefinitely.

You offered him a soft smile. “Mirabelle sounds perfect, Kento.” Then with eyes glinting with amusement, you added “You really know how to romance a woman.”

He glanced over, that quiet look in his eyes again soft, steady, entertained. “Only one I care to.”

“And I figured,” he added, leaning back in his chair, “you’d want to go shopping for an outfit.”

You beamed. “You know me so well.”

His gaze was warm and unwavering, “I take my role as your husband very very seriously.”

✮✮✮

Later, after dishes were done and you’d both showered and curled up under your silken sheets.

You in a soft pink silk nightgown that barely reached mid-thigh, his favorite one, because it was technically modest but clung just enough to drive him mad.

Nanami was already settled in for the night — shirtless, pajama pants low on his hips, reading glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed through the final email of the day.

You lay beside him, aimlessly scrolling through TikTok, thumb pausing only to impulsively buy a tiny ceramic frog planter you absolutely didn’t need, but needed.

Once he shut the laptop with and put it down a soft thud, he turned to you, voice low and unhurried. “You tired?” he murmured, one leg lazily sliding between yours beneath the sheets.

You turned to set your phone down on the bedside table, then rolled back to face him. “Not really.” You said as you shook your head.

Kento's gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, his fingers brushing along your cheek before his thumb tugged lightly at your bottom lip. His glasses were still perched on his nose, catching the warm bedside light, but his expression had shifted, like the weight of want had finally settled on his face. His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly, focused, like he’d just made up his mind about exactly what he was going to do to you. And that slight shy smile on your face told him you knew too.

His thumb lingered at your mouth for a second longer before he murmured, voice low and smooth, “You okay with this, sweetheart?”

You looked up at him, your voice quiet but certain. “Yeah.” And that was all he needed.

Kento reached up first, slipping his glasses off with one hand and setting them on the nightstand without taking his eyes off you. Then he leaned in, shifting until your back hit the mattress, his body covering yours, pinning your wrists to the sheets with ease in one fluid motion. His other hand slid around the side of your neck as he kissed you — hard. There was no hesitation. His tongue pushed into your mouth like it belonged there, like he was reminding you exactly who you belonged to. It was messy, deep, and hungry. All heat and possession.

His dominance was effortless. Not performative. It was who he was. At work, in life, in bed. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t bark orders. He simply commanded.

And you loved every second of it.

His hand stayed curled around your neck, thumb tilting your chin up as he deepened the kiss, if that was even possible. You gasped into his mouth when his knee pressed between your legs, forcing them apart. A soft, desperate sound that had him grinning against your lips.

He leaned back just enough to look at you properly, eyes sweeping over your flushed face, the curve of your breasts under the silk, your thighs rubbing together like you couldn’t help it.

His hand slid down your neck, over your chest, pausing at the swell of your breast beneath the thin silk. His palm flattened there, thumb brushing lazily over your nipple, already hard beneath the fabric.

His mouth was already on your collarbone, lingering there and leaving light kisses in his wake. Then you felt his teeth, tugging your nightgown strap off your shoulder, slow and deliberate. His lips followed right after, warm and open as they trailed down your, now, fully exposed neck. You couldn’t help but arch into him, breath catching when he sank his teeth gently in the spot just below your ear, Then he sucked the same spot, hard enough to leave a mark.

Kento sat up just enough to tug your nightgown down your chest, exposing your breasts to the cool air and to the weight of his stare. His eyes lingered for a moment before he dipped his head, mouth closing around one nipple. He sucked slow, firm, tongue dragging over the sensitive skin while his free hand moved to your other breast. The same hand that had been pinning yours to the sheets now tugged and twisted at the other bud, rough and steady.

Your back arched off the bed, one hand flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands, and tugging on it. He groaned into your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest, making your thighs clench around his waist. You felt how hard he already was, the thick press of him against your inner thigh, still caged behind the cotton of his pajama pants.

He kept his hand firm on your stomach to keep you still while his mouth descended, slow but filthy.

Kento kissed down your stomach, taking the silk along with. Letting his tongue drag slowly over your navel, his hands sliding beneath your ass to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. His voice dropped lower, almost with an edge to it, “Been thinkin’ about this all fucking day.”

Your thighs trembled when he spread them. He pushed your nightgown down your legs and along with your panties one smooth motion, leaving you bare for his eyes only. His grip was firm, near bruising, as he pinned your knees wide apart. His head dipped, tongue flattening and dragging up your folds in one deep, slow stroke.

You cried out, back arching violently off the bed as he groaned into you.

He was so messy and wet with it. Tongue and lips sucking hard on your clit as you made the prettiest sounds for him, one had gripping the sheets while the other pulled his hair. His arms hooked around your thighs, locking you in place, not letting you close your legs even an inch. You were shaking before he even slipped a finger in.

One thick finger, then two, pressing in deep, curling right against that spot that had you gasping, squirming but his mouth didn’t stop. He groaned every time you clenched around his fingers like it turned him on more than anything.

“Squeeze me like that again,” he grunted into your cunt.

You broke on his tongue. Loud and messy, your back arched off the bed almost in a sitting position. But he didn’t stop, not even after the orgasm ripped through you like fire. He kept eating you like he needed it to breathe, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

By the time he finally pulled back, lips shiny with you, eyes blown dark with lust, you were panting and your chest heaving.

He sat back on his knees just long enough to tug his pajama pants down his hips, cock heavy and hard against his stomach, already leaking. The familiar sight made your breath hitch, thighs instinctively trying to press together but his hand was there, keeping you from it.

He leaned over you again, fisting his cock once, dragging it through your soaked folds with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, from the orgasm right before.

You were trying to grind up against him, but he slapped your thigh. “Stay still.” Making you whimpered in a low voice.

Then without warning, he pushed in.

Your gasp broke into a strangled moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottomed out in one long, hard thrust.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving. His cock stretched you open so perfectly, so full, you could feel every inch of him pressing against your walls. Your legs tried to wrap around his waist instinctively, but he grabbed one thigh and shoved it back down to the bed, holding you wide.

“You take me so well every time,” he groaned, hips pulling back just enough to slam forward again, deep and mean. “Like you were fucking made for me.”

You sobbed something incoherent, clutching at his biceps, nails digging into his skin. Every thrust was rough, perfectly timed, angled to hit that spot that had your eyes rolling back. The sound of skin slapping echoed through the room, your wetness obscene as he dragged out and slammed back in again and again. Filthy and raw.

He bent lower, one arm sliding under your lower back, lifting your hips off the bed so he could get deeper. And he did, the next thrust punched a cry out of you.

“Kento—fuck—!”

He just grunted in response, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucked into you.

His hand found your throat, not squeezing, just holding, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you.

“You like that?” he rasped. “My perfect little wife—”

“Yes,” you gasped, back arching as your orgasm built again, fast and blinding. “Kento, please—please, I’m close—”

“Touch yourself,” he groaned. “Rub your clit for me, baby.”

Your fingers reached between your thighs, circling your swollen bud like he taught you, gasping louder with every thrust.

“That’s it...,” he praised, hips stuttering as he got close. “Gonna come for me?”

“Y-Yes, I’m—I’m—!”

Your orgasm hit you like lightning. Your entire body shuddering under him as you clenched hard around his cock.

Kento groaned, both hands now gripping your hips. “Fuck—that’s it, good fucking girl—”

He kissing you hard before adjusting thrusts to be slower and messier, until his own orgasm spilled deep inside you.

He didn’t pull out.

Just collapsed on top of you, lips pressed to your shoulder, bodies sweaty and tangled.

After a long silence, of you both catching your breaths, he whispered, “Happy anniversary, baby.”

You blinked through the haze, half-laughing. “It’s not for another week.”

“I know. But you’re mine every night. Might as well celebrate early.”

You giggled, still panting. “You’re such a sap.”

He grinned into your neck. “Only for my wife.”

After a few more breaths and little kisses. He cleaned himself up, got dressed and left the bed for warm towels.

He cleaned you gently, lifting your hips with practiced ease, murmuring soft apologies every time you flinched from sensitivity.

Once you were clean, he helped you into your nightgown again, carried you to the bathroom to help you pee, and brought you a water to drink along with two squares of dark chocolate and your favorite strawberry lip balm he knew you always reached for before bed.

You both curled into bed again, your face tucked into his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm.

“You were perfect,” he said with a forehead kiss.

You smiled sleepily, too tired to respond.

He kissed you one last time and whispered, “Happy almost anniversary, sweetheart. I can’t wait to celebrate everything we’ve built together.”

✮✮✮

Monday came with sun-drenched skies, soft jazz on the car stereo, and the promise of retail therapy.

You were wearing your favorite blue watercolor mini dress, a floaty, ruffled piece with soft blue and grey tones that was also slightly floral. It cinched just right at the waist, flowed around your legs like petals. Pair that with your white heels, soft curls, and a subtle glossy lip, and you looked ready to shop.

The shopping trip was meant to be simple — pick out a new dress for your upcoming anniversary dinner, maybe look for a few new releases accessories. Instead, it evolved into a full afternoon affair with your three closest friends: Lucy, Charlotte, and Ellie.

All of them were born and married into wealth and status, each with their own version of "perfect."

Lucy was the first to become a mom to two wild but adorable boys, aged five and two. She was effortlessly charismatic and she always had the last word.

Charlotte ran the NGO where you volunteered twice a month. Passionate and blunt to a fault, she never held back from what was on her mind but her heart was always in the right place.

Ellie was the youngest, a year younger than you and had recently gotten married, still in that post honeymoon bliss, who was still in that “every surface is an opportunity” phase of marriage. British, with a dry wit and that effortless charm only she seemed to have.

You stood in front of the boutique’s full-length mirror, smoothing the rich velvet of the deep red dress over your waist.

The structured bodice hugged your torso perfectly, cinching you in just right before flaring out into a full, romantic skirt that skimmed your calves. The square neckline framed your chest and collarbones elegantly, striking a balance between classic and bold. It felt regal and timeless at the same time, with just enough drama.

You turned slowly, watching the skirt sway with weight and grace.

Perfect for an anniversary dinner. You don't wear this colour often, mostly feeling comfortable in a light colour palette but a special occasion called for a special dress and it was perfect.

You stepped out of the changing room to show your friends your final pick after trying on 3 other dresses, to get their opinions on it. They were sprawled across the velvet couch by the fitting room, iced lattes in hand, watching you like hawks.

Charlotte let out a low whistle. “Jesus. If you don’t buy that, I will. That color is gorgeous and you look ethereal.”

Lucy leaned forward, chin in hand. “You’re actually insane if you even try on anything else after this. This is the one.”

Ellie nodded her head in agreement ,wide-eyed. “It’s so… elegant. But kind of sexy, too? Perfect.”

You laughed under your breath, smoothing the skirt again. Feeling shy under their compliments. “I’m getting it,” you said, the decision being so easy.

All three of them cheered.

✮✮✮

As salads arrived and drinks were topped off, the conversation — predictably, steered toward sex.

It always did.

It started harmlessly. Ellie made a passing joke about having to sneak around her house now that her in-laws had moved in temporarily, because their villa in Lake Como is getting completely remodeled and apparently the penthouse they usually use in Mayfair has a mold issue,” she said with an eye-roll and how she and her husband were still able to “break in the guest bathroom” last week. Lucy laughed and raised a toast to sneaking around. Her due to “Curious toddlers” and also how quickies in laundry rooms was the new normal for her. While Charlotte launched into a smug story about how she’d recently taken charge in the bedroom, again. But this time with all the tools — handcuffs, silk blindfold, the whole thing and how her husband “looked at me like I’d just rewritten the Bible,” she said, swirling her drink with a grin. “Said he didn’t know whether to pray or beg.”

You smiled, nodded along politely, but didn’t add much. You rarely did. Not because you weren’t happy or content. You were. But because you’d always believed sex belonged in the quiet privacy, not aired out over mid-day rosé and overpriced burrata. Maybe you were a bit of a prude.

But then Lucy turned to you.

“What about you, Y/N?” she asked, eyebrow raised, smirk tugging at her glossed lips. “When was the last time you flipped the script and took control?”

You blinked, you were rarely ever included in these conversations unless to ask for you opinion on a situation where one of the girls needed advice or on basic stuff. “Oh—I don’t… I don’t think I ever have, really.”

Ellie’s eyes widened like you’d just told her you’d never had chocolate. “Wait. Like… never ever?”

You squirmed in your seat a little, cheeks heating. “Well, Kento was my first. And… it’s just always been that way. He takes the lead. That’s just how it’s always been.”

Charlotte paused mid-sip, lips quirking. “And you’ve never tried anything different? Not even once?”

You hesitated. “No, not really. I mean… we do try different things, positions, a few kinks here and there. And we’ve done it in different places too like the balcony when we’re on trips, the car once or twice during late-night drives, even the kitchen counter a few times...but…” You glanced down, heat creeping up your neck. “I guess… taking the lead never really crossed my mind?”

Lucy tilted her head, the amusement in her gaze softening. “Y/N, honey. You’re gorgeous, smart, devoted, sweet but you don’t think it gets boring for them if we just stay predictable forever?”

Charlotte leaned in, swirling her drink slowly. “Men like surprises, Y/N. And hey, maybe you are naturally the submissive type, which is completely fine, by the way, but how would you really know, if you’ve never tried it the other way around? A little unpredictability goes a long way. Sometimes, taking control just makes them want you more.”

Ellie chimed in with a teasing grin, “And it doesn’t have to be the full fifty-shades toolkit Charlotte busted out,” she said, shooting a playful jab at Charlotte, who just raised her brow in mock offense. “The last time I pushed my husband down and rode him at my pace? He brought me breakfast in bed every day that week. And offered to do the grocery run without complaining.”

The table erupted into laughter, but your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass.

It wasn’t that you didn’t feel desired. Kento never gave you a reason to doubt his devotion, especially in bed. He made you feel safe. Loved. Treasured.

But… was that enough?

That stayed with you the rest of lunch. Through dessert. Through idle chatter about spa dates and school admissions and where to find good truffle oil.

The seed had been planted.

And it grew. All the way home.

By the time Kento came home that evening, the thought had become a quiet thrum under your skin. A pulse of what ifs in your chest.

What if Kento just… never said anything because he didn’t want to hurt your feelings?

What if you were losing him slowly without realizing it?

What if you could surprise him?

What if you could be the unexpected?

What if he liked it?

What if he loved it?

✮✮✮

That night, when you were alone in your vanity room, looking at yourself in the mirror, your reflection felt… different.

You weren’t ever in control. You were always the sweet one. The one who let him lead.

You reached for your phone and typed “how to take control in bed as a woman” into the search bar.

Your screen filled with articles, tips, positions, tones of voice. You even clicked on a few… videos.

It all looked so natural when they did it. Confident. Sexy. Effortless.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

You’d try.

For him.

For you.

Even if your chest already ached with anxiety.

✮✮✮

The Night of the Anniversary Dinner arrived with much nerves and anticipation for you.

The entire day had been magical for the both of you. Kento had taken the day off to make the most out of the day.

You woke up to your usual anniversary tradition of exchanging handwritten letters, folded neatly and waiting to be opened. You both put a lot of efforts in your letters sometimes taking weeks to find the perfect words to reflect on another year you got to spend as soulmates and what it meant to the each of you. It was something the two of you had done every year without fail, ever since your first anniversary.

The idea had come from him, two weeks before the first one, he’d quietly brought it up just before falling asleep one night. He told you how his parents used to write each other letters every year, and how it was one of the few things he always wanted to carry into his own marriage. So you did. And you kept doing it. And somehow, every letter felt like falling in love with him all over again.

Alongside your letter, like always, came a massive bouquet of flowers, delivered early that morning.

In return, one of the gifts you gave him was deeply personal: a custom vinyl record with a curated playlist of songs that reminded you of him and of your marriage together.

The record was titled “Us.”

On the back, you’d written:

“A soundtrack to everything I’ve never had the words to say.”

Later in the day, after the bliss of spending the day reminiscing and reading you respective letters through tears and laughs together, before leaving for your dinner reservation, you shared your other gifts.

You handed him a pair of framed custom star maps, one showing the stars on the day you first met, and the other capturing the stars, the day of your wedding. Attached was a handwritten note:  

“Even the stars remember.”  

He stared at them for a long moment, quiet, his fingers brushing over the constellations like he was memorizing them. Then he looked at you, soft, full of something that words couldn’t hold and leaned in to pepper your face with gentle kisses.

“I love them,” he said, voice low. “I’m going to hang these in my office.”

He’d always said that space felt incomplete—too quiet, too cold without you. “Where I miss you the most,” he’d once confessed.

Now, at least he could look up and be reminded that even the stars knew your story.

And tucked underneath, a small envelope.

Inside was a joke gift: a handwritten voucher for “Unlimited Shoulder Massages,” complete with overly formal fine print that read: “Valid forever. No expiry. Even during arguments and silent treatments.”

He laughed, and tucked the voucher safely in his wallet, and gave you his gift next.

Your gift was a set of rare, first edition copies of three of your favorite classic novels. Books you’d only mentioned once or twice in passing, thinking it was a dream too impractical to chase. But he’d remembered. And waited. And now, placed them in your hands.

You smiled, a little overwhelmed, and said quietly, “Thank you… this means more than you know.” As you stood up on your tip toes to pull him into a kiss to convey something words couldn't.

✮✮✮

The restaurant was candlelit, romantic, tucked in the quiet corner of the city with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the skyline like a painting.

Mirabelle didn’t believe in menus. The chef curated every dish, every wine pairing, tailored down to preference and season. The food was exquisite. Scallops with lemon butter foam, duck breast over truffle risotto, a champagne sorbet to cleanse the palate. But none of it compared to the man seated across from you.

Kento looked stunning in black. A fitted dress shirt, top button undone, with a black, sleek coat on top. His hair slicked back just enough, a few strands falling loose like they always did. His watch glinted under the low light. But it was his eyes that you felt the most, the way they didn’t leave you all night.

You had worn the velvet red dress and it's effects were instantaneous.

Since he has seen you in it the first time, he couldn’t pull his eyes away from you. Hand on your lower back, constantly pulling you into kisses, finding ways to just keep touching you. His voice stayed low, like he couldn’t bear to speak too loudly around you.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmured after the main course, his hand warm on your knee. “No, actually, stunning. Infact words don't even do you justice right now, non of them will ever be enough.”

Your lips parted in a shy smile, cheeks warming. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Nanami.”

✮✮✮

The anniversary dinner was perfect.

Too perfect, almost, which only made you worry more as you came to the realisation of what you had decided for tonight.

You made out like teenagers on the way back home. Both sat in the backseat as he had drunk a little more than he had originally planned to, and he had never taken any chances if the topic was about your safety. Kento had put up the divider in the car to spare your driver as he pulled you into his lap in the backseat of the car, mouth warm, tongue teasing, his hand sliding under your dress.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this all day,” he murmured against your neck, his voice rough as he pressed heated kisses along your skin, leaving a trail of hickeys behind, his hand trailing higher on your thigh.

You giggled, pushed his chest gently. “Not yet.”

He raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. “No?”

“Not yet,” you whispered again, cheeks flushing. “I—I have a surprise. You are gonna have to wait for it till we get home. ”

He looked ...curious. Then nodded. “Okay, baby.” Because who was he to go against his wife's wishes.

✮✮✮

As soon as you got home, you rushed to the vanity room, slipped into the black lace lingerie set with a matching sheer babydoll dress, not even reaching your mid-thigh, over it the set. Black was not really a colour a you wore often, since it had always been too dark for you, ironic because your husband was the exact opposite of you in this metric. His entire closet was black, save for a few items. But you choose it because your friends and the internet said that it radiates confidence and is sexy, and was supposed to signify you embracing your dark femininty as Ellie put it (whatever that means). And lord knows you needed all the help you could get in terms of confidence.

It took a few steadying breaths, a pep talk to yourself in the mirror and reminding yourself all that you had learnt from your friends and the internet. You slowly made your way down the hall, towards your bedroom, towards your husband. Each step had your heart thudding so loud it drowned out your thoughts.

Nanami was already on the laying on bed when she stepped in. Shirt gone, hair slightly messy, just relaxed, like he belonged there. He appeared to be passing the time looking at the framed pictures you had all throughout the room, being as patient as ever, waiting for your surprise.

When he heard you walking in, his eyes did darken. His lips parted slightly. A good start, right?

“You look…” He exhaled. “Fuck. Come here.”

But you didn’t listen to him right away.

You tried, really tried, to walk slowly. Seductively. Like you'd seen online. Like Charlotte told you.

You climbed onto the bed and crawled toward him, shakily, trying to look confident. Trying to look like the kind of woman who could say “I’m in charge tonight” and make it believable.

“Kento,” you said softly, straddling his lap, looking down at him, “Tonight… I wanna take control.” It didn't even sound believable to your ears let alone his, how where you planning on going through with this act the entire night.

He blinked once.

Then… smiled.

But not mockingly. He would never mock you. Just amused. Fond.

“Oh?” he said, clearly surprised by the new development and holding back a chuckle. “Go ahead, sweetheart. I am all yours.”

You swallowed.

You leaned in and tried to kiss him roughly, just like he would do to you, but missed his mouth. Your teeth clinked awkwardly. You giggled nervously, then quickly shut up. “Sorry,” you mumbled. “Let me try again.”

Nanami just watched you, still smiling, trying to encourage you.

You pressed your hands to his chest and gently pushed him back onto the mattress, to put on weight on him.

“Tonight,” you whispered, just slightly moving your hips a little to create even an ounce of friction between your bodies, “you’ll do what I say.”

You tried to lower yourself onto him, but your hand slipped awkwardly between you.

You froze.

Kento raised an eyebrow seeing you frown, “Everything okay?”

You forced a fake sexy tone. “Yes. I just—” You tried again. “Stay still.”

He did stay still — obediently. Watching. Letting you try.

But you weren’t feeling sexy anymore. Your rhythm was off. Your voice shook. You couldn’t keep the act going. Every time you tried to say something dirty, it came out weird. Cringe. Like you were reciting lines from a play that didn’t suit your character.

Still, you tried. You kissed his jaw. Traced your fingers down his abs. Reached for his belt.

But when you looked up, his eyes… they weren’t dark with lust. They were soft. Fond. Patient.

It was clear he loved you but was definitely not turned on right now.

It broke something in you. Because neither of you were enjoying this. You hated this persona and it just felt wrong.

You pushed yourself up, getting of his body, sitting back on your knees, only to curl into yourself, as if to hide.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “Kento,” you said softly, voice wobbling. “I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He sat up immediately. “No baby, don't get discour—”

“I just thought—” Your eyes watered. “I just wanted to… give you something new. Something exciting. Because I know I’m not— I’m not like other women. And it’s always you who… who takes care of everything. Maybe you’re tired of that. Maybe you want something else and just won’t say it and I— I just thought for once—”

You couldn’t finish.

The tears came fast and messy.

“I ruined our night, didn’t I?” you whispered, fists curled in the sheets. “I can’t even do this right.”

Nanami didn’t hesitate.

He moved toward you and pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around you, kissing the top of your head.

“Stop,” he said gently. “Stop that right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed. “I feel so stupi—”

“You’re not stupid.” He pulled your face up to look at him, as he gently tried to wipe you tears. “You’re you. And I fucking love you exactly like this. I mean can you believe it? I get to call you mine everyday. I get to have you in a way no-one else ever will. I mean how did I get so so lucky!?”

You hiccuped. “But I thought maybe you wanted something else. Lucy, Charlotte and Ellie, all said that—”

He tensed, just slightly, then softened, letting out a quiet breath as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“They mean well,” he said gently. “They’ve got their own lives… their own experiences, their own ideas of what relationships should look like. And that’s okay. But we have our own rhythm too. One that works for us.”

He tilted your chin up, eyes searching yours.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, wiping your cheeks, “You’ve never had to perform for me. The way you look at me? The way you touch me? The way you smile when I get home?” He kissed your wrist. “That’s what makes me hard. That’s what makes me crazy. I don’t need you to act like someone else to keep my attention.”

You whispered, still a little teary, “But what if I get boring? What if one day—”

“Never.”

He said it so firmly it startled you.

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, grounding you.

“You are more than enough. Every version of you. Especially the one sitting in front of me right now, trying so hard to make me feel loved when all I’ve ever wanted… is you, just as you are. You are the best thing in my life. The only person who has ever made me want to come home early.” He cupped your face. “Our sex life is amazing because it’s ours. I love being in charge. You love letting me be. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

You had calmed down enough to stop crying now. Nanami Kento always knew how to comfort and take care of his wife.

“But what if I want to try again sometime?” you asked in a small voice. He smiled. “Then we’ll try it together. Not because you think I’ll leave if you don’t. But because you’re curious. And safe. And we’ll laugh if it doesn’t go perfectly. Like now.”

You let out a watery laugh.

He leaned forward and kissed you. Slow and reverent.

“Don’t ever think you have to change to keep me,” he whispered against your lips. “You already have me. Entirely.”

“That was so cheesy!” You giggled out.

“It's true too, baby.” He replied.

You melted into his arms, nose buried in his neck.

“I love you. Thank you for being the bestest husband in the world.” you mumbled.

“The bestest, huh?” he echoed, voice warm and low. “That’s a serious title.”

You nodded as he leaned down to press a kiss to your hair.

“Well… I guess that makes you the bestest wife. So we’re even.”

You felt his lips curl into a grin against your temple as he added softly, “Lucky me.”

After a while of you just laying on top of him, cuddling. He started kissing you again, this time slower, just to feel you, to press that truth into your lips. He laid you down with care, his eyes never leaving yours, as if making sure you were still fully with him.

"You okay now?" he asked softly from above, thumbs brushing your cheeks. His own way of asking if you were still okay with the idea to sex tonight, or was today too emotionally taxing on you.

You nodded, looking up at him and whispered, "Yes, please."

“You always think of me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and warm, like it was meant only for you. His hands slid over your thighs, slow and sure, parting them with care. “You give so much without ever asking for anything back… You have no idea how much that means to me. And how sexy that is.”

His hands moved over your sides, tugging at the sheer black babydoll that had originally began this entire misadventure. He eased it over your head and off your arms, before tossing it to the floor. Next came off your panties. Then he kissed down your neck, his lips warm and reverent.

You whimpered, a different kind of emotion blooming in your chest now — hot, overwhelming affection, the kind that burned behind your ribcage and melted into the way your legs instinctively wrapped.

He kissed you again, deep and lingering, before pulling back just far enough to whisper, "Let me show you how much I love you."

His cock was already hard, flushed and throbbing with need, but neither of you reached for foreplay. You were past it at this point, too full of want, too full of each other. You just needed him body, heart, soul and everything in between, same for him. He removed his pants and underwear in one smooth motion and dragged the tip slowly through your soaked folds, collecting your arousal as he lined himself up. Your thighs twitched beneath his grip, helpless against the way even his teasing touch made your body ache.

He pressed the head in just slightly, and slid in with one slow, perfect stroke.

The stretch was so familiar, so full, so utterly him that it took your breath away. You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, back arching beneath him as he bottomed out. He stayed there for a beat, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours as he breathed out a soft curse.

"You feel like heaven," he murmured. "Fucking made for me."

You whimpered his name, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

His pace started slow, methodical, letting you feel every inch of him. But that only lasted a few thrusts. Soon, he was fucking you just like he always did —rough, like he couldn’t get enough of you. Like he never would.

He held your wrists, pinned them above your head, his body moving over yours in long, powerful thrusts. The sound of skin slapping, your moans, his low groans, filled the room like music.

"You’re mine," he growled into your neck. "Every inch. Every sound. Every fucking breath you take."

"Yes," you gasped. "Kento, I’m yours—always—"

He pressed harder into you, angling his hips so every thrust hit that sweet, perfect spot. You cried out, hips rising to meet him, your legs wrapping around him tighter.

His mouth found your throat, then your breasts, licking and sucking marks into your skin like he needed the evidence of this moment on you, painted across you.

Your orgasm snuck up on you, fast and brutal. It slammed into you with a force that had your thighs trembling and your eyes rolling back. You screamed his name, nails scratching all across his back. Your body shaking under him as you came hard around his cock.

"Fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby," he groaned, his rhythm faltering.

He gritted his teeth and fucked you through it until he couldn’t hold back anymore. With a rough grunt, he buried himself deep and came hard, hips jerking as he filled you. His whole body shuddered as he collapsed against you, burying his face in your neck.

They stayed tangled like that, skin to skin, breath to breath.

After a long silence, he finally murmured against your collarbone, "Happy Aniversary Baby, it was perfect."

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair. "Because you love me."

"More than anything," he said, pulling back to kiss your forehead. "And I always will."

✮✮✮

7 months later

The sunday morning sun filtered through the kitchen windows, golden and lazy, spilling across the breakfast table where you sat in an oversized t-shirt, legs folded beneath you, a mug of warm tea between your hands, having no plans for today.

Nanami stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, making your favorite eggs just the way you liked them. You'd insisted you could do it, but he just kissed your forehead and shooed you away.

He glanced back at you now, brow slightly raised, remembering something, “Did you call your OB?”

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. “I did. I’m officially starting the process. It’ll take a little while for my body to adjust, but… we’re doing it.”

His eyes softened, jaw relaxing as he stepped closer, he put down your plates on the table, wiping his hands before cupping your face gently.

“You sure?” he asked quietly, thumb brushing along your cheek. “We can wait longer if you’re not—”

“I’m ready,” you said, leaning into him. “We’ve had our five years. More than five, actually if you count our pre wedding period. We’ve done the late-night takeout dates, the spontaneous weekend trips, the lazy Sunday mornings. I got to be selfish with you, but now I want this. I wanna have a baby with you.”

He exhaled, forehead pressed to yours now, a kind of silent gratitude passing between you.

“I can’t wait to meet the little version of us,” he whispered.

You laughed. “God, I hope they get your brain and patience.”

“I hope they get your heart,” he murmured back. “And maybe your smile.”

He kissed you then, slow and tender, like every version of your life had been leading to this moment. And it had.

There was no rush, no pressure. Just quiet readiness. A home filled with love. And now, the space to grow it.

Together.

Author's Note (pt 2) - Hope you liked it <3

Editing this to make it readable was a lifetime and a half, hopefully everyone waiting for this is pleased.

I am open to receiving constructive criticism as long as you are nice about it and just any reviews in general, would be really helpful <3

Let me know if I missed any content warnings.

The cancer had been progressing faster than any of you had expected so seeing him even a little better had hope blooming in your chest. He was seated in the sun room with a fresh pressed shirt, a wool shawl across his lap, eyes warm with a sort of hope you hadn’t seen in weeks. Your hands were cold from nerves, clutching the hem of your simple flowy cream dress, a little too modest for your age, your aunt's idea. You had only just turned twenty the week before, and this meeting had been looming over your head for months now.

You were shy, sheltered, polite and painfully inexperienced in anything related to men, romance, or even physical affection. You had no one to model those things after your mother died when you were very little, and your father, hopelessly devoted, never brought another woman into the house. His world was you. And in return, yours was him.

So when he told you gently, that he had spoken to one of his old friend from university, about a possible match for you with her son, you had nodded with the small grace he’d taught you. He had assured you that if, at any moment, you didn't feel ready for whatever reason, it wouldn't happen. You were never forced into it. And you wanted him to feel at peace. And if this was how, you’d meet the man.

That man was Nanami Kento.

He arrived at your house in a dark tailored suit with a navy silk shirt underneath, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed and unreadable. He wasn’t flashy, though everything about him spoke of wealth. Not loud. Not arrogant. Just composed. Calm. Clean-cut. His gaze was sharp, but not unkind. You remember how long he’d looked at you when he first walked into the sun room, just looked, as if trying to figure you out just by your appearance.

You remember it because you’d felt seen.

"Y/N," he said simply, bowing his head slightly in greeting. "I’m Kento."

And you’d nodded, your voice stuck somewhere in your throat as your father offered Kento a drink and called for your house help to bring in tea. Your hands shook slightly as you served the cups. He noticed, of course. You learned quickly, Nanami Kento noticed everything.

But instead of commenting, he just murmured a soft “thank you” as he accepted the cup, his long fingers brushing lightly against yours, leaving you with just a spark of electricity running through your hands.

He was twenty-four then. Already the president of the tech empire his father began, having just inherited it two years ago after his father's passing. Polished. Emotionally reserved, but polite. A man of few but deliberate words. A workaholic. He wasn't dating anyone seriously, he never had. And his mother, after years of quiet nudging, finally told him, “You don’t need more distractions. You need something permanent. A reason to slow down. A woman who makes you want to come home.”

She had been the one to reach out to your father and had arranged the meeting.

✮✮✮

The courtship was... untraditional.

Both of you knew this wasn’t a rom-com. You were awkward at first, yes, but there was interest, understanding, mutual respect, and most importantly — an honest openness to the possibility of building a life. Together.

He told you within a few weeks that he found you beautiful. That he liked how gentle your energy was. That you made him feel calm, which not many people could do. And that even though he didn’t understand love in the fairytale way you described from your books, he wanted to give it an honest try, with you.

And you, despite your inexperience, despite never having been in love before, found yourself wondering if this was what it was supposed to feel like. The quiet thrill that bloomed in your chest when he held your hand for the first time, the way his fingers laced through yours like it was second nature. Or when he draped his coat over your shoulders in the rain, without a word, as though protecting you had always been an instinct. The way he looked at you when you laughed, the same look you had seen countless times in your father's eyes whenever your late mother was the topic of conversation. If love felt even a little like these small, unspoken gestures, then you were ready. Ready to fall, to fumble, to learn what it meant to be loved and to love back.

He was cold to the outside world, something you had learnt was his defence against the harsh world, but never to you. For you, he was patient. He didn’t pressure you. He only kissed you when you leaned in first.

It was you who leaned in first to kissed him after your third dinner "date" together. You who shyly took his hand on the walk back to your driver’s car. And you who told him you wanted to stay the night at his place.

After six months of slow-burn glances, accidental touches, and the kind of tension that built quietly between shared silences and soft laughter, it just felt right.

You were nervous and unsure of what to expect. But you told him you were ready, if he was too, and that was enough.

Kento didn’t say much, but the way he looked at you said everything. Calm, steady, almost too gentle, like he knew exactly what this meant to you. He took his time, mouth and fingers first, slow and reverent, like he was trying to memorize you. Like your body was something fragile, something he wasn’t willing to rush on or miss any part of.

And when you cried, it wasn’t because it hurt but because it felt like more than something just physical. It felt like trust. Like safety. Like him. And you already loved him, even if you hadn’t said it yet.

He noticed, of course. He always noticed. He kissed your tears, wiped your cheek with his thumb, then pulled you into his arms and whispered, “You okay?”

You didn’t need words. You just nodded, face pressed to his chest, where everything felt real, like the world had quieted, and you were living in a bubble of safe.

✮✮✮

When you told your father the engagement was official, he smiled that peaceful, content smile. One you knew you would be carrying in your heart for years to come. The next evening, while you were at your aunt's, just getting started for your wedding preparations, Kento came over, sat across from your father at the kitchen table, and asked formally and respectfully, for his blessing again, this time not just as your partner, but as family.

They spoke for hours. About life, about you, about your mom, about your past and about the kind of future Kento wanted to build, together with you, as your life partner.

After that conversation, your father seemed lighter, at peace, as though a quiet weight had been lifted from his shoulders. There was a calm in his eyes, the kind that only comes when a man knows his daughter will be safe. Like something in him had quitely settled, knowing you were being entrusted to someone who would carry your heart gently, and love you fiercely, in all of the ways, where he no longer would be there to.

It was the first time your father called him son.

✮✮✮

The wedding came half a year later. A garden ceremony, small and intimate. Soft lilac and ivory tones. You walked down the aisle to your mother’s favorite song, every note wrapping around you like a memory. Your eyes were already swimming, but you held your head high, clutching your father’s arm like a lifeline.

The chemo treatments had taken so much from him, his weight, his energy, his ease of movement, but not his pride. Not this moment. He refused support, even though every step cost him more than he’d be willing to admit. He wanted to walk you down the aisle on his own. And he did.

When you reached the altar and turned to him, you saw it. The way his eyes were glassy and shining, holding the weight of a lifetime. Love, pride, and something deeper: the quiet knowing that this might be the last big thing he’d ever get to give you.

And Kento, your Kento, stood at the alter, visibly shaken. You’d never seen him cry before. But as you walked toward him, hand in hand with your father, tears slipped down his cheeks.

Because in that moment, you were his everything. And he knew he’d spend the rest of his life making sure you never doubted it.

He loved you. Really loved you.

That night, you made love like it was the end of the world — urgent, breathless and tender. Like two people who had finally found home in each other, and weren’t willing to let go.

✮✮✮

And when your father passed quietly in his sleep a few months later, you collapsed into Kento's arms, shaking and wordless. Broken in every sense of the word. He held you through it all. Let you cry until your throat went raw. He didn’t leave.

For three nights, he slept on the floor of your childhood bedroom with you, because you wanted to grieve in the house you grew up in, where your father's name echoed from each corner, and when the thought of lying in the same bed where your father once told you bedtime stories felt unbearable. He made tea, you couldn’t bring yourself to sip. Folded blankets you never touched. Packed away your father’s favorite books, to be taken to your home, when your hands refused to move. He stayed through the stillness, through the ache, asking for nothing, just being there, when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

He held your hand through the grief. And then kissed the scars it left behind.

And somewhere deep in your chest, you knew,

Your father had left you in the safest hands.

✮✮✮

The first year of marriage was like learning how to live with someone you already loved but were still getting to know.

You were still learning what it meant to share a life with someone. You had always been your father’s delicate flower. Now, you were learning how to be a wife, how to keep, and more importantly maintain a home, one filled with warm lighting and cozy furniture that Nanami picked out more for comfort than luxury. It was a quiet life. But it was yours.

He was patient with you. Always. As you both were settling into your new life together and built a routine out of it.

He kissed your forehead every morning before heading to the office, while you tied his tie, always in tailored suits and gold cufflinks. He texted you around noon to ask if you ate, sometimes you would even go to the company to have lunch together when he had a bit more time in his day. Random "just because" flowers and gifts.

He had one rule — no matter what, he’d always be home in time for dinner. And he stuck to it. The only exception was when work pulled him to another country, but even then, he always made sure to stay connected through messages and short calls throughout the day.

He might have been a workaholic, but he was a present husband.

When you officially decided to take a break from persuing your higher education and instead wanted to focus on building your life around your home in the meantime, Kento didn’t even blink. He nodded. Told you, “If it makes you happy, that’s what matters.” He trusted you to choose your path. And in return, you learned to trust him with everything.

Even the bedroom.

You had sex, a lot. It wasn’t always slow or sweet or gentle, sometimes it got rough and messy. But even then, he was never careless. He always checked in, through his body language, if not his words. Always made sure that you were okay and enjoying it just as much he was, first and foremost.

He was dominant, of course. He always had been. That never changed.

But he was respectful. Filthy with his mouth, but tender with his eyes.

His aftercare was, without question, his best trait. He never rushed it, just pulled you close, held you as long as you needed. He’d clean you up gently, wrap you in whatever was closest, his shirt, a soft blanket... then press a kiss to your forehead like it was routine. Like taking care of you came as naturally to him, as breathing did.

✮✮✮

Almost four years had passed like that. Warm. Steady. Domestic.

Your routines became something sacred. Morning breakfast together if he didn't have an early morning meeting, or on the off chance that he was working from home. Quiet dinners where you’d trade pieces of your day with eachother. You telling him about the new volunteer program you’d joined at one of your friend's NGO, helping run free extra curricular activities for kids who weren't able afford them and him venting about the board dragging their feet on a project he’d already fixed twice. Shared showers, just warm water, lazy kisses, and him washing your hair. Soft jazz humming in the background most evenings, filling the space between conversations that didn’t need to be deep to feel like love.

It wasn’t grand, but it was yours. And it felt like home.

✮✮✮

Your father’s death was still a tender wound. Some days, you’d sit by the window in silence, tears slipping down your cheeks as memories played on a loop in your mind.

Your husband never pried. He knew that kind of grief, had felt it himself when his father passed. And though the two of you processed pain differently, he understood. He gave you space when you needed it, and held you close when you reached for him.

Once, with your face buried in his shoulder and your body trembling with sobs, you choked out, “I miss him so much it hurts.”

His voice had been low, steady, as his fingers threaded gently through your hair.

“I know,” he said. “But he’d be so proud of you. You’ve become everything he dreamed for you. And I’ll keep reminding you of that until you believe it, too."

✮✮✮

You were still human, still prone to moments of doubt, days when it felt like you were at war with your own mind, feeling almost undeserving of the love you received from your husband.

But then you'd watch the way he came home to you, like you were gravity. How his arm would slide around your waist without a second thought. How he’d press soft, unprompted kisses to your ring finger, like a silent promise.

And then there was that night, after the wedding of one of his old college friends, completely drunk, his tie loose around his neck, when he held you close and kept whispering, “You’re the greatest gift of my life. Marrying you… it’s the best decision I ever made.” while you were trying to get him into the backseat of the car at 2 a.m.

Moments like those always silenced the noise in your head. They reigned louder, stronger, over every insecurity, because you believed Nanami Kento more than you believed yourself.

And when he said he loved you, you didn’t question it. You let his words stitch over the cracks you couldn’t reach on your own. Because if someone like him could see all of you. Flaws, fears, quiet battles, and still chooses you everyday, then maybe, just maybe, you could start choosing yourself too.

Author's Note (pt 2) — Hope you liked it <3

I am open to receiving constructive criticism as long as you are nice about it and just any reviews in general, would be really helpful since this is my first fic ever.