🖤

porcelain cracks somewhere beneath the sound of your spine meeting the stone counter. his palm is flat against the small of your back, anchoring. the other slips down your thigh, searching without urgency. just certainty. like he’d planned this. not today, always.

he doesn’t kiss like he misses you.

he kisses like you never left.

the kitchen lights catch against his jaw, sharp with shadow. it’s too new in here. paint still clings faintly to the walls, the scent of cardboard and unspoiled wood clinging to the air. no warmth has softened this space. no domestic clutter to hide behind.

so he uses you instead.

“you dropped it,” you managed, voice breaking across your own throat.

his reply isn’t language. it’s lower. a drag of lips along your jaw. the scrape of stubble, intentional, unmistakable. it feels like an answer anyway.

you don’t remember which box it was. something fragile. something wrapped with care. the floor has taken it now. sylus has taken you now…

his hands spread your thighs, slow as if peeling back scripture. he doesn’t rush. why would he? his eyes flicker upward just once, blood-coloured and half-lidded, drinking in the shape of you on the counter like the offering you are. your thighs spread wider beneath his grip, back arching despite yourself.

still, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t perform.

he kneels.

not out of worship. out of need.

his hands on your hips are too firm to be tender. his thumbs press just beside the bone, anchoring again, and then his mouth descends without ceremony.

the first stroke of his tongue isn’t hurried. it’s… deliberate. a taste. a test. then another, longer, slower, dragging from the base up through the seam of you like he’s not just trying to learn you, but ruin you.

the countertop beneath you is cold. his mouth is not.

and when he hums into you, satisfied, you feel the vibration all the way in your teeth.

he doesn’t move fast. that’s never been his sin. sylus devours slow. like hunger is more sacred when prolonged. like pleasure should bruise.

the second pass of his tongue drags deeper, more insistent. he parts you with his hands first, thumbs anchoring along the soft crease of thigh and hip, then with his mouth. every movement is exact, like he’s etching memory into muscle. you feel it everywhere. in the pull of your stomach. the stutter of your breath. in the ache behind your knees as they tremble where he holds them wide.

no sound leaves him. just breath and wet and heat. he doesn’t ask how it feels. his mouth knows. the curl of it, the wet slide, he listens better this way. not to your voice, but your blood. the twitch in your hips. the shift in your breath.

his tongue circles once, light, maddening, a cruel mercy. and then he flattens it, presses harder. a groan escapes you before you can swallow it. and he hears.

the bastard hears.

he lifts his head just enough for air. lips wet, chin shining, eyes burning from the edge of shadow.

“you want this kitchen to remember you, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, soaked in wreckage.

you nod. it’s pathetic. you don’t care.

he doesn’t wait for more. his mouth returns with punishment.

this time, it’s fingers too.

two slide in, not gentle, not rough… just. complete. they curl like they know something you don’t. like they’ve waited for this precise moment, in this room, at this exact angle. his lips find your clit again. his fingers press deeper.

the counter shifts beneath you. not because it moves, but because you do. muscles tightening without command. one arm flings backward, scrabbling for something to hold. cabinet handle, towel, air.

“sylus….” it breaks out, cracked and near-feral.

and he rewards it. a noise of approval low in his throat. tongue flicking faster now. fingers deepening. curling. dragging moans out of you as if they were carved from your lungs.

every sound echoes. the kitchen is bare enough for that. each whimper bounces back at you, softened by distance, sharpened by how little else exists in this moment.

you lose track of rhythm.

only sensation remains.

the build is relentless. nto from speed, but pressure. the unbearable kind. it creeps. it tightens. it opens your jaw and steals your breath and makes your stomach twist with something close to violence.

and just as you’re about to fall, just as the edge breaks…

he stops.

pulls back. mouth glistening. fingers still inside you, but unmoving now.

you choke on a sound that isn’t a name. a protest, maybe. a plea.

his smirk is slow. wolfish. not cruel, worse. confident.

“i asked you a question,” he says, voice rough and unrepentant. “do your want this house to remember you?”

you answer with your hips, rocking down on his hand, seeking friction, salvation, anything.

his mouth returns. you don’t get another warning.

he consumes you.

licks through your cries, sucks through your shaking, licks you through the tremble and ruin of your climax like it’s something earned. something owed.

your legs spasm around his shoulders. he doesn’t flinch. just holds you open and takes every second of it.

even as you come apart, he keeps going.

slower, softer now, but still thorough. still claiming. still there.

every.

single.

drop.

when you finally collapse, breath lost, chest heaving, thighs twitching. he doesn’t rise.

his mouth grazes the inside of your thigh, tongue slow. licking. cleaning. then his teeth find skin, and he bites.

a mark. not deep. but deliberate.

the counter presses into your spine. your vision swims.

you blink, dazed, ruined, legs half-spread and shaking.

he looks up.

face haloed by your wreckage, lips gleaming, one brow raised.

“ready for round two? i was thinking the garden.”

he wipes a veiny hand down his face as he scuffs his shoes off at the door, praying to god that nothing else goes wrong tonight or he might actually kill someone.

as he tracks inside, what other than the kamisama kiss intro starts blaring in his ears, the happy upbeat tune dragging against his eardrums, he realllly didn't need this right now.

he peers over to the couch and spots you sitting cross legged fully engrossed in the shower.

you were cute, but to be honest, he just wanted to go to bed. so, when you whip your head around and spot that he's finally home, he braces for the impact he knows is coming.

you hop up and dart into his arms with the biggest little smile on your pretty face, you clasp your hands together behind his back and pull him in close.

"ken! i missed you." you muffle into his chest, relived to see your boyfriend after a long day of free periods at home.

he sighs through clenched teeth, then half heartedly wraps an arm around your waist before letting it drop back down and slipping from your tight grasp.

“hey,” he mumbles, already tracking halfway down the hallway, leaving his poor, pouty girlfriend standing there all confused.

he doesn't notice though, the door to the bedroom is already in his sight and he looks at it like a finish line.

you stay cemented to the wooden floor, watching with a small frown as he pads down to the bedroom.

you tell yourself not to read into it. i mean, c'mon! he probably had a long lecture, he looks exhausted, and everyone has off days, after all. even your perfect boyfriend.

you smooth it over in your head before you overthink it to the point of tears.

you turn and follow him down the hall, keeping your steps feather light as to not irritate him further. "hey, baby? i made sushi earlier,” you say softly. “it’s in the fridge. i thought you might want some when you got home?"

he stops just short of the bedroom door. not to turn to you, not to soften up and cut the foul attitude, nuh uh. just to answer dully.

“i’ll have it for lunch tomorrow,” he sighs. “m' not hungry.”

the door handle clicks open under his hand, and your chest gets all tight and uncomfortably achy. he never turns down the food you make. never. even when he’s exhausted, he always eats at least a little. he always thanks you and asks how long it took to make, then tells you it tastes good even when the rice is overcooked.

you nod even though he isn’t looking and force a brighter tone of voice. “oh, okay! that’s alright.”

he stays silent, and an old habit of filling up conversation space before it turns awkward twists around in your gut..

“um,” you start, then stop. your fingers rub together nervously as you look away from him shyly. “there’s.. uh, something else i gotta tell you.”

he turns his head slowly to face you, his expression oozing with irritation as he answers curtly, “what.”

your thoughts jump backwards to earlier that morning. you were ironing one of his more expensive shirts after it had been crinkled on the clothes line. the setting might've been too high, because the unfamiliar scent of burnt fabric started wafting into your nostrils... your heart dropped when you saw the mark.

you swallow. “i’m really sorry. i was ironing your shirt. the one you wear to class sometimes? and i didn’t realise the heat was too high and i… i messed it up.”

his expression doesn’t change yet, but you can tell some cogs are stalling and jamming in that big head of his.

“i ordered you a new one,” you rush on. “it's the same cut, the same color. it should be here in a couple of days... gosh– i'm so sorry honey, i– i know it won’t be exactly the same but i–"

“you did what.”

your words freeze up in your mouth.

“you burnt my shirt?" he spits lowly, “i told you not to iron my clothes, [name].”

your shoulders pull in. “i know. i just thought i could help. i didn’t think–"

“–clearly.”

oh.

he steps closer. not into your space, but near enough that you feel the heat and anger pulsating off of him. “do you have any idea how expensive that shirt was?"

you nod, feeling the anxiety crawl up your back and down your throat. "yes, baby... that’s why i replaced it.”

“oh, but you didn’t replace it,” he says. “you bought a different one. that's not the same thing.”

“i'm sorry,” you say quietly. “i didn't know where–”

“you never know,” he cuts in. his voice is getting louder now, he's no longer being careful with his volume. “that’s the problem, [name]. you never know, and you still insist on getting involved in all of my important shit.”

you ears begin to ring a deafening hum. this isn’t how he talks to you. not ever. he corrects you sometimes, sure. maybe he gets semi-annoyed, but even then it's very rare. but this tone, this anger? it feels so horribly wrong on him..

“I was trying to do something nice,” you mumble out softly, the nervousness you were sure you'd shaken since meeting him curling around your head and trapping you in that shy vice once more. “i.. i’m sorry i ruined your shirt, kento..”

“yeah? well sorry doesn’t fix it,” he snaps. “sorry doesn’t mean anything when you keep doing the same thing over and over.”

your lips are getting wobbly but you manage to choke out a small reply. “but.. i don’t?"

he lets out a curt, poisonous laugh. “don’t lie. you mess things up constantly. the chores, my things, the schedules. i spend half my time fixing what you fuck up.”

okay, wow. that hurt like a motherfucker. you'd always been a little insecure about the way you weren't always the best at house work, but you were trying. you were trying for him.

“I clean,” you plea. “i cook. i try to–”

“no! you try, then you do it badly,” he snaps. his voice is close to shouting now. “half the time i redo your shit because i don’t trust you to do it right the first time. i’ve told you this before, if you don’t know what you’re doing, stay out of it!"

all of this over a shirt?.. your poor mind was reeling with what ifs. what if this was him finally throwing the cat out of the bag and telling you he wanted to break up? what if this was his way of telling you he'd be better off with a girl who was more capable? what if this was all a big lead up to him telling you you were never good enough to be with such an upstanding man like him?

each cruel word from his mouth only acts as a catalyst to these thoughts. you were incompetent, useless, untrustworthy. he doesn’t say them outright, but he might as well with the way he's berating you.

you feel so small now, your clammy hands curl into themselves until your nails are leaving little moons in your skin. you don’t raise your voice at him, you don’t interrupt at all, and you most definitely don't even think of arguing back. you’ve never been good at fighting with people, especially not with him. especially not when he looks at you like you’re an obstacle he needs to kick out of the way.

“just leave everything to me, why don't you?” he continues. “obviously i don't do enough. it would be easier that way since you clearly can’t handle basic tasks without ruining shit.”

your eyes sting. you blink hard, but it doesn’t help, like, at all. the hot streaks down your flustered face is evidence of that...

this doesn’t feel real. nanami is kind, nanami is patient, nanami listens, nanami's kind. the man in front of you is mean and cruel and doesn’t seem to see you as his loving girlfriend at all.

“I didn’t mean to make things harder for you,” you whisper.

he only scoffs. “intent doesn’t matter. results do. and your results are always a fucking problem.”

you want to dissolve into a puddle on the floor, you want to curl up somewhere and hide away from this monster disguised as your once living boyfriend. you don’t defend yourself, you don’t tell him how much effort you try to put in, how careful you try to be. you don’t remind him of the mornings you wake early just to make his day smoother, you don’t point out that he never used to talk to you like this.

you just stand there, and you take it. this was so unbelievable, so new, you didn't know how else to handle it.

and he just keeps on going. every frustration from his day pours out, redirected and sharpened, pointed straight at you. the partner who didn’t pull his weight, the criticism he didn’t deserve, the sense of being judged for things outside his control. it all lands on you instead, because you’re here, because you won’t fight back, because you look like you can carry it.

and you do. for a while.

your eyes go all blurry from the way tears prick at your lids, your gaze plummets to the floor and your hands start to shake. you hate how badly you're taking this, how he can obviously see that you're terrified but he just won't stop.

after it feels like he's gotten it all outta his system, he finally stops talking. the words dry up, leaving a thick silence behind in both his throat and the air. his chest is heaving as the anger drains out, replaced by a horrible, innate awareness.

what did he just do?

his head shoots up to look at your face wet with tears, then to your hands and the way they shake, to your eyes as they dart anywhere but him. his girlfriend, his gentle girl, looking like she'd just been battered, standing there all scared..

because of him.

fuck.

he opens his mouth to say your name, to apologise, to explain, but he never gets the chance.

because you push him away before he can, your hands come up and push against his chest, not hard, but forceful enough that he gets the memo.

“don’t,” you say. your voice cracks pathetically. “just.. just leave me alone.."

then you turn and dart the rest of the way down the hall.

the bedroom door closes behind you with a soft, careful sound, like you don’t want to make anything worse, even now, after he'd just rebuilt every wall you'd managed to break down with him when it came to you opening up.

~

“my sweet girl… please open the door…”

you'd been locked away in the bed room for a little over an hour now, hiding from him.

his voice comes through the wood much softer than of the foul shit you’d heard from him tonight. he sounds worn down and stripped bare of all the angst he'd been harbouring beforehand. you sit on the edge of the bed with your knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the door with a forlorn expression.

you don’t move and you most certainly don’t answer.

from the other side of the barrier, nanami stands with his forehead pressed to the wood, feeling like every bad person in the world all at once.

“i know you don’t wanna see me,” he says quietly. “i get that. i deserve it.” he sighs softly. “but please… just listen. you don’t have to say anything. just… let me say this, sweetheart.”

you don't reply once more, the apartment feels too big and roomy without you in it, even though you’re only a few steps away.

“i’m sorry,” he huffs out quietly, his soft spoken self coming back out into the open. “i’m so fucking sorry. i should have never spoken to you like that. not ever. i don’t care how bad my day was, i don’t care how angry i felt, none of it excuses what i said to you.”

he gulps down the stinging in his lungs and persists.

“what i said was so cruel. it was disgustingly wrong. it was aimed to hurt you, and i knew that while i was doing it. and that’s the part that makes me feel sick to my stomach.”

you stay silent, but your ears are definitely pricked.

“i took everything i was feeling and i threw it at you because you were there. because you wouldn't yell back. and that’s disgusting of me.” his voice dips. “i made you feel small. i made you feel useless. i made you feel like a burden in your own home.”

you press your face into your knees. your eyes start to sting all over again.

“but baby, you are none of those things,” he says a tad louder because he needs you to hear this part clearly. “not even close. i don’t know how i let that shit come out of my mouth when the truth is the complete opposite.”

he exhales slowly, gathering himself just to let go again.

“today's class was rough. just stupid thing after another, more stupider thing.” a pause. “and i came home already angry, already looking for somewhere to drill it.”

his voice breaks a little. “and i took it out on you.”

another fill of quiet and you still don’t make a sound nor open the door.

“i love you,” he mumbles desperately. “i love you so much it seriously scares me. im not usually one for relationships, but i told myself i'd try my best with you, because you mean more to me than anyone else..." his voice cracks like he might cry. "and tonight... i acted like someone who doesn’t deserve you at all."

his forehead stays against the door and his shoulders sink.

“everything i said about you not doing enough… about you ruining things… i don’t believe any of it. not for a second. i was lashing out, i was trying to hurt something because i was hurt.”

he lets out a strangled sound that might of been a laugh if it didn’t flatline only a second after sounding.

“you cook for me every single day. you make food that reminds me to slow down and actually eat instead of skipping meals like an idiot. you clean even when i tell you not to worry about it. you organise my class notes when i forget. you remember my deadlines better than i do. you wake up early just to see me off with a smile like i’m the best part of your morning.”

your fingers shake into the blanket beneath you.

“you ironed that shirt because you wanted to help me,” he continues. “because you thought about me while i wasn’t even home. and i stood there and tore you apart for it.”

his voice drops lower. “i’m appalled by myself. truly. i never wanted to be the kind of man who raises his voice at you. i never wanted to be the reason you look scared in your own house.”

he shifts on the floor outside, the faint sound of him sitting down against the door.

“you do so much for me,” he says softly. “you do more than i made it out to look. you make this place feel like a home, you make me feel so steady when everything else is a chaotic mess. and i stood there and told you that what you do doesn't matter..."

his hand lifts and presses flat again to the door, right where your back would be if you were standing there.

“i am so, so sorry my love."

his apology pours through the door and it feels earnest and aching, but it doesn’t erase what’s already been said. the words he used still sit under your skin, sharp and lodged deep in your pumping arteries.

outside, nanami closes his eyes with a deep breath, he knows there’s no guarantee you’ll forgive him. he knows apologies don’t rewind time, and he knows he might have undone months, maybe years, of trust he'd built between the two of you, especially with such a shy girl, in a single night.

his throbbing head drifts softly to the first time he met you. you were timid, you spoke softly and avoided all of his eye contact, you were careful with everything you did. he remembers promising himself he’d never be another voice that made you shrink away like a snail into its shell.

yet tonight, he was 10x worse than that.

he stays there, back against the door, replaying every sentence he'd spat down at you. every moment he could have stopped and didn’t. every chance he had to walk away instead of cutting you down.

“i’ll wait,” he says quietly, not sure if you’re still listening. “as long as you need. i’m not going anywhere.”

...

the door clicks, then slides open gently leaving nanami's back without a rest.

"baby?" he flicks his head around, now looking up at a very sad, yet very pretty girl.

he practically jumps to his feet, flattening down his shirt and running a hand through his hair.

“are you okay?” he asks quietly like he’s afraid the question alone might do some more irreversible damage.

you can't muster up and answer, you don't try to tell him something you're not even sure of yourself, so you stay quiet looking up into his solemn eyes.

he spots a dried track of salt running down your cheek and his arm reaches up instinctively to wipe it away. after, you gently push his arm away, but too keen on him thinking he can touch you just yet.

“i’m fine,” you say. your voice is steady, even if it doesn’t quite match how you feel. “really.”

he nods, even though it’s obvious he doesn’t believe you, not one bit. he drops his hand back to his side like he’s been reminded of his place.

“i’m sorry,” he chirps again. “i know i already said it. i just… i need you to know i mean it.”

the way nanami looked right now would send your past self into a coma. he was shrunk into himself, his eyes were hollow from stressing out over you, and his voice was shaken and impossibly weak. still. even if he was sorry, the fact that he'd done what he did still remained.

“i don’t forgive you,” you say honestly.

he flinches, just a little. but he doesn’t interrupt.

“not yet,” you add. “but i don’t want to shut you out either. i just… i need some space from what you said.”

he lets out a big exhale with relief and guilt all tangled together. “that’s more than okay,” he says. “i understand, honey. completely.”

he steps forward then, giving you time to move away if you want to. when you don’t, his big, grounding arms slither around your shoulders and hold you tenderly against his chest.

you let yourself melt into him, after this hell of a night you needed some tlc, even if it was from the very root of your discomfort.

“i’m taking tomorrow off,” he says softly, chin resting near your hair. “no class, or homework, nothing. m' gonna spoil you, baby. i promise you."

you pull away to look up at him. “ken., you don’t have to do that.”

he gives a small shake of his head. “i know. this isn’t about getting back on your good side.” his mouth curves into something gentle. “i just want to. i want to spend the day with you. i want to make it a good one after all of the pain i just put you through.”

you shyly mumble, “you don’t need to spoil me.”

“yes, but i want to,” he replies simply. “please, let me.”

his hands come up to frame your face, the pass of his thumbs resting along your cheeks as he strokes lines down where your tears would of fallen.

“i hate that i made your pretty little face look like this,” he murmurs. “i hate that i put that look in your eyes. you deserve softness, my love...not that..”

your lips inch upwards into a small smile despite the situation, and you look him in the eye for half a second.

he notices right away and of course, his own smile follows gently.

“there it is,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your flushed cheem. “that smile. i love that smile.”

he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, his stubble tickling your chin.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers again, another kiss following. “i’m so sorry.”

he guides you back toward the bedroom with a hand at your back, he helps you sit on the bed, then gently encourages you to lie back. his movements are nice and kind, so attentive, he’s really making sure every step feels safe and familiar.

he leans his big muscular body over yours as he peppers small kisses over your delicate skin.

“i’ll never talk to you like that again, okay?” he says quietly between kisses. “never. i don’t care what kind of day i’ve had, you are not where my anger belongs, and i am so sorry for ever getting that mixed up."

you look up at him with shiny eyes. “you.. you really scared me,” you admit.

his expression softens further, if that’s even possible at this point. “i know. and i hate that. i swear to you, i will spend every day making sure you never feel like that with me ever again.”

he presses his forehead to yours, “you’re not a burden,” he insists. “you’re not useless. you’re the best part of my life, [name]. and i am so grateful you didn’t walk away from me tonight even though you had every right to. hell, you still do."

you reach up, fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “i just… need time.”

he nods. “take all of it. anything you need. i’ll be right here.”

pulling you into his side after rolling over, his arm rests tightly around you in such a way that feels protective without being overwhelming and possessive.

“tomorrow, i’ll take you wherever you want. we’ll eat whatever you want. we’ll do whatever you want, we'll do nothing if that’s what you need.” he assures you, sighing contently into your neck.

you let go of a small "mhm." in response, your sore, puffy eyes finally starting to close.

“thank you,” you whisper.

he kisses your hair. “always.”

he might of been an asshole who misplaced his anger, and he might of been the single most asshole-ish guy in the universe tonight, but when a man like nanami makes a mistake? you best belive he never, ever makes it again.

that's why you stay curled up in his arms as he strokes your back gently. you could tell he meant every word of the apology, and you knew that this was a one time thing.

nanami wasn't the prefect boyfriend, but after that night, he promised himself he'd be the closest thing to it. for you, his sweet, gentle girl.

toji was a quiet man.

stoic, broad, and nearly impossible to read. he didn’t waste time on small talk, rarely showed emotion. it seemed as though your overall presence didn’t faze him in the slightest, as if he’d already adapted to the idea of living with a stranger. he wasn’t the kind to leave messes or linger in shared spaces. everything about him was precise, detached. not out of cruelty, but habit, like he’d spent his whole life perfecting the art of keeping people out.

you’d heard rumors about him growing up. how he used to be the type of man who never stayed in one place for too long, who didn’t give his name to the women he fucked and never spent the night. toji’s never been a one-woman kind of guy. settling down wasn’t in his vocabulary. and definitely not with someone as young and out-of-place as you.

he was older. rougher. the kind of man who’d seen too much and felt too little. you were the opposite— softer around the edges, not naïve, but still idealistic enough to believe marriage might eventually mean something.

but the truth was, you were strangers playing house.

and he made no effort to pretend otherwise.

he never yelled or raised his voice, but he also never smiled. didn’t ask about your day or crack single joke. the most he ever said to you was the occasional, “you eat yet?” or “lock the doors when i’m out.”

he wasn’t cruel. but he wasn’t kind either. he was just… distant.

and every night, without fail, he took a pillow from your bed and laid it on the couch. like it was some unspoken rule neither of you had agreed to, but followed all the same.

you told yourself it didn’t bother you.

it’s better this way, you thought. less awkward. more space. at least he wasn’t forcing anything on you. at least he wasn’t trying to play pretend.

but it still left a strange hollow in your chest, watching him retreat down the hallway like some unwelcome guest, his broad back disappearing into the dark. it was your house, your marriage, but it didn’t feel like either belonged to you.

you could hear him sometimes through the thin walls— the creak of leather, the shift of his weight on the couch, the low sighs he tried to keep quiet. you’d often wonder, did he ever sleep soundly? did he ever think about coming back to bed? or was this just as unbearable for him as it was for you?

you didn’t know what he saw when he looked at you. just a kid, maybe. just another favor he owed. a girl too young for him. a wife he didn’t ask for.

and yet… there were glimpses. brief ones.

he’d linger in the kitchen after grabbing a drink, eyes flicking to you like he wasn’t ready to leave just yet. his gaze would catch on you when you bend over to grab something. there’d be times where his fingers would brush yours when passing a mug across the table, only to quickly pull away and act like the contact burned him.

but none of it meant anything. not really.

he still felt a million miles away, always avoided your eyes, and spent his nights on the couch.

and every time you lay in bed alone, facing the empty space where your husband should have been… you wondered how long it would be before either of you finally broke the silence.

+

months passed.

coexistence— bland, neutral, suffocating— was the best words you could find for it. two strangers living under the same roof. two shadows moving through the same space.

you learned his footsteps before his voice. heavy boots against the tile, always coming home late, reeking of steel and smoke. the scent of blood sometimes lingered longer than it should’ve. cuts along his knuckles, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a cigarette tucked behind his ear he never once lit indoors.

he never offered answers. and you never asked questions.

your conversations always felt transactional— brief and stripped of anything personal. he moved like a man who’d locked his entire life behind closed doors, speaking only when necessary, silence curling in the spaces between

but sometimes, he surprised you.

like when your cough wouldn’t go away, and he left a steaming cup of tea on your nightstand. no note. just honey, lemon, and a quiet gesture you pretended not to notice. or the time your car wouldn’t start, and by morning it was fixed, keys hung on the hook with a single post-it note: ‘battery’s old. don’t leave the lights on.’ or when you dozed off on the couch and woke up in bed, tucked in gently—your socks gone, your blanket neatly arranged over your shoulders, the air warm from the space heater you hadn’t turned on yourself.

little things. fleeting and wordless. barely there, but enough to leave a mark.

enough to make you wonder.

does he care? or is this just guilt? pity? obligation?

you caught him watching you sometimes, too. not lecherous. not overt. just… lingering. like he couldn’t figure you out. like he was trying to memorize you without getting caught. his eyes would trail over your face like he didn’t quite believe you were real.

but he never touched you.

never kissed you.

never allowed himself get too close.

and maybe it was better that way. maybe it hurt less to imagine he didn’t want you than to accept the possibility that he did, and was just too afraid to act on it.

until one night, everything changed.

it was starting to rain. the steady patter against the window, soothing enough to lull you to sleep with a book on your chest and the bedside lamp still glowing, thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. you curled beneath the blankets alone, as always, half-asleep before the storm even settled.

you didn’t hear him come in.

but you felt it— the sudden shift in the air, the creak of the floorboards, the dip of the mattress under his weight. his warm breath near the nape of your neck.

your heart kicked in your chest.

“…toji?” you whispered, uncertain, afraid to turn around.

a pause stretched long.

“…can’t sleep,” he murmured, voice rough, like it scraped against something inside him just to speak.

your pulse quickened. “you… wanna stay here tonight?”

he hesitated. the air thickened, heavy with tension.

when he finally responded, his voice was low. remorseful.

“should’ve been sleepin’ here from the start.”

you didn’t know what to say. but when you shifted, he took it as an invitation— easing into the sheets behind you, his massive arm hesitating before wrapping around your waist.

his touch was delicate. almost reverent.

you held your breath as his fingers brushed your stomach. then your ribs. then lower.

“you sure?” he whispered, lips grazing your ear.

you didn’t need time to think before you breathed out a barely audible, “yes.”

a pause. then a low groan, rumbling in his chest.

“good,” he growled, voice thick with restraint finally snapping. “been holdin’ back for too fuckin’ long.”

and then he finally kissed you.

it was messy. desperate. months of pent-up frustration crashing all at once. his mouth was warm, his lips greedy, tongue sweeping against yours like he needed to taste every piece of you. every part he’d denied himself.

you whimpered, hands fisting in his hair, and he groaned against your mouth— deep and guttural, as if it physically hurt to hold back.

“fuck, baby… taste so sweet,” he murmured, breath warm on your lips. his hands roamed, rough palms caressing your hips, your thighs, your stomach.

he pulled back just long enough to sit up and yank your nightshirt over your head in one swift motion, tossing it to the floor. you lay bare beneath him, chest rising and falling, lips parted in anticipation— the look in his eyes darkened, heat blooming behind his lashes. his gaze dropped to your underwear, and a crooked smirk curved his mouth.

“always sleepin’ in those little fuckin’ panties,” he muttered, laced with amusement and need. “you do it to tease me?”

“n-no, i—” your throat tightened as he hooked his fingers into the waistband, dragging them down your thighs with excruciating slowness, knuckles brushing your skin.

“you do now,” he said, eyes never leaving you. “so pretty… ‘s all mine, yeah?”

you nodded quickly, heart thudding in your chest. “yours.”

he leaned down, kissed your collarbone, your chest, your waist— leaving no place of you untouched. his stubble scraped your skin, rough enough to make your thighs twitch, your breath hitch. you shivered as he moved lower, lips brushing along your inner thighs until he was nestled between them

“spread those legs, sweet girl,” he rasped. “lemme taste what i’ve been missin’.”

you obeyed instantly, trembling.

and then he was on you.

your cry cracked the silence, body jolting as his tongue met your folds— slow, deliberate, filthy. he devoured you like he was starving, tongue flat and thorough, savoring every bit of you with obscene groans vibrating against your pussy.

“fuck… so wet for me already,” he breathed between licks, voice muffled and wrecked. “this pretty lil’ cunt’s been waitin’, huh?”

“t-toji— ah!”

he moaned in response, sucking your clit into his mouth while two fingers pushed inside— curling just right, filling you so perfectly it made your toes curl. you were already so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

he kept going, relentless, mouth and hands working in tandem until your thighs shook around his head and your fingers tugged his hair, your orgasm ripping through you in thick waves as you cried out his name.

only when you fell back against the pillows, panting and soaked, did he finally stop.

he sat back on his knees, eyes half-lidded, licking his lips like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop of you. he made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it with one hand while the other gently stroked your thigh, soothing you. his cock was thick, flushed, the tip glistening. heavy in his palm as he stroked himself slow, watching the way your chest rose and fell.

“gonna fuck you slow,” he promised, “but i ain’t gonna be gentle.”

you whimpered. “want you… please, toji.”

he leaned in and kissed you again— deep and messy, still tasting like you— before guiding himself to your entrance and pressing in, steady and thick, easing deeper until your walls stretched to take all of him.

“fuck,” he hissed, jaw clenched. “grippin’ me like a fuckin’ vice…”

he stayed still at first, letting you adjust to his size, forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning across your lips. then he rolled his hips, slow and deep, dragging every ridge of him along your walls. you were already gasping, body arching into his, overwhelmed by how full he made you feel. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, grounding yourself against the dizzying pleasure.

and then he started to move— faster, deeper, driving into you with smooth, powerful thrusts. the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard thudded against the wall in rhythm.

“yeah, take it, baby,” he grunted. “takin’ it so good for me.”

his mouth found your neck, then your shoulder, then your lips again— hot and open, tongue sliding against yours between moans. you couldn’t think, couldn’t speak— only hold on and feel. your nails raked down his back as he fucked you harder, each thrust making your breath hitch.

“always thought about this,” he confessed between gritted teeth. “every fuckin’ night on that couch. wanted to come in here… split you open.”

his hand came up to wrap around your throat, not choking, just holding. “look at me.”

your eyes fluttered open, and he looked down at you like he was worshipping you. you were already teary, completely undone, and somehow still falling apart beneath him.

his lips were back on yours, languid, teasing, yet driven by something deeper. like he finally understood what it meant to want.

“mine,” he growled, low and steady. “you hear me?”

“yours,” you whispered back, broken and sure.

he groaned as he came, burying himself as deep as he could go, hips grinding into you while he spilled inside— thick and warm, pulse after pulse. you felt it fill you, every drop, your walls fluttering around him as you whimpered through the overstimulation.

you clung to him like a lifeline, barely able to breathe.

and still, he didn’t move.

he stayed there, chest heaving, one hand cupping your cheek, nose brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you. he kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw. soft and sweet and quiet.

“shouldn’t’ve waited this long,” he murmured against your skin. “you… you make this place feel like home.”

you blinked up at him, bleary-eyed.

“…i thought you didn’t like me,” you hesitantly confessed.

his brows pulled together. “didn’t like you?”

you nodded. “you always slept on the couch. you never talked to me…”

his expression softened, almost ashamed.

he lets out a shaky breath.

“did it ‘cause i didn’t wanna scare you. didn’t think i deserved to sleep next to you yet.”

your heart clenched so tightly you thought it might break.

“…you do,” you whispered, reaching up to touch his face. “you do now.”

he leaned into your palm.

then kissed you— slow, tender, like he meant every breath of it.

that night, for the first time, you fell asleep in your husband’s arms.

and for once… he didn’t leave.

and maybe he doesn’t see it, not yet. but you’re going to make sure he feels it.

+

“why’re you lookin’ at me like that,” he murmurs, eyes narrow but fond as he reclines back against the pillows. the two of you are curled up in bed, the tv flickering quietly in the background, long forgotten.

you crawl up slowly from your spot between his thighs, fingertips trailing along the sides of his stomach— your eyes locked to his.

“because you’re handsome.”

he scoffs. “sweet talkin’ me now?”

“mhm,” you press a kiss just below his navel, “trying to seduce you.”

his brow twitches. you can tell he’s holding back, can already feel the hesitation coming— so you slide your palms up under his shirt, feeling the soft warmth of his torso, the tension in his abs that he’s subconsciously sucking in.

“toji,” you whisper gently, “you don’t have to hide from me, y’know.”

his body stiffens. then comes the nonchalant grumble. “i’m not hidin’.”

“baby.” you kiss just above his belly button. “i love you. all of you. you really think i’m gonna stop wanting you just because you’ve gotten a little softer?” your nails trace his sides, slow and tender. “i love this body. this body keeps me warm at night, it protects me, and most importantly, fucks me sooo good.”

his jaw ticks, throat working through a quiet swallow. “you’re just sayin’ that…”

“toji,” you say again, a little firmer this time, sitting up on your knees. “look at me.”

he does, reluctantly.

you take his hand, pressing it to your chest. “i’m yours. and you’re mine. this tummy—” you press another kiss to it, nose nudging softly against his skin, “—this is my favorite place to rest my head. i love when you’re on top of me and i can feel your whole weight, your body holding mine down like you never wanna let go.”

“baby…” his voice goes low, pained almost. his hand cups the back of your head.

“i want you to stop hiding from me,” you murmur, nuzzling under his shirt. “take it off. wanna see you.”

he hesitates.

you kiss his stomach again. “please.”

and slowly, after a beat, he lifts the hem and pulls the shirt over his head. it’s quiet for a moment. vulnerable. you let your eyes drag over every inch of him— his broad chest, the softened swell of his belly, the thickness of his arms— and your breath catches a little.

“so fucking sexy,” you whisper, running your hands over him. “d’you even know what you do to me?”

his gaze is heated now, shoulders still a little tense, but his cock is twitching against his thigh. you straddle him, dragging your folds along the length of it, and his breath stutters.

“i love you,” you murmur again. “and you’re so, so hot.”

“fuck.” his hands grab your hips, but there’s a softness to his grip this time. his voice breaks a little. “you really mean all that?”

you nod, fingers threading through his hair. “swear on my life.”

his eyes flutter shut. then he pulls you down into a kiss so deep, so full of emotion it makes your chest ache.

+

when he finally slides into you, it’s with aching tenderness. his body presses flush to yours, your thighs spread wide, knees bent as he rocks into you slow and deep.

his lips are on your neck. “feel so fuckin’ good. always so tight for me.”

you’re holding onto him like you never want him to leave. “don’t wanna be anywhere else,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “want you forever.”

his thrusts are slow, purposeful, dragging his cock along every ridge of your walls, every sensitive spot. you’re gasping, clinging to him, but it’s the way he’s looking at you so open, so raw, that has you crumbling.

“you’re not goin’ anywhere,” he rasps. “gonna keep lovin’ you until i’m buried six feet under.”

“you better,” you gasp out, “or i’ll come down there and haunt your ass.”

he laughs, breathless. “wouldn’t even be mad.”

you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him even deeper. “fuck a flat stomach,” you murmur against his mouth. “i want you. all of you.”

he groans. “keep talkin’ like that and i’m not pullin’ out.”

you roll your hips, tightening around him. “you never do.”

he grunts. “gonna make you mine over and over. stuff you so full you never forget.”

“already yours,” you moan. “been yours since the second i saw you.”

his movements get rougher, messier, breath ragged against your skin as his hips snap into yours. and when he cums, it’s with a shuddering groan, buried as deep as he can go, your name on his lips.

+

after, you clean him up, kissing every inch of his tummy again as he lies there boneless, soft eyes watching your every move.

“you’re ridiculous,” he mutters, pulling you into his chest.

“you love it.”

“…i really fuckin’ do.” he presses a kiss to your hair. “thank you, baby.”

you smile against his skin. “always.”