nanami kento; an older boyfriend was all what you needed
Before Kento, you used to think love was supposed to be a loud, volatile thing.
You thought it was measured in the sharp, dizzying spikes of adrenaline after a text left on read, the performative grand gestures that felt more like a stage production than a partnership, and the exhausting requirement to always be on, to be interesting, to be productive, to be small enough not to inconvenience anyone.
Then you hit your final year of college, and the world simply became too heavy to carry.
Between the crushing weight of graduation theses, unpaid internship applications, and the constant, suffocating background noise of family expectations, you had entirely run yourself into the ground.
You spent your days living on black coffee and adrenaline, your room a chaotic battlefield of highlighters and printed drafts, your chest permanently tight with the feeling that you were constantly lagging behind.
It’s a rainy evening when the damp wood of the college library finally expels you. You walk out of your final mid-semester seminar convinced you’ve failed entirely, your throat dry, your eyes burning from staring at academic texts for twelve hours straight.
You stand under the concrete awning of the campus building, watching the heavy rain turn the pavement into a dark, slick mirror.
Your first instinct is to pull out your phone and send a frantic, defensive apology. I'm sorry, I know you're busy at the firm, I can just take the train—
A pair of polished leather shoes steps into the perimeter of your vision.
You lift your head. Kento is standing there. He’s still in his charcoal-grey three-piece suit from his corporate office, his hair perfectly parted, a large, heavy black umbrella held steadily over his head.
The rain is dripping fiercely off the outer edges of the fabric, but his broad shoulders are entirely dry, his light hazel eyes fixing on your tired face behind his signature frames.
"Kento," you breathe out, your voice small, instantly defensive. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you wait. My seminar ran late and I—"
"I wasn't worried about myself," Kento cuts you off, his deep, baritone voice dropping into that steady, unyielding cadence that instantly grounds the air around you.
He steps closer, slanting the large umbrella until you are entirely enclosed within his space, the clean scent of cedarwood and expensive starch instantly neutralizing the damp smell of the campus. "I was worried about you. Let’s get you out of the cold."
He doesn't ask how the exam went. He simply takes your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulder, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the straps with an easy, effortless strength that tells you he’s been waiting to do it all day.
When you get to his car, the passenger side is already warm, the heater set to a perfect, comfortable temperature. Sitting in the cup holder is a hot container of the specific ginger-pork soup from the deli near his apartment.
"I figured you would be hungry," he murmurs, closing your door gently before walking around to the driver's side.
You sit there as the car pulls out into the city traffic, the windshield wipers clicking a rhythmic, soothing pattern against the glass.
You look at the soup, then down at your own hands, and before you can even process the sudden, overwhelming relief of being taken care of, a hot tear slips down your cheek, followed by another.
Kento doesn't slam on the brakes, nor does he offer a clumsy, panicked speech. He simply keeps his left hand steady on the steering wheel, while his right hand moves across the center console, his long, warm fingers wrapping completely around your trembling hand. He squeezes once, a solid, anchoring pressure that lets you cry until the highway opens up.
"You worked hard," he says softly into the quiet car. "That is more than enough."
..............
The apartment is always quiet. Kento’s home is a reflection of the man himself, minimalist, organized, and deeply intentional. There are no dishes left in the sink, no loud televisions blaring, no unpredictable shifts in temperature. It is a sanctuary.
But the habit of being a burden is a hard thing to unlearn.
An hour later, you’re sitting on the edge of his plush cream sofa, your fingers nervously picking at the hem of one of his oversized navy sweaters.
He steps out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs of barley tea. He sets them on the table, his eyes instantly tracking the tense, curled-up posture of your shoulders.
"I can clean the kitchen," you say quickly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I know I’m bothering you by staying over on a weeknight when you have that audit tomorrow. I'll get up early so I'm not in your way—"
He doesn't answer immediately. He slowly drops to one knee on the dark wood floor right in front of you, bringing himself down to your eye level.
He reaches up, his large, cool hands gently capturing your wrists, uncurling your frantic fingers from the sweater fabric and holding them steady within his palms.
"Who taught you," Kento asks, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, heavy seriousness that makes your breath catch, "that existing requires an apology?"
You freeze, your lips parting but no sound coming out.
"You are not a project, Y/N," he says softly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against the inside of your wrist.
"You are not a chore that needs to be managed before I can rest. You don't have to earn kindness with me. Your presence in this space is entirely permitted, at any hour, under any condition."
The silence that follows is thick, but for the first time in months, it doesn't feel heavy. It feels like a space where you are allowed to simply take up room.
As the final semester bleeds into winter, you begin to realize that Kento’s love isn't something he speaks; it’s something he executes with a quiet, terrifying efficiency.
He is the man who always waits in the idling car until he hears the click of your apartment deadbolt before he drives away into the midnight fog.
He is the man whose glove compartment is a curated survival kit for your chaotic schedule, containing your specific brand of painkillers, spare hair ties, a portable charger, and the exact honey candies you like when your throat is dry from presentations.
You find yourself falling asleep everywhere around him.
You fall asleep in his home office while he’s quietly reviewing legal briefs, your head resting against his spare desk. You fall asleep thirty minutes into movie nights, your cheek pressed against his broad shoulder. You fall asleep in the car before he even exits the parking garage.
And he never wakes you.
Every single time, you wake up hours later to the realization that you’ve been lifted with a smooth, iron-clad carefulness and tucked securely into his bed.
The lights are always dimmed, the ambient temperature adjusted, and his heavy charcoal winter coat is always draped over your shoulders if you’ve fallen asleep on the move.
One evening, after a grocery run where you had mindlessly thrown three separate bags of sugary snacks into the cart out of pure stress, you look down to find him quietly adding fresh berries, spinach, and a high-end iron supplement beside your items.
"You'll thank me later," he murmurs, his face entirely serious as he checks the expiration date on a carton of milk.
"Probably," you laugh softly, leaning your head against his upper arm for a split second, feeling the immense, solid warmth of him.
Later that night, you’re sitting on the living room rug, your legs stretched out under his low table, watching him read a financial journal under the soft amber light of the floor lamp.
He’s wearing his reading glasses, his shirt collar unbuttoned by two notches, his large hand rhythmically turning the pages with a slow, deliberate slowness.
You look at the quiet room, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the total absence of chaos in your mind.
You used to think love was supposed to be exciting, a series of high-stakes dramas and reckless fires that left you burnt out and breathless.
But as you look at Kento, you realize that excitement is a young, unstable thing.
What you actually needed was this. You needed the quiet hours. You needed the certainty that someone was holding the perimeter so you could finally close your eyes.
"Kento," you call out quietly.
He doesn't look up immediately, but his hand pauses on the edge of the page. "Yes?"
"Nothing," you whisper, sliding down further against the couch cushions, a small, breathtakingly content smile touching your lips. "Just... thank you."
A very small, nearly imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth behind his journal. He adjusts his glasses, his voice dropping into that low, protective rumble that makes your whole world feel safe.
"Go to sleep, Y/N. I’ll wake you when it’s time."
Thank you for reading till last. I'm working on another fic right now, that's why I almost forgot to post here.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
you practice giving hickeys on megumi, but you both are just friends..? pt2.
The mattress dips under the sudden shift of weight, the sharp creak of the springs loud in the otherwise suffocating silence of the room.
Megumi doesn't drop his hand from his mouth. His knuckles are white, the skin over his teeth dented and raw where he’s still clamping down, desperately trying to lock the rest of those thick, low sounds inside his throat.
But he isn't letting you go either.
The grip he has on your hip is borderline bruising now, his fingers hooking hard into the waistband of your pants, anchoring you flat against his lap.
You can feel the exact moment his control snaps entirely, the rigid, iron barrier of his discipline just giving way under the heat of your skin.
The erratic, heavy thrum of his pulse is vibrating straight through your thighs, hot and demanding, a chaotic rhythm that completely betrays his usual cold composure.
"Megumi," you breathe out, your lips nearly brushing the violent, blooming violet mark you’ve just left on his throat. Your voice is thick, completely stripped of any of that rehearsed innocence. "Look at me."
His chest heaves, a ragged, uneven gasp tearing through his nose before he slowly pulls his hand away from his mouth.
His lips are wet, flushed a deep, swollen red, parted just enough that you can hear the shallow, desperate hitch in his breathing.
When his sea-green eyes finally lift to yours, they’re almost entirely black, the pupils so blown out with pure, unadulterated friction that it sends a sharp, dizzying bolt of adrenaline straight down your spine.
He looks furious. He looks completely ruined. And he looks at you like he’s about to tear you apart.
"You wanted to see if I could handle it," he rasps, his voice dangerously low, stripped of any boyish hesitation. It’s a rough, unvarnished growl that scratches at the back of his throat. "Is this what you wanted?"
Before you can even formulate an answer, his left hand flies from your hip to the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling roughly into your hair. He doesn't give you a choice.
He pulls you down, his mouth crashing against yours with a sudden, heavy force that completely knocks the air from your lungs.
There’s nothing gentle about the way he kisses you. It’s clumsy, desperate, and entirely unfiltered, the pent-up gravity of months of unsaid things suddenly collapsing all at once.
His tongue slides against yours, hot and unpracticed but utterly dominant, demanding everything you have to give.
A soft, breathless whimper catches in your throat, and the sound only seems to make him lose his mind further; his grip on your waist tightens until your pelvis is crushed hard against his, leaving absolutely no doubt about exactly how much this "favor" has affected him.
The shadows in the corners of the room actively writhe, his cursed energy flaring in dark, erratic waves that make the lightbulbs overhead hum with static.
You slide your hands up his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform shirt, pulling him closer until you can feel the heavy, frantic pounding of his heart directly against your own ribs.
You shift your weight over his lap, your hips moving instinctively against his, and a sharp, guttural groan rips straight from Megumi’s chest, deep and unedited.
He tears his mouth away from yours, his breath coming in hot, ragged pants against your cheek.
He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his sharp jaw grinding against your shoulder as his hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, his bare palms scalding hot against the sensitive skin of your waist.
"Shut up," he mutters against your skin, though you hadn't even said a word. His fingers dig into your ribs, upward, trailing a line of pure fire across your skin. "Don't say anything. Just... stay right there."
You wrap your arms tightly around his broad shoulders, burying your fingers into his dark, messy hair as he presses his forehead against your collarbone, his entire body trembling beneath yours like a wire pulled too taut.
The technical exercise is completely dead, buried under the heavy, sticky reality of the sweat dampening his temple and the raw, heavy weight of his mouth finding the soft skin of your shoulder.
You look past his head, your eyes landing on the bruised rose-violet mark on his neck, standing out stark and permanent in the dim light of the dorm room.
You’ve branded him, but as his mouth burns another heavy, possessive path up toward your jaw, you realize the damage is entirely mutual.
you practice giving hickeys on megumi, but you both are just friends..?
"This is completely ridiculous."
Megumi didn't look up from the book in his lap, but the sharp, flat cadence of his voice told you everything you need to know. He was annoyed.
Or, more accurately, he was trying very hard to pretend he wasn't completely thrown off by what you had just proposed.
"It’s not ridiculous, it’s a practical crisis," you insisted, leaning back against his desk, your arms crossed.
"Everyone was talking about it during break. I’m the only one who didn't have a single thing to say because I’ve literally never done it. I am not about to get clowned on for being completely inexperienced just because I actually spend my time training."
Megumi finally turned a page, his fingers moving with a rigid, deliberate slowness. "Then let them clown you. It’s a useless skill. It serves no tactical purpose."
"It’s a hickey, Megumi. It’s not a Jujutsu technique." You stepped away from the desk, closing the distance between you and the edge of his bed where he sat.
You dropped your voice, letting a tiny, provocative tilt slide into your tone. "Unless... you’re just turning me down because you’re scared."
That made him pause. His sea-green eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly behind his dark bangs. "Scared of what?"
"Scared you won't be able to handle it," you teased, stepping closer until your knees almost brushed his. "Scared that you’ll actually like it too much. I mean, you’ve never had one either, right? Maybe you’re worried your stoic composure will just melt away."
A faint, tense silence settled over the room. Megumi’s jaw tightened. He hated being dared, and he hated, above all else, the implication that he lacked control over himself.
He looked at you for a long, heavy five seconds, calculating how to shut you up the fastest.
He slammed his book shut and tossed it onto the nightstand.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice dropping into a rough, irritated register.
He shifted back slightly on the mattress, clearing a space. "If it means you’ll stop talking about it. Just... do it quickly and get it over with."
The casual, joking mood lasted right up until you climbed onto the bed and sat on his lap.
The moment your weight settled over him, the air in the room completely changed. The "practice session" suddenly felt incredibly heavy.
You could feel the rigid, solid muscle of his thighs beneath yours, and when his hands instinctively came up to anchor your hips, his palms were warm, almost hot, through the fabric of your clothes.
Your own heart gave a sudden, nervous flutter. You hadn't expected him to feel this large, this present. The thin line of your friendship suddenly felt like a tightrope.
"Don't overthink it," you muttered, though the words were meant more for yourself. Your voice lacked the playful edge it had a moment ago.
Megumi didn't answer. He was looking at your lips, his chest rising and falling in a slightly shallower rhythm than before.
The indifference he had been wearing like armor was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, hyper-focused stillness.
You leaned in, your fingers trembling slightly as you brushed his dark hair away from the left side of his neck. His skin was pale, smooth, and warm. You rested your hand against his collarbone, feeling the hard, rapid thump-thump-thump of his pulse beneath your palm.
He’s not indifferent, you realized with a sudden jolt of adrenaline. He’s terrified.
You leaned down, your lips lightly brushing the skin just below his jawline. Megumi’s entire body went rigid. A sharp, involuntary intake of breath hissed through his teeth.
You started gently, just testing the friction, pressing your lips against his throat and drawing the skin in. It was supposed to be a technical exercise, but the sensory reality of it was overwhelming.
The scent of him, soap, clean laundry, and a faint hint of the crisp outside air, filled your senses. Every time you sucked against the skin, you could feel the slight vibration of his throat as he swallowed hard.
A low, thick sound caught in his chest.
Before you could even process it, Megumi’s right hand flew up from your hip, his knuckles crashing against his own mouth.
He bit down on his hand, his teeth digging deep into the flesh between his thumb and index finger to stifle the noise.
You pulled back slightly, your breath catching. His eyes were wide, blown out, the dark pupils swallowing the green of his irises.
A deep, burning flush had crept up from his collar, painting his pale skin a violent, chaotic red. He was staring at you with an expression that was half-furious and half-undone.
"Megumi," you whispered, your own heart racing so fast it felt dizzying. "You don't have to—"
"Shut up," he rasped around his own knuckles, his voice completely wrecked. He didn't pull away.
In fact, his left hand on your hip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, holding you firmly against him as if he couldn't bear the thought of you moving an inch further.
The illusion of the "favor" was entirely shattered.
There was nothing casual about the way his body was trembling beneath yours, or the way his cursed energy was humming erratically in the corners of the room, casting long, erratic shadows against the wall.
You looked down at his neck. Where your mouth had just been, a dark, bruised rose-violet mark was already beginning to form against his pale skin—a permanent, unmissable brand of what you had just done to him.
And looking at him now, with his hand jammed between his teeth and his breath tearing through his nose in ragged, uneven gasps, you knew neither of you would ever be able to pretend this was just a practice session again.
Gojo Satoru; you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend but he takes it a little too seriously
When your mother had phoned you three weeks ago to remind you of your cousin’s lavish, high-society wedding in Kyoto, she had spent a full ten minutes subtly interrogating you about your lack of a companion.
“A beautiful person like you shouldn’t always be sitting at the singles table,” she had sighed, her tone dripping with that distinct brand of parental pity. “Even a temporary friend would do.”
Out of sheer, panicked spite, you had told her you were bringing someone.
And then, in a moment of profound cosmic stupidity, you had turned to the man currently balancing three empty strawberry milk cartons on his forehead while lying across your office couch.
"Satoru," you had said, rubbing your temples. "Are you busy on the twenty-fourth?"
The cartons had tumbled to the floor as Gojo Satoru slid his dark sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, his bright, sky-blue eyes gleaming with instant, dangerous amusement. "For you? Never. Are we finally assassinating the higher-ups? Because I’ve got an entire itinerary prepared—"
"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for a wedding."
The room had gone dead silent. Satoru had blinked once, twice, before a massive, blinding grin broke across his face. He had sat up so fast his white hair went wild.
"An undercover mission? Domestic espionage? Oh, this is the best day of my life. I’m going to be the greatest boyfriend this world has ever seen. I'll make your exes weep. I'll make your ancestors proud."
"I don't have any exes attending, Satoru. And it’s just a game," you had warned him, pointing a finger at his chest. "Keep it simple. Don't go overboard."
You should have known right then. Gojo Satoru didn't do simple. He didn't do restraint. He treated the entire world like his personal sandbox, and you had just handed him a shovel.
Later, you stepped out of the Kyoto bullet train station.
You had expected Satoru to show up in his usual dark Jujutsu High uniform, maybe with a slightly cleaner jacket. Instead, he had materialized in a tailored, charcoal-gray three-piece suit that fit his towering, six-foot-three frame so perfectly it felt like a direct assault on your nervous system.
His hair was down, falling softly over his forehead, and he had swapped his dark blindfold for a pair of lightly tinted round sunglasses that allowed his lethal eyes to track every single movement you made.
"Well?" he had asked, spinning a silver car key around his long finger, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his lips. "Do I look like husband material?"
"We're dating, Satoru. Not engaged," you had muttered, your heart doing a violent, uncoordinated flip against your ribs. "And where did you get a car?"
"Borrowed it from Ichiji," he shrugged carelessly, opening the passenger door for you with an elaborate, sweeping bow. "Only the best for my darling."
By the time you arrived at the traditional garden estate where the reception was being held, Satoru had fully lost his mind to the bit.
The moment your mother approached us, her eyes wide as she took in the literal god of a man standing beside her child, Satoru didn't just polite shake her hand. He glided forward, wrapping his massive arms around her in a warm, enthusiastic hug.
"Grandma!" he had cheered, instantly spotting your elderly grandmother sitting in a wheelchair nearby, sweeping over to her before you could even open your mouth to correct him. He dropped to one knee on the gravel, taking her frail, wrinkled hand between both of his large, calloused ones.
"I've heard so much about you. Their childhood stories are my absolute favorite. Especially the one where they got their head stuck in the banister."
"Oh, what a handsome, polite young man!" your grandmother had beamed, her face flushing pink as she patted Satoru’s silver-white hair. "You must look after our little one."
"With my life," Satoru had murmured, looking back at you through those tinted lenses, his smile softening into something so warm, so terrifyingly tender that your lungs entirely forgot how to extract oxygen from the air.
He spent the next three hours systematically dismantling your family's defenses. He helped your uncles carry the heavy multi-tiered dessert trays; he took hundreds of group photos using his phone, his long arm wrapping naturally around your waist to pull you flush against his side for every single shot.
He was so charismatic, so seamlessly woven into the fabric of your family, that your cousins were already pulling you aside in the restroom to ask when the wedding bells were ringing for you.
"He keeps talking about our future," you muttered frantically to yourself in the mirror, splashing cold water on your face. "He told my uncle we were looking at properties in Sendai. He's insane. He’s taking this way too seriously."
It was the cocktail hour now.
Satoru had been dragged away by your father to discuss a specific brand of sake, leaving you standing near the koi pond with a glass of plum wine. Within minutes, a distant acquaintance of the groom, a wealthy, sharp-tongued young businessman from Tokyo, had slid into the space beside you.
"So," the man had said, his eyes scanning your form with a slow, predatory interest that made your stomach turn. "I see you're sitting alone. A beautiful person like you shouldn't be left unattended at a celebration like this. Let me get you something stronger to drink."
"I'm fine, thank you," you said politely, taking a step back. "My boyfriend is actually—"
"Oh, the tall guy with the flashy hair?" the businessman scoffed, stepping closer, effectively blocking your path back to the pavilion. "He looks like the type who likes to be the center of attention. Probably doesn't know how to appreciate what's right in front of him. Why don't you let a real adult take you out tonight?"
Before you could formulate a response that wouldn't cause a scene, the temperature around you dropped by ten degrees.
The air grew heavy, the faint, invisible hum of Infinity vibrating against the back of your neck a split second before a heavy, unyielding arm locked around your waist.
Satoru hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive frame completely bracketing you from the stranger.
"Is there a problem here?" Satoru asked.
His voice wasn't carrying that cheerful, annoying pitch he used when he was playing a character. It was low, dangerous, and carried a jagged, Special Grade edge that made the businessman's smile instantly vanish.
Satoru didn't have his glasses on; they were tucked into his breast pocket, and his bare, sky-blue eyes were fixed on the man with a freezing, unblinking glare that felt like a death sentence.
"No, I was just... introducing myself," the businessman stammered, taking an involuntary step backward as his face went pale.
"Great. Now you've met us," Satoru rumbled, his grip tightening around your waist, his thumb anchoring itself against your hipbone with a possessive, territorial force. "My partner and I were right in the middle of an important conversation. Lose yourself."
The man practically ran away.
You stood there for a long beat, your back pressed against Satoru’s tailored vest, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm. You could feel the heavy, rapid thud of his own heart against your spine.
"Satoru," you whispered, your fingers clutching his forearm to loosen his grip. "The guy's gone. You can drop the act now. You're squeezing me."
He didn't release you. Instead, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his white hair brushing against your ear as he let out a long, ragged exhale.
"I'm not acting," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin, rough and entirely devoid of his usual playful theater. "I really hate when people look at you like that."
But it wasn't enough. Your emotional ruin arrived during the traditional reception events.
The bride had gathered all the unmarried guests in the center of the courtyard for the bouquet toss. You had tried to hide behind a pillar with a plate of crab cakes, but your mother had forcibly shoved you into the center of the crowd, right at the front lines.
"On three!" the bride called out, turning her back. "One... two... three!"
The flowers sailed through the air in a high, arc trajectory. You hadn't even intended to reach for them, but a sudden scramble among the cousins caused someone to bump into your shoulder, and your hands instinctively shot out to stabilize yourself.
Thud.
The tightly bound bundle of white roses and eucalyptus landed squarely in your palms.
The entire courtyard erupted into cheers and wild applause. Your mother was practically vibrating with delight, and your uncle let out a booming laugh from the bar, cupping his hands around his mouth to yell across the garden: "Looks like you're next, kid! Better start saving up for the venue!"
You felt your entire face turn a brilliant, agonizing shade of crimson. You opened your mouth, ready to laugh it off as a statistical anomaly, ready to say something self-deprecating to break the tension.
"Works for me," a clear, loud voice echoed from the stairs.
The courtyard went dead silent.
You froze, your fingers tightening around the flower stems until the thorns nipped at your skin. You turned your head slowly. Satoru was standing on the wooden veranda, a half-eaten skewer of dango in his hand. His sky-blue eyes were wide, fixed on you with an expression of profound, unadulterated shock.
He hadn't meant to say that out loud. For the first time in his entire life, Gojo Satoru had lost control of his filter because his subconscious had answered the universe before his brain could construct a joke.
Your mother looked at Satoru. Satoru looked at you. You looked at the bouquet.
"Well," your grandmother chirped into the suffocating silence, her wheelchair squeaking as she turned toward the buffet. "I always did want a autumn wedding."
The evening drew to a close, the traditional lanterns had been dimmed, casting the stone paths in long, indigo shadows. The older relatives had retired to their rooms, leaving only a few lingering guests drifting through the garden as a slow, melancholy jazz melody began to float from the speakers near the pavilion.
You were sitting on the edge of the wooden deck, your heels discarded beside you, staring out at the dark water of the koi pond. The white bouquet was resting in your lap, its scent heavy in the cool night air.
A soft rustle of silk announced his presence before he even sat down.
Satoru slid onto the deck beside you, his long legs dangling over the edge. He had discarded his jacket and his tie, the top three buttons of his white shirt undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones.
He looked smaller like this, less like the strongest sorcerer alive and more like a man who had spent the day carrying the weight of a secret he didn't know how to keep.
"We survived," you said softly, trying to inject some of your usual lighthearted banter into the space between you. "My mother already added you to the family group chat, by the way. You're stuck forever."
Satoru didn't laugh. He didn't even look at his phone. He just turned his head, his brilliant, bare eyes searching your face with a quiet, devastating intensity that made your breath hitch.
"Can I have this dance?" he asked.
His voice was a low, velvet whisper. There was no teasing edge, no smirk, no arrogant tilt of his chin. It was just Satoru.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second before setting the bouquet down on the wood. You stood up, your bare feet cold against the smooth timber, and stepped into his space.
Satoru rose to his full height, his massive form instantly shielding you from the rest of the world. He didn't place his hand on your waist with that theatrical, exaggerated flourish from earlier.
Instead, his palm came down against the small of your back with a soft, reverent pressure, his other hand gently lacing his fingers through yours, locking them securely against his chest.
You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, letting the scent of his cologne and the steady, heavy rhythm of his heart wash over you as you swayed to the slow music.
"Satoru," you murmured into the fabric of his shirt. "The wedding is over. You don't have to keep the act up anymore. Nobody's looking at us."
The hand on your back tightened, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer until there was no space left between you, his chest rising and falling against yours in a ragged, uneven pattern.
"You know..." he whispered, his chin resting gently against the top of your hair, his long fingers pressing into your palm with a desperate, quiet certainty.
"What?"
"If you ever wanted to do that for real," Satoru murmured into the dark of the garden, his voice completely devoid of his usual armor. "I'd be available. Permanently."
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his face. For the first time since you had known him, the invincible Gojo Satoru looked entirely vulnerable, his blue eyes holding yours with a raw, terrifying honesty that left no room for doubt.
He wasn't playing a game anymore. The sandbox was gone, and he was standing before you, entirely unraveled by his own collateral damage.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, your hand moving up to gently cup the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing against the smooth skin of his cheekbone. "You're an idiot, Satoru."
A small, breathtakingly beautiful smile touched his lips, his eyes softening into something eternal as he leaned down, closing the remaining distance between you. "Yeah," he whispered against your lips. "But I'm your idiot now."
!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukuna’s jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukuna’s lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukuna’s dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rot—somehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukuna’s attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lord’s table, and dismantled the man’s entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
you ended up with your ex's older brother !geto suguru pt2
You didn't realise when you shift from the dining table to Suguru’s bedroom, it was entirely seamless, a natural extension of the quiet intensity that had been building between you for months.
His bedroom reflected him perfectly, minimalist, pristine, and smelling faintly of sandalwood incense and clean sheets. The heavy curtains were drawn against the city lights, reducing the room to a sanctuary of deep shadows and warm, low-amber lamplight.
Suguru didn't let go of your hand for a single second. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, his composure, that perfectly measured, elegant restraint he wore like armor, fractured just enough for you to see the heat simmering underneath.
"You're entirely sure?" he murmured against your lips, his voice a rough, vibrating growl that sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with incredible gentleness, even as his dark eyes burned with an undeniable hunger. "Tell me again."
"I'm sure, Suguru," you breathed, anchoring your hands into the soft fabric of his shirt. "Please."
He let out a low, ragged exhale, the sound almost like a surrender, before his mouth came down on yours with a completely different kind of force. This wasn't the tentative, careful kiss from the kitchen. This was deep, possessive, and thick with months of forced restraint finally snapping.
His tongue slid past your lips, claiming your mouth with a deliberate, intoxicating rhythm that left you breathless and clinging to his broad shoulders.
Without breaking the kiss, his large hands traveled down the line of your throat, tracing the curve of your collarbone before gripping your waist.
The sheer size of him was dizzying; he dwarfed you completely, crowding you back until the edge of his mattress hit the back of your knees, and you tumbled softly onto the sheets.
Suguru followed you down immediately, hovering over you like a dark eclipse. He pinned your wrists beside your head, his long, calloused fingers lacing through yours, anchoring you to the bed.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours.
When you opened your eyes, you found him staring down at you with an intensity so profound it made your heart stutter. He looked drunk on the sight of you unraveled beneath him on his bed.
"Beautiful," he whispered, a dark, breathless praise that made your core ache. "Every single inch of you. I've spent so long imagining exactly how you’d look here."
He began to strip away the barriers between you with an agonizing, meticulous patience. Your clothes were removed with reverent care, his hands leaving trails of liquid fire wherever they brushed against your bare skin.
When he shed his own clothes, the sight of him took your breath away, lean, powerful muscle, broad shoulders, and a chest that moved with ragged breath.
When his bare skin finally met yours, the friction was electric. Suguru settled his weight between your thighs, the blunt, heavy heat of his length pressing deliberately against your aching center, testing your readiness. You gasped at the friction, arching your hips up instinctively, a silent plea for more.
"Not yet," he murmured, a faint, possessive smirk touching his lips as he saw how desperate you were for him. "Slow down. We have all night."
He dipped his head, slipping his hand down between your bodies. His long fingers found your heat, parting you easily. You were already slick, completely undone by his words and his touch. Suguru let out a dark, satisfied hum at the discovery, his fingers beginning to stroke your sensitive bundle of nerves with a agonizingly perfect rhythm.
At the same time, his mouth trailed down your throat, his teeth nipping gently at the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder, marking you as his in the quiet dark.
You whimpered, your head tossing back against the pillows as the pleasure began to coil tight and sharp in your lower stomach. Your fingers dug into the muscles of his back, urging him closer.
"Suguru, please... now."
He paused, looking down at you, his dark eyes dilated with a heavy, primal need. "Say my name again."
"Suguru. Please."
Satisfied, he gripped your hips, his large hands anchoring you firmly to the mattress. He positioned himself, and with a slow, unyielding pressure, he slid entirely inside you.
The breath caught sharply in your throat. He was large, stretching you completely, filling the ache so perfectly that a soft, broken sob escaped your lips. The sheer fullness of him was overwhelming, a stark contrast to anything you had ever experienced before. This wasn't hurried or careless; it was a deliberate, total possession.
Suguru froze for a moment, letting your body adjust to his size. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his muscles trembling slightly from the sheer effort of holding himself back. "God, you feel perfect. So tight around me... hold on to me, sweetheart."
Then, he began to move.
He pulled back almost entirely before driving back in, a deep, rhythmic pace that targeted your sweetest spot with devastating accuracy. Every thrust was heavy and unhurried, designed to maximize the friction, designed to make you feel every single millimeter of him.
The bedroom was filled with the slick, wet sounds of your bodies colliding, the heavy friction of the sheets, and your own shattered gasps echoing in the quiet air. Suguru guided your movements effortlessly, his hands sliding under your thighs to lift your legs onto his shoulders, opening you up even deeper for him.
The change in angle made you cry out, the pleasure turning blindingly sharp. He drove into you harder now, his restraint entirely gone, his pace picking up as the friction drove him wild. He watched your face unravel, taking a dark pride in every ragged breath, every high-pitched moan that left your lips.
"That's it," he rasped, his voice entirely gravelly, sweat dripping from his brow onto your collarbone. "Let it go for me. Just focus on me."
The tension in your core coiled to a breaking point. You gripped his forearms, your hips rolling against his in a desperate, frantic rhythm as the apex of the climb rushed up to meet you. With a few more deep, uncompromising thrusts, your walls clamped down tight around him as a violent wave of release crashed over you, your voice breaking on his name.
Seeing you break was the final catalyst for him. Suguru let out a low, guttural groan, driving into you one last, deepest time as his own release hit him. His body shuddered violently, his muscles locking tight as he spilled himself deep inside you, filling you with a thick, throbbing warmth.
The afterglow was quiet, heavy, and incredibly soft.
Suguru didn't immediately pull away. He collapsed gently over you, careful not to crush you with his weight, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps against your ear. After a long moment, he slid out of you with a soft sigh, rolling onto his side and immediately pulling you flush against his chest.
The blanket was pulled over both of you, sealing out the rest of the world.
He was quiet as his long fingers gently brushed the damp hair away from your forehead, his touch entirely devoid of the intensity from moments before, leaving only a profound, protective warmth. He kissed your brow, then the tip of your nose, before resting his chin on the top of your head.
"You're mine now," he murmured into the dark, his voice low, steady, and completely certain. "I'm never letting you go back to a life where you aren't worshiped exactly like this."
Buried deep in his warmth, wrapped in his scent and the lingering ache of his touch, you closed your eyes, finally knowing what it felt like to be completely cherished.
Thank you for reading. Follow me on tiktok @/oreobites
— I wrote this fic a few years ago, on ao3, but I deleted my account for a reason. Now I'm posting some of my work here and on tiktok. Hope you all will like it.
you ended up with your ex's older brother !geto suguru
The silence in the Geto household always felt different depending on who was sharing it with you.
When it was your ex, the silence was a heavy, suffocating thing, the tense static that followed an argument he’d checked out of twenty minutes prior, leaving you to pick up the pieces of a Friday night he’d promised to save for you.
But when it was Suguru, the silence was like linen. Clean. Measured. Weightless.
"He’s not coming back tonight," Suguru said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that cut through the quiet hum of the refrigerator.
You didn't look up from your lap. You were sitting on the bottom step of the entryway stairs, your coat still clutched in your hands. You had been waiting for three hours. Your phone sat beside you on the polished wood, its screen dark and devoid of any notifications.
"I know," you whispered.
A shadow fell over you, long and elegant. Suguru stepped into the hall, the soft fabric of his black yukata brushing against his ankles. He looked impeccable, even at midnight, his long dark hair loosely tied back, a few stray strands framing his face.
He didn't ask you why you stayed, or why you put up with it. He just knelt down, his knees settling against the tatami, bringing himself down to your eye level.
He didn't offer a hollow apology on his brother’s behalf. He was too honest for that. Instead, he gently reached out, his long, calloused fingers wrapping around the strap of your bag, pulling it gently from your stiff grip.
"Let me take you home," Suguru said softly. "It's too late for you to be waiting for someone who doesn't know the value of what’s standing in front of him."
That was the night the thread snapped. The breakup itself wasn't a grand, screaming match. It was just a quiet, exhausted declaration over the phone two days later.
Your ex hadn't even fought for you; he’d just sighed, muttered something about you being too demanding, and hung up.
You thought that would be the end of the Geto family in your life.
You were wrong.
Three weeks later, the rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the neon lights of the city into smears of watercolor. You were huddled under the awning of a small convenience store, shivering in a sweater that wasn't quite thick enough, waiting for a taxi that seemed destined never to arrive.
A sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing Suguru’s profile.
"Get in," he said.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second, the phantom rules of your past relationship flashing through your mind. But the cold won, and you opened the door, slipping into the leather interior. The car smelled like him, sandalwood, rain, and a faint hint of expensive tobacco.
"You're going to catch a cold," Suguru murmured, flicking the heater up a notch. He reached into the back seat and tossed a soft, dark grey scarf into your lap. "Wrap that around yourself."
"Thank you, Suguru-san," you said, your voice small.
He paused, his hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel as he pulled back into the traffic. "Just Suguru is fine. The formalities are unnecessary now."
"I shouldn't be taking up your time," you said, looking out the window. "I know it's... awkward. Because of your brother."
Suguru didn't answer right away. He navigated the slick streets with an effortless, calm precision. When the car stopped at a red light, he finally turned his head to look at you. His dark eyes were narrow, intense, holding a depth that always made you feel like he was reading the lines of your thoughts.
"My brother is a fool," Suguru said, his tone perfectly even, yet carrying a weight that made your breath hitch. "His mistakes are his own. They have nothing to do with why I'm here."
You didn't know what to say to that. So you just buried your chin into his scarf, breathing in his scent, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth bloom in your chest.
The transition happened in micro-moments.
It was the way Suguru started showing up at the quiet, tucked-away cafe you frequented, always happening to have a book under his arm and an empty seat across from you.
It was the way he remembered exactly how you took your tea, two sugars, no milk, without you ever telling him. It was the way he listened.
When you spoke, his entire attention was locked onto you, a stark, dizzying contrast to the hollow, half-hearted hums you used to get from his younger brother.
One evening, he invited you to his apartment—a minimalist, top-floor space with high ceilings and rows of dark wooden bookshelves. He had cooked.
"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," you said, watching him move around the kitchen. There was a grace to him, an inherent maturity that made the rest of the world feel chaotic by comparison.
"It's not trouble if I want to do it," he replied, setting a plate down in front of you.
As you ate, the conversation drifted, light and easy, until a notification lit up your phone on the table. It was an Instagram notification, your ex had posted a photo at a club, surrounded by people, looking entirely unbothered by the void he’d left behind.
Your eyes lingered on the screen a second too long. You hated yourself for it, hated that the ghost of the old hurt could still make your chest tighten.
A large, warm hand settled over yours, covering the screen of the phone, blocking it from view.
You looked up. Suguru was leaning across the small table. His expression wasn't angry; it was intensely focused, his gaze heavy and dark.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You did.
"He never looked at you the way he should have," Suguru said, his thumb slowly brushing against the back of your hand, a deliberate, electric friction.
"He didn't see the way your eyes change when you're genuinely happy. He didn't notice how hard you try to make everyone else comfortable, even at your own expense."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, wild thing. "Suguru..."
"I noticed," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a confession he had clearly kept locked away for months. "I sat in that house and watched him waste every single second he had with you. Do you have any idea how difficult that was?"
The air between you turned thick, charged with the sudden, undeniable shift of the boundary breaking down. He wasn't your ex's older brother right now. He was just a man. A man who was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Is this okay?" Suguru asked, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fleeting, heavy second before rising back to yours. He was giving you the control, giving you the choice his brother never did.
You didn't pull your hand away. Instead, you turned it over, lacing your fingers through his.
"Yes," you breathed.
A slow, breathtakingly handsome smile touched Suguru’s lips, the first completely unreserved smile you had ever seen from him. He stood up, stepping around the small table, and slid his hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear you didn't even realize had fallen.
When he leaned down to kiss you, it wasn't hurried or careless. It was deep, possessive, and incredibly patient, tasting of the slow burn that had been building between you since the very beginning.
As his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, you realized with absolute clarity: you hadn't downgraded.
You had just finally found the Geto who knew exactly how to hold you.
