It's been 48 hours.

Forty-eight hours.

And you haven't felt a thing.

Not a roll, not a jolt, not a kick or even just a twitch. Absolutely nothing.

After 7 hours you realized it had been almost all day and you hadn't felt any movement from within the almost 6-month swell of your belly.

It was irregular. Very, very irregular. The child of Satoru Gojo couldn't sit still for more than a couple of hours. For almost 2 months you'd been kicked awake like that baby had an alarm set every hour on the hour. Starting as little flutters, and getting stronger as the weeks went on.

And you loved it. Feeling that reassurance that they were healthy and strong and there and alive. Pressing your palm to that spot and murmuring praises and soft laughs even as your organs took a beating.

You didn't realize how much it'd affect you when all that movement just stopped.

"It's weird... don't you think it's weird? Maybe I should call the midwife." You'd said with knit brows, already picking up your phone to find her contact.

"Sounds like they're being a little lazy, taking an extended nap or something." Satoru huffed a laugh, amused eyes flicking up to catch yours for a moment. But as he caught the worry on your face, his smile softened, and he rounded the counter, stopping behind you to wrap both arms around. Palms flat on your belly and you melted just a touch, like a candle first being lit.

"I’m sure they're okay, but it never hurts to check." He'd murmured into the crook of your neck and you nodded. Your shoulders easing a fraction.

But they hiked right back up when the clinic said they'd get you in at the end of the week.

You almost burst into tears right there, but held it together. Telling yourself it could wait a few days, you had no other symptoms to worry about so it would be fine. You'd get in that room in a few days and see them and hear that tiny little heart beating away like a hummingbird.

Yeah... that lasted until the next morning.

Woken up at 4 am by the feeling of complete and utter nothingness in your womb.

You wept quietly over toast with egg and avocado and enough hot sauce to melt a hole in the plate. Spicy food always got them moving, they had the same palate as their sucrose loving father.

Still nothing.

You went out to get some errands done, met up with Shoko at the school, stopped to chat with the students, especially a pretty, young first year with a blue streak and stars in her eyes as she gaped at your belly.

"Wait, Gojo-sensei is gonna be a dad?! I thought he was joking about the wife and kid!"

You laughed it off and assured that you had to be an idiot too because you picked him. But you ignored that sinking, empty feeling in your stomach. Only letting your lip wobble a little as you walked back to your car to head home.

Regret settled in at brushing Satoru off when he asked if you’d be okay if he handled a mission somewhere in Iwate prefecture and left until the next day.

You were cursing your past self as you sat on the couch at 2 am. Still. Nothing.

Fuck that stupid bitch for being rational and easy going. You wished you'd stomped your foot and pouted instead, maybe then you’d be crying into Satoru’s firm chest instead of over your last ultrasound photo, alone.

When he got back the next afternoon, there was really no gentle way to say it, but you were a hot fucking mess.

Puffy eyed and red nosed, you looked up from the couch as he walked in the front door, a chipper greeting withering and dying on his lips as he caught sight of you in rumpled pajamas surrounded by a nest of blankets and throw pillows.

He blinked behind the dark material of the blindfold, pausing for just a moment before your breathing hitched and tears welled all over again.

"It-it's like they're just... gone." Your voice broke on the word and the dam broke all over again. "I don't understand, w-why is this ha-happening?" You hiccuped, snot and tears flowing freely. "It's my fault! They're gone and its all—"

"Lay back a little," Satoru cut you off, suddenly right in front of you and pulling the blankets away from your body and you just scoffed, the sound wet and choked.

"Really?? This is so not the fucking time!" You glared, snotty and tear streaked and Satoru scoffed right back.

As much as he loved you any way you came, you weren't arousing much besides worry at that moment.

"What? What kind of guy do you think I am? Geez, just trust me and try to relax a little." He murmured, hooking a finger into the blindfold and pulling it to hang around his neck. Wispy silver bangs falling over his brow and across the blue that could only be found in the sky, and in your husband's eyes.

You pursed your lips but did as he asked, resting your head on a pillow and letting him push your pajama top up over your stomach.

Your mind immediately flung back into the pit and you swallowed hard, but stayed quiet as bright azure eyes searched your body.

"You really think you can see their signature?" You broke the silence with a whisper and those eyes found yours for a second, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"Pfft, of course I can." He reassured, tone confident like there was never an alternative. But you caught the worry in his eyes.

You laid there as Satoru scanned over your belly. Seconds felt like hours until finally his eyes went wide and his lips twitched up.

Cursed energy read differently from living beings to the deceased, and he'd just caught the flickering pulse of something very much alive.

"Really?" You asked, hope pitching your voice up with a crack and he nodded.

"Told ya." He said, brimming with confidence. But you heard the relief under it.

You flung yourself at him, arms squeezing tight around his neck and face buried in his dark jacket. He held you just as tight, nose in your hair as you sobbed with your own relief.

Pulling back, you sniffed and chuckled sheepishly at the dark spot on his jacket. "Ugh, sorry, you're kinda wet. Maybe a little snotty too."

"Gross," Satoru teased, grinning big and so handsome your heart fluttered for him. "Ijichi is gonna have a lot more dry-cleaning to do if we're adding snot to all the stuff coming out of you."

Your eyes rolled and your mouth opened to retort, but you were cut off with a jolt as you felt it.

Finally.

It was clear as day on your face and Satoru gasped.

"Awww! Baby's first prank!"

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who is usually the one to cause chaos. He's been a blur of feathers over the centuries, shooting his rose-tipped arrows at unsuspecting couples to fulfil his role as matchmaker.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who never would have expected to fall in love with you, a mortal. He feels as if his heart is complete the second his blue eyes spot your form. Even during your most mundane moments did he find himself utterly captivated by you.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who feels something stirring within him when he watches you — particularly late at night when you think no one's watching. You twirl around in your kitchen, bake sweet snacks for yourself, and move your body in time with the music playing from your phone. Not once did the God's eyes wander from your lithe form.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who, ironic as it is, realises he's in love far later than he should've.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who finally yearns in the way mortals do. His heart soars. His chest tightens. He feels his affection for you grow tenfold over the course of mere weeks. But the God was a greedy man, and that was precisely why he wanted to do something reckless.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who turns his own arrow at himself one day. He tells himself it's sheer curiosity, even though the higher ups forbid him for committing such a grave act. His arrows were reserved for humans, and he was not one of them — but love was a strange, addicting thing, and his judgement was clouded.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who feels his chest pierce. He doesn't die, or get struck by the very Heavens themselves like he expected to. Instead, a fierce warmth blooms within his body, numbing his brain until all he could feel, all he wanted to feel — was you.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who lets his love turn physical — until you could feel phantom grazes of soft feathers brushing across your cheek when things are quiet. He tells himself he's merely protecting you when he basks you in the shadows of his wings, sheltering you from the rest of the world.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who ruins the prospect of you ever having a romantic partner. He can't stand the idea of anyone looking at you for too long, taking it upon himself to guide you away from anyone who isn't himself. His arrows shoot far and wide, shattering your potential romances before they could bloom into something more.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who rearranges fate. He watches as you succumb to the pull between you like gravity, and it takes everything in him not to manifest into reality so that he could cradle you in his safe arms.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who spirals — love warping into obsession. It makes him so terribly sick, which is why he shoots you with his arrow this time, manifesting into something real. He comes to the slow realisation as to why the Heavens forbade him from turning the arrow on himself.

໒꒱ But for 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, it was too late. The Heavens had seen this deceitful romance, and had deemed him unworthy.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who is a shell of his former self. No longer was he graced with the wings that let him flit between rooftops. Nor did he have his divinity — the one thing that made him immortal.

໒꒱ 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who stood before you as something raw, so painfully human. For the first time in his shortened life, he could not hide in the clouds above — but then his eyes met yours. It was then he realised that losing his divinity wasn't a punishment at all.

It was simply the price he had to pay to gain you instead.

────────· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · ────────

You met him during a study session for one of your classes. He was hunched over his notes, dressed head to toe in black. He didn’t ignore you, but he didn’t go out of his way either—just gave you a polite nod when your friend introduced you.

At first, you thought he was a bit antisocial. He mostly kept to himself, wearing that faint, almost lazy smirk whenever his friends cracked jokes. He observed more than he participated.

But you realized pretty quickly he was… sweet.

Not the overly sugary kind that gives you a toothache. Subtle sweet.

Like how he’d notice you approaching the classroom door and unlock it before you reached it, holding it open – but instead of stepping aside, he’d lift his arm just enough for you to duck under.

Or when you didn’t understand something, he’d drag his chair closer — of course, “just to get a better look” at the problem. Step by step, he’d explain it carefully.

When he finished, he’d lean down slightly, his face just in your peripheral vision, boxing you in without actually touching you.

“It’s a tricky one,” he’d murmur. “But you get it now?”

“Yeah. I do. Thanks.”

He’d nod once and slide his chair back—though never too far.

Sweet, right?

A nod in the hallway. Showing up with your favorite snacks during study sessions. Little things. Quiet things.

So you figured that was all it was.

Finals ended, and the study group went out for drinks to celebrate. The guys and your girlfriends got absolutely trashed. He didn’t. He just leaned back in his seat, a small smile on his face as he watched the chaos unfold.

And when they started pressuring you to drink more than you wanted, he didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t argue.

He just looked at them.

“Cut that shit out.”

That was enough.

Most of you lived on campus, so everyone walked back together, saying their goodbyes along the way.

In the end, it was just you and Megumi left — him lingering behind, mostly to clean up after everyone else.

Your apartment was a twenty-minute trek off campus. 

A quick glance at your phone confirmed it: 1AM. 

Yeah, no buses. It was a walk home. Well, it was, until he pulled up beside you.

 "You walking home?" 

"Yeah, my apartment's just a couple blocks away." 

"Let me walk you. It's too dark." 

Sweet. No ill intentions, straight to the point. Such a sweet guy. 

And such a sly motherfucker. 

Megumi was staring you down hard as you fumbled with your keys, the silence so thick you were sure he could hear your heart hammering against your ribs. 

Could anyone blame you? He insisted on waiting until you were fully inside, but he was too close, the solid heat of his rock-hard body a palpable presence at your back. 

The lock finally clicked, and you turned to face him. You didn't know why you said it, honestly. 

"Wanna come in?" 

His cold expression gave nothing away, until a lazy smirk spread across his face, his eyes blazing ever so slightly. 

"Yea." 

Now he had you pinned to your bed. 

You couldn't pinpoint exactly when the clothes came off – somewhere between the frantic makeout session against the front door and Megumi eating you out on your kitchen table. 

He was ruthless, his hips snapping into you, every muscle in his body flexing with the brutal rhythm. 

The head of his cock was hitting against your g-spot, over and over and over again.

But his hand was firm on the back of your head, a surprisingly gentle anchor making sure you didn't hit against the headboard while he fucked you senselessly.

You'd lost count of how many times he'd made you come, had no concept of how long you'd been at it. 

All you could focus on was his voice, a low mutter against your skin. 

"Fuck-k, you got no idea how badly I wanted this – how badly I wanted you." 

When it was finally over, he didn't leave. 

He just got up, went to your bathroom, and came back with a warm towel, cleaning you up with a tenderness that made your chest ache. 

He saw the blooming bruises on your hips, his expression darkening. 

"Shit – I'll get you some ointment for that tomorrow," he said, his voice gentle as he rubbed soothing circles on your back. 

When he slid back into bed, he tucked the covers around you, asking if you wanted his hoodie. Putting it on you anyway, even when you mumbled that you were alright. 

He pulled you real close, maneuvering you until you were laid out on his chest, and pressed a soft kiss onto your forehead before you both dozed off. 

minors dni | 18+ only

TW: smut, mutual masturbation, creampie, explicit details

WC: 3k

━━━━༻❁༺━━━━

𝑼𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒆

Sex with Megumi hasn’t been great lately

not because he doesn’t try, but because both of you have been swallowed whole by life.

You’ve been neck-deep in classes, assignments piling up higher than your sleep schedule can handle, and he’s been just as busy.

You keep telling yourself it’s just a phase.

You still call every night, still trade sleepy “goodnight”s and small updates that keep you anchored.

It’s enough.

Most days, it’s enough.

Today, though, is different.

For the first time in months, you actually have a day off. No school. No work. Just… silence. The quiet feels strange after so long, like the world finally caught its breath, and you decide—finally—to go see him.

Gojo’s house isn’t as big as you would imagine it would be.

You figured a man like him would live somewhere eccentric or at least oversize, but it’s surprisingly normal

maybe Megumi’s influence.

When you swing your car door shut, the dull thud feels louder than it should.

You punch in the door code, thumb settling over the fingerprint scanner like second nature. It’s not unusual for you to know it—you and Megumi have been together long enough that Gojo probably sees you more like extended family than a guest.

The moment the door clicks open, you hear the TV blaring from the living room. Gojo’s sprawled out on the sofa, face scrunched up like the show personally offended him.

For a second you hesitate; you lift your hand to wave, but before you can say anything, he spots you.

His whole expression changes. His smile spreads so wide it’s almost comical, his entire body sinking deeper into the cushions with that trademark ease.

“What are you doing here!” he calls out, dragging the word “here” like he’s announcing you to an audience. “I haven’t seen you in years!”

You laugh—can’t help it.

He’s always been like this, larger than life in every way.

“It’s good to see you too,” you manage, trying not to grin too hard. “It’s been a while.”

His eyes sparkle with curiosity as you add, “I just wanted to see Megumi.” Your gaze drops to the floor for a moment, the corners of your mouth tugging up into a soft smile.

“It’s a surprise.” You press a finger to your lips in a quiet shh.

Gojo beams, almost proud of the secret he’s now sharing. “Well, I won’t waste your time then!” he says brightly, motioning toward the hallway with theatrical flair.

The warmth in your chest feels unfamiliar, like something you’ve been missing for a while. You take a breath, steady yourself, and step past him toward Megumi’s room.

You finally make your way up to his bedroom.

Twisting the doorknob gently, you push it open just enough to peek inside.

The bed is neatly made—typical of Megumi—but he isn’t there.

Your ears pick up faint sounds from behind the closet door: a frustrated sigh, followed by a muffled voice.

“Yuji, bro, lock in,” you hear through short bursts of static and noise.

You can’t help but smile.

You’d begged him to move his PC setup into the closet months ago so you could sleep without hearing his late‑night rage fits. You didn’t think he’d actually keep it there.

Stepping closer, your fingers graze over the closet doorknob before you slide it open.

Megumi’s expression is twisted in annoyance, eyes flicking up at you for half a second before his face softens completely.

“Babe.” His eyes go wide; his lashes tremble as he blinks.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead.

He fumbles to keep playing, clicks of his mouse rapid, keys clattering, gunfire echoing faintly through his headset. You reach up and gently tug one side of his headphones off so he can hear you better. Your fingertip traces the curve of his ear as you do, and he flinches slightly, almost reflexively.

“When did you get here?” he asks quickly, still half‑focused on his game.

“Just a second ago,” you murmur, your fingers still playing idly with his ear.

“One second, I’ll get off after this game.”

From the headset, you can make out Yuji and Nobara’s voices—grunts, laughter, and frustrated noises. You laugh quietly, the sound easing through the small space.

“It’s fine,” you tell him softly. “You’ll have me all night and all day tomorrow. Spend some time with them.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His eyebrows twitch slightly, focus narrowing on his screen, and then—there it is.

That familiar click.

The one you know by heart.

“G,” he presses.

His mute button.

Whenever he wants to say something private, that’s what he does.

“Kiss me.”

The words are simple but hit like a spark. You laugh under your breath, threading your fingers through his hair. You lean down, planting a kiss on his forehead, then one on his cheek, and finally one on his lips.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His eyes search yours, close enough that you catch his scent—a mix of the soap you left behind and his own, floral and warm, tinted by that familiar lotion he always forgets to rub in completely.

It makes your chest ache in the best way.

“I’ll wash up, then we can talk all night,” you say, letting your fingers trail down his neck in a teasing, affectionate motion.

He glances between you and the glowing monitor. “You sure you’re okay with that?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

You back away, closing the closet door behind you.

Megumi slips his headphones back on, the rhythmic keyboard clicks starting up again,

You went straight to your designated drawer in his room, picking out a simple pair of panties along with one of his shirts, then headed straight for the shower.

After you washed up, you planted yourself right in his bed.

You pulled out your phone and started doomscrolling on your favorite app.

The first hour was fine. The sound of his keyboard never slowed, never got any quieter.

The second hour was when you started noticing his smell

on his pillows,

in his sheets,

on the shirt you were wearing.

That was when all the thoughts started rushing back to you.

The way he would kiss your body.

The way his mouth lingered over your nipples.

Against your neck.

Between your thighs.

You started tossing and turning, trying to force the thoughts out of your mind.

Another hour crawled by, and now it felt like every video you saw reminded you of him.

A video of a girl putting on lotion.

An ad for lingerie.

A mac and cheese mukbang.

Somehow, they all made you think of him, and they all traced back to one thing.

The next hour was not any easier. At that point you were going through his Instagram, scrolling through old photos of him.

You pressed your legs together, trying to ease the tension building between them.

You had not touched yourself since you started dating him. You never felt the need to unless he was on the phone with you.

But tonight he was just a few steps away from you.

You had no pants on—only his shirt and the panties you put on after your shower.

You slid your fingers under the side of your panties.

The wetness between your thighs was impossible to ignore.

You bit your lip, brows scrunching together.

Your fingers teased your clit softly.

You moved them in slow circles for a while, but it did not feel the same.

It never did. That was one of the reasons you did not really masturbate anymore.

Swallowing down all your emotions, you took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling.

And then you heard it again.

The sound of Megumi’s voice behind the closet door.

He let out a loud huff, complaining about Yuji for what had to be the thousandth time that night.

He did not sound like he was getting off anytime soon.

It did not feel like it either.

You had never been the type to complain about his gaming or interrupt him, because you knew how much he loved his friends.

He spent a lot of time with you during the early stages of your relationship—enough for you to know he made less time for his friends because of you.

So maybe you felt like you owed him.

But in that moment, it did not matter.

You did not want to move. You did not want to ask for his help.

But you needed it.

This was not a simple want.

You needed him.

You slowly pulled the covers from your body and rose from the bed, padding quietly toward the closet.

You hovered there for a moment, hand hesitating on the handle. You didn’t want to interrupt him. You didn’t even know what you were going to say.

After a deep breath, you finally opened the door—slowly, cautiously.

Megumi turned.

His expression wasn’t annoyed this time.

Because this time he was expecting you and not Gojo

when he saw you, his face softened in a way it rarely did.

He pressed a quick key on his keyboard

G,

you noticed.

You always did.

You couldn’t help but notice his hands and the way his fingers moved across the board with practiced ease.

He hadn’t said anything yet, clearly waiting for you to speak first. His gaze flickered between you and his screen, then back again, patient, quiet.

You didn’t know what to say. Guilt pricked at the edges of your chest; you hated the idea of asking him to step away from his game just because you needed him for a moment.

But he was still waiting.

Always patient.

Your eyes darted everywhere but his—at the monitor, the wall, the door.

And then you watched his character fall on the screen, defeated.

His attention turned fully to you.

He swiveled in his chair until he faced you completely.

The eye contact was gentle—never intimidating when it came to you.

His palm met your thighs in a reassuring way.

You sighed, gaze dropping to your toes, curling them slightly against the floor.

When you looked back up, his eyes were still on you.

Your heart was pounding now, loud and steady.

And then, finally—you decided to make a move.

Instead of telling him what you wanted, you decided showing him might be better.

You pulled up the shirt that hung oversized at your thighs, letting him get a good glance at your underwear.

They glistened with the dark color of arousal, showing him how wet you were for him.

You watched his expression — the way his eyes lingered on your throbbing cunt.

It was covered, but he knew exactly what you wanted.

“Move it to the side.”

He looked at you. His hands hadn’t moved from your thighs yet, and it was obvious he wanted you to do the work.

You did exactly as told, moving your left hand to the edge of your underwear, showing him your soaking pussy.

He raised his right hand, lifting his index finger and sliding it through your clit.

You jumped, a gentle whine escaping your lips from the touch.

Then you heard his VC erupt — the constant yell of his name came from his headphones. The next round of his game had started.

He turned his chair back to his game, unmuting his mic.

“Sorry guys, I’m back, but I won’t be able to talk.”

He kept it short and simple before turning back to you. You still had your panties pulled to the side.

He pulled your thigh with his left hand, guiding you to his lap in his chair. Then he lifted your leg, threading it through the opening of the chair, doing the same with the next.

Slowly, you sat down on his lap.

He still had his pants pulled up, but you can still feel him under the pants—hard,

You can’t see his game anymore with your back turned; but you can still hear the keys clicking in his mouse,

Placing your hand on his shoulders, you turn around to look at his game, craving that brief distraction.

But he jerks his hips in return—sharp, teasing, stealing your breath.

You let out a yelp, raw and unguarded.

“C’mon, you want it.”

He says, planting a kiss on your cheek making you turn back at him and then on your lips—soft at first, then hungry, lingering.

You anchor your face at his neck, slowly grinding your hips, chasing that ache.

It sends sparks through you, the friction raw and relentless against his pants.

You whine because of the friction you’re creating, the sound slipping out desperate, needy.

You’re going around in small slow circles, each one tightening the coil inside you.

Megumi isn’t really saying anything, just giving you short reassuring kisses on your shoulder and neck

Your hips buckle and twitch, losing rhythm to the mounting need.

You can feel him growing underneath you, thickening, pressing up insistent and alive.

“This isn’t enough,” you whimper against his ear, breath hot and uneven.

Without a word, his right hand moves to his pants with deliberate precision. He tugs the waistband down just a fraction, easing himself free into the tight space between your bodies.

As his cock springs forward, his hand snaps right back to his mouse, fingers curling around it with practiced speed.

You slide your right hand down, fingers wrapping around him in a firm, gentle hold, guiding that rigid heat precisely to your core.

The tip glides along your folds as you rock your hips forward then back in a steady, unhurried rhythm.

Your whimpers rise sharper now, echoing a little louder off the walls.

Megumi’s kisses multiply, scattering urgently across your collarbone.

His eyes stay laser-focused on the game, unblinking amid the chaos.

Your grinding stays slow but purposeful, hips circling with exacting control.

Megumi lets out a few deep moans himself, chest rumbling under you.

He lifts his hand sharply off the keyboard and mouse, bunching the hem of your shirt upward in one swift pull until it frames your neck.

Your breasts spill free, perky and quivering with each precise rock of your hips as you drag yourself along his flushed tip.

Megumi leans in fast, capturing one in his mouth with a firm latch.

As his right hand kneads the other firmly, you arch back slightly, palms planting flat on his thighs for leverage as you maintain the grind.

He shifts with you seamlessly, mouth locked on, following the angle.

Your mouth hangs wide, jaw slack.

Uncontrollable sounds pour out, raw and unrestrained.

Megumi releases your breast with a distinct, wet plop—the sound sharp as his lips detach.

His mouth trails upward in a heated path to your neck, latching on to suck hard as both hands fly back to his game controls.

“Mm, gonna cum,” he whimpers right against your skin, voice breaking.

His breathing hitches faster, chest heaving under you.

“ fuck “

“ fuck “

“ fuck “

He repeats in almost a beg.

The slick sounds between you amplify, wet and rhythmic.

Your feet twist near the floor, trembling as you rock with building force against his tip.

Your toes curl tight.

And then you feel it hit.

You glance down quick.

His warm, milky release stripes across your stomach in thick ropes.

His pink cock twitches hard beneath your grip.

Megumi lands kisses along your collarbone, hands still toying on his keyboard with restless precision.

Both of you catch your breath, chests rising and falling in uneven sync.

You take your hands off his knees, sliding them up to his neck, straightening the position that you’re in with a subtle shift.

You land kisses on his ears, gently, letting your fingers run through his hair in slow, threading strokes.

Your feet touch the floor; you stand up just a little bit, hovering in that charged pause.

And then you slowly let yourself down on his twitching cock, not bothering to clean up the sticky white mess he left behind.

Megumi is a mess under you, eyes flickering, breath ragged.

His right hand jumps to your waist, then back to his mouse,

then back to your waist and back to his mouse—fingers twitching between control and surrender.

He can’t decide whether he should focus on his game or you.

You can feel him stretch you out, filling every inch with pulsing heat.

You start jumping on his cock, lifting and dropping with steady rhythm.

Both of you moaning uncontrollably, voices tangling in the air.

Your pace is pretty neutral—perfect for the position that you’re in.

It’s definitely not comfortable for you but it sure does feel good.

Every time you land on his cock, you can feel him deep inside of you.

Every time you slam down on his balls, you can feel them hitting your ass with a sharp smack.

Then his hands find their way to your waist, gripping firm.

They make your jumping a little bit lighter, giving you help with controlled lifts.

He lifts you up, slamming you back down on his cock—harder than before, and much faster.

Your hands make their way to his neck; you kiss his forehead as you continue to jump on his cock.

Your titties jump against his chest, brushing with each bounce.

His thumbs find their way to your nipples, toying with them in tight circles before he slides them into his mouth.

He slides his right hand down your waist, right to your clit.

He rubs it lightly as you continue to rock, thumb pressing with exact pressure.

The room feels a little bit hotter, air thick and heavy.

He kisses your chin, his lips leaving your nipples; his thumb still tracing your clit.

His mouth makes its way to your lips.

And then his tongue enters your mouth.

Both of your tongues dance around each other's mouth, twisting and teasing.

He grunts against your lips, creating vibration through your body.

His finger leaves your clit, making its way back to your hips.

And then you feel it again—but this time inside of you.

You don’t bother to stop.

Megumi stops moaning.

He plants his face in your neck.

As you continue to jump on his cock.

And there was one good slam, you finally cum around his cock also.

You clench around him, tight and shuddering.

You both stay in that position, both catching your breath.

His cock still buried deep inside of you.

You can feel him twitch under you

And Inside of you

Deep breaths come from both of you; his face still buried in your neck.

And then you stand up.

His cock falls right out of you, falling limp against his left thigh.

His now grey pants are soaked in your juices.

But now they’re also soaked with his.

His white cum falls out of you.

His arms fall from your waist.

He pulls your soaked panties that are still planted to the side of your puffy folds back into the place where they originally were.

Then planting a kiss on your belly button.

Kind of feel like I rushed this, but if you have made it this far, I really appreciate it

summary: you realize you’ve bit off more than you can chew the moment the campus frat legend sukuna asks you to come up to his room. you've talked a big game all night, but what happens when he finds out it’s your first time?

18+ content: fratboy sukuna x virgin reader, out of character sukuna, smut, loss of virginity, lots of fluff, minimal hurt + lots of comfort, cunnilingus, flirting, fingering, blowjobs. 4.6k wc

a/n: art by hunnismoker on twt!

“woah—hey! seminar!”

you’d recognize that unruly head of pink hair anywhere. perpetually fastened underneath a ballcap like always.

you turn a little faster than you should, jostling the plastic solo cup you’ve been curled into for the past hour. sukuna looks right at home, backwards hat on like always, sweatpants slung low and easy on his hips now that you think about it, wasn’t this his frat house?

he waltzes into the kitchen and circles the island to lean next to you, hip against cold granite. his cologne must be doing something to the nerve endings in your brain, because all that comes out of you is a quiet, painfully deadpanned:

“…what?”

he laughs, nose crinkling in that sexy way you definitely haven’t thought about every day for the past 3 months. you’re barely given time to respond before a tattooed hand reaches forward and plucks the cup from your clammy hand, downing the last of whatever cheap liquor you were too nervous to finish anyway.

you watch, awestruck like a deer in headlights. taking in the way his throat bobs when he swallows. how he wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, sucking a stray drop of from the pad of his thumb.

“fuck, you drink fireball? didn’t think you’d be the type.” he jests.

was he flirting with you?

sukuna chucks the cup somewhere to the side. probably somewhere near a garbage can. not that you can tell with how many people are crowding the kitchen.

“so.” sukuna says, looking back at you expectantly, “we have senior seminar together, yeah?” he smiles, head tilting to the side like he’s trying to get a read on you.

right, the class he couldn’t care less about. you’ve seen him look up from his phone and engage with the topic, what, maybe twice? it’s a miracle he even recognizes you.

“i remember you, don’t worry.” you laugh, leaning back and forth on the balls of your feet as you desperately rack your brain for a way to keep the conversation going.

of course you remember him. you sit next to each other. you’ve scrolled marathons through his instagram page in the privacy of your room. hell, you’ve spent so much time thinking about him that you’d probably be able to pick his biceps out of a lineup. “remember” doesn’t begin to describe it.

sukuna speaks up again, mouth curling at the side like he’s got something up his sleeve. he gives you a quick once over, arms crossed over his chest casually.

“you look good tonight. enjoying yourself?” he’s not subtle in the slightest, red eyes scanning your figure, committing every inch of you to memory. the thought alone feels filthy. like tree sap settling in the pit of your stomach.

you must’ve unknowingly done something worthy of sainthood this semester. that’s the only explanation as to why the campus frat legend is eyeing you like he wants to eat you alive and lick his fingers clean after.

you don’t even care that he’s probably pulling out the same five tricks he’d use on any other girl. you’re falling faster than you ever have.

you make a mental note to thank shoko profusely for convincing you to socialize tonight. she’d given it to you straight like always, something about being tired of you complaining about your glaring lack of a roster. encouraging you to maybe go out and actually fuck a guy instead of settling for getting fingered by some loser like you always did.

senior year was supposed to be memorable after all.

“do you even know my name?” you mumble shyly, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

sukuna pretends to rack his mind for an answer. tongue pressed against his cheek in a way that makes your breath catch.

your name rolls of his tongue beautifully, punctuated with that fangy smile you’ve daydreamed about. he says it like he’s recited it a million times. like the very existence of you on his tongue is second nature.

wow. ok. you might’ve misjudged his attention to detail.

sukuna must notice the surprised look on your face because he leans in a little closer. just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body.

“are you gonna answer my question?” he asks you.

right, if you were enjoying yourself. you try to think of something witty to say, painful aware of how intently he’s looking at you. the attention feels so sudden. he was never this forward in class, why come up to you now?

sukuna’s eyes never leave your face, watching, craving.

“honestly? yeah, i’m having a great time.” you settle for some simple honesty. somewhere in the background the incessant thump of a bluetooth speaker fades the more the scent of his cologne fills your lungs.

“what about you?” you ask.

sukuna pauses, eyes flitting over the crowd like he’s debating whether or not he can actually say what’s really on his mind.

his jaw flexes, fingers drumming against the counter to the beat of whatever song is playing.

he looks back over at you when he finally makes up his mind, gauging your reaction with a sly look in his eyes. thank god he can’t physically see the way your core flutters around nothing. you’re already too conscious of the sticky flush collecting in the gusset of your panties.

“i mean..." there's a playful tilt to his voice, his words steeped in mischief.

"usually i’d be upstairs by now having some fun.”

sukuna sighs, eyes glued to the swell of your lips.

“but, y’know, i get it. with finals week coming up. not a lot of fun to be had if no one else is looking for it.”

his voice trails off as soon as his eyes lock onto your lips. mumbling the last bits of the sentence like his mind is elsewhere. wanting.

something hangs heavy in the air between the two of you, something he hasn't said directly just yet.

fun. the implication of the word isn’t lost on you in the slightest. sukuna was a decent guy all around, maybe even an acquaintance now, but you’ve heard the way girls talk about him around campus.

lack of experience aside, you’d have to be an idiot to fool around with a guy like him. one that treats college like a fuckfest and sweet talks anything with a pulse. did you really want ryomen sukuna of all people to be your first?

“i can be fun.”

maybe you are an idiot after all. because the speed those four words leave you is absolutely unparalleled.

in your defense, you can barely think straight as is. not with how close he is to you now, mouth curling up into the tiniest smile. and especially not with how satisfied he looks with himself.

“yeah?” sukuna’s pupils are two black voids, waiting for you to confirm your little unspoken agreement.

suddenly everything you’re feeling in your lower half makes sense, because the intrigue in his voice is something you’d literally pay money to hear again. you needed him bad.

“wanna find out?” you ask, more confident this time. technically not a bogus offer. you’ve done almost everything leading up to the deed. how hard could going all the way be?

—

sukuna’s room is a world of its own. tucked just upstairs and to the left of the beer can littered stairwell he’d made a beeline for as soon as you'd given him the green light. he weaves the both of you through the dwindling crowd, hand around your waist like you belong to him. in a way, you already do.

it's like the world around you ceases to exist as soon as his door locks and your back hits his bed. you're hyperaware and not aware of anything all at the same time. honed in on the way he toes his sneakers off and clambers onto the mattress atop you, hands running up the length of your body before diving to claim your lips.

you've made out before, sure, but never quite like this. never so passionately, in the way that makes your thighs clench and your core shake. sukuna licks into your mouth with desperation you never would have expected. like your tongue is his salvation.

“pretty girl, y’know that?” he mumbles into your mouth. "gonna fuck you good."

the compliment pulls the sweetest little whine out of you, and sukuna grins against your lips like he's won a prize.

touching you isn’t what turns him on most, you realize. it’s not the feeling of your arms wrapped around his neck, or the incessant press of your clothed centers. it’s the reactions you give him. those tiny huffs of breath against his mouth that let him know you need him. how you lean in close and pepper kisses down his throat just so he won’t see you blush. it’s all pure magic to him.

you're nervous in the best way, slipping your hands under the thin fabric of his wifebeater to feel up his abs. something about him just melts your brain. his scent, how warm he is, how he kneads your body like dough.

most importantly, this sex stuff was a cakewalk so far.

"off?" you plead, pushing his shirt up and over his shoulders like its somehow offended you, and sukuna laughs, hard and heavy.

"what, can't wait?" you he’s only asking to see you writhe, cocky little grin on his face and everything. you nod, and sukuna laughs, running his thumb over your bottom lip.

you must be too honed in on his lower half, because you don’t realize he’s taken off his hat to undress until he fastens it backwards right onto your head.

“hold that for me.” he says, shucking his shirt off and to the side with a grunt.

you didn’t expect this whole ordeal to feel so intimate. for him to lay you down against his pillows and kneel. wearing his hat while you watch him strip down to his boxers, the party still raging downstairs.

sukuna looks so much different like this. softened around the edges by the messy pink fringe that falls right above his eyes. you think you quite like the way the tattoos under his eyes crease when he looks back at you and smiles.

you wonder how many girls have seen him like this. if any of them appreciated the way the moonlight peeking through the shades illuminates the black lines on his body the way you do. or how pink his lips are after he’s been kissed.

something inside tugs at you when he reaches forward to take his hat back.

“keep it off.” you sit up, slipping it off your head to toss it onto his nightstand.

he pauses, like his brain is still trying to register what you've just told him.

“but the hat stays on when i fuck.” sukuna fake pouts. “that’s like my whole thing.”

“leave it.” you urge. "you look nice with your hair down."

sukuna’s face softens the slightest bit. he almost looks embarrassed. like the compliment isn’t something he gets told often.

“don't make me blush” he teases, hugging your middle to bring you back down to the pillows with him.

your own shirt is next to go, chucked over his tattooed shoulder to reveal the soft swell of your breasts.

“fuck, where’ve you been hiding all this?” sukuna breathes. awestruck like he hadn't been staring at them all night.

his attention is completely addictive. the more sukuna touches you, the more you start to understand the droves of girl you see hanging off his arm every weekend. groveling for his acknowledgment in any capacity.

you’d do a whole lot more than grovel if it meant he’d keep massaging you through your bra like he is now. you‘be never wanted anyone quite this bad like you do now. mind, body, and soul.

your bottom layers go next, lost to the abyss that is his floor. sukuna takes a moment to turn your panties over in his hand.

"cute." he laughs.

you half expect him to throw them on the ground as well, maybe stuff them under his pillow or something. except, sukuna does neither. instead, the garment joins his hat on the nightstand. situated amongst his things like they've always belonged there.

you'd let him keep them if he asked.

that’s when the gravity of it all really sets in. you’re naked as the day you were born, laid up underneath the hottest guy you’ve ever had the pleasure of viewing. and all he can do is look at you like you’re the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.

sukuna whistles, low and slow, hand on your knee to part your legs.

“god, that’s a sight isn’t it. pretty down here too.” the bass in his voice practically makes your eyes flutter. that anxious feeling in your tummy slowly starts to dissipate as you spread yourself wider, morphing into something sappy nestled right at your entrance.

it’s almost humiliating feeling how wet you are, but sukuna doesn’t seem to mind at all, sauntering onto his stomach tongue-first like some sort of horny olympic diver.

his tongue hits you first, licking thick stripes from your hole to your clit. he parts you with a thumb on either side of your heat, not at all minding the way you pull at his locks.

sukuna was a lot of things. charming, outgoing, sometimes even vulgar. but one thing you’ve learned just in the last 10 minutes of lying atop his sheets is that he is anything but a selfish lover.

his fingers are a welcome intrusion. thicker than yours in a way that makes your head feel loose. the stretch only stings for a second, hotwiring the cogs in your lower stomach like a well oiled machine.

“fuck, you're tight. needy little thing.” he mumbles, pulling the digit out and bringing it to his mouth to suck your mess clean, then diving right back in.

it must kill him. hearing you, tasting you. wanting so badly to relieve himself but wanting to make you feel good even more.

he takes his time fingering you open, feeling up your slick walls until he finds that special little spot only the toys under your bed can reach.

you’re inconsolable, panting and groaning into the crook of your elbow while he rocks your entire world up, down, and sideways. you’ve never felt pleasure so blinding.

you go to say something, anything to let him know how fucking good he’s making you feel, but something else catches your eye instead.

the slightest movement of his hips, so quick you nearly miss it. then another, and another. his hips drive down, then back, pulling a shaky groan from the depths of his chest.

“are you humping the mattress?” you breathe.

a chuckle is all he gives you, nodding his head between your legs in a way that says “yeah, so what?” sukuna sucks your clit into his mouth for good measure, shoulders shaking at the near pornographic moan that escapes your lips.

"toji's room is right next door, you know. better keep it down." he laughs from between your legs.

right. the meathead you saw downstairs licking fireball off the floor on a dare. real classy guy.

you swat at him lightly when he comes up from your pussy, accepting the sticky kiss he presses to your lips.

he motions for you to sit up, and you do, following his lead. sukuna slinks in behind you, sitting up against his rickety headboard to shuck his boxers down with a huff.

“holy shit.”

you couldn’t have stopped yourself from reacting if you tried.

sukuna was thick. thicker than any toy under your bed or any of the half-chub losers you’ve fooled around with during the past four years here. long, flushed, and heavy. pre beading at his tip just aching to be licked off.

he shakes his head fondly at your lack of a filter, widening his legs so you can settle on your stomach between them. sukuna feeds you his cock with a loose grip at the base, throwing his head back with a groan as soon as your tongue meets his flesh.

you could very well get addicted to the taste of him. that salty tang that coats your taste buds and settles at the back of your throat.

five thick fingers sit at the base of your skull, gripping the back of your neck to guide you down as far as you can handle. it takes a couple tries, but you finally feel your nose rub up against the patch of pink hair at his base, earning a hearty groan from the man above you..

you’re not a pro at sucking dick by any means, but the sounds sukuna makes would have anyone thinking otherwise. long, gravelly moans. radiating right from within his chest and up to his ceiling.

"fuck, fuck hold on." he begs, letting his head fall forward with a shiver. you slowly ease his cock from your lips and look up at him expectantly.

sukuna squeezes the base of his dick with a huff. no doubt trying to starve off his orgasm. he looks up at you through his fringe with that same fangy smile you love.

“how do you want it?” he asks you, wiping the spit from the corner of your mouth.

right. the main course. full blown sex.

you suppose on your back would be best. comfortable, safe. you let him guide you back down onto the pillows and offer yourself up to him, feeling your stomach twist in on itself as he rolls a condom on and lines himself up with your entrance.

sukuna ruts his hips forward only slightly. not enough to breach but close enough for your fold to part around his tip.

"holy-"

you immediately lock up, joints stiff with adrenaline. the sensation is so foreign, thicker and hotter than anything you've ever felt.

“what?, don’t get shy on me now.” he drawls, tattoos straining against his lazy grin. “not after all that talk earlier.”

“waitwaitwait.” you hiss, pawing at his shoulder with a shaky hand. “oh my god—hold on.”

sukuna’s hips retreat, taking a bit of your anxiety with them. there’s a softness in his eyes, almost guilty in nature.

“you okay?"

you say nothing, trying to piece together the 3 words you probably should've uttered a long time ago.

“want me to eat you out a little more?”

“no, sorry, it’s not that.” you clarify, cutting him off at the last syllable. the way it comes out makes you cringe.

the room suddenly feels a lot smaller than it did before. sukuna searches your face for an answer, silently pleading with the furrow between his brows.

"i've never done this beofre."

you prepare to watch the expression on his face melt into something nasty. to maybe hear something laced with pity leave his lips before he tells you to get dressed and get out, but it doesn’t come.

instead, sukuna’s expression softens, red eyes melting around the edges as he looks down at your shivering, naked form.

“yeah?” the way he says it is so quiet, so cautious. not at all like the outspoken boy you thought you knew.

you nod, fingers curling around his bicep uncertainly.

sukuna reaches to take that same hand, pressing a fleeting kiss to the inside of your wrist. his gentleness almost feels unbecoming. so out of character compared to the stories you’ve heard each semester. but not at all unlike the charismatic guy you’d come to know tonight.

maybe you didn’t really know the real sukuna after all.

“do you..? or— i could teach you. or we could stop. i can walk you home.” his tongue flits over your wrist, soothing the hammering pulse point there.

you ponder his offer for a moment, eyes transfixed on the way he mouths at your delicate skin.

“you don’t think it’s weird?” you mumble.

sukuna presses his tongue against his teeth, voice dropping the slightest bit like he really shouldn’t be saying what comes out of his mouth next.

“I think i’m kinda into that stuff.” he admits, chuckling like it’ll somehow ease the awkward air. “kinda… maybe guessed downstairs that you were kinda shy? i donno. made me wanna talk to you.”

your eyebrows nearly touch your hairline at his confession, embarrassment flooding you from head to toe.

“you could tell?”

“i mean, i figured the silent girl from class probably wouldn't have too many nights under her belt.” he jokes, charming as ever. you don’t take any offense to it.

sukuna must sense the thoughts flying through your mind because he stops, taking your face in both of his tattooed hands in a way that sets your chest on fire.

“it’s whatever you want, okay?.” and the little smile he gives you is so devastatingly reassuring, that you all but make up your mind right then and there.

“i wanna keep going.” you whisper, leaning forward in a brazen display of confidence to seal your lips to his.

sukuna must be taken aback by your forwardness, because he doesn’t melt into the kiss immediately. instead, his hands trail over your hips, getting a proper grip on your body before he’s pressing you into the mattress and licking into your mouth.

he almost tastes better this way, like grenadine and the remnants of a cigarette. the party rages on below you, drowning out the little whimpers that escape your lips every time sukuna kneads the sensitive swell of your breasts with his rough hands.

he lets you get used to the stretch this time, easing his hips back and forth in little strokes to get you used to the motion.

it doesn’t feel great at first, being fucked open at the center by something large enough to rival the width of your wrist. but soon enough, the discomfort fades into something different.

something filthy, nestled right in the deepest pit of your center. blooming out and upwards until your whole body feels like its on fire.

“oh my god.” you whimper, realizing you’ve taken him to the hilt. you're so full that your chest starts to feel tight. like there isn't possibly enough room inside of you to fit all the pleasure building in your core.

sukuna’s must adore the noises you're making for him, because his cock twitches right against that little spot from earlier.

“yeah? want me to move?” he purrs.

never in a million years did you think he’d be this intimate. this gentle, coaxing you open with his dick as softly as he can muster, and loving every bit of it.

“pleasepleaseplease oh god.” you moan, grasping onto his shoulders to prepare yourself for the onslaught of sensations that hit you when he speeds up.

you’re so wet you can’t even feel the friction of his heavy cock against your walls anymore. just the smooth, effortless glide of his length and the occasional, devastatingly good, bump of his tip against your g-spot.

you could die happy like this, legs spread to accommodate every inch of his sculpted body, watching the sweat collect in the ridges between his abs. listening to him pant praises against your lips in between heated kisses.

"could fuck you for the rest of my life." he growls.

and if that wasn’t enough, the finishing blow follows.

“i only come to class to see you, baby. only show up to see that pretty face.”

a broken whimper of his name is all you’re able to force out before you’re sent plummeting over the edge.

you cum with a stifled whimper, arms wrapped around his neck like he’ll up and float away if you let go. the pressure between your legs is insane, peaking and crashing down like an array of fireworks.

sukuna follows almost immediately, pulling out to shoot his load over your mound and lower tummy with a string of expletives and praise.

you silently thank the powers that be for whatever odd stroke of fate that brought you two together tonight.

“feeling good?” he flops on his side next to you, head propped up on his hand while he tenderly looks over your body.

“feeling amazing.”

“mmm, hoped you’d say that.” he laughs. still high on adrenaline.

the room suddenly feels a lot larger than it did before. a lot louder too without the sounds of your shared pleasure muffling the party below. you wonder what you're supposed to do now that you've... sufficiently had your fun. should you ask for a towel? should you just redress and deal with it all later?

sukuna opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then snaps back to attention.

"shit.. towel." he mumbles, slinking off the mattress to toe around the moat of your shared belongings on the ground.

"here." he tosses you the tank top he'd been wearing earlier, flopping back down on the mattress with you. you stand to dab the mess from your body and toss the garment in his hamper before pulling your undergarments back on.

"do you w-" he starts

"i should g-"

sukuna lifts his head from the pillows, hand coming up to stroke over the back of your head.

"you first."

"do you want me to leave?"

"do you want to leave?" he asks.

"no."

"then don't." he states plainly, already sorting through the mess on the floor to pull on his boxers. humming a tune under his breath like its the most routine thing in the world.

in a way, you guess it is. for him at least. you couldn't figure out what to do right now even if you tried.

"you said you noticed i was shy in class?" it comes out more like a statement than a question.

"noticed a lot of things about you." he whispers. you feel your stomach jump. half anticipation half need.

"why only come up to me today?"

sukuna sighs, like the topic itself is something that’s weighing heavy on his mind.

"didn't think you'd give me the time of day." he almost sounds shy to admit it. "thought i might as well when I saw you in the kitchen. didn't wanna graduate without giving it a shot."

something in your chest unravels softly at that. you feel at ease now, more confident in your bearings.

"can we do this more? get to know each other better?" you don’t even know where the question comes from, never mind how you garner the confidence to ask it.

you see his brows raise just the slightest bit, crimson eyes widening.

“or. sorry- i know you have…” your mind flits back to the image of him practically drowning in female attention. you probably sounded ridiculous right now.

you gesture vaguely in front of you, trying to phrase what you’re about to say as respectfully as possible. sukuna pulls you closer.

“…other contenders.”

sukuna hums thoughtfully, like he’s already made his mind up.

"i'm sure they'd live without me.”

without him. like, in the complete absence of him. your mind finally registers what exactly he’s saying.

just you and him. this. more than just a one night stand.

you try to respond but quickly startle at the sound of three heavy raps against the door.

"is she gone? did you get her number?" a gravely voice asks, barely audible above the music.

“toji can you fuck off for like twenty more minutes?” sukuna’s not asking.

“god, fuck.” he groans softly, wiping both hands down the front of his face like it’ll somehow rid him of his humiliation.

you wait for the heavy footsteps at the door to retreat, and lean in to press a kiss to sukuna’s forehead.

“wanna get lunch tomorrow?”

shoko was going to die during your debrief tomorrow morning.

content: 18+, knight!megumi x princess!reader, oral sex, affair mentioned.

the hour is late enough that the castle has softened around the edges, the corridors emptied of footsteps and the stone itself seeming to exhale after a day of ceremony and vigilance.

your chambers are lit only by taper candles set into iron sconces along the walls, their flames wavering gently as utahime moves through the room with the practiced quiet of someone who has done this for most of your life, drawing the curtains closed against the night air, loosening the pins from your hair one by one until the careful weight of it falls free down your back. 

the bed has already been turned down, silk sheets smoothed and scented faintly with lavender and dried rosemary, a luxury your mother insists upon for sleep and for appearances alike.

beyond the windows, the courtyard lies in shadow, pale stone washed silver beneath the moon.

utahime hums under her breath as she helps you from your outer gown, fingers deft and familiar, tying the ribbons of your nightdress with care. she pauses only when you hesitate, standing too still, hands clasped in front of you as if bracing yourself.

“is something the matter, my lady?” she asks softly, already knowing the answer.

you shake your head once, then twice, the lie too thin to hold. “would you fetch sir fushiguro for me,” you say, keeping your voice even. “i remembered something about the eastern stair. i wanted to ask him about the night guard.”

utahime’s mouth quirks despite herself, the faintest curve betraying her amusement. she reaches out and smooths a wrinkle from your sleeve, indulgent. 

“of course,” she says. then, more gently, “your mother expects you awake early tomorrow. she mentioned it twice at supper. please try not to keep him long, you will need your rest.”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i promise.”

utahime studies your face for a moment, fondness and knowing settled deep in her eyes. she has drawn your baths, dried your tears, taught you the etiquette your mother never had the patience for. there is very little about you she does not understand. 

“i will fetch him,” she repeats, and slips from the room before you can change your mind. the door closes behind her with a soft click.

silence rushes in to fill the space. you sit on the edge of the bed, then rise again almost immediately, pacing the length of the chamber, bare feet soundless against the rushes. your thoughts refuse to still. 

you do not think about crowns or treaties or suitors, you think only of him, your knight. 

of the way megumi fushiguro stands as though the world might strike at any moment, of the quiet gravity that seems to follow him through every room, of how his attention, when it settles on you, feels like something holy.

you have loved him longer than you can properly name, this you know to be true. 

you love him in the way described in the books your mother used to read to you, stories of princesses not unlike yourself, and you often find yourself imagining that he might be your knight in shining honor as well, that he could save you from the tower you were born into, from this legacy of loneliness and politics, with nothing more than his gentle spirit and his kind smile.

and it has nothing to do with duty and nothing to do with obedience. you love the way he listens as if every word matters, the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way he never interrupts even when you ramble. 

you love the restraint carved into him by years of training, and the rare moments when it cracks just enough to let something human show through. 

you love him so fiercely that the title of princess feels incidental, an inconvenience, a nuisance that insists on placing you above him when all you want is to be near.

it is a shame lord marshal gojo, in all of his hypocrisy after years of day-drinking with your older brother, has frightened the joy out of all of them, you think. the castle would be a far livelier place otherwise.

the most scandalous thing megumi has ever done remains burned into your memory. that night, months ago, when you stole a flask of hippocras from the cellar and coaxed him onto the balcony overlooking the inner court, the stone still warm from the day. 

he had been terrified of being caught, eyes darting to every shadow, fingers stiff around the cup you pressed into his hands. 

you, less so. you had tasted wine at feasts before, to your mother’s vocal dismay, who once remarked that drink would give you your father’s stomach. 

megumi held his far worse than you did, cheeks flushed, words loosening, his shoulders finally dropping as laughter escaped him in quiet, surprised bursts.

you remember the softness of his lips as something startling in its own right, the way they hovered for a breath too long before touching yours, as if he were asking permission without words, his hands warm where they came to rest at your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a care that made your chest ache. 

it was your first kiss and every part of you seemed to register it at once, the faint taste of spiced wine on his mouth, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the way your own hands trembled where they clutched the front of his tunic, unsure where they were allowed to go, unsure of anything except the certainty that this moment mattered. 

his lips moved against yours slowly, reverently, as though he were afraid of breaking something sacred, and when you kissed him back, clumsy and earnest, you felt his breath hitch in surprise, felt the quiet sound he made against your mouth before he pulled back just enough to look at you.

his cheeks were flushed from the drink and from the courage it had given him, his eyes dark and bright in the moonlight, fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse race. he rested his forehead against yours, still cradling your face, as if grounding himself. 

“i think about you more than i should,” he murmured, the words unguarded and fragile, as though they had slipped free before he could stop them. “i wish for days where you wake without being claimed by duty. i wish i could give you that.” his thumb traced a small, unconscious circle at your cheek, his touch steady even as his voice wavered.  

he swallowed, breath warm between you. “i wish i were allowed to stand beside you in the way my heart already does.”

the confession settled over you like a benediction, heavy and intimate, and you felt something inside you shift and settle into place, a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the wine or the night air. 

when he kissed you again, it was softer, surer, his lips lingering as though memorizing the shape of you.

you remember guiding him through the halls afterward, his steps unsteady, the two of you barely making it to the stair before yuji appeared, grinning and far too helpful, and together you managed to get megumi back to the knights’ quarters without incident. 

the next morning, megumi was himself again, composed and distant, attentive but never too close. he never spoke of it, and you never asked. sometimes you wonder if he remembers it at all.

a knock sounds at the door.

your heart lurches. you cross the room too quickly, catching yourself at the last moment, smoothing your nightdress before pulling the heavy door open.

megumi stands in the corridor, lamplit and solemn.

he is off duty, which you notice immediately. no armor, no helm. instead, he wears a dark wool tunic belted low at the waist, the fabric softened by wear, sleeves rolled back to his forearms where muscle and old training scars catch the candlelight. 

his boots are still dusted with grit from the yard, as though he came straight from patrol without stopping to collect himself, and his hair sits in unruly spikes that refuse discipline, framing a face that remains almost boyish despite everything expected of him. 

there is a gentleness to his features that never quite disappears, the slight curve of his mouth, the earnest set of his eyes, and in the spill of moonlight from the corridor his skin seems to glow faintly, warm against the cold stone.

the collar of his tunic hangs loose, shifting when he breathes, revealing a narrow sliver of skin at his collarbone that draws your gaze before you can stop yourself. you feel your pulse respond to it, traitorous and immediate. 

for a fleeting second, his eyes flick downward, brief enough that you almost convince yourself it never happened at all, landing somewhere near your mouth. hope sparks anyway, sharp and unwelcome, and you wonder whether the thin sheen of balm utahime pressed onto your lips at your insistence tonight, beeswax softened with rose oil, looks as pretty as you imagined it might. 

the thought lingers, unsteady and fragile, as his gaze lifts again, solemn and attentive, leaving you uncertain whether the moment belonged to both of you or only to your wanting.

“princess,” he says, bowing his head. his voice is steady, low. “you sent for me.”

“yes,” you say, stepping aside. “please, come in.”

he hesitates, just briefly, eyes flicking to the side as if the lord marshal himself might materialize from the stairwell at any moment, white hair and disapproval fully formed, and you can see the protest lining up behind megumi’s mouth before he allows himself inside. 

he steps over the threshold, hands folding behind his back out of habit, posture straight even without steel, discipline settling into him like a second skin.

you close the door, careful with the latch, and the chamber seems to contract around the two of you. the space feels altered, charged in a way that makes you suddenly uncertain where to stand. 

megumi remains near the door, rigid and alert, like a startled hart at the forest’s edge, all coiled awareness and readiness to flee. 

“It’s quite late,” he says quietly. “are you unwell, princess. do you feel in danger?”

the question is immediate, instinctive, the knight surfacing before anything else. you gnaw at your lower lip at the absurdity of it, at how quickly his mind moves to threat and blood and steel. 

he is always like this. always prepared, always braced.

“no,” you say, a little breathless despite yourself. “nothing like that. i just… i had a question.”

you sound nervous to your own ears. you feel nervous. you cross the room and stop by the window, lifting the curtain just enough to let the moonlight spill inward, pale and generous, washing the stone and the silk and the quiet shape of him where he stands. 

the courtyard below lies hushed and open, silvered rooftops and empty paths stretching out beneath the stars.

“it’s a beautiful night,” you say softly. “isn’t it?”

megumi follows your gaze, shoulders easing by a fraction as he looks out over the grounds he has patrolled a hundred times. “it is,” he says after a moment. “clear. good visibility.”

you smile despite yourself.

to steady him, and perhaps yourself, you add, “lord marshal gojo is not prowling the halls. i saw him slip out of the castle after compline, wearing his good cloak. he is certainly keeping some woman awake right now.”

the sound that leaves megumi surprises you both, a quiet snort he immediately attempts to suppress. his mouth tightens, though amusement lingers in his eyes, and something in your chest lifts at the sight of it, at this small proof that he can still loosen, still be human.

you turn back toward the window because you do not trust your voice, your words thinning the closer they come to truth, your gaze fixing stubbornly on the moonlit stones below. 

“do you remember,” you say, drawing a careful breath, “the night we went onto the gallery, above the inner court?”

silence stretches. somewhere in the dark, an owl calls from the outer wall, and farther off you hear the low snort of a horse settling in its stall, the muted clink of chains, the soft creak of timber as the castle breathes in its sleep. 

from here, you can see the path you took that night, the narrow strip of stone where you lingered too long, the bend in the courtyard where his shadow fell beside yours.

“i do,” megumi says.

your heart stumbles at the certainty in his tone. you curl your fingers into the hem of your nightdress, twisting the fabric between them as if anchoring yourself, pulse loud enough to feel behind your eyes. you wonder if the memory lives in him the way it lives in you, persistent and unquiet, returning at odd hours and refusing to be set aside.

you can hear megumi shift, can hear the weight redistributing as though he is choosing his footing with care. 

“i think about it often,” he says, his voice low, shaped carefully as though even the walls might betray him if he allowed it any more volume, and when he adds, “more than i should,” it sounds like something he has admitted only once, only now, trusting the quiet of your chamber to keep it without consequence.

you turn then, finally, moonlight at your back, and meet his eyes. in this light they appear bluer than you have ever seen them, clear and intent, the color deepened by shadow and closeness, and the air between you feels fragile, held together by breath alone, as though a single careless movement might shatter it.

“i should not,” he adds quietly, almost hastily. “i know that.”

“i think about it too,” you say, your gaze drifting to the carved edge of the oak table beside the bed, tracing the worn pattern with your eyes as if it might steady you. “more than i ever meant to.”

“you,” he starts, then stops, lifting his head to meet your eyes again. his expression is careful, restrained, tension set into the line of his mouth. “you should not say things like that.”

“i know,” you reply. “i have run this predicament through my mind countless times.” your thoughts turn, unbidden, to your parents, to the narrow future they have planned for you, to how you cannot yet see a path that allows you to have him fully. 

your fingers rise to your lip, gnawing at it as doubt creeps in, and you wonder briefly whether he feels burdened by your selfishness, by being summoned to your chambers, by the memory of the gallery and the night you stole together, your own longing clouding over what you were taught to call better judgment. 

“do you regret it?” you ask.

“no,” he says. “i have never regretted it.”

“then why did you never speak of it again?” the plea slips into your voice despite yourself, confusion threading through every word.

megumi’s voice stays low. “because if i spoke of it,” he says, “i would want more.” he swallows. “and wanting more is dangerous for the both of us.”

“megumi,” you say softly, “i have spent my whole life being told what is dangerous.” the words gather speed as they leave you. 

“i am not to leave my corridors at certain hours. i have had one female friend my entire life, and she is my handmaiden, twenty years my senior. i have never seen the rolling hills my mother is from, though my father and brother have crossed the sea and returned many times over. i am to be sent to the highest bidder as soon as my parents decide i am ready.” you step closer to him as you speak, each word tightening in your throat, the familiar pressure building there, heavy and hot, the way it always does when you are close to tears and determined not to let them fall. 

“am i not allowed to want this one thing?” your voice fractures despite your effort, the sound thin and unsteady, fear threading through it before you can pull it back. “is it so wrong to want love?” 

the question trembles between you, carrying the quiet terror you do not name aloud, the thought that presses at the back of your mind, persistent and cruel, that this moment might be singular, that chances like this do not come twice in a lifetime, and that if you let it pass, you may never be allowed to want again.

you step away from the window, slow and deliberate, the distance between you shrinking by inches. “megumi,” you say, steadier now, “i want you to show me.”

his brow tightens. “show you what, my—”

you cut him off before the title can land. “i want you to show me how you remember it.” you lift your chin a fraction, your hands trembling despite your resolve.

silence stretches. you can hear his breath now, controlled and shallow. “if i do, princess,” he says carefully, “i will not be able to pretend afterward.”

“i am not asking you to pretend,” you reply.

he swallows. “this is not something i should lead.”

you stop a step away from him, close enough that the warmth of his body reaches you, close enough that you can feel the quiet steadiness of his breath. “then lead me only this once,” you say, the words measured but trembling at their edges, and beneath them hangs the unspoken question, fragile and aching, whether this is the only time you will ever be allowed to ask.

his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth, then lifts again, resolve settling into his features with quiet inevitability. “if you wish it,” he says.

“i do,” you answer.

the space between you closes with deliberate care. megumi moves first, slow enough that every inch feels accounted for, his presence steady and certain as his hand lifts to your face, palm warm against your cheek, thumb resting just beneath your eye as though he is memorizing you by touch. 

there is a faint scent to him, clean wool and leather, the trace of iron from the yard, the softer warmth of skin heated by movement and candlelight, something grounding and familiar that settles deep in your chest.

his lips meet yours gently, the contact light enough that you feel it everywhere at once. there is the slight roughness of his mouth, faintly chapped from wind and duty, the warmth of his breath, the careful way he adjusts when he feels you lean into him. 

your heart stutters, then surges, sensation blooming sharp and sudden, a rush that makes your hands curl into the fabric of his tunic as though you might float away without the anchor of him. he lingers there, unhurried, as if the moment deserves patience, as if the world beyond your chamber has agreed to wait. 

his other hand comes to rest at your jaw, fingers firm and protective, and when he kisses you again it is deeper, still chaste, still controlled, yet laden with all the wanting he has kept leashed for so long. you feel it in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the quiet sound he makes against your lips, in the way his breath falters when you kiss him back.

“look at you,” he murmurs, the words pressed softly into the narrow space between kisses, his voice low and careful, then, barely above a whisper, an exhale of your name against your mouth, the sound more breath than speech, and the quiet vibration of it sends warmth rushing through your cheeks, down your neck, settling deep in your chest. 

hearing it like that, unguarded and unadorned, without title, feels intimate in a way that makes your breath falter, the knowledge of being known spreading through you with an intensity you do not attempt to hide.

the kiss steadies you even as it undoes you, warmth spreading through your chest and down your spine, a feeling both dizzying and sure. 

for a suspended moment, there is only this, his hands holding you with care, his lips moving against yours with quiet devotion, the candlelight flickering around you as though bearing witness to something rare and fragile and achingly real.

his lips return to yours, firmer this time, the kiss deepening with the press of his body. your breath hitches as he moves slowly, mouth shifting to the corner of yours, then lower, to your jaw, to the hollow of your throat.

this is no longer megumi the quiet squire with ink-stained fingers and downcast eyes at court banquets, the one who bowed too low when addressed by title and spoke only when summoned. this is someone else, someone older, shaped by want. 

a man, perhaps—one who has suffered the long reach of yearning and now tastes the fruit he was certain would be withheld until death.

the kisses he lays on you are deliberate, slow, wet, reverent. when his tongue brushes your skin and his teeth scrape gently, you feel something ripple through you—shock, heat, want—something curled and forbidden, something no embroidered psalter or catechism scroll had ever dared name.

none of this had been in the volumes your mother read aloud in the solar, beside the brazier where you learned to stitch. no saint ever spoke of this. no maiden in legend swooned like this beneath a knight’s mouth. 

these were the things whispered of behind drawn velvet, in corridors thick with shadow. things suguru and lord marshal satoru spoke of in jest after returning from the taverns in the town’s south quarter—where the low houses of pleasure stood in plain sight, veiled by nothing but their red lanterns and the shame of those who dared to enter.

it is scandalous. profoundly so. this moment should never have come to pass. you are a princess of noble blood, daughter of a baronial house, and he is a knight sworn to your father's name. 

if found, he could be whipped, branded, sent to the abbey in irons. and yet—his mouth trails fire across your skin. his hands, steady though his breath is not, cradle you with such care it makes your chest ache.

it is wrong. but in the candlelight, it feels ordained.

he sucks lightly at your neck, just above the collar of your nightdress. the soft flick of his tongue, the brief pull of suction, the heat of his breath—it coaxes a sound from you, his name slipping out before you can think to swallow it back.

“megumi—”

the syllables fall into him. he groans, quietly, like the sound is drawn from the depths of him, muffled into your skin. your knees nearly give when the backs of them strike the bed. the pressure of your body against the mattress halts your retreat, and your nightgown slips from one shoulder, baring the slope of your collarbone to the air. the skin there has only been seen by utahime, perhaps your mother, the occasional midwife during fever. now, it lies beneath his mouth.

he kisses the exposed bone softly, and your hands rise before you think, tangling in the thick mess of his hair—softer than you had ever dared hope, finer than lambswool. you had wondered, more than once, what it would feel like in your fingers.

his hands bracket your hips as you remain seated at the edge of the bed, your knees parted, your nightdress bunched about your thighs. he stands between your legs, tunic sleeves rolled. you feel the heat of him through the cloth still between you, feel the press of his body where your legs hook around his waist, ankles crossing behind him with a mind of their own.

you lean up, brushing your lips just behind his ear, close enough that your breath ghosts warm along his skin. megumi exhales sharply at the contact, the sound torn from him before he can restrain it, quick and exquisite, and you feel it resonate through you, a vibration that settles low as you take him in like this, so near, framed between your knees, the heat of him unmistakable.

your fingers lift to his chin, guiding his face back toward you with a gentleness that belies your intent, thumb resting at the corner of his mouth. 

“tell me, my knight,” you whisper, the words shaped carefully, breath-soft and dangerous, “are you here to serve your lady…” you nip lightly at the shell of his ear, a brief, daring touch, and finish in a murmur meant for him alone, “or ruin her?”

the color blooms at the tips of his ears at once, vivid and unguarded. his jaw tightens, and yet he does not look away. 

“i am sworn to you,” he says quietly, the vow steady and unembellished. “and i will bear what that oath asks of me.”

his mouth returns to yours like he cannot stay away. each kiss arrives slower than the last, longer, drawn from some deep reserve he has kept sealed for years. his hand rises, cupping your cheek, thumb sweeping your temple in a soothing arc as though to anchor both of you to the moment. 

the kissing remains unhurried, deliberate, a patient claiming that leaves you breathless just as he draws back, only just enough to see you, enough to hold your gaze. his fingers trail down, tracing the edge of your thigh where skin meets the fine linen of your nightgown, the fabric gathered high from where you sit, his touch respectful and intent all at once, the promise of what comes next suspended in the candlelit air.

“may i?” he asks, voice low, barely more than air. his eyes stay fixed on yours, searching. “i want to taste you.” there is no tremor in his tone, yet it carries the weight of restraint shaped over years. 

a boy raised within the discipline of the lists and the chapel, taught the stance of a knight before he was taught ease, schooled beneath the watchful eye of the lord marshal, where correction came swift and praise came sparingly. 

long before he bore your colors, he stood beside lord marshal gojo in the great hall and watched the princes of other kingdoms approach in turn, bowing low to press their lips to your hand in formal homage, the ritual kiss of fealty offered beneath hanging banners and the measured gaze of courtiers. 

he was meant to study the posture of the knights flanking those princes, the angle of the spine, the placement of the feet, the stillness required of a sworn man, and yet, his eyes never left you. they could not leave you.

he learned early how to carry himself, how to be silent when silence was demanded, how to endure the long hours that forged boys into weapons. and even then, he found himself lingering behind the others as they returned to the quarters at dusk, slowing his steps so he might glimpse you crossing the cloister on your way to lessons in deportment. 

he watched you plead with your handmaiden to delay them another day, your stubbornness bright and familiar, and he smiled to himself, a private thing he kept hidden. 

that smile has never left him, returning even now when you lean close to whisper a remark at court, when prince suguru begins one of his careful speeches and the lord marshal echoes him like paired hounds baying in unison, and megumi bites at his lip to preserve the gravity expected of him.

he is sir megumi fushiguro, sworn knight of the realm, bound to the princess by oath and silence. the fool who has fallen in love with the princess. the hanged man, hands bound behind his back by devotion, suspended by longing, a quiet martyr to a cause that asks everything of him. he places his life at hazard for the mere grace of your touch, for the benediction of your mouth on his.

if he is to die tomorrow for treason to the crown, let the memory of your lips on his be the last blessed thing he carries from this life.

it is the gentle nod of your head, the soft murmur of “yes” that leaves your mouth, that tells him he has been granted permission, and the word settles into him like a final wish, something he had never dared hope would be fulfilled. 

his thoughts reel for a moment, unsteady, as his hands guide your thighs apart and he lowers himself between them, breath catching at the sight of your skin bared for him beneath the wavering candlelight.

your thighs are warm beneath his palms, scented faintly with the rosewater and sweet almond oil utahime has tended you with since childhood, the same fragrance that has followed you through the keep like a quiet herald. 

he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, each one slow and deliberate, his lips sinking into the softness as though he has known this in dream and only now wakes to it in truth.

he lifts your nightgown further, pushing the fine linen up over the curve of your stomach, revealing skin untouched by any eyes save your attendants’. you watch him through half-lidded eyes, your breath unsteady, your fingers curling into the sheets as he uncovers your smallclothes, the delicate chemise linen thinned by wear and softened by lye and lavender.

he bends closer, worshipful, and places a kiss upon the dampened spot that has gathered at your mound, the wetness visible even through the fabric. the contact makes your breath catch as he inhales softly, as though committing the scent of you to memory, sliding the garment aside with careful fingers, exposing you to the cool air and to the warmth of his gaze.

his breath warms the tender skin he has bared, and when he lowers himself fully, his nose brushes the small tuft of hair that crowns your mound, soft and fine from the oils and unguents your attendants have worked into your skin since childhood. 

the touch sends a tremor through him. he inhales carefully, as though the scent alone might undo the discipline carved into him through years of training in the yard and the chapel cloister. the faint tickle of that downy hair grazes his nose again when he leans closer, and you feel the delicate shiver that runs through him at the closeness of it.

his mouth finds you with a gentleness that borders on devotion. he spreads you with slow, reverent strokes of his tongue, tasting you as though this is a sacrament, his lips parting to gather the wetness he coaxed from you with his kisses and his vows. 

the first pull of his mouth around the small pearl of flesh at the top of your heat draws a sharp, startled cry from you, your thighs tightening around his head in pure instinct. 

he does not press you apart, instead, he holds you exactly as you come to him, his hands sliding beneath your thighs, fingers splaying across the warmed skin as though anchoring himself.

his tongue circles you with unhurried precision. the sucking is soft at first, cautious, his lips forming a seal around the tender nub and drawing it into his mouth with such care that your back arches from the bed. the silken sheets bunch beneath your fists as you grip them, the fabric slipping against your palms with every tremor that runs through you. 

moonlight gathers across the room, falling through the arrow-slit window in a pale column that illuminates you both, casting the bed in a silvered glow that feels like the painted miniatures in the margins of illuminated psalters, scenes of lovers and saints alike bathed in holy light.

your breath comes unsteady, broken by soft cries he drinks down like prayer. his shoulders strain beneath the thin linen of his undertunic, muscles flexed as he holds your thighs wide, his forearms taut from the effort. 

below you, between you like this, he looks nothing like the slight, disciplined knight you watch from afar at court feasts. he looks powerful like this, molded by desire and duty both, his brow furrowed in concentration as he eats you with a purpose that borders on fervor.

his tongue laves you again, broad and slow, followed by a delicate flick against the pearl of you that sends heat unfurling low in your stomach, your head falling back against the pillows, hair spilling across the embroidered cloth in waves. 

you babble his name without thinking, the syllables tangled with half-formed pleas, the cadence of your upbringing surfacing in your desperation—“for mercy’s sake,” you gasp, “megumi, please—”

he answers you with his mouth, not lifting his head, his tongue stroking deeper, his lips drawing gentle suction that makes your stomach coil tighter as he holds your thigh with one hand and slides the other higher, his fingertips pressing lightly into the soft crease where your leg meets your hip, grounding you yet again.

megumi, your sweet megumi with his unruly hair and the too-long limbs shaped by years in hauberk and brigandine, your knight, your undoing, is as precise as he is tireless when he sets his mouth to you, an unexpected force, an underdog who rose from the training yard with a will tempered like steel, a trojan horse of quiet skill and hidden fervor. 

he is relentless. devoted. steady as the castle stones beneath you both.

the pleasure builds in you slowly at first, then swiftly, gathering like summer storm clouds over the valley. heat curls through your belly and spreads along every limb until you can scarcely tell where your body ends and his devotion begins. 

his tongue circles you again, careful and intent, and your breath stutters into a soft cry. your hips lift from the bed, guided by nothing but instinct, and his hands tighten around your thighs to steady you as he continues, his mouth closing over the tender pearl of flesh with patient precision. you feel your pulse beating there under his tongue, sharp and insistent.

your toes curl against the sheets. your fingers tug helplessly at the embroidered silk, pulling at it as though the fabric itself can anchor you. 

the moonlight spills across the chamber floor in a pale ribbon, climbing the posts of your bed and catching the gleam of his dark hair as he works between your legs, the tension almost impossible to bear. 

your back arches in a perfect bow, the sweep of your nightgown falling from your shoulder as your body strains toward him. the world narrows to the point where his mouth meets you, to the broad strokes of his tongue and the soft suction that undoes you utterly.

the climax hits like a drawn bowstring loosed from the archer’s hand, heat bursting through your limbs. almost as if your limbs belong to someone else entirely, your thighs clamp around his head, breath fracturing into a cry that almost certainly echoes off the stone walls. your body trembles in waves, each one rolling through you with a force you have never known. 

megumi holds you steady as you shudder, his fingers digging gently into the soft flesh at your hips, his mouth still tasting you, coaxing every last tremor from you until you cannot bear a moment more.

you reach down blindly, fingers tangling in his hair, and tug him upward with a gasp. “stop—i cannot— please—” he pulls back at once, lips shining, breath unsteady, and kneels between your legs as though awaiting judgment.

“forgive me,” he says softly. “did i bring you pain, my lady?”

you shake your head, still trembling. “n-no,” you manage, voice small and uncertain, “it was… it was very good, but… where did you learn such things?” the question leaves you shy, your voice dipping as though fearful of being overheard by saints carved into the chapel rafters.

megumi’s cheeks flush crimson. he averts his eyes for a moment. 

“i have never touched a woman,” he says quietly. “your brother and the lord marshal speak freely of their visits to the bathhouses in the south ward, where the women are paid to instruct men in matters of pleasure. i tried to follow what i believed would please you.”

you wrinkle your nose at that, some combination of amusement and affection warming your chest, and before he can withdraw further into embarrassment, you reach for him, guiding his face to yours and kissing him deeply, your taste still lingering on his lips. 

he shivers when you draw your tongue along the seam of his mouth, his hands rising to cradle your waist, steady and adoring. 

it is utahime who wakes you at first light, long before the castle cockerel cries, long before the bells toll for lauds. she slips into your chamber with the practiced silence of a woman who has served three reigns and kept more secrets than any chronicler would dare set to parchment. 

she takes one look at you—hair mussed, lips swollen, gait unsteady as you shift beneath the coverlet—and she sighs softly through her nose, already knowing, already understanding, already preparing.

“my lady,” she murmurs, drawing open the shutters only halfway so the dawn does not wound your eyes, “i have set the copper tub by the hearth. the water is warm, steeped with lavender and comfrey. it will ease your soreness.”

you blush down to your collar and she pretends not to see it. she has known you since you were small enough to be carried on her hip. nothing in you is foreign to her.

she helps you into the bath, steadying your elbows as you lower yourself into the steaming water. the heat wraps around your hips, soothing the ache left by megumi’s mouth and hands, the ache you can still feel when you shift. your breath softens with relief as  utahime kneels behind you and loosens your hair, her fingers deft as she works oil into the strands to restore their sheen.

when your eyes meet hers in the polished bronze mirror perched on the stool beside the tub, the two of you share a smile that needs no words. it is a smile of conspiracy, of sisterhood, of a secret held tenderly between women. she sees the glow in your cheeks, the languid heaviness in your limbs, the marks hidden beneath the waterline where megumi’s hands had gripped your thighs.

she says nothing of it as she brushes your hair with long, even strokes, the same way she did when you were a child frightened of thunder—yet her brow lifts with the smallest, most deliberate arch, a gesture that speaks in the quiet language of women who keep watch over girls they have raised.

“my lady,” she says lightly, as though mentioning the weather, “i trust no… consequences will come of last night’s folly?” her tone is mild, her expression serene, but the warning rests beneath her words like a hand placed gently atop yours.

your entire body heats at once, the steam of the bath no match for the flush rising up your throat. “o-of course not,” you murmur, voice barely above the lap of water against the copper. “i assure you, utahime, there shall be no cause for concern. sir fushiguro was… prudent.”

her lips purse, suppressing a knowing smile. “prudence is a virtue in a knight,” she remarks softly, “and a mercy to his lady.”

you sink further into the water, wishing briefly to disappear beneath it, mortified and warm and full of something soft that no scripture ever warned you against. utahime only continues brushing, gaze fond, as if she has watched a hundred young princesses bloom under the touch of love and still finds the sight unbearably dear.

the castle stones bear witness to nothing.

no guard patrolling the outer bailey knows why the princess swayed slightly as she crossed the cloister walk at dawn, her veil casting shadows over flushed cheeks.

no steward suspects why your voice faltered during the morning inventory of barley stores.

no courtier imagines the truth of the night spent behind the thick walls of the maiden’s chamber, where candle wax dripped slow and forgotten while a knight worshipped at the altar of your body.

only utahime knows.

and it is utahime who binds your hair in ribbons of silver and pearl on the morning of your betrothal to sukuna ryomen, king of the iron mountain, his hair as red as fresh-spilled wine and his temper as famed as his conquests. 

she cinches your girdle with steady hands. she fastens the mantle lined with ermine across your shoulders. she places the bridal circlet upon your brow and whispers, “hold your head high, my lady.”

it is also utahime who tells your betrothed that you are unwell the day before, granting you a reprieve from the court’s scrutiny, knowing full well the source of your flushed cheeks and tender thighs. 

it is utahime who touches up your hair after a certain knight, summoned to escort you to vespers, found reason to steal a final embrace in a shadowed passage. she swats him away with the tail of her ribbon, and megumi bows to her in apology, his face scarlet.

years pass, and yet it is still utahime who stands beside you at your lying-in, when you grip the carved posts of the birthing bed, sweat beading on your brow as the midwives urge you to bear down. she wipes your face with a damp cloth, murmuring prayers taught in her own girlhood. 

the chamber fills with the scent of burning tallow and crushed herbs, and your cries echo against the beams overhead. when your daughter finally enters the world with a fierce wail and a head of suspiciously dark hair, utahime is the first to lift her, to place the swaddled babe upon your chest.

she stays in your household as your children grow, braiding your daughter’s raven curls each morning and humming lullabies while brushing them smooth at night. 

when the little girl asks for stories, utahime tells tales of princesses in high towers and the knights who loved them beyond reason, of stolen moments behind tapestry screens, of romances whispered through arrow slits at midnight. she smiles as she spins these tales, remembering the true one she witnessed unfold over the course of many years.

and when your daughter asks, “nurse, could such things ever be real?” utahime smooths her hair with hands softened by decades of service and answers the same way she once did for you.

a/n— (pls leave comments or tag/quote reblogs I love listening to opinions and talking back and forth ᴖ̈ ) also loll I got so carried away, lots of tangents.

there's no plot, you're ovulating, your bf is more than willing to help.

word count: 10.3k

❥ cw incl: choking, breeding kink, pwp, pillow talk, no condom, bathtub sex, fingering, nipple play, oral (fem recieving), a lot of pet names and a concerning amount of em dashes.

You're sitting with your legs crossed, feet rubbing together every now and then. Earlier Maki had asked you what got you all anxious, but how do you tell her it's not anxiety causing your fidgeting? It's not like you can admit to staying up late, with your blanket pulled up over your head, your moans muffled by your pillow…

Ugh, ovulation week is always such a bother, you didn't think it was supposed to be such a big deal, but the older you get the more heightened your hormones seem to get.

It's been getting ridiculous, zoning out in class, staying up late to get yourself off, even outside you can't help yourself- sitting with your legs crossed on the train to get just a hint of reprieve.

Out of the corner of your eye you notice a high schooler moving away as a salary man boards the train, probably cautious. But with the way your thoughts have been clouded, you wonder if you're the real pervert in this packed cabin. If that wasn't enough, on top of your body acting up, you missed him. Yuuta’s been stationed out of Tokyo for a mission, so you don't even have your boyfriend to ‘help’ you through it.

The train finally pulls up to the station with a soft ‘ting ting’ and the UI voice announcing your stop. You gather your things and get out with a sigh, walking to your college apartment. You're taking off your shoes at the entrance, mind wandering off to what you'd do with your free evening and that's when you notice it. A pair of white sneakers kept next to your brown flats..

Yuuta's back!

previous | part 2 below | next

you don’t dare speak about it—about the way his body betrayed him, about the heat that flooded the room before either of you knew what to do with it.

until a week passes.

sukuna seems… alarmingly different.

he’s tense and distant, like he’s keeping himself out of your reach on purpose.

he used to show up at your dorm unannounced, leaning in your doorway like he belonged there, asking what you were studying before plopping onto your plushie filled bed like it was his.

now there’s barely anything.

no late night knocks at your door when you were supposed to be studying. no lazy texts. not even his familiar presence lurking outside your lectures to scare people away.

you find yourself replaying everything, searching for where you might’ve gone wrong. had you’d embarrassed him? made him angry? crossed some line you hadn’t even known was there?

so now you standing outside his dorm.

you’d been here for a full three minutes.

you don’t even know why you’re here. panic, probably. impulse. the gnawing fear that if you don’t do something, the distance would harden into something permanent.

you smooth your sweater down for the third time, push your glasses up your nose, then knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

once. then twice.

footsteps approach on the other side of the door.

it opens—and sukuna freezes.

he looks like he’s been caught doing something illegal. eyes widening just a fraction, posture stiffening like he doesn’t quite know where to put himself. his hair’s messy, like he’s been running his hands through it too much.

and he’s shirtless.

your brain short circuits.

you’ve seen him in tank tops, loose shirts, jackets half zipped—but this is different. bare skin, sharp lines of muscle you absolutely were not prepared for. your gaze drops before you can stop it, then snaps back up, mortified.

“oh—” you blurt. “i’m sorry, i didn’t— i can go—”

his brain tries to catch up to the fact you’re literally standing in front of him, but all he can seem to focus on are your eyes glued to his bare chest, lips parted like you’re trying—and failing—to keep from staring.

“no.” too quick. he clears his throat, jaw tightening. “it’s fine.”

it very much does not feel fine to either of you.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

synopsis: Your cursed spirit boyfriend, Choso Kamo, was a very uneducated man in all topics. Luckily, he had you to get through a normal, civilised life without many troubles. Here are some instances where he was still grasping the rules of society:

warnings: so much fluff, suggestive tones

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Incident #1:

It happened unplanned one evening when clumsy kisses tried turning into something more, long fingers running over the smooth waistband of your underwear and hooking beneath the fabric when you pressed your hand against his own, stopping him.

Choso pulls away, looking between your hand preventing him from going further and your face which was peering up at him, hair sprawled out over the pillow. “Is something wrong?”

You quickly shake your head. “No, nothings wrong, baby. It’s just that… I’m on my period so we can’t do anything tonight.”

gojo saying ‘i love you’ for the first time. ^.^

it really slipped out of him the same way a sigh does, or a habit, or the way he always reached for you in his sleep even when he was already late.

it was early. too early. the room was still gray, that soft in-between color where the sun hadn’t committed yet. you were half-awake, tangled in sheets that smelled like his shampoo and your detergent mixed together. gojo was moving around quietly, or at least trying to. drawers opened and closed. fabric rustled. his phone buzzed once and he groaned under his breath.

you were awake enough to notice him lean down, awake enough to feel his lips press into your hair, your temple, the corner of your mouth. it was automatic. he did it every morning he left before you.

“don’t forget to eat,” you mumbled.

he hummed, distracted, already reaching for his blindfold off the nightstand. “yeah, yeah.”

then and completely unguarded—

“see you later, princess. i love you.”

it landed wrong.

not wrong like bad. wrong like when something precious falls and you don’t hear it hit the ground right away.

your eyes were fully open now.

it took half a second for your brain to catch up, to realize you hadn’t dreamed it, that you hadn’t imagined the weight of those words settling in the space between you. your heart did something stupid and incredibly fast, like it was trying to outrun your thoughts.

he froze.

you could tell the exact moment it hit him because his hand stopped mid-motion and the blindfold dangling uselessly from his fingers.

there was a long pause and the air shifted.

slowly, he turned.

you were already looking at him.

his eyes widened just a fraction. barely noticeable to anyone else but you.

“. . .you heard,” he said.

a realization.

you swallowed. your mouth was dry all of a sudden. “yeah.”

another pause. this one heavier.

gojo opened his mouth, closed it. ran a hand through his hair and laughed.

he was clearly nervous. you could see it.

“i—” he started, then stopped again. “okay. wait.”

he stepped closer to the bed like he was approaching something that might bite him.

he sat on the edge, elbows on his knees and his head tilted back for a second like he was bracing himself.

“you heard that,” he said again.

you nodded.

he exhaled slowly, like he was counting down from ten in his head. when he looked at you again, there was no teasing in his eyes, just him. stripped down and very awake.

“i didn’t mean to—” he stopped himself, lips pressing together. “no. that’s not true. i did mean it. i just . . . wasn’t planning on saying it. like that.”

your chest felt tight.

“it’s okay,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “toru, you don’t have to—”

“no,” he cut in. “don’t do that.”

he looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers like he was grounding himself. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“i’ve been thinking it for a while.”

that made your breath catch.

he glanced back up at you, almost wary. “i just didn’t want to mess things up. you know how i am. i talk without thinking. i didn’t want it to sound like that.”

“like what?” you asked softly.

“like i didn’t take it seriously.”

he laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “ironic, huh.”

you sat up a little, pulling the sheet around you. the room felt smaller now, more intimate, like the walls had leaned in when he said it.

“i don’t think it sounded unserious,” you said.

he studied your face, searching for something. fear. regret. anything.

“what did it sound like?” he asked.

you hesitated. your heart was still pounding, but there was a warmth spreading through you now.

“honest,” you said.

his shoulders dropped. just a little.

“yeah,” he murmured. “that sounds about right.”

there was a moment where neither of you spoke. the city outside hummed faintly. a car passed. somewhere, someone laughed. life kept going like nothing had just shifted on its axis.

gojo reached out, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

you let him.

he squeezed your hand once, like he was reassuring himself you were real and that you were still here.

“i don’t need you to say it back,” he said. “not now. not if you’re not ready. i just— i needed you to know i didn’t say it because i was half-asleep.”

you smiled. “you were definitely half-asleep.”

he snorted despite himself. “maybe a little. but the feelings were very awake. trust me.”

you took a breath. let it out.

“i like knowing,” you said.

his lips curved into something gentle.

“yeah?” he asked.

“yeah.”

he stood then, reluctantly, like the world was pulling him away by force. he leaned down again, his forehead resting against yours.

“i’ll see you tonight,” he said.

you nodded.

this time, when he kissed you goodbye, it was slower. intentional. like he was sealing something.

he paused at the door, his hand was on the frame.

“. . . i love you,” he said again.

no panic this time.

you smiled into the pillow after he left, your heart still racing, already knowing that nothing was the same anymore — and somehow, everything was exactly right.

spiderman!yuuji itadori who tries and fails to hide his superhero identity to you (his girlfriend and best friend) ˚.✦

You always knew Yuuji was a terrible liar.

It’s honestly one of the first things you ever loved about him.

Freshman year, he told you he definitely didn’t eat the last strawberry Pocky while pink crumbs dusted his hoodie like evidence at a crime scene. You kissed the sugar off his mouth and decided right then that you were keeping him forever.

So when your boyfriend of two years starts coming home with mysterious bruises, split knuckles, and the faint smell of rooftop tar clinging to his hair, you notice.

You notice everything.

You notice the way he starts wearing higher collars in June.

You notice the tiny, perfectly round holes in his ceiling that definitely weren’t there last month.

you weren’t sure he’d say yes.

not because he’s mean—he’s not, not to you at least. just kinda a menace. fratboy through and through. all cocky grins and shit-talking at pong, head thrown back with laughter when he’s got you flustered, saying the most inappropriate things in the most crowded rooms. so no, not the type you’d imagine lounging in bed under a fuzzy pink blanket with a hello kitty sheet mask stuck to his face.

but he’s here. shirt off, tattoos on full display, laying back against your headboard with a pink headband pushing his hair back, brows drawn together in a dramatic frown as you carefully smooth the edges of the mask over his cheeks.

"this is so stupid," he mumbles, but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try to. you’re straddling his lap in your hello kitty pajama set—shorts too tiny, tank top a little sheer, soft cotton clinging to your thighs where you’re kneeling over him—and you think maybe he’s regretting letting you climb on top of him for this.

"baby, you promised," you remind him softly, fingers brushing under his chin to press the little bow between hello kitty’s ears right against the center of his forehead.

"yeah, yeah," he grunts. "you’re lucky you’re cute."

you giggle, but it’s quiet. you still get nervous around him sometimes. especially like this—when he’s looking at you with his hands on your hips, when you’re close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin beneath your thighs. he’s watching you through the mask, lids low and lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

"you look good," you whisper, a little shy, a little sincere.

"do i?" his voice dips, hands sliding a little lower on your hips. his thumbs trace the hem of your pajama shorts, inching toward bare skin. "should i start wearin’ this shit to chapter meetings?"

good dreams?

✧ pairing choso x reader

✧ summary choso loves nothing more than waking up right next to his beautiful girlfriend, but something ins't quite right this morning... could it be you're having a nightmare – about him?!

✧ wc 1.4k

✧ content pure fluff, choso is the king of overthinking, domestic fluff, nightmares, pet names, established relationship

✧ a/n this is a prequel to my fic bad dreams? as requested by anon, really hope you enjoy <33

Your boyfriend Choso Kamo was having a great morning.

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and he got to wake up next to the most special person in his whole world – you, all snuggled up next to him, hands laying over his bare chest as your head followed the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

You’re so beautiful, was his first thought every morning. I’m so lucky, was usually the one that followed.

Choso was an early riser, and even if he never planned to do it on purpose, he’d wake up before you every single day, but refuse to move from underneath you until you stirred awake. It was like his internal clock had understood how precious this little pocket of time was, those few minutes where he got to admire your relaxed expression, all cute and wrapped up right where you belonged.

You’d probably blink your eyes at him soon, lips would form a bright smile that would have his cheeks all red, and then he’d give you a morning kiss before offering to make you breakfast.

Any moment now, Choso thought eagerly.

But then… he noticed something.

Today was… different.

kento stands between your thighs where you sit on the counter, wearing only loose gray sweatpants that do nothing to hide how much he wants you. you gently swirl shaving cream along his jaw.

“careful, love,” he murmurs as his warm palms slide up your bare legs, stopping just beneath the hem of his old shirt you’re wearing, “i’m in your hands.”

you smile and gently tilt his chin, “i know, i’ll be reaallly careful.”

the razor glides slow and smooth down his cheek. your husband exhales steadily, but you feel the almost imperceptible tremor in his thighs against yours. when you lean in to shave beneath his lip, your breasts push against his chest. his breath catches at the feeling.

in response, his fingers tighten just a fraction before pulling you closer. right until your clothed cunt presses against the hard outline of his dick beneath his sweatpants.

you gasp quietly at the feeling, a jolt of pleasure leaving tingles between your legs. you can feel the hardness rubbing up and down your covered pussy, “ken. . .”

“sorry,” kento whispers against your neck, lips brushing your skin as he lowers his head. his hips roll forward slowly, dragging the thick length of him along your clothed cunt, “can’t really help it when my wife just looks so good. so beautiful.”

another careful stroke of the razor—another slow grind. it’s firmer this time, the friction perfect through thin layers, making your breath hitch.

“you’re supposed to be still, silly,” you tease, though your voice is shaky.

kento leans in and his nose brushes yours, “then stop looking at me like that.” his hand slides to your lower back, guiding your body as he rocks again—long, unhurried thrusts that rub his cock right against your hidden clit, “fuck… feel how hard you make me?”

you drop the razor to the counter with a clatter and your arms loop around his neck, “ah, please—”

“shh, i’ve got you,” kento breathes with his forehead pressed to yours as he grinds faster, holding you steady while your hips chase his, “don’t let go of me and i promise i’ll make you feel so good, sweetheart.”

when he does push-ups, he insists you lie beneath him on the mat. every time he lowers down, he steals a kiss, his lips curving into a smile against yours before he pushes back up. "one more set," he'll say, but the sets keep multiplying because he's clearly in no hurry to finish.

for arm exercises, you become his weights. he'll scoop you up with an exaggerated grunt—as if you weigh anything to him—and curl you up and down while you're giggling helplessly, your hands gripping his shoulders. "baby, stop laughing," he whines, even as he's grinning like an idiot. "you're supposed to be taking this seriously. i'm trying to show off for you here—i mean, work out. i'm working out." but he keeps lifting you anyway, repeating sets he's definitely already finished just to hear you laugh again, showing off the flex of his biceps with each curl like he's personally trying to make your heart stop.

during squats, he settles you on his shoulders, your legs wrapped around him for balance, hands cupping his face. each time he rises, he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm, his eyes flickering up to meet yours in the mirror. the bastard is watching your reflection, making sure you're watching him right back.

"i need you here for motivation," he insists every single time, all faux-seriousness.

but his secret agenda is obvious—he wants your eyes on him, wants to show off the way his muscles move, the effortless strength, the control. he wants your attention, and only yours. the way his gaze keeps finding you in the mirror's reflection, checking if you're still watching, gives him away completely.

not that you'd look anywhere else.

synopsis: a freshly reborn Choso is given a second chance at life by a man who only asked in return that he’d make things right with you, his ex girlfriend who’s name was the only thing on his lips during his last moments.

vampire!choso x chronically ill!reader

“What did you— gah!” Choso writhed on the unforgiving, gravel floor below him, the jagged stones digging into his back and serving to further the excruciating sting coursing through his every vein. 

His chest was rising and falling at a rate he would deem unhuman should he have been in the right state of mind to receive what was being presented before him. Reaching up, he clawed at his blood-soaked shirt, the fabric feeling far too constricting against his now scorching skin. The fabric tore with a quiet riiip!, rudely interrupting the quiet solitude of the night. 

c. kamo: yapper!cho

warnings: none

Choso doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d talk your ear off when you first meet him. He’s quiet and broody and seems generally standoffish. 

Once you get closer to him, it’s a different story altogether. For 150 years, he spent his life sharing his every thought and feeling with his brothers, just to keep them distracted from the miserable state they were all in. Once he deems you safe enough, he starts talking your ear off. 

And if you live together? You’ll never get rid of him. Every little observation, everything you make him feel, anything he has to say to you, he tells you without hesitation.

“You’re warm,” he’ll murmur against your neck after hugging you from behind. “It’s nice. Makes me feel good.” 

“The sunlight makes your hair look so pretty,” he’ll say as he gently touches the ends of your hair. 

“Your lips are so soft.” He whispers it between every kiss. “So sweet f’me.”

“I’ve never felt happier than when I’m with you.” He’ll press the words into your hair as he holds you closer against his chest. “I’m so in love with you.”

Of course, it also stands for his more unhinged thoughts. 

“Do you think penguins wish they could fly?”

“Cho, I don’t think birds have thoughts like that.”

“That’s sad.”

And, of course, you’ll never forget the time you let him borrow your phone, only for him to ask you, in the most serious voice possible, “What does fuck my fucking chungus life mean?”

You become the receptacle for everything no one else would bother listening to and the victim of all his hypothetical questions. At least you know he’ll never hide anything from you! Unfortunately, no one will ever believe you when you say that your boyfriend constantly talks your ear off. He's a selective yapper.

all written content belongs to gojos-cherry-bomb. do not repost, translate, or feed my work into ai. i do not own the original characters.