𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Sukuna Ryomen's ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ mumbling when he doesn't get his daily morning kisses .✦ ݁˖

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, golden stripes across the tatami mats. Usually, you would spend at least ten minutes entangled in Ryomen's suffocating, four-armed embrace, enduring his rough-textured skin and sleepy grunts. But today, you were late.

You slid out of the futon, throwing on a robe and tying your hair back in a rush. You didn’t notice the immediate shift in the room's energy—the way the heavy, oppressive aura of the King of Curses suddenly stirred.

As you paced around the kitchen island, frantically brewing coffee and packing a bag, a towering figure leaned against the doorframe.

Ryomen looked a mess.

His pink hair was completely wild, his yukata hung loosely off one broad shoulder, and all four of his eyes were narrowed into slits. He crossed his upper arms, while his lower arms rested on his hips.

Then, the mumbling started.

“...unbelievable,” he growled softly, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that still carried the weight of sleep. “Brat wakes up, doesn't say a word. Walks right past me like I'm some common curse in the streets. After everything I tolerate...”

You paused, holding a spoon. “Ryomen, did you say something?”

He didn't look at you.

Instead, he stared intently at a spot on the kitchen wall, his lower jaw shifting as he continued to mutter under his breath. “I should dismantle this entire house. The audacity. A thousand years ago, men bled out in the dirt just for a glimpse of my face, and here I am, being ignored for a cup of bean water. Truly pathetic.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

You set the spoon down and turned to face him fully. “Are you throwing a tantrum?”

“I don't throw tantrums, human,” he snapped, though his eyes finally flicked to yours, burning with mock irritation. “I state facts. You lack discipline. You lack respect.”

He took a slow, deliberate step into the kitchen, his massive frame completely eclipsing the light. He didn't stop until he was inches away from you, trapping you between his chest and the kitchen counter. His extra hands came down on either side of you, effectively pinning you in place.

“Well?” he murmured, leaning his face down. His upper eyes were squinted shut in a pout he would die before admitting to, while his lower eyes watched your mouth. “Are you going to fix your mistake, or do I have to remind you who rules this domain?”

You laughed softly, reaching up to cup his jaw.

His skin was warm, and the rough markings beneath your fingers felt familiar.

“Good morning, Ryomen,” you whispered.

You leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Instantly, the tense lines of his shoulders relaxed. Before you could pull away, his upper hands caught the back of your head, deep-fruiting his fingers into your hair to prolong the kiss, turning it into something possessive and deep.

When he finally let you go, a smug, satisfied smirk had replaced his scowl.

“Hmph...” he grunted, turning on his heel to head toward the porch, his yukata trailing behind him. “See that it doesn't happen again tomorrow. I won't be so lenient.”

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Gojo Satoru ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ being touchy and super gentle during your pregnancy .✦ ݁˖

The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, golden slats of light across the bedroom floor. You were propped up against a mountain of pillows, trying to find a comfortable angle for your aching lower back, when the door clicked open.

Satoru slipped into the room, unusually quiet. The moment his blindfold was pulled down around his neck, his bright blue eyes locked onto you, softening instantly. He didn't say a word as he shed his black jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a chair, and crossed the room with his signature, lazy stride.

Before you could even greet him, the mattress dipped significantly. Satoru crawled up the bed, maneuvering his long limbs with an unexpected fluidity until he was practically draped over you. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his white hair tickling your jaw.

“Welcome home, baby,” you murmured, running a hand through the soft strands of his hair. “Rough day?”

“Immensely,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your skin. “Everyone was loud. Everyone was annoying. And I wasn't here.”

He shifted, lifting his head to look down at you. Without his glasses or blindfold, his gaze was completely unguarded—full of a raw, heavy tenderness that still took your breath away. His large, calloused hand slid down your ribcage, moving with agonizing slowness until it rested flat against the prominent curve of your stomach.

The contrast was always striking. His hand was massive, easily covering a huge portion of your bump, yet the pressure he applied was lighter than a feather. For a man who could level cities with a flick of his fingers, he handled you as if you were made of spun glass.

“How’s my little bean doing today?” Satoru whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss right next to his thumb. “Did they let Mom sleep?”

“A little,” you smiled, leaning back into the pillows as his thumb began tracing slow, rhythmic circles over your clothes. “They've been kicking quite a bit this afternoon, though.”

Satoru’s eyes widened slightly, a bright, boyish grin breaking across his face. He immediately shifted lower on the bed, sliding down until he was kneeling on the floor beside the mattress, bringing him eye-level with your stomach. He gathered the hem of your oversized shirt and gently lifted it, exposing the round warmth of your bare skin.

“Is that right?” he murmured, leaning in close.

He didn't hesitate.

He pressed his cheek directly against your bump, his long silver lashes brushing against your skin as he closed his eyes. He stayed perfectly still, holding his breath, just listening.

As if on cue, a sharp, sudden thump rippled against his cheek.

Satoru let out a soft, breathy laugh, his hand instantly cupping the side of your belly to anchor himself.

“Whoa. Yeah, that’s a strong one. It definitely takes after me.” He kissed the spot where the kick had landed, his lips warm and lingering. “Keep growing big and strong in there, okay? Daddy's waiting.”

He looked up at you, his eyes shimmering in the dimming light of the room.

There was a quiet, profound reverence in his expression that made your chest ache with warmth. He reached up, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before his hand came to rest on your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear you hadn't realized had fallen.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice incredibly soft, a stark contrast to the loud persona he wore outside these walls. “What's this for? Are you hurting anywhere?”

“No,” you whispered, placing your hand over his. “Just happy. You're going to be a wonderful father, Satoru.”

Satoru stared at you for a long moment, the corners of his mouth lifting into a gentle, genuine smile. He leaned up, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“Only because I have you to show me how,” he whispered against your mouth, before drawing you into a slow, deep, and impossibly tender kiss. For the rest of the evening, he didn't move from your side, his hands never leaving you, keeping you wrapped safely in his own quiet world.

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Gojo Satoru ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ is just too tall to fit on your couch .✦ ݁˖

The problem with Gojo Satoru wasn’t just that he was loud, or that he treated your apartment like his personal convenience store. The problem was that he was six-foot-three of pure, unadulterated spatial awareness issues.

Specifically, on your couch.

“This is human rights abuse,” Satoru groaned, throwing a dramatic arm over his eyes.

He was currently attempting to lie down on your standard, apartment-sized two-seater. It was a valiant, mathematical impossibility. His head was crammed uncomfortably against one padded armrest, his silver hair sticking out at wild angles, while his long legs trailed completely off the opposite end. His knees were bent at an awkward angle, his ankles dangling off the cushion, and his expensive leather shoes were hovering a precarious inch above your hardwood floor.

“It's a normal-sized couch, Satoru,” you said, not looking up from your laptop at the dining table. “You're just freakishly tall.”

“I am perfectly proportioned,” he huffed, shifting around. The couch creaked in protest. He pulled his knees to his chest, trying to curl into a ball, but he just looked like an oversized folding chair that someone had jammed together incorrectly. “Your furniture is designed for hobbits. Or Megumi. Megumi could probably fit here.”

“Megumi has manners and sits like a normal person.”

Satoru rolled onto his side, his blindfold slipping slightly to reveal a single, bright blue eye tracking your movements.

He rested his chin on his hands, puffing his cheeks out. The image of the strongest sorcerer alive looking like a disgruntled teenager because of a piece of living room furniture was ridiculous, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“I'm a guest,” he pointed out, his tone dripping with mock injury. “The least you could do is provide a sofa that accommodates my needs. I do a lot for society, you know. I deserve legroom.”

“If you're so uncomfortable, you could just sit up. Or, I don't know, go back to your own massive apartment.”

“No,” Satoru said instantly, burying his face back into the cushions. “Your couch smells like tea. And you're here. Plus, moving requires effort, and I am currently striking.”

You finally closed your laptop and walked over, standing right next to the sofa.

You looked down at him.

He looked up at you, his expression shifting into a ridiculous, wide-eyed pout that he definitely knew worked on people.

“Fine,” you sighed.

You sat down on the very edge of the cushion by his head.

Before you could even settle, Satoru shifted instantly. He slid his upper body around, effortlessly invading your space until his head was resting squarely in your lap. His long legs still dangled completely off the other end of the couch, but he let out a long, dramatic sigh of pure contentment, his silver hair soft against your thighs.

He adjusted his blindfold, pulling it off completely to look up at you with those impossibly bright eyes, a smug, victorious grin spreading across his face.

“See?” Satoru beamed, closing his eyes as you automatically brought a hand up to brush through his hair. “Perfect fit.”

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Sukuna Ryomen ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ secretly likes it when you put hair clips on him .✦ ݁˖

The King of Curses was currently sitting on the floor of your living room, radiating enough dark, malicious energy to level a small village—all because of a tiny piece of pink plastic.

“If anyone breathes a word of this,” Ryomen rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, “I will flay them alive. Slowly.”

“Yes, yes, the grand King of Curses, terror of the Heian era, undone by a pastel hair accessory,” you teased, completely unfazed by the threat.

You were sitting on the couch behind him, running your fingers through his surprisingly soft, unruly pink hair. He had come to you in a rare, quiet mood, seeking a break from Jujutsu sorcerers and ancient feuds. But his bangs kept falling into his primary set of eyes, and his constant, irritated clicking of his tongue was driving you crazy.

So, you did the only logical thing: you went to your vanity and grabbed a pack of colorful, sparkly hair clips.

When you first snapped a glittery blue butterfly clip right above his forehead, pinning back the stubborn spikes, his entire body went rigid. The extra set of eyes on his cheeks blinked in utter disbelief. Four arms immediately tensed, claws digging into his knees.

“What is the meaning of this insolence?” he had snarled, a genuine threat laced in his tone.

But you didn't back down. Instead, you just smoothed down a stray strand of hair and smiled. “Your hair was in your eyes. Now you can see better. Keep them in.”

He growled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated right through the floorboards. He could have cleaved you in two before you could even blink. He could have reduced the entire building to ash.

Instead... he just sat there. He let out a heavy, defeated sigh, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch.

As the minutes ticked by, you kept going. You added a yellow star clip, then a little pink strawberry one.

Ryomen crossed his top arms, looking thoroughly displeased, while his lower arms rested on his knees. He muttered curses under his breath about how weak human culture had become. But you noticed something he would never admit aloud.

The truth was, Sukuna Ryomen spent every waking second of his existence being feared, hated, or hunted. No one dared to touch him unless they were trying to kill him. But here you were, casually treating the most dangerous entity in history like an oversized doll, running your fingers through his hair with gentle, completely unafraid movements.

He secretly, deeply, absolutely loved it.

“You're ridiculous.”

“There,” you said cheerfully, patting the top of his head. “All done. You look beautiful, Ryomen.”

He scoffed, finally turning his head to look up at you. The view was absurd: the undisputed King of Curses, covered in demonic tattoos, looking at you with four eyes while sporting a crown of colorful, sparkly kids' hair clips.

“You have a death wish,” he muttered, though the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. One of his large, tattooed hands reached up, his sharp claws brushing against the strawberry clip. He could have ripped it out, but he just tapped it gently, making sure it was secure.

“You're not going to take them out?” you asked, leaning forward with a smirk.

Ryomen turned back around, facing away from you so you couldn't see the slight softening in his expression. “They are keeping the hair out of my eyes. Nothing more.”

“Right. Sure,” you laughed, resting your chin on the top of the couch, watching him.

He didn't move to take them out for the rest of the night. In fact, when he finally stood up to leave hours later, he made sure to walk past the hallway mirror, casting a brief, satisfied glance at his reflection before disappearing into the shadows—clips still firmly in place.

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Sukuna Ryomen ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ secretly being a big baby in bed .✦ ݁˖

The King of Curses, the Disgraced One, a calamity fleshed in four arms and two faces, was currently occupying three-quarters of the mattress and radiating the ambient heat of a small furnace.

To the jujutsu world, Sukuna Ryomen was a nightmare incarnate.

To you, at three o'clock in the morning, he was essentially a giant, oversized, demanding toddler.

You shifted slightly, trying to pull a sliver of the duvet back over your freezing shoulder. The moment the fabric moved, a low, menacing rumble vibrated through Ryomen's chest.

It wasn't a threat; it was a complaint.

Before you could even blink, a massive, tattooed arm lashed out, hooking around your waist and dragging you flush against his chest. His primary set of eyes didn't even open, but his grip was vice-like.

“Stop moving,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep and rougher than sandpaper.

“Ryomen, you have the entire blanket,” you whispered, trying to pry his heavy forearm off your stomach. “And you’re suffocating me.”

Instead of letting go, the ancient sorcerer buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. His second set of eyes, nestled just below his cheekbones, fluttered open briefly, blinking sleepily up at you with none of their usual malicious glint.

They just looked heavy and irritated that his warmth had been disturbed.

“Mine...” he grumbled against your skin, the hot puff of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“I'm not going anywhere, Ryomen,” you sighed, running a hand through his messy, down-turned pink hair. It was surprisingly soft when it wasn't spiked up with cursed energy and blood. “But I am freezing.”

Ryomen huffed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound. With a sharp flick of his lower left hand, he yanked the tangled duvet completely off the edge of the bed and threw it over both of you, burying you both in a chaotic mountain of fabric. He then repositioned his upper arms, wrapping you in a full-body lock that effectively pinned you to his chest. His chin rested heavily on top of your head.

“Better?” he demanded, though it sounded more like a sleepy pout.

You couldn't help but chuckle, your heart softening at the sheer absurdity of the situation. If Gojo or any of the sorcerers could see the ruthless King of Curses acting like a clingy koala bear, they’d probably drop dead of sheer shock.

“Yes, Ryomen. It's much better. Thank you.”

He let out a satisfied grunt, his grip relaxing just a fraction so you could actually breathe. His fingers idly twitched against your waist, tracing absentminded circles over your hip in a rare, domestic rhythm.

“Sleep now,” he commanded softly, his breathing already slowing down as he drifted back into the shadows of unconsciousness.

You smiled into the dark, wrapping your arms as far around his massive torso as they could go, completely content to be held captive by the sweetest calamity in history.

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

making 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Sukuna Ryomen ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ wear hello kitty pajama pants to match with yours .✦ ݁˖

The hum of the sewing machine had finally stopped, but the real challenge was about to begin.

On the bed lay two matching pairs of pajama sets.

They were made of the softest, most obnoxious pastel pink fleece imaginable, completely covered in an all-over print of Hello Kitty’s face, complete with her signature red bow.

One set was a standard size.

The other was custom-altered—clumsily widened in the shoulders, lengthened in the sleeves, and modified to comfortably accommodate an extra pair of muscular arms.

You took a deep breath, scooped up the giant pink bundle, and walked into the living room.

Ryomen was slouched on the couch, the dark fabric of his usual yukata hanging loosely off his frame. Two of his eyes were closed in a state of half-sleep, while the other two lazily tracked you as you approached.

He didn't move a muscle, but the dangerous aura that constantly radiated from him shifted, laced with a sudden prickle of suspicion.

“What,” he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that could rattle teeth, “is that?”

You didn't say a word.

With a bright, entirely unapologetic smile, you held up the massive pink top. The tiny, innocent face of Hello Kitty stared blankly at the King of Curses.

A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the room. Ryomen's upper eyes snapped open. All four crimson eyes were now locked onto the fuzzy pink monstrosity in your hands.

The markings on his face seemed to twitch.

“Absolutely not,” he said, his voice dropping an octave into a tone that usually made sorcerers drop dead of heart failure. “Burn it. Before I dissect you and use your blood to paint the walls.”

“It's a matching set!” you insisted, completely unfazed by the threat. You had lived with him long enough to know when he was genuinely murderous and when he was just being dramatic because his pride was wounded. Right now, it was entirely the latter. “Look, I already have mine on.”

You gestured down to your own matching pink pants. “We're staying in tonight, eating junk food, and you are going to be comfortable.”

“I am comfortable,” he snarled, a secondary arm gesturing vaguely to his robes. “I am a calamity. I am the pinnacle of cruelty. I do not wear... whatever wretched, round-eared creature that is.”

“Her name is Hello Kitty, she weighs three apples, and she is an icon,” you corrected, stepping closer and dropping the pile of fleece right onto his lap. “Just try it on. If you hate it, you can tear it to shreds. But you have to put it on first.”

Ryomen looked down at the soft pink fabric resting against his lap as if it were a pile of toxic waste.

He poked it with one sharp, black-clawed fingernail.

The fleece sank plushly under his touch.

“You dare command me?” he muttered, looking up at you through a fringe of pinkish-brown hair.

There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, but underneath it, a tiny, buried shred of amusement. He loved a challenge, even if the challenge was surviving an onslaught of aggressive domesticity.

“I am highly requesting it,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “Please? Just for tonight.”

Ryomen let out a long, theatrical sigh that sounded like a dying beast. He muttered a string of ancient curses under his breath—words that probably described a thousand different ways to flay a human alive—but he stood up.

“If anyone speaks of this,” he warned, pointing a massive finger at your face, “there will not be enough of this city left to bury.”

“Deal.”

You turned around to give him some privacy, though you could hear the rustle of heavy fabric as he shed his yukata. Then came the sound of furious pulling, a low growl as his extra arms got momentarily tangled, and the soft snaps of the buttons being forced into place.

“This is ridiculous,” his voice grumbled from behind you. “It is entirely too soft. There is no structural integrity. If I were attacked right now, I would look absurd.”

“You can turn around now,” you said, biting your lip to keep from laughing prematurely.

When you turned, you had to physically clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the wheeze that threatened to escape.

Sukuna Ryomen—the undisputed King of Curses, a being of pure malice and terrifying power—was standing in the middle of your living room clad in head-to-toe pastel pink fleece. The trousers clung tightly to his heavily muscled thighs, and the top was practically stretched to its limits across his broad chest, despite your best tailoring efforts. His extra arms were crossed over his torso, thrusting two giant Hello Kitty faces right out at you. The dark, jagged curse markings on his face and body stood out in sharp, hilarious contrast against the sweet, innocent aesthetic of the pajamas.

He looked absolutely ridiculous.

And incredibly, impossibly cozy.

“Say one word,” Ryomen growled, his face flushing a faint, dark color that might have been anger or genuine embarrassment. “Just one, and I will dismantle this entire building.”

“You look...” You took a steps forward, your eyes shining. “You look amazing. And so soft.”

Before he could swat you away, you stepped into his space and wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face right into the middle of his chest. The fleece was incredibly warm, trapping his natural, radiating heat like a furnace.

Ryomen froze.

His top two arms hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment, his claws twitching. He let out another deep, rumbling growl, but the tension slowly bled out of his massive frame. One by one, his arms came down. His primary arms wrapped around your back, pulling you flush against him, while his secondary arms settled lower around your waist.

“You are an incredibly annoying creature,” he murmured into your hair, his voice losing its sharp edge.

“But I'm your matching annoying creature,” you mumbled back against the pink fleece.

He huffed, a sound that was suspiciously close to a chuckle. “Hmph... Sit down before I change my mind and rip this off.”

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

catching 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Gojo Satoru ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ eating chocolates at 3 in the morning .✦ ݁˖

The kitchen was dead silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the faint, unmistakable crinkle of high-end foil.

You blinked against the darkness of the hallway, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you glanced at the microwave clock. 3:02 AM.

Stepping into the kitchen, you didn’t even need to turn on the overhead lights to know exactly what was happening. The soft, ambient blue glow of the digital clock illuminated a towering, white-haired silhouette perched right on top of the marble kitchen counter. Gojo Satoru was sitting cross-legged, surrounded by a mini-fortress of discarded wrappers, completely at peace with the world.

Without his blindfold or sunglasses, his striking blue eyes practically glowed in the dark as they tracked your movement. He didn't even startle. He just paused, a premium imported truffle halfway to his mouth, and offered you a bright, entirely unbothered grin.

“Oh, baby,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly midnight murmur. “Did the chocolate call out to you from across the hall too? Because I swear it was whispering my name from the pantry.”

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms as you took in the sight of him. The strongest sorcerer alive was currently wearing oversized, faded grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a stretched-out collar. His stark white hair was a complete, unruly mess, falling into his face in a way that made him look far softer than he ever did during the day.

“Satoru, it’s three in the morning,” you whispered, trying and failing to sound stern. “And you're eating pure sugar on the counter like a raccoon.”

“A raccoon? Ouch.” He placed a dramatic hand over his heart, though he still popped the truffle into his mouth. He chewed happily before tapping his temple with a chocolate-smudged finger. “You know this is a medical necessity. Running Limitless twenty-four-seven requires an immense amount of glucose. My brain is basically a supercomputer, and right now, the supercomputer needs dark chocolate sea-salt caramels.”

“Is that why you were crinkling the wrappers so loud? To let the whole house know about your medical emergency?”

“Baby, I was being a silent shadow ninja,” he protested, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. The playful glint in his eyes deepened. He looked down at the box in his lap, then up at you, sighing heavily as if he were making the ultimate sacrifice. “Fine. Since you caught me red-handed... I suppose I can share.”

He picked out a small, dark chocolate square filled with raspberry ganache. Instead of handing it over, he held it out between his long fingers, waiting.

You sighed, walking over to the counter and stepping into his space. Satoru leaned down slightly, a soft, amused look in his eyes as he carefully nudged the sweet past your lips. His thumb brushed against the corner of your mouth to catch a stray crumb, his touch lingering for a second too long.

“Good, right?” he murmured, watching your face relax as the rich flavor hit your tongue.

“Yeah,” you admitted, leaning your hip against the counter. “It's really good.”

“See? Now you’re my accomplice.” A gleeful smile broke across his face. He patted the empty space on the marble next to him. “Come on, climb up. We can commit a grand larceny against my own pantry together in secret.”

You laughed softly but shook your head, pulling gently at the hem of his oversized shirt. “No way. If we stay up any longer, you're going to crash, and you have a meeting with the higher-ups tomorrow morning.”

Satoru instantly let out a long, exaggerated whine, slouching forward until his forehead rested heavily against your shoulder. “Don't remind me of the old men. They're so boring. Let's just stay here and eat the whole box.”

“Satoru.”

“Fiiiiine,” he groaned into your neck, though he didn't move for a long moment, simply breathing in your scent and wrapping his long arms loosely around your waist.

When he finally pulled back, he carefully gathered all the crumpled foil wrappers, shoved them into the empty box, and hopped down from the counter with effortless grace. He slid the box to the very bottom of the trash can, covering it with a paper towel. He turned back to you, pressing a chocolate-stained finger to his lips with a conspiratorial wink.

“Our little secret,” he whispered.

“Your secret is safe with me,” you smiled, turning to lead the way back down the dark hallway.

Before you could take two steps, Satoru caught your hand, tugging you gently backward until you were flushed against his chest. He guided you back into the bedroom, and the moment you both crawled under the heavy covers, he pulled you tightly into his space. He wrapped his long limbs around you like a giant blanket, smelling faintly of expensive cocoa and fresh linen.

Entirely warm, entirely content, and thoroughly full of sugar, he buried his face in your hair, his breathing slowing down almost instantly as he finally drifted off to sleep.

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

practicing your new makeup look on 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Geto Suguru ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ while sitting on his lap .✦ ݁˖

The bedroom was quiet, saved for the soft hum of the AC and the rhythmic, gentle tap of your fingers against a plastic eyeshadow palette.

You were sitting squarely on Geto Suguru’s lap, your legs draped over his thighs. He hasn't complained once about the position, even though his long frame is squeezed into a vanity chair that was definitely meant for one person. Instead, his large hands rested comfortably on your hips, anchor-heavy and warm, anchoring you to him as you lean forward to inspect your handiwork.

“Hold still,” you murmured, a fluffy blending brush poised between your fingers. “If you keep laughing, I’m going to poke you in the eye, and then we’re both going to be upset.”

Suguru let out a low, vibrating chuckle that you felt right through his chest. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, crinkled at the corners. “I’m not laughing. I am the picture of obedience right now.”

“Your cheeks are twitching,” you countered, gently tapping the tip of his nose with the handle of the brush. “Eyes closed. Come on.”

With an amused sigh, he complied.

The long, thick fans of his eyelashes swept down, casting soft shadows over his cheekbones. Without his usual sharp, calculating gaze focused on you, his face looked remarkably serene. The sharp line of his jaw and the high slope of his cheekbones made an unfairly perfect canvas, and you felt a familiar little flutter in your chest just looking at him.

You leaned in closer, your breath brushing against his skin. You carefully swept a soft, dusty rose shadow across his eyelids, blending it out toward his temples. It was a new palette you've been dying to try—a romantic, slightly smoky look—and Suguru had willingly offered up his face the moment you complained about not wanting to mess up your own makeup.

“You have nice eyelids,” you commented absentmindedly, switching to a deeper shimmer shade. “It's deeply unfair, actually.”

“Is that right?” A slow, smug smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't open his eyes, but his grip on your hips tightened just a fraction, pulling you a millimeter closer. “I'll have to thank my parents. Are you almost done ruin—praising my features?”

“Shh. Don't ruin my concentration.”

You dipped a small, angled brush into a dark espresso shade, bracing your pinky finger gently against his jawbone to steady your hand. You traced a subtle, smoked-out wing along his upper lash line. Suguru was incredibly patient. For a man who usually commands a room with a single glance, he was entirely content to sit completely still beneath your hands, letting you fuss over him.

As you work, his thumb began to trace slow, mindless circles against the fabric of your shirt at your waist. The contrast between his relaxed, heavy weight beneath you and the hyper-focus required for the makeup created a heady, intimate bubble around the two of you.

“Okay,” you whispered, admiring the blend. “Open.”

Suguru’s eyes fluttered open.

The contrast of the soft, sultry eyeshadow against his naturally sharp, dark gaze was striking. It gave him an ethereal, almost dangerous look that caught in your throat.

“Well?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, entirely aware of the effect he had on you. “How do I look? Ready for a night out?”

“You look...” You swallowed, clearing your throat as you reach for the final touch. “You look beautiful. But we're not done. Highlighter.”

You grabbed a small fan brush, dusting a champagne shimmer along the high points of his cheekbones. The powder caught the soft light of the vanity mirror, making his skin glow.

“And lastly...” You picked up a tinted, glossy lip balm.

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “Lipstick too?”

“It’s a balm. It just adds a little color,” you soothed, popping the cap off. “Pucker up a little.”

He let out a soft huff of amusement but complied, slightly parting his lips. You leaned in, your face mere inches from his, and carefully swipe the glossy tint across his bottom lip, then the top. Your gaze shifted from his lips up to his eyes, only to find him already staring intently at you. His expression has shifted from playful to something much warmer, his dark eyes darkened with a quiet fondness.

“Finished,” you whispered, though you didn't move away. Your hands were still resting on his shoulders.

Suguru didn't look at the mirror. He just kept his eyes locked on yours. “Can I move now?”

“Yes.”

Before you could slide off his lap, his hands shifted from your hips to the small of your back, locking you firmly in place. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, highlighting the gloss you just applied.

“Excellent,” he murmured.

He leaned up, tilting his head just enough to press his lips firmly against yours. The kiss was slow and deep, tasting faintly of the sweet, berry-scented balm you just put on him. You let out a soft sigh, melting into him, your fingers tangling into the loose strands of his dark hair that had escaped his half-up bun.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch away, his eyes were bright with mischief. You looked down at his lips, then up at his cheek—where a distinct smudge of the lip balm has now transferred to his skin from the angle of the kiss.

“You ruined it,” you laughed, pressing your hand against his chest. “It’s all smudged now.”

Suguru wrapped his arms completely around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a contented sigh, his low laugh rumbling against your skin. “Worth it. You can just do it again.”

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