#darkoceanne

Zenin Naoya x Male Reader | Omegaverse AU | Multi Chapter/Oneshot: 3,142 Words

Tags: Omegaverse (Alpha/Omega Dynamics). Prime Alpha. Prime Omega. Power Imbalance. Arranged Marriage. Political Marriage. Enemies to Forced Partners. Verbal Degradation. Psychological Dominance. Emotional Manipulation. Internalized Misogyny. Hypocrisy. Pride and Downfall. Angst. Humiliation (Non-Physical). Denial. Late Bloomers. Slow Burn. Bitter Dynamics. Toxic Power Structures.

TW: ABO Dynamics. Verbal Abuse. Emotional Distress. Power Reversal. Loss of Autonomy. Internalized Hatred. Mentions of Heat Cycles. Forced Proximity. Arranged Bonding. NSFW Themes (Contextual)—Minors DO NOT Interact! 🔞

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Gege Akutami. This work is a non-canon AU. Characters may be portrayed OOC for narrative purposes. No endorsement of real-world abusive behavior or ideologies is intended.

Naoya had been born into privilege so deep it felt inseparable from his bones.

From the moment he could walk, he was reminded—by servants, by elders, by whispered conversations that never bothered to lower their volume—that he belonged to one of the three great pillars of Jujutsu society. The Zenin Clan did not simply exist. It ruled. It dictated. It crushed. And Naoya was meant to inherit all of it.

He grew up surrounded by expectation and rot in equal measure.

The elders praised his bloodline before they praised his effort. The servants bowed before he learned how to bow back. Every mistake he made was brushed aside as “youthful arrogance,” while everyone else’s mistakes became permanent stains. Somewhere along the way, Naoya learned that he was untouchable.

And he loved it.

He loved the way people flinched when he raised his voice. He loved the way women lowered their gaze, how they were taught from birth to orbit men like him, to serve men like him, to never aspire beyond men like him. To Naoya, women were weak by nature. Tools for bearing heirs. Decorations at best. Burdens at worst.

He said it openly. Loudly. Often.

Hypocrisy clung to him like perfume.

Despite his relentless contempt, Naoya spoke in a feminine Kansai dialect without a shred of self-awareness. His voice lilted when he mocked. His tone curled sweet even when his words were venom. Anyone who noticed the contradiction learned quickly to pretend they hadn’t.

Zenin Naoya did not tolerate mirrors.

In a world where secondary genders dictated fate, Naoya had already written his own.

Alpha stood at the top. Dominant. Respected. Feared. Betas filled the background. Omegas existed to carry the future, yet were treated like disposable vessels.

Naoya refused to imagine himself anywhere but above.

Even as his peers began receiving their secondary gender confirmations, even as younger boys celebrated their presentations, Naoya remained unclassified. A late bloomer.

It should have unsettled him.

Instead, he treated it like inevitability delayed, not destiny questioned.

“Obviously I’m a Prime Alpha,” he would scoff whenever the topic surfaced. “They’re probably just waiting to confirm it properly. Can’t rush perfection.”

He said it so often that others began repeating it.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Well-built from relentless training. Sharp eyes. Sharper jaw. Not a single soft line on his face. Everything about him screamed dominance, at least on the surface.

No one seriously suggested any alternative.

Not aloud.

By the time Genpuku approached, Naoya was chosen as Zenin’s representative without debate.

The Gojo Clan would also be sending their heir.

Gojo Satoru.

Already crowned. Already acknowledged. Already standing where Naoya believed he should be standing.

Naoya wore his envy like a poorly fitted crown.

He greeted Satoru with forced familiarity, slinging an arm over imaginary closeness. Calling him “Satoru-kun” with a grin that barely concealed his teeth. Satoru responded with nothing more than a glance—empty, bored, uninterested.

Naoya told himself that was fine.

Rivals didn’t need affection.

He would surpass him.

He would prove that Zenin stood above Gojo.

He would prove that he, Zenin Naoya, was the honored one.

The hall was already crowded when he arrived.

At first, everything felt normal.

Then his skin began to prickle.

A cold sheen of sweat gathered at his spine. His face felt too warm, like heat blooming beneath the surface of his skin. His heartbeat picked up, uneven and heavy, as if it were struggling to keep rhythm.

Naoya scowled.

Annoying.

Probably nerves, he decided. Or hunger. Or the presence of so many weaklings in one place.

He lifted his chin and kept walking.

That was when he noticed the stares.

Not the usual kind.

Not resentment.

Not admiration.

Not fear.

These gazes lingered.

Eyes darkened. Pupils blown wide. Mouths slightly parted. Throats working as they swallowed.

They looked at him like they were starving.

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Someone whispered about the Zenin scent.

Someone else laughed, breathless, saying it was overwhelming.

Another voice—louder, unrestrained—shouted that the pheromone pouring off him was insanely strong.

Naoya felt dizzy.

Of course they could smell him.

He sneered, despite how his knees felt strangely weak.

“Tch. It’s obvious,” he barked. “That’s what happens when a Prime Alpha walks in. Can’t handle it, huh?”

The words sounded right.

The logic made sense.

But the scent in the air wasn’t sharp.

It wasn’t biting.

It wasn’t heavy with dominance.

It was warm.

Sweet.

Thick with something dangerously inviting.

It curled into lungs and settled low in the stomach, stirring instincts that had nothing to do with submission and everything to do with wanting.

No one thought it smelled like an Alpha.

Everyone knew it.

No one dared to say it.

Except you.

You stepped into his space without hesitation.

Close enough that Naoya could smell you too—clean, grounded, steady.

“Keep dreaming,” you said flatly. “You’re not a Prime Alpha.”

Naoya’s eyes snapped to you.

“What did you just say?”

“You’re presenting as a Prime Omega.”

For a moment, the world froze.

Then Naoya laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was absurd.

Because only a lunatic would say something that stupid to his face.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he spat. “Look at you. You think I’m gonna believe a word from some scrawny bastard?”

His gaze dragged over you with open contempt.

Same height.

Less muscle.

Softer jaw.

Pretty in a way that irritated him.

Everything about you screamed “not Alpha” in his mind.

“You’re projecting,” Naoya continued, voice rising. “If anyone here’s an Omega, it’s you. Don’t get it twisted.”

Insults spilled easily.

You were worthless.

Delusional.

Not even worth standing in front of him.

The words stacked up, sharp and cruel, each one meant to cut.

Your expression barely changed.

The hall felt too hot.

Naoya’s vision swam.

His breath came out uneven, chest heaving as something twisted painfully in his gut.

The floor tilted.

He took one step.

Then everything went black.

When Naoya opened his eyes, he was staring at a ceiling he knew intimately.

His ceiling.

The familiar faint scent of incense. The weight of a futon beneath him.

For a moment, he thought it had been a dream.

The hall.

The stares.

You.

His head throbbed as he sat up.

“What the hell…” he muttered.

He shoved the blanket aside and stormed out of his room, barefoot, still wearing ceremonial layers that felt wrong on his skin.

Voices drifted from the main hall.

Angry.

Disappointed.

Disgusted.

“…a disgrace to the Zenin name.”

“…of all possibilities…”

“…Prime Omega. Unbelievable.”

“…how could that thing represent us?”

Naoya stopped.

Every word felt like a slap.

Prime Omega.

No.

They didn’t know what they were talking about.

They had to be mistaken.

Someone had tampered with the results.

Someone had lied.

This was a joke.

A bad one.

His hands trembled at his sides as rage coiled up his spine.

He had spent his entire life despising weakness.

Despising Omegas.

Despising anything that needed protection.

Now they were trying to shove that label onto him.

Onto Naoya Zenin.

Future clan head.

Prime Alpha.

Not Omega.

Never Omega.

His nails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

Inside his chest, something fractured.

Because deep down, beneath the denial, beneath the fury, beneath the pride—

His body already knew.

And that truth was the most unbearable thing of all.

The Zenin Clan did not grieve Zenin Naoya.

They did not hold quiet discussions about lost potential or whisper about tragedy behind sliding doors. They treated his presentation the same way they treated any structural flaw within their system: something to be concealed first, then repurposed later. For a time, Naoya simply vanished from public clan life. Visitors were told he had been sent on extended training. Some were told he was ill. Others were told nothing at all. His absence became background noise, and eventually, no one asked where the heir-apparent had gone.

Naoya spent those years confined within the estate, surrounded by luxuries that felt increasingly meaningless. He still slept on fine futons, still wore expensive silk, still ate meals prepared by silent servants. None of it restored what had been taken from him. Every mirror reflected the same face he had always possessed, sharp and familiar, but his body no longer obeyed the narrative he had built around himself.

His scent changed.

It thickened, sweetened, deepened into something impossible to ignore.

No amount of denial stopped it.

Prime Omega pheromones were not subtle. They did not drift politely. They settled into rooms, clung to fabric, and soaked into skin. During certain weeks, Naoya’s temperature spiked without warning. His muscles ached. His thoughts blurred. His sleep fractured into shallow, restless stretches punctuated by intrusive sensations he refused to name.

The healers called it heat.

Naoya called it bullshit.

Prime Omega heats were not comparable to ordinary Omega cycles. They were longer. More volatile. Capable of destabilizing heart rate, blood pressure, and neural activity if left unmanaged. Suppressants could delay onset, reduce severity, and dull instinctual response, but they were not a permanent solution. The healers explained this in flat, clinical language. Naoya heard only the underlying message.

You are defective.

You are dangerous.

You are no longer a person. You are a condition.

He took the suppressants because passing out on tatami mats was inconvenient, not because he accepted their diagnosis. He followed just enough medical instruction to remain alive. He refused counseling. Refused adjustment training. Refused Omega etiquette lessons. When elders attempted to introduce bonding education, he walked out.

Naoya survived through sheer, corrosive spite.

He told himself the clan would eventually correct the error. That new testing methods would emerge. That someone important would realize a mistake had been made. That his real status would surface and everyone would choke on their apology.

Years passed.

Nothing changed.

By his early twenties, the clan elders stopped including him in any conversation regarding leadership, training hierarchy, or political strategy. His name vanished from succession discussions as if it had never existed there in the first place. When he entered rooms, conversations did not stop out of respect anymore. They stopped because people did not know what to say to him.

He was no longer an heir.

He was an asset.

Prime Omegas were rare.

Prime Omegas were valuable.

Prime Omegas were liabilities if left unbonded.

The conclusion was inevitable.

Naoya Zenin would be married off.

Not into one of the three great clans. Neither Gojo nor Kamo expressed interest in taking in a Prime Omega with a documented history of instability and public scandal. The Zenin elders were forced to search elsewhere, prioritizing biology over prestige.

They selected a smaller clan with steady political alignment and a confirmed Prime Alpha heir.

Late bloomer.

Male.

Stable temperament.

Recently completed secondary gender development.

Naoya skimmed the file without interest until his eyes caught the name.

You.

The memory surfaced instantly.

The hall.

The heat.

The way you had looked at him.

The words you had spoken without hesitation.

You’re presenting as a Prime Omega.

Naoya stared at the page for a long time.

Then he laughed.

It sounded wrong.

Dry.

Brittle.

“This is a joke,” he said.

No one answered.

He tore the document in half and dropped the pieces onto the tatami.

Another copy was placed in front of him.

“You don’t have a choice,” one elder said calmly. “Your heat cycles are intensifying. Suppressants are becoming less effective. Prime Omegas cannot remain unbonded indefinitely without significant medical risk.”

Naoya clenched his jaw.

“You’re selling me.”

“You are being placed,” the elder corrected.

“To some nobody clan.”

“A smaller clan,” the elder replied. “But with a Prime Alpha heir. That alone makes it suitable.”

Naoya’s hands shook.

Not with fear.

With rage.

“So that’s it,” he said. “I’m livestock now.”

No one contradicted him.

The night before his departure, Naoya did not sleep.

Not because he mourned the Zenin Clan.

Not because he felt abandoned.

But because the idea of standing in front of you again made something poisonous coil inside his chest.

Of all possible people.

Of all potential matches.

It had to be you.

The boy he had humiliated.

The boy who had watched him collapse.

The boy who had been right.

He swore to himself that you would never see remorse.

Never see regret.

Never see weakness.

The estate you were born into was noticeably smaller than Zenin’s.

Cleaner.

Quieter.

Less suffocating.

That alone irritated him.

Servants bowed, but did not avert their eyes in terror. People spoke at normal volume. The air felt… functional.

Naoya hated it.

He was escorted to a private room prepared for him. Not a cell. Not a locked chamber. Simply a room.

That irritated him more.

You were not there when he arrived.

He paced for nearly an hour before the door finally slid open.

You stepped inside.

You had changed.

Your frame was broader. Your shoulders wider. Your presence heavier in a way that had nothing to do with muscle alone. Prime Alpha pheromones sat beneath your skin like compressed gravity, controlled and stable.

Naoya’s body reacted before his pride could stop it.

He hated himself for that.

You looked at him.

Recognition flickered.

Then something neutral.

“Naoya,” you said.

No honorific.

No venom.

Just his name.

“Tch,” Naoya scoffed. “Don’t act familiar.”

You slid the door closed behind you.

“I didn’t ask for this arrangement,” you said. “Neither did you.”

Naoya laughed sharply.

“Wow. You want a medal?”

“I want this to be functional,” you replied. “Not comfortable. Not romantic. Functional.”

Naoya stepped closer.

“You think you’re better than me now?” he sneered. “Just because you turned out Prime Alpha?”

“I think you’re exhausted,” you said. “And angry. And cornered.”

Naoya’s nails bit into his palms.

“Watch your mouth.”

“I’m not here to dominate you,” you continued. “I’m not here to punish you. But I’m also not going to let you abuse me.”

Silence stretched.

Naoya searched your face for smugness.

For revenge.

For satisfaction.

There was none.

Naoya turned away from you, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, as if the act alone could reassert some invisible authority.

Because if he didn’t look at you, he didn’t have to acknowledge the way your presence felt different from years ago.

He didn’t have to acknowledge that the boy he once dismissed now carried weight.

“You don’t touch me without permission,” Naoya said coldly. “You don’t order me around. You don’t think this means you own me.”

“I agree,” you replied.

Naoya paused.

The answer wasn’t what he had expected.

“This is a contract,” you continued. “Not ownership.”

Naoya let out a sharp scoff.

“Tch. Don’t pretend you’re some saint. You got exactly what you wanted in the end.”

You watched him for a moment before responding.

“Is that what you think?”

Naoya turned back toward you, eyes narrowed.

“You stood there years ago and called me an Omega,” he said. “Now I get dragged here and handed to you on a leash. Looks pretty convenient.”

You didn’t raise your voice.

You didn’t look offended.

“Funny thing,” you said quietly. “You still talk like you’re the one with leverage.”

Naoya’s shoulder twitched.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You came here because your clan decided you were a problem,” you said. “Not because you’re special. Not because you’re precious. Because you’re inconvenient.”

Naoya’s lips curled.

“Shut up.”

“You’re here because if they leave you alone, your body will eventually shut down,” you continued. “Because Prime Omega heats don’t care about your pride. Because suppressants stop working. Because denial doesn’t change biology.”

Naoya’s jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth grind.

“I said shut up.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“Do you know why they didn’t ask me before agreeing to this match?”

Naoya didn’t answer.

“Because they assumed I’d accept,” you said. “Because from their perspective, you don’t get to be selective anymore.”

Something ugly flashed across Naoya’s face.

“You think I wanted this?” he snapped. “You think I’d ever choose someone like you?”

You met his glare without flinching.

“No,” you said. “I think you’d rather die than admit you’re dependent on someone you once called worthless.”

Silence pressed down between you.

Naoya’s breathing grew heavier.

You took a slow step forward.

Not crowding.

Not threatening.

Just shifting the balance.

“Back then, you looked at me and decided I was beneath you based on my face and body alone,” you said. “You decided I must be Omega because I wasn’t sharp enough. Not muscular enough. Not loud enough.”

Naoya swallowed.

“You called me weak,” you continued. “You called me a twink. You told me I wasn’t worth speaking to.”

Another step.

“Now look at you.”

Naoya’s hands curled into fists.

“You’re a Prime Omega with unstable cycles,” you said evenly. “No political backing. No inheritance. No autonomy. Standing in a house that isn’t yours, waiting to be bonded so you don’t medically deteriorate.”

His eyes burned.

“And I’m a Prime Alpha,” you said. “Confirmed. Stable. Fully developed. With a clan that doesn’t need to sell me off.”

Naoya lunged one step forward.

“Don’t get cocky just because fate screwed me over.”

You didn’t move.

“Fate didn’t make you treat people like trash,” you replied. “That was your choice.”

Naoya opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

“You’re going to live here,” you said. “You’re going to go through heats under this roof. You’re going to rely on me whether you like it or not.”

Naoya’s lips trembled with fury.

“And here’s the part you’re really going to hate,” you added.

A pause.

“I’m not going to humiliate you the way you did to me.”

Naoya blinked.

“I’m not going to scream at you,” you continued. “I’m not going to degrade you. I’m not going to treat you like livestock.”

You leaned down just enough that your voice dropped.

“I don’t need to.”

Naoya’s stomach twisted.

“Because you already know exactly what position you’re in,” you said. “And you get to sit with that.”

His gaze dropped.

Just for a fraction of a second.

But it happened.

“Fuck you,” Naoya muttered.

You straightened.

“No,” you said calmly. “You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore.”

Naoya stared at you.

Not because you were louder.

Not because you were crueler.

But because you weren’t.

“I’m not your servant,” you continued. “I’m not your underling. I’m not someone you can kick and expect silence.”

A pause.

“If you want basic respect,” you said, “you’re going to start giving it.”

Naoya looked away.

Not in agreement.

Not in surrender.

But because holding your gaze felt like standing in front of something immovable.

For the first time in his life, Zenin Naoya realized something he had spent years denying.

Power did not always come from shouting.

Sometimes it simply existed.

And it terrified him.

©Darkoceanne. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or claim my works as your own. My writings are not permitted for AI training, data scraping, or any similar use.

Zenin Naoya x Female Reader | Arranged Marriage AU | Part 3: 1,029 Words | See Part One and Part 4

Tags: Arranged Marriage. Loveless Marriage. Unrequited Love. One-Sided Devotion. Emotional Neglect. Emotional Repression. Quiet Longing. Yearning. Domestic Distance. Sleeping Apart. Misogynistic Naoya Zenin. Cold Husband. Power Imbalance. Clan Politics. Heir Pressure. Infertility Rumors (False). Duty vs Desire. Emotional Withdrawal. Pining Reader. Emotional Hurt / Comfort (Implied). Slow Burn. Eventual Softening (Not Yet).

TW: Emotional Neglect. Misogyny. Power Imbalance. Loveless Marriage. Unreciprocated Affection. Emotional Hurt. Emotional Cruelty (Implied). Reproductive Pressure.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Gege Akutami. This work is a non-canon AU. Characters may be portrayed OOC for narrative purposes. This fic depicts a consensual arranged marriage between adults and explores emotional neglect and imbalance within that context. No endorsement of real-world harmful behavior is intended.

Arranged Husband!Naoya first heard the whispers three months into the marriage, murmurs threading through the clan halls like something sour left too long in the dark. They weren’t spoken loudly—never that. Questions hid behind fans, smiles that never reached the eyes, glances that lingered on you for a second too long before sliding away as if nothing had happened.

"Why isn’t she pregnant yet?"

"Is there something wrong with her?"

At first, he pretended not to hear them. Then the word infertile drifted too close to your name, and his thoughts stalled entirely. Not anger. Not outrage. Just a stunned, sinking stillness that hollowed him out from the inside. He found himself staring at nothing long after the voices faded, the realization slow and disorienting—because it wasn’t true.

It had never been.

Arranged Husband!Naoya stood before the elders days later as they assessed him with practiced calm, eyes sharp with expectation. “Is there an issue with your wife’s health?” one of them asked evenly, as if already certain of the answer.

He opened his mouth. No words came.

Everyone in that room knew the truth. You had been chosen precisely because there was nothing wrong with you. Your bloodline was pure. Your health impeccable. Your body capable, compliant, suitable in every way the clan demanded.

That was when it settled in, heavy and undeniable: your body had never failed him.

The fault lay elsewhere.

It was him—who had never once laid a hand on you.

Arranged Husband!Naoya returned home that night carrying expectation like a sentence, his voice stiff and formal when he told you, “We’ll consummate the marriage tonight.” The words sounded rehearsed, impersonal—no different from approving a document or responding to the elders’ summons.

Arranged Husband!Naoya noticed the way your breath caught despite your effort to remain composed, how your fingers curled tighter into your sleeves as if grounding yourself. You nodded quickly. “I… I understand.” Your voice was soft, obedient, trained—yet beneath it, something fragile and hopeful trembled. That, more than anything, unsettled him.

Arranged Husband!Naoya left the preparations entirely to the servants, allowing tradition to take over where he could not. By the time night fell, the bedroom no longer looked like a place meant only for rest. Incense burned low and sweet, its scent delicate rather than cloying, chosen to calm the nerves rather than inflame desire.

When he entered, moonlight filtered through the shoji screens, silver and muted, spilling in narrow bands across the tatami floor. The lamps had been dimmed deliberately, shadows softened, the room arranged to feel intimate without being overwhelming. The futons were set side by side once more, precise and intentional, as if the weeks of separation had never happened.

You were already there, kneeling where custom demanded. Freshly bathed, your skin still carried warmth from water infused with herbs and oils chosen by the servants with meticulous care. Your hair hung loose down your back, faintly scented, still slightly damp at the ends. Your hands rested neatly in your lap, posture flawless, as if bracing yourself for something inevitable.

Arranged Husband!Naoya saw how carefully you had prepared. How much effort had gone into making yourself suitable for him—soft, presentable, unresisting. Offering everything without ever being asked. When you lifted your gaze to meet his, your eyes were steady, but your lashes fluttered faintly, betraying nerves you refused to voice.

Arranged Husband!Naoya lingered there longer than necessary, looming beneath the muted glow of moonlight. Pale lines from the shoji screens cut gently across your skin, accentuating how untouched you still were. The incense curled through the air behind him, sweet and faint—too intimate for something meant to be nothing more than obligation.

Arranged Husband!Naoya lifted a hand without thinking, fingers hovering just short of the soft curve of your jaw. Close enough to feel your warmth. Close enough to notice the way your breath stuttered at the nearness alone. He froze, caught between instinct and restraint.

The scent clinging to you made it worse—clean skin, lingering bathwater, something gentle and floral chosen carefully for this night. Your skin looked impossibly soft in the dim light. Supple. Waiting.

When your eyes met his, something inside him faltered. You weren’t bold. You weren’t demanding. You weren’t even expectant in the way the clan assumed wives should be. You were simply there—lashes trembling, lips parted just slightly, hope held so carefully it looked like it might shatter if mishandled.

His thumb twitched, the urge to bridge the last inch sharp and sudden. To cup your face. To anchor himself in something warm and real. The thought startled him enough that he pulled his hand back abruptly, fingers curling into a fist at his side.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he said, forcing his voice into something sharp, something controlled. “This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just obligation. Duty.” As if naming it might keep his body from betraying him.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks anyway. You shifted beneath him despite the lack of touch, fingers curling into the bedding until your knuckles went pale, bracing for something that still didn’t come.

Without realizing it, he leaned closer. Close enough that his breath brushed your skin. You went perfectly still, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat—anticipation or fear, he couldn’t tell. That uncertainty unsettled him more than any whisper ever had.

Arranged Husband!Naoya pulled back suddenly, the space between you rushing in like cold air. His chest felt tight, wrong. He told himself it was irritation. That it meant nothing.

“Not tonight,” he said, turning away before his resolve cracked completely. When you flinched, he added more sharply, “I need time. Don’t question it.”

Arranged Husband!Naoya ignored your quiet, confused apology as he retreated to his study, as though distance might fix what was unraveling inside him. Behind him, the incense continued to burn. The room remained prepared. Untouched. Waiting for something that never came.

Arranged Husband!Naoya sat alone long after, staring at his hands as if they belonged to someone else, haunted by the thought he refused to speak aloud—

If this was only duty, then why did fulfilling it feel so deeply, unbearably wrong?

©Darkoceanne. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or claim my works as your own. My writings are not permitted for AI training, data scraping, or any similar use.

Divider: @/cursed-carmine

Zenin Naoya x Female Reader | Arranged Marriage AU | Part 2: 740 Words | See Part One and Three

Tags: Arranged Marriage. Loveless Marriage. Unrequited Love. One-Sided Devotion. Emotional Neglect. Emotional Repression. Quiet Longing. Yearning. Domestic Distance. Sleeping Apart. Emotional Withdrawal. Misogynistic Naoya Zenin. Cold Husband. Tsundere Behavior (Cruel). Power Imbalance. Clan Politics. Childhood Acquaintances. Pining Reader. Emotional Hurt. Slow Burn. Eventual Softening (Not Yet).

TW: Emotional Neglect. Emotional Cruelty. Misogyny. Power Imbalance. Loveless Marriage. Unreciprocated Affection. Emotional Hurt. Verbal Dismissiveness.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Gege Akutami. This work is a non-canon AU. Characters may be portrayed OOC for narrative purposes. This fic depicts a consensual arranged marriage between adults and explores emotional neglect and imbalance within that context. No endorsement of real-world harmful behavior is intended.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who woke the morning after your whisper with a tightness in his chest he refused to name, irritation crawling beneath his skin like something unwanted. He avoided your eyes at breakfast, spoke curtly, as if silence itself had betrayed him the night before.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who began keeping himself busier, leaving earlier, returning later, claiming clan duties as an excuse while never explaining further. The house felt larger in his absence, emptier—though he never once acknowledged that you noticed.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who snapped when you poured his tea without being asked, voice edged with sarcasm. “Did I tell you to do that?” You startled, fingers tightening around the cup as you shook your head. “I—sorry. I thought…” You trailed off, setting it down carefully.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who scoffed whenever you tried to anticipate his needs, mocking the quiet care you offered as if it were bothersome rather than kind. He told himself it was annoyance—not fear—tightening his jaw whenever you stood too close.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who bristled at your gentleness, because softness demanded something from him he didn’t know how to give. Each small gesture felt like pressure, like expectation, and he resented you for it.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who chose harsher words on purpose, convinced that pushing you away was easier than examining the unfamiliar ache that followed him. He told himself you were fragile, inconvenient—anything but important.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who returned home late one evening, exhaustion still clinging to him, only to find you waiting quietly in the dimly lit room. When you asked softly, “Do you… want to have dinner together?” he didn’t even look at you. “I don’t need it,” he said flatly. “You don’t have to wait up for me.”

Arranged Husband!Naoya who stiffened when you hesitated instead of moving, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why?” The question was simple—too simple—and it scraped against something raw inside him. His reply came sharp, cruel by intent. “Just go to sleep. I’m busy.”

Arranged Husband!Naoya who turned away before you could say anything else, retreating into his study and sliding the door shut. You stood there for a moment longer, hands clasped in front of you, before murmuring a quiet, “Alright,” to a room that no longer held him.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who convinced himself the distance was necessary, that he didn’t want to feel your warmth beside him anymore. He told himself it was discipline, not denial, as he remained in his study long into the night, avoiding the futon you shared.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who watched you retreat little by little, shoulders drawing inward, voice growing quieter with each passing day. He noticed—but instead of stopping, he doubled down, coldness masquerading as control.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who mocked your concern when you asked one morning, “Are you tired?” He barely glanced up. “Why do you care?” You froze, then forced a small laugh. “Just asking,” you said, though the words stayed with you long after.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who never realized how deeply his words lodged themselves inside you, how each sharp remark convinced you that something about you was lacking. You began questioning your worth, your presence, your place beside him.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who mistook your growing insecurity for obedience, for compliance, for the quiet wife he had always expected. It unsettled him anyway, though he refused to admit why.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who felt irritation flare whenever you stopped trying—when the tea went unmade, when you no longer lingered nearby. The distance he created suddenly felt heavier than he intended.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who lashed out again the moment you hesitated before approaching him, tone biting as if daring you to cross the line. “What is it now?” he snapped. You flinched, stepping back immediately. “Nothing,” you said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

Arranged Husband!Naoya who told himself it was better this way—that love was a weakness he couldn’t afford. Yet every time he saw doubt cloud your eyes, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who never once said what he actually felt, choosing cruelty over honesty, sarcasm over vulnerability. He didn’t know how to reach for you—only how to make sure you stayed away.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who watched you blame yourself for the distance he enforced, and let you. Because admitting the truth—that he was afraid—felt far more terrifying than being the villain in your quiet heart.

©Darkoceanne. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or claim my works as your own. My writings are not permitted for AI training, data scraping, or any similar use.

Divider: @/cursed-carmine

Zenin Naoya x Female Reader | Arranged Marriage AU | Part 4: 1,272 Words | See Part One

Tags: Arranged Marriage. Loveless Marriage. Unrequited Love (Shifting). One-Sided Devotion (Cracking). Emotional Neglect (Past). Emotional Repression. Quiet Longing. Yearning. Domestic Distance (Softening). Sleeping Apart. Misogynistic Naoya Zenin (Subtle). Cold Husband Learning. Power Imbalance. Clan Politics. Heir Pressure. Infertility Rumors (False). Duty vs Desire. Emotional Withdrawal. Pining Reader. Mutual Pining (Emerging). Emotional Hurt / Comfort (Subtle). Slow Burn. Early Softening.

TW: Emotional Neglect (Past). Misogyny (Referenced). Power Imbalance. Loveless Marriage Dynamics. Emotional Repression. Reproductive Pressure. Emotional Hurt.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Gege Akutami. This work is a non-canon AU. Characters may be portrayed OOC for narrative purposes. This fic depicts a consensual arranged marriage between adults and explores emotional neglect, power imbalance, and gradual emotional development within that context. No endorsement of real-world harmful behavior is intended.

She began noticing herself differently after that night.

Not in vanity. Not in pride. But in quiet inspection. Each morning, when the maids finished arranging her hair and fastening the ties of her kimono, she lingered before the mirror a breath longer than usual. Her fingers hovered near her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw as if searching for a flaw she had somehow overlooked. The slope of her shoulders seemed narrower than before. Her waist too soft. Her posture too yielding. She tilted her chin slightly, wondering if boldness could be practiced—if confidence could be worn like silk instead of stitched into one’s bones. Perhaps he preferred someone sharper. Someone who would meet his gaze without lowering hers first.

The thought did not wound her.

It settled.

She did not resent him. She did not accuse him in the quiet of her own mind. She simply concluded that somewhere, in some invisible way, she had fallen short.

Arranged Husband!Naoya noticed the shift before anyone else did. It was not dramatic; there were no tears, no tremors in her voice, no hesitant attempts at conversation. You still greeted him properly. Still prepared tea. Still bowed when required. But you no longer lingered near the doorway of his study in the evenings. You no longer wait for acknowledgment before retiring. And when the servants resumed laying the futons in separate rooms, you accepted it without pause.

It was the absence of hesitation that unsettled him.

He had anticipated disappointment.

He had not anticipated composure.

Arranged Husband!Naoya told himself this was preferable. A marriage without complication. Without expectation pressing at his ribs like something alive and unpredictable. Yet when you passed him in the corridor and bowed without lifting your eyes, something tightened unpleasantly in his chest. You were not cold. That would have justified his distance. You were simply restrained—as though proximity required permission.

And that restraint felt heavier than reproach.

Days later, he found you seated by the koi pond in the estate garden.

The afternoon light lay pale across the water, broken by slow arcs of orange and white beneath the surface. You sat with your back straight, hands folded neatly in your lap, watching the ripples dissolve into stillness. A faint breeze lifted a loose strand of hair against your cheek, but you did not move to brush it away. There was no visible sorrow in your expression. No anger. Only a quiet inwardness, as though your thoughts had turned entirely toward yourself.

Arranged Husband!Naoya had not intended to approach.

Yet he did.

Gravel shifted softly beneath his measured steps. You sensed him before he spoke. Your shoulders straightened, not in fear, but in preparation. He lowered himself onto the bench beside you, leaving a deliberate space between your sleeves.

“You’ve been spending time here,” he observed.

“Yes,” you answered gently. “It’s peaceful.”

The silence that followed was no longer hollow. It simply waited. The koi stirred beneath the surface, catching the light in fractured patterns. You did not look at him, but neither did you retreat.

Arranged Husband!Naoya studied the details others would overlook—the faint tightening of your fingers against your sleeve, the subtle narrowing of your posture. You had always been gentle. But now you seemed careful not to take up more space than necessary.

“You don’t need to…” He stopped, jaw tightening. Words were not something he wielded with ease in matters like this. “…You don’t need to change.”

Your head turned slightly.

“Change?” you echoed, confusion quiet but real.

Arranged Husband!Naoya held your gaze longer than usual. In your eyes, he saw it clearly—the question you would never voice aloud.

Was I lacking?

Was I insufficient?

Did I fail you?

“It wasn’t rejection,” he said, the admission rougher than he intended. “The other night.”

You stilled completely.

“I see,” you replied.

But doubt lingered beneath the surface.

Arranged Husband!Naoya felt irritation rise—not at you, but at his own inadequacy. He had created this uncertainty. Watching you bear it silently felt… unacceptable.

“It was my hesitation,” he clarified. “Not yours.”

A breeze rippled the pond, distorting your reflection briefly before it settled again. For a fleeting moment, something fragile lifted in your expression—hope restrained by caution. You nodded once, accepting the explanation without pressing further.

“I understand,” you said softly.

And that restraint unsettled him more than accusation would have.

Arranged Husband!Naoya remained seated. Close enough to sense the warmth through layers of fabric. Close enough to be aware of every subtle shift in your breathing. For the first time since your marriage, he did not immediately retreat when the conversation faltered.

Instead, he stayed.

Not because it was required.

But because leaving now felt wrong.

The silence between you no longer felt like something he commanded.

And if he allowed it to deepen, it would become something irreversible.

Arranged Husband!Naoya cleared his throat lightly. The words he intended to offer felt foreign to him.

“The garden suits you,” he said.

It was not elegant. But it was deliberate.

You blinked in surprise. “Suits… me?”

“You keep it in order,” he continued, gaze fixed on the water. “The servants respond well to your direction. It reflects… discipline.”

Your fingers tightened faintly. “I only maintain what already exists.”

“That is not what I said.”

The correction was quiet, but firm.

You fell silent again, uncertain how to receive something that was neither instruction nor critique.

Arranged Husband!Naoya shifted slightly, fabric brushing against yours—close enough to be noticed. “The incense that night,” he added, measured. “It was well chosen.”

You went still.

“It was calming.”

A faint warmth colored your cheeks. “I’m relieved it was not unpleasant.”

“It wasn’t.”

The conversation was uneven, but he did not withdraw.

After a moment, he spoke again.

“You have conducted yourself without fault,” he said carefully. “There has been no failure on your part.”

Your breath caught.

“I never intended to cause difficulty,” you murmured.

“I know.”

This time, there was no deflection.

Arranged Husband!Naoya turned fully toward you. In the softened afternoon light, your composure appeared less like meekness and more like endurance. You were not bold. Not defiant. Not demanding.

You were steady.

And he realized—with quiet clarity—that he did not desire someone different.

“You are…” He hesitated, then forced the words through. “…sufficient as you are.”

The compliment was imperfect. Clinical. Restrained.

But it was sincere.

Your lips parted slightly. You bowed your head, not in submission—but in something that resembled relief.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Something subtle shifted between you. The distance did not disappear. But it no longer felt sharp.

“There will be a dinner in the west wing tomorrow evening,” he said after a moment, composure returning to his tone. “You will attend with me.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

He paused.

“It is not an obligation,” he added. “I would prefer your company.”

That was the closest he had come to choosing you aloud.

You looked at him fully then. And for the first time since that night, the guarded restraint in your gaze loosened—just slightly.

Arranged Husband!Naoya rose before the moment grew unfamiliar, adjusting his sleeves with habitual precision. He did not elaborate further. He did not reach.

But he waited.

He waited for you to stand beside him.

And when you did, he matched his pace to yours on the walk back to the estate—subtle enough that only he would recognize it as adjustment.

It was a small change.

Almost imperceptible.

But it was the first time he altered himself for you—

Instead of expecting you to shrink for him.

©Darkoceanne. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or claim my works as your own. My writings are not permitted for AI training, data scraping, or any similar use.

Divider: @/cursed-carmine

Zenin Naoya x Female Reader | Arranged Marriage AU | Part 1: 736 Words | See Part Two

Tags: Arranged Marriage. Loveless Marriage. Unrequited Love. One-Sided Devotion. Emotional Neglect. Emotional Repression. Quiet Longing. Yearning. Domestic Distance. Sleeping Apart. Misogynistic Naoya Zenin. Cold Husband. Power Imbalance. Clan Politics. Childhood Acquaintances. Pining Reader. Emotional Hurt / Comfort (Implied). Slow Burn. Eventual Softening (Not Yet).

TW: Emotional Neglect. Misogyny. Power Imbalance. Loveless Marriage. Unreciprocated Affection. Emotional Hurt.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Gege Akutami. This work is a non-canon AU. Characters may be portrayed OOC for narrative purposes. This fic depicts a consensual arranged marriage between adults and explores emotional neglect and imbalance within that context. No endorsement of real-world harmful behavior is intended.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who entered an arranged marriage decreed by the Zenin elders, a union crafted not out of affection but strategy—your name signed beside his as if it were merely another clause ensuring his ascent as the next clan head.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who married the girl his clan deemed acceptable, a familiar face from his childhood—not quite a friend, merely the daughter of a man who once conducted business under the Zenin roof. He never noticed how your eyes lingered on him even back then, how your heart had learned his name long before you ever wore it as his wife.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who watched you approach him on the wedding day dressed in a traditional white shiromuku, silk layers heavy against your skin, your hair adorned with careful ornaments meant to signify purity and devotion. He glanced at you only briefly, expression unreadable, before looking away as though the sight of you meant nothing at all.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who barely acknowledged the vows, standing stiff beside you while your sleeves brushed his arm. He did not comment on how beautiful you looked, did not react when your hands trembled as you spoke.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who didn’t even stay the night of the wedding, leaving you alone in a room still thick with incense and expectation. You sat there in ceremonial white long after the servants had withdrawn, waiting for footsteps that never came.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who treated you with indifference so sharp it felt intentional, as though acknowledging you—even briefly—might stain the authority he wore so proudly. His voice remained level whenever he addressed you, distant and restrained.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who never paid attention to his new, little, pretty wife, convinced that a woman at his side was nothing more than a necessary nuisance. Even knowing your existence secured his path to power and legitimacy within the clan, he never once looked grateful.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who chose to sleep far from you each night, claiming his side of the futon like a boundary neither of you should cross. The room was always quiet—wooden floors cool beneath bare feet, shoji screens filtering dim light from the corridor.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who told himself he didn’t want to feel a woman’s touch, that softness was something to be avoided. A wife, to him, was meant to stay small, stay obedient, and never demand his attention.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who never realized that his wife kept her fragile heart buried deep, swallowing her feelings the moment she understood she had failed to capture his interest. You learned to move quietly, to exist without being noticed.

Arranged Husband!Naoya whose wife tried anyway—through careful silences, through tea prepared just the way he preferred, through standing patiently at his side during clan gatherings. You hoped one day he might finally look at you and see more than obligation.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who never noticed how, once he was already asleep, you would shift closer across the futon, inching toward his warmth with hesitant movements. You stopped before touching him, afraid of waking him, afraid of being pushed away.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who remained unaware of how you watched his sleeping face in the dim light, memorizing features that softened only in rest. It felt safer to admire him when he could not see you.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who one night pretended to sleep, senses sharpening when you lingered longer than usual. He felt the hesitation in your movements before he felt your touch.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who realized then how often you had been the one closing the distance he created, how quietly you reached for him without ever asking for more. Your affection was careful, reverent, almost apologetic.

Arranged Husband!Naoya who heard you whisper into the darkness, voice so soft it nearly disappeared between breaths. “I just… wanted to know you better,” you murmured, careful, almost apologetic, as though wanting him required permission. “I don’t expect anything,” you continued quietly, fingers curling into the bedding, “I just hoped… maybe one day, you wouldn’t feel so far away.” You hesitated before adding, barely audible, “Even a little closer would be enough… if you’d let me.”

Arranged Husband!Naoya who lay still, eyes closed, heart unsettled for the first time—forced to confront the devotion he had dismissed so easily. Only then did he realize how long you had been loving him alone.

©Darkoceanne. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or claim my works as your own. My writings are not permitted for AI training, data scraping, or any similar use.

Divider: @/cursed-carmine

Gojo Satoru x Reader; Geto Suguru x Reader; Fushiguro Toji x Reader; Zenin Naoya x Reader; Ryomen Sukuna x Reader | Modern AU | Valentine's Day Special Oneshot: 5,124 Words

Tags: Gojo Satoru. Suguru Geto. Fushiguro Toji. Zenin Naoya. Ryomen Sukuna. Valentine’s Day. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Romantic Gestures. Intimate Moments. Soft Confessions. Affectionate Touch. Chocolate / Sweets. Gift Giving. Quiet Devotion. Protective Behavior. Light Teasing. Shy / Nervous Reader. Playful Banter. Emotional Warmth. Canon Divergence. Alternate Universe. Slice of Life. Light Humor. Romantic Tension. Comfort. Cozy Domesticity.

TW: Emotional vulnerability. Intimate touch and closeness. Shyness / nervousness. Light teasing. Comforting physical affection.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Gege Akutami. This work is a non-canon AU. Characters may be portrayed OOC for narrative purposes. This fic depicts consensual romantic and domestic interactions between adults in an alternate scenario focused on Valentine’s Day celebrations. No endorsement of real-world harmful behavior is intended.

Gojo Satoru: The Sweetest Thing He Knows

The mission runs longer than expected. It’s nothing he can’t handle—it never is—but by the time Gojo finishes dealing with the last curse, the sky has shifted from pale afternoon blue to deep indigo. The air is cold. Quiet. The kind of night that makes even him feel a little worn at the edges. He stretches his arms over his head, bones cracking lightly.

“Valentine’s Day, huh…” he mutters to himself. He remembers you mentioning it days ago—something about baking, something about waiting. He smirks faintly beneath his blindfold. Cute. Still, part of him assumes you’ll fall asleep before he makes it home. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s returned to a dark apartment with an untouched dinner plate waiting on the table.

When he unlocks the door and steps inside, he doesn’t call out immediately. He pauses. The lights are on, spilling soft golden warmth down the hallway. The air smells sweet—chocolate, vanilla, sugar warmed by the oven. His lips tilt upward as he slips off his shoes quietly, moving down the hall without making a sound.

The kitchen is a disaster. Bowls stacked carelessly, flour dusted across the counter like snow, a whisk abandoned in a sink full of soapy water. And at the center of it all—you. Standing barefoot on the tile, sleeves rolled up, completely focused as you carefully drizzle melted chocolate over a tray of strawberries. There’s frosting on your cheek. Gojo leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely. He watches, silently, not interrupting. There’s something grounding about this—seeing you so concentrated, so domestic, so unaware of how deeply you affect him.

You hum softly under your breath. He feels it then—that quiet pull in his chest, that warm, almost embarrassingly soft sensation he never lets anyone else see. He clears his throat dramatically, making you jump.

“Satoru?!” you exclaim, spinning around and nearly knocking over the bowl in front of you.

“You’re home already?!”

“Already?” he repeats with a grin. “I’ve been gone all day. I’m offended.”

You flush slightly, quickly wiping your hands on a towel. “I just didn’t expect you to be so quiet.”

He steps into the kitchen, gaze scanning the mess. “Should I call emergency services?” he asks lightly. “There appears to have been a flour explosion.”

You swat his arm. “It’s for you.”

He pauses. “For me?”

You gesture awkwardly to the trays—heart-shaped cookies, chocolate-dipped strawberries, small cupcakes with uneven pink frosting. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” The words come out shy, soft, not dramatic, not exaggerated.

Gojo doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he steps closer—slowly, deliberately—until he’s standing right in front of you. “You made all of this?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “You work a lot. I thought… maybe it would be nice.”

Nice. That word again. You look slightly nervous now, bracing for teasing. But he doesn’t tease. Instead, he reaches up and gently brushes his thumb across your cheek. “You missed a spot,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Where—?”

He leans down before you can finish, pressing a slow kiss exactly where the flour smudge was. Your breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look at you. And then—carefully—he removes his blindfold. His eyes open. Bright. Blue. Focused only on you.

“I didn’t want to see it through cursed energy,” he says softly. “I wanted to see it properly.”

Your chest tightens. He studies your expression—the slight nervousness, the hope, the warmth. “You waited for me?” he asks.

“I wasn’t tired,” you lie.

He smiles faintly. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Before you can protest, he pulls you fully into his arms, wrapping them securely around you and drawing you against his chest. The embrace is firm—not crushing, but protective, steady, and achingly familiar. You melt into him without thinking, tension draining from your body as if you had been waiting for this all along. He exhales slowly into your hair, the warm breath lingering there as though he’s grounding himself in the simple fact that you’re safe in his hold.

“You know,” he murmurs, “everyone expects me to be the strongest.”

“You are,” you reply softly.

“Yeah.” His voice dips quieter. “But it’s exhausting.”

You lift your head slightly. He rarely says things like that. He rests his chin on top of your head. “Coming home to this,” he continues, gesturing lazily toward the kitchen with one hand, “is the only time I don’t have to be anything.”

You blink. “Satoru…”

“I don’t have to be the strongest,” he says. “I just get to be yours.” The teasing tone is gone. This is him. Unfiltered. Your hands tighten around the fabric of his uniform.

“I’m glad you’re home,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again. “You’re glad?” he repeats playfully. Suddenly, he scoops you up effortlessly, spinning you once before setting you down against the counter.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he grins. “It’s Valentine’s Day. I should be dramatic.”

He reaches for one of the strawberries, inspecting it closely. “Did you taste-test these?”

“Of course.”

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Without me?”

“You were on a mission!”

He bites into one. His eyes widen slightly. “…Okay,” he admits after swallowing. “These are unfair.”

You laugh. “Unfair how?”

“They might actually be sweeter than me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Might?”

He leans forward slowly. “Let’s compare.”

Before you can react, he kisses you again—softer this time. Slower. Not rushed. Not playful. Just warm. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know what my favorite part is?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

“That you didn’t make this because you had to.” His thumb traces along your jaw gently. “You made it because you wanted to.”

“Of course I did.”

He smiles. “That’s why it matters.”

There’s a brief pause before he glances around the messy kitchen again. “So,” he says casually, “are we cleaning this together or am I using Limitless to float everything into the sink?”

You gasp. “You are not using cursed techniques on my baking!”

He laughs—that bright, unrestrained sound that fills the entire apartment. “Fine, fine,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “But I’m in charge of taste-testing.”

You shake your head. “You just want more sweets.”

He leans down slightly, voice lowering near your ear. “No,” he murmurs. “I just want more of you.”

Your face burns. He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

Even as he jokes, steals frosting, and pretends to dramatically critique your decorating skills, he never lets the distance between you grow. He stays close—always touching: a hand lingering at your waist, a shoulder brushing yours, fingers intertwining when you least expect it. For all his power, for all the weight he carries, this is what he treasures most: a messy kitchen, over-sweet strawberries, and the quiet certainty that someone is waiting for him to come home.

When the night finally winds down and you’re both settled on the couch with a plate of half-eaten desserts between you, he pulls you against his side, resting his cheek lightly against your hair, content simply to be near you.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmurs softly. Not teasing this time. Not dramatic. Just sincere. And for once, the strongest sorcerer in the world looks completely at peace.

Geto Suguru: Where the World Grows Quiet

Suguru doesn’t announce plans. He simply tells you to be ready before sunset. There’s no explanation beyond that—just the faint curve of a smile and the quiet promise in his eyes that makes you agree without hesitation.

When he arrives, he’s dressed neatly, dark robes layered carefully, hair tied back with deliberate precision. He always looks composed, but tonight there’s something softer about the way he looks at you. “You look beautiful,” he says simply. No teasing. No exaggeration. Just truth.

He leads you through quieter streets, away from crowded restaurants and loud celebrations. Valentine’s Day lights glow in shop windows, pink and red reflecting in passing glass, but Suguru walks past them without interest. He prefers something else.

Eventually, you reach a hill overlooking the city—a place you’ve visited before. It’s peaceful, removed from the noise. The air carries the faint scent of earth and evening wind, and the sky is painted gold and amber as the sun begins to dip. He guides you to sit beside him on a worn wooden bench. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He watches the horizon. You watch him.

Then, with unhurried movements, he reaches into the fold of his sleeve and retrieves a small cloth-wrapped bundle tied with a simple ribbon. “For you,” he says quietly. You blink. “Suguru… you didn’t have to.” “I know.” He places it carefully in your hands.

Inside are handmade sweets—delicate mochi dusted lightly with powdered sugar, small chocolates shaped imperfectly but thoughtfully. They aren’t flashy. They aren’t extravagant. They’re intentional. “You made these,” you say softly. He nods once. “I thought it would be more meaningful.” Your chest warms.

You quickly hand him the small box you’ve been holding all this time. “I made something too. Happy Valentine’s Day.” His gaze softens immediately. He opens the box slowly, as if it’s fragile. Inside are chocolates you attempted to shape neatly, though some are slightly uneven. “You prepared these yourself,” he murmurs. It isn’t a question. You nod, suddenly shy under his steady gaze.

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. Instead, he reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm as they wrap around yours, lifting your knuckles gently to his lips. The kiss he presses there is slow and deliberate. “Thank you,” he says quietly. The words carry weight.

The sun dips lower, painting his profile in golden light. His expression is calm—but there’s something tender beneath it. “Humans create holidays to remind themselves of what they value,” he says softly. “Perhaps they fear forgetting.” You tilt your head slightly. “Do you?” “Forget?” He glances at you. “No.” There’s certainty there. “I am reminded every time you look at me the way you do now.” Your heart stutters.

He shifts slightly closer, shoulders brushing fully now. “You make the world quieter,” he continues. “When I am with you, the noise fades.” His voice lowers. “And I find that I do not dislike that.” The wind picks up gently, brushing strands of hair across your face. He reaches up instinctively, tucking them behind your ear with careful fingers. The gesture lingers.

“I do not need a day to care for you,” he says softly. “But if today is meant to celebrate affection…” His thumb traces lightly along your jaw. “…then I will indulge it.” You lean into his touch. “I’m glad you’re here,” you whisper. He studies your face for a long moment—as though memorizing it. “I would rather be nowhere else.” The honesty in his voice is steady. Unwavering.

He reaches into the bundle again and picks up one of the sweets, holding it toward you. “Try it.” You take a bite, surprised at how delicate the flavor is. “It’s good,” you murmur. A faint smile curves his lips. “I am relieved.” “You were worried?” “About disappointing you?” He considers the thought. “Yes.” The admission is quiet. Bare.

You shift closer to him on the bench. “You never disappoint me.” He hums thoughtfully at that. His arm slides behind you, resting along the back of the bench. After a moment’s hesitation—almost imperceptible—he lets his fingers curl lightly at your shoulder. It’s not possessive. It’s protective.

“You are precious to me,” he says finally. The word doesn’t sound exaggerated. It sounds chosen. “And I do not use that term lightly.” Your breath catches slightly. He leans closer, forehead brushing gently against yours. The world below continues moving—cars, voices, lights flickering on—but up here, everything feels still.

“I want to remain by your side,” he murmurs. “Not because of tradition. Not because of expectation.” His hand cups your cheek gently. “But because I choose to.” The sun disappears beneath the horizon completely, leaving behind soft twilight. He closes the distance between you, pressing a slow, warm kiss to your lips. There’s no urgency. No hunger. Just tenderness.

When he pulls back, his thumb brushes beneath your eye softly. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says quietly. The words feel different coming from him. Steady. Intentional. As the first stars begin to appear in the sky, he keeps you close—your hand resting in his, your shoulder tucked against his chest. And for once, the world feels peaceful. Not because it has changed, but because he has chosen to share this quiet with you.

Fushiguro Toji: Don’t Make It a Thing

“Valentine’s Day is stupid.”

That’s the first thing Toji says when he overhears someone mention it on TV. He doesn’t even look up from the couch. One arm is thrown over the backrest, the other resting lazily across his stomach. There’s an empty glass on the table in front of him, and the faint hum of late-night city noise slips in through the window.

You stand in the kitchen doorway, watching him. “You say that about everything,” you mutter.

“Because everything is stupid,” he replies flatly.

You hesitate. The small paper bag in your hands suddenly feels heavier than it should. You weren’t expecting a grand reaction. You weren’t expecting flowers or candles or soft confessions. But you did get him something. Something small. Something that reminded you of him.

You walk over slowly, trying to look casual. He notices. His eyes flick up to you—sharp, assessing, immediately catching onto the fact that you’re holding something.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

He raises a brow. “That’s not convincing.”

You sigh quietly and hold it out to him. “It’s just… something. You don’t have to like it.”

He stares at the bag for a moment before taking it from your hands. “You’re nervous,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He pulls the small box out and opens it without ceremony. Inside is a simple leather bracelet. Dark brown. Understated. The kind that looks durable—the kind that would suit him without looking flashy.

He goes quiet.

You immediately start talking too fast. “I know you don’t like big stuff and it’s not expensive or anything, I just saw it and it reminded me of you and I thought maybe—”

His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist gently. Not harsh. Just firm enough to stop you. “Didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

Your words die in your throat. He looks down at the bracelet again, thumb brushing over the leather.

“You thought it’d suit me?”

You nod. “…Yeah.”

He hums low in his chest. Without another word, he lifts his arm and slides it on. The movement is simple. Unceremonious. But it makes your heart skip. He flexes his wrist slightly, testing it. “Fits,” he mutters.

You can’t stop the small smile spreading across your face. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” you say softly.

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t make it a thing.”

But he doesn’t take it off.

Later that evening, you’re both sitting on the couch. The TV is on, but neither of you are really watching it. You’re tucked against his side, your legs curled slightly toward him. His arm rests loosely along the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder absentmindedly.

Your eyes drift down to his wrist. The bracelet catches the light faintly. “You’re still wearing it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

“I thought you didn’t care about Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Then why—”

His arm suddenly shifts, sliding fully around your shoulders and pulling you closer against his chest.

“Stop overthinking,” he mutters. His hand rests firmly at your upper arm now, thumb rubbing slow circles against the fabric of your sleeve. “You gave it to me,” he says after a moment. “That’s different.”

Your chest tightens slightly. Different. You don’t push him further. You just lean into him. The room is quiet except for the low murmur of the TV.

After a few minutes, he speaks again. “You waited all day to give it to me?”

You hesitate. “…Maybe.”

He exhales through his nose softly. “You’re dumb.”

There’s no bite to it. You nudge him lightly. “Rude.”

He glances down at you finally. His gaze isn’t sharp right now. It’s steady. “Don’t get nervous over stuff like that,” he says quietly. “If it’s from you, I’m not throwing it away.”

Your breath catches slightly. He looks away again almost immediately, like he didn’t mean to let that slip out. Silence stretches between you. Comfortable.

Your fingers drift to his wrist, brushing lightly over the bracelet. “You really like it?” you ask softly.

He sighs, like you’re testing his patience. “Yeah.” The answer is simple. Honest. You smile.

After a moment, you shift slightly, resting your head fully against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat—slow and steady. He adjusts instinctively, one hand sliding down to rest securely at your waist.

“You don’t have to do that stuff,” he mutters.

“What stuff?”

“All the holiday crap.”

You look up at him. “I wanted to.”

He studies your face for a long moment. Then his thumb brushes lightly against your cheek. “…Tch.” It’s not annoyance. It’s embarrassment.

“You’re annoying,” he mutters quietly.

You grin. “You like me.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he leans down and presses a brief, warm kiss to your forehead. The gesture is quick—almost like he regrets doing it immediately after. But his arm tightens around you.

“Don’t expect flowers,” he says.

“I don’t.”

“Don’t expect candles.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t expect me to say cheesy stuff.”

You smile softly. “I don’t need that.”

He studies you again. Then, after a moment, he murmurs quietly—“Good.”

Because what he does instead is this: he keeps wearing the bracelet. He keeps you tucked under his arm. And when you shift like you’re about to get up later that night, he tightens his hold slightly.

“Stay.”

It’s low. Almost rough. But it’s the closest thing to a confession you’ll ever get from him.

And honestly?

It means more than flowers ever could.

Zenin Naoya: Say It Properly

Naoya does not believe in Valentine’s Day. At least, that’s what he says.

“Pointless Western nonsense,” he mutters when he overhears servants whispering about it earlier in the week. “People require a calendar date to validate affection. Pathetic.”

You pretend not to hear. But the words linger.

And now, standing a few steps away from him in the quiet sitting room of the estate, you’re suddenly very aware of how intimidating he looks. Perfect posture. Immaculate attire. Hands folded neatly behind his back as he looks out the window. Composed. Untouchable.

The small box in your hands feels absurdly fragile in comparison. You inhale softly. “Naoya.”

He glances at you over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Your throat tightens. You step closer, trying not to second-guess yourself. “I, um… I wanted to give you something.”

His eyes flick briefly to your hands. “You’re participating in that holiday?” he asks flatly.

You nod once. His gaze lingers on your face a moment longer than necessary. “Show me.”

It’s not harsh. But it is commanding.

You walk the remaining distance and place the neatly wrapped box in his palm. Your fingers brush his briefly—warm, steady—before you pull back. “H-Happy Valentine’s Day, Naoya.” Your voice is softer than you intended.

He looks at you carefully. You’re nervous. He can see it in the way your shoulders are slightly tense, the way your eyes flick down for a split second. He doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he unwraps the box slowly. Deliberately.

Inside are silver cufflinks—refined, minimal, engraved subtly with a pattern inspired by the Zenin crest. Not flashy. Not overly decorative. Elegant.

He goes still.

“You chose these yourself?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.” You swallow. “I thought they’d match your suits. And… you always look best in silver.”

There’s a small silence. You misread it immediately. “It’s fine if you don’t like them,” you rush out. “I just wanted to—”

His hand moves. Not to push you away, but to grip your wrist lightly. Firm. “Stop.”

You freeze. He studies your expression up close now. “You truly believed I would dismiss something you selected for me?” His voice is low. Measured.

You hesitate. “…You said it was nonsense.”

“It is.” Your heart sinks slightly. Then he exhales through his nose softly. “But that does not make your effort nonsense.”

The distinction is clear. He releases your wrist only to pick up one of the cufflinks again, turning it slightly in the light. “You paid attention,” he murmurs. “To what I wear. To what suits me.”

Your cheeks warm. “I always pay attention.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And something in his expression shifts—just slightly. Not softer in a fragile way, but softer in acknowledgment.

He steps forward, closing the distance. His hand settles at your waist, fingers pressing firmly against your side as he draws you closer. “If you are going to present me with a gift,” he says quietly, leaning down slightly so his voice brushes near your ear, “do not look as though you expect rejection.”

Your breath falters. “I don’t want to disappoint you,” you admit softly.

He stills. Then his other hand rises, fingers tilting your chin upward. “You would not,” he says simply. There is no arrogance in the statement. Only certainty.

He releases your chin and steps back just enough to fasten the cufflinks onto his sleeves himself. The movement is precise. Controlled. When he finishes, he adjusts his cuffs slightly, glancing down at them. “They fit well,” he murmurs.

You can’t help the small smile that spreads across your face. “They look good on you.”

“Of course they do.” There’s the familiar edge of pride. But when he looks back at you, it’s tempered. “You have good taste.”

You huff a soft laugh. “That’s your way of saying thank you?”

He steps forward again, hand returning to your waist. “I do not thank people for doing what they are meant to do.”

Your expression falters slightly. He notices. His grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to keep you from retreating into your thoughts. “You misunderstand,” he says quietly. “I mean that you have always been considerate. Attentive. That is not a flaw.” The words are careful. Chosen. He does not give compliments easily. When he does, they are deliberate.

You look up at him slowly. “…So you like them?”

He exhales softly. “Yes.” The honesty is quiet but unmistakable.

Your shoulders relax. A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “You were trembling earlier.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

He leans down slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours. “If you are going to claim a position by my side,” he murmurs, “you must stand with more confidence.”

Your heart pounds. “I—I’m trying.”

“I know.” The words are softer than expected. His hand slides slightly higher along your waist. “And do not doubt this again.”

“Doubt what?”

“That I would value something given by you.”

Silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not tense. Heavy with meaning.

He leans down and presses a slow kiss to your temple. Not rushed. Not careless. Measured. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes briefly against your cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says. The phrase sounds unfamiliar in his voice—but not unwelcome.

You blink. “You’re actually saying it?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

You smile.

Later that evening, during a formal dinner, you notice something. He’s seated at the head of the table, posture immaculate as always. But when he lifts his glass, the silver cufflinks catch the light. He doesn’t mention them. Doesn’t draw attention to them. But he makes no effort to hide them either.

And once—just once—his gaze flicks to you across the table. A subtle acknowledgment. A quiet declaration. He chose to wear them. Not because of the holiday. Not because of expectation. But because you gave them to him.

And that, to Naoya, is reason enough.

Ryomen Sukuna: Devotion Without a Holiday

“Valentine’s Day.”

He repeats the words slowly, as if tasting something foreign on his tongue.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed when you explain it to him—about chocolates and confessions, about couples exchanging gifts, about love being celebrated openly for once instead of hidden in glances and small gestures.

He watches you the entire time. Not interrupting. Not mocking. Just watching.

“So mortals require a designated day,” he finally says, resting his chin against his knuckles, “to express devotion they should already be capable of.”

You flush slightly. “It’s not that we need it. It’s just… nice.”

“Nice,” he echoes flatly.

You shrug. “You wouldn’t get it.”

One of his brows lifts at that. “Oh?” There’s danger in that tone—but it’s the lazy, playful kind, not the catastrophic one.

You quickly wave your hands. “I mean—not that you can’t understand. Just that it’s very… human.”

He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. Human. The word hangs between you. Sukuna does not respond. And eventually, the conversation drifts elsewhere. You assume that’s the end of it.

The next day passes normally. Too normally.

He doesn’t mention it again. Doesn’t tease you. Doesn’t bring it up. You almost feel silly for explaining it at all. By evening, you’re certain he’s forgotten.

You push open your bedroom door absentmindedly—and stop. The room is dim. Not dark—but illuminated by a warm, flickering glow. Candles. Several of them. Arranged carefully along the windowsill and dresser.

And there—resting across your desk—are flowers. Not the cheap, brightly wrapped bouquets sold outside convenience stores. These are deep crimson. Velvety petals, almost unnaturally rich in color. The stems are long and unblemished, tied together with a simple dark ribbon. They don’t look purchased. They look claimed.

Your breath catches. “Sukuna?” you call softly.

There’s a shift in the air behind you—subtle, but unmistakable. He appears without sound, as if the shadows themselves shaped into him.

“You look surprised,” he says lazily.

You turn toward him slowly. “You… did this?”

He hums. “If mortals insist on dedicating a day to worship what they desire,” he says, voice smooth and unhurried, “then I will acknowledge it.”

Your eyes flick back to the flowers. “They’re beautiful,” you whisper.

“Of course they are.” He doesn’t brag. He states it as fact.

You step further into the room, fingertips brushing the petals gently. They’re cool beneath your touch. Real. Solid.

“You didn’t have to,” you murmur.

“I am aware.” There’s no embarrassment. No awkwardness. Just certainty.

When you turn back toward him, he’s already watching your expression carefully—assessing your reaction as if it matters more than he intended.

“Do humans typically respond with more enthusiasm?” he asks dryly.

You laugh softly. “No. I just… didn’t expect it.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Why.” It isn’t a question filled with insecurity. It’s curiosity. Because he does not fail at things he chooses to do.

You step closer to him. “I didn’t think you cared about things like this.”

He studies you in silence. Then—without warning—he sits back against the edge of the bed and reaches out, gripping your waist firmly and pulling you down onto his lap. The movement is effortless. Controlled. You barely have time to react before you’re settled against him, one of his arms securing you easily.

“You misunderstand,” he says quietly. His voice is lower now. Close. “I do not require a holiday to prove devotion.”

Your heartbeat stutters. His hand rests at the small of your back, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the fabric of your clothes.

“But,” he continues, “if something pleases you… I will not ignore it.”

You stare at him. There’s no sarcasm. No mockery. He means it.

“You remembered,” you say softly.

“I remember everything you say.” The statement is simple. But it lands heavily.

Your fingers slowly curl into the fabric of his robe. “I just thought you’d think it was stupid.”

“I do.” You blink.

He lifts his hand to your chin, tilting your face upward gently. “But I find your interest in it… tolerable.”

A pause. “Even endearing.” The word sounds unfamiliar coming from him. Almost foreign.

You smile. “That’s almost sweet.”

He huffs quietly. “Do not push it.” Still, his grip on you tightens slightly—protective rather than possessive. You rest your head lightly against his chest. For someone feared across centuries, his heartbeat is steady. Strong. Grounding.

“I like them,” you whisper. “The flowers.”

“I selected them myself.”

“Did you steal them?”

He smirks faintly. “They were unattended.”

You laugh under your breath. Silence settles between you—not heavy, not tense. Comfortable. Your fingers trace idle patterns along his sleeve.

“Do you know what people usually say today?” you ask gently.

He glances down at you. “No.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

He considers that. The phrase is so soft. So harmless. So human.

“And what does one respond with?”

“Usually… the same thing.”

There’s a pause. You don’t expect him to repeat it. You truly don’t. But then—his fingers tilt your chin upward again. His gaze is sharp, intense, but not cruel.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says slowly. The words sound different in his voice. Deeper. Deliberate.

Your breath catches slightly. He leans forward—and instead of claiming your lips immediately, he presses his forehead lightly against yours. The gesture is almost… gentle.

“I do not celebrate human traditions,” he murmurs. “But if it is a day dedicated to devotion… then understand something clearly.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye softly. “You do not need a date on a calendar to have mine.”

Your chest tightens. He doesn’t say “I love you.” He doesn’t frame it like a confession. Sukuna does not confess. He declares.

“You are already chosen,” he says quietly. There is something in his tone that feels ancient. Certain.

You swallow softly. “I’m glad,” you whisper.

His lips brush against yours—slow this time. Not consuming. Not overwhelming. Measured. Intentional. Like the flowers. Like the candles. Like every single deliberate action he took to recreate something he once called ridiculous—just because you had said it was nice.

When the kiss breaks, you stay close. He doesn’t let go. His hand remains steady at your waist, thumb moving slowly, as if reassuring himself you’re still there.

Outside, the candles flicker softly. Inside, he rests his chin lightly atop your head.

“You will not require another explanation of this holiday,” he says quietly.

You smile against his chest. “Why?”

“Because if you desire something,” he replies, “you will receive it.”

Your heart feels too full. Not because of flowers. Not because of candles. But because an ancient, prideful being who once scoffed at human affection chose to learn it—quietly—just for you.

And for Sukuna, that is more than romance. It is devotion. Steady. Unwavering. Timeless.

©Darkoceanne. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or claim my works as your own. My writings are not permitted for AI training, data scraping, or any similar use.

Divider: @/cursed-carmine

After a Rough Day

Geto Suguru x Gojo Satoru | Modern AU | Oneshot: 2,059 Words

Tags: Established Relationship. Long-Term Relationship. Domestic Intimacy. After Work Sex. Porn With Feelings. Porn With Plot. Emotional Intimacy. Teasing. Praise Kink. Soft Dom Geto Suguru. Needy Gojo Satoru. Top Geto Suguru. Bottom Gojo Satoru. Cuntboy Gojo Satoru. Boypussy Gojo Satoru. Fingering. Penetrative Sex. Clitoral Stimulation. Multiple Orgasms. Internal Ejaculation. Creampie. Marking (Hickeys). Messy Sex. Comfort Sex. Stress Relief. Cuddling. Mutual Love Confessions.

TW: Explicit Sexual Content. Graphic Sexual Acts. Penetration. Body Fluids. Power Play (Consensual). Teasing Despite Verbal Resistance. Exhaustion / After Work Sex. NSFW Themes—Minors DO NOT Interact! 🔞

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Gege Akutami. This work is a non-canon AU. Characters may be portrayed OOC for narrative and erotic purposes. This work depicts consensual adult sexual relationships only. No endorsement of real-world harmful behavior is intended.

Been dating since high school—almost a decade—makes them know the goods and the flaws each other have, including which parts will turn the others to squirm underneath whenever they are making out—or maybe, making love.

As for today, after having a long rough day, which is extremely exhausting—had to finished his special rank missions, giving lectures to his students, meetings as the clan head—Satoru usually just throws away his shoes near the entrance door, unbuttoning the first three of his shirt, walks towards the couch inside their living room and throws himself on it.

He will wait for Suguru to come home while he is whining and rolling his body on the couch like a sulky brat. And when Suguru opens the door, he sees the way Satoru lies down on the couch, pouting his lips as his hands spread widely—wanting to receive a hug and kisses from his lover.

Suguru is giving what he wants—pulls him into his embrace and kissing him all over his face. Not only that, Suguru also bought his favorite sweets on the way home and, of course, kikufuku, without Satoru’s knowing.

After both of them finished their dinner—Suguru’s the one cooking for them—and showered, they spent their time cuddling on their king-sized bed, being covered by a blanket to keep them warm.

Satoru loves it a lot when he snuggles against Suguru’s broad chest, sighing and purring just like a cat as Suguru’s hand rubbing his back to make him feel relaxed. He can feel the warmth and the smell of Suguru’s body. It is so intoxicating, yet so relaxing.

Suguru knows exactly that his lover is exhausted from his work, but it does not stop his tease. At first, it seems like he only wants to make Satoru’s body to relaxed. However, his hand is slowly running down Satoru’s back to his waist, squeezing it gently. He pulls him closer and gives a lot of small kisses on his neck, making Satoru feels the tingle on his skin.

“I’m tired,” Satoru says, knowing Suguru’s intention behind his innocent smile.

“I know you are.”

Suguru’s breath brushes against his skin.

Satoru’s remark is not going to stop him from kissing his neck to be more passionate. His tongue slides up and down Satoru’s skin, in a very subtle movement. Being teased like this, a soft moans escape from Satoru’s lips. Of course, he can not resist Suguru’s touch—especially since he always knows how to make him feel good.

“Mmh… Not today, Suguru…”

Still, Suguru is not going to stop. He gives more kisses on his neck, moving down slowly to his collarbone while his hand shifts from his waist, slipping under Satoru’s white t-shirt. Slowly, he rubs his stomach up to his chest, and the tip of his fingers are teasing his nipples alternately.

“Ngh… Wait I-“

No.

Suguru does not want to wait. He missed how those glossy lips of his lover’s feel. The way he shuts him up so sudden with a gentle kiss makes those bright beautiful sapphire eyes widen.

The kiss turns to be more passionate as their tongue start their battle, crashing against each other inside their mouth, kissing as if there is no tomorrow. When Satoru closes his eyes and pulls Suguru’s nape closer to deepen their kiss, Suguru takes it as a sign for them to continue making out.

However, this long haired man likes to play dirty. The hand on his lover’s chest slowly shifts downward. His fingertips gently tracing Satoru’s stomach, down to his waist, to his hips, and finally squeezing his peachy-looking ass.

So soft.

So bouncy.

And so tempting.

Suguru is not done yet. He continues downward, slipping under his shorts and gliding his middle finger between Satoru’s lips, making Satoru let out his groan as the tip of his finger reaches his clit.

Suguru growls as he feels the wetness of his cunt on his finger.

“Already this wet, baby?”

“Mmhh… It’s… It’s not like that…”

Suguru grins over his remarks. So, he glides his finger down from his clit, teasing his lips up and down, before he pushes his finger inside.

Satoru’s body seizes with pleasure. Between their kisses, a louder moan slips out from Satoru’s lips as he feels a long thick finger slides deeper inside him.

“Ah…!”

Oh, so tight.

Suguru pulls away from their kisses and watches him with uncontrolled arousal in his eyes. And Satoru can see how hungry his lover looks in front of him.

“Suguru…! What are you- ngh…!”

The way his finger moves slowly, almost too slow, makes Satoru’s body shudders and squirms—as if his cunt is begging Suguru to stop teasing him like this.

Suguru pushes one more finger inside and starts to work his fingers in and out, reveling in the erotic squelching that fills the room. He spreads his fingers before slipping in a third, thick finger. Satoru stretches around him, conforming perfectly.

He focuses on thrusting his fingers in and out with slightly increased speed, spreading them occasionally. The small sounds of pleasure that slip past Satoru’s mouth are music to his ears. When he gets a particularly strong response, he hones in on that spot.

Satoru wants more.

Satoru needs more.

Suguru whispers a praise into his ear before he kisses it and licks his earlobe with his soft, warm tongue, while his lover is looking at him with hazy eyes.

“You’re so tight. Yet, so slippery. So wet for me, baby.”

He whines as Suguru pumps his fingers into him with a slow ease—again. Groaning softly as he watches with dim eyes.

“N-not enough… Need you inside, Suguru…”

Satoru is softly grinding against his hand, letting out the prettiest whimpers and whines.

Oh, he’s being needy.

Suguru is pleased with how pliant he is in his hands, satisfied enough to pull his fingers from his tight walls.

“Didn’t you say you’re tired?”

Shit.

He feels the emptiness inside his cunt when he pulls out his fingers away. Worst, Suguru is teasing him again with his words when he knows exactly that his hole is begging for his cock to fuck him senseless.

“Your fingers… They’re not enough…”

And so, Satoru brings his hand to reach his bulge, rubbing it with his long, slender, pale fingers—as if trying to tease his lover to give in to him.

Oh, only if he knows how he looks in Suguru’s eyes.

Suguru is overcome with arousal. He pulls Satoru’s hand from his bulge, shoving down the loose band of his sweats and freeing his cock. Soon, he places a hand onto his base, while his other hand is lifting up Satoru’s thigh. He lightly tapping his leaky tip onto his cunt, causing Satoru to whine.

The tip of his cock sliding up and down his lips — refusing to give Satoru what he aches for.

As if knowing that he will not give in easily, Satoru pulls out his last card. Looking at him with his quivering lips and begging for what he wants.

“I need you inside…”

Suguru grins against him, watching his eyes closes, biting his lower lip as he presses his tip against his entrance—teasing him in the slightest.

“Hngh, please…”

Satisfied with his whines, his grin is getting wider. And slowly he pushes past his entrance.

“Ahh…!”

“Ssh… Shit. You take me so well as always, love.”

Suguru starts to move slowly, pulling out almost infinitesimally, before pushing back in. His thrusts slowly begin to become longer.

He thrusts deeply, he faintly pulls out before pushing back in. Satoru’s cunt feels so warm, clamping onto his as if he does not want to let go. And so, Suguru keeps thrusting into his hole repeatedly, while Satoru is not coherent enough to answer him, so he just nods.

Satoru gasps as the thrusts he feels inside starting to increase its pace. Also, the way Suguru lifts up his thigh higher to give him an easier access to make his thrusts go deeper, digging his hole mercilessly.

“Eungh… Too deep…!”

“Shh… Relax. Just let me do all the work, baby.”

Satoru cannot help but cry out a whiny, “S-Suguru!” when his lover change his thrusts to be shallower, but they hit a part inside of him that has his eyes rolling back into his head. Each hard thrust fucks a noise out of him.

“F-fuck, Satoru! Your pussy’s begging for my cock, huh? You’re so needy, doll.”

Satoru’s common sense is nowhere to be seen, as his lover keeps teasing his sloppy cunt with his big fat cock. It begins to clench rhythmically around the cock inside of him, attempting to entice Suguru into reaching his peak.

He growls over Satoru’s heat and passionately marks on Satoru’s neck, giving him a lot of hickeys on the surface of Satoru's soft, pale skin, as he shifts his hips, going back to fucking Satoru as deep as he can.

Satoru can only cry out his pleasure and his tears finally spill over. Suguru slides his other hand down from holding his midsection until he reaches his clit. He begins to rub it in time with his thrusts. Satoru feels a rush of warmth shoot up his spine, causing him to arch his back.

He wants to slam into Satoru’s dripping cunt over and over until he is collapse.

“Suguru, I-I… Heungh…”

Satoru gasps. He leans in and pulls Suguru into a heated kiss, teeth and tongue and muffled moans mingling as their lips collide.

“I know, love. I know.”

Suguru groans, and Satoru feels the coil in his belly start to unravel at his voice alone, deep and husky and needy all at once.

“Let it all out, doll.”

His thighs are quivering as he near his high, and the twitch of Suguru’s cock tells him he is close to follow.

“S-suguru, I… I’m close… H-hahh…”

“Ngh—shit. You’re so good for me, baby.”

Suguru thrusts him faster. His hand is rubbing Satoru’s clit in circles, mercilessly massaging it, and he cannot stop the moans that escape him.

“W-wait…! Too fast… Eunghh…!”

“Oh, fuck,” he rasps, “fuck, baby.”

He bites down on Satoru’s shoulder as he cries harder, with his hips arching up while Suguru’s cock spasming inside.

“So good for me,” Suguru praises, kissing the spot he bit.

“Come for me, baby. Let your sweet juices dripping over my cock.”

Satoru’s body is seizing up as his orgasm crashes over him, and he cums, his cunt is dripping and leaking out his sweet juices—a meager trickle of fluid escapes as his entire body quivers.

He is a complete mess. There are tears running down his face, and he is drooling. His mouth opens slightly, a thin trail of spit connecting his lips to the bed.

But Suguru has not reached his peak, yet.

“H-hahh… Fuck, you’re squeezing my cock so hard. Let me fill you with my seed, love.”

Suguru grunts, and with a few more thrusts, he is spilling his hot fluid inside, painting his walls white as Satoru chokes on a cry.

He groans as he pulls out of him. The loss of Suguru’s cock is filling him making him whimper.

“Suguru, kiss me.”

God, only if he knew how cute he is right now.

And so, Suguru does as he say by pressing his lips against Satoru’s—letting them having their heated kiss—before he pulls away and wraps one arm around to pull him closer, and sniffles the crook of Satoru’s neck.

“How’s sex after work? Do you like it?”

Satoru whines, getting all shy as his lover knows him well—that he always pents up after a rough day and needs to be released.

“It’s heaven, honey,” Satoru leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead, “I love you.”

With a satisfied smile on his face, Suguru ruffles his hair gently as he keeps Satoru in his embrace.

“I love you too, doll. Let’s do it again next time.”

©Darkoceanne. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or claim my works as your own. My writings are not permitted for AI training, data scraping, or any similar use.