#shiu fluff

you quickly roll the perfume on your neck and wrists, hurriedly checking your appearance in the bathroom mirror and inhaling deeply to prepare yourself for whatever outcome was awaiting you.

"my love, can you come here?" suguru geto calls out from his study, frustration evident in his voice.

"coming!" you hide the perfume somewhere reliable and head upstairs. when you enter his study, he's pacing, his forehead tense and tie loosened around his neck. he lights up somewhat at the sight of you, before asking, "have you seen the papers i was grading?"

you relax. "yeah, i hid them away from your..." you motion towards the three mugs on his desk, still stained with coffee from hours ago, "mess." that earns you a sheepish smile from him, and you shake your head fondly before retrieving said papers from one of his file cabinets. he sighs in relief and takes them from you, pressing a grateful kiss to your lips.

"i don't know what i'd do without you," he laughs, wrapping an arm around your neck and kissing your temple. you lean into his embrace and let him rest his chin on your head for a moment, feeling his chest rise and fall with a deep intake of breath. he tends to become more affectionate when he's under a lot of stress, and you can see a slight tremble in his hand as he places the papers on the desk behind him.

his brows furrow. "i may be caffeine-blooded right now, but do you smell different?" he asks, inhaling the scent drifting from your neck. "is this the one i bought you?"

you squirm when he lowers his head to your collarbone, his large hands resting on your lower back to steady you. leaning back, you allow him further access, while also being mindful of your own intentions.

"no, uh, this one's from the drugstore." geto starts to push your hair behind your ear and nibble at your adam's apple, your hands finding leverage on his broad shoulders. "careful!" you scold when he presses you against the cabinet behind you.

he pauses his kisses to gaze up at you through his lashes, a brow raised in question of your small smile.

"what?" you feign innocence.

geto catches the glint in your eye and has a relative idea of what you've done.

"you temptress."

before coming home from work, you applied some of the perfume in your car and take one last sniff of it when you step onto the welcome mat at your front door. you kick your heels off and announce yourself, to which you hear kento nanami say, "in the living room."

throwing your bag on the floor beside your heels, you rush to your husband as fast as you can with the ache in your feet, finding him engrossed in a book with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. you throw your arms around his neck from behind with a loud exhale of breath, nuzzling your cheek into his hair.

"kentooo, i missed you so much," you whine, feeling his hands reach up to rest on yours.

his deep chuckle resonates through you. "as did i, sweetheart. i'm glad you're home safe."

you unbutton your blazer and toss it over the back of the couch before throwing yourself down beside him, snuggling into his side. nanami places his book down on the coffee table before leaning down, back bent, to kiss you. he groans into it and gently brushes your hair out of your face.

after the prolonged intimate moment, you pull away and let him tug you closer, allowing your head to fall on his shoulder.

"you smell nice," he mutters, kissing your hairline.

"thanks."

you expect him to tell you about his day, or at least about the book he's reading—as he usually does. instead, he's quiet, not uncharacteristically so, but enough for you to notice small changes like the tightening of his grip on you.

he lifts his head and looks you over. "what perfume brand is that? it's," he clears his throat, "very strong."

you pout. "a bad strong?"

"...not exactly."

nanami wraps an arm around your shoulders, humming lowly when you angle your body just so to let your legs stretch out over his lap. he begins massaging your calves and, unsubtly, glances at you every so often.

"what?"

"nothing," he responds, a little too quickly, you notice. you can tell that he's picked up on the intoxicating aspect of the scent and it makes it very hard to contain your smile.

it's silent for a moment, before nanami curses under his breath and dives in to kiss you again, catching you immensely off guard. you whimper into the notably rougher, needier kiss. he takes advantage of your released noises and slips his tongue past your lips, a kiss that was just needy now turned sloppy. hell, you feel yourself start to drool.

when you part for air, he takes his glasses off and tosses them onto the table, before leaning over you and forcing you to lay back on the couch. "i know you've done something," he rasps, "but as of right now..." he starts kissing your neck, "i don't have the sense to figure out what."

you've devised a plan on how to tempt toji fushiguro more than you already do—by rolling on the perfume you have seen people rave about online for the past month. only, you need a way to get toji to smell it without making it completely obvious as to what you're doing.

so while he's lounging on the couch, scratching his chest and staring at the tv absentmindedly, you decide to shroud your plan under the guise of making him something to snack on. you grab whatever you find in the pantry and decorate a plate with it, making it look somewhat appetising, before placing it before him on the coffee table.

the corner of his lips twitch. "you're too good to me, ma." he pulls you into his lap and pecks your lips. "thank you."

"of course. was thinking takeout for lunch. what do you think?" he hums in the affirmative and slides a hand along your waist to rest on the soft expanse of your stomach.

you lean into his chest, letting his calloused albeit comforting touch lull you into a sense of relaxation, even as the sound of gunshots ring from the tv and blast into your ears. the moment seems to draw out without him picking up on your scent, so you shift in his lap and lean slightly closer into his chest, making it seem as though you want to cuddle (which, hey, you do, but it doubles as the perfect excuse to let your aroma drift closer to him).

when he bites into a small slab of chocolate, he catches sight of your anticipatory expression from his peripheral vision. he swallows, brow raised. "these some of those viagra-chocolates, or what? you're lookin' like you wanna jump my bones."

"what—i don't wanna 'jump your bones,' toji." you roll your eyes and grab his jaw to forcibly turn his gaze back to the tv.

"so you wanna tell me why you're givin' me those eyes?"

"what eyes? can i not admire you?" you retort gently, but don't fail to notice the way his hand on your stomach pulls you closer. only then does he lean down and start sniffing consciously.

"damn," he groans. "what the hell do you have on, ma? got me scenting you 'n everything."

"nothinggg," you whine, feeling him tug you even closer so that your back presses up against his chest. you try your best to keep your attention limited to the tv, but it's growing harder to do so when he starts nipping at and kissing your neck. "i'm trying to watch, baby."

"nah, we can do that later," is all he says before pushing you flat on the couch, crawling up your body and lowering his face to yours. "think i need to investigate a little more to figure out what you're plotting."

"n—"

"if you say 'nothing' again, i will throw you over my knee."

your lady in waiting was noticeably hesitant to let you go through with this, but instead of vetoing it with more than just words, she watches you with pursed lips and underlying curiosity as you roll the perfume on your neck, wrists, and behind your ears. it wasn't as if ryomen sukuna would kill you for this—you're his wife, for heaven's sake. frankly, you were giddy at the thought of what he might do upon catching on to your little scheme.

so, later, when you're in your chambers watching sukuna loosen the tie of his robe and approach you with heavy steps, you're practically jumping out of your skin with anticipation.

"wife," he starts, voice gruff, "i expect that no mishaps disturbed your day?" the king of curses always checks up on you, but you know that if anything or anyone were to upset you, he would deal with whatever or whoever it was without you hearing of it. a formality, of sorts, that he should check up on his wife's wellbeing. a requirement, that he should deal with your concerns without burdening you.

"of course not," you insist. "a new child join the nursery today. quite the shy one, he is. poor boy didn't know a whisper of tongue."

he huffs in acknowledgement of your small predicament. one of his upper arms encircle your waist to lift you to his chest, prompting you to wrap your arms and legs around him—your usual routine after finally being able to retire to your chambers after the monotonous responsibilities that awaited the two of you daily.

one of his lower arms slides under your ass to hold you up, not that he needed the extra leverage; the arm around your waist was enough. but any excuse to have his arms around you without coming off as too clingy, he would take without so much as a hint that he enjoyed it.

it's when your head slips under his chin to rest against his collarbone does he comment. "are you experimenting with herbs again?" he grunts, sitting you in his lap once he's settled on the futon with his back against the wall.

your head tilts slightly. "no, my love. why do you ask?"

"you reek."

"how kind of you, ryomen."

"you have never known me to be kind, woman. explain yourself."

"if you must know, i have applied some incense. i only recently had it delivered from that dear old vendor in ichihime."

sukuna doesn't speak for a moment, allowing himself to be lured closer to your fragranced skin. when you feel his tongue lap at your neck experimentally, you flinch and smack his chest reproachingly.

"it is not the worst of them."

from the king of curses, that was very high praise.

and from the way his pupils dilate, you're certain he isn't going to let you off with a simple lick to your neck.

if there was one person you loved pulling this crap on, it was shiu kong. you never saw the man without his phone pressed to his ear and a cigarette dangling from in between his lips, so it made it all the more satisfying when you managed to get the jump on him and make him lose grip on his usual nonchalance.

you should be home by now, ordering takeout and binging your favourite show with your feet up, not still in the office with the man who seems to love work-life more than home-life.

"shiuuu," you call out from your own cubicle, as if you don't already know that he's taking a call and he's more likely to subconsciously tune you out than even consider that his wife may be looking for him. it's nothing personal; you're very much aware that years of working as a catalyst for murder and assassinations changes your priorities.

when you knock on his ajar door to get his attention, he glances over at you and nods, beckoning you inside with his index and middle finger. you shut the door behind you and approach his desk with measured steps, approaching him intently.

you reach up to caress his cheek, letting the perfume on your wrist waft into his nostrils, and smile (not so) innocently at him when he turns his head and kisses your palm.

the scent hits him like a dopamine hit and his voice instantly loses its clarity. he doesn't start stuttering, by any means, but his right leg starts bouncing. when he physically turns his head away from you, you know you could start trashing the place and he wouldn't say a thing—only stare at you with that intoxicated gaze of sheer want.

sighing, you round his desk to be in his line of sight again.

"no, fushiguro, you either keep this under wraps or forget about the 40mil... what? no, we can't have a celebratory dinner. i'd rather chew on a jean jacket than—"

you bat your lashes at him.

"i'll call you back."

and within the second that it takes him to hang up and toss his phone aside, shiu has launched himself on you, fuelled by the giggles of a woman who knows what she's doing to him—while he is entirely oblivious to the fact that the fog enveloping his mind is directly from the perfume he inhaled not more than a minute ago.

"you," he rasps, pawing at your waist and even further down your body, "are a problem."

"mm, is that what you call me now?"

"oh, shut it," he practically growls, but there's anything but malice in his voice—just the deep baritones of a man overcome by desire.

hiromi higuruma was the person you were most determined needed this distraction. it was getting to a point where your dates turned into facetime calls and hour-long texting sessions, and, frankly, you wanted more. it's not to say that you were sick of it, but being with a man like higuruma meant you had needs and his attention was all you needed.

he's been cooped up in his home office for the past six hours, leaving only to go to the bathroom or check up on you (which consisted of him asking, "what are you up to, darling?", kissing your cheek, then heading back up to continue his hermit-ing). is it really so out of the ordinary for you to crave more?

no. so you do something about it.

besides you, coffee is the one thing higuruma would invite as a distraction; if the eight empty mugs on his desk were anything to go by. so, you deliver your gorgeous self with a fresh brew to his office door. you knock, just in case he's taking a call, and enter when he calls you in.

he's tired, that much is clear, but he's reserved enough strength to smile softly as you approach him.

"hi, my love. thought i'd bring you another. and clean all this," you say, picking up the dirty mugs and placing them by the window.

"no need. i'll wash them myself," he insists, humming lowly when you stand near him again, this time enough to stroke a hand through his hair.

but, when you first lift your hand to do so, the perfume on your wrist permeates the air and wriggles into the radius of his senses.

"new fragrance?"

"mhm. you like?"

he inhales deeply, and you take that as a hard yes. "yeah. amber musk?"

you grin. "something like that."

higuruma, for all his assertiveness, grabs your hand tenderly, enough to make you miss him despite the skin-to-skin contact. he presses it to his cheek but turns his head just so that he may lavish your palm with kisses (and perhaps breathe in your new scent like it's oxygen).

"it's... really nice," he breathes out, practically gasping at the reprieve you've given him. "forgive me—just let me feel you."

and you do, all the while leaning against the edge of his desk and blood heating at his touch. hell, you intended for this to happen; you're not about to close the door in your own face. you need this as much as he does.

he practically falls into a state of delirium as he kisses every sliver of skin he detects, his breath laboured and hot on your flesh. it's enough of a rush to know that you bring this man to his knees—literally and figuratively—let alone feel him touch you almost reverently.

"work's tough, huh?"

he groans into the plush skin of your stomach. that's also a hard yes.

"you smell so good, my love. i think i can go another six hours just off the scent of you alone."

"let me help you with that, then," you whisper, and that's all the encouragement he needs to loosen his tie and let himself get lost in you.

the biggest difficulty of pulling this off was getting choso kamo off your back for longer than a minute to spritz your pulse points with the new perfume you just had delivered. you'd be damned if you weren't going to engage with the newest trend flooding your socials, especially when this one was actually good.

"baby, what's that smell?" choso calls out from the bedroom.

you shove the small bottle into one of the bathroom cabinets and try to slow your steps as you walk back into the bedroom with a small smile. "just some perfume, baby. i like applying some before bed, remember?"

"i remember, but this one smells different. a-a good different," he quickly emphasises.

choso looks so stiff, not making any effort to get into the bed he so carefully prepared for the night, and confines his attention to you and—gosh—that sweet scent.

"you okay?" you ask, lifting the covers and slipping into bed, prompting him to finally do the same as if you snapped your fingers in his entranced face.

"yeah, i'm alright. i'm... i'm okay."

he assumes his usual sleeping position, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing his front to your back. all the better for him to catch on, you muse. and if he doesn't, i'm reporting the video that inspired me to do this crap.

a prolonged pause then nips at your nerves, a stark contrast to the nightly and practically autonomous mumbles of "good night," "i love you," and "sleep well." the silence is so thick that it settles behind your eyes and makes it impossible to even consider falling asleep.

but, it's not that choso hasn't noticed. no, the poor man is drowning in your scent, so unsure of how to comment on it without making it seem as though it's bothering him—even though it is, a lot.

"b-baby?" he whispers into your hair.

"hm?"

"you smell really nice. it's... making me restless."

you smile tiredly. "i can tell. do you need help?"

though it's dark and your back is turned so you cannot see it, his eyes widen slightly. "you mean...?"

"mhm. i don't mind staying up another hour."

he sits up. "can we make it two?"

"don't push it."

"mmm, okay, sorry."

okkotsu yuta is always more than happy to oblige your hobbies, your cravings, even. he doesn't see temper loss as an option with you, not because he has to suppress the urge to snap, but because he cannot find it within the darkest depths of his soul to direct his frustration at you—and you've seen him mad. just never at you.

that's why you don't have to worry about pulling something like this. the man is already infatuated with you, this whole thing was entirely unnecessary. but when did you ever do these things out of necessity?

"hey, honey? can you come here for a sec?"

yuta is in the kitchen within seconds, already approaching you from behind. "i'm here, dove. what d'ya need?"

he just sounds happy to be there, to be of any assistance to you, and you're more than geeked at the reality prospect of having him follow you around for the rest of his days.

"can you grab those cookies for me?" you pout, while making absolutely zero effort to reach for them.

he looks up at the open cabinet, then back down at you. "you've never had a problem before. did you hurt your arm? let me see—"

"no, honey," you interject, laughing breathily. "just not bothered."

he nods like that's a completely acceptable excuse—you won't let anyone tell you that it's not—and reaches for the plastic box before placing it on the counter in front of you. "there."

you hum in satisfaction and take a cookie, bringing it up to his lips. "try them. they're new."

your wrist brushes against his chin and the underside of his nose. it gives him very brief pause, but then he's biting into the baked good as if nothing is amiss. you notice the subtle hitch in his breath when he inhales and almost groan in annoyance when he does little more.

"they're a little too sweet for my liking," he notes out loud.

with a doubtful look, you say, "they're only sweetened with coconut oil and dark chocolate."

he purses his lips in consideration, brows furrowed. "are you sure? where's all the sweetness from then?"

"external, ahem, sources."

your wrist manages to sway past his nose again, and that's when he registers that you not only smell of musk, but have an aroma that would make a lesser mammal believe you are the embodiment of a baked good.

"i might need to start calling you honey," he murmurs, now delving his head into the crook of your neck, where he gets another gust of that luscious scent.

you snort. "you're so corny."

"i am... something that rhymes with that, yeah." he smiles sheepishly.

he was in the living room in three strides, socks sliding on the hardwood floor, heart climbing up his throat.

and there you were.

curled into the corner of the couch, shoulders slumped forward, your face buried halfway into a muslin cloth while your other hand patted the baby's back rhythmically. his tiny fists balled at your collar, his mouth open in a high, wet cry, his face flushed red from too much emotion for such a tiny body. your eyes flicked up at the sound of movement—eyes bloodshot, lashes clumped from tears, exhaustion weighing so heavily on your expression that gojo actually forgot how to breathe.

“baby…” he said, voice cracking into something terribly soft.

“it’s okay,” you muttered, half-asleep, half-defeated, not looking at him as much as through him, “he just won’t settle. he’s been like this for hours, satoru. i don’t know what’s wrong. i’ve tried everything, i…”

and it broke him. it just cracked something wide open in his chest.

gojo didn’t waste a second. he was already crouching in front of you, taking the baby gently from your arms with a murmured “shh, c’mere, little man, let daddy handle this, yeah?” and once the baby was nestled into the crook of his elbow, he used his free hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing across your skin with a heartbreaking softness.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispered. “i should’ve come home earlier, i should’ve—fuck, you look so tired, babe. my sweet girl…”

you didn’t cry, not really, but the way you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch—like you’d been holding yourself together for hours and now that he was here, you could finally, finally drop it—that made his throat go tight.

“go rest,” he said, kissing your temple as he rocked the baby lightly. “go lie down. take a bath. sleep. i’ve got him now. i’ve got both of you, okay?”

you didn’t argue. didn’t even try. just nodded wordlessly and let him help you stand, his hand lingering at the small of your back as he kissed the top of your head. you shuffled off toward the bedroom, shoulders drooping, the faintest whisper of “thank you” floating behind you.

gojo watched you go, baby still squirming against his chest, and swore quietly to himself.

“you’re killin’ mommy, huh?” he murmured to the baby, lifting him up so their noses touched. “you little devil in disguise. you wanna fight your old man or what?”

his son blinked up at him, let out another pitiful sob, and kicked his legs.

“alright, alright,” gojo sighed, smile softening as he started to bounce him lightly. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

it took nearly forty minutes of walking in slow circles, humming a disjointed melody of whatever came to mind—“jingle bells,” then “moon river,” then the opening theme of some random anime he watched in college—but eventually, the baby began to settle. the hiccuping cries softened into sniffles, which turned into yawns, and then silence. warm, peaceful silence.

gojo placed him gently in the bassinet, stared at him like he was made of starlight and trouble, then tiptoed out like his life depended on it.

the moment the door closed, he moved fast.

he found you already lying on your side in bed, curled in on yourself, eyes closed but not quite asleep. your face still held the remnants of your day—exhaustion in every line, in the way your fingers twitched restlessly on the sheets.

gojo climbed in behind you without a sound, wrapping himself around you entirely, his long limbs draping over your body like a warm, weighted blanket. he kissed your nape, slow and apologetic, and whispered, “my baby.”

you hummed, barely conscious, and he didn’t stop.

“you’re such a good mom, you know that?” he murmured, nuzzling your hair. “like, ridiculously good. you were already the love of my life when all you did was exist and make fun of me, and now you’re out here being amazing and raising our tiny little loud gremlin and looking like that?”

he sighed dramatically, arms squeezing tighter around you.

“how did i get this lucky? how did i manage to trick you into marrying me, huh?”

you chuckled sleepily, and he felt it against his chest like the sun breaking through a cloud.

“you kept buying me coffee and saying i looked hot when i was pissed,” you mumbled.

gojo grinned into your skin. “and it worked. legendary. iconic. a true menace to society. god, you’re perfect.”

you laughed again, a little clearer this time, and he kissed the corner of your jaw.

“i’m sorry again,” he whispered, sobering just a little. “i hate that i missed today. i hate that you had to handle it all on your own. i know this isn’t what we pictured. you being home, me always working. but i swear to you, i’m trying. and i’ll do better.”

your hand reached back to tangle with his.

“i know, satoru.”

he stayed quiet for a moment, just breathing you in, the scent of your shampoo and skin more soothing than any lullaby.

in his head, he was still thirty one and head over heels for a girl who made fun of his sunglasses and called him dramatic. you, in your little sun dresses and oversized hoodies, rolling your eyes every time he flirted too hard in public. he still saw you like that—young and bright, his girl, his baby. now with a ring on your finger and his last name on your ID. now with a baby the two of you made from scratch.

“you’re still my girl,” he whispered suddenly, lips against your cheekbone. “even now. even with spit-up on your shirt and sleep in your eyes. i still look at you like you’re twenty-three and teasing me at the café where we met. and i still feel like i have to earn you every day.”

you turned your head slightly to look at him, eyes glossy. “satoru.”

“nope. shh. i’m being soft. let me finish.” he kissed your nose. “you’re everything to me. happy wife, happy life, right? and you—you’re my whole damn family now. so i’m gonna keep making it up to you, every day. because you deserve everything. and then some.”

you didn’t say anything this time. just turned fully in his arms, tucked your head under his chin, and let out a long, shuddering sigh as his hands ran up and down your spine.

gojo smiled against your hair, rocking you slightly like he had rocked your son earlier, murmuring nonsense and love in the same soft breath.

he knew the world could wait.

right now, this was everything.

his baby in his arms.

and his baby finally asleep.

GETO SUGURU

the living room lights were dim, the kind of quiet that lingered after hours of crying hanging in the air like fog. the minute geto opened the front door, shoulders hunched and tie loose around his neck, he knew something was off.

he didn’t even have to call out your name—he heard it first. the soft, shuddering sobs of your four-month-old echoing down the hall, worn thin and hoarse, a sound that had long passed frantic and now just begged for comfort. and beneath it, softer still, your voice—sweet, strained, cracking on the edges, like you were holding yourself together with fraying thread.

he dropped his bag by the door.

“shit,” he muttered, already moving.

his steps were quick, purposeful, the kind he used to take back when he still ran between meetings and deadlines and never had enough time. but now, with every inch closer to the nursery, his chest got heavier.

he paused at the door.

you were there, standing by the crib, arms wrapped around your son as he wailed against your chest. your hair was disheveled, your shirt stained with milk, exhaustion carved so deep into your face that geto couldn’t remember the last time you looked at peace.

your eyes met his, wide and tired.

“he won’t stop,” you whispered. “i fed him, changed him, rocked him, swaddled him again, even gave him gas drops just in case but—i don’t know. he won’t settle, suguru.”

geto’s heart cracked clean open.

he crossed the room in two steps.

“give him to me, baby,” he said gently, hands already out. “you’ve done more than enough.”

you hesitated only a second before handing your son over, your movements stiff, cautious, like your arms had gone numb. the moment he was in geto’s hold, the baby kicked and whimpered, face red and wet.

geto adjusted him with practiced ease, resting the tiny head against his shoulder, a large hand splayed across his back.

“hey, little one,” he murmured, bouncing him gently, fingers stroking the baby’s back. “what’s got you so upset tonight, huh? giving mama a hard time, yeah? we’re gonna have to talk about that.”

he felt your presence linger for a second—your hesitation to leave, the guilt you carried even though it was never yours to bear.

“go rest,” he told you without looking. “i’ll handle it. promise.”

you didn’t argue. you never did when he used that voice.

he stayed there, rocking slowly, humming whatever came to mind—some song from an old movie you once made him watch, the theme of a lullaby his mother used to sing. eventually, your son’s cries quieted, fading into sniffles, then steady breathing.

when the baby finally gave in to sleep, his little body soft and warm in geto’s arms, he let out a slow sigh, kissed the side of that tiny head, and lowered him into the crib.

“good job, buddy,” he whispered. “you win this round. but we’ll talk about that scream of yours later.”

he didn’t linger. didn’t want to risk waking him. he closed the nursery door with the same delicacy he used for flipping book pages in an old library. then turned toward the kitchen.

you were there.

standing by the stove, face still tired, but hands busy—chopping green onions on a worn cutting board, a small pot simmering beside you. your hair was pinned up lazily, loose strands curling around your temples, and your back was tense in a way that made geto want to carry you straight to bed and tuck you under every blanket in the house.

you looked up when you heard him.

“i thought you might be hungry,” you said, softly.

geto didn’t say a word.

he crossed the kitchen in four strides, came up behind you, and wrapped his arms around your waist tightly, chin resting on your shoulder as he pulled you flush against him.

“stop,” he murmured. “you should be sleeping.”

“i couldn’t. not with all that crying. and you hadn’t eaten, so i—”

“baby.” his voice dropped lower. “enough.”

you went quiet.

he turned you gently, taking the knife from your hand and placing it aside. his hands came to rest on your cheeks, thumbs brushing the lingering puffiness under your eyes, the frown on his lips so small and so pained it barely looked like him.

“you didn’t have to wait for me,” he said. “you didn’t have to make dinner. you’ve been carrying everything today. everything.”

you looked up at him, trying to smile. “i wanted to.”

“i don’t want you running yourself into the ground for me,” he whispered. “you’re not alone. you were never supposed to do this alone.”

you leaned into his palm slightly. “i just… it’s been hard lately.”

geto nodded, pulling you in slowly until his forehead pressed to yours.

“i know, sweetheart. i know. and i’m sorry.”

he closed his eyes.

“i’ve been putting work first. i keep saying it’s just one more day, one more week, but it’s not fair. not to you, not to him. i missed too much again, and you’re here picking up all the pieces, and i hate that i made you do that.”

you didn’t cry, but your silence said more than words.

he took your hand, tugging you to the small kitchen table and sitting you down, then crouched in front of you, his hands never leaving yours.

“you’re such a good mom,” he said, voice warm and firm, like he needed you to believe it. “you’re incredible. and i still see you the same way i did when you were twenty-three—barely fitting in my shirts, mouth full of sarcasm, always making me fall harder than the day before.”

your lips quirked. “that’s because i am still in your shirts.”

“exactly,” he said, grinning. “still my girl. still my baby.”

he stood slowly, leaned in to kiss your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips.

“you’ll always be my girl first,” he murmured. “even now. even if we’re older and more tired and always covered in formula. you’re still mine.”

he moved back to the stove, turned off the burner, and poured the soup into a bowl.

“let’s eat together, then go to bed. i want to hold you tonight, yeah?”

you nodded, smiling softly, eyes glassy.

geto slid into the chair beside you, bowl between you, his hand already reaching for yours again.

“happy wife,” he said, lifting your knuckles to his lips, “happy family.”

and in his heart, that was all that ever mattered.

NANAMI KENTO

the living room was bathed in a low amber glow, the kind that came from a single lamp left on too long — not for aesthetic, but for survival. the house was quiet in the way only a house full of tension could be, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. nanami stepped in with the sound of keys clinking against the front door, tie loosened, blazer draped over his arm, the weight of the world still clinging to his shoulders after another long day of meetings, reports, phone calls that never ended, and deadlines that bled past office hours — a corporate life he had resigned himself to only because it allowed you and your son to live in the kind of home he used to daydream about on lunch breaks. but the moment he stepped in, the sense that something was off hit him square in the chest, subtle but immediate.

there was no greeting. no soft hum of your voice. no baby gurgling in the distance. instead, there was a muffled sound — a tired, rhythmic patting, a breath that hitched under strain, the quietest sob of a four-month-old who had clearly exhausted himself but still refused to sleep.

nanami didn’t call out. he didn’t even set his things down. he followed the sound like it was tethered to him, like it had wrapped itself around his ribs and pulled him toward it with no room for pause.

when he reached the hallway, he saw you in the doorway to the nursery, back leaned against the wall, knees slightly bent like you hadn’t even realized you were sinking. you were holding your son against your chest, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other rubbing light circles on his back, the front of your shirt damp where his tears had soaked through, and your eyes — red-rimmed, raw with sleep deprivation and the kind of tired that reached down to the soul.

you didn’t even look at him when he stepped in.

“he won’t sleep,” you said, barely a whisper, voice cracking somewhere in the middle. “he keeps waking up. i tried everything. rocking, feeding, changing, singing. walking. everything. and every time i think he’s finally down, he screams like he’s in pain, and i don’t know what i’m doing wrong.”

nanami didn’t respond with words — he simply dropped his blazer to the floor, stepped in, and took the baby from your arms with a quiet “come here, little one.” his voice softened, gentled to the tone only you and your son ever got to hear.

the baby whimpered, hiccuped, fists clenched, face blotchy and red. nanami cradled him with effortless care, like he’d been doing it for years, his broad hands supporting the tiny frame, his chin lowering to press gently against the soft crown of hair.

“it’s alright,” he murmured, starting to sway, the kind of rhythmic movement that could lull the earth back to sleep if it tried. “daddy’s here now. you gave your mama a hard time, huh? let’s try to make it up to her.”

he didn’t have magic. not in the way that mattered. but there was something about the way he held your son — secure, warm, solid — that made the little body begin to relax, the cries softening into hiccups, then into breathy little snuffles, and finally into silence.

you watched all of it, silent, empty.

nanami kept rocking until he was sure, until your son’s eyes fluttered closed and his limbs slackened with sleep. he placed him into the bassinet with the care of a man placing a crown jewel into velvet. then turned.

and he looked at you — really looked.

you were still against the wall. still standing like you didn’t trust your own legs. and even in the half-light, he could see the toll it had taken on you. the way your shoulders had curved in defensively, your cheeks hollowed slightly from nights spent pacing instead of sleeping. you were always beautiful to him, always would be, but in that moment, he realized you were burning out.

you flinched a little when he walked over.

“you should sit,” he said, gently.

you shook your head. “i’m fine.”

“you’re not.”

“there’s still dinner—”

“no,” he said, more firmly now, his hands settling on your arms, guiding you forward. “no more. come with me.”

you didn’t resist. just let him take your hand and lead you, barefoot and dazed, into the kitchen.

and that’s when he saw it.

you’d already started prepping dinner. there was a cutting board on the counter with half-chopped vegetables, a pan heating slowly on the stove, rice in the cooker ticking its final few minutes. everything was halfway done — paused not because you forgot, but because something more urgent pulled you away.

you were still taking care of him. of this home. of him. even when you were unraveling at the seams.

nanami didn’t say anything right away. didn’t need to. he reached forward, turned off the stove, slid the cutting board away, and took the knife from your hand before you could so much as flinch.

“sit,” he said again, but softer now, almost pleading. “please, baby.”

you sat.

he crouched in front of you, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked up at you, his tie now completely undone, hair falling slightly into his eyes.

“i’m sorry,” he said, voice quiet, but heavy. “i’m sorry for leaving you alone with all of this. i told myself that it’s just a busy season at work, that i’d be able to make up for it soon. but there’s no excuse for not seeing how much it’s costing you. you don’t have to be everything. you don’t have to do this alone.”

your lip trembled, and you looked away, ashamed.

he reached for your hand.

“you’re an incredible mother,” he said. “you’re patient, gentle, strong. you’ve done more in these four months than i ever could. and i hate that i’ve made you carry it alone.”

you finally looked back at him.

“i didn’t want you to feel guilty,” you whispered. “i know you work hard for us.”

“i do,” he said, nodding, “but not harder than you. and i didn’t marry you so you could suffer alone while i chase paychecks. i married you because you’re my partner. because i love you. because i wanted a life with you. not beside you. with you.”

he stood slowly, leaned forward, and kissed your forehead, lingering there, like he could press his apology directly into your skin.

“you’re still my girl,” he murmured against your hair. “still the twenty-three-year-old who called me boring and made me laugh when i hadn’t in weeks. still the one who used to come to my office with coffee just to watch me blush when you wore short skirts.”

you huffed a quiet laugh.

“you’re still my baby,” he added. “even now. especially now. and if i have to take two weeks off work just to remind you how loved and cared for you are, i will.”

you pulled him in by the waist then, resting your head against his stomach, arms wrapping around him.

he ran a hand through your hair.

“come,” he whispered. “let’s go to bed. i’ll hold you. and tomorrow, i’ll make breakfast. we’ll take turns. we’ll figure it out.”

you nodded against him, breath finally evening out.

and in that moment, nanami made a silent vow — that no meeting, no deadline, no paycheck would ever be more important than this. than you. than the family you’d built together, even if you had to fight for it through sleepless nights and cries that refused to be soothed.

you were his happiness. his home. his baby.

and he would never let you forget it.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the house was quiet in that strange, eerie way it only ever got after hours of crying — not peaceful, not truly calm, just… drained. like the walls were still catching their breath, and everything inside them had been rung out to dry. the light in the hallway was still on, low and yellow, casting long shadows over the picture frames that lined the wall, all of them holding memories that felt so far from the version of you that now sat on the edge of the bed, cradling your daughter in trembling arms, eyes red-rimmed and heavy from another day that had slipped entirely through your fingers.

you didn’t even look up when the front door creaked open.

you already knew it was him.

toji’s steps were heavy, familiar, solid in a way that never failed to remind you he had always been like this — grounded, steady, impossible to move unless he chose to move. and tonight, you could tell, he moved quickly.

“where is she?” was all he said, voice low, barely above a breath, and not angry — just tired, concerned, tense.

you didn’t respond with words. just lifted your head, eyes glassy as they flicked toward your daughter, still sniffling weakly against your shoulder, the poor girl’s cheeks flushed and sticky with tears, tiny fists clenching around your shirt like she was afraid to let go.

“she’s been crying for hours,” you murmured, lips chapped, voice hoarse, your arms visibly trembling under the weight of it all — not just her, but the day, the stress, the endless cycle. “i don’t know what else to do.”

toji crossed the room without hesitation.

“c’mere, sweetheart,” he murmured, already reaching. his tone shifted when he spoke to her — rough edges worn smooth, low and soft like he was handling glass. he took her from your arms carefully, one big hand sliding under her bottom, the other resting against her back, and cradled her against his chest like he was made for it.

“shh, i got you. daddy’s got you now. you’ve been workin’ mama real hard, huh?”

he began to sway immediately, long steps as he rocked her back and forth, murmuring nonsense under his breath — a lullaby that had no real tune, just the hum of his deep voice and the slow rhythm of footsteps across the bedroom floor. you watched him from the bed, body limp, your arms now empty and sore, hands resting palm-up in your lap like you didn’t know what else to do with them now that they weren’t carrying your daughter.

he stayed patient.

and slowly, her breathing began to slow. the hiccups faded, the little gasps turned into sighs, and her fists relaxed, unclenching from his shirt as she finally, finally gave in to sleep.

he didn’t rush. not even then. he kept walking for a while, just in case, until her weight grew heavier in his arms and her tiny lips parted with the even breaths of deep, peaceful sleep.

only then did he ease toward her crib, lowering her in with a tenderness that surprised even you sometimes, that felt almost unreal coming from a man like him — broad, scarred, short-tempered, often seen by the world as rougher than he was worth.

but never to you.

he adjusted her blanket, tucked her little stuffed bear closer to her side, then stood still for a long moment just watching her, the faintest crease between his brows like he was still half-expecting her to wake and start screaming again.

she didn’t.

and then he turned to you.

you didn’t have the energy to speak. not even to move. your eyes were unfocused, blinking slowly, your shoulders slack, your legs curled loosely beneath you.

he crossed the room, crouched down in front of you, hands bracing on your knees.

“how long’s it been like this?” he asked, quiet.

“all day,” you said, barely managing the words. “i haven’t eaten. i haven’t showered. i didn’t even get to sit down ‘til maybe twenty minutes ago. she just kept… screaming.”

toji didn’t say anything right away. he just looked at you — really looked, in that way he did when something inside him was shifting, breaking, rearranging itself around you.

you blinked slowly, expecting a sigh or a muttered curse. maybe some offhand “should’ve called me earlier.”

but what he said instead was, “get in the bath.”

you furrowed your brow. “what?”

“bath. go. i’ll run it. you sit there and don’t move ‘til you feel human again.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off with a look — that dangerous tilt of his head, that unimpressed arch of one brow, and the way he reached for your hand like he wasn’t about to ask again.

“i’m not askin’. go.”

you sighed, tired, but nodded. “only if you sit with me.”

he smirked. “was already planning on it.”

he helped you up, his hand steady and warm in yours as he guided you to the bathroom, flicking on the soft overhead light and reaching immediately for the faucet. he tested the water like a man who did this a hundred times before, adjusted the temperature, poured a few drops of your favorite bath oil into the rising water — the lavender one you only used when you were at your wit’s end.

while the tub filled, he went back into the bedroom, returned with a fresh towel, your robe, and one of his shirts — the loose one you always stole when you wanted to feel safe.

then he reached for your clothes.

“toji—”

“let me,” he murmured, tugging at the hem of your top gently. “you took care of her all day. let me take care of you now.”

you let him.

he helped you out of your clothes like he was unwrapping something fragile, every touch slow, reverent, almost unsure like he didn’t want to break you more than you already were. when he eased you into the water, your body immediately relaxed, sinking into the warmth with a sigh that felt like it came from your bones.

you tilted your head back, eyes fluttering shut.

and then you felt the water shift.

toji stepped in behind you, fully clothed at first — gray sweatpants already damp around the calves — then sat at the edge of the tub, letting your back lean into his chest as he reached for the washcloth, soaked it, and began running it slowly over your shoulders.

“you did good today,” he murmured. “i know it didn’t feel like it. but you did.”

your eyes burned.

“i didn’t feel like i did anything right,” you said, voice wobbling. “she cried all day. i was angry. i almost yelled.”

“but you didn’t,” he said, rinsing the cloth, trailing it down your arms, slow and steady. “you held her. you stayed. you didn’t give up. that’s what matters.”

you let yourself lean into him fully now, letting his arms curl around your waist, his chest solid and warm behind you.

“you’re such a good mom,” he said, voice rough, sincere. “and you’re still my girl, even like this. even when you’re wiped out and smell like formula and look like you’re gonna pass out any second.”

you laughed, weak but genuine.

“i’ll always see you as that brat i used to pick up in tiny skirts, runnin’ her mouth, thinkin’ she could handle a man like me.”

“i did handle you,” you muttered.

“mm, still do,” he said, grinning. “that’s why you get baths and i don’t complain.”

you fell silent after that, just breathing, the warmth of the water and his hands moving gently through your hair undoing knots you didn’t even realize were there.

and for the first time that day, you let go.

because he was there. because he always would be.

your daughter was asleep.

your husband was here.

and somehow, you knew you’d be okay.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

the house was still, the kind of rare quiet that came only after hours of screaming, rocking, bouncing, pacing, pleading. it hung in the air like steam after a hot bath, like tension that hadn’t quite dissipated but was trying — trying to make room for something softer. the clock had long since slipped past midnight, and though your body had begged you to collapse somewhere, anywhere, you had stayed awake, stayed moving, stayed fighting every minute of this day that seemed to never end.

and now, finally, the only sound echoing down the hall was the soft click of the nursery door being pushed shut with a gentle finality.

you were in the living room, half-laying on the couch with your knees pulled up, head leaned against the back cushion, your hair a mess, your shirt stained with dried milk, your eyelids heavy and slow but not yet shut. your body ached, but your mind buzzed just enough to keep you from sinking. it always did after days like this — too much emotion left over, nerves frayed to the ends, heartbeat still fast even though the war was over.

the sound of his footsteps was unmistakable — deliberate, slow, not exactly quiet, but not careless either. ryomen sukuna, in all his post-midnight glory, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, eyes already on you like he’d walked in with a mission.

“she’s out,” he muttered, voice still a little gravelly from the quiet way he’d been humming to her. he never said lullaby. called it “chanting bullshit to make her shut up,” but you saw the way he looked down at her when she slept — like he was staring at a masterpiece he didn’t know how he’d created.

you gave a small, tired nod, eyes still half-lidded, voice coming out barely above a whisper. “finally…”

he walked over to where you sat and looked at you for a long moment — not just glancing, but studying, the way he always did when he was about to make some decision that would knock the air out of you. his gaze moved over your face, down your shoulders, to your legs pulled close, your fingers twitching slightly against your thigh, the soft unevenness of your breath like you were trying not to cry just because there was finally space to.

and then he let out a low exhale, the kind that always came before he shifted — from the bastard everyone else knew him as, to the man who’d been softening more and more every time he looked at you holding their daughter.

“alright,” he said, stepping forward and scooping you into his arms without warning, “up.”

you let out a startled noise, hands pressing against his chest automatically, not really resisting but confused by the suddenness of it. “what—sukuna, what are you doing?”

he didn’t answer at first, just carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing, one arm under your legs, the other behind your back, his chest warm and solid against yours.

“you’re tense,” he muttered, his tone clipped like it pissed him off just thinking about it. “you’re overworked. and your eyes look like they haven’t closed since 1998.”

“not that long ago,” you mumbled, voice sleepy. “i was a baby in 1998.”

“exactly,” he said, lips twitching into something smug and dangerous and affectionate all at once. “my baby.”

you groaned against him, letting your head fall to his shoulder. “you’re so annoying when you do that.”

“mm. and yet you’re drooling on me.”

“am not—”

but your protest died in your throat when he nudged open the bedroom door with his foot and you caught sight of the setup.

he’d already turned the lights down to their dimmest setting, the covers pulled back just enough, the bedside table glowing softly with a candle you’d forgotten he knew how to light. there was a towel folded on the corner of the bed, one of his oversized shirts — the one you liked to wear when everything else felt too tight — and a tray on the dresser with a small cup of tea and a square of chocolate, half-melted from the warmth of the room.

you blinked.

“what is this…?”

he set you down carefully on the bed, letting your legs dangle off the side, crouching in front of you to unhook your fingers from the hem of your shirt, eyes flickering up to yours.

“it’s me doing what you never ask for,” he said simply. “it’s me helping you relax. because you’re not just the mother of my child — you’re my wife, and the only person in the world who gets to be exhausted in my presence and not hide it.”

you stared at him for a moment. his face, stern as always, but the way he touched your wrist said everything else he never said aloud — said i see you, i love you, you’re breaking down and i’m not gonna let it happen on my watch.

“i didn’t even realize how much it got to me today,” you said quietly.

he hummed. “that’s why i knew it did.”

and then, without waiting for more protests, sukuna reached for the towel, dipped it into a bowl of warm water you hadn’t noticed on the dresser, and wrung it out with strong hands before pressing it gently to your face. he started with your forehead, then your cheeks, slow, methodical, almost reverent in his movements. he wiped away the dried tears, the crusted milk, the tiny flecks of mascara that had survived the day.

you didn’t speak. couldn’t. not when he was doing something so… gentle. not when the man who could level an entire city block with his bare hands was holding your face like you were something delicate and sacred.

“drink your tea,” he muttered after a moment, nodding toward the tray. “i sweetened it the way you like.”

“you… know how i like my tea?”

he gave you a look. “you think i don’t pay attention?”

“honestly? no.”

“shows what you know,” he grumbled, though his hand was sliding through your hair like he hadn’t stopped petting you since he walked in the room. “you think i don’t listen when you make that tired noise and say you need ‘exactly three spoons of honey or it’s just sadness in a cup’? i could make it in my sleep.”

you snorted, eyes closing as you sipped, the warmth settling into your bones almost instantly.

after a while, he pulled you into his lap — not just beside him, but actually on him, your legs draped over his, your face pressed into his neck, the smell of him grounding you, solid and strong. his arms wrapped around your waist, one hand resting low on your back, the other slowly stroking up and down your spine.

“i love you,” you said suddenly, muffled.

he didn’t move for a moment. then he pressed his lips to the top of your head.

“i know,” he said, voice thick.

“you’re good at this,” you whispered. “you’re a good dad. a good… husband.”

“don’t say it like that,” he muttered, a faint chuckle in his throat. “like it surprises you.”

“it does.”

“bitch.”

you laughed. then sighed.

“i feel better now.”

“you better,” he said, smirking. “i did a whole performance. bathed our kid, sang to her in a voice that would haunt the damned, made tea, wiped your face, and now i’m holding you like i’m your fuckin’ mattress. you better feel like goddamn royalty.”

“i do,” you said softly, leaning in to kiss his jaw. “i really do.”

and for the rest of the night, he kept you there — warm, safe, still — arms around you, watching your eyes flutter shut as your breathing evened out, his mind quiet for the first time all day. he didn’t sleep immediately. didn’t need to.

because you were okay now. and that meant everything was.

and if he had to carry all of it again tomorrow — the weight, the crying, the mess — he would. gladly.

because you were his. and he was yours. and for ryomen sukuna, that was the only truth that mattered.

SHIU KONG

the door clicked open at 11:17 p.m. exactly — the soft metallic sound barely audible over the high-pitched, pitiful wailing still echoing down the hall. your arms were stiff, your shirt soaked where little hands had gripped it all evening, your back aching from the way you’d been rocking back and forth on the edge of the couch for what felt like hours. no sleep. no break. not even dinner. your eyes stung from holding back tears, and every muscle in your body was locked in place like if you dared to move, your baby would cry even harder.

then the familiar sound of keys hitting the hallway table. low-heeled dress shoes against the wooden floor. and that distinct scent — expensive cologne, sharp and smoky with a hint of something warmer — that always came with him when he walked through the door past ten.

“baby?” shiu’s voice was low and smooth, but you could already hear the shift in it — from casual to worried in under a second. then came the pause, the sharp inhale. “fuck… is she still crying?”

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. you just rocked a little slower, patting your daughter’s back with a trembling hand as she cried against your chest like her whole world had collapsed.

“hey,” shiu said softly, suddenly in front of you, his jacket half-off, tie undone, kneeling between your knees with those stupidly perfect hands reaching up to cradle your face. “hey, sweetheart. look at me.”

you looked.

and that was all it took.

he saw it immediately — the weariness in your eyes, the heat of frustration beneath the exhaustion, the way your lower lip was pinched in a silent attempt to not scream or sob or both. and his heart cracked open like a cheap lock.

“oh, my baby…” he exhaled like it hurt. “why didn’t you call me? you should’ve called me.”

“i didn’t want to bother you,” you whispered, throat dry and brittle. “you were in meetings. you always say how late they run and—”

“no, no, no,” he shook his head, brushing your hair away from your temple with more gentleness than a man like him should’ve been capable of. “you’re never a bother. you hear me? not ever. i’d walk out of every boardroom in that fucking building if you told me you needed me.”

he stood quickly and plucked your daughter from your arms in one smooth, practiced motion — she kicked and wailed louder at the transition, her face red and wet, her tiny fists still swinging.

shiu didn’t even flinch.

“c’mere, c’mere,” he murmured, pressing her close to his chest, one large hand cradling her head, the other bouncing her rhythmically as he started to pace across the living room. “shhh. yeah, i know. long day, huh? mama tried everything, didn’t she? made you milk, sang to you like an angel, didn’t even stop to sit. now you’re all tired and mad, just like your dad.”

you sank into the couch like your body suddenly remembered it could. like it had permission.

he didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop whispering nonsense and praises into your daughter’s ear, until her cries slowly softened, turned into whimpers, and eventually faded into exhausted little huffs. he held her close, kissed her damp forehead, and mumbled something about how much trouble she was going to give him when she got old enough to talk back.

when he came back, he leaned over to press a kiss to your hair. “go lie down, angel. i’ll put her to sleep.”

you hesitated, but he gave you that look — the one that always said “i got it now, baby. rest.”

you did.

twenty minutes passed. the silence grew soft, golden, like the house had finally taken a breath. and then your bedroom door creaked open. slow steps. then warmth — a solid body climbing in behind you, pulling you gently into his arms, chest to your back, arm curling tight around your waist like you were something precious he thought he might lose if he didn’t hold tight enough.

“there she is,” he murmured into your hair. “my girl.”

you let out a soft hum, eyes still closed. “she’s asleep?”

“like a rock. i should’ve gotten home hours ago. i’m sorry.” his voice cracked just a little. “i should’ve been here. for her. for you.”

“you’re here now.”

“still,” he sighed, nosing into your neck, kissing the space just below your ear. “you shouldn’t have to do this alone, not even for a second. you’re a good mom. the best. the way you held her even when you were falling apart—fuck, baby, you don’t even know how strong you are.”

his words soaked into your skin, heavy and warm, like water over parched earth.

“you used to be just my girl, you know?” he whispered. “back when you were twenty-three and kept me on my knees with one look. still do. still my pretty little girlfriend in my mind, always needing her older man to spoil her, take care of her, kiss her until she forgets why she was mad.”

you laughed softly. “you’re ridiculous.”

“mm, but you love it,” he grinned against your shoulder, tightening his grip. “and now you’re the mother of my child. you gave me something i didn’t even know i was allowed to want. a family. a home. but don’t think for one second that i forgot you’re still my baby first.”

he shifted so you were facing him, your forehead pressed to his chest.

“happy wife,” he murmured, voice low and firm, like a promise. “happy family. that’s the rule now.”

you nodded, finally letting go.

and in his arms, with his heartbeat steady in your ear and the weight of his love wrapping around you like a shield, you slept — finally, deeply, without fear. and shiu kong, ceo, menace, husband, father — stayed awake just a little longer to watch you breathe, smiling to himself like he’d won the whole damn world.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

the moment the front door creaked open, the apartment already sounded like a slow unraveling — the soft, raw cries of your four-month-old daughter echoing through the narrow hallway, not sharp or angry anymore, but the pitiful kind, the kind that dragged on like a violin string pulled too tight. it was already close to midnight, and the lights were still on in the living room, dim and yellow like a streetlamp left to flicker in a fog.

hiromi stepped in quietly, shutting the door behind him with a slow exhale, shoulders slumped from another long day in court — tie loose, hair messy from raking his hand through it too many times, suit wrinkled, briefcase in hand and heart already cracking at the sound of his daughter’s cries.

he didn’t call out. he just followed the sound.

when he reached the living room, he stopped short in the doorway.

there you were — curled into the corner of the couch like a wilted flower, holding her to your chest as she cried, your hand rubbing her back in slow, tired motions. your eyes were puffy, red, glassy. your lips chapped. your hair pulled back with the same clip from this morning. the baby’s onesie was damp with tears, yours or hers or both. you hadn’t even noticed him standing there.

his heart shattered right in his chest.

“baby,” he breathed, voice cracking.

you blinked up at him slowly, too tired to flinch, to smile, to say anything at all.

“hiromi…” your voice was hoarse, barely audible.

he crossed the room in three strides and dropped everything — his briefcase, his coat, his day — onto the floor without a second thought. he sank to his knees in front of you, hands going immediately to your face, cradling it with the tenderness of someone who’d just found something precious on the edge of breaking.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispered. “i’m so fucking sorry.”

your bottom lip trembled. you couldn’t even cry anymore.

“she won’t sleep,” you managed, eyes fluttering shut as his hands brushed over your cheeks, your temples, his thumbs wiping at the tear tracks. “i don’t know what else to do. she’s been like this since six. i tried everything. and i’m just—i don’t know what else she needs.”

he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then to the space between your brows.

“you’ve done everything right,” he murmured. “you’ve been doing so much. too much. let me take her, love. let me take over now.”

you hesitated, arms tightening for just a second around the small body in your arms. but then you nodded, almost numb.

“thank you,” you whispered.

he stood, lifting her gently from your chest with practiced ease, and pressed her against his own heart. she whimpered, but didn’t scream — maybe sensing him, maybe just too tired to resist. he bounced her slowly, one hand behind her head, the other supporting her tiny bottom as he walked around the room.

“it’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered into her soft, damp hair. “daddy’s got you now. mama did everything, didn’t she? you gave her a hard time, hm? let’s get you to sleep, little mouse. come on now…”

his voice was a low hum, rhythmic and steady, and he walked with slow, even steps, swaying gently as he rocked her, murmuring soft nonsense. you watched from the couch, still half-curled into yourself, feeling your muscles relax one by one as her cries began to settle, her breath evening out against his chest.

he took his time. he always did with her. and eventually, she went quiet — the kind of quiet that only came with surrender, when sleep finally claimed her.

he slipped into the nursery, laid her down with the patience of someone handling fragile glass, and covered her with her small blanket, kissing her forehead once, twice, before straightening up and exhaling a breath he’d been holding since he got home.

then he came back to you.

you hadn’t moved. your eyes were still open, dazed and heavy, hands slack in your lap. he crouched in front of you again and looked up at you like you were the one who needed cradling now.

“my baby,” he whispered, voice thick, wrapping his arms around you suddenly, pulling you against his chest.

you buried your face in his neck with a quiet sob, the sound escaping before you could stop it.

“i’ve got you,” he said, pressing kiss after kiss into your hair, your temple, your jaw. “i’m here now. i’m sorry for working so late. i hate being away from you. i hate knowing you’re here alone, doing everything, carrying all of it.”

you just nodded against his shoulder, your hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt. your fingers were cold.

“you’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he whispered, lifting you slowly — arms hooked under your thighs and back as he carried you with ease, standing up like you weighed nothing. “you’re such a good mom. the best. you were always going to be.”

he walked slowly around the living room with you in his arms now, rocking you the same way he rocked your daughter, his cheek resting on your head.

“you’re still my girl,” he said, soft and warm. “still that gorgeous little thing i met when you were twenty-three and drove me absolutely insane. still the one who asked if i wanted to go halfsies on a bottle of wine and then made me fall in love with you by the end of the night. still my baby. and i’m gonna take care of you just like you take care of us.”

you didn’t respond, but your arms slowly curled around his neck, and your breath slowed against his skin.

“happy wife, happy family,” he murmured, smiling. “i get it now. completely. it all starts with you.”

he walked with you until your shoulders went slack, your breath steady, and he felt the weight of your sleep settle in his arms. you’d finally given in — let him carry you, let yourself rest.

and hiromi kept walking. just a little longer. just so he could hold you close and whisper thank you into the quiet, because he knew he didn’t say it enough.

The small shift makes you moan, his tip reaching higher, stiring your guts. His big, thick dick stretching out your walls out till you took each inch of him.

“Shiuuuu please, I- hnngh- haven’t done anything wrong!” Hot tears roll down your brown skin, you hiccup. Your syrupy walls clench around him making him hiss.

He puts the tobacco back to his lips, resting his chin in the crook of your shoulder. His eyes trail you, and God damn it, you’re the most beautiful person hes ever seen. His rough hand rubs at your abdomen, right where he can feel himself with a simple press of his fingers. You whimper, crying out again, gripping at his hands.

He coo’s, “Awww baby,” he brushes your curls out of your face, leaving a lingering kiss on your cheek, “you’re still not usin your words, how can I treat you right if you don’t tell me what you need, hm?”

You don’t even have the strength to fight anymore, your panting, shaking from the older man not fucking you, you whine, “Please Shiu, please make me cum, I want you to make me cum-“

You didn’t have to tell him twice, he immediately stands the two of you up, one arm wrapping around your waist, his hand wrapping around your hair and using it as leverage to plummet deep inside you.

“There you go fuckin go baby, see how easy it is- fuck- haaah- how easy it is for your old man to give you want?” He teases, groaning at the warm your snug cunt is around him, snapping his hips faster than before, arching your back further, his tip kissing your cervix with every thrust.

All you could do is moan, the pain and pleasure of it all consuming you. Your breasts bouncing with every movement, nipples getting hard. He yanks your head back, smashing his lips into yours. Giving you the sloppiest French kiss as he hits your gooy special spot inside you, making your legs tremble. The sweet sound of your skin clapping together every time he bottoms out.

His husky voice dances against your lips, “Gonna let me spoil you all I want?”

You choke on a broken sob, nodding profusely, “Uh-huh- oh fuck! Oh my god!”

“Gonna give you everything Angel, every-fucking thing.” And ruts into you with every word, harder, shattering so wonderfully around him.

Your soaking cunt pulls his cock in, clamping down and aching for it— and Shiu does gives you everything. Thick ropes of cum entering your cervix. He works it into you, making sure you get every drop you asked for.

“That’s a good girl baby.”