#sunpiece

not just about being a father. well, part of it is, yes, but deeper than that lies a fear. the kind that sits heavy in his chest and refuses to be reasoned with. the thought of losing you eclipses everything else, the thought ubearable even. sukuna won't entertain the idea any further. no mama means no baby, and he won't trade you for a child, no matter how precious.

he knows himself well enough to admit it, that he doesn't know how to love anyone more than he loves you. raising a child would demand something from him he's never had to give before. a kind of selflessness that requires letting go, it's all in or nothing and he's learned to share a life with you...how is he supposed to stretch that space further without causing some damage? without hurting you?

so you both table that conversation for another time, agreeing for now that "it's a big decision to make." and "we'll come back to it." as if it were so easy to simply pick up and set down and carry on. life resumes its usual rhythm almost too easily. sukuna goes back to training rookies, recording his podcast, slipping back into the role of being the best husband ever. and you...you soothe the baby fever by ignoring it, quieting that ache in your chest the only way you can. you stop yourself from lingering on baby names, avoid the parenting aisle at bookstores, not daring to peek at onesies and booties on sale in matching colours, folded neatly in shop windows. you pretend it doesn't tug at you, that it doesn't sit there rotting into something worse, persistent and festering, just beneath the surface.

he's been bulking up lately too, now that his diet is less strict and cutting the weight doesn't have to be as severe a process anymore. there's a fullness to him now, his frame broader, heavier in a way that feels more lived-in than sharp. fills up around his arms and torso, his muscles haven't softened, just settled. less angular, more solid. "think i should try a different weight class?" he asks offhandedly, like it's nothing. but after one glance at your unimpressed and distant expression, he lets it drop without a fight.

"do you really wish to compete again?" it comes out sharper than you intended, dangerously close to accusation, sounding more like a demand. you thought that chapter of his life was closed, so why does he speak like it's still within reach? like there's a version of the future where he's still chasing something that doesn’t include you the way you want it to. a future only made for himself, more fighting, more weight, more everything that doesn't matter, shouldn't matter.

the thought hits hard, guilt following just as quickly from questioning him. who are you to make him choose? he wasn't even serious, it's just your mind spiralling again, feeding off unresolved dilemmas and setting them aside waiting for a confirmation, waiting for something you undoubtedly want but can't have. and would a child fix anything if you're not standing on the same ground to begin with? would they flourish being raised by parents who aren't on the same page?

months pass, and neither of you bring it up again, no more mentions of the future, but the silence isn't empty, the thought never leaves. pressing in and slowly carving out space between you, forming that wedge of distance that only grows. you keep busy, fill your time with work, with chores, with anything that keeps your mind from wandering. you stay on your side of the bed, putting sex on a pause indefinitely and letting intimacy fall away without ever addressing it. "are we good?" he asks, despite knowing the answer, and you nod, not turning his way and tucking yourself deeper under the covers. eventually, the idea dulls, hidden away beneath the weight of everything else life throws at you, you're so close to forgetting about it altogether.

until sukuna steps through your front door with a surprise.

it's small, curled up in his hand. a sleeping pitbull, all soft breaths and warm weight. "he was at the gym this morning," he says simply, like that explains everything. but you see the eagerness in his eyes, almost boyish, with the urge to hold it close. the dog stirs at the sound of his voice, nudging closer, tongue flicking out to lap at his cheek, and sukuna, of all people, leans into it.

there's an urge to pry further, why did he suddenly take pity on a stray animal and decided to bring it home? why does he make decisions so rashly, did he consider your thoughts? "we can't," you start, already thinking of the time, the effort, the responsibility, "we're both busy and...it's a dog." that should be enough reason. but sukuna's not listening, at least not right now when he's lying there on the floor watching the lump of grey, like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. his head tilts slightly when it whimpers, his expression soft in a way you've rarely witnessed.

and it's easy to fall for the pup, but not as completely as sukuna does. the man spends all his time with him, going on walks, prepping his meals—these incredible slow-feeder bowls filled with meat, vitamins, fruit, and grains, a dog never had better—fully embracing the pet parent life, he watches over him with the same attentiveness he once reserved just for you, maybe still does, just…shared now.

"his coat is so shiny," he says one evening, swiping through pictures on his phone, pride slipping into his voice like it belongs there. you don't say it out loud, but your chest twists at the sight, at the ease of it. how naturally he slips into care, the sight of it that looks so close to what you once imagined for the two of you. he wakes up earlier now, well, earlier than he's used to, just to take the dog out, the two of them jogging side by side. keeps a towel by the door to wipe his paws clean, muttering under his breath when he wriggles too much, "oi, you're gonna leave tracks and daddy doesn't wanna clean it up." you catch him once, half-asleep on the couch with the pup sprawled across his chest, one large hand resting protectively over its small body like it might disappear if he lets go.

it's not the same, you remind yourself. this is simpler, something he can manage, something that won't take you away from him. but when you watch him kneel on the floor coaxing the dog to eat, voice low and patient, you wonder if this is what he meant when he said he wasn't ready. not incapable, not unwilling, just afraid of loving something that might ask him to survive losing you.

"he needs a name," you say one night, standing in the kitchen while sukuna measures out food with surprising precision. he pauses, glances up at you, and there's something tentative in his expression, like he's waiting for you to take this from him or shut it down entirely.

"thought we could pick one together," he replies, voice lower than usual. together. the word settles between you, fragile, unfamiliar in the way it hasn't been for months.

you hum, pretending to think it over longer than you need to. "as long as it's not dumb," you warn lightly, though there's no real bite behind it. sukuna scoffs, like the idea offends him, but there's a small shift in his posture. shoulders loosening, muscles easing. later, the two of you sit side by side on the couch, tossing names back and forth, some serious, some not, while the dog stumbles between you, clumsy and curious, pressing into whichever hand is closest.

it's not a fix. you know that. whatever sits unresolved hasn't disappeared, but this feels like a step, even if it's a small one. a moment shared again, a hurt tended to together instead of avoided. sukuna leans back against the couch, watching you as you scratch behind the dog's ears, your laughter softer than it's been in a while. his gaze lingers, steady, like he's memorising it. and when the dog finally settles, curled up between the both of you, sukuna's hand finds yours without much thought. his fingers slotting into the spaces between yours, curling in firm, reminding himself you're still here and it's enough. you're enough.

it happens unexpectedly, a year later, there in the privacy of your home on what had been a seemingly ordinary day. you pace the length of the bathroom, bare feet cold against tile, waiting for the results on three separate pregnancy test sticks lined up on the counter. different brands, different promises of accuracy, but all meant to tell you the same thing—hopefully. you can't afford to be uncertain at this point. not now, not when your heart is suspended by a single, fraying fiber, ready to give way at any moment. every second stretches, thick and suffocating, your hands hovering uselessly at your sides like you're afraid to touch anything, to disturb the outcome before it's ready.

you won't say it was the heavy rain that night that drove you to seek him out, that it flooded the streets and turned the city cold, gave you an excuse to stay in, stay close. or the fact that it had been awhile because distance had settled between you in ways neither of you fully knew how to undo. but you remember the way he looked at you, really looked, like he hadn't in months. the way his hand cupped your face, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was relearning you, the woman he refused to lose. thumbs brushing your cheeks, your lips, feeling nothing but skin and softness. there was no rush to it, no careless urgency. just the warmth of choosing each other again.

the two of you come to realize, sometime in the middle of it all—in the way your bodies find each other again, like they remember what your minds tried to forget. in the press of his lips against yours, in the broken sounds he exhales into your neck, in the way your name slips from him like it's something he's been holding back for far too long—that you missed each other. deeply, achingly so. there's no talk of babies, no careful conversations about the future, but the way his hand drifts to your lower belly, resting there with a tenderness that feels almost reverent, says more than either of you dare to.

slow and sensuous he moves, wanting to commit it to memory, like he intended to make it special. like this was the moment that changed everything. it's not just about want, but meaning. about making something out of the space that had grown between you. there's a devotion in the way he touches you, his hands roam without rush, lingering on the parts he knows so well, your waist, your hips, the curve of your stomach, grasping, holding, like he needs to remind himself that you're still his, still here.

and you feel it too, the passing of time written all over his body. the ink of his tattoos slightly faded, like sun-worn memories stretched across his skin. the weight of him different now. heavier, heftier in a way that makes you feel held in the most secure of ways, you relish in being buried under. the small things haven't gone unnoticed, the way he's changed, you don't mind any of it, not when it's him. you press yourself into him without hesitation, breathing him in like something familiar and long missed, like something you never stopped needing.

and you love the feel. it's always nice when he finishes inside you, so hot and copious, each pump of his hips fucking you through the comedown. but this time, he works each load into you with purpose and you milk his cock for every drop, squeezing down and lifting your hips closer for more. sukuna doesn't stop, doesn't pull out, not even after the second, third time he's released inside you, after the point where most would slow, catch their breath, and let the moment settle. instead, he grips you tighter, pulls you in closer, thrusting and thrusting like he's got all the time in the world and yet, too much wasted on not giving you exactly this. almost urgent, desperate even, to make up for it. sukuna has been denied for too long and refuses to let it end just yet.

there's only so much of you, so much you can take, and despite the years and familiarity that has grown, the countless times you've fucked and done...this together, taking your time, setting the pace, where kisses and touches take precedence, where he doesn't say the dirty things, only the things he truly means "let's make a baby," he whispers, voice rough but the words are edged with the certainty you've been waiting to hear. his hand finds yours, pressing it against his heart, as if he needs you to feel that he's finally ready to start a family with you.

"why now?" you ask, needing to hear it, needing an answer that's steadier than your doubts and the way your heart is about to implode, not from joy, but that this was everything you wanted come true but you'd wish he'd want it too.

sukuna's hand comes up, rough thumb brushing against your cheek, slower than usual, like he's choosing his next words with care, bearing his true feelings to you, "i don't want to be afraid anymore," he says voice low, intimate in a way that makes your eyes brim with tears, a sudden wave of love for him sprouting from deep within you chest. there's a pause, his gaze softening as it lingers on you, "if it's with you, i'm ready for whatever comes after."

you nod wordlessly as the tears begin to run down your cheek. sukuna who might be in a loving mood, still indulges in a bit of filth, choosing to lean in and lick your tears. you chuckle at that, then smile as you feel his heartbeat thumping loud, hard, beating fast in his chest. wondering if you'll ever get used to the way he loves you, all-consuming, all-encompassing. too much and yet never enough at the same time.

it had been so different after too, just two people relishing the silence. "a baby..." he murmurs, arm heavy around you, your cheek pressed to his chest, a little fuzzy now that he's stopped shaving it, the steady rise and fall beneath you grounding in a way you hadn’t realised you needed, "i hope they're just like you." his fingers traced absent patterns along your spine, fingertips lingering like he needed that bit of contact still, like he needed the reassurance of you there beneath his hands. you remember thinking, faintly, that even if nothing changed, even if the future stayed uncertain, this was worth holding onto.

but now, your mind slips toward the worst thoughts. what if you can't do this, what if the answer waiting for you isn't the one you've been quietly hoping for, what if...he changes his mind? the questions come too fast, too sharp, until they blur together into something overwhelming.

and when you finally force yourself to look, to step closer, your eyes focus on the thin lines that will decide everything. heart pounding so loudly it drowns out every other thought, every doubt, every fear you've buried over the past year. and beneath it all, there's a fragile, blooming hope you're almost too afraid to pay attention to. for a moment, you hesitate, caught between wanting to know and wanting to stay exactly here, in this fragile space where anything is still possible.

the world doesn't end, doesn't shatter or split open the way you thought it might, but it shifts, all in a second. your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale, vision blurring before you even realise you're crying, fresh tears streaming down without resistance. your hand comes up instinctively to cover your mouth, like you can hold the moment in, like you might break it if you breathe too hard. it's there, repeated three times over and giving you no doubt to what it means. pregnant, it reads, undeniable.

your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach, pressing lightly, as if you might feel something already, as if the change has already begun. and maybe it does, maybe it always would have, because standing here, heart racing and aching all at once, you realise this isn't fear anymore when it feels a lot like the beginning.

the baby arrives soon, and when they do, it still feels like a miracle you weren't quite prepared to hold. loved instantly, fiercely, in that way that leaves you breathless. how is it possible that your baby knows their kicks before kanji, before they know anything else, before words, before meaning. before even the shape of the world, waddling unsteadily toward sukuna with determined little steps, tiny fists raised like they've already decided he's something to conquer. it must be genetics, you think, because they'd been just as restless before they were even here—soft, muffled thumps against his open palm resting over your warm, stretched belly—like they were reaching for him long before they ever saw him.

gojo shrugs as he thinks about it. placing his sunglasses atop his head to get a better view. he remembers the shoot well. your first cover for a major publication, cementing you as one of fashion's finest. such an air about you and the way you command a set with just one look, exuding an untouchable aura with every pose and facial expression you make, always getting your way and never settling for less.

the message was clear—everyone wants a piece of you and gojo can't help but keep them all in their place. 'go on, do your thing,' he whispered when instructed to pose next to you. a couple shot for the fans. still, this was your moment and he'd only be an accessory, a pedestal for you to step on.

you thought he was being touchy, holding onto your waist with hands gently stroking the base of your spine. "quit messing around," you said, feigning sternness with your back turned from all the envious eyes and petty whispers. the camera flashes and flashes, you're unaware that he looks right down the lens with a possessive, dark gaze over your shoulder. he doesn't just make a statement but offers himself to you. 'you can have her, but never like this,' permanently preserved and living forever in those spreads.

and now on a giant screen as geto pulls his phone out to snap a picture, posting it to his story with no hashtags or stickers. just three broken heart emojis he types knowing it's the thing that'll get you to laugh, make you melt, and gojo's so close to breaking his phone in half. what a flirt. scanning suguru from the corner of his eye, he's unsure if he should just come out with the truth. would he be able to understand what it's like?

satoru's the only person who seems to be on the other side of the line drawn in the sand. the one you push away. he gets that you're protecting yourself from him, the guy who's got issues and is incapable of being in a serious relationship. it hurts to pine and mope but he swallows his pride and bubbling distaste on his tongue before answering geto's question, "we're just friends." face cringing when he hears it because 'you're not the kind of man i would want,' you said, and how easy it was for you to say it. you held his heart in your hands and did the one possible thing to break it.

he's a fool to keep coming back, to have agreed to this ruse in the first place. it's why geto shoots him a sympathetic smile, as if satoru couldn't be any more revealing of his feelings. to be with the most beautiful girl in the world is unknown to him but it's starting to feel like everything he's ever wanted.

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gojo stumbles upon you at a fitting a week later in a lingerie store. the kind with plush velvet carpets and scone lighting. he's frequented here multiple times looking for gifts or whatever else money can buy because it's never too much, sometimes he even gets a discount. it helps that he knows the staff by name and they know he's got a thing for baby blues and lavender.

he's here for a few minutes to order a custom piece—off-the-rack options won't do—only to find the place empty save for two sales assistants and a woman he recognises instantly. "hey trouble," he calls, "you'll kill a man looking that good." he would know since he felt his heart stop just then and the other many times he's watched you get dressed.

your lips turn up instantly at the sound of his voice, a dip felt in your stomach when you see him appear from behind you. "careful, you might be next," you reply teasingly, placing different lingerie sets in front of your body to see which looks best. your teddy hangs loose and drapes across your curves enticingly. gojo's eyes linger on the strap that falls from your shoulder down to the hem stopping by your knee.

"ain't that right," he mutters under his breath, and he wouldn't mind. believes you'd be there waiting in heaven. all shall worship on bruised knees and sing praises, why be on his best behaviour if not for a glimpse of you standing by a mirror wearing nothing but skin and silk.

he sits by the ottoman and you see him get comfortable in your reflection. spreading his legs wide while perching an elbow against the backrest. you'd roll your eyes at his cocky display if he didn't look so good while at it. must've been in a meeting judging by his fancy watch, suit pressed to perfection, hair moussed and tucked away from his temples, a delicate strand falls with a relaxed sigh when he sits back—satoru intends to stay.

you move into a fitting room then, bringing along a white and cornflower blue number. floral pattern sewn into the cups with a ruffled lace garter to match. after a few minutes, the curtains pull back and a woman steps forward to help latch the suspenders, but you politely decline the help. they bow before removing themselves instantly and something about the gesture turns him on so much he has to force his erection away.

he likes how much of a perfectionist you are. the moment a garment is fitted onto you, a whole new woman appears. you stand tall with eyes examining, scrutinizing every inch. it's only because you know how clothes should look on you, how they fit and feel, visions and ideals can only go so far without your input. model or not, as the sole owner of your body, the finishing touches and adjustments can only be done by your hand and no one else's.

"you may leave," you wave him away because his gaze is boring holes into your figure, "unless you can find a way to be of use." bending over, you clasp the suspenders onto sheer stockings. giving him a full view of a shapely ass and soft thighs. he's yet to get a full-picture view but as he zeroes in on the hosiery—the parts that dig into your flesh, delicious muffin top pudge that bulges out a little over the waistband—he bites his lip in excitement.

gojo gets up and motions towards the staff for some privacy, "is that an offer?" he smirks, making those few languid steps closer to the platform, his expression akin to a kid in a candy store, so excited he doesn't know where to start.

you notice his towering height and broad shoulders in your reflection. how small you looked in comparison before reminding yourself it's just an illusion. don't fall for it, don't start getting attached. the image might seem tempting, but no one actually believes he's dating you when you're the biggest person in a room. especially when surrounded by size twos and under. lifting your chin up, you intend to shoo him away again, brushing off the sight, the ridiculous pair you make. but the contrast feels...right. he's not intimidated or insulted by your curves, the angles and planes of him are complementary even.

with less than an inch between you, the back of his hand trails down your skin. cool to the touch, he's greeted by rising goosebumps and shivers. looping a finger in the side of your panties while caressing the material between thumb and index he says in a low voice, "i like these..." sounding dazed and deliciously smooth.

"of course you do," you scoff, "i always knew you were a perv." you say it as a joke, although a part of you wonders if his reputation precedes him. if he were really a freak in the sheets, a womanizing playboy holding a laundry list of kinks and perversions. you don't want to think about the number of pieces he's 'liked' and felt between his fingers, you've seen the gifts he's given to your fellow colleagues and shouldn't dive too deep into this particular side of him.

"you have no idea," he breathes out, placing his chin upon your shoulder, lips pressed so close to your ear, you feel his warm breath whisper, "i could be a perv if you wanted me to," offering like he usually does. always hoping for the day he finally gets to peel the lingerie off with these hands, sans control or restraint. his relentless persistence will be the death of you but his reply rings in your ear and settles somewhere deep inside, fluttering and flittering about like butterflies.

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that night you post a selfie taken from the view of your ceiling mirror, tousled sheets and messy hair spread over your pillow, lips curved in a teasing smile. the latest addition to your closet fits snugly to your body but is hidden purposefully, teasingly, by the thin percale of your sheets. leaving just enough to the imagination. tagging it with his username before writing a sweet 'thank you baby <3' in the caption.

you couldn't be more obvious with wanting his attention, but what's a girl to do when gojo's paid a pretty sum. it would be rude not to thank him. plus, the more 'fake-relationship' content there is to consume, the better. all is well and going to plan.

however, you lie in bed the next few minutes feeling restless. a prickling all over your skin while waiting in anticipation for his reaction. gojo's never been quiet or shy when it comes to gushing over you, not excessively, just that he's always made you feel beautiful, always the first person leaving a flirty comment and double-tapping on every post.

your heart speeds up when his name appears on your ringing phone screen, buzzing away. "liking the post would have sufficed," you say after hearing him groan in place of voicing his disapproval.

"y'know, as your boyfriend, some things should only be meant for my eyes," he sounds so pouty and petulant, his jealousy is evident. seeing you pose for the rest of the world makes him want you even more. he knows he's being possessive and there's no place for that here. thinks you don't notice, or maybe he wants you to, but you correct him before the growing gratification gets to your head.

"fake boyfriend," you reply, "and it's good publicity, people wanna see us being gross and in love." if it were any other person playing house with you, you'd admit the sentiment wouldn't be the same. truth is, no one wants to see public displays of love, least of all you. it's only because gojo satoru happens to be the person you're involved with, a god among men. the one everyone wants. you two make an odd pair, one for people to fawn and fuss over. that the story is what people are drawn to—the wealthy, attractive, sociable man who could have any woman he wants, settles for the fat girl. it doesn't make sense, it shouldn't be right, and yet...

"no fairrr," he whines, "i call you my real girlfriend all the time!" emphasis on real because he's still trying after all these years. after countless 'we can't be more than friends' conversations. there's a thudding sound in the background and you picture him plopping himself onto his bed. already tired and worn out from the day but it's nice to know he'll put off sleep for a call.

so you put the teasing on pause for tonight, he should be whisked off to slumber feeling like he's on top of the world, "would it make you feel better if i sent you the other pictures?" you mean the ones that were definitely too raunchy and revealing. they're unedited, unpolished, but those are the kinds satoru likes the most.

not the best idea if keeping boundaries is a concern. you should know better than to tempt him. giving him special treatment and feeding him out of the palm of your hand is exactly what he wants, a few treats to thank him for his efforts. "it would make me the happiest man on earth," he replies. shit-eating grin so obvious you hear it in the curl of his syllables.

"that's all it takes?" you chuckle, sending him two to three shots you've taken. breasts, thighs, and ass exposed this time. there's a silent pause, you think he's just taking the time to admire you, in awe of what is now his favourite piece of lingerie. only because you wear it so well.

he could tell you the truth of how he feels again, that he wants what you can't give, but his reply is exhaled alongside a sigh and the utmost sincerity, "i'm not difficult to please," 'not when it comes to you,' he leaves to himself, choosing the safer route instead. after all, you deserve a good night's rest without the awkwardness, the confrontation isn't worth your displeasure and neither is the risk of losing you because of it.

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gojo's already in a bad mood when he meets you on your next date.

waiting in your apartment lobby, he's dressed down for the occasion but satoru isn't one for flair, says he prefers to let you shine. although the too-expensive knit sweater sets him apart from everyone else, not by looks but by feel. angora laid over his body accentuating his perfect frame.

his expression is flat and growing ever displeased when his eyes lock in on your bodyguard behind you as you exit the elevator. freezing still when he catches the scarred smirk lifting onto toji's lips that is hidden from your view.

"he's not coming with us," gojo points out. toji's aware just how much gojo hates him lingering around, getting a kick out of annoying him. it's date night, he wishes to assert. time just for the two of you, like how it's always been. he wants to take you out, show you off, spoil you rotten, and maybe with a little luck and much effort, it'll earn him a kiss at the end of the night. toji has no place in that equation.

you roll your eyes, cautioning gojo yet again that "we've talked about this, toji's got a job to do." it irks gojo even more knowing the two of you are on a first-name basis. his fist and jaw both clench in frustration.

"a job he sucks at," he retorts, not at all ashamed of his obvious pettiness. toji's built for security, large and intimidating, but somehow lacking in every other criterion. the one time your bodyguard made a slip-up at a nightclub and gojo's been on his case ever since. 'he got drunk on the job? totally not a big deal at all! say, you should be thanking me y'kno, you could've been swarmed by people, maybe even crushed by fans if it weren't for me!' gojo had said in a chirpy voice, his admonishment hidden beneath thinly-veiled sarcasm.

he's still ticked off about that incident and you breathe out a heavy sigh, not wanting to fight satoru on this never-ending tiff. to add salt to the wound, toji leans down to whisper in your ear, "this guy bothering you?" just loud enough for gojo to hear. "i could escort him out the building." he knows toji's doing it on purpose, looking to tease him.

gojo simply dishes out his favourite line, one that tends to work when he needs to shut shit down, "i own the building!" well, technically gojo's family owns the building. more like they own everything if you recall. less of a family when conglomerate is a better term. art, tech, real estate...this apartment building is just one of many properties they've developed in the city. not to mention where fashion is concerned, they own the media agencies, publishing houses, and retail stores—designer, department, and discount—to name a few.

so much money and power in satoru's hands and yet toji's managed to get a rise out of him just by being next to you, even if by obligation, by employment, he's gained your favour. it's a victory gojo's been battling for since he met you. toji even gives him one of those self-satisfied grins, smacking on his gum and leaning back, hands lazily perched on his tactical vest. what is he doing wearing that obnoxious thing anyway? such overkill.

you try to hold back a laugh at gojo's petulance, choosing instead to dismiss toji for the night, handing him some cash, "here, get something nice to eat, i'll be fine."

toji shrugs, "suit yourself, you're in good hands, miss." accepting the money and leaving, but not before he pats gojo on the shoulder, as if to say 'no hard feelings'.

gojo watches him walk out into the night, feeling the warmth of your hand on his cheek bringing his gaze back to you. "now that he's gone, wanna take me to dinner?" your arms curl around his neck which is only possible when you're in heels, otherwise, you'd only come up to his chest.

with head tilting in that coy way, lashes fluttering, you're hoping to lighten the mood and ease the tension. he doesn't fall for your attempt immediately, still pouting and unsatisfied, but his hand slips around your waist. touch warmer than ever before. "i'd never let anything happen to you," he says it as a fact, not just a promise.

you nod, letting him know you understand, "you're always looking out for me." most get caught up in bad deals and horrible treatment, but he's never been the type to stand for the multiple slip-ups others have made. which is why "i know i'm safe with you 'toru." you say with full honesty.

his expression softens a little, playful smirk already making its way back to where it belongs on his face. blue eyes glinting with mischief, "good that you know, 'cause you're paying tonight."

it's just a joke. one that settles the tempers, cool things down for a while, although you leave him a glossy kiss mark on his cheek when he manages to keep his jealous side at bay throughout the night and gojo practically purrs at receiving the reward.

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it should feel safe here in a haven of cabana cotton as you look out toward the last of the sunlight cresting below the horizon. sparkling light dances atop the surface of waves, shimmering along a crystalline shoreline as seafoam rolls in with tides of orange and blue. nestled among clinking glasses and white couture, satoru is submerged in a sea of his own, women surrounding his form like predators. they laugh, they tease, perfectly manicured hands reaching out and itching for a touch.

satoru leans his head back when he laughs aloud at something they said. soft lips curved and pale eyelashes dusting his sunkissed cheeks. his teeth have never looked so enticing, blindingly white and shining. you swallow a gulp of peach bellini to manage the heated tempers roiling in your belly. a futile attempt at keeping your dirty thoughts at bay. what would they feel like sinking into your flesh? you getting caught in a searing, sharp pain when he bites down hard in a show of feral, unadulterated passion, a mark left behind, the kind that no clothing could hide, maybe that'll show those women circling him like piranhas.

your line of sight is broken by a figure approaching, coming face to face with none other than geto suguru serving beach looks and the prettiest hair you've ever seen. only second to gojo's locks of silver and white. he plops himself next to you, taking up more than half the space on the couch and spreads his legs on either side. you gather your tucked feet below you to make room.

"i see your boyfriend's occupied," geto emphasises on the label to tease you, ever the instigator. he's in a cheeky mood and it's hard to look away when he gets like this. beautiful but wickedly cunning, you can't exactly guess his motives.

"we're just friends," you have to set the record straight because he'll only persist, weeding the truth out of you in due time. the words waver in your voice and you blame it on the drinks, but suguru sees right through you, noting the slight doubt lingering there.

"so i've heard, is that why you're staring daggers at them?" his smirk is telling, suguru had never fallen for the ruse and you're starting to feel the same way with each passing minute. no, you're not jealous, you can't be jealous. satoru's allowed to mingle if he wants but you're left sitting alone while he's living it up with an array of pretty models. this means people will talk and more rumours will start circulating, that's reason enough to bother you—your boyfriend flirts with other women in front of you—how embarrassing.

you hate this feeling, more so with how unfair it is to satoru. he's made it clear that he wants more and you never gave him that despite asking, pleading, and making it known. why does it feel any different now, and why should you feel entitled to him? there isn't a reason to feel betrayed when he’s tied to you by a lie.

suguru leans in slowly, eyes tracing over your uncertain expression, like he could read your thoughts, you welcome his nearness just so. "it's because they're not threatened," he says, you don't know who he's talking about, the women or the man they try to covet. "if i were him, i wouldn't let you out of my sight—" before you have the chance to ask, geto angles his head, lips dangerously close to yours, so close your noses touch, "—should've told you he's in love with you."

right on cue, satoru appears and suguru's body is pulled up forcefully. lifted from his seat with shirt fisted in satoru's grip. you choke on a breath at the sudden display, no hits are thrown, but they exchange a long look. the subtle triumph in geto's face is met with something more menacing in gojo's. a tension-filled stand-off.

all because he's concerned about his best friend kissing you? you're nowhere closer to getting the clues of their years-long fued. as if they were competing for the ultimate prize, whatever it is. maybe it's just about one-upping the other. you barely have time to register suguru's words and you doubt gojo heard it but suguru who knows better than to provoke him moves along. he shoves past satoru, colliding with his shoulder all while laughing it off and leaving you with a "good luck," before snatching his drinks away.

"what the hell was that about?" satoru's tense expression gradually slips off in long, heavy exhales. taking suguru's spot on the couch while reaching for the coconut he set aside.

you shrug, "you seemed busy." choosing to avoid his question and attempting to back away but he reaches an arm out to pull you in by the waist, lifting a thigh over his lap and fitting you where he wants you. straddling him beneath you.

the dress you wear hikes up, a detail he doesn't miss when your buttery smooth skin is revealed. "i could say the same about you," he replies, voice low and questioning, a lingering frustration there when he doesn't get his way. "i turn my back and you're getting snatched up by my best friend, how d'you think that makes me feel?"

this is just typical. suguru knows his weaknesses and finds a way to prod at them. he does it because he knows gojo's feelings and he intends to make you second-guess. likes being in your good graces when everyone seems to prefer geto more and gojo hates the possibility of you being one of them, or worst, falling for him. it should be impossible, but seeing it then, the sight of two of you pressed close so intimately, had only fueled his anger.

at the sound of gojo's irritation, you feign pity, "aw, are you upset because you left me here on my own?" brushing the hair from his face and revealing his serious gaze. it riles him up even more knowing you're doing this to test his patience. "suguru was only keeping me company, is that so wrong?"

instinctively, your hand inches towards the unbuttoned half of his linen shirt, forcing the gap to stretch open over his bare chest. you spot the rising goosebumps littering down the sensual dip of his pecs, broad and brazenly pinking under the heat, sweat sodden and damp from the humid air.

there's an audible gulp, satoru downs the last of his coconut water as it dribbles from the side of his mouth, trailing the enticing curve of his neck, and in between the hollowed space of his throat, meeting the bob of his adam's apple. you lean in for a taste, "do you only care when someone else starts to show interest?" you aim to tease but there's definitely a hidden meaning in your words. 'was geto right? are you really in love with me?'

"shit—" he gasps, feeling your warm breath against his skin, "don't do this to me," he's struggling to hold himself back, so close to bending you over and showing you just how much he does care. neck taut, he leans his head back. eyelids growing heavy the more you press your body onto his lap. your breasts pushed up and into his chest. feels your wetness soaking through your panties, your heated and pulsing core grinding against his pants.

with sudden boldness, you bring your lips up towards his own, gently nipping at his bottom lip carefully, it's not enough to actually be a kiss. even when he tries to kiss you for real, puckering up and chasing after your soft lips. you pull away laughing to yourself, laughing at him. "you're right, i bet you'd rather have those other women here."

something ugly stirs within. gojo is immediately taken back to all the times you've denied him, the sting rejection hitting him all at once, the memory of toji's presence, the sight of suguru so close. you only say these things to push him away and he can't stand the meaning of your accusation; he wishes you'd just admit it. knows you're jealous and no better at hiding behind this charade, you want him just as much.

in this state, he's not capable of holding back anymore, choosing to forego biting his tongue. "you know that's not true," he grits out, "i'd take you right here in front of all those women."

your eyes narrow, sneering, "don't even joke about that." you're used to his teasing, his flirty quips, but he never declares his wants so eagerly. you don't want to think about that ultimate obstacle; to have sex with him would break you, it would force your hand, giving in to risk and facing the consequences of hurting yourself, of losing him. what if he couldn't love you beyond the facade, when things get tough, or when you'll no doubt make him second-guess. what if satoru cares only about getting what he wants and not about who you really are? you're not the glamorous model or the confident woman he loves chasing after, who takes no shit and gives zero fucks. soon he'll realize you're just another lonely girl looking for love and afraid of what to do with it.

you're not capable of having sex for selfish reasons, just to placate lust-addled hunger. although you protest, you'll admit his words are too tempting. picturing him atop you, inside you, ravishing you like no one else exists, better yet, for all the world to see. is this it, is this where both of you say fuck it and let your inhibitions take over? could you give in just once for a taste and deal with the mess later?

gojo seems to have an answer, "all bark and no bite, you should finish what you started." he's bolder now, cupping your face in his hand, watching your hesitance grow. as if you can't stand being here, being so close to him, having to face his need for you, he should give up, to accept he's not wanted, "do you really hate the thought of being mine?" he whispers, wanting the truth.

your heart drops to your stomach at his admission, his tone riddled with sadness, a pain you have yet to fully acknowledge, "it's not like that 'toru," you say, but he's not convinced. gojo sighs, blinking hard and shaking away whatever came over him in those few seconds, his daringness gone, now replaced only with something close to frustration, exhaustion.

there's a sting in your chest, a sudden fear that he might cast you away, so in a desperate attempt, you lean in to kiss him for real this time, thinking it'll be enough to salvage the situation, already regretful for making him jealous, for being incapable of admitting your feelings. it'll be quick, it'll solve everything, he'll forgive you. i can't lose you satoru, please. your heart begs.

"don't—" satoru turns his lips away, his cheek reddening in front of your eyes from what you can tell is embarrassment, but not for himself, no, there's something akin to shame there, he's embarrassed for you, "—don't kiss me if you don't mean to," he says, unable to face you.

"i'm sorry," you choke out, your eyes now damp and hot with incoming tears, a lump growing in your throat. you should care about who's watching, in front of all these people you've never felt so small, like you've fucked up and everyone knows it, but you only care about how satoru feels.

but forget that his reputation precedes him. sukuna's true value as an alpha stands solely on his capability to hunt and chase, to capture a coveted mate he keeps...or lack thereof.

contrary to the rules of ritual, courting is by far the least of sukuna's priorities. turning his nose up at romance and the like when he's had potential mates eating out the palm of his hand since the beginning. there's no need to make a song and dance about it when he'd have his pick and fill of omegas without needing to try. much less convince them of his oh so superior traits.

he's attractive, you'll give him that. most alphas are. but there's something extra special about a tall man with tattoos and a mean side. such callousness. oozing masculinity and hot-blooded need. like an impending storm. too intense, too forthcoming, and way more than you're prepared for. after all, an unmated alpha is an available alpha and you're not one to compete.

'she's so inadequate for a mate. he'll reject her soon.' they say. any time now and some other needy thing might just swoop in to take her place. someone who's deserving of it.

what a waste, you've gotten the attention of the most powerful alpha you've ever met and want nothing to do with it—a self-righteous omega who believes alphas should know better. why give in to such baser instincts, how primitive, how primal. moreso in this day and age when suppressants are readily available and cycles can be tracked to a T.

which is why you don't look back when his gaze lingers a bit too long. adding distance when he not-so-subtly attempts to leave his scent on you. going as far as to turn him down the first time he cages you in and offers—upfront and blatantly—to 'help you out' with your next heat. as if you were some charity case. "promise i won't bite," he teases you about your barren neck and inexperience, unable to hide the smirk on his face.

"i'm not interested," you scoff, leaving him there with a hard-on in his pants and no relief. he might be a prized alpha but you won't entertain the idea of proving yourself. stroking his ego and preening for him. you were just as valuable of a partner despite being beyond your prime years with zero experience and still unmated.

••••••••••••••••••••

the only problem is that he won't take no for an answer.

he's made his choice among the other blurred faces and dull scents. been waiting a long time for someone as irresistible as you. "do you fear me?" he asks the moment you bend over his kitchen counter. he allows himself a peek at a round ass and soft hips, also to sniff at your scent permeating the air. omega. he knows as much. you make it pretty obvious with your distaste for alphas. but the sweet-scented slick between your legs is as telling.

geez. he thinks. those suppressants of yours are next to useless if you're already dripping this much within proximity to an alpha. not just any alpha either, sukuna's well aware you're beginning to fall for him. you want him so bad and it's so unfair. he's barely even touched you. but only because he's wondering if your underwear would survive the rest of the day. 'what if she's wearing a thong and her thighs get drenched too.' he grins like a wolf at the thought.

you admit with a heavy heart, "i'm more afraid of what i'm like with you." because how does one resist his advances. sukuna pushes the envelope just enough to make your knees buckle. his domineering aura makes everyone else cower in fear under a cold gaze but watch how it turns into a dreamy one when you push his face away after a kiss gets heated. his incisors poke you slightly like a teasing taunt and you find yourself fighting the pleasure.

"it's natural," he'll justify. how your body longs so desperately to belong to this alpha. succumbing to his...ferventness. his large, heated hands roaming over your breasts hidden underneath his shirt. the collar's too wide but it gives him room to wrap his fist delicately around your neck. you bite back an excited squeal when it feels so right.

••••••••••••••••••••

there's something off about him when sukuna returns home late that night. an unfamiliar scent lingers on his clothing and your stomach twist with a possessive feeling. the same one that eats you alive to the point of guilt. you smell it the moment he walks through the door of your bedroom. 

nothing like yours, it's not sharp enough to be daunting nor is it reminiscent of an alpha's scent. but it's potent. almost as if they were doing it on purpose. releasing their pheromones so he'd pick up on it, or worse, that you'd notice.

you try not to jump to any conclusions and you don't want to be jealous, but it's hard having your boyfriend come home with the smell of another omega on him.

you straddle him against the headboard with a hardened look on your face. involuntarily snarling as you peel his suit jacket off. shirt buttons coming apart under your rushed hands.

he grins at your ferocious display. reminds him of an angry kitten. he grinds his hips upwards, keeping you in place with steady hands. bouncing you on top of his clothed cock wasn't in the plans tonight, he thought he'd shower off the stench. it's not like it was strong enough to affect him.

but he tries to get you off instead, while he tries to get himself some self-control. "feel good?" he dares to question when you're practically losing your mind, a sudden spike of lust spurs in your belly, incited with just that little bit of friction. hoping feverishly that the scent of fresh arousal will be overridden by heat and breathy gasps through gritted teeth.

you're hardly in a headspace to reply but an eager nod shall suffice. "didn't think you'd be the jealous type," you feel him nipping at your ear, trailing sloppy kisses down your neck, the slight graze of teeth against freshly washed and oiled skin,

"i'm not jealous—" you lie. holding back a moan when he rocks a little faster, writhing atop him in pleasure. your nipples have risen taut against your nightgown and it makes an incredibly lewd sight. sitting in his lap so compliantly.

“i'd want them to watch us,” he whispers and you'd never do such a thing but the idea turns you on. he tells you that back in ancient times they used to partake in mating rituals and bonding ceremonies. privacy was more a privilege then and so was having an audience. that other omegas and betas would know of their place. how insignificant they are, if only they could watch you now, pussy fluttering and juices leaking all over their prized alpha.

••••••••••••••••••••

sukuna watches your face as you come undone for the fourth time. shushes your sobbing cries with a gentle hand caressing your back. "you don't have to worry," he's too busy holding himself back to find another.

says he wants to do things on your own terms and timing. swears that he won't easily fall prey to the lingering sweet-scented air around you, perfumed syrup and sugar. gently skimming his lips and tongue over a soft nape, a supple shoulder. he'll settle for merely licking the flesh he wishes to sink his teeth into. a caress, a chaste kiss, but never bruising or breaking.

he swallows the protest to earn your approving smile in return. it's enough of a struggle seeing you prancing around unaffected while he's been dying to fuck you senseless. to do what's natural to him. "it's wrong for an unmated couple to live together," seems to be everyone else's motto and he'd like to laugh but there's a shred of truth to it. he realises that it's impossible when he wants to fuck all. the. time.

gritting his teeth and forcing a smile when he's hit with a waft of your scent, he knows you're turned on. you want it just as much—every heat spent away from him in separate rooms. he smells your slick calling out to him. hears your moans poorly muffled and overshadowed by the sounds of you fucking yourself. your pussy bare and gleaming, he'll get on his knees for a taste. prying your twitching thighs apart, forcing them open if he has to, his lips nibbling and sucking your clit til you're crying from the pleasure, thrumming his tongue so fast it drives you crazy. all for the tang of your squirt staining his tastebuds and mussed-up sheets below.

but he shouldn't live life by the balls. no matter how full and heavy they get with the need for release. preferably inside you, so deep and plenty he finds himself picturing it at random times of the day. zoning out in his office, in the middle of traffic. how full you'd look with your belly bulging out. would it drip between your pussy lips or should he plug you with his cock instead, refusing a single drop to leak.

still, he wills himself to stay within your bounds. being lustful and possessive isn't anything to be ashamed of. it's part of his makeup but he's more than that. two people are perfectly capable of looking beyond their sex and desires—or so you tell him.

••••••••••••••••••••

his rut arrives when his symptoms not-so casually appear in the middle of the week. pheromones and a temper not even you can subdue. he's biting into his knuckles from the arousal spurred on by great timing and comically predictable circumstances—just the smell and sight of you there, happily unaware and otherwise tempting.

maybe your expectations have been exceedingly high. you can't change his nature. but how dare he forbid you from entering the home you shared, spare keys hidden and passcodes altered. "leave—" he warns, then breathes a frustrated sigh, "—it's not safe."

not that he feels particularly sorry about his tone, but what separates him from you is but a door and a razor-thin resolve. he's at his limit. he won't survive this on suppressants alone. not with you looking the way you do. "how can i help?" you ask worriedly, wrecking your head over him. wanting to comfort and coddle. for someone who turns their nose up at omegan stereotypes, you're playing the part so perfectly it drives him mad.

because it's the worst experience for an alpha to go through a rut alone. you'd understand the pain of having to suppress a heat. all the years dealing with the fevers and cramps. milk leaking from your sore nipples wishing he'd be there to relieve the pressure. a nest of him and only him. grinding and burrowing within amber, musk, and spice. intoxicating, intense, chasing after the smell found in his sweat-drenched tee, a wrinkled white shirt bearing smoke and aftershave on its collar. snuggling his pillow and getting off with your fingers or a whirring toy at its highest speed, but it's not enough, never enough. pussy contracting on absolutely nothing.

his den is dark and moody when you step inside. slipping into a frenzied haze, there he lazes with legs spread on your shared bed big enough for four, it stretches wider than you remembered, or maybe it's that you've yet to see it in this light, waiting to be broken in and littered with your belongings. he's grabbed at them in a rush. whatever your scent clung to. your duvet, your stuffed toy, and pretty, day-old crimson panties gripped in the same fist he pumps his cock with.

the threads fray, soaked fabric snapping and stretching with every drag down his shaft. rip. rip. rippp. a hole tears through when he tugs too hard and that heavy thing slaps over his stomach with a resounding smack.

you see it for the first time and wonder why not sooner. the perfect dick hiding in plain sight. actually, that's not true. you just haven't seen it this up close and personal. but given the sneak peeks—when the steam clears in the shower and it hangs soft and hefty, the way it juts out of tight gym shorts, or just...the swell of it rubbing in between your ass cheeks when he gets needy—none of them could've prepared you for this.

sukuna thinks it’s so ugly and brutish. he's found many an opportunity to tell you so, even now as his head cranes backwards with a frustrated groan, a growl that rumbles from somewhere deep within. ”it's enough to scare off any omega—” he says, a knowing smirk on his face when he can practically smell the slick dribbling down your thighs, saturating your panties, "—but not you."

a thick vein throbs on the underside, tip bulging and a little darker than the shaft, girthy and gushing with precum. his balls are heavy, taut with tension under the soft skin, and you shudder at the thought of what his knot would look like...who would've thought that such a monstrous-looking thing would have this much of an effect on you. weak in the knees and stomach fluttering in anticipation. the way it seems oh so daunting, how are you meant to take all of that inside you. if he laid the entire thing right against your stomach, how far would it go? it'd be enough to knock the wind out of you.

you try to calm your nerves. it's just a rut. it'll be over in no time. quick and simple. although you've read plenty of stories and watched the videos to know this wouldn't be a passionate embrace. no tenderness or care for your pleasure let alone your comfort. you wish to believe that he'll be careful if not a bit rough. and maybe a part of you wants to please him. despite all your certainties, would it be so bad to make him feel good and satisfy his needs? would it be wrong to wish for his scent mark, and his bonding bite. to be claimed and chosen.

it's an expression you've never seen before. as if he wants to devour you. he won't explain himself as he makes you watch. turning you into a voyeur as the urge takes over him. hooded eyes locked on yours, his blown-out pupils and slobbering drool are enough evidence for you—he intends to mate.

whimpering his name does nothing to quell his madness or ministrations. he's so far gone you don't think he comprehends the things he says, "can't wait to knot you...breed you...been wanting to taste you for so long..." he purrs, low and rumbling from his chest. sharp teeth grazing against your earlobe teasingly but never biting down on the cartilage, just a light nibble that turns you into a shivering mess. he's caught you within his jaws and your instincts argue against your better judgement, you're beyond fighting and struggling now while your weak hands push against his hulking mass to no avail.

yet, it's thrilling. amazing even. an alpha pinned atop you and nowhere to run. his nose nuzzling the crook of your neck, the back of your ear, both your arms lifted in his singlehanded grasp. he dives for every inch of skin, every spot that bears your aroma the strongest, going as far into the divot of your armpit while he's laving at the salt and sweat greedily. his saliva scenting sugar-sweet skin, marking you as his chosen victim. "you're so dirty—" is more of a plea for him to snap out of it. already embarrassed, exposed, and so eager.

he takes a pebbled nipple between his teeth and swirls his tongue around the tip of it. you're too distracted to realise he hadn't responded to your quip, because your scent told him all he needed to know, so did the soft whimper when he abandons one nipple, and the moan when he takes the other in his mouth.

there's a way to do things and sukuna's way is unmerciful. a man has never been this good at finding a clit, which is probably why his tongue won't leave it alone. he keeps his tongue broad until it comes out of hiding before he's got his lips wrapped around. he sucks on it languidly. pulls away just to spit and slaver, blow a raspberry for fun. marvelling at the drool and the mess you've made.

no time to waste when most of it was spent not eating your pussy. sukuna hums and hungrily feasts, tongue flicking frantically. your screams come out involuntarily, unable to hold back your moans coming out in short staccato bursts. a little panicked, but nonetheless agreeable. "something's happening! wait—" you hiss when it starts to burn a little. your hips lifting off the bed while his fingers keep prodding that special spot inside.

it only makes it all the more pleasurable when the pressure builds, when the squeeze feels so tight. you clench and feel every pass of his digits, every purposeful lick. "—kuna, i think i'm gonna—" his fingers quicken while his other forearm presses down on your pelvis to keep you in place and it's more than enough to make you come hard. gushing again and again, streaking the sheets and his smug expression.

"i've always wanted to do that," he admits cheekily. a face you can't stop admiring now that it's covered in your juices. your legs tremble and you can't catch your breath whilst he's leaving gentle kisses on your oversensitive lips, but he's far from finished with you.

with his cock leaking in his hold, he taps it on your sticky heat for good measure before gliding it back and forth, the opening of his cock prodding, getting caught on your clit as he slips in slow. with how thick he is, you feel every ridge and vein. gasping at the first push and fisting the sheets to try and accommodate.

unsurprisingly, it hurts just a pinch. "please,” you mewl, just that single word slipping past ragged breaths as you struggle. throat dry and crackly from the heaving and the foggy, post-orgasm haze. you don't know if you want him to stop or to go on but—"what if it can't fit?" you're genuinely concerned because it might not physically fit. already full to the brim, your pussy stretches so snugly around his shaft like a glove.

"there's a lot more to go," he hints at the rest of his cock he's yet to sheath inside you. "but we'll make it fit," a large palm rests over your womb as he swipes his thumb against your clit, hoping it'll ease the discomfort.

you nod weakly, whimpering "i trust you," but he's so big. you can feel your pussy trying to suck him in, a bead of sweat travels down your chest. mouth falling open as he slips in a little at a time, girth forcing your entrance to open wider. buries his cock in the one pussy he’s fantasized about the most and ruts like he's always wanted to.

••••••••••••••••••••

on the third day, you start getting restless. feeling sore and exhausted while running on no sleep and little bites of food. the room is in dire need of fresh air and the bed frame is on its last legs, but sukuna's urges grow stronger by the day. he barely manages to pull out to hydrate before he goes back to fucking you. always so slow and gentle, however, your moans and whines spill out, slowly but surely you succumb to every orgasm that rocks through you. wave after rippling wave.

still hard and throbbing the entire time. it's probably because every time your neck cranes upwards as an offering, baring your mating gland, he avoids it. fighting it. "why won't you knot me?" comes out sounding pouty and petulant but you don't care. your delectable scent slowly fades into a bitter note, anxiety and insecurity filling your voice. sukuna hasn't even tried to push it past your folds. steadily milking his knot outside of where it should be with his own hands is enough of a blatant rejection.

he reminds himself that he'd sworn to never let it go that far, knotting you would change everything, what if you couldn't see him the same way, that he was just another alpha who took you for himself. "i can't," guilt laces his voice and so does his frustration when his conscience appears from behind the pussy-drunk fog. his heart bleeding, his instincts yearning. 'i don't want to hurt you' is what he means. but what you hear in your dejected state is 'you won't be able to handle it.'

was it your inexperience that made him uninterested? you knew alphas liked them subservient, obedient. just like an omega should be. taking his knot without qualms. consummating in perfect rhythm. a tinge of pain shoots through your chest at the thought—sukuna could have any omega he wants, you've kept him waiting too long, you've made him doubt. you're not able to keep up, to please him, to be enough...despite giving in. despite trying your best to take him. he won't claim you,' says the voice in your head.

a whimper breaks from you at his words. you shouldn't have to ask, this was meant to be innate, instinctual, not something he has to restrain himself from. "aren't i your mate? don't i belong to you?" you sob, hot tears flowing down your cheeks.

he presses his forehead to yours, "you're gonna bleed, i might break you," he tries to explain, getting uncharacteristically soft in the moment. it's your fault for stumbling across a wounded beast. finding your way into his broken heart. binding the pieces back together while you soothe the aches and kiss his scars. 'yes you belong to me.' his beautiful omega who begs so nicely to be mated, if this is what you're like three days in, he longs to see what you're like in heat.

you shake your head, getting stubborn. you won't accept it and you're on the verge of clawing at him to get away. you've been ready at his mercy and what for. just to come out the other end dissatisfied and unfulfilled. fuck. you just want it to be done with. defile me, ravage me, you want him completely.

in an attempt to fight him, you let out a harmless threat, one you regret the moment it's uttered because you've gone too far—"if you won't do it, i'll find another alpha who will!"

suddenly, sukuna's thoughts are invaded by that sick thought. scenes of you naked and oozing slick. pinned beneath another alpha, his weight pressing into you along with his knot, glaring at him as he makes his claim the way he couldn't and it makes him snap.

the growling sound that leaves his mouth is a warning, and so is the hand that slips around your throat. large fingers coming together around your neck. the squeeze cutting your gasp short. it should frighten you, he could snap your neck as easily as it is to split a matchstick in half and right now, he seems just about ready to.

"careful now, omega," he spits out, teeth bared and demanding submission. forbidding and looming above you, his fist tightens ever so slightly. "you've forgotten your place," it seems you've misjudged your role and the precarious position you're in. fucked out in his den, in his bed. intentionally riling him up won't do you any good. no one touches you, scents you, or claims you but him no matter how your feet kick him uselessly, he doesn't move an inch.

"i'm sorry—" you pant, "i'll be good, i promise." you squirm and wriggle underneath, uncertain if you should run or relish in it. so ominous it turns you on even more. he's never put you in your place like this and you think you should make him jealous more often if it means he'd choke you out and go feral on your pussy.

"is that so?" he tries again. presses his cock in slowly inch by inch. feeling your pussy open up and yield to his girth. sukuna leans in close so he gets to watch your eyes roll back. bullies his way through with one deep thrust and finds himself balls-deep. "you want it so bad? want me to ruin this perfect pussy all because you wanna cum all over my knot, i won't stop til you're screaming and milking me dry—"

muscle memory forces your back to arch towards him. his broad chest against your nipples, delicious hot skin rubbing your hardened nubs the right way. he stills for a moment before he withdraws slowly, a mix of pleasure and anticipation coiling in your belly.

watching him, watching you. he looks down and groans at the obscene sight of cream and slick coating his shaft, viscous and too much to bear. the bulge in your tummy protrudes where his cock takes up all that space, rearranging your guts had never looked this lewd.

when his knot finally kisses your entrance, you feel it hot and prodding against you. desperate for him shove it in. to feel it pop through and nestle so deep, all the way to the hilt while he stays there and unloads himself inside you. balls twitching, sitting in a warm crook he’s found. your omega instincts sing at the thought of him filling you up. "knot me, breed me, my alpha—" you cry. begging for it, hot and immensely copious. a sticky mess all over, both the mattress completely drenched in fluids and your insides coated in his seed.

he feels the give of your womb, the tightness around the head of his cock. groaning at the sensation. just a little bit more and he'd be buried, finally. he fucks you violently, no holds barred. hands gripping your hips so achingly tight he might shatter your pelvis into pieces. you'll count the bruises later on but shall forgive him for the fact that he's cumming his brains out.

you're crying and babbling mindlessly, yes yes just like that. your limbs begin to shake as your peak edges closer, hand gripping his bicep while bracing yourself. wild and frantic hips jerking and shallow thrusts bumping and nudging against your cervix. striking deep and rocking you against the sheets.

your shivering doesn't go unnoticed and there he leans in to give your oiled and mouth-watering neck a final lick, shushing you with a gentle, calming kiss to your mating gland in preparation for his teeth.

and when he finally pushes his knot in, cock piercing your womb as your pussy clamps down viciously on its slim spot at the base, his teeth spears into your flesh with ease. there's the give of taut skin and tight muscle but soon he settles deep enough for blood to trickle and you come several times, pulsing and fluttering along multiple orgasms rolling in after the next, enough that you're shaking in his hold.

you cry and cry, overstimulated, sensitive, and so in love. not only with how full you feel but you surprise him with your own teeth sinking down into his trapezius, not too deep into muscle but just enough to leave tiny dents in his skin. your chattering jaw and slippery lips can't find purchase while you're preoccupied with whining his name. so you try again, this time closer to his neck.

sukuna catches on to your efforts and finds it all the more endearing. helping you find the perfect spot, he manoeuvres his neck closer while you give him light nibbles and sharp pinprick nips here and there but they're all too soft to pierce the skin. "do it," he pants, "mark me anywhere, i'm yours."

it must be his words that urge you but you think it's more to do with the greed roiling inside you. you want to leave a mark that he'd never be able to cover up. by the time he's grinding his knot into you again, pulling at your hips and guiding you on it like a toy, milking him of whatever's left, your lips part around the front of his neck without any more hesitation. inhaling his scent deeply, the vibrations of his groans rattling against your teeth, before biting down on his throat. teeth embedded deep and tongue lapping at his bobbing adam's apple.

high school is a time of turmoil and treading into the unknown, or at least in ushijima's case, the uncertain. a relationship isn't a priority but there's a lingering expectation. an excitement bubbling, a budding urge he can't tamper. blames it on temptation steering him away from goals and achievements more worthwhile. also because his teammates talk about nothing else, do nothing else. it's always girls and dates and a never-ending plethora of issues and fights they're working through, 'we're figuring things out' they say but it starts and ends like seasons. it seems relationships don't last that long, a month or two tops, lucky if they get to three, but everyone cries and complains and grieves for something so...insignificant.

he thinks he's above it, that he wouldn't be as afflicted as the rest of them, all tears and snot and wasted time, no, he'll succeed, he'll make the most of his abilities, move forward without unnecessary distractions. he knows what he's capable of, and that he wouldn't need to...prove himself as such. not in this matter. not even when it's so hard to resist, when it would be easier to relent.

he falters, not all at once, but in small, inconvenient fractures. in the way his attention drifts toward you, staying put a second too long. your pressed skirt riding up your thighs, grey sweater tight around your chest. "mahhh, would you look at that, someone's making it very hard to concentrate," tendou grins, eyes glinting with mischief. ushijima doesn't admit how purple has never looked better when grazing such soft, supple skin. or how his decisions begin to account for you without him meaning to, he hands you the pen you forgot, or grabs the book you dropped, almost automatically. like he's indulging himself, but not quite, tells himself that it makes sense to act where needed, it isn't affection but efficiency.

when you look at him with that confident, sparkling glint in your eyes—hoping he'll notice the careful sweep of eyeshadow, the way your lashes curl and flutter, the new eyeliner you saved up for, expensive but justified because this is a special occasion. the chubby girl never confesses first, not to the most popular guy in school, not when the gap between you—physical, social—says everything before you ever could. not only would be useless, it would be unwelcome. still, you tell yourself, stubborn and bright with something that feels like hope—this time, you think, this time i will get the guy.

there's a pause, not long but just enough for him to think. "i can try," he says, like he's weighing something practical. shrugging casually with hands tucked into his pockets, "but i won't lie about how i feel just to make this work." it should sound like a boundary, but you hear it as a chance, even though there's a quiet part of you that wonders if love is supposed to sound like a trial run. but he's not pretending or leading you on, and that feels like respect. so you say "thank you, thank you, thank you!" with pumping fists and an excited squeal. throwing him off balance when you give him a hug so tight, so warm. he doesn't hug you back but the awkward pat atop your head is a good alternative.

it's not hard to find significance in alternatives, not when you've spent so long learning how to read meaning into the almosts, into what's given instead of what's missing. convincing yourself that a half-step forward still counts as progress, that something adjacent to affection can still be called love if you hold onto it tightly enough. because he's worth it, or at least, that's what you tell yourself. the best you're ever going to get, the closest thing to a boyfriend. he is exactly what you want, you insist, as you start shaping that want around him—trimming it down, smoothing it over, until it fits neatly into what he's willing to give.

ushijima who's easy to understand in a way that almost throws you off. you're so used to indirect insults and backhanded compliments—'i admire your confidence!' and 'wow you have such a great personality!' sounds so grating—but when he speaks, it's like he expects the world to meet him at face value. "i like this on you," shouldn't sound so rewarding, but he makes his team jacket feel like high fashion, like you're the prettiest girl in the world when draped over you. there isn't anything to compare you to, no invisible scale you're being measured against, simply a declaration that stands alone and allows you to coexist with it.

there's no speculating, no second layer to peel back, just his voice landing exactly where it means to. you don't have to wonder if he's lying, and that feels rare enough to hold onto because it means he does like you, he chooses you. even when his words are sparse, even when they don't come wrapped in subtleness. you start to build something out of them anyway. all piled up into something steady and stable you can stand on without second-guessing your footing.

it happens slowly, without intention. he walks beside you after school because it's on his way. he listens when you talk, not absentmindedly, but with focus, like your words matter in a practical, grounded way. he says things like, "i don't like guessing games," and "i'll tell you if something's wrong," and you nod, thinking this is what honesty is supposed to look like. you don’t notice the warning in it, that honesty, to him, doesn't bend.

you start to rely on him and the quiet way he shows up. 'getting the guy' has never been so difficult, or rather, he puts you up to the challenge, making it feel like something to be earned. "you should know i'm the prize!" you scoff, arriving at the cafe he picked for your first date. not bothering to ask about your preferences, just sent a location pin with a time and date, like he was scheduling a meeting instead. "and if you think this is gonna woo me, you're wrong!” you add with a huff, even as you slide into the seat across from him.

it's not that he's inattentive, it's the opposite, almost. he decides everything. orders for you before you can open your mouth, asks the waiter for a window seat without checking, sets the pace of the conversation like there's a right way for it to go. there's taking the lead, and then there's steamrolling. so firm and unyielding, like your input was considered elsewhere without confirmation. it should annoy you more than it does. well, it does annoy you.

but the pancakes are delicious, fluffy and not too sweet, letting the berries shine instead of drowning them out. the sparkling apple cider cuts clean through the richness of the caramel cake, and there's a small bowl of your favourite fruit, neatly cut and placed closer to your side of the table without comment. it's thoughtful in a way that sneaks up on you, precise enough that it doesn't feel like a coincidence.

you don't know if you should be mad or flattered, but ushijima makes up your mind for you, "i thought it was the guy's responsibility to plan the first date," he explains flatly, "based on your socials, you seem to like sweet things, and this place has five-star reviews—" he pauses, like he's checking his own logic, then adds, "this was the most efficient option."

it doesn't feel like settling, more like learning a new language. not just about translating, but learning different ways of looking at the nuances, such as why certain expressions exist. where affection isn't loud or obvious, but tucked into smaller, quieter places. you tell yourself that just because it doesn't look the way you imagined, it doesn't mean it isn't there. and if you listen closely enough and pay attention in the right ways, you'll hear it all the same.

sometime in the summer, when the air feels lighter and the days stretch just a little longer, he takes you out to the arcade. it's nothing extravagant—just a quiet suggestion, a time and place sent the night before—but it still feels different. outside of uniforms, outside of routine, you both look…new. you catch him glancing once, briefly, at the way your dress moves when you walk, soft and flattering in a way that makes you stand a little straighter. and you notice him too, in a simple tshirt and jeans, sleeves just short enough to show the line of his arms, unassuming and unfairly handsome. neither of you say anything about it, but it's known anyway, private and unspoken.

you both squeeze into the tiny photobooth. barely fitting but snug enough that you feel the swell of his bicep pressed against your arm. you like it more than you should, enough that you have to control the way your smile threatens to give you away. as you adjust yourself on the screen, fixing your hair and checking angles, ushijima doesn't move. he sits still, posture straight, head just slightly out of frame.

"we have four photos lined up, are you just gonna sit there for all of them!" you chide, nudging him lightly.

he glances at the screen, then back at you, unfazed, "i don't want to ruin it," he says simply.

you blink, "ruin it?"

"i'm not good at photos," he shrugs.

it can't be true, not with a face like his. you stare at him for a second, then decide to beg "pleeeasee?" grabbing and tugging at his sleeve gently, you give him your best pouty look, which doesn't do much when he only raises an eyebrow in reply.

you huff, dropping the cute act, "you're supposed to be my boyfriend right now! we're makin' memories here! we have to pose! like a hug, or a kiss!" you point at the sample strip taped to the side of the booth. four frames of a couple leaning into each other, kissing from different angles. "look! i don't know about you, but they look like a real couple to me," you wiggle your eyebrows suggestively. well, kissing is rather conservative given that they look like they're about to suck each other's face off. it's way too crude to be up there.

he studies it for a moment, expression unreadable. "they look…committed," he says, matter-of-fact, in that deadpan tone you've grown so fond of.

you burst out laughing and the flash goes off for the first picture, catching you mid-laugh while he remains still beside you, arms crossed, expression steady.

then he shifts, just slightly closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours. flash.

you’re still smiling, but your breath catches as his arm uncrosses, hand hovering for a moment before settling at your waist, tentative but sure. flash.

there's barely time to think before he closes the distance properly, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek as he tilts your face toward his. that's when his lips meet yours, perfectly timed with the camera's final burst of light. flash.

"um..." you blink when it's over, heart racing, heat blooming across your face. the screen shows a preview of the photos, all perfectly framing the progression. your cheerful, unobstructed laughter, his careful, gradual movement towards you, the subtle possession of his hand on your waist and jaw, and ultimately, the kiss, captured clearly and unmistakably in the final moment. "we have to decorate!" you exclaim, a little too quickly.

you're immediately enthusiastic, tapping on stickers and scribbling doodles across the strips. sparkles, stars, little notes that make you giggle. he sits beside you, arms folded again, watching with a faint self-satisfied smirk that you pretend not to notice.

"and you have to participate in this too!" you tell him.

he doesn't respond right away, but when you step back to admire your work, he reaches forward, tapping a few pink and red heart stickers and placing them in the most random corners. overlapping your scribbles, filling empty spaces without any real pattern. it's messy, uneven, nothing like the neat symmetry you were going for, but somehow it pulls everything together.

finally, he leans in, tapping the screen with blunt precision, adding a small text box at the bottom. 'better with you.'

he treats you like everyone else, which ought to signify nothing, yet it matters because he notices things—when you're quieter than usual, when you leave your belongings on his desk, when you look like you're about to ask for help with your homework but don't. he doesn't make a scene out of it, doesn't lower his voice or linger longer than necessary, but he adapts in small, practical ways. he waits, reminds, steps in without asking if you need his advice or yet another one of his brief lectures. occasionally, he opts for his personal solutions too. it feels like care, even if it isn't dressed like it, even if it doesn't reach for you in the way you sometimes wish it would. and maybe that's enough to convince you that it's the thought that counts, that intention matters more than delivery, that love—if this is what it is—doesn't always have to feel gentle to be real.

"where did you find it!" you exclaim, relieved but bewildered when you spot the airtag clipped neatly onto the handle of your water bottle. ushijima holds it out toward you with one arm, giving it a small shake like he's prompting you to take responsibility for it. "you left it in my car," he says, plain as anything, "i didn’t want it to get lost again." he doesn’t sound ticked off, but the faint pink creeping across his cheeks gives him away, enough to tell you exactly where, exactly when.

"oh," you say, before your face twists into a cheeky little expression, grinning from ear to ear, "sorry, was kinda distracted then." and you don't bother hiding the implication. four hours making out in the backseat of his car will do that—your water bottle the least of your concerns.

he pauses, just for a second, like he's deciding whether to respond or let it pass. no room for words when the taste and feel of your lips still lingers there. faintly sweet, like the water you'd been sipping, warm from the way you kept leaning into him instead of pulling away. it comes back in fragments more than anything. the press of you against him in that cramped space, the distinct hitch of your breath when you laughed into his mouth, when you moaned, the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you needed something solid to hold onto.

it isn't the kind of memory he dwells on often, but it stays anyway, clearer than it should be, sharper than the present moment in front of him. his thoughts circling back to you and nothing else. your lips, the warmth of your skin, the curve of your body pressed against his in ways he can't articulate without heat creeping up his neck and in other more intimate places too. the things he wants to do when there's more time, more space, all for the closeness he craves, his car will not do, four hours isn't enough, it floods his mind so fully, the prospects, the plans, fuck this, he's unable to think. enough that when he looks at you now, all smug and grinning like it's nothing, he has to choose, deliberately, to let it pass.

"you should keep track of your things," he settles on instead, calm and composed. except now the pink has spread a little further up his ears. you stifle a squeal, biting down on your lip when he looks too good like this. that restraint, that refusal to indulge you outright, feels just as telling as if he had.

he's good to you in ways that are hard to argue with, but when it comes to you, how you look, how you feel, his words land differently. "you don't have to put on so much," he says once, glancing at your makeup, not unkindly but direct. and another time, "you're overthinking again," he says when it's been weeks and you've still not listed career choices and possible universities to apply to. there's no cruelty in it, just an assurance that this is helpful, that this is what you need to hear. and you tell yourself he cares, because he does, but you start adjusting yourself so there's less for him to correct.

and it builds. you laugh something off, then think about it later. you hesitate before speaking, filtering your thoughts the way he never filters his. later, in the library, you're bent over a stack of textbooks, trying to make sense of equations that twist your brain in knots, the same ones you've been staring at the past few hours. he leans over, pointing at a mistake in your notes, and his fingers brush yours for just a second. it's barely anything, accidental—or maybe not—but it leaves a spark that won't go away. he doesn't notice—or pretends not to—the way your heart stutters, and you don't either, at least not aloud.

the moment stretches into silence between you. the smell of his soap mixes with the faint scent of old books, and the directness in his voice as he explains the solution contrasts sharply with the subtle heat of that touch. "it's not that hard," he says, and you're hit with the realization that this is turning into an impossible task. sitting straighter, thinking faster, hoping that if you just get these questions right, you'd fit neatly into his world—even just this tiny part of it—you'll feel like you belong. and somehow, the thought excites and terrifies you.

when you finally tell him, carefully, that sometimes the way he says things hurts, he frowns slightly, not defensive, but wholly confused. "i'm just being honest," he says, "would you rather i lie?" and you don’t have an answer for that, not one that doesn't make you feel unreasonable. because he is honest. he just doesn't seem to understand that honesty can still bruise.

it happens on a day that wasn't meant to matter. you've made another attempt, tried again, new effort, new hope, something softer in how you present yourself. within the snug confines of your bedroom, you twirl to show him your newly-altered uniform. the grey sweater hugs your curves a little more gently, the skirt rests comfortably on your hips without pulling too tight, and you've chosen a shade of lipstick that feels like you, not what you think he expects. he notices, obviously he does. as he sits by the edge of your bed, he eyes you a moment too long, inspecting your figure in that way that makes you self-aware even as it indicates he's scrutinizing. and then, almost reflectively, he comments, "i think you looked better before, this seems like you're trying too hard."

you feel it settle somewhere deep, heavier than it should, would it kill him to just give you a compliment, because it isn't just about the uniform, it's every small correction, every time you've tucked in your stomach, pressed your shoulders back, tried to slim down, reshaped yourself into something easier for him to accept.

deflating, you roll your eyes but hide it from his view, sighing loud as you turn away and go back to getting ready. "if losing a little bit of weight is trying too hard..." you whisper to yourself, already seething but holding back your tongue before your words bind you to a worse fate. still, as best as you try to hide it, your hands betray you when you practically throw your hairbrush aside instead of setting it down gently. or that you forego using perfume today because screw it, why would it even matter! slamming down the bottle with a loud thud.

"do you even like me?" you ask suddenly, louder than you expect, the words spilling out before you can filter them, trembling at the edges. "or just the version of me that makes sense to you?" the version that's easier to handle, that was so willing. the thought hits you like a cold weight, perhaps if you stayed as you are, he'd find more reasons to poke and prod. that the honesty he prides himself on could turn into a relentless measuring stick, one you could never pass. your chest tightens with the fear, but also a stubborn spark. you need to know, one way or another, whether he's capable of seeing all of you—and liking it.

he exhales, like he's weighing the truth carefully. "i like you," he says, "but i'm not going to pretend i don't notice things. that wouldn't be fair to either of us."

either of us he says. as if you ever pointed things out so deliberately, without consideration or compassion. as if you looked at him and saw all the ways he could change, should change—cataloging every imperfection like it was a flaw to be fixed, every slip or hesitation something to correct. but you never did that. you noticed, yes, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, the tiny habits that made him…him, and you internalized them instead. you tried to mould yourself around them, sharpen the contours, smooth the curves, shrink the parts of you that felt too much, thinking that's what love meant. i will get the guy. i will be better. and now, it feels like it's not enough, like it all means nothing. the weight of all the effort you piled on yourself, and it hurts differently than any insult ever could.

"i thought you'd like a smaller girl," for all these expectations he has, he should've thought about the most obvious one. still, you shrug off the faint tugging in your heart, forcing the words out with more bite than you feel, "not that i did it for you, but the least you could do is be supportive."

he blinks, caught off guard for just a second, then meets your gaze evenly, "i am supportive," he says, "but i preferred you the way you were, that doesn't make..." he gestures vaguely to your figure, "...this wrong. it's just…is what it is."

"this? i'm trying to be better, isn't that what you want?" your voice lifts, not quite breaking, but stretched thin with something too close to it.

"you wanted this," he says, sharper than before, the words landing with more force than he probably intends. and you don't know if he means the changes you've made or the relationship as a whole, but there it is—the line he never crosses. the place where he won't soften or bend, won't meet you halfway if it means changing how he speaks, how he sees. and for the first time, you understand that this isn't something that will grow into what you need. this is already everything he's willing to give.

even says, "i just went along with it," when it can't get any worse for you. out of all the things to say, he chooses the one that cuts deep, or maybe it just makes the most sense. "you were the one who pushed for this." he doesn't say it cruelly, but like a fact he's simply acknowledging, not something he realizes could break you.

"i'm done," you don't cry when you say it. that surprises you more than anything. the solidness of your voice and how it doesn't waver, like this was a long time coming, like the decision had settled into place long before this moment. there's a dull ache in your chest, but it isn't overwhelming. it's final, like closing a door you've been holding open for too long. "we're just two very different people," you say, there's no villain here, just a shape that never quite fit.

ushijima doesn't reply, doesn't refute, you're over waiting for explanations or apologies. he won't offer them anyway. his silence isn't empty, but it isn't reaching either, he makes no attempt to stop you and there's no instinct to fix what's breaking. he just sits there, elbows on knees, like he's accepting the outcome of something he already understood the limits of.

but you know him well enough to recognize it. the way he chooses silence over the inevitable end unfolding in front of him. because saying it out loud, the mere speaking of it. would make it real in a way that can't be taken back. and he doesn’t avoid reality, he won't delude himself, he meets it head-on, even when it costs him. "i told you from the start i won't lie to you," he says, not defensive, just stating fact.

"i know," you reply, you do know. he didn't mislead you, didn’t promise something he couldn’t keep. you were the one who kept hoping honesty would eventually sound like softness, like reassurance, like the kind of love that didn’t make you feel like you were being measured.

he nods after a moment. "i guess, this is it," but the words feel bitter, the taste of lies has never sat right there, but he can't seem to stop, can't seem to make sense of why he needs to do it in the first place. there’s something off in the delivery, something that doesn’t quite align with the certainty he usually carries. like he's simplifying something he hasn't fully examined.

because you believe him. you always have. and maybe that's why he doesn't push further, doesn't correct himself, doesn't dig into whatever is sitting uncomfortably beneath his own words. would it be too much to ask that you call him out on it now, that you push him, make him say it properly—go on, make me admit it, make me say that this mattered more than i planned for, that you mattered more than i accounted for, that i love —

but you don't, and he doesn't. and the silence that follows says everything neither of you will.

------------

the gym in poland is quieter than he remembers japan being. bigger, too. ceilings stretched higher than ever before, the echoes linger longer, and the language around him shifts in ways he's grown accustomed to but never fully settled into. practice ended hours ago, but ushijima remains, alone with a ball in his hands, running through motions that don't require translation. launching spikes and serves like clockwork.

"you always stay late, or is this one of those brooding things i've heard so much about?" the voice cuts clean through the empty space. familiar and so very amused.

ushijima doesn't turn immediately, "kuroo," he states.

tetsuro leans lazily against the doorway as he takes it all in, like it doesn't take much to get comfortable, arms crossed, grin easy and unchanged despite the years. "took some effort to find you out here," he adds, "you don’t make it easy."

ushijima almost laughs, "didn't think you would try."

"yeah, well," kuroo shrugs, pushing off the wall and stepping inside, "i was in the area. figured i'd check on japan's finest export." his gaze sweeps the gym, then settles back on ushijima. "plus, i was curious."

ushijima finally looks at him. "about what?" there are only a few possibilities, and he already knows which one kuroo's here for. oikawa's been harping on about an all-star match for weeks, and shoyo's only made it worse, running with it like it's his personal mission to stir interest out of everyone.

kuroo's smile widens just a little, "about whether you're still like this," he gestures vaguely toward ushijima and everything else he's made up of, at the empty gym, the late hour, the quiet persistence, "or if anything's managed to get through that thick head of yours yet."

ushijima considers the question and the answer comes easier than it should. "there was someone," he says.

kuroo stills, interest piqued immediately, "was?"

"is," ushijima corrects.

the air shifts and kuroo lets out a low hum, something more thoughtful than teasing now. "huh. didn’t take you for the 'holding on' type." because everyone knew what he'd been like all those years ago. anchored, immovable, the kind of person a girl wouldn't be enough to derail. when ushijima's breakup was just news, it had been treated like anything else, noted, processed, and moved past. an opportunity for others to step in, to try their luck, to see if there was space where you used to be.

but there hadn't been. not really. not ever. "i'm not." he says, he hadn't changed in any obvious way. still consistent, focused, still the same player they'd always known. if anything, he'd only gotten better. but there lies something distinct no one could quite name at the time. the absence of what was once there, subtle but noticeable if you looked long enough.

"sure," kuroo says lightly, "...and yet."

ushijima looks back down at the ball in his hands, turning it over, passing it back and forth between his palms. the same way he used to turn over plays in his mind. except this isn't something he's been able to solve. "i haven't seen her in years," he says, "we don't speak."

kuroo studies him now, "you never replaced her," he says, not quite a question.

ushijima sighs, "and i still think about her." he doesn't know which comes first, the smile that forces its way on his lips or the sharp pang in his chest. but there's no hesitation in his words, no attempt to soften the blow of his admission, just a statement of fact.

kuroo exhales, slow, almost impressed, "wow, you're serious."

ushijima doesn't respond. he doesn’t need to and the silence stretches, filled with the bouncing thud of the ball hitting the floor and something heavier than before.

"what happened?" kuroo asks eventually, tone still curious but also wary.

ushijima's uncertain how he should answer, "i was honest."

kuroo snorts, then nods, like he could relate completely, "sounds like your version of a horror story. no need to elaborate."

but he does, he goes on as if maybe it'll ease the ache a little, "we...had our differences. she wanted a boyfriend and i guess i didn't know how to be one." it's not regret, exactly. he doesn’t frame things that way, but it's close. uttered with the same ingredients, self-blame and a realization that's just a fraction too late.

"i thought…" he pauses, searching for the correct wording, like it still matters to get it right, "i thought if something could be improved, it should be said, that it was the right way to care."

kuroo watches him, "and?"

"i guess she took my words to heart, we called it quits," ushijima's gaze drifts, unfocused for a moment, "she listened, like she always does." kuroo's expression shifts, something understanding settling in.

"and you didn’t want her to," he adds, another pause.

"no," ushijima admits, but not for the last time.

"so what," kuroo says after a beat, tone lighter again but not dismissive, "you're just gonna think about her forever? never try again?"

the truth is, he has tried. in small, practical ways. conversations that went nowhere. moments that didn’t stay. nothing that lingered the way you did. "i haven't found a reason to stop," he says instead.

kuroo lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh, "that’s rough."

ushijima nods once and they move on. still, you remain there a weight in his chest. a fragment of himself left tethered to someone he can't reach anymore.

if he were as honest as he thinks he is, he might've said it more. how much he's carried it all these years, how long he's held on, how the thought of you never really left. even in another country, another team, another life, you still occupy every corner in his mind. he might've said, i haven't gotten over you, i can't move on, i'd like to be better. the words simple, unadorned, and painfully true. but he doesn't. not yet.

you’re behind the counter hoping to stray away from his sight and stay out of trouble. with rag in hand, you focus on polishing glasses, trying not to stare.

he orders a whiskey but doesn’t ask for a glass. instead he drinks straight from the bottle, one hand braced against the bar, gulping down half of it in record time. you've only seen this sort of thing from the town drunks. still, you assume its to mask some sort of ache when glancing down to find his knuckles are raw. bleeding and blistered from a fight.

at the first sound of his voice, you almost drop the glass in hand. how rough it sounds, as callous as his fingers. low, grainy, a slow drawl with the hint of laughter somewhere beneath it. “hell of a day for a drink, huh?”

you nod in reply when words feel unnecessary. the piano’s gone quiet since he walked in and you give the young boy a signal to resume playing, the other servers step from behind the kitchen warily, and the women seated in men's laps hold on for dear life.

the room holds its breath for a while, and so do you.

--------------------------

gojo stays longer than he should. long enough for the sun to set and the lamps to start humming against the dark.

you catch him watching you, gaze following after your every move. he shifts his eyes toward your working hands, your stoic expression, and when you turn around, you feel them zeroing in on the rest of you. the way a starving man watches a meal he doesn’t think he deserves, with hidden intention and reluctance both.

there’s something heavy about him, like he’s carrying the whole desert on his shoulders. “you got a room?” he asks when it's just the two of you left behind, voice now slightly drowsy from the alcohol, but no less gravelly than before.

“upstairs,” you say, “ain’t much, but it’s quiet.” there are no boarders tonight, mostly because gojo has made his presence known. no doubt everyone in town has spoken of his arrival and will avoid coming anywhere near the saloon, not until the infamous man and his horse have long left.

“quiet sounds like heaven,” he replies with a smile, the slight sound of relief in his tone. you might think he's actually lowering his defences here, but you know better than to trust first impressions. still, you won't deny him a place to stay. he pays with a satchel of coins and you lead him up the stairs, the old wood complaining, groaning and moaning beneath your boots.

"shall i prepare you a bath?" you ask, pulling the curtains closer and dusting the bedspreads, straightening them around the corners. gojo stills at the door, he pauses. you take a good look now that he's up close. despite being tall enough to touch the ceiling, his form is far from lanky, filled out with muscle, the kind that is honed from years on horseback and gunslinging brawls. as silly as it sounds, you wonder if he's ever ran atop a chugging train. after all, he is the protagonist of every story told for the sake of entertainment, exaggerated and bordering on fantasy.

gojo's smirk spreads across his face like he can read your thoughts, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “you always look at strangers like that?”

you don’t answer him, choosing to deflect instead, "i take it you'll be staying for a week?" moving to the bathroom, you fill a metal tub with hot water, then leaving aside some tonics and scented oils atop the crate beside. you think that’s it, you'll leave him be. he'll sleep, and you’ll forget the way his eyes drag across your face like they’re memorizing it.

he smiles. it’s crooked, tired, and a little bit reckless. he doesn't mind playing this game with you. how uptight you are, proven by the irritated look on your face as he begins to remove his clothing. piece by piece, the layers come off, shedding the day's tiresome work and worries.

god almighty, he's beautiful. tanned skin glistening with sweat and grease, hair dusting his arms, his chest, down the valley of his abdomen, and grown fullest below the waistband of his chaps. “don’t worry, i’m gone by sunrise," he replies.

you huff, that can't be true, he's paid well over what he owes for just one night. he must be expecting more, and since you're no fool, you immediately squash any lewd ideas he might have. “you said that to the lawmen chasing you too?” he might be a woman's dream, the kind that allows them a taste of sin, and you're not a prude who denies temptation—althought the occasional romp with one of the ranchers has been well overdue—but you're not interested in anything to do with a wanted man.

he laughs, loud and lighthearted. you get the feeling he didn't expect that from you, or it might just be that he hasn't laughed in a long time. “no, darlin’, to them, i said somethin’ worse.” while you're too hung up on thinking of a clever comeback, another question to have him revealing more, gojo takes the opportunity to pull off his drawers and sink himself in water.

now bare, he lazes in the steaming tub, gently scrubbing his skin with salt and soap. "you're still starin'..." he teases in a playful tone, not unlike when he called you darlin'...darlin'...darlin'...how sweet it sounds. warming the pit of your stomach, heart thumping a little faster. you swallow, feet stuck in place, watching him bathe as if in a trance, seeing his skin now cleaned and hair tousled every which way. it shines even brighter in the dim light of the bathroom.

"i'll help with your wounds," you answer, stepping close and watching the surprised expression on his face slip into a grateful one. you make poultices with herbs, saturating them with whatever's left from the whiskey bottle before gently dabbing across his knuckles, your eyes searching for any other cuts in his body, coming to find a faded scar in the middle of his chest.

"should've seen the other guy," gojo says, "i blew his arm right off, along with half his body," he says with ease. this type of violence must be normal for him, for men on the run.

"must've been quite the fight," you only wanted to know if it hurt.

--------------------------

starting a fire becomes easy after the hundredth time; it warms the room and sets it in a delicate glow. you find him sitting by the windows, open to the sound of chirping cicadas and howling wind. he’s rolling a cigarette, but his hands tremble just enough to betray him.

“rough day?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe. there's really no need to stick your nose in his business, you've learned by now to be quiet and do your job. but now that gojo's dried off and bandaged, a part of you is drawn to how different he looks. tired and troubled.

“been rough for a while,” he murmurs, not looking up, “kinda forgot what easy feels like.” you watch the match flare in between his fingers, orange light licking over his face. shadows accentuate the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the exhaustion that clings to him like a second skin.

he takes a drag, then exhales toward the ceiling. the smell of tabacco permeating. “you smoke?” he asks.

“not anymore," you reply. an old habit you won't take up again just for the taste of him.

he nods, respecting your answer. a long moment passes as the cigarette tapers off to nothing. wind through the open window carrying the smoke with it. you move closer. he looks up, and for a second, he’s not the outlaw on every wanted poster, just a man with finding a safe haven for the night. “you should rest,” you whisper.

he shakes his head, “it's tough sleepin' alone." his gaze flickers toward you again, slow and deliberate. you can feel the heat rolling off him, not just from the whiskey, but there's a faint hum of something in the air. something electric.

“i could keep you company,” you say, shrugging one shoulder, fingers fidgeting with the fabric of your chemise.

his lips twitch, a smile grows, “you don’t know what you’re offerin’.”

“maybe i do.” the silence between you is heavy enough to lean on, the room starts to feel too warm, hair rising at the back of your neck, throat dry with the pride you swallow, and one quick glance at him tells you everything. the parting of his lips beckoning you, the lazy droop of his eyelids so seductive. you don't think much of it, only that you need to know what it's like, what he feels like. just one night, tonight...you'll dance with the devil.

--------------------------

you don’t remember who moved first. maybe it was the air itself, thick with heat and need, that pushed you both forward. his hand catches your wrist, not rough, not soft, just certain. the scent of smoke and woody musk lingering between you.

you're both not new to this, but a kiss had never felt so exhilarating. gojo's lips are soft despite the edges of his body simmering with tension, he isn't forceful or demanding in any way, gently nipping, sucking at your bottom lip to test the waters. just a mere swipe of his tongue against yours sets your body ablaze. he tastes a little sharp from the alcohol, a little salty from saliva and abrasive paste on his teeth. he tastes absolutely divine.

his voice drops low, a rasp against your ear. “you sure about this?” you've never been asked nor have you taken the lead with such things, it always seemed quick and unremarkable with other men, but now in the light of the fire, gojo wants to be sure, he wishes to remember and so do you.

you nod once. stripping out of your corset and down to your chemise, the thin fabric hides nothing, not your hardened nipples or the fine hairs dusting the space between your legs. "you're the prettiest thing i've ever seen..." gojo whispers, his eyes wide and holding yours as he gets down on his knees, ready to peel the garment off slowly and appreciatively.

a large hand trails up your calves, lifting the hem along and in its place, he leaves kisses over skin of your legs. a peck here, a dull bite there. the slight stubble on his chin grazing, rough but a welcomed sensation. his hands slide up and over your ass, pulling your bloomers down. "gotta take care of you first," he says, breath puffing over the supple flesh of your thighs.

with you flat on the bed, he's moving at an unhurried pace and you're already dripping at the seam. getting slick and slippery, urging him with a whine. practically ordering him to get on with it. judging by the thick bulge you spot in his trousers, he's as impatient as you.

although he doesn't show it, adamant that he 'takes care' of you first. legs draped over his shoulders, you hang tight as you offer yourself to him. gasping in pleasure when he spears his tongue into you. you're drenched, delicious even, and gojo challenges himself to see how fast he can make you come undone.

your scent clings to him, juices sticking and saturating his face. creaming with every thrust of his fingers. digits pressing, prodding into a spot you are now discovering, makes you leak like a broken faucet. gojo spreads you open wider so he gets full access to your clit, switching between sucking and gently flicking against it with the tip of his tongue.

the sensation rocks through your body, you tremble and shake with with pleasure, bucking your hips and thrusting upwards to take more of him, more of his tongue and fingers working into you. the sheets are now damp with your arousal, you fist at them for purchase before moaning without restraint. spasming around him seconds later as you gush from an orgasm so strong you think you might've wet yourself.

your breaths are ragged, body spent and unable to do anything but call out to him. "you bastard!" you whine, trying to grasp at sanity, unable to fathom what he just did to you. he grins, self-satisfied. this is what it means to care for a woman. it makes him crazy, everything about you makes him crazy. your taste especially when he sucks on his fingers to clean them off. getting every last bit of you.

he makes room on the bed, propping your hips up with a pillow and getting you comfortable. "you ready, sweetheart?" he asks when straddling you beneath him, legs entwined around his hips. as desperate as the two of you are, you wish to take him in for a second longer, he won't sheathe himself without your permission, so he lingers outside for a little while.

the head of his cock at your entrance is hot and throbbing as he slides it up from your plump clit to barely fitting it inside your core and back again until you mewl and soak his shaft completely. it pulses dark and thick with urgency, and when he taps at your pussy lips for good measure, it makes a wet sound he loves. so much that he can't help but tease you about it. "look at the mess you're makin'" his smirk is as raunchy as his thoughts, tongue grazing over his teeth, his lips curl into an excited, frenzied smile.

it's only when you look down to find the wetness there, the line of fluid dripping from his cock, thin and too much to bear. he's not the biggest by any means, but from how few you've seen, his is a weightier, girthier thing that's enough to make you drool. jutting from between grey hairs and weeping with pre. "fuck me," you whisper, and you mean it with all your being. loud enough for him, only him.

the first time is never easy and gojo's attempt is hard-fought with every inch. a sharp gasp is shared, the two of you rolling your heads back and relishing in pleasure. gradually making his way inside as you stretch around him, he doesn't intend to stop when you urge him so keenly.

when he hits bottom, you whimper, you tear up, you stifle any thoughts about being joined so perfectly, you don't make up lies about how it's meant to be, how this must be fated, that it must be a coincidence. gojo, who doesn't even know your name, happens to be the best sex of your life.

he groans like an engine, almost loud enough to drown the sound of his hips striking yours with every thrust. grunting with effort as he pumps back and forth. slotting himself deeper when he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. feeling you shake and moan for him.

his muscular body is big and hot to the touch, melding into yours. you feel his heart beating wildly, pulse pounding, so close you don't wish to ever let go. crying out without care that anyone might hear. yes, gojo satoru is fucking you and he's so damn good at it.

gojo sets his forearms by the sides of your head then, holding your face gently and watching as you suck on a bandaged thumb graciously, as if thanking him for pounding the life out of you. writhing against him and feeling your nipples graze his heated, sweat-damp skin. the ecstasy of being filled by his cock is as good as your pussy clenching down so tightly, fitted like glove and gushing with every nudge to that special spot. he tells you so, "a perfect cunt, a perfect girl," he says, "where have you been all my life?"

this is why he's dangerous. you're in so much trouble and you don't know how you could ever recover from this. you should've held back, should've restrained yourself. but all you do is delight in his words, in the meaning of them, as if they were true and not just another way for him to completely wreck you.

he's already halfway there because you quiver, feeling a tightening in your core, ankles hooking around his waist and toes curling as you barely hang on. he's salivating now, eyes dark and slightly dazed, he pries your lips open, sucking on your tongue and letting the drool slip from his mouth to yours.

you rock together to the sound of the bed creaking, hips slamming, the wet smacking from where you meet, where his balls slap against your asscheeks, and even wetter kisses shared. he picks up the pace, no longer coaxing you towards the edge but propelling you into an orgasm at full force. you feel like you're about to explode, gripping at his biceps for the oncoming rush, there are no thoughts, no warnings to where he might finish, all you care about is keeping him where he is.

it keeps going until, at last, he slams balls deep and lets out a growl. a rumbling sound that reverberates, his hips grounding you, weight full and actually putting you through the mattress as you both come at the same time. you scream but don't even know it, all you hear is ringing in your ears and gojo's unrelenting string of curses.

your back arches as his potent seed floods your insides. body trembling and rigid, head swimming. pump after pump of his cum pours out in belly-swelling surges, filling your womb. with a whine, you shakily set your hand to your belly, where you could feel the shape of his cock beneath the flesh, growing with his release.

you bite down on your lip, eyes rolling back when a little spurt of your own fluids splashes the man's scruffy pubic hair in a sudden flinch of pleasure. not only does he watch in awe but he thumbs your clit to wheedle out the very last of your orgasm, stimulating you just that bit more. after all, he owes it to you for making him come his brains out.

--------------------------

your voice is hoarse when you break the silence, "still feelin' lonely?" you don't remember it being this quiet now that you lay next to him, caressing the marks your nails left on his skin. you've spent years in this saloon, but never had you felt this warmth, this comfort. the room feels like a place you two have mad eyour own, like you lived here together.

"enough for you to keep me company a second time," gojo replies, hands already reaching out for your hips.

"won't you stay?" you ask, knowing the answer.

you catch the remorse in his reply. "wouldn't you prefer to miss me?" you're his beautiful stranger. a quiet moment in the storm. it was difficult to leave when he'd only stop by for a drink, but now that he's lavished in this one bit of peace away from everything, he feels his heart tug at having to let you go. cruel is the world.

"i'd prefer to have you close."

"i'm right here, you have me." til sunrise. the rest is a blur of warmth and hammering heartbeats, the sound of the desert outside pulsing like a second rhythm. there’s no tenderness, but there’s something close, a kind of reverence there in the quiet ache of two people pretending the night might never end.

--------------------------

morning arrives and the sun’s back to burning everything it touches. you wake to the smell of smoke and the faint sound of a saddle being cinched outside. the room’s empty and the sheets still warm. rising from the bed, you peek toward the nightstand to find a scrap of paper. 'thanks for the quiet.' scrawled in ink. you stare at it for a long time, until the edges blur.

by noon, the sheriff’s men ride through town asking if anyone’s seen him. the man sketch on a poster, plastered across every building. you shake your head. “just the usual drifters,” you say. and when they’re gone, you step out onto the porch to watch the dust settle.

the horizon shimmers, a long line of gold that refuses to soften. endless, merciless, stretching on like a promise the land never meant to keep. sunlight fractures against the heat, turning every shape into a mirage, every memory into dust. maybe he’s out there still, a ghost on horseback, chasing the edge of the world just to see what breaks first. the sky or him. too proud to stop, too cursed to stay.

unfortunately for an occasion as symbolic, there are no revelations made on a day like this. not after the fourth or fifth time. with its hearts, letters, and sugary sweet treats, you can only let out a forlorn sigh. hoping for more when looking at pictures of couples on staycations, men on one knee, and women who make large and elaborate gift packages that cost a fortune. all these faces expressing sparks of joy alongside joy-filled tears. you don't remember the last time you've been this excited and enthused.

and you don't mean to compare or compete with strangers on the internet. living together and sharing a life is what all couples hope for. the one sukuna shares with you is leagues above what you'd ever imagined for yourself. his company and closeness feed you full, but this nagging unrest you keep to yourself comes up as the days tick by and february emerges.

it's probably why your dress feels too tight tonight and the pasta you twirl incessantly around your fork isn't all that appetising. you're boxed in a comfy booth seat, there's a lilting of smooth jazz in the air, and everyone else around you seems to be having the time of their lives, yet the michelin stars and fancy wine don't quell your unease.

it seems the usual routine of date-night dinner and sex afterwards is getting old. dare you say the novelty has worn off but the view however, is still undoubtedly captivating—

you give sukuna a slow, meticulous once-over. really taking him in. it's been a while since he cleaned up so nicely. dressed to the nines, he dons a perfectly fitted suit. black atop his white shirt. earrings glinting and spectacles sitting nicely on his face. he'll never admit he needs them to read the menu so you'll blame it on dim lighting. he's even mussed his hair back. now grown out and darker, a strand or two falls just by his temples in an effortless mess. no longer sporting bright pink spikes, but rosy mauve locks. ("the younger guys at the gym call it a wolfcut," he says, you make a mental note to thank them the next time you visit.)

he cuts into his steak and feels the flesh give under his fork like melted butter; it's the perfect doneness and the sauce too is incredible. he sighs in relief when it tastes like a balm to his soul. a heat pools in your stomach, skin set aflame, and you think of all the ways to sink your teeth in him instead.

a bit of sauce escapes the corner of his lips, and he wipes it off with his thumb. craning his neck back a second later to gulp down a red you can't remember the name of. something earthy, something fruity, all the notes that never stuck when faced with a mouth-watering temptation like him.

every jaw-clenching chew and flexing of his hands when he eats is a sight so distinctly masculine. you can't put a finger on it. just that he looks so comfortable, so confident. it would've been enough to watch him. your man. how lucky you are to have him all to yourself, at least for now. but the warmth in your belly is tinged with uncertainty. even more so when moments later, sukuna surprises you most unexpectedly.

"you got me a vibrator?" isn't the reaction he'd been hoping for when you unwrapped the not-so-discreet package he oh-so ceremoniously slid across the table. his smirk wicked and ever telling of his intentions. and his lack of effort, says the mean voice in your head.

"i know how much you miss me when i'm away," he replies, shrugging and self-satisfied. however, your expression is unmoving. clearly unimpressed. you had called him weeks ago in the middle of the night, hot and panting like a bitch in heat—'hey baby, i know it's late but i wish you were here on top of me beating this pussy up. you know how i like it, i need you. i need your cock, i need your hands, your lips, get your ass back here and fuck. me.'— but that was just one time. okay maybe a few times. you'll admit you lay it on pretty thick when missing him but still.

"you don't like it?" he asks, a tad bit offended, yet he won't jump to conclusions. you're shy, but self-consciousness is not part of his vocabulary or personality. maybe you really do hate your gift.

"it's not exactly what i was expecting..." you swallow. how does one say 'is sex the only thing on your mind? the only exciting thing we do together?' without hurting his pride. you wanted to be wooed, not seduced. at least his heart's in the right place, you think. so what if he expresses his love through...amorous means. the horny bastard. he's not one for flowery words or floral arrangements. taking a more 'he does as he likes' approach, practical is the word. you've always found his bluntness attractive, complementary even.

but not the brooding. which is the only thing he does post-dinner. on the ride home he makes no mention of the gift and contemplates breaking the lock after struggling with the key. hmph-ing, tsk-ing, and grumbling past the threshold. you tip and bid the driver adieu while sukuna's already stripping himself of his clothes. tosses each layer lazily over the couch, up the steps, until he's wallowing alone in the home sauna.

you huff at his petulance. fine. so no bathtime fun. it's not the first time he's sulked, but you hate being kept away from a warm soak. especially when he's there to massage your aching shoulders and help with the back scrub. no matter the situation, he always tends to you during rest and repose. becoming a ritual you won't sacrifice for pride. which means you're left with no other option but to manage his tempers.

steam fills the room in a foggy, damp haze by the time you arrive. moisture dribbling in rivulets down the glass pane. he crosses his arms and leans back against the cedar. opens one eye at hearing your pattering feet as you enter with a tiny, tiny towel that leaves nothing to the imagination. there's barely enough cotton to go around your body. both hems held in your hand tightly to keep your curves at bay. but alas, the fabric hikes up, parts down the middle, and he sees everything beneath the opening. the swell of your breasts, the tempting bow of your hip, the cute pudge of your belly. skin so smooth, flesh so supple.

"got room for one more?" you ask humbly, fiddling with his shiny chain necklace and mumbling lowly, "i had to take a bath on my own...you know how i hate that," lifting his chin up to meet your eyeline. seated, he's the same height as you, but you like it when he's gazing from below.

he remains in anticipation but doesn't beat around the bush, "something's on your mind, you've been hiding it from me all day," sukuna's eyes bore into yours as a challenge. one you can't back away from when he pulls close by the waist.

the towel falls, and he leans in to sniff your neck. his nostrils fill with the lingering bits of your perfume, chasing after the trail with his lips. a chaste kiss here, a tantalizingly slow smooch there. covered from jaw to chest.

sighing in defeat, you admit "was a vibrator really the best option?" he's definitely heard you because he tenses up, but he doesn't budge, too distracted by your naked body. since you'd rather savour the intimacy than ruin it, you know it's best not to press further. it's not a big deal. so your hands come up to his shoulders, soothingly trailing over them. as if to say "i'm sorry, thank you for thinking of me."

he gives in immediately, "i only think of you...and you're right, i could've done better." you smile at his subtle admissions, loving that they're becoming less scarce with time.

"no, you did well, you dressed up and took me out...i'm afraid i let my thoughts get carried away again, you know how i am...just felt we could've used a little bit of romance tonight." your nails caress the back of his neck, one of his favourite spots. the longer strands of his hair now dewy and sticking to you.

"i'm not romantic?" comes out less of a question, more as a testy threat judging by the way his voice drops a few octaves lower, ever-forbidding.

"you are. in your own way—" you scramble for convincing evidence, "—you tell me i'm pretty every day and you spoil me." because he likes to hear it. likes when you acknowledge how well he takes care of you.

"'cause you're beautiful—" he speaks the truth, "—and how could i not spoil you?" queen treatment would be an understatement. a goddess wishes she'd get half the time and attention he has for you. the countless dates, gifts, and late-night phone calls are a testament, however repetitive, but important in making you feel loved. practice makes perfect, and sukuna is disciplined if anything. "what do you like about me?" he whispers just as his hand dips over the base of your spine to cup your ass, both cheeks gripped in his palms. you moan at the sweet pressure, at his skin so hot to the touch.

"well, you're hard as adamant," in more ways than one. lifting a leg and settling atop his bulky thighs, you feel a bulge forming below his towel. poking at your bare and wanting pussy. it would be so easy to slip him inside and have you bounce on it, both flushed and stuck together, slickened with sweat and the mess between thighs, just the thought of slipping against his searing skin in sweltering steam drives you crazy.

but he stops you right as you're about to make a move. "not here," he groans. growing and growing with vigor. twitching and soaking his towel through with precum.

"yes here," you argue. defiantly. yanking the towel away and exposing his cock. earning a guttural hiss in reply.

he lifts you by the thighs then. the surprised squeal you let out is enough to stifle your protests. had it ever been this easy to feel precious? this easy to make you swoon. held and cradled in his arms like a delicate thing. you'd say he's putting his strength to good use, those muscles aren't just for show, but sukuna requires no effort carrying you towards your bedroom.

"remember the first time we met?" you ask, giddy pep in your voice. grinning at that memory of a younger, wilder sukuna, untamable really. if you closed your eyes, you could picture him vividly. the cuts and bruises, the jaw-dropping definition of his muscles. smelling of sweat and musk. of chlorine in the water, iron in his blood. the way he trapped you with a smouldering look and how ferocious you were standing up to him, puffing your chest, not knowing what to expect. you were ready to make him an enemy once...

"yeah? you were so into me," he teases. lightly setting you upon the sheets and caging your body from above. he looms, lingers there to watch you. regarding you with that fond look in his eyes, swiping at the hairs stuck to your sweat-damp forehead with rare, no—reserved tenderness.

you push him away, "oh please, you were practically begging me for a date, obsessed much?" back turned to him, you crawl across the sheets. relishing in the cool, soft material and feeling his presence pursuing you. reaching for what could only be lube when you hear the familiar sound of the cap popping loose before his knees dip into the mattress, you even add a little sway to your hips just to taunt him.

he takes the bait when it looks as good as your ass does. that seductive arch of your back he loves. lips leaving a languid path of kisses down the line of your spine, goosebumps rising to meet them. "says the girl who wouldn't stop staring. i saw the way you were looking at me at the restaurant earlier."

"you looked so brutish slobbering all over your food—oh!" you gasp as you feel his fingers slip inside, eased by the lube. in and out, he finds the right spots with shallow prodding. lets you get accustomed to taking one finger, then two. it doesn't take him long to find your gspot, curling at the right angle to hit his mark every time he slides them in deeper.

he hums. if you weren't mired in the moment you might've snapped at him, call him names for having the gall to laugh. "you're making a mess all over this brute's fingers. what does that say about you?" that you like when he gets cocky, when he puts you in your place, when he reads you so well, pushing all the right buttons to provoke you just enough.

"i don't know what you're talking about," you lie even with your true feelings left on display—abundant slick running down your thighs, the wet, squelching sounds your pussy makes—getting punished in return, he plans to make this as torturous as possible, so he bypasses pistoning his hand in steady rhythm for a deliberately slow one, even forgoing playing with your lonely, throbbing clit. the moment you attempt to rub at it, he pulls his fingers out to swat your hand away.

you groan out of frustration, the edges of your body quivering with need. walls clenching around thrusting fingers, suckling them in a tight vice. it's not enough for you to move on your own. soon, you're squirming at the dragged-out feel. a heat radiating up your lower belly and coiling tight before he stops. left to a perpetual climb and fall. what makes it worse is his other hand comes up to spread your cheeks to graze over your asshole with a thumb. making you shiver and actually cry from desperation. "okay, you win, just fuck me already!—" you relent.

he doesn't give you time, catching you by surprise again as his hammering hand mercilessly drives you to an inevitable climax. keeping his fingers wedged firmly on your gspot all the while. you let out an uncontrollable scream, leaking down his big, strong hand as the full force of tonight's first orgasm shot through you. face down, ass up, you're still letting out little whines and shuddering as the spasms of pleasure radiate from head to toe.

it's then he reaches for the neglected vibrator. made in your favourite colour with uniform ridges running up the length, silicone molded to replicate him but falling short of a few inches long and nowhere near as girthy. whirring and buzzing against your clit, you hear it echo through the mattress. his arm comes up to curl around your neck then, taking hold. like this, your cheek presses into that sweet swell of his bicep. an affectionate chokehold, as he likes to call it.

"kuna-" you choke on his name, it slips out so naturally just as he plunges himself balls deep. you can't think. can't speak. head filled with no thoughts but the sweet stretch of your asshole taking every single inch of him. thrust. thrust. thrusting hips meeting the plush of your cheeks in time. how you manage to take him is thanks to the countless attempts prior. all endeavours pertaining anal sex and his massive dick is nothing short of an accomplishment.

with your eyes rolling back and mouth hanging open, you're drooling out the corner of your mouth, mindless with want. babbling unintelligible praises strung together. so good, so deep, hears you calling him daddy and knows you've lost yourself in ecstasy. you're not one to submit so easily but his full balls slap your thighs with each shove, sometimes hitting the bottom of your dribbling pussy and it instantly turns you into a brainless slut. ultimately, you have no chance at taking charge when he collapses on your back. sukuna's weight and heft bear down upon you, but he doesn't stop, doesn't let you come up for air, instead he plows into you like an animal intending to breed.

with no holds barred and the vibrator at its highest speed, you're driven over the edge and he fucks you through it. your entire body convulsing in a powerful orgasm that has your ass clenching helplessly around his cock. what does it take to drive him over the edge? his stamina and endurance lasting through your second orgasm while you're barely hanging on. gripping the stained sheets and begging for mercy, there's a puddle sticking to your thighs but you can't stop coming undone.

asking yourself how you could ever get used to this—being wanted, desired, his special selected one bearing witness to his lust, all the mind-melting, mind-numbing sex—'how good can it be? it gets stale after a few years.' they say, all the friends and colleagues who emphasise on the supposedly more 'meaningful' things in a relationship. "you wanted romance," sukuna reminds you. leaning over so he kisses the top of your head, shushing your whimpering. "what's more romantic than getting fucked by a man who loves you?" it makes your heart sing, beating loud in your chest. he loves me.

he pulls out of your ass with a slow tug, careful not to hurt you before flipping you onto your back for round three. you don't try to stop him, the man is never satisfied until he's finished inside you. "don't give up now," he taunts and with a few playful taps to your waiting folds, sukuna sinks into your hot, welcoming cunt. you give him a weak gasp, still feeling the numbing throb on your clit from the toy.

he's shifting from his leisurely pace to rapid, focused thrusting. drawing closer to his peak, he drills into you with vigor. hitting deep and knocking the wind from you. with hands grasping your full hips for leverage, you think he's so beautiful atop you, just where you wanted him. sweat dripping off his forehead, his eyebrows scrunched, chain gleaming against his skin.

"you feel so good baby, can't believe you're mine..." he murmurs in a deep voice heavy with need. coupled with your moans, the creaking bed, and the wet slap of his cock slamming into you. he takes in your form, head thrown back in bliss, from the unbridled lust on your face to the bounce of your tits, and the way your pussy greedily clenches down on him every time his dick piercing rubs your walls and kisses the entrance to your cervix, jostling inside you.

you urge him closer wordlessly with a hand on his blushing cheek, feeling the curl of his smirk against your wrist. he takes the cue, leaning close and spreading your legs apart, feet raised above your head with his fingers lacing together with yours. it's just the right angle for the deepest penetration yet, shifting your position into a full mating press.

you swap kisses as he ruts into you, nipping on his bottom lip and sucking on his tongue. you didn't think the sound of noisy lip-smacking could be such a turn on. not to mention he moans so well for you. it's almost as addictive as his commentary. getting to that headspace where he rambles on, snatches of phrases that rumble through you, "you're creaming all over me y'kno that? thought your ass was amazing but nothing beats how good your pussy feels, so tight you're gonna snap my dick off, god, i wanna lock you up and ruin you, cum inside you, you'd like that wouldn't you? my perfect girl—" you sob at the thought of his cum filling you up. wailing yes, yes, yes. looking up and nodding dumbly at every bit of filth he professes. it continues on and trails off into incoherent grunting, overwhelmed by the pleasure, the contentment of being here, being with you.

you hug him tight as your climax approaches, cresting over. he cums and you cry out his name, milking him for every last drop. pouring into you load after load as he settles in deeper, feeling it leak out around his throbbing cock and run down between your thighs.

moments later, you kiss for what feels like hours. making out like you were still teenagers. sloppy and unhurried. he pulls away to wipe you down with a warm cloth, languishing your sated form with care and keeping you the dry side of the bed. "you okay?" he asks, rubbing your sore hips and making sure to put clean panties back on.

nodding, you hug his pillow closer, "i was thinking about our first valentines together." it felt like a bad omen when everything went wrong. heavy rain, piled-up traffic, him showing up late. "i thought you stood me up or you had an accident or something." what would've been a nice first valentines date turned into first argument. after the spilled tears and make-up kisses, it wasn't hard to forgive him. you fell in love that same night.

he chuckles, kissing your feet and disposing of the cloth. "not my finest moment..." getting beneath the covers with you, he pulls you in and tucks his chin by the crook of your neck. "someday i'll have to pay for all the shit i put you through, you'll slip through my fingers and it'll be too late for me..."

"is that why you got upset? because of the gift..." the guilt grows tenfold.

he shrugs, "i don't wanna keep fucking it up." you feel a sharp sting in your chest, it was only a memory now. just to reminiscence, but he's always so vulnerable after sex. this time it kills you to hear the doubt in his voice. sukuna is the most fearless person you know, until he faces the possibility of you leaving and he becomes a shell of himself. incapable and hollow.

you feel his arms curling tighter around you, giving you the support to say "you're my love 'kuna, you're all i care about, i thought i wanted what everyone else had but i don't need anything else, i love that vibrator, it's second to you and all your other perfect appendages..."