++

++ 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘

[summary] wrio missed his wife, and she missed him just as much. two simps in love.

[cws] fluff. fem reader -> wriothesley’s wife. reader is a mondstadt native. kissing.

Wriothesley’s cup of tea pauses halfway to his mouth as there’s a knock at his office door. His fingers tighten unconsciously around the handle, that incessant throbbing at his temples that had been dying out suddenly tapping into its nth life.

He contemplates ignoring it; pretending he didn’t hear it and indulging in his fresh brew, but he’s never been one to shirk off his work, no matter how inconsequential the task.

He sets the cup down rougher than necessary, and the legs of his chair scrape loudly against the floor as he pushes it back from his desk and stands to his feet. Someone better be dead or on the verge.

It was an unspoken rule that Wriothesley wasn’t to be bothered at this time -a quarter after five until six- because it was official tea time, a very, very important time in his day that let the inhabitants in Meropide see his most agreeable side… although he had heard talk from a few gossipy guards and prisoners that his ‘pissy attitude’ this past month had nothing to do with his interrupted tea times, but rather that his wife had gone back to Mondstadt to visit family.

“You know how he gets when he doesn’t see her after a while—downright scary. I’ve never seen a man look so enraged and distraught at the same time.”

“He put me on pipe restoration duty —don’t laugh, it isn’t funny! Worst job in the whole place, I swear— for the next six months all because my wife dropped by with a bento on my break. Apparently no one can be happy when his missus is away.”

“I caught him staring at her picture the other day, y’know the one he keeps in that chain around his neck, and sighing like some schoolgirl. I nearly thought my daughter had somehow gotten herself arrested and thrown down here when I heard all those lovesick sighs.”

It was all hearsay and speculation, of course. Wriothesley could manage just fine with you away - he was a grown man, a weathered man, a man who could function fully without the company of his wife.

That’s right, he thinks to himself. He’s been doing just fine in your absence, a bit quicker to anger than usual, but with the looming threat of being turned into a big, sopping puddle right below his feet, could you really blame him?

The door is wrenched open, strands of black and gray flying back from where they rested against his forehead due to the strong gust of wind he created.

“What is it now?” He nearly hisses out, but he manages to get a reign on it last minute, the words coming out a bit strained instead. He eyes the guard standing in front of him, their eyes flitting between the crease between his brows and the floor. “Spit it out before I—”

He stops abruptly when he hears a voice that he knows intimately well, and had he possessed any shame when it came publicly displaying the love he harbored for you, he would have been a touch embarrassed at the speed of which his frown smoothed out and the throbbing in his head disappeared, a sparkle in his eyes as his shoulders lose a bit of their tension.

“Oh? He has? Thank you for telling me, Sigewinne. I’ll get right on that.” You come rounding the corner with the small doctor at your side, a knapsack in your hands, and had Wriothesley been any less sane, he would have swore that he could feel the rays of the sunshine beaming down on his skin and fresh air filtering into his lungs when you turned your gaze to him, scornful as it was.

You’re fitted in a dress that’s customary for the women in your homeland to wear, and flowers are weaved into your hair, and the ring on your finger seems to shine a bit brighter.

“Wriothesley.” You march up to him, eyebrows knitted together, and push your finger against his chest. “What is this I hear about you acting like a tyrant?”

“You look beautiful.” He breathes out.

“And going to the Pankration ring? You know those poor people don’t stand a chance against you. That’s just bullying.”

“Let me take your bag, it looks heavy.”

“And you haven’t been eating right, either! Look at your face — you’ve lost weight!” He transfers the bag from your hands to his, and when his fingers brush against yours, he finally lets a smile bloom on his face, being met with a huff. “Don’t smile at me. I’m mad at you.”

“Can’t help it, happy to see you.” You falter a bit, corners of your lips twitching, but you hold strong, choosing to save face in front of the onlookers—always put up a good fight, especially when others are looking, is what he had told you once upon a time. “I’ve missed you so much.” It comes out in a low murmur, eyes locked onto yours and refusing to stray, even when you decide that his gaze is a bit too heavy for the setting and avert your own.

“I-well-you…just get inside your office.”

He’s nice enough to hold back a chuckle, instead stepping to the side so that you can shuffle past him and inside. Before he shuts the door, his gaze turns icy and his smile thins out as he lets his eyes sweep over everyone present. A resounding groan is heard, the unspoken promise loud and clear, and then he’s pushing the door shut and turning on his heel.

You’re on him in a second, arms wrapped around his waist as you bury your face into his chest. He returns the hug just as quick, thick, burly arms circling around your shoulders as his head dips down so he can stuff his nose into your hair and breathe your scent in.

Your voice comes out muffled as you try to speak, and he loosens his hold on you a bit, allowing you to pop your head up so you can look up at him. There’s a halfhearted pout on your lips, and his response is a reflex as he leans down to give you a peck once, twice, three times before moving on to place one on the tip of your nose.

“You were supposed to let me scold you out there, birdie. Now everyone’s gonna know that I let you off easy.”

“Let me off easy? I’d say this is the meanest you’ve ever been to me,” he gives an exaggerated expression of hurt. “You haven’t even told me you missed me, or that you’re happy to see me, or that you’ll never leave again because you couldn’t stand being away from me.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You smile despite yourself, and he kisses you again, scarred hands moving to cradle your cheeks. You part with a gasp for air, and its his turn to smile when you stretch up to reconnect your lips, the lack of air not deterring you in the slightest.

“Breathe, sweetheart…” He rasps against your lips, and you suck in a breath, eyes slowly blinking as you tug at the material of his shirt. There’s a rush of emotions that washes over him at the unspoken confirmation that you missed him just as much as he had missed you, and he lets his hands wander down to settle on your waist, fingers flexing as they squeeze at the flesh there through the material of your dress.

“Well, well, well,” he starts, and you blink out of your stupor to don a guilty expression. “Looks like you haven’t been eating right, either, hypocrite.” He lightly pinches at your side, and you squeal out a laugh as you lightly bat at his hand.

“Have I told you that I missed you, and that I’m sooo happy to see you, and that I’ll never, ever leave again because I can’t stand being away from you?” You flutter your lashes up at him, direct that heart-stopping smile up at him, and for a split second he thinks that the primordial sea has broken the seal and reduced him to nothing but a puddle at your feet.

“Careful now, words like that are liable to kill a man, and this place isn’t fitting for a sweet girl like you.”

“Oh? Then maybe I should leave earlier than I intended t—” He quiets you with a kiss, and you laugh into it, earning a gentle nip on your bottom lip. Your teasing smile settles into something sweeter, tender, vulnerable, and it mirrors him perfectly.

You both speak your next words in unison.

“I missed you.”

All that's left.

“I know you’re there.”

Levi called out, startling you. You’ve been watching him from the side of the wreck, watching as the ghosts of your comrades appeared for one last time, one last salute. One last declaration of all they dedicated. One last goodbye.

And when Hange gave you a nod, you nodded back.

You two are all that's left.

You stayed out of his sight even after they disappeared, giving him the privacy to mourn. God knows he needed it. You didn’t think he had noticed your presence, but then again, who were you trying to fool? His extraordinary instincts were never to be underestimated.

Sighing, you pushed yourself to stand straight and stumbled forward. He glanced at you with the side of his eye. Ever resilient, ever strong, the cracks were so slight, just barely there. But you knew. You could always tell.

“Hi.” You mumbled. He stared at you as you dragged yourself in front of him, slightly limping.

“Nice of you to make it out alive.” He said.

“Who would’ve thought?” You shrugged.

“You made an ugly titan by the way.”

“I’m sure you would’ve looked charming.”

“Bet.”

You smiled. The conversation was so unbelievably normal. Here, in the wreckage of everything, all the corpses, smoke, blood and ruins, here you were, back to how it always was. It almost felt surreal. Almost as if you concentrated hard enough, all of it would go away and you’d find you and him back in the soggy cafeteria of the scout headquarters, back to bantering with him and arguing about silly little things that don't really deserve arguments but it’s you and Levi so of course it’d end up an argument.

You felt so old suddenly.

How come you ended up here? In this way?

And Levi looked so tired, you could cry. Hasn’t he given enough? Doesn’t he get to rest now?

“Does that..” You glanced down at his leg, the one he had spread out in front of him. It was clear it was beyond repair. The fabric of his pants were torn at the knee, from where it was crushed between the titan’s jaw, a bloody, mangled mess. “Does that hurt?”

“Not really, no.” His eyes went to where yours were. “Numbed down a while ago. Can’t feel shit really.”

You sighed. "Not very humanity's strongest anymore, huh?"

Levi raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?" He said. "Careful, I could still kick your ass."

"I'm sure."

You grinned. Then went ahead and dropped yourself beside him. He frowned.

“Shouldn’t we be getting up now?” He said. “Why are you getting all comfortable?”

“Why not?” You muttered, pulling your legs upto your chest, hugging them. “What’s it matter what we do or not? Armin’s the hot shit now, let him deal with shit.”

He didn’t answer, but he made no attempt to get up either. If anything, he looked more relaxed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to spend the rest of your life here. After all, you were so tired, and you were sure he was too. This was as good as anywhere else would be.

Because there’s no home to return to anymore.

“Do you think there’s anything left of Hange to bury?” He suddenly said.

You shuddered. What do you answer to that?

And your head pounded so hard, you couldn’t really think. Far away, you could hear someone yelling at another someone, but you couldn’t bother to pay attention to the words. Armin and the others would figure something out surely.

You were exhausted.

“Say, Levi.” You said tiredly, nudging him slightly.

“What?”

“Wanna get married?”

Levi almost choked, he was suddenly all uptight, stiff as a board as he looked at you with wide eyes.

“What the fuck?” He asked, scowling. “Are you seriously gonna make jokes here? Here?”

“Not joking.”

You lifted up your head, tilting it to look at him. It was hard to tell whether he was annoyed or flustered. You’re not sure where the sudden boldness came from, but this is as good a time as any. Might as well. “You’re right. It’s a bad time to make jokes. So I’m dead serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.” You nodded, turning your expression very serious.

“You’re weird as fuck.” He sputtered out after a few attempts to speak. The tips of his ears were red, red as it always was whenever you used to jokingly suggest that he should date you. Except you weren’t really joking anymore. You haven’t been joking for a long, long time.

“I mean..” You closed your eyes. You were too tired to even feel embarrassed. “We’re the only ones left. Me and you. You’re all I have left, Levi. So, why not?”

He stared at you for a few seconds, gaping. Then he started shaking his head. “You’re insane.” He finally said.

“You’re just realizing that?”

“No.” He muttered. “You’re insane. And it’s rubbing off on me.”

He turned to you, peering at you with one good eye, pondering. And finally, he made up his mind.

“You’re insane. And I’m no fucking different.” He sighed. “I must’ve hit my head pretty damn hard because I’m actually considering this shit.”

You grinned. “Go on, say it. You like me.”

“Wrong. I tolerate you.”

“Good enough. You don’t tolerate a lot of people, so I’ll take it as I'm special.”

He sighed, turning away, hoping that’s enough to hide his heart from you. You were special to him, always. But you didn’t need to know that. He didn’t want you to know that. He didn’t know how to let you know that.

“Can you believe us?” He scoffed. “We’re practically sitting in a graveyard. Half the world’s ruined but then there’s us.”

“That’s fine. Let’s keep being us. The world can go fuck itself. Meanwhile, we can—”

“Do not finish that sentence.” He glared.

You stopped, a laugh breaking through. And you laughed so hard your stomach ached and there were tears lining in your eyes. And even Levi smiled, just the slightest, barely. A subtle quirk of his mouth.

“We’re insane.” You admitted. With that, you stood up, stumbling a little before you found your balance. You reached out your hand to Levi, who took it without question.

“Come on, Lev.” You pulled him up, letting him wrap an arm around you to brace himself. “Let’s go home.”

You were right, Levi thinks as he limps with you, letting you support him. It was nice to finally let himself lean on someone.

You two are the only ones left.

You’re all he has now.

The world has taken enough from him. He’s so tired of letting go.

And he’d be damned if he let you go too.

Gojo could feel the tips of his finger tingle, the sole of his feet itching to move. His mind reels, a thousand thoughts running that it makes his stomach sick. Gojo stands, sits, then stands again until he couldn’t take it anymore. The only thing that grounds him is the sound of your voice, though its the sole reason he’s going insane in the first place.

Gojo has his phone tucked between his cheek and his shoulder, his hand on his hip while the other pinches the bridge of his nose. You’re on the other side, talking about shirt sizes, about which would fit best. And the fact you’re so casual about the whole ordeal despite the betrayal you did him dirty with not even a few days ago pisses him off.

You chose Geto’s side over his. To Gojo that is the highest degree of hurt you could ever inflict on him. And you dared call him dramatic the first minutes of the call!

“I’m gonna go with large,” you said, Gojo can hear shuffling on your end. “I feel like the pair would go well with Suguru too. Don’t you think?”

Gojo’s nose flares, if this was a cartoon he would have steam blowing out of his ears. “I don’t care! And I can’t even see what shirt you’re talking about, you weirdo. Why’d you call me?”

“Cause I missed you. What, I can’t?” Gojo bites down his lower lip, as if it could help calm down the sudden skip of his heartbeat. You have a way with making his emotions go on tangents. “Besides, I haven’t spoken to you in days since I left Tokyo for this mission. How are you doing?”

Gojo doesn’t hold back from telling his truth. “Absolutely horrible, what did you expect? You and Shoko took Suguru’s side, two of my bestest friends not even seeing my side of the story! I was assigned to go on an island with Suguru for a mission, can you imagine how awkward that was for me. Three whole days we were there and we’ve not spoken a word to each other.”

You scoff on the microphone, Gojo can almost sense you rolling your pretty eyes at him. “You did say some mean things to him, Satoru.” He doesn’t like how soft you say his name, that it almost makes him want to do whatever you tell him to. “And what you did was wrong. You have to be the one to apologize to him.” But never that.

“He said mean things to me, too,” Gojo defends. “He called me inconsiderate. I’m plenty considerate!”

“Someone considerate wouldn’t put Inoue Waka as his wallpaper when he has a gorgeous girlfriend who already feels inferior,” You sigh, defeatedly and Gojo knows he’s lost. A pause passes, giving you two both time to breathe. Gojo knows deep in his messed up head you were right. That Geto and Shoko were right. He’s just...he doesn’t know. His ego’s too big to admit he’s wrong, he’s so used to being right. To being on top of everything, he is above everything. He’s still young and learning and forever grateful you’re in his life to call him out on his bullshit, like now.

“Apologize, Satoru,” you said, nearly sounding desperate, tired. “So when I come home I’ll give you the biggest smooch on the cheek and gift you this ugly large shirt as souvenir.” Gojo chuckles at that, agreeing with you. A smile breaking out of his face, the lines of worry disappearing from his forehead.

"Fine, fine. I will," Gojo acquiesces finally.

"Hm, good." You then bless him with a low hearty laugh.

After another beat passes, Gojo tells another truth. “She broke up with me, you know.”

“I– she did?” You don't seem fazed at the sudden shift, if anything you've come to welcome any shift when it came to him.

“Yeah, I kinda deserve it anyway. That was a dick move.”

“Oh, Satoru.” You make no point debunking what he said last, and in it’s own twisted way Gojo knows its for the best. “When did she?”

“Hours after you left,” Gojo said, sitting down now, his head buried in his hand. “Its a long time coming, honestly.”

“How do you mean?”

“It never felt right,” He said. Because she’s not you, he thinks.

“Never felt right?”

“Yeah.” I’m in love with you.

“Hm, I see.” Gojo can feel the sorry dripping from your tone. There was really no need for you to feel anything like that at all. Gojo only felt bad for a day after the break up, then felt more sorry for the fact it only took that much time and he must be such an asshole for being that way and yet... “Don’t you worry, Satoru. I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for next time.”

“When you get here.”

“What?”

“I mean, when do you get here?”

“Oh! Uh, my flights later tonight. I’ll be there in the morning.” Gojo doesn’t say anything after that. And for awhile, what he can hear from your end is another person with an accent and you conversing with them in English. You’re probably paying for the stuff you bought. Gojo waits patiently.

When it’s back to faint sounds of your shoes clicking on floors, Gojo asks. “Where are you anyway?”

“In some thrift shop a few blocks from where I’m stationed,” You answer, then quickly add with, "about time you wear things not designer." Because you know he's going to take offense. And he does.

"I can't believe this."

"Listen, this one's—"

"A thrifted shirt? Seriously, I can't—"

"It compliments your eyes! It would look so good on you, trust me."

...

"Well, if you say so. At least tell me it's not the cheapest thing in the store."

"Don't be a pompous jerk, Satoru. You're gonna accept what I give you."

₊˚⊹。so this is what it means to be in love | gojo satoru

wc: 8.9k

summary: gojo finds out what it really means to be in love. 

contains: f!reader in mind, friends to lovers (prev. slowburn), suggestive scenes, might be mature/mildly explicit? (i only mention ‘butt’ once though…), ‘being in love’ as a journey, almost like a falls in love first (you) vs. falls in love harder (gojo), they fight, they swear, character death/s mentioned, shibuya onwards spoilers, lots and lots and lots of love

a/n: this is better read after the other parts in the collection but can work as a stand alone too!, there’s a jump between this and tell me about love (show me how) so gojo would have developed a lot in the relationship since then! 

collection masterlist: conversations on love  2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours) -> 03. so this is what it means to be in love + (extended scene) too good to be mine -> 3.5a. this feeling inside of me—

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

this is a re-upload! (because i accidentally deleted the original one!)

Gojo catches onto love slowly.

He takes the hand you leave open just for him, and closes the space between your palms, reducing infinity. 

Maybe he’s felt it all this time without knowing; after all, love looks a lot less profound as friends in your early 20’s. 

But being in it—being in love? That’s uncharted territory. 

Gojo’s been to a lot of places, has travelled back and forth from point-to-point endlessly. He’s survived battles, a war, near-death, and cursed spirits reincarnate; he’s got eyes—two bright blue and an extra four hidden, ones that see beyond human comprehension. Unearthing this simple truth shouldn’t shake him, shouldn’t even faze him. If anything, he should have seen it coming—

Except, he doesn’t. 

It sneaks up on him, bit by bit, until he finds that being in love means getting to experience you all over again, just differently.

.

.

.

It starts with the little things. 

Gojo has known you for so long (a decade and a few years more), but has only recently begun to notice everything: how your baby hairs stick out in the humidity of summer, the way you purse your lips in thought before finally deciding on a drink to order. You play with your fingernails subconsciously, out of habit, the soft taps on your nail beds an accompaniment of anxious conversations you’ve had since you were 23. 

He knows you always blink twice before focusing on him, and it’s a mystery whether this is a recent development or something he’s just never noticed, but if you’re trying to enchant him by the flutter of your eyelashes, he wants to let you know that it’s working—except, he knows that you aren’t, because you’re just like that: a daydream without even trying. 

These aren’t new things; he’s sure he’s probably encountered them all before, but lately they’ve evolved into cute things, and there’s no hiding the slight curve of his lips every time he spots them. 

.

The sun is beaming brighter this summer, the ocean a faraway blur from the beach towel you set up under the shade. Going to the beach is never your go-to when you think of an extremely hot afternoon, but Yuuji’s been eyeing a weekend getaway since sorcerer work’s lessened significantly. 

‘It’s a good effort,’ Gojo convinces you, ‘to get everyone together again.’

And it is—you see it now: Yuuji and Megumi preparing to fling Yuuta into the water while Nobara and Maki race along the shoreline. Toge stays close to Panda but he watches fondly, eyes crinkling every now and then, happy. 

When you blink, the image of them softens—a captured memory in the heat haze. 

The only older ones here are you and Gojo; Shoko’s always disliked the stickiness of sunblock on her skin, and Ijichi’s new position has made him constantly busy. Somewhere in the distance, you can maybe envision Nanami. He wouldn’t come if you or Gojo asked, but if it were Yuuji—

You rub at your eye, resting your chin on your hand as you will your tear ducts to please, don’t cry. 

Yuuji's been smiling a lot more lately, an observation you note from the way his ears are perked up every time you look his way. It’ll never be the same as it used to be but it’s relieving to know that he can exist living as himself now. Just Yuuji. 

You hug your knees tighter to your chest, wrapping your arms around it. Your place under the coconut tree provides ample enough shade but your back still burns from Gojo haphazardly slathering sunscreen on it after hearing an ice cream stand from miles away. 

The mind is a weird place to be at times like this—split into bittersweet reminiscing and telling yourself to just take this moment and breathe, to live in it. You think about Megumi, and how you hurt for him, always will, for all that he’s lost despite every attempt to avoid it.

You should have been there for Tsumiki, you could have been there for both of them. 

Your guilt never leaves you even on days that shine as vividly as this, but perhaps that’s the silver lining—that they’re still with you, always. You can carry pieces of them to these places, and scatter them to the wind, to the sand, to the sea, and maybe to the ice cream stand Gojo’s waiting in line of, surrounded entirely by kids. They all rise to half his size, but if you squint, you think the bounce in his step makes him blend right in. 

A chuckle escapes you. 

You could sort through your memories and land on one where he looks just like this—freakishly large limbs towering over a tiny, excited Tsumiki. Back then, an ice cream stop after school consisted of your pseudo-family of four, with Megumi on your hand and Tsumiki on his leg, both gripping tightly to combat a chilly 10°C.

Things are different now, evidently. Megumi’s outgrown it, and Tsumiki is no longer here. But Gojo has stayed the same, and it’s comforting to know that he will continue to be this Satoru, your Satoru, even when some things are gone. 

You don’t realize you’ve spaced out until he waves the ice cream cone while walking towards you.  

Gojo is a sight in trunks the color of his eyes, with seahorses and starfishes in an alternating pattern of peachy-pink against cerulean blue. 

You could have sworn you asked for your own cone, but he plops down beside you holding only one. For the both of you. The side-eye you give him is almost criminal, if not deadly, but your lips twitch from the smile you’re hiding (terribly). 

He raises an eyebrow and you break character, shaking your head while laughing. 

“Did you eat the other one on the way here?” you tease, craning your neck to lick at the bottom scoop (vanilla-strawberry-vanilla, Gojo’s signature order). 

Your tongue lands dangerously close to his fingers, and he feels it, but his eyes only land on you—your lips, how they part for your tongue to glide smoothly on his–both of your–dessert. You look every bit of an angel in the soft, pale hues of your bikini, but Gojo’s thoughts are anything but saintly. 

He blushes furiously, the tips of his ears and nose bright red as he turns away from you quickly. 

“I’m fulfilling your dream of sharing an ice cream cone with me.” he tilts his chin up, proud, smirking slightly. He jokes about it knowing full well that this is his dream come true, just by the look of you. 

You stay quiet, rolling your eyes but never meanly, no. You only ever do it fondly—he knows, being on the receiving end of it one too many times. 

The beach towel scrunches when you scoot closer, looping your arm around his as you both rest your elbows on your knees. Gojo holds the cone between you two, tipping it towards you when it’s your turn to lick. 

He shouldn’t stare, shouldn’t hyperfixate, but it’s so cute how you get the tiniest bit of ice cream on the tip of your nose—as if it belongs there, soft and sweet just like the rest of you. 

You look up to find Gojo gazing at you, eyes glimmering like sunlight on the ocean, and a tiny smile that only widens when he realizes you’ve caught him red-handed. Your eyes narrow suspiciously, scrunching your nose in an effort to stop yourself from grinning. 

When Gojo looks at you this way, as if you are his favorite place rediscovered, your heart thumps furiously against your ribcage. 

“What…” you drawl, your smile impossible to hide in the lilt of your voice. 

Gojo thinks he can count every eyelash, every speck of sand dotting your face, and stil not be bored of you. He can’t stop beaming. 

Is this what it means to be in love with you? 

“Nothing.” he replies, almost giggling, a little bashful but with every inch of sincerity. You know that smile, the only one that holds every ounce of Satoru. Gojo smiles big and wide to everyone else, but this small one you know, is reserved just for you. 

He leans in, lips coming closer to brush against the tip of your nose. Your eyes fall shut, instinctively, and the pink dot is wiped clean, a hint of strawberry dancing on his palate. He’s done this more times than he can count, has gotten this near to know that close will never be close enough, but you still jolt a bit—PDA has never been your thing. 

When he pulls away, you continue to stare at each other, locked in a gaze until the ice cream begins to drip down his fingers and onto the beach towel. It misses his trunks by a hair and you both laugh at how he belatedly tries to escape it even though it’s already there. 

It’s indescribable, this moment, seeing you in slow motion, laughing as bright as the sun—the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. It takes every bit of him to look away so he can wipe his hands clean from the dripping dessert.

You hand him a packet of wipes and beckon him to sit in front of you after. Squeezed onto the palm of your hand is a copious amount of sunscreen you plan to slather all over him. A touch-up, if you will. 

Gojo has sensitive skin, pale as bond paper and burns just as quickly. The high points of his face are already reddening, warm to the touch when you dab at them with sunscreen. 

You’re so near, so close, sitting cross-legged in front of him with your knees touching his. The tip of your tongue sticks out just slightly as you focus on his skin. 

Even though he knows, he still wonders what your lips would taste like, SPF chapstick and crumbly bits from the wafer cone. He wonders what your eyelashes would feel like, fluttering over his own. 

The light casts a halo around you and he thinks it’s fitting for all that you do. You pamper him like this, slather love all over his chest and back, massage it in so it dissolves into him—and he feels it so deep that he tastes it.

How can your love be so sweet? He thinks, sighing as your fingers work sunscreen up his neck from his collarbone. You always apply his skincare like this: upwards, gently—‘no tugging, please!’—something about keeping his baby face even when he’s old. 

“You should join them,” you mumble, rubbing more product onto the nape of his neck. You’re leaning over his shoulder, neck brushed against his cheek. 

Gojo hums, watching everyone from a distance. It’s been a while since he’s had a day like this. 

“But maybe after 30 minutes, so the sunblock doesn’t wash off. You’re already burning.” you note, coming back to sit. 

Of course, he’s already burning. How can he not when the sun is right in front of him? 

.

You join everyone for a game of beach volleyball in the sunset of the afternoon. You’re transported back to high school, the last time you did this—you and Satoru against Shoko and Suguru, with Haibara keeping score. 

From the way Gojo’s eyes are glossed over, you can tell he’s thinking about it too, the memory having seared itself into your brains forever, it seems. 

Being paired together should feel familiar—the same, but it doesn’t—isn’t, because Gojo can’t concentrate, sneaking glances to notice all the little things about you that he never used to. Your skin shines from the combination of sweat and sunscreen, and when you crash into him it’s both sticky and slippery. He should really ask for a time-out before you blind him completely. 

You look unfairly good in your bikini, too good he can barely hear you calling for him; between the ocean and his blood rushing, any other sound is drowned out into nothing. 

Maki and Yuuji absolutely demolish the both of you, reaching 15 first in the final set. Gojo blames the loss on you of course, even though he’s missed every pass you’ve sent his way and netted 60% of his spikes. 

And maybe it technically is your fault—you and your (very distracting) little things. But it’s entirely on him that he’s fallen for it, fallen for you as much as this. 

.

.

.

Gojo thinks of love differently when he sees a picture of himself and all it does is remind him of you.

There’s a photo tucked safely in his wallet (saved and set as his homescreen too). Shoko snorts when she walks in on him printing it, all six-foot-three of him hunched over the small inkjet printer in the faculty room. 

“It’s all digital now, Satoru,” she scoffs, taking a puff on her cigarette. 

Gojo doesn’t say anything even though he knows it’s true, too focused on watching the printer push out the two-by-three inch image he’s about to cut into. 

Print photos aren’t as important anymore when cloud storage spaces are just as–if not more–accessible, but Gojo is admittedly sentimental despite every front he puts up to hide it. 

He’s kept every single gift you’ve given him and camouflaged it as decoration in his office, and the family drawing 10-year-old Tsumiki made is still folded between the pages of a self-help book Yaga had given him when he first decided to teach. 

When every moment is experienced so vividly, seen through a muddle of infinite energies, there are those he wishes could stay still—ones that take up space to remind him: ‘this is real, it happened, and here is proof that it did’. 

He already has one of all of you, fresh-faced and barely pushing the peaks of youth at 16. A tangle of arms wrapped around each other—one of his gripping tightly on Suguru, and the other hanging loosely over you. Utahime is crouched in front, holding the hand you’ve placed on her shoulder while pulling Shoko into a semi-squish-semi-hug (because out of the four of you, Shoko is her favorite—completely valid; if given the choice, she’d be your favorite too). Nanami and Haibara stay close to Suguru, squatting low to balance the photo, and Haibara is smiling, the ever cheery grin Suguru loves to dote on, while Nanami is Nanami—sharp features and a serious gaze that you all know he’ll grow into someday, handsome with age. 

For the longest time, Gojo has kept that photo hidden, locked away in the drawer of his bedside table as if keeping it there means the memory will stay guarded forever—untouched, unspoiled, unruined. 

It would have stayed there if you didn’t stumble upon it while looking for his painkillers during another one of his skull-crushing migraines. 

You approach him with the image hesitantly, eyes damp and glossy. Years have faded the colors ever so slightly, but the corners remain crisp from being stowed away neatly. You say sorry, that you shouldn’t have looked through his things, but you remember the moment it was taken so fondly: a visit to the Kyoto campus on a one-day break to train with other students. 

Gojo has many theories about time and the multitude of spaces it takes—like how a person can exist at different points in time, disparate at each instance, and still take up the same big chunk of space. The opposite can be true too, that someone can live finitely (just once) and occupy spaces in every place you look: the face of a passerby down the road, a sign at the corner of the street, or even a photograph that immortalizes people you once knew. 

He only shares when you ask, aware that he tends to be a bit of a nerd about it whenever it’s brought up, but you don't mind. You like listening to it all, no matter how insightful or confusing they are for you to make sense—a version of him not many get to witness. His explanations are comprehensible for the most part, except—

When Gojo tells you that he’s kept the image in his drawer, hidden, because exposing it to the space-time that exists now will erase every reminder that it ever happened, you hug him tightly. 

Your sniffles are heard from the way his head is tucked into the crook of your neck, your fingers gripping strands of his hair in empathy. 

He considers your near-tears as a sign that the memory is long gone, decayed into the brittling tragedy of reality. But you smile, the corners of your lips bittersweet as you express disbelief that he’s kept it all this time. 

You tell him delicately that some precious things are meant to be celebrated, put out to be remembered—to be experienced. 

And it becomes clearer to him then, by the look in your eyes and remembrance soft-spoken, that what good is a photo unseen? 

What good is a love unwitnessed?

When you gift him a frame a year after finding the photo, he hangs it by the wall next to his office door. The image is painful to look at, always has been (even when it was hidden in his drawer)—during Suguru’s defection, and death anniversaries especially. 

The recent one for Nanami was heavy; the first time he’s ever been able to process grief fully. 

Gojo can argue that it grows more difficult every time he catches a glimpse of it from his desk, but you have a way of honoring pain that doesn’t make it sting as bad—that turns it into a reminder of a love that was once there, of feelings that hurt as evidence that someone cared. 

Now, he wants another photo printed, one of just the two of you. Not because it hurts, but because he wants this precious thing to be remembered and seen—for this love to be witnessed too. 

It’s self-timered, snapped under the shade of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom. The picture is far from perfect: your eyes bright and mouth open mid-fear of his phone falling off the bridge railing. 

You may look a teensy bit funny, but Gojo will always find it cute. Anyone can see it, at how he looks at you in that moment—like you are every bit worthy of the distance travelled and seasons waited. He gazes at you fondly, eyes holding clear skies and pink lips curling into a small smile. 

It’s cheesy, but if you ask him what he thinks about this year’s flowers, he’ll tell you none of them (not even any of them combined) could compare to you. The cherry blossoms could be gone and he’d still see them everywhere (in the softness of your lips, the fullness of your cheeks, the radiance you emit when you are truly, solely content and happy). 

He remembers that afternoon well: the spring breeze that jolts his phone sideways, his hand resting on your lower back, unseen in the image. There’s no real reason for visiting the blossoms on this day of all days, but Gojo doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he’s counted down exactly to a year since you both had your first kiss.

It’s so silly, because he’s never thought of things like this before. He knows you probably don’t think much of it either considering that neither of you have made anything official yet since. 

And he feels a little stupid for that, honestly. 

You have a drawer of his clothes for the nights he stays over (more often than not), and even though you go on these little trips that are so obviously dates, you both still just tell everyone you’re ‘hanging out’.

He’s not fooling anyone here, not when he looks at you then with the feeling of his chest expanding, stretching to accommodate the overflows of his affection since learning the ways to love you—tenderness caught in little pixels of eternity.  

When Gojo goes through all 179 photos from that afternoon, he filters out the ones to delete and picks this one out especially—favorites and resizes it to fit his home screen and his wallet too. 

There’s something about the look on his face that reminds him of every time he’s caught the same one on you. 

He slides the photo into the little sleeve behind his credit card, catching himself smiling—this must be because of you, he thinks, and the bits and pieces of yourself that have somehow become part of him slowly, sneaking into him unknowingly.

If this is what it means to be in love, with you, then he’s fucked. 

Don’t you know that he’s insatiable? These traces of you will only make him want the whole of you. 

.

You find the photo while he rushes to the restaurant restroom. On ‘hang out’s like this, you insist on splitting the bill, but Gojo has always been stubborn and you’ve learned that you can never argue. 

He hands you his wallet to pay with his card, and when you slide it out, the photo falls. It’s face down on the floor when you pick it up, fully expecting it to be a photocard of some idol you know Gojo follows. 

But it isn’t, and your smile widens. 

When Gojo comes back, you’re looking up at him affectionately, biting your lips as if to stop yourself from speaking—the same way he always does. 

It’s funny because, slotted between your two fingers is the photo he’s kind of flustered you found, but he has no time to be embarrassed when he sees a little bit of himself in the way you’re staring at him right now.

.

.

.

“So, Yuuji asked if we were together.” 

You quirk an eyebrow, looking up at Gojo from the pile of laundry you’ve begun folding on your bed. He emerges from the bathroom, ruffling his hair with a towel. 

Over the past year, Gojo has spent his weekends off with you, sleeping over and traipsing around your room in his pajama set as if he’s lived here just as long as you. 

You snort as you fold, amused that this is even a question to begin with. Yuuji’s always been known for being exceptionally dense, but you didn’t think it was this bad. Gojo was especially touchy with you during that beach trip, and you’re sure Megumi and Nobara have caught up to let him know by now, somehow. 

“What made him ask?” 

“I think he wants to take you away.” Gojo teases, wiggling his eyebrows as he throws the towel on the chair across your vanity. 

You roll your eyes, still sweetly, indulging him, “Sure.” 

It’s now a running joke that Gojo’s threatened about Yuuji stealing you; you’ve always had a soft spot for bright eyes and even brighter souls and Yuuji is as close to that as anyone can get.

It’s not like that though, it could never be; Yuuji is just like your Megumi—the two boys you want to protect and care for in hopes of treating them better than their lives have ever. 

Gojo feels the same, you know, otherwise he wouldn’t have guided them as much as he has (despite his... questionable ways). Still, your hands have always been gentler, kinder—and though shorter, have always outstretched much farther than his. 

You have a way of inching yourself into people’s lives that just fits. He’s experienced it first-hand, can’t even dare to imagine what his life would be like if you didn’t. 

He walks across the room to you, bed dipping as he steadies a knee before draping his entire body over your shoulders. 

Now that you think about it, it makes sense that Yuuji’s confused, because Gojo has always been extremely touchy to everyone, just never when the feelings mattered, with you. Kiss him once, though, and it snowballs into an avalanche of firsts. And what he’s about to do right now, he thinks, might just trigger another one to form all together. 

“As if I’d let him.” he mumbles right by your ear, chin tucked by the crook of your neck. It tickles when he speaks, his nose poking at your cheeks. 

“Who put you in charge?” you scoff jokingly, unfazed. 

He moves away from you in disbelief, mouth open as he stares at you mindlessly folding.

To be fair, he can’t fault you. You aren’t technically official even though you have kind-of-been for a little over a year. There’s no particular reason, just that you haven’t talked about it—part because you wanted him to approach it whenever he was ready, and also, because it just never seemed like a priority.

You laugh as he stares at you, stunned into silence, the pout on his face borrowed from all the versions of yours. 

There’s no point of contention because you’ve only ever loved Gojo since you were 17. 

“Kidding,” you kiss his cheek as an apology. 

“Don’t even joke about that.” he huffs, you’re starting to take after him a little too much.

“You’re mine.” he murmurs after, arms wrapped around your waist and legs stretched out wide to encase you. 

He says it as if it is the simplest truth. 

Your heartbeat quickens, too loud and pounding; this is the first time you’ve ever heard this from him, and a part of you thinks this is just another one of those flirty side-comments he makes on a whim.

“You tell him that?” you hope he can’t hear your voice shake as he nuzzles your neck, your fingers trembling on the pair of socks you have yet to roll. 

He hums, hugging you tighter. He waits for you to finish folding before letting you lean against him, offering his fingers for you to fiddle with. They’re cold, long and slender, veiny just by a bit, and he always gives them to you like they’re yours, you like to think. 

There’s an inhale, a breath of hesitation, before he exhales.  

“Something like it.” 

You don’t say anything, only nod, and it’s nerve-wracking. He’s so nervous even though he knows he doesn’t have to be because it’s just you. And there’s no need to doubt what you’re feeling. But—

“You are though,” he pauses, “right?” 

He has to be sure. This is a testament to you more than himself that he’s learned to ask instead of bulldozing you like he does with everyone else. Who else will he pick that up from but you? 

There’s hesitation you hear that you think shouldn’t be there anymore; the fact that you’ve given so much of yourself to this man and he still thinks you’re unsure—

“‘Cause I’m yours.” he speaks, clearly, definitively, before you can even answer. And you know—you’ve known ever since that party years ago. A simple admittance: ‘I’m taken’. 

You turn around to face him, eyes shimmering. 

Can he see? You’re meant for him only. 

All you’ve ever wanted was to love him; everything else he’s done up until this point is already more than you could ever imagine. The labels can only do so much to capture the gravity of what you are to one another: years of history unpacked into a mishmash of feelings overlapping—it’s a lot.

You sit cross legged in front of him, your knees touching his. He’s biting his lips again, an anxious habit you want to kiss away. 

Gojo has proven far too much of himself already that he’s serious with you—your kind-of-confession, that confrontation, and the days after, all the ways you’ve both learned to love each other. 

You cup his cheeks. 

A single word cannot possibly define what he is to you.

“I mean, o-only if you want me to be.” he adds on, blue eyes darting back and forth.

Gojo runs his mouth almost all the time and you’ve never heard him stutter once in his life. Except now. 

He’s endearing like this—a version of him you are slowly discovering. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” you finally say, and it’s a relief. 

He feels good, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His arms pull you closer, hugging you tighter as you both smile. 

He kisses you once, twice, maybe a million times all over, travelling across your eyelids, the center of your forehead, down to the corners of your mouth before landing a real one right on your lips. 

Gojo always looks pretty but he looks prettiest like this, worry-free, with love in his eyes and nothing but pure happiness in the way he holds you. 

He won’t tell you that Yuuji asked about your anniversary, not if you were together. 

At least now he has an answer.

Gojo stares at you like he wants to say something, a thank you maybe, but he bites his lips instead. No words will ever amount to this feeling, he thinks, of his chest expanding and heart hammering. So he kisses you with all of it, trailing soft smacks of his lips down your neck, tickling. The tips of his hair are still wet from his shower, leaving droplets on your skin as he nips. 

You laugh—sprinkled in love. 

“S-stop!” you push him away, “Satoru,” giggling, “tickles!” 

“We have to consummate it now.” he whispers, grabbing you by the waist to place you on his lap, squeezing your sides while nibbling at your neck playfully. 

You roll your eyes at his antics, “It’s not–” you laugh out loud when he pinches your hips, “–marriage, Satoru.” 

Oh, if only you knew, he thinks. 

The image you’ve planted in his head is dangerous when he’s this drunk on love right now. 

More decades, more years spent with you? In another life, or maybe even in this one, if time permits, he wouldn’t mind making that come true. 

.

It’s crazy how much things can change—for all his life, he’s ruled out the possibility of love ever taking root in his ribcage. 

You’ve managed to make it feel so easy, so good, even when he was shit-terrified not knowing how to love you like he should. 

Now, he thinks, how could he ever miss out on love this way? A love this good, with you? 

.

.

.

For all of Gojo’s life, he’s never had to be anyone else—always the strongest, the only one. He’s never had to change anything about himself, because what’s there to improve when you’re already the best?

In a way, this is why it works with you. You’ve taken him as he is, all the good and ugly and never asked for anything more than what he can give. 

But being this in love with you—it’s foreign. There are pieces within him shifting, all on their own without him knowing. 

How he wants to be better, for you. To be good enough to deserve all of it, and give back more of it too. 

Gojo doesn’t realize how much love has changed him until he feels it uprooting every insecurity he never even knew existed, pulling it all up to the surface. 

When things are going great, it’s hard to imagine them ever going the other way. 

.

.

.

“You don’t mean that.” you mumble, voice trembling.

Gojo stares at you, at your lips quivering and the fists clenched to your sides. There are tears collecting in pools by your eyes, and if there’s anything else he hates in this world, it’s seeing you cry. 

So why?

Why couldn’t he just shut up? 

“Please tell me you don’t mean that,” you take a step closer, gripping the edge of his jacket, “Satoru.” your voice cracks, begging. 

It’s an out-of-body experience when Gojo registers that he’s fucked up, and he sees himself now, bird’s-eye-view, and thinks this is the worst thing he could do to you after all you’ve been through. 

“I need some time to think,” he says, finally, the only words coming out of his mouth—but he can’t hear himself speaking. 

He should have said sorry, taken it all back, he thinks, not make it worse by leaving. 

He heads for the door, heart crunching under each footstep away from you. 

Is this what being in love’s supposed to do? Break his heart while yours is bleeding?

.

You’re too good for Gojo, in every sense of the word—and he knows it.

You are far too kind, far too generous, far too patient with him. You give him more love than he deserves, definitely, and admittedly enough, with how he is, you have been settling for the bare minimum but that’s on him, not on you. 

He had no right speaking to you the way he did, hurting you with accusations born from insecurities he’s never before had to deal with. 

He knows it. 

Who accuses you of ‘meddling’ as if everything out of you doesn’t come from the goodness of your heart? Of provoking you with ‘chasing the bare minimum’ as if he isn’t aware that that’s all he’s given you to work with? 

Utahime was right in telling you to be careful with him, and he doesn’t blame her for it. He would have done the same. 

He should have told you there was something brewing inside of him already—should have talked to you instead of bursting from all the things people have been saying lately.

Gojo hasn’t spoken to you in three days and the feeling this compares to is worse than anything else he’s ever had to face. 

.

He knocks on your door at night, a little past dinner and too early for bedtime. They echo loudly within the walls of your apartment, and you drag yourself up despite your obvious look of heartbreak. 

Gojo hears your footsteps and everything moves entirely too slowly; the lock, taking far too long to turn, the gap between the door and the door frame widening incrementally. Even your face comes into view as if in stop motion, frame-by-frame, gradually.

His hands are in his pockets, lips bitten to bleed. He’s pretty sure he isn’t breathing when he takes you in—puffy eyes and a sweater that belongs to him. 

(Is it sick of him to say that he still finds you beautiful this way? Even when you look every bit the part of heartache?) 

Gojo didn’t have a plan coming here, didn’t have a list of things to say, just the feeling that he needed to talk to you, see you, even just be around you today. 

When your eyes meet, it’s quiet. You stare into him for one–two–three– (Can you tell that they’re watery? Can you see they’re puffed up too?) and then open the door wider to let him in. You head straight to the kitchen, never once looking back while dragging your feet. 

He stands outside a few seconds more, waiting for you to take it back—but you don’t, so he walks in and closes the door.

He’s been in your apartment plenty of times before, has practically lived in it by how often he stays over. But this is the first time he’s felt wholly out of place, not knowing where to put himself, just standing in the space between your kitchen counter and the living room awkwardly.

You push a glass of water towards him and he can’t stop staring at it—at you, at your fingers that he wants nothing more now but to hold. 

Even with all his faults, all his wrongs, you open your arms for him to walk into, allow him in as if he didn’t just hurt you. 

And he wants to cry, at the fact that this place still feels like home, at how it’ll always feel that way wherever you go. 

How are you still treating him so kindly? Still taking care of him? A glass of water is one too many for someone like him. 

You turn away from him to pour yourself your own then he speaks—

“You should be angry with me.” Gojo says softly, but you hear it. 

You pause, tilting the pitcher back upright. 

“Why aren’t you angry at me?” he says, a little louder this time, more desperate, more pleading.

Why are you never angry at me? he wants to ask. 

You turn around to face him, putting the pitcher down.

Under your kitchen lights, his eyes shine like sunlight on the ocean, waves lapping on the shore. You think it might be a trick of the light, but his lips tremble when he closes them, as if he can’t speak any more. 

It’s just as you’ve said, there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it. 

You always give Gojo the benefit of the doubt, and though he’s hurt you—though this might be the most painful thing he’s told you yet, you know that he’s been under immense pressure lately. Stressed beyond belief from negotiating with the government on policies for jujutsu society. 

It’s not an excuse, you know, but Gojo always has his reasons. He'll tell you eventually, you believe that much. 

You give him a sad smile, struggling to stop your tears from spilling. His fists are clenched too tightly, nails digging in hard enough to bleed. He hasn’t moved since coming in, so you push yourself off the kitchen sink towards him. 

You take his hands first, unfurl each finger pressed upon his palm and rub gently. He cries quietly for a love so pure that only you would attempt to ease his hurt despite the pain he’s dealt you. 

You tiptoe second, pulling the sleeves of your (his) sweater before reaching up to wipe his eyes—beautiful and blue just like you’ve always known, droplets of the ocean at your fingertips. 

“Be mad,” he whispers, “please.” squeezing his eyes tightly. 

It hurts more when you aren’t, he thinks. 

His hand comes up to grip your wrist, bringing it down to cup his cheek. You stroke your thumb across his skin, soothing, loving, and that’s all it takes for him to pull you in. He hugs you tight, arms wrapped around you, clutching. 

He wouldn’t deserve you. In any life.

Gojo’s never cried this much before, head pressed to your neck as you rub circles along his back, shushing him softly. You start sniffling too, small at first until it turns into soft hiccups when you finally cry. 

Your grip on him tightens. 

“‘M sorry.” he mumbles, lips moving against your neck. 

“‘S–” you hiccup, “–okay.” 

“Stop saying that when it’s not,” he presses against you, nuzzling your neck, “I hurt you.”

“Then don’t–” another hiccup, “–call yourself–” hic, “–bare minimum.” you cry harder. 

Gojo knows your heart and the tears that leak out of your eyes; he knows they hold pain for more than just yourself but every single person in your life. You, crying now, is evidence of that truth—shedding tears for him not just because of him when he thinks he’s the bare minimum. 

This must be what it means to be truly, deeply loved, he thinks, to have someone know what you mean without even having to speak it—to know your heart, and all the good and bad parts of it. 

“I don’t think I’m good enough to you,” he admits, pulling himself away from you.

When he sees your face, wet, with your nose and eyes puffed up from crying, he decides that he hates it more than anything else. Makes it sick to his stomach, even. 

He cradles your cheeks, thumbs wiping away your tears. A whole hand of his could cover your face entirely, but he always, without fail, holds you delicately. 

“That’s not–” hic, “–true.” you gather your breathing, holding him by the wrists as he presses his forehead against yours. “Only I get to decide that. Not anyone, not you.” 

You kiss his lips, a small peck before nudging his nose with yours. You soothe each other this way—in the quiet, swaying to your own tune. 

“You’re good to me plenty, Satoru.” you whisper, once both of you have settled. 

He opens his eyes to look at you, smiling sadly as he cradles your face, “I didn’t mean it.” 

Whatever he told you that day, taking it all out on you.

“I know.” you mumble, nodding. 

You always do. 

.

.

.

Gojo has always loved you, in some type of way—as friends, colleagues, a-little-bit-more-but-less-than what you are today. 

But how he feels right now? It’s kind of ridiculous, borderline out-of-hand, and it’s driving him insane. 

It’s such a simple, ordinary thing for you to do: you rush up to him, phone in hand and scroll to some video you found online. You’re so excited, a bounce in your step as if he’s the first and only person you want to show this to. Your eyes shine bright with a megawatt smile to match, and you’re talking so, so fast, completely lit up like fireworks in the making. 

He knows you think that he’s listening but, he couldn’t care less about it honestly. Sorry. Not when the words go in one ear and out the other, because all that registers is how adorable you are, giddy and everything. 

He makes a joke—completely unrelated, but you find it so funny. Then you’re laughing, full on smacking his arm, doubled over, arms hugging your stomach, guffawing. Your feet are kicking the air as you sink deeper into your couch. Gojo’s standing in front of you, post-enactment of some impression he made, and he’s frozen in place but warm all over. 

Seeing you laugh like this, smile like this, being so pretty when you’re happy, the pounding in his chest goes crazy. 

This isn’t the first time he’s made you laugh; he does it all the time. You almost always roll your eyes and chuckle, sometimes giggle with your eyes squinting and laugh lines creasing. But it might be the first time it’s like this: with you so bright, more than the sun and every other star in the sky. 

And he thinks, this is all he could ever want—to make you happy for the rest of his life. 

There’s too much of this feeling inside of him, clawing at his throat, itching to get out. He’s filled with it, has been filled with it for so long that it’s starting to overflow and if he doesn’t say this now he might just—

“I’m so in love with you.” 

Gojo breathes it out, as if finally releasing it after all this time. You don’t think he processes it because he just stands there, in the middle of your living room, staring at you. 

Your laughter dies with maybe a little part of you too (in a good way). 

He looks so sweet, so sincere, and you see his heart, so big, so honest and pure. You get flashbacks of every Satoru you have ever known, at 15, 17, 23, to now. 

It’s not like either of you don’t know; it’s plain as day, how you feel about each other—and you would have been fine going on without ever having to hear him speak of love this way.

But hearing it now, it’s far better than anything you could have imagined. 

You stare at him. He stares at you. 

He’s shocked too. 

You don’t want to embarrass him, especially if he didn’t mean to say it, so you chuckle, moving on to break the quiet.

“I can unhear it if you want,” you offer shyly, genuinely. 

Gojo looks at you, confused, before a pout makes its way onto his face. You sit up on your couch, playing with your fingers as you look up at him.

Sure, he practically blurted it out, maybe in the heat of the moment, or something, but it doesn’t make it any less true. And he’s realizing that the only thing he really wants from this—

“Though…” you continue, biting your lips, “I think I’m pretty in love with you too.” 

The little laugh you make has him, completely. 

The grin that breaks on his face is infectious. Gojo, who is normally so pale, is now pink all over—red by his ears and down his neck. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that can be found in yours too. 

This moment right here feels like first loves—teens first saying ‘I love you’. 

“You think?” he asks incredulously, joking, “So you’re not sure?” he walks closer to you. 

You laugh, candy for his cravings, and take his hand to kiss each knuckle before guiding it to your cheek. He runs a thumb across your skin, affection on his fingertips. His index finger hooks itself under your chin, tilting it to rest on his stomach as you look up at him. 

A kiss to your forehead, tenderly, gently. 

The best part about being in love? 

He gets to be in it with you. 

.

.

.

Gojo can’t sleep. 

It’s not anything new—4 hours on average, maybe 6 on a good night. He doesn’t remember a time when sleep ever came easily.

Sleeping with you, beside you, has helped, but it’s never solved the problem. You’ve gotten him to a full 8 hours before, but never consecutively, and he’s starting to think that if you can’t do it, nothing ever will. 

Your sleeping positions change every night, but they always come out as some variation of hugging. Gojo firmly believes that he might as well sleep alone if you aren’t touching. 

Tonight, you’re spooning, arm slung over his waist and palm right on his chest, fingers interlaced with his. Your legs stay tangled together with soft puffs of air blowing at the back of his neck. 

He opens his eyes and checks the clock by his bedside. 3:24 a.m. 

He sighs deeply, carefully maneuvering his body to slip away from you. You used to wake up the first few times this happened, worried about an emergency or some kind of accident. Being a sorcerer trains you for things like that. 

You’ve always known Gojo had bad sleep, just not the severity of it. 

You don’t wake up to it as much as you used to, having grown accustomed to it after more nights together, but on the off-chance that you do, Gojo always kisses your forehead gently as if to tell you that it’s okay, you can go back to sleep.

You don’t wake up now, thankfully, so he grabs his phone and heads for the kitchen. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest tonight, far heavier than others he’s woken up from. He pours himself a glass of water before hopping on the kitchen counter, ready to sort through the bowl of candy sitting on the island. 

The date today is October 31. Halloween. It’s been a few years since Shibuya but he still feels like he’s suffocating. 

In the train station. In the box.

In front of Suguru—or Kenjaku, both, whatever. 

He’s gone to therapy, just like you wanted, for the both of you, and grieving has been an interesting concept to wrap his head around since.

But no matter how much he trains his mind to deal with it, his body will always remember the feeling. 

He snaps out of it when he hears your footsteps padding on the floorboards. Your figure emerges from the hallway, bed hair and eyes still sleepy, squinting. 

“Satoru?” you rub at your eyes, his sleep shirt entirely too long as the sleeves extend past your fingertips. The extra fabric swings in the air. “You okay?” you whisper, approaching him. 

Waking you up is the last thing he could ever want right now, but it’s hard when you’re also the only one he can talk about this with. When you know what it’s like to grieve everyone too.  

He has every intention of brushing it off, of telling you to go to sleep, but one look at you—one look at him and it’s like you just know. He doesn’t even need to explain. 

It isn’t hard to piece together, knowing what today is and seeing him choked up the way he is. You tell Gojo it’s your intuition, but he has a tell, and maybe you’re the only one who knows it. 

His eyes—they’ve always given him away. There’s the Satoru you know, then a Satoru that’s far removed, gone away. You can spot it though, the moment it loses its sparkle, the moment it turns from blue to gray. 

He feels a little selfish sharing this with you; he’s not the only one who’s lost people. You have too. 

You stand in front of him and offer a sad smile, outstretching your arms as an invite, as if to tell him: you can stay here for as long as you’d like. 

He moves into your space slowly, hopping off the kitchen island to slump against you. 

He doesn’t hug you yet, not immediately, hands still shaky at the memory. You rub his back, hooking your chin on his shoulder as he bends down to rest his head by your cheek. 

You take his hand delicately, bringing them to your lips so you can kiss every fingertip gently. When you finish, he wraps his arms around you, squeezing tightly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you whisper, like a hushed secret. 

And he wants to, but also, there isn’t anything else to say that you don’t know already. You were there the first few times he had therapy, and when he felt comfortable enough to go alone, he told you all about it anyway right after. 

If there’s a secret to fighting the Gojo Satoru with guaranteed victory, they’d only have to get to you—he’d be gone, entirely. You know too much of him, own too many parts of him already. 

He chuckles dryly, vibrating by your neck. A step back and he’s leaning against the counter, bringing you closer by the hip, thumb stroking. He tucks away strands of your hair behind your ear, flattening down the bird’s nest that it is from your sleep. 

“Nothing you haven’t heard before, pretty.”

Gojo’s been more tender lately, especially in the night when his piercing eyes turn soft, gazing. 

You pout, the same one since you were 16. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to it, the way he calls you such sweet, honeyed things; you’ve only recently begun to call him ‘baby’ and that alone has been enough to make your head spin. 

Still, he wouldn’t be your Satoru if he didn’t surprise you. With how he is now, it’s hard to imagine a time when this was all so difficult for him, when even the slightest bit of your hands touching was challenging. 

It’s hard to imagine that both of you are here now, living in the same space, by the kitchen at night, with the contents of your hearts memorized—the sorrow, the pain, the joy, all the love, every single one. 

He kisses your nose, and that’s comfort alone. 

This is his reality now, with you, and it’s safe.

It’s good. 

“Do you want to make waffles?” he hears you mumble, running your hands over his chest, soothing.  

The clock reads 3:56 a.m. Early breakfast doesn’t sound so bad, could also be a midnight snack.

(But he knows what you’re doing). 

You don’t tell him to try to go back to sleep, never forcing anything you know he can’t do. Instead, you offer yourself to stay up with him, keep him company. Whatever he needs. 

(And he loves that about you). 

.

.

.

Gojo will forever argue that you might have fallen first, but he’s definitely fallen harder. 

He could map out every single location he’s laid his love on—your eyes, the flutter of your eyelashes, the curve of your nose, and your lips, the same ones he’s kissed and nipped, bitten until he gets his fill. 

Your neck and chest—a canvas for his desires. He glides a finger across your collarbone before lightly tapping on it thrice. 

There’s the little dip at the base of your spine, and your thighs—

Oh, he could get lost in them. 

He knows. 

He has. Many times.

There’s an animal inside of him that only answers to you. 

When you kiss his neck and grip his back, soft moans by his ear—short and sweet. He’s a gone man, wholly devoted to you, and you only. 

You breathe his name out, “Satoru,” raspily, and he sinks into you—everything, all that he has spilling in the depths of you. 

How can he possibly contain all this love?

It’s scary how so much of him already belongs to you, all these years—how you’ve been carrying pieces of him, all versions of him throughout every birthday, every moment you’ve touched his life and have it irrevocably changed. 

.

“Are you happy?” he mumbles by your ear, voice deep and lazy. 

It’s the morning, sunlight barely peeking through your curtains. Gojo hugs you from behind, arms caging you as he traces little hearts on your sides. 

“Right now?” you whisper back, chuckling, “That’s not fair.” 

He nips at your ear, a small bite, before you turn to face him.

He supposes you’re right, it isn’t fair to ask that now; both your bodies are sore, well-exhausted, and littered with conversations on love. 

Gojo is pretty in the mornings just like he is all the time, his hair lending well to sunlight as much as it does to the moonlight. And his eyes—they shine a different shade during the day compared to the night. 

You though, you’re an entirely different creature of your own: a goddess in bedsheets and pillows, wrapped in immaculate white.  

You giggle when you face him, nose-to-nose, and he pulls you in tighter, grips you by the butt to slot you in right where you belong. 

Are you happy with me? 

He wonders, and you can read it—his eyes his greatest tell. You kiss him tenderly, lips moving gently against his. Then you smile, sincerely, before whispering—

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

this is a re-upload! (because i accidentally deleted the original one!) thank you notes: to @stellamancer for being there since the very start!! col wouldn’t even exist without you!! you’re every much part of the creation of this as i am :'), to @crysugu for being so ever supportive, cheering me on all the time!! and for loving col reader as much as i do!! and to you reading this and everyone else who has loved this collection so far!!  of course!! a credit to all the writers whose works have inspired the way i view and write gojo: to @seravphs for teen dad!gojo and cruel summer influences, i draw so much of the way i understand these characters and their dynamics from you and your beautiful way of writing them and i hope my interpretation gives justice to that!!, to @augustinewrites for keeping up with the fushigojos, this series and the way you write them, with so much love, has always pushed for me to view gojo that way!! you’ve inspired so much of my understanding that gojo does believe in love and that when he falls in it, he falls in it hard!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

megumi fushiguro x f!reader, 5.9k

THEMES: established relationship, time skip au w aged up characters, non-canon compliant bc they deserve happy endings and canon is merely a guideline, implied smut

SUMMARY: you miss your boyfriend. the way to handle it? dissuade him from his stupid game addiction in a thousand silly ways.

A/N: this is very unserious i’m sorry. also this is a repost of another fic i deleted…... yikes !

GAME START

You wouldn’t call yourself a video game hater.

It would be so hypocritical of you, when you’ve played games here and there. When you were a kid, your mom had bought you one of those Nintendo DS consoles, and you’d been just as obsessed with Cooking Mama like every other kid in your neighborhood. Even in recent years, you’d played some popular ones, like Mario Kart, with your friends.

You’re just not in love with it. Not like Itadori, or Inumaki or Fushiguro were.

There were other things you were more interested in, more relaxing things that didn’t involve so much violence at three in the morning. Like watching Netflix. Online shopping. Peaceful, healthy, productive.

But hey, who were you to judge?

Your lives as jujutsu sorcerers were stressful, taking so much of your free time—if your friends felt like killing pixel monsters on their little PC screens until the sun rose was relaxing, they were absolutely valid for it.

You don't think it’s helping Megumi, though.

Megumi needs sleep. Loves it, even. Despite his cold exterior, Megumi’s actually the opposite; he’s cute and cuddly. Like a cute, cuddly bear. And like a bear, he hibernates too. When you guys get rare, well-earned breaks, Megumi often forgoes going out just so he can sleep the time away. He even takes naps in the afternoon after lunch, and you’ve lost count of how many times Kugisaki has attacked him for taking so long to get up in the mornings and making them late to missions.

And yet, he squanders the time he could be sleeping to play video games.

You don't get it. Video games can be super fun, you know from experience, but to lose sleep over it? How relaxing can a game be, when all it does is leave you tired and grumpy in the morning?

Normally, you like to mind your own business when it comes to the things your friends like to do in their personal time, but you find yourself wanting to convince Megumi against his current methods of de-stressing.

But Megumi is a surprisingly complex creature.

(To others, of course. He is simple to you because you’re well-versed in his silly little ways.)

If you want to dissuade Megumi from video games, you have to be smart about it. You have to play it cool, lest Megumi catches on and becomes stubborn about it. You’ll be smooth about this. You’ll be cooler than cool about it. Chill. Yeah.

Yeah.

RESULT:

YOU: 0 VIDEO GAMES: 0

.

.

.

ROUND ONE

The first part of your fool-proof plan (the fool being Megumi) was to straight up annoy your target into giving up on his video games.

You cooly stand by the threshold of Megumi’s room. Your hands are in your pocket. You’re freshly showered, which you want to emphasise for reasons. Reasons: you’re fresh, relaxed, ready to engage and be annoying.

Megumi hasn’t even noticed you. He’s got those large headphones like a real gamer, and his fingers are angrily typing over his keyboard.

Perfect, you think. He’s already agitated.

You smile to yourself, covering your mouth lest anyone accuses you of being evil. You straighten up and begin your move.

You clear your throat.

Megumi doesn’t acknowledge you. Hmm.

You clear your throat again, this time louder, and still—Megumi doesn’t even give you a single glance. Wow.

You feel your hackles rise at being ignored. It’s kind of rude of Megumi to not even acknowledge you. Is his video game really that important?

Maybe you should scare him.

You don't even need to tiptoe your way to where he’s sitting at his computer desk. You walk up to him and even stand behind him for a good moment without being noticed. You shake yourself, getting ready to give Megumi a good scare—

Megumi screams.

The sudden scream sends you jumping in the air and toppling onto the floor. With your heart pounding in your chest and your whole body lying on the floor, you see Megumi throw his headphones in rage, cussing, “That fucking bastard—“

Megumi stops mid-sentence. His brows raise, and he tilts his head to the side in question, “Hey. What are you doing down there?”

You feel absolutely pathetic and try not to show it as you push yourself up from the ground. “I’ve been calling your name all this time and you were ignoring me.”

Megumi blinks before averting his eyes in embarrassment, “Oh. I had noise-cancelling headphones on.” He turned to look back at you, his mouth puckered like the little carat sign on the keyboard. He extends a hand to you, ”Sorry.”

You exaggerate your pout, “What are you sorry to me for?”

Megumi pouts too, and you think that it’s so unfair how affected you are about it. Like your entire world just shifted, moving to focus on Megumi’s pout and do everything you can to alleviate what’s causing it. Megumi flutters his lashes, swaying your joined hands together, and in a cute voice that you swear never used to affect you before: “For not noticing you. You should have tapped me on the shoulder or something. If I had known—“

God, you swear it’s because you’re newly dating. It’s the honeymoon period that has you cooing, utterly swayed, “And if you had known, what? Would you have stopped gaming for me?”

Megumi smiles so sweetly, you can already tell the answer was going to be—

“You wouldn’t, huh?” you say, the smile dropping from your face. You drop his hand in faux disappointment and ask, “What’s more important, Fushiguro Megumi? Video games or your girlfriend?”

Megumi complains, “Why would you ask me this?”

You close your eyes and feel the disappointment for real this time. “I can’t believe this,” you whine, “My boyfriend would choose gaming over me. I understand. I see—“

“Babe, stop sulking, you know you’re important to me—”you keep your eyes closed, but you can feel Megumi’s arms loop around your neck, “Don’t be mad—”

Okay, you're not that disappointed, and you’re definitely not mad. But still, you don’t let up until Megumi’s pressed you against his bed and given you a thousand and one kisses. Your plan failed today, but it doesn’t mean you have to lose completely.

To be yourself, means to never give up (or something like that). You’ll try another day.

RESULT:

YOU: 0 VIDEO GAMES: 1

.

.

.

ROUND TWO

Okay, take two - the first part of your fool-proof plan (the fool being yourself) was to seduce your target into giving up on video games.

You think this plan is better than the OG one. What were you thinking? Megumi wrote the playbook on being stubborn, and for once, you think you can leave being number one to someone else. You have bigger fish to fry, or however the saying goes.

Anyway - so you stand again at the threshold of Megumi’s room. You’re all cool, with your hands in your pockets. You’re freshly showered, which you want to emphasize for new reasons. Reasons being: you’re fresh, relaxed, ready to sex Megumi up.

Like last time, Megumi hasn’t noticed you standing by the door. He’s too busy, once again, being a real gamer, and his fingers, once again are flying angrily over his keyboard.

Perfect, you think. He’s already so heated.

This time, you forgo subtlety. Megumi loves it when you take charge.

You go over and wrap your arms around his tense shoulders, and Megumi ends up jolting so hard in surprise he uppercuts your chin with his hard head.

Once more, you’re on the floor again. This time, clutching your jaw.

“Babe!” Megumi exclaims in worry, throwing his headphones off in a flurry. He crouches down and cradles your jaw in his careful hands, “Are you okay? Why does this keep happening to you? Do you like being on the floor?”

You’re a little teary eyed and trying to hold it back. This isn’t the crying you were imagining when you came to Megumi’s room. You thought it would be a little sexier than this. A little less pathetic. You moan (in pain, you note sadly), “Why are you lecturing me?”

“Because,” Megumi caresses your jaw, “How could you surprise me like that? And now you’re hurt. You know it hurts me when you’re hurt.” Megumi pouts, “My baby. Should I kiss it better?”

You soak the attention up and point at your jaw. You nod, pouting, “Yes. Kiss it here.”

Megumi presses a kiss against your jaw, “Mwah.” When he pulls back, his eyes are crescents, “There. All good now.”

You make a noise and point to another spot, your chin this time, “This part hurts too.”

“I’ll kiss it too,” Megumi says, closing his eyes and pressing a kiss against your chin too. “Mwah. That one should be healed too.”

It’s a little insane, but you literally feel the pain go away with the touch of his lips. Is this the power of love or some shit? You used to be a non-believer, but damn. Maybe that shit truly heals.

It’s kind of addicting. You point to several parts of your face, and Megumi indulges you, pressing kiss after kiss until heat blooms between you two.

Swallowing your own anticipation, you finally point to your lips. “It hurts,” you say, sadly, “Could you kiss it better too?”

“It really hurts?” Megumi says slowly, biting his lip. His eyes focused solely on your mouth. “Or do you just want a kiss?”

“I always want a kiss from you, Megumi,” you bait, though the words are as honest as an admission. Megumi flushes pink at your words, and you feel your want double, triple knowing you’re the cause of it. “But it really does hurt. And I need you to kiss it. To make it all better—”

Megumi kisses you before you can even finish your sentence. You make a pleased noise, as you hook your arm around his shoulders, pulling him down to get him closer. Megumi moans, and you swallow it with a parted mouth. Megumi’s tongue is still shy as it licks into your mouth, meeting your tongue in tentative strokes. It’s cute. Megumi is so cute, it makes you kinda ill with desire.

You hook your leg around his hip and roll your bodies until it’s Megumi on the ground, looking pretty underneath you. You slide your knee in between his legs and feel heat when it presses against his growing bulge, “What about you, babe? Are you hurting anywhere? Is there anywhere I can kiss better?”

Megumi nods.

Because you can’t help it, you tease further, “Could you show me where?”

Megumi juts his bottom lip as he grinds against you, “You always make me say it.”

“I’m not a mind reader,” you say, tracing the swell of his lip. “You need to say what you want, so I know exactly what to do.”

Megumi looks away from you for a moment, as if unable to handle your gaze. His cheeks are a deepening pink, and you decide you love it over the heated flush he had on earlier when he was gaming. When he turns back, he seems to have gathered his courage. His gaze doesn’t waver as he takes your hand and presses it to his stomach, as he carefully slides your hands together underneath the waistband of his pants.

“Here,” Megumi says, voice low in a way that it rarely ever is, “I want you to kiss me here.”

So you do, and then some.

Later, when you’ve both migrated to his bed, sweaty and sated and close to the cliff of sleep, you feel like a winner. Having Megumi makes you a winner all the same, of course, but today, you triumph over your current enemy. Video games.

Your plan is a success. Finally, you can move on to step two, which is to make this into a routine. Sure, it’s going to be tiring, but you think it’s a sacrifice you’ll be very happy to—wait.

You feel Megumi shift carefully from where he was spooning you. Your little backpack, gone. A hand runs through your hair, lips press against your cheek, and then nothing. The heat you were getting accustomed to disappears. The bed shifts—and you realise he’s getting up. Any hope you have that it’s just him getting water or going to the bathroom disappears when you hear the tell-tale sound of a computer booting up.

God, did you not fuck him properly? Should you have gone for Round 2? What kind of stamina does a guy who just got railed within an inch of their life have, for him to not only stay awake after, but also to go back and log on to their computer to game?

You’re missing something here. You’ve seriously misunderstood the hold video games have on your boyfriend. You need to regroup. You need to rethink this.

But first—you must recuperate.

RESULT:

YOU: 0 VIDEO GAMES: 2

.

.

.

ROUND THREE

You have recovered. Somewhat. Your ego is down bad, but it’s okay. Your war against video games in general is not over. You just need a better strategy, but before you can formulate that, you must first gather intel.

And who better to gather intel from than another gamer?

You stand at the threshold of a room. Another room. This time, it’s Itadori’s.

(Okay, you thought about asking Inumaki, but god knows, if given the choice between a brand new PS5 or his girlfriend, he would definitely choose the former. You’re not being mean. You’re just telling the truth.)

Anyway, you clear your throat, and as expected from the most angelic member of your friend group, Itadori turns to address you immediately.

“Oh, it’s you,” Itadori calls out from his bed. He’s laying against a pile of pillows as he plays on his nintendo switch. “What’s up?”

You shrug, putting your hands in your pocket. You know, for the spirit of nonchalance. You walk on over and casually sit on his bed. Or at least, you try to. It’s rather difficult considering the insane amount of pillows. You feel like you’re going to topple over and fall on the ground. Which has been happening quite often lately. Too often, if somebody were to ask you.

You lean over to take a peek at what he’s playing, “Nothing. Just wanted to see what my bestie is up to.”

Itadori hums, “I’m just playing Stardew Valley. It’s a farming game.”

You watches as Itadori’s character murders a bunch of bats in what looks like a cave. “Kind of violent,” you comment. “I thought you were farming. Aren’t you supposed to be toiling the land? Sowing some seeds? Harvesting?”

“I did that earlier,” Itadori says, as his character drops a bomb and kills a mummy. His fingers move like a real expert. A real gamer. You suppose there is something amazing about gamers. There’s a sense of professionalism in the way he plays, you can see that. “You can do a lot of things. It’s really involved. You can just do a day and then quit. I like it. You can really just do what you want.”

“Oh!” you say with interest. “So it’s not addicting at all. And it’s calming?” Itadori nods. “Can you play it on the PC? Or do you have to play it on the Switch?”

“You can play it on the PC,” Itadori explains, before taking a moment to pause the game. He turns to you, giving his full attention with a teasing grin. “Is this for Fushiguro?”

You roll your eyes, “Yes. It’s Valentine’s soon. I was going to buy him clothes, but I always get him that.” Shyly, you continue, “It’s our first Valentine’s together… so I wanted to do something different.”

“He usually likes those shooting games more though,” Itadori says. “Why don’t you ask Inumaki-san instead for advice?”

You grumble, “I always ask him for advice. Also, I don’t think those violent games are good for Megumi.”

Itadori gasps, a move that’s teasing too, “Wow… I didn’t think you were the controlling type.”

“I’m not!” you bristle at the accusation, “I am just a very concerned girlfriend.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, dubious, and you feel the teasing hit a surprisingly sensitive spot. You frown, “Am I being controlling? I just want him to stop playing so many video games so he can sleep properly.”

Itadori coos, and in a loud cutesy voice, he says, “Really? Really? Fushiguro is so lucky to have a caring girlfriend—”

“Really?” Another voice joins in the teasing. When you look, you see that it’s the man of the hour.

Itadori laughs when he sees who it is, “Oh? Who’s here? It’s our cutest—”

“Shut up,” Megumi grumbles, walking over to you, “What are you two yapping about now? I can hear your voice all the way from the bathroom.”

“You can hear us from the bathroom?” you ask, working hard to keep your voice even. “Megumi, are you sure you closed the door?”

Megumi gives you a betrayed look, but he still attempts to join you in bed, leaning his head onto your lap like a little house cat. He wraps an arm around your waist, just as your fingers move to play with his hair.

Itadori looks at you two with a bright, cheeky smile and you already know he has something to say before he even says it, “You guys are so cute. Making me third wheel on my own bed.”

Megumi rolls his eyes, “What are you guys doing? Are you playing that game again?”

“You know Stardew Valley?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Megumi says, “I’ve seen him play it a couple times. Never did get the appeal though. How are you enjoying just farming every day? Isn’t it repetitive?”

Itadori is passionate as he defends it, “No! I think you would really like it if you give it a chance. You get to help people rebuild the town. You make friends with villagers. You give them gifts. You can do missions for them. You can even romance them—”

“Oh?” For some reason, that is what piques Megumi’s attention. “Can you marry them too?”

Itadori affirms, “Yup! You can choose from 8 different people. If you play it, I recommend you romance Alex.”

“Why?” you blurt out, which has Megumi smiling up at you.

“Because,” Itadori says, as he shows Alex’s character on the Switch. “He’s kinda thick. All beefed up. I think he’d be your type, Fushiguro.”

Megumi’s hand is playing with your fingers as he asks, “And how do you know what my type is?”

Itadori smiles, “Well, because I’m confident you have excellent taste—“

And then he promptly puts a hand on your shoulder and flashes you a little wink.

For a moment, you’re all silent as you try to digest the moment. For a moment, you feel kinda objectified but simultaneously very sexy.

The moment ends with Megumi slapping his hand away. If you’re being honest, you’re a little turned on at the show of possessiveness. This is a side Megumi rarely shows, and you’re kind of super into it.

Megumi clears his throat, trying to clear the air. In a light voice, he says, “Send me the link. I’ll go play.”

RESULT:

YOU: 1 VIDEO GAMES: 2

.

.

.

ROUND FOUR

You end up getting Megumi a Nintendo Switch instead for Valentine’s.

You’d spent the extra money to get it properly gift wrapped too. It was worth it for the way Megumi carefully opened it, trying not to ruin the wrapping paper, even as you told him to just tear through it.

You spent money on this, Megumi pouted as he made sure the tape didn't tear the paper.

You pinched his cheek and teased, Baby, I spent more on the gift.

But you were so endeared that you forgot all about the wrapping paper when Megumi gasped as he finally saw what it was.

Y/N! Megumi said, throwing himself at you and pressing kisses all over your face. I love it. I’ll play it well.

Okay, okay—you know you’ve had this imaginary beef with video games, but Megumi really does love playing them. And you cannot resist the idea of making him happy.

Plus you do have a tiny bit of a hidden agenda with the Nintendo Switch. You thought about how Itadori had been playing his in bed versus how Megumi has to sit at his desk, away from bed, to play his games. You think the Nintendo Switch would be better then, because he could play video games in bed, and you could still hold him.

It feels like a compromise. A win-win situation. You want to pat yourself on the back for thinking of such a smart plan. Actually, you know what, you’re patting your back right now. Yeah!

Reality tells a different story though.

When you join Megumi in his bed for a cuddle, you find Megumi playing Stardew Valley on his Switch. Nothing wrong with that. You actually got him that game to play on the Switch instead.

It’s just that… you want a little attention. It’s been one mission after the other, so you’ve been a little stressed. You’ve all been, and you mentioned it before, how you all have your ways of coping. Megumi’s is playing video games. Yours is usually watching Netflix, listening to calming music, or even aromatherapy.

But you already looked through what Netflix had to offer and nothing. You looked through your usual playlists and nothing. You lit a candle and just blew it out. Right then, you knew what you wanted. Him.

You want him to coddle you a little bit. You want your boyfriend to tell you you did a good job today. You want Megumi to put down the Switch (which you know, you know, is kind of ridiculous because you bought that for him) and kiss you, even for just a moment.

You feel a little ridiculous about it. You’re an adult. You shouldn’t feel this needy for a little kiss from your boyfriend.

So, you push down the feeling and settle for wrapping yourself around him instead. Your cheek pressed against his hair. Your arm wrapped around his waist. Your legs tangled together. A little bit of the tension that’s been growing in your chest escapes.

You sigh, choosing to see what Megumi’s doing on screen.

He’s made a character for himself who’s wearing cute red overalls and a straw farmer hat on his little head. His character is walking around the forest, shaking the trees and collecting blackberries. It’s so cute, you feel yourself relaxing as you watch him play.

That is, until you watch him continually give gifts to this one specific character.

“Who’s that?” you mumble against his hair. “Is it a mission to give them flowers or something?”

“That’s Haley,” Megumi says.

“Oh,” you say, “What about the character Yuuji mentioned? Wasn’t that your type?”

Megumi laughs, “Yeah, but then I saw her and decided she was better. She’s a bit dumb, but she gets sweeter the more you get to know her in the game.”

You hum. Megumi continues happily, “I think I’m going to marry her. Earlier, she told me about how she just wants a family, and I just think I could give it to her. She could make me rich and pancakes in the morning, then I could go on with my day and farm.”

“Mhm,” is the only thing you can respond with. You don't exactly know what to say. You’ve known Megumi for a while now and lived with him for the same amount of time. You know Megumi, who was your best friend before anything else. You’re not quite sure you know him as a boyfriend quite yet, which makes you uncertain sometimes in deciding what type of person you need to be for him.

Right now, all you’re thinking is does he want me to be that kind of girl? Is this what he wants? A sweet vulnerable idiot who cooks for him?

And then, you think about how ridiculous it is that you’re outright placing yourself against a video game character. You must be really out of it.

You should just go back to your room and sleep it off.

You kiss Megumi’s cheek and move to get up, which has him frowning, “Are you going already? You just came here.”

You twiddle with a piece of hair, “Yeah, I think I’m just going to sleep in my room tonight.”

“Oh, you don’t want to…” Megumi trails off, his hand twisting around his sheets.

You smile, a little tired, “Maybe tomorrow. We have an early start anyway, remember?”

“Okay,” Megumi visibly deflates, and you resist the urge to come back to his bed. He quickly brightens up, flashing you a small smile, “Good night.”

It makes you smile, and this time, it feels more sincere. “Good night.”

But when you settle into your bed after, the warmth passes. Regret comes over you, and you wish you had just stayed.

You feel like an absolute loser.

RESULT:

YOU: 1 VIDEO GAMES: 3

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ROUND FIVE

It’s been a week since you gifted Megumi the Switch and you feel like you’re losing your mind.

You’re literally jealous, because your boyfriend wants to play video games rather than pay attention to you. You’re sulking, because your boyfriend would rather romance some video game character rather than cuddle his #real girlfriend in #real life. You feel insane.

Okay—you know the stress of the recent missions has been piling up. You’ve been dealing with a lot of Grade 1 curses recently and it’s taking a lot out of you. But the added agitation from seeing Megumi play Stardew Valley, knowing he’s talking to his girlfriend there or something… unreal.

You can’t even tell anyone about this. You’re going to seem like such a loser. You already know how judged you’re going to be. You simply have to meditate this problem away.

Except, the problem never goes away. That’s just how problems work, you conclude. If you ignore them, they never get resolved. You can try sinking it as far deep as you can, but it floats back up again and again.

The thing is, you want attention, and you feel like you’re not getting enough. Between missions, and dealing with Gojo in real life— it’s not enough for you to get fleeting kisses here and there. It’s not enough to work together in missions, shoulders briefly touching.

You’re in the goddamn honeymoon period of your relationship, and you want more. It’s mortifying to admit, but you do and you’re at a place where your focus is narrowing to the point where you only care about getting it.

The only problem is that it includes getting Megumi’s attention, even at the worst of times. Even in the middle of training, when you’re supposed to be paying attention to whatever the hell Gojo is saying.

But you don’t. All you can think about is stupid Megumi, and his stupid addiction to video games, and his stupid cuddles you don’t get and his stupid mouth that hasn’t been giving you enough kisses.

You punch a little more aggressively, using more cursed energy than normal which only comes to fruition when you accidentally send Kugisaki flying into a wall. You mumble out a quick sorry, then proceed to go again.

“Woah, easy there.” Megumi teases, hair sticking up in different places. It looks so soft and fluffy. You want to bite him. “You know this is just practice right?” he asks with so much cheek.

You don’t mean to snap. You truly don’t. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes you snap on the inside. The teasing grin he’s giving you makes you wanna go absolutely batshit insane.

Which are the reasons you’ll cite later when Itadori and Gojo give you flack for asking, point black, in a voice low and serious, “Who would you choose, me or that stupid Haley from the game?”

You think Megumi can tell you weren’t playing around with the question, considering how flustered he gets. Unfortunately, the moment is cut short when Kugisaki nails an uppercut to your face as payback for throwing her against the wall. Talk about unfortunate timing.

The disappointment you feel from the lack of an answer makes you forget about the fact that everyone else is watching.

And then— you do remember and you’re absolutely fucking mortified. You’re supposed to be professional.

At the end, you all go to eat a nice meal together. And you can’t even find anything to really regret at the end of the day. I haven’t even cried about it, you think proudly to yourself.

It’s only when you’re freshly showered and happily under the covers of your bed that you remember the stupid moment. You hope Megumi forgets about it. You’re definitely going to try to tonight.

Except, you don't even get the chance to.

Your door creaks open, and you hear soft, muted footsteps across the wooden floor.

And then, someone’s climbing into your bed, settling in between you and the wall your bed is flushed against. Even in the dark, you know. It’s him.

“Hey,” Megumi says, voice tiny, “You didn’t come to my room.”

“I always come to your room,” you quietly say. You don't know if you’re saying it as an excuse.

Megumi hums, a sound as soft as light in the dark, “But you didn’t and I missed you. I want my girlfriend tonight.”

You snort, slapping whatever part of him you can reach, which lucky for him is his ass. “Stop teasing me about that already.”

“No,” Megumi agrees. You think you can hear a smile through his voice. “But you were sulking all night. Especially when I didn’t answer—”

You groan, “I don’t want to talk about it—”

Megumi makes a displeased noise, “I want to talk about it. You’re acting weird. Did I do something?”

“No!” you answer immediately.

“I don’t believe you,” Megumi stubbornly says, “Is it because I got married to Ha—“

“No.” you say with so much finality, it kills your conversation just like that, like the air has been sucked out, suffocating it. You can feel him falter, restless against you, and god, you really, really don’t want to ruin today. But you can feel his brain turning, thinking of what he did wrong, and you don't think you can end it right here. It feels like a fight that needs to be resolved now, lest it festers overnight.

You sigh, loudly. The sound is harsh in the dark. “It’s just—you always choose video games over me.”

“Huh?”

It’s out of the bag, so you think you might as well get it all out: “Sometimes, I feel like you’d rather play video games than hang out with me. Which is kind of stupid, because we spend almost all our time together. But when I’m stressed, I just want to hang out with you, but you’re busy playing video games. Or like that one time, after we had sex, you left the bed to go play video games instead. And I feel so stupid, but I’m even jealous that you’re romancing some stupid video game character, when I’m right here—”

You cut yourself off, because you sound ridiculous. “Oh my god. What the hell am I saying? Kill me. Kill me—“

“Hey!” Megumi says, grabbing your cheeks. “It’s okay. Calm down. Don’t be embarrassed. Please? Please?”

You’re pretty sure your cheeks are warm in his hands. You’re thankful for the dark, because you’re certain they would look red in the light. “Okay.”

“I hear you,” Megumi says in the most gentle voice. He always manages to take your racing mind and quiet it down. You don't know how he does it. “I hear you. But babe, why didn’t you just tell me?”

You pout, “Because. I hate feeling needy. And I don’t want to seem like some controlling asshole that wants to monopolise your time, when you probably want to relax too. The time we have together feels so small, and I find myself so greedy over it. Megumi, I think I really, really like you.”

He laughs, but it’s gentle too. “Well, I sure hope so.”

“No,” you say, “I mean, I think I like you more than I thought I did before, which is crazy because you know I like you so much already.”

“You’re so cute,” Megumi smiles and then gives you a kiss so sweet, you think the taste of honey won’t even compare to it. When you both pull away, he says, “It’s not greedy to want me. Don’t say it like that. I like that you want me. I like it when you tell me. Because you know I’ve liked you for so long, and I’m trying to do this right and not be so clingy and not be so crazy about you—”

“Be crazy about me,” you say. You’re not even thinking right now. You don't think you can when your heart is pounding so loud against your chest. “Don’t even hold back, babe. I like it so much too.”

Megumi makes a distressed noise, “Okay, don’t call me babe when we’re having a serious conversation. You know how that makes me feel. And I know you’re too tired to have sex—”

“Megumi,” you say, absolutely serious, “I have a separate energy storage for that. It’s like me with food and dessert. I have a second stomach that lets me eat more. It works exactly the same way.”

Megumi laughs, and you feel yourself fully relax. You cuddle him in your arms and sigh happily.

You feel him stroke your hair. In the end, Megumi says, “Promise me. You’ll just tell me next time, okay? Don’t feel weird, okay? I want to be a good boyfriend to you.”

“Okay,” you say, “I promise.”

RESULT:

YOU: 1,000,000 VIDEO GAMES: 3

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BONUS ROUND

“Um,” you say, “If it’s your birthday, then how come I’m the one receiving a gift?”

“Because,” Megumi says, handing you your very own Nintendo Switch, “The gift I want from you is to play Stardew Valley with me.”

You scratch your head, “I don’t know how much I’m going to play. Megumi, I feel like this is a waste of money. You should save it and buy something you like instead—”

You shut up immediately when Megumi pouts at you so hard, you feel like you might get sent to hell for causing it. Megumi vehemently disagrees, “It’s not a waste of money! I know you’re going to love Stardew Valley. I’ll explain everything. You’re going to love toiling the land and watering crops—”

“Can’t we just make out when I’m stressed?” you argue.

“No,” Megumi says, glaring at you like an angry baby kitten. “You are not going to seduce me out of this. We are going to have a farm together. And we can even get married on this, isn’t that cute?”

Well. Why didn’t he start with that?

You clear your throat and try not to seem too excited at the idea. Instead, you choose to say, “I thought you were going to marry Haley in your little game.”

Megumi waves his hand, “I dumped her. I only wanted to pursue her anyway, because she was rich. But truly, she had nothing on you.”

Okay, it really doesn’t matter in the overall scheme of things—but you’re both a sore loser and a sore winner.

Everyone will just have to excuse you when you say: Fuck you, video games.

You have Megumi.

RESULT:

FINAL WINNER: YOU

cariño, boy, it’s you i desire eighteen+ content ahead ㅤ⭑ㅤ minors, do not interact. fiancé! nanami kento x fem! reader. ꒰ 4.6k word count ꒱ fluff + the night before the wedding + talks of the future + no bad luck, i promise. smut + fingering + praise + body worship + pussy eating + orgasm control + dom - sub dynamics towards the very end + the discovery of kento’s brat taming abilities (this fic is a trip) + major spit kink because he’s so ♥︎ ! ! oooh

꒰ thnx u note! ꒱ྀི repost · rewrite · i’ll admit, i am a bit delusional for this man. i’ll admit that little, that much abt myself ෆ

“this pink or this blue?” you ask with one-too-many paint samples organized in rows across the dinner table. you, him, and it sharing space with the forgotten take-out from earlier.

two cards the size of your palm are placed side by side in front of him, watching it all come down to ballerina gown and northern star for the bathroom interior of your little fixer-upper.

“pink.” he points, knuckles of his left hand pressed against his cheek “you look beautiful in pink.” nanami then picks up the carton piece with his right and holds it by your face, finding a small pout once he focuses his vision back to you.

“kento, you say that about every color!” your whine elongates the last two words with purpose. to complain, to poke, to tease your future husband.

“you look beautiful in every color.” he emphasizes his words too, finding it harder to stop smiling when he peeks at the ring on your finger— the ring on his future wife.

it’s a little nerve-wrecking having this much free time the night before the wedding but nanami kento is sure to be the sweetest husband.

he's made preparations a year in advance— sending out wedding invitations, booking venue reservations, meeting with the pianist for the early reception and a photographer for a shoot the week before. taking note of everyone you wish to see, adding them onto the guest list, catering of your favorite cuisine— the list never ends.

but it's been an equal effort to make it to this day— you took up the task of finding your perfect florists, setting aside the time to sample the flavors of your wedding cake, (he couldn’t miss this part though. it’s “free” cake!) highlighting menu items made to order at the bar, excited and entertained with themes, colors and wedding table decor— you consider yourself lucky to experience this, to marry him.

because kento's made your engagement such a dream, he never lets you carry more than you can handle, always catching you before you drown in your own worries.

he’s just perfect. no other way to say it. so much so, it becomes intoxicating being around him even if you’re just looking at pretty colors on pieces of cardboard.

when you really think about it, how did it ever become more than that? more than just carton? say, when did he become your new favorite daydream?

“you’re staring at me again,” nanami has a softer gaze on you than he does with anybody else, and even kinder smile he only feels safe giving you entirely, “what’s on your pretty, little mind?” he questions.

“just you.” you give him a funny wink, exaggerated and awkward and slow, it makes you both snort.

“me? again?” he chuckles. being able to love and laugh like this, it warms him up inside more than he could express in words. instead, his face simply glows a little brighter than the sun, hair becoming strands of pure gold.

that’s how you know of his adoration. that’s how you know it’s true.

“when is it ever not you, kento?” the chair squeaks against the tile floor and nanami finds your face breaths away from his. the endings of your bow tied around the waist of your robe dangle beside his fingers at the edge of his chair; temptation begins to whisper in his ear.

“i could say the same thing.” kento’s voice is low, smooth like dripping honey but something within his words hides a pounding want. his eyes aren’t on yours, but on your lips and the way it curves into a smirk when you’ve captured him the way you wanted to.

your thumbs caress the peak of his cheekbones while your leg hoists over and around his hips, settling into his lap with ease. obediently remaining in his chair, kento simply watches the way you move— like ribbons in the wind, like waves in the ocean, he admires you like mother earth does her creations.

“now you’re the one staring at me,” you poke at his cheek but his expressions never change. the smile that reaches his ears and his eyes that seem to look inside you never fade, never fail, never falter. “what is it?”

“nothing,” he says, “i just love you.”

“mmm, love?” the hand that poked his cheek now intertwines with the undone hair that falls and tickles the tip of his ear. they’re a bit pink, you might add, just by having you this close— to say what his heart screams every hour. “i, thump, love, thump, you, thump—

he hums for a second, unearthing the same voice he did when he asked you to marry him. you write it up as the sound of wearing your heart on your sleeve, “it’s love.”

kento’s hands have always been warm. what you imagine a bear paw would feel like in the cold winter: cozy, protective. they find their place on your waist, fuzzy material between his fingers instead of the soft skin he wishes to touch underneath.

you become immovable in his hold, like he’s positive he’s carrying the world in his hands, like you are the answer to every prayer, like he could never possibly let you go.

so, he doesn’t.

he can’t. he can only pull you closer, and when he does, he finds your eyes and your voice already luring him in.

he doesn’t really know what you said if he’s being honest, stuck listening but also not. just that you tugged him in tighter and he doesn’t ever want you to go away, “i love you,” his hands maneuver your hips and tilts you into his lips. a tender kiss, “i love you,” and other, “i really love you.” until it becomes deeper and needier each time he comes back for more, “so much, my girl.”

you can’t tell what’s gotten into him, really. your kento appears to be in a daze, maybe a little lovesick— with it being the night before the wedding, and speaking about the future in this cute little, seaside hotel, you won’t lie— it’s got you in a little daze too, having a beautiful dream.

there’s an ocean breeze coming from the open window in his room. white, hanging curtains filling the silence with little swooshes and wooshes— then it is only you and him watching each other in tranquility and something more.

“ken,” your voice is as soothing as the wind that comes in, “i should go” his hands loop around your waist, his chin rests against your chest, “to my room” eyes never leaving your own, “now.”

“you should,” it comes out as a mumble with the robe in his face, “this was our secret.”

“it was.”

“then, do you want me to let go now?”

“no,” he glows, “never.”

you cup his face, freshly shaven just before bed, the scent of your fabric softener on his white tee— nanami’s left expecting with an open jaw, sneaky lips, and a tongue sneaking out and ready to curl against your own.

“darling,” you speak as the chair squeaks back. kento’s snaked his hands behind your thighs and the curves of your body— hypnotizing you with an unrelenting gaze— it’s just enough for you to slowly realize as he’s carrying you to his bed.

he devotes more of himself to you, if that were even possible, with every kiss he places on your body: think of it as one kiss at the cost of one year of his life— he’s must’ve given you his lifespan by now— he hopes so.

a year gone with the kiss he’s placed on your temple, another with the one by your jaw, and as he lays you down, another three years are gone with the trail he’s created down your neck.

five years of happiness, just like that.

you’re sucked into his world, bathing in his love, swimming in this warmth— the purest thing next to water, god, and himself— but there’s a pause that makes you wonder why he’s suddenly stopped.

“baby, you okay? we don’t have to keep going,” you perk, from laying against feather pillows to sitting upright as nanami settles back the same way.

“do you want to do this?” he asks, uneasy and unsure and most definitely back into his “better” conscious.

maybe he sees your eyes of disbelief or your contorted face of surprise, but nanami grows embarrassed to have behaved so impulsively— how could he?

your smile grows so fast, it’s almost foolish. a childlike smile, followed by a not-so-innocent giggle, “love,” your hands find the robe sash, “come take this off.”

he handles you gently; precious bows, the motion silky as it comes undone— you estimate the seconds it takes for his expression change. when a certain flame in his eye is born, that’s when he finds you in pretty, sheer lace.

note to self: about three seconds for his mind to fog and his mouth to water and his cock to swell.

everything is see-through. everything is see-through? it’s see-through? it’s very much see-through.

what seems like an innocent blouse and a matching skirt becomes his new (and stickiest!) wet dream— lace trim around the edges of both your shirt and your panties, detailed and delicate if he ever decided to touch the edges.

he’s a little jealous on how it hugs your tits so cutely and how your ass must be the same, wishing it were his hands being the ones to roll over and stick to your skin instead. and the sheerness of it all— he can begin to draw out every detail of your body onto his brain, maybe even onto a canvas if he really wanted to show this world true art.

not to mention: he spots the ittiest, bittiest cutest little bow adorned between your breasts. he appreciates the detail, can he unravel it using his teeth? can he fuck you in this another day? can he, please? please?

“you had this all planned out,” baffled, still gazing at your blessed figure, “and expected i’d give in, didn’t you?”

you shrugged off the rest of your robe and tossed it onto the cold tile below. having something else to keep you warm, there’s no use for it anymore!

“i always get what i want, ken,” your left hand begins grazing his right thigh, leg hanging off the edge of the bed with the other tucked underneath him. “you always give it to me!” and you sound so happy saying it.

“are you saying i spoil you too much?” he leans in closer, noses brushing as he sets himself between your legs— between your sheer, little skirt. you can hear a shiver in his breath the wider you spread and when he tries to evenly speak, “should i stop?”

“no,” you tell him, “i think you should spoil me rotten.”

you fall back into those feather pillows as he follows you down as magnets do, legs parting the closer his lips get to your own, both hands intertwining behind his nape.

a short breath leaves his lungs, like a playful hiss followed by a silly grin from his handsome face— he’s spoiling you over and over again, “i was planning on it.”

if he felt short of breath before, nanami feels all the air in his body escape him now. your shared kisses are never quite the same as the ones before; what once was deep and needy now becomes a promise of worship. pure divinity, kento gets his fill of righteousness with the taste of your tongue. with your flavored chapstick lathering against his lips, he savors your body with his hands.

like vanilla cream, you’re just as sweet, you’re just as supple and it’s just as easy to swallow you whole. his hands devour your sides, your waist, and crave more.

they reach higher, cupping a breast over your shirt as his other hand guides your jaw towards his. kento’s always been good with his tongue: lapping and brushing against your lips for an entrance, molding his against yours in tandem, sucking and spitting when you ask for it, he’s deliberately messy when he eats.

with a slight tilt to the side, he squeezes your cheeks together as your vision unblurs— fixating on the string of spit you two share— he stares. his hand rises to the plump of your cheek, then wiping off all residue he’s left behind, pulling at your lip just barely.

it’s almost as if you had been competing for who could dominate the other first, nearly panting in a fight against who would pull away at the last second.

“you’re beautiful,” gold trails over his face as he begins to settle his spinning mind, “really so beautiful,” then kento’s rosy cheek rests against the beat of your heart. settling your hands onto his broad shoulders, he breathes into your skin once more, “my angel.”

you think your fiancé is the romantic type. given, he’s always gone all-out— always given too much, always much more than he receives himself— it explains why his left hand reaches for yours on his back, pulling away and intertwining fingers as he settles them onto the side of your head. your right hand follows the same route.

where your heart thumps in your chest and where it was against his ear, kento lays a sign of affection there first— like a travel stamp onto your skin that says he’s been here before and that he’ll come back again. distinctive, and yet so familiar, you feel like home. “my dearest…”

he lays another, pulling away a hand for a moment to bring the tip of his finger now along the lace of your bralette, ghosting over its material and your skin— he’s observant. taking his time, he robs your patience when he digs and pulls and watches how easily you fall out of the fabric you were in— kento tempts you here next.

on your hardened bud, he kisses you once. it’s a phantom of a thing, the way he presses his mouth and teases with a sliver of his tongue; kento intends to give you more attention— tangible love, the next time around. but seeing your lips bitten, chest rising, cock being the one in control of his mind— he wishes to claim you here too. he kisses you once and consumes you second.

“goddess divine.” he speaks and it’s all you hear before he latches onto you again. it’s vulgar, the way his teeth kiss and bear down on your puffy nub, his tongue swirling over and around it first, then later coated by the drool accumulating in his mouth to soothe your wound. he sucks and sucks and sucks, despite your many efforts and attempts to call out his name— kento pulls an inch away from your chest and enjoys the sound of it pop.

he enjoys it too much. he knows he’s guilty of it.

nanami babbles words onto your body as if they’ll transcribe where he’s left them. and come daylight, he swears he sees imprints of his adoration dusted in gold from the night before, “you know i love you?”

“do you know how much i love you?”

there are few times where kento ever sounds firm. like now, as if the severity of his question and the conviction in your answer becomes a matter of life-or-death to him.

because if there’s a pause— a single doubt that plagues the back of your mind or a thought that rots in the core of your soul that he may not be loving you as you wished to be loved, kento wants to know now.

the night before your wedding, if he’s been doing it all wrong, if he’s been so clueless about love like he feels he’s always been— nanami kento wants to start loving you as you have dreamed of it as a child.

your lover: the over thinker, the worrywart, born anxious to the bone when it comes to love— it must’ve been passed on from his past lives (how else could anybody be so worrisome?!) is as perfect as he can be. whoever said a fairytale kind of love could not blossom in the reality of this world has clearly never met the two of you.

“it’s what you always tell me, baby.” you speak with the same gentleness as a blanket of snow.

the hand on your lace meets the satin of your bow, caressing its edges playfully, “and what’s that, gorgeous?”

if he’s correct, he knows what you’ll say. ghosting your words right as you say them, “more than i’ll ever know.”

in the matter of life-or-death, he wins. because there’s no point in it if he’s not beside you for the rest— it’s as much of a blessing as it is to be born to find you again.

“i do,” he says, “i love you more than you’ll ever know.”

all you can really do is laugh. cherish this moment like the million others he’s given you, “i do too.”

your left hand parts ways from it being beside your face to it being in front of his, “tomorrow.” you wiggle your ring finger, “we’re gonna have to say it again.”

he laughs too, love boner springing and fighting against his pijamas, flustered and growing weak to your everything, “i’ll say it as many times as you want me to.”

there’s another bow that catches his eye though, resting just above your navel and just as pretty as the one on your chest. just like a child, kento touches things he shouldn’t— dragging a finger down your sternum, down your belly and stopping right before the lace could truly meet him.

“i’ll do anything you ask me to,” he finds your eyes wide like you’ve got a secret to spill, “you just have to say it.”

he enjoys the process of fucking you. getting each other hot and bothered, leave the other yearning, making them work for it— it’s exhilarating.

“ken,” he likes the sound of you being earnest, “i want you to fuck me. however you want.” and he likes this secret of yours too.

“however i want?” there’s a mischievous sound in the way he lilts his words, “that’s what you came for, right?”

both his hands hold your hips, “dressed up like a doll,” placing a kiss where the bow is, “all pretty.” another on your clit— and if it weren’t for his grip, your hips would’ve bucked and reached for his face right then and there.

he is such a tease but it’s too cute to make him stop, “all for me,” softly spoken in the form of a statement (not a question to be answered, not when there is no doubt.) his future husband ego blooms. he kisses you lower, still separated by the thin fabric, still keeping you on edge.

nanami releases his hold and it gives you hope, tugging down the sides while being careful to not tear a single thread of your lace but in that process, kento salivates at the slick collecting near your hole, as if strung together with the fabric he’s tearing away.

“how long were you touching yourself in your room?” he returns to the stoic self he shares with the world, thumb brushing against your clit as it makes you wriggle.

“how do you know?” you find his face between your legs, hands pulling your inner thighs apart— he’s yearning.

“i know what i eat.”

so he gives you a taste, licking with pressure, a line from your cunt to your clit— spitting it all onto your swollen bud— kento sucks it back up as if he wouldn’t know how his own pussy behaves.

“are you gonna tell me?” the words pull you in from your dream, his vision flickering over and back to you.

“just a little bit,” your whine from earlier comes back, “i couldn’t cum knowing you were practically next door.”

“you didn’t want to finish without me?” the grin on his face is unlike any other, “you’re so sweet, baby.”

eagerly, kento picks up where he left off, watching the way your pleasure builds when his mouth is on you.

with his lips apart, he sucks you in. lapping up all the slick that he’s now responsible for, swirling his tongue over your clit with pleasure and promise. though, his leaky cock doesn’t get any easier to deal with hearing your moans and his name come about because of it.

“sooo sweet.” whispers tease your skin as kento hears your breaths pulled closer and closer together. “look at me, love.” the hand that pulled your thighs apart now find themselves inside your cunt.

two fingers are all you need. the way he curls them against your silkened walls, repeatedly grinding against the spot that gives you this itchy feeling down your legs, and the sounds he gets out of you— they’re more than just whines, moans, and whimpers. he takes them as your declarations of love. the confession of your need for him to be the one to do this every night— it’s contagious— this love. it makes him think your pussy is all he needs.

“ugh ken!” your hands clutch the sheets below, gasping at the way he makes a little fool out of you.

“what is it? do you want a taste, baby?”

the mattress bounces as kento moves closer, keeping at his ministrations diligently when you nod in response. “i know… open up.” he’s in a daze as he’s over your body. a glob of spit comes out of him and swallowed up by you.

“i’ve been so selfish,” leaning his forehead against your temple, tip of his nose nudging at your cheek, “not offering until now.”

then you turn to face him, your kento, who’s just looking at you like the most precious thing he’ll ever hold.

“forgive me?” he says, pecking at your lips, once and twice until your hand keeps him in place by the jaw. you nod with his tongue clashing against yours, trading forevers with one another.

“you’re forgiven.” pulling away, there’s a smile on your face, dazed out eyes that mean a quiet euphoria coming soon.

“no, not yet.” and whether he says that in response to you or because he knows you’re close, is something kept silent and known only between him and god.

with one more kiss to your lips, nanami settles back where he belongs: on his knees, in front of you, cunt dangerously close to his face.

his fingers run slack, slowing down before you reach your peak but he promises it’s for the better.

“nooo, ken-!” you jerk your hips in search of any stimulation, hands nudging at his wrists to keep going. but he thinks it’s kind of cute seeing you squirm like this.

“princess?” the two fingers inside you come to a complete stop, frozen in the perfect curl up against your walls, making for the perfect method of torture against you. “i know you have better manners than that.”

“i’m sorry- i’m sorry.” an agonizing drag occurs in attempts to trouble you as you speak, “please let me cum, baby. i need it really bad.”

“yeah?” nanami tilts his head like a curious puppy, only his eyes lust-filled like a fallen angel, “how bad? enough to wake the neighbors?” the way he speaks these things so nonchalantly, you believe he’s made for the part to dominate you.

it’s hot. but you won’t let him know that yet.

“you’re being so mean.”

“does my girl not like it when i’m mean?”

with a puff, you use the voice that gets to him the most, if puppy-eyes became a tone of voice, “no. i don’t like it.”

“then why’d you squeeze around my fingers when i said it, my love?” the perfect curl zaps you with heat, with desire, as they begin their treading motions at an alarming pace.

kento’s always been so gentle as if not to break you. his lover made of glass, his girl of gold, he begins to rattle you in every way he can. “are you lying?” sloshing noises resound when his fingers stretch open your sweet cunt. “i don’t like liars, baby.”

he feels your slick thicken and gather around his knuckles, enjoying your fucked-out state too much to even care, “you get wetter when i am.”

your knees buck and rest by his wrist, nudging hands that were earlier begging for more are now asking for a moment to breathe— “you can be honest. say you like it.”

“say you like the way i fuck you, gorgeous.”

it’s mind-numbing, how this is really your kento. your lovesick boy who’d throw everything away to escape with you. the difference in character out and behind closed doors— you hadn’t expected it or else you would’ve put a ring on it sooner.

he doesn’t know what you’re thinking about to have you start squeezing around him continuously. and if you ever told him why, that you wish you could’ve fucked like this, cum like this, you think he’d go wild. “na’mi, i loooove it.”

“i love the way you fuck me,” a buzzing sensation reverberates in your ears, “i love the way you do it.”

more slick falls onto the sheets below, “your fingers feel so fucking good when they’re inside me.” they stiffen and melt against you as he hears your confessions.

“your mouth too— you love eating pussy, don’t you, sweetheart? always so fuckin’ consuming, you want more—” the slur in your words tell him he’s working you up, babbling everything he wants to hear. his baby’s been taught well. you deserve it all now.

it’s like in an instant, you are given the whole world. a man who will kneel over and suck on your clit when times are rough! and even when times are beautiful, he gives you more beautiful things to adore.

he’s beautiful when he looks over at you with hooded eyes, lapping up every bit of slick that’s come out of you. fingers rushing to match the pace he’s set with his tongue— spitting, sucking, swirling, repeat.

it itches something in him too— it’s just as you said. being consumed in the pleasure of giving it— it’s true.

so when you cum, very possibly waking the neighbors with that shock wave, he finds himself to be in a little pain. boxers no longer resisting his length though there was no stimulation to show for it.

he didn’t expect for you to enjoy it this much— his (newly found!) commanding nature— and he didn’t expect himself to cum from it either.

when you shake and tremble and that heat starts running up your back and behind your ears, his body tilts over from kneeling by your knees to resting his head on your tummy— bothered and also not, with it being annoyingly sticky in his pants.

you hold him, dragging fingernails across his scalp gently, he’s resting his eyes as they say.

he hears you giggle though, and it makes him pounce.

“that was new.” that’s only half of your truth, he feels it.

he hums, “mmhm.” snuggling back into the pillow of you.

“that was goood.” the whole truth— but really now, he thinks you’ve gone and infected yourself with the sillies. even if he can’t see you, he hears the cheeky grin on your pretty face— as pure as always.

“yeah?” his eyes flutter open for whatever reason, finding the table how you two left it— hour-old leftovers and paint samples of all shades because there is nothing more perfect in the world than that.

“yeah.” your voice grows quieter, yet equally as happy. the fatigue is getting to you now, he thinks.

one more thing is on your mind though, “same time tomorrow?”

he snorts. again. two times more than he’s ever and will ever snort in front of anyone else, “a lot more tomorrow.”

oh, your perfect day, “lucky me!”

྄🎀ུ @tetsumyheart, here’s that nanami piece we talked about the other day <3 completely rewritten ( i’m so sorry ) but at the very least, i hope you enjoy this long, looong mess of emotions. i’ve gone absolutely delirious about him ?!

lovely tags for my hearts of gold, @yuujilove · @bizarrebankai · @pretty-toru · @getosbunny · @satoruhour · @mrs-kurooo · @strawberrystepmom · @pawfaite · i love you all so very !!!

now, the real question is: what song would you play for the first dance on your wedding night with kento? i was listening to, last night on earth by green day while writing this and thought. yeah, this matches the emo tendencies he had as a teen <3 but tell me, wby !! ୨୧ you can also tell me your favorite part, i’d love to know about that too! ; )