Reblog This Picture Of Me Holding A Family Size Box Of Honey Nut Cheerios? I’d Really Appreciate It.

If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

---

i actually dont mind tumblr posts reposted to pinterest. the 13 y/o "pinterest in the only social media my parents let me have" girlies deserve a little treat

A COOKBOOK OF QUIET DEVOTIONS | N.K.

SUMMARY: a shared apartment. a quiet kitchen. an overworked man who never asks for anything. and someone who cooks, because love needs somewhere to go.

PAIRING: nanami kento x fem!reader CONTAINS: fluff and comfort, romance, slow-burn, roommates to lovers au, alcohol consumption, honestly just nanami being a gentleman (and a little bit emotionally constipated) NOW PLAYING: infatuated by rangga jones WC: 16.0k WARNINGS: none!

Your apartment always feels like it’s holding its breath.

Not in fear, but in careful, hopeful anticipation–like a heart paused mid-beat, waiting softly for something to change. It’s quiet most nights, filled only with the gentle humming of an old refrigerator, the distant murmur of traffic from the main road two blocks down, and the sound of rain, if the weather is terrible, tapping on the windows, as if politely asking to come in.

You share a third-floor walk-up with Nanami Kento, tucked between a bakery that opens too early and a bookstore that rarely closes. The floors creak with age and memory, the walls are too thin to keep secrets, and the kitchen smells faintly of green onions no matter how often you scrub the stovetop. It’s not perfect, not large, but it holds two lives in parallel–yours and his–carefully balanced like plates in a drying rack. Close, but never quite touching.

You’ve been living together for a while now, a slow accumulation of days into months, forming a routine built more on silent understanding than explicit arrangement. It wasn’t intended to be permanent, this sharing of spaces and bills and quiet evenings–but now, it’s become the only thing you know how to want. The mundane intimacy of shared dish soap, a favorite mug left rinsed and upside down, the way he folds the blanket on the couch after falling asleep under it–all of it lingers.

Nanami Kento is not a loud man. He moves through life with a purpose, his expressions subtle, muted–a quiet storm behind eyes often shadowed by exhaustion. He rises early, showers briskly, ties his tie with measured precision, and slips quietly into the morning fog to become a salaryman whose days blur into overtime evenings. When he returns, often long after twilight has faded into midnight, he carries the weight of the day like a physical burden, one you can see settled squarely between his shoulders, bending him slightly forward, just enough to ache.

He doesn’t talk about his work. You never ask. The rhythm of your cohabitation has become a kind of silent choreography: you cook, he eats. You clean one week, he cleans the other. He brews coffee in the morning, you leave a slice of fruit beside it. He brings home the occasional bakery bag, leaves it on the counter for you to find. Everything is quiet. Everything is delicate.

You never speak about how your heart clenches each time you hear the soft click of the front door, the quiet exhale of a tired breath, the rustling of his jacket being hung by the door. Instead, you’ve learned to say it differently: in the careful adjustments to his shoes lined neatly beside yours; in the way you set out fresh towels for him before dawn; in the subtle shifting of your schedule so you can be awake, somehow, when he comes home. Sometimes you pretend to still be up reading. Sometimes you are.

He eats whatever you cook without complaint, sometimes with low murmurs of appreciation, sometimes with nothing but the scrape of his chopsticks against the bottom of the bowl. He’s not ungrateful. Just quiet. As if he’s still trying to remember how to speak for pleasure instead of obligation.

You often wonder if he even notices these small gestures of yours, these invisible love letters you write without pen or paper. But he is Kento–practical, reserved, gentle in ways that aren’t always visible. And you’re you, someone who’s learned to express love quietly, in ways that don’t always need recognition, only presence. It’s enough, you tell yourself, most nights.

But not always.

Lately, there’s something restless inside of you. A longing you can’t name that simmers below the surface when he brushes past you in the hallway or lingers at the dinner table longer than usual. You find yourself spending more time in the kitchen, choosing ingredients more deliberately, plating things with intention. As if the setting of sauteed scallions might say what you cannot. As if the heat of broth might carry your meaning than your voice ever could.

And so, tonight, as you walk home beneath the gentle sigh of autumn rain, your umbrella dripping, your hands chilled but steady, you decide to try.

Not with words, perhaps, not yet. But with something warmer, softer, richer–something that tastes unmistakably like care. Like yearning. Like a question waiting to be answered.

RICE PORRIDGE WITH PICKLED PLUM AND WHITE PEPPER (let me carry the weight tonight)

The apartment is oddly still when you step inside. Not empty–but still, like it’s biding its time, the hush of late night wrapped around the walls like a blanket. The sound of your key sliding into the lock is quiet, reverent. You toe off your shoes with slow movements, as though even the floorboards might be sleeping. The air smells faintly of worn paper and wool–something like him. Like rain that hasn’t quite touched the skin.

You set your bag down gently by the door and listen, making your way into the living room.

The television is off. The overhead lights are dark. The only illumination comes from the pale glow of his laptop screen, still open on the coffee table. It casts a bluish shimmer across the hardwood floor and the low line of the sofa.

And he’s there, just where you suspected. 

Kento, asleep in the unkind angles of a couch never meant for comfort. His back is curled slightly, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other still draped loosely over a thin stack of documents. His glasses have slipped down his nose. The buttons of his shirt are undone at the collar, his tie tossed carelessly to one side like a flag lowered at half-mast. There’s an exhaustion in him that never seems to sleep, but now–he looks less like a man at war with the clock and more like a boy who forgot how to rest.

The sight squeezes something soft in your chest.

You don’t move toward him. Not yet. There’s an intimacy to watching someone sleep–one you haven’t quite earned the right to claim. Instead, you stand there for a while, quiet as breath, letting your eyes trace the slight twitch of his fingertips against the paper, the slow rise and fall of his chest. You memorize it like scripture.

The silence clicks in your chest like a metronome. You don’t speak. You don’t touch him. You slip into the kitchen without a word.

The hour is late–later than it should be for anyone to be awake, let alone making a meal. But this isn’t about necessity. This is something else entirely. The act itself is a kind of offering, one you don’t have the language to name. You move through the narrow kitchen space on instinct, bare feet whispering against the linoleum. The light above the stove hums softly to life when you flick it on, casting a halo around the counter. You like to imagine it’s your own little sanctuary.

The fridge creaks open, then closes with a muted hush. You rinse the rice in cold water, watching the cloudy starch bloom like breath on glass. The silence around you stretches wide, punctuated only by the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant shiver of rain against the windowpane.

You fill the pot. Set it to boil.

The okayu doesn’t ask much of you–just patience. You stir slowly, spoon scraping gently along the bottom of the pot in a quiet rhythm. You add white pepper. A hint of ginger. You let the rice soften, melt. Let it become something warm and nourishing, something forgiving. It’s a dish meant for the sick, the weary, the lost. You’ve made it before, but never quite like this.

Tonight, you press your heart into it.

You half a pickled plum and place it gently in the center of the bowl when it’s done, like a seal on a letter never written. Something delicate and red, bright against the pale backdrop of the porridge. You stir a little more white pepper into the surface, just the way he prefers–not too strong, just enough for heat to linger on the tongue.

You don’t garnish. You don’t attempt to go above and beyond with the plating. There’s something sacred about this kind of simplicity. A quiet declaration.

You reach for a post-it and the pen you keep in the drawer–you keep these in the kitchen in case you get inspiration for a new recipe. The words come out small.

Eat this when you wake up. You don’t have to do everything.

You place the bowl on the coffee table, just beside his sleeping elbow, and cover it with a small plate to keep it warm. You don’t touch him. You don’t wake him. You just stand there, for a moment. Let your eyes drink in the sight of him–creased shirt, worn lines beneath his eyes, fingers still curled around the life he never seems able to put down.

He looks impossibly breakable. But more than that, he looks lonely.

You wonder what it would feel like to lay a hand on his shoulder, just once. To brush a knuckle down the curve of his cheek and whisper, You don’t have to do this alone. But your love lives in quieter places.

So instead, you turn off the light and let the moon spill silver through the curtains. You leave the bowl behind, steaming softly in the dark, and walk back to your own room with the scent of ginger clinging to your sleeves and a thousand unspoken things tucked beneath your ribs.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. It never does when your heart is too full.

By morning, the bowl is gone. Washed. Dried. Put back in its place. The plate too.

The post-it is missing. You don’t ask. He doesn’t mention it.

But when you come into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you find him already dressed for work–tie straight, shirt crisp, his mug of coffee half-empty. He doesn’t look at you right away, but you notice that the tension in his shoulders has eased. He rolls them once as he stirs in his sugar, then glances your way–just a flick of his eyes. Just for a moment.

But in that glance, there is something. Not gratitude, not quite. Not love, either. But recognition. Something softened.

You hold onto that look all day like warmth cupped in two hands. You don’t need more. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

SCALLION PANCAKES AND SOY SAUCE WITH GARLIC (you still make me laugh)

There’s a different kind of silence in the apartment tonight. Not the soft, comforting kind that folds around two people sharing space in tired harmony–but something sharper, hollower. A silence with too many corners. It buzzes faintly around the edges, like a lightbulb that’s been left on too long.

Kento is home, though you only know that from the sound of the front door closing half an hour ago, followed by the soft rustle of his coat being hung by the entrance. He didn’t say anything when he came in. Not even the customary hum of acknowledgement. Just the steady rhythm of his steps, a brief pause in the kitchen for water, and then the low creak of the couch under his weight.

You glance over from your place at the small dining table. He’s sitting there now, laptop open again, glasses perched low on his nose, brows drawn together like storm clouds that have forgotten how to pass. His hand moves the mouse absently. He scrolls, clicks, scrolls again. Every so often he exhales through his nose–quiet, sharp, almost irritated, but mostly just tired.

You realize you haven’t seen him laugh in weeks. Not that he ever laughed easily. Kento’s smiles were rare, but not impossible. You’ve seen them before–in the corners of his mouth over morning coffee, in the tilt of his shoulders when he finds something mildly amusing. You’ve even seen him chuckle once, low and startled, when you dropped an entire bag of rice and tried to pretend it was performance art.

But lately, even those have vanished. Worn thin by the hours, the weight, the silence he keeps dragging home.

You don’t ask what’s wrong. That’s never been your role in this quaint little world you share. No, instead, you rise from your seat, move into the kitchen, and begin pulling ingredients from the fridge like you’re collecting pieces of something long forgotten.

Scallions. Flour. Oil.

It’s not a fancy dish. It’s not meant to impress. It’s one of those things that carries the memory of laughter inside its layers–crispy and chewy, crackling and golden, green onions seared into soft pockets of dough like secret messages. Something you grew up with. Something you remember eating on slow weekends with grease-stained napkins and fingers you weren’t supposed to lick.

The dough is warm under your palms, pliant. You roll it flat, sprinkle chopped scallions across the surface like confetti, then roll it again and flatten it back into circles, round and imperfect. The pan sizzles to life under your hand. Oil blooms in little golden pools. You press each pancake down gently, letting the heat coax its shape into crispiness.

The smell creeps through the apartment slowly.

You see him glance up from his screen, barely perceptible, then look back down. His shoulders are still tense, but one knee bounces slightly, tapping against the coffee table. You pretend not to notice.

While the pancakes cool just enough to touch, you make the dipping sauce: soy, garlic, sesame oil, a dash of rice vinegar. Stirred together with care. You drizzle a little over one slice, tuck the rest into a shallow dish beside it.

You plate it all on a small tray–no ceremony, just softness. The kind that says, I noticed you’re hurting, and I can’t fix it, but I can make this. You walk it over, setting it gently on the table beside his laptop. He blinks, then lifts his eyes to yours, slow and slightly startled.

You don’t say anything. Just smile. Not a big one. Just enough to say: I’m still here.

He studies the plate for a moment, then closes the lid of his laptop with a small sigh. The air feels less brittle as he sets it aside.

He takes a bite without much fanfare. The crunch echoes softly in the room. Then he pauses.

His eyes flick toward you again, this time longer. He chews slowly, swallows. You watch his expression shift–just a little. Something about the way his jaw eases. The way his brows smooth. His next bite is quicker. He doesn’t dip it into the sauce this time, just eats it straight, like the memory of the flavor is already stitched into him.

“I haven’t had this since college,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse from disuse.

You don’t respond right away. There’s something delicate in this moment–fragile, like lace, easily torn. You let it settle in the quiet. Then, you purse your lips and say, “It’s not perfect.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just finishes another piece, the grease glossing his fingertips, the corners of his mouth lifting just barely–more like a memory of a smile than the real thing. But it’s enough. It’s something.

He eats everything you’ve given him. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t leave crumbs.

When he finishes, he wipes his hands on a napkin with uncharacteristic slowness, then leans back into the couch. You catch him glancing toward the empty plate once, like he’s surprised it’s gone. Like he wasn’t expecting to enjoy it.

You leave the plate where it is. Go back to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water you don’t drink.

From the corner of your eye, you see him push the laptop farther away. He sits back, exhales, closes his eyes–not in exhaustion, but in something quieter. Not peace, perhaps, but something very near to it.

You don’t need him to laugh. Not really. Just this–this moment where something inside him loosened. Where the weight shifted.

You clean up the oil. Wash the pan. Fold the towel beside the sink with care. It smells like scallions and sesame and a little bit like him somehow, and you find yourself holding it for a second too long before setting it aside.

When you pass behind the couch on your way to your room, you pause. Not for long. Just long enough for him to crack one eye open and say, so softly you almost miss it, “Thank you.”

It’s the first time he’s thanked you for a meal outright.

You carry the sound of it to bed like a treasure. Like the start of something you’re not ready to name–but already know the flavor of it by heart.

SILKEN TOMATO SOUP WITH BASIL AND TOASTED CHEESE SANDWICHES (you don’t have to be alone to be strong)

The rain has come again, steady and mellow, brushing against the windowpanes like fingers drumming a lullaby. The world outside is a blur of deep gray and softened light, and inside, your apartment folds itself smaller, cozier, like it’s trying to offer shelter from something that can’t be seen but can still be felt.

Kento comes home earlier than usual.

Not early by most standards–it’s still past ten–but for him, it’s a rare kindness. You hear the familiar cadence of his footsteps up the stairs, the brief pause before he keys the lock, the small, exhausted breath as he slips inside. His umbrella is slick with rainwater, his coat shoulders damp, a faint halo of wetness darkening the beige fabric. He peels it off with care and drapes it over the hook near the door, then pauses.

You’re already in the kitchen. He doesn’t call out. He never does. His presence enters the space before he does, a quiet gravity that shifts the air.

You stir the soup again, letting the scent of tomatoes and basil warm the room. You made it creamy this time, letting the olive oil blend with soft-roasted garlic and sweet shallots before folding in the crushed San Marzano tomatoes. You stirred in cream slowly, like folding in pardon. It’s smooth now, red as memory, glossy and rich. A little sweet, a little tangy. A comfort food you only ever make when the world feels too sharp.

You don’t turn around when he walks past the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. You just keep stirring.

When he reemerges fifteen minutes later, he’s barefoot and in a soft navy t-shirt you’ve seen before, one of the few things he wears that actually looks comfortable. His hair is damp from a quick shower. He moves more quietly than usual–not like he’s avoiding you, but like he’s trying not to break something in the air between you.

You ladle the soup into two wide bowls. Steam curls upward in gentle spirals. On the side, you’ve already plated two grilled cheese sandwiches, sliced diagonally, the crusts just browned, the cheddar melting slightly at the corners. The scent of butter and toasting bread lingers in the air like nostalgia.

He pauses when he sees it.

“This looks,” he says, and then stops. Blinks once. “Like home.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Not immediately. “It reminds me of rainy days in my grandmother’s kitchen,” he says. “She always insisted soup tasted better when it was made while listening to the rain.”

You don’t smile, but something in your chest melts. “I didn’t know that,” you say.

He hums. “I didn’t think I remembered it until now.”

You place the bowls down on the table. Slide one toward him.

He sits across from you, fingers curling around the spoon in his usual precise way. He stirs the soup once, then tastes it. He doesn’t speak for a while. Just eats.

And you eat too, spoon by spoon, pausing every now and then to wipe your mouth, to breathe, to steal small glances over the rim of your bowl. His eyes are tired, yes, but less tight. His mouth is set in a line, but not a hard one.

Halfway through the bowl, he speaks again.

“This is different from the food you usually make.”

You pause, spoon mid-air. “Bad different?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, just–softer.”

You tilt your head. “I wanted something gentle.”

He nods. Looks down into his soup again.

“Did something happen today?” you ask, not pushing. Just asking.

He hesitates, then sets his spoon down with a quiet clink. His hands fold in front of him. His shoulders shift like he’s trying to figure out how to carry something invisible.

“Nothing unusual,” he says, but his voice is quieter than before. “Just… a long day.”

You nod. That’s enough. You don’t need the details.

“You’re allowed to have those,” you say. “The long ones.”

He looks up at that. His eyes meet yours, and for once, they don’t look away.

“I know,” he murmurs, and after a moment, “You’re always here when I come home.”

You take a bite of your sandwich. It’s warm against your lips, the cheese stretching just enough to remind you of childhood. You chew, swallow, then say, “Of course I am.”

He stares at you.

There’s something about the way he holds your gaze this time. Not searching. Not confused. Just watching. Like he’s looking for something he’s already found but doesn’t know how to name.

The rain outside deepens, drumming lightly against the glass. You shift in your seat. The warmth from the soup is settling into your bones now, melting something slow and aching beneath your ribs.

“You don’t always have to hold everything on your own,” you say, voice soft. “You don’t have to always be the strong one.”

He doesn’t answer, but he finishes his soup.

When he stands to clear the dishes, he does it gently. He takes your bowl, too. You watch his hands as he rinses them in the sink–steady, clean, precise. There’s a reverence to the way he sets them on the drying rack. Like he knows they hold something fragile.

You’re still at the table when he comes back, drying his hands on a cloth. He hesitates for a moment, then leans against the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know how to say thank you in the way this deserves.”

You meet his eyes. “You don’t have to.”

His breath hitches like he’s about to speak again, but instead, he nods once, slow. Thoughtful.

You rise from your chair. Walk to the sink. Wash your hands and your cup. It’s all easy, familiar choreography now–the quiet ritual of two people in a space too full of unspoken things to ever really be quiet.

When you brush past him on the way out, your fingers accidentally graze his.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t say anything.

The brief brush of your fingers is nothing. A whisper. A passing thread. But the contact hums in your skin long after it’s gone. You don’t look at him. You keep walking–slow, steady–to the hallway, to the soft hum of your room, but your heart beats too loudly in your ears, muffling the rain and the quiet and everything else.

Behind you, he doesn’t follow. You hear his breath shift. Not a sigh. Not quite. It’s more private, like the sound one makes when they are standing at the edge of something they’ve never dared to name.

You stop just past the frame of your door, letting your palm rest on the wood. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Maybe you don’t want the moment to end. Maybe part of you wants to turn back, just to see if he’s still watching. You don’t. You let the air between you cool slowly, the way soup does when no one touches it–full of everything it was meant to give, still warm even when it goes still.

Later, after you’ve slipped into your pajamas and lit the small bedside lamp, you hear him moving. Muted, cautious footsteps. The clink of glass, the brush of the kitchen towel against the counter. The lights shut off one by one. The door to his room creaks open, then closed again.

It’s silent after that. Not empty. Not cold. Just… filled. Saturated with something delicate. Like the air has been steeped in understanding, even if no one has said the words.

You settle beneath your covers, and the scent of roasted tomatoes still lingers faintly in your skin. Your fingers curl under the pillow, and you close your eyes with the smallest smile–one no one will see but you.

There was no leftover food tonight. Only the memory of him, eating beside you like he belonged there. Like coming home meant something. Like your presence was a given and not a grace.

It’s not love yet. Not quite. But it’s something. And it’s beginning.

CURRY UDON WITH SOFT-BOILED EGG (let me be the soft place you land)

There are kinds of hunger that have nothing to do with food.

You know them well by now. The ache in the chest when he closes his bedroom door without a word. The subtle hunch of his shoulders when he steps out of his shoes like he’s trying to fold himself small enough not to spill over the edges. The way his voice, when he does speak, sometimes stirs nothing more than air–thin, careful, restrained like a flame trimmed too low.

You watch him from the kitchen, half-shadowed by the cabinets and the low glow of the stove light. It’s late again. But not as late as it could be. The city still hums faintly outside the window, lights flickering in quiet syncopation. Your shared apartment smells like heat and starch and warmth, and your hands are moving on muscle memory now–mincing garlic, slicing scallions, pressing the heel of your palm into the dough of your patience.

You’re making curry udon tonight.

Something thicker. Something that sticks to the ribs, heavy and steady and full of flavor you don’t have to search for. A meal that doesn’t whisper but wraps itself around the bones and holds. You start by blooming the spices in oil–curry powder, grated ginger, the quick hiss of garlic hitting the pan. You let them open slowly, like trust. Then come the onions, caramelizing until soft and golden, like they’ve remembered a sweet memory. The broth follows, poured in carefully, steadily. You stir it all together and watch the steam rise in swirls that look like thoughts you haven’t spoken yet.

A dish like this has a certain honesty about it. Nothing special. No performance. Just deep heat and soft noodles, the kind of food that says, I know the world outside is cold. Come in anyway.

The soft-boiled egg is the final touch–nestled on top, trembling slightly, yolk the color of late afternoon sun. You add scallions, a dash of shichimi. You don’t think too hard about it–actually, you do. You always do.

When Kento walks in, his sleeves are already rolled up, his tie nowhere in sight. His eyes are tired, but not faraway. He’s more grounded tonight, you think–like he didn’t let the day devour him whole this time.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, stopping just short of the table.

“It’s a bit spicy,” you say. “But it’s warm.”

He sits down without prompting. That’s new. You place the bowl in front of him, careful not to let the broth spill over the lip. When you hand him chopsticks, your fingers brush again. This time, neither of you pulls away.

He looks down at the dish. Studies it for a moment, brows faintly raised.

“Is the egg supposed to look like that?” he asks.

You tilt your head, leaning closer to look. “Like what?”

“Like it’s trying to hold itself together but might fall apart if you breathe too close.”

You blink. He blinks back.

Then–just barely–he smiles.

“I guess that’s the point,” he says, quieter now. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Not right away. Your chest, however, warms in a way that has nothing to do with the stove.

You sit across from him and take your own bowl in your hands. The broth is fragrant, the steam curling up against your cheeks like something affectionate. You slurp the noodles, let the spice but your tongue just enough to remind you that you’re still here. Still feeling. Still waiting, in your own way, for something to change.

Across from you, Kento is eating slowly, deliberately. You watch him break the egg, the yolk blooming into the broth, golden and rich, the kind of thing you have to chase with your spoon before it disappears.

“This reminds me of something,” he says between bites, voice low. “A place I used to go during exam season in university. They served this with green tea and never judged if you ordered seconds.”

“Did you?”

He nods. “Every time. Finals made me hungrier than I thought possible.”

You smile, amused. “Were you the kind of student who studied until you passed out?”

“No,” he says. “I studied until I could forget everything else.”

The words are simple, yet they land heavy.

You don’t pry. You never do. Something in your chest folds softly anyways, like dough resting after being worked too hard.

He sets his chopsticks down and takes a sip of water. His fingers are slightly red from the heat of the bowl. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“I like when you cook things like this,” he says eventually. “It’s grounding.”

You glance up from your noodles. “Grounding?”

“Like I’m being told I can stop running. Just for a while.”

Your throat tightens. You look back down at your bowl and pretend to stir the noodles, even though they’ve already loosened, already taken in everything they can.

You wonder if this is what love feels like in a place like this–not fireworks, not declarations, but two bowls of curry udon shared under a single kitchen light, and a man telling you, in his own way, that he trusts you enough to stop pretending he’s not tired.

The silence between you now isn’t empty. It’s warm, filled with the clink of ceramic and the occasional sound of breath. The kind of quiet that comes after something has been understood, not explained.

You finish eating. He does too.

When he stands, he takes both bowls again. Washes them without being asked. He hums under his breath while he rinses the pot–a low, thoughtful sound, like the kind someone makes when the storm in their chest has calmed just enough to notice the raindrops on the windows.

You go to wipe your hands with the towel by the sink, and when you reach for the dishcloth, he hands it to you before you can ask.

Your fingers touch. He doesn’t flinch. You don’t let go right away. And he doesn’t make you.

CHICKEN KATSU CURRY WITH APPLE-HONEY ROUX (you deserve something that tastes like care)

There are some meals you don’t rush.

You start this one before he gets home, long before. You’re slicing onions in your softest shirt, humming beneath your breath, the sleeves pushed up your arms as the pan hisses and steams. You’ve peeled and grated the apples already–one sweet, one tart–and set them beside a small cup of honey, waiting like punctuation at the end of a sentence you haven’t yet spoken aloud.

You let the onions brown until they give in completely, until they become silk, then add the curry paste, coaxing the color darker, richer. It’s not from a box tonight. You made it from scratch. Stirred it gently. Layered it like a confession. A little cinnamon. A little clove. The apples melt when you add them. The honey follows, slow, like a final promise.

It simmers. You let it.

Outside, the streetlights flicker on, and the sky turns the color of cooled tea. The apartment smells like warmth. Like spice and sugar and something waiting to be named.

You fry the katsu last.

The oil crackles, sharp and alive, but you don’t flinch. You know how to handle this heat now. You bread the cutlets with care, dredging them through flour, egg, then panko, listening to the sizzle as they slip into the pan. The golden crispness blooms almost instantly, and you watch it, thinking, This is what it means to want someone gently. To give them something beautiful without needing to be seen.

He comes home just as you’re plating–quiet steps, a faint sigh at the door. You hear the rustle of his jacket, the thunk of his shoes being set side by side. He doesn’t speak right away, but he lingers in the doorway longer than usual.

“You made curry,” he says, soft.

You glance up. “The real kind.”

His eyes scan the kitchen–the golden crust of the chicken, the sheen of the roux, the way you’ve fanned the rice just slightly with the back of a spoon.

He smiles. Just a little. “Special occasion?”

You shrug. “You made it to Friday. I’d call that a miracle.”

He chuckles, low and brief, and moves to wash his hands.

The table is set when he sits down. You’ve even added two bowls of amazake, sweating gently against the wood. He notices. Nods once. No thank you. You see it in the way his posture melts.

He takes the first bite slowly, as he always does. Fork and knife this time–ever precise, ever restrained. The moment the curry hits his tongue, however, he pauses.

You don’t look up. You want him to speak first.

“This is…” he says, then stops. Swallows. “You made the sauce from scratch.”

“Is it too sweet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just unexpected.”

You glance up then. “Good unexpected?”

His mouth quirks at the edge, not quite a smile, but close enough to one. “Yes.”

You eat together like you’ve done a hundred times before. The difference tonight is in the tempo–how he speaks more, how you lean in with your elbow on the table, how the lamplight glows just a bit warmer than usual.

“This was my favorite thing as a kid,” you tell him, breaking the quiet. “Not because it was fancy. Just because my mom only made it when she wasn’t too tired to cook. It meant she had energy left. It meant she thought we were worth that.”

He looks at you, carefully. “She sounds like someone who loved with her hands.”

“She was,” you say. “I think I inherited that part.”

His eyes dip to your plate. Then rise to your mouth–your lips. Then flick away, polite, always polite. But you see it. The way his fingers still on the fork. The way his breathing shifts, barely. The way something he’s been holding back curls against the inside of his ribs and stays there, warm and unspoken.

You set your utensil down. “Kento,” you say, and your voice is softer now. Not bold, but close.

His eyes lift immediately.

“You don’t have to be grateful.”

He blinks.

“For the food,” you add. “For any of it.”

“I know,” he says, after a moment.

“I’m not doing it to get anything back.”

He studies you. Long enough that you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

“I know,” he says again. “But I think I want to.”

You tilt your head, brows furrowed.

“Reciprocate,” he says, and this time his voice is clearer. “Even if I don’t know how.”

You smile. Not teasing. Not pitying. Just soft.

“Start with finishing your curry,” you say.

And he does. He eats every last bite, even sops a little sauce from the edge of the plate with a spoon, something he’s never done in front of you before. He’s unguarded now. Like heat rising from the inside out. Like the way spice lingers even after the dish is long gone.

When the meal is done, you stand to clear the plates, but he stops you.

“I’ll do it,” he says, and you let him.

You sit at the table and sip the rest of your amazake while he rinses the dishes, sleeves rolled, the soft skin of his forearms exposed beneath lamplight. His hands move slower than usual. Not mechanical. Present.

When he turns off the tap and turns back toward you, he leans against the sink and says nothing. The look in his eyes is different now, you notice. Less guarded. Less distant. Like he’s wondering what it would feel like to say more. To reach across the table next time. To taste the next thing not for flavor, but for what it might mean.

“I liked this one,” he says, finally.

You hum. “What did it taste like?”

He’s quiet. Then, “Like someone decided I was worth the effort.”

Your heart stutters. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You don’t look away. And this time, neither does he.

SOY-MARINATED SOFT-BOILED EGGS OVER RICE (i think about you even when i don’t see you)

The light on Saturday mornings is different.

It doesn’t creep–it lingers, patient and golden, curling into the corners of the apartment like it belongs here. You’ve slept in. Not much, but enough that the world feels a little slower, a little softer around the edges. The air is cool. The silence is kind.

You tie your hair up with a loose hand and pad into the kitchen in socks and the soft sweatshirt you forgot you were still wearing. There’s no urgency today. No schedules to brace against. The world is quiet, and so are you.

You start the water boiling, reaching for the eggs with still-sleepy hands. They rest cool against your palm–whole, uncracked, waiting. You lower them gently into the pot, six minutes on the timer. Just long enough for the whites to hold, the yolks to tremble. You’ve made this dish a dozen times before, but today, everything feels a little different.

You think about how he looked at you last night. Not startled. Not confused. Just open.

You think about how his voice sounded when he said he wanted to give something back.

You think about the pause before he let himself say it.

The soy sauce mixture is already made–light and dark shoyu, mirin, a little sugar, the scent sharp and umami-rich. You pour it into the jar and leave the lid off for now. When the eggs are done, you cool them in an ice bath, fingers numb with the cold as you peel the shells away in slow spirals, careful not to tear the softness beneath.

You’re plating rice when he walks in. You don’t hear the door. Just feel him. Like gravity, like a shift in temperature. A presence that folds into the room like it always meant to be there.

His voice is still rough from sleep. “You’re up early.”

You smile without turning. “It’s nearly ten.”

“That’s early for a weekend.”

You hear the sound of his steps, the way he hesitates near the counter. Then, softly, “Do you want help?”

You glance at him.

Kento in a t-shirt and lounge pants is a rarer sight than a solar eclipse. His hair is damp from a shower, pushed back in a way that softens his whole face. He looks peaceful. Or at least trying to be.

“You can plate the rice,” you offer.

He steps closer, and for the first time, you watch him move through the kitchen not as a guest, but like it’s part of him. He finds the rice scoop, opens the container, moves with confidence. Not perfect, not effortless–but sincere.

You halve the eggs carefully, the yolks holding in just barely, golden centers that shiver when touched. He sets the bowls beside you and you place the eggs gently on top, two per bowl. You drizzle the soy marinade over everything. It sinks into the rice slowly, disappearing like breath into snow.

“Looks good,” he says, and you can hear the warmth in his voice.

You both sit at the table, elbows near, bowls steaming between you.

The first bite is silence.

“This tastes like something you think about before you fall asleep,” he says, breaking the thread of hush.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

He’s looking into his bowl, chopsticks paused mid-air. “I mean.” He clears his throat. “It tastes like comfort. But not just that. Intention. Like you planned it.”

“I did,” you reply. “Last night.”

He looks up.

“I woke up wanting you to have something easy,” you continue. “Something that didn’t ask anything of you.”

He’s quiet again, though it isn’t the same kind of quiet he used to carry. This one feels heavy with thought. Like his mouth is full of things he hasn’t yet translated into words.

You don’t press. You just eat beside him, the way you always have, letting the flavors say what you’re not ready to.

The marinade soaks into the rice, salt and sweet, familiar and soft. You wonder, for a moment, if you’ve made yourself too visible. If he can taste your heart tucked into the yolk, bright and fragile. If he’ll pretend not to notice.

Instead, he sets down his bowl and leans back in his chair.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says, and your breath stills.

You glance at him, heart pounding, unsure. “Since when?”

“A while.” He runs a hand through his golden hair. “I didn’t realize how often until you weren’t in the kitchen when I got home last week.”

You remember that day. You were late. You’d left something cold in the fridge with a note that morning.

“I missed hearing you moving around,” he says, quieter now. More introspective. “The sounds. The smells. The light under the door.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t know I’d grown used to it. How much I looked forward to it.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to say. So you eat another bite.

It tastes like morning sun and secrets. Like the first breath after holding it too long. You meet his eyes over your bowl.

“Then I won’t stop.”

“I’m glad,” he says.

He finishes the last of the rice. Picks up a small piece of egg with his chopsticks and looks at it for a moment before eating it. When it’s gone, he sets his chopsticks down and says, “This tastes like being seen.”

You nod. It’s all you need to say.

HOTPOT FOR TWO (WITH NAPA CABBAGE, FISH BALLS AND GLASS NOODLES) (please let me stay)

There is something sacred about preparation.

You’ve always felt it. The peeling, the slicing, the lining up of ingredients in tidy bowls like offerings. The way broth is coaxed into being–not made, but invited. This is not just food, not just dinner. It is ritual. It is a way to say, I see you. I have saved a place for you. Please sit with me a little longer.

It’s colder today. The sky dim, the streets tranquil under a pale hush of wind. You spend the morning setting everything out: napa cabbage, sliced diagonally; tofu cut into perfect rectangles; fish balls, thawed and nestled in a shallow dish. The glass noodles wait in their package, coiled like the slow ache of a heart waiting impatiently to soften.

The electric hotpot sits at the center of the table, patient and unassuming. You tuck everything around it like a halo. Small dipping bowls. A little dish of raw egg to swirl into the broth. Soy, vinegar, sesame oil, chili crisp. The meal doesn’t announce itself–but it waits.

You don’t text him. You don’t call.

But he comes home earlier than usual, as though he’s learned how to read the scent of dinner from the hallway. He opens the door with that familiar quiet, shoulders relaxing almost immediately when he sees the lights low, the table set, steam curling faintly in the kitchen like an invitation.

“You made hotpot,” he says. Not surprised. More like a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

You nod, still at the stove, checking the broth one last time. “I thought it might warm you up.”

“It already does.”

You blink. Look up. He’s hanging his coat on the hook, glancing over his shoulder toward the table with something like wonder in his eyes. It’s the way people look at things they never thought they deserved but were given anyway.

He steps into the kitchen and reaches for the last bowl without being asked.

“What can I help with?”

“You can carry this,” you say, handing him the pot of broth. “Careful. It’s hot.”

He takes it without hesitation, hands steady, arms strong. You follow behind with the ladle and a soft smile you try not to let him see.

When everything is on the table, when the water hums to a near boil, you both sit. Side by side this time, not across. A closeness born of familiarity. Of comfort.

He looks at the spread, then at you. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“It’s all about pacing,” you say. “Hotpot’s not about rushing. It’s about waiting. Letting things come together slowly.”

He nods. “Like us.”

You freeze, but he’s already reaching for the cabbage, laying it into the pot like it’s something precious. The tofu goes in next. He glances toward you–silent permission–and then adds the fish balls, one by one. They bob in the broth like lanterns on a dark lake.

You add the noodles last, watching them sink and curl, transparent and slow. Steam lifts gently between you.

And then, like it’s nothing, like he’s always done it, Kento picks up your bowl and begins to serve you. He plucks a piece of tofu, gently presses it to the edge of your bowl to drain the broth, and places it down. Then a slice of cabbage. A fish ball, steaming and soft. The rhythm of it is careful. Intimate.

“Try this one,” he says, setting a piece of enoki mushroom in your bowl next. “It soaked up more flavor.”

You pick it up without a word. Eat. Chew. Swallow. He watches you the whole time.

“You were right,” you murmur. “It tastes like the broth has a memory.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Is that how you describe food?”

“Sometimes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

You look at him. His eyes are warmer than usual. Lit from within.

“I used to eat hotpot with friends,” you tell him, your voice quiet, spoon swirling in your bowl. “But it always felt rushed. Like something you did to fill space. Here, it feels like time is folding.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then he says, “That’s how it feels when I come home.”

You look down. The broth has fogged your spoon.

“I think about that,” he continues, gently. “When I’m at work. Not the meals–well, yes, the meals. But mostly the way it feels here. The quiet. The warmth. The way you look at me like I’m allowed to be tired.”

You’re not sure you’re breathing.

Kento picks up another piece of tofu from the broth and places it in your bowl. Then he adds one to his own. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t speak again right away. Just lets the silence fill with steam and the occasional sound of noodles being slurped, broth being ladled, the low hum of the city through the window.

“I used to think I needed solitude to survive,” he says eventually. “That people–good people–were rare. And being alone was safer than being disappointed.”

You wait.

“But you don’t feel like noise. You feel like relief.”

The words settle like broth in your belly. Hot. Rich. Real.

You set your chopsticks down. Fold your hands in your lap. “I don’t want to be a temporary kindness,” you whisper. “I want to be the place you go when it all gets too loud.”

He turns to you then. Fully. His hand reaches across the table–not to touch, but to set down your dipping bowl, now full. He’s filled it for you without asking. Soy sauce. A little chili. A sprinkle of sesame.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain how much you already are.”

You meet his gaze. There’s no mistaking the way he’s looking at you now. Not with confusion. Not with hesitation. But with clarity. As if this, the two of you here, steam rising between you, mouths tinged with heat and memory–this is what he’s been trying to return to his entire life.

You take the bowl he’s filled. Dip a piece of fish ball. Eat it slowly.

“It’s perfect,” you say.

He nods. “So are you.”

The broth simmers. The window fogs. And between the sound of two hearts slowing just slightly–matching, perhaps, at last–he adds more cabbage to the pot. Not because it’s needed.

But because he wants to stay.

CHICKEN AND CHIVE DUMPLINGS (PAN-FRIED, HAND-WRAPPED) (i love the shape of your silence)

There is something luxurious about the slow hours of a day you didn’t expect to have together.

You wake up late, later than usual, later than him–only to find he hasn’t left.

The apartment is still. But the kind of stillness that feels full, not empty. There’s soft jazz playing from the speaker in the living room, something without words. The floorboards are warm from the sun filtering through the window. You stretch and rise slowly, footsteps light as you pad into the hallways, and there he is–sitting on the couch in a plain black t-shirt, his glasses perched low on his nose, the newspaper open on his lap like a prop from another time.

You blink, bleary. “You’re home.”

He looks up at you and smiles, gentle and real. “I took the day off.”

You pause, frowning. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” he says. “I just… wanted to be here today.”

The words are simple, but they fold something inside you open like warm dough. You nod, pretend your heart isn’t doing a strange, slow somersault, and walk into the kitchen to pour yourself tea.

He joins you a little later, sleeves pushed up, hair just slightly tousled in that way that feels more intimate than a touch. He moves easily today, less like a man trying to disappear and more like someone learning how to stay.

You decide to make dumplings. Not the frozen kind. Not the rushed kind. The slow, handmade, soul-fed kind–filled with chopped chicken, fresh chives, garlic, ginger, soy, a little sesame oil, and a pinch of white pepper, just enough to wake the tongue. You plan it in your head while washing the cutting board, while boiling water for blanching, while cracking your back softly over the sink.

“Could you grab chives for me?” you ask when he appears again, already pulling a clean mug from the cabinet.

He turns to you without hesitation. “Anything else?”

“No,” you say. Then, with a smile, “Unless you see something interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

“Just, I don’t know, what looks good to you.”

He hums, thoughtful. “I’ll do my best.”

He leaves with his keys and wallet, and the kitchen feels like it’s waiting for him to return.

You prepare everything while he’s gone–the dough, the chicken, the seasoning. The chives are the last piece. You roll out the wrappers by hand, flour dusting your fingertips, the counters, even your shirt when you lean too close. It’s a quiet, tactile kind of joy. Your love has always lived in this place–in the space between your palms, the pressure of a fold, the symmetry of something meant to be shared.

When he returns, the door creaks softly open and you hear the rustle of the paper bag.

“I hope I chose correctly,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. “The produce guy said these were the freshest.”

You look at the chives–vivid green, still cool from the fridge section–and nod. “Perfect.”

He leans over your shoulder as you chop. “You’re very precise.”

You smile. “You have to be, with dumplings. They remember everything you do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “They remember?”

“Every fold. Every careless edge. They hold it in the way they cook. A good dumpling always tells the truth.”

He watches you work for a moment longer before speaking again. “Then I’m glad I’m not the one folding them.”

You glance at him. “You could be.”

“Would you trust me?”

You nod, placing the bowl of filling in front of him. “Here’s the test.”

You guide him through the first one–how to hold the wrapper, where to place the filling, how to wet the edge with water and pleat it shut. His first attempt is clumsy, but not hopeless. His second is better. By the third, he’s concentrating, brows furrowed.

You watch him instead of folding your own. The way his fingers move–slow, deliberate. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when the pleats don’t line up. The way he glances at your hands, quietly mimicking your motions.

“I’m better at deconstructing things,” he murmurs. “This is the opposite.”

You shake your head. “You’re building something.”

He looks up, and you feel the warmth in his gaze settle across your chest like a second skin.

You work in tandem after that. Slowly. Not speaking much, but not needing to. The silence is shaped now, not empty–a vessel you both fill with motion, glances, small smiles passed like secret ingredients. You finish the last of the dumplings just as the light begins to slant through the windows, golden and low.

You pan-fry the first batch. He helps you oil the pan. Watches the bottoms crisp to a perfect, golden brown. You add water, cover it with a lid, and steam them until the wrappers turn translucent at the edges.

When you plate them–fifteen dumplings, perfectly imperfect–he carries the dish to the table like something fragile.

You sit side by side again.

He lifts his chopsticks, pauses, and then reaches for one of the dumplings you folded. He dips it lightly into the sauce–black vinegar, soy, chili oil–and takes a bite.

He closes his eyes. Chews slowly. “This tastes like being trusted.”

You look at him, startled.

He sets the dumpling down. “You let me help. You let me make something with you. Even though I’m still learning.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. Then you pick up your own and take a bite. The filling is just right–savory and warm, the chives sharp but softened, the wrapper crisp on the bottom, tender on top. You taste the hours in it. The folding. The togetherness.

“You did good,” you say, your voice quiet.

He hums, and reaches forward again–not for another dumpling, but for your bowl. He lifts a second dumpling with care, turns it so the crisp edge is facing up, and places it gently on your plate.

“Try this one,” he says. “I folded it for you.”

You bite into it. It’s slightly uneven, the seal thick in one corner, but it’s full of intent. Full of trying. Full of him.

“I like it,” you murmur.

He watches your mouth. You see the shift–the glance that lingers. The breath he takes just a second too late. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t need to. The heat of him is already here, pooling in the space between your knees under the table, in the way his thigh brushes yours when he leans forward to grab another dumpling.

“Do you ever miss the days before this?” you ask suddenly.

He looks at you. Tilts his head.

“When it was just… quiet. Separate. When we didn’t touch.”

He considers it. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“I think,” he says, “I’ve been touching you in small ways for longer than you realize.”

Your heart folds in on itself like the wrappers under your thumbs. You reach for another dumpling. This one, you don’t dip. You eat it plain, just to feel the texture–each fold still intact.

Beside you, he doesn’t move away. He leans in. Not enough to close the space between you, but enough to promise he’s not going anywhere.

GARLIC SHRIMP PASTA WITH CHOPPED PARSLEY AND LEMON ZEST (i want to make your life taste better)

There are days when garlic tastes like courage.

It doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t wait. It announces itself with sizzle and perfume, blooming bold and unapologetic in the pan, clinging to fingertips, hair, fabric. It lingers. Leaves evidence. You can’t cook with garlic and pretend it never happened.

You start dinner in the late afternoon. Not out of necessity, but instinct. Something about the way the light spills gold across the countertops makes you want to fill the room with scent and sound. The windows are cracked. The breeze brings in the trace of faraway warmth. It feels like the kind of evening meant to carry new things in.

So you bring out the pasta.

You mince the garlic. Thin, even slices. Let it sit in olive oil while the shrimp defrost on the counter, curled and pale like commas between thoughts. You zest a lemon into a little dish and leave it beside the stove, the rind’s redolence clinging to your knuckles. You’re moving with purpose now, like cooking isn’t just about the food, but about the space it creates–steam rising in spirals, heat humming low in your belly, air thick with promise.

When Kento walks in, he pauses in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to step into something this golden. He’s still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled, tie in his hand. His eyes take in the scene–pan on the burner, the shrimp lined like soldiers on a cutting board, your bare feet on the tile.

He leans against the frame. Watches you.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

“What thing?”

“Cooking like you’re trying to seduce the silence.”

You laugh, startled. “That’s a new one.”

He steps closer, voice warm. “You do. Everything you make fills the room before you say a word.”

You turn back to the pan, hiding the way your lips twitch. “You’re home early,” you say, hoping to change the topic.

“I left early. On purpose.”

You glance over your shoulder.

“I wanted to be here before dinner started,” he says. “I didn’t want to miss it. Or you.”

You swallow and drop the shrimp into the pan. The sizzle rises instantly–sharp, fragrant, alive. It fills the kitchen like a heartbeat. Kento watches you toss them in the oil, garlic clinging to the pink edges as they turn opaque, curling tighter.

“You can sit,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’ll be ready soon.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he walks up beside you and reaches for a clove of garlic from the cutting board. “May I?”

You nod, handing him your paring knife.

He slices carefully, slower than you but no less precise. You finish the shrimp, turn off the heat, and toss the pasta in a bowl with lemon juice and the reserved zest. A dash of chili flakes. Salt, pepper. A few torn basil leaves from the plant on the sill.

When you plate the food, he helps–without being asked.

He brings over the glasses. Opens a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Pours without comment. It’s all easy now. You’ve become a choreography, the two of you. No missed steps.

When you sit down, he pulls his chair a little closer to yours. Not enough to brush knees. But close.

The first bite is gold–garlic and citrus, briny sweetness from the shrimp, heat bloom softly in the back of your mouth. You exhale.

“This is good,” he murmurs, mouth half-full. “Too good.”

You scoff. “It was supposed to be impressive.”

“It is.”

He swirls another forkful and pauses before lifting it. “I had a terrible meeting today,” he says.

You glance at him, surprised.

“Three hours,” he adds. “The kind of meeting where no one listens and everyone speaks. The kind that makes you want to vanish into your own skin.”

“I hate those.”

“I know.”

You eat in quiet for a few minutes. It isn’t distance, just breath. Just room. Then he says, softly, “Sometimes I think I’ve built a life so structured it doesn’t know what to do with softness.”

You look at him. Really look. His profile in the lamplight. The tired slope of his shoulders, loosened now. The curve of his wrist as he sets his fork down.

“I know how to work,” he says. “I know how to survive. But I don’t always know how to make things better.”

You tilt your head. “Better?”

“For someone else.”

You blink.

“I don’t want you to be the only one cooking.”

Your breath catches. He goes on.

“You give so much. Night after night. And I sit here, grateful, but silent. I don’t want that to be the shape of us.”

You set your glass down. Us.

“You never asked me to give,” you say.

“But you do,” he replies. “With every dish. With every detail. And I–” He stops. Looks at you. “I want to give back.”

You don’t speak. Not yet. And so he does something bolder.

He reaches across the table–slow, sure–and brushes a thumb beneath your bottom lip.

You freeze.

“You had lemon,” he murmurs. “Here.”

His skin is warm. His touch is featherlight. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t let it turn into something heavier. But he doesn’t pull away fast either.

When your breath finally returns to you, it’s soft.

“I didn’t notice,” you say.

“I did.”

Your eyes meet. The moment stretches. You let it. You let him.

Eventually, he leans back–only slightly. He finishes his wine. Eats another shrimp. Then he says, “Tomorrow night, I’m cooking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You cook?”

“Not like you do. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

You smile. “What’ll you make?”

He shrugs. “Something edible, I hope.”

You laugh, and his eyes stay on your mouth a moment too long again.

When dinner ends, he helps you clean. He hums while rinsing, shoulders relaxed, gaze gentle. You dry the plates and hang the dish towel side by side with his. When you part for the night, you both linger.

Not at the edge of something, but in the middle of it.

Neither of you says goodnight. You just look. You just know.

This is what it feels like when someone decides they want your life to taste good too.

NAPA CABBAGE AND TOFU STEW (SIMMERED, NOT RUSHED) (made by him: i would wait for you, always)

Weekends aren’t often slow for you. Not like they are for most.

The world doesn’t soften its edges just because it’s Saturday, and your work doesn’t fold itself neatly into weekday boxes. Sometimes it spills over–bleeds into days that should smell like sleep and toast and morning sun. Today is one of those days. Your shoulders ache from standing too long, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lighting still rings faintly behind your ears. The city feels too loud, too fast, too full.

You unlock the door with tired hands, already thinking about what to cook–something simple, something silent. Maybe miso soup. Maybe just cereal. Maybe nothing at all.

The lights in the apartment are dim, low and golden, like someone thought to make it gentle before you returned. Your bag slips from your shoulder to the floor with a soft thud. You toe off your shoes, roll your neck, and listen.

The apartment smells like warmth. Not takeout. Not leftovers. Something savory and honest, something that clings to the air like memory.

You blink. Straighten. Because he’s cooking. You’d almost forgotten. He’d said it yesterday, voice low but sure, “Tomorrow night, I’m cooking.”

You had raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You cook?”

“Not like you do. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

But that was last night, and you’ve learned that despite him being home, his work steals promises sometimes. You’d assumed he’d be too tired. That he’d forget. That he’d eat early, alone. Maybe order something. Maybe fall asleep in front of the TV. You didn’t expect anything waiting for you now–not really.

You walk into the kitchen. And stop.

The counter’s been wiped down, the stovetop clean except for one pot, steaming gently. The table is set–only two bowls, two spoons, water poured, a cloth napkin folded the way you always fold yours.

He’s standing at the stove, back to you, sleeves rolled to the elbows, towel slung over one shoulder like a habit he picked up just for today. His hair’s a little messy. He looks up when he hears you and offers a smile that’s too quiet to be proud but too warm to be unsure.

“I kept it on low,” he says. “So it wouldn’t be cold when you got in.”

Your heart stutters. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. I said I would.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already reaching for the bowls. His movements are slow, deliberate. He ladles the stew out carefully, making sure every bowl gets a little of everything–napa cabbage wilted just enough, soft blocks of tofu steeped in flavor, a few slices of shiitake mushroom, a piece of kombu pushed gently to the side.

“I read your notebook,” he says, almost sheepish. “The one you keep next to the spice rack.”

Your eyes widen, heart jumping in your chest. “You read my–?”

“Only the food parts,” he says quickly. “Not the margins.”

You exhale slowly. The margins. Where you write notes to yourself. Quiet hopes. Stray thoughts.

He clears his throat. “I looked up the recipe. Watched a few videos. Yours still sounded better.”

You sit down, stunned. He sets your bowl in front of you. The aroma is deep–miso, ginger, a whisper of sesame. The kind of smell that says you’re home without needing to say anything at all.

“I know it’s simple,” he says. “But I remembered you made this when I got sick last winter.”

You nod. You remember, too. It was the first time he let you stay near him longer than a moment. The first time he let you see the quiet in his hands. He slept the whole day, and you changed the towel on his forehead every hour, stirring the pot between each breath.

“It tasted like safety,” he murmurs now. “Like someone decided I was still worth something even when I couldn’t do anything back.”

Your fingers tighten around your spoon.

He doesn’t sit just yet. Just stands there, looking at you like the bowl is only half of what he wanted to give.

“I thought maybe,” he says, “if I could make something even half as good, you might know how much I…” He stops. Starts again. “How much I notice.”

You take a bite. The broth is slightly off–he added too much ginger, or not enough miso, maybe let it simmer too long–but none of that matters. It tastes like effort. Like time. Like someone stirring and tasting and waiting. For you.

It tastes like him–a little restrained, a little careful, but open now. Earnest. Hoping.

“It’s good,” you whisper. “It’s really good.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief. Finally, he sits beside you.

You eat in silence for a few minutes. The kind that’s less about not speaking and more about letting the food speak first.

When your bowl is half-empty, you look over at him. His gaze is fixed on his own, but his hand is near yours now. Closer than usual. His pinky brushes your knuckle when he sets down his spoon.

“I didn’t know when you’d get back,” he says softly. “But I wanted this to be warm when you did.”

You stare at him.

“I would’ve waited longer,” he adds. “If I had to.”

Your breath catches. He turns his hand, just slightly, so the backs of your fingers touch.

“You don’t have to always be the one who stays up. Who waits. Who gives.”

“I don’t mind,” you say. “You’re worth it.”

He turns to you fully then. And for the first time in all these quiet nights, all these shared meals and unspoken things, you see it–bare and unhidden.

He reaches for your hand. You let him.

His fingers are warm. Just slightly calloused. He holds your hand like he holds the spoon, like he stirs broth, like he speaks when he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. Gently. Carefully. With all his weight.

“Let me do this more,” he says. “Let me try. Even if I mess it up.”

You nod. You can’t speak. Not with your heart pressing so hard against your ribs.

He smiles, thumb brushing your palm once.

“I’d wait for you,” he says, softer now. “Even if the stew burned. Even if it all went cold. I’d still be here.”

Outside, the night deepens. Inside, the steam curls gently above the pot. You lean your head against his shoulder, just for a moment, and neither of you moves to break it.

There’s still half a bowl left. And you know–he’ll wait until you’re ready to finish it.

STRAWBERRY MILLE-FEUILLE WITH VANILLA CREAM (you’ve made my life sweeter just by being in it)

There are days where sweetness lingers in the air before anything is even said.

It’s in the way the morning light curves through the window, kissing your face while you’re still in bed. It’s in the softness of your spine when you stretch, the way you hear him humming faintly from the kitchen–off-key, barely audible, and strangely endearing.

It’s a Saturday that feels like a Sunday. You don’t have to work today.

When you wander into the kitchen, Kento’s already there, halfway through making tea–not coffee. He looks up as you enter, and you catch a glimpse of the way his mouth softens when he sees you. You’re still wearing sleep in your eyes, a sweatshirt too big for you, and socks that don’t match.

“Morning,” you mumble, voice still tangled in dreams.

“Afternoon, technically,” he says, passing you a mug. “But I’ll allow it.”

You roll your eyes and grin into the rim of your cup.

It’s easy these days. Easy to fall into the rhythm of him. Easy to let your shoulder brush his as you stand beside him at the counter. Easy to let the silence stretch, not because you don’t know what to say, but because it no longer demands to be filled.

You lean into the counter, sipping, and glance sideways.

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

He blinks at you. “That’s random.”

You shrug. “Humor me.”

He thinks about it for a moment, expression softening into something thoughtful. “When I was younger, it was strawberry shortcake. My grandmother used to buy it for me on my birthday. But lately…”

“Lately?”

He looks at you then–really looks at you. “I think I’m starting to like the kind that takes a little more time.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Cryptic.”

He smirks, rare and quiet. “You’re the dessert expert. What do you think that means?”

You try not to blush. Fail a little. “It means you’re going to the grocery store with me.”

He pauses. “Am I?”

“Yes. And you’re carrying the heavy things.”

“That sounds about right.”

He finishes his tea and grabs his coat without protest. You throw on yours, still half-buttoned, and soon you’re both out in the sunlight, the city murmuring around you, alive but not in a rush.

At the market, he follows behind you like he always does–silent, alert, keeping pace. He carries the basket. Refuses to let you hold it.

You hand him heavy things with a sly grin–flour, butter, a carton of cream, a box of fresh strawberries–and watch him accept each item like it’s a love letter sealed in glass.

“Is this a test?" he asks at one point, eyeing the puff pastry sheets with suspicion.

“Absolutely,” you say. “You fail if you complain.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re doing very well so far.”

“That’s because you’re bossy in a way I find oddly reassuring.”

You bump your shoulder into him lightly. He doesn’t move away.

At the checkout line, he reaches for your hand. Just reaches. No hesitation, no pretext. His fingers slide between yours like they were meant to be there. Warm. Calloused. Steady.

You look at him, startled by the casual intimacy of it. He just shrugs, thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“We’ve touched every part of each other’s lives but this,” he murmurs. “Felt overdue.”

You don’t speak. Just squeeze back.

Back home, the kitchen fills with the scent of butter and sugar, of sliced strawberries and warm vanilla. You let him help. He whisks the cream while you lay out the pastry. He’s not good at it–his rhythm too stiff, too precise–but you don’t correct him. You just watch the way his brow furrows, the way his arm tenses, the way he peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, waiting for praise he’ll pretend he doesn’t need.

When you finally assemble the layers–pastry, cream, strawberries, more pastry–you both hover over it like you’ve made something sacred. In a way, you have.

You hand him a knife. “You get the first cut.”

He eyes it. “This is a trap.”

“Maybe.”

But he cuts it anyway, cautiously, and the pastry cracks just enough to remind you that not all beautiful things stay intact.

You plate two slices. He takes his bite first. Chews. Blinks. Brows raised.

“Okay,” he says. “I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“Why you make things that take time.”

You look at him over your fork. “Yeah?”

He nods. “It tastes like someone thought about you all day.”

You pause. Your chest goes soft and heavy and too full all at once. You set your fork down.

He watches you. “What?”

You shake your head, laughing quietly. “You keep saying things like that.”

“Because they’re true.”

“I’m not used to it.”

“I know.”

He reaches across the table, fingers brushing your wrist. “But I want you to be.”

You look down at his hand. The way it settles over yours now like it’s been there forever. Like it belongs.

“I want you to expect it,” he adds. “From me.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He leans in, expression open, unflinching. “Because everything you’ve done has tasted like love. And I don’t want to just consume that. I want to offer it back.”

You breathe in sharply. The kitchen smells like sugar. And strawberries. And something new. Something not afraid.

“You’re really not good at flirting,” you murmur.

He smiles. “Good thing I’m not flirting.”

“No?”

“I’m just telling you,” he says, “what it’s going to be like from now on.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

“Slow,” he continues. “Warm. Sweet. Worth the time.”

Outside, the sky has begun to turn rose gold, clouds edged with light. Inside, your hands are sticky with powdered sugar, and the mille-feuille is leaning to one side on the plate, imperfect but real. Cracking, collapsing a little, but still holding.

You lean over and kiss the corner of his mouth. Not a full kiss. Not yet. Just enough. Just a taste.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his fingers tighten around yours. And that is more than enough. For now.

CREAM STEW WITH ROOT VEGETABLES AND CHICKEN (i want to be what you come home to)

You’ve always measured your days in flavor.

Sweet, when you rise to the scent of something warm, the memory of laughter still clinging to your dreams. Salty, when you let the weight of the world sit on your shoulders for too long without rest. Bitter, when the loneliness creeps in around the edges like smoke from an unattended pan. And savory–deep, grounding, enduring–that’s when someone sits beside you at the table, even if they don’t say a word.

Lately, your days have been savory. Not perfect, but full.

Like a meal with substance. Like something slow-cooked. Like you’re not just feeding someone anymore–you’re building a life in the pauses between bites.

You think about this as you stir the roux, wooden spoon tracing a circle through butter and flour. A thickening. A deepening. You add the milk in slow streams, letting the texture bloom creamy and golden. You season it without thought now. A pinch of salt. A crack of pepper. A single bay leaf, just because you like the way it makes the kitchen smell like someone is waiting for you.

Even if, tonight, you’re the one waiting.

Kento’s running late.

You don’t mind. Or rather–you try not to. You don’t worry. Not like you used to. Now, the space he leaves behind in the apartment isn’t emptiness. It’s anticipation. It’s steam rising from the stovetop. It’s your body moving through the kitchen like someone building a place for him to return to.

You set the chicken to simmer–tender, thigh pieces, browned and seasoned, now swimming in a stew of potatoes, carrots and onion, all softened to something comforting. Something that doesn’t ask to be chewed, only understood.

When he walks in, you don’t turn around. You hear the door open. The gentle click. The exhale. The way his footsteps shift when he sees you–slower, warmer.

“Smells like a promise in here,” he says.

You glance back, smiling. “The edible kind.”

He drops his bag by the door, rolls up his sleeves, and walks toward you like it’s instinct. You’re standing by the stove. He comes up behind you. Places his hand–just one–on your waist.

You freeze. Not because you’re scared, but because something in your chest flutters like fresh herbs being dropped into hot broth.

“You didn’t text,” you murmur.

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he replies, and then presses a kiss–soft, brief–to your temple.

He’s been doing that lately. Little touches. Little claims. A hand at your back. A brush of his fingers along yours when he passes you the soy sauce. Knees that knock beneath the table and don’t pull away. And that kiss last week–his thumb brushing your knuckles, your mouth grazing the corner of his like you were still learning the weight of your own bravery.

Tonight, though, it feels different. Like the air is thickening again, like a gravy left uncovered. Like something is about to spill over.

You hand him a bowl. He takes it with both hands, reverent. You both sit. Side by side, again. Always.

You eat together in a quiet so warm it could be mistaken for music. Then he says, “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

You look at him. “What did I say?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “That you’re always here when I come home.”

You don’t speak. Your throat is full of chicken and cream and longing.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” he continues. “Not just the words. The way you said them. Like you weren’t sure you were allowed to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You are.”

He sets his spoon down. You do the same.

The kitchen smells like warmth. Like something full of body and heart. Like food that would keep through a winter storm. All you can feel, however, is the way his knee is brushing yours now, insistently. All you can hear is the sound of his breath, close and certain.

“You’ve fed me so many things,” he says. “Meals, yes. But also, patience. Time. Space. Safety.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Your hands tremble, just slightly, under the table.

“I want to feed you, too,” he says.

You blink.

“I don’t just mean food.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“I want to be the thing that warms you. The thing you come home to. The reason the apartment smells like something worth staying for.”

You don’t think. You just reach across the table and take his hand in yours. And this time, he brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them. Slowly. Softly.

He stands. You look up at him.

“Come here,” he says.

You do. You round the table, heart in your throat, mouth already tingling. When you reach him, he cups your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazing the skin just beneath your eye.

“You kissed me first,” he says. “But I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a very long time.”

You smile. “So kiss me properly.”

And he does.

It’s not a whisper. It’s not a question. It’s an answer. He kisses you like the first bite of something long-simmered. Like the taste of butter melting on the back of the tongue. Like something learned, not rushed. Familiar, and brand new.

He pulls back only when breath becomes necessary, and when he rests his forehead against yours, you close your eyes.

“I don’t want to leave this kitchen,” he says.

“Then don’t.”

You’re both still holding each other. The stew on the table is going cold. Neither of you care.

“I like the way your food tastes,” he murmurs. “But I like the way your life tastes more.”

You laugh, shaking your head against his chest. “That was corny.”

“I’ve been spending too much time around you.”

“I hope so.”

You stay there, arms around each other, the scent of cream and chicken and thyme wrapping around you like a second skin.

Later, when you reheat the stew and eat the rest of it curled into one another on the couch, you know–this isn’t the last dish, but it’s the first meal you finish not as roommates, not as friends, not even as two people who almost loved each other–but as something else.

Something with seasoning. With heat. Something simmered. And kept warm.

LEMON BUTTER SALMON WITH HERB RICE AND A SINGLE GLASS OF WHITE WINE (i love you. i always have)

The kitchen is no longer just yours.

There are two aprons hanging on the back of the pantry door now–one you’ve always worn, and one he bought last week, simple and navy blue, with a tiny oil stain already blooming near the pocket. The fridge has doubled its collection of post-it notes–your handwriting still the majority, but his are now peppered between them like little bites of citrus: “Out of ginger.” “You looked beautiful this morning.” “Don’t forget to eat.”

He’s in the kitchen with you now, barefoot, hair slightly damp from a shower, with that look he’s been wearing lately–soft eyes, sleeves rolled, mouth already tilted toward a smile. He moves through the space like he belongs in it, because he does. Because he learned it slowly, respectfully, over the course of several months, endless dishes and one unwavering heart.

He’s watching you slice lemons when you turn to him with a grin.

“You’re on prep duty.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Again?”

“You’re the one who said you wanted to know how to make the salmon.”

“I also said I’d rather kiss the cook.”

“You can do both,” you agree. “But write this down first.”

You hand him a little notebook from the drawer–your notebook–the one you’ve scribbled recipes in for years and love letters in the margins, pages stained with oil and sugar and emotion. You flip it to a blank one, and he takes it like it’s holy. He uncaps the pen and settles at the table, eyes up and waiting.

“Ready?” you ask without looking.

“Ready.”

“Two fillets of salmon,” you begin, “skin-on, pat them dry.”

He writes it down, word for word.

“A pinch of salt and pepper–don’t be stingy. Garlic powder, just a little. And lemon zest, fine, not thick.”

He glances up. “Do I write down that you zest it with your eyes closed and your mouth moving like you’re talking to the fish?”

You smirk. “Yes. That’s the most important part.”

He chuckles, scribbles it in. You keep going, step by step, and he writes it all–meticulous, dutiful, like he’s learning the structure of you.

Outside, the sky is the color of old gold. It’s quiet in the city. A Friday evening with nothing to chase. The only thing rising is the scent of rice on the stove, infused with herbs–dill, parsley, a bit of thyme. You’d tossed in a bay leaf too, just because. You always do.

When the salmon hits the pan, it sings. The butter melts around it, foaming golden and fragrant, and Kento stands behind you, hands warm on your hips.

“You’re crowding me,” you murmur.

“I’m admiring.”

“You’re distracting.”

“I’m in love.”

You flip the salmon, the skin crisp, the flesh pink and barely touched by heat. He leans in and kisses the back of your neck.

“You keep doing that,” you say, cheeks flushed.

“I keep wanting to.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth this time. You tilt your head, chasing him, catching him full this time–soft, slow, inevitable.

You finish the salmon together. Plate it over the herbed rice, a wedge of lemon on each side. He only pours one glass of wine, and gives it to you.

“I’ll steal sips,” he says, and you believe him.

At the table, you both eat slowly. He closes his eyes after the first bite. “This is stupid good.”

You beam. “Stupid good?”

“I’m trying to speak your language.”

“You’ve always spoken it,” you say, cutting into your fillet. “You just didn’t know.”

He hums. “Tell me something.”

“Mm?”

“Do you remember the scallion pancakes?”

You look up at him. “I do.”

He smiles, soft, a dulled edge. “You were tired. I could see it. You didn’t say anything. But you still made something that cracked when I bit into it. And I remember thinking–someone is trying to remind me what it feels like to smile. To laugh.”

You set your fork down.

“I think I fell for you then,” he says. “Maybe earlier. Maybe it was the porridge.”

“You didn’t even eat that one hot.”

“But I read the note.”

You take a breath. It comes out slow. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know how,” he admits. “You gave me everything in bowls and plates and spoons. And I just–ate. Because I was starving, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

Your eyes sting, but it’s not sadness. It’s fullness. It’s years of hunger answered.

“And now?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

He reaches across the table and takes your hand. “Now I want to feed you,” he replies. “In every way.”

You lean in. So does he.

There are no fireworks, no orchestral swells, no grand epiphanies–just his thumb brushing the back of your hand, and the warm weight of his knee against yours, and the memory of all the dishes you’ve made curled up between your bodies like a language you both learned by accident and never stopped speaking.

You eat the rest of the meal in quiet, but not silence. There are soft jokes. A few shared bites. His fingers brushing your jaw when he reaches for your glass. Your toes pressing his under the table. His laugh, easier now, effortless.

And when the plates are empty, and you stand to clean, he wraps his arms around you from behind.

“Leave it,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Stay here with me.”

“I am here.”

“No,” he says. “I mean here. Like this.”

You turn. Look up at him. He cups your face like it’s the last dish he’ll ever learn to make. Like it’s delicate. Like it’s worth every burnt pan and failed fold and oversalted soup that came before it.

“I love you,” he says. “And I’m going to keep saying it. Over and over. Until you believe I’ve known it since the beginning.”

“I already believe it,” you say, voice shaking.

He kisses you again, and it’s not a question. It’s the answer to every one you never asked out loud.

That night, you fall asleep with your back to his chest and his arm curled around your stomach. His breath is warm on your neck. His fingers are tucked between yours.

In the kitchen, the wine glass is still half full. The stove is cool. The plates are clean. And in your notebook–under a page titled Lemon Butter Salmon–is a line he added just before bed:

The first meal we made after we stopped pretending.

MISO SOUP WITH ASPARAGUS AND ENOKI MUSHROOMS (made by him)

You wake up to the scent of toasting rice. Not sharp, not burnt–just golden. Soft. A little nutty. The kind of scent that makes you smile into your pillow before you even open your eyes.

The bedroom is warm with late morning light, your limbs slow, your mind still fogged with sleep. You stretch. Blink. Reach over. The other side of the bed is empty, but only just. The sheet is still warm.

You hear him in the kitchen–quiet movement, the click of a stove knob, the low scrape of something wooden on metal. You smile again, push the blanket off your legs, and shuffle toward the doorway barefoot.

He’s muttering to himself. You stand there for a moment, half-hidden by the frame, watching him.

Kento is shirtless, still in his pajamas, blond hair rumpled from sleep. He’s squinting at the notebook on the counter–your notebook, which has now been converted into ours, the pages gradually filling with his neat handwriting alongside your sprawling, chaotic notes. He has a pencil tucked behind one ear and smudge of miso paste on his wrist.

He’s stirring a pot like it contains the answer to something. Talking under his breath as he moves.

“Simmer, not boil,” he mutters. “Simmer. Don’t break the tofu again, idiot.”

You press a knuckle to your mouth to muffle your laugh. He glances up. Sees you. Smiles.

“Morning.”

“You’re cooking again?” you ask, stepping in.

He kisses you before you can say anything else. One hand on your hip, the other cupping your face. Slow. Unhurried. Like you’re part of the recipe.

“I said I would,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You sigh into him, then nuzzle your face into his shoulder, catching the faint scent of sesame oil clinging to his skin. He rests his chin on your head for a moment before pulling away just enough to gesture toward the stove.

“I’m making miso soup.”

“I can tell.”

“With enoki mushrooms and asparagus.”

“Gourmet,” you tease.

“And a little tofu,” he says. “If I don’t ruin it.”

You move closer to peek into the pot. “You’re doing fine.”

“I watched three videos last night while you were asleep.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips twitching. “You could’ve just asked me.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

Your chest folds softly around the warmth blooming there.

“And,” he adds, lifting the spoon toward you, “I wanted to make something that would sit in your stomach all day and remind you that you’re loved.”

You taste it. You close your eyes.

“Okay,” you say. “You win.”

He smirks, steps aside, and begins ladling the soup into bowls. “Sit,” he tells you. “I’ll do everything.”

“Even pour the tea?”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You laugh softly and settle at the table as he finishes plating. He sets down your bowl with reverence. Sits beside you with his own. You both pick up your chopsticks. There’s no ceremony. No need. Just the quiet clink of bowls. The scent of dashi and ginger. A comforting rhythm of eating that feels more like breath than routine.

“You didn’t burn anything this time,” you say.

He chews, swallows. “Progress.”

“You didn’t break the tofu.”

“A miracle.”

“You didn’t start a small fire like you did with the curry.”

“That was one time.”

You grin. “It was charred.”

“I thought you liked smoky flavors.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it, laughing. And God–he laughs more now. Real laughter. Not polite exhalations. Not sharp little scoffs. Full, genuine joy. You live for it. You live with it.

“Work’s been awful,” he says after a while. “My boss keeps suggesting we pivot toward client-facing strategy development.”

You raise a brow, lost. “That sounds like gibberish.”

“It is.”

“Do you have to?”

He shakes his head. “Not if I pretend not to understand.”

You reach for him, run your fingers over his wrist, feel the tension there. “You’re too good at pretending.”

“Not anymore,” he says. “At least not at home.”

You both eat in silence for a while after that. Comfortable. Close. He tucks his foot around yours beneath the table. You let your knee rest against his.

Eventually, he stands. Rinses the bowls. You move to help. He swats your hand away with a dishtowel. “Sit.”

“You can’t stop me from loving you,” you say.

“I would never try.”

He places the bowls in the drying rack. You rise anyway, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, tucking your face between his shoulder blades. He leans into you.

“I’m writing down the recipe,” he says softly. “It’s not perfect. But I think it says what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns in your arms. Faces you. “I mean,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “that you’ve always fed me. In every way. And I want to feed you back.”

You look at him, heart thudding gently. “You already do.”

“Not enough.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“I know.” He smiles. “It’s just a meal, yes. But I want to make sure you stay full every time.”

You kiss him. He pulls you closer.

Outside, the morning has shifted into noon. The light is bright now, spilling across the kitchen floor, warming your toes. There’s nothing urgent waiting. No deadlines. Just the quiet steam rising from the pot, and the scent of broth in the air, and the feel of his hands splayed over your lower back like he never wants to let go.

He doesn’t. He won’t.

Later, you find your notebook open on the table, turned to a new page in his handwriting.

NANAMI’S MISO SOUP (FOR HER) dashi stock (enough to comfort) enoke enoki mushrooms (delicate like her laugh) tofu (firm but gentle, like her hands and her) asparagus (for bite–she likes it a little sharp) white miso (two heaping spoonfuls of everything I never learned to say) a little sesame oil (for warmth that lingers) simmer until it tastes like safety serve with love

You don’t say anything when you find it. You just trace the ink with your finger, the way you once stirred soup in silence and hoped he’d taste the message. Now the message writes itself.

Just beneath his last word–love–you add a line in your own script, smaller, slanted, like a secret you no longer need to keep:

I’ve never gone hungry since you came home.

And you close the book–not as an end, but as a pause. A breath between bites. A space between courses.

In the kitchen, the air still smells faintly of broth. The sun turns the sink, always glinting silver, into gold. Somewhere between the soft boil and the stir of your two spoons in two bowls, you built something you can stay inside. A place made of cracked egg yolks and congee steam, scallion oil and stolen glances, dumplings with uneven folds and kisses with shaky hands. A home with no doors. Just warmth. Just flavor. Just him.

And you.

Two lovers at the stove.

A thousand meals ahead.

No longer asking–only offering.

No longer waiting–only full.

NOTE: thank you so much for reading! i wrote this fic in a haze over the span of two days. there's just something about domesticity with nanami kento that gets my brain worms acting up (and no, i am not a chef by any professional standards so if one of these dishes doesn't make sense, we can fight in the parking lot of a dennys /j). (art by riritzu on X)

On the topic of kisses, Satoru is definitely the pecking type. By the time you groggily stir awake, you've already been graced with at least thirty little kisses as he gets ready for work. He just can’t help himself - you look far too cute, all snuggled up and warm under the blankets, a tiny bit of drool slipping from your lips, soft sleepy sighs escaping you.

He does his best to be quiet in the mornings, truly, but you make it so hard. Eventually, he gives in, peppering your face with kisses until you grumble in protest, groggily chastising him. But he only grins, that boyish, lovestruck smile on full display as he presses a soft peck to your lips, murmuring against them, “We should just stay home… You’re my girl. How am I supposed to leave you like this?”

And just like that, he’s pressing his full weight onto you, wrapping himself around you like an oversized puppy, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He lingers longer than he should, arms tightening around you as if keeping you close for a little while longer might be enough. Might make leaving a little easier.

But duty always calls. Eventually, he has to leave - to tend to his students, to play his role as the strongest. It’s always harder than he lets on. Always leaves him feeling like he’s grasping at time slipping through his fingers. Still, before he goes, he asks just one thing: that you be careful. That the roads are wet from the rain. That you text him when you get to work.

Because even the strongest has something to fear.

#prettymuch fluff and Other Things That Ruined My Life: An Autobiography by nakedinthewhitehouse

Haikyuu!! Kisses pt. 2

(pt. 1)

(I’m bushed Uw U *dies* Anyways, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!)

(NOTE: Not replying to requests, I’m stopping at 17)

Knight of Roses - G.S.

Synopsis. You, heir to the throne and fated to be married off to a royal you’ve never even met. Gojo Satoru, your personal knight and the one man that will not let this happen. He will not.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! princess! reader, knight! Gojo, childhood-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, arranged marriages, Naoya is awful, Gojo YEARNS, flower language, politics, slight víolence, slight angst, matíng presses, cervíx kíssing, creampíes, cúmplay, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, oraI (fem rec), he goes FÉRAL, cúmming in his pants, manhandIing, spítting, biiig stretches, dúmbifícation, cúmflation, p talking, p sIapping, overstím, proposals, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.7k

A/N. What happens when ya let a girl listen to Golden Brown by The StrangIers.

“You are not to speak, you are not to look.” The king intertwines his decadently ringed fingers on his lap, the royal signet glinting pointedly amongst them. “You are not to so much as breathe in the princess’s way from tomorrow onwards.”

And it’s only with his hard-earned years as your knight that Gojo stops himself from shuddering where he knelt, head bowing to hide the clench in his jaw.

Though, surely something must have flashed across his features - because the next few words have a familiar warmth that twisted Gojo’s heart much more than his royal timbre, “Satoru, my boy, you understand that this is your duty? Yes?”

“I understand.” The answer is instant, as is the raise of the other man’s brows. 

“And do you understand that this marriage is my daughter’s duty?” Your father barks out a disbelieving laugh into the barren throne room. “We wouldn’t want Prince Naoya getting the wrong idea between the princess and a- a knight.” 

The words make his eyes prick wetly, and Gojo can’t help but bend even lower as he whispers. “I…I understand, sir.”

After all, it was the second thing that Gojo Satoru had drilled into his mind from the very moment he first met you.

The first being that he’s loved you ever since. 

Which - retrospectively speaking - might’ve been an incredibly bold declaration coming from the scrawny, fidgeting six-year-old you happened to catch sneaking in and stealing lilac blooms from the royal garden all those years ago.

He remembers how you’d giggled, looking positively like a little blossom in all those gauzy layers of gown. Piping up from under the lilac tree he was latched onto, “My father says that’s not allowed.”

Gojo had fallen then - literally, startling about six feet from the branch he’d been straddling and straight into a scratchy pile of leaves with a dull thud! Back hurting, head spinning, it was a wonder that he hadn’t sprained anything, but right then and there he remembers thinking he was in heaven.

Because here was a pretty lil’ angel his age ogling down at him, speaking in a regal accent so different from his. “My father says that’s not allowed either.”

Your grin beamed down on him and warmed his skin even more scorchingly than the balmy rays of sunlight filtering in through the leaves. And for the first time ever in his life, Gojo Satoru had stuttered. 

“Yer- yer father sounds stupid.” He had spit out, chubby cheeks puffing out the more you stared at him. What? He was sure he looked ridiculous with all those stray sticks and leaves stuck in his cloudy locks, but did you really have to look at him like…that? 

“My father…” Your lips curled even further, as if you knew something he didn’t. “-the king.”

Oh.

Oh. 

And it’s only then that Gojo notices the thin, silver tiara on your head, a delicate wreath of jeweled flowers that twinkled almost as bright as your eyes. It reflected specks of light into his gaze almost mockingly.

Idiot- it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over him that chilled him to the very bone. 

Even at the tender- well, wise and sensible age of six, Gojo had heard from the adults in town all about the torture chambers and p-prisons that the royal palace was home to. 

Just why did he feel the need to escape from his mother at the market to bring her a batch of those wispy, amethyst flowers anyway? 

Sure, they were her favorite but- the royal family would have his head before even she did. And he didn’t even get to butter her up with the lilacs!

“Forgive me!” Gojo had squeaked out in a cry so shrill that you hurriedly took a step back, eyes widening once the interesting boy in front of you dropped to his hands and knees. “Ah- I mean uh- forgive me, your highness- your princessness.” Drooping into a bow so low that his soft tufts of hair brushed the warm ground. Words tumbling out a mile a minute, “It was an accident- I must’ve been um sleepwalking and I pinky-promise won’t do it again-”

“Those lilacs haven’t bloomed yet, y’know?” You’re cutting him off smoothly, and Gojo remembers feeling a pang of irritation- let him recite his apologies before you throw him in a cell, dammit! Right before flooding with confusion, eyes snapping up to meet yours hesitantly. 

Pointing at a pretty white gazebo, overlooking the lake only a few meters away, you’d shrugged your shoulders. “The garden staff puts the best ones in a bouquet over there.”

At which, he’d replied with an exceptionally eloquent, “Huh?”

“Well, what my father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

It’s only after hours upon hours of picking every lilac flower in sight and chatting about all the worldly topics a pair of six-year-olds knew that you were dragged away by one of your worried attendants. 

And he almost felt…sad about it. Weird. 

The yolky setting sun that day cast shadows for Gojo to hide himself in behind one of the gazebo pillars as he peeked at your retreating back. In-step with an older woman muttering about “losing her job oh- the king will banish her.” 

And if there was one thing that he would never forget - well, amongst everything else - it was the way his heart banged selfishly against his ribcage with a repeated turn around turn around turn around-

You did. And you’d smiled, and Gojo hasn’t been able to step away from your side since.

Well, he had to - to go home that evening and proudly proclaim to his thoroughly cross mother how he’ll become a knight, that is. 

Honestly, even the colossal lilac bouquet did little to deter her scoldings about running off. But despite how bad it was - and the fact that he was sentenced to be confined to his room for a whole month - it didn’t matter.

Gojo visited you the next day, too. 

And the day after that, and the day after that- and again and again no matter how many times you’d teased him about coming so often to see you. Because you were right there no matter what royal duties or lessons dictated, waiting in the lilac garden for him. 

Every day.

When Gojo was eighteen he’d applied for a position in the royal guard, breezing through the demonstrations of physical strength because of course, he did. He’d been training for his very day for years.

And it showed - oh, how it showed. 

It showed in the way he stood almost a head above every other man lined up there, veering numerous inches above six feet. All sculptured, Herculean muscles and arms toned from years spent climbing the palace orchards with you. The strongest. 

He considered himself exceedingly humble, too, of course. 

Humble enough to not brag outright in your face once Gojo had climbed the treacherous way into being your personal knight before the age of twenty. 

“Hah, I can tell your father- erm, his majesty all about where you sneak off to now.” Gojo snickered, flicking your forehead in a way that a princess simply shouldn’t be treated. “Perhaps I’ll bargain titles with him- tell the courts about the way you climb trees, and ride horses and-”

“Snitch”

“Harlot.”

“Knave.”

“Hobgoblin.”

“Satoru.” You’d deadpanned up at as six foot four inches of white-haired nuisance clinging onto whimpers out a dramatic ouch, that one hurt. Desperately trying to keep the smile off of your face, “You’re with me each and every single time.”

Well, was. 

It seemed like the king was to be putting a stop to that very, very soon. With your looming- he gulps to keep the leaden ball of tears away from his throat, your engagement. 

“Toru—” Your voice snaps him out of his hazy little reverie, and he finds himself straightening his back into a respectful posture outside of the throne room. Warily eyeing the way you bound up to him, “What did my father want to talk to you about so suddenly?”

“Ah…” Gojo’s throat feels hoarse. Parched. The smile plastering onto his face wobbly, “Just- just security measures for the visitor we’re going to have, your royal highness.”

Your brows quirk upwards, pretty lips falling open just enough for him to realize you were about to comment on his use of that. That title. 

“Now if you pardon this knight, ma’am-” Gojo pipes up before you can bludgeon him with questions, striding down the luxurious hallway to his newly-assigned post at the royal treasury. Far, far away from your chambers. “-I have been called by Knight Commander Yaga to my-”

“Satoru- wait.”

He should’ve known better than to have thought he could escape you - not when even his own heart didn’t want to.

Lurching up in an almost-nauseating swoop the moment your voice echoes from behind, hitting his glinting armor. “You…are you okay—? You haven’t called me any of those silly formal titles since we first met.” Words practically dripping with concern, fuck- he was sure your face was furrowing. And if it was up to him he would kiss away every tense crevice. 

But no, that was not his place. 

His place was to stand rooted to the spot, face turning only a half-degree to grace you with a soft bow. Gojo knew it wasn’t the epitome of respect, but a singular look in your face right now and he would break.

“I am in perfect condition to carry out my duties, ma’am.” He’s nodding, voice oh-so-brittle in his throat for how hardened it thundered.

“That’s not what I mean.” Stubborn.

Gojo turns back to the winding corridor in front of him, “Then if that is all, I shall be on my way. I hope you have a good day, ma’am.”

“Satoru.”

And if his cheeks were cold and encrusted with a few streaks of salty tears when he reached the treasury, Gojo was only grateful that his fellow knight Ijichi was too afraid of him to say anything.

.

.

.

Gojo Satoru was avoiding you - marching the other way if he glimpsed you, running around the palace for menial tasks, he wasn’t even your personal guard anymore, for goodness’ sake! Your best friend was ignoring you and you weren’t sure why. 

Was it because you had to skip out on your daily walks in the lilac garden to greet the visiting Zenin royals? 

No, he was always so understanding of the royal responsibilities that you couldn’t skive off. Besides, his strange attitude had sparked up even before Prince Naoya and his family arrived at your kingdom - ever since that meeting with your father.

You were dying to ask the king what exactly was talked about that day, a meeting so confidential that he didn’t even have the royal advisor transcripting it. But your father was always so busy with the older Zenin couple these days, cooped up in office rooms surrounded to the brim with official documents. 

And that left you with…him.

Naoya Zenin. A prince if there was ever any, who couldn’t talk about anything but that. 

“So…um.” Your eyes dart around the palace gardens, you always did love it here - that comforting smell of flowers wafting in clouds around you. But right now you felt anything but comforted. “How are you liking the garden, Prince Naoya?”

He shakes his brown-tipped locks, eyes narrowing. “Rather plebian for a royal palace, if I do say so myself.”

“R-right…” You’re sputtering in an unlady-like fashion, “We do have orchards too if you wanted to-”

“Of course, the gardens in my palace are much bigger-” He’s waving a gloved hand loftily, nose crinkling into a sneer at the bustling gardeners planting beautiful white blossoms everywhere. Honestly, you were informed there was a grand ball soon - but wasn’t this a bit much? “And we teach the help to stay out of sight.”

“Well, I think they’re really nice.” You’re huffing, brows marrying together. 

He scoffs, “Nice- or useful?”

“Both.”You fight the urge to just storm off then and there - it wouldn’t do good to start a war between the two most powerful kingdoms right now. 

“Ah yes yes- nice.” Naoya repeats airily, words warbling as if he was biting back a laugh. “Suppose the low-borns are tolerable if they’re nice.”

A vision of Gojo - tiny and trembling into a bow in front of you - flashed through your mind, and you find your pretty heels digging hard into the dark soil. That was it.

“Perhaps.” Your voice comes out dangerously even, dangerously. Naoya only raises his brows in faint interest, “Yet, even the least tolerable tch- ‘low-born’ would be more tolerable than a pompous, arrogant-”

“There you are, your highnesses!” 

Satoru. 

You would recognize that low, lilting baritone amongst a thousand others. And before you can turn around to face your best friend that had been missing for days, he plows on, “A little gift- from this lowborn.”

Thud!

Before you can even blink, pale hands reach out to unceremoniously dump a radiant yellow flower crown on Naoya’s blond bangs. And you swear Gojo pushed down on his head harder than necessary.

The first thing you register is the warm wall of muscles pushing up against your back, lecherously counting every ladder of washboard abs and Gojo’s plush pecs in your mind. Mindlessly, you’re leaning back even closer, savoring the way his breath hitches. Harlot. 

The second thing you’re realizing is that Naoya Zenin - for the first time in twenty-something years - had gone quiet. Very, very quiet. Suspiciously so. 

You force your words into some semblance of levelness, “Are you…are you alright, Prince Naoya?”

But Naoya didn’t speak - you didn’t know if he was even breathing. Long face growing greyer and greyer by the second, he doesn’t answer you.

No, instead he’s pointing a trembling finger behind you. “You there…you- what shrub have you placed upon my royal head?”

“Laburnum.” Comes the answer - and just as soon comes a drawling, strangled squawk.

Your first instinct is to look towards the shimmering lake not too far away from you, eyes searching for any trace of those familiar ducks- before gasping in surprise and looking back to the prince. Mouth ajar, still making those undignified noises. 

Him? 

“You- you will-” He hisses, so furious that you have to take a step back - right into Gojo’s waiting arms - to avoid his flecks of spit. “-you will pay for this.”

In only a split-second, Naoya had thrown the flower crown onto the ground and wheezed his way up the flowery pathway back to the castle. What a sight it was.

But nothing compared to the way that Gojo comes into your line of sight and preens. One hand tapping at his cheek in thought, the other held behind his back. “Whoops- I forgot that the king specifically informed me that our honored guest was allergic to laburnum flowers. Guess, low-borns aren’t of good memory. Right, my princess?”

“Satoru- you- you ass.” You’re yelping through fits of laughter, not caring for the way the rest of the gardening staff smiles knowingly. “What if that bastard gets deathly sick? The blame would be on you.”

He rolls his summer blue eyes, “Proudly.”

“I should send you to the gallows for this.”

Gasping in faux shock, “Most salacious indeed!”

And for the first time in so long, it feels normal. 

The breezing heat of Gojo’s body against yours feels normal, and you couldn’t bring yourself to think too deeply about it. Too enchanted by the sheer lack of armor - all billowy white poet shirt and flattering cotton pants. 

“Y-yeah well-” Shit- why was your skin burning this way? The sun wasn’t even at peak temperature for today. Absentmindedly, you’re playing with one of his silk lapels, “Thank goodness we’re losing him in a few days, I asked mother and she said the Zenin’s are only visiting until the fast-approaching ball.” 

“Princess-” It all comes out in a rush, “-that ball. The reason for it is actually-”

“Your highness! The queen is asking for a conference with you!” The curious voices of your maidservants drag you away from Gojo’s arms, into a much less scandalous position.

And yet, with only a nod behind - you still stay standing in front of him. You stay.

“Right…” Gojo’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a deep gulp. Shadowy gaze darting away, “I should get back to my duties, ma’am. Suguru has been abusing his position as head gardener to work me like a mule.”

The way your face crumples with disappointment makes Gojo’s heart feel sliced open. And raw. “Of course. I’ll see you around, Gojo.”

Gojo. Gojo. 

And of course he couldn’t let you walk away - of course he couldn’t let you leave his life just yet. 

So without thinking, without even realizing, he’s clasping a slender hand around your wrist to pull you back. To reel you in. To him. 

Velvety strands of snow-white curtain Gojo’s eyes, and the doughy fingerpads on your skin shiver. Mumbling, “Before- Before you go, my prin- ma’am. I just wanted to give you-” And you don’t know what makes your heart race more - the cherry-red blush painting all over Gojo’s cheeks and up to the very tips of his ears, or the sunny flower crown clasped in a hand pulled from behind his back. “-this.”

Your mouth drops into an awe-struck oh! It was beautiful - trickling blossoms of every shade of yellow entwined gently together. Embedded with celestially dainty buds of an amber so pale it looked almost white, diamonds on a tiara fit for a princess. 

You had a feeling it would be your favorite one.  

All you could think of was Gojo with his staggering hands, and his battle-worn fingers, making something so delicate for you. 

“Is…is this one just as allergy-inducing as the other, Satoru?” You’re breathing, rustled by a breeze so gentle that it almost hurts.  

“No.” Gojo whispers, just as quiet. As if the slightest sign of a raised voice would break whatever saccharinely thick moment this was, “Yellow acacia and yellow carnation. For you, my princess.”

For the way he’d be losing you just as soon as he loses that asshat. 

And even once you’d adorned his crown and been hurried off by a few palace staff, Gojo stared. Even once you were nothing but a speck of royal satin and yellow crowns, he stared. Even once you were gone, and he was left so very alone, he stared. 

Only thanking the heavens above that you always slept through your flower language lessons. 

.

.

.

Over the next few days; wherever you were, Naoya Zenin was to follow. 

And Gojo was sure that it was pushing the young royal closer and closer to a spectacular aneurysm any time that you called specifically for him to accompany you. Blatantly refusing any other knight that came your way.

The pointed third during “romantic” boat rides on the lake, always the guard overseeing dinners, the one to step in with a blunder if your future fiancé got too…opinionated. Gojo was always there. 

It was more like you spent your time trying to make his dutiful façade crack than supposedly entertaining your guest.

Sneaky princess. 

After all - Gojo found himself pacing and arguing out loud with himself any time you did - he was simply doing his job, right? Even if the aforementioned job went against just a few direct orders from the king himself. 

But these were a direct order from the princess. His princess. And Gojo had stopped his procedural traversing and ranting since realizing this. 

Although- the head chef, Nanami’s, veiled threat about turning him into pig feed the next time he heard stomping may have played a slight part in this, as well. 

And it was on such a day that Gojo found himself stationed to guard the inside of the royal drawing room. Spine ramrod straight, eyes flooded with steel while he took in the sight of you and that bastard- Naoya sketching the other in silence. 

It was a dainty, sunlit room, and the hours might have almost been peaceful - if it wasn’t for the split-haired bastard, that is. 

After that flower fiasco and a thorough telling off for misremembering the prince’s allergies, this was meant to make up for a “bonding activity” according to the king; which to him read more like a desperate attempt to push the two of you together before the grand ball tomorrow night. 

Gojo’s chest caves in with a sudden spike of pain, tomorrow night. Your engagement ball, where you will surely be handed off to a man who wouldn’t be worthy of you in a thousand different lives. 

Fuck, had it really been days since already?

It hurt too much, and so he looks towards the prince’s parchment- how insulting. Hundreds of royal art lessons, yet Naoya still couldn’t capture the exact curve of your smile. And those pretty crinkles by your eyes- they were entirely the wrong number! And Gojo’s sure that any fool could see the way your lips-

He was getting ahead of himself. And reminded embarrassingly of the hundreds of sketches of you over the years stowed away underneath his bed alongside a stubby piece of charcoal. 

And he was leaning over the prince in a way that he was sure would get him strung and quartered in the Zenin palace. Or, at least, that’s what Naoya’s daggered glare was telling him. 

With a sheepish smirk, Gojo snatches a glimpse at your artwork. Stifling a laugh at the way you’ve given up on drawing the other man and started engaging in idle scribblings of weasels and hollies. 

“That one looks like him, don’t you think?” He can’t help but whisper from the corner of his mouth, stomach swooping in delight as soon as your eyes light up. 

Tacking on a familiar hairstyle and sneer onto a particularly shoddy caricature of one of the weasels, giggling. “He does.”

Gojo points at another drawing - this time of a bullfrog- honestly, what interests for a princess. “And that’s-”

“That Jinichi.” You’re finishing off for him, carelessly drawing away a few more - quite frankly, Gojo finds everything you do beautiful, but these were appallingly ugly - scribbles of foxes and goats. “That one’s Oji Zenin, and that’s Gakuganji and that’s-”

“Ahem.”

There was only one person who could make the clearing of a throat sound so snobbish. And that was Naoya Zenin. 

Brows raised, feet tapping impatiently on polished marble as he snatches the parchment from your grip. 

Schwing–!

“Toru- no.” 

Gojo doesn’t even realize he’s pulling out his famed, silver sword until you’re stopping him with a hand to his tense bicep. Shit.

Growling through clenched teeth once more at Naoya while he nestles it back into its scabbard with unsteady fingers - only because you asked. 

But the other man doesn’t even flinch - wearing that perfect mask of regal stoicity, though Gojo manages to catch the way his eyes flicker nervously down at the hilt of his sword. Doesn’t show anything other than the tightening of his thin lips as he gazes upon your humorous drawings. 

The impatient tap! tap! tap! of his feet slowing down, stopping - before Naoya throws your paper down onto the floor and stomps. Gojo would’ve almost found it comedic if it hadn’t been for your startled demeanour.

“Excuse me-” He’s hissing, angling his broad body between you and this unseemly sight. Gojo looks dead-on into Naoya’s spit-fire red face, “-but I would have to hope not to remind a young prince of royal etiquette.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir’, your highness.”

Naoya looks up, death in his eyes.

Gojo thought this might be the end. The missed trip to the dungeons all those years ago was finally catching up to him, and he would be thrown in today for drawing his weapon on a royal but goddammit- if he wasn’t going to keep you safe from his ire for as long as he breathes and then some.

But - to both you and Gojo’s surprise, and perhaps even Naoya himself - he simply turns swiftly on his heels and walks out of the room. Letting the heavy double-doors SLAM! deafeningly behind him. 

It takes a beat. One. Two. 

He counts every raging ba-dump–! of his heart against this ribcage- before the terse silence shatters with laughter. 

“Toru- To- Satoru—!” You’re wiping away genuine tears, “‘No need to call me sir-’ where did you even come up with that-”

“Fuck! You can laugh but I thought I was headed to the gallows.” He’s exclaiming, and it was quite difficult to act as if your laugh wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d heard in his entire life. “Although- it would have been a killer last line. Wouldn’t it, my princess?”

The two of you stare at each other for one singular ba-dump–! Before bursting into peels of undignified cackles that could make an entire court shiver in scandal. 

“Killer- killer alright-” You’re rolling your watery eyes, “This is just as bad as the time you caught Yaga in his interpretive rain dance routine- I thought you were surely dead then.”

Please, Gojo’s stomach and his heart were hurting - though, for very different reasons. “Not as bad as when you wanted to play dress-up with the sacred royal crown and lost it.”

“Don’t remind me, my father was-” That’s when your tear-lathered lashes flutter, a hand coming up to swat softly against your cheek as if to jolt back your senses. You’re groaning over Gojo’s whine, “-my father. Oh no! What will he say about this?” You almost knock your cushy stool over with how fast you’re teetering into a stand, “I must go apologize to weasel- Naoya right away lest relations with the Zenins-”

“Let me.”

Your brows raise, “What?”

“Let me.” Gojo’s repeating, more firmly this time. Thumb grazing briefly down your knuckles as he pulls you back into your seat. 

Just for a split-second - like he couldn’t even think of letting himself touch such a precious treasure. 

He knows you will argue this, he knows your stupidly selfless self will fight to apologize; which is why before you can say a word, he’s marching hastily out of those same doors and towards the luxurious guest chambers. 

Truthfully, Gojo Satoru didn’t give a fuck about Naoya Zenin - but he’ll be damned if you, his beloved, was cast in a hameful light because of his childish actions. 

He has to do something for you, while he still can. While he still has you. While he can still love you.

The corridors are winding, decadent. He takes a deep breath when nearing the slightly-open gilded door of the Zenin suite, that distinctly nasally tone of Naoya drifting in conversation from within. Shuddering in a deep breath, “Pardon m-”

“-drew me as a weasel!” The prince bursts, fury seeping into every hard syllable of his. Gojo stills where he stands outside, hand on the cool metallic doorknob. “I have never met such a vulgar, unrefined-”

“Oh, do bear it until the engagement Naoya.” The gruff voice of a man responds - and he recognizes it from all the recent chiding at palace staff to be the prince’s cousin, Jinichi Zenin. “After that ya can take your time breaking ‘er in.”

What? 

“A boor telling me to break in a wench.” The younger man scoffs, though he sounds much calmer than just moments before. 

Gojo thinks he could throw up all over the gleaming floors, he thinks he wants to keel over and beg at the king’s feet to keep this from happening to you. He thinks he just might. 

But right now, he can’t bring his feet to move a single inch. Pressing himself up closer against the adjacent patterned wall, sharp ear yearning for more shards of the conversation. 

“They’re all the same anyways.” Says Jinichi, “Just give ‘er something sparkly or flowery and keep her sated. Don’t want another one running off before you can dig your claws into the crown, now, do we?”

And perhaps he’s a hopeless fool for praying that Naoya might say something - anything - else. Wishing for the non-existent good in your soon-to-be fiancé, who only grits out a displeased, “Fine. Only because I want to see her pretty lil’ face when I break her to my will.” There’s the sound of urgent footsteps, “But if father doesn’t give me the throne for my efforts then I’m killing her and you, you brute.”

Stood stock still.

Gojo doesn’t think he could move even if he wanted to - and right now, ice-cold spikes of anger were the only thing latching him rooted to the spot, not even flinching once Naoya closes the door behind him and walks- seeing him. 

His jaw clenches, eyes harrowing. “You.” 

And Naoya had very clearly taken the opportunity to arm himself in his family chamber, because his spindly fingers itch towards the hilt of his dangerously glinting sword. Just seconds away from-

“Please.” 

Gojo drops onto one knee, the tendons of his neck aching with how far downwards he had it bent into a pitiful bow. “I ask his highness to please let the princess go- to call off this impending engagement. I- I will bear the brunt of committing an offense, and will gladly take any punishment that is bestowed upon me. I just please beg of you to-”

“The same hand.”

“What?” Gojo forces himself to look up with tear-filled eyes, to face the prince squarely in his chestnut gaze. His delighted chestnut gaze. 

Pointing towards his right hand, “The same hand you were to raise your sword at me, the same hand you used to put that wretched toxic flower crown on me-” And then his blade, “-I order you to repent.”

The other man breathes, “Repent…”

“Repent.” Naoya stands up taller, perhaps the most self-confident that Gojo has ever seen him. A barbarous curl of his lips starting to form, “Repent, and I shall consider ending my engagement with the princ-”

CRUNCH!

Pain. Blinding pain was all that Gojo could feel, and…relief. 

He couldn’t even register the steady trickle of warm crimson on his skin and onto the floor in rose-like splotches - even though he could see it through bleary eyes. Head still spinning to catch up with the nanosecond events of drawing his sword and slicing a wide gash down his forearm. 

Through half-lidded eyes, he puts back his bloodied blade into the scabbard and looks up at the stricken prince. 

Repentance. 

“So you love her.” Is all that Naoya hisses. And Gojo can’t lie, nor can he muddy your name. 

So he simply waits quietly, silence speaking enough for eons. Waiting for you to be set free. And if he tried, he could even manage a smile-

Sniffing insolently - though, it sounded more like a snicker. “How valiant, for a low-born.” All that is said before he spits furiously at Gojo’s feet and breezes past in a swish of capes - as if nothing ever happened. “I might even invite you to the princess and I’s wedding ceremony.”

.

.

.

In a palace of thousands, it was only Gojo Satoru that could manage to stand out. 

None of the royal jesters could make the court laugh quite as loud. None of the other knights - no matter how muscled, or chivalrous - could make the ladies-in-waiting swoon just as much. And none of the other reputable men could make you seek him out in every chamber, state room, or training ground just like this.  

It was strange not to see even the barest glimpse of Gojo for an entire day, and the palace didn’t quite feel like a home without him.

“I’m telling you, Nobara–” You’re wheezing out in condensed puffs as your eager right-hand attendant continues mercilessly tightening away the undergarments of your ballgown. “Something’s probably happened to him or-”

“-or he’s being locked up for offending some uppity duke.” She’s rolling her honeypool eyes, one of the few who wasn’t afraid to express themselves this way in front of you. Flitting about the opulent dressing room you rarely liked to use, “You know how that eugh- Gojo is.”

“Which is precisely why I’m worried.”

Honestly, you didn’t even care for a grand ball when you didn’t know where your best friend was. Whether he was in the dungeons or…worse. 

But Nobara wasn’t here to hear you ramble about Gojo Satoru - you oftentimes got the impression that he irritated her too much for her own liking - she was here to doll you up in costly pale blue silks and muslins that draped off of you prettier than a painting. 

And you felt dizzy by the time she let you be escorted off towards the emanating music of the ballroom - with an excited goodbye and a reluctant promise to keep an eye out for Gojo. 

Hair done more intricately than you could’ve even imagined, your jewelry caught every light in the room, a bejeweled flower tiara weighing heavily on your head. Adorning your face in a crown that reminded you of the one Gojo had made you only a few days ago. 

It was almost a struggle to keep your face held high as you took the first few steps down the winding imperial staircase. To the ball. 

You have to stop yourself from tilting your head down at the thrumming masses of decadently dressed-up nobles and clinking champagne to check whether Gojo was hidden away somewhere down there. 

Manners. Posture. Eye contact. 

It was all painfully practised, and so was the tightening of your features as your own father started reading off your introduction. He never took on this task - what was happening?

“And now, for the most important guest of all-” Booming voice thundering in your ears almost as loud as your heartbeat was. The king addresses the congregation in the middle of the dancefloor, more ruler than father at this point. “-my daughter, princess of our beloved kingdom. And the queen of the next!”

Your hand stills where it had been helping you balance in your heels down the stairway- what?

Thankfully, your father carries on - or rather, not thankfully, considering what his next words are. 

“Yes, my people, this may come as a surprise to you all.” He chuckles above the deafening murmurs, and you slowly find yourself scurrying onto the raised platform your father’s throne was seated on. “But tonight is not only a simple celebration of our nation, it’s a celebration of love. Of two nations.”

There’s a beat of silence as he reaches out a withered hand to you, and you find yourself wordlessly taking it. 

“F-father, what-” you whisper, but there’s no response. Your skin bristles with goosebumps, and you’re not sure whether it’s from the summer breeze wafting from the gardens, or from the speech’s implications.

Letting yourself be pulled right into the middle of the stage,right into the spotlight - where Naoya Zenin was waiting for you. Dressed in his finest suit of white silk, adorned with layers upon layers of military accolades and velvety medals. 

The bright, blazing light of the chandelier was scorching, and your hands clench in unease. What was happening?

“That is right, my people.” The king drags your hand up to mesh in an entwinement with Naoya’s clammy ones, holding it up for the eager public to see. “After much consideration and forethought, our royal families have decided that today my daughter is the beloved princess of our nation. But tomorrow, she will be the future queen of the Zenin kingdom.”

There’s cheering - but you can’t hear any of it. In fact, the entire world could be falling upon you and you don’t think you would have noticed. 

All you can feel is the queasy churning of your stomach, and the stern whisper of Naoya’s voice against your ear. Fingers tightening around your own, bruisingly. “Dance with me before I break this pretty hand, princess.”

You’re like a ragdoll, being puppeteered in a rigid beeline onto the dance floor. 

If it wasn’t for one of Naoya’s hands bracing onto your waist, you wouldn’t even have realized that the royal orchestra had started up a gorgeous waltz. A slow, romantic melody that you might’ve otherwise loved if you weren’t trapped in the arms of a fiancé you never asked for. 

“Looking pretty out of it there, princess.” The prince sneers after a few practised motions of your dance, making your dazed eyes stray from the swooning crowd and onto his pointed features. 

And despite it all, you can’t help but feel betrayed. You thought that the two of you might have rapport at your obligation, if nothing else. “You- you didn’t even tell me. An entire engagement and you didn’t even bother to-”

“As a husband, I don’t owe my tch- wife anything.” His nose crinkles at your wandering eyes, the way your feet itched ever-closer to the surrounding people rather than the dancefloor. “Wishing it was someone else dancing with you?”

“Yes.” You’re spitting out before you can stop, trying oh-so-hard not to let your face twist into even a semblance of the fury steeped inside of you. “Anyone but a husband that I never wanted and never will want.”

“As if you deserve any bett-”

Your nails dig into one set of his fingers enough to engrave deep craters, almost enough to make him bleed. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on Earth.” 

Naoya seems stunned for a few seconds - but, alas, just when you’re hoping that you’ve shut him up for good, you’re faced with the fact that the universe isn’t that kind to you.

“You mean you would marry the tch- low-born.” He pulls you into an incredibly rough twirl when the music crescendos, pulling you even closer. It’s all you can do to not fight his grip- “I’m not below finishing off his other hand if that’s what it takes to break you.”

“What are you even talking about?”

Each word jagged. “The knight. You love him, don’t act stupid.” 

Raising your chin in defiance, “So what?” And just as much as confusion filled you, as did panic. Because Naoya’s grip was only getting firmer, his moves much harsher. Opening his mouth to spit out- 

“Pardon me, your highnesses.” A deep bass cuts in, startled- you almost give yourself whiplash peering up into those fathomless mahogany eyes. Yaga’s thin brows furrowing into something heavily-set, “May I cut in for a dance with the princess?”

You don’t wait for an answer from Naoya - and neither does Commander Yaga. Swiftly sweeping you into his engulfing embrace as the orchestra changes into something slightly more upbeat. 

Dressed in a thick suit adorned with even more medals than Naoya - ones you knew for sure were real, unlike his. And you couldn’t help but wonder just how good Gojo would look with his own.

“So…” Yaga starts, once more couples join the floor and his words can’t be heard over the shuffling of feet by anyone other than you. His calloused hands let you lead him through a waltz much more mellow than what Naoya had with you. You always did think that the leader of your knights was a gentle giant. “Begging you to forgive my indiscretion, ma’am but ah- trouble in paradise?”

“Trouble in hell, as expected.” You’re shuddering, gaze bouncing off of any flash of sapphire blue around the room. 

The man in front of you nods gravely, “Right right. I might not be a married man, but even I know that times like these often call for a walk in the lilac garden. You know, to- ah, clear your head.”

Quirking a brow, you stare at him. “What?”

And oh, Yaga simply looked like all the gold in the world couldn’t pay him enough for this. 

“Times like these-” He’s emphasizing, boring deeply into your eyes as if to mean every syllable to strike your very core. And it does. You don’t know why, but it does. “-call for a walk in the lilac garden.”

Oh.

“Oh.” 

Yaga’s lips twitch upwards into an almost-smile, and his rumbling voice is soft for the next few words. “Go, your highness.”

So you do.

You’re realizing, with an ache of such gentle appreciation, that the commander had danced you two until you were practically teetering on the massive veranda. Open to the garden; where every prim hedge, bush, and tree was gorgeously decorated until your eyes sparkled. 

Your breath bates…a choice. Head turning back to the luxuries of a royal ball that was none-the-wiser. 

Then, with a brief hug you bully Yaga into, you run - as much as the delicate heels digging into your feet would allow. Faster. 

If this was any other time, you might’ve felt disappointed at how you weren’t even stopping to admire the beauty of the moonlight-bathed garden. But right now, your heart was only pounding to go faster and faster. 

Nothing else mattered. 

Gojo was leaning on one pillar of the same white gazebo - and he was beautiful. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was a faerie of the night. 

Just a lone, tall silhouette that you could recognize so well; azure eyes twinkling, ivory strands of his hair shimmering with the silvery blue of the moon swimming amongst a dark sky. One he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of until he jolts his head towards the sharp snap! of a twig underneath your rapid feet.

“My…my princess.” He falls onto one knee. 

It all comes out in a whisper - as if Gojo had dreamed of this moment so many repeated times before and wasn’t sure if this was a dream, too.

“Satoru-!”

It wasn’t.

Gojo stands up to embrace you like it’d be the last time he ever would, like you were the one thing connecting him to this life and he was a dying man desperate to breathe. 

Strong arms winding around your waist, you’re pushed against one of the closed-off walls of the gazebo before you can even realize it. Arching off of the cool wooden surface and into his blistering heat. Into every ravenous, panted-out cloud of breath against your ear, “You came.”

He sounded pained. And you were sure you did just as much when you’re whimpering, “You disappeared.”

Gojo lets off a choked-up noise that could’ve been anything from affirmation to blatant shock. Half-lidded eyes boring deeply into yours, he shrugs off the jacket on his non-dominant arm to you with a low bow. 

“May I have this dance, my princess?”

You’re gasping at the sight of starchy white bandages around his other hand, fingers hesitantly falling into Gojo’s heated flesh. “S-Satoru, what happened ah-”

But he drifts you gently into a soundless dance, the distant crickets and swish! of lilac branches your only tune. 

And you never even understood just how much Gojo was a part of your life until he was moving through the exact same steps of waltzing that you’d learned growing up. The exact same once that you used to force him to sit through.

“I thought you were here because you read my letter.” Gojo mutters, lips so close now that they grazed the sensitive shell of your ear. 

You’re having trouble finding your voice, “What letter?” 

“The- the one that I left-” Just for you. His long lashes flutter open in shock, features contorted into something almost devastated. You wonder what made him feel this way. “-the one that I left in your chambers- about the- the prince, and the engagement and-”

“I got prepared for the ball in the dressing room today, I didn’t go to my room.” You’re continuing, voice small. Scared. “Satoru…you knew about the engagement?”

And Gojo’s voice told you everything you needed to know.

You feel your angry flare up hot and red, fists curling into Gojo’s delicate lapels. But that only proves to inch him even closer and make you sound much more breathless than you intended, “You knew about it and- and you didn’t even think to give me a hint that I was being carted off like a prize for some pompous asshat?”

He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, lips still so pink in the night, wobbling. “I…I couldn’t let you be married, I just couldn’t. I would give my life if it meant you get the freedom to choose who you wanted.” Your dance had stalled, and you almost feel disappointed. “But I’m a coward, and this-” Gojo throws his hands across, voice hitching, “-sneaking around, hiding, running away is the only way I could ever-”

“You should have told me. Not just in the letter.” You’re insisting, running your hands through your hair. Suddenly, something strikes you, “That arm- it’s because of Naoya, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t even have the energy to protest, and that only spurs you on even more. “I-I could have talked to my father- maybe the council and we could have made it so that…”

“So that what?” Gojo’s voice hardens as much as it could with you, which wasn’t very much at all. His fists clench and unclench at his sides like it was taking everything in him to not just…“So that you can be the laughingstock of the kingdom when you marry a low-born knight?”

He was right. They would never accept him, no matter how much you did.

You’re rendered speechless, shivering at the way he rubs his wet eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, I don’t want you- I need you.” And he was so beautiful like this, just centimeters away from you in the escape of the night. “I need you. I need you, I need you- I need you more than the sun above my head, and the air that I breathe, my princess. You have bewitched me, and I am yours. But you cannot be mine-”

You breathe out, “Satoru…”

“-and maybe in another life-”

“Maybe in this one.”

Soft hands rover their way onto the sides of your arms, and Gojo shakes you feebly as if to snap you out of this hypnosis and urge you to run. Eyes wide, yearning. “I have always been yours, body and soul.”

You always have wondered whether there was a method to shut Gojo Satoru up. And, right now, you think you may have found the perfect answer. 

Because his entire towering figure just melts into your touch the very second you press your lips onto Gojo’s plump ones. Soft. Velvety. 

His nostrils flare through a breathy sigh when you tilt your head mere sultry degrees to deepen the kiss. You were addicted to the honey-coated taste of him, the flat drag of his scratchy tastebuds rolling over your loosening maw. 

“Ngh- my princess…” He’s puncturing your kisses with kiss after sloppy kiss, heavy hands wrapping around your body to wrangle you flush against his hardened ones. And you could count every glissade of his washboard abs through that thin poet’s blouse, “I love you.”

You’re not sure if it’s a fragment of your imagination, or- it’s not. 

Gojo manhandles you - and himself - to sit on the opulent gazebo bench with you plopped into his manspread lap, without breaking the kiss for a split-second. Because it hurt to part from your pretty, candied lips, to let those slippery strings of saliva break in the clouded air between you two.

Even if it was to purr out—

“I love you I love you I love you-” The straight edges of his pearly white teeth sinking into your lower lip, groaning from the back of his throat. And your jittery legs shift needily on his warm, meaty thighs, “-I love you.”

“Satoru—” Just about the only thing that you can say right about now, your tone resounds in Gojo’s ears and makes him grunt. Your fingers tangle into his cushy locks, “T-touch me.”

He snickers, one hand clawing onto the crown of your sweat-dampened scalp and wrenching your face away until you’re huffing and puffing cutely for more. “Mmm, how about we use those princess-y manners of yours, hm?”

“Please-”

“Louder.”

“Please.”

“Harlot.” Gojo slides in a looong few digits past those impossibly endless skirts of yours, making your thighs dampen with treacly webs of needy slick. Letting those doughy fingerpads fringe over the covered mound of your pussy, just the very edges. “That was my f-first kiss, y’know?”

He had been hopelessly saving it for you, after all. 

Your eyes roll all the way to the back of your weighted lids as soon as he teases you, mewling. “Was mine too, so we’re even-” Your hips shift in a lazy back n’ forth on top of his heated core, “-just- just want you to touch me.”

“I dunno…” Gojo drawls - drunken. And you feel the edges of his kiss-bitten lips warp around the very tip of your plummy tongue to suck on like his favorite gummy candy, “Wanna kiss my princess just a lil’ bit more.”

Panting, “K-kiss?”

“Mhm.” 

Your eyes shutter in a heady blink, oh-so-cutely ready to crash back into a filthy, filthy French kiss once more, Gojo pulls away-

A noise of disappointment fresh on your lips and just about to spill out, before he lifts you up easily with only a single beefy hand underneath your body. Splaying you out on the sprawling wooden table right beside you, your back hits the ice-cold surface and makes you gasp into the crisp night air.

The lecherous sound of it almost as loud as the sudden clack! of Gojo’s knees collapsing down onto the floor. Your face contorts into a wince because surely it sent a stinging pain up his legs?

“M’quite used to being on my knees for you, my princess.”

But he didn’t seem to care - didn’t even seem to notice when he was much more enamored with the heavenly sight down there.

“These lips-” He smears away your lacy layers upon layers, budging up to nuzzle the soft skin of your inner thighs. And shit- the filmy glaze over his eyes told you that Gojo doesn’t even realize the way his bubblegum pink tongue lolls out over the splotchy spatters of your juices. “-were tellin’ me they feel a little…left out.”

Your mouth waters with a syrupy lamination of saliva as soon as his murked breath strikes your cunt. And the drag of his rumbling bass is so delicious – you couldn’t help but imagine just how it would feel on you.

“Just- just get it on with it-” you’re hissing, fingers latching onto a few thick locks of ivory to drudge him ever-closer. 

“Impatient.”

As if Gojo himself wasn’t impatient. 

As if he wasn’t just leaking out thick wads of drool from the parted sides of his twisted grin at just the thought of tasting you. Sliding the pointed tip of his button nose languidly up the crevice of your puffed-up slit, he breathes you in and feels his cock twitch-

“Oh, princess.” Gojo can’t move, he can’t breathe if it wasn’t around your needy cunt right now. He’s ignoring those shooting bites of pain up the sides of his arm to tug on your useless garments.

Pulling- shit, he always did fucking hate how many layers you royalty had to wear. 

Pulling and pulling until the slow trawl of your undergarments by his nimble fingers wasn’t enough, and he just had to lunge his cottony head over to plummet his pearly whites into your panties and rip—!

A proper, gaping hole where your teary pussy was- and you looked even more gorgeous down there than he could’ve imagined.

Gojo’s face was blank, eyes wide and locked right at your geysering orifice like a man starved. For eons it felt like, until you were bucking up with pure need.

You’re humming in concern, struggling up onto your elbows to stare down at him. “Sa…Toru?”

And at your pretty voice, Gojo twitches. He gasps - full-bodied, like you’d just sent a zillion volts of shock down his sloped spine just by speaking to him. And he was well and fully intent on acting on it-

“Princess…princess princess princess—” Leaking from between his lips like he couldn’t stop, he hits the cute target of your cunt instantaneously with a fat thud of spittle, one. Two. Three, until your entrance was overflooding. He’s drawling the plummy end of his spit-glossed maw across your folds, “Oh, my princess. Just look at you.”

You feel his mess drool off the side of your plumpened pussylips and smear all across your peaked clit with only a simple touch of Gojo’s round-ended thumb. 

Just down-right filthy when he crashes forward to slot the curvaceous nub of his sweltering hot tongue over the brim of your hole. Drawing all over that snug orifice with slow patterns round n’ round-

“Toru–!” It’s the only thing you know at this point. “Toru.”

“Whaaat? Jealous, my princess?” The words clang in your head- and the realization hits you at the same moment Gojo’s thickly viscous swab of spit does on your own tongue. A soft nudge at your slackened chin urging you to swallow-

And he can’t waste a second, can’t spend even a mere moment away from his favorite spot between your legs. Because now that Gojo got a taste, he wants alllll of it.

Stumbling back down in haste to plant so many uncountable smooches on your bawling pussy folds. Skimming his tastebuds just along your quivering hole.

“Shit- shiiiit–” When you’d heard court ladies giggling about this, you didn’t think it would feel this good. Or maybe that’s just because it was Gojo stuffing himself impossibly deeper between your legs. “M-more, Toru–”

Your voice was cracking just as much as his fucking sanity was. 

Trilling out into frenzied shrills when Gojo swerves his eager thumb to pry open your gluey folds even further and give your fattened clit a flick!

You swear you feel Gojo depart his jaw with a giggle when your hips are bucking up pliably off the splintered table and into the bustling hot cavern of his mouth. More. “Easy there, your royal highness-”

“D-don’t call me that–” You’re whimpering, fingers tugging on Gojo’s bangs in some form of retaliation. But, of course it backfires on you just as soon as the force makes your knight moan.

“Wasn’t calling you that.” Gojo rolls his eyes, and your heart races in anticipation when the pointed edge of his chin strikes the drowned ends of your cunt. Lathering his pretty features in all the collective beads of slick raining fountaining out of you. His summer blue eyes flick downwards - and you can’t help but follow. “Was talking to her. Isn’t that right?”

Fuck.

You were fucked. 

And you were losing your mind when Gojo drags you roughly towards the edge of the table with only an ounce of his strength. Mouth making out greedily, heels digging into the fleshy mounds of his back, you can only sob and beg for more more more-

“S’fuckin’ chattier than my girl.” He’s nodding along with every saturated squelch after squelch! resonating in his eardrums - as if it was a full-on conversation with your noisy pussy. “Let’s hope that fiancé of yours doesn’t hah- f-fucking hear.”

But Gojo was acting like he wanted him to.

“Hope the- the king doesn’t find his princess bein’ eaten out by- ngh- a knight.” Barrelling long, slender inches of his index and pointer past your tight ring of mushy muscle. 

Your head throws back when he digs into the velvety depths of your pussy with just a single quirk-

“O-oh my god, Satoru–” You’re gasping in the flowery night air, tummy aching with every pump deeper because he was just so close to where you wanted him. “More- j-just a bit more.”

And yet, he acts like he doesn’t even hear you right now. 

Cupping over one massive palm over his ear and drifting ever-closer, “Wha’s that? C-can’t hear ya, girl- ngh ya gotta be- louder.”

Louder and louder he was getting with the vulgarly fast thrust graced upon your gummy walls. The sound only makes him giggle all drunk on you, “What’s that? Here? That turn you on? Hmmm…”

And just when you’re letting your vision blur with stars- just when you think it couldn’t get any better-

“Mmmm– wan’ another taste-” 

It’s the last thing your ringing ears hear before Gojo’s lurching forwards and burying his nose into your sensitive clit to give your overstuffed entrance a leeengthy lick. Right at the very split-second the globular edges of his digits scratch at that magical spot. 

“W-woah.” Your head snaps up blearily to steal a glimpse at what had Gojo Satoru’s voice so airy n’ cracking in awe. 

Only to see him fluttering his lathered lashes, the slick-gleaming apples of his cheeks blushing. Like some maiden in love. “Got even wetter f’me, your highness.” He’s breathing out, spitting out another voluminous cobweb of drivel and watching the way it sliiides across with the ribbons of slick pouring out of you. “Ohhhh, even b-better than any candy- better than a-any dessert.”  

You yelp when one rugged and grabs a rough handful of your ass and latches his lips even sloppier against your hole. “T-Toru your arm!”

“Oh? This?” He’s glancing down at the bandages as if he’d forgotten they were ever there. “S’nothing for your- hah- personal knight. Doesn’t even hurt, I’d- I’d rather die than let a stupid injury get in the way of what I’ve been dreaming of for aaaages.”

The dual points of pleasure make your toes curl, every part of your body shaking-

Gojo was out of control now. Crazed.

High-pitched bouts of giggles escaping him, muffling around where his candy-glazed cerise lips were latched around your clit and sucking. He makes sure to hold fatal eye contact while he hollows out his scorching cheeks and drags the fleshy nub. 

 “M-making out with your pussy- your pretty, pretty pussy, my princess.” Your heartbeat echoes in rapid staccato with the vicious thud! thud! thud! of his neatly crowned fingertips pecking your g-spot. Each of his puffed-out gruffs making your tongue loosen in a please, “Making you s-so loud, making you feel so good.”

And without even realizing it, he’s rovering the papping brims of his fingers to give your clit a spank. Letting the syrupy beads slide allll the way down his tongue - letting you watch. 

“S’all me.” Gojo slurs out. “Me- me me me me–” Steady rivulets of slick bubbling from the edges of his tongue when his sinful motions get faster. Harder. “Gonna ask who m-made you feel this way n’ it’s me. Your Satoru.”

More ravenous. 

Swirling around slow probes of his sensory tips, it glazes his skin all the way down to his knobbly wrist in a thick coat of sap. Memorizing every gooey ridge and crevice inside your tight channel - shit, Gojo feels his ruddied tip spurt out a jetstream of buttery pre in his pants. 

He thinks he might just burst in his pants if you don’t finish right this second. 

But luckily - or unluckily - for him, you do. Right this very second, after being wrung dry underneath only a few more lapping slashes of his ferocious tongue, tweaking your buttony clit until you cum.

And oh, you’re so pretty when you do.

Your head throwing back with a broken moan of Toru–! It takes every ounce of trained will in his drunken body to not break off from your gooey pussy and watch the way your beautiful face twists. 

Fucked out.

“O-oh, shit–” You’re practically sobbing at this point, wrist aching with just how hard you were pushing Gojo’s readily used face into your fluttering core. Your vision blurs with sparks n’ stars, “-H-how are you so good. Unfair, unfair—”

Babbling away such nonsense with that smart mouth of yours, Gojo thinks he sees utter heaven when your hot juices flood inside his mouth in generous heaps.

Lugging down an open palm underneath his chin to greedily collect the leaking beads that sprinkly in a shiny sheen off of his chin, he finds himself moaning. “Shhh, your knight’s here. Give it t’me– use me, my princess.”

And use him you were. 

Riding out each white-hot peak of your high with slobbering grinds all across Gojo’s beautiful features. Your clit catches on the poking ridges of his mouth and nose and you squeal- “Ngh- b-better when you’re shut up like th-this, Satoru–”

Just for that, he’s spanking your goopy pussy thoroughly. 

All the way until those shots of electricity down your bowed spine are nothing more but prickly tingles, all the way until your thundering ears calm down and you can hear each damp thwack!

All the way until your high has bated and yet, Gojo is still snogging each swollen fold of your pussy like a feast. “M’sensitive–” You sniffle, and he doesn’t even seem to hear you. “Fuh-fuck, Toru, keep doing that n’ m’not gonna let you ngh fuck me.” 

That’s what finally gets his attention. 

You can feel your lips burst with a slight giggle when all it takes is a quick nanosecond for Gojo’s plumpened mouth to jerk away from your cunt with the snap! of wiry slick.

Scrambling onto unsteady feet, he’s teetering over the edge of the wood ever-so-slightly. Muscular body casting a shadow on yours, and you think he’s never looked sexier.

Fawny strands of frosty white curtaining Gojo’s half-lidded eyes, thick thighs pressing against yours shivering; and even from your position homed towards the end of the table, your eyes catch sight of such a massively outlined bulge. 

Staggering. 

One that made your hands ghost down Gojo’s tensed abs, and he’s throwing his perspiration-dampened head with a whine. 

“Need you, Satoru–” You’re managing out, strangled and messy. You’re sure you sound just as yearning as you feel. Fingers tug-tug-tugging impatiently on his gauzy clothes, “Want- you- out of these-” 

And whatever the princess wants, the princess gets. 

It’s as if on command - Gojo’s shedding his billowy shirt like it burned him. And very, very soon were his snug pants to follow, your layers, his sanity-

“Hngh- please.” He’s gruffing out, flinching just as soon as you cup his cheeks to smear away the remaining traces of slick glimmering on top of his blushing skin. Your touch was electric. Tonality painfully hoarse, “Let me fuck you- wanted it for so long. Let me fuck you please.”

Your drenched pussylips stream out a damp spot right across where you could feel his inflated vein poke between your folds. And he felt so…long. “Yes- yes, please.”

Getting the princess to say please?

He’s nodding his head shakily - Gojo could pass out, he could cu- 

Oh, just a few taps of his mushroom tip on the outer edges of your pussy and he spots something creamy topping over your mound like icing. Sweat-slicked brows furrowing, Gojo nudges in even closer to where pooling splotches of cum pours from the strawberry pink divot right in the middle of his head.

He’s cumming and he couldn’t stop. 

Couldn’t do anything but whine at the tender bolts of bliss aching all the way from his toes to his fuzzy head.

“S-Satoru did you just-”

“Shut up.” Oh, you would have his head later for this. “Shut up- shut up and just…”

N’ so he curls a hand at his bulky base and draws out a thick swab at the torrents of seed decorating your cute cunt. Making sure the milky sap formulated a glossy cap on his crownhead, before pushing rigorously in-

“F-f-fuuuuck–” he keens out, a thin line of sweat trekking down the side of his temples. And if he pushed just an inch further, Gojo could feel his hooded eyes well up with fucking tears- “Tight so tight s-sooo hot- so…”

You’re mewling, “Deeper- c-c’mon.”

He was fucking you like he didn’t even realize it - like he was enchanted by each mindless rut pulled from the carnal depths of his hips. 

Two warm hands latch on in a vice-like grip on the delicious curve of your hips, and he’s holding your body still and pushing and pushing and pushing-

“Sh-shit!” Gojo’s voice pitches up embarrassingly high at the end of his slew of swears, buttering up your insides in a muggy few ribbons of pre in response. “But s-so tight- dunno if it’ll even…even fit.”

He sounded hypnotized. 

“Are you- ngh! are you alright, Satoru?” You’re musing out, eyes glassy with a solid combination of lust and utter concern. Before you know it, your hand is reaching out to stroke the ba-dump–! thudding against his pecs.

“No.”

And it takes only the slightest graze of your doughy fingerpads against his flaming hot skin, the slightest touch from you before Gojo rudely swats your hand away and bottoms out-

You don’t even know what you were mad at- were you mad?

You really can’t even remember. Not when the crowned tip of Gojo’s incredible length was planting a sweet peck right into the sponged ends of your cervix, the entirety of his shaft spearheading you so deep that you think he might just be fucking into your lungs. 

So big that he didn’t even have to try to rub the puffy zig-zag of his veins along your sweetest spots, even the most minute gyrations made your toes curl. 

Splitting you apart. Stroking the weepy base of your slit with the hot, rounded sack of his breeder balls so right that it made you putty in his hands.

“Don’t t-touch me, my princess.” Gojo’s nuzzling his tear-stuck cheek against your own, you could feel the warble of his unsteady confessions. “Don’t touch me or I’ll…I’ll cum.”

And when has Gojo Satoru ever lied to you? Well, the upturned jolt of his split-ended tip right into the target of your mushy cervix told you that he wasn’t.

Gojo’s sinking down the edges of his teeth into his wobbly lower lip, he’s forcing his eyes to narrow down n’ obscure his crystal clear image of you to stop himself from cumming. 

“So beautiful, can’t help it–” His breath hitches once he’s pushing apart your trembly thighs and stretching them over the two ends of his broad shoulders. Your ankles pitching down onto the rippling plush of his toned deltoids. “So perfect.”

“S-sweet-talker.” You whisper, mouth as dry as the Sahara with how his thick circumference was stretching out your rubbery walls until they were seering. 

But if Gojo heard then he didn’t snap back - he was too pussydrunken to.

Moving on instinct, on that carnal twinge inside his brain that forced his powerful limbs to lock your ankles with one hand behind his head. To brace an engulfing palm right beside your head and lower himself down, down, down into a-

A mating press. 

Gojo Satoru had you in a fucking mating press.

“So mine.”

And he was pounding all his aching inches into you like it would be the last time. Like he was mazing through your adhesive-like walls and plummeting the leaky end of his cock to knock against your very womb. 

Gojo’s nose crinkles at the sheer warmth you were coating him in, dripping fresh slathers of slick in rings ‘round his hilt. He shivers as it drools down his tight balls, “I’m…I’m really fucking you- ngh! I’m fucking you, my princess.”

“Yes- yes yes yes—” Your mouth parts ajar, and you don’t know what it floods more with - your pathetic whines, or saliva. Coating a treacly river from each curl of your lips, “More. More, Toru.”

Oh.

You might have just broken him with that. 

Even through your fucked-out stupor, you’re gaping at the way that the hand beside your head curls into an unyielding fist. It has to.

Otherwise, Gojo’s plump cockhead would be sugarcoating your sloppy hole in much more than just copious amounts of sticky precum. He would’ve cum.

“M-more?” You hear from above you, your knight’s bulging pecs vibrating with the plea. Oh, was it a plea - strained, shaking. Gojo sounded as if he was two seconds away from simply bursting into crazed laughter, “More…more. My princess wants- fuck! More?”

Fat ends of his fingers lock around the sides of your cheeks and force you into such an unladylike pout. “Say it- say it, little royal.”

“Shit!” Your core arches up into his hardened one, just as Gojo knew it would when angling his hips juuust right to give your bulging g-spot a long, hard swipe. Your throbbing clit scratching against his pale happy trail. “Yes- ngh yes I want more. Want more, Satoru!”

More. 

And more was exactly what you were going to get. More than you could handle.

Your thighs ache with the struggle to stay open when Gojo tightens his lock around your ankles. Gruffing out a tight, “Take it then.”

He was so sexy, the swelling flex of his biceps enough to make your pussy drool and him slip n’ slide pliantly. Jackhammering away rugged pumps that you feel all the way in your leaden throat.

Your most favorite spots are so bruised that they’re almost tender, curling the base of your spine with tendrils of bliss that make you yelp.

“O-ohhh my god—” The side of his neck dampens as you’re leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that make the man pinning you down shiver. His sculpted abs twinging with every massage down your front, “Just like that, a-always wanted to fuck you, Toru–”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Gojo hiccups, the expression upon his features plain pained. Voice dipping into a whine, “Don’t know what y-you’re doing t’me.”

But now that you were babbling away, you couldn’t stop. Not even when he’s speeding up his vigorous cadence until the globes of your ass are left stinging, “M’serious– I always wanted-”

“Shut up shut up- shut up- my princess.” You don’t think that either of you were even lucid at this point, and every pap! of skin-on-skin is followed by the screeching creak of the table below you. Gojo rolls his eyes down at you fondly, “Gotta m-make you cum so you can shut up.”

Otherwise you were going to drive him wild until there’s no turning back.

Before you can let off a moan - or fervently agree - he thumbs over the perked hood of your clit. Drawing- circles? Hearts? No, his own name. 

A tedious little S-A-T-O-R-U that makes your gushing walls clench oh-so-tightly around his sweltering length. Tummy tightening into something so close to shattering. 

And Gojo was rough. Snickering at the way you whine, spilling out wadded volumes of spittle between your parted lips. He breathes, “Gonna make you cum- g-gonna make my princess cum.” You swear he nods down at your pussy and grins, “G-gotta be a good girl f’me, m’kay? Gonna be a good- girl- and…”

His hips slap sloppily against yours, overworked thumb stuttering on a swooping U over your sensitive nub. And the tension in the air pulls tight, tight, tight like the most delicate of strings, before crashing- “-cum.”

You don’t know who cums first - you or Gojo. 

All you know is that as soon as your mind explodes with bursts of bliss - his poor cock does, as well. 

Head toppling backwards, overfilled pussy slopping out waterfalls of sweet, sweet juices, it’s all you can do not to sob. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck-” Your nails rake red, red lines all down his expansive back. Pulling him in even closer until all he can manage are dirty lil’ half-thrusts to pound you through your high. “M’cumming, Toru-”

“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s stuttering wetly, sloppily. Pushing the fat battering of his fountaining orifice into the groove of your g-spot over n’ over n’ over. You didn’t know how anything could feel so good. “N’ who made you cum, hm? Who’s f-fucking this pretty pussy, hm?”

“You-” You’re prattling, “You, Satoru.”

“Fuck.” Gojo gapes in wide-eyed craze, breath hitching when you lean over to drag your tongue over the sappy trickle of drool escaping his rose-red lips. “G-gonna make me cum again, swear-”

And he does.

“Can- can we hold hands while I hck! fuck you through your high, my princess?” He bats his lashes, a delicate blush taking over the tips of Gojo’s ears when you lace your fingers together. 

You can feel the splat! of even more heavy seed hitting the bottom of your pussy, swashing a warm second coating to your elastic walls every time Gojo thrusts. He was so solidly inside. Pinpointing specks of pure white with each swab. 

So full. So much of his voluminous ounces that it’s taken to tipping over from between your pussylips and forming a creamy puddle below you. You’re slipping all over it with every slither of Gojo’s cock.

But neither of you can even think to bring yourselves to be disgusted. To care for etiquette. 

Because Gojo drifts his hand over an invisible line where your tummy was being bloated with his length and his cum- and you find yourself aching for more all over again. 

“This looks…” Gojo starts, syllables scratchy and jagged. He’s practically whimpering - whimpering - at the sight of that lecherous cylindrical bulge being fucked into you. 

You’re dripping with him, and his cock twitches ferally at the thought of you all round and glowing. What a pretty mama you’d make. “...looks like the n-next heir to the throne will be a Gojo, my princess.”

Oh, you liked the thought of that.

And looking at Gojo Satoru now - eyes still not fully focused with how ruined he was, skin blushed the same maidenly shade of red that his slobbering mushroom tip was, pretty smile directed at you and only you in this lilac-scented haze - you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.

But, of course, Gojo would never want it any other way, either. Never. 

He clears his throat, sapphire gaze hardening; the intensity of it sending chills sprinting down your spine. Burning with a fervent I love you I love you I love you.

Massive hands intertwined with yours pull into your line of vision, and Gojo takes his dear time pressing a lingering peck onto each n’ every single one of your knuckles. But particularly on the one above your left ring finger.

This was it. 

“My princess…run away with me?”

.

.

.

“Didya hear ‘bout that Prince Naoya?”

“Oh yes- had his bride stolen away by a knight, I hear. Put a knife to his throat n’ took her away in the dead of night!”

“Hogwash! The boy was a looker, she went quite willingly, see- I always did think that Naoya wasn’t good ‘nough for our princess.”

“Wonder what happened after? That Zenin bunch was quite furious I hear, that bratty prince is still out for blood. But ol’ Naobito and some commander came to the rescue- Somethin’ about corruption and Jinichi…”

“Bah! Who cares about that? S’the biggest royal affair of the century- a handsome knight sweeping away the beloved princess? They’re swoonin’ n’ calling him the Knight of Roses already. All I wanna know is how the young couple is doing!”

Yaga rolls his eyes at other rambunctious customers churning gossip-mill, a pint clutched tightly in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other. 

Honestly, he comes to the pub for once to escape from palace duties - and the palace duties seem to want to escape with him! 

And even after so many months since that engagement party fiasco? News really did trickle down slowly when royal scandals were so often covered.

Oh, whatever. He muses, thumb gliding over the glossy parchment- some new innovation from kingdoms beyond the sea, according to what the eagerly-accompanied writing had said. A…a photograph, you had called it.

And Gojo’s surprisingly intricate drawing of you fiddling with the ah- camera gave him an idea of the machinery, though- most of the sketches were of you. All of them, actually.

Yaga gazes on in slight wonderment at the perfect black and white depiction of your smile, rivalling the one of Gojo Satoru’s beside yours. Beaming, sleeves rolled up and fatigued with a day of hard work, so in love. 

It was oh-so-positively sweet.

The cherry on top? Well, Yaga couldn’t quite decide between the matching bands glinting on each of your left ring-fingers, the glimpse of a pretty lil’ cottage behind you two, and the massive bouquet of undoubtedly deep red roses Gojo was presenting you with.

Or perhaps it was the hand you were resting absent-mindedly on the obviously rounded curve of your tummy.

How fortunate, he tucks away the photograph into his coat with a smile and orders another pint. Knight of Roses, indeed. 

A/N. Yearning is my kink mhm. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

good morning to fairies elves gnomes sprites and other mischievous beings

USA people! Buy NOTHING Feb 28 2025. Not anything. 24 hours. No spending. Buy the day before or after but nothing. NOTHING. February 28 2025. Not gas. Not milk. Not something on a gaming app. Not a penny spent. (Only option in a crisis is local small mom and pop. Nothing. Else.) Promise me. Commit. 1 day. 1 day to scare the shit out of them that they don't get to follow the bullshit executive orders. They don't get to be cowards. If they do, it costs. It costs.

Then, if you can join me for Phase 2. March 7 2025 thtough March 14 2025? No Amazon. None. 1 week. No orders. Not a single item. Not one ebook. Nothing. 1 week. Just 1.

If you live outside the USA boycott US products on February 28 2025 and stand in solidarity with us and also join us for the week of no Amazon.

Are you with me?

Spread the word.