Grapesandraisins - Classy Ho

Reblog this to ease the back pain of the person you reblogged it from

BAD BOY DOWN!

s. on one of your usual days at work as an art seller for a luxury agency, a cocky and devilishly handsome sukuna meets your acquaintance, sparking a feeling you just can't ignore and neither can he.

w.c. 11.7k

w. fem! reader, mafia!sukuna! x reader , strangers to lovers! fluff!, smut! barely there angst! ermmm mentions of murder and crime? errr he eats your ass a little hehe because of how down bad he is

a/n: im feral for the thought of mafia sukuna. hope ya'll enjoy, as always it's not well enough proofread but ill do it as I reread it and catch the off stuff. hehe I really liked this and might want to write more instances of him. (also creds to the artist of this art of him! I did not make it or own it!)

"do you need help ma'am?"

there's a hobbling elderly lady struggling to walk across the street, what with the slightly heavy bag of vegetables she's trying to haul with her and her cane in her other hand.

she looks slightly ashamed that someone's offering help, probably the reminder that she's a bit dependent on others now. but when she looks up to make eye contact with you, wide young eyes in worry that only a grandchild could carry, her gaze softens and she bashfully hands you her brown paper bag.

she giggles a little when you carry it on your hip and have one careful hand out in case she needs extra physical help on the walk across.

when you finally cross the street, she motions for you to give the bag back, textured small hands opening and closing in your direction. you lean back a little with the bag in your arms, not thinking it a problem to accompany her further, you didn't have to go work for at least forty more minutes.

"I live right here." she smiles, hoarse voice happy when she lightly juts her head to the doors to an apartment building right next to you.

"oh," you sigh and hand the bag to her, slightly embarrassed that you kept her groceries from her, "I can still open the door for-"

"the doorman can do that." she fwips her hand

then she stares at you, her crows feet pronounced as she grins at you.

"pretty pretty girl." she says warmly, reaching a hand up to softly pat your cheek.

you're at work later after helping that lady cross the street, warm feeling bubbling in your body at the compliment and caress she gave you.

you sell and manage art for an exclusive agency/musuem. and today you so happen to have a large silent auctioning event for some pieces from the heian era. not your preferred range, but hey there's a lot of people here now that are willing to pay a lot for some of them.

it's also a great networking event for artists of the agency too, wandering around and hoping someone as rich as the Medici's can keep them as a little pet.

you've done your more than fair share of repeating the same monologue and facts over the pieces to some clients when you wander and head over to one of the art pieces on the wall. it wasn't part of the auction, but it was your favorite here at the museum, perfectly distanced enough from the crowd so that you wouldn't have to really interact with anyone before you went back to working.

you wish you could afford it

the paycheck plus commission from working at a prestigious place like this was hefty, but not that much for a luxury like that.

it's none of that abstract emotion crap.

yes you know everything could be art, but hey you have preferences.

it reminded you a lot of Monet, so pretty and elegant. it was even more disheartening when it had two sister pieces from the same line by the artist too. the only three from that artist that had such a magical heart to it.

"this not part of the auction is it?" a gruff voice speaks

now, you don't like judging people based on their looks. you're a very liberal person. some artists and uptight rich people that shop here wear and decorate themselves in the most peculiar way, but you're slightly taken aback at this man.

he has these lined tattoos on his face.

face tattoos. and you're NOT judging, but it's just not a casual thing to see. you don't mind tattoos, but nobody really tattoos their face unless it's for cultural reason, they're involved in the wrong circles, or just kinda dumb.

he looks far from dumb though.

he's very handsome actually.

"n-no," you answer quickly once you realize you've taken a little too long to answer him. nonetheless, you quickly regain your posture and stick your hands behind your back, he's a customer either way, you have to do your job.

you enter customer service mode and reach a hand to motion towards the pieces for auction, "but the heian pieces we have are right over there, I can tell you-"

"I already placed my offers earlier," he does a slight tch with his mouth, a personality tick of his probably, and he stands still where he is, still looking at the painting in front of you.

"that's good to hear," you gulp, caught off guard by how dense his presence is, "we have a similar collection coming in-"

"you really like this one?" he completely ignores you and juts his chin towards the painting, looking at your for a few seconds before looking back at the painting.

and those few seconds were so blissful.

his eyes are really pretty, they're an intense red, but you felt enraptured being held in his gaze.

"I do." you breathe, nervously shifting so that you can look at him and the painting at the same time.

"I was in a gang when I was younger," he says curtly, so freely aired to you

your jaw drops a little and you're confused as to why he would-

he peers over at you a little from his spot towering over you, an eyebrow slightly raised at you in a sort of knowing.

"the tattoos, they're from before."

"oh! I wasn't! no! it's not-"

"you go out makin friends with face tattoo guys?"

and again he has you speechless, mouth opening and closing to say something

"you'd be stupid if you did." he does that small tch again, looking over at the painting again, "shit's not normal."

"I don't." you regain some confidence, bashing yourself in the head wondering where the yapster in you went.

"good." he gruffs

"how much this worth anyway?" he seems a little unimpressed by it when he points his jaw towards it

"150,000." you chirp, gazing at the painting again with appreciation.

when you look at him, he looks slightly confused and disgusted by the price. and you know its just because he really doesn't like it a lot, its a girly painting and he's well...

he's got a sharp undercut, dirty pink hair spiked back. there's black studs on his ears, the obvious face tattoos and probably more beneath the dark black suit he's wearing, which is nicely tailored because you can make out his beefy lean build through it.

but you figure he's probably spending the same if not more on those heian artifacts if he's here.

"everyone has different taste," you shrug, "I'm not really a fan of the heian stuff."

he hangs his head when he looks down at you, almost a bit sassy?

"I know. never seen a pretty face look so empty talking about a thousand year old tapestry."

when did he see you explaining the pieces? how'd you miss him in the crowd? oh no, you internally groan, if he could tell then so could everybody else-

"nobody cares that much," he says, fully turned to you now, tilting his head when he sees just how panicked you look, almost as if he can tell what's on your mind, "the riffraff here only care about playing their ballbusting competition between each other."

"and you're here because?" feeling your heartbeat stabilize at his weird reassurance

"I like it and I can afford it"

another tch.

you're starting to really like that habit of his

wait, how can he afford it? what does he work in? as far as you know getting a high paying job with visible face tattoos is well, kinda close to impossible unless you're some rap artists or in the mafia...

one of your eyebrows is softly quirked up and you're about to open your mouth, but he beats you to it.

"you let everyone read your face this well?" he cocks his head to the side, observing you with amusement as he opens his mouth just a little, his sharp tooth biting down on the tip of his tongue in what you think is a weakening type of smirk, "waste management and a couple of bars is what I do, angel face."

you can't even act like this is a regular interaction with how not regular he's speaking to you, your usual work attitude towards guests washing away with him.

you pucker your lips a smidge and your eyebrows furrow in a playful curiosity as you side eye him a little, "do you interrupt everyone this often?"

he lets out a singular laugh, bearing his fanged smile at you when it dissipates, "only the ones easy to mess with."

your jaw drops a little, for the nth time

the audacity!

"I'm at work and you're saying all these things that aren't a regular interaction for me here!"

"and what were you working on all the way over here?" he retorts leaning down into your space

you fight the urge to roll your eyes and take a deep breath, steadily digging your heel into the hard floor as a way to stabilize yourself.

"taking a small break."

"aw don't look so mad at me," he tuts so endearingly, " 's cute but I don't want to stress that little heart of yours."

you feel yourself growing soft at the words, stomach feeling fluttery and like a fairy threw up in it.

but no no. you can't flirt with a client. much less one with face tattoos. it's just. it's not viable. this isn't a movie and your mom would sooooo kill you for even considering it. and even if he has clean money, he looks like bad news, like he'd just want you as a plaything.

"I appreciate the flattery mister..."

"sukuna." he smiles so handsomely

"mister sukuna, but this is a work event and I really can't be-"

he stands tall all of a sudden and puts his hands in his pockets, motioning with his head towards the painting, "put that on my account."

"HUH?"

he gives his back to you and starts to walk away, "you heard me angel face."

later, after everyone’s left, you’re left to look at the auction paperwork leftover with your boss

"mister sukuna requested that all of the heian artifacts be sent to his estate..." your boss worriedly reads to you from his paperwork, "and for the peony in night painting be sent your address."

"what?!"

you dash to his side to read the document with him.

there was your name and the request for it to go wherever you lived. when did he even get your name?

"you didn't know?" he looks at you, wide eyed.

"no!" you quickly answer, heart beginning to race, overthinking brain running wild that people will think you seduced him or did something else to have such an expensive piece sent to your home, "I didn't do anything! I swear! We just talked about the painting and he asked me how much it was, said he was going to buy it and then he left!"

"well whatever you did was good enough for him to gift you such a piece," he pushes his glasses back up, tired eyes skimming over the rest of the document to make sure everything else was in place. your boss then picks up another paper from his desk and pushes it towards you, "doesn't matter anymore, sign off on these and put your address."

you're on the phone with your best friend satoru after the painting gets moved into your apartment by the delivery workers of your agency later that week.

"okay and why aren't you hopping on his dick????" he asks crudely, unphased as you can hear him trim his finger nails through the phone

"he's like, not presentable satoru," you breathe, stressed as you brush your hair back, "he had a bunch of tattoos on his face and had that whole playboy thing going on."

satoru hums in response, too focused on what he's doing

"this is too much money spent on me by a stranger, I feel guilty, what if he thinks this is going to get me to sleep with him? what do I do?"

"okay chilllllllll," he drags on, "tattoos aside, was he hot?"

you stay quiet, knowing where this was going.

"oh ho hooooo you think he's hot. what's wrong with letting him get a taste then?"

"because I'm not like that." you say firmly, patience being tested by the white haired fiend.

"you're sooooo boring," he sighs before taking your side, "the guy can't force you to sleep with him, he already signed it away to you. and it'd be pretty distasteful to harass you at your place of work for some pussy."

in the process of biting the skin at the edges of your nails off you look at the new painting hanging on your wall.

"okay, you're right."

"besides what kinda face tattoos were they? was he on some lil xann shit?"

"no," you exhale, recalling his face, "they were like these sharp lines outlining his cheeks."

"he in the mafia or something?"

"no he said he does waste management and owns a couple of bars."

"don't know why you're so opposed to riding that then, you sound way too dreamy talking about him."

"I ALREADY TOLD YOU WHY!"

and so what if mister sukuna's become a little fantasy of yours as the days go by? being with him isn't feasible, but that doesn't mean you can't be flattered by his advances towards you.

you're just a girl after all.

he hasn't come back, something you shouldn't really allow yourself to be bummed out about, but you still feel hopeful everyday before work.

stop, it's not going to happen.

it's what you tell yourself as you walk into a fancy nightclub kinda bar with your coworkers one friday. one of them sold a 500k dollar vase from the victorian era and said drinks were on them tonight. free drinks were free drinks and you really wanted to see if this bar would make lychee martinis.

although not vip, even the normal tables were expensive looking. there wasn't that horrible packed stench of vape smoke and sweat. this place smelled lingering cigarette smoke and expensive cologne, something like guerlain.

you've entrusted your bag to one of your coworkers by the time you've headed off to the bar real quick to make your order.

they don't make lychee martinis

but at least they had espresso martinis

so you're sipping on one within a few minutes, seated comfortably on the luxury couch to your table as you look around the club/bar.

it's so pretty and classy.

there's chandeliers that somehow don't clash tackily with the slight colorful low lighting pulsing with the music. the floors are clean and the seats are made out of soft leather. even the people here are dressed accordingly. no girls were wearing sneakers here, so magical.

and when you look straight ahead, there's some sort of vip room aside from those at the balcony. must be a fortune to expense. one of the curtains shuffles and you can only make out a little bit of the inside.

its dimly lit by red chandeliers and the couches are-

the double doors open as a group of men walk out. and as they move out, a face goes immediately detected by you.

seated at the end of the room, smack right across from you, is sukuna.

who immediately detects you.

his face had been so stern the split second before he spotted you. and now it was smirking at you, mischievous glint fading away when the doors finally closed.

argh, you forgot he owned a couple of bars!

you don't know if you feel nervous or excited he saw you.

well, you do.

both.

but the overlapping combination had you picking up an adrenaline rush, your flight instinct screaming at you. but you were among coworkers and couldn't act on it like a second grader running away from their crush.

so you chug the rest of your drink and flee to the bar, hoping you get lost among the crowd if he was going to go up to you.

"an espresso martini please!" you pipe up, drumming your fingers on the bar countertop nervously before unlocking your phone and sending a distress text to satoru

you SATORU SATORU SATORU SATORU SATORU PAINTING GUY HES AT THE CLUB MY COWORKERS AND I ARE AT I THINK HES THE OWERNER AND HE SAW ME EING GKJE IM GOING TO KILL MYSEF

satoru jeez im here oh no ahahahahahahaaha good luccccckkkkkk remember to wrap it before you tap it kiddo ;)

"trying to hide?" a low voice teases in your ear

you basically jump at the intrusion, fumbling with your phone and catching it before it falls.

sukuna's there when you hesitantly turn

it's so hard not to faint out of sheer infatuation with his presence.

he's closer to you than when you met at work. his cologne infiltrating your senses and his hard chest right smack in front your face.

"not funny." you breathe, putting a hand over your heart and giving him a soft glare

"I'm sorry sweetheart," he smiles down at you condescendingly, leaning closer to twirl a strand of your hair around his finger before letting go of it

why is he so hot?

"you like your gift?" he jeers

you deadpan a little and tilt your head at him, peering up at him through stern eyes, "if that was an invitation or incentive for me to sleep with you or do anything remotely-"

"can't I spoil a pretty face?"

sukuna leans on the countertop and sets his arm down so his hand can hold his face as he looks at you. he's still taller than you like this and its so frustrating for your nether regions.

"well," your eyes flee away from his, looking at a specific point to the side from pure nerves, "although I really appreciate the gift, I had already made it clear that I wasn't interested."

"you're breakin my heart angel." he pouts at you in such a fake manner before standing up straight and reaching a hand out to you, "not even interested in a dance?"

you close your hand in a careful fist to your chest when you look down at his own, thinking about the offer.

"the least you could do for that pretty present of yours." sukuna smiles, knowing you wouldn't be able to say no to him out of guilt.

you press your lips together and look at him with awkward 'really?' eyes before hesitantly putting your hand in his.

the difference between your hand and his was enough to send you into a coma.

sukuna's twirled you into his embrace at the center of the dance floor when he begins to tease you.

"if you don't like me why's your hand sweating balls?" his canines gleam under the lights

you bashfully look to the side to avoid his gaze, instead coming to find that your coworkers have spotted you dancing with the handsome figure that is sukuna. many of them, mostly the women are drunkenly giving you excited thumbs up and big smiles, fangirling for you.

"I just have sweaty hands." you quickly peek at him before going back to looking anywhere else but him.

"and you can't look me in the fuckin face because?"

the vulgarity makes you squash your nervousness and whip your head around to face him.

"I'm looking you in the face." your eyebrows are knit and your mouth is a little tight pressed, your bottom lip starting to defiantly jut out in a pout.

he smirks down at you and it's not as evil as the other times he's done it.

"what?" you say defensively when it carries on a little too long, almost feeling insecure when you start to worriedly look for what he's not saying in his eyes

"stop letting me press your buttons," sukuna teases, "I told you its bad for your blood pressure."

you feel like that's not all he wanted to say, but you move on and try to remain calm while you hold his gaze and mention something else.

"how did you know my name? back when you signed off for the painting to be sent to me."

sukuna shrugs

but then he laughs when you glare at him and answers you

"heard you introduce yourself to some sleazeballs asking about the yamato paintings."

that was wayyyyy before you gave that monologue on the tapestry he had also seen you talking about.

"how long were you watching me?" you give him a quizzical investigative face.

"why're you asking?" he leans down next to your ear, "trynna flatter yourself knowing how long you had my attention?"

"you're impossible." you puff, feeling your face heat up at the question and the proximity

"now that's where you're wrong," sukuna tuts, swirling you around so swiftly and quite literally sweeping you off your feet

"how?"

the hand that he has on your waist drops and moves up to softly hold the underside of your neck and reaching all the way to your cheek, his thumb fondly gliding over it.

"what's impossible about a guy spending 150k on you angel face?"

fuck, you're actually melting like this

but no no no no you're still trying to be stern with him

"what are you trying to get at?" you softly glare, face slightly mushed in his large hand

his eyes look dense and full of something warm when he peers down at your lips, your nose, your eyes, everything.

but he ignores your question

"did the bar have what you wanted?"

taken aback, you wait to see if that's actually what he said and when you realize he did, that's when you answer.

"no."

"what shit were you lookin for?" he says, visibly curious and looking for your input

"a lychee martini..." you're a little confused

he hums in recognition before letting his thumb make a quick swipe on your bottom lip and letting go of you completely after, only holding on to the tips of your fingers.

you feel a little empty? when he lets go

"I have to finish some paperwork beautiful," sukuna plays a little with your index and middle finger, letting them go when he continues to say, "don't stay too late."

"or you'll have to get a ride back home in my car." he almost bites, teasing you basically for your fear of proximity with him

and then he leaves, large v-shaped back breaking through the sea of people and going back into his lounge room.

and the next morning well...

"satoru...you won't believe this," you start through the phone the moment your friend picks up, pacing through your apartment in your nightrobe as you eye the two newly installed sister pieces on your apartments walls.

"you're at his place and his place looks like you're in american psycho?"

"ugh no," you groan, starting to nervously twirl your hair in your hand,"he sent me those other two painting from the same line as the first one he bought me."

"no way."

"yes way."

"he wants youuuuu bad."

"argh stop." you flop onto your bed, letting yourself ricochet in it

"this guy is like wrapped around your finger and he's rich. I'm kinda offended you haven't even entertained it at least give me some bedtime stories."

"but what if he's just throwing money at me like im some expensive call girl????" you run your hand down your cheek and mouth in peril

"um, he could get one for like 40k, the guy's practically spent half a million to make you happy."

you huff, still worried as you stare at the paintings from the open door in your room

"and who cares about the tattoos at this point. if I were a girl id dream about a hot sexy tattooed bad boy throwing cash at me and eating my ass."

"ugh satoru, when have I ever talked about him eating my ass."

"oh he's going to try to when he's whipped like that."

and you put some thought into sukuna later that night when you're taking a bubble bath.

it's actually kinda plausible to see something serious with him...

your perspective shifts when you imagine the end game you've always wanted and he fits into it. you can see that handsome inked face holding one of your babies.

to be honest, it turns you on.

and how you deal with that...you know how

it's the following monday, two days laterish, when you've gotten back from work and sit there staring at the number you're about to dial.

it's sukuna's number.

and even though you feel really weird/guilty about taking a quick picture of it behind your boss' back from his files to have gotten it, you push the feeling down.

"hello?" a mean gruff voice picks up

"mister sukuna?" you peep, adding your name in case he didn't recognize the voice

his tone suddenly changes when he hears you speak

"now where'd you get this number bad girl?"

you want to bash your head into your table because how can you hear his smile through the phone?! and how is it making you nervous like this?!

"from my boss's file for you at work, but please don't tell him-"

"you get the gifts I sent you?"

straight to the point like always, so you might as well get to it

"yes, I called because I wanted to say thank you."

the paintings do really look beautiful in your apartment

"I really appreciate them and the fact that you went out of your way to get them for me."

"You're welcome angel, wanted something to remind you of me."

you giggle a little at his flirting

"oh? did I say something funny?"

"no," you breathe through a grin, "I just felt flattered."

"now you're flattered huh? all I had to do was buy you the set? this part of your little plan?" he jeers

its all obvious teasing, but you still want to clear the air

"no, I just..."

and you can't put it into words that 'hey I thought about it and I'm actually into you and wouldn't mind more of your flirting' without getting embarrassed

"just tired of playing hard to get like you're scared of me huh?"

"ye-yeah," you nervously sigh, clicking your heels on the floor, "something like that."

"don't be scared pretty face," sukuna reassures you, an air of self assurance still there, like you're sure it'll always be, but nonetheless still soft enough to calm you, "I don't bite."

"unless you want me to."

you scrunch your nose, laughing a bit through it, "why did I know you were going to say that?"

"doesn't sound like you were saying no."

"stop thinking about that." you tut, embarrassed that he's touching such a topic

"as long as you do."

caught off guard, you go quiet, mind quickly racing to when you were servicing yourself to the thought of him the other day in your bath

"just teasing you sweetheart," he laughs, adding, "I'll ask you for permission next time I want to think about that. how's that sound?"

"okay." you almost stutter

"and how does picking you up at your apartment tomorrow for dinner sound?"

if you didn't know any better, you'd think he sounds unsure of your answer there even though he sounded so secure before.

"that sounds good too."

"alright. I'll pick you up at seven. I have to go now and do some business angel face."

"that's fine too."

"and send me your address. okay?"

"okay."

"bye angel."

"bye"

the moment you get home from work the next day, you are bussing it to the restroom to start getting ready.

now, you didn't plan on getting fucked. you were going to resist the ministrations of that man, especially if you didn't want to overthink the next day and somehow convince yourself all he wanted was sex from you and he ended up getting it. but you wanted to feel sexy and confident with him. because these last two times you had seen him were child's play. yes you were always polished, but this was making yourself perfect, layering everything together.

hell, you even shaved down there. you weren't going to have sex, you weren't! butttttt if his hand wanted to do give you a little...

stop stop! that's a thought for another time if this date ends up being good.

anyways...

so, when you look at yourself in the mirror, you're very proud of yourself. you even give yourself a hmph of approval.

this is gonna shut him up

you're pristine.

sukuna waiting for you outside angel

you inhale deeply when you see the text.

maybe, just maybe you were still nervous. and you couldn't exactly take a couple thirty minutes to run laps around your apartment right now to exert the energy of embarrassment.

but you put on your brave face and find yourself shakily opening the double doors to your apartment complex a few minutes later.

sukuna's already leaning against his very expensive looking car and you try not to look so bashful when you approach him because he hears the moment you open the door and smirks so devilishly handsome upon looking at you.

"all this for for me hm?" he bares a fangy smile at you as he gathers both of your hands in his.

you're about to faint, his mouth does the indent thing at the edges like the guy who plays finnick in the hunger games when he smiles.

your back shivers, but you hide it.

"why can't it be just for me?" you retort, turning your head to give him a playful side eye, "I like to dress up."

"then share a little bit with me sweet angel." he playfully pleads, making these obvious fake eyes of desperation while swiveling his head in 'agony' into your couples hands

but the way he nuzzles into your hands for just a split second is so tender that you're fighting the urge to backflip across the entire city.

"what restaurant are we going to anyways?" you scrunch your nose happily at his previous playfulness

sukuna starts to maneuver you towards his car, opening the door, and buckling you in while he answers, "it's a surprise."

then he shuts the door and winks at you while walking to his side, relishing in the way you cross your arms and squint at him from inside the vehicle.

"that's cheesy," you say when he sits in the driver seat

"good thing we're on a date then sweet thing." he smirks while starting the car, suddenly and quickly pinching your cheek before backing out of the parking space.

and the thing is there's not one not hot thing about him.

you wish you could record the way he drives so you could watch it later at home by yourself to fangirl to while playing hot music over it.

he drives so well with one hand and its no surprise considering how massive it is and overtakes the wheel. and its the ringed hand that's the one driving. two large silver rings, one on his thumb and the other on his middle finger. the veins scattered around them make you want to clench your thighs too. if he's this veiny on his hands, then he must-

"take a picture, it'll last longer." he laughs, cocky smirk decorating the just as cocky glint in his eyes when he peers over at you for a split second.

"just keep driving." you huff, cheeks hot while you cross your arms to yourself and turn yourself towards the opposite direction, gazing out the window as you beat yourself up for staring at him for too long.

"here."

you look over and sukuna's holding his phone out for you, eyes still on the road when he says, "take a picture of that pretty face for me."

"huh?"

pit-pat pit-pat goes your heart

"what's so confusing about wanting to see your face on my phone?"

hesitantly, you take his phone, "but that's a little awkward to do in front of you...and-"

"do that little shy smile." he winks at you and cocks his head as if to already say thank you

feeling like you're unable to say no because what he wants you to do is actually really harmless and super sweet, you click on the camera button of his phone.

and against every bone in your body getting second hand embarrassment, you raise the phone in both of your hands, and do that 'little shy smile' he asked for, which does come naturally because you're feeling soooo shy right now.

you press on the middle center

then suddenly sukuna's squishing your cheeks between his hand

flash!

and he snatches his phone back, tucking it back in his pocket while he keeps driving, eyes forward but still drenched in mischief along with his evil grin

"hey!"

"got a complaint?"

"what was that?!"

"thanks for the picture beautiful."

"ugh that better not be my contact picture!"

"good thing this phone's mine ain't it?"

letting out a strong huff, you sink into your corner of the car, resting your elbow on the car door and placing your cheek flush against your hand.

to say the surprise was a surprise is an understatement. a surprise would have been a really expensive restaurant you'd never be able to afford. but this?

this is the entire rooftop lounge of a skyscraper all to yourself with sukuna.

and the sky's barely turning orange, the sunset near.

he knows what he's doing oh my god you want to jump him so bad and climb himwkefnejfegerg

"you like it?" he's leaned down and swerved his upper body a little to face you, haughty smile giving away that he knows you're impressed.

"yes..." you exhale, impressed, marveling at the whole thing. your brain doesn't even think twice to follow sukuna when he gently takes your hand and puts a light hand on the small of your back to lead you to the dining table.

and you're still too busy taking in every detail when he pulls out a chair for you and helps you sit down.

"is this one of those custom menus with the private chef and everything?" your jaw is a little dropped and you're nerding out over this whole extravaganza

sukuna just stares at you for a few seconds, signature confident grin only tightlipped and gingerly upturned at the end.

"you gonna sound this surprised every time I take you out?"

nobody's ever done anything like this before.

sure nobody's ever bought you half a million in art pieces before either.

but this was in a way, his own form of art. the attention to detail with what time he was coming to pick you up so you could catch the sunrise. making it private and just intimate for the two of you...

you delicately fwip the menu to your chest and smile at him like a little girl who's just been told she can whatever she wants from the store.

"thank you, mister-"

"thank you ryomen." he corrects you, the corner of his mouth fully upturning

"thank you, ryo," you beam, "words aren't enough to explain how grateful I am for this."

and maybe its the shortening of his name, but????

his eyebrows raise a little, as if he's rarely surprised, and a warm color matching the sunset blossoms slightly on his cheeks

"oh." your mouth forms an o shape and your eyes widen a little, "are you blushing?"

but just as fast as it appeared, sukuna furrows his brows to regain his cool facade and starts clearing his throat

"take a look at the wine options."

turns out, just as handsome as his face is, so is his ability to converse and listen.

for every moment you forgot what you were yapping about, he was quick to remind you what is was. the smallest details you mentioned, he was asking questions about when you finished talking.

"can I have more win-"

"ah no," a tch comes from sukuna when he talks to the waiter, "I had a special drink for her with the dessert. can you just bring it now?"

"yes sir." he bows and heads off

two thoughts:

one: you started to notice that sukuna made that tick whenever he was in a serious mode or regarding people that werent??? you??? possibly??? it was hot if that was even more the case.

and two: what special drink?

"what special drink are you-"

"here you go madam."

as quickly as sukuna sent off for it, was as quickly as it came.

there's a lychee martini in front of you

your eyes can't help but widen in awe at him, "you remembered?"

"you think there's anything I won't?" he quirks a brow at you, offended even you might say

a breeze comes and you shiver when you respond to him through a grin, "no, I'll make sure to know that now."

he observed the way your body rattles because no sooner is he standing up and picking up his coat from his chair to drape over you. as he's leaning down to do this, you bite the bullet and do what you've been dying to do since you got over your fears about him.

after placing a hand on his forearm to keep him in place, you pick your head up and place a soft kiss on his lips as a thank you, letting your lips mold onto his for a fleeting moment before letting go of his arm and the kiss.

his eyes are closed when you pull back, and he's inhaling and exhaling calmly. he tightlips his mouth too, almost as if savoring and memorizing what just happened.

"you're a tease, angel" he gruffs before heading back to his seat.

a few weeks later, sukuna's cooking for you for your date. he's an excellent cook and plenty of successful dates with him have allowed for you to finally accept an invitation to his very expensive penthouse.

you've kissed plenty of times by now and been on the precipice of heavy make out sessions.

the precipice

so you're soooooo eager to sit with him on his couch after a glass of wine with your very tasty dinner and very good conversation

you've purposely worn a skirt too. not that you want to have sex (well you do) but just to tease him for when you know you'll inevitably be on his lap.

"what're you doing angel?" he asks when you take his whiskey glass from his hand and place it on the coffee table in front of you.

"I wanna kiss," you breathe, already straddling him and putting your arms over his shoulders.

sukuna quickly places his hands on your waist and leers at you with a mischievous smile, "what's taking you so long then sweetheart?"

you giggle before swooping in for his mouth.

it's probably the fact that you're both finally under the shield of privacy, but sukuna pushes you flush against him, holding onto you tightly. and you cling onto him just the same

he kisses so sensually and wet, you're on cloud 9. fuck you wonder if this is how messy he'd be with your pussy.

you whine when sukuna dips his tongue into your mouth, flicking at yours as an invitation to play. he's evil at this, you find out when you try to flick at his tongue and end up with him sucking on it with his teeth. you can feel him laugh in throat when you moan and squeal at how much it hurts but turns you on all the more.

just the act of asserting his dominance over you during the kiss has you growing needy and small under him. because you've already started to mindlessly grind and bounce on his lap, scratch that, his very prominent boner.

"shit." he growls when he looks down at your panties being the only barrier you have against his crotch.

"feel me, please." you pant, placing one of his hands on your ass, the other on one of your tits.

sukuna's eyes grow dark when he watches you do this, immediately squeezing hard to watch for your reaction.

he seems to be in a daze when he sees your eyebrows furrow and your eyes form an o to let a moan out. immediately dipping his head into your neck, lapping so languidly at a spot on your jugular.

it's all too much, so hot, you need more, you want to do more

your mind is so hazy

sukuna stops you right when he feels you begin to fiddle with the top button of your shirt.

his breathing is labored so much as a testament to how much restraint he's showing.

"let's remember what you said before angel face." he huffs out, struggling to speak at the feeling of your pussy pulsing on top of his bulge.

that's right

you told him you appreciated a grand gesture to make things official and only then would you allow yourself to sleep with someone.

you groan, closing your eyes and smushing yourself against his chest.

"just hurry up," you whine, grinding a little on him in desperation to which his response is to pinch your butt.

"don't be a brat baby."

you're pretty sure sukuna's going to do his grand gesture and make you 'officially his' in Paris. (even though you both know he's wrapped around your finger and you're too crazy about him)

why, you ask?

because you just got to paris in a private jet with him.

it's like a fifty shades of grey movie, you fear (not)

he has you go on a shopping spree at galaries lafayette with him as your audience for any try-ons. he's bought you so many things, some just because you stared at it for too long, others because he thought you'd look pretty in them.

he then has you dress up in any of the many choices for dinner at a michelin star restaurant, which was spectacular and not one of those avant garde graham cracker for dinner dishes.

and you can't help but be so giddy when you get to your ultra special room at the ritz and find it covered in pink rose petals. the balcony was open with a table covered in gifts you hadn't seen him get for you. another smaller cart next to it had an assortment of chocolates and small sweets, and a large metal can with two champagne bottle poking out of it.

and sukuna being him, he timed it so that the Eiffel Tower was sparkling when you got there.

"you still trynna hurry me up now?" he looks down at you with a knowing cocky brow quirked up.

you shriek, jumping up into his arms and giggling through the many kisses you begin to place on his face. sukuna lifts you up into his arms like it's nothing, inviting your kiss attack until he somehow brings you to lay across lap on the bed.

"patience isn't fucking easy with a brat like you angel."

slap!

you squeal again and feel sukuna hike your skirt all the way up.

but what you don't anticipate is for him to rip your lace thong apart with both of his hands.

gasping, you turn around worried, "I had that thong ready for weeks!"

"shut up."

another slap

"don't talk about shit when we both know I'll get you the same pair again."

you like how foul mouthed he is now, and you haven't even gotten to the good part

exposed to the air, you feel yourself getting drenched more than you already were in anticipation earlier.

sukuna notices, a low grumble resonating from his chest when he pries your ass and thighs open. you can't see, but you can feel your slick covering you all over like some vulgar cobwebs at the separation.

he squeezes hard as a warning when you wiggle your ass out for him, desperate for some relief.

"I want you, please, ryo," you beg, turning around to bat your lashes at him

"fuck, baby, let me fingerfuck you first." he growls, not even looking at you, still deeply concentrated on your wet pussy.

with his right hand, he slides three fingers back and forth across your folds, spreading your slick, getting you even messier. and when you're moaning softly in relief, melting into his touch, he just slides all of those three fingers in. squelches ricochet in the room and you're far from embarrassed now, trying to fuck yourself back on his hand.

then he brings in a fourth finger, and you're squealing. your brain can only process the repetitive delicious intrusion of fingers into your sticky hole.

"I-" you begin, numb on the only words you can think, "I-i lov-"

your now official boyfriend muffles you with his hand, continuing to destroy your pussy with his other hand and leaning close to your face to smile so evilly at the way you're jolting and furrowing your brows with every thrust.

"ah-ah not now." sukuna roughly grabs your face, squishing your cheeks to forcibly make you look at him.

"you're only allowed to say that when this tight pretty hole's finally wrapped around my dick. are you listening pretty baby?"

"mhm" you nod eagerly, eyes rolling back when his thumb joins the party and starts rubbing against your clit roughly

before he lets go of you, sukuna presses his mouth against yours and gives you the most rated r kiss ever, letting his spit drip and mix with your slobbering mess from the heaving you've been doing.

it doesn't take long before you feel that knot start to tighten up, body starting to twitch against your will, which causes your boyfriend to pound you harder with his hand.

"ryo," you squeal, subconsciously trying to escape his grasp, "I-im gonna-oh my god oh my god, I can't I can't I can't."

you're basically screaming when one of ministrations pushes so hard against your gspot that you're making a mess on his hand and arm automatically, hell you think you've squirted all over his clothes too.

“atta girl atta girl.” he groans, still messily fucking your pussy and sloshing your juices around

you're still in the aftermath of your orgasm, shaking when sukuna manhandles you onto the bed and fixes you so that you're face down ass up.

the only recovery time you even get is the moment it takes for him toss away his coat away and hurriedly unbutton his shirt off. if you're not mistaken he gave up and tore it off by the time he got to the middle.

before he pushes your face back into the bed, you make out that he does have more tattoos. the moment is brief but you see lines wrapped around his arms and others dragging down to his abs all the way from his shoulders.

and satoru, to your very big surprise, is right when, with no shame, sukuna licks a long fat stripe all the way from your clit to your asshole.

shocked, your eyes widen, but you can't help how you become putty in his hands at the way he so sloppily interchanges between your pussy and your other much lewd hole.

pants keep heaving from your mouth, short circuiting on the way he was just spitting on your asshole and then started to suck on your clit while finger fucking your pussy again.

squealing and banging your fist on the bed as exertion, sukuna doesn't really care, because he's no sooner just decided that the proximity he has with your pussy isn't enough. now he's wrapped his arms around your thighs and diving his face into your pussy, sharp nose stimulating your lips while he mouths and slobbers all over your little clit.

"ryo!" you squeal, trying to pull away because it's too much and resorting to contorting yourself around in order to pull at sukuna's hair

his reaction? he growls from the euphoria of your nails digging into his scalp while he gets to makeout with your pussy.

too hot, you think

you feel the twitching start again in your body, the mushy sloppy feeling on your clit becoming just enough for you to start getting there again

and get there you do, quickly, because sukuna spits on your clit and immediately starts sucking on it harshly, the perfect mix for you to start coming undone again.

not as severe as coming from your g-spot, you make a small spurting mess compared to when sukuna had you keening on his fingers.

you're fucked out already and he hasn't even put his dick in yet.

“fuckin come here and taste yourself.” sukuna growls, dragging you towards him by the ankle until his hand makes his way to the back of your neck, tilting your head to look up at him.

he goes in to basically fuck your mouth with his own. crudely separating briefly between kisses to push accumulated saliva between your lips, relishing in the way you’re practically begging for it and being so pliant for him. all the meanwhile he pushes yours dress down and off of you, even smoothly unclasping your bra.

"get on your back, nice and pretty on the pillows angel."

sukuna's stood up at the edge of the bed, undoing his pants roughly and quickly

and eagerly you scramble to the head of the bed, turning around and laying down, only picking your body up a little by leaning up on your forearms to watch him.

you rub your thighs together at the sight of him.

there's a thick line wrapped around both of his thighs. and you almost would've been entranced by it if it were't for the massive length between them.

sukuna's thick, long, and veiny. his tip looks angry, leaking globs of precum. his happy trail is mouthwatering with the way it leads to his trimmed bush. and-

oh! it twitched a little

"you stare enough?" sukuna exhales through a haughty smirk, getting on top of you in the bed, which subsequently means he opens your legs so he can settle between them.

you watch in lustful agony when his dick bobs against your pussy and grazes it, which only lasts a second because your boyfriend obstructs your view by initiating a makeout session with you. but where your previous kisses during this encounter had been been vulgar and inappropriate, this one was deep and sensual.

unable to do anything but be at the receiving end of his work on your mouth, you feel as if you can't get any closer to sukuna, wrapping yourself around him as if that'll subdue your need.

like he's able to sense it, he softly lets his hands wander, finding your calves and guiding them up, up, up until his hands are under your thighs and you're pressed open so lewdly. a tiny whine escapes you when you feel his entire length slap against your folds, sliding between them and making your heat pulse even more in anticipation.

when he separates from the kiss, one of your hands is pressed against his chest, being held by him by the wrist gently, while the other is wrapped over his shoulder, that hands of yours mindlessly scratching at his undercut.

"look at me," he grumbles, crimson eyes boring into your own when you make eye contact with him.

"you want this?" he lewdly slaps his cock against your puffy lips.

with a shiver, you nod your head earnestly, "please."

sukuna's chest rumbles with something dark at the sight of you so innocently desperate for him.

shortly after, with one hand, he positions his tip at your entrance and then uses that same hand to hold onto the side of your face fondly when he starts to push in.

he stares intensely at you, analyzing every contortion of your face at the way he starts to fuck himself into you.

it feels like the air's been knocked out of you with every thrust he uses to ease into your pussy.

"ah ryo," you let out a combination of a squeal and a pant, head lolling to side

"keep fuckin looking at me," he says so meanly, love tapping your cheek to turn you back to him.

chest heaving, you keep your half lidded eyes on him, too conscious of the way he's just bottomed out and beginning to slide out. the way he drags out of you is so delicious.

but it's even better when he pushes all the way into you, his fat tip working past the ridges of your insides, pushing against the way it tries to hug him rightly.

although the pace is slow, sukuna presses hard and evilly against you with each thrust, making sure to kiss your cervix with his tip. it's not anything too hardcore and you know that you're perfectly capable of cumming from just this at the way you start to lose yourself.

you love it

you love him

and you can say it now.

"r-ryo," you moan through furrowed brows.

"mm" he hums, still focused on you.

you gulp, body strung out, "I love you."

nothing's changed, he's still boring into your soul, which inherently makes you insecure because he hasn't said it back.

"ryo," you begin to whine, exasperated and flustered that you just declared your love to him and he hasn't, "I said that I-"

"yeah I heard you," he says, pushing your legs further back, "I fuckin love you too angel."

"have for a while," he mutters, his pace is ruthless all of a sudden and he rolls his eyes in ecstasy before leaning down and harshly sucking on one of your nipples.

you can't take what he's giving you without screaming, essentially.

he's big everywhere and he's completely overtaken you.

thoughts can't even process in your head, only able to process the copious amounts of pleasure he's giving you and babble out whatever's on the tip of your tongue in the the moment.

"it's so-so much ryo," you moan, "ah-ah 's so fucking big, your cock's so fucking big."

"yeah and you're fucking taking it all baby." he angles his hips to start hitting up at your g-spot, "tight little pussy's sucking me back in like a good girl."

"hngh IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou." is all that squeals out of you in response

and if you weren't getting destroyed before, you definitely were now.

drool spills from the side of your cheek in the absence of your words as sukuna's just dragging you onto his cock mercilessly like a fleshlight. which apparently is what starts to bring you to your third orgasm of the night.

so mustering all the strength you can, you pull your boyfriend against you by wrapping your arms around his neck.

"I want you to cum with me so fuckin bad ryo," you whine, forehead pressed against his, "please please please please cum with me, I want it so bad, I wanna milk you, pleasepleaseplease."

he growls, "fuck."

"don't talk like that baby," his eyes close for a moment as if he's trying to calm himself down, but he keeps the same rhythm

"please," you plead again, forcibly pulsing against him when you fear that your orgasm is already around the corner, "it's all I want, I'll be so good, I'm so good for you, pleasepleaseplease."

sukuna's breathing labors heavily as he listens, but ultimately ignores you as he grips you harshly and bullies his dick against your walls.

all until you just

release

your pussy pulses and clamps around him sporadically, juices spurting all over sukuna's abs, thighs, everywhere.

which he ends up not being immune to

"shit!"

considering the way he starts cumming so much inside of you, mean thrusts twitching inside of your ruined hole. every spurts spilling from his tip has you wishing for more and more.

he falls on top of you after, hugging you to him and nuzzling into your neck tiredly. one of your hands is swiping across the expanse of his back slowly in exhaustion.

"fuckin tease," he nips at your shoulder, obviously bothered you made him cum so quickly.

when you wake up the next morning, you're so very sore and you want to nuzzle into sukuna for the serotonin burst as medicine.

but he's not there.

your upper body sticks up as you look for him

oh, he's on the phone in the balcony

he's got some black sweats on, hanging deliciously off his hips and paying homage to this v-line.

you want to jump on him as soon as he gets off the phone.

he hasn't noticed you're awake, turning his back to you as he continuous talking. which you take advantage of, quickly rummaging through one of the shopping bags at the side of the bed from yesterday and finding one of the sexy slip gowns he bought for you.

sukuna's dragging a stressed hand through his hair when you open the glass door a little. he still hasn't heard you.

'tch'

"the fuck you mean that patch-work fuck raided the warehouse?"

he sounds so angry

'tch' and then an exasperated sigh

"no don't fucking do shit. can't even leave you shit faces alone for a second before shit falls through."

"wait until I get there. put twenty men at the other warehouse, urame's in charge of them."

"and keep the motherfucker you found alive. I'll deal with that fuck face when I get back."

"yeah well if he's one of those shit sniffers, he's not leaving alive. don't scare him yet, let him think we'll keep him off the hook. yeah okay, don't fuck up again."

not

leaving

alive?

sukuna turns a little to the side after ending the call and you can see him pinching the bridge of his nose from stress, eyes closed.

until they're not, and he spots you from the corner of his eyes, face dropping, panic setting in, both of you for very different reasons.

"angel face, how much did you hear?"

your throat feels dry

are you even mad? fuck fuck fuck fuck you're so stupid. every single emotion is being thrown at you. mad because he lied to you, so much so that he got you in bed with him. you shouldn't have given him a chance. but you're so sad, so heartbroken. you really really love him, so much you can't breathe right now at the thought of leaving him. but is he even a good person? was he one of those mafia men who abused girls like you? you can't you can't-

"sweetheart sweetheart," he's rushing to you, voice beginning to plea as he cups your hands into his, keeping them close to his chest and crouching a little to your height, "it's not what you think."

you're struggling to breathe, scared of who you're with

"what's," you start weakly, in shock almost, "what's not what I think about you saying a guy can't leave alive."

it pains him, you can see it in his eyes when he presses his lips together and tries to think of something to say

"are you actually in the mafia?!" you spit out, confused, "this entire time you had this sketchy vibe and said it was just your stupid waste management and bars?"

"I do own those baby." he sighs, wincing a little

the back of your mind notes that your previous thought about him being an abusive mafia man is a farce, he seems so...defeated that you know now. he's not threatening you.

"what exactly do you do." you say through gritted teeth, stressed at the situation and still trying to decide which of your instincts you should follow.

sukuna, hands still clasped with yours, gets on his knees and brings his forehead against your fingers, "doll, let's just go inside and I'll explain to you. I'm not as horrible as you're starting to think I am."

it's a little true considering he wiped a previous thought off your mind earlier, but still

this is dangerous

this is bad

but you nod your head, still angry, telling my the knit of your brows, "fine."

sukuna eyes you carefully as he gently closes the glass door to the balcony, you're already seated at the center of the bed, arms crossed over each other as you glare at him.

he wants to shoot his foot for the sole fact that he's made you so mad at him and that even that's not enough for him to not want to kiss that angry pout off your face, no matter how upset it is.

"so," you start, "how many people have you killed?"

its so venomous that sukuna closes his eyes in defeat.

"princess, that doesn't matter." sukuna sighs as he sits at the edge of the bed, facing you.

"what do you mean it doesn't matter how many people you've killed?! wouldn't it matter if I had a kill count of-"

"all you need to know is that it's not over thirty," he exhales and licks his lips, "and that every single one of them were some of the most shitty evil scum there is."

"and who do you work for?" you grumble

sukuna avoids your eyes when he answers, "people work for me."

you're still looking at him so sternly.

sukuna says your name and reaches his hand out towards you, planting it on the sheets right in front of you as an act of begging for your mercy

"I do bad things," he begins, eyes begging when they look upon you, "but I don't do them to good people."

but you're still numb because

"I can't-" your eyes water and your bottom lip wobbles, "I'm involved now! I-i want to be with you and marry you and everything! and you're stuck in this!"

sukuna's eyes widen at your burst

you feel a panic attack incoming as you keep speaking, your heartbeat escalating by a million and body starting to shake.

"you're a criminal! and you've probably got so many charges waiting on you! this isn't good! it's illegal and I don't want to go through seeing you in jail! I dont want to go to jail if I get caught in the mixup!"

and all sukuna does upon seeing your reaction then is lean forward, encroached on the bed as he grasps your feet fondly, placing tender yearning kisses on them.

"I'm not going to jail my love."

he places another kiss on your ankle

"and you aren't either."

"how do you know that?" you ask, still angry teared

"there's a system, there's people, I know too much."

ugh, you're still so mad at him,

so overwhelmed

you gently push him off, making a sound of frustration, and stomp over to the bathroom.

unable to completely shut him out, you leave the door slightly ajar as you take a bubble bath to soothe your body, both mentally and physically from last night.

there two soft rasps on the door before the door swings open a little and sukuna enters a bit awkwardly, slightly braced for you to suddenly kick him out.

his shoulders drop and relax when he sees that you just stare at him as he walks in, getting closer and closer to you.

"do you want me to order lunch in?" he sits at the edge of the tub cautiously, watching for any distress from you

serious and mildly stressed still, you couldn't deny how much your stomach was starting to hurt out of hunger.

"what's there for lunch..."

"anything you want."

you're looking up at sukuna sternly at the same time he's decided to move back a piece of stray bubbly hair from your bun away from your face

"well I don't know what kind of food there is here..." you huff a little, not denying his touch

"there's this uh," he thinks for a second, swirling your hair around his finger gently, swallowing before continuing, "the place with truffle pizza we watched on the tv nearby."

it's so confilcting to still feel so mad at him even when he's being so charming like this, he remembers everything you like.

"that a yes?"

"yeah." you look to the side feeling flustered at how tender he is with you

"I love you." he says, hand caressing your cheek and his face near yours so he can convey his sentiment wholeheartedly with his eyes.

you stare at him for a second

this is all such a whirlind for your mind, but

"I love you too."

it's not as lovey dovey as he just said it, nor as calm, but you mean it, even if you're irritated.

tentatively, he places a gentle, sensual kiss on your lips.

which you instinctively reciprocate, tilting your head up for more.

your boyfriend isn't kissing you as roughly as he was last night. these kisses were full of yearning and the plenty apologies you'd get tired of hearing if he were saying them into your ear again and again.

you moan softly into them, your breath starting to labor from need.

the hand that sukuna had on cheek starts to caress your knee gently. maybe he intended for the following or maybe he didn't but he understands you and your body when you spread your legs open under all the bubbles.

you sigh in relief when he starts fondling your folds under the water. and you can feel sukuna kiss you only a smidge harder at your reaction.

he slides two fingers in softly, hooking them thrush against your gspot instead of pummeling you like the night before.

you stop kissing--you're unable to kiss back when he starts to repeatedly press against the spot, hard, again and again.

"ah-ah," you pant, nails digging into his neck while he places loving kisses on yours

you cum hard, scratching hard down sukuna's neck, but he doesn't say anything, watching you in desperation as you come undone.

you're holding onto the edge of the tub for your life when sukuna drags his fingers out. you're still shaking terribly from the aftermath.

exhausted and gulping, you watch as he licks off his fingers what wasn't washed away by the bath before placing both of his hands on the underside of your arms.

"you wanna get out?"

"mhm." you nod shakily

you're still a bit serious throughout the next couple of days. not as pissed off as the first day, but you find it hard to wear down all your worries so quickly.

yet you manage to enjoy the little things sukuna had planned out and taken you to do.

so even though you're a little grumpy, you're not as grumpy as when you first found out, clinging onto him without a word as you both fly back home on his private jet and then on the car ride to his place.

"when we get there," sukuna begins to eye you tentatively, holding onto your hand harder while the other mans the steering wheel, "I'm going have to leave to deal with some things, but I'll be back for dinner."

knowing what you know, you carefully ask, "you mean deal with that guy?"

"yes," he exhales awkwardly, "the people he works with...they're not safe. I wouldn't be able to sleep if he was walking the same streets as you."

"well..." you start, looking at the road nervously

"just be safe. please?"

it's the first time you've shown any sort of conciliation with what he does and sukuna knows it, eyes widening and exchanging between you and the oncoming cars.

"yeah, I will sweet face," he kisses your hand, calmed features suddenly furrowing and tensing when he spots something he doesn't like.

'tch'

sukuna pulls over in a familiar area, parking perfectly before he starts to get out of the car. "it's nothing bad," he says, a little exasperated, "you can stay in the car, just let me help real quick."

and he dashes out of the car, jogging towards-

he's helping that elderly lady you helped so many weeks ago. except she has more bags on her this time and sukuna's stolen all them from her to help her cross the street.

now that you think about it, you're parked in front of the same apartment complex she lived in.

quickly, you get out of the car too, meeting them halfway, marveling at the both of them in confusion.

she smiles when she sees you, happy eyes looking between you and sukuna.

"h-hi." you try to greet her, still confused

but she's looking between you and sukuna like she knows something, more so him, like they have an inside secret between them.

head popping out from the many bags engulfing him, you see your boyfriend shake his head at her in a panic, eyes widening and trying to express the well known symbol for 'don't say anything don't say anything.'

you're really confused now and you're about to ask a question when the old lady bonks sukuna's head with a store magazine and it illicits an answer out of him for you

"this is my grandmother." he huffs, grumpily looking down at her from the corner of his eye

"what?" you're quick to try and polish yourself in front of her, leaping foward to shake her hand with both of yours, "I'm so sorry, I didn't know. It's so nice to meet you, I'm ryomen's girlfriend!"

she laughs a little, and it kinda reminds you of mama odie's mischievous laugh from princess and the frog.

"I know," she giggles a little before walking towards her apartment complex, motioning for the both of you to follow her inside.

so you follow and

"babe, is that a gun sticking out her purse?!"

Would you come with me?

Miniseries MASTERLIST

Part One -Part Two - Part Three (finished)

Pairings: Satoru Gojo x F! reader

Summary: You have been Satoru's best friend for such a long time, and one day he asks you a really big favor- marry him. What!?!? Well, Satoru has to take a wife as he's running the Gojo corporation, and what better way to get them off his back than 'marry'? In name only, just best friends living together for a year to calm them down, sounds so perfect and uncomplicated, right!!! Well, living with Satoru Gojo makes you both question everything, is this fake marriage feeling... real? and can you just be friends after this?

CW: NSFT-MDNI- Going to have smut at the end (three parts!) lots of sexual tension, light angst but mostly fluffy, friends to lovers AND marriage of convenience trope lol. Explicit sex, oral sex, it's me so a breed kink, gonna be a miniseries, Satoru is a lil sweetie and a lil freaky ass- falls hard, ya'll both down bad.

WC- 22 k- completed

Preview- click above for the chapters!

“You love me, right?”

You blink a bit, as you stare at Satoru Gojo, he’s been your best friend all throughout high school and even before you’ve known him. You’re sitting across from him, while he’s sipping boba with you, his Gucci shades perched on the bridge of that straight nose, a smirk on his glossy lips. You tilt your head curiously at him, of course you love Satoru, but he only pulls this when he needs a favor.

“What’d you get into this time, Toru?” You demand, he gasps then, affronted, a hand to his chest.

“Excuse me, missy? I’m just asking if you love me.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your seat in the little cafe. “Of course, you know I love your goofy ass.”

Satoru takes off his glasses, those swirling blue eyes wrecking you as they have all these years, usually you can put up enough of a barrier not to let them consume you, but apparently you haven’t today. You watch those snowy lashes lower when his eyes bore into you, swirling storms of bright blue, you have to snap yourself out of it.

Being Satoru Gojo’s best friend wasn’t for the weak.

“How much you love me, hmm?”

“What is it you need, an alibi?” He snorts then, shaking his head and wrapping his lips around the straw.

“M’not Suguru, shit… no, I need a really big favor. Like… the biggest favor, but if you agree, I can really make it worth your while.”

“Okay this isn’t a mobster movie, Toru, what is it?” Satoru looks down then, long fingers swirling around the top of his cup, before his eyes snap back to yours.

“What if I said I’d help you with all that student loan debt, and buy you a shiny brand new car?”

“I don’t want your money, I do fine okay?”

“Your car is old enough to drink.”

“Fuck off!” Your glare makes him snort in laughter. “It is not, it’s like… not even old enough to vote… I don’t think.”

“It’s old, sweets. Say you also had a place to stay, for free?”

“Satoru this isn’t Pretty Woman-”

“I love that movie!”

“Satoru! What are you getting at!?” You’re crossing your arms then, raising a brow at the lanky man across from you, whose legs are spread wide in his dark blue dress pants, he’s pulling just a bit at his silky black tie.

Satoru has taken a huge role recently in his family business, the conglomerate that owned a million different things, you know how much he detests it, but once Satoru graduated college his family pushed it more and more. At this point he was thriving, doing most of the work with his father taking much more of a back seat, his health starting to deteriorate.

You and Gojo spend more time together than ever, you know he needs his friend, especially with Suguru having left for some time, the two of them not together was always hard on him. You’d been friends with both of them, but Suguru seems to have left and found his own calling, swinging through to see you both from time to time, but much is different since those days at Tokyo high.

Not you and Satoru though.

For the longest time you pined away for him, but you never made that move, aside from one stolen kiss in a closet during seven minutes in heaven, and Satoru had it bad for you all of Junior and Senior year, but the two of you never risked it, your friendship. And now you’re glad to have him in your life, but it’s hard to even think of someone serious when he’s so brightly and firmly in your life.

“This is a huge favor I need, it’s… a lot to ask.” Satoru murmurs softly, you tense a bit, brows drawing together.

“What’s wrong, is everything okay?” Your voice is a low hum as you murmur, he nods just a bit.

“Yeah it’s fine just… I’m being forced to choose a bride, and they have many candidates.” He laughs humorlessly, and your heart breaks for him.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Satoru. I thought you’d have longer?”

“Yeah, I wish.” He runs a hand through his silky white locks, looking down for a moment, lips that always smirk or maybe pout actually frowning. “I need to just get it done, get em off my ass.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, why not tell em to fuck themselves, hmm? Where’s my Toru!?”

“He’s exhausted.” He swipes a hand across his face, and you lean closer, hand on his leg, his eyes sliding back to yours.

“Do you want me to help find someone? I have a lot of good friends in high families… find you someone not money hungry, not a psycho? How much time do you even have?”

“That’s not what I'm asking.” He puts his big hand over yours now, sighing, leaning closer to you. “I’m asking if you want to.”

“If I want to, what exactly?”

“Marry me?”

“What!?” He chuckles then, but even that sound is exhausted.

“You forget you’re from a top family, nah it’s not the Gojo clan but…”

“Satoru…”

“Just for like a bit? To get em to leave me alone, let me gain some more power. All for show, and I’ll help you with anything, I promise.” He’s clutching your hand, and suddenly the room feels like it’s spinning.

“Wh-why me? We… you… I…”

“You’re my best friend, it would be like being roommates damn near. You could… do your thing as long as you’re discrete.” He murmurs, you want to laugh then, as if you’ve done anything in a couple of years now. “And I would be discrete, respectful, we’d just be in name, appearance. We’re best friends, it will be a piece of cake, and most of all… I trust you.”

You try to digest all the information, blinking and trying not to think the insane thoughts that come with it, but you fail. “But won’t they want… an heir?”

Satoru’s cheeks flush bright pink now. “We don’t need to… I’d never ask you to do that, ever I swear. I’d never be an ass like that.”

You feel your heart racing as you shove back all of the images you should not have for your friend. “I know, I know. But… they’d-”

“That’s the thing, a year or so and they’ll back off. Give me time to fix some mistakes, with dad being sick… I’m not saying I won’t miss him, but how he is running shit? No, I know I can make things better, take down these shitty higher ups who are so greedy. You just could give me more time, and I promise I’ll do anything I can to help you too.”

“It’s insane, this is marriage!” You blink a bit, shifting, his hand now brushing back a lock of hair from your forehead, a familiar gesture that now takes on something more intimate.

“It can just be for show, we’ll be the same best friends as always. I have no one I can imagine even living with but you, maybe Suguru but… he’s not a girl.”

“He has that long silky hair?” You both laugh a little, softly then.

“He sure does, but… you’re prettier to look at.”

“Flattery? Stop that. It’s insane, and… how would we even explain it in such a rush?”

“We’ve been friends forever. Who wouldn’t believe that we got together? It’s even easier. I mean, maybe a couple kisses and things for show, but… you’ve kissed me before, remember?” He’s grinning wide then, you shove at him playfully. “That closet was cramped, hmm?”

“Oh shut it, that was so long ago. I mean, if you really need me, you know I’ll do this for you. I don’t expect you to go all out on anything for me in return.” Satoru pauses now, watching how the light streaming in through the large cafe windows hits your pretty face, as you explain to him that you’d want nothing in return for this!? For this huge imposition on your life.

You have always been the sweetest, best friend he has had, so important to him he’s never dared to cross that line, and he knows it will tempt him to no end to do this, but he also knows he can trust you. “Let me just take care of a few things for you, you can almost see it as a job. There will be events, meetings with the other leaders, trust me. Like anything I can do, you’ll be helping me so much.”

“Alright.”

“What!?”

He’s hugging you tightly to him, you giggle a bit, breathless. “Yeah, I’ll do it… I need a nice car though, Toru. A BMW?”

“I’ll get you ten BMWs.”

“Jesus, no. Silly boy.” You giggle as you look up at him, your best friend, but then your heart falters when he’s just a bit too close.

“Should we practice kissing now?” He teases, voice husky.

“Satoru, you're insufferable.”

He pouts now, and you swallow down the fact that you don’t know if you can even handle kissing his lips.

First part here

permatags: @alt--er--love @seeing-stars-alt @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @labelt-san @makingtimemine @cuntphoric @loafteaw @aldebrana @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 gojo: @haruhatake @strychnynegirl @jinjen suggestion from the lovely @bunheadusa

ILLICIT AFFAIRS

You show me colors I can't see with anyone else

You are stuck in an unhappy marriage, not brave enough to leave your cheating husband. Until you meet Sukuna.

Pairing: Modern!Sukuna x Reader (female) Word Count: 10k Warnings: 18+, fluff, hurt/comfort, smut, but not explicit, cheating (Reader's husband cheats on her, and later on, she cheats on him with Sukuna). Sukuna is a CEO (or can be read as a Yakuza boss, too). Sukuna + Reader are both in their thirties. The fic title is taken from Taylor Swift's "Illicit Affairs", but in this story, the secret affair has a happy ending. This story is super self-indulgent, but I hope some of my fellow Sukuna lovers will enjoy it, too! Minors don't interact. Divider @./lovwoung

You often ask yourself what went wrong. How did you end up trapped in this unhappy marriage? Maybe you were too young, too inexperienced, too naive when you met your husband. Maybe you were too insecure, convinced no one would ever want you, and so you gratefully settled for the first man who showed interest in dating you.

Your relationship was never like those romances you knew from books or movies, but you assumed that was just how things were in reality. Your mom, your aunt, and everyone else told you how lucky you were to have finally found a man willing to be with you. How lucky to have found someone with a good job and from a good family. They were also the ones who pressured the two of you to get married, and ever since then, things have gone downhill.

Your husband hasn't shown you any love or affection in years. The only time he shows interest in you is when he wants to have sex, but even that is without any real intimacy. He hasn't kissed you in years, and if he did at this point, you would probably be disgusted by it. There is no love in this marriage.

The worst thing is you know he is cheating on you. You already suspected it when he suddenly had to stay at work a lot longer than usual and when he began to hide his phone screen from you. And then one night, you woke up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water, and that's when you overheard your husband talking on the phone with some other woman calling her angel and baby and telling her how beautiful she was.

Even though you didn't love him anymore, it still made your world tumble down around you.

You want to leave him, but you can't. Everything is too much, too overwhelming. You have always found it very hard to make decisions, and this one is huge. You have no idea where to go or how to get by on your own. All your savings went into buying this apartment, and now what?

And it's not just the financial aspect that worries you. Everyone has always told you that you would never survive on your own. They always kept you small, turning you into someone who is dependent on others. You got told that you are weird, not good enough, and incapable of ever taking control of your life. And at some point over the years, you started to believe that. Your self-confidence is non-existent.

You tell your mom about the cheating, and she tells you to stay with your husband.

"It's just a little fling. At least you are lucky that he doesn't want to divorce you. It would be such a financial disaster, and you know how you are. You don't do well on your own. Just stay with him and find joy in other things. Maybe pick up a new hobby. I could give you Kira's number. She just joined a nice Yoga class!"

You don't go to the Yoga class, but you also don't leave your husband. You try to pretend everything is fine. Try to gaslight yourself into thinking that maybe you are really just a hysterical, insecure, and overjealous idiot who misinterpreted things.

The months pass, and you catch him flirting on the phone several times. An annual business event is scheduled, which you always accompany him to, but he tells you it got canceled this year. Only to find out from the wife of one of his coworkers that the event took place as usual, but you and your husband simply never showed up. You know why. He didn't want you there. He didn't want to risk his little affair and his wife running into each other.

You've given up on love by now. You hate seeing ads for romance novels or rom-coms. You stop listening to music because most songs are lovesongs. For all you know, romantic love is just a made-up thing that people sing about and write about, but it's all just lies.

Or maybe it does exist in real life. But not for you. Maybe you simply aren't the type of woman who deserves to be loved. Maybe your mom is right, and you should just accept it.

So you stay with your husband, but you are dead inside.

Until you meet Sukuna.

He is everything you ever dreamed about in your secret fantasies that you started to develop to comfort yourself. A dreamed life, but now it's right in front of you, close enough to touch. Sukuna is a real gentleman. An attractive mix of a bad boy and a successful, serious businessman. Smart, confident, and sexy, with a boyish playfulness beneath his professional appearance.

Ironically, you meet him the night you try to save your marriage.

You are already sitting at the table for two you booked for a date in one of the best restaurants in the city. You put on makeup and spend an hour picking a dress in which you feel at least half attractive. And now you sit here, sipping your red wine, waiting for your husband to arrive, to hopefully bond with him again over a delicious dinner and a few hours where you can talk and maybe laugh together.

Only that your husband never shows up. You have already finished your first glass of wine and received several pitiful looks from the waitress when your phone buzzes with a message. It's your husband telling you he can't make it. "Something has come up at work. I don't know when I will be able to leave. Just have dinner without me."

You stare at the message for far too long, not even knowing how to respond. Feeling utterly humiliated, utterly hurt, and abandoned. Worthless. You know he is going to see his girlfriend instead tonight. His girlfriend, who is young and sexy, and can give him what he wants.

And suddenly, you can't hold back the tears anymore. You blink hastily, wiping angrily at your cheeks, trying everything not to ruin your makeup or have a breakdown in the middle of the crowded restaurant. But the waitress chooses that exact moment to walk up to you with an overly bright smile, asking,

"Excuse me, Madam. Would it be alright if someone joins you at your table?"

You look at her, caught off guard, really not wanting a stranger at your table in this horrid moment, but you are too polite to say no, and so you smile weakly back at her, pressing out in a tear-thick voice,

"Of course, I don't mind."

You wipe your eyes again, trying to will the tears away, as a tall man in a fancy-looking black suit and slicked-back pink hair comes into view. He is snapping at the waitress, clearly annoyed, saying something about how rude it is to forget his reservation and that this will have consequences since he is a regular customer, etc.

But he sits down across from you, still fuming as the waitress bows deeply several times, apologizing profusely for the mistake, promising that the man's food and drinks will be free tonight.

He lets out an exasperated sigh and orders a glass of red wine, which the waitress immediately scrambles to get for him.

You gulp hard, trying to regain composure, hoping you don't look as forlorn as you feel. You lift your head to nod at the man across from you, trying to muster up a polite smile because, after all, you have been trained from a young age to always be friendly.

You take him in and draw in a surprised breath. He is gorgeous. The most attractive man you have ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered with masculine but beautiful features. Angular jawline, intelligent maroon eyes, and sensual lips that are lifted in a smug smirk as he nods back at you,

"Excuse this inconvenience. I will make sure whoever is responsible will get fired."

And, of course, you splutter and are quick to try doing damage control, not wanting some poor person to lose their job over this.

"Oh no, please, it's no problem at all!"

The pink-haired man laughs softly, a low, husky sound that makes your pulse flutter nervously.

He looks intimidating with his tall height and muscular build, and the tattoos that line his handsome face. But he is distinguished and elegant, wearing a designer suit and an expensive watch. Clearly, he is a regular guest of a restaurant like this.

He looks like a successful CEO (or a Yakuza boss, your mind provides not helpful at all). He's definitely someone in a powerful position, judging by his whole appearance and the dominant and confident aura he exudes. But he also has pastel pink hair, a boyish grin, and a playful attitude that makes him seem not as scary as you first thought.

His wine arrives from a different waitress, and he thanks her politely, telling her,

"Put everything the lovely lady across from me orders on my card."

The waitress is quick to bow deeply with a polite, "Of course, Mr. Itadori," at the same moment, as your eyes widen, and you quickly argue,

"Oh no, please, I can't..."

But he smirks his charming smirk and lifts a large hand dismissively,

"It's the least I can do for ruining your evening in much-wanted solitude."

Much wanted solitude.

His words hit you to the core, making all the sadness well up in you again. If only it were true. If only you were truly a single, independent woman who came here after a successful day at work to enjoy dinner on her own in voluntarily chosen solitude.

But you are none of that. You are an abandoned and unloved wife with a boring job and no money, sitting here at a table for two because your husband ditched you to fuck his pretty little assistant in his office.

And suddenly, the tears are back in your eyes, making it hard to see. You quickly avert your shameful gaze, your hand grabbing your wine glass so tightly it almost breaks.

Your sight is blurry, but you can still see the shocked look on the man's face across from you. His eyes dart away from you but then back again, obviously not used to the company of a crying stranger. He clears his throat before he leans slightly across the table, lowering his voice to a soft murmur,

"Are you alright?"

You feel embarrassment flood you, feeling so mortified at your behavior. You wish the ground would just open up and swallow you! This is so typical of you, ruining this stranger's evening, because you don't have your emotions under control and act like a complete fool. It's something your husband would chide you for or make fun of if he saw it.

"I... I am so sorry! Please just ignore me."

You hate how your voice breaks, and before you can suppress it, a pathetic-sounding sob falls from your lips. You press your hands to your face, sobbing silently into them, trying to hide from the world and from the poor guy who's forced to share this table with you.

But then you feel a tentative touch, a warm hand gently brushing over your arm, and you pull your hands from your face, blinking at your table partner, feeling your lips tremble and your face burning, knowing that you must look so ugly right now with your makeup ruined and tears and snot coating your face.

Another apology is already waiting on your tongue, but he shakes his head, and somehow, it's so authoritative but also gentle that your apology dies on your tongue. Instead, you blink at him, as he cocks his head and watches you thoughtfully, that low voice so smooth and soothing when he says,

"Don't apologize."

You nod, trying to smile gratefully at him, but fail miserably as his kind reaction only causes more tears to fall.

He shoves his hand into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a handkerchief. Not a paper tissue, but an actual handkerchief. He offers it to you, and you reach for it automatically, thanking him. But you freeze the moment your hand wraps around the fabric, realizing it's made out of fine silk.

He raises an eyebrow,

"Please, take it."

"But I... I will just ruin it with my makeup..."

He huffs, a soft smirk lifting his lips,

"I don't care. I'll just buy a new one. Take it. I insist."

"Th.. thank you, sir. That's really sweet of you."

His lips twitch,

"You're welcome. And for you, it's Sukuna, not sir."

You sniffle, pressing his handkerchief against your cheeks as you nod and tell him your name.

His smirk softens to a small smile, and he jerks his tattooed chin toward your empty wine glass.

"Do you want another one of those? Looks like you could use it."

You nod as more tears well up in your eyes, and Sukuna snips his fingers, instantly summoning a waiter to your table as if they are all hovering nearby just waiting for Sukuna to voice a wish.

Five minutes later, you have another red wine to hold on to and sip on, which causes a comforting buzz in your head, and suddenly, it all breaks out of you, and you tell Sukuna everything. You tell him about your failed marriage, about how lonely you feel, how unloved. About your cheating husband. About how pathetic you think you are for not daring to leave him because you have never been on your own before and you have no one who has your back.

You cry and sob and take big gulps of the wine while pouring your heart out to this beautiful stranger sitting across from you. This guy who, despite his intimidating look, is surprisingly gentle with you and who doesn't mind that you stain his silken handkerchief with your mascara and lipstick.

Sukuna actually listens to you. He looks earnestly at you, clenches his jaw when you tell him how your husband treats you, and shakes his head when you say under tears how stupid you think you are.

"No, you aren't. Don't blame yourself. It's him. He is the problem. He is the asshole."

Sukuna is the first one who tells you that you deserve better.

You feel an unexpected relief at finally being able to pour your heart out to someone. And just when you get yourself enough under control again to begin feeling embarrassed at your outburst, Sukuna flashes you a smirk and raises an eyebrow, asking,

"Do you want me to get rid of him for you?"

Which makes you forget the embarrassment and instead stare at him with big eyes and hurriedly splutter,

"Oh my god, no! This is not what I..."

You don't get any further because Sukuna begins to laugh, shaking his head slightly as his eyes sparkle amusedly at you.

"Don't worry. I'm just joking."

You huff a breath of relief, followed by a little laugh. Sukuna's comment managed to pull you out of your little moment of regret, and you feel better again, taking another sip from your wine and even managing to eat a few bites of the meal Sukuna ordered for the two of you, claiming that an empty stomach is never good.

Sukuna is nice to you. It's astounding to you because, with the way he looks with those face tattoos and the slightly dangerous aura surrounding him, you would have never thought a man like him could be so nice. It brings more tears to your eyes, feeling too emotional from all the wine. But you use Sukuna's handkerchief to blot them away.

He leaves with you when you say you have to go home, walks around the table, and pulls out your chair like a real gentleman. He offers you his strong arm when you sway lightly on your heels. He helps you into your coat and accompanies you to the exit.

You stand in front of the restaurant on the busy street, but all you see is Sukuna, who stands so close to you that you can smell his cologne, a sensual, woodsy scent that fits him perfectly, smelling expensive and sexy.

He puts a large hand on your tear-stained cheek, cupping it gently, wiping a few fresh tears away, and you take a step closer to him as if drawn in by a magical force, craving this tender touch, even if it's just a stranger touching your cheek in the middle of a busy sidewalk.

Sukuna is so tall and broad, making you feel so safe somehow, and before you can stop yourself, you lean your head against his broad chest, closing your eyes for a moment and sighing longingly. For the first time in so long, you feel as if you can breathe.

You reluctantly take a step back again, tilting your head to smile up at Sukuna, thanking him again for everything he did for you. And he grins at you and leans down, his lips brushing over your ear, while his hand still caresses your cheek,

"You deserve so much better than your asshole of a husband. Don't hesitate to call or text me when you need a break again."

And with that, he presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. It's such a delicate feeling, so soft and gone again in a split second that you aren't sure if it really happened or if you just imagined it, but it fills you with such warmth that it almost hurts.

Sukuna pulls away with a smirk, and you see a business card dangling from his long fingers. You take it from him with a small, grateful smile.

+++

Several days pass, during which you firmly ignore the business card that's still in your purse.

Waking up the next morning after meeting Sukuna made you feel strange. Guilty somehow. As if you had done something wrong. It's ridiculous, of course. Nothing happened between Sukuna and you. And if someone was supposed to feel guilt, it was your husband. And yet you refused to even look at the business card, feeling like you would be doing something bad if you even so much as entertained the idea of adding Sukuna's number to your contacts.

No, you would never contact Sukuna. You would do as your mom had said. Just accept the circumstances of your marriage and create your own happiness. Maybe you should really find a new hobby. Or maybe you could get a pet? A cat or a dog?

For the next few days, you almost manage to convince yourself that you are fine with your life. You keep yourself busy by researching different cat and dog breeds and starting a new TV show.

But then you walk in on your husband flirting with his affair on the phone again, and you see red. This time, you can't stop yourself from confronting him, from snapping at him and screaming at him under tears to stop it.

It leads to nothing, though. He is so unbothered, so smooth, lying through his teeth, downplaying it, claiming she is just a good friend, making you seem like some nutcase who overreacts at every little thing.

You escape to the bedroom, sitting on the bed, staring off into space as tears stream down your face, feeling so helpless in your rage and misery. What are you supposed to do when your cheating partner refuses to admit he is actually cheating on you?

You wish you had the courage to leave him. Or better, you wish he would take the decision from you and leave you so you won't be the one everyone blames for ending this seemingly perfect marriage! And so you won't have to be the one who makes a decision that will change your whole life.

You yank open your nightstand, searching for some paper tissues. And that's when you see Sukuna's handkerchief again, peeking out from under a package of chocolate cookies.

You brush tenderly over the soft, silken fabric. A small smile lifts your lips as your fingers brush over the initials embroidered on it in one corner in a fancy gold thread. S.I.. Itadori Sukuna.

You let out a long breath, wiping your tears away with one hand while the other holds the handkerchief. And suddenly, the clouds seem to disappear as you remember the warmth you felt when Sukuna cupped your cheek and wiped your tears away. And suddenly you know what you want to do.

You jump up and walk to your dresser, pull it open hurriedly, and yank out the purse you had with you in that restaurant. You open it, impatiently emptying its contents over your bed, until you see the business card with Sukuna's contact information.

On any other day, you would overthink things and take an hour to even make up your mind about what to write, but in the state you are in right now, everything seems so clear.

You grab your phone, add Sukuna's contact, and open a new text message. Your fingers seem to do the work without you consciously having to think about it as they quickly type a message:

"Hey. It's your surprise table partner from last Friday. Thank you again for being so nice to me and for your handkerchief."

You feel triumphant as you place your phone down on your nightstand. And then it buzzes, and your heart jumps to your throat. There's a reply.

"I'm glad you finally texted me. You are very welcome. How are you feeling?"

"I am ok. What about you?"

You cringe at your poor small-talk skills, but Sukuna is surprisingly easy to talk to. He tells you about his day, about business meetings, and what he will have for dinner.

There's a strange feeling spreading through your chest. A kind of longing. You crave the feeling of being near Sukuna again. How safe you felt when leaning your head against his chest for a few seconds. How seen you felt when he listened patiently to you and reassured you.

You want to see him again. Want that feeling again.

"I want to give you back your handkerchief. Where can we meet?"

You know you sound weird as fuck, but it's the only way you dare ask him to meet you again.

"I don't want that handkerchief back, sweetheart. But we should meet up anyway. I quite enjoyed your company. How about you join me again for dinner sometime this week?"

Oh.

Your heart is racing uncontrollably, and your hand shakes as you stare at Sukuna's message.

This is it. This is where things become dangerous. You know the right thing to do would be to say no. It's what a married woman should do. But your husband is in the living room, probably sexting his little affair, so why should you be a good wife?

And so you text Sukuna back, letting him know that dinner sounds great.

+++

The dinner with Sukuna is nice. Really nice. You catch yourself feeling so much lighter, your lips lifted in genuine laughter, your eyes shining with happiness as you spend your evening with Sukuna. He is a very charming conversationalist. Cocky, but in such a playful way that it makes you giggle and feel your face get hot from all the joy it brings you to playfully joke around with him and let him tease you in such a charming and light-hearted way.

Your meeting is innocent, nothing that could be counted as cheating. Just a man and a woman who enjoy good food and wine together and chat about everything and nothing. The occasional small touches don't count, right? Like when Sukuna's large hand brushes over the back of your much smaller hand that's resting on the table.

Or when he reaches across the table to cup your chin and wipe some cherry sauce off the corner of your lips with his thumb. But just because his gentle touch makes your skin tingle and your pulse quicken doesn't mean there is anything going on between Sukuna and you!

Sukuna refuses to let you pay, saying it's a delight for him to have you keep him company. And you laugh bashfully and wave him off but feel so giddy. Sukuna offers you his arm when you walk out of the restaurant, and you take it happily, marveling at how tall he is and how safe you feel walking at his side, biting your lip when you wrap your hand around his upper arm and feel his big biceps flex under your palm.

You say good night on the street in front of the restaurant, and before you know what you are doing, you wrap your arms around Sukuna for a light hug. You intend to pull away again immediately, just a quick, friendly hug, but you get stopped by Sukuna's strong arms wrapping around you, holding you firmly, hugging you back, and not letting you go yet.

He rests his chin on your head, and you have the enticing scent of his cologne in your nose again. You feel so warm and comfortable with Sukuna's strong arms around you, his tall, muscular body pressing against you, warm and reassuring. It makes you let out a shaky breath, overcome with feelings, because you can't remember the last time someone hugged you like this.

Sukuna's low voice is a velvety rumble when he says,

"I am on the National Museum's VIP list. There will be a pre-opening event for a new exhibition this coming week. Heian era. It sounds interesting. Would you like to accompany me?"

You lift your head, looking curiously at Sukuna,

"What must one do to get added to the National Museum's VIP list?"

An amused smirk lifts Sukuna's lips, making him look so unfairly handsome,

"Oh, nothing much, just make one or two generous donations every year."

He shrugs, and you laugh, beaming up at him in amusement as you nod,

"I would love to accompany you."

"Sweet. It's settled, then. I'll text you the day and time."

You want to walk to the subway, but Sukuna stops you with a warm hand on your arm, saying he will drive you home. For a moment, you freeze, not knowing what to say. It feels wrong somehow to let another man drive you to the apartment you share with your husband. And maybe you should be cautious and keep a distance and not let Sukuna know exactly where you live.

But you shake yourself out of it. All of those things have been hammered into your brain all of your life, making you anxious and scared and never truly living your life. You are already meeting with Sukuna for dinner and will accompany him to a museum next week. The world won't end if he knows your address!

You smile at him and nod, telling him it would be very nice if he drove you. And Sukuna smiles back, a pleased look in his maroon eyes. He gently steers you towards the parking space with a large hand resting lightly on the small of your back as you stroll down the street.

You catch yourself having a more upright posture than usual, your head lifted, your lips adorned with a soft smile. You feel like the passerbies are all looking at you and Sukuna. Maybe thinking the two of you are a couple on a date, and the thought makes your stomach tingle.

Sukuna's car is a black Porsche. You don't even know why you are surprised. He grins lazily as he opens the door for you and helps you slip into the passenger seat, handing you your purse when you sit and carefully closing the door behind you before he walks around the front of the fancy sports car and gets into the driver's seat.

"Nice car," you say, and Sukuna turns to look at you with a teasing twinkle in his eyes,

"Well, I'm not a nice guy, so at least my car should be."

"Oh, I think you are very nice."

The two of you hold eye contact for a long moment, both pairs of eyes filled with amusement before you burst out giggling, and Sukuna joins you with his low laugh.

+++

You spend the next evenings at home, having dinner with your husband, who is busy with his phone most of the time, making the cold, heavy feeling in your stomach even worse.

Your only joy is the anticipation you feel in looking forward to Wednesday afternoon when you will meet Sukuna at the museum.

He is already waiting when you arrive, leaning casually against a pillar next to the entrance, tall and handsome with his perfectly styled pink hair and his Tom Ford suit. A dark red one this time, which makes his eyes look like red wine.

Sukuna is a beautiful man.

For a moment, you feel a nervous flutter in your chest, but it vanishes again when Sukuna grins at you and greets you with his warm, low voice and a large hand on your back, pulling you into a half hug.

He doesn't even have to say his name when the two of you approach the young man who greets the guests and ticks off their names on the guest list.

"Ah, Mr Itadori! Have fun at the exhibition. And thank you so much for your generous support."

Your hand slips naturally around Sukuna's arm as you stroll through the exhibition. It feels nice to be here. It makes you realize how long it's been since you last visited a museum. Or did any kind of activity, really. Your husband never had time for you during the last few years.

You can tell that Sukuna is genuinely interested in the exhibition. He already seems to be an expert on the topic, adding interesting facts to the already detailed info sheets next to each exhibition piece.

It's an equal amount of endearing and sexy how nerdy he seems to be about this. Attractive. You like smart men. You like it when a man is passionate about learning everything about a topic that interests him. And Sukuna is like that.

You hang on his lips, soaking up his knowledge, feeling way too hot when you watch the sparkle in his maroon eyes as he goes into a passionate monologue about political intrigues during the timeline of one of the exhibition pieces.

And he seems to like that you also show genuine interest in the exhibition and in what he has to say about it. He blesses you with a soft smile that makes your stomach flutter. You feel exhilarated, your heart pounding in your chest, almost bursting with happiness. A long-forgotten feeling emerging again after so many years.

You thank Sukuna profusely for the fun afternoon, and he grins that charming, boyish grin at you and tells you he is grateful that you kept him such lovely company.

This time, there is no doubt about whether he really kisses your cheek or not. His lips linger on your heated skin for a long moment, soft lips pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek before Sukuna smiles at you and cups your other cheek with his hand, his long fingers caressing it slowly.

"Let's meet again for dinner next week, sweetheart."

+++

You pace your living room restlessly.

Your trip to the museum with Sukuna made you realize something. It made you realize what this giddy feeling is that has been filling you ever since you started to meet up with him. That light-hearted, fluttery, happy feeling you get when you see him or even just when you think of him (which is almost every waking second of your day).

You try to shut down those feelings, telling yourself it's dangerous to let someone make you feel so much again. It makes you too vulnerable. It will only lead to more chaos and more hurt.

Why would a man like Sukuna even be interested in anything serious with me? He can probably have anyone. Either he only sees me as a friend, or I am just a little fling to him. I have to stop this before I get in even deeper!

In the coming week, you cancel your dinner with Sukuna by sending him a short text telling him you have a cold. He sends you a get well soon message and asks if you need anything, which you deny, even while you sob silently because Sukuna is so caring, and all you want to do is run into his strong arms and forget about your joyless life.

But you stay strong and put your phone away, forbidding yourself from sending more messages to Sukuna.

Your husband makes a rare attempt to talk to you, and you already know what he wants. After tiptoeing around you for several hours, he asks you for sex. You join him in the dark bedroom, feeling nothing as you slip out of your clothes and climb into bed with him.

You have learned to close your eyes during sex and let your mind wander, imagining all kinds of fictional scenarios to help you feel anything at all. But this time, you don't think of a fictional love interest out of a romance novel or an actor you find attractive. This time, you think of Sukuna.

You feel dirty afterward as you stand under the shower and scrub at your skin. Dirty for thinking of Sukuna while you slept with your husband. But what makes you feel even dirtier is that you still let your cheating husband touch you even though Sukuna is so nice to you. It feels as if you are cheating on both of them.

You cry so much that you feel like you have no tears left.

+++

Even though you haven't met or talked to Sukuna in over a week, he is still constantly on your mind. You are haunted by images of him. That beautiful tattooed face. That sexy low voice and the playful smirk. That tall and muscular body that makes you feel so tiny in comparison and so safe when you are standing in front of him or leaning against him.

You sigh. One would assume that acknowledging that you are developing romantic feelings for Sukuna would make things easier for you. Clearer. But the thing is, even though you know what your heart wants, you are still too scared to end things with your husband. There are too many insecurities. Too many risks and you feel so useless and weak, just like your parents always told you you are.

You feel frozen, unable to make a move. There is this wonderful man who treats you as if you are special and shows you how a man is supposed to make you feel, and yet you lack the courage to get out of your loveless marriage.

You have always been an overthinker, always scared to trust your instincts. Brought up to always be sensible and make decisions with your head and not your heart. So how could you just leave the security of this marriage? Especially when you are trying to convince yourself that Sukuna would never want a relationship anyway.

No, you can't let yourself believe that you could have a future with Sukuna. This is just a stupid dream born out of your naivety, which your parents always warned you about.

And how could you even go about ending things with your husband? Sit him down and tell him it's over? But what then? What do you do when he just refuses to accept it?

Or should you just pack your bag and leave while he is at work, letting him return to an empty apartment and a goodbye letter on the kitchen table? But where would you go? To a hotel? You have no money. To your parents? You would feel so ashamed, and you fear their judgment. To a friend? You don't really have any friends anymore who you are close enough with to ask this of.

You sigh. None of it seems achievable. Not for you. You are too chicken to do any of it.

Your husband informs you that he will be gone for two days for a business trip, and you let out a breath of relief, happy about the freedom you feel when he is away and you have the apartment to yourself.

You open a bottle of wine, listen to your favorite playlist, and dance around the kitchen, almost able to convince yourself that things will be ok and you can just live a life feeling detached from the hurt your marriage causes you.

And then your iPad dies. You groan, quickly walking to the spare room you use as an office to grab your husband's laptop, only to get greeted by his e-mail inbox, where you see a booking confirmation for a romantic couple getaway for the next two days.

You stare at it wide-eyed. And then you sit down in a daze and go through the received and sent e-mails, only discovering more outrageous things. The escort girls your husband booked over the last year, the flowers he ordered for other women, while you never got any flowers from him in all your years married to him. The romantic getaways he booked anytime he claimed to go on business trips.

You can't even cry about it anymore. The sadness is replaced by cold rage. And by a strange feeling of resignation. You know you could show all of this to your mom and finally make her believe what you told her all this time. Finally, presenting her and everyone else with proof of how badly your husband treats you.

But even as you snap pictures of the e-mails, you realize you can't bring yourself to do it. And the infuriating thing about it is that it's not even because it causes you hurt, but because you still want to protect your husband. If you show your mom this, she will confront him and make a huge scene. And you don't want that to happen. Even after everything he did, you still are too much of a good girl to let him face the rage of your mom.

That's why you close the laptop again without doing anything. You make sure to put it back to where you found it.

But a different kind of conviction has settled over you. If your asshole of a husband can go on romantic getaways and sex meetings, you can allow yourself some fun, too, can't you?

It's not even that you plan to have sex when you text Sukuna. You just want to meet him for dinner or another trip to the museum. You just want to talk to him, and laugh with him and soak up the light feeling he gives you.

He calls you instead of texting back. Your heart races when you take the call, and Sukuna's velvety low voice fills your ear,

"I just came home from a big grocery haul. So how about instead of meeting at a restaurant, you come to my apartment, and I cook for you?"

You agree instantly.

+++

Unsurprisingly, Sukuna lives in one of the most expensive neighborhoods of the city. The luxurious apartment complex makes you feel nervous and a bit out of place. But that uneasiness slips from you the moment Sukuna opens his door and greets you with that sexy, teasing smirk and a playful little comment.

It's the first time you see Sukuna dressed casually. And it undeniably does something to you to see him in a pair of gray sweatpants and a rather snug-fitting white t-shirt that clings to his buff pecs and gives you a nice view of his muscular arms and more of his tattoos. You aren't sure what is more mouth-watering, the food that is simmering in one of the pots on Sukuna's stove or his big biceps that flex deliciously with every move.

Sukuna lifts you onto the kitchen counter, easily picking you up and setting you down as if you weigh nothing. A fact that makes you all flustered and sends your pulse racing, making you gratefully grab the wine glass Sukuna is offering you, so you can hide your face behind it and let the alcohol calm your nerves.

No man has ever cooked for you before, and watching Sukuna do it is one of the most attractive things you have ever witnessed. He is so sexy. Passionate and skilled, and still always taking time to playfully flirt with you or ask you to try one of his dishes, feeding you food from a spoon or from his fingers.

There is a special kind of electricity between you tonight. An almost touchable tension that makes your skin tingle anytime Sukuna brushes up against you.

His voice is husky when he tells you what ingredients he uses to marinate the roasted vegetables. And you can't help but let your tongue flick over his fingers when he pushes a slice of roasted zucchini against your lips.

Sukuna groans softly. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you look up at his tattooed face. You are met by a hungry glint in those beautiful maroon eyes that remind you of the wine Sukuna poured for you.

You are caught in Sukuna's intense gaze, unable to look away. Everything else seems to fade away.

And the next thing you know is that Sukuna is kissing you. Or maybe you were the one who pressed her lips against his first. You don't know. All you know is that you are kissing right here in Sukuna's kitchen while you sit on the kitchen counter, and he is standing between your legs. His large hands are cupping your cheeks and tilting your head back, and your hands are twisting in the front of his soft white t-shirt, pulling him closer to you as you sigh needily into his mouth.

Sukuna kisses you like you have never been kissed before. Passionate, fiery. Deep and sensual, making your head spin and your pulse flutter under Sukuna's hands.

You can't get enough of him and wrap your arms and legs around him as if you are scared he will vanish into thin air if you let go of him. You kiss him with a hunger unknown to you until now. Like a starving person being presented with a life-saving meal.

Sukuna's large hands trail down your sides, fingertips grazing over the sides of your breasts, eliciting a needy little whine from you, and further down until they reach your thighs. You are drunk on his kiss, drunk on him, melting under every little touch.

And Sukuna hums in the back of his throat and deepens the kiss even more. His large hands slip under you, cupping your ass, kneading it while he makes you moan around his tongue.

You have always been shy, but there is something about Sukuna and the way he makes you feel that makes you slip a hand under his t-shirt, feeling him up, greedily caressing his flexing abs, feeling dizzy at how good his firm muscles feel under your fingertips.

You both can't seem to stop kissing, both tumbling down further and further into this heated desire. You are faintly aware of Sukuna mumbling against your lips that the sauce needs to simmer for another hour anyway, and then he picks you up and lifts you easily off the kitchen counter while his lips claim yours again.

Sukuna carries you to his bedroom while never breaking the kiss, and you suck on his bottom lip and run your greedy hands through his soft pink hair and down his bulging biceps, wanting him so much that you think you will die if you don't get all of him tonight.

You sleep with Sukuna on his fancy bed, and it's nothing like it was with your husband. It's like you finally learn how sex is supposed to feel with a man who truly wants you.

Sukuna makes you feel wanted and desired, a feeling that is so new to you after all these years caught in a loveless marriage where your husband made you feel undesirable, unattractive, and like you would never be able to find anyone else with how your body looks and how lousy you are in bed.

But with Sukuna, it is completely different. You feel sexy here in his bed with the way he looks at you when he undresses you. And with the way he moans sweet praise in your ear before his lips and hands worship your body.

Sukuna is a real man. Experienced and confident, but so loving and patient with you when you get shy and tell him that you aren't very experienced and that your husband was disappointed in your skills in the bedroom.

At one point, you tense up, thinking Sukuna will get angry like your husband when you are clumsy during sex. But the opposite is the case. Sukuna is calm and gentle, talking to you in that sexy low voice, all soothing and sexy, telling you that it's ok and that you don't have to be scared or embarrassed.

He kisses you until your head spins and then asks you why you got so tense, asks you what you need. And you almost break out in tears, hugging him tightly, hiding your face in his defined pecs, inhaling his scent, and feeling so loved and so safe in his strong arms like never before.

"I just... I have only been with my husband, and he told me I am not good in bed. He always got mad at me when I didn't know how something worked. I am sorry if I am not what you are used to."

And you feel Sukuna's arms tightening around you, feel him tense up. But he isn't angry with you, only with your husband.

"That man is such a fool. Look at me, darling."

You lift your head off his chest and look at his tattooed face when he looks at you all earnestly,

"You are a beautiful woman, sexy and desirable, and I want to fuck you so good you forget your own name. Because that's what you deserve. And you don't have to be experienced or fuck like a pornstar. You are perfect the way you are, and you drive me crazy. And if you don't know how something works and you want to learn it, then I will teach you, and I promise I will be patient and gentle."

You nod wildly, feeling too emotional to speak, and instead press your body against Sukuna's and capture his lips in another needy kiss. You can feel his smile against your lips when he wraps his large hands around your waist and takes control.

Everything is so easy after that. No words are needed. Just hands and lips exploring each other's skin in heated caresses and bodies entangled in feverish passion. You let yourself fall, give yourself fully into Sukuna's loving hands. Let him take care of you like no one has ever done before.

He fucks you so good you cry.

All the years of feeling undesirable and not enough slip off you now that you are in Sukuna's bed under his gorgeous, tall, and heavy body, your nails leaving scratches on his broad back, hot tears of bliss streaming down your cheeks, and his name falling sweetly from your lips over and over again like a prayer.

It's like you are finally alive, like you are a flower that finally blooms after all these years.

+++

That first night in Sukuna's bed changed you profoundly.

You catch yourself smiling all day. There's a new bounce in your steps. You feel so much lighter. Your stomach is filled with butterflies as if you are a teenager again who has her first crush. Your chest feels so warm. You're filled with new hope. Maybe there is more to life and love than you thought, after all.

You feel like, for the first time, someone has really seen you. You weren't aware that sex like this existed in real life. That a man could make you fall apart like that. Sukuna fucked you in a way that was life-changing, making you feel like you gave him not just your body but also your soul.

And as passionate and nasty as the sex with Sukuna was, he made you feel respected the whole time. Adored. That is what makes you lose your mind anytime you think of it. You have been with your husband for so long, and yet even in the beginning, when the feelings were still fresh, he never made you feel adored or loved in bed. You didn't even know it until now, but he only ever made you feel used.

When your husband asks you for sex, you turn him down his time, telling him you aren't in the mood, and you don't even feel guilty for it.

You keep running back into Sukuna's strong arms over and over again. Into his bed, under his heavy body, where you feel loved and wanted. It's like he opened your eyes, and now you can see all those new colors that you only seem to be able to see with him.

+++

Your clandestine meetings continue for weeks. It surprises you to see winter turn into spring, and yet Sukuna is still texting you, inviting you to more dinner dates and to more intimate meetings in his bedroom. You always assumed he would end your little affair before things became too serious.

But somehow, he is still in your life, reserving his Wednesday evenings for you, buying you roses, and taking you to the best restaurants in the city.

One night, you sit up in his bed on the ruffled silk sheets and bite your lip as you let your gaze trail over Sukuna's naked body. His tattooed skin, his buff muscles, his beautiful silhouette. And you blurt out,

"Why do you keep seeing me?"

It's what you have been asking yourself from the start. What does Sukuna see in you? You are mediocre in every way. Average looks, no real talents, and no impressive career. A wife who got neglected by her husband because she wasn't good enough in his eyes. A woman in her thirties, who was replaced by a younger, more attractive version.

Sukuna, on the other hand, is gorgeous, powerful and rich, and his age only makes him more attractive. He could have anyone.

Sukuna hums softly and turns onto his side, lifting his head to watch you with curious maroon eyes.

"What do you mean, darling?"

You avert your gaze, sighing, bringing up your hands in a helpless little gesture,

"I... I mean, you are you, and I am me. And I just don't understand what you see in me."

Now, the noise Sukuna makes sounds a bit like a growl. You feel stupid for saying anything, already about to scramble out of his bed and flee before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. But you don't make it out of bed. Sukuna's strong arms wrap around you and stop you. He pulls you back into his arms and against his solid, broad chest.

"Don't belittle yourself like that. I keep asking to see you because I want to. Because I like spending time with you. You are so sweet. You make me feel so warm when I have always felt so cold."

His words hit you like a truck. You blink rapidly, your eyelashes fluttering against Sukuna's chest.

"R... really?"

He huffs softly, letting out a low chuckle as his large hand pets your hair,

"Yes, really. I used to only have one-night stands or casual flings. Just sex and nothing more. I used to think that was all I needed. But you showed me something different. Hell, I've never spent so much time with a woman before I slept with her for the first time. And I enjoyed every second of it! I like spending time with you to talk and laugh with you and just have this companionship. You make me feel like maybe I am not that cold-hearted asshole I always thought I was."

You gulp hard, tears filling your eyes. But this time, happy ones. You sniffle against Sukuna's naked chest and press a tender kiss to his tattooed skin.

"You are so sweet, Sukuna."

He laughs softly, and you can feel it against your cheek, a low rumble, where your face is resting on his chest,

"You are the first one who told me I am sweet. Are you sure?"

Now, you laugh softly, too. The insecurity you felt a moment ago forgotten,

"Yes, 100% sure. No one has ever treated me as sweet as you."

"It's what you deserve. You are so sweet that I want to be sweet for you, too. And..."

Sukuna's large hands tighten around your hips, and he flips you over. He rolls on top of you, covering you whole with his tall, broad body. His lips find your neck, trailing little kisses over it, his low voice a seductive murmur in your ear,

"You're not just sweet, but also beautiful and sexy, and you make me laugh, and I want to take you places and cook for you and also want to keep you on my cock all night and feel you squeeze around me and hear you cry my name."

Sukuna grinds his hips against you, pushing you into the mattress, taking you with one powerful, deep thrust for the second time tonight. You gasp and cling to his broad shoulders, your legs wrapping around his hips, welcoming him, craving him, needing him.

He takes it slow. Slow, deep thrusts, his forehead resting against yours, his low voice moaning sweet nothings in between deep, sensual kisses.

It's then that you realize that Sukuna is doing what no one else ever did to you. Sukuna is making love to you.

And you cry hot tears, drowning in his love and his body and everything he gives you. Your nails leave scratches on his broad back, your heels dig into his firm ass, as you throw your head back and cry out his name in the sweetest ecstasy.

He holds you afterward, lies behind you, and wraps his tall, strong body around you. He hugs you with his strong arms and nuzzles his face into your neck, breathing kisses onto your skin, not letting go of you, taking care of you, cuddling you. Something you also never had before. A man who is willingly holding you like that for hours after he came in you.

You sigh happily, still in a daze. The occasional tear still runs down your cheek as you snuggle against Sukuna's muscular body, and your hands caress his tattooed forearms tenderly. You never want to leave his arms again. You want to stay right here.

As if reading your mind, Sukuna's low voice murmurs against your skin again,

"I mean it, darling. I like having you in my life. So much that I want you in it all the time."

One of his large hands caresses your belly, so tender, so loving, sending butterflies fluttering in it like crazy. And Sukuna breathes in your ear,

"Be mine."

You draw in a sharp breath and turn around in Sukuna's arms, cupping his face with your hands as you kiss him, long and sweet, and in between kisses, you murmur against his lips,

"I am already yours."

You know it is the truth. Even though you are still married to another man, even though you are still living with your husband, you are Sukuna's woman now. You suspect you have been Sukuna's woman for several months already, long before you allowed yourself to admit it out loud.

+++

Two hours later, you are buttoning up your coat, about to leave Sukuna's apartment and the sweet bliss of his arms and return to your cold, loveless marriage, and your lonely apartment, when Sukuna stops in front of you. He reaches out, wordlessly helping you with the buttons, dominant in such a caring way, and somehow, that small loving gesture makes your lips tremble as you are overcome by emotions.

He is so good to you. Such a giant of a man, so tall and broad and powerful. And yet, he treats you so gently. Large hands buttoning up your coat for you. The hands that also cook Michelin-star-worthy meals for you, or wash your hair in his luxurious bathtub. The hands that make you see stars when they finger you oh so good. The hands that caress your cheek tenderly and brush your tears away with so much care. Hands that give to you over and over again. A hundred little acts of service that this powerful man gives to you.

"Sukuna, I..."

You trail off, not able to put into words what you want to say to him. How much he means to you. How much you want him. How he made you believe in love again. How much you crave to leave your old life behind and start over new with Sukuna even though you are so scared of change.

Before you can say any of it, Sukuna grabs your wrists, takes them firmly but gently into his larger hands, and looks at you intensely.

"Leave that asshole. He doesn't deserve you, princess. If a man can't see what he has in you, then he is trash. Don't be scared. I can take much better care of you than him. I'll fuck you good and make you only cry happy tears. I will appreciate you like you deserve. I will love you like you deserve. I will ensure you always have everything you need. I have money, and I can protect you. Tell me, darling, who would you feel safer with waking through the city in the middle of the night? That joke of a man or me?"

Of course, you know the answer.

"I love you, Sukuna."

"I love you, too."

His strong arms wrap around you and pull you into a hug, and you nuzzle your face into his chest, inhaling the comforting scent of his cologne. And finally, here in the safety of Sukuna's embrace, you say those words you have been too scared to say until now,

"I will leave him. I want to be with you. Only with you, Kuna."

You can hear the smile in Sukuna's voice when he replies,

"I'll help you, sweetheart. I have one of the best lawyers in the whole country. I'll call him tomorrow to prepare the divorce papers. I'll take care of everything for you."

Sukuna cups the back of your head and leans down to kiss your forehead gently, reassuringly. He looks at you with that boyish grin you fell in love with and adds in a playful and husky voice,

"And once all of this is dealt with, I will make you my wife."

He takes your left hand into his, turning it around, inspecting the wedding ring you are still wearing, scrunching his nose at it,

"And I'll give you a much prettier ring."

+++

You let the door fall softly shut behind you one last time as you walk out of the apartment you had been sharing with your husband for over a decade. A smile lifts your lips. You are glad to close this chapter of your life.

You know that a braver woman would have left her husband sooner, would have moved out, or kicked him out the moment she found out he was cheating on her. Maybe even sooner, when she realized she was unhappy in that marriage. But you aren't brave. You have always been full of self-doubts and fears. Too ashamed to crawl back to your parents and admit that you hadn't been strong enough to endure your marriage. Too scared that you would never recover from the financial loss of the divorce. Too insecure to believe you could ever make it on your own.

But now you have Sukuna. And the fall doesn't seem so high anymore. You know Sukuna will catch you in his strong arms. He won't let you crash to the ground.

In the end, you think it doesn't matter how you got out of that unhappy marriage and into this loving relationship. All that matters is that you got a second chance to learn how love is supposed to be.

And it still takes bravery to leave your husband and walk into Sukuna's arms. To close the door of your marriage and open the one that leads to the man who came into your life as an illicit affair but has become your one and only.

OH SUKUNA, I NEED YOU 😭😭💗💗 He really took one look at Reader having her breakdown in that restaurant and was like, "I will steal that woman from that loser and give her what she deserves." Thank you, Kuna baby ;)

Thank you so much if you read the whole thing! This story became much longer than I thought, but the words wouldn't stop flowing out of me because this story made me so happy. I hope it could give some of you the same feeling.

I often see posts/articles that victim-blame the women who don't have the courage to leave an unhappy marriage, so I wanted to write something where Reader isn't a strong, independent woman but someone who needs a little encouragement and lots of love from a man like Kuna before she dares make the decision to leave her husband. She deserves all the happiness!

I hope you enjoyed the story and maybe fell a little in love with this version of Sukuna, too 💗

Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

VAMP!JJK FIC RECS

let's just say i have a thing for bite marks and blood-sucking creatures... requested by anon ^w^ will be adding to the list as i scavenge for more. mdni, nsfw included.

gojo creature of myth - gojorgeous vampire lord!gojo x vampire bride!reader hcs - fatalfairies beatuy of the undead - carbondioxidewater vampire!gojo - rottiens bite of the night - itadorey self-imprisonment - noroi1000 just give me a taste - harunovella haunting you - tonycries love at first bite - lostfracturess vampire!gojo - lostfracturess vampire!satosugu - lotusatoru consequential - bloobberrries

geto crimson roses - dearestgojo vampire!satosugu - lotusatoru

nanami sweets - novasdarling tailor made - ghoultramp ditched dates - rinrinx2 deliverance - pseudowho

megumi scarlet - sukirichi

yuuji this city screams your name - yuujispinkhair blood - chosos-mascara vampire!yuji - wild-jackalope

yuta pain reliever - kentopedia

choso red, blood - choso-mascara honey - peachsayshi just can't get enough - aiawaorkuroo sink your teeth to drink - hoshigray just one more bite - gojonanami vampires in a bath - kaeinvy

toji please don't bite - perzawa

sukuna the red lord (has two parts) - yuujispinkhair vampire!sukuna - slvttyplum vampire prince!sukuna - persuasivus

etc drink me - arminsumi vampire lover - cinnamonrollbaby

starting to suspect that tech bros actually just don’t know what reading is

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)

i believe in accessibility so ive been trying to keep the tone of my posts entry-level and relatively civil. i can afford this much because im not palestinian so i have some degree of removal. but if you guys saw the state of my inbox, you would understand why refusing to justify, explain or clarify anything might be more dignified. there are almost ten thousand people dead right now. i feel like a lot of people are just not understanding the weight of this. more children have been killed in gaza in the past three weeks than in all of the world’s conflicts combined in each of the past three years. this is so far beyond crime, so far beyond mass murder, that sometimes i think entertaining questions about it at all is complicity in and of itself. in a normal world, the entire global apparatus, every international body, would be falling over itself to stop this. the prospect of so many civilians—and most significantly children—dead is actually the worst-case scenario. it is what international law was created to prevent. i say children specifically not because adult palestinians are not equally valuable, but because this is a war on children. gaza's population is 50% children. these airstrikes are most lethal on the smallest and most vulnerable bodies. entire buildings are crumbling on kids. they are being murdered in their homes, by their homes.

deliberately. by people with the most advanced military and surveillance technology in the world. by people who know exactly where every single civilian in gaza is. by people who have their phone numbers and send them threatening texts. by people who have drones observing their every movement. by people who are watching them starve, bombing their bakeries, barricading their water. they bring down buildings on children on purpose.

it's a genocide. and still we talk.

So, let me guess– you just started a new book, right? And you’re stumped. You have no idea how much an AK47 goes for nowadays. I get ya, cousin. Tough world we live in. A writer’s gotta know, but them NSA hounds are after ya 24/7. I know, cousin, I know. If there was only a way to find out all of this rather edgy information without getting yourself in trouble…

You’re in luck, cousin. I have just the thing for ya.

It’s called Havocscope. It’s got information and prices for all sorts of edgy information. Ever wondered how much cocaine costs by the gram, or how much a kidney sells for, or (worst of all) how much it costs to hire an assassin?

I got your back, cousin. Just head over to Havocscope.

((PS: In case you’re wondering, Havocscope is a database full of information regarding the criminal underworld. The information you will find there has been taken from newspapers and police reports. It’s perfectly legal, no need to worry about the NSA hounds, cousin ;p))

Want more writerly content? Follow maxkirin.tumblr.com!