Sukuna stops fighting. No more nights spent in the concubines' wing, no more pretending his feelings for you are fleeting. When he comes to you this time, it's with purpose—to claim what's his.
WC: 3,154 ───〃★ masterlist
You hadn't seen Sukuna in four days.
Not since the night he'd kissed you and left in confusion. Four days of silence. Four days of him nowhere in the palace—rumors said he was in the war room with his generals, handling some distant uprising that demanded his attention.
Danielle and Haerin didn't mention it, but you caught them exchanging worried glances.
Ningning, however, you heard about constantly. The servants whispered that she'd been summoned to his chambers three nights running. That she'd emerged with messy hair and swollen lips, looking triumphant.
You tended your garden and said nothing. But at night, alone in your bed, you wondered if he'd already forgotten you. If the kiss meant nothing. If the connection you'd felt was one-sided.
The camellia was blooming fuller now, its petals opening to the spring sun that was finally—finally—beginning to warm the palace grounds. New flowers were emerging from the soil you'd prepared: plum blossoms in soft pink, early chrysanthemums, jasmine vines that climbed the walls like they were searching for something.
Hope, you supposed. They were all searching for hope.
"My lady, you should rest," Haerin said gently, noticing how you'd been out in the garden since dawn. "You've been working too hard."
"I'm fine," you assured her, though your back ached slightly and you were more tired than usual. Probably just the stress of Sukuna's distance. Your body responded to emotions in strange ways.
The sun was setting when he came.
You were in your chambers, changing into your evening robe, when you sensed him. Not heard him—Sukuna moved like smoke when he wanted to. But you felt his presence the way you felt the change in air before a storm.
"Leave us," he commanded from the doorway, his voice low and rough.
Haerin and Danielle scrambled to obey, bowing so low their foreheads nearly touched the ground before they disappeared through the side entrance.
He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the corridor light. He looked different tonight. Raw. Like something inside him had finally snapped.
"Sukuna," you greeted, keeping your voice steady despite your racing heart. "I wasn't expecting—"
"Don't," he interrupted, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness. The sound of the latch clicking shut echoed through the room. "Don't pretend you didn't know I was coming."
"I didn't—"
"You felt it." He moved toward you with that predatory grace, each step deliberate and measured. "The same way I felt you, every moment I was away from this place. Every moment I was somewhere else, with someone else, and all I could think about was you."
Your breath caught. Your stomach twisted with nerves and anticipation.
"Sukuna—"
"I'm done," he said flatly, coming to stand directly in front of you. "Done pretending. Done running. Done lying to myself about what this is."
He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you didn't, his massive hands cupped your face with surprising gentleness. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, and you felt the calluses on his skin—evidence of centuries of violence.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, and then he kissed you.
This kiss was nothing like the others. It wasn't searching or confused. It was a declaration. A claiming. A surrender and a conquest all at once.
You melted into it, rising on your toes to meet him, your hands coming up to fist in the fabric of his robes. He tasted like sandalwood and something darker—something entirely him. His lips moved against yours with desperate hunger, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you, the taste of you.
When he pulled back slightly, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily.
"I've been in the war room for four days telling myself I was thinking about strategy," he murmured against your lips, and you could hear the raw honesty in his voice. "I was thinking about you. Every single moment."
you running your fingers down his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath the fabric.
"I've spent the last three nights in Ningning's bed." His voice was almost angry—at himself, you realized. "Trying to remember why I preferred her. Trying to make the confusion go away. Trying to convince myself that what I feel for you is just..." he trailed off, frustration evident in every line of his body.
You didn't say anything. Just waited, your fingers still tracing patterns on his chest.
"It didn't work," he continued, pulling back to look at you properly, and there was something almost devastated in his expression. "Nothing worked. Because she's not you. She'll never be you. Her touch doesn't make me feel like I'm drowning and flying at the same time."
"Sukuna—"
"I don't know how to do this," he said, something vulnerable breaking through his usual composure. "I don't know how to have something I care about. Everything I touch, I destroy."
"Then we'll figure it out together," you said, reaching up to touch his face. Your fingers traced one of his tattoos, following the pattern with reverent attention, and you felt him shudder slightly at the contact. "I trust you."
Something broke in his expression. "You shouldn't."
"But I do," you said firmly. "Completely."
He kissed you again, and this time it was slower, deeper. His tongue brushed against yours, and you made a small sound of pleasure that seemed to drive him wild. His hands moved from your face down your sides, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
Your robe suddenly felt too warm, too restrictive.
"I need you," he breathed against your neck, his lips finding the sensitive spot where your jaw met your throat. "God, I need you so badly it's killing me."
A shiver ran down your spine at the intensity in his voice. You'd never heard him sound like this—desperate, almost broken.
His hands reached for the tie of your robe, and he paused, his eyes meeting yours. The question was there, unspoken but clear.
"Yes," you said before he could even ask. "Yes to everything."
He untied it slowly, like he was unwrapping something precious. The fabric fell away, and then your sleeping shift followed, leaving you bare before him in the fading sunlight.
For a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked at you. His eyes—all four of them—traced every curve of your body with an intensity that made you feel like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"You're perfect," he whispered, reaching out to touch you. His fingers trailed down your collarbone, across your shoulder, following the line of your ribs. Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his touch. "How are you this perfect?"
"Your curse," you teased breathlessly. "You're surrounded by beautiful women."
"They're not you," he repeated, like it was the only truth that mattered in the world. "They could never be you."
He pulled you against him, one hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you into his body, while the other tangled in your hair. He was still fully clothed, and the rough fabric of his robes against your bare skin sent electric jolts of pleasure through you.
You gasped, tilting your head back, and he took advantage of the exposed line of your throat. His lips found the sensitive skin, kissing, licking, and then gently sucking. You felt a surge of heat between your thighs at the sensation.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, and you could hear how much control this was costing him. How much he was holding back, trying to be careful with you.
"Don't stop," you breathed, your fingers gripping his shoulders. "Don't ever stop."
He made a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and a growl—and carried you to your bed with surprising gentleness. He laid you down on the silk cushions like you were made of glass, then stepped back.
You watched, your breath coming faster, as he removed his clothes. First his outer robe, letting it fall to the floor. Then the undershirt, revealing the powerful expanse of his chest. The tattoos covered more of his skin than you'd realized—intricate patterns that seemed to move in the candlelight.
He was a work of art. Terrifying and beautiful in equal measure.
His hands went to the tie of his pants, and he held your gaze as he untied them, letting them fall away. He was fully aroused, and the sight made your mouth go dry. He was large everywhere, intimidating, but instead of fear, you only felt desire.
"Come here," you whispered, reaching for him, and he settled over you with the care of someone handling something infinitely precious.
He kissed you again—deeper this time, slower. His hands mapped your body with reverent attention, learning every curve, every sensitive spot. When his fingers found the inside of your wrist and traced small circles there, you gasped at how erotic such a simple touch could be.
His lips moved down your neck, across your collarbone, and you felt your body responding, heat pooling low in your belly. Your skin was hypersensitive to every touch, every breath he exhaled against you.
"I'm going to mark you," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with desire. "So everyone knows you're mine. So there's no question about who you belong to."
The possessiveness in his voice should have bothered you. Instead, it thrilled you. "Yes," you breathed. "Do it."
He kissed and sucked at the delicate skin of your neck, your shoulder, the curve where neck met collarbone. You knew it would leave bruises—dark marks that would be visible to everyone in the palace. The thought made you shiver with anticipation and need.
His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, and then between your thighs. You gasped at the intimacy of his touch, at how vulnerable you felt laid bare beneath him.
He was unhurried, almost reverent, learning what made you tremble and moan. His fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves and stroked it slowly, deliberately, watching your face as pleasure rippled through you.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me see how you respond to me. Let me know what makes you feel good."
His fingers dipped lower, and he groaned when he felt how wet you were. "All for me?" he asked, and there was such raw satisfaction in his voice.
"Only for you," you gasped, your hips moving against his hand. "Always only for you."
He kissed you again, his tongue mimicking the movements of his fingers, and the dual sensation was almost overwhelming. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging slightly into his skin, and he hissed in pleasure.
"I want to taste you," he said, pulling away. "Will you let me?"
Your breath caught. You'd never—no one had ever—
"Yes," you whispered, nodding eagerly.
He kissed his way down your body, his lips mapping every inch of your skin. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you with an expression of reverent hunger.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "So perfect. I'm going to make you feel so good, sweetheart."
And then his mouth was on you, and stars exploded behind your eyes.
It was overwhelming—the intimacy of it, the pleasure of it. His tongue worked against you with devastating precision, finding exactly the right pressure, the right rhythm. Your hands tangled in his hair, and you couldn't help the broken moans that escaped your lips.
"Sukuna," you gasped, your body tightening as pleasure built inside you. "Sukuna, I'm—"
"I know," he murmured against you. "Let go. Come for me. I want to feel it."
One more stroke of his tongue and you shattered, pleasure crashing through you in waves. You cried out his name, your entire body convulsing with the intensity of it. He held you through it, continuing his ministrations until you were completely undone.
When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened, and he looked incredibly pleased with himself.
"I could spend hours doing that," he said, kissing his way back up your body. "Hours just tasting you, learning you, making you come for me again and again."
"Sukuna," you breathed, your whole body still trembling. "I need you. Inside me. Please."
He settled between your thighs, his hardness pressing against your entrance. He moved slowly, giving your body time to adjust to him, and it was the most exquisite torture.
"Relax," he murmured against your ear, his voice impossibly gentle given the tension you could feel coiled in his body. "I've got you. Just relax and let me in."
You took a deep breath and felt him push deeper. He was large, and there was a moment of discomfort, but then he was fully inside you, and the sensation was indescribable. Full. Complete. Right.
"Oh god," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Are you okay?" he asked, and you heard the concern in his voice. "Does it hurt?"
"No," you breathed. "It's perfect. You're perfect. Just... give me a second."
He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, while you adjusted. His hands stroked your sides soothingly, and you felt yourself relaxing into him.
"Okay," you whispered. "Move."
He started slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of hurting you. But as your body responded, moving with his, his control began to slip.
"You feel incredible," he groaned, his movements becoming deeper, more purposeful. "So tight. So perfect. You're made for me, aren't you? This is exactly where you're supposed to be."
"Yes," you gasped, meeting his thrusts. "Yes, I'm yours. Only yours."
"Damn right you are," he growled, and there was something primal in the way he said it that sent heat spiraling through you again.
He changed his angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made your vision blur with pleasure. You cried out, your back arching off the bed.
"That's it," he murmured, finding that spot again and again. "Right there. I've got you."
You were close again, the pleasure building rapidly. His movements were becoming less controlled now, more desperate, and you could feel him losing himself in you.
"Come with me," he commanded, his voice rough. "Look at me and come with me."
You opened your eyes and met his gaze, and the intensity in his expression was almost too much. There was nothing held back now—no walls, no guards. Just raw emotion and raw need.
"I love you," he breathed. "I love you so much it's destroying me."
"I love you too," you gasped, and then pleasure overtook everything.
You came hard, your body clenching around him, and he followed moments later, burying himself as deep as he could go before spilling inside you. He groaned your name like a prayer, his entire body rigid with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just existed in the aftermath of what had just happened.
He rolled to the side, pulling you with him, keeping you pressed against his chest. His heart was racing beneath your ear, gradually slowing to a normal rhythm. His hands stroked your hair, your back, in soothing circles.
"I love you," he said into the darkness, the words soft but absolute. "I'm terrified of that love, but I love you completely."
The words hung there, shocking in their simplicity and their depth.
You tilted your head back to look at him. "You don't have to say that because of what just happened."
"I'm not," he said, his eyes deadly serious. "I've known for days. Maybe longer. I was just too terrified to admit it. Too afraid that you'd reject me, or that I'd hurt you, or that I'd destroy something beautiful like I destroy everything else."
You reached up, touching his face gently, tracing the line of his jaw. "I love you too. I've been waiting for you to stop running."
"How?" he asked, something almost agonized in his voice. "How can you love me? After everything I am, everything I've done—"
"Because you're more than that," you said simply. "Because underneath all the power and violence, there's someone worth loving. Someone I choose to love, every single day."
He kissed you again, softer this time. More tender. Like he was trying to pour all his emotion into the contact.
"I'm going to ruin you," he murmured against your lips. "My life, my enemies—there's danger everywhere around me."
"Then I'll face it with you," you replied. "We're partners now. Not empress and emperor. Not wife and husband. Partners."
He held you through the night, and every time you shifted slightly, he pulled you closer, like he was afraid you'd disappear. You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, feeling safer and more loved than you'd ever felt in your life.
Morning came too soon.
You woke to find him already awake, watching you sleep. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the screens, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. His arm was still around your waist, and his eyes were soft as they traced your face.
"Hi," you murmured sleepily, stretching against him. The movement brought you into contact with his aroused length, and you felt heat bloom across your cheeks.
"Hi," he replied, and there was something almost shy in his voice. Like he didn't know how to be tender in daylight. "Did I hurt you?"
"Not even a little," you assured him, running your fingers across his chest. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
He leaned down and kissed you softly, and you felt it all over again—that flutter of butterflies, that sense of rightness.
"Everyone in the palace is going to know exactly what happened between us," he murmured, pulling back to look at you. His eyes traveled over your neck, your shoulders, and you followed his gaze to the mirror across the room.
You gasped. Your neck and shoulders were covered in marks—dark bruises in the shape of his lips and teeth. There were at least a dozen visible, and you had no doubt there were more hidden beneath your shift.
"Oh my gods," you breathed.
He looked absolutely smug. "Good. Let them talk."
"Ningning will have a fit," you said, and it was meant to be joking, but there was an edge of concern beneath it.
His expression hardened immediately, all the softness vanishing. "Ningning is no longer my concern. You are. Only you. From this moment forward, there is no one else. No concubine, no past lover, no one. Just you."
There was something possessive and primal in the way he said it, something that should have bothered you but instead thrilled you to your core.
"Promise me," you whispered.
"I promise," he said, kissing your forehead. "With everything I am."
By noon, the entire palace knew.
Servants whispered about it as they passed in corridors. The other concubines eyed you with new respect and new resentment when you walked through the halls. And Ningning...
Ningning locked herself in her chambers, refusing all visitors.
But in the darkness, as she stared at nothing, her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails drew blood.
Two years. Two years of careful cultivation. Two years of perfecting herself, of learning his preferences, of being exactly what she thought he wanted.
And it had all been for nothing.
A gentle woman with dirt under her fingernails and kindness in her eyes had stolen what Ningning had thought was hers forever.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror and made a decision.
If the Empress thought her victory was secure, she was a fool.
Ningning was many things, but she was not a quitter.
Sukuna stops fighting. No more nights spent in the concubines' wing, no more pretending his feelings for you are fleeting. When he comes to you this time, it's with purpose—to claim what's his.
WC: 3,154 ───〃★ masterlist
You hadn't seen Sukuna in four days.
Not since the night he'd kissed you and left in confusion. Four days of silence. Four days of him nowhere in the palace—rumors said he was in the war room with his generals, handling some distant uprising that demanded his attention.
Danielle and Haerin didn't mention it, but you caught them exchanging worried glances.
Ningning, however, you heard about constantly. The servants whispered that she'd been summoned to his chambers three nights running. That she'd emerged with messy hair and swollen lips, looking triumphant.
You tended your garden and said nothing. But at night, alone in your bed, you wondered if he'd already forgotten you. If the kiss meant nothing. If the connection you'd felt was one-sided.
The camellia was blooming fuller now, its petals opening to the spring sun that was finally—finally—beginning to warm the palace grounds. New flowers were emerging from the soil you'd prepared: plum blossoms in soft pink, early chrysanthemums, jasmine vines that climbed the walls like they were searching for something.
Hope, you supposed. They were all searching for hope.
"My lady, you should rest," Haerin said gently, noticing how you'd been out in the garden since dawn. "You've been working too hard."
"I'm fine," you assured her, though your back ached slightly and you were more tired than usual. Probably just the stress of Sukuna's distance. Your body responded to emotions in strange ways.
The sun was setting when he came.
You were in your chambers, changing into your evening robe, when you sensed him. Not heard him—Sukuna moved like smoke when he wanted to. But you felt his presence the way you felt the change in air before a storm.
"Leave us," he commanded from the doorway, his voice low and rough.
Haerin and Danielle scrambled to obey, bowing so low their foreheads nearly touched the ground before they disappeared through the side entrance.
He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the corridor light. He looked different tonight. Raw. Like something inside him had finally snapped.
"Sukuna," you greeted, keeping your voice steady despite your racing heart. "I wasn't expecting—"
"Don't," he interrupted, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness. The sound of the latch clicking shut echoed through the room. "Don't pretend you didn't know I was coming."
"I didn't—"
"You felt it." He moved toward you with that predatory grace, each step deliberate and measured. "The same way I felt you, every moment I was away from this place. Every moment I was somewhere else, with someone else, and all I could think about was you."
Your breath caught. Your stomach twisted with nerves and anticipation.
"Sukuna—"
"I'm done," he said flatly, coming to stand directly in front of you. "Done pretending. Done running. Done lying to myself about what this is."
He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you didn't, his massive hands cupped your face with surprising gentleness. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, and you felt the calluses on his skin—evidence of centuries of violence.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, and then he kissed you.
This kiss was nothing like the others. It wasn't searching or confused. It was a declaration. A claiming. A surrender and a conquest all at once.
You melted into it, rising on your toes to meet him, your hands coming up to fist in the fabric of his robes. He tasted like sandalwood and something darker—something entirely him. His lips moved against yours with desperate hunger, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you, the taste of you.
When he pulled back slightly, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily.
"I've been in the war room for four days telling myself I was thinking about strategy," he murmured against your lips, and you could hear the raw honesty in his voice. "I was thinking about you. Every single moment."
you running your fingers down his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath the fabric.
"I've spent the last three nights in Ningning's bed." His voice was almost angry—at himself, you realized. "Trying to remember why I preferred her. Trying to make the confusion go away. Trying to convince myself that what I feel for you is just..." he trailed off, frustration evident in every line of his body.
You didn't say anything. Just waited, your fingers still tracing patterns on his chest.
"It didn't work," he continued, pulling back to look at you properly, and there was something almost devastated in his expression. "Nothing worked. Because she's not you. She'll never be you. Her touch doesn't make me feel like I'm drowning and flying at the same time."
"Sukuna—"
"I don't know how to do this," he said, something vulnerable breaking through his usual composure. "I don't know how to have something I care about. Everything I touch, I destroy."
"Then we'll figure it out together," you said, reaching up to touch his face. Your fingers traced one of his tattoos, following the pattern with reverent attention, and you felt him shudder slightly at the contact. "I trust you."
Something broke in his expression. "You shouldn't."
"But I do," you said firmly. "Completely."
He kissed you again, and this time it was slower, deeper. His tongue brushed against yours, and you made a small sound of pleasure that seemed to drive him wild. His hands moved from your face down your sides, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
Your robe suddenly felt too warm, too restrictive.
"I need you," he breathed against your neck, his lips finding the sensitive spot where your jaw met your throat. "God, I need you so badly it's killing me."
A shiver ran down your spine at the intensity in his voice. You'd never heard him sound like this—desperate, almost broken.
His hands reached for the tie of your robe, and he paused, his eyes meeting yours. The question was there, unspoken but clear.
"Yes," you said before he could even ask. "Yes to everything."
He untied it slowly, like he was unwrapping something precious. The fabric fell away, and then your sleeping shift followed, leaving you bare before him in the fading sunlight.
For a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked at you. His eyes—all four of them—traced every curve of your body with an intensity that made you feel like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"You're perfect," he whispered, reaching out to touch you. His fingers trailed down your collarbone, across your shoulder, following the line of your ribs. Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his touch. "How are you this perfect?"
"Your curse," you teased breathlessly. "You're surrounded by beautiful women."
"They're not you," he repeated, like it was the only truth that mattered in the world. "They could never be you."
He pulled you against him, one hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you into his body, while the other tangled in your hair. He was still fully clothed, and the rough fabric of his robes against your bare skin sent electric jolts of pleasure through you.
You gasped, tilting your head back, and he took advantage of the exposed line of your throat. His lips found the sensitive skin, kissing, licking, and then gently sucking. You felt a surge of heat between your thighs at the sensation.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, and you could hear how much control this was costing him. How much he was holding back, trying to be careful with you.
"Don't stop," you breathed, your fingers gripping his shoulders. "Don't ever stop."
He made a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and a growl—and carried you to your bed with surprising gentleness. He laid you down on the silk cushions like you were made of glass, then stepped back.
You watched, your breath coming faster, as he removed his clothes. First his outer robe, letting it fall to the floor. Then the undershirt, revealing the powerful expanse of his chest. The tattoos covered more of his skin than you'd realized—intricate patterns that seemed to move in the candlelight.
He was a work of art. Terrifying and beautiful in equal measure.
His hands went to the tie of his pants, and he held your gaze as he untied them, letting them fall away. He was fully aroused, and the sight made your mouth go dry. He was large everywhere, intimidating, but instead of fear, you only felt desire.
"Come here," you whispered, reaching for him, and he settled over you with the care of someone handling something infinitely precious.
He kissed you again—deeper this time, slower. His hands mapped your body with reverent attention, learning every curve, every sensitive spot. When his fingers found the inside of your wrist and traced small circles there, you gasped at how erotic such a simple touch could be.
His lips moved down your neck, across your collarbone, and you felt your body responding, heat pooling low in your belly. Your skin was hypersensitive to every touch, every breath he exhaled against you.
"I'm going to mark you," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with desire. "So everyone knows you're mine. So there's no question about who you belong to."
The possessiveness in his voice should have bothered you. Instead, it thrilled you. "Yes," you breathed. "Do it."
He kissed and sucked at the delicate skin of your neck, your shoulder, the curve where neck met collarbone. You knew it would leave bruises—dark marks that would be visible to everyone in the palace. The thought made you shiver with anticipation and need.
His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, and then between your thighs. You gasped at the intimacy of his touch, at how vulnerable you felt laid bare beneath him.
He was unhurried, almost reverent, learning what made you tremble and moan. His fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves and stroked it slowly, deliberately, watching your face as pleasure rippled through you.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me see how you respond to me. Let me know what makes you feel good."
His fingers dipped lower, and he groaned when he felt how wet you were. "All for me?" he asked, and there was such raw satisfaction in his voice.
"Only for you," you gasped, your hips moving against his hand. "Always only for you."
He kissed you again, his tongue mimicking the movements of his fingers, and the dual sensation was almost overwhelming. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging slightly into his skin, and he hissed in pleasure.
"I want to taste you," he said, pulling away. "Will you let me?"
Your breath caught. You'd never—no one had ever—
"Yes," you whispered, nodding eagerly.
He kissed his way down your body, his lips mapping every inch of your skin. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you with an expression of reverent hunger.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "So perfect. I'm going to make you feel so good, sweetheart."
And then his mouth was on you, and stars exploded behind your eyes.
It was overwhelming—the intimacy of it, the pleasure of it. His tongue worked against you with devastating precision, finding exactly the right pressure, the right rhythm. Your hands tangled in his hair, and you couldn't help the broken moans that escaped your lips.
"Sukuna," you gasped, your body tightening as pleasure built inside you. "Sukuna, I'm—"
"I know," he murmured against you. "Let go. Come for me. I want to feel it."
One more stroke of his tongue and you shattered, pleasure crashing through you in waves. You cried out his name, your entire body convulsing with the intensity of it. He held you through it, continuing his ministrations until you were completely undone.
When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened, and he looked incredibly pleased with himself.
"I could spend hours doing that," he said, kissing his way back up your body. "Hours just tasting you, learning you, making you come for me again and again."
"Sukuna," you breathed, your whole body still trembling. "I need you. Inside me. Please."
He settled between your thighs, his hardness pressing against your entrance. He moved slowly, giving your body time to adjust to him, and it was the most exquisite torture.
"Relax," he murmured against your ear, his voice impossibly gentle given the tension you could feel coiled in his body. "I've got you. Just relax and let me in."
You took a deep breath and felt him push deeper. He was large, and there was a moment of discomfort, but then he was fully inside you, and the sensation was indescribable. Full. Complete. Right.
"Oh god," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Are you okay?" he asked, and you heard the concern in his voice. "Does it hurt?"
"No," you breathed. "It's perfect. You're perfect. Just... give me a second."
He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, while you adjusted. His hands stroked your sides soothingly, and you felt yourself relaxing into him.
"Okay," you whispered. "Move."
He started slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of hurting you. But as your body responded, moving with his, his control began to slip.
"You feel incredible," he groaned, his movements becoming deeper, more purposeful. "So tight. So perfect. You're made for me, aren't you? This is exactly where you're supposed to be."
"Yes," you gasped, meeting his thrusts. "Yes, I'm yours. Only yours."
"Damn right you are," he growled, and there was something primal in the way he said it that sent heat spiraling through you again.
He changed his angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made your vision blur with pleasure. You cried out, your back arching off the bed.
"That's it," he murmured, finding that spot again and again. "Right there. I've got you."
You were close again, the pleasure building rapidly. His movements were becoming less controlled now, more desperate, and you could feel him losing himself in you.
"Come with me," he commanded, his voice rough. "Look at me and come with me."
You opened your eyes and met his gaze, and the intensity in his expression was almost too much. There was nothing held back now—no walls, no guards. Just raw emotion and raw need.
"I love you," he breathed. "I love you so much it's destroying me."
"I love you too," you gasped, and then pleasure overtook everything.
You came hard, your body clenching around him, and he followed moments later, burying himself as deep as he could go before spilling inside you. He groaned your name like a prayer, his entire body rigid with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just existed in the aftermath of what had just happened.
He rolled to the side, pulling you with him, keeping you pressed against his chest. His heart was racing beneath your ear, gradually slowing to a normal rhythm. His hands stroked your hair, your back, in soothing circles.
"I love you," he said into the darkness, the words soft but absolute. "I'm terrified of that love, but I love you completely."
The words hung there, shocking in their simplicity and their depth.
You tilted your head back to look at him. "You don't have to say that because of what just happened."
"I'm not," he said, his eyes deadly serious. "I've known for days. Maybe longer. I was just too terrified to admit it. Too afraid that you'd reject me, or that I'd hurt you, or that I'd destroy something beautiful like I destroy everything else."
You reached up, touching his face gently, tracing the line of his jaw. "I love you too. I've been waiting for you to stop running."
"How?" he asked, something almost agonized in his voice. "How can you love me? After everything I am, everything I've done—"
"Because you're more than that," you said simply. "Because underneath all the power and violence, there's someone worth loving. Someone I choose to love, every single day."
He kissed you again, softer this time. More tender. Like he was trying to pour all his emotion into the contact.
"I'm going to ruin you," he murmured against your lips. "My life, my enemies—there's danger everywhere around me."
"Then I'll face it with you," you replied. "We're partners now. Not empress and emperor. Not wife and husband. Partners."
He held you through the night, and every time you shifted slightly, he pulled you closer, like he was afraid you'd disappear. You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, feeling safer and more loved than you'd ever felt in your life.
Morning came too soon.
You woke to find him already awake, watching you sleep. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the screens, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. His arm was still around your waist, and his eyes were soft as they traced your face.
"Hi," you murmured sleepily, stretching against him. The movement brought you into contact with his aroused length, and you felt heat bloom across your cheeks.
"Hi," he replied, and there was something almost shy in his voice. Like he didn't know how to be tender in daylight. "Did I hurt you?"
"Not even a little," you assured him, running your fingers across his chest. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
He leaned down and kissed you softly, and you felt it all over again—that flutter of butterflies, that sense of rightness.
"Everyone in the palace is going to know exactly what happened between us," he murmured, pulling back to look at you. His eyes traveled over your neck, your shoulders, and you followed his gaze to the mirror across the room.
You gasped. Your neck and shoulders were covered in marks—dark bruises in the shape of his lips and teeth. There were at least a dozen visible, and you had no doubt there were more hidden beneath your shift.
"Oh my gods," you breathed.
He looked absolutely smug. "Good. Let them talk."
"Ningning will have a fit," you said, and it was meant to be joking, but there was an edge of concern beneath it.
His expression hardened immediately, all the softness vanishing. "Ningning is no longer my concern. You are. Only you. From this moment forward, there is no one else. No concubine, no past lover, no one. Just you."
There was something possessive and primal in the way he said it, something that should have bothered you but instead thrilled you to your core.
"Promise me," you whispered.
"I promise," he said, kissing your forehead. "With everything I am."
By noon, the entire palace knew.
Servants whispered about it as they passed in corridors. The other concubines eyed you with new respect and new resentment when you walked through the halls. And Ningning...
Ningning locked herself in her chambers, refusing all visitors.
But in the darkness, as she stared at nothing, her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails drew blood.
Two years. Two years of careful cultivation. Two years of perfecting herself, of learning his preferences, of being exactly what she thought he wanted.
And it had all been for nothing.
A gentle woman with dirt under her fingernails and kindness in her eyes had stolen what Ningning had thought was hers forever.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror and made a decision.
If the Empress thought her victory was secure, she was a fool.
Ningning was many things, but she was not a quitter.
sukuna couldn't get you out of his mind the whole weekend after the party— how you acted so disinterested in him before and then had the audacity to kiss him still baffled him. not that he was complaining— the way you pulled him into the kiss is replaying in his mind on loop. those seven minutes weren't enough to feed the hunger you've awakened in him.
these three nights were a different kind of hell. his mind refuses to shut up— flashing images of your kiss-bitten lips— the feeling of those same lips against his— your hands on his neck— your fingers trailing and tugging on his hair— all he could think about was you, you, you.
sukuna isn't a man who gets sentimental over a person. he's not someone who yearns for one's presence and he's definitely not a person who wishes something from a specific person when there are many others who can fill that same position— like the kiss you've shared. a single make-out session that he could probably get from every girl on campus is messing with his head— why can't he get you out of his mind? is it because you caught him by surprise? it wasn't the first time that the girl made the first move on him— he wasn't short on women who throw themselves at him. but that was the first time he didn't expect it. that must be it. he’s simply still under shock. no way you managed to crawl into his heart or whatever with a single initiated kiss.
that conclusion bites him in the ass almost instantly when he spots you across campus— his eyes are drawn to your figure before his mind can even comprehend that it's indeed you. well this certainly is a nice way to start his monday morning. it’s like in those cheesy romance movies— every other noise seems to be drawn out by his brain as he watches you. it’s almost like you're walking in slow motion. the sunlight hits your face, illuminating you, wrapping you in a gold hue. even though you linger in the back of his mind, your features are blurred and in need of a refreshment. he can’t help but wonder what part of you he might have forgotten or missed. the soft wind blows through your hair— he can't tear his eyes away.
“yo”, he hears toji from beside him, “you good?”
sukuna looks at him for a second and just grunts as an answer— already searching for you again. the single heartbeat he spent looking elsewhere felt wrong— he catches you just as you enter your department building.
you slip inside, leaving his line of sight, and sukuna feels something in him drop— sharp and quiet. as if you've purposefully left him behind, wanting. as if he's been denied something he didn't remember asking for.
his jaw clenches.
he tears his eyes away from the empty space a moment too late.
letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding, sukuna starts walking toward his class, leaving toji behind without a goodbye.
unaware that you've been already spotted by the man of your nightmares— and your dreams— you're still walking through the halls with a grip on your bag too tight and an expression that could scare away anyone except the man it's supposed to scare off.
your jaw is tightly clenched— afraid that a single vocal exhale could uncover the lie that didn't even come from you.
your weekend wasn't any better. you feel like you're on the walk of shame and every single one of your fantasies is being projected on a wall you cannot see. every peek that someone throws your way feels like they know you went up to sukuna and kissed him— then went home and thought about him day and night with your hands between your thighs— and that you're now actively hiding from him because he still thinks you're mute.
oh god. they're all looking at you with disgusted faces. some people are whispering amongst themselves. is it about you? do they know? are they making fun of you?
everyone knows you're not mute and they will tell sukuna and he’ll kill you for lying to him and having the audacity to hump him—
no. you can survive this.
sukuna has probably already forgotten about that whole ordeal— right? there's no way that he'd even rethink those seven minutes— yeah. even if you'll probably get off on that memory for a little longer than you'd like to admit— he won't spare you a glance when you walk past him.
you've heard about him. who hasn’t? his reputation isn't built on lies and mere gossip— it's built on warnings. built on the fact that he doesn't hesitate in putting people in their place, which is underneath his feet.
never the same girl twice— never staying longer than a night. sweet talking till he gets what he wants— never talking again after that. girls who chase him for a single night— girls who are probably better than you— experienced, outgoing, able to hold a conversation— girls who might have a chance. those seven minutes were your only chance at feeling him against your lips and you grasped that chance— you shouldn't get your hopes up for something more.
that doesn't mean you'll stop avoiding him though—
.
the following days, sukuna finds himself subconsciously taking the long route to class— or to the library— anywhere that just happens to pass through your department building. more often than he’d ever care to admit.
he tells himself it’s nothing.
it’s not intentional.
he was just in need of... a change in scenery.
just a different route. different hallways. different noise. different people.
but somehow his feet keep making the same turn, slowing near the same entrance he saw you last, lingering a second too long. his eyes drift before he can stop them, scanning without meaning to— at least, that’s what he insists.
he isn’t looking for you.
he’s just… observant.
ever since the night in that damn closet, something feels slightly unresolved— and sukuna tells himself that he doesn’t like unfinished business.
it’s coincidence that his chest tightens for half a second whenever he thinks he might see you rounding the corner.
so when he finally catches a glimpse of you through the thick crowd of people, he ignores the frantic beating of his heart, and he tells himself he only looked for a second longer to confirm that the disruption you have caused is insignificant. that whatever unfinished business he thought about has finally settled.
but it hasn’t.
and it’s irritating that he wants more than a glimpse of you.
.
your streak of avoiding sukuna is broken by shoko who begged you to join her in the library. you were already comfortable in your dorm and celebrating another victory of managing to stay out of sukunas way. at least you caught on the moral of the day, never celebrate too early.
nearing the library, you were met with the devastating realization that this is the worst possible time of walking around campus, which was swarmed with people. a mix of tired individuals heading home while others are rushing to their evening classes. people were streaming by in both directions. is it too late to turn around? you really don't want to risk running into sukuna— but turning around now would be too embarrassing. you can't stop and act like someone is calling so you can “correct” your route either because that would attract unnecessary attention toward you—
whatever. you try convincing yourself that you're overreacting. what are the chances that you'll run into him? you've survived a whole week! there's no way you'll lose now. just— go along, deep breaths. It's okay.
it was indeed not okay and you had every right to overreact because the next group that turned the corner had you contemplating your friendship with shoko. why the actual fuck did she say you were fucking mute back then— why the fuck did you not only fucking agree on going to that fucking party but also fucking agree on playing that fucking game— and why the fuck did you agree on fucking meeting her at the fucking library—
you didn't have the chance to overuse the word fuck anymore because— while your brain was running overtime with your monolog you were also doing your best at looking anywhere but into sukunas direction— your monolog was interrupted by the excessive amount of laughter from the group which your ears somehow managed to pick up over everything else. and although you had already convinced yourself that the colors and ridges of your shoes were the most fascinating sight of today, your head still perked up and turned to the direction of laughter.
locking eyes with sukuna crumbled your conviction about your footwear since there couldn't be a more fascinating sight than his lickable face. no wonder you humped him like a bitch in heat because let's be real. who wouldn't? you would probably do it again. ugh, how you wished to be your past self right now. kissing his sweet lips again— hearing his orgasm-worth grunts again— feeling his muscular body against yours— his soft hair grazing through your fingers—
your fantasies shatter as sukuna throws you a smirk and joins in the laughter.
you take it back. fuck your past self. why the fuck would you hump him? scratch that, why did you go to that fucking party anyway—
is the laughter about you?
your head snaps back to the ground and you pick up your pace.
are they making fun of you?
you shove your hands into your pockets as the slight air of passing by sukuna hits your face.
you try exhaling once they’re behind you, but you're worried it might be too vocal and he'll hear you.
the sounds of their snickering doesn't leave your ears, even long after you passed by and they were out of earshot.
meanwhile, as sukuna locked eyes with you, it was just as unexpected. it happened when he wasn't actively searching for you in the crowd for once.
he had just left the library with gojo in tow, meeting toji and suguru at the exit. gojo nagged them to hang out and despite sukunas need of some revising for his upcoming exams he was reluctant to agree, sick of gojos never-ending whining. who is he kidding? the revising could wait, his mental well-being— which is in need of a break from socializing, on top of desperately needing a break from gojo— cannot. what does he have to do for one second of peace and quiet? why does he want to hang out anyway? it’s friday for fucks sake! they’ll see each other tonight at some party anyway!
he joins the group with a scowl that confirms he'd rather be anywhere but here. they’re already too loud. gojo jumps into conversation the second he meets eyes with the two other men and sukuna can feel his brain cells evaporating. sugurus laughing like a donkey at gojos unfunny jokes and sukuna prepares himself for his already present headache to intensify.
the men start walking, talking and laughing about who-knows-what since sukuna has already tuned them out.
during sukunas inner calculations of how many brain cells he’ll have left by the end of the day, he feels his heart drop and immediately loses his train of thought— because he just met eyes with you.
his mind needed a couple seconds to catch up and actually accept that he’s seeing you right now. despite never actually peeling his eyes off you, it felt as if he not only needed a second look but also a triple check that he's not hallucinating in the moment. he was forcing his mind to tune out gojos shrieking seconds ago and now he finds himself hearing nothing but his hastening heartbeat and seeing nothing but your face that he was longing to be close to again. you’re only passing by each other, but sukuna doesn't know when he'll be in close proximity to you again. he could reach out right now and feel your soft skin once more.
he's not only seeing you but you're looking right back at him. the shock he felt was quickly mixed with delight. he doesn’t realize that the delight came mainly by you being there— instead he reasons with himself that he's happy because you're noticing him as well for once.
while everyone orbits around sukuna and notices him from multiple blocks away— even with his excessive amount of looking around for you he never got the chance to lock eyes with you. why does he find himself desperate for your acknowledgement? why is he trying to figure out why you have that look of arrogance on your face? not an ounce of fear— not an ounce of adoration either. for you, he's just another face among the crowd, for him— you're the face he searches for in the crowd.
he tells himself it's a normal reaction. it's reasonable why he's interested. he’s simply confused why you're looking at him with indifference. of course there are enough people out there who avoid sukuna, try to stay out of his way. looks of disgust or envy toward him isn't anything new. people that stay out of his way still acknowledge him. they know who he is. they stay out of his way because they want to stay out of trouble. they’re scared, nervous. but you— you simply don't care. it’s simply that fuck ass obnoxious but pretty face of yours that he cannot seem to shake off. such a shame too, pretty face that just seems to piss him off for no significant reason.
pretty face that pisses him off yet he can’t stop starring.
pisses him off yet he won’t admit how many times he swept his eyes across the hallways. so yeah— enough times that this encounter was certainly unexpected for him.
however, the constant, lingering anticipation of setting his eyes on you again— paired with the subconscious scanning of his surroundings— makes him wonder if it truly was unexpected, or if your appearance itself made his breath hitch.
fuck, he’s starring. you probably think he's a weirdo—
sukuna forces himself to look away and quickly starts laughing with the other men, despite having no idea what they're laughing about, hoping you don't think he’s creepy. he can’t have you avoid him on top of dismissing him. he wants you to acknowledge him— to feel his presence just as much as he searches for yours.
his head still turns slightly when you're getting closer. his nose tries picking up on your perfume— begging for a whiff of your scent. the scent that he has memorized yet cant remember. he has to hold himself back from reaching out. he feels a sudden cold settling over him and needs your skin to warm him up. he wants to call out to you. stop you. make you look at him. yet he realizes that he still doesn't know your name.
despite his efforts of holding back, sukuna is oblivious to his hand closest to you extending and his fingers slightly stretching out— right as you're brushing by and sending a flicker of wind across his skin.
.
another friday night, another party. though sukuna cannot seem to enjoy himself.
the party feels louder than usual. the stench of cheap cologne and weed seems to be stronger than typically. the lights are causing an ache behind his eyes and whoever gave him this drink can prepare themselves for a taste of his fist because it tastes like shit. warm— too sweet— and it does not fulfill it’s purpose because he does not feel the effect that usually makes him enjoy these parties— enjoy socializing— enjoy the music— the scenery— the surrounding people who are desperate for his approval.
it's been exactly a week since he last tasted your lips.
he keeps scanning the crowd subconsciously— hoping for another glimpse of you— even though part of him knows he won't be seeing you tonight.
he's been desperate to blow off some steam— and yet the only way he seems to tolerate the attempts of conversations from girls is when they resemble you— when he can imagine them to be you. but as creative as his brain has been lately— no one fills the longing of actually having you in front of him again.
wait.
he does not long for having you in front of him again.
damn. these tasteless ass drinks are really messing with his brain.
and this girl sitting beside him on the couch can't take the damn hint. she’s almost clawing her way onto his lap while having a one-sided conversation. she could be talking to a brick wall and have the same outcome. sukuna doesn't spare her a single answer. in fact, he doesn't even know what she's talking about— or who she even is. she’s moving closer with every passing second and sukuna doesn't have space to back away anymore. he wants to tell her to piss off but doesn't bother to. it's easier to ignore her than find the energy to stand up and walk away.
she’s getting closer by the second. her sticky fingers are touching him, feeling him up. her skin feels wrong against his own and he feels himself internally recoiling. her touch is making his skin crawl and the lingering feeling it leaves behind on his skin feels revolting.
her perfume is way too strong and overwhelming him more than he already is— suffocating him— but if he concentrates hard enough, closing his eyes, he can make out the top notes of yours. the scent of you that he barely remembers. it’s hidden within, a faint whisper against his senses. a dull memory that manages to soothe him. a trace of you he wants to follow.
her high-pitched laugh pierces through his imagination— stabbing his ears and tearing through the short-lived dream he had found himself in.
what is she even squealing about?
he couldn’t care less.
she ripped through the one thing that made him tolerate her longer than he should. her perfume is overpowering his senses again. the lights are too strong. the music is too loud.
he needs air.
her cries of desperation are nothing more than background noise— swallowed by the chaos around him— as he flees away. he maneuvers his way through the crowd— which parts itself for him— shoving away anyone who had the misfortune of not sensing his presence in time.
he immediately fills his lungs with fresh air once he steps outside. his ears ring— trying to get used to the now quieter environment, with only dull sounds of the havoc inside— as he sits on the concrete step.
sukuna is sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands— thumbs slowly rubbing into his temples— trying to relieve the headache that has grown throughout the night.
lost in the moment, he doesn't detect the presence behind him lurking closer till they're sat beside him.
“you’re quiet today”, he remarks.
sukuna peeks through his fingers and shifts his gaze to the person, briefly scanning his features and recognizing toji.
he grunts in response, not finding the energy to actually say something.
“you good?”, toji questions.
“yeah”, sukuna replies, “s’just…”, he trails off for a moment, his attention drifting to the lawn in front of him, “too loud.”
toji scoffs at that, “loud? dude, you're the source of that normally.”
sukuna doesn't reply to that. no— he can’t reply to that. what is he supposed to say? he questions as well why he can't find comfort in a place he usually strives in. in a place where he's supposed to strive in— where it's expected from him.
it’s silent for a beat, both men staring into the lawn. the breeze of the night slightly making their skin prickle.
“you’ve been off for a while”, toji interrupts the silence.
sukuna doesn't respond again.
“is it that girl?”, toji aks.
sukuna turns his way at that, his raised eyebrow seeking toji to elaborate.
“from the closet”, toji continues, “i’ve seen you eyeing her on campus.”
is it you? the girl whose name he doesn't even know yet?
“you should just talk to her if she got you daydreaming and shit”, toji advises with a grin.
“shut up”, sukuna groans in response and nudges his shoulder.
toji chuckles, “you didn't deny it.”
“fuck off”, sukuna grunts, avoiding tojis gaze as he feels heat crawling up his neck.
.
you feel a lot more composed than last week.
well, a part from that one time you almost lost your footing and nearly ate the concrete of the pavement when you saw sukuna on the way to the library. but you calmed down— you think. they were already laughing when they rounded the corner so there's no way the cause was actually you— at least that's what you've been telling yourself.
you stroll your way through campus— mentally preparing yourself for another week after the short-lived weekend— trying to enjoy the morning, though you can't help but wish that you could've slept in and skip the morning altogether.
you haven't been keeping track of when your last encounter with sukuna was. which is a little surprising since that's all you're stressing yourself about— seeing him again. you haven't seen him around campus after the library incident and you don't plan on doing so. your guard is still up, but your shoulders aren't as tense anymore— your hands can rest after clenching them for too long— and the people around you can relax because your expression resembles a human being again.
you stop in front of the class shoko is currently in— planning on having a quick bite with her on your shared break. she texted you a few minutes ago that her lecture is nearing its end.
as you wait for her, you can't help but let out a low, relieved sigh. it feels like you can finally breathe again.
you've finally accepted that the dream you clung to all week— that there would be more after that kiss with sukuna— was never meant to come true.
it’s funny really. while you were doing everything in your power to avoid him— and succeeding at that— you’ve been secretly wishing that it meant more to him. the way it did to you. you hoped that he couldn’t forget that night. hoped he was replaying it in his head the same way you were.
just because you were hoping for more doesn't mean you'll initiate anything ever again though…
or stop avoiding him…
just the thought of seeing him again gives you goosebumps.
what if he'd point at you and laugh… and then everybody in proximity joins and you'd be forced to flee the building because everybody is pointing and laughing…
maybe you should start searching for an apartment? preferably somewhere far away where you can start a new life with a new identity.
no. don’t be dramatic. It's not that deep.
he probably forgot about it already.
even if you'd fail at avoiding him he'd probably not even recognize you! that single eye contact from last week doesn't mean he recognized you! or remembered you shamelessly throwing yourself at him!
who even are you? just another body amongst all the others. no one special. no one remarkable. and definitely not someone worth remembering.
“hey.”
so about that apartment— and starting a new life— and the new identity—
were you going crazy at last?
there's no way you just heard sukunas voice.
and it's even more impossible that it was directed at you.
you didn't sense the sudden shift in the atmosphere because you were already stressed as it is.
he's right behind you, isn't he?
you slowly turn around— trying to appear normal and unaffected. fuck it’s getting hot. and youre not even fully turned around yet! are you sweating? are you red?
meeting eyes with sukuna felt like looking at your own death— horrifying and inevitable. but somehow also irresistible.
every instinct screams at you to look away. his ruby-colored eyes are sharp enough to wound, but alluring— making the thought of bleeding out sound peaceful.
his gaze roots you into place, daring you to move a single muscle. is he here to cuss you out? to tell you he has been sick ever since that night because what you did was absolutely disgusting?
no. he doesnt look disgusted. he doesnt look delighted to be here yet you can't help but feel like his eyes are somewhat— gentle?
wait. he greeted you.
you were just about to open your mouth— already begging your voice not to crack— when you remembered that you're supposed to be mute.
what now? just— smile.
you try smiling at him. are you smiling too much? you're beaming aren't you. okay— just tone it down a little. smile just enough to be polite— to greet him back— not to seem like you're desperate for his presence.
sukuna feels his hands sweating at the absolute unamused look you're giving him. is he that weird for greeting you? you look like you've never seen him before. so is he the only one that cannot get that damn kiss out of his head? he doesn't even know what made him approach you. you were just standing there and his legs moved before he could decide— let alone ask himself if he should come up to you. now that he's in front of you, after days of wanting to be here, he has no idea what to say. maybe ask you what your fucking name is? he’s out here pissed off whenever you cross his mind— so basically like, all the damn time— yet he doesn’t even know your fucking name.
he’s not a fucking virgin. he can flirt with women. he can have a conversation with women. even if he has no idea what to say he could come up with something on the spot to swoon them— but that look you're giving him? still arrogant, still dismissing him, still looking like he's not worth a second of your day. fuck. what can he say in order for you to actually want to give him your time of the day?
did you do something wrong? are you smiling too much? are you standing weird? is something on your face? why the fuck is sukuna just standing there. you can't help but admire his figure. you want to feel him against you again. you want to bite his mouth watering biceps. is it snowing outside? because why else would he not wear his tight fitting, slutty shirts? shit, you're starring.
sukuna watches you eye him from head to toe and this might be the first time he feels an ounce of insecurity. he should’ve worn something tighter so he could’ve shown off how strong he is. flexing his arms and puffing out his chest should work for now.
wait. why is he trying to show off? he knows he's attractive and there's no way you think otherwise. even if he’s not your type, you’ll have to admit that he’s hot as fuck. shit. forget his fucking appearence he must look like a fucking moron just standing here after saying hey and nothing else—
your eyes flick back to his. why isn't he saying anything? was the greeting even aimed at you? fuck, did he mean someone behind you and you turned around like a dumbass—
sukuna feels his chest tighten when you turn around. are you really gonna walk away before he got the chance to ask for your name? his words are stuck in his throat and the door you're standing at opens right as he is about to stammer his question out. the creak of the door tenses his shoulders up and the stream of people leaving the lecture hall makes his ears ring. you give him one last look over your shoulder after spotting shoko, already walking toward her direction and dismissing him once again. you’re not even two steps away when you turn your attention away from him and toward your friend. the hands he was about to reach out for you with clenches on his sides. did he manage to catch your attention in the first place? or was he just an inconvenience— a fly you couldn't shake off?
sukuna exhales— his signature scowl back in place— stepping away before others think he's running after you— or worse— before he feeds your ego by resembling a fan who’s begging for an autograph. the ryomen sukuna trying to stop a chick from walking away from him— disregarding him completely— for her name? he scoffs at himself. right. its not like he was interested in you or anything. he was just… trying to put a name on a minor inconvenience that managed to develop into a major nuisance because… because… why is he so fucking pissed off? lack of knowledge. that’s it. who wouldnt be annoyed at someone— more than they’re worth being annoyed about— when they have no fucking idea who that person is?
shoko thinks she might've forgotten her pants in the lecture hall by the look on your face as you're approaching her. your eyes look like they're about to pop out and bounce around the hallway. after a quick scan of her legs, she silently questions what happened by lifting one eyebrow. an equally distraught face appears on her once she registers who's merely six inches behind you.
you speed walk toward her and grip her arm once she's in reach, turning her around immediately and pushing her forward.
“did he see you?”, shoko asks impatiently.
you don’t answer. terrified that sukuna might still be in earshot to hear you. after rounding three corners, shoko stops you from walking any further. she holds both your arms, hard, leaning into your face and asks you again, “did he see you?”
“worse”, you whisper.
“the fuck do you mean worse—”
“he said hey.”
a moment of silence passes.
shoko stands upright again. her grip on your arms loosens a bit, “are you sure you didn't imagine that—”
“yes i’m sure— the fuck!—”, you stop yourself from shouting, exhaling and looking around again. “yes”, you repeat yourself, “i’m sure.”
“huh”, shoko releases your arms completely. she furrows her eyebrows, tongue pressed into her cheek, deep in thought. shoko briefly leaves reality to have a conversation with her two brain cells. the lightbulb lights up and once her eyes focus on you again, she smirks.
“what are you grinning about?”, you have to hold yourself back from wiping that smile off her face because she's the whole reason this happened!
“he wants you so bad”, shoko drawled.
“that’s your conclusion after zoning out for ten minutes?— hey!”, she skips away before you can give her a piece of your mind, or well, piece of your fist against her face.
.
at this point, you're used to holding your tongue and examining every location you step into for pink hair. you’ve lost sense of time a long time ago and accepted that this is your new reality. the anxiety in your stomach is still present, but it's not moving all over your body anymore. it’s there, turning and stirring with every corner you turn. though it has become something you're accustomed to. your last crossing with sukuna has calmed your nerves. even if you're not sure what his deal was, it felt as if he's not as repulsed by you as you thought he'd be. you’re back at square one, avoiding him because you're supposed to be mute and not because you threw yourself at him. since he doesn't seem to be fazed by the latter, staying out of his way shouldn't be a problem, no?
wrong.
you really have to stop waiting for shoko and let her wait for you for once, because waiting by her lecture hall is not an option any more.
sukuna isn't someone who second-thinks his actions. most of his actions are either done deliberately— thought through and done with reason, so there's no reason to second-guess those— or he does them without thinking, because they're not worth pondering about. everything he does lands where he wants it to or he simply doesn't care where it does. as a result, he doesn't feel shame or guilt. he doesn’t lay in his bed, late at night, tired as fuck but unable to sleep because his brain is replaying his mistakes. well except… every night since your last interaction.
can he even call it an interaction when his throat was clogged with words he couldn't express? sukuna doesn't remember the last time he was just as embarrassed. he had his perks when no one had the guts to humiliate him. except his own conscience, that is.
he has to learn to control his legs, since they seem to wander before he decided to do so. because even though he can't blink without seeing your ice-cold gaze, he finds himself in front of you again. but this time, he's set on winning.
“hey”, sukuna calls out to you, copying your stance in front of you by leaning against the same wall. you notice him— the focus on your phone in your hands gone— momentarily staring at his shoes before your eyes slowly move their way up his body.
sukuna relished in being called a womanizer, but in front of you he might as well be a virgin, fearing— knowing that he'll stutter and fall over his words once he opens his mouth.
the moment you see a shadow creeping in front of you from your peripheral vision, you're on high alert. a heavy weight settles over you— pressing against your lungs— yet you opt to ignore it till the shadow announces its presence. sadly it doesn't get better, because even though your nerves were screaming at you, warning you that it's most likely the one person you don't want it to be, he opens his mouth. same hey from last time. you take your time in looking up, maybe he'll disappear before you meet his gaze, but no. he's still here. sukuna. again. in front of you. leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, biceps flexing so deliciously that you have to strain your eyes not to linger on them for too long. his scarlet eyes are already fixated on you, yet to your surprise, he’s wearing a cocky smirk this time.
sukuna will win your heart this time. not that he needs it. or wants it. you’re just as unamused as last time. maybe even more, he can't read you. but that doesn't matter, soon your heart will be on your sleeve and he'll see the adoration you have for him twinkle in your eyes.
you can't hold eye contact for the life of you. and it's especially hard when the person the pair of eyes belongs to has so many other qualities that you can stare at.
your eyes betray you by starting to trail the tattoos that decorate his handsome face. starting from his forehead, pausing momentarily at the glinting of his eyebrow piercing, they continue their path along his cheekbones, down to his chin. your number one regret in life will probably be that you never got the chance to trail his tattoos with your tongue. ending the journey at his chin, your eyes find a new point of focus. his lips. his lips which look so undeniable soft that you’d kill to taste them right now.
“we’ve been bumpin’ into each other a lot”, he smirked, concealing his nervousness. who starts a fucking conversation like that? you don't seem to recognize him, why did he say out loud that he noticed you? he's trying to be nonchalant, fighting his legs to not lose his footing by leaning against this wall. why is the ground so slippery? his toes try clawing at the floor to hold himself upright. he feels himself slowly sliding further away from the wall, soon he'll be eye level with you—
oh?
sukunas smirk grows. you're practically gaping at his mouth. so he's not alone in wanting to relive that kiss? he stands upright, abandoning the wall, edging closer to you without making it too obvious. his nostrils flare, hit by the faint scent of your perfume. your gaze stays fixated on his lips, which he wets instinctively. pumped with new-found confidence, sukuna continues talking, “so, what's your name?”
you were so captivated by the movement of his mouth, the brief appearance of his tongue, that you didn’t realize that you’re probably drooling, but also the fact that sukunas been talking and you haven’t heard a single word. you freeze. did he notice? he did, didn’t he? he probably thinks you're a creep. who stares at someone's mouth for so long? what should you do? maybe if you stare longer it’ll look like you zoned out? yeah, if you flick your eyes up too quick it’ll seem like you’re caught. just look a little longer and then you can slowly move your eyes back to his—
his composure falters when he notices the furrow in your brows and the evident concentration on your face. does he have something in his teeth? why are you so focused on his lips?—
oh.
the realization hits him like a train.
are you reading his lips? trying to decipher what he's saying?
his thought-process is interrupted by a slap on his shoulder, accompanied with a too cheerful and familiar voice. “what’s up, my man”, gojo practically shouts in his ears and drapes his arm over sukunas shoulder. sukunas instant reply is shoving him off, harsher than usual with the current situation. his attention slips away from you and directs itself to the other man for a moment. big mistake. “fuck off”, he growls. gojo is oblivious to the frustration raging through sukunas veins. he stares at gojo with narrowed eyes, his snarl exposing his sharp canines, but gojo still lingers with an unfazed stance. sukunas hate for the man grows with his seemingly impeccable timing. does he have to ruin the fucking moment? and right when he finally stood in front of you!—
sukuna turns to you again but is only met with the emptiness of the spot where you stood mere seconds ago.
you fled the scene once gojo made his appearance. you were unsure if you were supposed to wait for sukuna, so you decided that waiting there awkwardly— risking that sukuna may forget your presence entirely or find it amusing that you’re waiting for him— sounded scarier than bolting. so bolting you did.
.
later that day— as sukuna is laying on his bed, head resting on one arm, phone forgotten on his desk— he recounts the details of your encounter. while he's trying not to cringe at another failure of charming you, he starts to rummage through his memory to find more reasons to add to the possibility of you being deaf.
of course, there's the fact of you presumably reading his lips today. and also— you never reacted when he called out to you. today— you didn't immediately look up when he greeted you— you looked up once you saw his feet and worked your way up from there—
before that too— it took you forever to turn around, he was already preparing himself to repeat himself— is that why you walked away? you didn't hear him say ‘hey’ after all and his stupid ass didn't open his mouth again once you had set your eyes on him— how were you supposed to know he was trying to talk to you and not just standing around?
“so that's why shoko was typing on her phone for her…”, he mutters to himself, the seemingly unimportant memory of the party fully confirming his hypothesis.
your immovable expression of boredom makes way more sense now. your expression didn't waver after he growled at you for running into him— which makes sense since you didn't detect the threat in his voice. you were unamused when he approached you in the hallway because who wouldn't be? he'd probably be annoyed too if someone came up to him and tried communicating in a language he didn't understand—
connecting one point that spoke in your defence to the other made sukuna completely dismiss the possibility of you simply having no desire to be face to face with him.
“fuck it”, he sighs out as he stands up to grab his phone.
.
fuck shoko. sukunas second attempt at— cursing you out, probably?— yesterday made you unable to get a single wink of sleep last night. you’ll never wait for her again.
“ughhh—”, shoko drags out as you're locking your dorm room, “pleaseee wait for me before lunch—”
“I already told you no”, you pocket your keys.
“but todays different!”, she joins your strides as you start walking toward the elevator. “I share the course with satoru, you know how he is—”, she presses the button, “he’ll take me walking out alone as an invite to join me. I really, really—”, she takes the elevators chime as her cue to inhale deeply, “reallyyy.. can't handle his rambling today.”
“oh come on”, you step into the elevator, “he has his own friends im sure he’ll spare you—”
“NO”, she punches the elevator button aggressively, just as you were about to, making you flinch away, “I can't risk it pleasee— my social battery can't handle him today—”
“your social battery seems fully charged to me…”
“i’ll be quick!”, she holds your arms, “i promise i’ll sprint out the hall—”
how long can you deny those puppy eyes? you sigh out, “shoko. babe. i love you but for the sake of my blood pressure, I cannot see sukuna again.”
“you won't", she whispers without a shadow of doubt, “i’ll leave that hall so fast he won't have the chance to gang up on you again.”
“shoko—”
the elevator door opens but shokos still holding you in place.
“i’ll do the dishes for a week.”
you don’t budge.
“two weeks.”
her arms fall as you start walking out of the elevator.
“fine!”, she slightly jogs to catch up to you, “a month.”
“...deal”, you begrudgingly give in.
“bitch..”
“what was that? not waiting for you sounds awfully good right now..”
“nothing!”
"that's what I thought.”
there's a short-lived silence between you as you both leave the dormitory.
“i hope sukuna comes up to you again—”
you wince in sudden panic, your head turning her way, "don't say that!”
"i'm joking!"
.
it feels like escaping a month of dishes is not worth the anxiety you feel as you're waiting for shoko. again.
you close your eyes, focusing on taking deep breaths in hope of slowing down your racing heart. the thumping quietens down slowly as you try to compose yourself.
what are the chances of sukuna seeking you out a third time? ‘can’t be that high’, you think to yourself, even as you feel a familiar tension settling between your shoulder blades.
you open your eyes.
greeted by a scrumptious pair of pecs confirms that the chances are indeed that high.
a broad, muscular torso fills your vision. your eyes immediately register the dark ink on his wrists.
is there even a point in looking up? you can't just pass down on the chance to directly look at his ravishing face though. even if you by absolutely no means wanted this to happen. of course.
looking up at the towering 6’3 wall of muscle, the part of you which isn’t currently cursing out shoko, wonders if this is the outcome of a good deed or if you were some kind of evil queen in your last life.
sucking up knowledge was never a problem for sukuna. learning new things and using them to his advantage was always a skill he was proud of. he rarely had problems with his studies. he wasn’t a genius by any means— yet he quickly understood what was needed, even if it was a night before a life-altering exam.
so why is he— even after memorizing and practicing for way longer than he needed— nervous about forgetting everything and fucking up once you gaze back into his eyes?
you watch his adams apple bop. what the actual fuck does he want from you? did he find out that you're not mute and is here to give a piece of his mind?
sukuna watches you slightly tilt your head in question. ‘cute’, he can't help but slightly smirk at the sight. now that he's sure he's got your attention—
‘third times the charm’, sukuna thinks to himself. he raises both of his hands, palms facing upward, and starts gently shaking them side to side simultaneously.
‘what’
then he pushes his dominant hand, palm facing you, toward you.
‘your’
he extends his index and middle finger on both hands, keeping them pressed together. and by tapping one pair on the other—
‘name’
— he completes his question.
you’re left utterly confused and speechless by sukunas movements. why is he throwing up gang signs? and what the fuck are you supposed to do? is he doing some kind of ritual? you did hear of some rumors that he used to be some four-armed two-faced demon-king—
did he fuck it up? he can feel sweat building up on his body as a torturous heat settles upon his insides. you're just staring at him—
oh he's stupid. how the fuck are you supposed to answer— that’s the only thing he can sign, for now, he won’t understand if you sign back—
a shout of your name interrupts you both.
you immediately snap your head toward a frantic shoko, who's currently running in your direction.
sukuna copies you, somewhat mad at whoever decided to steal your attention from him once again— only to see the same reason. shoko. fuck her— though he has to appreciate her this time because he finally learned your name.
are you supposed to hate or love shoko? “hey sukuna”, she throws a nervous laugh his way, “have to steal my friend here from you”, she could start a rap career with the speed she's talking with right now, “bye.”
you're dragged away in one swift, blurring motion. sukuna is once more left wondering if the last five minutes really happened.
he silently breathes your name out to himself. it feels right on his tongue, like a poem he had memorized in a past life, begging to be vocalized again.
.
you shouldn't feel so comfortable— sitting in a public library, having an active conversation with shoko— while a certain salmon-haired hottie could walk past any moment and recognize you. yet you cannot help yourself, finding the topic way too amusing, even if said topic was about the key factor of your fight-or-flight response working overtime.
“i swear to god she started throwing a temper tantrum on the middle of the fucking dance floor”
“you have to be exaggerating”, you remark between laughs, “stomping around and whining?”
“the whole thing! i’m pretty sure she shed some tears! and for what?— because sukuna wouldn't dance with her?”
“i did not expect yorozu to be this obsessed over him”
“you don't even know half of it”, shoko said in a harsh whisper, trying to respect the rules of the library, “i heard she's been running after him since high school.”
“since highschool?!”, you gasped, amused.
“some say she only applied here because of him”
“from what I heard from you, I wouldn't be surprised if that's true”, you mused.
“real”, she puffs out, “poor guy. if i didnt know better i’d even go as far and say he looks terrified when she’s in the same room”
“I cannot imagine him looking terrified”, you try envisaging it for a second, “terrifying? definitely.”
“pfft— you're giving him too much credit.”
“you know damn well—”
“anyway get this”, she leans closer to you, “the reason yorozu threw herself at him— ignoring the fact that she always does…”, she veered off briefly, “was because sukuna apparently pushed some girl off the couch at a party and yorozu swore up and down that he did it because he's in love with her”
“no fucking way”, you comment, blinking in disbelief.
“yes fucking way!”
a shiver suddenly drips down your back. the abrupt drop in temperature forms a rope of unease in your stomach.
“I honestly wish I could be as delusional as her—”
“hey”, you interrupt shoko, “it’s cold as fuck”
“not really, no”, she shrugs.
you blame some open window on the sudden drop in temperature, not recognizing the piercing presence a mere bookshelf away.
₍^. .^₎Ⳋ [ a/n ] BRO I FUCKING REALIZED THAT HERES NO SPACING BETWEEN SCENES LIKE THERES SUPPOSED TO BE I HAD TO REEDIT IT and there isnt spacing in chapter 1 either... IM GONNA CRY... whats your fav curse word? probably fuck.... yall hate to break it to you but chapter 3 will probably take a while.. i have exams coming up and tbh the only reason i managed to update so fast is because i only had to write the last two scenes, since i originally planned on publishing the whole story at once and had half of it written already. sorry in advance for the wait (｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)
ANYWAY HOPE YOU LIKED THE CHAPTER !! tysm for all the likes, comments and reblogs ilysm (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
dont be shy to leave more (｡>\\<)
[ taglist ] @vvkitty @sailormarsinanotherlife @sukusdoll @catkuna @sugar333angel @l1v1ngzomb1e @gqiulia @chiunpy @nansoii @itaqori @moonsquid49 @soupywuppy @bathingape00 @ehlaaa @p3talswayingindesun @inlovewsukuna @crystallineterrorlibrarian @babyskald24 @riimyn @belov3d-blak3 @minasuniverse @bakedpotato12 @underratedmage @hanootnoot @piercddprincess @rockssweetsmell im not sure if the tagging worked for everyone since some didnt show up when i searched the user i have no idea how tumblr works sorry guys if it didnt work
Your life changes forever when you are forced into a political marriage with Ryomen Sukuna, the King of cruses. To save your own kingdom you sacrifice yourself. But Becoming Sukuna's fourth wife is far from a fairy tale.
Part 1
You sat before a towering figure of a man surrounded by a sea of onlookers. Most of them were your own flesh and blood, your family, yet you had never felt more alone.
His piercing red eyes never once drifted toward you. His lips didn't twitch. he didn't smile. And you were more than glad for it. After all, your father was marrying you off to the most powerful, terrifying human alive if he could even be called a human at all.
Ryomen Sukuna.
You were adorned in a stark white marriage kimono, the most expensive garment you had ever worn in your life. It was a fair exchange in your father's eyes. your life in exchange for the kingdom’s freedom. A freedom that cost you your entire future.
But perhaps being married off to a monster was better than staying. In the eyes of your court, you were the unwanted daughter. You weren't like the other princesses. You were the daughter who spoke up for herself, the one who did exactly what she wanted, refusing to bow to expectations. Your mother had been a princess from a distant foreign land, which was why your features looked so starkly different from everyone else in the kingdom.
Yet, there was no denying that you were majestic. Divine, even.
Shifting slightly, you lifted your gaze to look at the man sitting cross-legged before you. His four massive arms looked terrifyingly powerful. It was a cruel irony, a man who had slaughtered half the kingdom was receiving better treatment than the eldest princess of the realm. But that was the reality of absolute power. If you were strong enough, the very people who despised you would crawl on their knees to touch your feet.
You, however, would never crawl. If you were forced to marry Ryomen Sukuna, you would rather find a way to kill him before he could ever kill you.
The worst part of this arrangement? You weren't even his first wife. You were the fourth. Being the fourth wife meant you were expected to learn his quirks, to blend into the background of his existing court, and to find ways to please him. But you had no intention of doing so. You didn't care about this monster.
Suddenly, his sharp, crimson eyes snapped directly to yours, as if he could hear the treacherous thoughts spinning in your head. Your breath caught. The only thing separating your gazes was the sheer, white lace veil covering your face, but you were certain he could see right through it. Boldly, you didn't look away. You studied his features the two extra eyes resting beneath his primary ones, his skin heavily decorated in dark sweeping ink.
"Lady Y/n. Look down!" your sister whisper yelled from beside you, gently pressing your head downward in a panic, desperate to shield you from a gaze that could mean death.
Yet, you could still feel his eyes boring into you, heavy and suffocating.
The elderly priest continued the ceremony, his voice trembling as he chanted ancient prayers and offered sacred herbs. Even the holy man's hands were shaking violently. It made you wonder...if this priest believed so deeply in the gods, why was he so utterly terrified of the creature sitting before him? Was Sukuna not a creation of the gods as well?
"My Lord... please, tie this around your bride" the priest stammered, his terror palpable. With a trembling hand, he extended a sacred red thread toward the monster who sat as if he owned the entire world.
Without a word, Sukuna yanked the thread out of the old man's grasp. He leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. Sensing the cue, your sisters stepped forward and pulled the veil away, exposing your face completely to him.
Ryomen Sukuna paused.
His dark, blood-red eyes slowed, raking over your features. His gaze traveled over the bridge of your nose, the curve of your lips, and the distinct shape of your eyes. Everything about you was foreign, striking, and entirely unique. At that moment, Sukuna finally understood why the desperate king had so willingly offered up his eldest daughter.
A dark, mocking smile pulled at the corners of Sukuna's lips. Holding your gaze, two of his massive hands reached behind your neck, deftly tying the sacred thread.
Instantly, the tension in the room snapped, and the courtyard burst into cheers and laughter. The kingdom celebrated as if your sacrifice had just miraculously solved all their problems.
You looked down at his remaining two hands resting idly on his lap. They were immense, heavily scarred, and visibly strong enough to crush anyone in the room without effort. When you looked back up, you found his lower set of eyes staring intently at you, making your breath hitch, while his upper eyes focused on finalizing the knot. If you had to find a single redeeming quality in his monstrous appearance, it was his hair an unusual, vibrant shade of pink and the mesmerizing depth of those crimson eyes. You had never seen anything like him.
He truly looked one of those myths that you have read in old books.
When he finally pulled away, the suffocating pressure lifted, and you could breathe again.
"Congratulations, my daughter, and Lord Sukuna!" your father beamed, stepping forward with a wide, sycophantic smile that made your stomach turn. "My daughter will please you and care for you dutifully. You will never have to worry about her."
Sukuna stood up, entirely ignoring your father's speech. The blatant disrespect immediately wiped the smile from the king's face, forcing him to remember exactly where he stood. Being the monster's father-in-law did not grant him immunity from a swift execution.
"We are leaving." Sukuna commanded.
His voice was a deep, resonant rumble tough, masculine, yet unnervingly calm. It was a voice you knew would haunt your dreams. He didn't bother looking back at you as he walked away. You didn't mind. You had no desire to be just another bed warmer, and judging by his reputation, he already had three others to occupy his time.
The carriage ride was silent. The wooden compartment was fully enclosed, a design meant to grant privacy to the newlyweds, but it felt more like an inescapable cage. The carriage couldn't move fast enough. It was impossible to relax with such a massive, imposing man sitting directly across from you, tracking your every micro-expression like a predator watching prey.
For a long time, you kept your eyes glued to your own hands resting on your lap. But the weight of his stare became too heavy to ignore. When you finally lifted your head, you found him watching you with a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
"How does it feel to be the unwanted child?" he asked, his voice dripping with mockery.
Those were the very first words your husband chose to speak to you. Your eyes narrowed, snapping toward his with a flash of cold disdain. This was the man who had slaughtered thousands without a second thought, a living plague on the land, and he was trying to provoke you. You resolved right then to never let him see you break.
"Saying that will not make me sad, My Lord" you replied, your voice perfectly calm, steady, and devoid of the tears he expected.
The smirk vanished from Sukuna's face. The lack of an emotional reaction clearly displeased him. Frowning, he turned his head away, staring out the small window of the carriage. He appeared to lose all interest in your presence, irritated by the fact that you had the audacity to speak back to him so evenly.
"My Lord?" you murmured softly into the silence.
His dark eyes snapped back to you, sharp and lethal. "Speak."
"May I make a request of you, as your wife?"
Sukuna stared at you for a long beat, as if you had just uttered the most ridiculous joke he had ever heard. He let out a low, mocking scoff. "And what could a mere human like you possibly want? Let's hear it. Consider it a wedding present, if I am amused."
You looked him dead in the eye. "I do not wish to be intimate with you."
Sukuna’s expression hardened, his voice dropping into a rough, bitter growl. "And who said I would ever touch a human like you? You do not possess the kind of beauty that pleases a man. You think too highly of yourself, little woman. No one wants you. Not me, and certainly not your own family."
The words were harsh, designed to cut deep, and a part of you knew he spoke the absolute truth. But instead of letting him see the sting, you simply averted your gaze, looking out toward the passing scenery as the carriage carried you deeper into his territory.
The silence that followed his words was thick, heavy, and suffocating. Sukuna’s harsh, mocking syllables seemed to bounce off the wooden walls of the closed carriage, hanging in the air like a foul mist. To any other noblewoman in the kingdom, such a brutal dismissal from the King of Curses would have been a death sentence to their pride, a devastating blow that would leave them weeping into the silk of their expensive kimono.
But you were not like the other princesses. You had spent your entire life breathing the cold air of isolation, thriving in the spaces where you were unwanted.
You slowly turned your gaze back toward him. Through the dim light filtering into the carriage, his four eyes glowed like embers burning in the dark. The massive extra pair of arms remained crossed over his broad, armored chest, a posture of absolute, unbothered dominance. He expected you to shrink. He expected the bitter truth of his words to crush whatever fragile royal dignity you had left.
Instead, a faint, razor-sharp smile touched your lips. It was a majestic, almost divine expression that looked entirely foreign to him a remnant of your mother’s distant bloodline.
"Then we are in perfect agreement, My Lord" you replied, your voice smooth and steady, without a single tremor of fear. "I am deeply relieved to know that my lack of appeal will grant me my peace."
Sukuna’s upper eyes narrowed slightly. The mocking smirk vanished from his rugged face, replaced by a tense, calculating silence. He was used to terror. He was used to women trembling beneath his shadow, begging for his favor or weeping for their lives. Your complete lack of fear wasn't just unexpected. it was borderline insulting to a creature who ruled by absolute dread.
"You have a sharp tongue for a barter piece" Sukuna rumbled, his deep, manly voice vibrating through the floorboards of the carriage. "Do not mistake my indifference for mercy, little woman. In my palace, those who speak out of turn find their tongues fed to the creatures you only have heard In stories "
"I do not ask for mercy" you said, looking him directly in his lower set of eyes, refusing to back down. "I simply expect a warlord of your stature to keep his word. You promised me this lack of intimacy as a wedding present. I intend to hold you to it."
A low, dangerous sound rumbled in Sukuna’s chest a half-grunt, half-chuckle that sent a chill down the spine of the guards riding outside the carriage. He leaned back against the cushions, his four arms shifting as he looked at you with a newfound, dark curiosity. You were an unwanted daughter, a political shield thrown into the jaws of a monster, yet you sat before him like a queen inspecting her domain.
"tsk tsk, Bold words from a creature whose neck I could snap with two fingers" he muttered, turning his face back toward the small window, staring out at the darkening landscape of his territory. "We shall see how long that pride lasts when you enter the domain of my other wives."
It was hilarious how he was the one calling you creature.
The journey felt endless, but eventually, the carriage jolted to a final stop. When the heavy wooden doors were thrown open, the sharp, metallic scent of iron and incense flooded your senses.
You stepped down onto the stone courtyard of Sukuna’s sprawling, fortress like palace. It was built of dark, towering timber and cold stone, looking more like a monument to war than a home. Standing in a neat, rigid line near the grand entrance were three beautiful women, all dressed in extravagant, multi-layered silk kimonos. Your husband's wives.
The moment their eyes fell upon you, the air grew thick with unspoken tension. They didn't look at you with sympathy. they looked at you with the sharp, calculating eyes of predators defending their territory. They saw your foreign features, your divine stature, and the pristine white of your bridal gown, and they immediately knew you were a threat to the delicate balance of the household.
Sukuna strode past all of you without a single glance, his massive form ascending the stone steps as his heavy footsteps echoed through the courtyard.
"Uraume" he commanded, not even looking back.
A pale, stoic figure emerged from the shadows of the doorway, bowing deeply. "Yes, My Lord?"
"Show the new tribute to the northern pavilion. The isolated one near the bamboo grove" Sukuna ordered carelessly, his rough voice carrying across the courtyard for everyone to hear. "She is not to be disturbed, and she is not to attend the evening banquets unless I explicitly demand it. She wishes for peace. Let her rot in it."
The three other wives exchanged subtle, victorious glances, their lips curving into cruel, satisfied smiles. To them, being sent to the isolated northern pavilion on your wedding night was the ultimate humiliation a public declaration that the master of the house had rejected you before the ink on the marriage scroll was even dry.
But as Uraume stepped forward, gesturing for you to follow, you simply bowed your head politely to your sister-wives. The serene, unbothered expression on your face never wavered.
"Right this way, Lady Y/n" Uraume said, their voice entirely devoid of emotion.
As you turned to follow the servant down the long, winding wooden corridors, you glanced back up at the high balcony of the main pavilion. Standing there, shrouded in the shadows of the sloping tiled roof, was Ryomen Sukuna. He was leaning against the railing, his four arms resting heavily on the wood as his piercing red eyes tracked your retreating form through the darkness.
He thought he had punished you by locking you away in the coldest, most isolated corner of his palace. He thought he had proven his dominance by throwing your father’s gift into the shadows.
But as you walked away from the main house, leaving the laughter and the politics behind, you let out a soft, genuine breath of relief. For the first time in your life, you were entirely alone, completely forgotten, and free to plan your next move. Ryomen Sukuna believed he had bought a powerless princess to secure a border, but he had just let a wolf pass through his gates and you had all the time in the world to figure out exactly how to make the monster bleed.
One year after your divorce, you run into your ex husband at a friend's birthday party. Neither of you expected to see each other again, and neither of you had prepared for the memories that come with it.
Part 2
The tears were already spilling over, hot and silent. You hated that you were crying in front of your ex-husband the only man you had ever loved so deeply because it made you feel so pathetic, a bitter ache settled in your chest. you hadn't even been able to defend your own honor, let alone the memory of your late baby. In the end, Sukuna had been the one to step up and handle it.
Wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, you forced yourself to look away from him. But Sukuna was already staring. It was an old habit of his from when you were together whenever you spoke, or even when you were just standing near him, he would lock his gaze onto you as if he were trying to permanently memorize every single line of your face.
You used to love it.
Right now, though, the raw sorrow reflecting in his dark eyes was too much to bear. You didn't want him to feel pity for you. You didn't want him to feel any of this pain.
Fumbling with the zipper of your bag, you pulled out your phone, sniffing softly as you tried to open the Uber app. But before your trembling fingers could tap the screen, Sukuna spoke.
His voice was rough and gravelly, a grating edge left over from all the shouting and the violence he had unleashed on that disgusting woman. He was still radiating a tangible, dangerous heat that made him look intimidating and, despite everything, so much attractive.
"Hey. Come on, I’ll drop you off" he said.
You immediately shook your head, the embarrassment burning fresh in your throat. You had humiliated yourself enough in front of him tonight.
"Y/n" he said, his tone softening just a second "I won't bite. Just let me give you a ride. No funny business, I promise."
I promise. Hearing that word from him felt like a ghost from the old days. God, you missed everything about him. But the fragile remains of your pride wouldn’t let you admit it out loud.
Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you gave a small, hesitant nod. You took a few tentative steps toward him until you were standing right in his shadow. As he stood up to his full height, towering over you, it became instantly clear why everyone else was terrified of him just by a single glance.
You looked up, watching as he gently lifted his helmet from the bike's handlebar. "I don't have a spare with me" he murmured, holding it out. "Take this one."
As you reached out, your fingers brushed against his. The brief contact sent a sharp, electric jolt through your veins, and the world around you seemed to shift.
Instantly, your mind dragged you backward into the past. You remembered the early days of your marriage, when he had bought you a helmet in your favorite color, complete with customized Hello Kitty stickers he had painstakingly tracked down because he knew you loved them. He used to make a ritual out of putting it on your head every single time you went for a ride. Those had been your favorite moments looking up at him through the visor, your eyes teasing, watching the harshness in his deep red gaze completely melt away just for you.
"Need some help with it?"
His rough voice shattered the memory, pulling you back to the cold reality of the present. You quickly shook your head, rejecting the offer even though you were visibly struggling with the heavy straps.
Sukuna stared down at you for a long moment, a quiet understanding passing over his features. He gave a single, slow nod, dropped his cigarette onto the asphalt, and crushed it beneath the sole of his heavy black boot.
"Give me your address" he commanded, swinging his leg over the motorcycle.
You were still fumbling blindly with the helmet's buckle when Sukuna suddenly reached out. His large hands caught the sides of your head, pulling you gently but firmly toward him. Your breath hitched, your throat going completely dry as he leaned in. With practiced ease, his fingers worked the clasp beneath your chin. When the strap clicked securely into place, he pulled his hands back, leaving a lingering warmth on your skin.
You blurted out your address, your hand automatically reaching for his broad shoulder to steady yourself as you climbed onto the back of the bike. The fabric of your dress pulled tight, making you feel entirely exposed. "Can you... can you drive slowly? So my dress doesn't fly up?"
"Yeah."
Wrapping your arms carefully around his waist, you held onto him for dear life. Sukuna kicked the bike into gear, the sudden, powerful roar of the engine vibrating straight through your chest and causing you to grip him even tighter.
Beneath your touch, Sukuna’s entire body tensed up. He could swear on his life that he hadn't felt this profoundly nervous since he had proposed to you eight years ago a day that had left him sweating through his clothes, terrified of a rejection.
But right now, with your arms securely locked around his midsection and your chest pressed against his back, a desperate, pathetic longing washed over him. He wanted to just close his eyes and exist in this exact moment forever. Having you this close was intoxicating, and it frightened him. he knew he was dangerously close to losing his grip on reality.
He wanted to keep you right here. He knew it was pathetic physically and mentally exhausting to be this hung up on an ex-wife but no other woman on Earth could make his chest ache the way you did. He would gladly wear the title of a whipped, broken man for the rest of his life rather than settle for anyone else.
It had been a year since he started therapy. Uraume had practically forced him into it, and he had gone just to stop the nagging. But this the suffocating weight of how much he still wanted you was something he hadn't even dared to share with his therapist. He was terrified of the judgment, especially since the entire point of the sessions was to help him move on.
Moving on was a lie. He knew he never would.
Sukuna cleared his throat, the sound deep and resonant against the wind. You tilted your head up slightly, the oversized helmet shifting awkwardly on your skull.
"You didn't eat anything at that fucking party" he called out over his shoulder. "I can stop by a cafe. We can catch up... respectfully."
His voice had a distinct, unfamiliar tremor to it. Having known him for most of your life, you could recognize his hidden anxiety in an instant.
You wanted to decline. Every logical part of your brain told you to say no. But the words wouldn't come. You used the excuse that you were genuinely starving, and besides, the two of you hadn't technically ended things on a hateful note. If anyone had been toxic during the split, it was you throwing tantrums, demanding a divorce out of overwhelming grief. He could have fought you on it, could have declined to sign the papers, but he hadn't. You still bitterly regretted how you had handled the end of your marriage, even if your stubborn ego refused to let you say it.
"Okay" you murmured softly, surprised he could even hear you over the rush of the wind.
You tentatively peeled one hand away from his waist, trying to smooth down the hem of your dress as it whipped wildly in the breeze.
Almost instantly, the motorcycle began to slow down, A strange, fluttering sensation bloomed in your stomach. You hadn’t even had to ask. he just knew exactly what you needed without a single word being spoken.
The rest of the ride passed in a comfortable, familiar silence, punctuated only by Sukuna’s occasional annoyed grunts at passing traffic or sharp curses muttered under his breath when a car cut him off.
Before long, he pulled up to the curb in front of a small, cozy-looking cafe. It was located in a neighborhood you recognized all too well. Currently, you were staying in a rented apartment, but you were supposed to move into a new house next week one you had bought entirely on your own. It was painfully close to the house Sukuna had originally bought for the two of you. When the divorce was finalized, he had offered you a massive alimony settlement, but you had proudly turned it down.
Sliding off the seat, you carefully unbuckled the helmet and handed it back to him. Sukuna took it, killing the engine and pulling the key from the ignition. You walked toward the entrance side by side, the silence between you thick and heavy with unsaid words, but neither of you dared to break it.
Stepping inside, you scanned the room for a quiet corner. Spotting an empty booth near the back, you walked toward it with Sukuna trailing silently in your wake. When you reached the table, he stepped forward, his large hand gripping the back of the chair to pull it out for you. You offered him a small, grateful nod as you sat.
As he took the seat opposite you, his massive frame seemed to shrink the entire booth, making the space feel so much small and intimate. He set his expensive helmet on the floor a piece of gear that probably cost more than the cafe's entire monthly lease.
You looked around the room, your eyes tracing the decor, and Sukuna did the same. For a moment, a wave of mutual regret washed over you both. this felt entirely too weird, too forced. But it didn't have to be.
"So... you still working around here?" Sukuna finally asked, breaking the ice.
You let out a soft, breathy hum. "Yeah. It's a bit of a drive from my current place, but I’m transferring to a different hospital next week."
He nodded slowly, staring at you with an intensity that made it clear he genuinely cared about the mundane details of your life. A young waitress approached the table, a bright, youthful smile plastered on her face as she handed over two menus before stepping back. You opened yours, your eyes scanning the rows of food as your stomach growled.
When you glanced up, Sukuna abruptly snapped his gaze away, caught red handed staring at you.
"Are you still working as much as before?" you asked gently, wanting to share the burden of the conversation.
"Of course I am."
"How is life? How is everyone?" You rested your chin in your palm, looking at him fully. "I haven't seen Uraume in forever... and what about Yuji? Does he still come by to visit you?"
A ghost of a smile touched Sukuna’s lips. God, he had missed this. Your eyes, your lips, the entire cadence of your voice. He found himself wishing his eyes could take a physical photograph of you right now, just so he could freeze this frame and keep it in his pocket forever.
"the brat lives with me permanently now" he said, his voice dropping into a calm, steady register. "I adopted him. And Uraume is doing fine."
Your eyes drifted down to his arms, tracing the dark, intricate lines of his tattoos. They were the exact same markings your fingers used to trace late at night when the two of you were tangled in bedsheets. A quiet sigh escaped you, and you looked away, a stray thought crossing your mind: Does he still have my name tattooed on his skin, or did he have it removed?
'He definitely removed it' you told yourself bitterly.
Realizing you had zoned out, you quickly cleared your expression and focused back on his words. "You adopted Yuji? Why?"
"His grandparents were getting too old" Sukuna explained softly, his expression hardening slightly. "The old people could barely feed themselves, let alone a growing kid. And frankly, I don’t trust them. They’re Kaori’s parents, after all."
Kaori. Yuji’s mother. The woman who had abandoned her own child to run away with another man right after her husband passed away. You had always despised her for that. Back when you and Sukuna were married, Yuji hadn't been able to visit often because he lived far away in the countryside, but Sukuna had always made it a point to bring him over whenever school holidays rolled around.
The waitress returned to the table, pen poised over her notepad. You hadn't even looked at the menu properly yet, but Sukuna didn't need to look at all.
"A hot tea, a bowl of chocolate ice cream, and a black coffee" he ordered smoothly, his eyes never leaving yours.
The waitress scribbled it down, flashing Sukuna a lingering, flirtatious smile he was an undeniably attractive man, after all, before taking the menus and walking away.
But you barely noticed her. Your chest ached with a sudden, sharp pain. The fact that he still remembered your exact comfort order, without even having to think about it, cut deeper than any insult could have
.
Clearing your throat to mask the emotion, you said "I’d really love to see Yuji sometime."
Instantly, a spark of genuine warmth lit up Sukuna's dark eyes. "Yeah? I can arrange that. He'd like it." He leaned back, a familiar, teasing smirk playing on his lips, though it couldn't quite hide the desperate curiosity eating him alive. "What about you? You... dating anyone? Got a boyfriend?"
You offered a small, bittersweet smile. "Mhm. I'm actually living with Bruce right now."
The smirk vanished. Sukuna’s entire posture locked up, his shoulders turning to stone. "Bruce? Like...the Batman? You're dating Batman or something?" He tried to chuckle, but it sounded forced, choked by a sudden surge of jealousy.
You let out a soft sigh. "It's my cat's name, Sukuna. Mr. Bruce."
The relief that washed over his face was almost comical. He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "A cat? Huh. You always wanted one."
His voice trailed off, dipping into a profound sadness. The memory hung heavily between the promise he had made years ago, back when you both were still trying to get pregnant. He had told you that if you couldn't get pregnant, he would buy you the biggest house and fill it with cats just to see you smile. But then, by some miracle, you had gotten pregnant. And then, tragically, you lost the only piece of the future that gave you both hope.
Seeing that you had finally gotten a cat made him wonder if you had given up on that future entirely. Were you still the same girl he had fallen in love with? The girl who used to kiss his cheek every single night and whisper that he was her entire world?
When the waitress returned to place the coffee, tea, and ice cream between you, Sukuna was profoundly grateful for the interruption. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to hear the answers to the questions running through his mind. You were a mystery to him now.you always had been, his favorite mystery to unravel but the distance between you felt vast. He kept his eyes glued to his black coffee, tracing the rim of the cup.
"Thank you, Ryomen" you said quietly. "For what you did at the party. Though... maybe the violence could have been avoided."
He let out a sharp, mocking scoff. "That old fucking hag deserves worse, Y/n. Stop being so fucking nice to people who walk all over you. She’s been a miserable bitch since you and Shoko were both in med school. Shoko never had the spine to say anything to her face while she was running her mouth about you."
You didn't argue. You just let him scold you, a strange comfort wrapping around you because he was right. He always had been.
Picking up your spoon, you began to eat your ice cream in silence. Sukuna blew on his coffee, taking a slow sip.
The rest of the conversation was fragmented and dry. The initial burst of familiarity faded back into a stifling, awkward quiet. Neither of you really knew how to bridge the gap anymore. It was painful, but maybe it was safer this way. being this close to him, seeing the ghost of the protective man he used to be, was tearing your heart to pieces.
When the bill arrived, you reached for your purse, but Sukuna leveled you with a sharp, warning glare. He pushed your hand away, slapped his card onto the ledger, and paid before you could argue.
Once outside, you slid his helmet back over your head and climbed onto the bike for the short ride to your apartment building. As the wind whipped past, you closed your eyes, memories of the day you met him and the happiest years of your life flashing behind your eyelids. He was a harsh, cruel man to the rest of the world, but with you, he had always been soft.
The bike slowed to a smooth stop. "We're here," Sukuna called out, his deep voice vibrating through his chest.
The sound pulled you sharply from your thoughts. You unwrapped your arms from his waist and stepped off the bike. Pulling the helmet off, you handed it back to him, forcing a tight, awkward smile. It broke your heart to realize how naturally your genuine smiles had turned into polite, guarded formalities.
"Alright then. Thank you" you sighed, turning on your heel toward the entrance of your building.
"Y/n."
His voice stopped you dead in your tracks. You turned back around, waiting for him to speak. He stared at you, his chest rising and falling heavily as he struggled with the words.
"You... you were the best mother our daughter could have ever asked for" he said, his voice thick and rough with an emotion he rarely showed. "And you're going to be a great mother to your future kids. Remember... it was never your fault. Our angel deserved to live. The fucking bastard who caused the accident is rotting in a cell right now, getting his karma. But even that's too good for that mf"
The words hit you like a wave, and your vision blurred instantly. "Th...thank you, Sukuna" you choked out, fighting with every ounce of your being to keep from sobbing.
"Take care of yourself." he grunted, pulling his own helmet down over his face.
You stood on the pavement, watching the taillight of his motorcycle disappear into the city traffic, the tears finally tracking freely down your face.
Sukuna rode faster than he ever had before. Lately, speed didn't frighten him. He didn't really care about the risks of dying anymore. He had already lost the only two things he had ever truly lived for his wife and his baby girl.
Living had become nothing more than a daily chore, a checklist of survival, and seeing you tonight had just made the burden infinitely heavier.
Pulling over to the side of the road, he ripped his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number he had memorized over the past year. It rang twice before a calm, professional voice answered.
"Hello? Sukuna?"
"I'm coming over," he growled, hanging up before she could reply. He threw the bike into gear and tore off in the opposite direction.
Ten minutes later, Sukuna was sunk deep into a large leather couch the kind of furniture designed to make a man relax, though it did the exact opposite for him. He glared at the ugly house plants scattered around the room and the massive, suffocating bookshelves packed with psychology texts behind the desk.
He locked his eyes onto the woman sitting across from him. Samantha, his therapist, was in her mid-forties, wearing the oversized glasses he absolutely despised and a rigid bob cut he constantly judged. He hated the way she looked at him, hated the heavy silence she used to force him to speak.
"I saw her today" Sukuna finally muttered.
Samantha placed her chin in her hand, nodding slowly, giving him the space to continue. "How did it feel?"
Sukuna exhaled a long, ragged sigh, looking away. "It felt fine. Normal. I just saw her... that’s it. Nothing changed" he lied, trying to maintain his usual mask of indifference.
Samantha hummed, her eyes narrowing slightly behind her lenses. "So you're telling me her presence had no effect on you? Is that right?"
Sukuna stared up at the ceiling for a long moment before looking down at his large, tattooed hands. "We both know that's a big fucking lie. It affected me."
Samantha offered a sympathetic, knowing look. She was entirely used to his behavior by now. one week he would walk into her office declaring he was fully cured and ready to find a new woman, and the next week he would admit he couldn't even stand the thought of another person touching him. Sukuna was, without a doubt, the most complex patient she had ever taken on.
"Did the two of you talk?" she asked, wanting to unpack the trigger that had caused him to demand an emergency late-night session.
"Barely," Sukuna growled, the anger flaring back up in his chest. "I punched Shoko's so called mother because that bitch was talking shit about my daughter. She made Y/n cry. I can't stand seeing her cry."
"And did punching her solve the problem?"
"You bet your ass it did" he snapped. "And if she ever opens her mouth around Y/n again, I’ll make sure she meets God early."
"So you still rely on violence as your primary solution."
Sukuna let out a dark, mocking chuckle. "I don't give a shit. I don't know... when I saw her, it felt like my entire chest stopped working. She hasn't changed a bit since the divorce. If anything, she just got more beautiful. I can’t move on, Samantha. And she... she’s probably already over it. Also... She told me she has a cat now"
He took a deep, shaky breath, the vulnerability heavy in the air.
"I would say that's a fair amount of conversation for two divorced people" Samantha observed quietly.
"It wasn't enough for me."
"Did she notice the ring?"
Sukuna’s hand automatically flew to his collar, his fingers reaching beneath his shirt to pull out a heavy silver chain. Hanging from the links was his thick wedding band, the inside band still sharply engraved with their wedding date and their initials joined together.
"No" he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "She didn't see it."
"If she does eventually move on with someone else... will you become violent?"
Sukuna went entirely still, the question hanging like a heavy weight in the quiet office. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, all the venom leaving his posture. "If I were going to be violent with her, I never would have signed those damn fucking papers in the first place, would I? I knew what she needed back then. She was losing her goddamn mind with grief, and divorcing me was the only thing she felt she could control. I let her go so she could survive. If she finds someone else... all I can do is hope the bastard treats her like royalty. Because if he doesn't, I will personally kill him."
Samantha adjusted her glasses, studying him closely. "Is this love, Sukuna? Or is it an obsession?"
"I don't fucking know" he whispered, looking at her with a raw, agonizing glare. "If it were an obsession, I would have stalked her. I would have forced her to stay. I would have tracked down her new apartment, her new job, forced myself into her life. I never did any of that. All I’ve ever wanted...is for her to be happy. Even if it means she has to be happy without me."
synopsis: This collection of five crack-fic drabbles explores the unhinged reality of being in the loudest, most obnoxious friend group on campus.
🎉 1k Follower Event Special (we have 14 left but I can't wait to share this with you my wonderful hot girls)
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Drabble 1: The Cafeteria Fries
Walking into the cafeteria, you could hear them before you even saw them.
It was a miracle you hadn’t all been permanently banned from the premises yet. You navigated through the sea of crowded tables, zeroing in on the loudest, most obnoxious corner of the room.
You were the last to arrive. By the time you dropped your backpack onto the floor, everyone was already seated, deeply entrenched in what sounded like a violently aggressive debate.
“I’m just saying,” Sukuna was snarling, leaning back in his plastic chair with his arms crossed over his chest, “if I punch myself in the fucking face and I knock myself out, it means I’m strong. My punch was too powerful for my own body. That’s peak strength.”
“No, you absolute moron,” Gojo argued loudly, slamming a hand on the table. “It means you’re a weak little bitch! Your face couldn’t even take a single hit! That’s a defense stat of zero!”
“Why would you punch yourself in the face in the first place?” Choso asked, looking genuinely distressed by the entire concept.
“It’s a philosophical hypothetical, Choso,” Geto said smoothly, though his eyes were dancing with absolute chaos.
“It’s a display of idiocy,” Nanami muttered, rubbing his temples like he was already clocking out for the day.
You sighed, exhausted from your morning classes, and slumped into the empty seat right beside Gojo. “Move your long-ass legs, Satoru,” you grumbled, kicking his shin under the table.
“Ow! Hostile much?” Gojo whined, but he scooted over, making room for you.
You didn’t even bother unpacking your lunch yet. You were starving, your brain was fried, and right in front of Gojo sat a little red cardboard boat filled with seasoned french fries. Without a second thought, you reached over, grabbed a handful, and shoved them into your mouth.
“You guys are literally giving me a migraine and I’ve been here for thirty seconds,” you mumbled around a mouthful of potato. “Also, Sukuna, Satoru is right. If you knock yourself out, you’re weak.”
“Shut the fuck up, you weren’t even here for the preamble!” Sukuna snapped, but as he looked at you, his expression faltered. His eyes darted from your face down to the cardboard boat of fries, and then across the table to Geto.
You grabbed another fry, chewing casually. They were a little cold, honestly, and kind of stale, but food was food and you were hungry.
Across the table, Geto suddenly coughed into his fist. He looked away, his shoulders shaking slightly. Sukuna pressed his lips together in a tight, unnatural line, his jaw ticking as he stared intensely at the ceiling.
You raised an eyebrow at them. You didn’t actually mention it, though, because that’s just how they always were. Stupid asses. They were probably laughing at the word ‘preamble’ or some other dumb inside joke they made before you got there.
“Can you both just shut the fuck up?” Utahime groaned from the end of the table, glaring at Gojo and Sukuna. “Some of us are trying to enjoy our lunch without hearing about your weird masochistic fantasies.”
“You’re just mad because you know if you punched yourself, you’d break your wrist,” Gojo shot back grinning.
“I will break your wrist!” she yelled.
You tuned them out, happily munching away. You reached for another fry. “Hey, Satoru,” you said, tapping his arm. “What flavor is this? It’s like… sour cream and onion, but weirdly spicy?”
Gojo glanced down at you, blinking behind his dark sunglasses. He looked at the fry in your hand, then back up at your face. “I don’t know,” he said, completely deadpan.
Then he turned right back to Utahime. “Come on, Hime, admit it! You have hollow bird bones!”
You shrugged, popping the fry into your mouth. Whatever. You’d just ask the cafeteria lady later.
The conversation flowed like normal. Shoko sat quietly next to Geto, sipping her iced coffee. Every now and then, you’d catch Shoko looking at you with wide eyes, but whenever she opened her mouth to speak, Geto would subtly kick her under the table or shake his head.
You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy scraping the bottom of the cardboard boat, picking up the last few crispy bits of potato and seasoning.
You swallowed the last bite and wiped your hands on a napkin.
“Oh god,” you said, interrupting Gojo who was currently trying to balance a spoon on his nose. “I didn’t realize I finished the fries. I’m sorry, Satoru. I’ll go buy you another order.”
Gojo let the spoon drop to the table. He looked down at you, then looked at the completely empty cardboard boat. He tilted his head, a perfectly serene smile on his face.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Gojo said casually. “That’s not mine.”
You froze. Your hand hovered over the empty boat. You blinked once. Twice.
“Huh?” you asked, your voice dropping an octave. “Whose is this?”
Geto couldn’t hold it in anymore. A loud, ugly snort ripped out of him, and he immediately doubled over, burying his face in his arms as he shook with hysterical laughter. Sukuna completely lost his mind, slamming his fist onto the table and howling, his booming laugh echoing across the entire cafeteria.
Gojo leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head. “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “It was there when we got here. We haven’t ordered yet.”
The world stopped spinning. The cafeteria noise faded into a high-pitched ringing in your ears.
You stared at the empty boat. You had just eaten an entire order of abandoned, mysterious table fries. From a public cafeteria table. Left by a complete stranger.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” you shrieked, your chair scraping violently against the floor as you stood up.
Sukuna was crying. Actual tears were streaming down his tattooed face as he pointed at you, unable to breathe. Geto was wheezing, his long hair falling over his face as he pounded the table in pure, unadulterated joy at your suffering.
“I’m going to kill you!” you yelled as you to grab Gojo by the collar of his uniform. “Why didn’t you stop me, you sick fuck?!”
“You looked so hungry!” Gojo cackled, easily dodging your hands. “You just went to town on them! I wasn’t gonna interrupt your meal!”
Nanami let out a sudden, sharp laugh. He immediately slapped a hand over his mouth, looking incredibly stressed out by the fact that he found this funny. His shoulders shook as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain his composure.
Utahime looked up from her phone, completely bewildered. “Wait, what happened? Did you eat the table fries? Ew! Oh my god, ew!”
“I tried to warn you!” Shoko wheezed, finally breaking her silence as she leaned against a dying Geto. “I saw you grab the first one! I looked at Suguru and was like, ‘did you see her, she’s eating the food on the table,’ but he just shook his head at me and mouthed ‘let her’!”
“You are all dead to me!” you roared, grabbing the empty cardboard boat and throwing it directly at Geto’s head. It bounced off harmlessly, which only made him laugh harder. “I’m going to get a disease! I’m going to get rabies!”
“Rabies is from dogs, you idiot!” Sukuna gasped out, clutching his stomach.
“I don’t know who ate those before me! It could have been a dog!” you screamed back, scrubbing at your tongue with your napkin.
Gojo patted your shoulder sympathetically, though he was grinning so hard his cheeks looked like they hurt. “Look on the bright side. Now we know what flavor they were. ‘Stranger’s Backwash’ with a hint of ‘Cafeteria Dust’.”
You grabbed his spoon and threw it at his face.
Drabble 2: Choso Doesn’t Sell Weed
Three days. You hadn’t seen the inside of a classroom in three days, and honestly, it would have been a nice little vacation if it weren’t for the fact that your eyeballs felt like they were coated in crushed glass and hot sauce.
You had the sore eyes. The highly contagious, absolutely miserable, crusty-in-the-morning sore eyes.
Utahime and Shoko were the only ones who knew the actual truth. And because they possessed more than two functioning brain cells, they stayed far, far away from your house. “I love you,” Shoko had texted you on day one, “but I’m not catching your gross eye disease. Peace.”
Nanami, being the only disciplined and respectful man in your entire social circle, had simply replied, “Understood. Please rest well,” when you sent a blanket text saying you were sick and didn’t want visitors.
The others, however, did not understand the concept of boundaries.
“I’m coming, you absolute psychos!” you yelled, your voice raspy from disuse.
You dragged yourself out of bed. Because your eyes were currently hypersensitive to literally any light source, you grabbed a pair of dark sunglasses off your dresser and shoved them onto your face. You shuffled out of your house and across the front yard, the doorbell still ringing like a fire alarm.
You yanked the front gate open. “What?!”
Standing on your sidewalk were the four men that is the bane of yur esistence: Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, and Choso.
Gojo’s hand was still hovering over the doorbell. He paused, looking you up and down, obnoxious smirk spreading across his face.
“Well hot damn,” Gojo drawled, leaning against your gate. “Look who decided to steal my entire brand.”
“What are you talking about?” you grumbled, crossing your arms to ward off the afternoon chill.
“The sunglasses, obviously,” Gojo said, gestyring to his own face. “You’ve been MIA for three days. We thought you died in a ditch somewhere. But apparently, you’re just hiding in your house, cosplaying as me.”
“I’m not cosplaying as you, Satoru. I’m sick,” you sighed, leaning your forehead against the cold metal of the gate. “Why are you guys even here?”
“Because you weren’t answering the group chat,” Geto said, though he looked highly amused by your current state. “And Sukuna was convinced you got kidnapped by a neighboorhod gang.”
“I didn’t say that,” Sukuna scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I said she probably got arrested for doing something stupid.”
“Are you wearing pajamas at two in the afternoon?” Choso asked, tilting his head in genuine confusion.
“Yes, Choso, because I am sick,” you repeated, your patience wearing dangerously thin. “Now please, go away. I want to go back to sleep.”
“Sick with what? Being a little bitch?” Sukuna sneered. “Take the stupid glasses off, you look ridiculous.”
“I’m wearing them for a reason!” you snapped.
“Yeah, because you’re idolizing me,” Gojo teased, reaching over the gate to poke your shoulder. “Come on, take ‘em off. Let’s see those beautiful eyes. Are you hiding a black eye? Did you get into a fight without us?”
“If I take these off, you’re all going to regret it,” you warned them.
“Just take the fucking glasses off,” Sukuna demanded.
“Fine!”
You grabbed the frames and ripped the sunglasses off your face, glaring at them in the bright daylight.
Silence descended upon the group.
Your eyes were completely bloodshot. The whites of your eyes were a violent, angry red, puffy and swollen, making you look like you had just survived a three-day bender in a basement. You looked absolutely, undeniably, out-of-your-mind high.
Sukuna stared at you for a long, quiet moment. Then, he slowly turned his head to look at Choso.
“Yo,” Sukuna said, his voice dead serious. “Did you sell her some pot?”
Choso blinked, completely taken aback. “What? No, I didn’t!”
Geto whipped his head around to stare at Choso, his eyes wide with sudden realization. “The fuck? Since when?”
“Dude, shut up! I’m not!” Choso yelled, his face flushing as he waved his hands defensively. “I don’t sell weed!”
“Don’t lie to me, Choso,” Geto said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Are you holding out on us? Is that why you’re always so calm?”
“I’m not a dealer!” Choso groaned, looking like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“Damn,” Gojo whistled, leaning in closer to inspect your face. “You are absolutely zooted. How much did you smoke? You look like you’re seeing through time right now.”
“I’m not high, you absolute morons!” you yelled, rubbing your temples. “I have sore eyes! It’s viral conjunctivitis! It’s highly contagious!”
The word contagious worked like magic.
Gojo immediately jumped back three feet, his hands flying up in defense. Geto took a large step away from the gate, his expression morphing from amusement to pure disgust.
“Wait, like pink eye?” Sukuna asked, his nose wrinkling. “Gross. You have poop particles in your eye.”
“It’s not from poop, it’s a virus!” you argued, though you were already putting your sunglasses back on.
“Yeah, I’m not catching that,” Sukuna said, immediately turning on his heel. “Let’s bounce. She’s a biohazard.”
“Keep your crusty eye particles away from me!” Gojo yelled, already walking down the street. “Get well soon, plague rat!”
“Drink some water!” Choso called out over his shoulder, hurrying after the others.
“Wash your hands!” Geto added, laughing as he jogged to catch up with Gojo.
You stood at the gate, watching the four of them practically sprint down the sidewalk to get away from you. You shook your head, locked the gate, and shuffled back inside your house.
The second you collapsed back onto your bed, your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then it buzzed again. And again.
You picked it up, squinting through your sunglasses at the bright screen.
It was the group chat.
Drabble 3: Nanami Kento's Not-So Crush
Nanami Kento did not have crushes. That was his official, unwavering stance on the matter, and he defended it with the ferocity of a lawyer on trial.
“I am assisting a classmate with her macroeconomics coursework,” Nanami had stated plainly, adjusting his glasses. “There is absolutely nothing romantic about it.”
None of you believed him.
The boys, naturally, made it their life’s mission to make his existence a living hell. You, Utahime, and Shoko were trying your absolute best to preserve whatever shred of dignity the poor guy had left, but it was an uphill battle when dealing with the absolute menaces you called friends.
It was Tuesday afternoon when your phone buzzed with a notification from the group chat.
They did not listen. The teasing only escalated from there.
A few days later, you and Sukuna were in the cafeteria, waiting in line for the deli sandwich station. You were minding your own business when Sukuna suddenly stopped, his eyes locking onto a target across the room.
You followed his gaze. There, near the salad bar, was Nanami. And standing right next to him was the econ girl. Nanami was holding her plastic tray for her while she used the tongs to pick out cherry tomatoes.
Sukuna’s face lit up with the most evil grin you had ever seen. He took a massive breath, his chest expanding as he prepared to scream across the crowded cafeteria.
“HEY NANA—”
You didn’t even think. You just reacted. You lunged up, grabbed the back of Sukuna’s head, and violently clamped your hand over his mouth, yanking him backward.
“Mmph! GRRMPH!” Sukuna thrashed, his eyes wide with absolute fury as you dragged him behind a pillar.
“Shut the fuck up!” you hissed, keeping your hand firmly plastered over his mouth. “You are not ruining this for him!”
Sukuna grabbed your wrist and ripped your hand away, looking at you like he wanted to bite your fingers off. “Don’t touch my fucking face!” he snarled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I hate it when people touch my face! I was just gonna say hi!”
“You were going to scream and embarrass him in front of his crush, you dick!” you argued, shoving his shoulder.
“He’s holding her tray!” Sukuna yelled back, though he kept his voice down. “He looks like a butler! He needs to be bullied for his own good!”
“Leave him alone or I’m spitting in your sandwich,” you threatened.
Sukuna glared at you, but he crossed his arms and stayed put. “You’re no fun.”
Despite your best efforts to protect Nanami’s fragile budding romance, it all came crashing down three weeks later.
You were all sitting on the metal bleachers by the baseball field, enjoying the late afternoon sun. Nanami was sitting next to Utahime, looking more exhausted and deflated than usual. After some gentle prodding from Hime, he finally cracked.
“She stopped talking to me,” Nanami sighed, rubbing his temples. “She mentioned offhand today that her boyfriend is helping her with the rest of the coursework.”
A heavy silence fell over the bleachers.
“Oh, Kento,” Utahime said softly, patting his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t have a crush on her anyway,” he lied, staring blankly at the grass.
Clearly, your friend needed cheering up. And in your friend group, the only acceptable way to comfort someone was to ruthlessly bash the person who hurt them.
“Honestly? Good riddance,” you started, leaning forward. “She had weird vibes anyway.”
“Yeah,” Shoko agreed, lighting a cigarette. “You probably dodged a bullet.”
Sukuna, eager to participate in the hating, scoffed loudly. “For real. She was a solid four at best. Built like a fucking mini-fridge. Plus, women who study economics are just gold diggers in training.”
Utahime immediately reached over and smacked the back of Sukuna’s head. Hard.
“Ow! What the fuck?!” Sukuna yelled, rubbing his skull.
“No, you stupid freak!” you yelled, hitting his arm. “Don’t ever say that shit about a girl! You can’t just call her a mini-fridge!”
“We are bashing her personality, not her body, you absolute neanderthal,” Shoko scolded, blowing smoke in his direction.
“I’m trying to help!” Sukuna argued defensively.
“Well, you’re doing it wrong!” Utahime snapped.
Gojo, sensing the tension, decided to step in as the voice of reason. “Okay, okay, calm down. Sukuna went too far. What we should be saying is that she’s clearly too emotionally unstable to appreciate a good guy like Nanami. You know how girls are when it’s that time of the month, their judgment gets all clouded—”
“Satoru, shut the fuck up!” you screamed, throwing an empty water bottle at his head. It bounced off his forehead with a hollow thwack.
“Hey!” Gojo whined, rubbing his head. “I was defending him!”
“That was incredibly misogynistic!” Utahime yelled, looking like she was ready to strangle him.
Geto sighed, shaking his head at Gojo. “Satoru, you can’t say things like that. It’s insensitive. You just have to accept that women naturally lack the logical capacity to recognize a high-value man when they see one. It’s biological.”
Shoko slowly turned her head to look at Geto, her eyes dead and cold. “Suguru. If you don’t shut your mouth right now, I am going to put my cigarette out in your eye.”
“What did I say?!” Geto asked, genuinely baffled.
Choso raised his hand tentatively. “I think… I think what they mean is that she belongs to the streets?”
“NO!” you, Utahime, and Shoko yelled in unison.
Nanami buried his face in his hands, letting out a long, suffering groan. “Please. All of you. Stop talking.”
For the next forty-five minutes, the original goal of cheering up Nanami was completely abandoned. Instead, you, Utahime, and Shoko stood in front of the bleachers, delivering an aggressive, impromptu lecture on basic feminism and how not to be accidentally misogynistic, while Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, and Choso sat there like scolded children.
Nanami just sat quietly in the back, watching the chaos unfold. For the first time in three weeks, a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Drabble 4: The great divorce (NOT KFC EDITION)
It was like watching your parents go through a bitter, silent divorce.
The undisputed gay icons of your friend group—Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru—were fighting. And it was making everyone else absolutely miserable.
They refused to admit it, of course. But the signs were glaringly obvious. If Gojo sat down at a table, Geto would suddenly remember he had somewhere to be, pack up his lunch, and leave. If Geto sent a meme in the group chat, Gojo would immediately reply with “dead meme” or “cringe.” It was stupid, and incredibly passive-aggressive.
on Thursday during lunch; yu were all sitting at the table. Choso was quietly eating a sandwich, completely minding his own business, when Gojo suddenly leaned over and looked at him.
“You know, Choso,” Gojo said loudly, his eyes darting toward Geto. “Don’t you think it’s incredibly pathetic when people hold onto grudges like little babies?”
Choso stopped chewing. He looked around, bewildered. “Uh. I guess?”
Geto didn’t even look up from his phone, but his jaw tightened. “Actually, Choso,” Geto said, his voice dripping with venom, “I think it’s much more pathetic when people lack basic accountability and act like narcissistic toddlers.”
“Well, Choso,” Gojo shot back, leaning closer to the poor guy. “Some people are just too sensitive and need to get the stick out of their ass.”
“Choso,” Geto snapped, finally looking up. “Tell some people that if they touch my shit again, they’re going to lose a hand.”
Choso looked frantically between the two of them, his sandwich hovering near his mouth. “What the fuck did I do?!” he cried out, looking genuinely distressed.
“Nothing, Choso,” you sighed, rubbing your temples. “They’re just being bitches.”
Later that afternoon, you, Utahime, Shoko, Nanami, and Sukuna were huddled by the lockers, trying to figure out how to address the massive, six-foot-something elephants in the room.
“We need to stage an intervention,” Utahime declared. “I can’t take the tension anymore. It’s ruining my digestion.”
Sukuna leaned against the lockers, while he was playing some fuck-ass game pn his phone “Nah, I don’t think they’re fighting. They probably fucked each other in the ass by now and things just got weird.”
“Sukuna, what is actually wrong with you?” you asked, horrified.
“I’m just saying!” he laughed, shrugging. “Sexual tension, man. It ruins friendships.”
“We are locking them in a room until they talk,” Shoko decided, ignoring Sukuna entirely. “My house. Tonight. We’ll tell them it’s a spontaneous hangout.”
The scheme was set. You individually DM’d both of them, inviting them over for drinks. Predictably, Geto replied, “Is Satoru coming?” and Gojo replied, “Is Suguru going to be there?”
To both, you lied through your teeth: “No, they won’t.”
Geto had arrived first, sitting on Shoko’s couch and complaining about his professors. You, Utahime, Shoko, Nanami, Choso, and Sukuna were scattered around the living room, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
At 8:15, the front door swung open.
“What’s up, losers!” Gojo announced, strolling in with a 12-pack of beer under his arm.
He walked into the living room. His eyes landed on Geto. Geto’s eyes locked onto Gojo.
Instantly, both of their smiles vanished.
“You lied to me,” Geto said, glaring at you.
“I’m leaving,” Gojo stated flatly, turning right back around toward the door.
He didn’t even make it two steps.
Sukuna, who had been lounging in the armchair nearest the door, suddenly shot up. He grabbed the back of Gojo’s jacket with one massive hand, yanked him backward with brute force, and physically slammed him down onto the armchair he had just vacated.
“Sit the fuck down,” Sukuna snarled, standing over him. “I didn’t come all the way to Shoko’s house on a Thursday night to watch you two play hard to get. You’re going to talk, or I’m going to start breaking bones.”
Gojo blinked, slightly dazed from being manhandled, the 12-pack of beer clattering to the floor. “Jesus, okay!”
Nanami stepped forward, seamlessly taking control of the room now that Sukuna had secured the hostage. He walked over to the front door, locked the deadbolt, and pocketed the key.
“You are both acting like children,” Nanami said, adjusting his glasses as he stared them down. “You are disrupting the peace of this group. You will explain why you are fighting, and you will resolve it. Now.”
Gojo grumbled something under his breath, crossing his arms as he sank deeper into the chair. “Fine. Tell them, Suguru. Tell them why you’re throwing a tantrum.”
“Me?!” Geto scoffed, “You’re the one who ruined it! Do you know how long that took me?!”
“It’s just a game!” Gojo yelled.
“It was a hundred and forty hours of my life, you fucker!” Geto yelled back, standing up.
You blinked. “Wait. Hold on. A game?”
Geto turned to you, his eyes wild with genuine anguish. “He overwrote my save file. My Elden Ring save file. I was at the final boss. I had the perfect build. And this absolute moron logged into my console, started a new game, and saved over my file!”
The room went dead silent.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Utahime whispered.
“I wanted to try a magic build!” Gojo defended himself, throwing his hands up. “I didn’t know it would delete your stupid little sword guy!”
Shoko, who had known these two idiots since they were literal children, slowly put her beer down on the coffee table. She stood up, walked over to Gojo, and without a single word, wrapped both of her hands around his neck and started strangling him.
“Ack! Shoko! What the—!” Gojo choked, flailing his long limbs as Shoko shook him back and forth.
“You are both so fucking stupid!” Shoko yelled, her cigarette dangling precariously from her lips. “A week! We suffered for a week because of a video game?!”
“It was a hundred and forty hours!” Geto repeated, pointing an accusing finger at Gojo.
“I’ll beat the boss for you!” Gojo wheezed, trying to pry Shoko’s hands off his throat. “I’ll grind the runes! Just tell her to let me go!”
Nanami let out a long, heavy sigh, “I cannot believe I skipped my evening reading for this.”
Eventually, Shoko released Gojo, who gasped for air and rubbed his neck. He looked over at Geto, pouting like a kicked puppy.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Gojo whined. “I’ll buy you the DLC. I’ll buy you a whole new console. Just stop ignoring me, it’s boring when you’re mad at me.”
Geto stared at him for a long moment, his jaw ticking. Finally, he let out a massive sigh, running a hand through his long hair. “Fine. You’re buying the DLC. And dinner for the next month.”
“Deal!” Gojo beamed, instantly bouncing back to his usual obnoxious self. He leaped out of the armchair, bounded over to the couch, and threw his arms around Geto.
“Come here, give me a kiss to make up!” Gojo puckered his lips, leaning in aggressively.
“Get the fuck away from me, you freaakk!!!!” Geto screamed, shoving Gojo’s face away with both hands as Gojo dissolved into hysterical laughter.
You caught Sukuna’s eye from across the room. He just smirked, crossing his arms, and mouthed, Told you.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ₊˚⊹♡
Drabble 5: Hormonal Warfare
You, Shoko, and Utahime had been inseparable since junior year of high school. Now, as college sophomores, your bond was practically forged in steel. You shared everything: notes, clothes, gossip, and, unfortunately, your biological rhythms.
It was a well-documented scientific phenomenon that women who spent enough time together would eventually sync up.
It was hot, everyone was sweaty, the campus was loud, and the three of you were currently operating on a lethal cocktail of cramps, and hormone-induced wrath.
For the first two days, the boys were left to fend for their lives.
“If the referee blows that whistle one more time, I’m going to shove it down his throat,” Utahime snarled from the bleachers, glaring at the basketball court like she was plotting a murder.
“I wanna go home,” Shoko muttered, aggressively chewing on a piece of nicotine gum because smoking wasn’t allowed in the gym.
You spoke while resting your forehead against your knees. “Can we please east? I’m so hungry my stomach is eating my spine.”
Sitting one row behind you, Gojo, Geto, Choso, and Nanami exchanged terrified glances. Sukuna was part of the upcoming basketball game.
“These monsters are out of their goddamn minds,” Gojo whispered to Geto, his sunglasses slipping down his nose.
“Don’t make eye contact,” Geto whispered back, completely rigid. “Their vision is based on movement.”
Per husual, hunger was the worst part. When the lunch break finally rolled around, the group migrated to the food trucks parked outside the campus center. That was when the first major incident occurrd.
“I want tacos,” you declared, crossing your arms.
“Too greasy,” Utahime snapped, wiping sweat from her forehead. “I want a poke bowl. I need something cold.”
“If you make me eat raw fish right now, I will literally rip your hair out,” Shoko deadpanned, her eyes dark and hollow. “We are getting burgers.”
“I don’t want a burger, Shoko! It’s ninety degrees outside!” Utahime yelled, stepping into Shoko’s personal space.
“And I don’t want a stupid salad with raw tuna!” Shoko yelled back.
“Can we just get tacos?!” you shrieked, your voice cracking as you shoved both of them.
The boys stood ten feet away, watching in absolute horror as the three of you practically circled each other like feral cats ready to brawl over a piece of meat.
“Should we intervene?” Choso asked nervously, taking a half-step forward.
Geto grabbed Choso by the collar and yanked him back. “If you value your life, you will stay exactly where you are.”
Eventually, you all compromised by getting completely different meals and sitting at a picnic table in tense, aggressive silence. The boys slowly filtered in, sitting down with extreme caution.
Sukuna was the last to arrive, dropping his tray onto the table and taking a seat across from you. He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and then looked at you. You were wearing the bright yellow intramural t-shirt assigned to your department.
“You know,” Sukuna said casually, pointing a fry at you. “That color really washes you out. You look like a jaundiced minion.”
The table went dead silent.
Gojo inhaled sharply through his teeth. Geto slowly closed his eyes, as if accepting his impending death. Nanami stopped chewing.
You stared at Sukuna. Your bottom lip trembled. The sheer audacity of this man, combined with the fact that your uterus currently felt like it was being twisted by a hot iron, was simply too much.
Tears instantly welled up in your eyes. They spilled over your cheeks in thick, heavy drops.
“I…” you choked out, a loud sob escaping your throat. “I didn’t even pick the color! It’s the department shirt!”
Sukuna blinked, completely caught off guard. “Whoa, hey, I didn’t—”
“You’re so mean to me!” you wailed, slamming your hands on the table. You grabbed your half-eaten taco, stood up, and stormed off toward the campus library, sobbing loudly.
The boys stared after you, then slowly turned their heads to look at Sukuna.
“Wow,” Gojo said, shaking his head in disgust. “…you jerk.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Geto asked, looking genuinely appalled.
“I JUST SAID THE SHIRT WAS UGLY!” Sukuna yelled, throwing his hands up in defense. “I didn’t shoot her dog!”
Utahime slammed her chopsticks down on the table, her eyes blazing with fury. “Great, Sukuna. Just say you fucking hate her. You didn’t have to be an absolute bitch about it.”
“Literally,” Shoko agreed while glaring at him with enough venom to kill a small horse. “You are a garbage human being. I hope you choke on that sandwich.”
Utahime and Shoko immediately stood up, grabbed their food, and hurried after you to provide comfort, leaving the boys alone at the table.
Sukuna looked around at the remaining guys, completely bewildered. “Are you guys seriously taking their side? She’s crying over a yellow shirt!”
“Seriously, Sukuna,” Nanami sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Be a bit more mindful next time.”
From day three onwards, the dynamic shifted entirely. The boys were walking on absolute, microscopic eggshells.
If you asked for a sip of Gojo’s water, he handed over the entire bottle without a word. If Utahime complained that the sun was in her eyes, Geto physically stood in front of her to block the rays. Even Sukuna, who had been thoroughly traumatized by the collective wrath of the women in the group, quietly bought you a chocolate bar from the vending machine and slid it across the table without making eye contact.
“Are you still mad about the minion comment?” Sukuna mumbled, looking at the ceiling.
You ripped the chocolate wrapper open with your teeth. “Depends. Are you going to be a bitch again?”
“No,” he grumbled.
“Good,” you said, taking a massive bite.
Across the table, Choso leaned over to Nanami. “How long does this last?” he whispered fearfully.
“Just pray we survive the week, Choso,” Nanami whispered back. “Just pray.”
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ₊˚⊹♡
an: AHHH thank you all so much for 1k followers! 🎉 I literally cannot believe it. I wanted to do something super fun and chaotic to celebrate, and writing this specific friend group dynamic was an absolute blast.
Fun fact: some of these drabbles are actually heavily inspired by my own real-life high school memories! (Yes, my friend group was genuinely this unhinged)
I’d love to hear from you guys—which drabble was your favorite? Which chaotic moment made you laugh the most? Let me know in the replies! Thank you again for all the love, support, and for reading my silly little fics! 💖
⚠️ A Quick Disclaimer:
Please note that I absolutely do not condone any form of body-shaming, slut-shaming, or misogynistic remarks in real life! The offensive comments made by the boys (specifically in Drabble 3) are included purely for storytelling purposes to highlight their absolute lack of a filter—and as you see, they get rightfully dragged and scolded by the girls for it! Please read responsibly!
🎨 Art & Credits Note:
Just a quick heads-up: the art used in the visuals for this post was found on Pinterest! If anyone knows who the original artists are, please let me know in the comments or replies so I can rightfully tag and credit them!
(Beautiful text dividers used in this post are by @pixopix ✨)
Fratjo breaks up with you and instantly regrets it - series
The first time Satoru Gojo realizes he made a mistake is when he can’t find you on campus.
At first he thinks it’s funny.
You’ve always been easy to find. The west library corner seat by the window. The campus café at 10:30 with a vanilla latte and that same notebook you pretend isn’t a diary.
But after the breakup?
You vanish.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Your Instagram, phone number, Snapchat — blocked.
He stares at his phone in the Alpha Tau living room while music blasts around him and someone hands him another drink.
Blocked.
“Damn,” one of the guys laughs. “She actually did it.”
Gojo scoffs like it doesn’t matter. “I’ll get her back,” he says cockily.
Like he’s not the one who said it. I need to focus on football.
The lie sounded convincing at the time. The scouts were watching. His coach kept yelling about discipline. Everyone said relationships were a distraction.
So he broke up with you.
Clean and quick.
Two weeks later, he’s drunk at three different frat parties, shamefully sneaking out of sorority house hookups before the sun even rises.
And somehow that’s when he realizes something feels wrong.
———-
The First Attempt
He tries texting.
It doesn’t go through. Still blocked.
He laughs to himself. “Dramatic much.”
But that night he still walks across campus toward the all-girl dorms.
Except the front desk girl just shrugs. “She’s not here.”
Gojo frowns, “What do you mean she’s not here?”
“Means she’s not here.”
He stands outside the dorm building for ten minutes before leaving.
The next day he tries again. Still no sight of you.
Flowers
A week later a bouquet arrives at your dorm. White lilies and baby’s breath.
Attached card: —SG <3
He doesn’t even know if you like lilies. You used to talk about flowers sometimes, but he never listened carefully enough to remember, and now he regrets it.
The desk girl tells him later you picked them up without saying a word.
Still no message back.
The Letters
Then the letters start. The handwritten notes made him feel romantic, he was sure this would get a response out of you.
The first one is simple.
I know you blocked me. I deserve it.
Let me know if you wanna talk
-Satoru <3
No response.
The second one is longer.
I didn’t break up with you because I stopped loving you. I thought I was doing the responsible thing.
Please unblock me xoxo
The third one is messy.
He writes it at 2 AM after a party he left early because some girl laughed too loud in a way that sounded a little too much like you.
I keep looking for you around campus.
You used to sit by the west library window. I checked yesterday. You weren’t there. Are you avoiding me?
- Toru
Your Favorite Snacks
The dorm desk starts receiving packages. Your favorite chocolate. Spicy chips.
Strawberry gummies you always bought from the vending machine during late-night study sessions.
Deliveries of your favourite bubble tea.
The desk girl starts recognizing his name. “Another one from the football guy. I told him you weren’t here again like you asked.”
Meanwhile
Gojo’s reputation doesn’t change. He’s still the star player. Still the loud one at parties. Still the guy everyone thinks has everything.
But lately he keeps checking doorways. Scanning crowds at football games. Looking for someone who isn’t there.
The First Time He Sees You Again
It’s raining. He’s leaving practice when he spots you across the quad under a blue umbrella.
For a second he thinks he imagined it.
But then you look up. And your eyes meet his.
The look on your face isn’t anger. It’s worse.
It’s indifference.
You turn and keep walking. Gojo’s heart drops straight into his stomach. He can’t let you escape after all this time of chasing you.
“Hey—!”
You stop slowly. You look over your shoulder. “…What?” Your voice is calm.
Gojo suddenly forgets every speech he rehearsed. “I—did you get the letters?”
“Yes.”
“…And?…will you please talk to me?”
You stare at him for a long moment “Goodnight, Gojo.”
Then you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the rain, watching you disappear.
Fratjo breaks up with you and instantly regrets it - series
The first time Satoru Gojo realizes he made a mistake is when he can’t find you on campus.
At first he thinks it’s funny.
You’ve always been easy to find. The west library corner seat by the window. The campus café at 10:30 with a vanilla latte and that same notebook you pretend isn’t a diary.
But after the breakup?
You vanish.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Your Instagram, phone number, Snapchat — blocked.
He stares at his phone in the Alpha Tau living room while music blasts around him and someone hands him another drink.
Blocked.
“Damn,” one of the guys laughs. “She actually did it.”
Gojo scoffs like it doesn’t matter. “I’ll get her back,” he says cockily.
Like he’s not the one who said it. I need to focus on football.
The lie sounded convincing at the time. The scouts were watching. His coach kept yelling about discipline. Everyone said relationships were a distraction.
So he broke up with you.
Clean and quick.
Two weeks later, he’s drunk at three different frat parties, shamefully sneaking out of sorority house hookups before the sun even rises.
And somehow that’s when he realizes something feels wrong.
———-
The First Attempt
He tries texting.
It doesn’t go through. Still blocked.
He laughs to himself. “Dramatic much.”
But that night he still walks across campus toward the all-girl dorms.
Except the front desk girl just shrugs. “She’s not here.”
Gojo frowns, “What do you mean she’s not here?”
“Means she’s not here.”
He stands outside the dorm building for ten minutes before leaving.
The next day he tries again. Still no sight of you.
Flowers
A week later a bouquet arrives at your dorm. White lilies and baby’s breath.
Attached card: —SG <3
He doesn’t even know if you like lilies. You used to talk about flowers sometimes, but he never listened carefully enough to remember, and now he regrets it.
The desk girl tells him later you picked them up without saying a word.
Still no message back.
The Letters
Then the letters start. The handwritten notes made him feel romantic, he was sure this would get a response out of you.
The first one is simple.
I know you blocked me. I deserve it.
Let me know if you wanna talk
-Satoru <3
No response.
The second one is longer.
I didn’t break up with you because I stopped loving you. I thought I was doing the responsible thing.
Please unblock me xoxo
The third one is messy.
He writes it at 2 AM after a party he left early because some girl laughed too loud in a way that sounded a little too much like you.
I keep looking for you around campus.
You used to sit by the west library window. I checked yesterday. You weren’t there. Are you avoiding me?
- Toru
Your Favorite Snacks
The dorm desk starts receiving packages. Your favorite chocolate. Spicy chips.
Strawberry gummies you always bought from the vending machine during late-night study sessions.
Deliveries of your favourite bubble tea.
The desk girl starts recognizing his name. “Another one from the football guy. I told him you weren’t here again like you asked.”
Meanwhile
Gojo’s reputation doesn’t change. He’s still the star player. Still the loud one at parties. Still the guy everyone thinks has everything.
But lately he keeps checking doorways. Scanning crowds at football games. Looking for someone who isn’t there.
The First Time He Sees You Again
It’s raining. He’s leaving practice when he spots you across the quad under a blue umbrella.
For a second he thinks he imagined it.
But then you look up. And your eyes meet his.
The look on your face isn’t anger. It’s worse.
It’s indifference.
You turn and keep walking. Gojo’s heart drops straight into his stomach. He can’t let you escape after all this time of chasing you.
“Hey—!”
You stop slowly. You look over your shoulder. “…What?” Your voice is calm.
Gojo suddenly forgets every speech he rehearsed. “I—did you get the letters?”
“Yes.”
“…And?…will you please talk to me?”
You stare at him for a long moment “Goodnight, Gojo.”
Then you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the rain, watching you disappear.
Zuko decides to marry a commoner, much to the disappointment of his council, but he’s the fire lord, he can do what he wants, when he wants and as long as he isn’t hurting anyone or starting a war, who the fuck are the council members to tell him what to do, and he lets them know it. Upon announcing his intention to marry you (an old friend who runs, well, ran, an apothecary and tea shop), the council room went wild!
Belligerent huffs and puffs from all the other noblemen who had their daughters turned down, advisors irate at the idea of noble blood being watered down, councilmen incensed at the decision to marry within and not for political power. Whatever complaint there could have been was spoken, shouted, angrily pointed at Zuko, who could not care less. He was expecting this, was rather excited to stir up so much fuss over his decision, because nothing had ever been his choice. There had been no room for what the prince wanted, only what his father needed of him, of what the nation needed of him, and now that he is the nation, he might as well make a decision that benefits him too.
she is not of proper stock. her blood is not pure. she is not fit to bear the lord’s children. how can a commoner be expected to fulfil the roles of a lord’s wife?
Variations of disdain were whispered amongst the old men, Zuko’s attention no longer on them as he stared at the wall, the patterns of the tapestry far more interesting than the griping of ancient men, but it was the harsh whispers of the chamberlain that caught his attention.
This will bring shame to us all. The fire nation, once proud and strong, reduced to nothing, a hedonistic den of sin, weak and ready for the taking, all because the lordling wants to marry his common bitch.
Zuko clears his throat, chin resting on his fist as he stares down the man.
“Chamberlain, I was not aware they had made you the firelord”
He watches as the man startles, head dipping low in reverence before lifting his eyes to meet the podium, not daring to look Zuko in the eyes.
“I'm sorry, my lord?” the old man stammers.
“You are the Fire Lord, correct?” Zuko narrows his eyes, shifting in his seat to lounge more comfortably.
The chamberlain’s eyes dart around the room, sweat beginning to bead at his brow.
“No, my lord. I have never claimed to be nor have made a move-“
Zuko interrupts, tone flat and bored. "So you aren’t the Fire Lord?”
“N-no, my lo-“
“So why is it that you think you can speak freely as one?”
“I-“
“This council has been pestering me to find a wife since my ascension and now that I have, you all seem to have a problem with my choice. Is it because i did not choose one of your daughters?”
The chamberlain balks, his head raising a fraction of an inch as he meekly replies.
“That is not it, Lord Zuko. You are free to do as you like, I am merely concerned for your bloodline, the royal bloodline, and the negative effect a commoner can have on you and your status.”
Zuko laughs, a controlled, hollow sound. “There is no one left but me. I think your concern is misplaced, thinking of the future.”
“I did not mean offence-“
“What you meant and what you achieved are two different things, chamberlain.”
The old man takes in a steadying breath before launching into his attempt at a resolution. “It is just not the way things are done, my lord, with all the laws and customs your father-“
“My father was an ego manic obsessed with taking over the world, I don't think we should be looking back on his life with fondness."
"I purely meant-"
"Do not interrupt me," Zuko waves off the chamberlain. "I do not care what you meant, nor what you will have to say in the future on this matter. I have listened to you and your sage wisdom on every matter since ascending, despite knowing you lack the skills to think critically. Everything I do is for the betterment of the nation. There is no part of me that does not live to serve the people, so you will grant me this, chamberlain, because I am no longer a lordling, I am The Firelord, and if you think I will not rewrite the laws of the nation to be with the woman I love, then you are sorely mistaken."
Zuko watches as the man before him shrinks back, the fire at the sides of his podium flaring with seething rage. And it is true, Zuko has never once asked for anything in return, no days off, no scandals, no raised taxes, nothing that did not benefit the people of his nation. There is no war, no suffering, nothing but peace and prosperity within his borders and those beyond, so if he wants to break protocol and marry you, then, by god, he will.
"Yes, my lord." The chamberlain looks down at his feet, bowing at the waist and retreating away from the grand staircase.
The firelord waves his hand in the air. "We shall discuss this matter no further, make the announcements."
The thought of you flashes through his mind for a second, your smile and laugh, your hands in his, as he shakily asks you to be his wife, the way you had kissed him sweetly and whispered your answer into his mouth. So much love and kindness within your soul that he started to feel a little guilty for being so harsh on his advisors, that maybe he shouldn't have been as cutting as he was, but they had insulted you, made you appear as something that was not the light of his life, and for that, he will not stand and if he had to burn the entire kingdom and all it stood to the ground, he'll do that too.
“fuck is this about?” he asked as his gaze stayed on the screen, the camera already recording. you giggled, a sound he’d once admitted was his favorite with all its sweetness, and he sighed deeply, already accepting defeat. because who the hell did he think he was, before his sweet girl he’d certainly burn the whole world for?
“you’ll see.” you mumbled, a playful grin stretching across your face. the camera angle was already perfect, catching both his figure and every grumpy expression, but you kept checking it just to be sure.
you had stumbled across the trend while scrolling, knowing your boyfriend probably hadn’t since he avoided social media like the plague, claiming that place was full of dimwits. from the moment you’ve seen the trend, you’ve always wanted to try it. and now, quite late to the trend, he stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, an amused look resting on his features, about to partake in a trend he wasn’t even aware of.
after checking the camera one more time, you made your way over, still giggling with a disturbingly joyous tone.
“you sound fucking evil.” he groaned at the sight of your grin since he was already familiar with the scene, aware that you were planning something.
you stopped in front of him, your eyes were sparkling with joy and you were barely containing your laughter. he, visibly defeated, also smiled warmly, a sweet gesture he only ever showed to you. the stretch on his lips could’ve looked unfamiliar to anyone else, but to you it was known and comforting. a gesture so unlike him yet so much of him. so much of a part of him only you knew.
you gently took his arms, lifting them above his head. “the hell?” he asked, but you simply shrugged, making sure he keeps them there. for a moment, you also enjoyed the vision, his tight tee clinging onto his huge biceps and stretching the poor fabric.
then you tangled your fingers into his short, pinkish hair, and rose onto your tiptoes to meet his lips. the moment your lips caught his, he let out a low groan, straight from his chest.
his hands dropped almost instantly. they smoothly found your hips, pulling you against him, his warmth seeping through his hands to your body.
you’d guessed he would probably lower his arms as he openly disliked listening to others, but then again he had built an habit of obeying you over the years you were together —and still, even if he did lower them, you hadn’t expected it to be this quick.
“kuna you are so weak-“ you barely breathed the words with a pleased laugh out before he cut you off, crashing his lips onto yours again with aggressive yet careful moves.
“babe, let me breathe— okay the trend’s over-“ you tried to speak, laughing against his moist lips, as his hands wandered all over your body.
“trend?” he muttered, merely pulling back as his lips still hovered over yours, his brows furrowing, and you laughed.
“mhmm, to see if you’d melt into the kiss. you are sooo weak baby.” he glanced at the camera, and rolled his eyes as he finally understood the situation. even so he kept his hands on yours again hips, his grip tightening just slightly.
“yeah,” he said, a wicked grin tugging at his lips, “so fucking weak.” he said, before leaning in to kiss you again, muffling your laughter with a warm look in his eyes, and an amused glint beneath his gaze.
“Sugu!” You put your arms around the black haired man's neck and hugged him from the back. Your head tilts slightly to the side to look at him. Your faces were at the same level only because he was sitting down on a couch.
He turns his head to make eye contact with you. He was definitely way too close for two people who weren’t a couple. And yes, all his friends at the party noticed.
The music blasted in the frat house to a deafening degree, but the only thing Suguru focused on was your cute pouting face.
“Oh hey pretty” He smiles, eyes half lidded.
He noticed your eyebrows furrowed and you showed him your phone screen. “Who’re you flirting with? Why didn’t you tell me there was someone you liked!” You spoke just a tad bit louder than the bass coming from the speakers.
He looks at the screen to find a tweet he wrote just that morning. No one flirts harder than two people who aren’t dating
Suguru couldn’t help but chuckle. He looks you in the eyes again and says calmly, “Come on over to this side of the couch and I’ll tell ya.”
Your bottom lip juts out a little, feeling a little frustrated he wouldn’t just tell you then and there. As you make your way over to sit next to your best friend. People noticed that you were a little out of place. The way you dressed didn’t exactly scream “frat party” it was a little more “cutesy” than what people usually saw here.
Honestly, you did feel out of place at these parties, but Suguru insisted you came with him.
Although, every time you accompanied him you were a little confused. It didn’t seem like he needed a companion to these parties at all. He was social, always talking with someone, checking up on his friends, and playing drinking games. People immediately noticed that he would have you by his side at every instance, hand on your hip or shoulder, touching you in some way.
Everyone noticed how clingy he was, how he was essentially “claiming” you as his. Everyone except you. The way he puts his arms around you wasn’t new, you had been best friends since forever. And that’s what best friends do right? Be close to each other? Hands always on one another and faces being as close as possible sometimes? Yeah, totally normal!
You made your way to the couch cushion and plopped down next to him, your dress riding up just a little bit. Suguru took notice and placed his hand on your thigh, pulling down the fabric just slightly to cover you more.
“Well?” You look up at him, arms encircling your best friend's bicep.
“Hm…well what?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Sugu!!”
God he loved that nickname, especially when it came out of your pretty little mouth. There was a reason that was his profile name on twitter.
He laughs loudly not expecting you to be so interested in his dating life. Your eyebrows knit together while your cheeks puffed out. Suguru leans a little too closely again, hand still on your thigh.
“Don’t worry I’m not flirting with anyone pretty girl.”
Across from him on the other couch, Satoru and Sukuna roll their eyes. If they could, they would’ve rolled them to the back of their heads.
“Jesus, get a room you two.” Shoko said from behind you both.
“Yeah! Stop makin’ googly eyes at each other and just go fu-”
Suguru looks straight at Satoru and smiles. He didn't say anything, but the white haired man knew he needed to shut up at that moment.
“Go where Toru?” You looked at him eagerly waiting for what he was about to say. Suguru’s mouth twitched.
“Toru, huh? Didn’t know you guys were close like that now.” Suguru’s eyes quickly look at Satoru, still with a faux smile on his face.
The white-haired man gulped, “Well- No we just-”
“Oh! Yeah Toru asked me for some notes so we ended up studying together a couple times at that one cafe close to me.”
“Ah, I see well that’s good you have a study buddy now.” You grinned at your Suguru, proud that you’ve made a friend.
“Yeah, it’s really nice, we ended up back at my apartment since I had way too much mochi than I could finish and-”
“And I grabbed it and left immediately!!” Satoru yelled quickly.
The dark haired man couldn’t get himself to keep up the facade anymore, his face dropped and he glared at Satoru with an intensity that could only be described as murderous.
The blue-eyed frat boy gulped, looked around and yelled, “Let’s do some shots everyone!!” He got up with impressive speed to go run to the kitchen. Sukuna gave a little snort, knowing Satoru was in big fucking trouble.
“Sugu? What’s wrong?” You questioned, oblivious to what your words had done to him.
“Why don’t we go to the porch?” He gives you a gentle smile and pulls you up by your hand.
—
As you two made it to the railing of the front porch, he lifted you up by your thighs and placed you on the stone bannister. You gasp in surprise, feeling a little self conscious as he places himself in between your legs.
“So you can flirt with my best friend, but I can’t make a tweet without being interrogated sweets?”
“F-flirt?” You stutter, “No no, me and Toru were j-” Suguru nuzzles himself into your neck and nips at it.
“Ah! S-sugu!” You place your hand on the spot he bit, face instantly red. This isn’t normal for best friends. You’ve finally realized it.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” You look him in the eyes.
He laughs, “That tweet was about us…” Suguru says your name in such a sweet sultry voice you couldn’t help your heart beating so quickly.
“I mean- I don’t think- do we flirt with each other?” You stutter, no longer being able to look him in the eyes.
The long haired man grabs your ass and pulls you even closer to him than you already were. He holds your chin and angles it down until your lips are almost touching. “You’re so naive sometimes you know that pretty girl?” He whispers.
Your heart beats at two times speed, eyes wide, and you had a feeling there was a wet spot in your underwear now.
“Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you how much I flirt with you.”
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Part 2 (coming soon)
By cherryangel22 (2026) do not copy, repost, or use with ai.
Valentine's Day with Sukuna
fluff | work slander | teasing | Sukuna being Sukuna - bad at feelings and utterly in love
wordcount: 5k
a/n: fun little collab with the one and only @beaniesayshi, awesome writer, fellow Sukuna-Lover and absolute sweetheart. Here's her Valentine's Oneshot - go check it out! We’ve picked 3 pics for each other and tried to write a Valentine's Day fic. So here’s my attempt. Thanks so much for the fun and the writing and the conversations ♥
Masterlist
Despite both of you being forced to work all Valentine’s Day, Sukuna still manages to surprise you with a romantic date. What Sukuna did not take into account is a girlfriend more than willing to derail a cute stargazing date in favor of refusing to seek shelter from heavy rainfall, turning the night into an unforgettable memory.
This year, Valentine’s falls on a Saturday. Which, in itself, would be something good if it wasn’t for the fact that your boss does not care for your love life. On top of that, neither does the garage owner, who’s claimed Sukuna is the only one experienced enough to take the shift, getting payed double so his superior could therefore take wife and kids to a nice day trip at the beach.
Neither of you have the grounds to argue and so, Saturday starts with the other side of the bed already empty.
You had hoped his alarm would wake you, that you would get to shove your cold feet against his belly one more time, make him hiss and groan as you steal kisses in the too early hours of this morning — make him stay just five more minutes and at least start Valentine’s day appropriately.
But alas, Sukuna has always been sneaky and when you reach for him, the mattress is already cold and it has you push the blanket off, eyes still halfway closed as you stumble into the bathroom.
Here, the light is way too bright and you barely manage to watch your own reflection, if it wasn’t for the little piece of scrap paper taped to the edge of the mirror. There, in his familiar scrawl, a little note just waits for you to be discovered.
You look so cute when you sleep. ♥
Rubbing your face and peeling the note from the glass, you’re pretty sure you’re anything but cute when you’re faced with your own reflection. Hair a mess and the imprint of your pillow across your left cheek. Usually, he’s the one to tell you that you drool while sleeping. Lovingly, of course. Mostly.
Still, it brings a smile to your lips, your motions a bit lighter as you go about your routine.
Funny, how he’s thought of the exact same thing as you. Because you, just as sneaky as your partner, have hidden a whole bunch of notes in his car, his jacket, the pocket of his work jeans and the lunch you’d prepared for him yesterday. You’re pretty sure he had no clue, which makes it even funnier that he’s gone as far as to put a little note on the mirror for you, matching your own surprise for him.
You know it’s always been easier for him to write these things, anything that doesn’t involve having to look at you and have a serious, heartfelt conversation that shows vulnerability and depth. Your grumpy man has stayed loyal to his closed-off behavior and even after all these years, you know some things are easier for him than others. You know he means them from the bottom of his heart.
In the kitchen, you find the next note, stuck to your favorite coffee mug.
You give me more energy than any caffeine ever could. ♥
Snorting, you make yourself a quick breakfast, drink your coffee and find the third note in your dresser. There, among sweaters and turtlenecks, lays another ripped up piece of paper, torn edges and a dying ballpoint pen that he tried to revive with scribbles at the corner.
Knocking my socks off every single day. ♥
You can’t but wonder how long it took him to write these little notes, grinning from one ear to the other as you get dressed and ready yourself to leave the flat.
A whole day of work awaits you, nothing but a 45 minute break to try and catch him between clients.
Not so long ago, you’ve claimed Valentine’s day didn’t mean anything to you. You still stand by it and he had looked up from his phone where he’d tried to evade the horrible romcom you’d forced him to witness on the big screen, raising an eyebrow.
“Is that so?” he’d asked and called it bullshit.
“I don’t think this relationship is defined by one single day of the year.”
He tilts his head, like a curious dog listening closer.
“Still can be a day to celebrate it,” he eventually mumbles, eyes back on his phone.
“What, you? My Sukuna, a slave to consumerism?”
“Never,” he laughs and still gives you a sheepish grin.
You’d made plans. Some fun double date activity with Toji and his wife, afterwards fancy dinner, going home and getting cozy, watching him game or picking a movie you would definitely fall asleep to.
Thanks to both your bosses, no date would be had and you’re pretty sure you’ll be too tired to do much of anything when work is over and the sun already setting again.
Throughout the day, you find even more notes.
One in your coat pocket, another in your handbag and one in your laptop bag. There’s one taped to the lid of your lunch box and another crumbled and hidden in your wallet when you go and buy some emergency snacks from the vending machine.
Sexy with and without any clothes on. ♥
I’m as loyal to you as you are loyal to that chapstick from your middle school days, still somewhere in the depths of your bag. ♥
Why does Ctrl + S not work in real life? Want to save every moment I share with you. ♥
You’re the snack I can’t get enough of. ♥
Nothing in the world could make me sell you. ♥
Even several hours into work, you find another two notes among your belongings, folded and hidden where you rather come upon them by accident than intention.
Your tits are absolute fire. ♥
You look pretty everyday. ♥
All of them make you grin like a fool, his stupid idea of humor paired with clumsy confessions and a love he can barely contain. The duality of his notes does not get unnoticed and you can picture him easily, bend over the desk where he scribbles away at his notes, tongue stuck between his teeth, free hand in his hair as he desperately tries to come up with things. It gets you through half of your day with a fuzzy feeling in your chest, excitement barely contained as you grin at your stacks of files as if they’ve made your day way better, not wors.e
Lunch break comes and goes and all you manage is to call him and land on his mailbox, so texts need to be enough. You’re sure to match his tone, trying to rage-bait where you can because you just know it gets him going.
Hey handsome, found some weird notes everywhere. Must have a secret admirer. Wonder who it is. He says my tits look fire. Romance has never been more peak. Sadly it can’t be you because you’re not even picking up on VALENTINE’S DAY. ♥♥♥
He reads it about an hour later and to your absolute outrage, leaves you on read.
That’s enough for you to not even throw another glance in your phone’s direction until the clock hits five in the evening and around you, co-workers and colleagues start to pack up.
Then, nervousness settles inside of you. You can’t even really tell yourself why but the prospect of finally seeing him has you all giddy and excited.
Even if there won’t be a fancy dinner or some hilarious laser tag activity with your friends, you’re more than eager to get home and cook with him, stopping by the store on your way home to get whatever you need. He’ll go for Pizza and you’ll demand Spaghetti and the two of you will playfully argue until he relents and acts like he wanted Spaghetti all along.
Zipping your coat shut, you take the stairs down to the exit and once again try to call him. This time, he picks up within the first two rings.
“Who do I need to beat up to be your Valentine?” he says instead of a greeting and you snort, the sound echoing through the stairwell as you hastily cover your mouth.
“Well, my Valentine would actually pick up the phone.”
“Your Valentine was stuck beneath a medium-duty semi and momentarily unavailable. Your Valentine also knows when your break is over and he would never call you during a shift out of fear of angering your boss and getting his lovely girl in trouble.”
You can almost imagine him, that lopsided grin on his face that makes the tattoos on his cheek shift as if someone placed them there crooked. The glow in his eyes when he spins those tales with you, acting on whatever whimsy you’ve decided on.
When the automatic doors open, the sky is already a deep blue, skyline tinted in the last bloody fight of the sun before it vanishes.
“Well, I suppose my Valentine could be busy. And to make it up to me, he’ll totally agree on having comfort food tonight.”
It’s his time to laugh as you walk towards the parking lot, free arm tugged into your pocket for warmth.
“So, like Pizza.”
“More like Spaghetti.”
“Sounds like Pizza to me. I’ll even go to the store for you. Or even better, we order and waste money on delivery,” he bargains, voice lilting.
You dramatically gasp and get a strand of your own hair stuck in your mouth as the wind tugs on it, making you sputter.
“Delivery? What are we, millionaires?”
“More like stupidly in love and celebrating.”
You can’t hide the giggle as you dig for your keys inside the mess of receipts, crumbled wrapping papers and leftover change.
“Awww, you like me?”
“A medium amount.”
“Ouch, take that back.”
“Fine. I tolerate you. Somehow.”
He acts annoyed and fails and just as you’re about to shoot back, something catches your attention from the corner of your eye.
“Sir, it’s Valentine’s Day and you better appreciate me, because you’re going to be stuck with me for—“
There, conveniently inconvenient, a familiar black Land Rover parks in second row, headlights still on and a tall figure casually leaning against the side of it.
You would recognize Sukuna anywhere, even here, at the hight of dusk, with the lamps not yet on and the light quickly fading, nothing but a dark outline against a darker sky, tall and bulky, hair wild and one hand casually propped up on the side view mirror.
He takes the phone from his ear when you stop and stare at him, raising his arm to wave at you.
Days like these usually mean he’s already home when you return, still with dirty hands and clothes that smell of gasoline and motor oil but you did not expect him here, waiting for you with a grin so wide it cuts through the night.
Sukuna whistles and catcalls and if it was anyone else, you would deck them for their behavior. For him, you twirl and spin and skip towards him, falling into his familiar embrace as he pockets his phone and reaches towards you.
As expected, he does smell like gasoline and motor oil, like sweat and that citrus windshield cleaner fluid they offer. Beneath it, the faint ghost of his cologne, his deodorant and just his skin.
You let yourself be smothered by him, strong arms that flex and press you so close that your lungs protest. A strangled laugh escapes you and he does not even mind, showering your face in featherlight kisses while immobilizing you until you’re a giggling mess.
When you tap his arm, he lets go and you go for your own attack, reaching for his face and pulling him towards you, pressing a kiss to his lips until even he gasps for air.
“Hi, love,” he mumbles against your lips and when you open your eyes, he’s already staring, so close the dark color of his irises is all you see.
“Hi…” you echo, a bit flustered, a whole lot in love.
“Happy Valentine’s. Sorry your boss is a dick.”
For a moment, you fear your boss might hear, somewhere on the parking lot or magically appearing right beside you. But when you sheepishly look around, he’s nowhere to be seen, in fact not a single person is in sight, the parking lot and this moment completely yours and yours alone.
“Happy Valentine’s, Sukuna. Sorry you’re broke and have to work on Saturdays.”
Played offense has him gasp again, leaning away to stare at the sky and roll his eyes.
“I have to remind myself each day that I love you very much.”
With another laughter and a kiss to his exposed throat, you peel away from him. Sukuna lets you, dropping his arms and stepping aside to open the door for you.
Even while you still stand there, the warmth spilling from the inside of the car is enough to scurry closer, ducking beneath Sukuna’s arm to settle into the preheated seat.
A sigh falls from your lips as you get comfortable, pulling Sukuna by his jacket into your side to press another kiss to his lips, missing and getting a mouth full of stubble and jaw.
“You do know how to treat a girl…”
There, neatly folded on the console in front of you is a blanket, the one you usually keep in the back for cold midnight drives that leave you chattering and freezing even with the heating on. You bundle and buckle up and when Sukuna closes the door and rounds the car, you take the time to close your eyes and exhale the stress of the day.
You’re off the clock, he’s here, there’s still time and to be quiet honest, neither of you need anything fancy to feel appreciated. It’s enough to find notes and get your seat preheated because he knows you like to burn your ass on the leather seats. His car smells slightly different than usual, something different than just the car’s interior lingering in the air that you can’t place.
When he’s beside you, seatbelt clicking in place and his hands casually resting against the steering wheel, his dark eyes find you again, his beloved car purring beneath you.
“Some little gremlin snuck notes into my shoes. And my jacket. And my lunch box. Couldn’t be you, right?”
You make the biggest eyes you can muster, pouting at him as his gaze narrows.
“Excuse you, a gremlin? I spilled all my love and appreciation for you on these little notes…”
He laughs, and pulls something out of his jacket pocket. There, next to a crumbled cigarette that’s spilling it’s tobacco like guts on his palm, lays a neat stack of sticky notes stuck to each other.
On top, your finest work (the one note out of all of them that had you cackle and holler) in your finest, swirly handwriting and a cute little heart in the corner.
Dick so fine, you ruined everyone else for me. ♥
“Your love and appreciation, hm?”
“For you and your little man down there.”
Without even a moment of hesitation and clearly no energy to argue with you, he drops his head against the wheel, hitting the horn and the loud sound blaring across the whole parking lot.
You struggle to get his head away from the sensor, collecting his face and forcing him to look at you.
“You love me, remember.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Even on Valentine’s Day, he’s being insufferable and his usual blunt self. But you know how he works. His words are spoken softly and there’s no bite in his tone. The monotone cadence is just something he usually carries and the deep rumble of his voice has your heart still flutter.
To soften the blow of his muttering, he leans over the middle console once again, pressing a kiss to your temple before shifting the gear and rolling out of his spot.
You know without having to ask that the drive will not lead you directly home. It also goes without question that you two will return tomorrow, collecting your car to ensure you’ll be able to drive about come Monday.
Snuggling deeper into your seat and setting your purse on the backseat, you reach for his hand and find his fingers intertwined with yours, hand not letting go of yours as he shift gears and lets you help.
It’s another ritual the two of you have established over the years.
Sukuna comes with a car and you’ve learned early on that the car is the third-wheel in your relationship. So, night drives were a part of it, where you let him decompress behind the steering wheel and get to watch his biceps flex with each shift of the gear.
Sometimes, conversation keeps flowing, from one topic to another, endlessly weaving and winding until you’re back at home and your voice is hoarse from all the talking.
And then, other times, over an hour passes where neither of you say a word, content in your shared silence, listening to the rumble of the car or some quiet music that’s set so low you can barely make out the words.
When the world is dark and blurry from all the lights and neon signs, your brain finally manages to calm. It’s a simple comfort to sit and watch the world pass by, safe and secure and separate from the hectic and the mess of everyday life.
Here, inside Sukuna’s 2010 Defender, you’re in your very own world.
Tonight, the radio plays some quiet song, something soft and romantic that he would skip or turn off any other day of the year. Tonight, he lets it slide.
Sukuna takes the usual route through the city. Through crowded downtown and the nightlife district where everything glows red and pink before he weaves back through the richer districts where you get to marvel at the pretty light installations and look through unshielded windows right into people’s expensive living rooms. Gojo’s house lies abandoned, all windows dark and his car missing, probably somewhere partying the night away.
When you reach the outskirts and follow the familiar winding road up the hills east of the city, you know where this trip will lead you.
Uphill, nestled between the woods and cliffs lies the parking spot the two of you had one of your first dates at. Not the very first - you would have physically died from fear if he would have taken you to a place this remote — but after enough time that it had been the most romantic spot you could think of, late summer where the evenings were endless and the sky a soft purple and orange and your stomach cramping from all the butterflies you felt.
But it’s not late summer, it’s the middle of February, technically still winter, still so cold your breath fogs up and you have to scrape the ice off your windshield each morning more often than not.
“Babe…” you mumble, squeezing his fingers with yours as the headlights guide your way up the otherwise dark road. Here, no lamps are installed. All there is is the dark of the forest and the distant glow of the city to your right, dimmed by shrubbery and a dented guard rail.
“Yea?”
“Are we going where I think we’re going?”
“Seemed appropriate…” he utters, voice a low rumble as he squeezes your hand.
You smile and try to hide how excited you get over the gesture, some unforeseen sentimentality from the most pragmatic person you know.
The cold is something to worry about when you get there and you’re sure Sukuna hasn’t suddenly forgotten that you have freezing hands more often than not.
When you get there and the Defender slows to a crawl, rolling onto the empty space right at the edge of the cliff, the parking lot is yours alone.
Before you, past the drop of the cliff and the woods and the winding road that’s lead you here, lies your home, a myriad of blinking lights and buzzing noise that barely makes it to your ears.
Without a word, Sukuna shuts the engine off. Suddenly, all there is is silence and you get to turn to face him, shuffling in your seat to find him already staring. Your eyes need a bit to adjust to the dim lighting, features and tattoos slowly appearing in the dark until he’s right there, just centimeters away as you lean closer to cradle his face, palm against his cheek.
“You can be so romantic…,” you whisper and grin against his lips as you go in for another kiss. His own reaction is delayed, hot breath ghosting over your skin before you feel his lips on yours, his tongue on your lower lip before you let him consume you.
He’s the one who eventually breaks away, releasing his seatbelt with a click before shoving open his door.
“Come on,” he tells you and gets out, rounding the car to get something from the trunk.
For a moment, you try to memorize the heat of the seat, the softness of the leather and your blanket before you get out of the car too, finding Sukuna already on your side, hands full.
You can’t but laugh when you see him. He’s got several more blankets, all scavenged from your couch and bedroom, stacked atop the backpack that he usually brings for your hikes. Now, it’s still stuffed full, a thermos bottle stuck in the net at the side.
“Please tell me you’re not planning on a midnight hike,” you grin, nervously and he just scoffs, shaking his head before starting to heave the gathered things up onto the roof of the car.
“Actually, for once, no. I was more thinking about sitting up there and getting cozy.”
You don’t mention that it’s about 8 degrees. You don’t mention that the couch or just the inside of the car seems far more cozy and comfortable than the roof of his car. You don’t mention that your body aches from a day of work.
Instead, you climb from the ledge of the trunk up onto the car and help him lay out the blankets, settle with your thick winter coat and watch him not only produce several pillows from the backpack, but another thermos bottle of something warm that he presses into your hands, the metal immediately fogging up from the temperature drop and then, two tupperware containers, safely secured with a bunch of rubber bands and fork and spoon stuck between.
He settles beside you, cross-legged and knee bumping into yours, the last blanket securely thrown over both your laps before he presses one of the food containers into your free hand. You have to shuffle it about, move the drink to your side to remove the rubber bands and unlatch the lid and find steam wafting through the air, the smell you’ve noticed in the car now evidently stronger and definitely the source of it.
There, steaming and delicious, a nice curl of spaghetti with sauce, parmesan and two neatly placed basil leaves sit in the box. You can’t but coo at the sight, a wide smile spreading over your face as you beam at him.
“No way!”
Sukuna, again, has already been glancing your direction, gouging your reaction and replying with a satisfied smile.
“Imagine my relief when you demanded spaghetti…” he tells you and you grin even wider, taking a big inhale and already reaching for your cutlery.
“You made those?”
“Yea,” he shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Got a bit too excited with the pepper, hope it’s manageable.”
You laugh in his face and spin your fork until you can lift your first roll of spaghetti into your mouth, still hot and definitely delicious. Yes, you can taste the pepper, but more than anything else you can taste the love he made it with and that’s enough to close your eyes and savor the bite.
“Perfect,” you say with a full mouth and hear him laugh.
Before you, the city stretches in all it’s nightly glory. Above, past the purple veil of lights and pollution, the night sky stretches endlessly. Countless stars litter the firmament, constellations a plenty as the two of you eat your dinner and sit in comfortable silence.
He empties his container in half your time, setting it aside to pour both of you a steaming cup of your favorite tea.
It’s easy, loving him. It has always been, even with his rare smiles and careful affection. Now, you can’t imagine a time where it was different.
Tonight, he gives his touch freely, willingly, intimacy he doesn’t shy from but seeks out, hands at the small of your back and your arm, your wrist, your hand. Soft touches at your neck and in your hair, brushing stray strands away and ever watchful eyes that don’t seem to care for the beauty of the night beyond the car’s roof.
As silly as it sounds, he’s always enjoyed watching your reaction more than whatever it was pulling said reaction from you.
When your own bowl is empty, you curl up at his side, pulling the blanket closer, locking your fingers with his as he pulls you against his chest.
For a while, all you do is listen to his heart, faint but steady beneath the layers of his clothes. You spot some of the biggest and most popular constellations, make out several landmarks from where your gaze wanders and watch some dark clouds steadily rise on the horizon.
Sukuna is the first to talk, voice low and vibrating in his chest, fingers absent-mindedly playing with your hair.
“Sorry we couldn’t go on a real date…”
“This is a real date. And far better than anything I could have thought of.”
He huffs and you nudge his lower jaw, nose bumping into his chin.
“I love you, Sukuna. And I love this. You’ve put so much thought and effort into it - despite having a ten hour shift.”
He grumbles something beneath his breath, turns his head away but when you try to catch his gaze, all you see is his ears, red at the tips, a blush dusting his cheeks.
“I love you,” you mumble again, whisper it against his skin in hopes he’ll let himself hear it.
It takes him a few heartbeats before he turns back towards you, nuzzles your cheek before dropping his head against your shoulder, polyester jacket rustling before his words reach your ears.
“Love you, too.”
You hold him for a long time and he lets you. Quietly, contently, you watch the clouds creep closer and the stars be swallowed by darkness.
When the first raindrops hit, your tea is almost empty, the remains of it cold, Sukuna’s breath even and slow.
Only when the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof of his car becomes louder than his heartbeat, does he move from his spot, straightening to place another kiss onto your lips.
“Lets go,” he tells you and the two of you make an honest effort at wrapping things up quickly, rain coming down harder by the second.
Blankets are randomly shoved into the trunk, containers and bottles stuffed into the backpack and thrown on the backseat.
When he closes the trunk, rain already falls in thick strings, soaking your hair within moments, coat heavy with rain.
“Go inside already,” he half-heartedly shouts over the rain but you are just standing there, staring at the clouds and the rain and Sukuna’s hair that’s plastered all over his forehead, stringy and dripping.
“When’s the last time you’ve danced in the rain?” you shout back at him and you can see the confusion ripple over his face.
“Huh?”
“Ever danced in the rain?”
“Get in the car, woman,” he barks and you just laugh at him, snatching the keys from his hand and sprinting to the drivers seat.
You know better than to change anything with the seat, the steering wheel or all the other gadgets. All you do is start the engine, headlights turning on before you crank up the volume of the radio, some upbeat song from the nineties playing.
Even when you get out again, close the door and drag Sukuna with you, the music is loud enough to be heard even over the rain and despite his verbal protests, he makes it easy for you to drag him along, your hands in his as you start jumping.
Water splashes everywhere. The asphalt is badly maintained, more potholes than there should be, all rapidly filling with water. You jump and make an effort hitting every single puddle, pulling Sukuna along until even he laughs, low and quiet as if he’s ashamed to actually enjoy it.
When you start singing and twirling, Sukuna entertains you.
Neither of you can get even more soaked, the rain already dripping from both of your bodies, hair clinging to your skin, socks wet and water sloshing in your shoes.
You could not care less.
Both of you scream the song from the top of your lungs without knowing the lyrics and you let yourself be twirled around and spun, hand in hand, his eyes never leaving you.
When there’s no more breath in your lungs and your voice threatens to give out, both of you are panting, slightly shivering and utterly overjoyed. His grin is wider than you’ve seen in years and when he pulls you with one last twirl against his chest, you let him hold you and kiss you until you’re not sure if you’re drowning on the rain or his love.
The song eventually stops and someone rattles off a few advertisements, enough to give you the chance to decide to get in the dry.
Sukuna forces you to throw your wet jacket in the trunk, bundling you up in the blankets that escaped most of the onslaught of rain. You curl up in the passenger seat, push your boots and peel your socks off and already feel the heating take effect.
Sukuna joins you moments later, without his jacket and his hair still dripping. He shakes himself like a dog in your direction, having you squeal and scream and shriek until laughter takes over again.
Both of you soaked to the bones and more than content, you drive back down the hill, towards a warm and dry home.
It’s hard not to fall asleep on the way back. Even harder to get your tired limbs to move when the car rolls into the garage and Sukuna kills the engine.
There’s not much convincing to be done beside a tired blink his way before he scoops you right up into his arms, carrying you into the house and straight to the bathroom, turning on the heater there and vanishing to get you dry clothes.
Once both of you are dry again, you curl up on the couch and let him play some games. His headset is only halfway on, voice low while you can hear Toji rage on the other side. In every queue, he reaches for you, hands ghosting up your legs or blindly grabbing for your hand.
You let him hold you every time and squeeze his fingers until he has to let go.
Softly, his words lull you into some blissful half-sleep, curled up at his side, stomach full and his body smelling of fresh air and rain.
Your eyes eventually fall shut and you can feel his fingers on your cheek. Stroking your hair and tugging the blanket further up your body.
“The things you do to me, sweet girl…” he utters to nobody in particular, certainly sure you’re not awake anymore and for his sake, you don’t let him know.
Oh, what a beautiful, soft life you’ve found yourself in.
ㅤ♕ 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 has been nothing but a hopeless romantic, living licentiously and relishing in how women fall at his feet—yet never seeming to find the perfect soulmate like he finds in books. He thought he'd yearn his life away until you appear; a writer he has employed to transcribe his spoken novels, because he couldn't be bothered to learn how to use the typewriter. You think he's insufferable—meanwhile he could not be more enamored by you. Being spoiled rotten all his life, Satoru is quite stunned that you could ever reject someone as great as him. Is it even possible to fall in love with such an arrogant idiot of a man?
wc. 9.2k
ㅤcontent────period piece (late 1800s—early 1900s), sfw, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, unrequited love to requited love, heartbreak, multiple rejections, he's a persistent ass, one-sided pining, unrealized love, romantic tension, kissing/heated scenes, happy ending
ㅤpairing────prince!Gojo Satoru x writer!reader
ㅤseries masterlist / THIS CHAPTER IS ON AO3 TOO!
Summer was abuzz in its full bright glory. Bumblebees fed on the sweet nectar of the array of flowers in your small garden, which you’d tend to early before breakfast. The flowers were like your children, and sometimes you were more attentive to their health than you were to your own.
Mother was humming and buzzing around quite like a large bumblebee herself, cheery as the sun above for she was going to see her dearly missed eldest daughter after such a long time of being apart.
She was due to arrive at the station, at two o’clock exact, when you’d be busy at the castle—this made you frown a little while you watered and weeded the garden, eyes still bleary and stomach like an angry whale.
Your sister.
She was—how can I say it?—nosy yet caring and attentive, harsh yet loving. Unlike both your brothers, whom were very distant with you under the excuse of living in foreign countries, your sister wrote from New York often and maintained closeness despite the distance. She was always telling you of what new ribbons or fabrics she was buying for balls, or exclaiming her deepest love for her husband (despite his smallness in society).
Most of all, your sister wrote letters to you about love. A lot of your replies communicated a pessimistic view on love. You complained infinitely about having been sold a false idea by poets. Your sister got a good laugh out of it.
You continued pulling weeds, plucking a few flowers for pressing in books later, finding great harmony and peace in nature—when suddenly, your quiet indulgence was disturbed.
The window to the kitchen swung open.
“EARLY BIRD GETS THE PRINCE!”
“Momma, I’ve not eaten breakfast yet!—and it’s far earlier than I departed yesterday.”
“—it’s never too early to pursue your soulmate!” she shouted from the window.
“He is not my soulmate...” you grumbled to yourself, wiping your dirty hands upon your apron.
She waved her thick hand at you.
“GO.”
“OK.” you grumbled, resignedly.
The little whale in your stomach moaned softly in agony.
ㅤ⚜
Tired, hungry, you were lumbering your weight with you and stifling every yawn that attempted to creep out. With the thought that Prince Satoru—clothed in his fine blues with a crispened air--would see you like this, such a mess, made you erect yourself more upright. You swept a finger under your eyes, just in case—never know when those eye-boogers creep out, do you?
Under the moony gaze of chandeliers, you followed distantly behind your escort with brisk clicks of your heels across checkered marble tiles, each step ringing out as a reverberating echo.
Surely a place like this is easy to get lost in—how could anyone live in a palace comfortably?
With living quarters so large, it made sense to you why the prince was lazy. Even you’d grow lazy if it took this long to reach the study.
Upon reaching the east wing corridor, your escort suddenly stopped, then turned to face you.
“Wait here. His Highness will arrive... er, soon.” he said, with shifty eyes and a meek voice, and then left you alone there in the corridor to your own devices.
Soon.
That’s what he said; soon.
So why was His Haughtiness nowhere to be seen? You’d been waiting there for innumerable minutes, each one growing seemingly longer than the previous.
Did he forget that you were coming today?
Your heart sank a little at the thought of the prince forgetting you.
At first, you darted your eyes about and fidgeted impatiently. Then, arm growing weak after carrying the weight of your encased typewriter up all those stairs, you set it down and began to wander freely.
You tried burning the time, as infinite as it felt, by admiring the architectural wonder of the east wing corridor.
The east wing was newer. It had only been constructed recently as a new addition onto to the palace—a birthday gift for the prince. His own private wing. Well then, makes your cake and candle tradition look rather measly in comparison, doesn’t it?
You wandered down the corridor, head tilted back.
Roman columns upheld ceilings, upon which there were hand-painted depictions of gods and humans—the Trojan war. Achilles, weeping over Patroclus.
Gold glistened within refractions of glass chandeliers.
Staring straight up as you slowly ambled down the east wing hall, hem of your skirt rippling behind you, you could tell at which point there was an extension made to the wing, because the paintings went from depictions of gods and wars to women in gardens and wraiths of flowers.
The Prince loved women; you know that pretty well all-right, and so did everyone else. He’d had enough scandalous affairs to draft a million manuscripts worth.
And you would rather be damned than be the inspiration for his next book.
ㅤ⚜
Pale and puffy-eyed, the prince sniffled and rubbed his rosy face. He took dragging, slow steps, and let out a big yawn. He looked ridiculously cute when he yawned. You had to look away.
This is the state in which he came to you. Sloppily dressed, blinking blearily through eyes that looked like they were still sleeping.
He beheld you through his sleepy gaze. Instreaming rays of coldest purest morning sunlight lit you with a pale, but luminescent glow. Curiously, he fixed a perplexed face at you—but only for a brief moment.
Prince Satoru grumbled a small, oddly adorable grumble.
“Good morning, Prince Satoru.” you greeted with a professional lilt.
He blinked at you as you made a lingering curtsy at him.
Warmth filled his chest.
“Mm, g’mornin’.” he returned, voice reverberatingly deep and raspy. “I’m sorry I’m late. I o-o-o—o”—he yawned big—“oooverslept.”
You quirked a brow at him.
What an odd thing... Prince Satoru, so-called most unapologetic man in all the land, apologizing for his own lateness?
It was such an odd thing that you couldn’t help but smile.
And that smile is what woke the prince right up.
Satoru straightened his back, as if he suddenly felt aware of his sloppy posture. He returned a weak smile to you.
Dust glittered in the beams of sunrays.
He opened the door to the study and welcomed you in.
“Mm. I hope you can keep up with me today, I’m feeling very inspired.” he teased.
“Nothing I can’t handle. I type uncommonly fast.”
He chuckled, the lilt of your voice pleasing his ears.
“So I’ve seen. Let’s begin, then, hm?”
ㅤ⚜
His cheeks quaked.
Softly, subtly, they quaked and they glowed. Red as a winter berry, warming like skin under summer sun, yet he was in the cool sanctuary of the study with you.
Always at the moment the door clicked closed behind you and him, he felt his heartbeat pick up.
I’m alone with you.
His whole body was aware of every move you made in the room. He tightened. He scratched at his neck. He cleared his throat. And then all at once, it’s affection stifling his senses, it’s his feelings rising from slumber, overwhelming him like the scent of too many different flowers in bloom.
You were readying yourself. He was watching, adoringly.
Slowly, you prepared in the same fashion as you’d always prepared. Unglove, unpack, and begin to heave your heavy typewriter all by yourself—releasing the little grunt that pulled at his heart strings a little harder than usual.
You hauled the device onto the little table by the window-side, delicately setting it down.
Suddenly, from behind you, there sounded a soft hiss of chair legs sliding across wood.
You started a little, finding that Prince Satoru was right behind you.
He’d pulled out your chair.
Blue eyes caught yours. His looked tired, eyebags clearly carved out. Inky-blue irises full of midnight scribblings.
The Prince was close enough for you to not only see into the depths of his eyes, but to smell his slight scent. Soft. Linen. Sweetish, like stamped flowers in an old book.
“Please,” called his cool voice, “Be seated.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
You politely took your seat and felt your heart beating rather hard.
He swiftly and slowly pushed the chair inwards.
Two hands lingered at the gilded top rail.
He lingeredon you. Perhaps for a moment too long to still retain properness.
Then, he moved on like he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary at all. How curious.
Satoru shuffled through his papers, sniffling and coughing. You noticed blue ink stains along the edge of his hand.
“I was writing last night.” he sniffled, “Felt rather restless.” he glanced up at you when he said this, as if expecting a look of concern from you. He felt a small disappointment when you failed to meet his gaze—too busy smoothing out the pleats of your skirt and readjusting your seat a thousand times.
After a while of shuffling, he organized a small stack of freshly drafted papers.
“I thought up a rather cruel idea—which, you may not like—for my story. But I’m bored, and I think I ought to subject my characters to a little more torture. They’ve been having it far too easy. Oops—”
He dropped a few papers and clumsily dangled over the floor to pick them back up.
“What kind of torture?” you asked.
“The fun kind.”
You observed him as he gathered his things.
“Right.” he huffed, as if he’d expended much energy, and got to his feet.
Prince Satoru caught your eyes once more.
He stood there, arrested and unmoving for a moment, seemingly stricken by something in your appearance.
You didn’t understand why he seemed so especially distracted today.
He stared at you for a long, long moment.
Then he shook his head.
“Maybe I’m going mad...” he muttered to himself.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s begin.”
“Right.” you smiled. “Let’s torture your poor characters.”
He chuckled again, cuter this time, mannerisms mildly disturbed as he took his seat.
How peculiar.
He chose to sit opposite you.
He’s never done that before.
You have to understand; it’s a small table.
This was close.
Very close.
Almost improperly close.
Your ankles met by accident under the table. He blushed and nervously apologized—but was he really sorry? Hardly.
The contact must have stirred him greatly, because afterwards he kept picking uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt, like he was hot and bothered.
He sat rigidly upright. You cleared your throat. The bright sun blinded his profile a little, making him blink.
Satoru did not meet your eyes for a long time. He pretended to be heavily occupied with his manuscripts, but really he had already ordered the papers and knew where to begin.
He leafed through the pages until the awkwardness of the moment calmed down.
“Ahem.”
“Yes?”
“Sorry. Just clearing my throat.”
His ankle kicked yours again. By ‘mistake’.
“—ah.”
“Sorry! I’m clumsy today.” he muttered, trying not to smirk.
He didn’t move for a moment. All was still in the dusty study room. You gave the sly prince a look, and it seemed that this diffused his third attempt of ‘accidentally’ kicking ankles with you under the table.
“Shall we...?” you said drily.
“R-right.” he nodded. He seemed overly happy—elated, even.
ㅤ⚜
Snowy tufts of hair grew wilder, and wilder, as pale hands tugged on them. It was as if the prince was trying to yank ideas out of his hair.
But it was for naught; he could hardly think straight today.
And who might have been the culprit for his cloudiness?
You. Of course it’s you.
Poised and pretty upon the typewriter, waiting without glancing once or peeping a word when his speeches abruptly stopped. He loved it. He loved how you continued writing exactly when he continued speaking, there was just something special about the way the sound of the keys paired with his voice. Like a memory he’d remember forever into old age.
Ding—!
His thoughts popped.
Taktaktaktaktaktaktaktak...
Ding—!
His thoughts popped again.
Tikka-takkatak, taktaktak...
It was no use; that sound was Pavloving him.
Each time the typewriter dinged, his heart would pop.
Oh god, you’re beautiful.
The gleaming light hitting your face just right. The roses outside, growing envious of you. The way you sat so upright, in comparison to his lazy slouch.
“Prince?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve gone quiet again.”
“Oh. Where were we?”
“... chandeliers seeming to spin a little, they twirled down gleaming chambers, completely love-drunk...”
“Right...”
His mouth was open, as if to continue, but he didn’t.
ㅤ⚜
The hour turned, and Satoru had run dry of words.
Like a bored child, he twirled and messed about the study, pulling books in and out of the shelves, humming to himself, until finally he wound up laying sloppily upon the recamier, clinging to the gilded edge.
He closed his mouth, looking adorably toad-like in appearance, and stared at you.
Blue eyes swirled in contemplation, like he was a great physicist on the brink of solving a century-old hypothesis.
Your neck, your cheeks, your ear, isn’t it all familiar?
Your throat constricted, chest tremored. He’d been silent for a while now. You’d grown anxious to continue writing.
“My prince?”
Pop—!
Your voice startled him.
“Sorry.” he muttered croakily, before slipping beneath the recamier’s edge.
Again with the sorry?—what on earth had possessed the prince to become so... small? Usually, the space his presence took up was big. He would be bounding with energy, bursting with jokes...
Now he was cowering behind the recamier, shivering at the revelation slowly unravelling in the back of his mind.
Is it you?
Blue eyes took one more glimpse of you over the gilded edge, before disappearing with a glint.
Ah, couldn’t be.
ㅤ⚜
A robin shivered in the stone basin, flicking its head about. Little roses, reds and pinks and whites, held royal court in the palace gardens. White shied away from pink, red dissuaded the two hearts.
And then the bird fluttered high up looking for a better place to spy.
The roses, too, ceased court, just to listen a little more closely.
Everything in the garden stilled,
“and then it struck him like a sword to the gut. Her words.” he spoke, then stopped.
You hammered quickly at the keys of the typewriter, keeping up with his words. He admired you in all your beautiful oblivion—marvelled at you with soft eyes.
“Prince Satoru, you’re wrong.” you noted.
His heart froze.
“Am I?” he blinked at you, blue eyes scared enough to break, “Whatever am I wrong about?” he asked, voice lowering into a frail and sensitive murmur.
“Your sentence, sir. It’s a dependent clause; her words.”
His shoulders shifted down as he relaxed again.
He listened to you, “... it’s quite an eyesore in the middle of the paragraph. Shall I correct it?”
The prince huffed, amused, and then surrendered to the idea that maybe you were right—maybe he did make a mistake.
Was that all you focused on?—the correctness of his writing? What about the content? The blazing brilliant emotions he conveyed, were they just a string of words to you?
Oh, never mind, never mind.
“Alright then, correct me. I guess.” he said, a bit snootily.
Satoru’s blue eyes kept active on you; your hands, your delicate wrists, as you lifted the metal lever of the typewriter and carefully removed the finished page, scratching the mistakes and inking the corrections.
Satoru nibbled his bottom lip. His hands refused to remain still at all—the pillow a victim to his excessive fidgeting.
Something had been eating at him since he saw you in the glowing corridors this morning, but he could hardly bring himself to understand what it was.
At last, he broke his gaze from you, and paid glance to the roses.
The roses, presiding over royal court in he plump bushes just beyond the edge of the window.
When you fed a new paper into the typewriter, Satoru shuffled through his manuscripts and told you he was changing chapters.
“... second chapter... character A sought the consolation of the gardens yet felt his quaking soul was far from soothed. He draped over the... he... uhh... uhh... did I really write this? This is terrible. Where’s the rest...? oh, seems I left that thought unfinished.” he grumbled to himself.
Satoru yanked frustratedly at tufts of his unruly white hair, until it was a mess. You had to hold back from snickering. He looked ridiculous.
The prince’s attention flitted between his manuscripts and the roses. He kept stuttering, unsure how to continue writing.
“Uhh... uhh...”
He stared at the roses, as if trying to milk his next sentence from their sweetly wrapped buds.
But the roses weren’t very inspiring.
So once more, he turned his gaze, to you.
Sat in wait at the typewriter, you inhaled a few sleepy breaths and released them with that tell-tale sign. He recognized that sigh; you did it when you were tired, when you needed a break from writing.
He could never admit it, but he felt your soul with clarity.
He always felt it. Lingering, sometimes fluttering when you laughed.
It was like he’d known you.
Like he’d known you for much, much longer than what was true.
Suddenly, a heat struck his chest—and just like that, he prince’s soul was thrown into a tumult once again.
What is it? What am I missing?
Frantic thoughts surged through Satoru’s mind.
You had no clue of the prince’s state. You only continued writing whatever he spoke, as disjointed as his speech was. Clacking away at your typewriter, you were completely oblivious to the prince’s frantic gaze, writing with a focus that not even a crack of lightning could disturb.
“He was suffering,” cracked his voice, as he spoke unsurely, like the sentence had not fully formed in his mind, “suffering... skin... running hot... like a fever... the crimson court of roses... was pitying him... as he wept over stone... alone, alone... in the garden... aching, desperate, to fathom... what is it... what is it...”
The prince stared at you. Gaze of a million years glimpsing in just that second, eureka slowly unravelled in those genius blues.
“And then he rose, and he thought to himself; my darling rose, it’s you isn’t it?” his breath shivered.
A smile crept across his lips. “My, am I quite the foolish one.”
You kept on typing, diligently listening for any further mistakes.
“...character A could not make sense of it all; why did she seem more familiar today than yesterday?—maybe his eyes were deceiving him, after all, sometimes they overlooked the most obvious of things.”
“My prince, that doesn’t make any sense...” you stopped him again, much more abruptly this time.
“What this time?” he smiled, voice lilted.
“Your statement is contradictory; in the prior chapter, you detailed that character A’s eyes could unveil even the most secret of secrets.” you pointed out, hands posing at the typewriter’s edge. “But now you’re saying that sometimes he overlooks the most obvious of things? It doesn’t make sense. This is a complete mischaracterization.”
He blinked at you.
For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard a single word you said, for he sat there rigidly and only blinked slowly a few times at you, without reply.
To press a response out of him, you continued.
“Furthermore, what you have written last night, if I may be so bold as to criticize, has many errors...”
“What!” he cried at last, “My sweet rose, what have I done wrong?”
“You’ve overused the comma.” you pointed out, completely missing his affection.
“It gives me a certain style.”
“It does not; this is comma abuse.”
“Bleh!” he flopped over.
“These imperfections are flawing your writing.”
“Blehhh! Come on now, beauty stems from imperfection.”
“Does it?”
“Yes!” he cried emphatically, erecting his body now and tossing to his feet.
“Yes, it does. See, I’m going to pioneer a new style; it’ll be free of any grammatical or syntactical inhibitions and be beautiful because of its imperfections. And then I’ll be rewarded for my brilliance—the handsome prince who writes handsome romances in his handsome palace, with his handsome little writer.”
You chuckled, he thought bashfully, your hands shifting at the typewriter’s edge.
“I’m not handsome,” you began.
“Right, you’re not handsome. You’re beautiful.” he said.
You stiffened at this, visibly blushing.
He seemed satisfied with getting this response out of you—that he could fluster you. It made him feel much too confident.
“... and many beautiful women, including yourself, will adore my writing.” he blurted, proudly.
You soured, the glow on your face fading.
“... I’m no admirer of pretentious poets...”
“What was that?”
“A slip of the tongue.”
“A slip of the tongue...” he repeated, eyes narrowing at you. “And here I thought you liked my book. But as it turns out ladies are liars indeed.”
Suddenly, you burst at him. Cold, restrained, cutting right through him—it felt good.
“I don’t lie. I’m honest. More honest than most poets in this age!”
Oh my god, your anger was beautiful—is that even possible?
He became defensive, deeply narrowing his blues at you, but he also nibbled his bottom lip like he was chewing on the ecstasy that is being yelled at by a woman.
Satoru’s heart began to beat harder. The tension was rising. He rushed with the need to throw his arms about you and kiss you. Hot with desire, mad with love—
“—and I never said I liked your book.”
And then it all came crashing down.
He wilted over the recamier.
“You don’t?” his voice came out weak, like a sad little boy’s.
You stuttered and ceased. “Uh.”
He blinked rapidly at you, entire presence shrinking a little.
Slowly, his eyes softened with a dull anger.
Then, he scoffed and cocked his head away from you.
“So that’s how it is...”
He sunk beneath the horizon of the gilded edge of the recamier, disappearing from sight.
The air stiffened in the study, stagnancy of your argument suffocating out any prior undertones of affection he was emanating.
That was all dead now.
The prince was upset. You were guilty.
You bit your lip when the urge to apologize arose. He was rude, why should you? Even if you did sort of insult him. After all, he started it, didn’t he? The fool—this was his fault.
You’d long stopped typing by then, air now devoid of the comforting taktaktak-ing sound, wrists resting heavy at the edges, skin marked by the metal keys denting into it.
A long silence stilled the atmosphere, one that seemingly had no end to it, one that felt like it petrified you with small agonies.
You looked out the window.
Clouds gathered in the far distance, swelling with the promise of heavy rain.
Satoru, overwhelmed with emotion, decayed into the plush pillow, face trembling with the promise of heavy tears.
And his pathetic little heart continued beating... thuk thuk thuk thuk.
ㅤ⚜
The hour turned.
Its peak reached, now the sun began its slow descent down the sky.
And it sank, and it sank, and it sank...
Yet the two of you spoke not a word.
Clouds pinkened, nearly matching the shade of the rosebush which you melancholically admired. The flowers were drooping at you, as if asking what was wrong.
Something shifted. Fabric ruffled. A little sigh was sighed.
“I can’t think of anything more to write.” a frog croaked—oh, sorry, it was the prince.
You felt bad, turning your fingers over in your lap anxiously.
“Would a change of scenery help?” you suggested carefully.
A curious head of white hair peaked slowly from behind the recamier’s edge.
Blue eyes found you. That, plus the pearlescent wisps of hair, and upwardly arched brows, were all you could see of the sad prince.
“I—I mean to ask,” you choked, embarrassed, “if you, er, might take a turn about the garden with me? It might refresh you.”
His eyes widened, gleaming curiously.
A turn about the garden... with you? Together?
His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed.
Then, the prince finally revealed himself, pulling himself upright, eyes stilled on you.
“I suppose it would be a shame not to enjoy the garden at its golden best.” he muttered.
The Prince fixed his gaze on you.
The way the golden light made you glow, like an angel, and your pose—in profile, contrasted to the flush reds and pinks and pure whites of roses, head slightly inclined in an introspective pose...
Satoru’s brows lifted to their highest point. His mouth, it dangled open.
Ah, eureka.
ㅤ⚜
Guided by the prince, you wove through the palace gardens in utter silence.
Exotic fruit trees were planted in neat rows, their leaves rustling gently in the evening stir. A butterfly fluttered about, looking to slurp sweet nectar from the flowering trees.
Cool at your skin, this breeze tickled the back of your neck—but something else, too.
This feeling, it rose up our spine, like a secret message, further and further along, until it made you tingle all over.
You bristled.
The butterfly continued its desperate search for something sweet, fluttering on in search for the sweetest of flowers.
The prince’s head of white hair seemed so dull in this paling light, hardly as moonbeam shiny as it usually appears in bright light.
He turned a blind corner, for a moment disappearing into nothingness, until you caught up. Every turn into the hedge-walled part of the gardens now felt like it was leading you deeper into a secluded intimacy with the prince, one you couldn’t escape.
He walked deliberately slowly, waiting for you every step of the way.
Pink clouds were slowly being encroached by a brooding grey, as rain crept across the countryside plains.
Your eyes kept at his back, admiring him. His slender-fit physique. His shoulders tapering off so sharply. The back of his neck, somehow inspiring the strangest ideas in your mind. The unruliness of his hair—it looked so soft, it must have been even softer to the touch.
His back was straight as he continued to walk ahead of you, not once looking behind him.
Guilt deepened in your stomach.
He felt your presence all over his back, felt heat at his cheeks blooming softly, hotly.
There came a stillness in the gardens, not a single leaf seemed to shift or shudder for a moment.
You could sense the prince’s sadness. It seemed the gardens could not bring much consolation to his hurt little soul, so you decided to take initiative.
The butterfly that had been searching for nectar seemed on the brink of giving up its search.
The silence was waiting for a voice to puncture it.
And then you did the honours.
“My uncle used to preserve insects; he had a large collection of butterflies.” you began, and immediately the break of silence earned a head turn from the prince, clocking left to listen, “One day, I snuck into his study and found that he’d caught a butterfly. It was fluttering frantically in the glass, desperate, almost calling out to me. I couldn’t bear to see such a beautiful, innocent creature trapped. So, I stole it, crept out to the gardens while everyone was laughing in the living room, and released it back into its home. Though, I wasn’t all too sneaky—I’ve always been a terrible liar—my sister found out and then told my uncle. I got a small scolding, but it was all worth it. I will always remember the sweet joy I felt when I saw that butterfly happily fluttering free.”
The prince was silently listening to your story as he led you further down the garden paths, nearing the conservatory now; a glass sanctuary so large that it was visible even from this considerable distance. Much, much prouder and larger than yours, which in comparison was a modestly small plant room adjacent to the living room. His was a plant sanctuary.
Even in the dim light, from this awkward angle, you could see a faint smile appearing on the Prince’s face.
He blinked softly for a few moments, seemingly absorbing and contemplating what you’d shared, before he finally made up a response.
When he responded, he turned his face away from you.
“Well aren’t you just sweet as jam...” he murmured, voice perking your undivided interest—it was intimate, almost sultry.
Heat spread across the tops of your cheeks, rippled down the back of your neck, bloomed at your chest, at hearing his all too flirty compliment.
Not a trace of sadness lingered at the prince’s sharp shoulders. He seemed decidedly composed now, like he had come to a conclusion on something very secret in his heart—but what? What could it be? Why was he so decidedly secretive about his glances now?
It was rather unlike the prince... usually he gave his eyes proudly to you, but now he was careful about placing them on you.
ㅤ⚜
The two of you arrived at the conservatory, feet coming to a standstill.
The clouds purpled, grey encroaching from the distance, and the sun burned its goodbye slowly, as if letting the two of you bathe in its romantic warmth for just a little longer.
The prince’s eyes were on you.
Discretely, and yet you felt it. Certainly anyone who was less perceptible than you to gazing eyes would not have noticed at all.
The hem of our dress rippled in the small breeze.
“You once mentioned that you have a conservatory,” his cool voice broke the silence once more, “what kinds of flowers do you grow?”
“Many.” you replied self-consciously.
“As many as I have here?”
“No.” you blushed. “Not even half.”
“The plants here are preened and plucked every day,”
“Wonderful.” you croaked again.
“Let me show you.” he invited you in.
ㅤ⚜
He beheld you in your entirety; soul to ribbon.
And that ribbon, how it rested at the base of your how it fluttered in the cool evening stir, is what drove him to madness.
He kept to himself, but you could feel the quiver of his need in the air—a want to be close, a want so strong that it made the atoms in the air vibrate just a little more frantically.
The prince brought you to a vividly pink, plump flower bush. Like a troupe of ballerinas.
“Do you know what this is?” he quizzed.
“The fuchsia?” you answered.
“Clever girl.”
“I prefer lethally intelligent woman.”
“Lethal?—well, you do kill me.” he teased.
You couldn’t help but chuckle, even though it irked you to see the man triumph in earning a laugh from your sweet, sweet lips.
A moment passed.
He bent low down and plucked a single fuchsia from its bush of pink sisters, then drew close to you—close, close, much too close to be polite at this point.
Pinching the flower at its stem with his thumb and index finger, Satoru began, “They attract butterflies,” he explained, “and my favourite part about them... is that they’re like little ballerinas. Observe.”
You observed.
Prince Satoru began rubbing his finger pads together, the flower twirled, and then it began. Act I: Dance of the Fuchsia...
Stamens dangling long and graceful as a dancer’s legs, petals like a pink tutu, as vivid rouge.
You smiled.
“It really does look like it’s dancing.”
The prince continued to spin the flower in pirouettes, relishing in how it humoured you.
Then, he stopped, paused delicately, and offered you the flower.
“Keep her safe.”
“Of course, my prince.”
You accepted the flower as he placed it into your opening palm.
Slightly.
So slightly, you made contact. Rouge fingertips. Ticklish, airy. His breath slipped.
He lingered on you, breathtaken. Big blue eyes ran through every detail of your face, matching it to hers, feature for feature.
Eureka, eureka. It is you, I know it’s you. It has to be.
Suddenly, the prince pulled back. His heart, it began beating rapidly. Sweat prickled under the collar of his shirt. Hair on the back of his neck bristled.
You looked at him, beholding his slightly bewildered state with a distant worry—he only bore that maddened expression when he was struck by divine poetic inspiration.
It seemed he might say a verse or two, but then he rather surprised you by instead asking in an impatient voice.
“Come with me.”
ㅤ⚜
Cold, wet, erratic; the first break of raindrops pelted the tops of your heads and the prince, in a swift and thoughtless gesture, ripped open his waistcoat and used it to shield you while he took the brunt of the rain.
Quickly, the thin cotton of his shirt soaked through—yes, god, you swore you tried not to steal a glance or two of him at your side, but it was nearly impossible; the way the fabric clung wetly to his form, carving out every shape, both soft and hard, of the male physique which you were certainly not well-acquainted with.
Since the prince loved to boast about, well, nearly every single aspect of himself—how pretty his eyes were, how fair and clear his skin was, how heavenly his white hair was—you thought he would acknowledge your blatant side-eyeing of him, and tease you for relishing in his good looks.
But he did not tease you. In fact, you’re sure he didn’t even notice, because he was so determined to usher you inside, to make sure that his waistcoat shielded you from the cold rain.
For perhaps the first time in your recollection, the prince was oblivious to his own ego.
He seemed perplexed, preoccupied, even though he was presently guiding you through the palace corridors.
Down the royal halls you went, urgently swept along by the prince.
Gleaming carved golds, a thundering of rain against tall windows left the crystal chandeliers to shudder. You could hear it; the glass subtly shaking above with each rumble from the heavens.
He must be eager to return to the study, you thought.
Yes, that must be it. The prince must have been bursting with poetry, and that’s why he was racing down the glistening halls with such haste.
But then, most peculiarly, he strode right past the door to the study.
Confused, you trotted after the prince, curiosity blazing now—if it was not poetry, then what was it?
Long, black-clad legs strode ahead. A head of white hair flicked to the side as if to make sure you were following behind him. You completely ignored the brilliant sculptures lining the halls, eyes fixed on his back.
Cotton clung to skin. White hair was flattened by rain.
And then at last, he halted and you, you came to stumbling stop behind him.
ㅤ⚜
There, in the hall, you stood with him in front of a painting.
It was hung in an ornate baroque frame, and, peculiarly, was the only piece of art in this lonely, gleaming corridor.
The portrait of a young woman in profile, her head slightly inclined in the introspective pose, clad in a robe en chemise.
It was hard to make out her features, almost as if the muse herself did not want to be painted. Almost the entire right-hand side of her face was concealed; she was just a slither of nose and lip and cheek captured with imprecise, sloppy brushstrokes.
The column of her neck looked like it had ghosts of kiss marks along it. But perhaps that was just a trick of the light.
Your heart began pounding.
The prince looked between you and the woman in the portrait.
It was all familiar.
Yes, oh god, it was all too painfully familiar. You could feel the memory creeping over your back.
The muslin kissing your skin, the pungent oil paint permeating the air of that small artist’s studio, the aching silence, the half-finished portraits discarded in a fit of perfectionism, the dull pain in your tailbone and spine from sitting for so long, the artist’s affection suffocating you, black hair running down his back like ink. An impertinent confession. A crude kiss stolen from pure lips. A portrait ruined by soft hands. The artist, distraught. His muse, spurning his advances.
It was the last portrait ever painted of you, the only one that preserved your coming of age. The rest meant nothing, the rest were merely childhood portraits, none that revealed the true character of your face.
It’s a memory you’ve smothered.
But now, the prince brought you right back to it.
He’d been silent beside you, watching your expression freeze with horror in your eyes.
Then, at last, he punctured the silence.
“I sought many women in my life,” he began, “And tried and tried to match them to the one you see in this painting, but none matched. Princesses from faraway lands have come here upon my request, spent evenings twirling with me through ballrooms, only to be brought here as their last judgement... and every last one of them, I turned away.”
You listened to him, blinking at the portrait.
“I thought I was going mad, you know?” Satoru chuckled nervously, “H-here I wasted most of my youth trying to find the muse of a portrait long that my best friend has long forgotten painting by now—how I’ve hounded his memory all these years! But he told me he hardly remembers. Funny that, huh? An artist whose hand has impressed a thousand strokes of a face, yet cannot remember... strange, isn’t it?”
Your breathing struggled, ache now becoming more prominent in your chest.
“My prince...” your voice shook.
You were panicking inside. Heartstrings pulled on to sound off the bells, like a warning—he was feverishly looking at you, in that exact same way that that lustful artist had looked at you.
“I-I’ve been convinced that the woman in this portrait is the love of my life. Yes, I know—I’m a madman, aren’t I? But I can feel it in my heart.”
He continued,
“I thought my search was futile...”
Satoru’s eyes twinkled.
“But now I’ve found you.”
“My prince.” you said again, beginning to shake your head. “You’re mistaken.”
He tilted his head at you.
“Mistaken? I’ve stared at this portrait for hours, taken in every feature. You match it like no other.”
“The girl in this portrait,” you retaliated, “is not me. My portrait has never been painted.”
He looked like he’d begun to doubt himself.
Lashes shuddering, you began to back away.
Panic struck his chest, and without thinking, his hand shot out to grab your wrist.
“It must be you.”
“It’s not!”
You wrung yourself from his little grip. The brightness in the prince’s face disappeared. His brows twitched and his mouth hung open.
“Will you have the carriage readied for me? I-I have to go home. It’s getting late. My prince, I’m sorry.”
He looked at you incredulously, as if now doubting himself. Was he mad? Had he stared too long at the painting, grasped at any small semblance you bore to it?
“Er, of course.” he muttered, “I’ll have the carriage for you.”
He looked at you, long and hard, with a waning sureness, but above all, a disbelief.
ㅤ⚜
The pale-faced prince watched as the carriage took you away. He stood, clothes soaked through and hair flattened, until the rain had long subsided, until his blouse had dried, until the night had deepened into a Prussian blue.
“You are a terrible liar, my sweet rose.” he muttered sadly to himself, before letting out a sigh and returning, again, to that corridor.
He stared, for a long time, at the portrait.
His eyes sharpened. He analysed every brush stroke, ghosted his fingertips across, In fact, his whole soul knew.
He heaved a great sigh and locked himself in his study.
Crumbled over the desk, he sat in misery. His head turned to the left, eyes falling on the silver-gleam of your typewriter, which you’d left behind. It sat silently, glinting in the dimming light.
“A terrible, terrible liar.”
ㅤ⚜
Cypress trees & nutty earth and brooding skies breaking clear blue in the distance. Swaying to and fro, the carriage ride home felt more turbulent than usual. Or perhaps you were just experiencing heightened sensitivity.
It was all so overwhelming. You lied, when you’ve never lied before. You rejected a man, and brutally so—left him there in the melancholy of gleaming gold corridors, heart hardly pumping hard enough to sustain himself.
Was it a mistake? But these were your principles, why would you think it a mistake to live through them? After the incident in the art studio, you’d bound yourself to a new policy; that you’d never let a callous and love-wild man think it his destiny to have your heart. You were preserving yourself like a rose in a glass casing, protecting yourself from ruining hands.
The carriage made its way through the city centre, gleaming lamplights
The carriage swayed less and less as it slowed, rounding the bend bordered by thick bush thickets. o a rolling halt outside your home in the east end.
You felt sensitive to everything, a shiver rippled at the nape of your neck, body growing more and more uneasy as you ruminated.
ㅤ⚜
With a rickety squeak of the carriage’s step under your shoe, and a head drooped forward, you descended from the carriage. You’d thanked the coachman, and for a while stood quietly outside the gates of your home in the black of night, not thinking a single thought nor feeling a single feeling. It was almost like a numbness had overtaken your mind, the shock of being recognized in a portrait you had thought never survived. Tree branches obscured the moon, but through them it still glowed down at you, satiny light cast over your tired face, as if to ask what was the matter. You couldn’t tell it to anyone else but the silver mother in the sky, nobody would listen and even if they did, they wouldn’t understand the complexity of your feelings—no, they’d just laughingly deride you.
But not the moon.
The moon listened, the moon understood.
And after your confession to her, you swept your skirt and scurried off into your home.
The instant the front door closed behind you, it was like entering another world. It was warm, there was an uproar of voices, a happy shouting, and then suddenly you saw your sister appear at the archway.
“You haven’t grown at all.”
“And you’ve grown like a weed.”
She smiled. You smiled, but waveringly.
“I missed you.”
Without reply, you tottered over and put your head to her shoulder for a hug.
She wrapped her arms around you, squeezing you with all the tender love of her soul, cheek nuzzling affectionately atop your head.
“So, how was New York?” you asked.
“Invigorating.” she swooned, “Lots of handsome men, none more than the prince, though—you have a lot to tell me, don’t you?”—you groaned—"Tell me over dinner. But first, I have gifts.”
She was frantic, pulsing through her words with this unrestrained excitement all of a sudden. She swept you into the living room. Mother and father were discussing news in the kitchen, her sighing at his opinions and him grumbling under his breath.
Your sister began shoving gifts in your hand—a book on floriography, a small wooden keepsake box with intricate floral carvings, and confectionaries you’ve never heard of before.
“Fudge?”
“You have to try it.”
“Not before dinner! Kitchen, now, girls, come eat before it gets cold or I’ll eat the rest myself.”
Your father left the table by the time you and her sat down to eat, not because he was finished but because the instant you joined, mother began talking obsessively about the prince.
Though you tried to divert attention from the topic, your sister persisted. At last, you writhed free by bringing up her husband—a topic which she has no restraint in gushing over.
Your attention wandered away for the whole dinner; and who noticed if any but your sharp sister.
Immediately after dinner, she cornered you in the upstairs hallway, prodded with interrogations that made you stutter. Being persistent as she was, she didn’t give up until you gave her any slither of information—but even then, she crinkled her nose.
“You’re not letting on—what’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“You’re an awful liar, you are.” she pinched your cheek hard, “Tell me, or I’ll tell mother that you’re keeping secrets.”
You surrendered, chest collapsing with a defeated sigh.
How could you fight against that?—it’s the one trick she’s used since childhood to get something out of you, because she knew you’d much prefer confessing to having committed a crime to her than to mother.
“Alright, then. But later.”
ㅤ⚜
You bathed while she read, door ajar just enough to let through your echoing voice. A gold strip of light leaked in, your only light source as you sunk into the warm water.
“So, the prince is in love with you.”
“It’s horrid.” you groaned.
“Is that a smile in your voice I hear?”she teased, peeking into the bathroom.
A splash echoed off the tiles.
You’d slipped under the water, to hide you and your smile beneath.
Through the water, you could hear her; she honked with laughter. You could even hear her clapping, wickedly—because she loved figuring people out, and you were just about her favorite thief to catch red-handed.
And you, bubbling beneath the clear water, felt a throbbing deep inside your chest, one that you couldn’t quite figure out.
ㅤ⚜
Wet out the bath, enrobed in soft white nightgown, you sat at your vanity and cared for your hair, slowly and meticulously brushing it. Your sister spilled lazily over a heap of pillows, and like spinning thread out of a spool she tried to get every last bit of information out of you, right down to the details of how what you and the prince were up to today.
“... then he invited me into the conservatory... and then he showed me the fuchsias... and then...”
“And then?”
You continued combing your fingers through your wet hair. Breath jagged, heart tossing itself off cliff peaks, palpitating so hard that you felt paranoid that your sister could hear it. Was your heartbeat so strong that she could feel it?
You took a glance at her reflection in the mirror, and saw that she was not looking at you at all. She was gazing at the moon, upside-down from the edge of your bed, knocking her knees.
A lie slipped smoothly through your lips.
“And then he called for the carriage and I said my goodbye.”
She stopped knocking her knees. She looked at you from between her own legs, like some kind of seriously perplexed toad.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
She stared at you for a long, winding moment. Her mouth was open. One eye squinted at you.
You swallowed. Your chest was tight, toes curled in, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. And with the way your throat constricted, you could hardly utter your next lie.
“I didn’t want to... seem too eager.”
At once, your sister’s expression cleared and she fell back to resume her gazing at the moon, seemingly unsuspicious of how tight your voice sounded.
“Oh.”
You stopped fussing with your hair and let your gaze fall. Guilt pooled in the pit of your stomach. You hated lying, but this was necessary; this was your secret. You deserved to keep one.
Somehow you managed to conceal your guilt-stricken face from your sister.
After a small bout of contemplative silence, she suddenly leaped off the bed and began talking very animatedly. You played into her excitement.
Her eyes glittered at you, cheeks plump and rosy, as she caught your shoulders.
“This is good. My sister is a clever girl after all.” she commended, “Leading him on will make him want you even more.”
“That’s not what I meant to do at all!” you grumbled, disgruntled with her.
But your sister was so sure of your actions, no explanation could diffuse the truth she decided to believe—that her sister was putting the sweet pressure of suspense on the love story between her and the handsome prince.
You had to fight hard to defend yourself against her projections, raising your voice much louder than you’d like.
“I’m not in love with him! Infatuation, yes, maybe I’m insane enough to say that I like him, but my god I’m in no state of love! “
“You’re smitten.” she teased in a sneering voice.
“I barely know him—”
“—and I barely knew my husband. Three days! And then he asked father for my hand. Now that is a true man.”
“Now that is a true fool. Love doesn’t happen in three days; he was just another example of a man being impatient to claim a woman.”
You hurt her, clearly, because her upper lip stiffened at this.
“Do you realize,” she began, “what good would come from marrying him?”
“Nothing!” you cried, nearly bringing yourself to tears. “He’d never love me how I want to be loved! He’d love me like a portrait of a woman, not flesh and bone.”
“You think too selfishly!” she quavered, “If you married, mama and papa could retire and enjoy gardens and grandchildren instead of paperwork and dishes.”
“I only want to marry for love.” you asserted.
“And this is the same girl who has sent me long letters expressing her hatred for poets, who complains that everyone is much too invested in love?”
You stuttered.
“You’re a hypocrite.”
And now, you fell silent. Completely still and completely silent.
Your sister stared at you with a look of deepest disappointment at you for a little longer, then raised herself from the edge of the bed, dismissed herself with a curt goodnight, and left you alone to rot with your little hypocritical feelings all alone.
ㅤ⚜
Humming in your mind forbade you from sleeping. And so, with the floriography book tucked against your bosom, you quietly went down to the conservatory, adjacent to the living room.
There, you dwelled in the earthy air. The safety of this company of flowers and plants quietened the hum. Flowers understood you better than words sometimes, so your sister knew well to gift you this book.
It was a thin, tiny book—just half an inch thick and only a little larger than your whole hand. The kind of thin, tiny book that was more special than the rest in a bookshelf. Embossed, its gilded edges glinting in the pale moonlight.
You searched the pages.
Touch me not—balsam, red
Refusal—carnation, striped
You were already assembling the bouquet in your mind, envisioning its delivery, and the prince’s reaction...
and yet... you flipped to another page and ran your eyes down the alphabetical list.
Love—rose
Your eyes lingered.
To all the intricacies of your feelings, you hardly knew a thing, only that they were there, throbbing, deep within your chest, and that they concerned the prince and nothing but. The roses whispered amongst themselves.
After all you’ve said, after all your loud rejections to romance, deep down you were still that lonely little girl, the one who used to read mountainous piles of romance books with the belief that, one day, you too would be so lucky to live such a brilliant love story.
But he was just another lying poet, was he not?
Evil and pretentious, sitting atop reams of typewritten pages like a throne, pretending to understand the hearts of women when really he knew nothing of their sensitivity. All he was doing was what poets always do; delivering us to disillusionment and heartbreak. No love story could ever be as perfect as the one he’s writing—love just didn’t happen like it did in books. It was all a lie.
You despised his pretentiousness.
And yet... after all this time you’ve spent rewriting his manuscripts, you felt a slither of his real, raw feelings underlining all that verbiage.
A sigh befell your downturned mouth.
What a hypocrite I am...
... and what a fool you are.
ㅤ⚜
Swell of crickets, in the garden, night full and moon half empty, he frowned.
The prince draped himself over the edge of the fountain and stared into the inky black water, emotions at bay behind his quivering blue gaze. The crimson course of roses pitied his sorry state, as he wept over stone, alone, in the garden.
All he could think of was that moment—so sloppy, so mislead, so unfinished; like his novels up until now.
It was horrid, horrid to him how life doesn’t flow as poetically and precisely as it does in books.
Perhaps that’s why he has spent too much time in them.
Because they were chronological, very logical, and conveyed the illogical heart so profoundly.
Not like whatever the heck that was earlier... that... inkstain in this chapter.
It wasn’t supposed to go like that, he gritted to himself. He’d plotted something entirely different—something far more eloquent, something perfectly romantic.
You, exclaiming at his revelation of the painting, tossing your arms about him and crying “oh, oh!” at his cheek while you softly weep, warmth of your embrace seeping into his cheeks, “how did you know, how could you possibly know that is was me?” to which he replies...
... no, no, not like that, that doesn’t sound right. More like, the handsome prince was rejected, yes indeed, but braving his feelings he sought after the fleeing little woman, crying out for her not to go just yet, to understand him...
... but then how to continue this? It’s useless, it’s futile...
“Words are just no good.” muttered Satoru to himself, pouting.
He continued wilting over the fountain, swirling his fingertips across the glossy surface of water, perturbing the medium with ripples and ripples...
until suddenly, he plunged his hand into the cold water.
He let himself feel the consolation of its cold embrace for a few moments, furthering his hand until the water met level with his wrist, before releasing a hiss through his teeth and withdrawing his hand completely.
Then, he brought his wet palm to his cheek.
It was like ice to fire. He’d burned up at the thought of you throwing your arms about his neck, cheeks crisp with heat from just a few murmuring visions of you.
Your pretty, pretty face.
Not a chance that he was wrong, right?
No, no. He’d stared for hours at that portrait—not a damn chance his eyes deceived him.
What did it all mean?
Were you simply overwhelmed to be confessed to by someone of his standing?—surely it was not his impertinence that stirred you wrong. He was so sure of his charm. After all, how many times had he twirled women in circles around a gleaming ballroom and won their hearts? Without fail, mind you.
They gave in.
They melted in his arms.
They were eager for his lips.
Yet what was this now?
Ahem, ahem... well it was just a blunder, of course.
His next move would ensure his checkmate.
ㅤauthor's note──── I must say I’m rather self-conscious about the length and quality of this chapter.
The first half is not as good as the latter half. It’s the first time I’ve undertaken a novel-length story, so weeding through it and cutting out the parts that are too wordy is really hard. I’m trying my best to improve my clarity and remove unnecessary verbiage. If there are still common errors or mistakes, I'll be embarrassed but I've read through it a few times so hopefully they are minimal if any.
At times I look back on my writing, and I can hate it so much that I want to destroy all of it. I can fully understand why writers back in the day used to want to burn their manuscripts. Sometimes you just feel dumb and like your writing’s very existence offends the world, so you need to destroy it.
Anyways, rant aside!
Yay! Second chapter, finally!—the third one to come might feel a little different, since my writing is developing a lot at the moment (or so I feel it is, maybe the change isn’t noticeable). I will try to keep it cohesive. Hopefully the prose will be consistent throughout each chapter hereon. I always tell myself to write quicker, because otherwise I lose sight of the vision for the story and this affects my prose, but I’m just a very slow writer.
Sorry for how long and tedious the first half is, but hopefully this chapter is enjoyable despite its mediocrity. As for the next one, I’m not sure how long it will take. Right now it’s very bare-bones, and I have to do a little more research before I can write it. Besides that, I have a lot of other stories (including non-fanfiction ones) which I’m working on sporadically.
Synopsis: You arrive in Japan with a soft heart and nothing to lose until the meanest, the most popular fuckboy in your class chooses you as a bet, smiling at you like it means something. While you fall for him counting the petals of the roses he gave you, he’s only counting days to get in your pants.
Tags: Angst, emotional manipulation, bet trope, power imbalance, fear of abandonment, slow burn, smut, college AU, soft reader, rich mean Gojo, lots of drama.
Preview
You arrive wrapped in soft colors. Pink hoodies, sleeves too long, hands hidden. Your smile is automatic, practiced, something you give away so people won’t ask questions you don’t know how to answer in a language that still feels borrowed.
Japan is beautiful. And it reminds you every day that you don’t belong to it. Finance classes are neat. Structured. Predictable.
People aren’t.
You sit alone because it’s safer. Because you’ve learned that attachment hurts more when you know you’ll have to leave again. Because your heart is too soft for goodbyes that never warn you before they happen. You don’t hear the whispers at first.
You don’t see the way eyes follow you down the hallway. You don’t know that your quiet has made you interesting. Or that interesting, to the wrong people, means target.
The bet doesn’t start with you. It starts at a party you’ll never attend.
Laughter. Alcohol. Ego.
“She won’t even last a week,” Toji says.
“She barely talks,” Sukuna laughs.
And then his voice cuts through them—lazy, confident, cruelly amused.
“Thirty days,” he says.
“Thirty days and she’ll be in love with me. Head over heels. Thinking about me when she wakes up”
A pause. A smirk you don’t see.
“And yeah—she won’t be walking away untouched, would practically be dying to have me bust in her”
They laugh because they know his reputation.
Because he’s never failed. Because girls are games and feelings are temporary for him.
Gojo Satoru doesn’t chase.
He collects.
You don’t know his name yet. You just know the feeling of being watched for the first time when he finally notices you.
You don’t know that your shyness feels like a challenge to him. That your politeness feels like permission.
That your softness is something he thinks he can bend. He doesn’t know how your chest tightens when voices rise.
Doesn’t know how deeply words sink into you. Doesn’t understand that you don’t fall easily—you fall completely.
He thinks this will be easy. That you’ll blush, giggle, unravel. That you’ll mistake attention for affection.
What he doesn’t realise is that the closer he gets, the harder it is to remember why this was supposed to be a joke.
Thirty days.
A bet built on arrogance.
A heart that already knows how to break quietly.
And a boy who has never learned what happens when the game stops being fun.
SYNOPSIS — five years into a once loving marriage, you're staring down divorce papers and months of no contact. the big house echoes with silence and loneliness is gnawing at you, until your best friend drags you out for drinks. a handsome younger stranger buys you another round... but when the night ends, your feet carry you straight to the door of your almost-ex-husband's new apartment.
CONTENTS — ceo!gojo x reader, heavy angst, divorce, cheating but like not rly, substance use, oral (m and f receiving), rough sex, squirting, creampie, slapping, breeding kink, struggles with infertility, miscommunication, family problems
WC — 12.2k (not proofread)
IVYAPS — this has gone through like a million different versions and i dont feel like reading it over so i hope this makes sense, based on this song
m. list
The whiskey coasts down your throat with a deliberate burn, mirroring the ache in your chest you’ve felt for god knows how long.
You set the glass down on the scarred wooden bar a little too hard. The clink is louder than you intended for it to be, even in a crowded room full of voices. The stranger to your left glances over. Not long enough for you to really notice.
Instead, you stare at the amber ring the glass left on the bar, watching it spread and fade like every promise you and him ever made. Five years. A house that still smells faintly of his cologne in the closets you haven’t had the heart to empty. Divorce papers that sit unsigned on the kitchen island because neither of you could stand to be the one to sign first.
Shoko’s on your right, already on her fourth or maybe fifth drink, you’ve lost count. She’s leaning into the bar, elbows planted.
“Hey,” she says softly, sliding her empty shot glass toward the bartender. “Another round. Same for her.”
You open your mouth to protest, but the words dissolve before they form. Instead, you just nod, letting the bartender pour another without you asking.
Shoko turns to you fully now, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Can you at least act like you’re having fun?”
You laugh. It comes out as a short, bitter sound that accompanies a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Kind of hard when I’m getting divorced.”
“Then drink.”
You take a slower sip this time, letting the burn linger on your tongue. The bar is alive around you, but you feel strangely detached from it all. Sort of like you’re watching yourself from across the room.
You can almost go back to that version of yourself—the one five years younger and newly married. You’re tipsy, your weight slumped against your husband's body, his arm around your waist. The pads of his fingers digging into the exposed flesh where your shirt rides up.
You can almost feel it.
Across the room, someone laughs. You can feel the ghost of his chest shift beneath your cheek, laughing at a joke one of your friends must have cracked. As Shoko places her shot glass back on the countertop, you realize there’s nothing, snapping back to reality.
That's not him and that’s not you.
Your eyes peel away from the couple you were watching, fixing back on what’s in front of you.
You down the rest of your drink.
You should leave. You should tell Shoko you’re going home, crawl into the too big bed that still feels like his, and wait for the ache to dull again tomorrow.
Before you can, Shoko mutters something about seeing a pretty girl and makes herself scarce.
The stranger to your left shifts again, closer this time.
You catch a glimpse of him in your peripheral vision. He has dark hair, a sharp jawline, and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal his forearms. Younger than you—maybe by nearly a decade. Handsome in the effortless way that makes your stomach twist and, funnily enough, the exact opposite of your husband—ex-husband.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just orders another drink of his own—something neat and expensive looking—and lets the silence sit between you.
You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze.
He smiles. “Rough night?”
You let out a laugh that’s half-sigh, half-exhale. “You could say that.”
He leans in a little closer, voice low enough that only you can hear it over the noise. “Want to tell me about it?”
He doesn’t push when you shake your head. He just nods once, like he expected that answer, and takes a slow sip of whatever liquid is in his glass. The ice clinks softly against the sides as he swirls the crystal cup before setting it back down on the plywood bar.
“Fair enough,” he says.
He turns his body toward you a little more, one elbow resting on the bar, the other hand loosely curled around his drink.
“I’m Hiromi,” he offers after a beat, large hand extended toward you.
Taking his hand, you give him your first name in return. He repeats it back once, letting it settle on his tongue like he’s tasting it. The sound of it in his mouth makes your pulse skip.
“Nice,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to your empty glass, then back up to your face. “You look like you could use another one. Or maybe you’re trying to slow down?”
There’s a teasing edge to it, it’s unmistakable. He’s flirting, but he does it without overwhelming you.
You shrug, glancing at the bar. “Maybe one more. Then I’ll decide.”
He signals the bartender without breaking eye contact with you. Two fingers lifted, casually and demanding. Another drink for you, same as before. When it arrives, he pushes it towards you with the back of his knuckles, letting his fingers brush yours for half a second longer than necessary.
You slip into conversation with him easily, and even though it’s been years since you’ve tried to impress a man, it doesn’t seem as scary as you thought it would be.
The banter feels effortless, dangerous in how easy it is. You’re not drunk, not yet anyway, but the alcohol is loosening the knot in your chest.
He asks small, safe things: your favorite drink (you tell him it’s whiskey, obviously), the worst bar you’ve ever been to (to which, he counters with a story about a dive in Shinjuku that still makes him shudder), whether you’re a city person or secretly dreaming of the suburbs (you dodge that one, and he lets you).
He laughs when you fire a dry question back at him—something about why a man in a perfectly tailored shirt is drinking alone on a Thursday night.
“Because the alternative was paperwork. And I’d rather talk to you.”
It’s blatant. It’s also working.
You’re mid-sentence—something sarcastic about his terrible excuses—when Shoko appears at your elbow, swaying slightly, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.
She drapes an arm around your shoulders, heavier than usual. “Heyyy,” she drawls, voice thick with liquor. “You good?”
You turn to look at her, slumped over where her weight dips at your side. “You’re the one who’s had half the bar.”
She snorts, then glances past you at Hiromi. Her brows lift. “Oh. Hi.”
Hiromi just tips his head in polite acknowledgement.
Shoko squeezes your shoulder once, hard. “Listen. I’m… I’m gonna head out. Cab’s already coming. You—” She points a wobbly finger at you, “—text me when you get home. Or don’t. Whatever. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You roll your eyes. “That list is terrifyingly short.”
“Exactly.” She grins, then leans in to whisper against your ear. “He’s hot for a guy... Don’t fuck it up.”
You shove her gently off you. “Go home, Shoko.”
She laughs, stumbles back a step, then blows you an exaggerated kiss. “Love you. Bye, mystery man.”
Hiromi raises his glass to her in farewell. “Night.”
She disappears into the crowd toward the exit, leaving you suddenly alone with him.
The noise of the bar rushes back in. Your fresh drink is still cold against your palm.
“So,” he says to break the ice that’s spread from the crystal atop the bar, eyes steady on you again. “Friend’s gone. No more safety net.”
You meet his gaze, your heart kicking hard against your ribs.
“Yeah,” you say. “No more safety net.”
He sets his glass down slowly.
“I apologize if I’m being too forward,” Hiromi says. There’s a new edge to it now. His thumb brushes the rim of his empty glass once, twice. “Do you want to get out of here?”
The question lands heavy in the space between you.
You feel the heat crawl up your neck. The bar noise fades and you know you should say no.
Instead your mouth moves before your brain catches up.
“…Yeah.”
The word feels foreign. You’re not even sure you mean it until it’s already out.
He just nods once and pulls out his phone. A few taps later, he pockets it again.
“Car’s three minutes out,” he says. “We can wait inside, or…”
You’re already sliding off the stool. “Outside.”
He follows without another word.
The night air hits you like a slap. The street is quieter here, just the low hum of distant traffic and the occasional burst of laughter spilling from the bar door behind you.
Hiromi steps close. He’s close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off him. You turn toward him without really deciding to, and then his hand is on your jaw—gentle at first, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth like he’s asking permission.
You don’t pull away.
He kisses you.
It’s rushed and hungry. Rough in a way that makes your knees lock. His mouth is hot, demanding, teeth catching your bottom lip just hard enough to sting. One hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it. The other finds your waist, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left for second thoughts.
It’s nothing like the way he used to kiss you.
Your husband—ex-husband, almost—kissed like he had all the time in the world. Slow. Like every brush of lips was something sacred he was afraid to break. Hiromi kisses like he’s trying to devour you. Like he wants to fill every empty thought inside you right now.
Your hands fist in the front of his shirt. You kiss him back just as hard. You’re desperate, angry at yourself for wanting it, for letting it feel good even for a second.
Headlights sweep across the street. A black car pulls up to the curb, engine purring.
Hiromi breaks the kiss first, breathing uneven against your mouth. His forehead rests against yours for half a heartbeat.
“Ready?” He murmurs.
You open your eyes.
And the ache slams back into your chest, sharper than before.
You step back, breaking contact.
“I—” Your voice cracks. You swallow hard. “I can’t do this.”
He doesn’t move. He watches you, expression unreadable in the dim streetlight.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and it comes out small. “I thought I could. I really did. But I—”
You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.
Instead, you lean in one last time and press a brief, closed-mouth kiss to the corner of his lips. A goodbye more than anything else.
“Goodnight, Hiromi.”
You turn before he can answer.
The car door is still open. The driver glances back, expectant.
Hiromi stays where he is, hands in his pockets now, watching you.
He doesn’t call after you and he doesn’t try to change your mind. Just lets you go.
You slide into the backseat. Pull the door shut. Give the driver an address.
The car pulls away.
Through the tinted window, you watch Hiromi’s silhouette shrink in the rearview until the street curves and he’s gone.
Your fingers press to your lips. They still taste like whiskey and someone else’s want.
The tears are rolling down before you even realize they’re hot on your cheeks, blurring the streetlights into smeared halos through the car window.
The fog of your breath swirls into the air. You breathe in and out again, slower, trying to steady the tremor in your hands.
You fish the old access card from the bottom of your purse—the one you never quite got around to returning, the one that still works because neither of you remembered to deactivate it. The black plastic is worn smooth at the corners from years of use.
You press it to the reader beside the outdoor elevator. A soft beep, a green flash.
The doors open.
You step inside.
The mirrored walls throw your reflection back at you: mascara slightly smudged from earlier tears, lips still faintly swollen from the kiss, hair tousled by the wind and someone else’s fingers. You look like you almost did something reckless. You look like you’re about to do something even more reckless.
The elevator climbs the thirty-two floors in seconds. Your stomach drops the way it always did, even when you lived here.
You lean against the cool metal wall, close your eyes for a second, and let the memory flood in uninvited: coming home late from a long shift, him waiting with takeout and a half-smile that said I missed you. The way he’d pull you into the shower before you could even kick off your shoes, kissing the exhaustion off your skin like it was something he could fix.
The doors open onto the private foyer.
You step out.
The front door is ajar.
Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you’re sure he can hear it from wherever he is.
You could turn around.
The elevator is still open behind you. One step back, and you’re gone and no one would ever know you were here.
Instead, you push the door wider with your fingertips.
The apartment opens up in front of you—the same layout from when you started dating, same view of the Tokyo skyline glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The city looks smaller from up here.ou always liked that, and right now, you wonder if he remembers that about you—if that’s why it’s still the same.
He’s on the couch.
His back is to you, slouched, one arm draped over the backrest, a glass of something dark resting on his knee. The TV is on but muted—some movie he doesn’t care about. His tie is loosened and sleeves rolled to the elbows.
He doesn’t turn at first.
Then he does—slowly, like he’s not sure he trusts what his peripheral vision is telling him.
His eyes find yours.
For a long second, neither of you moves.
You’re still tipsy enough that the room tilts faintly when you blink and your tongue feels loose.
“Hi,” you say. Your voice cracks on the single syllable.
He sets the glass down on the coffee table without looking away from you. You realize it’s chocolate milk.
“You’re drunk,” he says, not accusing.
“A little,” you admit. You take one step inside, then another. The door swings shut behind you with a soft click. “I… I was at a bar with Shoko. And then I—”
You stop.
What are you even going to say? I almost went home with someone else, and it made me realize I still want you?
He stands.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. Instead, his words strike you cold and you finally become aware of the temperature in the room.
“I know.”
He crosses the room in three long strides and stops just out of reach. Close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne. Close enough to see the way his throat works when he swallows.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
You shrug.
The motion feels childish, like you’re ten years old again and caught somewhere you don’t belong.
Without answering, you bend and slip your shoes off one by one. The cool marble bites into the soles of your bare feet, grounding you just enough to keep the room from spinning. You flex your toes against the floor.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
Your name slips off his tongue. He probably meant for it to sound stern and authoritative, but it comes out longing instead.
Or maybe you’re just hearing what you want to hear.
He exhales through his nose and turns away for a second like he needs the distance to breathe.
“Why are you here?” He repeats, quieter now.
“I don’t know, Satoru.”
The name feels too big in your mouth after so many months of silence.
He sighs, turns on his heel, and makes his way down the hall. That’s the direction of the kitchen.
You hear the soft clink of glass, the rush of the tap, ice cubes dropping into water.
When he comes back, he’s holding a tall glass. He presses it into your hand without touching your fingers.
You kind of wish he did.
“Drink,” he says. Not a request.
You take it, and the cold shocks your palm, sending a shiver down your spine when combined with the chill in the air. You sip once, twice.
He guides you, his head nudging in the direction toward the sectional.
You sink onto the leather.
He doesn’t sit beside you, taking the armchair across the coffee table instead, elbows on his knees and hands clasped so tight the knuckles turn white.
“You should go,” he says. “Whatever you need to say, you can say it to my lawyer. That’s what we agreed.”
The words land hard.
You stare at the water trembling in your glass.
“That’s all you’ve said to me in months,” you murmur.
He doesn’t even try to deny it.
You lift your eyes to his. They’re the same blue you used to drown in every morning.
“You used to know me better than anyone,” you say. The sentence cracks in the middle. “You used to know when I was lying to myself before I even opened my mouth. You used to know when I needed you to hold me even when I said I was fine. You used to—”
Your voice gives out. You swallow hard.
He flinches.
“Sober up,” he says. “You don’t mean any of this. I’ll get you something to eat and call you a car.”
The casualness of it cuts deep.
You stare up at him. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”
He doesn’t look at you as he walks toward the kitchen. “You’re drunk. You showed up unannounced at 2 a.m. What do you want me to do, exactly? Rewrite the last two years because you had a bad night?”
You push yourself to your feet. The room tilts once, then steadies. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t care.”
You follow him into the kitchen.
He opens the cupboard and pulls out a bag of pretzels. “I’m not pretending anything. I’m being realistic. You’re emotional. Tomorrow you’ll wake up hungover and embarrassed, and you’ll text your lawyer again. Same as always.”
You wrap your arms around yourself, nails digging into the skin of your biceps. “You really think that low of me?”
He pours the pretzels into a bowl.
“Say it,” you whisper. “Say you hate me. Say you resent me for whatever I did. Just stop acting like this is nothing.”
He slides the bowl across the counter to you. “I’m not having this conversation with you right now.”
“Satoru.” His name comes out cracked, pleading. “I just want to talk.”
“No.” The word is quiet, final, a door closing. He turns away, bracing both hands on the edge of the sink like he needs the support. “If you won’t leave, you can sleep in the guest room. If you still want to talk, we can talk tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
The promise of it hangs there like a threat.
You stare at the pretzels. Salt-dusted. Ordinary.
He doesn’t even like pretzels.
Satoru’s stash of snacks consisted of cookies and candy and various types of ice creams and mochi stacked in the freezer—until he met you. He met you, and you liked chips and pretzels and a lot of salt.
What if he kept them here for you?
You decide not to touch them. You’re deluding yourself.
You feel the sob build low in your chest. It’s slow at first, then it feels brutal. It rips out of you before you can swallow it back.
He doesn’t turn around.
“Why won’t you even look at me?” The words come out broken. “What did I do that was so unforgivable?”
His shoulders tense. The knuckles on the sink whiten once again.
“You didn’t do anything,” he says to the window, to the city lights beyond it.
Tears blur the bowl in front of you. You swipe at them angrily. “Why haven’t you signed the papers? Why do you still wear your ring if I’m so easy to ignore?”
He laughs once. “Because forgetting you would be the kindest thing I could do for both of us. And I’ve never been kind when it comes to you.”
You push off the counter, legs unsteady. “Then be cruel. Tell me to go. Tell me you don’t love me anymore. Tell me anything real.”
He finally turns.
“I can’t.”
You take a step closer. Then another. Until you’re close enough to see the tremor in his hands.
You reach out and rest your palm against his chest. His heart is racing beneath the thin cotton of his dress shirt, betraying every calm word he’s said.
He pries your hands away gently, the way he’s always been with you.
“I’m going to bed,” he steps away from you. “I trust you know where the guest room is.”
You nod, and he’s disappeared out of the kitchen and into the dark hallway.
Your mind wakes first, sluggishly, your body following reluctantly—limbs heavy, mouth dry, a dull throb behind your eyes. You pry your lids open, expecting the familiar flood of pale morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the house Satoru built for the two of you.
Instead, grey walls stare back at you. A single narrow window in the corner is swallowed by thick blackout blinds. The bed beneath you is too small and too firm, the sheets smelling faintly of someone else’s laundry detergent.
Right.
The night before crashes back in fragments.
Fuck. What have you done?
You curse Shoko in your head. She knows you have never made good decisions with alcohol in your system.
You wait for the regret to settle in, but instead you feel almost… relieved?
You roll out of the guest bed and pad barefoot across the cold floor. Sweat causes the fabric of your dress—the same one you wore out the previous night—to stick to your skin. Your fingers gently pry the clothing off of your body, adjusting as you make your way to the corner of the room.
The blinds are stubborn; you wrestle them open with a soft rattle.
A navy sky greets you. It’s not the bright afternoon sun you had been looking forward to.
What time is it?
Three steps back to the bed, you reach for your phone, but it’s dead on the nightstand. Of course it is.
Even if you had a charger on you, you were too upset after your conversation in the kitchen to remember to plug it in.
You slip into the hallway, following the faint glow of the living-room lamps. The wall clock reads 6:17 p.m. You’ve slept the entire day away.
What a waste.
Then you hear it—your name, soft, almost surprised or posed like a question, called from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
You follow the sound.
Satoru is standing in the open kitchen, still in the charcoal suit he must have worn to the office. Tie loosened, top button undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looks like he hasn’t slept either—hair messier than usual, shadows under his eyes darker than they were last night. He’s holding a glass of water.
You imagine he was about to bring it to you.
“Oh,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “You’re still here. I thought you would’ve left by now.”
The words sting more than they should and you realize you’re deluding yourself once again.
You shake your head slowly, attempting to go of any negative thoughts in the process. “I just woke up.”
He hums, almost non-chalant enough to make you wonder if this really was the man you married.
His lips wrap around the rim of the glass, taking a sip as you fiddle with your fingers.
He sets the glass down. “Hangover?”
You shake your head again. “I must’ve slept enough to avoid it.”
He nods once in response.
Then, nothing.
Silence with Satoru used to be something comforting to you. Something you now find yourself reminiscing in—the way his eyes would find yours, or how he could read you without you uttering a single word.
Now it feels almost tantalizing, almost cruel.
He used to be someone you could tell anything to, but now you’re at a loss for words—completely unsure how to break the silence.
The one thought slides through every crevice in your mind, and despite your better judgement—the part of you that knows bringing up the flaws in your marriage right now wouldn’t mend them—you let it seep through the tissue, until the words tremble at the tip of your tongue. They can barely hold themselves back from the fall.
“You finish work early?”
He looks up, his glossy blue eyes meeting yours.
It’s only for a brief moment. So quick, you would have missed it if you weren’t already looking at him.
His gaze averts back to the counter, lips pursing as if he’s bothered by the question.
“Nah,” he breathes in. “I usually leave the office by 5:30 if there’s no meetings.”
“Oh,” the sound falls more disheartened than you intended.
“We just signed off on the merger with Infinity Air,” he explains. “So…”
“Oh, congratulations.”
You always imagined the one thing that killed your marriage was the hours Satoru worked.
You knew what you were getting into when you first met him—the obnoxious, but dreamy business major in your ethics lecture, who you much later found out was the heir to one of Japan’s biggest airline companies: Gojo Aviation.
With graduating came responsibility, and Satoru had to step into his father’s shoes. Still, he always found his way back home before you finished the day at your internship.
It wasn’t until you were married for three years, and the incident occurred that you would get text messages from him apologizing for missing dinner, that he would make it up to you, that he missed you.
It only took a month or two for you to become accustomed to your new routine—falling asleep without him, waking up to his side of the bed slept-in but empty, hardly talking anymore.
There weren’t anymore messages apologizing or warnings of his absence before hand. It became normal.
If he wasn’t the same man who spent almost a decade doting on you, praising you, teaching you what it meant to really, really love someone, you would’ve thought he was cheating.
But he was Satoru, and from the moment he met you, he breathed for you—his heart beat for you.
It was almost ironic, how now that you were apart he seemed to be able to work regular hours. But you only hope that this is what fixes the two of you.
He mutters something incoherent in response—probably a thank you—before your mouth, once again, is moving quicker than your mind.
“Since when?”
Your curse yourself mentally.
“About…” his eyes flick up to the left as he trails off in thought. “About a month after we separated."
Oh. You decide not to pry. Maybe it’s a coincidence.
“Are you busy tonight?” You ignore the tremble in your voice. You’re not sure anymore if you’re hurt or nervous or maybe a bit of both.
He looks up at you through his white eyelashes. This time longer than a beat.
“…to talk,” you continue, quietly.
You’re picking at the skin by your fingernails. A nervous habit Satoru always hated.
“We can still do this through lawyers. I haven’t messaged mine yet, but—”
“No.” You cut him off, sharper than you mean to. “I was serious last night.. About talking. About fixing things.”
He opens his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to agree—but before the sound can form, the bedroom door behind him opens.
The bedroom that also used to be yours when you first moved into his apartment. The bedroom that was yours until you both moved out a year into marriage.
A woman steps out.
Utahime Iori.
You recognize her immediately—newest member of the executive board at Gojo Aviation, the one who’s been in every quarterly photo Satoru’s PR team blasts across LinkedIn—as the daughter of the vice-president of Infinity Air.
Her hair is damp from a shower, dark strands clinging to her neck. She’s wearing one of his hoodies—the oversized black one from university he used to let you steal when you both still lived in the dorms. It drowns her frame the same way it used to drown yours.
Your mouth falls open.
She smiles—small, polite, kind even. “Hi. I didn’t know you were here.”
You don’t smile back.
The air in the apartment thins to nothing.
Satoru’s shoulders go rigid. He doesn’t look at her. He looks at you.
“I—” Your voice is barely there. “I’m sorry. For coming over. For… everything.”
You turn before he can speak.
Your bag is still slung over the arm of the couch where you dropped it last night. You snatch it up, fingers shaking so badly the strap slips twice.
“Hey—wait,” his voice cracks behind you. “Wait, please—”
You don’t.
The front door is only ten steps away. You cross them, and even though you feel as though you’ve run out of oxygen, you make a break for the stairs—deciding running down thirty-two floors is better than waiting around for the elevator.
“Satoru,” Utahime says softly from somewhere behind him.
You can’t tell her tone of voice, and you’re not even sure you want to
You don’t look back.
The hall outside is too bright, too quiet.
You can hear your heart hammering in your chest, each beach only getting more desperate with your descent down.
You make it almost 10 floors before your legs give way, and your thighs meet the cool floor.
You press your forehead to the wall and let the tears come—silent at first, then choking, ugly sobs that echo in the small space.
He didn’t chase you. It was over—really over.
The Satoru you fell in love with would have followed you to the ends of the earth without you even asking.
The Satoru who fell out of love with you couldn’t even put his ego aside to follow you down a flight of stairs.
You often thought yourself a fool, but never as much as you have right now. You should’ve known he would move on. That he wouldn't wait around forever.
A divorce was to end a marriage. You had to face that it was over years ago, no matter how much you wanted it to be him.
The empty house is haunting.
Every wall, every piece of furniture, every atom in the house taunts you—mocks you even.
The ghost of a younger you—a happier you—lingers in every corner. You think it’s almost humiliating how deeply Satoru’s absence now affects you.
The house he’d gotten built from the ground up seems to agree with you, the way it still looks as lived in as it had 4 years ago.
After finally picking yourself up off the floor at your old apartment complex and calling a car home, you thought the hardest part would be leaving him behind.
But there was the threshold he once carried you over, the kitchen where he’d make you breakfast while you still slept, the nursery you both painted—a pastel yellow colour that would never be enjoyed by a child—, the living room where you’d make love to each other when you were too impatient to make it upstairs.
The whole space screams Satoru’s name.
It’s a museum full of memories—the good, the bad, the in-between. The throw blanket he draped over your shoulders that first winter you spent here, still folded on the couch arm. The framed photo on the entry console of the two of you laughing in the rain outside that tiny ramen place in Shibuya, the coffee mugs he insisted on buying in pairs because “we’re a set, aren’t we?”
It’s all proof he loved you once.
And— if anything—keeping his things here would only be proof you’ll love him forever.
And you can’t afford that kind of attachment anymore.
A sob rips through your throat. You press the heel of your hand to your mouth like you can trap the sound inside, but it’s already too late. The grief has teeth tonight.
You make your way up the stairs on legs that feel borrowed.
His closet is the first place you attack.
You yank open the double doors and the smell hits you like a fist—his cologne, his laundry detergent, the faint trace of skin that used to live against yours. You start pulling things off hangers without thought: the navy wool coat he wore on your last anniversary dinner where you hardly spoke, the soft grey cashmere sweater he’d let you steal when you were cold, the white button-downs still creased from the dry cleaner. You fold them roughly, no care for neatness, and shove them into the largest suitcase you can find from under the bed.
Next come the gifts.
The delicate silver bracelet he gave you for your birthday two years into saying, the one with the tiny engraved star because he said you were his destiny. The perfume he picked out in Paris that you only wore when you wanted him to lose his mind. The silk scarf he tied around your eyes once during a game that ended with your legs atop his shoulders, being pummeled into the mattress. You drop them into the suitcase one by one.
Your vision is blurred from your tears, and in all honesty, you have no idea what is going where.
You move to the nightstand onhis side. The book he never finished, spine cracked. The candle he’d light at night… because even past thirty he was still scared of the dark. The small velvet box containing the earrings he bought you “just because.” You hesitate only once—fingers brushing the lid—before you drop the whole thing in.
You’re crying steadily now, not like before. Silent rivers carving tracks down your cheeks, dripping onto the carpet. Your chest hurts like someone’s sitting on it and breathing feels optional.
You hate how much you still love him.
You hate how much it still feels like betrayal to pack him away.
A few minutes past midnight, the doorbell rings.
You freeze, suitcase half-zipped.
You aren’t expecting anyone. Shoko would’ve texted. Your parents live provinces away. The delivery guy doesn’t come this late.
You ignore it.
Thirty seconds later there’s sharp, insistent knocks on the front door.
You wipe your face with the sleeve of the hoodie you changed into—his hoodie, fuck—and drag yourself downstairs. Your reflection in the hallway mirror is a wreck: eyes swollen, nose red, cheeks blotchy. You look like grief personified.
You open the door anyway.
Satoru stands there.
He’s lost the suit, now clad in white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, white hair mussed like he’s run his hands through it too many times.
He sees your face.
The moment stretches—two heartbeats, three—and whatever armor he walked here wearing cracks wide open. His expression melts.
The hard line of his mouth softens, his brows pinch, his eyes go liquid and the bright blue almost dulls like he’s looking at something fragile he’s terrified of breaking.
“Fuck,” he says. Instinctively, his calloused hands find your shoulders, pulling you flush against his chest. His left leg kicks the door closed. “Oh, baby.”
You don’t reciprocate his actions right away. You just stand there, his hands cradling your head now.
“Fuck,” his voice is almost sympathetic… if you didn’t know any better. “I did this to you. Didn’t I?”
“Fuck you,” you say, but the sounds comes out muffled.
You almost feel like crying again. Instead, you bring your arms up around your head, hitting his chest repeatedly. Attempting to wriggle out of his grasp.
His grip around you only tightens, much to your frustration.
“It’s okay,” he coos. “Take it out on me, baby. I can take it.”
“Don’t call me that.” You manage to slip out from under him before you succumb to his touch. “Why are you here?”
“You wanted to talk.”
“Because…” you almost hesitate. But, what else do you have to lose. “I thought we could fix this.”
He hums. You know his mind is probably going a million kilometres an hour, and you finally look at his face.
His eyes are slightly red, his bottom lashes damp.
You swallow. Your throat is sandpaper.
“Have you been crying?” you ask. Flat.
His gaze leaves yours, fixating at a spot on the wall.
“Have you?”
Your shoulders slump. You avoid the question.
It’s a pretty obvious answer.
“Look,” he begins. His shoes flip off his feet, and he starts heading towards the living room, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrist as he drags you behind him. “I’m ready to talk—to try and… I don’t know.. Fuck. Fix this?”
He sits down on the sofa. You take the seat across from him.
“No lawyers?”
“No, sweets,” he starts. His elbows are on his knees. “I’m going to lay everything on the table. I can’t hurt you ever again.”
“Okay,” you whisper. You don’t really believe him. Your eyes don't meet his.
It takes a few minutes before he speaks again, the silence stretching out between the two of you as he tries to collect his thoughts.
“Utahime…” he begins. Unsure. “Nothing happened.”
You raise your eyebrows in disbelief, but your eyes still don’t meet his. You’re afraid of how you might react if you do.
He exhales, sharp and frustrated, his head meeting his palms. His right hand drags farther, through his hair until it stands up in wild tufts.
“We went to check out some more cost-effective oil choices today,” he starts again, quieter, like he’s reciting facts to a jury instead of trying to reach the woman he married. “Some new supplier pitch in Yokohama. She spilled some on herself—literally, like half a sample vial down the front of her blouse. It was disgusting. She was only in Tokyo for the day, flying back tonight.”
You don’t look amused.
“She’s on the board, baby. I couldn’t let her go back to Kyoto like that.”
“Okay.” You’re not sure what more to say.
“I promise,” he starts again. Longing. “I was in the kitchen the whole time—you saw me. I didn’t step foot near the bedroom.”
He pauses, searching your profile for something—anything—that says you believe him.
You finally lift your eyes to his. They’re red-rimmed, glassy, exhausted.
“You let her wear your clothes,” you say. Your voice is small, but it cuts.
“I didn’t think,” he admits. Raw. “I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to you because I wasn’t expecting you to still be there. I was trying to be professional.”
You stay silent, but his expression is almost like it’s cutting through him.
“I know how it looked,” he says. “I know exactly how it looked. And I hate that I let it happen. I hate that I gave you even a second to think I’d moved on. I haven’t. I can’t.”
“You… can’t?”
“No,” he runs a hand through his hair again. “You could cheat on me, divorce me, never talk to me again—fuck.” His voice cracks on the curse. Almost sounds like he’ll cry again. “But, you’re the only woman for me.”
“What?”
“I’m serious.” His hand runs down his face. “If we go through with this, I’ll never marry anyone again. Moving on with someone else isn’t even an option.”
If.
So there is a chance to fix this.
You blink back a few tears, but you’re not sure if you ever did stop crying.
“Why’re we getting divorced, Satoru?”
His posture changes, his spine stiffening as the rest of his body stills. You’re not surprised when he doesn’t answer right away.
“You were the one who wanted one.”
“Satoru,” you whisper his name. “You said it was over for a while when I asked. So, why?”
He’s avoiding eye contact. He looks uncomfortable—almost small—which is so unlike him it makes your chest ache. Once again, he doesn’t answer. Your quick-witted, “always has something to say” husband, is at a loss for words.
“Was it the incident?” Your mouth curls downward and the memory rises up like bile. It was the worst thing you’ve ever gone through. “Did that make you stop loving me?”
The words have barely left your lips when he flinches—wide eyes snapping up from their usual position on the floor, fixating on your face. He looks horrified.
“No.” It’s the fastest response he’s given you all night. “No way. God—no. Baby, do you actually think that?”
He scoots forward in his seat, hands reaching out before he catches himself and drops them at his sides again.
“I—”
He stands up. Satoru’s always been better at thinking on his feet.
“I’m sorry,” he continues. “I’m so fucking sorry. I never—never—thought that. I would never stop loving you because of that.”
You stare at him, throat tight. “Then, why? You started working late right after. You’d come home after I’d fall asleep waiting for you, leaving in the morning before I’d wake up. You stopped touching me. You stopped talking to me.”
You swallow, hoping the bob of your throat will pull back the tear in your chest as well.
“You stopped seeing me.”
He breaks.
The sound that leaves his throat is gut wrenching—a sob he tries to swallow but can’t. His knees buckle ever so slightly and he catches himself on the back of the couch, head dropping forward. Hot tears fall on the ashe flooring before he can stop them.
“I thought—” His voice is wrecked. “After my family found out… about the fertility stuff… they started pushing. I don’t know why an airline company needs an heir, but they really wanted one. Every dinner, every meeting, every phone call. They just wouldn’t let it go.”
He drags a shaky hand across his face, desperately swiping away at the tears.
“I thought if I just… gave them enough of my time, enough of my attention, they’d leave you alone. You were already going through so much. The doctors, the tests, the grief. I didn’t want them piling on top of that. I didn’t want them making it worse for you. So I stayed late. I took every meeting. I let them control me. I thought I was protecting you.”
He looks up at you then, eyes red.
“But we stopped talking. You stopped talking to me. And I thought… I thought you resented me. For not being able to be the husband I promised. For not being able to fix it. For not giving you the family we both wanted. I thought you were ashamed of me—of us. So I kept my distance. I thought if I stayed out of your way, you wouldn’t have to see me as a failure.”
You feel something inside you crack wide open.
“I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Because I couldn’t have children. I thought you were embarrassed of me and that I wasn’t enough. So I started avoiding you too. Pulled away so you wouldn’t have to pretend. So you wouldn’t have to look at me and remember what I couldn’t give you.”
His face falls. And in a second he’s crossing the room over to you, kneeling in front of you as his arms engulf your body, crushing you to his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out against your hair.
You’d hug him back if you could.
“I’m so fucking sorry. I never stopped loving you, not once. Not even for a second. You’re still everything. Okay? You’re still all I want. Kids—or no kids.”
You let out a sob against him, but despite that you’re smiling.
“I just…” he continues. “I fucked up. I thought I was protecting you, but I ended up breaking us.”
You cling to him, fingers digging into the back of his shirt now that his grip on you has loosened.
“I didn’t want to lose you,” you mumble against him. “I thought if I let go first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you finally did.”
He pulls back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the hot tears on your skin.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice finally steadying. “Not without you at least.”
A wet, shaky laugh escapes you.
He rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he’s been starving for you.
“Can I come home now, baby?” he asks, closing his eyes.
You nod, bring your hands up to cup his face in return.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Come home.”
The words barely leave your mouth before his lips find yours.
It starts soft, like he’s testing whether this is real or if he’ll wake up alone again.
But the second your fingers slide into his hair and tug gently, something in him breaks open. The kiss turns hungry, desperate, all teeth and tongue and months of longing. Suddenly his hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt to press hot palms to bare skin, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left.
You gasp into his mouth when he lifts you without warning, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. He walks backward, never breaking the kiss, navigating the hallway by memory alone. You feel the wall at your back for a second. His body pins you there while he kisses you deeper, slower.
“Bedroom,” you manage to breathe against his lips.
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
He carries you the rest of the way, kicking the half-open door wider with his foot. The room is dim, lit only by the hallway light spilling in, and the open suitcase on the floor catches his eye immediately.
He stops short, still holding you up, and lets out a soft, startled laugh against your mouth.
You pull back just enough to follow his gaze.
“Oh,” you say, cheeks heating. “I… was kind of in the middle of packing your stuff.”
He laughs again. “You were doing a shit job of it,” he murmurs, nodding at the suitcase. “You packed my favorite sweater. The one you always steal.”
“I was going to burn it,” you lie, lips twitching despite yourself.
“Liar.” He kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Shut up,” you mutter. You tug at his shirt, impatient now. “Put me down.”
He does—slowly, letting you slide down his body until your feet touch the floor. Then he’s backing you toward the bed, hands already working the hem of your hoodie up and over your head. It hits the suitcase with a soft thud.
You push his shirt up next, palms greedy against the warm, familiar planes of his chest, the faint scars you’ve traced a thousand times. He helps you yank it off, tossing it somewhere behind him—probably onto the growing pile of things you were supposed to be getting rid of.
When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he follows you down, catching himself on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
He pauses there, hovering just above you, blue eyes searching yours.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he says quietly.
You reach up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until your lips brush his.
“I’ve missed you too,” you whisper.
His lips find yours again, softer this time but just as urgent. It’s slow and deep, your tongues sliding together in a rhythm that feels achingly familiar. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against your mouth.
He breaks away only long enough to breathe your name.
Your hands cup his face in response, pulling him back down to you.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, the hinge of your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. You tilt your head back instinctively, giving him more access, and he takes it greedily. Open-mouthed kisses trail down the column of your throat, teeth grazing lightly, then soothing with his tongue.
His lips drag their way across your collarbone, down toward the valley between your breasts. He pauses there, nose brushing your skin, inhaling like he’s trying to memorize you all over again. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before cupping them gently, reverently. He kisses one nipple, then the other, slow swirls of his tongue until they harden under the wet heat of his mouth.
You arch into him, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it.
“Missed the sounds you make,” he murmurs. “Missed every single one.”
He keeps going.
“Toru…” you mumble.
He kisses down the soft plane of your stomach, lingering over the faint scar from the surgery years ago—the one that changed everything. He presses his lips there deliberately.
Your breath catches.
He looks up at you then, holding your gaze as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragging them down your legs. You lift your hips to help him; he tosses the fabric somewhere behind him without looking.
Then he settles between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open, hands sliding under your hips to lift you just enough that he can get the angle he wants.
“Give me all of you, baby,” he says, placing a kiss on the fleshy part of your thigh.
Then another, on the other side.
His breath is hot over where you need him most. You squirm, your hips lifting toward him—he backs away and you whine in response.
“Patience, sweets,” he murmurs against your inner thigh. “Been touching myself to the thought of this pussy for over a year now. Gonna take my time.”
You shake your head, pushing yourself into the pillow behind you.
“Please,” you plead. Your hands come up, attempting to push him downwards.
“Use your words, sweets,” he resists. “What do you want?”
“You.”
Under normal circumstances, he would’ve teased you more. But that was all it took for him to place a soft, wet kiss on your clit.
Then his tongue licks a sow strip up your center.
Your back lifts off the bed as a broken moan tears out of you.
His hands move to lightly grip your wrists, bringing them down to the base of your stomach as his head inches away from you.
“Spread yourself open for me, m’kay?” he says, breath ghosting against your folds.
You nod, your fingers finding your pussy and pulling apart.
His arms hook back under your legs, and his mouth is back on you.
He groans at the taste of you, like he’s finally getting something he’s been starving for. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you exactly where he wants you as he dives in properly—lips closing around your clit, sucking gently, then harder, tongue flicking in relentless circles.
He alternates between slow licks and quick, fluttering flicks against your clit.
He slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right. He remembers the exact spot that makes your head go empty.
You clench around his digits, and he moans in response, the vibrations driving you closer to the edge.
“Satoru—” Your voice cracks on his name.
He keeps working you with his mouth and fingers until your thighs are trembling around his head and your hips are grinding against his face without shame.
“That’s it,” he says. It comes out muffled, his mouth against your pussy. “Ride my face.”
Your hands move from their earlier position, once again finding their way threaded into his hair.
“Satoru,” you breathe. “So close.”
“Cum for me,” he rasps against you, voice wrecked. “Please, baby. Let me feel you. Let me have this.”
That undoes you.
You cum hard, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, oversensitive, tugging weakly at his hair to pull him up.
He crawls back up your body, kissing every inch of skin he passes, until he’s hovering over you again. His lips are shiny, chin wet, eyes glassy.
He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
You break the kiss first, breathing hard, and push at his shoulders.
“My turn,” you murmur.
He blinks. “Baby—”
You don’t let him finish. You hook a leg around his and roll, flipping him onto his back beneath you. The mattress dips under his weight; he lands with a soft huff of surprise, white hair fanning across the pillow.
He looks up at you.
“You don’t have to—” he starts,one hand coming up like he’s going to stop you.
You lean down and kiss him quiet. When you pull back, you press your palm to his lips.
“Shut up, Satoru.”
He exhales a shaky laugh against hand. “Bossy,” he tries to say but it comes out muffled.
You smile and slide down his body.
You take your time, mirroring the way he did with you. His hands fist the sheets when you drag your mouth over his chest, tongue circling one flat nipple, then the other. He hisses, hips jerking once.
Lower.
You trace the faint lines of muscle on his stomach with open-mouthed kisses, feeling the way he tenses under your lips. When you reach his hips, you slow even more. You place teasing licks along the sensitive skin, teeth grazing.
He’s hard—painfully so—curved up against his stomach, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. You wrap your fingers around him, slow stroke from base to head, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the bead of precum. He groans, head tipping back into the pillow.
“Fuck—baby—”
You don’t answer with words.
You lean down and take him into your mouth—slow at first, just the head, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. His hips buck; you press a hand to his thigh to hold him still. Then you sink lower, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you slide back up, tongue pressing flat along the underside.
He curses, fingers threading into your hair.
You set a rhythm. Sucking him deep, then pulling back to tease the tip with flicks of your tongue.
Every time you take him to the back of your throat, he makes a sound that goes straight between your legs: moans, pleas, your name broken into syllables.
“Look at me,” you murmur against him, pulling off just long enough to speak. Your lips are swollen, shiny with spit and him.
His eyes snap to yours. He looks wrecked—completely at your mercy.
You hold his gaze as you take him deep again until your nose brushes his pelvis. His whole body locks up; a tremor runs through him.
“Fuck—fuck—sweetheart—”
You hum around him, the vibration making his hips jerk again. You pull back, stroking the bottom half of him with your hand while your tongue works the head in quick, filthy circles. Then you sink down once more, faster this time.
His breathing turns ragged. The hand in your hair tightens.
“I’m—baby, I’m close—”
You take him deeper, letting him feel every slide of your tongue, every suction.
When he cums, your name is torn out of him like a confession.
Hot cum spills over your tongue; you swallow everything, milking him through it until he’s shaking and oversensitive.
You pull off slowly, pressing one last soft kiss to the head before crawling back up his body.
He’s panting, flushed from chest to cheeks/
You settle over him, straddling his hips, and he immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you down until your chests are pressed together.
He kisses you—slow and tasting himself on your tongue without hesitation.
When he pulls back, his voice is wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me one day,” he murmurs against your lips. “And I’m gonna die happy.”
You laugh and rest your forehead against his.
“Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
He rolls you under him again in one fluid motion, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other drags down the center of your body. His mouth follows the path: biting kisses along your throat, sucking into the soft skin below your collarbone.
You’re gasping his name, begging for more.
“Say it again,” he says. “Tell me I’m home.”
“You’re home,” you breathe. “You’re so fucking home.”
He places a soft kiss under your breast, letting his mouth linger for a second before something in him snaps.
He releases your wrists only to flip you onto your stomach in a single rough movement. You barely have time to brace on your forearms before he’s yanking your hips up, knees spread wide, ass in the air. One big hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest pinned to the mattress while the other spreads you open—fingers digging into the meat of your thigh, holding you exactly where he wants.
“Look at you,” he mutters. “Still dripping for me. Still so fucking wet after I already ate you out.”
You whimper, pushing back against his palm. “Satoru—please—”
He doesn’t tease this time. You feel the head of his cock rub against your folds.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Then, he lines himself up and slams into you, no warning. The stretch burns so good your vision whites out for a second. You cry out, but the sound comes out muffled into the sheets.
He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in harder, setting a rhythm with the way the headboard slams against the wall.
“Fuck, so tight,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Missed this pussy so much. Missed my pussy so much.”
His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in the roots of your hair. He yanks your head back enough to arch your back deeper, changing the angle so he hits that spot inside you with every stroke.
You scream, nails clawing at the sheets.
“That’s it,” he pants, hips snapping forward. “Scream for me, baby. Let the whole fucking neighbourhood know how good you feel.”
He reaches around, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles while he fucks into you. The dual sensation is too much; your thighs shake, your whole body locks up.
“Gonna cum,” you gasp, voice cracking. “Satoru—fuck—I’m—”
“Cum baby.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Cum all over my cock. Milk me. Show me how much you missed this dick.”
Before you can say anything else, your vision spots black, a gush of wet heat soaking his thighs as you convulse around him. He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it until you’re oversensitive and whimpering and trying to crawl away.
He doesn’t let you.
He flips you onto your back again, hooks your legs over his shoulders, folds you in half until your knees are by your ears. The new angle is devastating and you can feel the pull in your hamstrings—he bottoms out so deep you swear you feel him in your throat.
“Look at me,” he orders.
Your eyes flutter open.
He slows and it feels almost torturous. Long, dragging thrusts that let you feel every thick inch sliding in and out of you.
“Say you’re mine,” he demands, thumb pressing hard against your clit again, rubbing it in small circles.
“I’m yours,” you sob, small tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. “Always yours. Only yours.”
He groans and picks up speed again, pounding into you so hard the bedframe creaks like it might break.
“Gonna fill you up,” he rasps. “Gonna pump you so full of my cum you’ll feel me for days. Gonna mark you inside and out so you never forget who you belong to.”
“Yes—please—Satoru—”
He slams in one last time and cums with a relieving moan. His hot, thick cum floods inside of you, triggering another smaller orgasm that has you clenching even harder around him,
He keeps rocking into you through both your highs, smearing everything between you.
He collapses half on top of you, still inside, cock still twitching. His forehead drops to yours.
You’re both shaking.
He presses his lips to yours.
“More?” he whispers against your lips.
You nod, fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“Please.”
He rolls you both once more—still half inside you—until you’re straddling his hips again. His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles over the sensitive skin.
You brace your palms on his chest, feeling the thump of his heart beneath your fingers, and start to move.
Slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding down so he feels you clenching around him. He’s already thickening again, stretching you open.
“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back into the pillow. “Just like that, baby. Use me.”
You pick up the pace—lifting and dropping. Your thighs burn, but you keep going.
His hands slide up to grip your waist, guiding you harder and deeper, until you’re bouncing on him with wet, filthy slaps of skin on skin.
He watches you the whole time—eyes flicking between your face, your tits swaying with every thrust, the way your stomach tenses when you grind your clit against his pelvis.
“Gotta be dreaming,” he pants, voice wrecked but teasing. “Gonna wake up tomorrow and you’ll be gone again. Just me, alone, jerking off to the memory of this—”
You stop moving.
He knows he’s in trouble.
“Too soon?” he tries to laugh it off.
His eyes widen for half a second before you rear back and slap him across the face. Not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough that the sound is present.
The room goes still. And you realize what you’ve done.
Then his cock twitches violently inside you.
He turns back slowly, eyes blown black, pupils swallowing the blue. His tongue darts out, licking the corner of his mouth like he’s tasting the sting.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice dropping an octave. “Do that again.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat floods your core.
You slap him once more—lighter this time. His hips buck up hard, making you gasp.
“Harder,” he growls, fingers digging into your hips so tight that he won’t be the only one with bruises tomorrow. “Fucking mark me, baby. Make sure I know this is real.”
You do.
Another slap. His moan is broken. His cock throbs inside you, leaking steadily now.
You lean down, bracing one hand beside his head, the other gripping his jaw to force his eyes on yours.
“This is real,” you hiss, rolling your hips. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m not waking up alone. You’re gonna cum inside me again, and tomorrow we’re seeing our lawyers and telling them this—the divorce—is not happening.”
Satoru nods, surging up, arms banding around your waist, flipping you so you’re still on top but he’s sitting up now. You’re chest to chest, mouths crashing together in a messy, desperate kiss. He thrusts up into you hard, using his grip on your hips to slam you down onto every brutal stroke.
You claw at his shoulders, nails leaving red trails down his back. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to sting.
“Gonna fill you up again,” he pants against your mouth. “Gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leaking me for days. Gonna breed this pretty pussy until you can’t think about anything but me inside you.”.
You grind down harder, clit rubbing against him with every thrust.
“Cum with me,” you beg.
He buries his face in your neck, teeth sinking into the soft skin there as he slams up one last time.
He cums with a choked groan, hot and thick, pulsing inside you in long, endless spurts. The sensation tips you over—your orgasm crashes through you, walls fluttering and squeezing around him, milking every drop while you shake and sob his name into his shoulder.
He doesn’t pull out.
He holds you there, still seated deep, arms locked around you
You stay like that until your breathing evens out and the room smells like sex.
Eventually, you slump onto him, falling asleep.
It’s a little over two months later, and you feel like you can breathe again.
You’re barefoot in the kitchen, still in the pajamas you put on last night—shorts and an oversized shirt that was Satoru’s in college.
The clock on the wall reads 2:17 p.m., and your breakfast (which is really just iced coffee and a cinnamon bun from Satoru’s stash in the fridge) sits hardly touched on the island. Sunlight pours in through the floor-to-cieling windows, warming the room naturally.
The divorce papers were shredded and burned in the backyard a week after you and Satoru got back together. He moved back in the next night.
Your marriage has never felt stronger. Sure, the scars of the past are still there, but you both talk until one in the morning, fuck until three, and fall asleep tangeled in eachothers limbs like no time had passed at all.
You’re so caught up in it all that you don’t hear the front door open or his briefcase hit the floor.
You don’t hear his footsteps as his long legs carry him through the house. Not until his arms are suddenly around your waist and you’re being lifted clean off the ground in a spin that makes you shriek and dissolve into helpless giggles.
“Hey! Toru—put me down.”
Instead, you feel the cold of the countertop against the backs of your thighs as he places you down and settles between your legs. His face finds the crook of your neck/
“Missed you,” he mumbles against your skin.
His arms stay looped around, chin hooked over your shoulder as your hands find their place on his back.
You twist just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re home early.”
“Left after my meetings,” he says, pulling back to look at your face. His hands slide down and still when they reach your thighs. “Kept thinking about you in these little shorts. Made it hard to stay focused.”
You roll your eyes, but you feel the heat creep up your cheeks anyway.
He goes quiet for a second. His hold on you tightens, and you can feel the shift in his energy before he even speaks.
“Hey,” he moves back a smidge. “Can we talk about something?”
You use the space to slide off the counter.
“You’re not thinking of divorcing me again, are you?”
He chuckles in defense, hands cupping your face, and his lips planting a small, wet kiss on your forehead. “No, baby. Never.”
His expression returns serious.
“I know we talked about it. About… kids. Or not having them. About it just being us…” He trails off.
You nod slowly, pressing your back up against the counter. “We did. And I meant it. I’m happy, Satoru. Really happy.”
“I know,” he swallows. “I know you are—and I am too. But… there’s something I need to ask you. And I’ve been thinking about it for a while.
He takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles.
“One of my mechanics, Toji, got sick a while back.”
His eyes start to wander. He’s nervous.
You realize. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”
He nods, jaw tight. “He was a good guy.” He’s silent for a few seconds before continuing. “But, he came from a really bad family. He left behind a kid, and I’ve been visiting him at the group home they placed him in.”
He pauses, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are laced with his.
“I can’t leave him there. Not with the family that’s trying to get custody just so they can collect whatever benefits come with him. He’s… he’s a good kid, baby. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does it’s thoughtful. He loves animals. Reads too much. Reminds me of—” He stops, laughs once. “Reminds me of myself, a little.”
You squeeze his hands. “Satoru…”
“I know we said no kids,” he continues quickly, like he’s afraid you’ll stop him. “I know we were okay with it being just us, but I also know how badly you wanted to be a mother. And if you say no—if this is too much, too soon—I’ll respect it and I’ll figure something else out. But… I can’t stop thinking about him. And I can’t stop thinking about what it would look like if he had a real home. With us. With you.”
He finally meets your eyes again.
“I want to take him in. I want us to take him in. If you’ll have him. If you’ll have this.”
Tears prick your eyes, but they’re good ones this time.
You step closer, rise on your toes, and kiss him.
“Yes,” you whisper against his lips. “Yes. Let’s take him in.”
His breath catches. His arms tighten around you like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.” You pull back just enough to see his face. “I want to meet him.”
Satoru exhales—shaky and relieved—and drops his forehead to yours.
“Thank you,” he says, voice thick. “God—baby—thank you.”
You smile through the tears. “When can we meet him?”
“Tomorrow?” he asks, almost shy. “I told him I might bring someone special. He… he didn’t say much, but he didn’t say no.”
You laugh softly, brushing your thumbs under his eyes where they’re suspiciously shiny.
“Tomorrow,” you agree. “Bring him home.”
He kisses you again and when he pulls back he’s smiling.
“I love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“I love you too.”
The conference room at the law firm smells funky.
You sit at the long polished table with Satoru on your left, Megumi on your right. The boy is quiet as always—dark hair falling into his eyes, hands folded in his lap, school uniform still on because he insisted on coming straight from class. He hasn’t said much since you picked him up, but every now and then his knee bumps yours under the table.
Satoru’s hand rests on the back of your chair, thumb brushing slow circles against your shoulder blade through your blouse. He’s in a charcoal suit today.
Megumi’s file sits open in front of the empty chair across from you.
The door opens.
You look up.
And your stomach drops.
Hiromi Higuruma steps in, briefcase in one hand, tablet in the other. He’s in a sharp navy suit, glasses perched on his nose, hair neatly combed back the way it was that night in the bar. He hasn’t changed much.
He pauses when he sees you.
Just for a second.
Long enough for recognition to flicker across his face, quick and private, before his expression smooths into professional neutrality.
“Good afternoon,” he says, voice calm and even. “I’m Higuruma. I’ll be handling your finalization today.”
He sets his things down, takes the seat across from you, and opens the file.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gojo,” he says, voice calm and measured. “And this must be Megumi.”
Megumi gives a small nod.
“Everything’s in order. The home study cleared last month, the background checks are complete, guardianship papers from the state are signed off. We’re just here to execute the consent forms, witness the affidavits, and file with the court. Should be straightforward.”
Hiromi clears his throat and slides the first document toward Satoru.
“If you’ll both review and sign where highlighted. Megumi—” He softens his tone, addressing the boy directly. “You don’t have to sign anything today. But the court will want to speak with you next week. Just to make sure this is what you want.”
Megumi looks up at him, then at you, then at Satoru.
“I want to stay,” he says quietly, looking down like he doesn’t want to admit it.
“Yeah,” Satoru says. “We want that too, kid.”
You squeeze Megumi’s hand. He squeezes back.
Hiromi nods once, expression unreadable, and passes you the next set of papers.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of legalese and signatures. Satoru signs with his usual flourish. You sign with careful, deliberate strokes. Megumi watches everything with wide eyes.
When the last page is done, Hiromi gathers the documents and stands.
“I’ll file these this afternoon,” he says. “You should receive confirmation from the court within ten business days. Congratulations.”
He hesitates, then looks at you again.
“It’s good to see you again,” he says quietly.
You press your lips into a thin smile and bid him farewell. Then Hiromi is gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Satoru exhales, then pushes his own chair back, rising.
“So,” he says, grin sliding back into place. “Ice cream to celebrate? Or straight to the arcade?”
Megumi rolls his eyes, but there’s a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.
“Ice cream first,” he decides.
You laugh, standing, scoping Megumi up from his seat beside you.
“Ice cream first,” you agree.
And the three of you walk out of the lawyer’s office together. As a family.
EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT
ok so i basically wrote the majority of this on a plane on my phone, i tried to fix most of the typos and stuff but i got lazy el oh el! ive been working on this for like more than a month so i rlyyyy hope u guys liked it :p this is also based on the song by zayne okay bye
when dadkuna gets the call that his son’s suspended for fighting at school
the call hits at 3:17 pm. the school number on the cracked screen of your phone. you swipe to answer before it can ring twice.
“hello?"
“mrs. ryomen? we need either you or your husband to come down to the office. your son was involved in a physical altercation. he’s suspended for three days pending further review. he’s waiting here now.”
you press two fingers to the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache bloom. “wha—okay. we’ll be there in twenty.”
sukuna’s in the garage, hunched over the old harley he’s been rebuilding for months. black tank clinging to his back from the heat, grease streaked across his forearms where his tattoos peek out. he doesn’t look up when you step into the open bay.
“hey kuna?” you softly call, “school called.”
he keeps wiping the carburetor with a shop rag. “what now.”
“he got into a fight and they’re suspending him. we have to go pick him up.”
the rag stops mid-motion. his jaw flexes once, visible even from the side. “he start it?”
“they didn’t say over the phone.”
“figures.” he tosses the rag onto the cluttered workbench. his tools scattered, half-empty beer can sweating beside a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “let’s go.”
the drive is quiet except for the sound of the truck and sukuna's knuckles white on the wheel. you know better than to fill the silence with platitudes. he hates that shit.
ren, your son, is slouched in one of the orange plastic chairs bolted to the wall outside the principal’s door. his split lip already swelling, fresh bruise blooming purple under his left eye, knuckles split and crusted. blood’s dried in a thin line down the front of his gray hoodie. he looks up when the door swings open, meets sukuna’s stare straight on. no ounce of apology in his eyes. just the same stubborn set to his mouth you’ve seen a thousand times in the mirror.
he was looking exactly like sukuna at that age in the old photos you've seen.
not only does he look like his dad, he for sure got his temper too.
"you better have a damn good reason." sukuna stops in the doorway, boots planted. “what the fuck happened.”
“some kid wouldn’t shut up about mom,” ren says, “said shit i wasn’t about to let stand, so i handled it.”
ahhh fortunately for him, that's enough of an excuse to sukuna.
you feel sukuna’s temper rise and you just sigh knowing he’ll most likely tolerate this behavior again. you move first, moving pass them into the principal’s office ready to get this over with so you can have a talk with your son properly.
the principal’s a nervous-looking guy in a polyester suit two sizes too big. he looks ridiculous, you and sukuna once had a good laugh talking about him. he stands when you enter. sukuna follows, shoulders filling the narrow doorway. he doesn’t sit. just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, tattoos catching the harsh overhead light.
he clears his throat twice. “mr. and mrs. ryomen thank you for coming so quickly.”
sukuna stays silent as the principal fidgets with a pen.
“your son initiated the physical contact,” he starts. “the other student sustained a mild concussion. we’re recommending–”
“he said something about my wife,” sukuna interrupts. "that true or what?"
the principal lets out a nervous chuckle. “be that as it may, we maintain a zero-tolerance policy toward violence–”
sukuna’s voice cuts in again, “say that part again. what exactly did the other kid say about her?”
the room goes still, you don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or proud that both your husband and son are standing up for you like this. ren shifts his weight, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
“called her a gold digger,” ren says. “said she only married you for the cash and that you’re just some ex-con tattoo artist who knocked her up... that pissed me off."
sukuna’s gaze flicks to you for half a heartbeat. you shake your head the smallest amount—no. he exhales loudly, the frustration in him growing more.
“so my kid put his hands on a loudmouth who was talking shit about his mother,” sukuna says. “and you’re punishing him for it.”
“school policy is clear—”
“your policy’s obviously shit.” sukuna pushes off the wall. “you let these kids talk whatever trash they want all day, but the minute someone actually responds, you clutch your pearls?”
“mr. ryomen, i’m going to have to ask you to—”
you can't stand this.
“me and my husband understand the suspension. we’ll take him home. do we need to sign anything?”
the principal hesitates, then slides the forms across the desk. you sign quick while sukuna keeps staring at the motivational poster on the wall like he’s imagining putting a fist through it.
the parking lot’s baking under the late-afternoon sun, shadows stretch long and jagged from the chain-link fence and the row of staff cars, a couple seagulls wheel overhead, crying once before banking toward the football field. the truck chirps twice when sukuna thumbs the fob, the doors unlock with that familiar pop.
sukuna's ready to hear whatever lecture you have to give this time.
“backseat, ren,” you say flatly.
he doesn’t argue. he ducks his head and slides into the back without a sound. the leather creaks under your guys weight as sukuna fires the engine.
“you don’t get to decide what’s worth fighting over at school,” you start. “i don’t care what he said about me. you don’t put your hands on someone because words hurt your feelings. that’s not how this works.”
ren stares down at the rubber floor mat.
“you’re grounded. two weeks. no phone, no going out, no friends over. you come straight home after school when the suspension’s up. you do your work, you help around the house, and you think about why throwing punches isn’t a solution. clear?”
ren nods once, slow. “yeah.”
“say it.”
he lifts his eyes just enough to meet yours in the rearview. “it’s clear. i’m grounded two weeks. no phone, no nothing.”
you hold his gaze another second, then turn back forward. “good.”
the rest of the drive unspools in thick silence. traffic thins as you leave the school zone, the sun dipping low enough that the dashboard glows faintly orange. you keep your eyes on the road, fingers laced loosely in your lap, while sukuna’s grip on the wheel stays steady but no longer bone-white.
when the truck finally rolls into the driveway, sukuna kills the engine with a twist of the key. the sudden quiet is awkward.
you unbuckle first, turning halfway in your seat. “i’m starting dinner. kuna,” you pause facing your husband, “talk to him.”
sukuna exhales through his nose when you enter the house. he reaches over and twists the key back just enough to kill the accessory power, plunging the cabin into near-darkness except for the faint streetlight spilling through the windshield.
ren’s voice comes out low, a little nervous now that it's just his dad with him, “you mad at me?”
sukuna laughs in response. “mad?” he echoes. “nah, not mad. you did what you had to do.”
"wait really??"
“kid talked shit about your mom,” sukuna continues, “you handled it. part of me gets that—hell, most of me does. but your mother just laid it out plain, she's right, you don’t swing first at school. not because defending family is wrong. because getting caught makes it useless. next time you decide something’s worth handling, make sure no one sees. or better yet, walk away and deal with it where cameras don’t reach and mouths don’t run to teachers.”
ren nods slowly, throat working like he’s swallowing everything he wants to say. “she’s pissed.”
“she’s pissed because she doesn’t want you turning into me at sixteen.” sukuna finally flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, meeting ren’s gaze head-on. “look just take the grounding, do the time, don’t argue with her. she’ll cool off faster that way.”
ren rubs his jaw, careful around the swelling bruise. “yeah… okay. i get it, thanks dad.”
sukuna pops his door open, the dome light flooding the cab with weak yellow. “come on. go help her with whatever she’s doing in there and ice that face before it swells completely shut.”
ren climbs out first, shoulders hunched a little like the weight of the day is still sitting on them. sukuna follows a second later, pocketing the keys as he exhales once more.
later that night when the house quiets down, ren’s already shut himself in his room, lights off early for once.
you and sukuna are both in bed too.
sukuna’s sprawled face-down on the mattress, shirt gone, the wide map of his back exposed.
he groans low when you climb onto the bed behind him, knees bracketing his hips. your hands settle between his shoulder blades first, thumbs digging slow circles into the knots that live there permanently.
“fuck—right there,” he mutters into the pillow.
massaging him is one of the routines you guys do before sleeping, sukuna claims it completes his day no matter how shitty it went.
you keep the pressure steady, working down the length of his spine. the room smells faintly of his soap and the arnica gel you rubbed into ren’s face earlier.
after a minute you lean forward, hair brushing his shoulder.
“sooo you two talk in the truck?”
“yeah.”
your palms slide up to his traps, kneading deeper. “and???”
“told him he did good putting the kid in his place.” sukuna shifts his head to the side so he can talk properly. “but that he can’t be dumb about it next time. school cameras, witnesses, snitches—whole system’s built to catch the guy who actually swings. told him if he’s gonna handle shit, handle it clean. or don’t handle it at all.”
you pause for half a second, glaring at him. “so you basically told him it’s fine to fight… just don’t get caught.”
he snorts. “i told him reality ain’t the same as the lecture you gave. sweetheart, you want him safe and i want him smart. both can be true.”
your hands start moving again, tracing the ridges of muscle along his ribs. “you’re enabling him.”
“i’m not telling him to start fights.” sukuna turns his head the other way, cheek pressed flat to the pillow so he can see you out of the corner of his eye. “i’m telling him the world doesn’t run on zero-tolerance posters. kid talks about you like that again? someone’s gonna feel it. might as well be someone who knows how to throw properly. i just don’t want him suspended every other week or expelled before he graduates.”
you press your thumbs into the base of his skull, he hisses softly, sounding pleased.
“he looks so much like you in those old pictures now,” you say quieter.
“he’s got your eyes though. softer when he’s not pissed. he’ll figure it out.”
you lean down, lips touching the warm skin behind his ear. “you really not mad at him?”
“nah.” his voice drops lower. “‘m feeling proud. some punk runs his mouth about my wife and my kid lays him out without blinking? that’s blood. that’s mine.” he exhales again. “but i hate seeing his face fucked up. hate even more that he’s gonna carry my reputation around like a target. they already look at him sideways because of me.”
your hands slide down his arms now, working the tension out of his forearms, the same ones that were covered in grease earlier. “he’s not you at sixteen. he’s got us. both of us.”
sukuna turns over suddenly. quick enough that you have to brace on his chest to keep balance. he catches your wrists and tugs you down until you’re half sprawled across him. his eyes flick over your face, looking tired.
“c’mere,” he mutters, already reaching. "didn't i just get lucky?"
his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers curling into your hair just enough to guide you down. he pulls you in like it’s the most natural thing after a day like this.
the kiss lands soft, lips pressing slow against yours. you taste the faint mint from the gum he was chewing earlier, mixed with whatever’s left of the day on his breath. his other arm loops around your lower back, palm flat and heavy, dragging you closer until there’s no space left.
your chest against his, heartbeat thumping steady under your hand.
he angles his head to deepen the kiss. tongue brushes yours lazily like he’s savoring it, you feel his fingers tighten slightly in your hair before loosening again.
you pull back after a minute, just enough to breathe. noses still touching, foreheads pressed.
he doesn’t open his eyes right away. just stays close, breathing you in.
“better?” you whisper.
“mm yeah.”
his thumb strokes along your jaw then he leans up and kisses you again. it's shorter this time like he’s saying shut up and stay here. lips linger a second longer before he drops his head back to the pillow with a tired exhale.
arms stay wrapped around you, one hand settling low on your back, the other still loosely in your hair.
“stop thinking about it, kay? he’ll be alright,” he says eventually. “yer a great mom and 'm trying not to screw up too. he got time to fuck up and figure it out. more than i ever did.”
A/N: genuinely. what is this. art by _avecot on x. also vote
