Summary: Working as Wasuke Itadori's personal assistant wasn't all that bad. You got paid well, the hours were reasonable, he wasn't a complete asshole like most CEO's were. But there was a catch, and it came in the form of his charismatic son that trouble always seemed to follow. Or maybe he was the problem?
Just don't say you weren't warned about him.
genre: modern au, 18+, forbidden romance (?), smut, angst, fluff, crack & all that good stuff
warnings: explicit smut, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of drug and alcohol use, profanity, mentions of blood and violence, attempted violence towards reader, sukuna brought a knife to the function (non sexual), explicit smut, cunnilingus, marathon sex, rough sex, overstimulation, mentions of whipping, degradation, creampie, spit kink, a couple threats here and there, use of sex toys, narcissistic parental abuse, terminal illness, death/loss of a parent, slight mention of body obsession, toxic family dynamics, masochism, slightly toxic relationship
wc: 89.5k (on going)
Ko-fi link if you're feeling generous and wanted to show extra support ❤️
playlist
prologue
one: menace
two: attack dog
three: casino royale part one
four: casino royale part two
five: never again
six: i like the way you kiss me
seven: tamed
eight: failed attempts
nine: the only gift
ten: new year, same man
eleven: slow dancing in a burning room
twelve: make it work
thirteen: the sun part one
fourteen: the sun part two
fifteen: i can save us
sixteen: sweet little lies
seventeen: ceaseless
eighteen: that’s slander!
nineteen: surrender
twenty: passing the torch
head canons
mini dive on sukuna & readers relationship (ch. 16+)
notes: i will be doing a taglist for the first chapter of this cute lil romance story! so lmk if you'd like to be added to that <3 it should be coming out sometime within the next month
synopsis: sukuna likes to think that you’ve changed him for the better— his friends and family agree. he’s calmer, less eager to fight. change comes easy when you have a girlfriend at home that’ll tell you to shut the fuck up if you sneeze too many times in a row.
cw: toxic relationships, smut, rom-com(ish), sukuna is constantly fucking around and finding out, he likes where he's at tho, even when reader hits him with a car, oral (m receiving), mating press
notes: 5.6k w/c. commission for the lovely @plsstopsworld i hope u likey <3
Sukuna was convinced that you found joy in terrorizing him.
Do not tell him that he could just simply leave, either— there’s no point. He’ll just go back to you in the end. He always does, that’s the unfortunate part of being in love with you. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’s his karma for all the crazy, borderline illegal shit he’s done. He was allowed love, but it came at a cost— a girlfriend who had the ability to make his heart race with fear. Sometimes it gets him hard, sometimes it doesn’t. He doesn’t have much control over it.
He doesn’t have control over much, really.
But like he said, he loves you. You are very lovely to be around most of the time, so it makes up for all of your less lovely qualities. It’s not like he has to deal with them much anyway, at least not since you’ve forbidden him from speaking in the first hour you’re awake. If you think about it, he has some control there since there’s always the option to poke the bear, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he chooses peace.
Sukuna likes to think that you’ve changed him for the better— his friends and family agree. He’s calmer, less eager to fight. The man who once thrived in chaos now looks forward to the small moments of stillness life has to offer, often he goes out seeking for it. He’s more patient, has more control over himself.
Many people ask him how he did it, and he just shrugs. “Gettin’ old I guess,” he’ll sometimes tell people.
Truth is, he’d rather die than admit that change comes easy when you have a girlfriend at home who tells you to shut the fuck up if you sneeze too many times in a row. He doesn’t need them thinking that’s another thing he’s not allowed to do. He is. You’ll even say bless you the first time he does it, you just get annoyed after the third one. It’s like Regina George and Satan had a baby when you’re annoyed, so he’s learned not to annoy you.
Crazy definitely has a look to it, like the eyes or something, but not always. Sometimes you find out the hard way, like Sukuna did, who, at a very ignorant time in his life, didn’t want to do dishes. He thought reminding you of who pays the most in rent and utilities would get him out of it. Instead, he found out that you had a kill switch for the part of your brain that feels empathy.
He slept on the couch that night, which was pointless because you committed to turning on the fire alarm every time he managed to fall asleep. Then he went out and bought a dishwasher the next morning, since he was going to be the one doing dishes for the next three months. He also had to buy a new set of dishes since there weren’t any to actually load the dishwasher with. You broke them all, save for the one you hurled at his head. You have great aim, by the way. He almost didn’t catch it.
That wasn’t the end of his day, though. The flower shop was supposed to be his last stop, but then he remembered you said something about feeling sorry for his mother, and thank god for Jin because she would’ve gone through labor for nothing, and thank god for Jin again because every parent needs at least one kid to be proud of, so he went ahead and bought his mother some flowers, too.
Then he finally went home. Getting the cold shoulder was expected and well deserved. So you could only imagine how unsettling it was when you smiled and welcomed him back home as if nothing ever happened. To this day, he doubts he needed to bring home any flowers.
It’d be nice to say that was the one and only time he’s ever fucked around and found out with you, but he’s not perfect. He still isn’t. The slip ups are rare, but they still happen, and he still never knows how you’ll react— sometimes it’s instant, you’ll blow up right then and there, then get over it an hour later. Other times it’s delayed, and you’ll shell out weeks' worth of time and effort purely for your entertainment.
Like when he got off work on a random Tuesday and spent half an hour walking around the parking garage, all pissed off because he couldn’t find his car. He thought some asshole stole it, filed a police report, and everything. Only to find out that you hid it in some random parking garage in some town a couple of hours away, and spent two entire months acting shocked about it despite shelling out $300 each month for the parking permit.
There was also the time he showed up to work on a Monday and learned that he had sent his boss a particularly nasty resignation email over the weekend. He got his job back, but it took a good amount of convincing since his boss didn’t believe that you’d do something like that. Sometimes he thinks about what would’ve happened if he couldn’t get his job back— you probably would’ve pushed him out of the house the very next day to look for a new one, since you refused to take on any more bills after that first fight.
He was convinced that was it. That your spite had reached its fullest potential when you fucked with his job, a.k.a both of your livelihoods, and it’ll surely make everything else after look like child’s play. He couldn't come up with anything worse than that, and it was a direct result of his limited creativity. There’s always room for improvement. You can alwaysbe worse.
You proved that when you hit him with his car.
All he was trying to do was stop you from leaving after an argument, and chose not to believe that you’d hit him if he didn’t move. Why would he? It’s not like he cheated on you. He never lied to you. He thought you were only saying that because you wanted to make him feel bad for yelling at you— that wasn’t a good enough reason to hit someone with a car. Especially when he didn’t even curse!
He had a little more faith in you than that.
Let’s say you did try, it'd probably just be a small tap. Your love may be questionable at times, but it was there, and you don’t want to send the person you love flying across the street. You care about him. The most you’d do is take your foot off the brake so your car could give him a little warning bump.
Then the smell of burning rubber hits his nose.
You stepped on the gas so god damn hard that the tires needed a second to gain traction.
Sukuna is 6 '4, a whopping 250 lbs of pure muscle. The sound of his tires screeching into the air before taking off made his life flash before his eyes. Despite being worried for a moment there, he was physically fine.
Spiritually, however? Not very good. You made it a personal goal to knock the fucking Mario coins out of him and then watched him get up on his own right after, absolutely distraught and barking about how he couldn’t believe you just did that to him.
He’s so pissed he doesn’t even realize you turned back around instead of leaving like you said you would.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHO DOES SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!”
It’s hard to take him seriously when he’s like this— so far past the point of shock that he’s outraged, yelling as if he wanted God to truly grasp how bad of a day he’s having.
You’re still in the car, hand on the steering wheel, casually scanning over his burly frame for any bruising. “I told you to move three separate times.”
“SO YOU TRIED TO MURDER ME? I COULD’VE FUCKING DIED.”
“I wasn’t trying to murder you, Sukuna.” The accusation sounds ridiculous when you repeat it. Sure, you would’ve understood and agreed if it had come from someone else, but not Sukuna. He’s practically bulletproof with how quick he can bounce back. You wouldn’t have hit him if he wasn’t. “You’re fine, aren't you?”
“THAT DOESN’T CHANGE THE FACT THAT YOU JUST HIT ME WITH MY OWN CAR, YOU FUCKING SLUT.”
“This wouldn’t be an issue if you had just moved.” It’s simple, but the way you laughed while saying it just made you sound cruel. You weren’t trying to make fun of him— you just don’t know what he expected after you told him exactlywhat would happen if he didn’t step aside.
Sukuna should’ve taken his time getting back on his feet because you did not deserve reassurance in knowing what you did was technically okay. In fact, he shouldn’t have gotten up at all— you wouldn’t be laughing then if you had to watch him getting hauled off in an ambulance.
But no, he got nothing. No broken bones or fractures. No concussions, not even dizziness. Not even a scratch. He was alive and well, and that in itself only enabled your behavior. It pissed him off knowing there was nothing for you to see and feel guilt from as a result.
Instead, he received the complete opposite from you: Lust.
You took one good look at him later that night in the living room and went from thinking “who cares, he’s fine,” to something fucking crazy and along the lines of, “holy shit, getting hit by a car is nothing for him.” You didn’t even apologize— you just went straight to talking to him like he was some random chick at the bar.
Sukuna naturally thought that getting hit by a car would be a one-time thing. But your sudden shift in perspective made him realize that there’s nothing stopping you from doing it again if you wanted— he was done for, yet it wouldn’t be much of a surprise coming from you.
“What about your ribs?”
“Dunno. M’sure they’re fine.”
Your hands were already bunching up the bottom of his t-shirt, and like an idiot, he was allowing it, raising his arms so you could strip him down and pretend to “look” for bruises. You could’ve tried a little harder. Instead, you’re shamelessly running your fingers down the lines of his abs with some unhinged and sexually explicit thought running through your head.
“Evil whore.”
“What?”
Well fuck. He didn’t mean to say that outloud. No use in backtracking now, though.
“You heard me,” he grumbles, looking away. “Hope you’re happy with yourself.”
“Oh no— never.” It’s not very convincing when you’re running your hand down his skin. “You sure you’re not in any pain?”
“Nope,” he boredly says.
“Good.” You try not to smile at how butthurt he sounds. “....Was there something you wanted to say?”
“Nope.” He repeats himself.
“You sure? You seem kinda pent up.”
“Positive.”
“Mad maybe?” You hummed as your fingers reached his waistband, tracing along the elastic.
He laughed in disbelief. “Now what could I possibly be mad about?”
The sarcasm easily slipped out. He was still pissed, rightfully so, throwing a miniature fit in the way he does best. By being condescending.
His laugh was met with a lighthearted shrug. “Well… at first I thought it was because I hit you. But I did tell you exactly what I’d do if you didn’t move, so I guess there is no reason to be mad.”
“Sure.” He continued to smile despite his tone flattening. “Even though you don’t actually need a reason to not hit someone.”
As if he wasn’t already annoyed, you decided to send him over the edge with a contemplative hum, as if it’d ever be up for debate. “I guess. A snake doesn’t need a reason to bite you either, but you still wouldn’t count on not getting bit because of some principle.”
He takes a deep breath in an attempt to push down his frustration. You are really testing him right now with that smart ass mouth of yours. “Yeah, but are you a wild animal?”
“Nope,” you smile, snapping the waistband of his boxer against his skin. “Wild animals don’t give you verbal warnings.”
“How kind of you,” he mutters, tone laced with sarcasm. “I’ll make sure to remember that next time you threaten to hit me.”
“Smart. It probably won’t happen again, though.”
He deadpans and stares off into space for a moment over how bleak and underpromising you made the statement sound. “...You say probably as if you don’t have control over the vehicle?”
“I mean, I do… but—”
“There is no ‘but’, that’s a fact,” he stutters out of frustration as he begins to argue. “You put it in drive and smashed your foot on the gas pedal.”
“So you are mad?” Your lips purse together, innocently drawing circles over his stomach.
His brows pinch together, once again looking at you with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief. No shit he’s fucking mad, can still smell the rubber burning off his tires. You laughed at him once, and it is still haunting him. “Wouldn’t you be mad?”
“I don’t stand in front of the cars, so I wouldn’t know,” you shrug, pretending to be blind to his bubbling frustration.
He steps back and runs his hand down his face, fighting off the urge to gouge his eyes out. He knows exactly what you’re doing right now, and the answer’s no. You’re raigebaiting your way into getting dick. You don’t deserve it— plain and simple. There was no way in hell he was going to reward today’s behavior.
“That’s not the point. You don’t hit people with cars just because you can.” You’re lucky he’s even letting you touch him right now— you should be in jail. He leans in and taps his temple, eyes zeroing in on you. “How is that not getting through your head— it’s fucking wrong.”
“I know it’s wrong, I never said it wasn’t.” You tap at your temple the same exact way he did, and spell the next words out nice and slow. “That’s why you should move so it doesn’t happen.”
“I’m your BOYFRIEND,” he finally snaps, forgetting that’s what got him in this predicament to begin with. “I TAKE CARE OF YOU AND YOU SENT ME FLYING ACROSS THE STREET GOD DAMN IT.”
He wasn’t sent flying across the street, the reason for that being directly tied to how heavy he is. Not that you tell him that, the idea of you being the reason behind that is already tearing him apart enough. He’s also most likely embarrassed at those 2 seconds his feet were off the ground. Those must’ve been the longest 2 seconds of his life, given how he doesn’t get his world rocked too often.
“Alright, fine. I’m sorry–”
“FOR?”
Definitely embarrassed. You find yourself having to keep yourself from looking annoyed at the thought of him dragging out as big of an apology as he can from you for the sake of his bruised ego.
You close your eyes and sigh in preparation. “For thinking it was okay to hit you with a car when it shouldn’t even be a consideration in the first place.” His arms are crossed as he soaks up each and every word. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had a mental list of points that needed to be brought up to make the apology valid. “It should’ve been off limits. You deserve to have peace in knowing our arguments won’t end with you getting struck down like a bowling pin.”
His face drops as he watches you needing to look away to keep yourself from laughing. “Seriously?”
“Sorry,” you clear your throat.
“Tch– I don’t believe you anymore,” he grumbles.
“No! I’m being serious,” you swear, grabbing his arm with both hands as you try to get him to look at you. “I really am sorry.”
He takes one look at you and feels nothing but reluctance. “And you’re never gonna pull that shit again, right?”
“Mhm.” You nod your head, knowing you don’t actually know the answer to that. It doesn't do much in terms of setting him straight— all it did was make him more dramatic, but it was satisfying. You can’t see it happening again in the foreseeable future, but you can see yourself randomly remembering how durable he is after you two have forgotten this incident, and doing it again. You place your hands on his chest as you part your lips to make a promise you don’t mind breaking. “That is not something you have to worry about from here on out.”
“Alright.”
There’s a certain satisfaction missing from his tone when he mutters the word, and you realize it’s not just your imagination when he pulls his arm away from your hold to cross both of them against his chest. You’re not sure what more he could want, but the contemplative look on his face tells you he’s thinking about it right now.
He got the apology he wanted and your word that you’ll never do it again, yet he can’t help but feel like it came too easily, and that you should’ve worked a little harder. He’s pushing his luck again, he knows, buuut maybe today’s one of the days where he can get away with that. Sukuna just doesn’t exactly know what he wants.
Did he want to grill you some more, get some revenge over the new (and traumatic) memory you gave him? Or did he want to rid himself of some of his pent up tension that you pointed out? Fuck, then that’d mean his punishment for you would end before you even knew about it. He wanted to see your face after being told no.
Decisions, decisions.
Well he could also have you—
“Kay’,” you break him out of his thoughts, the satisfaction missing in his tone is crystal clear in yours. “I’m gonna go wash my face now.”
Whoa, hold on a minute?! It’s only been a few seconds, you see him thinking.
“No. Stay,” he murmurs.
There was a part of him that was hesitant about that working— there was a chance you’d slap the shit out of him for ordering you around like a dog. Seeing you murmur a little ‘ok’ and actually staying was a pleasant surprise, and confirmation that he could push it a little today. The only thing missing was some sort of regret or guilt on your face. It’s more like you’re just listening to him because you figured he deserved it for once with how bored you look.
Whatever. He’ll take what he can get.
He sighs. “The apology was nice and all, but I think you’re gonna have to prove how sorry you are with this one.”
You look at him like he’s a clown and huff out a laugh. “You want me to prove how sorry I am?”
“Mhm. You don’t have to, though,” he shrugs, voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Just figured you’d like the option since it’s either that, or wait until I actually forgive you to get fucked.”
He nearly laughs at the way that instantly wipes the smile off your face. It’s not often he tells you no— it shows in the way you struggle to come up with an answer. Not because you're speechless, you’re just trying to figure out what can be said to change his mind.
“So it’s either I beg for forgiveness or get punished because you can’t accept my apology?” You force out a small laugh, the regret that Sukuna’s been looking for finally peeking through in your voice. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You and me both, princess,” he says in amusement. “It’s a good thing you don’t need to beg when you’re trying to prove something. I wouldn’t call it a punishment either. It’s more like a boundary— had to set one with you since I don’t really like you right now.”
You scoff as you watch him start to walk away. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Your failed attempt at guilting Sukuna pulls an airy, satisfied laugh out of him as he walks back to the bedroom. “The choice is yours, sweetheart. You know what to do if you decide to go with the first option.”
—
At first, you’re disgusted and refuse to prove how sorry you are. If he didn’t want to accept your original apology, then that was his problem. He can have fun fucking his fist for all you care. You looked at the bright side of things— you got to have a quiet evening since he decided to stay in the room the entire time, save for when he came out to eat dinner.
He had the audacity to ask if he could have some of the food you cooked, but that’s how he found out you had decided to retaliate by giving him the silent treatment. It didn’t come as a surprise, nor did it make him question his decisions. If anything, he was quite pleased with how bothered you were. That just meant you’d reach a point where you’d fold and come to him.
He just had to wait, guessing it’d take around 5-6 days until you grow tired of throwing a silent tantrum and start to miss him.
It took 2.
Now you see why he doesn’t bother leaving? Dealing with you can be a nightmare sometimes, but that was only 10% of it. The rest of it was smothering him with affection, which you clearly love to do and miss if you’re sitting at the edge of the bed 2 days later.
His back’s against the headboard, arms folded over his chest, looking a little too pleased to see you break your silence.
“Missed me?”
“Please don’t tease me right now,” you murmur, clearly struggling with the defeat.
“I’m not,” he hums, though the laugh he had to suppress said otherwise. “Anyways, what's up?”
You question your decision each time he opens his mouth. He’s making this so much harder than it should be right now and enjoying it way too much while he’s at it.
You pick at your cuticles at the other end of the bed— the lack of eye contact you’ve made with him leads him to believe you’re more nervous than you let on. He’s wrong. It’s a little hard trying to mask your annoyance at the moment, and cowering in place does a decent job of hiding it.
“I thought about what you said.”
“Yeah?” The smug grin across his cheeks grows.
“Yeah. I’m tired of fighting,” you look up and say, crossing a leg over the other. “I miss how we normally are.”
“Me too,” he hums, already undressing you with his eyes because he’s a fucking pervert. “Glad it didn’t take too long either, missed hearing your voice.”
You nod, holding back a smile. “Not really sure what you’re looking for, though.”
“Nothing crazy,” he hums, the shrug he followed it with wasn’t too convincing. “All you gotta do is be nice to me— extra nice.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” he confirms, sinking back some more against the headboard. “You know how to be a good girl, I’ve seen it. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
“No,” you softly say.
“Let me see it then— come here,” he hums, curling his finger in to beckon you closer. You start to stand, but he stops you. “Crawl.”
And crawling, at least right now, doesn’t feel very degrading. It’s the way he looks at you when you do, you’ve never wanted to smack him more. Once you’re kneeling beside him, he reaches over and slowly runs the back of his finger across your jaw.
“So you miss how we normally are, huh?” The broad question gets a nod from you, already knowing where he was going with this. “You’re normally pretty touchy— you miss that, too? Getting to touch me whenever you want?”
“Mhm.”
His finger traces down the side of your neck and across your shoulder, making your breath catch.
“Bet you miss having your mouth on me too, huh?”
You give a soft smile when his hand traces back up, cupping your cheek. “Yeah.”
“Think I might just miss that more,” he slips his thumb into your mouth, lightly pressing down on your tongue. “You know how much I love stuffing my cock in here.”
You still out of surprise. That’s what he wanted? Head? What an idiot, he could’ve just said that instead of making it seem like getting his forgiveness was some sinister task.
“Is that what you want?” you ask when his thumb pulls back.
“Mhm,” he smiles. “Look at you. I didn’t even have to ask.”
He continued to be stubborn, making you be the one to pull his sweatpants down by his waistband. You didn’t mind all that much. He may be a little shit, but it’s easy to wave it off when you're freeing his cock from his boxers. Just looking at it, how long and thick it is, sends heat in between your legs. Littered with thick veins, big red tip already smeared with precum, throbbing, begging for attention.
“Spit on it, get it all wet,” he murmurs, lids lowering at the sight of the thick string of saliva falling from your lips and landing on the thick head of his cock. “Yeahh— you know what I like.”
The sight’s filthy from the start when it’s just him telling you to spit on it some more, and more, and more. The entire time, there’s a slight pinch in his brow as he spreads it all from base to tip in a way that was slow and controlled, and hard to ignore. By the time the wet sounds of him stroking his cock could be heard, you were desperately squeezing your thighs together.
Watching his hand slow to a stop was a shame at first, but what followed took over your mind completely.
“Stick that tongue out for me— yeah that’s it, let me see it,” he murmurs, cock throbbing in his grip as he starts to tap the heavy tip of it against your tongue, hearing the weight of it behind each one. “Ready to put this pretty little mouth to work?”
“Yeah,” you murmur all sweetly, already in a daze.
“Good,” he chuckles. “Swirl your tongue around it.”
He watches you lean forward and do just that. Biting the bottom of his lip as you slowly drag your tongue all around his swollen head, salty remnants of precum hitting your taste buds with each flick and drag. Sukuna groans, abs tensing at your fingers digging into his thighs.
“Fuuck yeah.” He moves some of your hair out of the way to get a better look. “Suck on it for me, the tip— shit, just like that.”
As much as he loved the idea of making you beg, you really won’t ever have to. Watching you hollow your cheeks and pull away with a wet pop was enough. He rubs on the back of your neck as you do it again. “Feels fuckin good when you do that— so sweet with it, too.”
A soft hum passes through your lips, pulling back with another pop. He had plans to drag this out, but grows impatient at the sight of your glossy lips and the string of saliva connecting them to his head. His hand slightly tightens on the back of your neck and pushes you in closer, rubbing his tip over your lips.
“Open up,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he watches your lips part. “Go deeper. Show me how sorry you are.”
You feel both his hands go to the back of your head as you wrap your lips around his tip, gently bobbing your head as you inch further and further down his length, beginning to breathe through your nose the deeper you go.
His grip tightens as he starts hitting the back of your throat, throwing his head back with a gravelly, drawn out groan. For a minute, it felt like there was something missing, only for his ears to perk up just moments later when your nose hits his base with a small gag.
“There you go,” he huffs out a condescending laugh. At first he thinks to tell you to keep gagging on it, but then he has a better idea. “Open wide, princess. Gonna stretch this throat out.”
You pull up for air, revealing your teary eyes and wet lashes as you take a moment to breathe, and Sukuna thinks to himself how he’s never seen anyone so beautiful. Kinda like a Ursula in her human form type of beauty, given how much of a monster you are. Just cruel and evil.
He grins and pushes your head back down.
“Mmm, that’s it— relax it for me,” he says with a low rasp. “Gonna fuck this tight little throat of yours.”
Holding your head in place, he starts snapping his hips up, stuffing his fat cock down your throat with each thrust. Obscene slurping sounds mixed in with some of your moans fill the air as drool poured out of your mouth, making a mess around the base of his cock, earning his nasty praise. “Look at the mess you're making, you love this, huh? Such a good girl with my cock stuffed in your mouth. Keep it up and I might just stuff your pussy next.”
You make a sound, and it’s almost hopeful, as if you were asking, “Really?”
“Doesn’t that sound nice?” He thrusts up harder, enjoying the fact that you physically can’t talk right now. “Shit— m’gonna cum,” he murmurs through ragged breaths. “Look at you, did so good and now you get to have your throat filled.”
A low groan vibrates through his chest, swallowing thickly as he picks up the pace. Your nails dig into his thighs, hardly able to keep up and nearly drawing blood once you feel warm, thick spurts of cum begin to coat the back of your throat.
You’d think he’d be more spent with how hard he fucked your throat, but nope. The cocky, blissful sigh that slipped through his lips as you tried to get yourself together was all you needed to know.
He’s not the best when it comes to staying mad, at least with you. It’s pretty clear by now that this entire thing was just a ploy to make him feel more wanted, because he’s annoying. And pathetic.
Not that you get much time to simmer on the thought. It’s like you blink and suddenly you’re on your back, folded in half underneath him. Knees pinned to your chest, ankles up to your ears. Mentally, he’s gone. Too focused on rubbing the fat head of his cock against your hole, spreading your slick up and down your folds. Slow and intentional, enjoying the way you squirm in his hold.
That’s about the last of his patience, because seconds later, he’s bottoming out and you’re gasping from the sudden fullness.
“Fuckin’ tight,” he groans through a clenched jaw. His hips draw back, only pulling out halfway through before shoving himself back in with a resounding squelch. “Soaked, too. Is this what you wanted?”
“Y-yeah,” is all you could get out with all the weight he’s putting on you, keeping you locked down in the world’s meanest mating press.
“Two days is all this slutty pussy could take, huh?” He barely suppresses a laugh as he snaps his hips forward again, pulling another gasped moan out of you. “Better not start crying about how it’s too much then.”
It’s always too much, but this time he fucks you in a way where you can’t even get the words out. He just has you in straight up tears while he spends the next hour drilling into your sweet spot as if it were your punishment for making his life a living hell every few months.
While you spent your two days annoyed with him, he spent his saving enough energy to be able to pull back to back orgasms out of you like it was nothing. Going as far as taunting you when he felt you starting to tighten around his cock again, and then laughing after making you squirt once more after god knows how many times, talking about how, “that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
Fuck him.
You clearly didn’t hate him that much, though. Yeah, you did go radio silent a couple of times, and there may have been a moment where you truly thought you were going to pass out, but that didn’t stop you from begging him to cum inside of you in the end.
He may have also teased you at first, asking if you deserved it, forgetting his place for a moment there.
But you always get what you want.
Even in the end, when you’re cuddling, and he’s murmuring sweet words into your ear, not knowing what the hell he’s even talking about when he says how much of a sweet girl you are and how you were his sweet girl.
Sukuna gets nothing but a curt “shh” in response.
“What?” he snorts, still in a lovesick mood.
There's a smile when you sigh. “The sound of your voice is ruining it right now for me, baby. I need you to be quiet or get lost.”
it was an honest mistake. that’s what you keep telling yourself.
you could blame yourself just as much…but then again, how could sukuna have forgotten?
it was a long weekend, and by this time everyone had already boarded their planes, busses, trains, taxis, whatever, and headed to some trip for the next five days, the campus was practically deserted. your un-ideal friend group, shoko, utahime, her crush yuno, nanami, gojo, geto, and sukuna happened to stay that thrusday night.
either way, you all find yourselves at a high end club gojo had dragged your friends too — he’d heard a couple people from the sports teams were gonna be there since a friend managed to land a spot opening for the DJ.
“woah, the line is so long,” shoko grumbles lightening her cigarette as you all follow gojo in a single file line. sukuna and gojo were both wearing backwards baseball caps as geto leans towards shoko for a light.
“no problem no problem,” gojo waves you all to keep following.
your knee high boots hit the pavement with each step, heels clicking as the warm breeze brushes your black skirt. you instinctively move to keep it from lifting up, unaware of the line of men you’re passing against the wall. your fingers casually fix the spaghetti strap around your neck as you walk, keeping your risky black top from flashing anyone.
cold annoyance crosses a certain man’s face, his expression dropping as he clenches his jaw. you really have no idea how you come off to other people, sukuna tsks. he easily maneuvers himself to the inside of the street, purposely blocking the pervy mens view of you. one hand casually sliding to your exposed back — just a few flimsy ass strings keeping your shirt together — guiding you forward.
“have you ever been here before?” you ask, oblivious to what he’d done, but clearly irritated by how crowded this club is starting to look.
the frat boy clicks his tongue, “can’t remember. he’s taken us to a handful of em’ so I can’t tell the difference from the outside.”
once you reach the front of the line, gojo, as confident and privileged as ever, makes his way to the bouncer. you and the rest of the group stand ideally by, yuno and utahime are giggling, shoko and geto smoke with nanami waving it away, and sukuna’s thumb occasionally rubs your spine as you stand with your arms crossed, brushing your hair off your face every time the wind blows it. neither one of you bat a single eye at the people glaring at you on the line, or whispering, or pointing.
“this better not be some stinky cesspool,” shoko mutters, as utahime chimes in, all of you watch gojo closely as the bouncer calls someone out of the club.
you raise a brow as the man’s face lights up upon seeing gojo. the man embraces the snowy haired frat boy, just for him to say something in the man’s ear making him bark back with laughter. then he turn to you guys, pointing. and in seconds, you’re all inside, cutting the insane line that rounds the block. a few people curse out in anger, but none of you bat an eye as sukuna’s the last to step in, with his hand in front of him on your waist, keeping you in eye sight.
the club was as loud and chaotic as gojo had mentioned, and he definitely knew his way around. he slipped past the crowd like he belonged there, your wrists stamped, security nodding as you followed gojo up the stairs toward the VIP balconies. below, the dance floor churned, lights flashing, and bodies jumping in unison, while up here the air felt sharper, cooler.
“you’re welcome,” gojo cheered, allowing you all some breathing room as you packed in, grateful that you’re not squished down there, which is where you’d all be if it wasn’t for mr. daddy’s connections.
that’s how the night started. leaning over the railing, laughing too loud, drinks already being chugged down, watching the chaos from the perch. first was hime and yuno who went to down to dance, then gojo, who caught some girl’s eye, then shoko pushing nanami down, but the two just ended up chatting in the corner with some familiar friends. geto was flirting in the balcony over. and you were left with….
“how much are you gonna drink tonight?” sukuna husks in your ear, arm wrapped around the back of the booth, leaning in close.
your hand grazes his thigh, resting your head back on his toned arm, lashes batting up as you eye the sweaty flush that’s already dusted his cheeks. you can only guess you have the same look in your eyes as you gaze down at his lips. you fix your position, chest rising up, catching the way his red irises flick down to see your tits.
“until you tell me to stop,” you answer, devilish smile tugging at your lips. sukuna snorts licking his bottom lip, his arm that was wrapped around the back of the seat, curls around you, pressing his fingers to your jaw, tilting your face up. his breath fans against you, lidded gaze set on your eyes.
“yeah?” he husks.
you hum, chin tilting up, “yeah.”
is it the alcohol, or do you always look so precious? his heart beats a little quicker as you stare up at him, your pupils growing as your lips part with a gentle exhale. do you know how hot you look right now?
his head dips, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. neither of you bother with the crowded club, the base of the music thumping your hearts as he easily sets his drink aside, free hand now brushing your waist, the other curling up your throat, guiding your lips how he wants.
your tongues collide, hot breaths mixing as you deepen the kiss. your chest turning, and fingers curling around his nape. your drunk lips always become greedy. hopefully, it’s only ever been with him, he thinks.
he pulls away after a moment, panting against your lips as you heave quietly. his hand touches your exposed thigh, red iris’s flicking between yours with unspoken words. words that look like a blur in his mind when all he can see is the girl in front of him. the one twirling the short hair at his nape around her finger. the one that’s slowly getting him riled up after one hypnotizing kiss and look in her eyes. the same one that’s leaning up again, ghosting her lips over his—
“hey! no sex in the booths, come dance, losers!”
utahime huffs, reaching for the drink she left, grabbing yuno’s drink along with hers. gojo stumbles up to the balcony as well, downing another drink. “haha I put a song request in—“
“how?” utahime gasps, just for gojo to throw a casual shrug, because isn’t it obvious how?
“I have my ways,” is all he says, before he’s narrowing his eyes at sukuna, and the firm hand he has high on your thigh. “no fucking in the booths—“
“why does everyone keep saying that?” sukuna barks, followed by your hum as you stand up. what you weren’t expecting was utahime’s narrowed eyes and gojo’s knowing scoff.
he points at you both, “you two are the ones saying this relationship is JUST sex, that’s unless…?”
though slightly tipsy, utahime immediately catches the annoyance that crosses sukuna’s face, along with your subtle eye roll at gojo’s obviously subtle accusation. you two are unbelievable, she thinks. her heart beats a little quicker when she notices sukuna’s eyes flick over you when you reach for your glass. his gaze settling on your ass, then your face. she seriously can’t tell what’s going on between you guys anymore. it gets more and more confusing by the day, and it’s like you both are actively avoiding a fire that you’re both flaming.
“come dance with me a bit!” utahime grabs your wrist before you can argue.
“woah, hime,” you stumble slightly, but catch yourself. you miss the slight flinch in sukuna’s movement at your little stumble, but gojo doesn’t. his brow raising at his friend, just for the tatted man to tsk, “what?” he snaps, chugging his drink.
the club was much livelier on the main level. the balcony though more bearable, was disconnected from the youthful fun that’s pumping through your veins now. especially with your friends jumping beside you. gojo had maneuvered his way over, nudging yuno in utahime’s direction. neither of them realizing that without utahime, you were now much more vulnerable…
geto was flirting with two women he’d brought up to their vip section, while sukuna watched from the railing, his eyes narrow the second he finally sees utahime leave you. my turn.
he chugs his drink, hissing at the burning sting, and quickly heads down, unaware of the crowd that started swallowing you up. by the time he’d reached you, the bass had thickened, the floor vibrating under his boots, and the space around you had changed.
men he did and did not recognize lingered too close, their eyes tracking the sway of your hips, the careless bounce of your skirt as you laughed at something someone said. you were loose in that way you only ever got with your friends, shoulders relaxed, head tipped back, guard completely down. sukuna felt a dark pit swirl in his chest.
you didn’t even notice how the circle around you had tightened, how utahime’s absence left a gap no one respectable bothered to fill. and that was the problem—you trusted the room because you thought you weren’t alone.
he slowed just enough to take it in, jaw tightening as blood sizzled hot beneath his skin. it wasn’t just the stares, it was how easy you made it look, how effortlessly you stood in the crowd, how you smiled without thinking who it was for. his presence cut through the crowd before he even touched you, knocking into shoulders aggressively until they began parting like water. especially when he caught the eyes of a few familiar frat brothers.
people stared. watching the man with face tattoos shove through the crowd, until his hand finally touches your waist, firm and unmistakable, it wasn’t gentle. it was a reminder. his.
the men watching noticed immediately. you did too. your breath hitched as you turned, surprise melting into something softer when you saw him. sukuna leaned in close, mouth near your ear, eyes still sharp and daring anyone to test him. “i take my eyes off you for two minutes,” he murmurs, low and dangerous, “and the whole room forgets how to behave.”
your lips part in mild shock, cheeks heating as you lean your back into his chest. “you were staring at me?” your light tease elects a squeeze to your waist, the music getting you to sway your hips back into him.
“are you surprised?” he husks, keeping your body pressed to his.
you smile to yourself. you place your hand over the one he has on your waist, head tipping to nudge his face. your breaths mix, his body easily moving with yours and the beat. he wasn’t a dancer, he mainly lurked in the back, or poured drinks into womens open mouths. the most he’ll do on the dance floor is this, and it’s only because of how familiar his body has gotten to you.
“I’m surprised you want to dance,” your cool response earns a devilish glare from the man. your ass pressing against his crotch, feeling the hardness in seconds.
“feels more like somethin’ else,” he whispers in your ear, both hands digging into your hips, keeping your ass grinding against his growing bulge. “y’er getting excited after a few drinks?”
“I’m happy about the break,” you smile, turning in his arms, your hands sliding up his shoulders, before they wrap around his neck pulling him to your lips.
from an outsiders point of view, you looked like the description of a flirty couple. the intimacy of your close faces, words exchanged in whispers, hands wandering each other with familiarity.
but it wasn’t like that.
and a few of the guys in the crowd were from campus, and a couple were aware of the sexual relationship the vp of the frat and infamous hot headed captain of the soccer team had with this girl. rumors always spreading, dating/side-chick/stalker, but most ruled, at the end of the day, either of you are fair game.
however, the way sukuna glares at them over your shoulder, says otherwise.
“it’s a four day weekend. fat cry from a real ass break,” he corrects, but you shrug.
“even better,” you whisper, lips hovering his, your heels lifting off the sticky floor to stand higher, “means we can fuck all day, right?” his jaw clenches, heat crawling up his neck at your vulgar choice of words. “you’re not leavin’ for the break?”
“no,” he husks, the reply quick, earning him a wet kiss from you. he hums in satisfaction, parting his lips for you, just for you to exhale, warm breath entering his mouth.
“then I wanna fuck,” you sigh, “tonight. in the morning. the afternoon, when the sun sets—I wanna feel so full. so satisfied. that I’ll just die in limbo, until the break is over.”
holy…fuck.
his cock swells in seconds. your words flooding through his veins and chubbing up his nine thick inches. the veins around his arms and biceps strain. muscles flexing as he groans into your lips. sharp teeth flashing as he bites your bottom lip, hand firm as it dips over your ass, squeezing over your skirt.
“y’er fucking drunk,” he murmurs, voice dangerously low as you continue moving your hips to the beat, his thigh managing to slot between your legs as your lips part against his, gasp getting swallowed.
“do you not wanna fuck me, ryomen?”
he clicks his sharp tongue, eyes growing dark.
“woah—“ you let out a surprised gasp as he spins you around, pulling your hips back, back hitting his chest. his lips drop to your ear, confidently grinding his thick bulge against your ass, squeezing your waist. “grab your shit from the booth and I’ll call an uber.”
he pushes you forward after a mean kiss, hand slapping your ass forward making you let out a little yelp. sukuna licks his teeth, possessive eyes tracking your figure as you quickly move through the crowd and up the stairs. your cute self glancing over your shoulder, catching the tatted man still staring at you just for him to shoot you a wink. dumbass, you think.
as you grab your purse, finishing your drink you’d previously left, sukuna was pushing past sweaty bodies, bumping into familiar faces, before an arm catches his shoulder.
“you leaving?” geto stumbles slightly, laughing as a girl clings to his other arm.
sukuna hums, eyes briefly flicking over his friend and his plaything, before he’s glancing down at his phone. sukuna barely hears the next words geto is saying, instead he manages to catch you heading to the exit, blood steaming at the sight of two men lurking behind you.
“fuck this,” sukuna barks under his breath. you’re not even looking over your fucking shoulder, he swears. his blood curdles as he looses sight, knocking people’s drinks as he shoves past the crowd.
you hadn’t even noticed the shadows that tracked your every step. your fingers once again fixing your risky top, balance off as you stumble on your heels again. your eyes widen, just for an arm to quickly catch your waist, keeping you from falling on your face.
“oh—shit,” you gasp, regaining your balance as you laugh awkwardly, eyes glancing up at the unfamiliar face. “thanks,” you give a tight-lipped smile, hand coming to the man’s arm to brush it off your waist, now that you’re standing. however your blood runs cold as you feel him squeeze the flesh. your heart dropping to your ass at the grip that tightens arounds you.
“heading out already, cutie?” the slimy voice sinks in your ear, making you flinch back with repulsion.
your eyes flash with anger—“dude what the fuck!—“
before you can blink, the man is suddenly hitting the ground, making you stumble just to feel another arm pull you back, “you’re unbelievable,” sukuna seethes, his possessive arm around your waist quickly pushes you to the exit.
“woah, I can’t walk that fast, man,” you stumble for the thousandth time that night, desperately fixing your shirt as it flows with your steps.
that’s when he snaps.
his muscles flex as he dips down, with such ease, the hand on your waist drops lower and lifts you off the ground with one muscular tatted arm.
“woah,” your eyes widen, holding his shoulder for balance as he keeps one arm free to shove people aside and slam out onto the street. your heart stutters, cheeks growing hotter as he walks a few paces down the street before dropping you on the pavement. “lol thanks,” you giggle, the alcohol in your system making you a little tipsy. however, sukuna just tsks, arm still around your waist as he keeps you close, fingers flicking through his phone just to see the uber pull up.
“c’mon,” he manhandles you the entire way, unbothered by your protests for him to stop pushing you. your eyes easily rolling as you try to shrug the hand pushing at your lower back as you crawl into the uber.
“ryomen,” you huff again, slapping his hand that’s at the hem of your skirt, unaware that he’s protecting your dignity since you’re practically flashing the entire street with your sheer lacey black panties.
sukuna bites his jaw, slipping behind to finally slam the door shut. once again, you’re fixing your top, shuffling beside him as the uber starts, your skirt bunched high up your thigh as sukuna’s eyes flick to the exposed flesh.
“we’re going to my place right?” you ask, brows furrow as you look around, “woah wait—where’s my purse—“
his hand moves it from his side to place it on your lap, your eyes widen momentarily, “thanks,” you fish for your phone, relaxing when you find it, glancing at the man as his gaze remains on your thighs, then to your fingers fiddling with your top, again.
“why’d you wear that if you’re gonna keep picking at it?” he huffs, blood quietly flowing under his skin, palm sliding on your knee, tracing the soft skin up your thigh.
“I haven’t worn it in a bit, so I completely forgot how easily it moves out of place,” you say, fixing it again, sukuna’s eyes darken just a bit when you slip your hand inside to fix your tits. “it makes my tittes look hot, right?”
his grip tightens on your thigh, leaning close to your ear, kissing the soft skin, “mmm, pretty sure that’s what everyone was thinking.” he mutters quietly, kissing your neck again, and again. his teeth sink into your neck, earning a quiet whimper from you before his warm tongue presses against the skin, reliving the pain.
he inhales your sweet scent, a mix of your coconut lavender oil that glistens over your exposed skin, and the natural sweetness that’s gotten more prominent from the dancing and the heat of the crowded club. his eyes roll back, groaning lowly as he sucks another possessive hickey on your neck, inhaling your scent like it’s a fucking drug, hand moving higher up your thigh, as you brush his nape, soft sighs escaping.
it was the unspoken pull, that binds you together.
the twists in your chest and the pits in his stomach, that neither of you address, instead, bound to fall in each others arms for the single purpose of pleasure, relief, and intimacy.
even when he’s pulling away, red iris’s flashing when he catches the driver glancing at your chest as you fix your top again, he doesn’t bother to explain his curdling possessiveness as he snaps. “keep y’er eyes on the fucking road.”
your eyes widen at the sudden bark, glancing at the cowering driver, then sukuna glaring daggers straight into the front mirror. awkward.
sukuna moves his hand from your warm thigh, to wrap around the back of your seat. his jaw ticks as he manspreads like it’s the only way he knows how to sit, his thumb tapping impatiently against your shoulder as he looks out the window. the night has been rubbing him the wrong way the moment you all reached the club. your complete lack of awareness was starting to tick him off even more, fixing your top wherever ever, in front of whoever. he can’t even remember if you’re always like that, but tonight was a bit excessive.
“don’t fall asleep,” you whisper, leaning against his chest as your hand rubs his toned stomach over his shirt, cheek pressing against his shoulder as your hand slides down to his lap, palming his crotch.
“shit,” he hisses, biting back a groan as you lean up to kiss his neck. palming his bulge again just for his hand to grip your wrist, squeezing. “y’ wanna fuck here?” he threatens.
your eyes widen, lips pursing as you softly pant against his neck. “heck no.”
“then stop,” he pushes your hand off his bulge, finally cutting your teasing as you slump in his side. your arm no longer on his crotch, now hugging his torso as you lay your head against his chest, legs thrown over one thigh as he keeps his arm wrapped around you as the other, brushes the outside of your thigh, head falling back as his eyes clench shut.
just sex. he thinks internally.
once the uber stops, he’s quick to tug you out, hand on your skirt to keep it from lifting as you stumble out. groaning again at his aggressive manhandling. “seriously, ryo, I’m gonna smash my face on the ground,” you snap with dramatics, catching yourself on his arm as he slams the car door shut.
“y’know everyone’s been eye fucking you all night?” he clips, eyes glaring as he scoops you off your feet again. one arm under your knees as you gasp again, holding his shoulder as you glare at him.
“isn’t that the point. you clearly wanna fuck me now,” you quip with boredom.
sukuna tsks, lifting you up to fix his hold as he walks up to the entrance. “that’s different.”
your brows furrow tilting your head back, immediately clicking where you are. “I thought we were going to my place?” sukuna fiddles with his pocket, dropping you at the doorstep to pull out his keys.
“I got distracted and accidentally put my address in,” he says, pushing the door open and then pushing you inside, just for you to trip on your feet, then getting pulled back. “your stupid shoes.”
“it’s not my shoes it’s the shoving,” you huff, shrugging his arm off, “wha—!”
your world suddenly flips. sukuna throws you over his shoulder, hand cracking down on your exposed ass, grabbing a cheek aggressively making you yelp. you don’t even complain, not until he aggressively dropping you on his bed, tugging your shoes, just to suddenly pull your entire body to edge of the bed, almost falling off.
“zipper,” you huff leaning up, pointing at the zipper halfway down the boots. he tsks, pushing your hand aside as he unzips the shoes and finally tugs both off. you barely have time to think when he pushes your legs apart with his upper body. “tonight, the morning, afternoon,” he repeats your words from earlier, hands splayed on each of your thighs pushing your legs further apart, tugging your panties to the side, “fuck, you’re so wet.”
your whines bounce of the walls, bucking your hips up as you pull his head closer. your hands push your annoying top off, hand tugging at your nipples pulling a whine from your throat as his tongue dips into your syrupy sweetness, eyes flicking up as he places a hand on your other breast, groping as you whine.
“fuck,” you sigh, hand clasping over his letting him squeeze the pretty flesh of your tits as you wiggle your hips against his face. “love it so—uh-so much, ryo,” your moans sound like fucking sin.
his groan travels deep from his chest pressing his face further between your legs, nuzzling his nose against your clit, tongue following the sticky sweetness to your pulsing hole. your legs part naturally, combing back his hair to tug at the dark roots, hips arching off the bed as he squeezes your tit, nails digging in making you whine out in pleasure.
it was the combination of alcohol, freedom of the long weekend, and overwhelming desire to get fucked dumb, that you didn’t fully question sukuna’s mistake to go to the frat instead of your place. not even when he’s making you cum on his tongue, groaning unbelievably loud as he pulls off, tugging his shirt over his head and climbing up your body kissing up your chest to suck marks along your neck, fingers sinking into your pussy.
“fuck, how wet were ya when we were at the club?” he questions against your neck, curling two fingers, rough digits hitting your sweet spot. you choke, arm wrapped around his neck, tugging his hair up to your face. he grunts at the stinging in his scalp, lips crashing to sink his teeth into your bottom lip making you moan louder. “slut.”
his fingers piston inside your hole, chuckling darkly when your legs spread wide, tongue falling out as he laps at it, messy and wet. unaware of the fact that he’d left his bedroom door wide open.
“angh…haah…mm-ry—ryoo,” you whine so lewdly, it should be illegal to sound so fucking sweet and hot at the same time. he licks every corner of your mouth, grunting in your lips as his forearms flex with each curl of his fingers, spitting a wet glob in your mouth, just for you to choke on another moan as the coil deep in your stomach comes undone.
“you can take it,” he keeps your legs parted, fingering you roughly through your orgasm. your face presses into his neck, a silent moan escaping with a few chokes from the back of your throat, until he’s sliding his fingers out, slapping your clit just for your entire body to flinch. “you gonna answer my question, baby?” he moves to straddle your waist, shit eating grin on his face, as you try to catch your breath. hand on his thigh as he unbuckles his belt and pushes the waistband of his boxers down.
your lashes flutter, eyes closed unaware of the man whipping his fat cock out, hovering over your pretty face.
“answer me,” he husks, just to spit right on his cock, licking his lip as he strokes himself over your face, leaning down to press his engorged tip against your cheek.
you blink, brow raising as you see the scary size dragging across your bottom lip now. “seriously,” you snort, tongue falling out to lap.
“most girls would pull away,” he mutters, holding the base of his cock as he pushes his tip against your pouty mouth, biting his lip once your lips part to plant a wet kiss on it.
you gaze up at him through your lashes. the innocence drips from your expression like you’re just licking a popsicle, fingers moving up his inner thigh. he groans low and rough, sinking his cock past your lips, abs flexing above you as you swirl your tongue around the engorged tip— “shit!” he hisses sharply.
you suck his tip harshly, hallowing your cheeks in seconds before he tugging his cock out, heart jumping when your teeth skims.
his sharp gaze catches the glint in your eyes. your tongue hangs out again, mouth an open invitation.
“fucking brat,” he swears, collecting your droll, then slapping the heavy member against your tongue. “you like choking on my dick? y’ that desperate to drink my cum up?”
your expression barely wavers, except for the heat that crawls up your neck, your breath uneven at the anticipation because the short answer is yes. you’re desperate for his thick warm cum. your chin juts out, licking his cock as he drags it across your cheek before returning to your mouth.
“open wider, it’s a big fit,” he commands, hand pressing against the wall in front of him before slowly sinking his cock into your mouth. “fhuck.” sukuna realized quickly that the fastest way to make you tear up was to stuff his giant cock into your adorable mouth. the same one that he kisses, and the same one that lets our quiet whines and unfiltered sweet moans.
your lashes flutter shut, nails gripping his jeans as he slowly thrusts his hips in shallow thrusts, eyes boring into your face watching every twitch and tear. he cants tear his eyes away, especially when you start whining around his cock, kissing and spitting when he’d pull out so just hit tip was in your mouth which you seemed to like more. “keep kissing’ it, pretty slut. wet my cock f’er me—you want me slipping in that tight pussy of yours dontcha?”
you hum with pleasure, earning a head pat by the man above. his eyes twinkle as your eyes flutter shut again, kissing and sucking his tip like it’s the best thing to ever go in your mouth. and it was twisted how he has you under him worshipping his cock with thoughts that just revolve around him, and all he can think about is how all those man dragged their disgusting eyes over your figure all night, boring holes into your skin, sick minds wandering when you’d fix your top thinking they’d be the ones to rip it off and have you under them. one even managed to touch you—his jaw clenches.
“how long was your pussy leaking, brat?” he pulls his cock out, laying it against your cheek, just for you to turn your head to nuzzle it like some cockdrunken whore. “shit.”
he rips himself away, hand squishing your pretty cheeks, cock hanging over your heaving tits, nipples perky as you blink up at him. your pretty hand wraps around his wrist, whining, as he squishes your cheeks harder.
you try to speak, words muffled from his grip, he loosens so you can speak with clarity, “you want me to tell you how I was wet the whole time?”
“I want the truth,” he scoffs.
his mind gets distracted looking at your pretty lips, thumb rubbing the soft flesh, unaware that he’d pushed his thumb in, groaning when you start sucking his thumb.
it was always a rollercoaster with you guys. he pulls his thumb out, leaning down so his face was right above yours. “I’m gonna spit on you. tell me.”
were you worse or the same as him? he can’t tell. not when you’re smiling widely, sticking your tongue out for him.
“fuck,” he collects a good amount in his mouth, heart racing as you arch your back off the mattress, thighs clenching as you stare right at him.
he spits.
your eyes flutter. the glob hits your tongue and sends a shock of electricity through your veins, cheeks heating up, and pupils blowing. the satisfaction of being claimed by sukuna was mind-numbing.
you swallow.
then your eyes meet again, and sukuna is awe-struck, as he is whenever you pull shit like this under him. your lips part, licking your lips as you shuffle with impatience, hand rubbing his thigh. “ryo…kiss me.”
fuck pride.
his lips crash into yours.
he wastes no time cradling your head like the most precious thing in the world, swallowing your moans and breath, managing to maneuver himself off the bed. he allows you to kiss him as you’re sat up. your arms are locked around his neck unable to tear yourself away from him as he shrugs his jeans and boxers off, pulling your skirt and panties off before his arms hook under your legs, kneeling on the bed. “big stretch, brat,” was his only warning before he’s slamming his length inside.
you gasp, eyes wide as he pulls his hips back, slamming the his girth in, catching his fall with one arm beside your head. “ngh so fuckin’ tight, pussy fits like a fuckin’ glove,” he husks. your nails dig into his shoulder, legs hooked over his arms, as he hammers his cock into your squelching hole, throwing all self-control out the door, even as your crying and whining, he’s just groaning with animalistic lust into your ear.
when the ropes of hot cum fill your creamy pussy, sukuna continues pumping his cock, overstimulating your poor hole until the tears have washed your make up off and he’s pushing himself to a second orgasm.
and while you were dumb on this man’s cock, you hadn’t heard the front door, or the group of men and a few women that came back from the club. or that sukuna had left the information of an after party hangout at the frat from you. the opening DJ was supposedly coming back from some shots with the guys a couple girls they picked up for a chiller night.
but what the men heard was the rough rocking of a bed, followed by the sweetest moans ever and rough hot grunts.
“y’er the one that said you wanted to get fucked stupid, but you’re now crying like a big crybaby,” he laughs, choking at the way you clamp up around him. “my crybaby can’t handle this dick anymore?”
“I can!” you cry out, big globs of tears rolling down your hot cheeks.
“then take it,” his hips snap, and you gasp again. his thighs connect to your ass with creamy sticky webs, unbothered by the mess as he folds you into a deeper mating press, groaning at the squelch when he pulls out to slam harder. “gonna pump so much cum in ya, pussy loves my cum, don’t it, crybaby?”
your words are just a bumbling mess. but you manage to whimper a sweet delicious, “y-yess ryo—“
his biceps flex beside you, abs tightening as he feels his balls clench up, “shiit—“
it was a mind splitting orgasm.
his teeth sink into your shoulder, face buried as he groans. you gasp out a sweet cry, one would think your just getting your pretty pussy fingered, and not getting fucked by a mean thick cock. but that’s what drives sukuna crazy. the way your moans grow much sweeter the more overstimulated you get. it’d get any man to cum just by the sound.
and he’s no different. his tip pulses, spilling a heavy load deep in your warm pussy, painting your gummy walls a hot white. his chest heaves, skin glistening with sweat as it sticks to yours. his teeth retract from your shoulder, hot tongue replacing the stinging as he licks the mark, kissing it. he drops your legs carefully letting them clamp around his waist, kissing up your neck, and nuzzling his face to inhale the scent of your sweat. his hair sticking to his forehead.
“you still there?” he pants, kissing your sticky cheek before pushing up. caged under him, his eyes darken with pride at the state you’re in.
your lashes coated with tears, your hypnotizing gaze glossed over all the same, and your lips an open pout as you heave. you look like a fucking princess. his hand cups your damp cheek, lowering his face back down.
“wanna kiss from me, baby?”
he was sick. the faux sympathy he’s expressing as if he isn’t the reason you’re dumb pretty mess. but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re nodding your head, still heaving softly, hand touching his bicep.
“yeah?” he husks, lips hovering over yours. you can barely form words, so all that comes out is a small whine from the back of your throat, and your lips parting for him. “cute,” he mutters, giving you your kiss, thumb caressing your cheek as he carefully pulls out, jaw slacking at the cool air that touches his wet cock.
your eyes flutter shut, body spent as he pulls away, tongue swiping his lips as he sits up, and that’s when he hears the creak over his shoulder.
his eyes snap behind. everything goes dark. the group of men, both athletes and frat guys, all huddled at the top of the stairs, feel their hearts drop to their asses when they lock eyes with scariest most intimidating man on campus. excluding two, a certain white haired man, along with his smug best friend, albeit both their faces are flushed a deep crimson, but when sukuna’s irises gleam a dark threatening red, they don’t cower like the other men scrambling to explain.
“who leaves the door open!?” one sputters.
“who is that—“
you stir on the bed, vision blurry as you try to sit up. “what—“ but sukuna flips the throw blanket over yours, standing up.
completely comfortable with his masculinity, he walks up to his door, a few men stumble back and sukuna hadn’t noticed the few girls within them that had also come up to look. what he did notice was the few men that were eyeing you at the club and he was definitely drunk when he left his door open— but still, what’s done is done—
“just sex,” is all he says, loud enough for gojo to hear, making the man scoff.
“you’re a fucking idiot,” gojo rolls his eyes, because yeah, his friend is a fucking idiot.
sukuna tsks, hand curling around his door, “fuck off downstairs.”
the door slams.
gojo shakes his head, turning to shoo the men downstairs as he explains to geto what had happened in the club for the full picture. however, as smart as sukuna thinks he is, he will never be able to understand your relationship anymore. fuck buddies. friends with benefits.
none of it can explain the look on your face when he turns back to the bed. you’re sitting up, brows scrunched together in mild confusion as you hold his blanket to your chest.
“did you leave the door open on purpose?”
his eyes meet yours, kneeling back on the bed. “fuck no, was an accident.”
your heart picks up, body language clearly not easing at his response. “you’re fucking weird, y’know that?” and your tone doesn’t come out as harsh as you wanted it too. it was more of a question then a statement.
“i did tell ya they all wanna fuck you,” he mutters, grabbing his shirt off the ground to wipe his dick.
your head pounds, what is that even supposed to mean? you lay back on the bed, arm wrapping over your face, “whatever ryo, just clean me up.”
you miss the way his jaw ticks. his brows furrow and stomach churns, what the fuck was he saying that for? he questions himself, muscles tense, as he brushes the blanket off you, cleaning the mess. neither of you exchange any words, both pushing the awkwardness, and the way the air’s grown thick, all for him to press himself against your back, arm wrapping around you with possession, and burying his face in your hair.
and even when the sun rises the next morning, and you’re turning over, you can’t fully stomach the way he acted last night, so your solution.
“haah fuck,” you sigh, head thrown back, as the man grunts under you, hands digging into your hips as you bounce your pretty self on his mind-numbing cock, forgetting any other details other than the fact that he’s your fuck buddy first.
a/n: I imagined this going in a different direction but I held off on it bc I think it’ll be better for another part! anyways I hope u guys enjoyed it, ik a lot of you were asking for jealous kuna so I hope you’ve been fed just a bit <33 — (divider by @/saradika-graphics)
synopsis. you needed experience for a writing assignment. sukuna offered to help. it got… complicated.
warnings. 14..3k words (errm), explicit sexual content, oral, fingering, overstimulation, dry humping, sex as a learning experience, p with plot, 69 standing up... a lot more but i'm lazy
author's note. in total, this fic is 26.3k words i had to split it up bcs it was too ugly trying to format it...
the document is open and it’s empty, cursor blinking like it’s bored of you already, and you’re sitting cross-legged on yuji’s bed with your laptop digging into your thighs, heat from the comforter seeping up through your jeans, your brain doing that thing where it just keeps circling the same thought over and over until it starts to sound stupid and loud.
“i’m fucked,” you say.
yuji barely moves, just hums from where he’s sprawled out beside you, hands laced behind his head, easy and boneless like he’s always been. “like… deadline-fucked or existential-fucked?”
“both,” you say, immediately, because there’s no reason to lie to him.
“it’s a sex scene. like, an actual one. not ‘and then they kissed’ or ‘fade to black’ or symbolic peaches. a sex scene. and i have—” you wave a hand at yourself, vague and annoyed, “—nothing. no experience. no frame of reference. no usable memories.”
he props himself up on his elbows and squints at you like he’s trying to work through a problem set. “you’ve kissed people.”
“that does not count,” you say. “that’s like saying i can write a crime novel because i’ve watched csi.”
he laughs, the sound filling the room and doing that familiar thing where it loosens something in your chest without you realizing it needed loosening. this is why he’s your best friend. this is why he’s safe. this is why he’s absolutely not an option.
“okay, okay,” he says. “what about that guy from your econ class? the one who’s always asking to borrow a pen.”
“no.” you wrinkle your nose without even thinking. “too dorky.”
“too dorky?” he snorts. “oh, and you’re not?”
“shut up,” you say, shoving his shoulder.
he grabs your wrist and suddenly you’re both laughing, shoving, the mattress bouncing under you, the same stupid routine you’ve been doing since you were kids, elbows and knees familiarity, until you flop back onto the bed in unison staring at the ceiling fan as it ticks around.
“i just need,” you say, breathless, “like… an idea. a miracle. someone who actually knows what they’re doing to walk through that door and save me.”
the door opens.
“can you two shut the hell up?” sukuna’s voice cuts in, low and rough with sleep. “some of us are trying to rest.”
you sit up too fast.
he’s standing there shirtless, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded, sweats hanging low on his hips like they’ve given up on decency altogether, and your brain does something traitorous and stupid where it just stalls out for half a second.
“y—yeah, sorry,” you say automatically, words tumbling out before you can stop them.
yuji groans. “we weren’t even that loud.”
“you were,” sukuna says, dragging a hand down his face. his gaze flicks to you—then back to his brother. “keep it down.”
the door shuts. the room doesn’t go back to normal.
you glance at yuji. “wait—what is he doing here?”
yuji yawns. “oh. he just stopped by earlier to grab some stuff from the garage but then he, like, crashed on the couch and didn’t move. don’t mind him. you know how he always is.”
you don’t answer right away. because no, actually. you don’t. not recently.
you haven’t seen sukuna in months. not like this—not at home, not post-nap and shirtless. he goes to school on the other side of town. he doesn’t hang around.
sometimes he’ll show up for holidays or birthdays or the occasional guilt-trip dinner, but that’s it. lately it’s been like he only exists on instagram stories and through yuji’s complaints about him stealing snacks or dodging calls from their mom.
so why the hell is he here now?
and why does it feel like the air got thinner just from the sound of his voice?
you stare at the closed door for a second too long.
your brain tries to fill in the blanks—how many times you used to see him slumped in that doorway growing up, how he was always there in the background, grumpy and mean, lowkey a bully. always had something smart to say. always had to win.
but then he’d turn around and walk you home when it got dark. scare off anyone who tried to mess with you. defend you before you ever learned how to do it yourself. he’d deny it if you ever brought it up, but you remember. you remember all of it.
you remember the way he used to look at you like you were just there, something annoying and permanent.
so why did that look just now feel different?
you shake your head, hard, and look back at yuji, at your laptop, at the blinking cursor.
“anyway,” you say quickly, “that’s definitely not happening.”
“what’s not happening?” he asks.
“nothing,” you say. “ignore me. i’ll figure it out.”
you don’t look at the door again.
—-
you leave yuji’s room later with your laptop tucked under your arm and the same empty document burned into the backs of your eyes, cursor still blinking behind your eyelids like it followed you out just to be petty, like it wants you to know you didn’t escape anything by standing up and walking away.
nothing written. not even a sentence you can pretend you’ll fix later. just white space and that stupid blinking line, waiting.
you walk across campus alone, the air colder than you expected, hands shoved into your sleeves, dorm lights glowing in other people’s windows like proof that everyone else has somewhere to be, something figured out.
but friday is tomorrow.
and fridays are automatic. fridays are routine. fridays are yuji’s place and takeout and sitting around too long and staying later than you mean to. fridays are something you don’t have to plan for—you just show up.
which means you may have the chance to see sukuna again.
and then, because your brain hates you, it does the worst possible thing and starts filling in blanks you didn’t ask it to.
you think about what it would be like if it were him—his hands on you, like when he’s shown you how to do things before, the way he never rushes, the way he explains without making you feel stupid, like teaching is just another thing he’s good at.
you imagine his voice, telling you where to put your hands, what actually matters, what doesn’t, correcting you when you get it wrong without ever raising his voice.
you picture the way he stood in the doorway earlier, loose gray sweats hanging low on his hips, fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there’s very little left to the imagination there, like your brain clocked it before you could stop it, it catalogued the shape and weight of it without asking for permission.
you think about what’s under them and hate how easily the thought settles, how it slots into place like it always belonged there.
stop.
your pace stutters, heart kicking hard against your ribs, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that might help.
this isn’t you. this isn’t something you think about. not about him. he’s yuji’s brother. he’s always been around. he’s annoying and familiar and not someone your brain is supposed to go quiet over. you’re just stressed. you’re just spiraling. you’re just projecting because you want answers, and he sounds like one.
that’s all this is.
you force yourself to breathe, to keep walking, to shove the image back where it came from, but it lingers anyway—his hands, his voice, the certainty of him knowing exactly what to do and exactly how to explain it to you.
stop, you tell yourself again, more firmly this time.
why now?
why him?
you’ve known him forever. he’s always been there—nothing about him has changed. so why does it suddenly feel different, like something tilted when you weren’t looking? like your chest tightened for no good reason, like you noticed his voice in a way you never have before?
you walk down the path thinking anyone but him over and over, like if you repeat it enough it’ll stick, like it’ll reroute your brain onto a safer track. anyone else. a stranger.
a nameless body you don’t have to think about tomorrow. a version of yourself that isn’t behind everyone else, that didn’t somehow make it to college without picking up whatever experience everyone else seems to talk about so casually.
you hate how childish it makes you feel. how small. how behind. how late.
this would be easier if i wasn’t like this.
the thought sits heavy as you reach your dorm, key sliding into the lock, because it doesn’t come with an answer — just the quiet promise that tomorrow, after classes, after you run out of excuses, you’ll have to come back.
and the cursor will still be blinking.
—
you wake up tired, drag yourself through classes, stare at people who sound like they have their lives together and nod like you understand what any of this is building toward.
you try not to think about last night, but your brain does that thing where it replays the one part you didn’t want it to save, and now you can’t stop seeing it—sukuna in the doorway, shirtless and irritated, gaze flicking over you like he’d already figured it out. the shape of him.
you shake it off, shove it down, swear it meant nothing.
it doesn’t help.
because now it’s dark out and you’re walking back to yuji’s place like you always do, like you haven’t been dreading it all day. it’s autopilot. friday night. takeout and whatever’s playing on netflix. you knock once before letting yourself in like you live there.
yuji’s already yelling from the couch. “you’re late!”
“you’re early,” you shoot back.
he grins when you round the corner, arms sprawled out, socks half-off, hair sticking up like he fought gravity and lost. “i ordered your favorite, so you’re not allowed to complain.”
“i never complain.”
he snorts. “you only complain.”
you drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off, and try to act like your eyes didn’t just flick toward the other end of the couch. like you didn’t already know he’d be there.
except… you kind of didn’t.
because sukuna’s never here. not during movie nights. not when it’s just you and yuji doing the same dumb shit you’ve been doing since high school. he usually avoids this whole thing like it’s contagious—claims you’re too loud, that the movies are trash, that being around the two of you lowers his iq.
so what the hell is he doing here now?
you hover by the entryway a second longer than you mean to, caught off-guard, gaze dragging across the way he’s slouched into the couch—hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, grey sweats dangerously low on his hips, drink in hand, legs spread like he’s claiming the entire fucking house.
he glances up. meets your eyes. nods. “you’re late.”
you blink. “…you’re here.”
he smirks, slow. “sharp as ever.”
you frown, stepping further in. “why?”
he smirks, lazy. “you say that like you thought i’d be gone.”
“i did,” you say honestly. “you usually ghost the second we show up.”
“yeah, well,” he says, raising his drink a little like a toast, “mom and dad are out of town.”
you narrow your eyes. “don’t you have a dorm?”
“yeah,” he shrugs, “but why would i suffer in that shoebox when i can have hot water, real snacks, and a couch that doesn’t smell like mildew?”
you make a face. “gross.”
“truthful.”
you cross your arms. “i thought you hated being here.”
“i hate being here when they’re here,” he says. “every time i sit down, it’s either—‘have you heard back from that grad program?’ or ‘do you need help updating your resume?’” he mimics his mom’s voice a little too well. “it’s like a career fair with emotional baggage.”
you snort, despite yourself. “so this is… what? a staycation?”
“something like that,” he says, sinking deeper into the cushions. “i figure i’ll use up the free amenities while the guilt trips are on pause.”
your stomach does something weird and warm.
he’s not supposed to be here.
he’s choosing to be here.
you look away first.
you barely have time to sit with the weirdness of him being here before yuji’s voice cuts in again, louder this time, coming from the kitchen.
“can you unfold the table?” he calls. “i got dumplings and the good noodles.”
you cross the living room, bend to grab the scratched-up plastic folding table from behind the couch, and pop it open with one foot while yuji drags over the bags, hands full of sauce containers and those cheap paper napkins that never absorb anything. he’s already talking while sorting food, chopsticks stuck behind one ear like a pencil.
“you want the chili oil or no?”
“obviously.”
he tosses the packet toward you. you catch it.
you glance toward the couch—sukuna hasn’t moved. same position, same drink, same hoodie-and-sweats combo, like this is his house and you’re the one visiting.
“you’re not eating?” you ask.
he shrugs. “already did.”
yuji waves a hand. “he’s lying. he just mooched the egg rolls before you got here.”
“they were getting cold,” sukuna says, unapologetic.
you end up next to him on the couch, tray table between your knees, dumplings steaming in front of you. you try not to fidget.
yuji settles on your other side—except he’s yuji, so he sprawls. knee to your thigh, elbow jabbing as he adjusts, plate in his lap like a feral raccoon.
“you’re in my space,” you tell him.
“no such thing,” he grins, and gives you a shove—not hard, just enough to bump you right up against sukuna’s side.
you blink. feel the heat of him immediately, stretched out like he hasn’t even registered you’re touching. like he doesn’t care. like you’re not even—
don’t think about it.
you try to watch the movie. you do. it’s some dumb action flick yuji picked out of nostalgia, one you’ve both seen a million times. the plot doesn’t matter. you know every beat. you’re not watching the screen anyway.
you’re aware of the way sukuna’s thigh stays right there against yours. the shape of his wrist where it rests on the couch arm. how his hoodie rides up when he shifts to drink from the glass in his hand, dragging the fabric tight across his stomach. the clean line of muscle just under the hem, the peek of ink at his ribs. the curve of his mouth when he smirks at something the actor says, even though he’s not really watching either.
you imagine those hands on your hips. your throat. your thighs. his voice behind you, in your ear, telling you what to do and how to do it. correcting you. teaching you. like it’d be the easiest thing in the world for him. like he already knows you’d listen.
you cross your legs and shift away an inch.
he doesn’t react. doesn’t even look.
what is wrong with you.
“uhhh, bathroom,” yuji says suddenly, half-standing and holding his stomach. “that shrimp was a mistake.”
you don’t even register it until he’s gone, footsteps down the hall, door clicking shut behind him.
and then it’s just you.
and him.
and the credits rolling.
and the sound of him setting his glass down soft on the coaster.
“so,” sukuna says, and your whole body freezes, “how’s the little writing project?”
your head snaps toward him. “what.”
his mouth twitches. “yuji said you were stuck.”
“he told you?” your voice spikes, mortified.
“mm,” he hums, noncommittal.
“oh my god.”
“what?” he says, like it’s funny. “you asked for a miracle. you got me.”
you stare at him, open-mouthed, like you’re not sure whether to hit him or die on the spot.
he raises a brow, lazy. “cat got your tongue?”
“don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, finally remembering how to speak.
“too late.” he stretches out like he’s settling in, wrist draped over the back of the couch, his whole frame angling toward you now. “so. what’s the issue? you trying to write something hot and you’ve never even been touched?”
you blink. hard. “excuse me?”
he shrugs, annoyingly casual. “not a judgment. just sounds like that’s the problem.”
“yuji told you that?” you hiss, heat crawling up your neck.
“you’d be surprised how much your bestie overshares when he thinks i’m not listening.”
you want to combust. spontaneously. immediately. your chopsticks freeze midair.
he watches you for a beat, head tilted, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a laugh. then—
“look, i’m just saying,” he says, almost bored, “you don’t need to fuck someone to write about fucking someone. you just need to know what people actually notice. what feels fake. what kills the mood.”
you blink. again. your brain’s lagging, like your wi-fi just cut.
“i could help,” he says. “if you’re not too chicken.”
you laugh—nervous, defensive, too loud. “you’re joking.”
“am i?”
he doesn't blink.
your heart does this weird sideways lurch, and for a split second your imagination does something very stupid—throws up a flash of what that might look like: his voice behind you, telling you what sounds real. his breath against your ear. one hand in your hair. one on your hip. that same voice, smug and low, saying yeah, that. write that down.
“jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head like that’ll knock it loose. “you’re yuji’s brother.”
“and?”
“and that’s insane.”
he smirks again, cocky this time. “then keep writing about symbolic peaches.”
you open your mouth to say something back—something scathing, probably—but yuji yells from the hallway before you can.
“i think i’m dying!” he shouts from behind the bathroom door.
you flinch, the spell broken.
sukuna just snorts, leans back, and reaches for his drink again like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your brain.
—
you don’t stay late.
you make up something about homework. about being behind. about getting a head start on your readings before monday even though it’s friday and everyone knows you don’t touch shit until sunday night.
yuji doesn’t question it, just clutches his stomach dramatically and says the shrimp’s still trying to kill him, tells you to take leftovers, offers a weak thumbs up from where he’s curled under a throw blanket like he’s on his deathbed.
you wave him off, mutter something about texting later, and slip out the door.
sukuna doesn’t say anything when you leave.
but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way to the hallway.
you walk faster than usual, keys clutched in your hand, cold night air biting at your cheeks as you cut through campus toward your dorm. your brain won’t stop spinning—like it’s buffering. like it’s stuck between tabs.
you asked for help.
not like that. not really.
except now you can’t stop imagining it. not just the suggestion, but what it would look like. feel like. his mouth near your ear, his fingers tracing your wrist, that stupid low voice explaining the difference between pornographic and believable like he’s grading you.
you swallow and push your dorm door open.
kick off your shoes. shed your coat. go straight for your bed and your laptop, like maybe forcing yourself into motion will fix it.
the document’s still open.
cursor still blinking.
you pull the covers over your lap, fold your legs under you, rest your fingers on the keys.
nothing.
not a word.
not a single honest sentence.
you type, slowly: she kissed him like she’d done it before.
you stare at it. backspace.
he touches her like he owns the moment.
backspace. you close your eyes.
and see him.
you asked for a miracle. you got me.
his smirk. the slow way he said it. the way his eyes didn’t move, didn’t flick, didn’t waver—like he already knew what you’d do with the thought. like he planted it.
and now you can’t stop thinking about what he’d say if you let him get close enough to correct you. to guide you. to show you the kind of heat that doesn’t need metaphor.
you drag a hand down your face, cheeks hot, heart weird and jumpy.
this is yuji’s brother.
you don’t even like him.
he’s smug. infuriating. mean. he barely talks to you unless it’s to be a dick about something. he’s a problem. he’s always been a problem.
and still—your fingers twitch.
you type, again: he touches her like he’s teaching her something she’ll never forget.
you stare at it.
you don’t delete it.
not yet.
you fall asleep like that. laptop still open. sentence still glowing on the screen like it knows it’s crossed a line.
you don’t dream. or if you do, you don’t remember it.
just wake up groggy and uneven, mouth dry, skin clammy, that same heat from last night clinging to the back of your neck like a warning. like you left something unfinished.
you shower. make coffee. sit at your desk and stare at your notes like they’re in a different language.
by noon, you’ve refreshed the same three apps fourteen times and rewritten the same paragraph twice with no new words added. your phone buzzes. it’s yuji.
yuji: shrimp poisoning update: i’m still dying. plz come over
yuji: bring electrolytes or vibes or both idk
yuji: sukuna’s literally useless. he’s just making toast and watching me suffer :(
you blink.
toast?
you hesitate. because you weren’t planning on going back today. you told yourself you’d take space. get perspective. delete the sentence. reset the mood.
but yuji’s asking. and he’s your best friend. and he’s sick. and… you’re already grabbing your keys.
—
the front door’s unlocked when you get there.
“back from the dead?” you call as you toe your shoes off.
yuji’s voice comes from the couch, muffled under a pile of blankets. “barely.”
you head straight to the kitchen, drop your bag on the counter, pull two gatorades from your tote.
and that’s when you see him.
sukuna. leaned against the fridge, plate in hand, wearing a tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to distract from the fact that he’s half muscle and no shame, sweatpants hung loose on his hips, jaw working slow as he takes a bite of cinnamon toast like the world owes him nothing and he owes it even less.
“wow,” you say flatly, “what a beacon of brotherly support.”
he shrugs, mouth full. “he’s not dying.”
“he thinks he is.”
“he’s dramatic.”
you toss him a look as you move past him. you do not look at his arms. or the way his neck flexes when he swallows. you do not think about last night. or the sentence. or the way his voice is somehow the same in person as it was in your imagination—just rough enough to scrape against your ribs.
you do not.
“here,” you say, handing yuji the drink once you reach the couch.
he lights up like you’ve performed a miracle. “my savior.”
“your savior brought you electrolytes,” you say, plopping down next to him. “and she’s staying just long enough to make sure you don’t vomit on the carpet.”
"give me some kinda good news." he hums a little between sips, then glances up at you. “you make any progress on your writing?”
you go still.
“…not really,” you say as you sit criss-cross on the floor beside him.
he makes a face, the same one he always makes when you don’t want to talk about something—not annoyed, not pushy, just curious in that sweet stupid way that makes you want to confess things you shouldn’t. “what’s stopping you? still stuck on the scene?”
you nod, slowly.
he sits up more, leans on his elbow like it helps him think. “can’t you just, like… watch porn or something?”
your head whips toward him. “what?”
he shrugs. “i mean, if you need ideas.”
“porn,” you echo, flat. “yuji.”
“what?” he says, defensive now. “i’m just saying. it’s not like there’s a shortage of material out there.”
you stare at him, then drag a hand down your face. “oh my god.”
and behind you—
clink.
you freeze.
slowly glance over your shoulder.
sukuna’s standing in the kitchen again, rinsing his plate in the sink, but there’s something about his posture—the lazy slouch of his shoulders, the way he shakes the water from his hands—that makes it feel like he heard every word. like he was waiting for the right one to land before reacting.
you catch his eye.
he doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, real slow, mouth tugging into the kind of smirk that says that’s what you’re working with?
and suddenly your whole body burns.
you snap your gaze back to the tv, ears on fire, pulse stuttering.
yuji keeps talking—something about storyboarding a sex scene like a fight scene—but you don’t hear it. all you can think about is the way sukuna looked at you, like he knew exactly what part of that conversation wasn’t just academic. like he’d seen the little flash of panic behind your eyes, caught it, catalogued it, kept it.
fuck.
you sit rigid for the next few minutes, barely breathing, and when yuji finally excuses himself to go upstairs—“i think the shrimp’s staging a comeback tour, be right back”—you almost bolt.
but you don’t.
because you feel it before it happens.
sukuna’s steps behind you.
the subtle shift of the couch as he drops into yuji’s spot.
his arm brushes yours.
and his voice—that voice—slides in low and warm like it belongs there.
“porn, huh?”
you jolt. “oh my god.”
“relax,” he says, clearly enjoying himself now. “just thought it was funny.”
“you would think that’s funny.”
he leans in a little, elbow on the back of the couch. “what, not your thing?”
you flinch like it was an accusation. “excuse me?”
he shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “porn.”
“jesus,” you mutter under your breath.
“just curious,” he says, like he’s not enjoying the way your voice pitched. “you watch it or not?”
“why the fuck would i tell you that?”
he grins, sharp teeth and a twitch of his jaw like he’s won something. “so that’s a yes.”
you open your mouth—shut it.
he tilts his head, eyes narrowing just enough to track the way your throat bobs.
“what’s your type?” he asks, soft. cruel. “you like the soft, fake moaning kinda shit? studio lighting, vanilla choreography, lots of uh-uh-uh baby please?” he mimics it in a falsetto that makes your whole body light up in mortification.
“shut up,” you hiss, face burning.
he ignores you.
“or do you skip to the rough stuff? choking. hands. crying. that why you can’t write it down? ‘cause you want someone to make you feel it first?”
but he’s just sitting there like he didn’t say anything obscene at all, pinky tracing a slow circle into the armrest like he’s bored, like he hasn’t just undone you down to the bone with a single sentence and a look that’s far too pleased.
“i’m just saying,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth, “if you’re gonna do research, might as well use a source you can ask questions.”
your stomach swoops.
you freeze for half a second—heat curling up your spine, shame trying to dig its little claws in—but you don’t let it win. not this time.
you smile.
“yeah?” you say, cocking your head just a little, voice light but your pulse pounding. “what kind of porn do you watch, sukuna?”
that gets him.
not much—just a flick of his eyes, a slow shift in his posture, like you surprised him. like you scored a point he wasn’t expecting you to take.
“you look like you’re into some freaky shit,” you add, and there’s something proud in it, something satisfying, because even though you’re flustered, you’re not folding. not for him. not yet.
he smiles.
wide. teeth. slow as syrup.
“freaky,” he repeats, voice dropping a little. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
you roll your eyes—not because you’re annoyed, but because you have to do something with your face or he’ll see it all over you.
“please,” you mutter, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it into your lap like it might deflect the heat. “you give off big uses the tags ‘brat tamer’ unironically energy.”
he laughs. deep in his chest. low and amused and just a little too delighted.
“and what, you’ve been scrolling?” he asks, leaning in again, elbow braced on the couch, close enough that you can feel the pull of him, gravity bending in his direction. “studying my digital footprint?”
“no,” you shoot back, too quick. “i just—” you flounder. recover. “i’ve met you.”
his eyes flash with something sharp.
“guess that makes you the expert,” he says. “so tell me, then. what am i into?”
you blink.
he’s baiting you. obviously. you can feel it in the slow, smug curl of his mouth, the way his voice drags just enough to make your pulse trip, the way he’s watching you like he’s already heard the answer in your head and is just waiting for you to say it out loud.
you square your shoulders, pretend you don’t feel backed into a corner.
“dumb girls,” you say.
his brow arches, amused. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you sniff, deflecting, heat crawling up your neck. “dumb girls who fall for the whole broody asshole thing. you probably like it when they call you ‘sir’ and pretend to struggle when you pin their wrists.”
his mouth twitches.
“mm. that’s cute,” he says, low. “you rehearsed that for me?”
“i rehearsed it for my own dignity,” you snap. “you’re not the first guy to act like a walking red flag.”
he hums. lets the words hang. then—“but i’m the one you’re thinking about.”
you roll your eyes. “in your dreams.”
“you sure?” he murmurs. “’cause you’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
your stomach flips.
“i haven’t—”
“you have.” his voice is a little quieter now. “last night. in bed. alone. you tried to write, didn’t you?”
your mouth goes dry.
“i’m just guessing,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “but that look on your face says i’m right.”
you stare at him.
your mouth opens. nothing comes out. your brain is still trying to catch up to how easily he said that, how casually he put it on the table like it’s a shared observation instead of a private, humiliating thought you didn’t consent to anyone noticing.
he watches you for another second.
then he moves.
he doesn’t loom. doesn’t crowd. he just shifts, slides off the couch and down to the floor where you’re sitting cross‑legged, close enough that your knees almost brush, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him touching you yet.
he settles there like it’s nothing. like he belongs.
“relax,” he murmurs, when you stiffen. “i’m not gonna bite.”
his knee nudges yours. barely there. accidental if anyone else were watching.
his fingers trail against the carpet, then brush your ankle like he didn’t even mean to do it—light, lazy, testing. you swear you feel it all the way up your spine.
“you’re thinking too loud,” he says quietly.
you swallow. “you’re projecting.”
he hums, amused, and tilts his head to look up at you from where he’s sitting. the angle is wrong in a way that makes your stomach flip—his eyes level with your mouth now, lashes casting shadows you absolutely do not need to be noticing.
“maybe,” he says. “or maybe i’m just good at reading people.”
his fingers shift again, knuckle grazing your calf this time, lingering for half a beat too long to be an accident.
“i bet you even thought about touching yourself to me,” he adds, voice low, almost conversational. “just once. just to see if it’d help.”
your breath stutters.
“that’s—” you start, but he cuts in gently.
“i didn’t say you did,” he says. “i said i’d bet.”
he watches your reaction like he’s collecting data.
then, because he’s cruel, because he can, he continues.
“you wanna know what i watch?” he asks, like he’s offering trivia. “since you asked ever so nicely, princess.”
you don’t answer. you can’t.
he smiles anyway.
“i like girls who don’t know they’re already gone,” he says. “girls who overthink until their bodies give them away. girls who act tough and pretend they’re judging, when really they’re wondering what it’d feel like to be handled by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”
his fingers tap your ankle once. twice.
“girls like you.”
the words land soft and heavy all at once.
he stands.
just like that.
no follow‑up. no pressure to respond.
he dusts his hands on his thighs, glances toward the hallway like he’s remembered something unimportant, and adds over his shoulder:
“anyway. think about it. or don’t.”
then he walks away, footsteps unhurried, leaving you sitting there with your pulse in your ears, skin buzzing where he barely touched you, mind screaming what the fuck just happened.
and worse—how easily it made sense.
—
you end up leaving yuji's later than you meant to.
not because yuji needs anything—he’s finally asleep, curled into the corner of the couch like a crime scene chalk outline, snoring softly under three layers of mismatched blankets—but because you kept thinking maybe he’d show up again.
that sukuna would walk through the kitchen for a snack, or pass behind the couch on his way to the bathroom, or offer some lazy comment just to hear himself talk.
but he doesn’t.
he disappears the way he always does—suddenly, thoroughly, like it was never about you in the first place. like he didn’t lean close, voice rough in your ear, and say things he had no business knowing.
and you? you just… keep stalling.
hovering in the kitchen too long. picking at leftover rice like it’s suddenly fascinating. checking your phone even though no one texts you except your group chat asking for notes. all the dumb little things people do when they’re trying not to seem obvious about waiting.
but eventually, you run out of reasons to stay.
so you slip your shoes back on, grab your bag, scribble a dumb little sticky note for yuji (“don’t die. hydrate. stop ordering shrimp. love u.”), and let yourself out.
the night is cold. the streetlights flicker. the walk back is too quiet and your thoughts are too loud.
you’re not even frustrated with him—not really.
you’re frustrated with yourself.
because it wasn’t supposed to get under your skin like this. it wasn’t supposed to turn you into some wound-up mess who’s too horny to function and too proud to do anything about it. he’s not even flirting—he’s just being sukuna. smug. sharp. obnoxious. too perceptive for his own good.
and now you’re stuck with the aftermath, walking briskly back to your dorm with your jaw tight and your fists jammed in your jacket pockets, brain circling the drain of every shitty fantasy you’ve accidentally conjured in the last twenty-four hours.
him on the floor beside you. the scrape of his voice. the way he looked at your mouth.
you groan. out loud. to the night air.
“ugh.”
you hate this. you hate him. you hate how easily he slips under your skin like it’s muscle memory. like you’ve always been like this—some girl with a secret soft spot for the worst possible option. except it’s not soft. it’s raw. exposed. stupid.
by the time you get to your dorm, you’re exhausted. not even from the walk. from the noise in your own head.
you drop your bag. lock the door. shed your hoodie like it’s too heavy to keep wearing.
and then you just stand there. in the middle of the room. staring at nothing.
you want—something. someone. a fix. a release.
instead, you’re alone with a blinking cursor again.
and you’re mad at the idea of touching yourself, because it feels like giving him power he doesn’t deserve. like he’d know. like he’d smirk if he ever found out.
like maybe that’s exactly what he wants.
this is stupid. you’re not doing this for him. you’re just—relieved. blowing off steam. resetting. that’s all.
you don’t even argue with yourself anymore.
you peel your jeans off, kick them aside, tug your shirt over your head and swap it for an old tank that hangs loose against your ribs.
you crawl into bed and flop onto your back, staring at the ceiling, arms thrown over your head like surrender.
for a minute, you just breathe.
then you grab your phone.
twitter loads. immediately annoying. loud. fake. you scroll anyway, irritated, thumb flicking too fast, skipping past everything that feels wrong. too polished. too forced. too obviously not him.
your brain narrows the search without asking you.
dark hair. broad shoulders. a voice that’s rough instead of performative. guys who look like they’d sit too close and talk too quietly just to see what you’d do.
it takes longer than it should, but eventually you find one that’s… close enough.
you don’t turn the volume all the way up.
you don’t really watch.
you just listen.
your free hand slips under the blanket, fingers brushing over your chest through the thin fabric of your tank. you suck in a breath when you feel how hard your nipples already are, thumb circling one, then the other, sharper this time like you’re annoyed with yourself for how easy it is.
your other hand hesitates at your waistband.
slow.
careful.
like if you go too fast you’ll have to confront what you’re doing.
“fuck,” you whisper.
you’re already wet. of course you are. slick and warm, your fingers gliding instead of dragging, your hips shifting without permission like your body’s been waiting for this all night.
you close your eyes.
it’s not the video you see.
it’s sukuna on the floor beside you. elbow on the couch. that look in his eyes when he clocked you. the way his voice dropped when he said girls like you like he knew exactly where to aim it.
your fingers press harder. move faster.
you bite your lip to keep quiet, breath breaking anyway, one hand squeezing your chest while the other works between your thighs like it knows exactly what to do even if you pretend you don’t.
“sukuna,” you breathe.
the name slips out before you can stop it.
you freeze.
eyes snapping open. heart slamming so hard it almost hurts.
did i just—
shock hits you, sharp and dizzying, embarrassment crawling up your neck. your fingers still, hovering, like you might pull away and pretend this never happened.
your thighs tremble.
you hesitate.
then—fuck it.
you keep going.
angrier now. needier. like you’re daring yourself to finish what you started. like stopping would somehow be worse. your fingers curl just right, pressure building fast, your body tensing like it recognizes the path even if your brain doesn’t want to.
you cum with a muffled gasp, face turned into your pillow, pleasure ripping through you too quick and too intense to soften. your back arches, toes curling, breath shuddering as it crests and breaks, leaving you shaking and oversensitive and stunned.
you lie there afterward, chest heaving, phone forgotten somewhere near your hip.
“what the fuck,” you whisper again.
but this time it sounds quieter. tired.
you turn the phone screen off without looking at it, tug the blanket up around you, curl onto your side like you’re trying to contain the mess of yourself.
sleep takes you fast.
before you can think too hard.
before you can decide what it means.
before you can admit that this—whatever it is—has already started.
—
his mouth is hot.
that’s the first thing you register. heat and pressure and the slow grind of his tongue as he sucks at the soft flesh just below your jaw, dragging his teeth down the column of your throat like he wants to leave something behind. a mark. a memory. ownership.
you exhale too sharp, hips jolting like he’s shocked something inside you, like the friction between your legs is suddenly the only thing tethering you to the bed. your hands find his shoulders—and you mean to push him off, to say something halfway coherent, but then—
“still with me?” sukuna murmurs, voice low, voice smug, voice so close it curls under your skin.
you nod without thinking.
“use your words, princess.”
“y-yeah,” you breathe.
his mouth twitches against your skin like he’s smiling. then he’s dragging his palm up your thigh, under your shirt, across your stomach—like he’s touching you to prove a point.
his fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.
“we doing this?” he asks, barely a whisper.
you don’t answer fast enough.
his hand moves lower.
your breath catches.
“fuck,” you hiss, hips jerking when his fingers slide over your underwear, right where you’re warmest. “sukuna—”
“mm?” he hums, nose brushing your cheek, his thumb pressing down, circling once.
you whimper. actually whimper.
his lips graze yours.
“so fucking wet already. cute.”
his fingers slide under the waistband like they belong there.
no hesitation, no asking again, just that confident hook of his knuckles tugging your underwear down your thighs until cool air hits skin that’s already too hot, too sensitive, like your body’s been waiting longer than you have. he doesn’t rush it. of course he doesn’t. sukuna never rushes anything he knows he has control over.
“look at you,” he murmurs, thumb dragging slow and deliberate through slick heat, spreading it like he wants to see how bad it’s gotten. “barely touched and you’re already like this.”
you try to argue. it comes out as a broken sound instead.
his hand cups you fully now, palm warm, fingers long and sure, pressing just enough that your hips lift without permission, chasing it, begging without words. he clicks his tongue softly, amused.
“that’s it,” he says. “don’t think. just feel, princess.”
one finger slips in.
you gasp, sharp and helpless, back arching off the bed as the stretch punches the breath from your lungs. he waits—just a second—lets you adjust around him, lets your body realize what’s happening, how deep, how real.
then he moves.
slow at first, curling his finger just right, finding something inside you that makes your vision blur instantly, that has your thighs trembling and your hands clawing at the sheets like you might disappear if you don’t hold onto something.
“there,” he says quietly. “that’s the part you’re supposed to write about.”
you sob his name.
his second finger slides in easily, obscene in how natural it feels, how full you are, how your body opens for him like it’s muscle memory instead of fantasy. he sets a rhythm that’s cruelly unhurried, fingers working you open, thumb circling your clit in lazy, exact strokes that make your legs shake uncontrollably.
you can’t breathe. you can’t think. every sound you make feels too loud, too needy, but he doesn’t stop — just watches you fall apart under his hand like this is the lesson, like this is what he’s been trying to teach you all along.
“close,” he murmurs, voice right in your ear now. “i can feel it. don’t fight it.”
you shatter.
it rolls through you all at once—tight and overwhelming and white-hot—your body clenching hard around his fingers as you cry out, back bowing, pleasure ripping through you so fast and so intensely it leaves you dizzy, ruined, shaking.
his fingers keep moving through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until your legs give out completely.
“good,” he says softly.
and you wake up with a gasp.
heart pounding. sheets twisted around your legs. underwear damp and unmistakable, heat still throbbing between your thighs like your body hasn’t caught up yet.
your dorm room is dark. silent. empty.
no sukuna. no weight beside you. no voice in your ear.
just the hum of the radiator. the glow of your phone on the nightstand. and the horrifying realization settling in all at once.
oh my god.
you press the heels of your hands to your face, mortified, pulse still racing, slick evidence cooling against your skin.
and worse—much, much worse —your body is still aching for him.
you lie there for a second too long, staring at the ceiling like it might scold you into sanity, heart still kicking hard, your phone buzzes once on the nightstand—nothing important, just a notification—but it snaps something in you anyway.
before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab it.
it reads sunday, 12:23 am.
your fingers hover over his name.
don’t, you think.
why would you do that.
you do it anyway.
you: are you still at yuji’s?
the typing bubble doesn’t appear right away, and that somehow makes it worse. your stomach churns. you toss the phone onto the bed like it burned you, then immediately snatch it back up again, pacing the narrow strip of floor between your desk and the door.
why did i ask that.
what am i even doing.
the phone buzzes.
sukuna: yea. why?
two words. calm. unbothered.
you swallow hard, pulse spiking all over again like your body doesn’t understand the difference between dream and reality yet. your thumbs fly, backspace, hover.
you: just wondering
you: didn’t know if you went back to your dorm
you stare at the screen, mortified by how obvious that sounds. he doesn’t respond immediately this time, and the silence stretches, loud and humiliating.
your skin still feels too tight. too warm. like the night clung to you and didn’t let go.
shower, your brain supplies, desperate. now.
you drop the phone face-down on the bed, grab a towel from the hook behind the door, yank your shower caddy off the shelf with a little more force than necessary. shampoo clatters, loofah tangles around your wrist. you don’t care.
as you head down the hall, your phone buzzes again.
sukuna: nah. told you i'm staying the night.
you freeze for half a second, fingers tightening around the towel.
of course he is.
you don’t reply.
you just keep walking, push into the bathroom, lock the door behind you like that might lock the thoughts out too. you turn the water on hot—too hot—steam already starting to curl up toward the ceiling as you strip and step under it, shoulders sagging the second it hits.
you let the water run over you, over your face, your hair, like you can wash the night away. like you can rinse the image of his hands, his voice, the way your body reacted, right out of your system.
it doesn’t work.
you’re still in the shower when you cave.
steam thick in the air, water beating down on your neck, your leg propped awkwardly against the tile wall as you shave like you’re training for the olympics, hands moving fast, razor slipping dangerously close to uneven territory. your breath’s coming too fast to blame on the temperature alone.
your phone’s on the counter, screen lit up, mist curling around the edges.
you lunge for it, still wet, fingers fumbling.
you: i changed my mind
you: i’ll take you up on that offer
the second you hit send, your stomach turns over on itself.
a moment later:
sukuna: thought you might
sukuna: send the addy
you hesitate.
then:
you: here’s my address
you: just knock
you stare at it for a beat. three dots flicker at the bottom, disappear.
you brace both hands on the sink and take a breath like you’re about to dive underwater. everything’s too hot. too real. too fast.
you wipe the fog from the mirror.
look at yourself—damp towel slung across your chest, bare skin flushed from heat and adrenaline, water still dripping from your collarbones.
your pulse thrums low in your stomach, relentless.
why does this feel like it matters.
you rinse fast, too fast. nearly trip getting out, towel half-tucked and slipping, legs damp and goosebumped. you moisturize like you’re trying to erase every imperfection, swipe deodorant like he’s gonna be under your arms, shii he might tug on a loose tank and shorts with a matching set underneath and immediately regret both.
you light a candle. you fluff the pillows. you curse yourself out under your breath.
then you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the door like you’ll be able to hear his footsteps from the stairs.
your phone buzzes.
sukuna: on my way
you don’t respond.
you asked.
he’s coming.
and you don’t know what’s about to happen.
you try sitting.
you really do.
you sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed like you’re calm, like you’re centered, like you didn’t just text sukuna in the middle of the night and invite him over like a fucking lunatic. you rest your hands in your lap. you stare at the candle.
ten seconds.
then you’re up again.
you pace to the door. check the lock. double check. you twist the knob and relock it just to make sure. you wipe your palms on your shorts. you glance in the mirror. turn sideways. frown. adjust your top. fix your hair. unfix your hair. tug the neckline lower. regret it.
you check your phone.
nothing new.
you open the window for air.
you close it immediately when it makes the candle flicker too hard.
you practice what you’ll say.
“thanks for coming, this won’t take long.”
“i just want clarity, nothing else.”
“this is for the project, nothing more.”
you say them out loud. again. and again.
you try not to think about his hands. his mouth. the way he looked half-asleep and annoyed and hot for no reason.
you try not to think about the dream. the part where he said you were wet. the part where he wasn’t wrong.
you try not to picture how this could go. where it could go. how it might go if you just stop pretending you're normal.
you press your knuckles to your mouth and whisper: what am i doing.
and then—a heavy knock.
you freeze.
you stare at the door like it’s a fucking ghost.
he knocks again. two slower taps this time.
you grab your phone and check the screen like it might offer a reason not to open it. no new texts.
you swallow hard.
then cross the room—step by slow step—and place your hand on the knob.
your heart hammers.
you invited this.
you twist.
and open the door.
he sees everything in one sweep: the dim glow, the towel still damp on the rack, the nervous way you're standing like you forgot how posture works. the smell of whatever you used in the shower clings to the air—sweet, soft, flustered.
his gaze slides over you.
you forget how to breathe for half a second.
“huh,” he says, smirking like he’s already solved the whole puzzle. “romantic.”
you flush instantly. “i wasn’t trying to—i mean—”
“sure,” he says, like he’s humoring you, stepping inside only once you move aside.
you hover, awkward, near the desk while he takes his time scanning your space like he’s evaluating it—picking it apart. then he sinks into your desk chair like it was always meant for him, legs spreading wide, thighs draped in those same loose sweats, forearms resting on the arms of the chair like he’s claiming territory.
he looks up at you, smug. “well?”
you swallow. “i had some—questions. notes. i thought maybe—”
you falter. it sounds fucking stupid now. everything you rehearsed in your head twenty times, all the clever ways you were gonna make it sound academic, detached, like this wasn’t weird—
“is this weird?” you blurt. “i feel like it’s weird. it is weird, right?”
his brow ticks up. that smirk stays.
“you’re the one who invited me, sweetheart,” he says, tone light. “i was minding my business.”
“i know, i just—” you fidget with the hem of your tank. “it’s just a project, but it’s not a project, and now you’re here and you’re sitting like that and it’s just—i don’t know, maybe this was dumb.”
he exhales through his nose. gets up slow, like he’s giving you a chance to walk it back.
“if you’re not ready, fine,” he says. “i can go.”
he looks down at your grip. your fingers on his skin. then back up at you.
you let go too fast. step back like you’re embarrassed. he doesn’t laugh.
just nods, like that’s all he needed.
“then stop wasting time,” he says. “sit.”
you blink. “sit?”
he tilts his head, gestures to the rug between his legs. “on the floor.”
“…why?”
“because i said so.”
you obey before you even think about it, slipping to your knees on the soft rug. the heat from his body hits you like a wall, his legs bracketing you from behind as he leans forward, his breath ghosting the back of your neck.
“close your eyes,” he murmurs.
you do.
“if you were writing this,” he says, voice low and right at your ear, “where would he touch her first?”
you hesitate. “her face?”
his hand ghosts your jaw. barely there.
“boring,” he murmurs.
you bite your lip. “her—her waist?”
his palm brushes your ribs. then withdraws. “warmer.”
you breathe uneven. “her.. neck?”
a low sound hums from his chest. not quite agreement. not quite praise.
just noted.
and then—his knuckles graze the slope of your throat, light as a whisper, slow as a secret.
you jerk, not from fear, but from how exposed it makes you feel. how easily he could tighten his fingers. how quickly he could tip your chin and make you look at him.
how easily you’d let him.
“sensitive, huh,” he murmurs behind you, and you can hear the shape of his smirk in the way the words curl at the edges.
like he’s already writing this scene for you. like you’re just here to confirm it.
your heart knocks hard behind your ribs. you want to play it cool.
but his voice—it’s so soft. like he’s in no rush. like he enjoys this part.
“tell me why,” he says, still close to your ear. “why would a guy touch her here first?”
you try to find your voice. it sticks. your mouth is too dry.
“because it’s…intimate,” you say, quiet.
his thumb presses—just barely—at the hollow of your throat.
you swear you stop breathing altogether.
“that all?” he asks, like he’s testing you.
you scramble for more. “it’s—it’s not sexual, not right away. it builds tension. it’s suggestive. it makes her aware of her whole body.”
there’s a pause.
then, low and pleased: “good girl.”
you swallow like it burns. your thighs clench.
“what next?” he asks.
your brain short-circuits. you can’t think of words, only feelings. only the place his hand used to be. only the way your nipples have gone stiff under your tank, how your skin feels too tight everywhere.
“…her legs,” you say.
“where?” he prompts.
“her thighs.”
“too vague.”
your breath stutters. your chest lifts with it, and the air feels different now, heavier.
you try again. “the inside of her thighs.”
a beat. then—
“getting there.”
his palm ghosts over your knee. slides up, slow, until the heat of it hovers just shy of where you’re starting to throb, and that’s where he pauses—just rests it there.
“why?”
you swallow, hard. “because—because it’s close but not—”
“not what?”
“not where she wants it.”
you can hear the smile in his voice. “and where does she want it?”
your mouth opens. nothing comes out.
he leans in.
“say it.”
you flinch. “between her legs.”
“where?”
you shake your head, whispering, “i can’t—”
his breath skims your ear. “sure you can. you’re the writer, right?”
he waits.
“her—her pussy.”
and god, it burns, saying it out loud like that, but he hums like it pleases him, like he’s filing that sound away somewhere dark.
“good girl,” he says, and it shoots straight through you like lightning.
you gasp, and his hand curls tighter on your thigh like he heard it. like it confirms something.
“but,” he murmurs, tone dipping softer, more dangerous, “he doesn’t go there yet.”
you’re panting now. still kneeling. your thighs tense, your hips tilted ever so slightly toward him without meaning to.
“he wants her desperate,” sukuna goes on, and his other hand slides around your waist—light pressure, anchoring you there. “wants her to ask.”
you nod, barely.
he smirks. “and you? what do you want?”
your voice cracks. “i don’t know.”
he brushes your rib again. still not touching your chest. still ignoring the way your nipples are aching under your tank. you hate him. you want him to stop. you want him to never stop.
“that’s a lie,” he says, calm as ever. “try again.”
you’re shaking. “i want—i want more.”
he smiles like you said exactly what he wanted. but he doesn’t give you anything. just shifts a little behind you, one leg bracketing your hip, body like heat, like gravity, like ruin.
“and if you were writing this,” he breathes into your neck, “what would she say when he makes her wait?”
you shut your eyes. try not to whimper. try not to beg.
you say, soft, “please.”
he exhales through his nose. satisfied.
his hand trails up your thigh again, slow, torturous, stopping right at the seam of your panties—and you swear your whole body flinches forward just to chase it. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t press.
just leaves his hand there, over the heat of you.
then—he shifts behind you. one arm sliding around your waist, the other bracing beneath your thighs—and before you can react, he lifts you. not like you’re heavy. like you’re inevitable.
you gasp, breath catching, hands flying up to anchor against his chest as he pulls you into his lap and sets you there, knees straddling his thighs, heat pooling where your body meets his.
“eyes on me,” he says, low, like it’s a favor. like it’s a command.
you obey before you even think about it.
his face is so close now. his hand rests light on your hip. his other fingers skim your spine, tracing lazy half-circles like he’s not already drawing full-body answers from you.
“you know how to kiss?” he asks, like it’s a real question. like it’s on the syllabus.
your breath stutters. “y-yeah.”
his mouth curves. “you sure?”
you stiffen slightly. “i’ve done it before.”
“that’s not what i asked.”
your mouth parts, but no defense comes out.
his thumb lifts to your chin, tilts your face. he studies you—every little twitch, every skip in your pulse like he can read it through your skin. his voice lowers.
“you want me to show you?”
your heart’s in your throat. your chest tightens like it can’t hold all this in. “i…”
his nose almost brushes yours. his breath fans against your lips.
“you can’t write it if you don’t know how it feels,” he murmurs.
you nod, barely. and that’s all it takes.
his hand at your jaw tilts, lifts. your nose brushes his. your mouth parts before you even mean to—like instinct, like muscle memory, like something in you’s already decided. your breath stutters when his thumb grazes your lower lip.
he watches your hesitation like it’s cute.
and then he kisses you.
not deep, not yet—just a soft drag, a test, his mouth slipping slow over yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s showing you how it’s supposed to feel when it’s not performative, not desperate, not trying to win anything—just there.
and when you shift like you’re not sure where to put your hands, he grabs your wrists and guides them up—pulls them around his neck, like this, here, hold on.
you do.
you melt into him.
your fingers knot in the hair at his nape just as his lips part against yours, deepening it—wet now, warmer, his tongue teasing slow, like he’s got time to savor how fast you’re unraveling. your hips squirm before you can stop them,
and that’s when his hands move—down your sides, over your hips, firm and dragging, until they’re settled at your ass, holding, gripping, manipulating—and you realize a second too late what he’s doing.
he rolls you against him.
and he’s hard.
not fully, not all the way—but growing, thick under the soft barrier of his sweats, and you feel it when he shifts again, dragging your clothed heat over the shape of him like he knows what it’s doing to you. like he wants to make sure you know, too.
you gasp into his mouth.
he doesn’t stop kissing you.
just swallows the sound. tightens his grip. rocks you again, slow.
and fuck, you’re already wet.
your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his and you can’t even tell if you’re kissing him back right anymore or if he’s just kissing you until your brain gives up and lets your body want.
he pulls back barely, breath hot against your lips.
“not bad,” he murmurs, cocky. “but you’re still thinking too much.”
and then he kisses you again before you can answer. deeper. dirtier. wetter.
like he’s fixing it himself.
and you don’t know what makes you do it—somewhere between humiliation and adrenaline, between his voice in your ear and the weight of his hands still holding you like he wants something more from you—you lurch forward before he can kiss you again and catch his bottom lip between your teeth.
soft, at first.
then a little harder.
his breath hitches like he didn’t expect it.
you suck lightly, just enough to make him feel it, just enough to taste the gasp he doesn’t let out, and then you slip your tongue into his mouth—confident, slick, matching his rhythm from earlier but slower, dirtier, wet in the way that makes your thighs twitch and your chest tighten and your brain shut off for real this time.
he lets you.
lets you take it.
moans—actually moans—into your mouth when your hips shift forward, grinding down against him on instinct, like your body’s just figured out what it wants and decided to go after it.
you feel him twitch under you. feel him respond.
and when he exhales into your mouth—tight, ragged, like fuck, okay—his hands flex at your hips, then slide down in one long pull, dragging over your ass like he needs something to hold on to, and pushes up into you, slow and hard, meeting your grind with the kind of pressure that makes your breath catch and your cunt clench.
he’s hard now.
not just getting there—there.
and it makes something click in you. makes you bolder. makes you whimper a little into the kiss and tilt your hips again, chasing that friction like it might give you answers, like it might finish what the last night started.
your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his, and you can’t even tell if you’re leading anymore or if you just unlocked something he’d been waiting to release—because now he’s kissing you back rougher, hungrier, teeth catching yours, tongue stroking deeper like he’s reclaiming it.
he breaks the kiss for a second—just enough to pant against your mouth.
“…didn’t know you had that in you.”
he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.
that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.
you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.
the bed hits the back of your knees.
then the mattress.
he drops you down and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.
he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.
that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.
you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.
the bed hits the back of your knees.
then the mattress.
he drops you down—not rough, but decisive—and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.
your hands are everywhere. his shoulders. his neck. his back. you feel the flex of muscle under your fingers, the way his weight shifts to keep from crushing you while still making you feel it.
his kisses turn slower. wetter. open-mouthed and tongue dragging against yours like he’s tasting instead of taking now, like he’s savoring the way you sound when you gasp.
his mouth leaves yours just long enough to trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse jumps hardest.
“fuck,” you breathe, barely realizing you said it out loud.
his hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing under your tank, fingers spreading over your ribs, your waist, your hips—grounding, claiming, mapping you like he’s memorizing the shape of you under his palms.
your body moves before your brain catches up.
maybe it’s instinct. maybe it’s frustration. maybe it’s the way he’s everywhere except where you need him.
you reach down.
your fingers brush him through his sweats—hot, hard, there—and you curl your hand around him without thinking, without planning, without permission.
his groan is immediate. low. rough. it vibrates straight through you.
“—fuck.”
for half a second, you think you’ve done it. you think you crossed the line and he’s going to let you have it.
then his hand closes around your wrist.
firm. not angry. not panicked.
“no,” he says, voice tight now, restraint threading through it like steel. he pulls your hand away from him and pins it beside your head, fingers lacing with yours just to make the point stick. “not yet.”
your chest heaves. your legs shift under him, needy, aching.
“why—” you start, breathless.
he dips his head, forehead brushing yours, nose nudging your cheek, voice dropping back into that maddening calm.
“because,” he murmurs, “you’re grabbing for the ending.”
his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, almost gentle. almost affectionate.
“and i’m still teaching you the middle.”
his free hand slides up your stomach—palm broad and warm and maddening—until it rests under the swell of your chest, not quite cupping. just waiting. like he’s listening to your heartbeat there.
“you keep getting shy,” he murmurs. “but you’ve got all these ideas, don’t you?”
your lips part. your throat’s dry. “i…”
his head tilts. he studies your face like a text he’s annotating. like every glance is a margin note you’ll have to answer for later.
“what do you like?” he asks, simple as a quiz. like it’s an easy question. like there’s a right answer and he already knows it.
you freeze. “i—i don’t know.”
he hums, skeptical. “sure you do.”
his hand trails higher, up to the hem of your tank, fingers dipping under like he’s flipping a page. your breath hitches again.
“you liked that earlier,” he murmurs, brushing your ribs, “when i touched here.”
you nod, barely.
“and here,” he adds, palm spreading over your waist again, squeezing, slow and firm.
you nod again.
he leans down, lips near your throat. “what about this?” his thumb brushes the side of your breast, not quite touching your nipple. just teasing. just hovering like it’s a privilege.
you make a noise in your throat. embarrassed. startled. needy.
“hm?” he prompts, voice darker. “you like your tits played with?”
you flinch. “i—i don’t know. i haven’t—”
he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “haven’t what?”
you whisper, “no one’s ever done it like that before.”
he grins slow. wicked. fucking delighted.
“no?” his voice dips like it’s velvet dragging across skin. “want me to try?”
your lips part. “i—yeah. okay.”
“okay,” he echoes, already dragging your tank top down with both hands, peeling it under your tits so they spill out, flushed and stiff, nipples peaked from cold and contact and god knows what else. “that’s cute.”
he palms one softly, then both—squeezes just enough to make your hips jerk under him, then thumbs over your nipples like he’s testing pressure, testing reaction, testing how fast he can get you to writhe.
your head tilts back with a whimper. he watches the whole thing, like a study in cause and effect.
“sensitive,” he murmurs, again, almost fond this time. “look at you.”
you do, barely—eyes half-lidded, throat exposed, chest heaving under his hands—and he leans down and mouths over one nipple, wet and sudden and warm, and fuck, it’s worse than you imagined. better. softer. hotter.
he licks slow, then sucks.
you gasp.
your back arches into his mouth before you can stop it.
his hand is still around your wrist, keeping you from grabbing him again, but his other palm strokes down your waist as he sucks your tit into his mouth and hums like he could stay there forever. like he enjoys this more than he should.
you whine. legs tightening. core clenching.
and all he says is, “yeah… you like this,” with your nipple still wet between his teeth.
and then he does it again. harder. longer.
and you nearly sob.
he licks and sucks his way back up—tongue warm against the curve of your breast, mouth dragging heat straight across your chest, up your sternum, wet and unhurried, like he’s claiming everything you are one inch at a time. like you’re something sweet he can’t stop tasting.
his hands don’t rush. they stay low, supportive. one cradling your lower back. the other stroking over your side, fingers grazing the slope of your waist like he’s petting down a shiver.
you breathe, ragged. you feel everything.
then he reaches your neck—and fuck, you thought his mouth was sinful on your tits but here, it’s worse. better. his teeth scrape under your jaw and you gasp, hips jerking into his lap on instinct.
“still nervous?” he murmurs against your pulse, voice sticky and smug.
you try to speak. it comes out a breath. “no.”
he hums, not convinced, and then sinks his teeth in gently—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to jolt something warm and dangerous straight down your spine. you moan, barely, just a sound from the back of your throat, and he chases it immediately with his tongue, soothing the bite with lazy licks, sucking the spot once, twice, before trailing higher.
then your ear—he doesn’t skip it. doesn’t ignore the way you tense the second his breath hits the shell of it. he drags his lips up the curve, then down behind it, tongue soft. teasing. slow.
you let out something between a whimper and a curse.
his voice is soft there, right against your skin. “you always this sensitive?”
“not—normally,” you whisper.
he grins against your ear. “guess you just needed the right study partner.”
you barely have time to respond before he’s kissing you again.
sloppy. hot. tongue-first. not patient anymore—like he’s been holding back and now he’s tasting how wrecked you are. your hands scramble for his shoulders, clumsy, needy, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt like you’re afraid you’ll fall right through him.
and he lets you. lets you take it.
but while your mouth is opening for him again—while your thighs are twitching and your stomach’s fluttering and your body’s starting to catch on to just how deeply he’s unraveling you—his hand moves again.
low.
lower.
his fingers brush over your pussy through your shorts.
barely. just a pass.
but it’s enough to steal every thought out of your skull.
you break the kiss on a gasp. he doesn’t let you go far. just chases your lips with his own, nipping the bottom one as his fingers drag over you again, slow, like he’s learning the shape of the heat there. like he’s checking to see if it’s real.
you can’t stop the way you whimper. or the way your hips try to press down.
his smile is fucking audible. “already?”
your breath stutters.
“thought you were gonna be a good girl and wait for instruction,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but look at you. grinding like you need it.”
you shake your head weakly. “i’m not—i wasn’t—”
he strokes the seam of your shorts again, firmer this time, right over your clit.
you cry out softly. your nails dig into his shoulders.
he groans, low, satisfied. “mm. that’s more like it.”
“can i take these off?”
you nod, too fast. “yeah.”
your voice is high, wrecked. you sound too eager. you don’t care.
he shifts, slides the waistband down slow, thumbs hooking into the sides like he wants to make a scene of it, like it’s important he gets the angle right. your hips lift for him instinctively, and he hums a little like he likes that, like he noticed you offering yourself up without even thinking.
when the fabric drags down your thighs—slow, teasing, heat-sticky—he pauses.
his eyes drop.
and he actually stops breathing for a second.
“…fuck,” he mutters.
you freeze. “what?”
“these,” he says, thumbing the lace, “are ridiculous.”
they’re not. they’re cute. pale and soft, trimmed with little bows.
but he looks at you like you just stepped out of a fantasy he didn’t know he had.
his fingers brush the waistband again, lighter this time. “you always wear shit like this under your writing hoodie?”
you try to sit up, suddenly flustered. “i didn’t know you were gonna—”
he cuts you off with a grin, soft and smug. “i didn’t say i didn’t like them.”
his knuckle grazes the tiny bow at the center. “they’re pretty.”
your stomach flips.
“too pretty,” he adds, dragging the panties down the rest of the way. “almost a shame.”
“almost?” you whisper.
he brushes his nose right up the inside of your thigh, breath hot against your skin, like he’s following the heat of you.
his eyes flick back up—hungry, warm. “i’m not gonna feel bad if they get a little ruined.”
his hands slide up your legs, thumbs grazing the crease where your thighs meet your hips, settling just beneath the fabric. and for a second, he doesn’t do anything. just looks at you from down there—like he’s cataloging, committing, planning. like this isn’t just curiosity. it’s fucking reconnaissance.
you shift. inhale. exhale. it doesn't help.
his fingers press into your thighs, spreading them wider, tugging you closer to the edge of the bed, until you’re practically tilted forward and gasping already, your tank top bunched under your arms, your stomach tight, your pulse wild.
then—
his tongue presses through the fabric.
and it’s filthy. hot and slick and entirely too much even though you’re still covered, his mouth working slowly like he’s trying to taste you through the lace, open-mouthed licks dragging up the center seam while his hands squeeze your thighs like he’s got you locked in place.
you whimper. bite down on the sound. his eyes flash.
“don’t hold back,” he murmurs into you. “i want to hear it.”
your hips stutter forward, chasing him. he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips slick, smirk blooming wide across his face.
“yeah,” he says, voice gone hoarse, “you’re definitely a writer. dramatic little thing.”
he licks you again. slower. this time, the pressure rolls over your clit with enough heat to make your legs jump. and you can’t stay quiet—can’t stay still—you arch up, one hand shooting out behind you to brace on the sheets, the other fisting in the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.
he groans, soft, like he likes the way you move. the way you shake. the way you’re already this wet for him and he hasn’t even taken them off yet.
then he does.
hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he drags them down slow—teasing, watching your face the whole time like he’s studying what embarrassment looks like when it hits your cheeks, your collarbone, the curve of your bare, glistening pussy in the cold air of his room.
“fuck,” he says, low and reverent. “look at you.”
you can’t.
you can barely breathe.
“spread wider,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for the room more than for you.
you’re already panting. already slick and wrecked, thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders, but you do it—you obey without thinking, feet dragging wider over the sheets, knees bent up, nothing covering you now, not even the panties he’d peeled off like wrapping paper.
“fuck—look at you,” he mutters again, more to himself, like he’s taking notes. “pretty pussy already fluttering and i haven’t even touched your clit yet.”
“you did—” you gasp, sharp—“you did earlier—”
he laughs. laughs, mouth warm and wet where it’s already hovering over you, breath ghosting the slick mess of your cunt like a warning. “that was nothing,” he says, dragging his tongue up the center seam just once, slow, all tease, no pressure, “that was a warm-up.”
you flinch. your head tips back. your hips jerk forward—need before thought.
his fingers press down into your thighs. “keep still.”
“i’m trying—”
“try harder,” he says, like he’s teaching you how to hold a pen properly.
you breathe like it hurts. you feel hot, head spinning, mouth open to moan but it’s all breath, no sound. his tongue traces your folds again—no hurry, no rhythm, just methodical, exploratory strokes like he’s figuring out what parts make you jolt and twitch, what spots make your breathing shift and your hands scramble up the bed like you’re trying to run away from the feeling.
you moan. “sukuna—”
he hums against you. your back arches.
“tell me what that felt like,” he says, pulling back, mouth slick, voice serious. “right now. describe it.”
you blink through haze. “it was—it was—fuck—it felt—”
he slides two fingers up your slit, slow, parting you open. “you’re a writer, aren’t you?”
you sob. “warm,” you manage. “and slow. and—wet. deep.”
he nods, satisfied. “good.”
then—his mouth’s on you for real.
you scream, basically, or whimper like something feral, one hand flying to cover your mouth while the other fists the sheets. your hips roll. your thighs clamp. your chest rises like you’re choking on heat and sensation.
he moans into your cunt—on purpose, loud—and it sends a shock through your body so hard you nearly sob.
“s-stop—” you gasp, but you don’t mean it, and he knows it.
“no you don’t,” he mumbles against you.
his fingers slide in.
thick.
slow.
the stretch of it nearly takes you apart, two of them pumping steady while his mouth circles your clit and you’re losing it, like completely. no plan. no dignity. no plot left in your head at all.
“what do you say when it feels that good?” he asks, not even lifting his head.
you pant. “i—thank you?”
he laughs again. “no,” he says, curling his fingers just right, making you choke, “you ask.”
“ask—?”
he licks you again. sucks again.
you cry out. “please—!”
“hm?” he pulls back. “please what?”
your voice cracks. “please let me—please let me cum—”
“why?”
you blink at him, glazed. “w-what?”
“tell me why you deserve it.”
“i don’t—i—i can’t—fuck—” your thighs twitch, trying to close again. he pushes them back apart.
he curls his fingers deeper, tongue flicking again, faster.
“you’re gonna cum anyway,” he murmurs, amused. “might as well earn it.”
“because—” you sob, high-pitched, “because i want it—because i need it, i swear—please—”
his mouth closes over you again, and this time he doesn’t stop.
doesn’t pull back.
doesn’t tease.
just devours you.
his fingers never falter, fucking you open while his tongue presses your clit into a constant throb, and you’re not even breathing anymore, you’re gasping, you’re grinding your hips into his face now, you’re whining like an animal, like a slut, like a student who finally gave up and admitted she wants to be taught—
—and when you cum, it’s like everything stops.
it’s so wet, you can hear it.
it’s so hot, you forget how to move.
your legs lock up around his head. your hips buck once. your back arches off the bed as your mouth drops open, a long, broken moan falling from it like confession.
and he stays there, tongue softening, licking through the aftershocks like dessert, until your thighs shake and your pussy pulses and you push at his shoulder, begging him—begging—for a break.
when he pulls back, his mouth is glossy. flushed. still smirking.
“good girl,” he says, wiping his thumb over your slit one last time.
you twitch. you gasp.
you don’t know who you are anymore.
you’re still twitching when he shifts down.
still trying to catch your breath.
your legs part instinctively—an offering, a warning, an invitation you couldn’t take back if you tried.
“relax,” he murmurs, voice a rasp against your inner thigh. “not gonna make you cum again.”
you whimper. “i—i can’t—”
“i know.”
his hands anchor you open again anyway, firm on the backs of your thighs, keeping you spread, keeping you honest, and his mouth dips one more time, down, down, down—
—and kisses your clit.
just once. just a kiss.
a wet, closed-mouth press that turns your whole body to glass, that makes your hips jump and your thighs tremble and your breath hitch like you know he did it just to see if you’d beg for more.
you almost do.
you feel it for a lifetime.
“mm,” he hums against you, and the vibration shoots through your cunt like a punishment. “still twitchy.”
your voice breaks. “that was—”
“what?” he murmurs, glancing up with that gleam in his eye. “too much?”
you swallow. “too good.”
he grins. kisses it again.
lighter. shorter. more like a thank you than a threat.
you moan before you can stop it.
he breathes out a laugh.
“still so sensitive,” he says. “guess we’ll save the rest for next time.”
then he drags his mouth back up your body—slow, wet kisses over your hipbone, your ribs, the curve of your breast, the underside of your jaw. he sucks your skin like he’s tasting a story he wrote first.
“n-next time?”
when his mouth finds yours again, you’re still slick and open and ruined.
and you kiss him back like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.
you whimper.
then he stands.
and it’s ridiculous, the way your whole body feels it, like pressure dropping from the ceiling, like heat pulling away from your skin all at once. like something just got taken away before you even had it.
you’re flushed. trembling. panting like you just ran a mile, thighs aching, nerves shot, breath hitching every time his scent brushes the back of your throat.
your chest rises and falls like a warning. your core pulses like an afterthought.
his gaze drags over you once, then dips lower.
“rewrite the scene,” he says. “send it to me.”
your mouth is open, but no sound comes out.
he turns.
the door swings open.
he doesn’t look back.
his scent lingers. his voice lingers worse.
the silence rushes in like a wave.
you don’t move. not for a long time.
you don’t know how.
you’re still on your back, legs numb, lips parted and swollen, pulse still caught in that place just below your bellybutton where everything feels wrong and raw and so, so ready for more.
you close your eyes. you breathe in slow. you try to ground yourself.
but there’s no coming back from this.
no neutral after that.
the cursor’s still blinking on your laptop.
you reach for it like you’re in a trance, fingers trembling, breath shuddering as you drag the computer onto your lap, still kneeling, still sticky, still wearing nothing but the throb between your thighs.
sukuna was a disaster. missed passes, sloppy shots, stick hitting the ice harder than the puck. he got sent to the box three times in the first period alone—tripping, roughing, some bullshit call that barely counted. the refs were on him the entire night.
his teammates didn’t help. passes went nowhere. plays fell apart. every time sukuna tried to force the pace, it only got worse. by the second period, his skating was more reckless and angry, like effort alone could bend the night back into place.
they lost. badly. he left the ice with frustration crawling under his skin, nowhere to put it.
meanwhile you didn’t watch the game.
sukuna did send you tickets but you didn't feel like going out tonight. you’re at your desk, half-focused, pencil dragging across notes you’ve read three times, then there’s a knock. light and sharp which you ignore at first.
another knock. harder.
“okay okay—hold on,” you mutter, pushing your chair back.
he’s there when you open the door. visibly tired, hair still damp, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he obviously hasn't freshened up.
“you didn’t tell me you were coming over.”
“i did,” he mutters. “texted five times tonight. you didn’t answer.”
“you did?” you check your phone. “…must’ve put it on dnd.”
he doesn’t respond. just steps inside like he owns the place. drags his bag to the bathroom without asking. then the shower starts running. you sit back at your desk, pencil useless in your hand, listening.
a few minutes later, he emerges. hair damp, hoodie on, irritation still clinging. he drops the duffel against the wall and sinks to the floor beside your chair and leans his head into your lap.
heavy, warm, and tired.
you let your hand settle in his hair. debating whether to ask the obvious or not.
“bad game?” you ask quietly.
“…don’t even start,” he mutters, voice low, tired. “…three penalties. first period. refs had it out for me. team played straight up fucking ass too."
you don’t respond. fingers comb through his damp strands.
he shifts slightly, pressing his head into your lap a little more, heavy, like he’s carrying all the frustration there instead of anywhere else. his hand scrapes along the floor, restless, fingers flexing, muttering under his breath. “can’t even focus. can’t even think straight.”
“do you want me to help?” you ask, hand still threading through his damp hair.
“sex? no." he mutters, “i mean i'd love to—but im so tired doll, unless you really need to. we can do a quick one." he means it as much as you make him feel good, his body is giving up on him.
“im mostly asking for you but i'm tired too. i’m sorry i missed it. i was too tired to go out tonight.”
“it’s fine,” he says, shifting just slightly, pressing his head closer, resting it on your thigh. “i played like dogshit. wouldn't want you to see." and then he presses his lips against your thigh like he needs something solid to lean on.
you keep still, letting him find whatever comfort in you.
you try to reassure him, “hey,” you murmur softly, just a little, “season’s not over. you guys are still going to play."
“yeah, yeah, whatever. doesn’t feel like it. if everybody keeps playing like this we might as well get ready for the next season.” he mutters, voice clipped, muttering half to himself, half into the quiet. “i hate losing like that. hate feeling like i can’t do anything right. its a lingering feeling that refuses to go away."
“usually i’d get high to shut it off,” he continues, lips brushing lightly against your thigh again. “…can’t really afford to fuck up my system right now though.” another soft, lazy kiss.
“am i an alternative then?”
“something like that,”
he shifts slightly, forehead nudging, “…i’m probably gonna crash here. that okay?”
"yea of course."
“what’d you do today?” he shifts the topic to you thumb tracing lazy circles along your thigh. this would at least help him think of anything other than hockey.
“uhh only had two classes today so i went home early."
“that's morning, no? did you eat breakfast before leaving?” he has lectured you once or twice about breakfast being the most important meal of the day because he knows how often you skip it.
“yeah. something quick,” you say, “cereal.”
“…and lunch?”
“lunch with shoko.”
“mmm, anything else?”
“watched a buncha law and order episodes.”
“i told you to wait for me on that one,” he clicks his tongue.
“different show,” you answered, “the one we started together was dexter.”
“that so?" tilting his head maybe he's more zone out than he think he is. “did you eat dinner at least?”
“yeah, instant noodles.”
“that’s not dinner,” he scoffs.
“hey, i’m on a budget,” you tease. “tutoring is usually bad after exams.”
“do you want me to fail again?” he asks, fingers flexing against your calf. “that way you have an excuse to tutor me."
“nope,” you answer instantly. “i’d look stupid wasting my time teaching you. you're smarter than me now."
he chuckles low, satisfied, presses another lazy kiss against your thigh. “never. never smarter than you. your sexy smart brain is something else."
“a brain can be sexy?" you raise an eyebrow.
“hell yeah,” he continues, “i get hard whenever you start talking about numbers and measurements."
“weirdo."
“that mouth too” he adds, “love it when you turn into a mouthy bitch."
“i'll bite you." you joke.
“kinky," sukuna grumbles, “i'm so turned on right now.”
“you're a mess ryo.” you sigh, smiling faintly.
sukuna just hums, satisfied, finally stilling. “…best part of today,” he mutters, “…is this.”
he presses one last soft kiss to your knee, lets out a soft breath.
“wrap up early,” he mutters, voice low, tired. “i’m moving to your bed.”
“i will,” you murmur.
he moves wordlessly to your bed, slides under the blanket, curls onto his side, pulls it up around himself.
“…if anybody calls me tomorrow morning and i’m still asleep, don’t pick up. okay?”
“got it,” you say.
“also, would prefer it if i wake up and you’re still in bed,” he adds, voice low. "you have a habit of acting like a one night stand."
“demanding,”
he hums, presses his face into the pillow, and within minutes, he’s asleep. deep, steady breathing, completely out, done for the night.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ⋮ Your long term boyfriend, Hayato made a disgusting post about you on Reddit. I mean, who even thinks that it’s a good idea to put your name on a Reddit username? Your Reddit obsessed best friend sent you the post and it was closure to his already shitty attitude to begin with. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of crying and yelling — You just packed and left for good (not before you changed the Netflix account password though, and Spotify). When your now ex-boyfriend went batshit crazy after your departure, your best friend suggested her older brother to look after you.
Except, all he’s good at (probably) is studying and his looks.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ⋮ suggestive content (near a smut, no actual description of the action bcs i can't write good smut). no smut . real world au . gojo and reader are in their late 20s . an implied gojo being a loser . fake dating . nerdjo is a pokemon nerd . cursing . mentions of sex but no actual sex bcs ur girl don't know how to write good smut . doesn't follow the jjk plot at all . SLOW UPDATES . tba .
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
OOO. CHAT, AM I THE ASSHOLE?
OO1. INTRODUCING, GOJO SATORU
OO2. GOJO SATORU SAYS "NO"
OO3. GOJO SATORU SAYS "YES"
OO4. HAYATO CRASHOUT
OO5. SUSPICIOUS PURCHASES
OO6. HAYATO'S GRAND ENTRANCE
OO7. DESSERT BAR SHENNANIGANS
OO8. MATCHING POKEMON KEYCHAINS
OO9. RAIN, RAIN GO AWAY? NO, SICK, SICK GO AWAY.
O1O. ONE BED, TWO PEOPLE?
O11. IT'S RAINING THUNDER
O12. NEW NUMBER, THIS IS SHE
O13. SO, YOU'RE (NAME)?
O14. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SATORU
O15. SATORU'S SPECIAL DAY
O16. SHE'S A KEEPER!
O17. KEPT ON DELIVERED
O18. UNINVITED APPEARANCE
O19. PERMISSION TO CONTINUE
O2O. PLUS ONE
O21. HOMA AND ISA
O22. THE "GIRLFRIEND" TITLE
O23. SORRY, I CAN'T COME EARLY!
O24. HANG "YOU TRAITOR" OVER
O25. A DAY OF SILENCE
O26. RAGEBAITER, RAGEBAITED
O27. JUMBLED FEELINGS (FILLER)
O28. AN ADULT HUMAN J#B
O29. TRUE LOVE
O3O. I THOUGHT WE LIKED EACH OTHER?
O31. IT'S A SIGN
O32. CHAT, AM I THE ACE-HOLE?
O33. HOW TO SHUT SOMEONE UP 101
O34. AS A STRANGER, I'D MIND MY OWN BUSINESS
O35. EW, GOJO SENSEI COOTIES
O36. EPILOGUE 1; DID YOU JUST THROW AN APPLE AT ME?
O37. EPILOGUE 2; FIRST IMPRESSION MATTERS
𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
gojo dealing with his students after they saw your messages during class ⸝⸝ you and nerdjo open a few pokemon card packs to prove the girlfriend luck ⸝⸝ you accidentally ruined the colors of your gender reveal cake ⸝⸝ TBA
You were a sweet, shy pharmacist who only wanted quiet shifts and clean labels—until Sukuna Itadori, a 6'5" MMA menace on meds, decided his favorite side effect was “seeing her face” and started treating refills like weekly dates. Now he flirted like it was a sport, handed you VIP tickets like prescriptions, and kept insisting you were the only “aftercare” he trusted.
cw; pharmacy au. smut. oral. pnv. MDI 18+.
The pharmacy always smelled like clean paper and lemon disinfectant—sharp, bright, a little too honest.
You lived in that honesty.
Your hair had been behaving for exactly nine minutes, pinned back in a way that made your long brown ringlets look like they were politely waiting their turn. Your badge sat straight on your chest. Your scrubs were neat. Your voice stayed soft, like you kept it in a velvet-lined box and only opened it for people who deserved gentle.
The afternoon line moved in patient little shuffles. A toddler cried at the front end of the store, and somewhere in aisle seven, someone dropped a jar of pasta sauce with the dramatic commitment of a Greek tragedy.
You didn’t even flinch. You just counted tablets, checked an interaction screen, and thought, Please let everyone be kind today.
That was when you saw him.
At first, it was just a shadow crossing the pick-up lane—too tall for the world, shoulders filling the space like the building had to breathe around him. Then the details sharpened: pale pink hair buzzed close, a face that looked carved out of irritation, tattoos climbing his arms like black vines that had decided to stay forever.
He stood there like he didn’t wait in lines. Like lines waited for him.
One of the pharmacy techs—Mika—smiled her retail smile and chirped, “Hi! Name and date of birth?” The man’s eyes moved, slow as a blade leaving its sheath, and landed on you behind the counter. Not on Mika. Not on the register. On you—like your existence was a new sound he was trying to locate.
“Ryomen,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sukuna Itadori.” Mika typed, still smiling. “And your birthday?” He recited it, bored, eyes never leaving you. That alone was unsettling—most people looked away when they gave personal information, like it was polite to pretend they weren’t handing you a piece of themselves.
Sukuna didn’t pretend anything.
Mika’s expression shifted the smallest bit when she saw the profile. New patient. New meds. The kind of prescriptions that came with notes and caution flags and the invisible weight of someone finally saying, Alright. We’re going to try something different.
She reached for the bag in will-call.
Sukuna’s hand rose, palm out, stopping her like a traffic light.
“No.” Mika blinked. “Um—sorry?” He nodded toward you with his chin, like it was obvious. “I want the pharmacist.”
A small pause fell into the air. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… present. Like the pharmacy itself tilted its head.
Mika glanced at you, eyebrows lifting in a Can you take this? question.
You exhaled through your nose—quiet, controlled—and set your tray down.
“Of course,” you said, stepping forward.
Your voice was gentle, but your posture was pure professionalism. You didn’t hurry. You didn’t shrink. You simply arrived at the counter, hands folded, eyes lifting to meet his.
Up close, he was worse.
Not because he was handsome—he was, in that dangerous way people warned you about with the phrase trouble. Not because he was tall—though he was, towering enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep eye contact. Not because he was built like a door that lifted weights.
It was the look in his eyes.
Red-brown, sharp, watchful. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to be disappointed and was still hoping you might surprise him.
“Mr. Itadori?” you asked, because you were polite even when your pulse tried to sprint. “Sukuna,” he corrected.
You nodded once. “Sukuna. I’m Y/n. I’m the pharmacist on duty.” His gaze flicked to your name tag, then back up. “Y/n,” he repeated, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth.
You slid the bag toward you, glanced at the label, and kept your tone calm. “This is your first fill with us. I’m going to review your medication with you—dosage, common side effects, and what to avoid.” He leaned in a fraction, forearms on the counter. Tattoos flexed as he moved. The scent of him reached you—clean soap and something mineral, like cold metal warmed by skin.
“Side effects,” he murmured. “Yeah. Let’s talk about those.” You kept your face neutral, but your brain whispered,
Please be normal. Please be normal.
He wasn’t.
“What’s it do to my sex drive?” he asked, casually, like he was asking if you had paper or plastic bags. Mika made a strangled sound behind you. Someone in line coughed, suddenly very interested in the greeting cards.
You stared at him.
He held your gaze with the calm confidence of a man who had never been embarrassed in his life. “And before you say ‘everyone reacts different,’” he added, voice dropping, “I’m an athlete. I need my body working. All of it.” Then he gave you a slow blink that was somehow a wink without technically being a wink. “I can go all night,” he said, like he was sharing a fun fact. “It’d be a tragedy if the meds took that away from the world.”
Your expression didn’t change.
It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the implication. You did. Unfortunately. Vividly.
It was that you refused to reward it.
You lifted the leaflet, tapped it once with a neatly trimmed nail, and said, “Sexual side effects are possible. If you experience changes, you should speak with your prescriber. Do you have any other questions that are actually relevant?” Mika choked harder. You heard a stifled laugh from somewhere down the line.
Sukuna’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, like your deadpan had struck something in him that wanted to live. “Mm,” he hummed. “I like you.” You kept reading off the counseling points like your life depended on it. “This medication should be taken once daily. Try to take it at the same time each day. It may cause drowsiness, dizziness, nausea—”
“Will it make me less… angry?” he asked, quieter now.
That one landed different. Not flirtatious. Not stupid. Just raw, slipped under the counter like a note you weren’t supposed to see.
You softened your voice without meaning to. “It can help. Especially if you give it time and take it consistently.” He looked at you like he didn’t enjoy needing anything. “Time,” he repeated, as if the word tasted bitter.
You nodded. “Time. And routine.” He stared, then reached into his pocket and placed his ID on the counter—too carefully, like he didn’t trust himself to move too fast. “Y/n,” he said again, and your name sounded like a warning and a compliment in the same breath. “Tell me the truth.” You met his eyes. “Okay.”
“If I take this,” he said, “am I going to feel like someone else?” Your throat tightened, just a little. You’d heard this question in a hundred different forms—Will I still be me? Will my thoughts still belong to me? Will I lose my fire? Will I lose my edge?
You didn’t give him a rehearsed line. You gave him the truth you could safely hold.
“It shouldn’t erase you,” you said softly. “It should give you more space to breathe inside yourself. If it ever feels wrong—if you feel numb or unlike yourself—you talk to your provider. We adjust. We don’t suffer in silence.” Something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance, relief, suspicion, maybe all of it braided together.
Then, because he was him, he tilted his head and said, “So you’re saying you’ll take care of me.” Your cheeks warmed. “I’m saying I will do my job,” you replied.
He smiled this time. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… pleased.
“You’re sweet,” he said. “It’s cute.”
“I’m professional,” you corrected. “You’re both,” he said with a smirk, you handed him the bag and the paperwork. “Do you have any allergies?”
“No.”
“Any other medications you take?”
“Sometimes protein powder,” he said. “Sometimes violence.” Mika audibly inhaled like she’d just swallowed a cough the wrong way.
You blinked once. “We’ll start with the protein powder.” He chuckled—low, brief. The sound startled you more than his words. It made him seem… human. Like there was a person in there under the anger and the edges.
He took the bag, but didn’t move away. Just stayed, leaning in like the counter was a fence and he didn’t want to leave the yard you stood in.
“So,” he said, “when do I see you again?”
“Your next refill date is on the label,” you told him evenly.
He lifted the bag, glanced at it, then looked at you again like the label was a suggestion, not a schedule. “Yeah,” he said. “But what if I have questions?”
“You can call the pharmacy.”
“I don’t like phones.”
“You can ask any pharmacist.” He stared at you. Slow. Heavy. Like he was setting down a decision. “No,” he said simply. “I’ll ask you.” You held your composure like it was stitched into your ribs. “We have multiple pharmacists.” He leaned closer, voice dropping into something that vibrated in your chest. “I need the real one.” Your stomach flipped, traitorous and soft.
You didn’t curse. You didn’t snap. You didn’t flirt.
You simply lifted your eyebrows. “Sukuna, are you refusing counseling from anyone else?” He stared back, completely serious. “Yes.”
Mika’s eyes went wide with Is that allowed?
You exhaled quietly, like you were releasing a patient prayer.
“Fine,” you said. “If you have questions, you can ask me when I’m on duty.” His mouth curved again—victory, wrapped in velvet. “Good,” he said. “Because I do have a question.” You didn’t even sigh this time. You just waited.
He tapped the bag lightly. “If this makes me calmer,” he said, “and less obsessive… will I still want things?” You watched his face for the joke, for the crude punchline, for the easy innuendo.
It didn’t come.
Instead, his eyes stayed on yours, too intent, like he meant things in a way that wasn’t just about bodies.
You swallowed. “Most people still want things,” you said carefully. “Sometimes they want them in a healthier way.” He nodded once, like that answered something he hadn’t said out loud.
Then he straightened, finally stepping back.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” You lifted your chin. “Take it as directed.” He paused at the edge of the counter, glanced over his shoulder.
“And Y/n?”
“Yes?” His gaze slid over you—not lewd, not careless. Just aware. Like he noticed the way you held yourself, the way your softness didn’t mean weakness. “Maybe one day,” he said, voice lazy again, “you’ll let me give you my own personal medicine.”
Mika made a sound like a dying battery.
You stared at Sukuna with the same straight face you’d given him all along.
Then, very calmly, you said, “If you’re experiencing delusions, that is a side effect you should report.” For a second, he looked stunned. Then he laughed—real laughter, low and dangerous and delighted—and walked out of the pharmacy like he’d just won something.
You stood there, hands folded, heart doing a ridiculous little dance inside your ribs.
Mika leaned in, whispering, “Who was that?” You watched the automatic doors slide shut behind him, the winter light swallowing his silhouette.
You spoke softly, mostly to yourself.
“Trouble,” you said.
And as you turned back to the counter, the phone rang—one of those sharp, ordinary sounds that kept the world moving—while you tried very hard not to wonder how soon “next refill” could possibly come.
Friday nights at the pharmacy always carried a particular kind of exhaustion—one that clung to your sleeves and crawled up behind your eyes, the kind that made the fluorescent lights feel personal.
So when you heard, the next morning, that Sukuna Itadori had fought the night before, something in you tightened.
Not curiosity. Not excitement.
Just… a quiet, reluctant awareness. Like a storm report you didn’t ask for, but still read anyway because you needed to know where the wind might hit. You didn’t follow his career. You didn’t watch clips. You didn’t scroll past headlines the way other people did when they wanted to feel alive through someone else’s chaos.
You didn’t like fighting.
You liked calm. You liked clean counters. You liked the soft clink of pill bottles. You liked order, and routine, and the steady reassurance of labels that told you exactly what something was meant to do.
And yet—when you got dressed that morning, you took a few extra minutes.
You fixed your curls until they fell in obedient ringlets, glossy and thick, framing your face like they belonged there. You smoothed a little cream into the ends with careful fingers. You put on the smallest swipe of mascara, barely enough to count.
It wasn’t for him, you told yourself.
It was just… for you.
But your reflection looked back with an almost-suspicious sweetness, and you felt your cheeks warm as if your mirror had caught you hoping.
The pharmacy doors chimed sometime after nine.
You didn’t look up right away. You were checking a profile, eyes scanning for interactions, mind in its tidy little corridor of clinical focus.
Then you heard the change in the air.
The subtle pause at the counter.
The way your tech’s voice lifted—nervous, amused, trying not to sound intrigued.
And you knew.
Mika cleared her throat. “Uh—hi. Can I help you?” A familiar low voice slid over the counter like smoke. “Yeah. I’m here for the pharmacist.” Mika tried. She really did. “We can counsel you—”
“I don’t want ‘we.’” You could hear the smirk in his tone. “I want her.” You closed your eyes for half a second.
Not because you were angry—though you were definitely annoyed—but because your heart did something completely unhelpful, fluttering like a trapped thing.
You set your pen down with exaggerated calm, then stepped out from behind the workstation.
Sukuna stood there in a fitted hoodie that looked like it was fighting for its life across his shoulders. His buzzed hair was still damp, pale pink and close to his scalp, and he had that post-training heat clinging to him—clean sweat, sharp soap, something metallic and bright.
He looked… awake.
Not in the polite way people looked awake after coffee.
In the way a blade looked awake after being sharpened.
There was a faint bruise at the edge of his cheekbone that hadn’t fully yellowed yet, and a small cut near his brow like a careless punctuation mark.
His eyes found you instantly and the second they did, his mouth curved, slow and pleased.
Like he’d walked in already knowing you’d be pretty.
You hated that your pulse noticed.
You approached the counter, posture perfectly professional, voice soft enough to be kind but firm enough to be a boundary.
“What was going on?” you asked, because he always arrived like a disruption and acted like it was your fault.
Sukuna didn’t even pretend to be here for a refill.
He pulled something from his pocket and slid it across the counter toward you with two fingers.
A ticket.
Black, glossy, heavy stock—one of those tickets that didn’t look like paper so much as a promise. VIP lettering caught the overhead lights.
You stared down at it.
Then you stared up at him.
“What is this?” you asked, even though you already knew. Your stomach had answered before your mouth did.
His smirk deepened. “My fight.” You blinked once. “Tonight?”
“Tonight.” He tilted his head, watching your face like he was waiting for some reaction he could collect. “You should come.” You didn’t touch the ticket. Like it might burn you. Like accepting it would be the same as agreeing to something you hadn’t said yes to. “Sukuna,” you said gently, “this is—unprofessional.”
He leaned closer, forearms resting on the counter like he belonged there. Tattoos flexed beneath his sleeves. His voice dropped, warm and too intimate for a pharmacy at nine in the morning.
“You’re a pharmacist,” he murmured. “You like… aftercare.” Your face stayed neutral on pure willpower. “Aftercare isn’t a medical term,” you replied, even though the words sounded a little too careful leaving your mouth, like you were stepping around a puddle you didn’t want to admit you’d noticed.
His eyes flickered, amused. “It is if I say it is.” You glanced down at the bruise near his cheekbone, the cut at his brow, and felt something tender tug at the inside of your ribs—something you didn’t want to name.
“Why are you giving this to me?” you asked softly.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Because I want you there,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Your throat tightened.
You kept your voice steady. “I don’t—watch fighting.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “Watch me.” You looked at him, and his gaze held yours, steady and bold and too sure.
Then he tapped the ticket lightly with one knuckle.
“And after,” he added, lazy and cocky again, “you can fix my bruises.” Your brows lifted. “I’m not a nurse.”
“You’re close enough.” His grin sharpened. “You’ve got that gentle little voice. You’ll do great.” Mika made a small, helpless noise behind you, like she was watching a rom-com she hadn’t paid for.
You exhaled, the sound barely more than air. “This is inappropriate.” Sukuna straightened, as if he’d heard you but didn’t accept the premise.
He set the ticket down with slow certainty—like a man placing a coin on a counter, already convinced the purchase was complete.
Then he leaned in one last time, eyes on yours.
“See you tonight, Y/n,” he said.
You opened your mouth to argue.
He turned and walked away before you could.
Just left the ticket there.
Like you were going to pick it up.
Like the world always did what he wanted.
The doors chimed as he exited, and the pharmacy felt too bright again, too normal, too clean for the way your heart was misbehaving.
Mika crept up beside you, eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “He is… actually insane.” You stared at the VIP ticket like it might start talking. “He shouldn’t do that,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her.
Mika’s smile widened. “He’s not exactly a ‘should’ kind of man.” You swallowed, still staring down.
All day, the ticket sat in the back of your mind like a little weight.
Between counseling patients on antibiotics and explaining prior authorizations and repeating the same gentle script you’d always used—Take with food, call us if you have questions, no, don’t double up, yes, please drink water—your thoughts kept drifting.
Not to the fight.
To him.
To the way he’d looked at you like you were something he wanted to keep in his hands.
You tried to focus. You really did.
But you caught yourself imagining his bruises.
His cut.
Your fingers—gloved, of course—dabbing antiseptic.
The absurd intimacy of tending to someone who was built for damage.
The idea made you feel warm and ridiculous.
And nervous.
Near the end of your shift, Mika leaned against the counter, casual like she wasn’t about to push you off a cliff.
“You’re going,” she said. “I’m not,” you replied automatically.
Mika hummed. “You’re going.” You frowned. “Why are you acting like you control my decisions.”
“Because I like joy,” she said. “And because you’ve been walking around all day like someone put a secret in your pocket.” You tried to look offended. It didn’t work. Mika waved her hand. “Leave early. We’ve got it handled. Go… do whatever this is.”
“This is nothing,” you said, but your voice came out too soft, too unconvincing.
Mika’s eyes narrowed. “Your mascara begs to differ.” Your cheeks warmed instantly. “I always wear mascara.”
“Mm-hm.” She smiled like she’d caught you stealing candy. “Go.” You hesitated long enough for your conscience to wrestle with your curiosity.
Then you sighed.
“Fine,” you said quietly, like you were agreeing to a chore instead of a choice that made your stomach flutter.
You went home and stood in front of your closet longer than you should have.
You told yourself you were dressing comfortably.
You told yourself you didn’t care what you looked like.
You told yourself the black long-sleeve was just clean and simple and easy, but when you pulled it on and it hugged your curves—when the mirror showed you soft and shapely and a little too pretty for your own comfort—you paused.
Not because you were trying.
Because you weren’t.
You chose jeans that fit the way they were supposed to—snug at the waist, fitted at the thighs—and when you turned sideways, you let out a small breath, surprised at your own silhouette. Your hair fell down your back in thick ringlets, framing you with that natural softness you couldn’t hide even when you wanted to.
You didn’t add jewelry. No perfume. Nothing dramatic.
Just you.
Just… slightly braver than usual.
The drive to the arena felt surreal.
Streetlights blinked on one by one like the city was exhaling into night. Traffic thickened closer to the venue, headlights pooling like water. You followed the signs, parked, and sat for a second with your hands on the steering wheel, heart tapping an anxious rhythm.
You could still turn around, you told yourself.
You could drive home.
You could return to your quiet apartment and your safe routines and pretend you’d never accepted anything from a man like him.
But your fingers had already touched the ticket.
You got out of the car.
The arena loomed bright and loud, all banners and bodies, and you felt small walking toward it—small, and out of place, like you’d wandered into someone else’s movie.
At the entrance, security scanned your ticket.
The staff member’s face changed—respectful, quick. “Right this way.” You swallowed. “Okay.” They led you through a corridor where the sound of the crowd grew heavier with every step—bass thumps of music, shouts like waves, the electric hum of anticipation.
You were guided into the private area.
It was quieter than the main seating, but it still throbbed with noise beneath it—like you could feel the energy in the floor. Plush seats, a small table, a view that made your stomach dip. People in nicer clothes sat around you, laughing, sipping drinks.
You sat stiffly, hands folded in your lap, trying not to look like you didn’t belong.
Because you didn’t.
A screen lit up with highlights, and the announcer’s voice rolled through the arena like thunder.
Your palms dampened.
You didn’t like violence. You didn’t like the idea of bodies as entertainment. You didn’t like the way the crowd sounded hungry and yet… you were here.
Because Sukuna had looked at you like you were the only soft thing in the room worth reaching for.
Lights dimmed.
The first fight began.
You flinched at the first sharp impact—two bodies colliding, the sound somehow louder than it should’ve been. You tried to focus on the rules, on the structure, on the idea that this was controlled, sanctioned.
But your shoulders stayed tense.
You found yourself watching the referees more than the fighters. Watching for safety. Watching for stopping points. Watching for the moment someone would say enough.
You took slow breaths, the way you taught anxious patients to do when they came to pick up meds they didn’t want to need.
Around you, people cheered.
You didn’t.
You simply watched—eyes wide, heart uneasy—trying to understand why anyone craved this.
And then, between fights, a movement near the VIP entrance caught your attention.
A familiar shape.
Too tall. Too broad.
Sukuna appeared at the edge of the private area like he owned the air itself.
He wasn’t in his fight gear yet—still in warmups, loose pants, a jacket zipped partway. His hair looked freshly dried again, and there was a calm to him that made him even more dangerous, like all the anger had been leashed tight for later.
His eyes swept the room.
Then landed on you.
And the smirk returned, immediate and satisfied—like a lock clicking into place.
He walked over with unhurried confidence, gaze never leaving your face. People glanced up, murmured, shifted to make space without being asked.
He stopped in front of you, towering just enough that you had to tilt your chin again. “Well,” he said, voice low, amused. “You came.” Your heart stuttered.
You tried to sound composed. “You left the ticket.”
“That was the point.” He leaned down slightly, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in your ear, not in public. “I wanted to see if you’d do what I asked.” You frowned, though your cheeks warmed. “That’s… manipulative.” He shrugged like it was a compliment. “And yet.” You exhaled softly. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
He studied you—your curls, your black top, the way you held yourself like you were trying to be invisible and failing.
His eyes darkened with approval. “You look good.” You blinked. “Sukuna—” He cut you off with a lazy little smile. “Don’t start. Just take it.” Your lips parted, then closed.
You forced yourself to ask the sensible thing. “Are you hurt?” His gaze flicked over your face, then softened—almost imperceptibly. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”
That answer should’ve unsettled you.
It did.
He sat down—too close, far too casual—like it was normal for him to fold himself into your space. His knee brushed yours, and the contact sent a small spark up your leg, stupid and bright.
“You look like you want to run,” he murmured.
You stared forward at the cage. “I don’t like this.” He hummed. “I know.”
You glanced at him, surprised.
He met your eyes. “You’re too soft for it.”
You didn’t like the way that sounded—like softness was a limitation.
But the way he said it… wasn’t insulting.
It sounded protective.
It made your throat tighten anyway.
Sukuna leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like a man settling into a theater seat. “Just watch. I’ll make it quick.” You frowned. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can.” He turned his head, gaze pinned to you again. “Because you’re here.” Your heartbeat stumbled.
Then an official approached, speaking quietly to Sukuna. Sukuna listened with a bored expression that didn’t match the intensity of the room.
He stood, towering over you again.
His eyes dragged over your face—slow, possessive in a way that made you want to scold him and blush at the same time.
“Stay,” he said.
You blinked. “I wasn’t—”
“Stay,” he repeated, voice sharper now, like it mattered. Like you mattered.
You nodded once before your mind could argue.
Sukuna’s mouth curved, satisfied.
Then he walked away, disappearing into the corridor like a promise you didn’t know how to hold.
A few minutes later, his name boomed over the speakers.
The crowd erupted.
Your stomach dipped.
Lights flashed. Music surged. The atmosphere changed—thicker, wilder, like everyone suddenly leaned forward at once.
And then he was there.
Sukuna stepped out into the arena lights, and the roar around you became physical—vibrating through your bones, rattling the air in your lungs. He moved like he belonged to that sound, like it fed him. Like he wore noise the way other men wore cologne.
He looked… different.
Not softer.
Not calmer.
Just focused—cold, bright, terrifyingly controlled. His shoulders rolled once. His jaw flexed. His eyes scanned the crowd, then lifted briefly toward the VIP section.
You swore he found you instantly.
That smirk flashed again—quick as a match strike.
Your heart jumped.
Then the cage door closed.
The bell rang.
You braced yourself without meaning to.
The first exchange happened fast—feet shifting, hands snapping out, the sound of gloves and skin and impact echoing in a way that made your stomach twist.
You hated how much the crowd loved it.
But you couldn’t look away from him.
Sukuna moved like a predator.
Not frantic. Not sloppy. Every motion had intent. He slipped a punch like it was nothing, countered with something sharp and clean, forced the other man back with the effortless confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power he had.
Your hands curled in your lap.
You didn’t cheer.
You didn’t smile.
You just watched with a growing knot of worry that made your throat tight.
Because you’d seen bruises on him before and you’d realized, somewhere in the middle of counting pills and fixing curls, that you didn’t like the idea of anyone hurting him.
Not even if he chose it.
The other fighter rushed him, trying to close distance, and for a second you felt your breath catch—fear flashing through you like a cold splash.
Sukuna didn’t even look panicked.
He caught the clinch, turned it, drove the man back into the fence with brutal efficiency. Not excessive. Not theatrical. Just… decisive.
Your stomach turned.
The referee watched closely.
The crowd screamed.
Sukuna worked—short strikes, pressure, control—and when the other man tried to twist away, Sukuna dragged him down with a takedown so clean it looked like choreography.
You flinched at the sound of bodies hitting canvas.
Then Sukuna was on top, posture low, heavy, controlling. Not wild. Not cruel. Just complete.
It was horrible and mesmerizing all at once.
Your fingers pressed into your palm until you felt your own pulse.
The other fighter struggled. Sukuna adjusted. The referee hovered.
And then—so fast you almost didn’t understand it—Sukuna shifted, locked something in, and the other man tapped.
Tapped.
It was over.
The bell rang again.
The crowd exploded like fireworks.
You sat frozen, heartbeat pounding, relief washing through you so hard it made you dizzy.
Sukuna rose, chest heaving, sweat gleaming under the lights. He looked to the referee, then to his corner, then—like he couldn’t help himself—his gaze cut up toward the VIP section again.
This time, he didn’t just glance.
He stared.
And you felt it—felt the way his attention wrapped around you, heavy and sure, like a hand at your waist.
Then he smirked.
Like he’d done it for you.
Your cheeks warmed, even as your stomach still churned.
The officials swarmed him. His team surrounded him. Someone lifted his arm. Cameras flashed.
You sat there, a soft thing in a loud world, trying to steady your breathing, trying to convince yourself you hadn’t just watched a man win a fight and felt… something embarrassingly close to pride.
Around you, people stood and toasted and laughed.
Mika texted you a single message:
HE WINNING???
You stared at your phone, then at the cage, then back again.
You typed:
Yes. He’s okay.
You paused, then added:
I think.
Your phone buzzed with her reply almost instantly.
GO FIX HIS BRUISES, ROMANTIC DOCTOR LADY.
You didn’t reply.
Because your heart was still trying to climb out of your chest.
A few minutes later, movement stirred in the VIP corridor again.
Sukuna appeared, freshly towelled off but still damp, still warm with adrenaline. He had a new bruise blooming along his ribs, and his knuckles looked red and sore. There was a faint split at his lip that made something in you ache.
He looked wired.
Alive in a way you didn’t understand.
His eyes found you immediately.
And when he walked over, the crowd noise seemed to dull around the edges, like your world narrowed to the space he took up.
He stopped in front of you, smirk sharp, voice low.
“See?” he said. “Quick.” You stared at the bruise, then at his lip, then up into his eyes. “You’re bleeding,” you murmured.
His grin turned wicked. “You sound worried.” You straightened your shoulders, trying to reclaim professionalism like a shield. “It’s… my job to care about injuries.” He leaned closer, eyes bright. “That’s not your job.” Your breath hitched, very small.
He tapped his lip with a knuckle, as if inviting your gaze. “You gonna fix it?” You swallowed. “Do you have a medic—”
“I do,” he cut in smoothly. “But I wanted you.” Your face heated. You tried to keep your voice calm. “Sukuna, you can’t keep saying things like that.” He smiled like you’d told him a joke. “Why not?”
“Because…” You hesitated, honesty snagging in your throat. “Because it’s not appropriate.” His gaze softened for a split second, then sharpened again with that cocky edge he wore like jewelry. “You still came,” he murmured.
Your lips parted. Closed.
You hated how true that was.
He bent slightly, lowering his mouth closer to your ear, voice dropping into something that made your skin prickle.
“Come over,” he said. “After this.” You blinked, startled. “What?”
“My place.” His eyes held yours, steady and daring. “We’ll have drinks.” You didn’t curse, but you felt like your brain did. “I—” You swallowed. “That’s… that’s not—” Sukuna straightened, smirk returning like a familiar sin. “Relax. I’m not saying we’re getting married.” Your cheeks flamed.
He looked pleased by that too.
“I’m saying,” he continued, voice lazy, “you came all the way here, watched me do my job, and you’ve been staring at my bruises like you want to press kisses on them.” You nearly inhaled wrong. “I have not,” you whispered.
His smile widened, pure menace. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not,” you lied softly.
He leaned down again, just enough that his voice felt like it brushed your skin. “Come over.” You stared at him—this towering, tattooed man with a split lip and a smug grin, looking at you like you were the prize he’d already claimed.
And you should’ve said no.
You should’ve stood up, thanked him for the ticket, and left.
Instead, your heart beat quietly, insistently, like it had its own agenda.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of your seat.
And Sukuna watched you—patient in the most dangerous way—like he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.
You heard yourself say it before your brain could intervene. "Okay." The word came out soft, barely more than a breath, like you were afraid if you said it any louder, you'd scare yourself into taking it back.
Sukuna's eyes flashed—something dark and pleased and victorious all at once. "Yeah?" he murmured, leaning closer, like he wanted to make sure he'd heard you right.
You nodded, throat tight. "Just… for a little while." His smile curved slow and dangerous. "Sure," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't believe the 'little while' part for a second. "Just for a bit." He straightened, offering you his hand.
You stared at it—bruised knuckles, tattoos wrapping around his wrist like they were holding something wild in place—and then you took it.
His palm was warm, rough with calluses, and when his fingers closed around yours, you felt the strength in them. Not crushing. Just… present. Like he could hold on as long as he wanted and you wouldn't be able to pull away.
He helped you stand, and suddenly you were too close to him, the heat of his body radiating through the small space between you. He smelled like sweat and clean skin and something faintly metallic, and it made your head swim.
"You drove here?" he asked.
You nodded. "Yeah."
"Follow me, then." He released your hand slowly, fingers trailing against yours as he let go. "I'm not far." You swallowed and nodded again, not trusting your voice. The walk back through the arena felt surreal—like you were moving through a dream where everything was too bright and too loud and your body didn't quite belong to you. Sukuna walked ahead, glancing back every few steps like he was making sure you hadn't bolted.
You hadn't.
But you thought about it.
Your car was parked in the lot, and when you unlocked it with shaking hands, Sukuna leaned against the driver's side door of a sleek black car a few spaces down—something expensive and low to the ground that looked like it had opinions about speed limits.
"You good?" he called over.
You looked at him across the parking lot, standing there like he owned the asphalt, and your stomach flipped. "Yeah," you called back, voice steadier than you felt.
He smirked. "Don't get lost." Then he slid into his car, and the engine purred to life—a low, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest. You got into your own car, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor you to reality, and watched as he pulled out of the lot.
You followed.
The drive wasn't long, but every minute of it felt like your nerves were being pulled tighter and tighter, wound around a spool that was running out of thread. You kept your eyes on his taillights, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts that all contradicted each other.
This is a bad idea.
This is exciting.
You should turn around.
You don't want to turn around.
He's your patient.
He's not your patient right now.
Your hands tightened on the wheel.
The city lights blurred past, and then you were pulling into an underground garage—concrete and steel and the echo of your engine cutting off as you parked beside him. Sukuna was already out of his car, waiting, hands in his pockets like he had all the patience in the world now that you were here.
You got out slowly, clutching your purse like it might protect you from your own decisions.
He tilted his head toward the elevator. "Come on." You followed him across the garage, your footsteps too loud in the quiet space, and when he pressed the button for the elevator, you stood beside him in silence.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
You stepped inside.
He followed, and the space immediately felt smaller—too warm, too close. He pressed a button near the top of the panel, and the elevator began to rise.
You watched the numbers climb.
15… 20… 25…
Your heart climbed with them.
When the doors finally opened, you stepped out into a hallway that was all clean lines and soft lighting, and Sukuna led you to a door at the end.
He unlocked it with a keycard, pushed it open, and stepped aside.
"After you," he said, voice low and amused, like he knew exactly how nervous you were.
You stepped inside and stopped.
The penthouse was… enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, showcasing the city sprawled out below like a carpet of lights. The space was open—sleek, modern, expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself. Dark hardwood floors, minimalist furniture in shades of black and gray, a kitchen with marble countertops that gleamed under recessed lighting.
It was beautiful.
And it felt… empty.
Not physically—there was furniture, art on the walls, a massive sectional sofa that looked like it had never been sat on—but emotionally. Like no one really lived here. Like it was a space designed to impress, not to comfort.
Your apartment was small and cozy, full of throw blankets and plants and mismatched mugs. It smelled like vanilla candles and old books. It felt like home.
This felt like a showroom.
"You like it?" Sukuna's voice came from behind you, and you turned to find him watching you with that same unreadable expression. "It's… big," you said softly, because you didn't know how to say It's beautiful but it doesn't feel like you without sounding presumptuous.
He smirked. "That's what she said." You blinked at him, and despite everything—despite your nerves and the surreal nature of being here—you felt a laugh bubble up in your throat.
You tried to suppress it.
Failed.
It came out as a soft, helpless giggle, and Sukuna's smirk widened into something that looked almost like a real smile. "There she is," he murmured, stepping closer. "I was wondering if you were gonna stay scared all night."
"I'm not scared," you said, even though your pulse was racing. "Liar." He moved past you into the kitchen, and you watched as he opened the fridge—a massive stainless steel thing that probably cost more than your car. "What do you want to drink?" You hesitated. "Um… water?" He glanced at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Water."
"Yes."
"You sure? I've got—" He rattled off a list of things you barely registered, your brain too busy trying to keep up with the fact that you were in Sukuna's penthouse, alone, at night, after watching him fight. "Water's fine," you said, voice a little firmer. He shrugged, pulling out a bottle of water and a bright blue Gatorade for himself. He poured your water into a glass—actual glass, not plastic—and handed it to you.
Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the contact sent a little spark up your arm.
"Thanks," you murmured.
He twisted the cap off his Gatorade and took a long drink, his throat working as he swallowed, and you found yourself staring at the line of his neck, the way his tattoos disappeared under the collar of his shirt.
You looked away quickly, taking a sip of your own water.
"Sit," he said, nodding toward the sectional.
You moved toward it, perching on the edge of one of the cushions like you might need to run at any moment. The leather was soft and cool under your thighs, and you set your glass down on the coffee table—a slab of dark wood that looked like it had been carved from a single tree.
Sukuna dropped onto the couch beside you—not across from you, not at a polite distance, but right beside you, close enough that his thigh almost touched yours.
You felt the heat of him immediately.
"So," he said, leaning back and draping one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. "You gonna tell me what you thought?"
"About what?" you asked, even though you knew.
His smile was slow and wicked. "The fight." You looked down at your hands, folded in your lap. "It was… intense."
"Intense," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "That's it?" You glanced at him. "I don't like violence."
"I know." His gaze was steady, unrepentant. "But you watched anyway." Your cheeks warmed. "You asked me to."
"And you came." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Why?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I don't know."
"Liar," he said again, softer this time, and his fingers brushed against your shoulder—just a whisper of contact, but it made your breath hitch.
"I'm not—"
"You are." He shifted closer, and now his thigh was pressed against yours, solid and warm. "You know exactly why you came." Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. "Sukuna—"
"Say it," he murmured, and his hand moved from your shoulder to your hair, fingers threading through your curls with a gentleness that didn't match the intensity in his eyes. "Say why you came." You stared at him, at the bruise on his cheekbone and the split in his lip and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Because you asked me to," you whispered, his smile was slow and satisfied. "Good girl." The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how much you liked the sound of them in his voice. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. "You're so fucking sweet," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's gonna ruin me."
You didn't know what to say to that.
So you didn't say anything.
You just sat there, frozen, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.
You should have.
You should have said stop and this is a bad idea and I need to go home.
But you didn't.
You just looked at him, your lips parted, your breath coming too fast.
And Sukuna smiled like he'd won something— his thumb traced your lower lip, and your breath caught.
"You're not gonna tell me to stop, are you?" he murmured.
You shook your head, just barely.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined—not that you'd been imagining it, except you had, you absolutely had—it was rough and hungry and tasted faintly of blood from his split lip. His hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place as he kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for days.
You made a soft sound against his mouth, and he groaned in response, his other hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer.
You went.
Your hands found his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the heat of his skin, and you kissed him back with a desperation that should have embarrassed you but didn't. He pulled you into his lap with an ease that made your head spin, and suddenly you were straddling him, your thighs on either side of his, your hands braced on his shoulders.
"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, pulling back just enough to take you in—your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the way your chest was rising and falling with quick breaths. "You're so fucking pretty." You opened your mouth to respond, but he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt.
You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hips shifting beneath you in a way that made you acutely aware of how hard he was. "Sukuna," you breathed, and his name in your voice seemed to do something to him.
He groaned, low and rough, and his hands moved to your hips, grinding you down against him. The friction made you whimper, and he did it again, harder this time, his mouth moving to your neck. "You have no idea," he muttered against your skin, teeth grazing your throat, "how long I've been thinking about this."
Your head fell back, giving him access, and his mouth was hot and demanding, sucking marks into your skin that you'd have to cover tomorrow.
Tomorrow felt very far away.
His hands slid under your shirt, palms rough and warm against your bare skin, and you arched into his touch.
"Bedroom," he growled against your neck. "Now." You nodded, breathless, and he stood with you still wrapped around him, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you across the penthouse.
You should have felt self-conscious—about your weight, about how desperate you must look—but Sukuna held you like you weighed nothing, his hands firm on your ass, his mouth still working against your neck. He kicked open a door and carried you inside, and you had a brief impression of a massive bed and more floor-to-ceiling windows before he was laying you down on the mattress. You looked up at him, breathless and flushed, and he stood over you for a moment, just looking.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he muttered, and then he was on you again, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that made you feel safe and trapped all at once.
His hands were everywhere—pulling off your shirt, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, sliding your jeans down your legs until you were bare beneath him except for your panties. He sat back on his heels, looking at you spread out on his bed, and his expression was something between reverent and predatory.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You resisted the urge to cover yourself, your hands fisting in the sheets instead.
He pulled his own shirt over his head, and you got your first real look at him—all hard muscle and ink, tattoos covering his chest and arms in intricate patterns that you wanted to trace with your fingers.
You reached up, tentative, and he caught your hand, bringing it to his chest.
"Touch me," he said, voice rough.
So you did.
Your fingers traced the lines of his tattoos, the hard planes of his muscles, and he watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
When your hand drifted lower, brushing the waistband of his pants, he caught your wrist.
"Not yet," he said. "You first." And then he was kissing his way down your body—your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His mouth closed over one nipple, and you arched off the bed with a gasp.
He hummed in approval, his hand sliding down your stomach to the waistband of your panties. "Can I?" he asked, and the fact that he asked—that he paused to make sure—made something in your chest tighten. "Yes," you breathed.
He hooked his fingers in the fabric and pulled them down, tossing them aside, and then you were completely bare before him. He settled between your thighs, his shoulders forcing your legs wider, and you felt exposed and vulnerable and so turned on you could barely think.
"So fucking pretty," he muttered, and then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, and he groaned against you, the vibration making your hips buck. He ate you out like he was starving, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, and you were already so wound up that it didn't take long before you were trembling on the edge.
"Sukuna," you gasped, "I'm—"
"Come," he growled against you. "Come on my tongue." And you did, your orgasm crashing over you in waves that made your vision white out, your thighs clamping around his head as you shook apart.
He worked you through it, only pulling back when you whimpered from oversensitivity.
When you finally came back to yourself, he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Good?" he asked, voice smug.
You couldn't even form words. You just nodded, breathless and boneless.
He chuckled, low and dark, and then he was stripping off the rest of his clothes.
When he was finally naked, you couldn't help but stare.
He was… big. Everywhere.
Your eyes widened slightly, and he noticed, his smirk widening. "Don't worry," he said, crawling back over you. "I'll make it fit."
You were on your hands and knees on his bed, your back arched, your face pressed into the expensive sheets that smelled like him—clean and sharp and male. Sukuna was behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your front, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles.
And he was fucking you.
Hard.
Deep.
Fast enough that you couldn't catch your breath, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but take it and moan and feel. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned in your ear, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. "So fucking perfect." You whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he thrust harder, the sound of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. "You like that?" he muttered, his fingers pressing harder against your clit. "You like me fucking you like this?"
"Yes," you gasped, the word barely coherent. "Yes, oh, yes—" He groaned, low and rough, and his hips snapped forward again, burying himself so deep you saw stars. Your second orgasm was building already, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel yourself getting wetter, could hear it in the slick sounds of him moving inside you.
"That's it," he growled. "Fuck, you're dripping for me. You gonna come again? Gonna come on my cock?" You nodded frantically, beyond words, and his fingers moved faster, his thrusts harder, and you were right there, right on the edge— And then he laughed.
Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking.
Just… amused.
"Fuck," he said, his rhythm faltering for just a second. "I forgot to take my meds." Your brain, fogged with pleasure, took a moment to process that, and then you felt him shift, his body leaning away from yours slightly, and you heard the sound of a pill bottle opening. You turned your head, dazed and disbelieving, and watched as Sukuna—still inside you, still hard, still moving in slow, lazy thrusts—popped open his prescription bottle with one hand.
He shook two pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth, and then reached for the water bottle on his nightstand.
He took a drink, swallowed, and set the bottle back down.
All while still fucking you.
"Sukuna," you groaned, half scandalized, half delirious. "Are you serious right now?" He leaned back down, his chest pressing against your back again, his mouth right against your ear. "What?" he murmured, his voice full of dark amusement. "You told me to take them at the same time every day." You made a sound that was half laugh, half moan, because this was obscene and inappropriate and somehow the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.
"You're insane," you gasped. “Yeah," he agreed, and then he thrust hard, making you cry out. "But you like it." You couldn't argue with that.
His hand returned to your clit, and his pace picked up again, faster now, harder, and you were so close you could taste it. "Did I do a good job?" he growled in your ear, his voice rough and possessive. "Taking my meds like a good boy?" You whimpered, nodding frantically. "Say it," he demanded, his fingers pressing harder. "Tell me I did a good job."
"You did," you gasped. “God, Sukuna, you did so good—" He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, and his thrusts became almost punishing, chasing his own release now. "Gonna fill you up," he muttered. "Gonna make you come one more time and then fill this pretty pussy up. You want that?"
"Yes," you sobbed, because you were so close, so fucking close— "Then come," he growled. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it." And you did.
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your whole body seizing, your walls clamping down around him so hard he cursed. "Fuck, fuck, yes—" He thrust twice more, hard and deep, and then he was coming too, groaning your name into your neck as he spilled inside you.
You collapsed forward onto the bed, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then Sukuna shifted, pulling out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss.
He rolled onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving.
You turned your head to look at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. "You really just took your meds in the middle of sex," you said, your voice hoarse.
He lowered his arm and looked at you, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Yeah," he said. "I did." You stared at him for a moment.
And then you started laughing.
You couldn't help it—it was absurd and ridiculous and so perfectly him that you couldn't do anything but laugh, your body shaking with it.
Sukuna watched you, his grin softening into something that looked almost fond.
"You're fucking cute," he muttered.
You were still laughing, breathless and spent and completely wrecked, when he pulled you against his chest, and for the first time since you'd met him, Sukuna looked like a peaceful menace, a menace you had to refill his prescription in 2 weeks.
But maybe the only medication he needed was just his pharmacist.
this was a brain rot idea I had like a long time ago, you're welcome😩
You make Sukuna do the hear me out cake with you, fully intending to needle him. Obviously, it was never going to end well. | wc: 6k
notes: this is written based on the ask i received last week. absolutely loved the idea, though i'm not sure i did it justice. i rewrote half of it multiple times, and honestly, i'm not sure if i even made it better. but i hope you guys will like it anyway! and as always... what was supposed to be a quick, short drabble became another monstrosity, sorry for that.
Sukuna’s on the couch with one arm thrown over the backrest and a controller dangling loosely from his other hand as a cutscene plays out on the tv. Whatever game he’s grinding through tonight is finally giving him a breather, which makes it the perfect moment to strike.
You step into his line of sight, bright-eyed and practically buzzing with excitement. Your hands are clasped innocently behind your back as you walk over and sit down right next to him.
“We’re doing the hear me out cake tonight.”
His head tips back against the cushion, lets out a slow, painful sigh, then gives you the look of pure disbelief and exhaustion when his narrowed eyes land on you. “The what?”
“The trend!” you say, eyes lighting up. You immediately launch into an animated explanation, using your hands to make every point, describing the concept of it as if this is a normal, healthy married activity and not, as he’d certainly label it, an act of domestic emotional terrorism. Weird crushes, unhinged picks, absurd defence arguments—”The whole point,” you stress finally, “is that they don’t make sense. That’s what makes it so hilarious.”
Sukuna listens just enough to follow, crossing his arm over his broad chest, clearly not impressed with the idea. Before he can actually object, you shove a handful of wooden sticks and a roll of tape into his hands.
“Print them,” you instruct. “Little squares. We’ll need a few, let’s say five. I already did mine, so you just need to do yours.”
He stares down at the sticks and states flatly, “You’re fucking unbelievable.”
“I know,” you say sweetly, putting your palms flat on his chest and giving him a gentle push toward the end of the couch. “Now go.”
He saves his game with a put-upon scoff, but he gets up anyway, muttering something under his breath as he heads toward his gaming room. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, and a moment later, you hear the faint sound of him tossing the sticks onto his desk. No more than thirty minutes later, he returns, holding a small bundle of skewered photos.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says calmly, dropping into one of the chairs, voice low and already annoyed, “this is under protest.”
“Yes, yes, crystal clear.”
His eyes flick to you, then he mutters to himself, “This has Satoru’s fingerprints all over it.”
Grinning widely, you absolutely ignore his comment, heading toward the kitchen to pull the cake you bought on the way home out of the fridge. You set it carefully in the middle of the table, prop your phone up against a stack of books, hit record, and then take your seat next to him, your eyes full of mischief.
Sukuna leans back in his chair, gaze humping between the cake and your expectant face. He’s clearly resigned to his fate.
“…I already regret this,” he mutters.
“Okay,” you begin with a grin, “hear me out. Nick Wilde.”
You press the picture of the fox into the cake's soft icing, angle it toward the camera, and straighten the stick. Then, you look back at him, waiting patiently.
His head tilts a little and his eyes narrow, but to your surprise, it’s more of a reluctant, almost annoyed consideration. There’s a beat where he looks nearly offended by how much sense your ridiculous pick actually makes.
“…Huh.” He tightens his arms across his chest, glancing between the cartoon fox and your beaming face. “Smug,” he says slowly, ticking off the traits. “Mouthy. Thinks he's the smartest one in the room.”
His eyes slide back to you, narrowing even more, and a knowing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “You have a type.”
You laugh, deeply pleased by the grudging admission. “I think I do.”
He exhales sharply through his nose; it sounds frustrated, but there’s no real heat to it. “I hate that I can defend this one,” he mutters. “You started strong, not stupid. I’ll give you that.”
There’s a pause before he clicks his tongue and looks away, but you can see the faintest, most infuriating hint of amusement in his eyes. Whether he likes it or not, you absolutely made your point with your first pick.
You lean back in your seat, focusing entirely on him and settling in to see what kind of wild nonsense he's going to pull.
Sukuna reaches for his stack, dramatically shielding it with one hand, like you’re going to cheat or peek. He sifts through his picks with irritating slowness, selects one without a word, and before he even moves, you’re already giggling.
He stabs the stick into the cake with no hesitation.
“Fine,” he says, sitting up straight. “Shrek.”
Your quiet giggle instantly turns louder. You were not expecting him to go that absurd that fast.
“Okay, I respect the commitment,” you manage in between laughs. “I just need to understand why you picked him.”
“He’s hot,” he says flatly.
“You’re lying,” you wheeze, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “There’s just no way—”
“I’m not,” he replies, completely unbothered, meeting your gaze with unsettling sincerity. “You said the point was that it doesn’t make sense.”
“So you’re saying you just went straight for chaos,” you grin at him.
“Of course I did. Unlike you, I understood the assignment,” he smirks, the corner of his mouth curling up in victory.
“Excuse me?” you splutter, sitting up straight and placing a scandalized hand on your chest. “What do you mean unlike me?”
Sukuna tilts his head to the side, giving you a slightly condescending look, and you narrow your eyes and glare at him in response.
“Nothing about Nick is unhinged. He’s a wet dream of every single woman on the planet. You picked safe.”
You gasp like you’ve been mortally wounded, dramatically raising your hand from your chest to your forehead as you sag back in your chair. “No one has ever hurt me this deeply.”
“Oh, no. What have I done. How could I say such a thing,” he deadpans with an absolutely straight, unblinking face. The lack of sympathy in his tone is so profound it’s almost artistic. You can’t help but swat his arm, trying to match his expression, but it’s futile, and you burst out laughing again.
After a loud exhale, you give your husband that particular, confident little smile that always puts him on edge. He watches your fingers reach for your next choice, and the look in your eyes tells him that this pick is going to get under his skin, and, what’s worse, you’re loving it.
You stick the picture firmly into the cake, angling it toward the camera, proud of it like you’ve just played a very strong hand.
“Death,” you just say. “From Puss in Boots.”
“…Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble of annoyance.
Sukuna stares at the image for a second, then slowly lifts his gaze to you, raising one eyebrow. His mouth hangs just slightly, a slow breath caught halfway between disbelief and frustration.
He drags his hand down his face, groaning internally. “Of course you picked him. Because why wouldn’t you put the literal personification of death on a cake?”
“He whistles,” you reply simply, as if that one fact explains everything. “And he’s hot.”
“And you’re not well,” he says flatly.
You stare at him for a few seconds, taking in his deadpan delivery, and then burst out laughing again.
He gestures at the cake with disdain as if he saw this coming. “You’re not slick, you know. You’re saying you want someone with red eyes who chases you down, breathes down your neck, is impossibly strong—”
You cut him off innocently. “Remind you of anyone?”
Immediately, his eyes narrow, and the corner of his mouth twitches with a barely suppressed reaction. “Watch it, brat,” he snaps back and then adds in a voice already edged with real annoyance, “That one pisses me off.”
Sukuna exhales sharply, like he’s trying to clear his head after that. He reaches for his pile without even looking at you, not bothering to shield it this time. He jabs his next pick into the cake right beside Death with a firm, slightly aggressive motion, angling it toward the camera.
“The Lorax.”
You lean forward, squinting at the grumpy orange character now standing next to Death, Nick and Shrek like it’s the most natural, sensible lineup ever.
“…You’re putting the fucking Lorax on the hear me out cake?” you manage to choke out.
He shrugs, completely unfazed by your escalating shock. “He’s got a god complex.”
You make a noise halfway between a laugh and a gasp.
“Speaks for the trees,” he continues, completely serious. “Thinks he’s morally superior to every living thing. Decides what’s right and what matters. Loud about it.”
Your mouth opens to protest, laughing, “Kuna, that’s—”
“And,” he cuts in flatly, “he’d absolutely be screaming during sex.”
“What the—" You burst out laughing, slapping the table with both hands. “You are not serious.”
“Oh, I am.” His eyes flick to you as a slow, triumphant smirk forms on his face. “You asked for unhinged. That’s peak unhinged. Guy’s not even half my height, and still talks like a cult leader with a megaphone and zero self-awareness.”
You drop your head into your hands, trying not to cry from wheezing so hard your chest hurts.
“So that’s your type?” you manage, your voice muffled by your palms.
He smirks. “That was a confession, yeah.”
“What is wrong with you—” You’re genuinely struggling to breathe now.
“You married this,” he says, leaning back with smugness like he just made the most disturbing power move of the entire evening, “No refunds.”
“Sadly,” you mutter, though you can’t help but smile brightly at your utterly deranged husband.
A moment later, smirking like you’ve already won, you reach for your next pick, and Sukuna narrows his eyes at you. The second the next stick is pressed into the icing, he leans forward over the table to get a better look.
And then he stops. His head tilts, slowly, and his brow twitches with a deep, existential dread.
“Tai Lung?” His voice is instantly acidic, like the words are physically painful to say out loud. “The fucking snow leopard?”
You hum, completely delighted with his reaction. “Mhmm.”
He doesn’t look at you—he stares at the cake, like it personally betrayed him and everything he stands for. “He’s not even charming. He’s just violent. And dramatic. And full of unresolved mommy issues.”
“And built,” you add sweetly, gazing admiringly at the picture to annoy your husband even more.
“Oh my god,” he groans, frustratingly dragging a hand down his face. “He tried to kill a turtle because he didn’t get his gold star. You need therapy.”
“He had a rough childhood,” you say innocently with a shrug. “And the abs? Incredible.”
Sukuna turns to face you fully, arms crossing, one brow rising with glacial menace. “So let me get this straight. Death wasn’t enough. Now we’re putting a bitter, orphaned cat with rage issues and a hero complex on the cake. You wanna get chased and thrown through a wall?”
You grin, proudly tapping the stick with Tai Lung on it, clearly enjoying watching him squirm. “I like what I like.”
He exhales slowly, grounding himself. “You’re gonna look me in the face,” he says, voice dropping low, “and tell me I’m not allowed to throw the whole cake out the fucking window?”
“You’re not,” you beam, completely unfazed by the low, lethal tone of his voice. “We’re only halfway through, Kuna. We each have a few more picks, and this cake was very expensive. Besides,” you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with ill-concealed mischief, "I'm curious about the reasoning of your next choices.”
He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, equal parts offended and stunned. “You are out of your fucking mind.”
Then he grabs his next pick, never breaking eye contact with you.
“Fine. If that’s how we’re playing.”
He stabs it into the frosting, turning it toward your recording phone. It is an image of a thin, purple chameleon with bright yellow eyes and a super slimy demeanour.
“Randall,” he says simply, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“From Monsters, Inc?” you ask, genuinely confused.
“Mm.” He nods once, entirely serious, lips pressed into a thin, self-satisfied line.
Your mouth opens, then closes again. You lean in, stunned at just how far he’s willing to take it, squinting at the tiny picture of the purple lizard proudly perched in the cake. It takes you a second to speak, as you try to process the immediate shock and the dawning understanding of his logic.
“…He tries to murder a child,” you say flatly, nudging the stick with your finger for emphasis. “Like, literally, multiple times.”
Sukuna just shrugs, completely unbothered. “And he’s a chameleon,” he adds, as if the ability to turn invisible somehow excused attempted homicide.
You just stare at him while the silence hangs in the air.
“I mean, come on,” he presses, sensing your internal struggle. “Creepy little freak, resourceful, invisible, petty as hell, holds a grudge forever, and he gets off on being the overlooked genius who finally gets his revenge. He's fundamentally unstable.”
At that, you just crack up, laughter bubbling out of you in bright, uncontrollable bursts as you clutch your side and lean forward in your chair. Trying to cover your mouth, you attempt a horrified look, but the laugh is too real.
“Oh my god, Kuna, you admire Randall.”
“I relate to Randall,” he says in that low, dead-serious voice he only uses when he’s saying something alarmingly true.
“That’s even worse,” you gasp, choking on another wave of laughter and trying to get out a half-formed insult that disappears because you're already too far gone.
“Just tell me that’s not an unhinged pick,” he challenges with a smirk back on his face.
“I’m not saying it doesn’t fit,” you mutter in between giggles, but they stop fast as you realise something. “Wait,” you say slowly, narrowing your eyes at him. “So murder’s only a problem when it’s a turtle? Interesting place to draw the line.”
His jaw tightens, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek like he’s deciding whether you even deserve an answer at all, then he lets out a quiet, humourless laugh, finally turning his head toward you.
“Don’t start pretending this is about morality. You know damn well it isn’t,” he says flatly, giving the cake a dismissive flick with his fingers. “Tai Lung’s loud about what he is. He’s all theatrics. Randall’s honest about it in a quiet, calculated way. There’s a difference.”
“We both picked monsters. I’m just better at owning mine,” he adds after a moment, and then quieter, like it should’ve been obvious from the start, “And you know I’m picky about what I care about.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “God,” you murmur, peeking at your hidden sticks and closing your fingers on the one that you know will make him lose it. “You really make the next one so easy for me.”
He immediately straightens in his seat with a sigh. “Who the hell did you pick now?”
You slowly press the next photo into the cake with both hands, making a whole show out of it, angling it toward the phone like you’re unveiling a masterpiece. You give the stick a little wiggle to make sure it is secure, holding his intense gaze the entire time as if challenging him to react.
For a long, drawn-out moment, he says nothing as he processes the new picture.
Because right there, dead centre in among all the villains, Nick, and Lorax, is him.
It’s not something polite, or even a caricature, or anything of the sort. It’s your favourite photo of Sukuna, a still from one of his sparring sessions that someone at the gym had foolishly posted to their stories a few months back, before he made them take it down. He’s shirtless, gloves on, sweat pouring down his face and chest. His crimson eyes are wide and blown, and his mouth is twisted into a feral smirk, looking exactly like he’s about to beat someone into the floor—or, from what he told you when you first saw the picture, that he already did.
Without even a twitch, Sukuna stares at the image, eyes darkening as he takes it in.
You sit back, hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes bright with satisfaction, waiting for the explosion.
“What?” you say sweetly.
He exhales harshly through his nose, like he’s trying not to spontaneously combust. When he finally speaks, he sounds unnervingly, dangerously calm. “That’s me.”
“Mhm,” you nod, entirely unbothered. “Sure is.”
“You’re supposed to put freaks on this cake. Not—” he gestures wildly at his own photo, “—your husband.”
You tilt your head, smiling widely. “Exactly! And my husband’s the hottest freak I know.”
“Jesus Christ, woman—” His voice actually cracks, and his jaw tightens so hard you can practically hear the clench as he looks at the cake again, then back at you. “You’re gonna sit there and act like that makes sense? You put me next to Nick, Death and Tai Lung like you're proving a point."
You shrug, smug, and tap your chin thoughtfully. “If the shoe fits.”
His mouth actually twitches despite his best efforts, his amusement briefly fighting the offence. “You’re not even pretending you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Why would I?” you say sweetly.
“...Figures,” he scoffs, but his mouth twitches slightly. “You’ve never been good at backing down.”
“Never been, never will.” A huge, unrepentant smile spreads across your face. “Especially not after you said you relate to Randall.”
He falls completely silent again, dropping his hands to his thighs like he needs to physically restrain himself from flipping the table, or, more accurately, from dragging you onto it and either strangling you or fucking you stupid. Probably both.
Then after a moment, he scoffs, low and biting. “Yeah. I should’ve known you’d do that.”
You snort softly. “You really thought I was gonna finish this cake without putting my husband on it?”
Then he drags one hand down his face, exhales again, and says with absolute certainty, “You’re unhinged.”
“No, you are,” you shoot back, grinning wide as you lean forward. “And that’s the whole point.”
His head tilts slowly, eyes cutting toward the photo again, and finally, a ghost of a real, genuine smirk touches his lips. “You picked a good photo, though.”
“I know. My favourite,” you say with a wink, getting a raised brow and a slight head shake in return.
You know he feels smug after that, even if he earlier pretended to be furious.
To annoy you in return, he lets the silence stretch again, his eyes raking over your face with a lazy confidence that makes your skin prickle. However, you manage to relax a fraction in your chair by letting your attention drift back to the cake and the truly absurd lineup already standing there.
He calmly reaches for one of his two remaining sticks, turns it once between his fingers, and then leans forward to press it into the cake with such carelessness as if trying to tell you he’s already so done with this whole thing that he can barely be bothered.
Already knowing he’s going for something truly absurd, you follow the motion of his hand instinctively, expecting another stupid argument and another character you’ll have to interrogate him about. You lean toward the cake, squinting at the screen of your phone to see… and immediately freeze, your brain momentarily buffering.
You squint harder at the blurry screenshot wedged between Tai Lung and your very attractive and sweaty husband. It takes you a full second to register what you’re even looking at, mostly just because you were not prepared for that.
Blinking hard in disbelief, refusing to take your eyes off the new character, you manage a stunned, “Is that—”
Sukuna tilts the stick slightly, adjusting it for maximum visual impact, then looks straight into your eyes. “Marcus,” he says calmly, like this is not only obvious but inevitable.
It’s a strange, vaguely humanoid creature with extremely long, thin limbs, bizarre proportions and a croissant-shaped head. The best, or worst, thing about it is that in the corner of the picture, it still has the twitch logo and a nickname of a guy who creates these dumb videos.
The longer you look at it, the worse it gets, and your lips begin to tremble as you fight to stop the burst of hysterical laughter that bubbles up in your chest.
“That’s not even—he’s not—he’s literally just—” you stammer, trying to find a word that describes the idiotic character.
“Correct,” Sukuna’s expression is disturbingly serene and unmoving as he smoothly interrupts you, as you’ve just proven his point for him.
Then, in a perfectly flat, uninflected and entirely too convincing voice that is immediately recognisable, he deadpans, “Robert. I don’t like this rock."
Bright giggles burst out of you before you can stop them. “Don’t. Oh my god, don’t,” you plead with tears already pricking in your eyes.
Sukuna’s lips twitch in a tiny, almost imperceptible betrayal of his inner amusement. He leans toward you slightly, his own eyes gleaming. “I am mildly irritated, Robert.”
You bury your face in your hands, trying to muffle the sound, your shoulders shaking violently from your laughter.
“Very irritated,” he continues, inching his face closer with every word and without breaking the composed mask.
“Kuna—stop—” you mumble brokenly from underneath your palms, feeling his warm breath against your skin.
“Quite irritated.”
He stops there, hovering, and you gather the courage to peek in between your fingers. He’s practically nose to nose with you, mimicking that wide, unblinking stare.
“I’m irritated that you are irritated,” you manage to choke out in between the bursts of helpless laughter, deciding to play his ridiculous game. “So how are we going to fix it?”
Without missing a beat, he replies, “I’m going to remove South Carolina.”
He somehow maintains the same terrifyingly familiar, unchanged tone throughout this entire thing, and you completely lose it. You are reduced to a wheezing, gasping mess, fighting for your life against the unstoppable tide of laughter. Your hands fly up from your face to blindly grab at his arms, trying desperately to pull yourself together, but spectacularly failing.
“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp out, trying to catch your breath.
That’s when his lips finally curl, slow and satisfied.
“And yet,” Sukuna says, tapping the table with a decisive, satisfied sound, “you married me.”
You nearly fall off the chair, doubling over in a fresh wave of uncontrollable giggles. “Means I married a fucking menace,” you finally manage to articulate, wiping furiously at your eyes.
He crosses his arms over his chest, absolutely smug and pleased. “And I gave you a husband and content. You’re welcome.”
You glare at him weakly for a beat. “You picked him because you know it works on me,” you accuse him. He knew exactly what he was doing, and you just fell into his trap.
“Yes,” he confirms, utterly unapologetic, grinning wider.
“And because you love watching me spiral.”
“Also, yes.”
“…You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mutter, averting your eyes finally to glance down at your remaining sticks.
His eyes gleam when he closes the remaining distance between the two of you to kiss your forehead, a brief, warm press of his lips that is both a truce and a declaration of war. “Your turn, brat.”
Before he can really pull away, you reach for your next pick. Sukuna watches you from the corner of his eye, suspicious but calm, as you slowly stick it into the cake.
He blinks once, then again more slowly, as if his brain is refusing to process what it's seeing, and the disrespect of it. Being, as you are, an amazing and incredibly patient wife, you give him a moment to think it over and maybe, just maybe, come to the obvious conclusion.
“...No,” he finally says, breaking the silence. He cuts himself off immediately, the muscle in his jaw twitching until the bone practically juts out. “Tell me that’s not a fucking horse.”
Sitting back in your chair, looking annoyingly calm, you fold your hands neatly in your lap. You brace for the storm you know is brewing, biting back a laugh that threatens to bubble up and ruin his reaction.
“It’s the horse from Tangled,” you confirm.
“The horse from Tangled,” he repeats flatly, like he’s testing the words, trying to see if they taste as insulting as they sound. His crimson eyes, which had been fixed on the cake, snap back to you. “You put me on this cake, and then you followed it up with that.”
"He has a name," you reply, gently pointing out a little oversight. "Maximus."
The chair creaks faintly when he leans forward, turns the whole cake to get a better view, and drops his forearms heavily onto his thighs. He studies it again, staring intently at the smug cartoon horse standing proudly next to the ripped, shirtless photo of himself, the ultimate insult to his pride.
“He’s a horse,” Sukuna repeats, clearly offended.
“He can swordfight!” you happily add.
“He’s a fucking horse,” he snaps back, ignoring your logic completely.
You shrug, entirely unrepentant. “A really intense one.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps once in a small, violent spasm, then again as he pushes the cake back slightly.
“Explain,” he demands in that gravelly, hoarse rasp that always makes your knees buckle.
You brighten immediately and a wide, genuine smile spreads across your face, as if you’d been waiting for him to ask.
“Okay, listen,” you start, leaning in, your hands excitedly coming to life to make your points as you speak. “He’s super loyal, like, to a fault, a total nightmare for anyone who messes with him, says so much without actually talking, built like a tank, will throw himself into danger without hesitation, holds grudges forever, silently judges everyone, and has absolutely zero respect for autho—”
“You’re describing me again,” he cuts in flatly, not even a little amused.
“Yes,” you agree instantly, your enthusiasm not dimmed in the slightest, “but with hooves.”
The sound he makes then is a low, incredulous and rough exhale that turns into a short, disbelieving laugh. He just slams back in his chair, dragging one hand down over his face like he’s trying to physically reboot his brain to get rid of the image.
"I didn't ask to be compared to a horse," he snaps, eyes flicking back to you. "And I especially didn't ask to be compared to a cartoon horse."
“A very hot cartoon horse,” you toss in, helpful as always.
His head snaps toward you. “Do not.”
“He communicates through intense side-eye and violence,” you continue sweetly, undeterred, crossing your arms. “That’s kind of your whole thing, you know?”
The following silence is really heavy, heavier than before, and you can practically feel the dark energy brewing. Maybe it's not full-on rage, but definitely a deep, thoughtful offence. He lets out a slow breath, squinting his eyes a bit as he glances from your smug face to the cake, then back to you.
"So, let me make sure I've got this right," he finally says, dropping his voice to that low, intense level that usually means trouble. "You seriously just told your husband that your 'hear me out' is a horse?"
You smile, bright and unapologetic. “You don’t see the vision?”
He looks at the cake once more, eyes fixing on the annoyingly judgey horse, then sliding to his own photo, and then back to you. His lips press into a thin line as he exhales again. Even though he’s absolutely offended and genuinely can’t believe the audacity of you choosing him, and then immediately after a horse, the very corner of his mouth twitches.
The truly painful part for him isn't actually the disrespect, though. It’s that he gets it.
“Oh, I see it,” he mumbles, his hand flying to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I just hate it.”
You smile at his words and nod toward the cake, but you know Sukuna well enough to understand he won't rush this. It’s obvious he intentionally saved this one for last, and now he’s savouring the moment, stretching the tension between you.
Taking his sweet time, he reaches for the final photo from his side of the table, but his gaze never leaves yours as he slowly picks it up and spins the stick in his hands a few times, like he’s got all the time in the world. It’s like a silent warning: he’s decided to be difficult, and he’s going to fully enjoy every second of it.
And without breaking that eye contact even once, he finally leans toward the table and presses the stick into the cake, but he’s not done. He makes absolutely sure the image is impossible to miss, meticulously angling it toward you first.
Only when your gaze shifts from the crimson of his eyes to his choice, and it’s been in your line of sight for just long enough to leave no doubt in his mind that you’ve seen it, does he shove it firmly into the icing and twist it toward the camera. Then, with a smug, slightly mocking smirk, he leans back in his chair, spreading his arms ever so slightly, practically inviting judgment.
It’s Toji.
The sound you let out is nothing like the outraged gasp or dramatic protest he was definitely expecting. It’s a short, disbelieving, but undeniably bright laugh that bubbles up from deep in your chest before you can stop it.
“You’re not gonna believe it, Kuna,” you manage to choke out, your grin splitting your face as you lean toward him, shaking your head in delight. “I was literally thinking the exact same thing.”
He watches, speechless for a moment, as you reach for your own last pick. You’re absolutely unfazed by the fact that you’ve just confirmed your joint betrayal, pressing your Toji square into the cake just a little to the side, but neatly beside his. Now, there are two of them, standing proudly among all the other choices you two had made.
For a delicious, charged moment, the room falls quiet. Your sparkling eyes are locked on him, and you’re so completely, childishly pleased with yourself. The amusement Sukuna has clearly been holding back flickers dangerously close to the surface, but he manages to force his voice into something that sounds like deep annoyance.
“No fucking way,” he says lowly, his voice full of mock betrayal and all the exaggerated weight of a man wronged by fate itself. “That’s my friend.”
You just smile wider, your chin tilting innocently up at him as he stares down at the cake. Then, his eyes slide back to you, the crimson irises narrowing exactly to that level of intensity that would be genuinely threatening if you didn’t know him as well as you do.
“Are you fucking my friend?” His voice is low and rough, delivered with the perfect deadpan of a truly suspicious spouse, but the barest flash of humour in his eyes tells a different story.
You meet his stare and stay perfectly calm, tilting your head ever so slightly to the side and tapping your chin with a finger like you’re seriously giving the question some thought, before firing right back, “Are you fucking your friend?”
He just tilts his head the opposite way. “I mean…” he starts, drawing out the word like he wants you to feel suspicious, “he’s got a nice back.”
Your entire body convulses with sudden, involuntary giggles, and you move before your brain catches up, reacting purely on instinct, launching yourself at the cake. Your hand plunges straight into the side of it, fingers closing around frosting and sponge, and you fling it at him with all the force of someone who has completely lost control of their laughter. It hits him square across the face and neck with a disgusting, satisfying splat. The frosting is everywhere, covering his sharp features and dripping down his jaw, and you’re cackling so hard you can barely breathe, tears springing to your eyes.
You’re out of the chair immediately, the moment the cake leaves your hand. Your legs knock the edge of the table as you spin toward the hallway, and you run.
For a blissful half a second, it feels like you might actually make it. The hallway is right there, just a few steps away; the cool floor under your feet feels like a nice contrast to the heat creeping down your neck, while your pulse pounds in your ears as you laugh in chaotic, absolutely delighted gasps, already imagining the sweet taste of victory.
But before you can reach it, a low, dark growl, a sound of both threat and pure amusement, rolls through the space behind you. Then, with a speed that defies his earlier lazy movements, his hand closes around your waist.
Sukuna just stops you dead, breaking your momentum with his grip. A loud shriek, half in joy, half in panic, escapes your lips, and you try to surge forward again, though it’s absolutely useless when he holds you flush to his chest.
“You think you can outrun me in my own damn house, brat?” Sukuna snarls right next to your ear, but the roughness of his voice gives him away, thick with the laughter he's struggling to hold in.
Still squirming, you writhe in his grip, breathless and weak, but he just tightens his hold, effortlessly hauling you back one step, then two, until your feet leave the floor entirely, and you are lifted into the air like your weight means absolutely nothing to him.
The walk back is slow and almost lazy, like he’s intentionally giving you time to reconsider every single ridiculous decision that brought you here. Your breathless giggles are now less from humour and more from the absurdity of being manhandled and helpless in the face of that calm, silent fury laced with unmistakable, hungry amusement.
Sukuna puts you down right on the table, positioning himself between your legs and keeping one hand firmly at your waist in case you dare try to run again. His other hand reaches to the side toward the now ruined, messy cake, and scoops through the frosting and sponge until he has a nice coating of it on his palm.
And just as you expected, he smears it all over your face, slowly tracing your cheekbone down to your jaw, then up to your forehead, matching the mess you made on his.
You gasp, eyes wide with pure joy, because you’ve dragged him down into your chaos and he’s choosing to stay there with you. You grin at him, frosting smeared, giggling again, reaching for another breath you don’t quite manage to get.
Without any warning, he dips his fingers into the cake again, but only two of them this time, scooping a smaller portion. While you’re still lost in the moment and laughing carelessly, he pushes them into your mouth firmly enough that your lips part around them.
The laughter cuts off instantly, choked in your throat. Your breath catches in your chest, and your eyes widen as the intense taste hits you, sugar and cream and… surprising, thrilling heat. It’s a rush that sends a sharp, involuntary shiver straight between your legs.
The fingers stay inside your mouth, unmoving, and he watches you with a raised brow. A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his mouth as he feels your body still completely in his hold, and your pulse jumps beneath the palm on your waist. There’s that familiar, smug look on his face that says he knew exactly how you’d react and just had to see it for himself.
“Hmm,” he murmurs at last, pleased and almost curious as he leans in until his forehead nearly brushes yours, and you can’t focus on anything but the wicked curve of his mouth. “Not laughing now, are we?”
Only after your tongue brushes between the knuckles and licks them clean does he drag them out with agonising slowness, and your thighs involuntarily tighten on his in a helpless response. He leans in even closer, and your lips part eagerly, because you’re absolutely sure he’s finally going to kiss you… only for him to drag his tongue slowly along the frosting from the bottom of your cheek up all the way up to the shell of your ear, absolutely unhurried, savouring the taste and your reaction.
Sukuna’s mouth brushes your earlobe, giving it one quick lick. His voice drops a full octave, barely more than a hoarse, gravelly murmur, thick with hunger, “Next time, remember you married someone who finishes what you start.”
A violent shiver runs through you instantly, goosebumps breaking out along your skin, your breath hitching sharply, and he feels every single bit of it. He lets out a low, pleased hum and pulls back to wipe his own face, like he didn’t just totally mess with your head.
Without letting you catch a breath or even form a single thought, both of his arms slip around your thighs and lift you again. Your legs instinctively wrap tightly around his waist as he turns and carries you toward the bedroom, ready to give you a taste of your own medicine.
notes: i think i should've finished this one with a smut
sukuna comes home with a new haircut and you don't know how to act
“oh my god"
it’s been about 30 seconds since sukuna entered through the door. he’s barely had any time to put down his bag and give you a greetings kiss before you literally launch yourself at him.
he kissed you goodbye before going to the gym, a regular routine, usually 45 mins to an hour. today he took a little longer but you figured he grubbed with his gym bros before coming home but something better was about to unfold.
“someone’s extra jumpy” he grumbles under his breath, oblivious about what’s going on.
“are you serious?!” you shriek in delight. honestly, nothing could prepare you for what he was coming back with—a sexy mullet that quiet literally made you want to go down on him.
“i can’t tell which way you want to devour me” he says as he sees the look you have in your eyes.
“are you really asking me that…you come home all hot and sweaty, that’s already something on its own, and then u get a haircut!? it’s not even just any haircut, a fucking mullet.” there’s no way he’s going to act like this is a daily occurrence. for all the time you’ve been together, he’s maybe changed the way he got his haircut a maximum of 3 times.
“well why does that matter i just—“ he starts to trip over his words, crazy i know, but soon gets cut off as you start to pepper kisses from his jaw to his face.
“you sexy beast” you say as you break away before finally melting into his lips hungrily kissing him as he quickly adjust to the pace as you feel the tiniest smile against your lips.
“you crazy ass woman.” he tries to fight back, but the way he’s holding you says otherwise. “maybe i should keep cutting my hair like this if it means i get to come home to this hmm?” he teases.
a small whine comes out of your mouth as you chase his lips for more. “ah ah ah, slow down tiger, can’t be too selfish now, baby” you roll your eyes and tug at his hair in a playful manner. “whatever.”
he chuckles as gives you a lighthearted kiss to your temple.
he’s right where he wants to be.
hello mulletkuna nation...first time writing so it kinda suck Ok?
ballet teacher!reader x funeral home employee!matsukawa issei met long after school graduation when matsukawa ran into you in front of a convenience store. you were saving up to go to college and worked from job to job. fast forward, matsukawa would turn up in front of the ballet school youre teaching at to accompany you to walk home; just because. not to mention, he never misses any recital you invite him to. such routines never fail to break off, by such idiots in love.
your crush in kuroo tetsurō back in middle school followed you until you both reached high school.
+ genre: admiring-him-from-afar to lovers, one-sided pining (reader’s pov), a lil bit of angst, fluff, slow burn
+ word count: 6.9k
+ warnings: mild cursing, mentions of violence (non-serious), minor physical injury, secondhand embarrassment, angst
+ author’s note: AAAA tysm for waiting!! this is my first one-shot from a first ever request, and i’m so excited i may have wrote more than what i planned to. dear anon, thank you so much for requesting this! i love kuroo as much as you do, i hope you enjoy! <33
as early as middle school, you have heard kuroo tetsurō's name.
bulletins, posters, school wide pageants, your mind practically has ingrained that messy bedhead, that cocky smirk, and those hazel golden eyes.
it’s impossible to miss.
he’s a year ahead of you, always finding his name in the academic excellence awardees list next to your year, and seeing him barge in on your classrooms to eat lunch with your classmate who’s almost glued to his switch, named kozume kenma.
you and kuroo have never really talked. not really.
the only interaction you had so far with him was him running to your desk (it was the nearest one) with pleading eyes, asking you to hide kozume’s switch so he could have him eat lunch.
kozume, that time, was outside of the classroom chasing frantically at his pokemon cards kuroo threw outside for him to catch.
“please, can you just— can you help me hide this?”, kuroo slammed the switch (with care) at your desk, while you were already slinging your backpack at your shoulder, about to head to the cafeteria.
you were a bit taller than him at that time, and seeing him bouncing nervously on his feet, eyeing the door like kozume would kick it down any second now and commit murder.
you weren’t sure at first what’s going on, and it clicked. you didn’t know if you really should, but your body moved before your mind registered it.
your fingertips almost brushed his shaking hands as you got the switch from him, hiding it in the pocket of your bag between the thick sheets of balanced chemical reactions you worked through ‘til midnight.
he didn’t seem to notice.
and you cancelled whatever plan you had just to go along with his.
the next time you see kuroo tetsurō after kozume saw the faint outline of his nintendo in your bag that day—which thankfully, he didn’t kill you, but glared at kuroo so hard, he left your classroom—was when you passed by him at the school gates.
he was with his best friend again, throwing a volleyball at his direction, but kozume wasn’t amused at all. in fact, he looks tired.
you have seen the announcements.
kozume kenma always mentioned for attendance but always marked excused because of volleyball trainings, cheer team already practicing chants, and gymnasium always unavailable for PE because it’s being used by clubs, leading to you guys doing jumping jacks and squats in your cramped classroom like crazies.
you see kuroo look your way, but when you tried to raise your hand to wave at him, unsure, his eyes went the other way like he didn’t see you too.
he kept speaking to kozume.
okay, perhaps he didn’t see you.
it’s not like you were bothered by it. no, you were, but you weren’t in the place to be.
kuroo is your senior, a grade above you. maybe that time he asked you to play along was just because you were the nearest. the convenient option.
you clutched your chest. why does it feel like a bag of slabs weigh on it?
but deep down, you knew, and it’s more the reason you denied it—
—all because that little crush you had hurt you more than you admit.
yua and aki has been begging you since last week to tutor them for that english test they failed. they have to pass the required remedial so they could continue acting their roles in the theatre club they’re both part in.
they are attached to both your arms, wiping their fake tears on your sleeve as you three walked through the hallways.
“i told you to study the reviewers i gave”, you scolded like a tired nanny as you dragged their limping bodies through the floor. you almost tripped when aki caught her uniform blouse on a locker knob.
“GUYS!”, you exclaimed as they finally let you go, giggling, and you had to furiously wipe their smudged foundation and eyeliner on your pristine blouse with your handkerchief you got from your pocket like it’s going to remove the stain. “YOU KNOW THIS STAINS ARE HARD TO REMOVE— UGH!”
your bestfriends, if you can still call those menaces that, started walking towards you again making those freaky expressions that sent a shiver down your spine.
you started walking backwards away from them.
“nope, stay back”, you warned. “i’m not spending three hours scrubbing more stains off of this blouse”.
they were laughing, still walking towards you and you away from them. you flipped them off, and they stuck out their tongues.
your feet continued to make you back away from them, running backwards you didn’t see some people on the hallway avoiding you colliding to them.
but then, you bumped to a hard wall—well, more like a chest.
“woah, woah”, you hear him say. you were startled you stepped on his shoes, and sent you stumbling on your own, trying to find your footing.
your ankle twisted slightly, and the next thing you knew, the world spun and your sides ache. you had to regain your vision from blurring for a while. you winced as you tried to get up.
“OH MY G— NO!”, you recognize yua and aki’s voices simultaneously calling for your name from a distance. you turned your head, trying to find where they were, but you got so dizzy you can’t even see them.
“hey, you okay?”
a deep voice pulled you out of your haze.
“um, yeah, i’m— i’m fine—“, you replied weakly, though your body doesn’t cooperate.
“does it hurt?”, that voice asked again. you feel his warm palm rubbing circles on your arm ghostly, like he’s trying to test if you’ll flinch or push him away.
but you didn’t.
you see a hand reaching out towards you. “here, let me help you”.
your body moved on its own as you took his hand. he pulled you up quickly, but stopped when you let out a low sound of pain. you sat up, still on the cold cement.
it hurts everywhere, but your vision started getting less foggy. you rubbed your eyes, and see a tall man crouching in front of you.
the first thing you saw was his cat-like eyes, similar to that one person you knew so well.
wait—
“kuroo-san?”, you blurted out, shocked.
you can see him clearly now, him rubbing his neck. he offered his hand again, and you hesitate before taking it, and he pulled you up to your feet.
you were standing now, kuroo steadying you by your shoulders. you see everyone’s eyes on the both of you as they watched, but somehow yours went back to him.
kuroo put a finger up in front of your face. “follow this”, he tells you as he moves his index finger, and you did.
seeing you responsive, kuroo grinned down at you. “good, no concussions”.
apparently, he’s taller now, a little taller than you.
how did he get so tall?, you asked yourself. months back, his forehead’s the level of the bridge of your nose, but now, your hairline’s the same height as his lower lip.
“sorry about that, i wasn’t looking”, you hear kuroo gently say. you realized you have just been staring at him and being silent the whole time. god, you were a weirdo.
you shake your head. “no, no! it’s alright”, you reassured.
“are you sure?”, kuroo searched your face for signs of you lying, but there wasn’t any. “i could take you to the clinic…”
your hand is already on fire as you realized he pulled you up earlier, and held your shoulders to help you regain your balance from falling.
“i— it’s alright— i’m okay!”, you prayed he couldn’t see the slight blush on your face. “i am fine. see?”
you even demonstrated jumping jacks like someone possessed just so he would believe you. but it ended badly as your rib decided to humiliate you, punching the air out of your body.
you stopped jumping mid-way.
kuroo blinked, then let out a short chuckle. “okay, i get it”, he tells you with a wide smile on his face. “just tell me though, i could pay for damages in case you change your mind”.
you only nodded, your cheeks burned brighter as you registered the fact that you just did an exercise, in front of kuroo tetsurō, and then backfire because you were NOT fine at all.
kuroo turned to leave. “see ya!”
you didn’t look back at him as embarrassment flooded your veins. what the hell did you just do?
meanwhile, two bodies encased you with their arms tightly, squealing so loud it hurts your ears.
“OH MY GOSH, kuroo-san?!?”, yua shook you by your shoulders.
“girl, you were like a princess in distress!”, aki smacked your shoulders, jumping slightly on her feet.
you felt a migraine form in the back of your eyes. you hid the fact that your heart is racing, and you pushed them away playfully. “really? that’s what you’re concerned about?”, you rolled your eyes at them. “i think you forget you’re the one who caused this”.
yua and ako pretended to not hear you as they continue chatting your ear off about shipping you and “kuroo-san”. you denied it the second time, but you can’t mistake the uncontrollable beating of your heartbeat.
you never stopped seeing kuroo after that day, like fate is torturing you and reminding you of your shame. you frequently pass by him in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in your bus stops.
it’s like he’s a ghost and he’s haunting you.
you convince yourself you notice him more and more just because your friends kept teasing you about him every second you breathe. but gosh, it wasn’t like back then.
kuroo always looks at you intentionally now. sometimes he waves when you’re too far from each other, sometimes he says hi. but mostly, he asks if you’re doing okay from the incident.
you don’t dislike it, per se, but what bothers you is how you stutter back greetings at him when in fact you’ve always been delivering academic speeches in front of crowds without any errors.
but towards him? your heart starts doing irrational things you’ve never done ever.
you were someone competent, someone composed. not this nervous of a mess kuroo turned you in.
sports have always been boring to you. you never watch them, only because you think your time can be spent on other stuff.
maybe it’s another “kuroo effect”, as you call it, but you find yourself watching one of his practice matches with your friends who decided they have crushes on yaku and another player you didn’t recognize. you had to hold their mouths shut from cheering too loud.
you don’t get the mechanics of volleyball, but from what you observe and from what yua tells you, the ball must not drop from their side of court.
seeing kuroo play so passionately, scoring for their team, cheers bubble from your throat too. but you suppress it from coming out.
from that day on, whenever you have time, you spend your afternoons watching drills, sitting on the corner of the gym bleachers before going home. your eyes are always on him, always admiring him from afar.
you always leave before his match ends.
you didn’t want to impose or make it seem like you’re stalking kuroo. he never approaches you either and you understand. he’s busy.
but sometimes kuroo does see you, and he nods with that little crinkle in the corner of his eyes. you smile back, but you tell yourself you’re just being polite, even if your fingers tingle in your skirt pocket.
the last time you really talked to kuroo was that time you bumped on him and he helped you up. deep down, you wanted to, but you decided against it anyway.
before you know it, a new school year has started. you were a step closer to your dreams, but the person who’s been appearing in your dreams every night is a step away further from you.
you heard kuroo has graduated from middle school, but you never knew what school he went. the first time you realized you might not see him again had your heart lurching inside your chest. tokyo is a big city. you weren’t even sure if he still stayed in tokyo. he could have moved anywhere.
you never told yua and aki. they didn’t need to know the small crush you had. you laughed with them, you joked, you ate a lot.
they never noticed.
that night, your diary which has been unopened for years is now filled with your illegible handwriting, contrasting your usually neat and organized scribbles.
you didn’t think that time, just wrote and wrote and wrote ‘til your hand cramped. you wrote about the supposed crush you had, and how it hurt more than it should.
you don’t cry. you don’t scream or shout.
you closed your eyes and opened them. your fingertips touched the corner of your dusty diary, rereading the last line of the entry you wrote:
i should’ve told you that you mean so much more to me than i tell myself.
you didn’t know you could juggle multiple activities with the procrastination problem you had. you have been elected as the student council’s secretary of your middle school, the representative for regional math olympiads, and an associate editor for your school paper.
safe to say, your excessive volunteering cured it.
back then, you thought to yourself you couldn’t do it. but recounting on the tasks you finished in just a day—writing two feature articles about the ongoing construction of the new building, created minutes, and reviewed a page of practice problems—but you did anyway.
aki and yua have been really supportive, texting you to remind that you need to eat and hydrate, and sending you notes on missed lectures, sometimes gossips.
you’ve been busy. and it’s the best time of your life.
and you have buried kuroo under paperworks, computation sheets, and article drafts.
nekoma is your first option for high school since you were given a loyalty scholarship for studying in their middle school.
it was hard to let your jobs and titles that have been part of your life for a year go, but as you were flipping through your medals and certificates, you realize it’s time to prioritize something else which is college admissions in your third year.
yua and aki were still with you, and as you three celebrated your first day of high school as freshmen, you went to the gymnasium to watch volleyball. it’s been a while since you guys went to a match since you all have been busy with school.
you’re hugging your lay’s on your chest, and holding sprite on your other hand. you’re lightly scolding aki about her having a crush on one of her teachers, and yua ushering you both to walk faster because seats are being occupied fast.
you overheard nekoma volleyball club is going up against another school for their practice, everyone wanted to watch.
you, aki, and yua have already sat in the middle rows, chatting loudly over the noise.
your eyes scanned the red and white jerseys of your school’s team to get to know them by their faces. you won’t admit it but a part of your heart still searches for him after all this time.
that your heart still clings to the hope that maybe you’d see him again.
and maybe, it wasn’t so bad to wish for the impossible.
your eyes widened.
there, talking with what seems to be their coach was kuroo tetsurō. you know him, you can’t forget that face. that confident smirk, that bedhead.
god, he grew so much taller. much broader.
and from the distance, you can see he matured lots. your heart dropped and leapt at the same time as you try to take him in, drowning out your friends’ voices, and the crowd’s noise.
he was here, he was really here.
and you? finally allowed yourself to feel.
you never stayed quiet anymore, you cheered, you screamed, you went along with the chants with your friends.
you looked ridiculous and you didn’t care. you watched him play, and somehow, you can’t deny within yourself feeling pride in your chest for him anymore.
you can’t deny within yourself that you were falling harder for him than you should.
and this time, you never pushed it away.
you don’t know if it’s the relief that you saw familiar faces in your new school aside from your friends.
you were flushed, and your hands are still shaking at the adrenaline of watching the game and cheering every time they land the ball on the opposing team’s court.
everyone has started leaving the gym to go back to their homes. you can hear them talking about the match of nekoma and fukurodani. some are even playfully arguing on who’s the better team.
from beside you, yua’s stomach growled audibly.
she stopped walking. “you didn’t hear that”.
“but i did”, you giggled.
aki on your other side has already started pointing to a stall just a few meters away. she linked your arms with hers. “i want takoyaki”.
“takoyaki?”, yua exclaimed so loud, some heads turn to you three. “you hate takoyaki”.
aki only winked. “what can i say? i evolve and adapt”.
you dragged a hand down your face, so done with the antics of these two. “you got a perfect mark on the theory of evolution and you suddenly say stuff like that”.
aki flipped you off as she dragged yua to the vendor anyway, muttering under her breath about fake friends and killjoys.
you held the strap of your handbag as you waited for them. you’ve never eaten those. you have developed that fear from that one day back when you were eight years old you couldn’t breathe after eating an octopus tentacle.
you stood outside the gymnasium, fiddling with your brand new flip phone, smiling widely because the thrill of the match hasn’t worn off yet.
someone tapped you from behind.
“excuse me, miss—“
you turned your head over your shoulder and see the person you’ve been eyeing and thinking about since then. your lips parted.
kuroo tetsurō.
he looks equally as shocked as you.
that smirk you knew from him faltered a bit, and your smile turned into a shy one.
“oh wow. hey there”, kuroo laughed in disbelief, probably at the coincidence of it. “you go here too?”
“yeah”, you softly said, suddenly feeling conscious on how you look. your hair was surely sticking out on different directions, and your uniform askew from all the jumping you did.
you cleared your throat, looking everywhere but him. “i’m— uh, i didn’t know you go here too, k— kuroo-san”.
it’s the first time you blurted his name out loud again, and it feels so right, but your mind tells you it shouldn’t.
when you looked up, kuroo is smirking down at you. “yeah”, he slings his jacket over his shoulder. “guess we both needed the scholarship huh, sec?”
that title. how did he know?
you haven’t heard it since the summer break you graduated. your cheeks heated up. your hands went to hold them unconsciously, like you’re trying to hide it from him.
god, you hate how he still has that effect on you.
the silence hung between the both of you. you didn’t trust yourself to respond, because you might embarrass yourself like you did back then.
“so”, kuroo’s eyes darted in the direction where his teammates were waiting for him for their afterparty. “you wanna go eat?”
the breath got knocked out of your lungs. is he asking you out?
he seemed to notice.
he smirks teasingly, but his voice is kind. “i didn’t mean that way”, he clarifies for you, and you had to stop yourself from saying out loud that you hoped he meant it that way.
“i meant to invite you since, you know, celebrate our victory after the game”, kuroo observes you with that glint on his eyes, but you didn’t see. “don’t worry, it’s my treat”.
you bit your lip, and you forced to straighten your back to look back at him. “thank you for the invitation, kuroo-san”, you held your bag closer to your chest. “but i don’t want to bother you or your teammates. they don’t know me after all”.
kuroo tilts his head, like he’s confused at the same time. “i promise you won’t, they’re kind. they won’t eat you alive”.
your knees wobble beneath you, not because of the reassurance, but because he asks you to come, and also insists you to come.
did he really want you to?
you internally shook your head. he couldn’t, he wouldn’t.
it’s just a polite gesture, you tell yourself.
maybe he’s just a good senpai trying to make his junior feel welcome at her new school. maybe he’s trying not to make things awkward.
and you were getting ahead of yourself thinking that it’s something else entirely. you may have watched him, and finally admitted to yourself that you like him more than a crush, but now, maybe it’s just a delusion you had.
you smiled politely at him, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. “i got plans too, kuroo-san. but thank you, and congratulations on your win”.
you turned on your heel, and you didn’t stay to hear his reply. you were suffocating from your feelings, and from your heart threatening to burst out of your ribs.
but what you didn’t see was kuroo’s feet staying glued to its spot where he talked to you, watching your back as you walk away from him.
you didn’t see his smirk falter, and how his hand flew to his chest to hold it.
you didn’t see him watching your smile as you playfully hit your friends while eating with them.
you didn’t hear how his friends asked what’s wrong with him because he was quieter than usual that night.
the next time you meet kuroo was when you passed by him looking for vacant seats in the cafeteria. you’re holding your silver tray on your one hand, and a cup of steaming broth on the other.
it’s burning your hand so bad, but everyone has already filled the seats with their own circles.
“mannnn”, yua whined, her lips forming to a pout. “all the seats are taken”.
aki sighed, glaring at yua. “you spent like, fifteen minutes redoing your eyeliner”.
“excuse me? i did our eyeliner!”
you stood between them before they start pulling each other’s hairs out. “guys, it’s okay”, your eyes scanned the room, looking for a group that’s already finished their lunch. unfortunately, everyone is still occupied in gossiping and giggling even after their trays are already empty.
you can’t take your trays back to your classrooms either, the policies don’t allow it.
you adjusted your grip on the cup, also making sure the sloshing broth doesn’t spill on you, trying your best to not let yourself be scalded any longer.
aki and yua were holding their own hot cups, so you can’t ask them to hold it for you.
“let’s have our lunches packed instead”, you tell your friends, and they nodded back at you, walking back the cafeteria counter with the longest line you’ve ever seen.
“hey, sec!”, you heard someone call you from the distance. you looked over your shoulder, and you see kuroo jogging towards you with the biggest smirk on his face.
“oh my gosh! he goes here too?”, yua gasped dramatically, squinting her eyes at you then back to your senior. “what a coincidence!”
aki gawked and nudged you with her elbow. “girl”, she whispered harshly. “i think fate brought you two back together”.
you scoffed at that idea, but your toes curled inside your socks. “don’t be ridiculous”.
kuroo inclined his head. “hey girls”, he greets smoothly, then his eyes found yours. “been standing for a while there, need some seats?”
embarrassment bubbled in your throat and you stepped slightly forward. “thank you, but—“
your friends though, aki and yua nodded furiously at the tall man. “yes please!”
you bit back a glare, letting out a strained smile.
kuroo’s ears perked at your friends’ bluntness, amused. “is that so?”, his stare stayed on you, pocketing his hands. “well, we have some extra space”.
aki has walked ahead that instant she saw where kuroo was pointing. yua followed, and looked back at you with that worried gaze. “call me”, she mouthed, and you nodded once.
“i’m sorry about them”, you looked down at your tray, your food gone cold. “they’re—“
“don’t worry about it”, he smiles genuinely now, his smirk gone. “you sure worry a lot”.
your head snapped up to him.
he wordlessly took the hot cup from you, surprising you even more.
his hand grazed yours.
he must’ve felt you tensed up, because his palm lingered, watching you carefully.
“i— um—“, your heart couldn’t take it, and you retracted your hand away. you brushed past him, and walked briskly to where aki has already finished half her food, and yua eyeing you, picking her lunch.
kuroo arrived at the table a while later, placing your broth beside your tray. you muttered a thank you, not really noticing the way he nervously looked at your figure.
you don’t know how the hell aki has made kuroo and his friends her friends already. she’s talking about teachers she find attractive, asking them (since they’re second years) if they’re any good, and are generous in giving out grades.
yua has her hand on your knee as you both eat, occasionally shoving onigiri inside aki’s throat when she sometimes crosses a line or she curses.
the only first year in that table like you three, kozume kenma, stared at you, tilting his head.
“it’s you”, he muttered, but everyone else heard. people knew he doesn’t speak much so everyone practically flinched. even kuroo did.
“you’re the one who conspired with kuroo”.
you stopped chewing, and tilted your head. your eyes flash with recognition, his black hair now dyed with blonde halfway the strands.
“kozume-kun?”
“you know him?”, aki looked at you, then back at kenma, while yua raised a brow.
you were about to speak when kuroo beat you to it. “oh yeah, we stole kenma’s switch back in middle school”.
yaku, hearing this, almost spat out his tea. “excuse me?”, he coughed. “you stole kenma’s switch?”
kai who’s sitting between yaku and kuroo, patted yaku’s back. he chuckled quietly. “how is that even possible?”
kuroo’s face relaxed as he looked back at you. your hand twitched on your chopsticks. don’t smile at him, don’t smile at him, don’t—
you can’t help but let out a giggle at the memory. “yeah”, you shyly tucked a hair behind your ear. “we managed to”.
“holy fuck!”, yaku suddenly stood up, his chair scraping on the floor and pointed at you. “you are amazing, what’s your name?”
“l/n y/n”, you put a hand to your chest. you pointed at your friends who are still gawking at you. “and my friends, yua, and aki”.
kai reached out his hand and shook yours across the table. “this is yaku, and i’m kai”, he tells you. “i guess you know kuroo and kenma already”.
yaku sat back down, eyeing you and kuroo. “you have to tell us the story, ‘cos holy shit i don’t believe it”.
aki raised her hand. “agree, you have to tell us!”
yua rubbed circles on your thigh. “i wanna hear it too”.
kuroo crossed his arms and smirked down at yaku. “you don’t believe how good i am?”, he snickers. “just because you failed to do it, doesn’t mean i will too”.
“HUH?! WHAT DID YOU SAY?”, yaku collared kuroo, and kai had to hold them down, apologetically looking at you three.
“you sure you wanna be friends with us?”, kenma finally sighed like it’s an ordinary day. “you’ll be dealing with these morons everyday”.
when kuroo’s stare found yours while yaku was screaming at his ear, and yua and aki are fawning over kenma’s hair, you find yourself looking back.
and you never looked away.
being friends with kuroo’s circle gave you some mutual benefits. they reserve front seats for you, aki, and yua in their games, and you agree to drag kenma to practices like you’re his older sister.
lunch with them are almost every day. yaku always manages to find seats for all of you because apparently he knows how to argue with people according to kuroo and kai.
for a year, kuroo has treated you well. you’d say he treats you like you’re his girlfriend, but you don’t try to create meaning into it.
you notice kuroo always sitting across you in tables. he always offers to carry you and your friends’ trays. he always asks you if you’re cold or you’re hot.
he even compliments you, not the usual ways like “you’re pretty”, instead he tells you honestly how he admires how you balance your time, and how you barely fail your tests.
and your heart? appreciates it more than it should.
they are now third years, and you, kenma, aki and yua are now second years.
yaku, kai, and kuroo have been talking about college options at lunch. you helped weigh them, because in yua’s words and absolute bluntness, “her life is already planned and set”.
you told them about scholarships abroad. kenma only comments, playing his psp, “they’re too much of an idiots to qualify for it”.
you suggested tokyo, waseda and tohoku as top universities locally, but you still insist they try on overseas. among the three of them, yaku’s actually the only one considering it, while kuroo and kai has already decided on tokyo u, but the former on business marketing, and the latter on agricultural studies.
but as the third years left the table with kenma, your eyes followed kuroo’s back. he’s graduating soon, and it took you back in middle school when you just watched him from afar in months.
before you knew it, he was gone.
that night, you barely got any sleep. you need to be up early tomorrow, yet you keep debating yourself if you’re going to confess your feelings to him.
would it be better if you just kept it to yourself like you did back then?
would it be better if you let him go wordlessly?
that moment happens on just an ordinary day.
it was raining heavily in tokyo, and you woke up late. you stayed up ‘til two a.m. arguing with yourself.
you were already boarded on the train when you realized you forgot your coat and your umbrella. on a rainy day. goodness gracious.
you’re soaked when you arrive at your classroom. you were shivering. thankfully, aki was your savior, lending you her rain jacket.
“thank you”, you leaned forward at the back of her chair, and whispered. aki gave you that goofy kiss in the air as she turned back to her seat work.
you returned it to her on lunch time because she will buy your lunch with yua outside. you wanted to borrow it again before dismissal because your house is farther than hers.
although, it left your mind.
you only realized it when yua and aki has went ahead to go home, and you still had some club works. you had ran from the school gates to the bus stop. now you, your bag, and your shoes til your socks are dripping wet from the rain.
you rubbed your hands together for heat. you’ve been waiting for over twenty minutes now, the bus that passes your street is either already filled, or none is passing by.
your eyes started watering, your lips already turning pale purple.
you just wanted to go home.
but it seems you’re not alone.
you hear the splash of shoes against shallow puddles from behind you. you didn’t look up immediately as you were wiping your tears with your thumb.
“you’re going to catch a cold”.
you lifted your head and see kuroo standing before you, his bag lazily slung on his shoulder. his smirk is nowhere to be found.
“h— hey”, you probably looked pathetic right now, and you hastily wiped the combined rain drops and hot tears from your face to save yourself some ounce of dignity.
he steps closer to you. you finally see him, his bedhead ruined in all the good ways, and his jacket unzipped. “i thought you already went home”.
you sniffle, wiping your snot with your wet handkerchief, making it worse. “yua and aki went ahead, had to finish some org works”, you reply in the smallest voice that made kuroo’s brows crease together. “and— uh, buses are— the buses are not cooperating”.
he didn’t say anything else.
you both watch the rain fall from the bus stop shed. you see cars wiping their windshields. you see people pass by. minutes stretch the silence between you two.
you hug your bag closer to your chest. you’re cold, but not shivering anymore. “what about you?”, you broke the quiet. “why are you not home yet?”
kuroo didn’t answer you.
instead, you see the muscle of his jaw clench as he stared straight ahead.
“do you remember”, he says suddenly. “when you discussed college admissions with us?”
“yeah”, you reply.
“do you really think that universities abroad are the best option?”, his throat bobbed as he tried to get his voice to be casual. like what he’s asking doesn’t matter.
you tilted your head, but answered anyway. “i think… it depends on your decision, and the things you have to sacrifice and leave behind”.
you didn’t know it, but your words landed heavier than you expect them to be for him.
kuroo finally faces you this time.
he huffs a laughter, but there was no humor in it. “it’s just— god, i just realized i’m graduating, and i—”, he runs a finger through his hair. “everyone’s talking about futures, you know? yaku and kai have already decided if they want to leave or not, and i—“
he cuts himself off.
your hands went to your sides. “i thought you already decided”, your eyes softened. your hand carefully reached out to try and hold him. you expected he pull away, but he doesn’t. your fingertips caressed his sleeve. “i was like this once, i didn’t know what my future holds, but look, i’m fine—“
“—that’s not what i was talking about”, kuroo whispered to you.
your hand froze against his sleeve. your lips parted to say something but he spoke first.
“i kept— i kept thinking i already had my life planned”, his voice cracked, like there’s something in him too tired to hold his feelings together. “college, volleyball, graduate and get a stable job, but every time i picture that life for me, i don’t see what i wanna see”.
“what is it you want to see?”, you feel like you have finally overstepped, but gosh, something in your heart tells you that maybe he feels the same way. that’s why you ask.
you want your hope to get crushed, you want to move on and finally let go.
but he’s not letting you.
“you”.
your breath hitched. “what?”
“i know, i know that it’s not the right time, i know—”, kuroo let out a scoff at himself, hiding the fact his lip trembled. “we’re stuck here, we’re soaking, and our buses seem to be not arriving soon”.
you can’t breathe. “i—“
“you don’t have to answer it”, he reassures you. “i didn’t mean it like that— i mean i did, not to ask you to like me back, but i—“,
his voice grew quieter. “but i just couldn’t keep pretending i feel nothing when i sit across you in lunch. when you say something so smart it stabs me, when you manage to appear in our games in your busy schedule. i just— i— i needed to tell you”.
silence hung between you two.
kuroo’s tight smile disappeared at your lack of response. “i’m sorry”, he tells you, about to turn on his heel.
“i guess we’re both idiots after all”, your fingers tightened on his sleeve.
his feet stopped mid-step.
“last night, i stayed up late thinking if i should do the same”, you shyly tell him, feeling your chest hurt at the best and the absolute worst way. “that i should tell you what i feel too”.
kuroo’s head snapped at you over his shoulder. “what?”
“i spent years convincing myself to not feel for you”, you confessed. “that maybe it’s wrong, that maybe it’s easier”.
kuroo’s body finally turned toward you, your hand still holding him.
“and guess what, it’s not”, you whisper.
your heartbeat thumped in your ears. silence fell again, but this time, you stared at each other with that heaviness that wasn’t so bad at all.
“…so”, kuroo carefully spoke. you can hear hope lacing his voice. “so does it mean…”
“yeah”, you answered with that lightness in your tone. “it does”.
his hand went to your wrist gently. “yeah?”
you shakily exhale, and smile up at him. “yeah”.
he smiled back, faint but the happiest you had seen with him. “then, can i walk you home?”, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around you.
for a second, neither of you moves. neither of you looks at the bus that finally pulled up in front of you. neither of you heard the pouring rain anymore.
your fingers interlace with his. “i’d like that”.
your diary filled with dust and pages that turned yellow better prepare for your messy handwriting that dents the other pages.
because now, you were falling harder. more than you should.
and you know he feels the same.
you brushed a stray noodle on kuroo’s lip with a tissue. his hand squeezed your palm on his, as if thanking you.
you smile, picking up your chopsticks when kenma and aki gagged audibly on the other table. “get a room”, aki scrunched her nose. “i swear”.
kenma just turns his chair so he’s facing the other direction where he can’t see you. yua giggles quietly, slurping her noodles. inuoka is giving her extra char shu slices from his bowl, and yua smiles at him with a light blush on her face.
kai is on the counter with fukunaga and lev, ordering extra fried gyoza like they’re eating for ten people.
it was the celebratory party after their national volleyball tournament where they lost to karasuno. you were there, and you watched kuroo with that pride swimming in your eyes as his dream of The Battle of the Trash Heap finally happened.
they lost.
he found you waiting for him after the game, and he hugged you. your lips brushed his ear as you whispered how proud you are of him and how amazing he did at that game.
he never showed it, but you felt something trickle through the back of your blouse. you didn’t know if it was his sweat, or his tears. you wrapped your arms around him even tighter.
you never asked about the faint marks from the corner of his eye trailing down to his cheek.
you never asked why he was the one who never broke down in front of his crying teammates. you never let go of his hand, offering him the strength he maybe needed.
it was an eat all you can ramen place coach nekomata rented for the whole team, the owner a friend of his.
akane and alisa are giggling on the table about some bad shots they got from the players on the match, holding their digicams in their hands. “you gotta have them printed and give it to us”, yaku chewed as he spoke. “i better look good in those”.
kuroo plastered his signature smirk. “bet you don’t”.
yaku threw a slice of narutomaki at his direction.
yamamoto slammed his bowl down, glaring at you and kuroo the whole time. “y/n-san, why do you even like captain, huh?”, playful envy dripping from his tone.
you sipped the broth, wiggling your eyebrows together as kuroo removed his hand on your leg to put it around the back of your chair. you leaned on it.
yaku looked up from his chirirenge and pointed. “YEAH! he’s bullying me, l/n! don’t you see he’s a jerk?”
kenma muttered from the side. “agreed”.
kuroo’s lip curled, fake pouting. “i hate you all!”
you put a hand on top of his on the table. “come on guys”, you rubbed circles on his knuckles. “tetsurō’s such a great captain, give him some break”.
his teammates were about to protest again, but you placed a finger on your lips, shushing them. “i started watching volleyball because of tetsurō”, you grinned at the memory. “he’s so good i got hooked on it”.
yua’s in awe. “that’s so cute— wait, LOOK AT HIM”, she suddenly exclaimed.
everyone’s heads turned to look at kuroo, and you did too.
kuroo tetsurō—the man who can make freshmen (you’re guilty) shake in their boots, and squeal like banshees—is blushing so madly you think he might pass out.
“are you okay?”, you worriedly touched his cheek, and he suddenly stammers which is so unlikely for him to do.
“i—“, he tries to speak, but just shuts up when he realized he couldn’t form a word.
everyone is laughing. yaku is face palming so hard, yamamoto calls kuroo “downbad”, everyone else is just smiling for you and him.
after a while, when they returned to their own businesses, kuroo leaned down at you and whispered, “did you really mean that?”
another smile spread across your face. you shake your head no.
“more than that”, you whispered back.
you love him. more than you should, and you didn’t want to stop at all.
Gojo Satoru is the university’s star swimmer, a campus icon whose face is plastered on every banner and screen. But to you, he’s just the exhausted boy who sits three tables away in the 24-hour lounge.
gojo satoru | orbit of two
⤷ college/university AU, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort | 10k
Campus golden boy. Physics prodigy. Gojo Satoru. Your constant Tuesday night walk partner. You know all his smiles, his laugh, and the way his knee brushes yours under the library table. You also know you're in love with him. Senior year shatters the routine as Satoru's world expands into a future that doesn't seem to have a place for you.
shorter works/drabbles ── ⋆˙⟡⋆
gojo satoru | when did you get hot? ⟡ sfw, suggestive
⤷ You reunite with childhood friend!gojo at a frat party & he knocks the air out of your lungs
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students, with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds that this was purely a sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else.
[ TAGS ] — [18+]. MDNI. nsfw. LOTS OF ANGST. family drama. plot. piv. fwb. rough. spitting. degradation. DUMBIFICATION. sukuna’s happy trail. dacryphilia. toxic frat culture. fingering. scent kink. sukuna has anger issues. OVERSTIMULATION. oral fem!recieving. sukuna’s a MUNCH. violence. slut shaming. insane SQURITING!! crying. toxic co-dependency — wc: 21.5k
series masterlist ✮ previous chp ✮ next chp (coming soon)
“jesus fuck,” he spits in annoyance, shoving yorozu off his mouth. “i wasn’t even playing,” he barks in anger, standing up with his drink.
yorozu bats her lashes up, “you were sitting in the circle,” she coos, as if the sound of her voice is anything but irritating. “and you kissed me back.”
sukuna tsks, stepping over the crowd of his junior teammates. he was initially talking with them when more people sat around and started playing spin the bottle, and before he could blink he felt a girls lips on him.
his mind was moving slower than he’d like to admit. the lack of sleep, and stress from the rolling events of the last few weeks. all of it had his movements delayed, so when he felt the first touch of someone’s lips on his, he couldn’t help, but sink.
his lips moved against hers, eyes closed briefly until he felt the unfamiliar force of someone’s tongue pushing into his lips. this isn’t the same type of a kiss that always had him reeling. that’s when he’s suddenly pushing the the sorority president off.
his jaw clenches at the interaction, shoving through the crowd, to get some fresh air. this better not get that psycho attached to him again, he curses.
sukuna presses his fingers to his eyes, rubbing them aggressively before finally looking up. chest suddenly tugging.
you were a few feet away by the benches. head thrown back laughing. the weird fuzzy lighting from the fairy lights strewn above the backyard illuminated your face like a halo. pretty. you probably just arrived, he thinks, pushing past a few more men to head to you.
however, his stomach twists the moment the whole group comes to view.
there you were smiling, as gojo leans close to you, laughing at something shoko had said, his hand casually feeding you smarties that you’re both sharing. your lips part with ease, touching his fingers as you take the candies into your mouth, before he’s retracting his hand and dumping a handful of smarties into his mouth, and licking the same fingers after.
you don’t seem bothered in the slightest, even as your eyes close laughing a little louder, slapping gojo’s chest lightly leaning against him, and gojo has an arm wrapped around the bench behind you. the entire thing left a bad taste in the vp’s mouth.
“move.”
sukuna suddenly appears beside gojo, hand coming to the white haired man’s head, shoving it lightly.
“woah, where’d you come from?!” gojo’s still laughing as he easily moves to the bench beside geto. your eyes flick up briefly, before turning your attention back to nanami.
“keep going, kento,” you say, unbothered as sukuna plops himself beside you, legs spreading on instinct and arm taking gojo’s spot on the back of the bench.
sukuna sips his drink, “what’re we talkin’ about?”
gojo laughs, “oh this girl is hitting on ken hardcore at his work study and he basically—“
“you don’t have to explain the whole thing again. just let him finish,” your cold words cut the conversation, silencing everyone. satoru pauses awkwardly glancing between you and sukuna. everyone feels a sudden shift in the air as sukuna’s brows pinch in mild confusion.
nanami clears his throat, “yeah, uh so after I went back to my desk and—“ his story trails on, sukuna does his best to focus, but it was difficult when he’s glancing over at you and sees how tight your shoulders are, arms and legs crossed, back resting against the bench, but avoiding his arm. you also weren’t laughing as loud as he’d seen before.
did something happen? sukuna leans over, voice low so only you can hear.
“when’d you get here?”
you take a deep breath, itching your chin, “dunno probably over an hour now,” you don’t meet his eye, so you miss the annoyance that crosses his face.
“you should’ve texted me, so you didn’t have to wait here—“
“I wasn’t waiting,” you cut immediately, eyes sharp. sukuna pauses, even more confused at the expression itched on your face. “I’m talking with my friends, it’s not like I’m sitting around waiting for you all the time.”
“did i say all the time?” he snaps back in quick irritation at your targeted attitude.
you huff out a sigh, turning back to nanami just for shoko to have noticed the tense interaction between you both and interrupt with your name. “you didn’t finish telling me what happened with your meeting.”
utahime clasps her hands, “oh my god yeah! you haven’t told me yet!”
that’s when your stomach drops.
“what meeting?” geto glances up from his phone.
“she had a meeting this morning with her screenwriting professor who really really likes her and invited her out for brunch,” utahime gushes on your behalf.
“oh yeah, I forget you minor in film,” geto hums. all the attention now on you, including sukuna’s, body turning slightly to listen.
“yeah,” you smile, “it was fine. she was really nice, complimented all the stuff I did this semester, said she really sees me having a good future if I wanna pursue film, and told me to keep in touch.”
“and the internship?” utahime leans forward, eyes bright, you almost hate yourself for cursing her out in your mind. specifically coming here as to not think about this morning.
“it’s like whatever.”
“what d’ya mean?” shoko presses.
you laugh, embarrassment coursing through your veins as you feel all their eyes on you. “like she didn’t fully bring it up and the conversation was going pretty well so I didn’t wanna ruin it.”
“but—“
“it’s fine,” you laugh, “film isn’t even my major so let’s just talk about something else. it went well so that’s the good thing,” you stop them from asking anymore questions, and both utahime and shoko give you sympathetic looks understanding immediately; while the boys don’t fully grasp what’s happening and easily change the subject.
sukuna however, similar to his friends, didn’t fully understand what the meeting with your professor meant, but he does notice how you went from laughing, to tense and short, to not speaking at all now. your eyes distant as you disassociate completely. mind wandering back to the morning brunch.
“anyone want more drinks?” he stands, counting geto, shoko, and nanami. then he calls your name, “come help me.”
“oh i can help,” nanami moves to stand, but sukuna shoots him a glare, hand wrapping around your wrist tugging you up before anyone could protest, ignoring the way shoko’s lips part.
you don’t have time to argue, when this large man is suddenly dragging you towards the house. “I can walk myself,” you twist your hand free, “jeez,” you mutter, glancing up when he halts with you. your breath catches, cheeks flushing at the expression on his face. “what?”
“are you mad at me?” his tone is clipped, irritated. your lips part. “did something happen?”
“what,” you’re baffled by how forward he is, glancing away in annoyance. “nothing happened, I’m fine, clearly.”
“yeah, you’re very convincing,” he scoffs, getting closer, seeing if he can read your thoughts.
you put your hand up to keep him from getting in your space, “well I’m tired from studying, and the meeting…” you grumble the last part, making his brows pinch.
“thought you said it went well,” he says, you roll your eyes.
the nerve. seriously, you should make interrogations a goddamn condition…then again, you’ve done plenty of that with him.
“no it didn’t go well, that was a lie. I was lying. she’s not responsible for awarding the internship, even if its part of her department, so she really just wanted brunch because she liked me or whatever,” you ramble, head falling back, as exhaustion seeps from your pores. sukuna frowns, stepping forward to touch your waist, just for you to step back oat the mere contact. “don’t.”
“don’t what,” he follows, but you take another step back, sharp glare targeting him.
“I’m not in the mood for you to touch me is what,” you huff, cheeks flushing at the confusion on his face. god, he’s so annoying. you swallow a thick lump in your throat, lips parting, tight pounding in your temple, “so don’t.”
sukuna stops, brows pinching, knot twisting in his chest.
a loud commotion breaks your conversation, both of you glancing in the direction with annoyance, expressions unnervingly identical. a couple of guys from another frat were picking up girls and tossing them into the pool. one of which was the pearl’s president who is making a show now of stripping her pink skirt and white top after coming out of the pool.
she manages to hold everyone’s attention, men and women alike catching their breaths as she glides her hands down her curves soaking up all the wandering envious glared like a fuel, almost as if the humiliation sukuna had targeted to her was being wiped clean. her eyes cut through the crowd in seconds, landing on the one person that she begs to look at her, sukuna.
you notice immediately, and the ugly bubble of disgust crawls up your spine, causing you to dramatically roll your eyes, brushing past the soccer captain.
sukuna immediately turns, the half-second he spent glancing at the commotion was enough time for him to grow sick of the sight and follow after you. you try to head back to your friends, but he catches your bicep again, easily tugging you to his broad chest.
“we’re still talking,” he meets your eyes, noticing your gaze locked on the sorority president who seems to be watching you both closely. her eyes are livid, you can see it from here, she whispers something to one of her friends pointing at you.
sukuna’s brows pinch, and the stupid unfiltered part of him decides to shove itself out as follows your line of sight, then glancing at you again, “did you see?”
your body goes rigid.
party falling silent,
you feels sick and annoyed all at once, and it only gets worse when sukuna’s starts talking, “she kissed me, we didn’t fuck,” he’s defending himself before you get the chance to say anything. your throat constricting as you sigh.
“I’m not—“
“so you are mad at me,” he snaps aggressively, grip tightening around your bicep, making you squirm slightly. “you could’ve said something if that’s what you’re thinking about.”
“dude, chill,” you huff, shoving his hand making him let go immediately. “god, you’re so dramatic,” you mutter, brushing your arm as you glare up at him. “I’m not mad at you jeez. I’m just fucking frustrated with my own stuff — again not everything’s about you,” you scoff, finding it amusing how you don’t even believe your own words to fullest. “or are you the only one that’s allowed to be upset about things?”
his jaw clenches.
you glance between his dark crimson eyes. he’s not saying anything.
but you don’t want him touching you. why?
you can’t even admit to yourself why! so now you’re glancing at his lips, cheeks flushing and vision turning a sick red knowing who’s lips had just been on his.
it wasn’t yours from this morning…it was some other girl…some girl that’s glaring daggers across the yard, scrambling to figure out who the fuck you are.
someone that forced herself onto him.
so why is it getting harder for you to breathe? why are you seeing red when you glance down at his pretty lips.
why are you getting more angry when he easily bends down to your height, exhaling heavily like he’s holding himself back because you told him not to touch you. all of it was causing your heart to beat faster than usual, noticing the way he looks over your features. grip clenching, tempting to crawl up to touch your waist—
“kuna!!”
a cold sticky splash hits sukuna straight in the face. you jerk back in shock.
“what the fuck!” he barks, hand coming down on his face, wiping the beer off his face.
yorozu, only wearing her pink lingerie, stands with the evidence in her hand, an empty solo cup, her chest heaves dramatically, eyes bloodshot and crazy, whipping her head to you now.
your eyes widen when the girl suddenly steps towards you. “who the fuck even are you?” she snaps with such judgement, looking you up and down like some rat from the subway. you seriously can’t help the way you step back in absolute cringe. face twisting like you smelled something atrocious,
“oh my god, this is unreal,” you scoff, brushing past her and getting away from the entire crowd of people that seem to be stuck in some cringey ass high school drama movie.
by the time you find your friends again, gojo and utahime are standing on their tippy toes trying to see what the commotion was all about on the other side of the yard.
“what’s goin’ on?” gojo asks when you appear out of the crowd.
you glance over your shoulder, face in a perpetual state of disgust and cringe, “that president that sukuna supposedly ‘hates’, threw a drink at him.”
“what?!” gojo and geto both get on their feet. “what’s he doing now?” geto asks.
“dunno, I left when she got up in my face,” you sit back on the bench with a loud huff. geto and gojo glance at each other again, and in seconds they’re pushing through the crowd stumbling through to find their friend, praying things haven’t escalated.
your remaining friends look back at you, clearly for some explanation. but instead, your fingers pinch your nose, head falling back.
“you okay?” utahime quietly comforts sitting beside you. she presses her hand over the one on your lap, and you feel a damn crack inside you. throat running dry in moments.
god, this is so exhausting.
you can feel the familiar hot stinging behind your eyelids, afraid to even respond not knowing what’s stirring inside you. your thoughts and feelings all a mess, and now all you can feel is the sinking in your stomach and the overstimulation of what was supposed to be a small mixer. you just wanted him…
“is she okay?” you can hear gojo’s distant voice as shoko answers. the attention feels like you’re being some sensitive baby that can’t take someone getting up in their face. you can! but that doesn’t mean you want any of the drama. that’s quite literally the main fucking reason you had this agreement! it was all too much, too much for someone who already had a pretty shit way of organizing her thoughts!
“here, i got you some water,” gojo sits on the other side of you, but your unable to take your hand off your face now, knowing exactly what’ll happen if you do.
you swallow thickly, before muttering a short. “thanks.”
“what happened?” shoko attempts to take the attention off of you as geto returns a few moments later, with a very angry sukuna huffing right behind him.
“the last time we’re ever fucking inviting that fucking psychotic ass sorority!” sukuna is swearing up and down as he pulls his beer drenched shirt off, tossing it aside and airing his baseball cap before putting it back on backwards.
geto glances over his shoulder, spotting most of the main kappa phi pearl members huddled around their deranged president. “yeah…just stay away from her or we’re gonna be caught in another problem.”
“I have been!” sukuna throws his hands up in exasperation. “I’ve been keeping my distance from that bitch all fucking night—“
“but you kissed her.”
the group goes silent.
everyone turns to you. shoko’s brows pinch in concern as utahime looks absolutely baffled at the reveal. however, the boys look even more shell shocked, as they stand still, including nanami.
sukuna’s jaw is taunt. red irises gleaming under the fairy lights, gaze locked on you.
“when did you kiss her??” gojo’s eyes snap to the man, who’s eyes haven’t left yours, noticing the slight gloss that shines over them.
“I didn’t kiss her,” he snaps coldly.
your brows pinch in irritation, “shoko.”
“we both saw you,” she agrees.
sukuna’s eyes are livid, adrenaline and sleep deprivation pumping through his veins as he glares at you in disbelief, and you reciprocate it with an annoyed shrug and a look that basically screams what?
“I told you I didn’t kiss her, she kissed me— doesn’t mean I asked her to go insane like she always fucking does,” he defends, words aggressive and heated.
you roll your eyes, “you kissed her back though.”
“are you fucking kidding me?!”
“dude we literally saw, right shoko!” the more defensive he became, the more heated you got.
shoko hums nodding her head, and as calm as she looks right now, shoko can’t help glancing at utahime as they both look between you and sukuna in worry. same for the other three men who are frozen in place.
“so you’re saying I asked for it!” he snaps.
your eyes widen, throwing your hands up towards him, “who’s the one putting words in my mouth now! if you don’t want drama, don’t kiss a million fucking people.”
“so kissing you and her is a million people?” he barks.
“you’re unbelievable—“
“what! I’m just repeating exactly what you’re saying. you forgot to add the part that we’re not dating, we fuck. fucking and kissing are two different fucking things!” his aggression only adds more punch to his words making you catch your breath in shock. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend, so I don’t know what the fuck you’re getting pissed about.”
you look around the group, putting one hand up, “raise your hand if you heard me say anything about him being my boyfriend?” no one raises their hand. “no one? yeah, that’s because that wasn’t even my point, dumbass,” you huff. “what i was saying is if you don’t want drama, don’t make any.”
“I wasn’t!”
“so did you or did you not kiss her back?”
sukuna groans loudly, “she threw herself at me!” he hits his chest, “are you not hearing that fucking part? do you have selective hearing or some shit?” sukuna aggressively taps his temple like you’re some simpleton.
you roll your eyes, “for someone supposedly smart, you’re really fucking dumb.”
“says you! jesusfuckingchrist!”
suddenly gojo and utahime are stepping in, getting between the both of you as she loops her arms with yours getting you to stand. “let’s go breathe.”
“yeah, take a break,” gojo pushes his friend to sit in your spot as utahime drags you further into the dancing crowd beside the pool.
“oh my god he’s such a dick,” you huff, face hot with anger and mind still pounding. utahime fans your face with her hands as she nods.
“it’s okay, it’s okay, everything that you said made sense, he’s just an idiot,” she agrees, body moving to the beat to get you to loosen up. luckily no one can hear your conversation over the music.
you help fan your face with your hands, inhaling sharply as your head tilts back, “never said he was my boyfriend,” you mutter.
“she’s pulling shit from her ass and I’m the dumb one!” sukuna continues to curse, grip so tight on the bottle, no one would be surprised if it shatters in seconds. “you all know how fucking insane that twisted bitch is — why the fuck would I get involved with her again??”
they all agree with him, nodding along, and humming and union, except for shoko, frowning. she quietly smokes her cigarette, eyes narrowing at the shirtless soccer captain.
it’s been a couple weeks since you started this deal with sukuna, and unbeknownst to you, your two closest friends are unsure how to feel about the relationship. shoko knows how stressed you are, you’re both bio majors on pre-med tracks, and while she takes her stress out by smoking cigarettes or weed — she knows you have a different source of relief, one that she vaguely knows about from freshman year.
the memories of freshman year when you first met by being paired for a group project in the fall. as much as you smiled and laughed, you were closed off, more than shoko was. it was to the point where shoko who had assumed you’d grown close and would be considered close friends, had no idea what you were struggling with until winter break.
she swallows thickly remembering you laughing the next day and vaguely explaining to her that you were on antidepressants, but you were trying to slowly wear them off, since you weren’t heavily reliant on them. but you accidentally miscalculated which caused the dark episode you had when she came by.
shoko was hesitant to leave you after that, but you reassured her over and over. nevertheless, the uneasiness she felt towards that moment left a lasting impact, even years later.
by the time your first year ended and the next year began, you were moving differently. you were still you, but there was a heaviness on your shoulders, something that utahime thought she could make better by telling you these speed dates she’s doing.
while shoko doesn’t like to think everything is so linear, or black and white. there were just so many blind spots to you, but what she knows is your stress, and your adamant refusal to have any drama or external problems weigh you down more than you already are.
which leads her to hating, but subtly relying on the man in front of her. the same one that had taken your stress away ten-folds for blocks at a time. but now it’s looking like he’s just going to add to it now.
shoko holds the nicotine in her lungs, letting it simmer inside before exhaling your name, “she doesn’t like drama.” she starts, turning the mens attention to her. “that’s really almost everything to it. you denying it and just stirring the pot is drama in it of itself.”
sukuna scoffs, “she was stirring the fucking pot by getting me to admit to something she already fuckin’ believes!”
shoko rolls her eyes in disbelief. men.
“she wasn’t trying too—“ shoko starts, but the man cuts in.
“I need a fucking drink,” sukuna stands back up, shoving through the crowd.
shoko shakes her head, even she can admit that your stress is being targeted towards the frat boy, and maybe seeing utahime trying to get you to dance instead of cool down didn’t look like the best idea.
utahime isn’t a party girl, but she’s also the best person to go to a party with. especially when she’s having you jumping up and down to house music with no alcohol in your system.
the music is too loud, the bass vibrating straight through your ribs, bodies pressing in on all sides, sweat-slick and carelessness.
you let your eyes close. just for a second.
the image of sukuna kissing yorozu resurfaced behind your eyes making your jaw clench. your stomach churns thinking about exams in a few days. all of it was making your feet feel lighter , your heart pounding faster trying to escape, and your senses start to lose ground.
you sway, weight shifting back as someone bumps your shoulder, and you’re not fully realizing the slight slip of your heel until you’re tilting back without thinking. body weightless for a moment, and gravity hanging you midair.
and the music cuts out in a single, ugly splash.
the water swallows you whole.
the shock steals the breath from your chest. as you sink, blowing bubbles at the loss of air in surprise.
after a moment, you break the surface with a sharp inhale. heaving as your shirt clings to your chest uncomfortably, heavy against your skin. you blink the water from your lashes, dragging a hand down your face. perfect, you think. catching your breath.
“are you okay?!” utahime pushes the crowd to get to the edge of the pool while your head is tilting back, staring up at the night sky in complete boredom. great, really this is great.
across the patio, sukuna just cracked open a beer when he hears the splash sharp enough to cut through the music. he glances up in annoyance, someone better not be fighting, or jumping off the fucking roof, but then he sees the ripple, and then spots you.
his brows pinch, stepping forward, glancing to see if it was any of those dipshits that tossed you in. but you were standing still in the pool like you chose to be there.
something tight and ugly coiled in his chest.
a few people crowded the edge asking if you were okay. some guys still in the pool swam over to check on you, since you scared a few with the sudden fall and splash. you don’t answer right away. your eyes half-lidded, completely unconcerned, like the world didn’t just knock you off your feet, literally this time.
sukuna doesn’t remember setting the beer down.
but by the time he gets to the pool, his jaw is clenched, and his shoulders are rigid. you’re brushing wet hair out of your face with annoying calm. bringing obvious attention your chest. your shirt clings to you like a second skin, the collar wet and sticking low on your chest revealing most of your cleavage. the hickey he marked your skin with last night prominent, but it wasn’t enough to keep almost all the men around you from checking you out. especially the pebbling of your nipples through your sheer shirt, your thin bra doing absolutely nothing.
you don’t even notice, you’re entirely somewhere else, staring at the reflection of the lights wobbling on the surface.
but sukuna notices.
his jaw tightens so hard it aches. he steps in fast. his broad shoulders cut through the half-circle of bodies like he’s clearing a path on instinct alone. he opens his mouth, already halfway to saying something stupid and vague—some bullshit or anything that will get you out of the water and away from these perverts eyes—
then two hands slams into his shoulder blades. hard and rough.
he stumbles, more from surprise than force. his boots skid on the wet concrete as someone shouts his name. but once he turns, it’s too late. the shove sends him backwards. and there’s a split second where his eyes meet yours.
then he hits the water.
the splash is loud. bigger than yours. the cold shock drags the breath out of him as he goes under. the crowd oh’s all turning in disbelief, everyone looking to see the perpetrator.
sukuna suddenly breaks the surface. hot steam was leaving his ears as he swears loudly, water streaming down his face, finally snapping you out of your disillusion.
you blink.
“oh,” you say flatly, like he just walked into a room instead of being shoved into a pool.
sukuna glares at the edge of the pool, cap floating in the water and hair plastered to his forehead. he looks feral, like a wet tiger. furious and somehow still very aware of the fact that you’re standing a few feet away, wet shirt clinging, eyes finally focused on him.
the laughter around you grows, the party rolling on, but sukuna doesn’t hear any of it.
he only sees you.
and the fact that now everyone else does too.
“did you get thrown in?” he barks in your direction.
you shrug.
he mimics your shrug in irritation, “fuck is that supposed to mean? yeah or no?”
you roll your eyes, “no I wasn’t shoved,” you tsked, moving to the edge. sukuna watches you closely, eyes following every moment, along with all the men staring you down. you carefully climb out, water falling from you as utahime helps you.
“did you fall in?” she mutters in confusion, because one second you were dancing beside her, the next she heard a splash and you were gasping out.
you flush, head hitting her shoulder, “can we leave?”
she nods frantically, arm wrapping around yours as she leads you away. both of you ignoring the fuming man still in the pool.
shoko and the rest had came to the pool after the commotion, the boys gravitated to their overly pissed vice president, while shoko met you and utahime half-way.
“it’s over,” sukuna starts, easily hoisting himself out of the pool, abs clenching and beefy arms flexing as water cascades down his toned chest, “end the mixer, we got what we want.”
gojo frowns, “but the nights still young.”
“I did see a couple people start puking,” geto grits in annoyance.
“and more people have been coming since the videos of the apology were posted,” nanami adds, causing both geto and gojo’s eyes to bulge, both feeling sukuna’s eyes close in controlled anger.
“pull the plug,” he utters through clenched teeth. gojo groans in annoyance, dragging his feet towards the dj as geto glances back at his wet friend. the man was standing completely still, strong arms crossed, reeking of chlorine and alcohol and face pulled into a permanent scowl. he quietly observed shoko and utahime across the yard as they squeezed your drenched shirt, while you tried to brush them off. a weak attempt when he sees you give up in seconds and just close your eyes in exhaustion.
geto glances silently between sukuna and you, brows pinching in thought. everybody in the frat was beginning to get a hint at your relationship with sukuna. many of them had a list of go-to girls they’d call up for a quick fuck. however, geto and gojo were beginning to realize how you’re starting to become the exception for most of sukuna’s rules.
it was odd in a way, seeing sukuna staring daggers at you across the yard, deaf to the complaints that echo through the crowd.
gojo had taken the mic to conclude the hectic mixer, people moaned and groaned, dragging their feet as he cut the music. sukuna watches you closely, eyes narrowing when he sees a few guys stop by you, unable to make out a word, but he can see them eyeing your chest.
“I’m gonna cut the music in the house, do you wanna round the people upstairs and in the basement?” geto pats sukuna’s shoulder, but the man shrugs him off, ignoring what he said to head in the opposite direction of the house.
you’re completely worn out from the day, shoko was checking her phone to call an uber for you guys, while utahime did her best to airdry you.
“s’ whatever, we’ll just take the subway if the uber guy won’t let us in,” you mutter in defeat. however, utahime just whines lowly, brows furrowed.
“I wish I brought a jacket. we’re not getting on the subway when you’re basically see through,” utahime huffs, lips parting before catching something behind you, her face going dead still.
“what?” your brows furrow, following her line of vision over your shoulder.
sukuna stands directly behind you, brooding aura towering over the three of you, hair damp and water still dripping from his jeans as he eyes your chest. you frown, hands coming up to your collar, pulling the sticky shirt from your skin to shake it out. “you need something bud?”
his frown deepens, “parties over.”
shoko and utahime roll their eyes, “yeah we’re leaving,” utahime tsks. sukuna, however, pays the girls no mind, keeping his gaze locked on you and the annoyance itched in your face.
fuck, you’re so goddamn irritating! his mind screams, veins straining in his arms. it was almost impressive how you could get under his skin with just a look. he can practically read what your face was saying. you won’t believe a word he says.
his hand moves on its own, touching your wet cheek with his thumb—
“uber’s here,” shoko interrupts. you barely bat an eye as you brush past the fratboy, heading around the house with utahime beside you and shoko behind, both girls rolling their eyes at the man.
while the only good thing that happened today was the uber letting you ride soaked, sukuna had a longer night kicking people out of the frat. luckily nanami stayed for a bit to help, along with yuno, as members started dragging people passed out in the basement and the yard. geto kept dragging gojo by the ear because he kept flirting with girls.
nonetheless, today is really the gift that keeps on giving. a handful of pledges are cleaning up the kitchen as the older members start shoving people out. sukuna had just thrown some guy slamming the front door shut just when a familiar figure descends the stairs, dawned in one of his sweats and tshirt.
“fucking christ,” sukuna inhales sharply, walking away. “get the fuck out.” he doesn’t even care to point out his clothes on the sorority president.
“sukuna,” she cooes wickedly. “i forgive you.”sukuna’s vein twitches. “i know you’re angry at me, but i just wanted to say sorry. I can make it up to you, I didn’t wanna throw that drink on you but people were whispering about you and that girl, and I just couldn’t help it,” her small arms reach for the man’s bicep, just for the cord inside him to snap.
he shoves her arm off, her small frame stumbles back.
“don’t fucking touch me!” his dark orbs cut through her instantly, goosebumps breaking out across her skin. “if you touch me one more time, I’ll snap y’er fucking neck.”
the air between them goes quiet. a few stragglers glance as they make their way to the exit followed by a couple pledges shooing them with brooms.
yorozu swallows a lump, eyes shining with quick tears that further annoy the frat boy. she takes a cautious step forward, “but I said I’m sorry—“
sukuna clicks his tongue, loud and heartless. “when I told ya I never wanted anything to do with you, I wasn’t fucking joking. it’s not my fault you got y’er brain fried because i fucked you twice, and ya think I want anything to do with you after. but if you need me to say again, here it is. I. hate. your. fucking. guts,” he spits with shameless cruelty.
her lip trembles, “y-you don’t have to like me. we can just have sex.”
“sex?” he scoffs, “I’d rather fuck a brick wall then stick my dick anywhere near your loose ass cunt again. we only fucked when i was piss drunk,” the girl is already in tears. wet lips parting. “and I didn’t even like it then, and I like anything drunk.”
“you don’t mean that!” she sobs.
“I do,” sukuna tsks in disgust, walking past the sorority president, but the second her fingers make contact with his passing bicep, he snaps. “fuck off!” sukuna’s shout had her flinching, and the entire house stilling.
he side steps yorozu, looking straight at two members “someone get her out of this house.”
—
utahime and shoko both crashed at your place for the night. the two girls deciding on it themselves, unfortunately, you didn’t have the guts to reject them. so instead you silently stood under the hot water, mind desperately trying to forget the events of the night as you closed your eyes. the water slowly cascades down your body, washing off the all the chlorine and stench from the party.
you could barely keep your eyes open in the uber, but now your mind won’t stay quiet. instead it felt like you were being punished as thoughts of yorozu making a scene at the party, a drink getting thrown at sukuna, your meeting this morning—
a sudden knock interrupts your thoughts. “sorry, I really needa pee,” utahime pokes her head in.
“yeah ‘s fine,” you reply behind the curtain.
the night — as long, loud, and chaotic as it was — ended abruptly with your body hitting the bed like a dropped sandbag. you grumbled to shoko and utahime that you couldn’t keep your eyes open, even though the truth was the opposite: you were exhausted everywhere except your mind, which refused to shut up.
now the apartment is silent, save for the soft, uneven breathing of your friends. shoko is folded awkwardly on the air mattress in the living room. utahime is half-buried in a throw blanket on the couch, both dead to the world. meanwhile, you’re lying awake in your room still, eyes open, body heavy, and brain still sparking like a live wire.
you wanted the silence of sleep to take over, to quiet everything. but it wasn’t coming easy. the meeting earlier today replaying in your mind…your exams…that annoying drama filled kiss.
your throat tightens as you glance at the antidepressants on your nightstand. you don’t crave them. you resent them. you’ve been successfully wearing them off for the last few weeks. you’ve been sleeping much better since another relief has taken it’s place, one that fills your mind and body with a shot of dopamine. but as three am ticks by, the silence grows teeth, and you finally let a finger nudge the lid.
the trazodone bottle makes the smallest click when it opens, obscenely loud in the quiet. you swallow thickly, dry-mouthed, pulse still humming from long day, and the absence of a certain tattooed frat boy as a distraction you’re trying very hard not to think about.
you shake out a single pill and glare at it like it personally wronged you before chasing it down with a lukewarm sip of water. it doesn’t knock you out. it doesn’t save you. it simply smooths the jagged edge of awareness, dulling the quiet just enough for you to stop wanting to crawl out of your own skin.
not a cure, or a setback…just a pill for the night.
and even that feels like defeat.
unfortunately, sukuna didn’t have a pill to quiet the demons. instead his shower consisted of a growing fire inside him. annoyance and irritation scratching at his insides as he replayed the moments that have lead him into punching his shower wall until it cracked, and his knuckles bled.
“fuck!”
his back heaved with each breath, eyes bloodshot as he eyed his bruised hand. none of it able to snap his mind from spiraling.
his heavy footsteps rattled his room, mind pounding and thoughts like daggers. how could he be so worked up after he’s so close to the end of the semester? but after the stunt yorozu pulled, and now you’re throwing it back in his face, every path he takes feels like battle. and of all the things currently unraveling in his life, his fucking sex buddy wasn’t supposed to be an added problem. that was the whole point of the fucking agreement!
sukuna groans face buried in the mattress, pillow over his head.
a kiss? was it the action that set you off? or was it because it was yorozu? if it was the latter than he wouldn’t blame you. either way, you didn’t even know her like he did, how could you get so worked up over that. and from what he could tell, the sunken look on your face, the exhaustion you were desperate trying to hide — you should’ve just stayed and let him fuck you. that’s why he’s here.
nonetheless, it didn’t matter how many circles sukuna thought himself into. his mind kept him awake for a majority of the night, unaware of your own thoughts that snuck into your dreams.
starting from this point on, it was a waiting game.
sunday morning arrives too quickly. the pill never fully pulled you under, but it softened the night enough for you to function, like applying a blur filter to a scene you didn’t want to watch in high definition.
shoko and utahime kept a close eye on you when you all went out for coffee. your movements were slightly sluggish, your reactions a bit delayed, and your emotions dulled. neither of them questioned it at first, considering how utahime was slightly hungover from last night, and shoko was chugging her coffee like it would quiet her nicotine addiction.
now, the three of you are camped out at the library long before noon, claiming your usual corner table with your notebooks, ipads and laptops out. the half-finished coffees surrounding you. the atmosphere is studious, but restless.
the calm before a week that’s about to devour all of you.
your eyes stay glued to the page, but your mind keeps cutting elsewhere…the argument, the pool, the drink spilled, the confrontation with the sorority president, her voice like ice against your spine.
you groan internally, despising how often the memory resurfaces, but you hate even more how sukuna is distracting you. you drag your pen across your notebook, trying to rewrite what you’d just been thinking before.
shoko yawns, mumbling something about regretting the drinks she had towards the end of the night. your pen freeze on the page. utahime’s eyes widen, noticing your sunken expression.
“hey,” she nudges you with her foot under the table, her expression sharper than her tone. “do you wanna talk about…you know?” she tries to soften her voice for you. shoko finally realizing what she’d said, her cheeks flushing, why’d she bring up the party!?
you glance between your friends, smiling, “i was just thinking about the meeting I had.” you notice both your friends fall quiet. eyes filled with pity. you laugh quietly, tone laced with rejection, tapping your pen on the table, “kinda embarrassing how I thought I’d actually get an internship—“
shoko’s brows pinch tight, “don’t say that. this happens to everyone. I didn’t get a thousand internships either. that shouldn’t be a direct reflection of your abilities,” shoko huffs, her mind still pounding from her hangover. but utahime nods along, just as serious.
“yeah, remember I told you, it could still be beneficial in the long run. everything happens for a reason,” her hand squeezes your forearm.
the sudden confidence in you pouring from your friends was…suffocating.
you swallow thickly, nodding your head. “yeah,” you mutter, the slight dejection in your voice completely going over your friends heads as they smile. neither of them realizing the amount of rejection you’re nursing. how their belief in whatever you wanna do in the future is making you feel even more insecure. why are you even trying to pursue something so hard? you should just keep your attention focused on your exams, and medical school….
utahime tries to read your distant expression, nibbling on her cheek. shoko and utahime exchange glances wondering if this was a good time. it was the selfish part of them that wanted to know.
“have you heard anything…?” utahime cuts the study session again. you glance up with a raised brow. “from him?”
your heart skips a beat, palms clammy and the instinctual eye roll was hard to control as you scoff. “that’s the furthest thing from my mind right now.”
“that’s good, what he did gave me the biggest ick ever,” shoko adds, with utahime nodding erratically.
“yeah you don’t need that type of energy around you. you definitely deserve someone better,” utahime’s firm words seem to hit you the wrong way as you sigh.
your eyes cut up to your friends, half lidded with a hint of irritation, “he was never my boyfriend. I don’t wanna explain this again.”
“we know we know, we’re just saying he’s just so ugh—“ utahime going into further detail about last nights events wasn’t helping your pounding headache and growing nausea.
meanwhile, across campus, sukuna wakes up like he’s been resurrected by bad decisions. his head splits first, then the world slowly loads around it.
he’s completely overslept. the frat house is unnervingly quiet, sunlight slicing through his blinds like a punishment. then he registers his phone’s nonstop vibration — notifications, tags, blurry photos, videos, comments he’ll never read.
a disgruntled groan leaves the beast as he lazily swipes through the notification on his lock-screen, then drops the phone on his chest with another groan. hundreds of messages. a thousand shitty reminders of last night.
but not a single notification from you.
the absence hits harder than the hangover. not dramatic, or poetic. just… noticeable.
you flip a page. sukuna rubs his temples. both of you brace yourselves without saying it out loud: exams start tomorrow, summer is close enough to smell, and the next week is going to feel a lot longer without the other to drown in.
a week of hell.
sunday was spent a majority in the library. utahime left towards the late afternoon after finishing her essays. she only has two finals this week — unlike you and shoko — I guess that’s the perks of being a fashion major, and business minor.
you, on the other hand, felt like every passing second studying was like you were crawling your way out of hell. your body was sinking and your mind was wandering. the food truck food between you and shoko was only keeping you alive, not satisfying your hunger.
either way, the next day is when things slowly began to fall apart. specifically after your first exam.
the monday sun hits the courtyard like a spotlight. everyone looks exhausted, a little dehydrated, and stressed as hell. you, shoko, and utahime are halfway through lunch when utahime freezes mid-scroll, eyebrows shooting up.
“what?” shoko sips her iced coffee.
uathime is almost pale, turning the phone to shoko. you glance up, noticing both their frozen reactions.
“woah, i wanna see,” you say, crawling before they can react. and of course—
the biggest sorority on campus — kappa phi pearl — posted multiple different party recap photos/videos of saturday’s mixer at delta alpha stride. except the recap is basically exposing everything in pink glitter.
“what the…” you lean over, eyes narrowing at the first slide of their third post.
front and center: a photo of their president, yorozu, drunk-grinning, breasts pushing out of her top, hands gripping sukuna’s collar, and mouth pressed to his in the kiss he clearly did not initiate that night.
a wave of nauseous crawls up your throat. his crimson eyes are half-lidded in the photo, one brow raised, hand already mid-motion pushing her off-frame, irritated. but seeing him kiss her again, had an unwelcome feeling twisting in your gut for the second time.
“why would they even post that?” utahime scoffs in shock.
your finger just swipes to the next slide: the fight.
sukuna is on the patio, wild hair damp under his backwards baseball cap, shirt drenched from yorozu’s spilled drink, veins sharp with anger, jaw tight like it was carved specifically to ruin lives. and his finger was pointing at someone off-screen.
“when was this?” shoko questions.
you lick your bottom lip, breath-controlled. “I think after she threw her drink at him and I walked back to you guys.”
the comments however were eating that slide up:
‘not him fighting the air again 😭’
‘anger issues from our captain!! moreee🫦🫦’
‘red flag but… like… smashhh😍’
‘what’s his @…for b-blocking purposes ofc🙈’
‘when was this?? i always miss the drama!’
shoko cringes at the comments, while you swipe to the next slide…and of course it’s a video of the pool, and you just happen to be falling into it at the same moment.
“you’re not even part of the sorority??” utahime exclaims in disgust. “why would they choose this video??”
“I guess because those sorority girls are dancing on the side,” shoko tsks. your brows furrow as you watch yourself. your soaked shirt clinging to your chest for all their followers to see. however the camera pans back to the sorority girls on the side, and they start….laughing.
“what the fuck?!” shoko and utahime’s shout, jaws slack in shock, including yours.
“wait guys…” you turn to them in disbelief. “are we in high school again?”
“that’s literally insane,” shoko’s dumbfounded. “why’re you catching strays?”
“no for real, what the hell??”
this can’t be real? you’ve never been apart of any drama in college because it was so easy not to be apart of it, unlike high school. but after one night, it seems like your luck has run out.
“I’m gonna report them,” utahime starts, shoko hums as your head drops back.
“they don’t even know my name, why would they even include that in their recap?” your voice is laced with annoyance.
utahime tsks, “forget about them, I’ll handle it, especially because I can say some shit about your shirt literally showing everyt—“ utahime stops herself. “and we’re definitely skipping suguru’s shitty pool party this week too.”
“and we still have so many exams,” shoko whines, immediately letting reality set as you lean back into the sun.
“this sucks,” you mutter, fingers picking at the grass. your eyes drift towards the library you’ll inevitably end up in later. there was nothing distracting you from the overwhelming doom of finals week…and now this drama, and you don’t have a buffer. no sukuna.
‘wait who is the pool girl???’
‘the chlorine knew what it was doing😩’
‘she fell in and still looked hotter than everyone’
‘surprised no one jumped in after her🥵’
sukuna’s blood boils with every comment he scrolls through.
the boys had sent pearl’s recap posts to the groupchat, and after gojo came crashing into the vp after his final. sukuna was forcefully shoved their instagram page in his face, to see the multiple recap posts. gojo is swearing up and down about the first recap post they uploaded, where it was multiple different videos of his humiliating apology, minus sukuna’s part, he was livid. all the while sukuna is immediately recognizing himself on the cover of the next recap post.
“what the fuck?”
sukuna stops in the middle of the sidewalk. grip tightening around gojo’s phone.
“yeah man, there’s a thousand fucking angles of this goddamn apology and—“
sukuna quickly pulls out his own phone, finally checking the notifications he’s been avoiding since yesterday.
“not that—why the fuck would they post this shit?” sukuna grits, jaw tense as he sees the photo of yorozu kissing him. the comments are a mess, different people wondering if their favorite tiktok influencer/ sorority president is dating this guy. people tagged him a million times in their now deleted stories. a couple other fraternities and sororities that were there that night, posting their own recap posts with the apology, the fight he had on the patio, or him falling in the pool.
the worst one was their were just as many random comments about you. even though many girls had jumped in the pool, it was seeing your nipples through your shirt that sent many into orbit. or that bored expression you had that had so many commenting about how nonchalant you looked completely drenched.
“I’m gonna fucking kill them,” sukuna swears, quickly swiping through all the photos. there were more of him randomly, and gojo. it was normal for a recap post, but their captions were beyond misleading.
“tell me about it,” gojo swears, arm crossed as he glares at his phone. his speech playing from the speaker. “why wouldn’t they add your part.”
sukuna scrolls through the group chat briefly.
“a lot of the sororities unblocked us though. but I can’t stand this humiliation,” gojo grits, ruffling his white hair as he glances around, then stops… “did you get any texts from,” gojo mutters your name cautiously.
sukuna freezes.
“haven’t checked. been studying since yesterday,” he mutters sharply, cutting any further discussion. gojo hums, rocking on his heels catching the vp’s attention. his brow cocks in irritation at his friend. “what?”
silence followed the one word question, but sukuna’s eyes narrowed as he noticed gojo glancing over his shoulder. nodding subtly in the direction.
it had been less than forty-eight hours since the night. however, the ugly pit that sank deep in his gut was immediately triggered by your presence on the courtyard.
you were laying on the grass beside shoko and utahime. eyes closed under the spring sun. your lips parting still talking to your friends.
the unexpected twist in sukuna’s chest left a bad taste in the back of his throat. the memories resurfacing in seconds as his jaw locks. you hadn’t texted him, or called, but he also hadn’t reached out either. why would he? you were accusing him of everything!
“i was gonna say hi,” gojo treads carefully, eyeing his friend for any reaction.
sukuna shrugs his backpack higher on his shoulder. his gaze sweeps over you again. the wind gently brushes your hair as you sit up on your arm. you’re pointing at utahime as you say something.
“I’m gonna gooo nooow….” gojo drags each syllable, taking slow steps onto the grass of the courtyard. his hands in his pockets as he looks back at his grumpy friend.
sukuna shoots him an unamused expression, lip curled in a scowl at the white haired man’s antics. “then go.”
gojo frowns, “you don’t wanna say hi to your girlfriend?”
the word immediately triggers the tatted man, the vein in his temple snaps. he shoots a sharp glare at gojo as he turns on his heel. “fucking dick.”
gojo laughs, running after his friend. “I’m kidding I’m kidding! you’re so sensitive!” he throws his arm over sukuna’s shoulder, just to be shoved off by said man.
unbeknownst to either of them, your eyes had drifted from utahime to the commotion a couple feet behind her. your expression dulled at the sight of the six foot so athlete. he looked offensively good for someone just walking out of a final. his jeans sit low on his hips, a clean black t-shirt stretched slightly over a frame built from a strict schedule and diet, and a backwards baseball cap that only makes him look more like a hot fratboy. the familiar plain backpack hangs off one shoulder, and his headphones are looped around his neck.
of course, you recognize the familiar white haired man walking beside him, oversized hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses on, grinning like he’s just said the most diabolical thing ever. he nudges sukuna’s shoulder while talking, but sukuna barely reacts, hands stuffed in his pockets, posture loose, steps slow and sure, like the courtyard parts a little just for him without him noticing.
you wonder if other people see him the way you do? wait—
“you wanna head to library now?” shoko cuts your thoughts, ripping your attention away from the retreating men.
“yeah let’s go,” you stand, ignoring the slight flush that dusts your cheeks when you notice shoko and utahime glancing back. both catching sight of the men you were looking at.
“oh,” utahime slips, eyes trying to meet yours, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.
as stressful and chaotic the week has been, sukuna still attempts to let off some steam with a run after his exam.
spring is melting into summer, humid and merciless, and it shows on him: sweat-drenched shirt clinging to a torso carved by D1 soccer conditioning, athletic shorts riding high on his muscular thighs showing off the bands of ink that wrap around each thigh, calves glistening from the pump, and headphones peeling off his ears as he crosses the yard. his backwards cap never moves, casual, and infuriatingly attractive, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat running down his face— even cardio couldn’t shake the arrogance out of his silhouette.
he’s breathing hard, body and temper still calibrating back to baseline when he returns to the house like a quiet storm cloud. the door slams harder than intended, rattling the crooked banner the new pledge-turned-members half-hung for friday’s pool party.
the frat is anything but quiet as sukuna crosses the house stepping onto the patio to see a majority of the members hanging out in the hot weather studying, or fooling around.
“oh! captain how was your run?” a younger member, also apart of the soccer team comes up to the sukuna as he grabs an energy drink from the cooler.
“fine,” sukuna dryly replies, still lost in his mind when he notices one of the new members. the first-year is sitting on the outdoor couch, legs kicked up, sorting through the week’s mail like it’s arts and crafts. folders, packages, envelopes, junk flyers from ads… and one sleek black folder stamped with a foreign crest that makes sukuna freeze mid-sip.
the first-year doesn’t notice the silence curdling behind him. his fingers flip the folder open, careless and nosy, like a guy who’s forgotten he was a pledge just a week ago. sukuna knows that folder. the same way a wolf knows its territory. his name is printed on the front, bold, clean, important. the first-year squints at it like he’s trying to solve some puzzle sukuna never gave him.
“hey…you guys get folders like this often?” the kid says, voice a little too loud for someone who’s inches away from committing a crime.
sukuna moves before anyone can blink.
one second he’s across the patio, the next his shadow is towering over the first-year, swallowing the afternoon sun whole.
he suddenly rips the folder from the kid’s hands. it was primal. the paper crackles in his grip. a few of the frat brothers look up from their beer-less studying circles, from the pool cleaning equipment, from their phones, and immediately feel the air shift.
“the hell do you think you’re doing?” sukuna speaks, low and molten. no tremor or shout, but simmering control.
the first-year feels his stomach drop to his ass, heart racing as sweat builds on his forehead. “i didn’t—i was just— it thought it was an a-ad—“ he sputters excuses, but sukuna doesn’t hear a single syllable. the air around him sharpens as the members exchange glances. because sukuna snapping is normal. but sukuna grabbing a folder like it contains someone’s soul? that’s new.
they feel the warning signs lighting up one by one.
“don’t fucking open the mail,” sukuna spits, just as gojo is stepping out onto the patio, decked in his usual sunglasses,completely shirtless, and swim shorts hanging low on his hips, unashamed of the fresh hickey decorating his sharp v-line, or the scratches down his back, or the girl disappearing out the front door.
“what’s going on—“ gojo reaches for a juice box, then stops. his eyes catch the folder in sukuna’s hand, the air grows thicker. “oh shit.”
sukuna frowns, cutting the punishment he was about to inflict on the first-year short. he crosses the patio, passing gojo with a silent threat not to speak as he enters the house. but gojo isn’t one to listen to threats, as he follows the vp.
“yo, when’d they email you?”
sukuna ignores him, heading towards the stairs to his room.
“dude?! i thought you weren’t—“ gojo huffs when sukuna continues up the stairs, completely ignoring him. geto is stepping out of the bathroom freshly showered, towel held by one hand when he hears gojo shouting. “well i’m happy for you, asshole!”
geto raises a brow as sukuna passes him— immediately noticing the folder.
“oh shit.”
sukuna grits, jaw tensing.
“when is it—“ geto starts, just for sukuna’s door to slam in his face. geto looks down the stairs, making eye contact with gojo as the two exchange irritated looks due to their hot headed friend. “fuck is his problem?”
gojo throws his hands up in an exasperated shrug. “don’t know. he was the one giving me shit over winter break for getting in one.”
geto hums, brows furrowed, “he’s been a dick all week.”
“stop talkin’ shit outside my door!” sukuna snaps from his room.
back inside, sukuna drops the folder on his bed, his breathing is still, eyes sharp as if he can read the contents through the black concealment. his beefy arms cross in thought, his mind spiraling as he stares holes into the folder.
this is both the best outcome, and the worst possible timing ever.
sukuna snatches the folder ripping it open.
the days felt like centuries. every final felt like a part of your lifespan being sucked away. each moment spent studying something you know you’ll definitely forget, felt like absolute torture and humiliation. reading the same question on the exam, and remember studying that exact topic, but forgetting how to solve it, was just god laughing at you.
but the cherry on top was returning home wednesday night with most of your finals under your belt, only two left, but you were so lost in your mind that you couldn’t recognize the man standing beside a parked car, hand in his pocket talking on the phone.
your headphones blasted music that’ll definitely be the cause of your hearing loss in a few years. you unlock your apartment, shoulder dropping, letting your bag hit the ground, already feeling the exhaustion of the day building up behind your eyes, ready to cry in the shower—
“you’re here!” a loud squeal sends you flying ten feet in the air, just as a little four year-old comes crashing into you.
“what the—“ you stumble back, holding the little girl, keeping your balance as you glance up, wide-eyed. “when did you get here??”
standing just a few feet away was jennie, your older sister, aka. the person you trust the most in life, and your biggest op.
“we’re in the city for sami’s meetings, our flight leaves friday, did you not see him downstairs by the car?” jennie asks, crossing the tiny living room to reach you, her arms wrapping over your shoulders for a tight hug. “i tried calling you, but i guess you were still in class.”
“finals actually,” you mutter, arms loose around her frame, forehead dropping on her shoulder. “I’m so tired.”
your sister coos, squeezing you tighter before pulling away. “well i bought you some pastries.”
“i want some!” your niece, yazzy, huffs by your leg.
“you had some,” jennie picks her up as she steps further into the apartment. you quietly glance at the suitcase by the couch, along with nice dress your sister was wearing, a couple of yazzy’s toys were also lying around. “did you have dinner yet?”
you shake your head, following her to the kitchen.
“mommy got you spaghetti and chicken!” yazzy claps, as your sister laughs lightly, you smile.
“we got dinner for yazzy, i asked them to box some pasta for you too,” your sister pulls the box of food from the microwave to keep it warm. “i put the pastries over the fridge, to keep ‘em away from this one,” she pumps yazzy up on her hip for emphasis.
you sit at the small kitchen table, grabbing the box of pasta. “thanks, you didn’t have to get me so much food,” you cautiously glance at her as she sets yazzy back down. “are you guys gonna stay the night?” a small part of you twists at the thought, but you shove it down. “I have the air mattress too, so i can take the couch and you and sami can sleep in the room with yazzy since i need the lights on to study.
you sister picks at the table, still standing across from you avoiding your eyes, “favor?”
your frown.
she smiles, full of semi-guilt, “sami has another fundraiser, it started an hour ago…and i was wondering if you could watch yazzy for the night so i can go with him.”
“jen.”
“I’m sorry, i tried calling you all day, but you weren’t answering!”
“i had finals—“
“all day?”
“I was studying, I wasn’t checking my phone,” you huff, glaring at your sister. your throat constricts as yazzy makes noises a few feet away with her toys. the tv playing some cartoon. “you couldn’t get a nanny for the night?”
jennie glares back at you, the type that makes you roll your eyes, “you know I don’t like that.”
“but you can get a personal driver in a city you don’t even live in,” you bite back coldly.
her tongue clicks, “that’s completely different.”
“whatever,” you grumble, neither of you breaking eye contact, until she glances over your face again.
“you look dead.”
you frown, “it’s almost like it’s not finals week, exactly why I can’t watch yazzy.”
“I’m asking for one thing idiot. it’s her bed time anyways, let her sleep the night and I’ll pick her in the morning before your class—“
“final.”
“yeah, whatever,” jennie always has a way of getting under your skin in seconds, and the easiest possible way is making you feel like shit for saying no, especially to her. “dad was also telling me to check on you.”
your frown deepens, finally glancing away.
“asked me if I knew you weren’t taking your mcats this summer,” she drawls, you briefly glance for her reaction. “I told him I knew.”
“what the hell??”
she sighs, sitting in front of you, her arms cross, “I wasn’t going to lie if he directly asks. I just wanted to check on my baby sister—“
“don’t say that,” you cringe.
she laughs, “well I wanted to make sure you’re okay—“
“and dump your kid on me—“
“your niece, who you haven’t seen in awhile,” she cuts in coolly, because when is she not?
you gasp, “I literally saw you guys in the summer. sorry you didn’t feel like visiting over winter break.”
your sister waves you off, “well are you doing okay?”
“yeah, I’m fine,” you lie through your teeth, and your sister immediately narrows her eyes.
“I thought you were getting off the antidepressants?”
your jaw tenses, eyes narrowing harshly, “why’re you going through my stuff?”
“technically this is still my apartment—“
“your husbands,” you correct.
she brushes your comment, again, “the bottles are like empty.”
“dramatic much? there’s still a few left. I’m just taking them this week, literally not your problem,” you huff, regretting the fact that she knows about this part of you. she has a cruel way of throwing any secret you tell her, back in your face.
“well when you act like a snappy bitch then I’m not dramatic since you have such an attitude,” she coldly claps back.
your blood freezes, annoyance boiling up inside, “you’re so annoying,” you mutter, standing up, completely over this interrogation.
jennie’s eyes narrow as you grab your bag from the front door. “why do you always get so defensive? I’m just talking to you, and you always get so butt-hurt?”
“I’m not butt-hurt, I just hate the way you talk to me like I’m an idiot,” you roll your eyes, already feeling the face your sister makes when she’s irritated and ready to rip you apart. it was a face that you felt deep in your soul, you knew and hated it so much.
“more like sensitive,” she points. your eyes roll into the back of your skull. “ignoring me?”
“whatever, go. I’ll watch yazzy,” you snap, “you’re so annnoying,” you mutter, not low enough for jennie to miss it though. you toss your bag into your room, making the four year old glance back at you and her mom from the couch.
“maybe take another pill too cool the flip down then,” jennie says as she crosses the small apartment to yazzy, kissing her forehead. “be good to auntie.”
your arms are crossed, weight leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom, beaded curtain resting on your back as you watch your sister grab her purse, fixing her heels on. she glances up at you, matching your harsh expression with her own. “call dad. him nagging me is annoying as hell.”
“almost like that’s not my life every freakin’ week,” you snap coldly.
“alMosT liKe tHat’s nOt mY liFe evERy weeK,” she mimics. your blood pressure spikes in seconds, successfully rage baiting you like the perfect older sister. “night.” she disappears with an eye roll, door shutting behind her.
your head drops, mind pounding as you hear your four-year old niece singing in the living room.
your sister brought up dad in the worst possible time, because now you’re spiraling as you pull up your phone, tapping your dad’s contact to read the multiple messages he’s sent you since the last time you spoke to him at the library. not only was he sending you forms to fill out for the hospital, he was sending you other doctors contacts, and their kids contacts who are in med school now. fuck!
“can we watch a movie together?” yazzy cuts in from the living room. you glance over, the girl is smiling so brightly it was blinding, and quite exhausting, it was nearing nine at night and she was not looking close to being tired.
“yup, lemme shower real quick and we can watch.”
one movie led to another, then another, until the soundtrack of kpop demon hunters was playing on repeat in your head, especially because your niece keeps rewinding every song.
the overwhelming pit in your stomach grew larger. it was amusing to think you could study while also sitting with her. the music and her four year old voice singing along felt like pure torture. the headache grew into a twisting sensation in your temples, head dropping back on the couch.
you love her to death…but seriously…
“again, again!” she jumps in front of the tv as she rewinds the song to golden.
the looming shadow of tomorrow’s exam made you feel worse. your stomach began hurting with the anxiety of failure…
as the night grew, you had to forcefully shut the tv after the clock struck eleven. the four year old would not stay still unless you laid beside her until she fell asleep. but the second you left her on your bed to go back to the living room to study, she’d suddenly appear beside you again.
“yazzy,” you sigh, exhaustion seeping through your bones as you stand up carrying her back to bed.
“don’t leave,” she mutters under her breath, small hands clutching your shirt. “I can’t sleep alone.” you sigh in defeat, humming. praying this time she’ll actually fall asleep so you can slip away again.
however, your prayers, once again, are not answered.
instead, you feel the moment you close your eyes, they were opening again, but the sun was up.
you wake up disoriented, the kind of heavy confusion that comes from sleep you never meant to have. the bed is warmer than it should be, sunlight harsher than it has any right to be, and your niece is already awake, blasting the same movie from last night.
your heart jolts awake before the rest of you does. you blink once, twice, and then it hits you like a thousand pound brick: you passed out, halfway off your meds, and completely off your shitty schedule.
you launch yourself out of bed, as the world tilts. your eyes quickly look around stumbling out of your room, landing on the floor after tripping on one of yazzy’s toys, scrambling over to grab your phone off the coffee table.
yazzy follows you with her eyes, music blasting from the tv behind her like a soundtrack to your mental breakdown.
the screen lights up. 9:34 AM.
“fuck!”
your exam is at 10. campus is 20 minutes away on a good day. and you still need to walk to the station—maybe the bus is faster—
“that’s a bad word,” yazzy giggles, your brows crease, determined, albeit frazzled as shit. you stand up, senses sharper than they should be as you glance around the apartment like a crazy woman.
“mommy is not here yet?”
she shakes her head, sitting back on the couch, legs swinging as she looks at you standing in front of her.
you swallow thickly, not a single notification from your sister.
“I’ll pick her up in the morning,” you mutter under your breath.
you’re dialing before your lungs fully refill. it rings. rings again. you pace back n forth, glancing around your apartment. “come on, come on,” you mutter. your feet quickly grabbing your bag and shoving your laptop and random notes in, stuffing your keys and id in. you were failing to parent and student at the same time.
yazzy walks over, tugging your shorts. “I’m hungry,” she looks at the kitchen, your eyes folllowing.
fuck it, you quickly grab the box of pastries over the fridge ripping it open and handing her two pastries. “you wanna quickly change?”
you run as fast as you can grabbing some clothes from the suitcase your sister left for her and handing her the clothes to change while you grab socks for yourself, a zip up hoodie and a baseball cap.
“are we going?” yazzy’s confused as she pulls the clean shirt on, her pajamas on the floor.
“yup, mommy’s gonna meet us in front of my school,” you start walking out the door, niece in hand, and bag over your shoulder.
then finally, jennie picks up. music, chatter—of course, she’s at some other event.
“you said morning!” you hiss, whisper-yelling like the walls are judging you, racing down the stairs, “it’s morning so where the hell are you?!” you spit.
“I texted you to tell me when your class was, you didn’t answer,” she says coolly like your entire morning isn’t hell right now.
you can’t breathe, your heart was pumping in your ears, and your blood was on fire.
“I fell asleep,” you spit like it was her fault, which you’re unfairly putting on her, but you could care less. “my exam is at 10, I’m leaving the apartment now—“
“where’s yazzy—“
“she’s with me, I’m not a freaking idiot. so you better be in front of the arts and science building ten minutes before I get there,” you snap.
“okay,” she aggressively snaps back, hanging up on you.
your blood spikes, groan curdling up your throat as you squeeze your nieces hand, holding back a scream.
on the street, the spring heat slaps you again. sweaty toddler beside you, your bed hair hiding under a baseball cap, backpack half-zipped, phone trapped in your hand. you speed-walk like you’re being chased, heart racing, eyes darting. you can’t even tell if people are staring at the college girl dragging a toddler into the bus. but you know you look insane. you feel insane.
yazzy swings your linked hands happily, oblivious, giggling when you jog a little once you arrive at your stop. quickly exiting the bus, you cross the street faster. meanwhile, you’re spiraling — panic, rage, and anxiety.
you can’t think, you check the time on your phone every second a minute passes. yazzy is still blabbing about the movie, humming golden under her breath as you slowly start panicking once it reaches 9:57 and you don’t see jennie anywhere near your building.
you tighten your grip on yazzy’s tiny hand sprinting to the building, whispering a prayer that your sister arrives in the next minute or you might just kill her.
but it’s not until the clock strikes ten, does a slick black car pull up to the curb, your chest is heaving from running and the hot morning sun. while your sister steps out of the backseat, composed as can be.
“mommy!” yazzy smiles, running to her mom the second you take a step towards her.
“hi baby,” jennie easily scoops up the little girl, eyes flicking up to you with guilt as you step back. “thanks, and you didn’t tell me what time last night so you can’t blame me—“
“whatever,” you snap, turning quickly to run into the building, not having a single second to spare as you run up the flight of stairs to your lecture hall.
you’re praying that your professor hasn’t closed the doors yet, and maybe you shouldn’t have, because the moment you step into the lecture, a sheer layer of sweat clinging to your skin, and chest heaving in your pajamas. you’re realizing you’re not ready for this exam at all.
nonetheless, you quickly mutter an apology to your professor, quickly grabbing the first available seat as the exams are being passed throughout the lecture hall.
the quiet shuffles and scribbles of pen on paper fill the lecture hall as the exam commences.
with the morning you’ve had, you have to read each question thrice before you’re able to even attempt at answering the question.
unbeknownst to you, a familiar frat boy is sat three rows back. his pink hair just as unruly as his appearance. however, the second he sees you storming into the lecture hall, along with two other people that were late, he feels completely uneasy.
maybe it’s because there was an empty seat beside him. or that shoko hadn’t greeted him when she took her seat a few rows back, hiding from any TA’s. but seeing you again since the courtyard, left that unfamiliar twist in his gut again. the one that clenched up in concern seeing your flustered state as you came running in.
his mind was internally screaming. forcing every braincell to focus on the exam in front of him. ignoring everything else.
the thudding in your chest doesn’t seize until the last ten minutes are left, and you’re going back to the questions you left blank, quickly scribbling down a guess before standing up and handing your exam to a TA.
the weight of the morning hasn’t fully set in once you step out into the spring heat.
did shoko finish already? in your alert state, you’d completely ignored everything around you, so it’s possible shoko had finished and left or is still in there. either way, your head tilts back, allowing the morning sun to grace your face. the buzzing in your bag suddenly starts again pulling you a frown from your lips.
then you feel a shadow.
your heart skips a beat. your lashes flutter softly, glancing up at the source. and you hate yourself. truly. your stomach twists and churns in confusion, and your throat feels tight and dry at the sight of him.
“what happened to ya?”
there was a softness to his casual tone. his own appearance wasn’t impressive, looking like he’d rolled out of bed too. however, his eyes didn’t look like a damn that was about to burst just from a single touch, like yours. but it did look like he’d melt between your fingers the moment you meet his eyes. he swallows thickly, holding his breath when you glance away, shrugging…then your hand slowly comes up to your face, thankful for your baseball cap now.
“I’m just…” you swallow. “that was hard.”
sukuna hums, fingers cautiously reaching for your wrist. index finger caressing the bracelet around your wrist.
“i guessed on like…all of it,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes to hold back your exhausted tears.
sukuna could feel his heart thudding against his chest. the events and unwelcome fight you’d had last weekend quietly haunts his mind like a silent cloud, unsure if it’ll turn into rain, or get winded away. the bags under his eyes were similar to yours, clearly pulling an all nighter to study for the exam. but the tugging in his chest, wouldn’t stop, even when you brushed a finger in the creases of your eyes.
“how bad do i look?”
he blinks, eyes locked before he looks over, giving you a shrug. “not too bad.” his hand gently tips your cap back to get a look at your face. “you do have some dried drool here,” he lightly taps your cheek, an amused snort leaving his lips.
“seriously?” your hand comes up quickly, face hot as you lick your thumb and rubbing it off. “so embarrassing,” you mutter.
even after the exam, the heaviness that weighs down on your shoulders doesn’t disappear. and sukuna towering in front of you only stirred an unknown feeling inside you that you’re not ready to address. especially when he’s still playing with your bracelet, then your necklace, thumb brushing your collarbone, as he takes a deep breath.
“where’re ya heading now?” he asks, tone gruff, but slightly soft around the edges.
“to shower, then come back and study,” you glance over your shoulder. “don’t know if shoko finished yet—“
“y’still have another exam later?”
you shake your head, “tomorrow morning is my last one.” sukuna quietly nods, gaze still on your chest. “do you have any exams left?”
he nods, “last one is tomorrow too.”
the air quietly shifts, neither of you wanting to address the elephant in the room. his aura is silent, like a resting beast, unsure if you should wake him up or not. your heart picks up at the silence as another beat passes between you, when you hear chatter from a group beside you. your brows scrunch, overhearing a couple sentences.
“is that the captain?”
“I thought he was dating yoro?”
sukuna gaze darkens, the two of you glance at the group of sorority girls, with their similar bright colored outfits. his sharp brows scrunch, the tattoos on his face seem much more intimidating. especially when you feel that ugly twist in your stomach again, along with the prickles of disgust.
your casual step back automatically draws sukuna’s attention back to you. his hand slips from your wrist as you suck in a sharp breath.
sukuna frowns, frustration quickly boiling up like his cup has been steadily rising since the mixer. his temper has never been his best quality. “don’t just—“ he starts, cutting himself short when you start walking away.
sukuna easily follows you, hand brushing your back, before standing in front of you. “just tell me if the deals over.” he stares into you, cornering you. “your fuckin’ choice.”
the sun beats down, heat stinging as sweat trickles down his forehead.
“why am i being put on the spot?” you mutter, embarrassment crawling up your spine as you glance away.
“y’er the one that caught an attitude, ignoring me tellin’ me not to touch you,” he claps back, immediately pushing your buttons as your eyes shoot up to him.
“me?!”
sukuna rolls his crimson eyes, snarl pulling at his lips, “just tell me if ya still want this deal.”
“it sounds like you don’t want it anymore since you think I’m treating you like my boyfriend, which I never ever wanted” you throw his words from the mixer back in his face.
“that’s not what I meant when I said it,” he spits, neither of you addressing your pounding headaches, or the twists in your chests every time the other responds with the same cruelty and lack of empathy.
you shrug sarcastically, “well it’s hard understanding anything since you’re the one that caught the attitude, and just started yelling at people.”
sukuna can hear his brain pounding against his ears. the blood pumping through his strained veins, grip tightening around the strap of his backpack. his eyes narrow, glancing over the flush across your face caused by the heat, the slight rising of your chest, and the gloss that shines across your lips.
“you didn’t answer the fuckin’ question,” he seethes between clenched teeth.
you frown. heart pounding.
do you still want this agreement?
after everything, and the rise in blood pressure he’s been the source of, the added stress from his drama. all of it was just a big. fat. headache.
…but is it bigger than the one you’ve already been nursing. with classes, assignments, medical school, jennie, dad…
was sukuna making it worse…or is he something else?
you swallow thickly, glancing over his features. for a big man, he was radiating exhaustion, like he’d fall over with a small push. the intimidating scowl on his face couldn’t fully mask the uncertainty behind his eyes. something you couldn’t fully read either way, but pray he’s more sure when your lips part, “do you still want it?”
sukuna is a cold man. his walls built up like steel, and reach the sky. you barely see a shift in his expression, if there is any, when you throw his question back.
“seriously?” he grits, low…unsure.
his gaze doesn’t leave you. his eyes quietly track down your figure as his mind rewires. it was difficult to form concrete thoughts about you. his emotions have always been scattered, it was the same reason he avoids relationships. the unpredictability and responsibility it adds, was not something he needed in his life right now.
however, you rarely, if ever, bring that level of stress to him.
you were nosy, but nothing compared to the craziness he’s had the displeasure of being with. you were also gentle when you’re alone, even more gentle when you’re tired. your hands are soft when they touch him, your body is even softer when he’d caress you when he’s deep inside. your stamina is surprisingly impressive, and you can handle him — at least in bed.
the agreement was working.
you were his perfect drug. no responsibility, no guilt. and yet, he’s ignoring the truth in this feeling. the one that physically forms into a twist in his chest.
his tone is stern, “I asked first.”
the perfect outlet was starting to slip through your fingers, but you couldn’t admit it first. not because you didn’t want him at the drop of a hat, but because you couldn’t form a solid opinion on the man. it was a rollercoaster of emotions, and you’re not even sure how to have a conversation about a non-relationship deal—
your thoughts cut, flinching at the loud horn.
sukuna steps back in surprise, arm immediately in front of you, pushing you back with him, away from the crub. a car suddenly pulls up beside you.
“what the fuck—“
the swears are ready to spill from his mouth, cursing off the crazy ass driver and the honking — until you push his arm aside.
“sorry,” you huff, an unfamiliar tone reaching your voice as you quickly walk towards the car, anger stirring behind your eyes. “I have to go.”
sukuna is completely frozen, silently watching you disappear into the SUV, barely catching sight of another woman in the car with you before its speeding away.
“what the fuck?”
sukuna was left completely in the dust, and the worst possible solution to his unaddressed, bubbling anger, is allowing his teammates to drag him out to the bar that same night.
a majority of them have finished their finals, and wanted to finally celebrate the end of the season. they’d invited coach toji, but he declined, something about his son. either way, the division one soccer team packed into the crowded university bar and started a line of shots. a game was playing over the bar, as men and students shout as they drink.
sukuna knocked back the first shot without ceremony, but without resistance either. the liquor scorched a straight line down his throat, a familiar heat he could manage. his teammates hollered around him, already halfway to tipsy after the second round, but sukuna remained unnervingly steady like a rock in a river.
he enjoyed the team like this, uncomplicated, unfiltered, alive. he knew his role without having to explain it.
more of the team poured into the bar, shouting his name from across the bar. sukuna barely juts his chin in acknowledgment, the cold exterior familiar to the soccer players. they knew the type of person their captain was. they’d witnessed him roaring on rainy fields, bleeding for wins, screaming tactics until his voice cracked. they knew the passion burned in their captain. it was the reason he was their captain and not their ace (debatable) gojo, who flaunts his talents almost every match.
speaking of the devil. gojo slides into the booth after his fourth shot, already flushed, already buzzing, and immediately launches into pool-party planning.
“do we seriously have to talk about this now?” The goalie, and also a senior member of the frat, groans.
“yes! it’s tomorrow, and it has to be banger so people will forget that shit I said last weekend!” gojo screeches, pulling at his beautiful snowy locks, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “people,” he hiccups, cheeks flushed, “people have been coming up to me, telling me about my small dick—I don’t have a small dick!”
laughs echo across the table.
“it’s not funny!” gojo snaps.
“like that’s stopped any girls from sleeping with you this week,” geto snorts.
“that’s not the point, it’s about my reputation,” gojo seethes. he then proceeds to dive in full, halfway through the night, assigning tasks to anyone who breathed in his direction. “kegs, ice—someone handle buying the drinks,” he said, waving a hand dramatically, then pointing at sukuna without hesitation. “captain, you’re on beer duty,” gojo assigns with a hiccup.
sukuna exhales through his nose. trying to keep himself neutral, but internally, something twitched. he didn’t mind picking up the liquor. he minded being volunteered without warning. worse, the other members on the team and frat perked up, sensing opportunity, already piling on other drinks onto him like they were offerings to a volcano they didn’t realize was active. this was supposed to be a relaxing night.
geto watched the exchange, swirling the condensation on his glass. he didn’t comment, but he didn’t need to. the tension was already sitting between them like a fourth player at the table—quiet, coiled, inevitable.
sukuna’s gaze drifted upward toward the bar TVs again. A striker missed a penalty on screen, the crowd groaning in collective agony. sukuna felt the moment like a physical blow, fingers tightening around his glass. soccer was the only place his emotions were allowed to be big. everything else had to fit into a smaller container. and you weren’t here to fill the silence between those containers anymore.
that was the real problem.
the argument from earlier kept looping in his head, uninvited. the team celebrated around him, blissfully unaware that his world had narrowed down to one question: did you still want this deal, or was it just him clinging to a distraction that suddenly was biting back?
the bar was loud now. not celebratory loud—chaotic loud. most of the students on campus that finished their exams packed the bar. his team was scattered across tables, sukuna tried to escape gojo’s rambling to the other end of the raised tables, stool screeching the ground only for the president to follow, yapping more as he bought more drinks.
multiple conversations were overlapping. one teammate argued about grades, another about summer tournaments, and gojo, gloriously unbothered by anyone’s internal climate, kept directing traffic like a drunk general who assumed everyone was on the same page.
sukuna’s jaw ticked. a micro-movement. a seismic warning sign the team would’ve noticed on any other day, but they were too drunk, liberated from exams and wanting to celebrate, oblivious to the pressure rising in their captain.
sukuna was growing more irritated by the second, people behind him brushing his back occasionally to get through the crowded bar. his grip tightens around his glass, his forearms flexed. still no outburst yet, but he could feel the air slowly bend around him.
then someone bumped into him. hard.
it wasn’t a brush. not accidental shoulder contact. it was a full-body collision.
the drink in sukuna’s hand lurched outward, sticky liquid splashing across his shirt, jeans, and lap before he could blink. the table shook on impact.
the bar was still in full motion, unaware of the beast they just woke, except for a few teammates who went dead silent.
the liquid soaked into fabric of his clothes. ice cubes skittered off the table.
then he stood up.
the scrape of the stool against the wooden floor was like a gunshot.
and the cord on his temper snapped.
without a second thought, or warning. sukuna lunged at the perpetrator, a completely shitfaced grown man, but sukuna just saw red. his fist connected with a violent crack that made the entire bar collectively flinch.
“woah!” one person yelled, multiple people stepping back causing a few chairs to topple.
“sukuna, chill—” but the sentence never finished. the team surged up, not to join the fight, but to contain the scene. but sukuna was already grabbing the man’s collar, sending another punch straight to his face.
the guy he hit, staggers back into another table. glasses shattering as more people scramble, cursing sukuna out. but a circle formed instantly, the universal draw that a fight brings.
“fuck is your problem?!” the man shouts at sukuna, wiping blood from his lip.
“watch where the fuck you’re going pig,” sukuna bites, chuckling darkly the second the man lunges at him. his core tightens maintaining a little ground before he’s raising his elbow, driving it down onto the man’s shoulder making him cry out in pain. “fucking piece of shit!” sukuna aggressively shoves him off, knee driving into the man’s rib, just in time for geto to grab sukuna
it didn’t fully stop him, but it shifted his balance enough for the rest of the team to wedge themselves between him and the other man crying in pain.
“get the fuck off me!” sukuna tried to shrug geto off, but two other teammates are holding him back alongside the black haired man.
sukuna’s vision is narrowed on the guy who made the mistake of bumping into him when everything thing around him was already picking at his nerves. his temper, way past his control, was now sparking due to his drunken stupidity.
the bar staff rushed in. “out. all of you! NOW!” a bartender barked, pointing at the door like some referee.
sukuna wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavier now.
“fucking kick these pricks out, they started it!” the man shouts, pointing at sukuna and his teammates.
sukuna waves his arm in front of him like a mad man reeling for another go. “you’re fuckin’ bitchass is slamming into everyone and can’t fuckin’ take a punch when you’re asking for it!” sukuna barks like a rabid dog.
“dude, you’re gonna get us banned!” yuno tries to cut, but sukuna isn’t hearing it.
“If ya want us kicked out, come kick us out y’rself!” sukuna baits him.
but the bartender is already grabbing the phone dialing the cops. that’s when gojo seems to blink at geto and the other drunk members quickly step in like a team.
“we’re out,” geto and the team shove sukuna further away, dragging him out of the bar before the cops arrived.
the bar door slams behind them.
it was difficult for sukuna to cool down afterwards. the adrenaline of the bar fight pumping his veins alive, chest heaving as they all continued the celebration/planning at the frat. but sukuna was busy drinking, the stinging down his throat numbing his thoughts.
“dude, you wanna be hungover for your exam?” yuno cuts in, watching his captain reach for another beer.
“nothing new,” sukuna mutters, slightly off balance as he stands, heading up stairs. his knuckles were cut from the few punches he’d thrown at the bar, but he could barely feel it with the amount of alcohol in his system.
the events of the week all accumulated to friday.
the end of the year pool party.
everybody off from exams. well in a few hours. sukuna was beyond hungover, pounding headache waking him up in time to review a couple notes before heading to his exam. his eyes silently glance at the black envelope on his desk, the familiar crest sending chills down his spine.
“don’t forget to buy the drinks for tonight!” gojo shouts from the kitchen, pouring a very sugary flavored cereal into a bowl.
sukuna mutters in acknowledgment.
summer was right around the corner, and the quiet anxiety building inside him was a clear sign that something was going to happen.
his mind was in the clouds as he went through the motions of the day. his eyes read each question, memory luckily intact as he answered the open ended questions. his legs carried him to the TA like a robot, eyes cold as he handed his last blue book exam of the year.
even as he stuffed his face with a turkey sandwich, chugged an energy drink before hitting the gym, showered in the locker-rooms like he was scrubbing a layer of skin, all of it felt like he was on autopilot.
and the only thing that managed to snap him back to reality was spotting you across campus hopping on the bus.
he’d just stepped out of the gym, when he saw you. it was another hour until the party. his jaw clenched reaching for his phone as he quickly pulled up your messages, the bus is pulling off the curb as he taps your number.
waiting for you to pick up felt like hell.
but once you did, the weight on his shoulders felt just a pound lighter.
“hello?”
sukuna scratched his jaw, he hadn’t thought about what he was going to say when he called. it was all just a domino affect now. “hey.”
you’re silent for a moment. “you need something?”
he clears his throat, walking towards the liquor store off campus. “was thinking about our convo yesterday…”
you shift on the bus seat, “what about it?” you don’t mean to sound dry, but you can’t help it, not when he’s being so vague.
“can we continue it?”
your throat feels dry, clearing it as you glance out the window, nail picking at your jeans. “you finished your exams?”
“yeah. i’m grabbing drinks for the party righ’ now. can we talk when you get here later—“
“I’m not going to the party.”
sukuna’s face twists, “why? you get free entrance, and free drinks—“
“and free drama?” you quickly retort, inhaling sharply. “yeah, i’ll pass on the end of the year bitch fits.”
“there won’t be any drama,” sukuna grimaces with annoyance, stepping into the liquor store. “everyone is celebrating.”
“have you not been on social media?” you accuse, “i don’t even use insta that much, so it’s weird as hell getting posted on some influencer’s sorority page.”
sukuna’s jaw ticks, “she’s fucking crazy. that shouldn’t be surprising—”
“ryo.”
the warning in your tone just sets the man off. “what? y’er acting like it’s my fault,” sukuna aggressively shoves the drinks into the cart, “I’ve had her blocked for a year—“
“dude, relax, we’re just talking,” you huff on the other line, his aggression quickly dissipating.
he tsks, rolling his eyes, “whatever, I can’t fuckin’ ditch the party so if y’er not gonna come then—“ beep
you hung up.
“what the—“ WHAT THE FUCK?!!!!
everything was red from that point onwards.
his knuckles cracked in pain as he stormed out of the liquor store. blood pumping in his ears when he tossed the drinks into the uber. anger clouding his vision as he stood at the entrance of the frat. and full blown aggression when he’d kick men out of the party for trying to bypass the entrance fee.
but even with him as a rabid guard dog running security at the front, the party was alive in under thirty minutes. music blasting off the walls, lights flashing inside and outside the house, and people already jumping off the roof flipping into the pool. it was five times bigger than the mixer the previous week, almost everyone on campus knew which frat party they were heading too.
it was the perks of being an infamous athletic fraternity, everybody knew who they were— they were either fans of the athletes on the field or court, or wanted to fuck them. or they would rather be at a party with the biggest fraternity and most exclusive house on campus.
either way, half the campus is packed into the house.
gojo was trying not to get drunk, avoiding every single drink that’ll immediately have him flushed and slurring, all so he can clean up his reputation.
“is utahime not coming?” yuno asks, the central midfielder, and non-frat member, glancing at gojo and geto for an answer.
geto shrugs, “shoko ain’t ‘ere either,” he looks over the crowd, spotting sukuna at the front, sharp brows pulled tight as three sorority girls surround him, manicured fingers pointing at him with anger. “ya think that’s why he’s all pissed and not because someone isn’t here?”
gojo and yuno look over at their captain. it was clear the sorority girls are hounding the short-tempered frat boy.
“uh-oh,” gojo steps down. “should we—“
suddenly a loud thud shakes the house. everyone sharply turns at the source, which came from their vp slamming his palm into the doorframe, smoke coming from his ears.
“he’s not—“ yuno quickly runs after gojo and geto as they push through the forming crowd.
“I’m not dating y’r fuckass friend, so none of you are getting in here without paying the fee!” sukuna barks, blocking the kappa phi pearl girls from entering, a line beginning to form behind them.
“so you kiss her and try to ride off her fame then?”
“yall posted that shit not me!“ sukuna snaps, just as his friends reach him. “I don’t need shit from your psycho president—“
“woah ladies!” gojo laughs, stepping between his friend and the girls. “what’s going on here?”
sukuna tsks, glaring at the girls, knowing exactly who sent them here. “sororities are supposed to go in for free, but your dog isn’t letting us in,” one girl huffs.
sukuna’s glare cuts through them, their eyes quickly darting away from his face. gojo laughs, pushing sukuna further into the house, “yes well,” gojo licks his teeth, his own anger bubbling remembering their recap posts. “that’s with the sororities we have good faith with,” he shrugs dramatically, “and well…yours isn’t one of em.”
geto snorts beside his friend, as yuno takes a step away. definitely not wanting to get mixed up in his teammates fraternity drama.
“but our president is dating your vp—“
“for fucks sake,” sukuna shoves gojo, storming out of the party.
the anger of an entire week curdled in his gut like something spoiled and fermenting. even though finals are over, the relief never came. instead rumors are starting to flood across campus and now these parties only seem to be a big headache, especially because it finally marks the end of the semester and now summer looms. which means facing everything he’s been putting off….his step-mom. choso’s attitude. family ghosts. and conversations he’d rather swallow glass than have.
the warmth in the air feels mocking, like the world was laughing at him as he unravels.
the subway ride is torture in motion. every stop gives him another second to think, and every second sharpens the anger instead of dulling it. the kappa phi pearl recap posts flash in his mind, that unbearable smirk of the sorority president pressed against his mouth in pixels, already pushing the rumors around him like poison. like comments he’s been checking everyday just to see more and more people sexualize your fall, as if he isn’t staring and screen-recording the video.
then the black folder that sits in the back of his brain, heavy. something that could crack his life in half and he hates that it exists. hates that it’s something that’s come now, forcing him to decide.
by the time he emerges from the station, the city feels alive. city lights still humming, late-night cars passing, and people walking in and out of restaurants and bars.
he walks fast, face stern, eyes sharp, his hair is damp from the heat, shirt sticking to him, the picture of masculine calm to anyone who doesn’t know better. but he was burning inside.
his phone is already in hand when he turns the corner. there’s no greeting, no softness, just a single text sent to you reading:
I’m five minutes away.
he wasn’t asking a question, or for a request. he was deciding. you were the one thing that worked, the one thing he could crash into, the only place the anger ever went and came back quieter. and now he needs it again.
needs you again.
even if he’d rather twist it around and torture himself than admit what that churning in his chest really means.
he has tunnel vision. he pays no mind to the couple strapping their daughter in the suv outside your building, or the glances they give him as he buzzes your apartment repeatedly, until the door finally clicks, and he’s whisking himself inside, door slamming behind him.
“did that man buzz her apartment?” jennie looks at her husband, brow raised. sami glances back at the door, sukuna’s figure disappearing further into the building.
he shakes his head, “don’t think so.”
jennie frowns, eyes narrowed, “you sure?”
“yes, cmon we have to get to the airport,” sami ushers his wife into the back of the car, “you were talking to her for awhile,” he adds, a bit agitated at the rushing.
jennie shrugs, door closing behind her husband as she looks out the window. “I don’t think she’s coming home for the break now,” she mutters as sami signals the driver to go.
sukuna doesn’t wait for the elevator. he heads up the stairs. six flights between him and the one place he’s already decided he’s going. his lungs burn from the run, his legs ache from the week, but anger is his only fuel. halfway up, he’s practically jumping steps, taking them two, three at a time, hands barely grazing the rail. and by the sixth floor, he shoves the stairwell door open.
your apartment door appears at the end of the hall like a finish line. he doesn’t stop to breathe. or think. knuckles connect with wood rapid and heavy. the hallway is quiet except for the ringing impact in his ears, until your door finally clicks open.
he sucks in sharp breath once you come into sight. and a sight you were. heat crawls up his chest in seconds.
“thanks for the warning,” you sarcastically huff, unaware of the night he’s had, or him yours.
but he doesn’t care, shoving your bratty attitude aside, “can we talk now?”
“you couldn’t have texted me earlier?” your brows pinch, glancing over him. he was completely out of breath, broad chest heaving under his shirt.
“I texted you,” he cuts, not processing his mistakes at all. you swallow a thick lump, allowing him inside, with a sigh. the door shuts behind him. sukuna kicks his shoes off, following you inside as you pick the toys still on the ground. the tv paused on some cartoon. “did you have someone over?” he picks up a princess sippy cup off the counter.
“yeah. they also came uninvited, like you,” you mutter coldly, tossing the sippy cup into the sink. his jaw ticks, eyes tracking down your figure, eyeing your ass as you bend down to pick up a few more toys. your shorts ride up, hugging that ass of yours so deliciously.
“you said you didn’t wanna talk at the party,” sukuna grumbles, glancing away once you stand again.
“true,” you toss the toys into a bin in the closet.
you clear your throat, chest hot as you glance at the big man. his hard exterior was beyond intimidating, especially when you can see he’s clearly wound up. “you go first,” you say kicking the blankets off the couch allowing him to sit. but you sit on the coffee table in front of him, his eyes briefly glancing at your plush thighs as they push against the surface.
“I asked you a question yesterday and you ditched me, then you fucking hang up on me today,” he huffs, arms crossed and thick thighs spreading.
damn he’s so hot, you avert your gaze, “the first one wasn’t my fault, and the second one was because you were getting angry—“
“of course I’m angry, we were talkin—“
“dude, seriously stop yelling!” you huff, sharp breath escaping your lungs in exasperation.
sukuna couldn’t handle any of it. his emotions are raging inside him like a typhoon, and you were right in front of him. “what do you want?” he cuts, coldly, sitting up. “do you want the sex still? because I do. it’s been pissing me off all week that we’re not fucking.” your cheeks flush, heart thudding quicker. “but you’re the one that’s pissed so do you wanna add another condition or cut the whole thing?”
your jaw tightens, glancing between his crimson eyes. “no kissing other people,” you say, taking a breath to clarify. “like you can, I don’t care about that. It’s more the person. I don’t want any drama with your sororities, especially with some influencer and if you still wanna have sex or whatever with them, then yeah, I wanna end it.”
sukuna nods, jaw ticking, “I didn’t ask her to kiss me, by the way.”
“seriously,” your eyes narrow in annoyance. sukuna tsks, sitting on the edge of the couch, coming closer to you. “I don’t care.”
“you do,” he pokes, “just say it. i know you think i kissed her back—“
“because you did,” you snap, standing up in anger, but, his hand clutches your wrist pulling you back down with a cute yelp.
“it was an accident,” he spits like venom, but his jaw ticks, and he continues. “but yeah, no kissing other people—“
“that’s not—“
“so deal is still on?”
your jaw ticks, eyes flicking over his face, blood flowing loudly in your ears, as you glance at his wet lips, the crease between his thick brows, his narrowed eyes, his face so close to yours—
“yes.”
your lips crash onto his.
his surprised hum easily morphs into a hungry growl. his legs push up to stand, hands immediately pulling your shirt off. your hands quickly shove your pants and panties down as he unbuckles his belt unzipping his jeans. he groans as you distract him, hands peeling his shirt off, shoving him back on the couch climbing on top.
you were fully naked, while he was still half dressed. his calloused palms easily gravitating down your waist to grab your ass squeezing. he swallows your moan as you start rocking on his bulge sticking out of his unzipped jeans.
“fuck, you’re so good,” he husks, voice dropping an octave as he grabs your ass, kneading the flesh, before he sinks a finger inside you from behind. “y’er fuckin’ soaked baby,” his laugh is hoarse against your lips, the carnal sound sends shivers down your spine and another wave of hot arousal pools between your legs. “gonna stretch this pussy out?”
“yeaah,” you moan, the soft sound he’s been yearning to hear for days. “need you so bad, ryo,” you coo into his lips, panting softly as you kiss him. your mind slowly begins to quiet. your only thoughts are of him. his lips, his hands, his touch, his voice—
shit. his jaw slacks, hips bucking as his mouth opens wider for you, tongues messy as they collide.
your vision grows hazy in seconds. choking on whines as he pumps two fingers into your sopping cunt, unbothered by the wetness that stains his pants as you tremble above him. your nails rake through his pink locks, the other flat on his chest panting into his mouth.
“need me so bad?” he repeats, tongue hanging out as you start lapping it like a needy touch-starved puppy. you’re perfect. he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against your gummy walls, arm keeping you firmly against his chest as you arch into him. the aggressive pump of his fingers earns a pitched whimper from your pretty lips. “you’re fallin’ apart and we just got started, ya shouldve texted me first,” there’s a slight clip in his tone, one that has you grabbing his jaw aggressively.
your lips hover over his, brows pressed tight, all the while he’s got his middle and ring finger shoved up your pussy, stretching you open. your quiet aggression pours onto your tongue, “i didn’t wanna kiss you after that bitch shoved her tongue down your throat.” your fingers squeeze his sharp jaw, manicured nails digging into his skin leaving crescent marks. “didn’t want her sloppy seconds.”
his eyes are lidded, pupils dilating as he looks between your heated orbs. you were fully unclothed and completely vulnerable on top of him, and his cock is twitching violently at your attitude. especially one that so easily gets under his skin in the most allusive way imaginable.
“what’re you doin’ now then?” sukuna bounces his thighs making you jump on his lap, tits bouncing at the movement. “lickin’ up her sloppy seconds?”
your spit collects in your mouth as you lean further up. your manicured thumb gently caressing his bitten lips, tugging the bottom lip down. his jaw slacks with ease, a glint in his eyes as he watches you closely.
“I’m cleaning you.”
was all you say then a glob of spit falls directly into his mouth.
fhhuuck…..a throaty groan escapes the man’s chest, fingers sliding out of your pussy. grabbing your ass as he feels your spit slide down his tongue. his hips buck up violently, throat bopping as he swallows.
“more,” he rasps.
your lips curl, smashing your lips again. this time he lets you take control, lets your tongue invade his mouth, lets you rinse him of whatever residue you imagined that bitch left on him.
you were the best drug. some anomaly on his lap, bare skin warm against his, and sukuna is unraveling with a hunger that feels humiliating in how total it is. his hands are everywhere at once, your waist, your spine, the back of your neck. chest hot with how you’re consuming him. he’s gripping you like he’s memorizing your touch again, like you might evaporate if he doesn’t keep contact. his kisses meet yours with just as much fever, teeth grazing your lip just enough to make you inhale sharply against his mouth. the sound goes straight to his cock, bucking up as you hump him quicker, syrupy pussy soaking his boxers through his open fly.
you’re addictive, and now he can’t put you down.
your scent should be calming, but it just felt intoxicating in its gentleness and warmth. he buries his face in the curve of your shoulder for half a second, breathing you in like he’s stealing air as you catch your breath. “you smell so good,” he leaves open mouthed kisses along your neck, dragging his mouth back to yours.
every wet, hungry kiss leaves him more gone than the last, more irritated at himself for the lack of resistance. even when he’s losing it, you’re sitting there completely naked on him like you know exactly what you’re doing.
but you don’t.
the worst part is, you feel the same way.
you hate how easily you fit against him. how right he feels. how little effort it takes for you to want more of him, not realizing how little resistance he’s giving you in return.
the week has shredded both your nerves, but right now none of that exists. not finals, step-moms, futures, grudges, or pride. there’s only your mouth on his. your body pressed into him like a solution he doesn’t deserve, and his restraint finally snapping.
“haah fhuck, keep rocking y’er hips,” he husks kissing you harder, deeper, like he’s drowning and you’re the tide. his palm slides down your spine to hold you flush against him. perky tits pressing into his firm pecs, hips rolling harder up as you hump his bulge, whimper slipping out.
there was no softness from him, no sweetness, just pure masculine desperation. consumption that says more than any confession ever could, and your body was speaking the same language.
your hands drag up and down his arms, hands squeezing his bulging biceps, threading through his hair tugging, until you’re panting erratically, lips parting in an silent moan as you unravel softly from the aggressive humping. sukuna hums in satisfaction, lip curling into a devilish smirk as he cracks a hard spank on your ass as you desperately grind on the wet spot you left until you’re shivering.
you pant directly into his lips, like you’d just run a hundred meters. but really it was just him.
“ryo,” you call, lashes fluttering against your flushed cheeks meeting his eyes.
his arms squeeze your torso, palm splayed on your back and ass, lips hovering over yours, gently kissing the corner of your mouth, “hmm?”
“I really…” your words are breathless, like it takes so much willpower to speak, “really,” you lean up, hand rubbing his shoulder, and neck, “wanna fuck you righ’ now.”
sukuna’s cock shots a small pathetic amount of cum into his boxers. “you—“ he chokes, lips back on yours to mask the humiliating moan that escapes his throat.
you whine, climbing off his lap, just for him to instinctively reach for you as you stand between his legs. his hands grabbing your hips leaning on the edge of the couch, to keep you close, hands grabbing your ass, lips connecting to your lower stomach, kissing up your belly button, licking your skin.
your nails tangle in his hair before you’re pulling his arm from around you, lightly tugging him to stand.
the silence in the apartment would be deafening if neither of your hearts were beating erratically. but he couldn’t help how worked up he was getting when you’re leading him to your bedroom. your hips swaying naturally as you hold his wrist, walking across the apartment completely naked. his eyes rack down every dip and curve. his hand falling to grab his crotch, hand cupping himself through the open fly, squeezing some relief behind your back.
by the time you enter the bedroom, beaded curtains clanking behind you, his lips are back to attacking yours. his thumbs easily hook under his boxers and pants, pushing them down kicking it aside, heavy cock bopping into view. your fingers brush the painfully hard girth, tip flushed a hot red, veins protruding on every inch, and globs pushing out of his slit as he grabs your face, deepening the kiss.
“do i needa prep ya some more?” he husks against your lips, kneeling onto the bed and crawling between your legs. you shake your head, arms locked around his neck pulling him down, hips bucking up and back arching.
“no s’ fine, jus’ want it inside me,” you mutter against his lips, humming as he reaches for the box of condoms, quickly tearing one open.
“whatever ya say, babe,” he doesn’t even look as he rolls the condom on, your arms already grabbing the roots of his hair dragging his lips back down to yours. you couldn’t last a second without his tongue on yours, like every kiss was brining a part of your soul back.
neither of you have fully recovered from the week you’ve had. instead, you’re drowning your shortcomings in sukuna’s body, and his yours.
his cock nudges your entrance, catching your clit before teasing your clenching hole. your lips part as a pitched moan escapes.
“y’er gonna let me in?” he teases, chest heating at the sight of your blown eyes meeting his. “gotta loosen up down there.”
“It is,” you huff, nails scratching his overgrown undercut, “put it in.”
he smirks, pushing his hips down, slipping inside with a stretch. you hum at the first inch filled, and when he’s grinding the rest of his impressive size into your small hole, you’re back to your pathetically hot gasps and moans.
sukuna was a selfish man. of course, he’s good in bed because he satisfies his partners, but he knows exactly when to break them in, using the little strength they have to his full advantage. but it was never as fulfilling as it is when he’s with you.
you’re already in tears, arched back on your hands and knees, your arms stretched out in front of you as he thrusts into you from behind like a wild animal. grunts and swears spewing from his mouth, hand cracking down on your ass like a punishment, spanking each cheek until you’re moaning at the after burn.
“fuckin’ slut, clenching up every time I spank this ass,” he chuckles hoarsely. “everyone lookin’ at that video of you,” he seethes, remembering your soaked shirt with over a thousand likes from the sororities instagram. yes, he was checking the count every day. “flashing these slutty tits to everyone—“ his hand reaches under to grab your breast, cruel fingers pinching your nipples.
you cry out, slamming your hips back into his, hand falling over his on your breast. “i was wearing a bra—ngh ah!” your lips part with another broken moan.
his bulbous tip drags out, before he’s slamming back into, hitting your cervix.
“those comments were fuckin’ disgustin,— pigs haah jerkin off to you—“ he seethes, pushing your lower back into the mattress, hands grabbing at your hips as he picks up the pace.
“mmph—ryo— keep ngh—wanna cu—uh-cum!” you were babbling like a dumb little slut. your brain was mush by the time he’s pressing you into a deeper arch.
“there we go, baby, ya’ missed me handling your little body like this? hmm—fuckin’ ya how i want ngh—better than any of those sh-shit-heads,” he groans, thrusts brutal, carnal grin and glint in his eyes, slamming in knowing you feel every inch, every vein, every pulse.
“y-you missed me, ryo,” you babble, lips covered in drool as you turn your head on the mattress, vision blurry with tears.
fuck you were mess, sukuna cracks a viscous smile, cheeks hot and red from the sight.
“I’m so haah good,” you praise yourself, something that elects a physical reaction from the man as he feels his cock twitch violently inside your clamping hole. “my pussy can h-handle a-all of ryo—ahh!” you cry out as he shoves his entire weight behind one thrust without warning again.
“fuck—you talk too much,” he growls, fucking you fast and hard, just the way you like, his hand covers yours, interlacing it on the mattress, using it as balance. “ya think this pussy can handle me all night?”
“mhmm,” your eyes roll back after another mind numbing thrust, your body shivering as you clench up, creaming around him for the third time that night.
“let’s see about that,” he snorts, already flipping you into another position, taking full advantage of your pliant body and dumb bratty attitude.
you’re in tears by the fifth round, he’d only came twice, condoms tied and tossed on the ground, his face now buried between your legs as you cry out. your hips arch up, lifting off the mattress as you tug his hair, eyes clenching closed as you let out hiccuped moans.
sukuna groans into your pussy, tongue shoved deep into your pussy, swallowing your sweet syrup straight from the source. your arousal bursts on his tastebuds, his hand locking under your hips keeping you arched high as he eats you out like a starved man.
“ryo—haah please— too much!” you’re gasping as he sucks your clit, tongue circling the puffed bud like you aren’t on the brink of passing out.
“thought you said y’can handle this?” he snorts, spitting on your pussy aggressively, hand replacing his mouth with vicious rubs to your clit. you whine loud and hot, hand stretching out to his wrist, but he’s moving quicker than you can process. his condom covered cock is piercing your pussy again, the stretch lethal as your moan pierces the walls of your bedroom. “there we go! haah ah fuck! even tighter than before,” he groans, quick, sharp thrusts hitting your sweet spot. your vision blurs with tears as he pulls out again, mouth shoved back to your pussy, drinking you up. he was filthy….possessed.
“ryo!” you’re sobbing, choked hiccups making his cock throb, shoving his girth back into your pussy. his hips erratically forcing you into another orgasm as your hips raise off the bed. your arm stretches out to him, weakly pushing at his pelvis, while the other grips the sheets beside your head.
“c’mon, gotta let me cum too, brat— pussy still wants more,” he groans, the squelching has grown much more lewd, filling his ears as his thumb falls on your clit.
“I can’t—I can’t—“ tears fill your eyes as your legs start to shake, gasping as he leans down capturing your lips, subtly trying to distract you from the overstimulation, mind guessing when you’ll tap out, begging internally you won’t.
“s’ okay, I got ya baby, fhuck—“ he groans, kisses messy, tongues and teeth clashing as he pulls away. his large palms push your thighs further apart, abs tensing as he drives his cock deeper.
tears cling to your lashes as your hand extends out again, strength weak as you try to push him away. however his hand only pushes your hand down, biting his lip as you scratch his sweaty happy trail, his thumb easily falling on your clit, rubbing tight circles again.
“haah ah—“
his thrusts are so deep the squelching more obscene. “shiit—this pussy is loud as fuck,” he smiles devilishly, face flushed.
you were impressed how well you keep up with sukuna, truly. but i guess there has to be a moment where his athletic capabilities will exceed your own libido, like tonight.
his forehead and chest are covered in a sheer layer of sweat, accentuating the tattoos that mark his skin like sin. his god-like defined abs flex, biceps bulging as he keeps your legs spread for him like some toy, thumb still working your clit like second nature, unbothered by how overstimulated you’re getting. he keeps his ears peeled for the safe word which hasn’t left your lips yet.
your sopping hole sloshes and squelches, embarrassing sounds leaving it with every thrust.
“y’ want the neighbors to hear this pussy don’t ya?” he snorts, thrust sharp. “want em hearing their neighbor getting fucked hard by sum’ guy, right?” his thrusts grow erratic, talking himself into his nearing climax, groaning deep when you cry out, hips raising off the bed trying to squirm away, nails scratching his pelvis. “answer me,” he bites, thick thighs spreading, thrusting up.
you’ve lost practically all words, shaking your head with tears watering your eyes, lips glossy and looking absolutely dumb on cock.
“liar.”
at this point, he’s lost all sanity, chasing his relief as you try to push him away, whining and moaning his name like it’s the only word blasting your mind. chanting a spew of babbled curses as your legs start to shake uncontrollably.
“r-ryo—i—“ your lips part, eyes fluttering as tears slide down the corners.
“m’ fuckin close—ngh—you’re getting so tight righ’ now—fuck, gettin’ so wet you’re sucking me in,” sukuna never realizes how much he talks in bed especially when he’s nearing an orgasm, because he’s always fucked the other person into oblivion.
“b-but this is—haah—“ your incoherent response was the only warning he gets until he’s feeling a gush splash his abdomen. your cry pitches higher as another wave of squirt pulses out of your pussy.
“shiit,” sukuna hisses, pupils are black, hips stilling for a second as he processes what just drenched his abs and pecs. “squirting?” he groans moving inside you, keeping himself lodged inside, even while you’re practically crying arms weak as he pushes his thumb over your overstimulated clit. “didn’t know this fuckin’ pussy can squirt. that’s a new one,” he swears, keeping his thumb on you, rubbing quicker, in pace with his thrusts, getting you to squirm even more, foot managing to press to his pec.
“ryo!”
he growls, pushing your legs back around his torso, and pinning your wrists to the mattress. he’s leaning over you, keeping your legs trapped around his large body, driving his veiny girth into your sopping pussy. he groans into your nape, sharp teeth sinking into the flesh of your neck, marking the soft skin. his hips roll into yours, grinding against your sweet spot, coarse pubes rubbing against your clit.
“p-pleasee!” you gasp, choked squeak escaping your throat and ultimately pushing the selfish man over the edge. the cord snaps just as you squirt again, pushing him out.
“fuck—don’t push me out—“ he groans, peeling the condom off, rubbing his cock head through your gushing hole just as he shoots ropes of hot thick cum all over your pussy and tummy, painting you in his white load.
that was the chance you needed to close your legs, trapping his cock between them, completely out of breath as you gasp.
sukuna groans, head tilting back, throat bopping as he holds your knee, feeling you squeeze his sensitive cock between your plush thighs. he can’t stop himself from bucking into the soft flesh, groaning once more as another load shoots out of his tip, reaching your tits and abdomen.
you whine, hand reaching down touching the cum lazily, legs parting just for him to attack your lips again.
“could y’ always squirt, or was that a first for ya?” he husks against your lips, hands on your hips, clutching you tightly, wanting to go back inside you reaching for a condom—
“ryo, i can’t—“ you exhale, shaking your head, heaving breathlessly. “give me a second, please.”
he stills, mind slowly recalibrating.
“yeah,” he nods, kissing your lips again as he moves beside you, his cock half-hard as he spreads his cum all over your belly, marking his territory. he’s kissing your neck and shoulder as you catch your breath, legs still shaking.
even with your head in cloud nine, and sukuna beside. it was all confusing. his scent filled your head, warmth spreading to you. your body carefully turns to him, arm moving across his shoulders to hug him, lips finding his.
don’t think about it.
everything with him is physical. even with your body telling you it was enough, even with your mind trying to push real thoughts to the forefront of your head, you still lick his bottom lip, slower and lazier than before. “you’re still hard after that?” you say softly.
his hand squeezes your ass, “first time ya squirted one me, course m’ gonna be hard as shit,” his tongue finds yours, humming as you carefully sit up.
you sigh, leg moving across his lap, “i told you…” you lick your lip, “i can take you…and you stupid cock….one more round.”
sukuna’s grin widens, sharp teeth on display as his arm stretches over, “slide on top, princess,” he nudges your hip, as the other hand grabs a condom, tearing it open by the time you’re straddling his lap, lips finding his again.
he lazily kisses you back, tongues caressing as he slides the condom on. he easily slips himself into your hole with a drawn moan. “theeere we go,” he coos, thrusts starting slow, humming against your lips. he slowly and surely builds up his pace, beefy arms holding your ass up. you whine against his lips, squeaking when he has his feet planted flat on the mattress, now using your gushing hole like his personal pocket pussy.
sukuna couldn’t function anymore.
your moans directly flow from your lips to his ear, face buried in his neck as he abuses your limp body feeling you unravel again. his mind completely getting consumed by you, shoving any other thought or uncomfortable twist in his gut, deep deep down.
and as sukuna bathes in the bliss of being in your bed for the first night in days, he was also blissfully unaware of what was unfolding miles away with his fifteen year-old brother.
“are you sure about this, man? didn’t you say your brother didn’t want you talking to her?” ino says, turning in the passenger seat to look at choso in the backseat fixing his hair in the front mirror.
his other friend, mechamaru who’s a few months older and has his license, also glances at his friend from the drivers seat. “yeah—like you can’t tell your brother that we drove you here, o-or mr. toji, so you can’t tell yuuji, he can never keep a secret—“
“i’m not tellin’ em shit,” choso huffs, swallowing the lump in his throat as he glances at the lit diner. “jus’ wait for me here, ‘kay?” mechamaru and ino exchange looks, irritating the boy, a scowl pulling at his lips, “what?”
“well,” mechamura starts, turning to face choso, “you don’t want us going in with you? like we can sit at another table, make sure nothing happens, keep an eye on things.”
ino nods, “for sure for sure— like you don’t know her, like what if…”
“what if what?” choso frowns at his friends, clicking the backdoor open. “she’s just a lady, I’ll be fine.”
mechamura and ino nod, biting back anymore concerned words towards their friend and his decision to do this. choso fixes his backpack on his shoulder, hands shoved in his pockets as he quickly walks up the sidewalk. he can hear his heart pounding against his chest, hands clammy as he grasps the diner’s handle, swinging the door open.
the bell rings overhead.
only a few customers sat around. it was getting late, so there was only one waiter working the tables. choso steps further in, glancing over the booths. his amber eyes scan each table, biting his cheek when he turns to check the other side of the diner— suddenly a woman stands beside a booth.
choso’s breath catches.
her short black hair was the same color as his.
her eyes the same as his.
the shape of her face too…
choso swallows again, glancing over the woman, taking her in for the first time in years. it wasn’t a picture, or video….he barely remembers her, did she look better then or now…he can’t remember.
“choso, honey. come have a seat,” her voice though….that sounded different.
choso quietly walks up to his mom, kaori.
a/n: holy hell— that took an eternity. there was a bunch of plot in this one, so thank u guys for reading through it!! I know u guys had so many guesses on what was going to happen after sukuna and yorozu’s kiss, I def went in a more logical direction since this is a series instead of a one shot, so I feel it’s better to be grounded in reality for more hurt and angst in the future — esp since neither of them take full accountability of their actions & reactions, it’ll cause more issues when their putting bandaids over open wounds, inevitably making them more prone to infections. i hope u guys who wanted reader to kiss gojo/geto/toji/nanami understand tho LOLLL.
anyways, no promises on quicker updates, my job schedule is super random and pretty much changes every week so I don’t have a fixed schedule. but thank u again for sticking w the series and sending ur thoughts/critiques/guesses to me, I love love loveeee hearing how much u guys r thinking ab the series bc sameeee !!
spleen try not to get sidetracked on every fic i start writing challenge. failed. i just love mom!reader and megumi sm. not proofread. i have pneumonia give me some grace
wc: 6.4k
fluff/crack. divorced people still in love. childhood friends itafushiii :') they might be my favorite part of this im ngl. also unc!kuna
your keys jangle in your hand as you pull them from the ignition, cutting off the AC and feeling the summer humidity quickly swamp the inside of your car. reaching over, you grab your bag from the passenger seat that balloons with necessities. wallet, water, sunscreen, and earplugs.
pulling it over your shoulder, you step out and shut the door behind you. your skin dampens with the humidity that hung thick in the air, clinging to your skin and teasing through your hair. you cast a glance around the entrance to the sports park, an expansive property with groupings of different sports fields all meshed together for children. groups of parents and family friends corralled on the sidewalk after their games, their children laid out on the grass, exhausted and dirty.
not a second later, on the other side, the door to the backseat opens and slams. you round the front of the car, met with a little boy bending the bill of his baseball cap in his hands. his uniform was a near perfect white, apart from the few browning, ironed-on letters that had begun to fray. his cleats scrubbed free of any dirt and left with a few un-buffable scuffs from the time spent playing. he hated the way dirt stuck to his clothes and skin, like a brandished mark.
you smile, “you ready?”
megumi shrugs, looking out to one of the fields to his left. some games had already started, parents jumping on the cheap steel bleachers and screaming, arguments bubbling now that would boil over in the parking lot later. it been three years since he started playing at this field, yet time and experience didn't seem to ease the nervousness that coursed through his veins. his nails scraped against the fabric of his hat.
you smooth his hair gently, scratching against his scalp for a moment, watching his eyes flutter. you glance to the lot, seeing a familiar blood-red dodge challenger. “i think yuuji is already here, baby.”
his eyes light up, like a dog hearing one of his favorite words. he nods gently, taking small steps to meet you as you turn to entryway of the park.
a faint rumble across the parking lot catches your attention, your ears perk and the hairs on the back of your neck straighten with prevision that, even with your back turned, you could see it— the screeching of tires on asphalt accompanied by the growing volume of bubblegum pop music through bass-boosted speakers painted the picture perfectly —your shoulders tense with anticipation, a frustration already brewing in your gut.
megumi groans, tipping his head back in a silent prayer while you fail to fight the look of disgust curling at your lips and digging into the skin between your eyebrows. you whip your head and gave a warning glare to the driver through the tinted windows with experienced accuracy, the interaction so familiar you could almost see the way his eyes lit up and his lips tilted into a lopsided smirk behind the glass.
the sleek sports car comes to an abrupt stop, parking crookedly next to your car. it was a deep blue mclaren, he'd gotten it soon after the papers were finalized. a show of how he was still capable of maintaining his wealth after losing half. his elbow was out of the window first, followed by the tilt of his head, his bright white hair sticking out like a cotton ball that had been pulled apart by the wind.
"hey, baby!" he calls, sticking his head farther out. his smile takes up half his face, you could almost see the way his eyes were squinted with joy behind his lenses.
“satoru, turn the music down.”
“what?” he moves his sunglasses to the top of his head, pulling his hair back and letting you see the way his expression drops to one of confusion. his face scrunches with the lack of comprehension and harsh rays of the sun. he turns the volume down some to hear properly, the ghost of a smile lingering.
you roll your eyes, pressing your lips into a thin line. "get out of the car."
“i think i see yuuji,” megumi says suddenly, his legs carrying him to the field in a speed walk. he was getting taller, his legs longer and faster.
don't leave me here with him, you silently plead as you watched him dart away. though, you knew he was better off far, far away from the storm that was brewing on the sidewalk. he met up with his friend by the brick pillar, yuuji waving enthusiastically. you watch as megumi snatches yuuji away sharply around the pillar just as his friend opened his mouth to say something.
the mclaren shuts off, the air quiet for a moment before satoru stumbles out of the door with an offended scoff. “what? megumi!” he tried to call out, but the little boy was already gone.
he strolls to the sidewalk next to you, then stands with his hip popped out, one hand supporting himself. his hair is soft in the light of the sun, freshly washed with that fancy conditioner you got him one year that he couldn’t part with now. his white button up and dress pants are too fancy for a baseball game, under the constant threat of dirt and grime and sticky fingers.
he's dressed for a date, you realize. the idea of him taking megumi home and then running around with his newest interest makes your eyes twitch. rolling your lips into your mouth, you silently hope sitting in the relentless heat for the next two hours is enough to give him sweat stains.
satoru looks at you, his eyebrows raising accusingly over the sunglasses now tipped down the bridge of his nose. “did you send him away?”
you scoff, your lips curling into a delirious, bewildered smile that could only exist in the tortuous frustrations that the existence of satoru gojo brought upon you. something only he could accomplish in seconds of announcing his presence. “don't put that on me, you did that yourself. you scared him off.”
“me? scare him off?” satoru points to himself with an incredulous expression. “that kid’s not afraid of anything, he won’t even get a nightlight.”
“well, surviving his time at your house has proved he can live through anything.”
“he loves my house!”
“is that why he pretends to be sick every every other week?” you cross your arms, looking in the other direction.
“it’s very real and it’s because you have asbestos, honey.”
your nostrils flare, jaw ticking uncomfortably with a pressure you think might shatter it.
satoru waves a hand dismissively. “he always feels better when he gets to my house, gets outside on his bike and everything.”
the bass boosted speakers of his car must have damaged his ears.
for a moment you consider if it's worth it to argue visitation only. you turn your back to him and pace toward the bleachers, the heels of your shoes clicking against the concrete. you mutter to yourself, "uh huh. lets just go."
he's quick to follow, strolling up to your side with a saunter he only acted out when he knew he was on your nerves. he flares out his strides and stretches his spine taller. satoru’s eyes slowly rake over you, absorbing the way your clothes fit and the color of your skin in the warm sun. even if he wasn't painfully shameless, you could feel it, a now useless skill you had no choice but living with for the rest of your life.
you keep your head straight, a weak act of defiance when you were becoming stiff with fluster and your cheeks burn obviously.
“you look good.”
“you need a haircut," you snap.
satoru pouts, a hand instinctively coming up to fluff his hair. “i just got it cut.”
you give him a questionable look, and triumph surges through him, bleeding through where his lips tilt upward in a smirk. looking in his direction was a dopamine hit for him, his limbs turning gooey and his chest becoming warm and spreading over his spine and the back of his neck.
“well, don’t go back. looks like you went to greatclips.”
“mei did it.”
laughter bubbles from your throat, uncontrollable and mocking. “oh, that explains it.”
"she said it's in style right now!"
your expression turns wry, looking in the opposite direction with raised eyebrows and a roguish smirk. "mei will say anything, if you pay her enough."
you wonder how much she charged for his haircut. your friendship with mei had been cordial at it's best over the years, but even as you observed her with her closer relationships, it was clear there wasn't much in this world she'd commit to without some sort of monetary incentive.
you were always convinced the tension she had with satoru at the tail end of your relationship was deliberate as he became more successful. as much as he wanted to believe he was a good judge of character, he wasn't immune to leeches, especially those who's evolution of friendship is clouded with nostalgia from their adolescence. your morbid curiosity mulled over the question of how much their entanglement had developed since things ended.
your face feels hot, between the beating sun and the indiscernible emotions brewing under your skin. you hadn't realized your lips dropped into a frown and your nose scrunched.
satoru's eyes squint for a moment, a glint of mischief sparkling, and his tongue runs over his teeth. the expression passes as quickly as it appeared, and he looks ahead to the baseball field again with a proud smirk.
"if you want me to call you, all you have to do is say so."
"oh, please," you scoffed. "you wish it were that easy."
your fingers twitch, muscles aching with atrophy at the long lost feeling of carding your fingers through satoru's hair. you remembered the purr he'd let out as you scratched along his scalp with shampoo, the way his whole body turned to putty in your hands.
satoru's feet tilt to the left and you find yourself following him to the brick walls. you cast a sideways glance to the field where parents gather, finding their places on the bleachers.
"satoru, where are you—"
he brings you to the concession stand. he slides in place before a family of five can take it first, resulting in their distant, insulting murmurs.
"you want a pretzel?" he looks at you, sliding down his sunglasses slightly. it's not a question.
"no."
"yeah, you do."
"no, satoru, i want to find a seat—"
he turns his back to you, and leans down to the concession stand window. he doesn't need to. he could just stand like a normal person. he ignores your protest behind him, turning into far-away whispers telling him there's snacks in the car.
"hi, there. could i get a pretzel, two cookies— do you guys have ginger chips? yeah, ginger chips, i know— and a lemonade? great, thanks!"
you close your eyes, taking a calming breath as he lays down far too much money for that little food. he collects the food in his arms, and takes a loud slurp of the lemonade through the swirly straw meant for children.
"okay, ready!"
another calm breath, as you lead him away from the concession.
you find your places on the short, metal bleachers that lined the baseball field. you make sure to place your purse in between the two of you with some considerable distance. satoru almost seemed impressed by the act of separation, a little bit of shock at the gall you had to do such a thing. regardless, it takes less than a second for him to casually snatch your purse and move it to the bleachers in front of you next to his food. he scoots closer, leaving barely a few inches on the bleachers and letting the spread of his legs knock into your knee.
irritation crawls over your skin leaving a violent urge in its wake, but all you do is huff and clasp your hands together on your thighs with faux amiableness. he huffs back, triumphant, and looks out to the field, before spotting megumi in the dugout and waving his hand wildly.
"megumi, hey!" satoru smiles brightly. "remember what we talked about, okay?"
the only evidence of megumi hearing satoru's voice is the roll of his eyes that follows, not bothering to look over.
your head whips in his direction. "what on earth would you have talked about?"
"he asked me for some baseball tips when he was at my house," he says as if it's obvious, shrugging.
"no, he didn't."
"he did!" satoru says defensively. "he knows i was a baseball coach."
"it was tee ball and it was two semesters of your senior year. you haven't even touched a baseball since."
"it's experience."
"you lied to him."
"i exaggerated the truth."
"you're unbelievable."
you cross your arms and squeeze the skin of your biceps as you look out to the field. your eyes meet megumi's, who stares back with the same contemplation he had before every game, his anxiety flaring due to the crowd and satoru's unashamed antics. if he faked sick, he wouldn't have to play. in fact, you would end up getting him whatever food he wanted and a movie of his choice before bed.
megumi sighs, looking away and bringing his knees to his chest on the bench. he unties and reties his cleats. you watch as yuuji throws himself down next to him, his arm instinctively wrapping around megumi's shoulder and shaking him wildly.
you rip off a chunk of the pretzel and take a bite. you know satoru is grinning next to you.
a couple walks by the front of the bleachers, interrupting your view. they have a child in between them, his a soccer uniform caked with dirt and sweat. the wife eyes the two of you with admiration and glances out to the field. "oh, which one is yours?"
satoru's eyes sparkle with the blessings of premonition. "number ten!"
she looks out to the field and places a hand on her heart, "oh, he's so cute!"
"yep! he gets it from his mom," satoru stretches, his hand clamping down on the metal bleacher on the other side of you, caging you in with shameless adoration. the side of his chest squishes against your shoulder as he pulls you close.
"uh-uh, get off." you try removing him from you, but he only leans in further, knowing there was no bite to your words.
satoru looks down at you, his nose just a few inches away from yours. you tilt your chin and hesitate, the sudden softness in his gaze short-circuiting your brain for a moment. he maintains eye contact, his lips curling into a gentle smile like he knows the effect he has. his hand snakes up and squeezes your waist.
she giggles at the show, placing a hand on her husband's arm. "how long have you been married?"
"four years."
"divorced."
you look to her with a tight smile, ignoring the dramatic sigh next to you.
her eyes widen, and her husband looks at her with discomfort. one hand raises to fiddle with the charm on her necklace. "oh, well that's…" she blushes, looking back at satoru. "still so sweet of you, to show up for… um…"
satoru chuckles. "for the kids, right?"
she laughs weakly, patting her son on the shoulder. "right, yes. well, we should get going."
quickly, they excused themselves, shuffling across the concrete until they disappear in the parking lot. once they were out of sight, you scoot away from satoru, picking up his arm and throwing it back in his lap.
"did you really have to do that?" you scoff, shaking your head.
he tilts his head back with a whine, "oh, come on. you couldn't just play along?"
"why would i do that?" you sigh, exasperated.
satoru tsked, leaning into you slightly. "for the kids, baby, come on."
"every decision i've made has been for the kids."
as the words fall from your mouth, a thick blanket of guilt lays over you. you look away quickly, staring down the field that the children found their positions on. you squeeze your hands into fists as you picture the way satoru's face drops next to you, the theatrics dropping for a moment as your words hit him like a gut punch that sucks the obnoxious air from his lungs.
the expression haunts you, forcing reminiscence on the decision that rocked both of your lives. when the demand had left you, and the blood drained from his face, his eyes becoming hollow and barren from anything at all while his mind drifted in confusion. your life together passed over his vision in glimpses, you knew that because you'd already gone through it when you made your decision weeks before.
satoru clears his throat, looking out to the field as well. megumi is in the outfield, where he was most comfortable, away from everyone else.
you eyes roam the rest of the park, where games had started. in the distance you spot a looming figure prowling the perimeter of the field, his eyes narrowed aggressively as he looks through the chain link fence, finding his way to the bleachers. the air warps around him. disgust is scrawled over his face, deep in his wrinkles that pull his eyebrows and the corners of his lips, like this was the last place on earth he wanted to be and everyone around him should be aware, for their own well being.
he carries a dark duffel, the weight of whatever inside drooping in the center. he holds it with one hand like it weighs nothing, and judging by the size of his arms, you could assume it really is nothing to him.
satoru follows your gaze, his mouth dropping open with a careless display of disgust. "oh, you've got to be—"
"sukuna!" you call, grinning like you hit the jackpot. in a way, you had. your cheeks hurt from the way they pinch with pure delight.
sukuna meets your eyes, recognition softening his gaze, before he glances at the person next to you and his face hardens again. his nostrils flare and he makes his way to your bleachers.
he approaches and drops his duffel next to your purse, the bleachers rattling loudly at the careless crash against metal. it all but silences the parents on the other side, who gasp and watch him cautiously as he climbs the bleachers to sit next to you. he doesn't pay them any mind, looking out to the field instead and stretching himself across the open space without regard.
"what the hell is in that thing?" satoru grumbles, glaring at the duffel that managed to catch everyone's attention.
sukuna ignores him. instead, his eyes rake over you. "you look good, you been at the gym?"
satoru bristles beside you, a scoff escaping him.
bingo.
you roll your eyes as you blush, "oh, no. not lately."
he smirks. "coulda fooled me."
you lean forward, carefully grabbing the stuffed animal on a carabiner attached to one of the handles. "oh, this is cute! is this yuuji's?"
sukuna grunts with disapproval. it's a piece of plastic covered in orange fur with a hard face, sharp pointy teeth that rivaled his own drawn in a wide, mischievous grin.
"yeah, some laboo thing that's popular. nobara convinced him he needed one so they could match." he shakes his head. "damn brat wasting my money."
you smile softly. "i should get megumi one so they can all match."
"it's a scam."
"a cute scam. look at him!"
sukuna looks at you with a frown, almost disappointed with your commitment to this item you learned of seconds ago. his eyes are gentle, the only indicator of any amity while the rest of his appearance was brooding and rough. he sits down next to you, bracing his forearms against his thick thighs as he leans forward.
next to you, satoru had distracted himself with his phone. uncharacteristic, but pleasant.
"how's work treatin' you?" sukuna asks, looking at you. "that kenny guy still giving you trouble?"
the bleachers grind as satoru stiffens, no doubt a look of betrayal and confusion etched into his face. he knew about your promotion out of your department, being surrounded by new faces and bosses you'd have to impress and prove yourself to all over again. but you hadn't told him about any trouble.
you wince. "well, he was on vacation this week. but it's, you know, rocky."
"someone's giving you trouble?" satoru pushes up his sunglasses.
"it's not like that, he's just—"
"a dick," sukuna finishes. "probably the reason the person in your position quit, anyway."
"we don't know that."
satoru pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "when did that start?"
"right after she moved offices," sukuna grumbles an answer fo you.
"and you didn't tell me?"
you roll your eyes. "every office has a resident asshole."
"mine doesn't."
you and sukuna look at him, mirrored expressions of raised eyebrows and a skeptical gaze as you wait for the moment that it clicks. it doesn't come.
a sharp slap echoes from the field, and the three of you look over to see number thirteen on the opposite team sprint from home base. the ball flies through the air, far into the field, landing softy into megumi's glove.
the opposite team groans as the player lazily jogs to the bench, his legs dragging with defeat.
you're quick to squeal, clapping excitedly while satoru stands on the bleachers and draws all attention to himself.
"good catch, megumi!"
you can see his frown from here, dragging down the corners of his face. he throws the ball to the pitcher with a heavy sigh, as if suddenly bored. absentmindedly, you eat another piece of the pretzel.
satoru sits again, grinning proudly with his sweaty palms bracing against his dress pants. "i showed him that."
"how to catch a ball?"
satoru offers you the lemonade, and you take a sip.
"how to look cool while doing it."
sukuna rolls his eyes next to you.
the game goes on. the teams switch positions and yuuji is one of the first up to bat. the bleachers groan under sukuna's tension. he leans forward with a hardened gaze of concentration, the kind of expression that would make anyone else think he was cursing this small child.
you watch as yuuji hits the cheap bat against the dirt twice, dust flying up and staining the white uniform pants. he crouches, positioning it over his shoulder with a determined glare, and you hear sukuna growl in approval.
the ball is thrown, and yuuji swings his bat. it echoes through the field with a resounding crack! and before anyone can land their eyes on the baseball, yuuji is already disappearing from home base. a swarm of red dust is left in his place, lingering in the air and trailing him as he digs each foot into the dirt to propel himself forward.
he's fast. it's nothing new, and not hard to forget with all the times you've seen him run around your backyard or bounce off the walls of your home when he's with megumi, but seeing him move with such drive still makes your eyes bug out of your head.
sukuna claps his hands once, rocking back on the bleachers with a silent fist pump. his tension is replaced with a smirk that blooms with pride.
the ball is out of the field, the opposite team had given up and resigned themselves to watching it fly into the distant woods. still, yuuji makes a show of hitting all three bases with a gleeful leap, and slides across the dirt back to home base.
his team is cheering, bouncing off each other— dragging each other by their clothes in excitement too big for their bodies. he makes his way to the dugout, immediately being shook by the other players in congratulations.
"that's what i'm talking about," sukuna grumbles to himself, dragging his hand over his mouth.
satoru cheers, wooing loudly. "yeeaaah! let's go yuuji! good job!"
yuuji turns, his eyes wide with adrenaline and excitement. he gives a proud thumbs up.
your claps wind down as the next player comes up to bat, and satoru settled back next to you. the side of his body presses against yours, and his elbow leans on the cool metal behind you.
"that kid's somethin' else, sweets," he hums, tilting his head. "it's good for megumi to have him around."
"yeah," you murmur. the side of your body is sticky with the sweat seeping through satoru's dress shirt. "they balance each other out."
your eyes drift to satoru as he takes a bite of one of his chocolate chip cookies that had quickly melted in the sun. he laps up the dripping chocolate with his tongue, and devours it in a second bite.
you just watch him. from this angle, you could see his eyes just past the thin frames of his sunglasses, no dark barrier keeping you from seeing his bright blues focused on the game, attentive and anticipating. you do think he wishes sometimes he went further with baseball, or any sport, unfortunately he was skilled in every single one he tried. his long lashes fluttered against his cheeks, every so often catching on his lenses— that's why he kept them so far down his nose most of the time, you knew.
the chocolate smeared over the corner of his mouth, which he doesn't notice as he wipes off his hands with a napkin.
"satoru."
his eyebrows shoot up as he looks at you, the gentleness of your tone catching him off guard.
you lick your thumb, and swipe it across the corner of his mouth with furrowed eyebrows. your thumb dips along the soft pink of his lower lip, slowly. to thoroughly catch all the chocolate, of course.
satoru is not a man easily fooled. as you pull your hand away, he tilts his head with a knowing smirk. "if you wanted to lick me, all you had to do—"
you roll your eyes, looking away as you lick the chocolate off your thumb. you swallow it down with satoru's lemonade. "don't start."
it's the final inning.
it's megumi's turn to bat, and you wrap your fingers over the edge of the bleachers and dig your skin into the cold metal as you brace yourself. the bat twists in his hands with the unease that had building in his gut, the dread pooling in anticipation for this moment— where he could feel your eyes on him, and hear the creak of the bleachers underneath satoru's excited rocking back and forth.
he pulls the bat up to his shoulder, and grinds his cleats into the dirt.
satoru pries your hand off the bleachers, squeezing it instead. you squeeze back.
the pitcher winds up, and throws the ball. your breath hitches.
smack!
the ball slaps against the bat and ricochets into the air with far more strength than anticipated from a brooding 11 year old. it soars above the heads of the opposite team, not as powerful as his friend's swing before, so they start to race it toward the outfield.
the bleachers rattle as you and satoru jump to your feet, your hand instinctively wrapping around his forearm as you watch megumi.
he drops the bat to the side and jogs to first base like he couldn't care less, digging his feet into the white plate.
the opposite team is scrambling to chase down the ball as it rolls through the grass.
"megumi! keep going!"
"megs, come on! second base!"
your heart is racing as your nails dig into satoru's arm with a rough shake, adrenaline buzzing in your veins. satoru doesn't notice, he's hunched next to you with a focused glare, like he's fighting every urge in his body to lunge over the seats and shake the chain link fence himself.
megumi looks back to meet your eyes, and you watch his shoulders drop with a dramatic sigh. he starts a reluctant jog to second base, casting a glance to the other players as they finally grasp the ball and toss it closer to the center field.
he passes over second base, and keeps running.
an excited scream escapes you, as you tug satoru closer to you like a rag doll. he shakes free of your iron grip and wraps his arm around your back instead, his eyes on the field. your hand bunches into his dress shirt. you're both shaking back and forth in anticipation, like megumi alone carries the family's honor on his little head.
"come on megumi! you got it!"
"home base! go to home base!"
he slows down as he approaches third base, cautiously looking behind him where the opposite team has their eyes on him and the ball flies through the air with impending doom. still, his feet slam against the plate harder and faster.
"bring it home, megumi!"
he stomps over home base, just before the baseball makes contact with the player guarding the plate. his team in the dugout erupts like they'd been holding back the entire game for this moment, megumi's moment. their screams of joy slice through the ear, triggering ringing ears across the bleachers.
satoru jumps once, rattling the metal seats for everyone else, who glare at him pointedly. a drink spills. a purse falls to the ground. he doesn't care, pumping one first in the air proudly as the air warps around him with his chanting.
"yeah, let's fucking go, megumi!"
(there's a hush from a nearby parent, only sukuna hears it, and snickers).
you're still tucked into satoru, clapping excitedly as you watch megumi get toppled by his team. they're loud, ignoring the whistling from the coach to separate them. it's fruitless, the boys are too far gone in their dogpile in the dirt while they cheer him on.
he's pulled out by yuuji, who tackles him off to the side himself, bouncing like his bones are made of springs. he's thrashing megumi back and forth like he has no say in this matter, which he really doesn't.
the game ends there, 13-8.
you descend the bleachers, slipping out of satoru's grasp. his eyebrows jump with surprise as he steadies his shoes on the concrete, and he nearly presses himself against your back as you walk closer to the fence. you don't acknowledge it, too preoccupied with the anticipation of megumi finally leaving the field. your chest was tight with pride, your heart swelling with excitement at the instance of megumi finally trying, inching towards his potential.
the players are released, a swarm of body odor, sweat, and dirt escaping the dugouts as they disperse across the sidewalk to find their families. it's easy to spot megumi, being dragged by the hand by a still-bouncing yuuji— the boy had inhuman levels of energy.
he's already rambling when he catches up to you, speaking too fast and too soon for you to catch on to what he's saying or who he was trying to speak to. his eyes are wide and sparkling when he tugs megumi to his side, then raises their hands together.
"did you see that? did you see fushiguro? he ran so fast! i thought he was going to stop, buthejustkeptgoing—"
megumi's face is red with embarrassment as he tugs his hand back to his body, and crosses his arms. "it's not like i won the game, we were already winning."
satoru is next to embarrass him, carelessly clamping his hand down on megumi's sweaty hair, and rocking his head back and forth. "you killed it out there, megumi! you learn something from your old man, huh?"
the boy sneers. "what would i learn from you?"
satoru frowns, and you step forward before he can keep talking.
"you did great, megs! your home run was incredible, i'm so proud of you!"
he keeps his arms crossed, looking away from you, but the absence of a snide comment told you enough.
yuuji waves goodbye with both hands as makes his way to sukuna still sitting in the empty stands. sukuna is quick to hoist him over his shoulder (just to hear his squeals of playful terror), and grab his mystery duffel with his other hand as he stands.
you smile. "bye, sukuna! it was nice seeing you!"
his grin is wicked, and the wink that follows is even more diabolical.
satoru scoffs under his breath. "what a tool."
megumi raises an eyebrow. "what does that mean?"
"i'll tell you later," satoru stage-whispers.
"no, you won't," you say sharpy, glaring at your ex husband.
your heart is still beating wildly in your chest, despite the adrenaline fizzling out of your body. you meet satoru's eyes, still standing with his body against yours, smirking at you like he's won at something. his arm snakes around your side with a possession that had been kept at a distance for years.
you don't fight it, not really, you only squint at him as he squeezes your skin.
he pats megumi's shoulder with the bag of ginger chips from the concession stand, before handing them to him normally. "bet you're starved, huh? she feed you this morning?"
you roll your eyes. "you say that like i'm the one who leaves him alone to make ramen himself."
megumi wipes his hands on the only clean part of his uniform before eating the chips.
satoru lifts a finger defensively, hovering it in front of your nose. "i did not leave him alone, and tsumiki said she wanted to make dinner!"
"you know she should not be operating a stove."
"she wants to learn! who am i to get in the way of a blossoming mind?"
you look down at megumi, tilting your head. "you hungry, megumi? for real food?"
he nods.
satoru crouches next to megumi with the grace of a car dealership floatie man. "what are you feeling? thai? chicken? burgers?"
you close your eyes to take a deep, calming breath. "i'm cooking dinner tonight, satoru."
"what? what kind of victory meal is that?"
"is there something wrong with my cooking?"
satoru pales like he didn't expect that, and for the first time in a long time his smile is more nervous than smug. "what? no, baby, i'm just saying he should be able to eat out! let's take him out after a good game! megumi?"
his look is pleading, for backup he usually doesn't get, only from tsumiki on occasion.
merciful, megumi shrugs. "burgers sound fine."
he might as well be jumping for joy.
satoru stretches his arms as he stands. "what about our spot by the park? yeah? great!"
you look at him skeptically, your eyes flickering down to the dress pants stained with dirt somehow, and the nice button-up that had become wrinkled with your sweaty palms balling it up earlier. maybe his date would think him a little pathetic.
"don't you have somewhere to be?"
your ex husband smirks, tilting his head. "i only dress like this for you, sweets."
you blink. you should have realized sooner.
this is his date.
the muscle under your eye twitches with irritation, at your lack of forethought or the audacity of him, you're not sure.
his elbow locks with yours, as he tugs you toward the parking lot, parading you like you're his prize.
"so, the usual? i don't want to hear you switched up your order once we sit down, that'll be embarrassing for me."
"are you serious?"
he brings you to the side of his car, opening the door for you. with a glance, you can see the stuffed, palm-sized sun he kept on his dashboard while you were dating. it was once a pure yellow with orange flame, but had been bleached after all the years beneath his windshield.
there was a matching moon back at home, sitting on your nightstand.
satoru's stomach grumbles, but he only brightens. as you pause, he gestures to his body as living proof. "this is life and death, baby. i'm starving."
megumi welcomes himself to the back seat, kicking his dirty cleats against the ground before settling in. satoru doesn't pay it or the dirt on his fancy leather seats any mind, too focused on you. (he will never mind, a cleaning bill costs nothing if it means megumi sticks around).
you looked at your ex-husband with caution. "no funny business."
[ SUM ] — choso works at the dying seaside movie theater, permanently high and painfully untouched. you’re the new regular that gives him mean glares, then cute smiles? he tries to blame the summer heat… but really? he’s just one shift away from snapping—and you’re the only one he’s got his eye on.
[ A/N ] — i actually don’t read a lot of choso fics, but this idea was not leaving my head, so enjoy!!!
choso was many things. but caring about his job was not one of them.
and that’s how you find the movie theater worker. sitting behind the counter scrolling mindlessly on his phone, loose baggy jeans and an oversized band tee, hitting his vape. and with just as much boredom, if not more, you step up to the counter and with the least amount of enthusiasm in your voice, and ask.
“can I get one blue raspberry slushy.”
choso practically jumps ten feet in the air. dropping his vape and phone the second he sees you standing there. the theater was completely empty, considering it was a monday afternoon, but it looked like you appeared out of thin air—
“jesus christ,” he heaves, catching his breath. “yeah sure.”
he shoots you one glance, eyeing your casual outfit, before moving to grab you a cup in their only available size. you stand quietly, hand briefly coming up to suppress a yawn. it’s silent. just the quiet actions of the worker.
he places the drink in front of you, turning the small screen for you to pay. but you just pull out a twenty, before pointing to one of the posters they’re showing in their three theaters. “and one ticket.”
choso hums, rubbing his eye as he includes that in the total, printing out your ticket.
“anything else?”
you shake your head for half a second, grabbing your drink and ticket, then heading to theater two.
he muttered a good night once the film ended and you were leaving. you barely offered him a polite wave in return.
that was the first time you met choso, but you didn’t know that was his name until the third week you came. you point to your chest.
“shouldn’t you guys have name tags?” you ask as he fills your cup with your usual blue raspberry slushy.
“lost mine,” he mutters, placing the drink on the counter, eyes clearly bloodshot and lidded. “my name’s choso if ya need anything,” he rings your drink and ticket up, turning the screen.
then his brows crease briefly, eyes snapping up to you, almost like he finally processed your question again before he starts sputtering, “don’t report me though, if that’s why you wanted to know my name. I don’t even smoke in the theater, it’s just a vape.”
and that was the first time he saw you smile.
your eyes gleam with a little mischief and amusement, taking your drink and ticket without uttering a single word.
choso worked at the small local movie theater every summer and winter break. primarily to get away from his nagging dad asking him about his future, as if he’s convinced choso actually attends all his classes and isn’t moving around pot for extra cash. and also to get away from his uncle who’s doing god knows what with megumi’s dad.
either way, the theater job was chill. the owner was his gramps and he let’s choso handle practically everything, and lately choso’s found himself looking forward to seeing you come in multiple times a week so he’s taken up more shifts.
sometimes he would casually stand at the front of the theater when it was empty, which it usually was, and smoke a joint. his dark bloodshot eyes shining when he’d see you cross the street.
the hot summer sun was beating down on you, your cropped top was stuck to your body like a second skin, hips swaying in your jeans.
“fuck,” he exhales lowly. your chest gleaming from the sweat.
you wipe your forehead, slightly out of breath as you shoot him one single glance, smiling to yourself once he follows you inside like a lost puppy.
“were you running?” choso coughs, putting out his joint, and picking up his pace as you reach the counter.
you nod, “yeah, was at the old diner a few blocks away with my friends,” your shirt was pretty low cut, desperately controlling his eyes from wandering as he grabbed a cup and went to the slushy machine.
“friends?”
“yeah from high school and stuff. we usually jus’ hangout in the summer since we all go to different schools now,” your tone is so easy and light, choso always feels like he’s floating when you speak. or it could be because of the weed he just smoked. either way, every time you come in now, he feels it’s less and less awkward talking to you.
“so why’d you rush here?” he casually asks, placing the slushy in front of you, hands leaning over the counter. you were shorter than him, but you still carried yourself high which had lately started to make him fantasize about things.
you glance between his sunken eyes, chest still coming down from the light jog you had. “I always come around this time,” was the explanation you’d give him. but deep down, choso was praying you’d say it was because of him. still, you point to another old movie that’s playing and finally disappear into the theater.
it wasn’t until a few weeks later, and the fourth of july rolled around.
surprisingly, the owner kept the theater open, and choso would rather smoke on the job, than get caught by his dad or uncle back home so he took the shift. however, the last thing choso was expecting when he was walking absentmindedly in the theater as fireworks went off outside, was for someone to walk in.
and that someone being you.
“you guys really stay open,” you smile, something you’ve started doing more with him. choso’s red eyes widen, heart palpating at the sight.
you were fucking breathtaking.
his mind was so high in the clouds he couldn’t control it anymore, his eyes immediately wandering down. his ears burn red, eyeing the short short skirt you’re wearing, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. even the half-zipped sweater you’re wearing barely covered your top which was a red bikini top that hugged your breasts as they bounced lightly. “choso?”
his eyes quickly snap to your face, cheeks aflame as he stutters out a reply, “yeah, uh—you wanna watch something?”
choso swallows thickly glancing down at your chest again as you walk up to him, fingers at the hem of your sweater, fixing up the zipper before slowly pulling it up. “someone told me,” you stop in front of him, big seductive eyes batting up at the stoner, “that there’s a better view of the fireworks, from this roof.” your finger points up.
it takes a moment for choso to register your words, his eyes now glancing at your glossy lips, beyond tempted to brush his thumb across it. “someone told you?” he repeats, brain still processing as you hum. suddenly his eyes snap to yours, wide and alert, “wait I said that!”
your lip tugs up, laughing softly, and it feels like a shot of dopamine was just injected into his veins. “you said I should come to see the fireworks here. did you forget?”
choso gulps, remembering now, how could he forget. maybe because he thought there was no way you’d ever come. which is ridiculous considering you’ve been coming every week since the start of summer. but it was the fourth of july you had to have been doing something before this to be dressed like that.
“choso?”
the stoner blinks, electing a light giggle from you which sends him into orbit, but he manages to push his hair back, biceps flexing in his old tee shirt, catching you by surprise.
“shit, yeah—here follow me.”
choso felt like he was floating the second his hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding you further into the theater all the way into the back. the marijuana in his system easing his nerves as he led you up to the second floor. completely unaware how flustered you’d suddenly gotten.
your heart was racing at the sudden contact, his hand warm, cheeks hot as you glanced at it wrapped around your smaller wrist. your chest heats up as you notice the veins that run up his forearm. the tee he was wearing was much more firm fitted than his usual oversized ones, which extenuated his broad back.
“woah,” you exhale.
“huh?” choso glances over his shoulder, catching you by surprise. “did ya say something?”
you swallow thickly, shaking your head. his lips part before closing into a tight lipped awkward smile, turning. you’re so hot. you watch him reach the ladder in the back room on the second floor.
“lemme just unlock the hatch first,” he says, letting go of your hand to climb the latter. your fingers loosely wrap around one of the bottom steps as he reaches the top. he digs his hand in his pocket grabbing the set of keys.
maybe this wasn’t the best spot to stand because now your entire body feels like it’s on fire as you watch the, once, chill slightly dorky movie theater worker reach both arms over his head, his shirt riding up and exposing a sliver of skin, along with the few hairs that peak out of his black Calvin Klein boxers and loose jeans. oh fuck, you can see his defined v-line—
“there we go!” choso smiles, pushing the hatch up hearing it bang and the lights shine in the night sky in the distance. choso hooks the keys back on his belt loop as he climbs to the top, hand stretched out for you.
damn, your heart is thudding against your chest as you reach the top. his shockingly muscular arm flexes once your small one falls in his palm feeling a second wave of heat flood your body. you were so consumed by how flustered you’re suddenly getting that you miss a ladder step and slip—
“woah! careful,” his arm catches the edge of the latch, holding your bicep with his other hand. “grab the ladder,” but before you could even find your footing again, he’s lifting you higher. your body weight seemed like nothing to him. you’re halfway out of the hatch when you’re finally able to stand on the final step. “you okay?” he’s heaving lightly, hand falling from your bicep to your waist, brows creased and eyes still bloodshot.
this is bad.
your name leaves his soft voice again, a tinge of concern in his eyes when he notices you staring off. “a-are you high too?” he cuts again, finally able to shake you back to reality.
“no, I’m fine. thanks,” you gently pat his shoulder as a thank you, the action filled with timid awkwardness, nothing like how you usually were.
his brow raises, glancing at your sudden attitude change. are you acting differently?
you wet your lips, crossing your arms feeling slightly more self conscious as you walk further away from the hatch you came out of. choso is not far behind, dusting his jeans and stepping up beside you, hand digging in his pockets for another joint.
“wait,” he puts the joint in his mouth, then stands behind you. both his hands come up to your arms as he walks backwards. completely unaware of the shock his touch sends throughout your body, even over the sweater! your heart hammers louder, mouth dry as you try to look over your shoulder. “yeah, here. now look up.” he unconsciously squeezes your arms, nodding his chin up, hands sliding off you to grab his lighter.
your face burns, mouth going dry as you watch the theater worker casually light his joint, jaw flexing at the action as he inhales.
his dark black lashes flutter as the smoke fills his lungs and dulls his senses. he looks so effortlessly pretty….it felt like this is the first time you were seeing him. like you hadn’t realized the first fifty times you came to the theater that he was actually pretty attractive. or that his lips were a pretty pink as he exhaled the smoke. or that he was taller than you, of course you knew that, but your body didn’t fully sink that fact in until now.
“you sure you’re not high?” choso cuts, glancing down at you seeing you still staring at him.
your eyes widen, glancing away. “no, not high.” choso’s hums, shoving one hand in his pocket as he stands beside you, both of you silently waiting. as for choso, the joint from earlier had loosely dulled his anxious heart, but he could still feel the heat creeping up his neck. your body heat so close to his arm, occasionally glancing down at you. eyes flicking over your breasts, then face, then back down.
“where were you before this?” choso breaks the silence.
you glance down at yourself then up at him. “there was a fourth of july party at my friends beach house.”
choso hums, “sounds fun.”
you nod, “yeah. it was fun.”
another sound leaves the man’s lips, rocking on his heels, keeping the conversation going as best as he can. “how come you never bring one of your friends to the movies with you?”
a silent beat passes.
choso looks back at you, your smile no longer playing on your glossy kissable lips. the joint slowly burns between his fingers, heart picking up at your silence.
“was that tmi?” he quickly cuts, salvaging the moment, no filter whatsoever.
your fingers lazily play with the zipper on your sweater, shaking your head. “no…I just like watching movies alone,” you shrug, “all my friends talk through the whole thing anyways.”
“ahhh yeah, that’s like super annoying,” choso nods in agreement, earning a soft giggle from you. “watching movies alone is such a vibe.” you hum again, smiling.
another beat of silence follows, but luckily the second round of fireworks begin. you and choso simultaneously tilt your heads up, faces illuminated by the lights.
“woah,” you both exhale. choso snorts, taking another hit before passing it over to you. you glance at the joint, leaning forward. “oh,” choso blushes, bringing the joint up to your pretty lips, watching you closely as you wrap your lips where his once were, and inhaling.
you can still hear your heart racing behind your ears.
your fingers lightly brush his wrist, before pulling back. you do your best to hold in the smoke, then exhaling, onto for a throaty cough to come out.
“shit,” choso bursts out laughing, softly patting your back. you flush deeply, still coughing as you hear the man laugh a little louder at how flustered you are.
to think you were this nonchalant regular that would give him attitude, and finding out you’re just as awkward as him. well maybe he’s still the weird one, but it was cute seeing you struggle to take another hit to prove some stupid thing to him. so he holds the joint for you again, letting you hit and you do better this time. eyeing him down as if you really showed him.
“cute,” he mutters.
flustered by his comment, you distract yourself, and move a step forward before squatting carefully to sit on the roof. however, when you start to lean backwards—
“what’re you doing!” choso suddenly lurches forward, stopping you from laying down with a hand on your head.
your brows fly up, “I’m just laying down??”
“this roof is dirty as shit!” choso scrambles, looking around for god knows what. you’re still looking at him, even more confused. why is he suddenly freaking out? “here!” he resolves the problem the only way he knows how.
his arm comes over his head, grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking the material off.
“what the—“ your cheeks sting, eyes bulging wide at the sight of choso completely shirtless. what the fuck! your brain short circuits. he was built! his abs were defined, and his arms are huge. he’s literally the definition of sleeper build. and is that a “tattoo?”
choso was bent down, laying his shirt behind you, catching a glimpse at the large tattoo on his back. “huh—“ he glances up catching your eye as he looks over his shoulder, almost like he forgot he had a giant tattoo on his sculpted back. “oh yeah, cool right?” he smiles widely.
how can he be so hot and dorky at the same time?! you internally scream, because now you’re just nodding, too flustered to respond.
“my dad fucking killed me when he found out. here lay down,” he pats his shirt, then crawls beside you and lays down.
now the two of you, side by side, stare up the flashing lights, and distant laughs and cheers from the town, everyone’s eyes were up. and then you realize…
“I was gonna put my hood on, you know…so like…you didn’t have to take your shirt off, dude.”
a beat.
choso’s ears are a bright red, then you feel him turn his head to you.
you do the same.
and the deadpan look on the man’s face had you sucking in your lips, holding back a horrible laugh.
“well…” was all he could respond with.
your lips curve into a smile as the sound of your laugh bursts out and fills his ears. your eyes close laughing harder when he tries to keep that deadpan look, especially with how bloodshot his eyes were, he was not fully present.
but eventually, he gives in. laughing with a touch of embarrassment, grumbling under his breath, before nudging you with his muscular arm. “it’s summer so it’s not that crazy,” he huffs.
you laugh again, but make him feel better with an encouraging nod. “for sure. I’m wearing a bikini under here so I can’t really say anything,” but you still laugh at him.
“yeah whatever,” choso sarcastically snorts, but then his eyes fall to your bent knees, your beach skirt exposing more flesh as it rests on your waist. you couldn’t stop laughing, hand on your stomach as you lean towards him, leg touching his waist.
“sorry sorry,” you wave, “just the face you pulled was crazy.” you slowly come down, stomach hurting from how much you’d been laughing. unaware of the warm palm resting on your thigh now, until you feel the light caresses of a foreign touch.
“my bad for tryna be a gentleman,” he mutters, tone laced with amusement, but his eyes were slightly lidded. gaze locked on your face, brushing his calloused palm over the surface of your thigh.
your heart skips a beat. skin breaking out into goosebumps. how did we get here?
the bursts of fireworks fall quiet, senses focused on him and his heavy breathing. his dark orbs glance over your lips. face inching closer. you couldn’t stop your heart from beating louder, not when you feel his warm breath fanning across your face now. is going to kiss you? please please let him kiss you.
similar to you, choso couldn’t not keep his heart from pounding in his ears. palms turning clammy, the sudden confidence, slowly sinking now that he’s so close. fuck—
“is it—“
his words are cut by your lips. his gasp eaten by your hungry mouth as you swallow another whimper from him. your hand gently cups his jaw, lips molding against his, parting them to swipe your tongue across his.
“open,” your soft command, had a pathetic groan escaping the man’s throat.
your confidence was souring at his response. his hand squeezes your thigh, letting you hook your leg across his lap. sliding closer to him as the kiss deepens. neither of you could focus on anything else other than the touch and taste of each other.
you pull away, catching your breath as he pants, hand squeezing your waist under your sweater. “you’re so pretty,” he husks, cupping your head and pulling you back to his lips, taking control. the shift in dominance has a wave of heat pooling between your legs. pressing yourself against him, just to feel a hard tent.
choso swears under his breath as your leg shifts on his bulge. your name leaves his lips, jaw straining. “I needa sec…”
his breath is hot, swallowing another moan when you purposely shift again. blushing at the moan like whimper that leaves his mouth. your nails slide across his pecs, sending shivers down his spine, and blood to his crotch.
“seriously,” he squeezes your waist, groaning as you press your thigh firmly on the bulge, smiling at the twist in his expression.
your lips brush his lightly, smirk tugging at the corners, “is it okay if we keep going?”
choso freezes. his eyes are wide, completely out of his element, unable to react as he watches you climb on top of him. cheeks flushed as you settle back on the large bulge that tent his jeans up. your pretty hands fall on his warm chest, lashes fluttering down at him.
he must be dreaming right now.
the fireworks go off above you. the lights beaming in the night sky and illuminating your seductive silhouette. now this was the same girl that gave him teasing banter for the last month.
“choso?” you softly coo, hips slowly grinding down on his bulge, the friction of his jeans against your thin swim suit bottom had your stomach twisting in pleasure. “you still with me?”
an embarrassing noise leaves the stoner’s lips. his face turns a darker shade of red.
your lips part again, a gentle sigh of pleasure escaping. “do you like me, choso?”
the man finally is able to nod, followed by his hands on your thighs and waist again. you smile, leaning forward, lips hovering over his as you whisper softly, “I think I’m starting to like you too.”
all sanity flys out the window. his lips crash into yours, swallowing a gasp as your bodies mold perfectly. it was amusing to anyone else, the way two young adults, both playing at the timid confidence and flirting, making out heavily on the roof of a struggling movie theaters. desperately dry humping like your life depends on it.
“ngh fuck,” choso grunts, hips bucking as he pulls the zipper of your sweater off. his hand easily falls on your breast, groping the flesh. “this okay?” he asks, nibbling on your bottom lip. however, he doesn’t wait for a response before pulling your bikini top down exposing your tits to the warm summer air.
“choso,” you whine, jaw slacking as he wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking like he’s been deprived of water. he moans around the bud, hand falling to grab your ass, rocking you more.
the air grew thicker around you. his bare chest was burning under your palm, his heart racing as you continued grinding your clothed pussy on his jeans, unaware that the material has been sliding to the side, allowing your arousal to stain his pants. the two of you were possessed. his teeth tugged on your nipple, eyes flicking up to catch your pretty face twist in pleasure, jaw going slack as you began shivering.
“y’ look like you’re gonna cum?” he mutters, tongue swirling around your nipple like a lollipop.
an incoherent whine leaves your lips, unable to speak when you’re so close.
“fuck, you’re gonna cum now. yeah—haah gonna cum just from humping me?” he’s both amused and so unbelievably turned on. his cock was leaking desperately in his boxers, jaw clenched when your humping grew sloppier, pretty lashes fluttering. “shit…” choso groans as he watches you come undone. your luminous eyes are glossed over, jaw slack with a silent oh escaping your lips.
your thighs tremble around his waist, back curving forward, cumming from just a measly dry hump session.
you bury your face in the man’s neck, completely embarrassed. did you seriously just cum? the heat spreads up your neck, to the tips of your ears. however, a deep voice suddenly breaks your anxious heart.
“that was really fucking…hot.”
your heart clenches.
“you feel good?” choso is completely unaware of your reserved reaction to what had just happened. his words just spew from his lips without a second thought. it was usually how he spoke to you before, but in this setting, it brought you more comfort than you were willing to admit you needed.
your lips turn to the shell of his ear, arms wrapped around his neck, and lowly replying, “yeah.”
the slight rasp in your tone sent shivers down the man’s spine, his cock twitching in its confines, hips pushing up. his hand slides to your ass, biting his lip as he grabs a handful of your cheek. the other brushed along your spine under your sweater.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” he starts, face turning to nudge you up, a lopsided grin plays on his lips as you hover close to him. “but I’m really fuckin’ hard.”
you swallow thickly, cheeks burning hot, his lips brush yours again, kissing your bottom lip. his sudden switch between submission and soft dominance left you spinning. now you’re wondering how big he is. especially when you start to sit up, shuffling further down his lap so you’re straddling his thighs.
“I’m gonna….” you trail off, wetting your lips as you start to unbuckle his belt, heart racing as you eye the light hairs that grow darker the lower you go.
choso is in a similar position, possibly worse since he’s rethinking you taking his cock out. his heart is racing, praying the moment you wrap your hand around him he doesn’t cum.
choso doesn’t sleep around — he has slept with the occasional clients back in university, but he definitely doesn’t compare to the fuck boys in the frats. but to say, even with those experiences, watching you unzip his jeans, still two layers over his bare cock, was the most exhilarating feeling ever.
you flush as you thumb his boxers, hooking your fingers around them before—
“what the fuck are you doing on the roof!”
a loud yelp escapes your mouth as you duck to the side of choso, covering yourself from the stranger’s head popping out of the hatch.
choso immediately sits up, turning around in fury, hands coming to his pants.
the low whistle sends even more heat bursting through you and choso, followed by the stranger’s boisterous laugh. “ah ya took her to the spot. told ya this always gets em in.”
your heart stops.
“shut up,” choso snaps. fully sat and reaching to help you fix yourself. however, you immediately brush his hands off, zipping your sweater on your own.
what did that guy mean by this always gets them?
“can you give us a sec?” choso huffs, the stranger was now standing on the roof beside the hatch, hands in his pockets and lit cigarette in his mouth.
“ya left the theater unlocked, you’re lucky it was me and not the old man that came around,” the man tilts his chin to the fireworks still in the sky. “plus i wanted to see the view,” he smirks, sharp crimson eyes skimming your figure.
you brush your skirt off, skeptically glancing at the man as you and choso stand.
“yeah whatever,” choso huffs, cheeks burning red as he faces you, away from the man as he tries to hide his obvious boner.
“who is that?” you glance over choso’s shoulder, the man was still smiling wickedly.
choso tsks at the question. he does his best with his bulge before turning around.
“that’s my uncle ryo.”
uncle? your heart speeds up, so it definitely wasn’t some joke then. why would he say this always gets them?? your mind starts spiraling, hands getting clammy as you glance at his uncle again, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes as you follow choso to the hatch.
“sorry to breakup the lovemaking,” his uncle adds.
you reach the latch when choso is suddenly stopped by the older man, his hand catching his shoulder, turning choso to face him.
“dude,” choso tilts his face away, knowing exactly what’s about to happen, but his uncle holds him still either way.
“how fucked up are you?”
choso’s tsks, jaw clenching, “jus’ smoked like two joints, I’m fine.”
sukuna eye’s narrow at his nephew, letting go. “I won’t tell ye’r dad—“
“yeah, I know. you owe me—“
“cut the shit,” his uncle snaps, pointing at him, “walk home. leave the car.”
choso waves him off in disinterest, turning back towards the hatch when—you’re gone.
his sweat turns cold, quickly racing down the ladder, sharp eyes catching a familiar raven haired man at the bottom. of course his uncle and toji are about to do some shady ass shit now. choso brushes it off and quickly jogs down to the lobby catching your pretty skirt exiting the front doors.
“wait!—“ choso calls your name, sprinting out and catching your wrist with a firm, gentle grasp.
your heart lurches in your throat, stomach twisting into an uncomfortable knot. he’s panting beside you, dirty t-shirt thrown over his shoulder. the fireworks were still going off, and the streets were filled with teenagers and young adults running around with sparklers and making bad decisions.
“I’m really sorry about my uncle. i didn’t know he’d come by—“
“s’ fine,” you cut in, unable to stomach a second thought about what his uncle had hinted at. “I’m gonna head home.”
choso can’t help the sudden jump in anxiety he’s feeling. did his uncle really mess things up with you for good? he treated you nicely though, does that not mean anything. choso swallows the lump in his throat, nodding his head, but instead of letting go of your wrist, you’re suddenly being pulled to his broad chest.
his muscular arms carefully wrap around your smaller form, hugging you close, eyes shut tight. “I’ll see you later…?”
choso’s question hangs in the humid summer air. his heart thumps louder the longer you’re silent, biceps twitching with nerves.
it was an unfamiliar experience. your skin was sticky with sweat, insides hollow and unsure, but your body moved before you can think too much. “yeah,” you quietly mutter, giving him a gentle hug back, allowing him to finally pull away from you.
the booms and cracks of the fireworks echoed through the alleys and streets, quietly rattling store windows as choso watched you disappear into the crowd. and the moment you left his sight, he definitely knew something was wrong.
his anxiety was only proven correct once the following week came around…
choso was sat at the counter, heart thumping loudly as he waited for your usual intimidating aroma to walk through the doors, monday afternoon. you’d be stoic, but the moment you asked for your blue raspberry slushy and he’d make some lazy comment, you’d grace him with your smile.
but you never came.
not monday, or tuesday, or wednesday, or that entire week. and with every passing day, choso grew more and more heartbroken and bitter. was it really because he tried to fuck you on the first night? you kissed him first!
“nah man, girls are just weird,” his close friend ino drags, the usual beanie still covering his light brown hair even in the summer heat. his arms were covered in grease stains, gloves resting on his lap.
choso frowns, joint still between his fingers as the two sit outside toji’s beachside car shop. “that’s not an explanation,” he huffs.
“well,” ino thinks some more, “did you say something wrong?”
“no,” choso’s leaning on his knees, fingers scratching his sharp jaw. “i said sorry because my uncle interrupted.”
“so she’s mad at sukuna?”
choso’s shakes his head, “but that doesn’t make any sense? why would she ignore me?”
suddenly a deep voice cuts behind them, “she looked heartbroken when i saw her running out.”
the two young adults turn their heads, toji was standing a few feet away clearly eavesdropping on the conversation. his white wife beater was covered in grease stains and sweat that trickles down his back and chest. the older man swiped his forehead with his arm.
“what’re you talking about?” choso’s brows pinch.
toji shrugs, wiping his hands with a rag, “the cutie on the roof with you last week. saw her climb down the ladder lookin’ devastated as shit.”
choso’s jaw clenches, “how do you know she was upset?”
the older man scoffs, wicked smirk on his lips, “i know when a woman is heartbroken.”
ino holds stifles a laugh, glancing at choso who doesn’t bother to question toji, he’s known him long enough to trust his instincts with women. however, this leave choso even more confused.
“so was she upset at uncle? or maybe that i made her vulnerable and he saw?”
“vuLnErable,” ino chuckles, just for choso to kick his friend.
toji shrugs, walking over, “could be.”
“or she’s a virgin!” ino shouts, solving mystery.
choso’s eyes widen, “a virgin?!!”
toji deadpans at the young men, “don’t listen to him,” he tosses his dirty rag at ino. “from what y’ said, i fuckin’ doubt she’s a virgin—“
“she’s not a slut!” choso defensively cuts.
toji rolls his eyes,” I didn’t say she was slut.” choso’s eyes are still aflame, standing his ground. toji sighs, “ino’s right.”
“for real?” the twenty-two year old smiles.
“women are confusin’, ya gotta talk to her and ask,” toji shrugs, like it’s that simple.
choso’s head falls forward, “she hasn’t been around the last week. that’s the whole point man!” he groans into his hands. “I thought you know women.”
toji snorts, leaning down to snatch the joint from choso, taking a drag. “I do if I’m with ‘em. I read body language, kid,” he winks.
ino laughs, while choso frowns, “her body language was that she came from dry humping me.”
toji exhales from his nose, laughing, “not just sex. general body language, facial expression, eye contact.”
“oh…”
toji takes one last drag before dropping the joint on the ground and putting it out.
“dude!”
“y’er dad’s comin’ to pick up his car,” toji nods towards ino, the kid sighs dabbing up choso before jogging back to the shop. “she’ll come.”
the week following your absence was worse than the one before. all choso could do was wait. wait until you finally come to theater so he can clear whatever miscommunication managed to happen without him even realizing. all of it was infuriating, especially because he didn’t have your number or any of your socials so it was impossible to contact you—
“one blue raspberry slushy.”
choso jumps so violently and inhaling like someone just unplugged him from the universe and plugged him back in at full voltage.
the vape he was twirling between his fingers clatters onto the counter. he hadn’t even seen you walk up, he was too busy having an out-of-body experience staring at the theater’s carpet pattern, convinced the swirls were breathing back at him.
but then you speak. and suddenly you’re there. right in front of him.
his soul launches into the astral plane for the second time tonight. “oh—” he chokes, jerking back so hard his elbows smack the slushy machine. his eyes shoot to you, wide and slightly bloodshot, like a startled cat who just saw god.
and god, apparently, looks like you.
after ten dry, agonizing, notification-less days, there you stand glowing in the neon reflection of the concessions menu like an angel descending from the heavens with a halo.
you’re an angel. a terrifying, sudden, beautiful angel who kissed and dry humped him days ago then vanished like a fucking heart stabbing tragedy. and then you just fucking walked in holding exact change.
“you scared the shit outta me,” he whispers, voice shaking, but there’s no real accusation in it, just awe. the kind that sounds a little like heartbreak and a lot like love.
you don’t grace him with a smile. your eyes don’t even meet his fully, only flick over his face briefly, then glancing at the three films playing, pointing to one.
choso’s heart beats erratically. palms clammy as he grabs your drink. you were wearing the same sweater you wore that night, but this time it was a cute spaghetti strap sundress that reached mid thigh underneath….are you gonna say anything? maybe something happened to you that’s why you didn’t show up…fuck no, toji already confirmed you were upset with him, or uncle ryo. fuck!
“can we talk about—“
you turn on your heel once he placed your drink and ticket down. disappearing into the theater.
“what the fuck?” choso’s insides twist into a fighting pit of anger and confusion. so you’re not even going to talk to him now? acting the same fucking way you did the first time you met??
his heart hammers against his chest with every passing minute. knee bouncing on the floor glancing at the theater door.
“fuck me—“
the stool slams back into the counter as choso rises. the adrenaline quietly pumps through his veins as he enters the theater, eyes scanning the room, before landing on your form two rows from the back.
it was the first time he left his position to see you. not counting the fourth of july.
“if you tell me what’s wrong or whatever, I’ll leave you alone,” choso whispers, not caring one bit that you’re trying to watch chungking express.
his jaw clenches at your silence, your legs crossed and hands holding your blue raspberry slushy, sucking the straw with a frown tugging at your brows. you’re definitely upset.
“is it about my uncle? I’m really sorry he walked in. for real, I had no idea he was coming,” choso whispers, heart beating quickly, desperately trying to remember the other things he wanted to say. “and I should’ve taken you on a date first, o-or just asked you out first. so I’m sorry for being douche and tryna fuck you—“
your head suddenly snaps to him, your lips blue. his breath catches, and his heart immediately sinks to his stomach at the sight of your glassy eyes glaring at him.
“I’m not mad that you wanted to fuck me, choso,” you whisper, chest rising in anger. “I’m mad that this how you fuck me.”
huh? choso shakes his head. “what’re you talking about??”
your jaw clenches, eyes narrowing at him, “how many times have you done this with other girls? it’s—“ your face contorts, “it’s disgusting.“
choso is even more lost than he was before.
your heart beats erratically in your chest, eyes wavering as you glance between his. the large theater screen the only source of light, as choso shifts closer to see your face.
“honestly, I’m sorry, but i have zero clue what the hell you’re talking about right now. what trick? I didn’t trick you?? and other girls. I’ve been bumming my whole summer in this theater??”
you frown, “I don’t need an explanation seriously,” you mutter turning back to the screen. “we’re not even a thing.”
“I want an explanation because I’m really lost here,” choso’s agitated voice irks you, throat drying as your eyes flick to him.
“your uncle said some bs about, this always gets them in, how else am I supposed to interpret that?”
your words suddenly clear the fog in chose’s mind. breaking the surface as he blinks with absolute annoyance.
“are you kidding me?” he whispers, voice low sending chills down your spine. you frown. “so you assumed he meant me?”
your eyes flick between his, “well…yeah.”
choso’s face is suddenly inches from you, his hot breath fanning over yours. “my uncle used to work here when he was in school. i’d mentioned you once to him and he told me about how he brought girls up here to watch the fireworks,” choso’s lips brush your ear, deep husky voice laced with inconvenience. “there were no list of girls. I already knew the view was good from there and invited you just for that.” your heart suddenly starts beating with anxiety, throat growing dry as he continues. “there was no master plan…my uncle’s jus’ a narcissistic dick and thinks he deserves credit for everything.”
choso’s lips brush the shell of your ear, his hand hesitantly touching your wrist. “I never took any girls up there. and you would’ve known all that if you just asked me to clarify.”
with a blink of an eye, you’re pushing his chest back, pretty eyes glowing up at him.
“really?”
choso immediately flushes, heart pounding out of his chest as his ears turn pink.
how are you able to go from zero to a hundred in seconds?
he’s left speechless by you’re shining orbs, nodding wordlessly.
then, straight out of his prayers, you finally grace his humble self with your warm, infectious smile.
“i—“ your words don’t come fast enough as you embrace the stoner. arms wrapped around his shoulder hugging him close. “I’m sorry.” your apology doesn’t even attempt to ease his racing heart. “I don’t know. I was being dramatic, but like we also don’t know each other that well anyways, so you can’t blame me for just yeah—“
“I wanna know you,” choso suddenly cuts, his arms wrapped around your waist.
“me too,” you smile bashfully, relieved he can’t see your face. “but you know what I mean…right, choso?”
his hands squeeze your torso, humming against your shoulder as he inhales your ocean-coconut scent. “so were you mad about what happened on the roof?” he can’t help but question, especially when your lips are ghosting over his ear now, sighing softly with a slight shake of your head.
“I wasn’t mad about that. it was all perfect until your uncle came,” you exhale, sending shivers down his spine.
the creaking and hushed whispers in the back barely concealed the truth behind what was unfolding.
his body is unable to stop himself from guiding you to his lap, lips ghosting over one another.
“so you wanted to have sex with me?” choso whispers, smile playing on your glossy lips.
“mmm…felt bad about leaving you unsatisfied like that,” your lips part along with his, your tongues connecting, just as his hand squeeze your waist with a pathetic whimper. he’s so quick to whine, it sends a flood of heat between your legs.
“you’re hard now,” you mutter, settling on his bulge for the second time.
choso swallows a moan, “can’t be surprised. got an angel devil on top of me.”
you’re heart skips a beat, lips crashing onto his. neither of you care that you’re in an empty theater, and the risk of anyone walking in was still high. your actions remained hushed, intimate.
choso was melting the second he had his hands on you. tongue tasting you the blue raspberry slushy on your tongue, unashamed by your smirk. “cho?” your fingers move between you, unbuckling his belt.
heat breaks out across his face, heart speeding. “you wanna?”
you nod, mischief gleaming under your lashes.
choso silently swears under his breath, biting his lip as he quietly helps you shimmy his jeans down, breath catching once you place your palm on his bulge. “feels big,” you mutter against his lips. his cheeks sting, cock twitching in his boxers. you continue groping and feeling him, smile playing on your lips as he whimpers.
“s-stop teasing,” his grip tightens on your waist, your sweater slipped off your shoulder.
“jus’ wanted to feel,” you coo lowly, licking his bottom lip like a seductress. you then gingerly thumb his waistband, slowly pulling it back and slipping your small cold hand inside. his entire body locks up once you grip his base, pulling him out. “oh.” you’re pleasantly surprised by the size in your hand. “it’s big.”
choso let’s out a shaky exhale, hips rising briefly once his cock touches the cool air. his pretty eyes flick up to you watching you spit in your hand, and slowly start working his cock.
“you’re not gonna cum in my hand, right?” you coo against his lips, back arches over him as you press your pretty breasts agaisnt his chest.
choso swallows a whine, shaking his head. “n-not even you don’t want me too.”
you smile adorably, like you didn’t have this man in the palm of your hand, “good boy.”
fuck.
choso’s head falls back, jaw slack with quiet moans as you jerk his thick cock. his abs clench every time your thumb swipes his tip. tapping the crown like a devil. “d-don’t,” he whimpers.
“but it looks so pretty, cho,” you whisper, kissing his lips. he only whines in reply, kissing you back with more fever. jaw slacking and tongue pushing into your mouth desperate for the taste of the blue raspberry that’s stained your tongue.
it was easy for choso to get drunk of you, and he realizes that when he’s feeling his tip brush a wet soft flesh.
“oh fuck—“ he chokes, he pulls away briefly, gaze dropping to his lap to see his flushed cock rubbing your bare pussy. “wait,” his head snaps up to you, brows furrowed in worry. “is it not to big, I can stretch you out first?”
your fingers brush his jaw, tilting his head up as you kiss the corner of his mouth. your voices hushed, “s’ fine, I can take it.”
choso swallows thickly, hand finding purchase under your dress to grip your waist, and the other holding your ass as you slowly nudge his tip against your entrance.
“okay,” you exhale coolly, slowly sinking down.
“shit,” choso swears between clenched teeth. grip unforgiving as you gasp against him. your cute whimpers were the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. it felt like honey being dripped into his ear as you did your best to swallow his thick pulsing inches. “y’er squeezin me, r-relax baby.”
you whine quietly, gently moving up, just to push down again and take a few more inches. “bigger than I thought cho,” you pant.
his head tilts, capturing your lips, “sorry,” he apologizes, and it actually sounds like he’s sorry for how big he is, especially when you let out another adorable whimper.
but still, he kisses you like it’s the first time he’s ever been intimate with someone. and after a few more shallow bounces, you finally settle every big chubby inch of him inside your gummy walls.
“fuh—you feel so good,” he mutters, “feel so good wrapped around my cock,” your tongues collide as you start grinding against him. hips rocking slowly, as you adjust to his impressive size.
your hearts beat together. breaths colliding as the world slowly disappears, likes it just you two quietly moaning and whining on a theater seat. the creaking and quiet squelches that left your pussy with every bounce didn’t register in your ears. instead your focus remained on one another.
on his voice. your gasps. his curses. your coos.
“I feel so full, choso haah,” you babble, lips glossy from his spit. “d-do you feel me to anh too?”
choso whimpers as you clamp around him as you sink down again. his fingers dig into your ass the other fully wrapped around your waist, biceps flexing around your back. “course I do,” he grunts, bitting your bottom lip. moaning once you drool into his mouth.
nothing else mattered now.
his thick thighs part. his hips angle up, and his firmly plant themselves on the ground. “c’mon, keep riding my cock princess,” choso moans agaisnt your lips. his hips snap up getting you to pick up the speed.
you gasp in surprise, cheeks flushed, sweater falling at your elbows, and the straps of your dress starting to slip of your shoulders as you fix your feet to rest over his knees for better balance. “o-okay choso,” you hold his shoulders as you start picking up the speed.
neither of you could think about the sounds of your ass clapping against his thighs, or the whines that left both your pathetic mouths.
choso kept your pace, helping you bounce your pretty ass up n down his cock like one of his toys. and with every bounce, your pretty breasts followed, until one strap fell low enough for it to expose you to him.
“haah fuck,” choso groans, lips wrapping around your nipple sucking immediately.
“ahh,” you clamp around him, whining. he only moans around you, humming as your nails comb through his hair.
you were lucky you were the only one in the theater, because now it was obvious what was happening. the creaking, the clapping, the moans. it was beyond lewd, and obscene.
“m gonna cum cho,” you whine, bouncing quicker as you chase that coil twisting in your tummy. his flushed tip continues hitting your sweet spot, dragging against your gummy walls with each bounce.
“fuhck—fuck I’m close, keep movin’” he huffs, drooling against your chest as he kisses up your sternum to your neck, panting harshly as he bucks his hips as you start to grow sloppy. “don’t sto—ah-p—“
“I can’t—angh—“ your vision turns white, drool escaping your lips as you fall apart, creaming around the stoner.
choso swears, arms holding you desperately to his chest as he starts pumping his messy cock into your weeping hole. “fuck—tight pussy, melting inside ya—haah—“ his thighs start trembling, muscles flexing underneath you as his head falls on your shoulder.
“so good baaby…ngh haah god—“ his own climax hits him like a truck. the words fall off his tongue and pull out flashes in his mind, but the searing white that blinds him leaves him frozen inside your deep warmth.
“chosoo,” you whine into his neck as the thick ropes of white cum fill your insides.
the stoner pathetically whimpers, hips still bucking as he milks every last drop, emptying his balls, hand wrapped around your nape as the other squeezes around your waist under your dress.
“fhuck,” choso pants, chest heaving as he slowly comes down, lips parting as he leaves open mouthed kisses along your exposed shoulder. trailing them up your neck. “beautiful,” kiss, “so sweet.” his hums and sighs left shivers down your spine as you stroke his long hair. scratching his nape as your lashes flutter.
that’s when a loud whistle cuts the air.
you freeze hugging the man desperately as he lifts your strap up. neither of you realizing the movie had ended.
“y’er shameless, kid. your daddy would be disappointed ya turned out like me.”
a vein pops from choso’s neck.
“dude, what the fuck?” choso groans, hand coming up to fix your sweater on your shoulders again at sukuna laughs beside the door.
“I’m not the one fucking in a public space—“
“fuck off,” choso swears under his breath, choking quietly as he pulls out, electing the softest whimper from your lips. “sorry,” he mutters.
“why is he still here?” you whisper, fixing your dress as you stand up, glancing at his uncle still beside the door, choso quickly tucks himself ignoring the stickiness of your mixed juices.
“because he’s a dick,” choso tsks, leading the way out.
sukuna smirks, eyeing his nephew, “all good?”
“you need the space again” choso holds your hand this time, glaring at his uncle,
sukuna exits first, revealing another man standing beside the door. “something like that. don’t tell your gramps.”
choso hums digging for the theaters keys in his pocket, “don’t tell him about today then,” he tosses the set,
“I don’t talk to that old man anyways,” sukuna catches them. “take the girl out for dinner, can’t just keep fucking her here.”
“dude!”
you glare at the uncle making him smirk wider, shooting you a wink.
choso leads you to the exit as you hold his arm, “your uncle is weird,” you grumble.
“yeah, sorry ‘bout him,” choso catches toji, accepting the wink he gives the kid before exiting the theater. “but uh—you down for dinner—on me?”
you smile, lips still stained blue, “yup. and we needa get plan-b.”
“oh shit!”
a/n: sorry ending if the ending felt rushed! but I hope u guys enjoyed the fic, i just couldn’t get movie theater worker choso out of my head!! (divider by @/strangergraphics)
Hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision.
ᰔ pairing. babysitter/boxing au - underground boxer & babysitter!gojo x college student!reader (f)
ᰔ summary. when underground boxer gojo satoru becomes a little strapped for cash, he gets a day job as a babysitter for a five-year-old kid named yuuji who most definitely has adhd (but that’s besides the point). the kid’s mom gave gojo two rules, and two rules only: don’t accidentally kill my son, and do not flirt with my daughter. he’s pretty sure he’s got a good hold on the former, but he’s got no self control over the latter.
ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, smut, casual sex, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of crack, slight age gap (reader’s 22 & gojo’s 27), cum play, creampie, unprotected sex, praise kink, slight degradation, gojo is a sleazebag that cares?, sort of porn-coded smut except there’s a lil bit of lore so it’s kinda porn w plot, uhh having sex with risk of getting caught, gojo beats people up at night & then plays father figure to a 5 y/o during the day, mentions of violence/alcohol/drugs/blood/cigarettes
ᰔ word count. 12.6k
a/n. hiiii friends jeez it feels like FOREVER since i've posted some good ol' smut (still has plot tho xd)...hopefully you enjoy n see ya at the bottom! lmk if i missed any warnings! if you asked to be tagged but didn’t get tagged it’s bc you have your tags off aaa :( even when some ppl tried to fix it i still couldn’t tag them i’m sorry!!
alsoooooo so very much love to @starmapz for beta reading this for me :”) really helped me w my posting nerves haha. she is also a wonderful jjk author pls go check out her works!! 💕 ART CREDITS: @/3-aem
➸ masterlist
2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): heyy um i’m sorry if this comes off kinda rude i just am kinda bad with this but i was wondering if you could text my mom for questions about yuuji’s care instead of me?
2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sorry i know my mom doesn’t know much ab how to take care of him bc i was the one that took care of him for a while but i just really want to separate myself from that guardian role now that i’ve transferred to NYU yknow? :/ i think it’s not my place anymore. i just wanna be big sis now haha
2:46pm Gojo Satoru: I get it. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable with my texts
2:48pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): no no not uncomfy by it, thanks for looking after him. it’s just i’m kind of busy n stuff so it can be distracting
2:49pm Gojo Satoru: Ok, got it
2:52pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): and it was kind of an issue with his last babysitter
2:53pm Gojo Satoru: Oh?
2:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeahhh like he would keep textinf me n stuff uhh kinda weird things… i told my mom about it and she was super pissed so she fired him
2:55pm Gojo Satoru: Weird things?
2:56pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah he was always “accidentally sexting me” n like he sent me a dick pic once sooooo yeah
2:56pm Gojo Satoru: Who tf
2:56pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll go beat him up
2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): oh no no its fine lol
2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): please dont beat anyone up
2:58pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i’m not saying you’re like him tho i just think maybe less texting unless its an emergency okay?
3:00pm Gojo Satoru: Are you sure because I will totally go beat him up for you
3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO I DONT WANT YOU TO BEAT ANYONE UP FOR ME
3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): also no offense but you dont look like you could beat someone up
3:01pm Gojo Satoru: WHAT
3:02pm Gojo Satoru: Tf you mean “no offense” that’s literally the most offensive thing you could say to a guy
3:04pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeaa i mean you have muscles ofc but in the ‘ohhh i wanna look good for instagram’ way and not like real man muscles yknow
3:06pm Gojo Satoru: Ok princess next time you visit home and go on one of your stupidly large grocery hauls I’ll make sure you carry all those groceries in by yourself
3:06pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO
3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): I WAS JUST JOKING
3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): YOURE SO STRONG TY FOR ALWAYS CARRYING THE GROCERIES INSIDE
3:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): PLEASE KEEP CARRYING MY GROCERIES INSIDE
3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Nah
3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Should we be texting right now? I’m not sensing any emergencies here
3:11pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): pls. my groceries :(
3:16pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll let the kiddo know you say hi 👋🏼
The irony of it all was that, if Gojo really wanted to, he absolutely could beat the shit out of someone. And he has, hundreds of times, pseudo professionally. Although that isn’t something he’d admit to you, out of fear that you might relay that info back to your mom who would then become mortified that she’s entrusted her five-year-old son’s life to the hands of an underground boxer.
But he needed the money. A night-time job didn’t really make daytime money, not when they could easily replace him with the next dude the second he gets knocked out of the ring more than twice, let alone if he let it happen once. And although he sometimes made large sums, it wasn’t stable income. He needed a back-up plan, and so babysitting it was.
The babysitter working nights at unsanctioned dojos and gyms located in the back of cartel blocks, knocking teeth out of men twice his size, would put any decent mother into a coma or induce some episode of syncope, hence why it wasn’t something he put on his resume before he got hired. Not that he even needed to provide a resume; your mom seemed desperate to cover the position as fast as possible, that promotion at work was moving faster than she wanted to, and Gojo’s beneficial attribute that he possessed as a candidate to look after her son, compared to all the other potential hires, was that he had a penis.
He likes the kid. Yuuji. He’s got kind of a short attention span, and makes Gojo weary of his age. Hold up, that makes him sound like he’s geriatric, he’s really only the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but the immortality and infinite stamina that a five-year-old boy has on him is enough to have him huffing and puffing at the end of every single evening shift he takes on with the rascal.
Fighting is all sprint, and no stamina. Sure, there might be some more seasoned boxers that might disagree with him, but for someone as young as him in the field, it’s the tactic he’s been forced to gain. If he draws a fight on for too long, he'll get killed by a forty-two year old man with steroids clogging up his adipose tissue and enough testosterone to grow a full-body beard by the time the sun starts to set. No, his strategy is to knock them out within the first fifteen seconds. Use their weight against them, and whatnot. A tactic he’s found has worked, since he’s been undefeated thus far.
He can never wrap his head around it. The drug lords that run the rings who’ve gained millions the night before from selling crystal meth only to lose it all the night following in the second Gojo hooklines a solid punch to their betting boxer’s chin, making them see God & their Momma before they tap out (if they’re even able).
He doesn’t pocket much money from it, not anything compared to what the men who bet on him end up making at least, but it’s a decently solid sum. How lucrative it really is depends solely on what he thinks the value of his life is.
It’s not unheard of, boxers dying in the ring. Turns out, rich drug dealers care very little about the sheep they’ve captured to perform their entertaining little stunts. But Gojo wasn’t doing all of this to feel some sense of work-life pride, no, it was just sustenance. When basic needs are not met, humans resort to the most animalistic of all behaviors, and while he’s not proud of what he does, he can’t deny the fact that it’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie that gets a rush in his veins every time he knocks a jaw loose.
But balance was key. And hence why he’s a boxer by night, babysitter by day. For at least four days a week, he gets to pretend he’s the king’s most trusted appointed knight, or he’s the radioactive tyrannosaurus rex that wants to tyrannize all the other dinosaurs, or maybe he’s the evil power ranger (he always forgets which color that one was) that is determined to make the world a living hell by smashing mr. potatohead against the bunk bed post a billion times for all the other toys to see. Or whatever other imaginative hyperfixations Yuuji imposes on him in the later afternoon once he’s had his bowl of spaghetti-O’s and is ready to play. Lately, the kid’s been really into space. They’ve got all sorts of space toys these days. Back in Gojo’s day, he just had a good ol’ Buzz Lightyear.
“One rule, that’s it: don’t accidentally kill my son. Actually, one more rule. Don’t flirt with my daughter.”
There’s a part of Gojo that believes your mom kind of knows he’s up to shady shit at night, otherwise why else would she clause for him to not flirt with you if she didn’t read the slight swell to his eye and the healing gash across his cheek as anything other than this boy is trouble and I want him nowhere near my too-good-for-him daughter of reproductive capacity since that’s the exact tale of how I became a single mother in the first place. Or maybe he inherently looks like he’s up to no good? He’s not sure which angle is more offensive, and which one was more flattering. Well in any case, she entrusted Yuuji’s life to him, despite acknowledging the plausibility of harm, and that means she overall thinks positively of him, right? ……right?
The first night he met you, it was awkward to say the least. Gojo spends most of his nights performing deadly stunts for middle aged men with potbellies, and most of his days hanging out with a five-year-old (one who he’d argue is his only friend at this point). Sure, he’s got some people he sees occasionally back in his high school hometown when he can brave hearing about how everyone’s in college now or doing a masters or they’re working respectable nine-to-five day jobs meanwhile he has to lie to his Pops that he’s been working in insurance for the past two years. Listen, in fairness, he probably makes the same amount of money as an insurance broker would anyways, but he can’t exactly own up to the identity of his craft.
Anyways, the point is, he’s not used to seeing other people his age anymore. There’s the occasional hook-up with girls he hasn’t seen since Mrs. Tracy’s homeroom period back in sweet two-thousand-sixteen, or his twice-a-year hangout with Suguru where he only learns the day of where he's visiting from since the guy moves around more than Gojo can keep up with. But save for that, he mostly just sees your mom and then Yuuji.
So seeing you standing in the kitchen for the first time when he went to put Yuuji’s half-finished GoGurt back in the fridge was startling to say the least. When the sight of a woman startled him, he knew he needed to start getting out again.
You were on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab at something over the fridge, and wearing these ridiculously short shorts to where he could see the curve of your ass, his line of sight trailing down the skin of your bare legs. He couldn’t see anything of your form above your shorts, given you were wearing an extremely baggy t-shirt with NYU on it in big bolded university letters. As far as he knew, you were a senior at NYU, studying psychology, made dean’s list consecutively for the past three years given the way your mother posted all your stellar transcripts up on the fridge (he gets that she’s proud of her daughter, but doesn’t that kind of stuff usually end in grade school?) But other than that, it was all the information he had on you.
“Here,” he said, pressing his front to your back, maybe just to get a feel, as he reached over to you to finally grab the box of cereal you were swatting for, the one that he purposefully placed at the back because Yuuji learned how to climb counters recently. “Is this what you want?”
He had heard you gasp, spinning around on your heel fast, staring up at him with wide eyes like you weren’t expecting some random man to be in the house right now, and your first instinct ended up being to grab the knife out of the kitchen knife block and lunge it straight at his torso.
If it wasn’t for his boxer reflexes, he’d have ended up at the ER that evening. Or dead. All depending on the strength you could pack into a stab. But instead, he deflected it, though not without a gash to his torso through the fabric of his shirt, one that you spent the rest of the evening profusely apologizing for and eventually mending to with cotton balls and neosporin.
“I didn’t know you were my little brother’s babysitter,” you mumbled with a small wince on your face as you dabbed ointment on the wound while he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his shoulder. He’s never had an injury tended to before. It was nice.
“It’s fine, I get it, totally acceptable response to seeing a random dude in your house.”
He remembers the curl of your eyelashes while you stared down at his bare upper half, something he imprinted on his memory rather than the concern in your face as your fingertips traced the scars across his chest. He hoped they made you feel better about the one you just slashed into him, because after all, what was one more?
He knows he shouldn’t have, but he kissed you that night. Two minutes before your mom came home, and right after you bid him goodnight with one more apology, he backed you up against the door of your bedroom, his hands on your hips pulling you towards him, and his lips pressed against yours. Something seamless, from candid conversation that was heading towards an end, to full fledged making out against white-painted wood, his teeth nipping at your lip and he wondered just how touch-starved those university boys were leaving you given the desperate way you’d clinged to his shirt for dear life as he deepened the kiss.
The moment only lasted one minute and fifty-seven seconds, and in the remaining three, your mother’s key pushed into the front door and he had to pull away. Always, on the dot, 10PM, she was home. It was how he knew he had two minutes left to make a move in the first place.
So much for no flirting.
6:57pm Gojo Satoru: Bahahah I accidentally forgot where yuuji’s epipen is
6:58pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]
6:59pm Gojo Satoru: Turns out this can-o-soup was just covering it in the cabinet
7:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): ??? why did you need to find his epipen
7:08pm Gojo Satoru: Oh he accidentally took a bite of my pad thai
7:09pm Gojo Satoru: I freaked cuz I thought it had peanuts in it but I remember I asked for it without any
7:09pm Gojo Satoru: shit’s crazy
7:10pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU TEXT ME????????
7:12pm Gojo Satoru: YOU SAID YOU DIDNT WANT ME TEXTING YOU UNLESS IT WAS AN EMERGENCY ?
7:13pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): SATORU YOU THOGHT HE ATE SOMETHING W PEANUTS IN IT AND YOU FORGOT WHERE HIS EPIPEN WAS THATSS A FUCKIGN EMERGENCY
7:15pm Gojo Satoru: THE KID IS DOING FINE HES ALIVE JESUS LEAVE ME ALONE
7:16pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]
7:16pm Gojo Satoru: See. he’s chill
7:17pm Gojo Satoru: with intact airways might I add
7:18pm Gojo Satoru: Also isn’t he a little too old to still be watching baby sensory videos?
7:20pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah my mom thinks he has adhd :(
7:22pm Gojo Satoru: oh
He tried to keep his word though (although he doesn’t recall ever giving it) out of the respect he had for your mom. She was a hard-working lady, single mom of two who went from working three jobs to now being a major administrator at a big law firm near the outskirts of town. It was an underdog story if he’d ever heard one, and he loved an underdog story.
But a little texting here and there wouldn’t hurt, right? Or so he thought, until you told him to cut it out with the contact. Maybe you were just trying to be the good one in this situation. After all, hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision. Still, he’ll eventually get your replies to his which shirt should Yuuji wear to the park? and look, the toothfairy gave him the butt of a joint and a couple thumbtacks for his front tooth. he’s ecstatic texts, although in a less timely manner than before when you weren’t trying to preserve propriety. And when you’d occasionally visit every other weekend, he’d do his best to keep his hands in his pockets, and you’d fill up your nights with hangouts with your hometown friends to avoid spending too much time with him at the house. A silent agreement to not fuck each other, it was.
4:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): send pic of yuuji pls i miss him :(
5:04pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]
5:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): IS THAT BLOOD?!?!?!?!
5:09pm Gojo Satoru: chillllllll it’s fake. We’re working on his halloween costume
5:09pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY DOES IT HAVE BLOOD?!?!?!?!?!?
5:10pm Gojo Satoru: He wants to be a baby xenomorph and I'm his parasitic host. You know that iconic chestburster scene from the old school alien movies? yeah
5:12pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): satoru please for the love of god just dress him up as a dinosaur or something
5:13pm Gojo Satoru: I’m not the one that came up with the idea, okay? It was him
5:14pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): because you let him watch adult swim with you before putting him to bed. you’ve deranged his brain.
5:14pm Gojo Satoru: He needs it. Builds character.
Gojo was living a double life, and if someone asked him, he’d say it was less of a Clark Kent way and more of a Bruce Wayne way, although in reality, he knows it’s close to neither. He’s no superhero with a concealed identity fighting crime, he’s a con artist that’s tricked a hard-working woman into hiring him just because he’s trying to save up enough money to get the fuck out of this godforsaken town, given he’s not knocked dead before then for the crime’s amusement.
But Yuuji looks up to him now. And Gojo’s grown attached to him too. He taught the kid how to tie his own shoes and piss inside the actual toilet like a real man. And that kid’s the only thing that’s made him question any of this. Maybe that’s what dads feel, suddenly held to all this impossible responsibility and the pressure to stop doing stupid shit so that you’ll stick around to see your kids get older. The thought that there are eyes on you now, eyes that are innocent and hopeful and learning, and because they know nothing at all, you feel the responsibility to protect them from everything. For fucks sake, remind him to never become a dad.
“Do you like my sister?” Yuuji had asked him out of nowhere one afternoon after he just got home from preschool, stacking a blue cube over a yellow one at the dining table.
“Uhh,” Gojo starts. He wondered if your mom had put a wire on the kid, so his answer was as diplomatic as he could manage. “Yeah, she’s cool. You’ve got a cool sister.”
“But. But.” Yuuji stutters, trying to find his big boy words. He stretches up higher to reach the top of his stack of blocks, but he only has so much arm real estate at the age of five. “Do you like her like you wanna kiss her?”
Gojo grabs the block from the kid’s hand, for a moment questioning Yuuji’s decision to want to put a blue block over another blue block, but he figures aesthetics are the least of a kid’s concern, and so he places the block where Yuuji wanted it.
Why does the kid know what kissing is anyway? Do kids know that kind of stuff at that age? Isn’t a kiss to a five-year-old just something their mom gives to them before they head off to preschool for the day? And not something that happens between adult men and women? Maybe he should stop watching that adult swim in front of him.
“No. I don’t want to kiss your sister,” he says, again, because he is suspicious of a wire. It was a lie and then some, because he wants to do a lot more than just kiss you.
Gojo lifts the RedBull he was nursing up to his lips and watches Yuuji in the corner of his eye as the kid stares at his growing stack of blocks with a concentrated expression on his face, his chubby fingers squeezing tightly into little round dimpled balls, like he’s putting together all his tiny brain cells together to form another coherent thought before turning to face Gojo on the chair.
“It’s ok. You can kiss her if you wan’ed to. You can marry her too,” Yuuji says.
Gojo almost spits out his RedBull. He barely manages to swallow it, a broken cough immediately leaving his throat when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he’s smacking a fist against his chest to knock the sanity back into himself.
“Where the fu—…where the flip did that come from?” he asks, blinking back tears from the rasp in his throat.
Yuuji’s small shoulders sulk as he sits back on his heels. “I want a papa.”
Oh fuck that hurt. Jesus christ, there was nothing more sad than that. Yuuji has literally never known what it’s like to have a dad, since his had left before he was even born. Gojo’s not really close to his old man by any means, but he had still been a fatherly figure in some pivotal moments when he had needed it growing up. Kids need their dads. And he’s seen enough people lose their way without one to know that the value of them is really underestimated.
He’s also kind of shocked that Yuuji really did think of you as his motherly figure. Maybe since it had always just been him and his dad, Gojo learned how to self sustain from a young age, and he and his dad became accustomed to just looking after their own interests to avoid the headache of tending to one another. My land is my land, and your land is yours, and there was the occasional Saturday night spent together with his dad’s millions of beer bottles emptied dry on the carpet in front of the 1992 box TV as the two shared a greasy pizza from the place down the street. That was the extent of family solidarity that he knew.
But he can’t imagine being barely eighteen and having to take care of your little brother all by yourself because your mom was too busy trying to put food on the table and was too poor to hire a babysitter. Your mom tried so damn hard to keep you away from the single teenage mother life, but somehow ended up giving it to you by proxy in the end anyway. It was no wonder you wanted space now that Yuuji’s a little older and your mom can afford a babysitter. No matter how much you might love your sibling, being their effective guardian out of pure necessity had to have taken a toll.
Gojo clears his throat before he speaks. “Buddy. If I married your sister, we’d be brothers. I wouldn’t be your dad.”
Yuuji’s eyes light up at the word brother. “Brothers? Me and you?”
“Yeah. Bros.”
The kid giggles, all bubbly with cheeks rounding fully and eyes sparkling. Gojo reaches out to ruffle at his hair before Yuuji gets down onto one stubby leg at a time from the chair then bolts towards the kitchen.
“Juice!!” he yells somewhere around the corner out of sight.
Gojo sighs, staring at all the toys he pulled out for Yuuji to play with, all left in a scattered mess across the table. He gets up out of his chair and heads towards the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your juice, you little demon.”
The conclusion he comes to, and it might read like an obvious one, is that kids don’t really know the reality of life, hence why adults hide so much from them.
This is what he thinks of tonight when he wraps his worn out boxing tape around his hands and his wrist, tightening it with his teeth, and he can smell the sweat and grime from them. The back of the underground gym had an old dated locker room, and as Gojo stretches his neck side to side while sitting on the stiff metal bench, he eyes the peeling red paint of the locker in front of him, blurring vision making it look like spilt blood.
His phone pings with a text. He shuffles inside his duffle bag to look for it while his other hand scratches at his bare chest.
1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): omgomgomg sor y i’m
He blinks at the screen, confusion flashing across his face. He types one letter, but then he sees three dots and a speech text bubble in the bottom left, so he waits for you.
1:09am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i drunk :(
The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly.
1:09am Gojo Satoru: Yeah I can tell
1:10am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): at a apartyyyy
His eyebrows raise slightly, the thought of you tipsy on some frat party couch flashing through his mind, yet of all things you could be doing at that frat party, you’re texting him? Must be a really boring party.
1:11am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): whyyy are you aawake?
1:12am Gojo Satoru: Couldn’t sleep
1:12am Gojo Satoru: Don’t you have a midterm in the morning?
1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): wtf hwo do you knwo that
1:15am Gojo Satoru: Your mom keeps your schedule posted on the fridge
1:15am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): im so fucked;’;(((
He snorts. He’s got a bit more life experience than you, five-ish years to be exact, more than enough time to master the no-hangover hangout, but just before he can offer you some advice, he sees another text from you.
1:16am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): can i tell u smething
His gaze flits up to the ceiling briefly, and he hears commotion outside the thick walls of the locker room. The previous fight was over, and fast. The guy must’ve been knocked out in under twenty seconds tops, which means that Gojo was next up against whatever superbeast just beat him up.
1:17am Gojo Satoru: Sure
He stands up, placing his phone down on the bench before he flexes the muscles in his arms a couple times to get the blood flowing into them. And there’s the noise of another ping. Actually, four.
1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sonetimes
1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i thikn of
1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): when u kisse me
1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): *kissed me
His eyes widen slightly, irises dry to the ashy cigarette smoke from outside lingering in the air, and his heart rate picks up a bit. An adrenaline junkie with close to no fear in his veins due to the way his amygdala’s been fried to a crisp from years of boxing, yet he’s got his breath hitched from the memory of your soft lips against his. It makes the blood rushing through the muscles of his arms rush somewhere down south instead.
Loud banging on the door of the locker room jolts him out of his trance, and he’s stiff around the edges once more.
“Satoru! You’re up, man,” he hears Danny, the fight coordinator, yell at him from the other side of the heavy & poorly-installed steel door.
Gojo sighs, glancing down at the texts on his phone. To respond, or not to respond. You’re off your face, clearly chatty from the alcohol, and he knows for certain you’ll regret every life decision you’ve ever made once you wake up in the morning and see the self sabotaging behaviors you’ve engaged in tonight. He knows that responding to you might put you at ease rather than straight up ignoring you, but the feeling will pass, and he has a match to win with no more room left to stall.
He makes his way out the locker room, pushing past the crowded halls of people underneath dim flashing club lighting, some dudes angrily jerking to face him when he pushes past them with a stiff shoulder, only for their eyes to widen when they see just exactly who pushed them.
There’s strippers in the ring, doing some routine for pre-match, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man he sees laying back over the rubber boundary rope, head tipped back up to the ceiling with a wicked grin on his face. So that was his opponent? He’s never seen the guy before. Was he from a different district? Different district talent was tough, you had no background info on them, while they’ve been preparing to be here for weeks. Hence why boxers tend to do better when they visit a different district than they do in their own. There have been rules made to limit these types of fights, mostly over outrage that it was unfair to bid on them, but they were also usually more entertaining to watch. Gojo’s got a sick feeling to his stomach as the strippers clear the ring.
“Hey,” Gojo calls out, grabbing Danny by the back of his collar and dragging him towards him and away from the girls stepping down onto the floor, “what’s in for this fight?”
Danny glances up at the ceiling. “Tarp’s bettin’ tonight, so it can’t be anything less than ten grand for you. I’d say tops fifteen?”
Gojo narrows his eyes further, then glances off into the ring again. The man stands up, and Gojo gets a better look on his face. He’s got short hair, neon green in color with a dark fade underneath and tattoos all over his face. But those eyes. They were freakishingly red, and it made him uneasy. He knows the type. The type of boxers that do this to genuinely hurt people for thrill. Make no mistake, Gojo understands he’s made himself out to be like that too, gaining some kind of rush out of this profession, but this type of fighter was different. The type to literally continue smashing a dude’s face into the floor until they’re a bloody mess even minutes after the winning call, and no referee to stop it because that’s the kind of action the spectators wanted.
Danny reads his line of sight. “That’s Gale. Newton’s new boxing toy. Came outta nowhere about a month ago. He’s undefeated so far in his district, and Newton specifically wanted to see you up against him tonight,” Danny tells Gojo, resting his elbow up on his bare shoulder. “Chances are he’ll compete with Tarp for final bid if you win this one. I’m talking twenty-five grand in the next if you can knock him out in this.”
“Uh-huh,” Gojo acknowledges, rolling his shoulder so Danny’s elbow falls from it. Forget the money, he just wants to make it out of this alive.
He sets his foot up on the square, ducking through the dividing boundary straps and the tacky caution construction tape that the gym thinks creates an exciting ambience. He hears the static of the speakers as the announcers call out Gojo’s name, then this other guy, loud bass club music booming through Gojo’s chest as he tries to take a few deep breaths through the thick air of this low-ceiling arena.
The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows over the makeshift ring, and the crowd pressed tight around at every perimeter area, yelling and pushing, one even tosses a beer bottle on the square and it shatters, spreading glass all across, a few shards reaching Gojo’s feet and he looks down at them with a shudder. A fight immediately breaks out in the crowd over something related or possibly entirely unrelated, and he’d have no way of knowing as he swipes the shards away with his heel.
The influential men always sat up on higher seating, off towards the back in their own VIP section where they suck in the smoke of fat cigarettes and peer through 100% tinted sunglasses to assess the boxers they’ve bid thousands on. The light reflects off the golden grills of their teeth with every snarl at any passerby that gets too close, like a lion in its den. That’s what the sanction was called. Lion’s den.
Gojo sighed, eyeing the twisted grin of this Gale guy across from him. Was that his real name? Usually, foreign district guys get nicknames. Gojo’s always thought the nicknames were tacky, and he’s accumulated some of his own over the years, but to his ears, none of them ever really landed, although The White Fox admittedly was kinda nice. Reminded him of throwback shooting games.
He sucked a breath in through his teeth, holding his hands up in front of his chest in weak fists, storing energy in them in the form of pure anticipation alone, and then the bell rang.
His opponent lunged towards him immediately, fists flying in a barrage of reckless strikes, and Gojo’s eyes momentarily widened in the briefest moments of hesitation he had been allowed before ducking and dodging every one of this guy's shots, then jumping a step back to create distance.
Fuck. He was fast. Not just boxer fast, athlete fast. There was a difference. And it wasn’t a good one to be up against.
Gojo picked up light on his feet. He couldn’t win this one fast, that much was certain. One single careless or reckless move, and he’ll get tackled. He knows that by the malicious look he sees on that guy’s face, grin wide like he’s some cannibalistic beast.
Stepping back towards the center, Gojo purposefully set himself up for Gale to swipe a vicious hook towards his head, before Gojo last minute ducked down, crouched to the floor, and swung his leg out to knock the guy off balance by his ankles, and he falls onto his back with a loud thud!
There’s a moment of momentary silence from the crowd, right before Gojo put the man in a torso-lock, twisting him in a way a human body should absolutely not be twisted, hearing the grunts of pain and the crack of spine even through the shouts of the crowd.
He can hear it. Kill him! Knock his fucking teeth out! Snap his neck like a goose, man! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM!
He feels like throwing up.
Gojo looks up at the referee, who wasn’t really a referee, just there to run the clock when there was action and only barely stop it before near death. “This is enough, right?” he asks.
The referee nods. “1-0, next round.”
Gojo lets go of his opponent, leaving him there to heave for a moment before he gets up onto his feet again. Just needs one more, and he’s a winner. Ten grand in his pocket, and he won’t have to come back here for a couple weeks.
Gale gets up, swiping at the spit that had trickled out the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and he had an enraged look on his face. The second the bell rang for the second round, he exploded forward towards Gojo with even more fervor than before, gritted expression with a thirst for violence fueling the storm of punches he was throwing towards Gojo but he tried to remain calm, light on his feet, swiftly duck and avoid before he can find another opportunity to clear a sharp, clean jab right to the ribs—
sometimes, i think of when you kissed me
Gojo misses his strike, leaving his guard wide open, and Gale takes the opportunity to land a solid punch straight to his jaw, sending his mouth guard flying straight out of his mouth into the air, and knocking him backwards onto the ground with a thud and then he finds himself staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and a ringing in his ears that almost matches the roar of the crowd.
His head is in a haze, dizzy like where one second could feel like a millennia. He feels a soreness underneath his chin, a pain that radiates to his mouth, and he briefly swipes his tongue over his front teeth to make sure he still has all of them.
What the fuck was that? That intrusive thought. There’s no intrusive thoughts allowed in life or death situations, not when he was always just one smash to the head away from a permanent concussion. But, fuck, he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking of you. Even when his vision has gone blurry and he should really be weary about what happens next in this ring, his mind’s just thinking about you, at some frat party, tipping back shots of tequila and waiting for a text-back in response to your tipsy ones. Were you even waiting up on him? Have you already passed out on the couch, or were your friends dragging you back to your dorm? Or are you fucking some other dude right now? Has he got his hand up your top, squeezing at you, sleazily feeling you up before spilling beer all down your shirt, and are you kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, your phone now somewhere long slipped between the cushions of the couch and out of sight?
Even though it’s still sore, he tenses his jaw. Grinds his teeth, even. Tasting blood somewhere along the line of his gums, he realizes his lip is split. He licks at it, the flavor of copper more rich on his tongue, and he clenches his fists tightly. Why’s he thinking of that right now? It just pisses him off, the thought of you with some other dude. Maybe that’s what he needs to win this fight. Spite. Although he’s not sure why the guy across from him at the ring has to pay for it.
He lifts his head up off the ground, and while it felt like years he had been down, a glance at the timer tells him it’s only been a solid four seconds. A solid four seconds that his opponent had to fully charge a lunge towards him with the look of death in his face, raising his elbow up into the air in time with his leap, ready to come straight down, and Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight above him from where he’s still lying on the wood.
“Shit—” he cusses, rolling his body over to the side so that the dude falls straight down onto the floor rather than elbow Gojo in the fucking ribs, and then he gets back up on his feet.
Stakes were high, he has to end this, he has to end this now, and he flexes the muscle in his right bicep, channeling everything he has into this one blow, and before Gale even really has a chance to turn around and face him again, Gojo’s already three-fourths set up a knockout undercut that he drives straight up the guy’s chin, with so much force it has him lifting up off the floor, a vertebrate stretch to his spine before he’s sent flying backwards and slammed against the tight rubber lining of the ring to where he was half hanging over it.
The room fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a roar as the referee fell to one knee beside Gale, checking him for any semblance of consciousness, and when he found none, he waves the match off.
Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the lion’s den, the only opinions that he really needed to care about were sitting in those mahogany chairs with glasses of scotch swirling around in their hands, and he sees some of them looking straight at Gojo before leaning towards one another and discretely talking about something he can’t make out because he doesn’t know how to read lips.
He feels someone tug at his arms from behind, pulling him to crouch down and he balances back on the balls of his feet. He glances down through the ring at the floor. Danny was leaning against the wooden surface of it. “Dude. Go.” He jerks his head towards Gale, who still laid there sprawled across the now stretched out rubber perimeter bands. “Go fuck him up. Knock a few more teeth out, I don’t know, get some more blood out of him.”
“What?” Gojo huffs, yanking his arm away from Danny’s grip. “The fuck are you saying?”
“I told you, man, Newton’s here and he’s got his eye on you. Go give him a show,” Danny says, “do it.” And when he sees clear frustration on Gojo’s face he sighs. “Twenty-five grand, consider that, will you?”
Gojo sneers at the man, an awful taste in his mouth as he spits blood towards Danny’s feet. “Go fuck yourself on his cock if he wants a show that bad.” And then he ducks underneath the bands and hops back down onto the floor, pushing past people who were trying to grab at him and pull at him and lift him up and even throw him down until he made it through flashing hallways and back to the locker room.
He shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt lock into the frame so no one can follow him inside, and then he leans his weight back against the chilling steel before tipping his head back until it hits the surface too.
He lets out of a few deep breaths, then stares down at the sting he finds over his knuckles. Red and blistering from the last punch he delivered, and he’s almost certain he broke a bone in his hand. Fuck. It was bleeding across the cuts, too. He had to figure out a way to get it all healed by tomorrow, as if that was humanly possible, just because he doesn’t want Yuuji questioning him about it.
Yuuji. For fucks sake, when has he ever thought about the kid this much? When has he ever thought about much of anything when he’s out here or in the ring? He’s a babysitter by day. He’s a “part” of your family when the sun is up and normal functioning society is breathing their lives into the clean air. That’s it. He’s no five-year-old’s caretaker in front of all these primetime drug lords, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of you when facing big, burly men he’s aiming to rough up, all within the dead hours of night. So then how come these thoughts are on his mind at all times, twenty-four-seven, around the clock?
He heads further into the locker room, glancing down at the bench where he’d left his phone, then picks it up, neck craned all the way down to glance at the screen as he holds his phone by his hip because he doesn’t have any energy to pick it up any further towards his eyesight.
He sees your messages. You never sent any follow-up ones, just your horrendously typed out sonetimes, i thikn of when u kisse me *kissed me across the span of four texts, and Gojo runs a tired hand down his face.
He tips his head back to groan at the ceiling, guttural with no basis other than a release of all the pent up frustration of every sort, then he types in a couple messages to you,
3:23am Gojo Satoru: That’s nice
3:24am Gojo Satoru: I think about fucking you all the time
—and then tosses his phone into his duffel bag to call it a night.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
You’re awoken to your alarm blaring heavily, and you whack your arm across your nightstand table beside your tiny twin-size bed to hit the snooze button, then rub your eye with a loose fist while smacking at the residual taste of alcohol you have on your tongue.
“Mm…” you mumble to yourself. And then the thirst hits you. The overwhelming, intense, unquenchable thirst that leaves your mouth feeling like the Sahara desert before you grab your twice-dented Hydroflask from the nightstand, twist the cap off and chug about twenty ounces of water in one breath.
You let out a deep exhale and fall back into bed, your hand resting on top of your water-filled tummy, and you stare up at the ceiling of your dorm.
Last night was horrible. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that frat party, especially given you have an exam in—you checked the time on your phone—about an hour, and an hour was not enough time to recover from the raging hangover headache that’s pounding through your head. But your roommates insisted you went, and so go you did. You never knew what to expect, always torn between shaving your pussy before you go or throwing on a stained pair of sweatpants to keep the guys away instead. Sometimes, it was a combination of both. But last night, you ended up drinking more than you usually do, and that always led to poor, poor, poor decisions, in which all the sense of pride you had in yourself was washed down with the puke that you hurled into the upstairs toilet.
You grab at your phone again, briefly seeing that your friends had sent you some photos from the night. You immediately swiped off to the side to dismiss the notifications, because as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see those photos in your life.
And then, in the briefest of moments, you saw a familiar name in your notifications that made you heart skip a beat.
Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter)
With an immediate gasp, you pulled your phone to your chest and held it there, blinking up at the pale yellow ceiling, your heart picking up in rhythm.
Oh fuck.
That was right.
You drunk texted him last night.
You drunk texted your little brother’s hot babysitter.
Fuck.
Mortified was an understatement, possibly because you don’t even remember what you said, and so you don’t even want to see what he replied with.
You groan, rubbing both your hands across your face then kick your sheets back with your feet like a child having a temper tantrum because you were so embarrassed you had even texted him at all last night. I mean, he was hot. A little older than you, really gorgeous eyes, tall, and, yeah, you gave him shit for the Instagram muscles thing, but that’s only because you thought he’d find it cheeky that you were trying to humble him despite the fact that he’s more toned and ruggedly sculpted than any other man you’ve ever met. You didn’t want to have a flustered schoolgirl attitude because it would just seep through to his ego.
In any case, he was hot, there was no denying it, so can you really blame yourself? But still. There was collateral with this. You had to see him every other weekend. He knows your family, even your extended since they invited him to Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago. A high-risque drunk text recipient if he ever was one (of course he has been, look at that face). Why couldn’t you have just drunk texted ECON160 guy from last semester who Clit DJ’d you underneath your desk at the back of the lecture hall instead?
The thing that made you nervous about Gojo Satoru was that he was just so…confident? Like, in that I was raised to be this way confident and not that I fought inner demons my whole life to barely end up this way confident, y’know? Never had to fake it ‘til he made it, he just was. At least that was the kind of energy you got from him, and unfortunately for you, it was nerve wracking but enticing all at the same time.
You sigh. “Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuuuupiiiiidddddddddddd. You. Are. So. Stuuuuuupiiiiddddddd,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair to grip at the strands.
You pull your phone away from your chest, and finally brave yourself to read the texts from your notifications screen, but not without blurring your vision a little to further stall. And then you finally refocus it to read them. The first one you see has you gasping—
3:24am Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter): I think about fucking you all the time
It has heat spreading across your cheeks, and you blink at your screen, then quickly swipe up to read the previous messages with rushed glides of your index finger on the screen to see that he had sent it to you in response to your barely coherent texts about how you still so often think about that time he randomly pressed you up against the door of your bedroom to kiss you that night you first met him.
I think about fucking you all the time
At 3 in the morning? He decided to send that text at 3 in the fucking morning? That was the devil’s hour. What’s he trying to tell you?
Oh come on, you’re not stupid. And you know he isn’t either. The sexual tension was palpable, it was there since the day you two met and you almost stabbed him, and also everytime you were visiting the house, and his shoulder brushes against yours when he’s trying to get past you in the kitchen, or when you’ve got Yuuji in your arms and the kid is clinging to Gojo’s sleeve because he wants him near him at all times. There’s even sexual tension over the phone, in those stupid texts he sends you all the time about meaningless child care stuff, and honestly, those little updates made your day.
But… you don’t know much about him, and your mom would kill you if she ever found out you wanted him. And she’d probably pulverize him if she found out he ever made a move on you. Cremated without leaving a trace behind would be an understatement. She thinks he’s no good and she thinks you’re too good. You know she’s warned him before to not get close to you, as if she was pre-emptively expecting him to try to get in your pants like it was some canon force of the universe, hence why he’s probably so fucking awkward around you whenever she’s there too. Like if he accidentally got caught staring at your ankles, your mom would light him on fire, so he’d rather not risk it by just avoiding looking at you at all.
Your mom has always been protective of you. Your father was a deadbeat, one she thought she loved, only to watch him leave. And she had to raise a baby all by herself. He re-entered your lives right before you graduated high school, knocked up your mom again with Yuuji, and guess what? Left again without a trace. To be doubly humiliated by a man is a fate you wouldn’t wish on any woman, but that’s exactly what your mom went through. It was a wake-up call for her, though. No more living paycheck to paycheck like you had been your whole lives up until Yuuji was born. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is with everything he has right now. Your mom worked her way up the corporate ladder and made something of herself and now you guys were comfortable, so it was safe to say she had some sort of right to look after her daughter, of whom she simply doesn’t want to follow in the same naive footsteps of her youth.
You get it. She wants to break the generational cycle. But it made being with men tough on all fronts, let alone dating. You could never bring a guy home because he’d never be enough, even if he cured cancer or could make you orgasm while doing a sixty-nine handstand. And while her overbearing paranoia over what you do or where you are or who you’re with has since dimmed slightly since you officially moved out to finish your last year of higher education at NYU, you can still feel her disappointment from a hundred miles away when you’re making out with some random frat guy on his beer-stained couch at eleven AM on a Tuesday.
But you got to college. You’ve already made it this far. You’re on dean’s list. You graduated high school as salutatorian. You’re the most highly decorated cello player in the state. You won Miss County pageant when you were sixteen for your philanthropic efforts towards feline leukemia. You did online community college for three years so you could stick back after high school and help your mom raise Yuuji, which meant that you had to forfeit your scholarship to Cornell. You’ve spent your whole life being good, you just wanna be bad for a little bit.
And if bad meant fucking the hot and mysterious babysitter, then so be it.
You pick your phone up, begin blasting what the hell by Avril Lavigne on your dorm room bluetooth speaker, then type a message to him that says—
10:34am you: do it then
—then shove your phone under the sheets and belt out the lyrics aaaall my life i’ve been good, but now, ahhhh i’m thinkin’ what the hell!!! while kicking your feet and clutching your pillow.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Gojo has no clue what divine entity has overcast their gratuitous spirit over him on this blessed Monday afternoon, but he’ll thank them for it later once his balls are empty.
He’s got you on your back, sprawled across the couch in the living room, the first fuck being a rushed one that you offered him with before he has to go pick Yuuji up from circle time at preschool, which wasn’t ideal, but he’s delirious at the sight of you underneath him right now. Your little NYU shirt, a tighter one this time, bunched up over your bare breasts, otherwise entirely naked other than the flimsy panties dangling at your ankle, and the view of the tip of his cock looking hot and heavy against the velvet of your cunt, slowly pushing in, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around him paired with the sweet moan that leaves your lips, makes him fall forward with a bracing hand dug into the cushion by the side of your head because the sensation feels so fucking good he can hardly keep himself upright.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, pushing himself in further to try and bottom out but he’s still got a couple inches he needs you to take, and so you curl your hips upwards towards the cieling to make more room for him, practically putting yourself into a mating press and soon enough he’s balls deep, “you on any birth control?”
“Uh-huh,” you moan, eyes closed and head tipped back with one hand squeezing your own tit.
“I can cum inside then, yeah?” he asks you, pushing your knees to your chest, slowly drawing his hips back and you squirm underneath him.
“Let’s get there first, and then we’ll discuss,” you breathe out.
“I’ve been there for the past ten minutes, baby. I could cum at any second with the way you look and feel,” he informs you flatly, because it was just the truth and you had to know it, then he feels himself twitch inside, slowly working up to a languid rhythm, almost fearfully like your mom’s going to pop out somewhere around the corner with a camera crew ready like one of those retro TV shows just to humiliate him on national television for not keeping it in his pants like she’d told him to.
“Harder,” he hears you whisper, and he rolls his eyes shut to just focus on the feeling. The feeling of your nails grazing down the skin of his chest and his abs, tracing the scars he’s collected over the years, and he feels you tightening around him. He leans down to kiss you, fucking you properly now with the squeak of the couch springs echoing across the room, your hums of moans seeping through his lips until he’s fully taking them on with an open-mouthed kiss of sloppy tongue.
The fact that it was wrong felt right to him, and he realizes in this moment he’s lost all sense of control. He wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie that liked to rough up dudes, he was an adrenaline junkie that wanted to fuck you against all better judgement or moral compass. The way your tits were bouncing, the slap of skin on skin, his balls slapping against your ass while you wrap your legs around him tighter, all convincing him that any consequence made it worth it.
“Good,” he groans the praise, pinning your hands above your head as he rams his hips against yours, your cute moans and squeals sounding like literal music to his ears and he feels heat spread all the way up his neck, “goooood, keep squeezin’ me like that, fuck.” He slows down momentarily, just to take a moment and watch, really look and see the way his length disappears inside of your pretty self with every push forward, and then he works back up to a relentless pace that has you tipping your head back with a slack jaw and eyes closed tightly shut, sprained expression of pleasure spread across.
“Oh, oh my god, Satoru—” you mewled and he felt dizzy from the sound of his name from your softly parted lips.
“Fuck, I’m gonna—” His hand finds it’s way between your legs, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your clit and you jolt underneath him, gasping as your hand shoots out to dig your nails into his bicep for purchase. “I’m gonna cum, better tell me where you want it.”
“In me,” you moan, “nowhere else.”
He presses his mouth against your cheek in a lazy smile, “Atta girl,” he drawls before pushing your ankles down as far as they’d go near your ears, folding you in half and then reigns all hell into your cunt. He should really care a bit more about your pleasure, but testing your flexibility like this with both his hands holding you down was doing sinful things to his brain, and besides, you had yourself covered with the messy circles you were rubbing over your clit. It was hot to see that too, your nimble pretty fingers so close to the place where he was pounding into you.
“Oh shit, shit, shit—” he grunts when starts to see blistering white in his vision, balls straining with a pleasure that was almost painful. The moment he finishes feels like hot flashes in his brain, a heat like the cum he begins to paint inside your walls in time with your release, thrusting over and over and over, each one more staggered as he lets off a long, drawn out groan that comes from deep within his chest with the feeling of you milking him dry and the sound of you enjoying every second of it. He can’t remember the last time he came this much or this hard and even after coming down from the high, he feels the remnant pulse of your orgasm around his now half-flaccid dick.
He leisurely pulls out, hearing you let out a soft whimper as he marvels at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you and down towards the couch, before he scoops it up with a couple fingers and pushes it back inside. You grip his wrist tightly, but you weren’t stopping it, that motion of him plunging it all back into you.
“Want a taste?” he asks, casually.
“Mhm,” you nod, face looking flush.
He pulls his fingers out of you, coated with sex, then plugs your pussy with the fingers of his other hand because he kinda likes the idea of you walking around all day with him inside of you, so he doesn’t want it getting out. He’s then pushing his other fingers past your lips, pleased to find he’s met with not even so much as a grazing of teeth, and he grins, “bet you take a dick in your mouth as good as you take it down here.”
Your furrow your brows at him, the pout of your lips seen in the way they were puckered to lick his fingers off clean, and when you release the suction with a smack of your tongue and his fingers were wet from your saliva now, his eyes narrow with desire. You push his face away with the heel of your palm to his forehead. “Flattery won’t make me suck your dick.”
“Alright. So? How is it?” he jerks his chin towards your face, pushing against your hand with his forehead until he’s hovering over you again, “taste good?”
“It’s cum, Satoru.”
He shrugs. “Bad?”
“No,” you say, and you can’t make eye contact, “good.” You sigh. “Hot. I don’t know. Salty, sweet. I’m the sweet. You’re the salty. And this conversation is obscene.”
He kisses you, capturing your lips softly, tongue darting out to taste what’s on yours. “I like it that way. Dirty. Nasty. Obscene, whatever.”
There’s the slam of a car door heard from the driveway, and the two of you instantly make eye contact with round eyes.
“Sa—” you stutter, “Satoru.”
He gets up off the couch in a panic, and heads to the window of the living room fully butt-ass naked, then peers through the blinds to see—
Your mom was making it up towards the front door, rustling with her keys in her purse. And the last thing he sees before he turns around to face you is her pushing the keys through the lock.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he cusses, finding his boxers off of the floor, hopping on one foot with his cum & slick coated dick flapping around and slapping against his thighs unceremoniously as he tries to get one leg in through them and then the other. You’re trembling as you hook your panties back into place, pull your shirt back down your torso, and even in his extremely panicked state, he’s still sad he can’t freely stare at your tits anymore. You’re rummaging for your skirt in a haste, looking everywhere for it, and he finds it underneath the coffee table before tossing it to you and then he side-to-side hops towards the coat closet while he pulls his sweatpants up over his ass, in time for you to quickly run and shut the door of the closet closed just before the front door of the house swings open.
The inside of the coat closet is dark, barely enough space in there for a six-foot-four two-hundred-and-twenty pound man, but it’s better than being balls deep inside his boss’s daughter on the couch when said boss just came home from work.
He hears conversation on the other side of the door, albeit muffled, and he presses his ear to it to hear better while he tucks his dick into his boxers from where it was hanging over the waistline.
“Mom! You…you’re home so early,” he hears you squeak out.
“Yes,” your mom says, “The rest of my meetings today are online, so I figured I’d come home when there’s less traffic.”
Gojo feels you lean against the coat closet door.
“I see, I see, how was your day at work?” you ask with a tremble in your voice.
“Fine.” And then nothing. The silence could mean that was all she had to say, since your mom wasn’t really a woman of many words, or it could be a silence that means she’s suspicious about something. “Darling, why is your skirt flipped up and tucked into your panties? Your whole butt is showing.”
Through the wood of the door, he hears you softly gasp. “Oh, um, I just went to pee. Must’ve—…must’ve got caught when I pulled it back up.”
“I see,” your mother says, and Gojo can hear her dropping her heels down near the shoe rack at the entrance. “You know, I really don’t like those short skirts you wear often. Maybe it’s just your generation, but I think it looks tacky and cheap.”
“Mom,” you say, in as stern of a voice as you can manage without sounding embarrassed.
Your mother sighs. “In any case, where is Satoru? I still would like him to go pick up Yuuji. I don’t have the patience to sit in preschool & daycare traffic right now.”
“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” you chirp, and then he hears you let out a small oh no before you lean even more weight against the door, this time somewhere lower, and he realizes you’re pressing your ass against it. His eyes narrow with a small frown, and then he realizes— his cum must still be trickling down your thighs. You couldn’t put your panties on fast enough.
Shit. That’s hot. A little fucked up, but hot. He feels his dick harden against the fabric of his boxers, and he rests his forehead against the door, fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat as he slips his hands down his sweatpants and then gives his cock a firm squeeze. The thought of you discretely swiping his cum up your inner thigh and smearing it against your thin panties so your mom doesn’t catch sight of it dripping down your legs has him slowly working up to a rock-solid erection, and he almost lets out a broken grunt from the feeling.
“What?” your mother says, “what do you mean you don’t know?”
“I’ve just been watching TV this whole time,” you say, “last time I saw him…he was…um, in the backyard pulling weeds?”
He lets out a small scoff through his nose at your cover-up. Cute. And not bad.
Your mother sighs loudly, and he glances down at the strained veins on his dick as he tugs it through his hand, the tip rearing and appearing flushed and dripping with precum. God, you were just on the other side of this door. Less than a few inches away, and he’d be inside of you.
“I’m going to take a shower. Go find him and tell him to pick up Yuuji soon. But before then, change into something less revealing,” your mother says in a more or less detached tone, and he can hear the stomps of her footsteps up the stairs from above him in the coat closet.
The two of you wait at least a solid minute, and just when the coast is clear, he hears you turn the knob of the coat closet and slowly crack it open.
“Okay, I think she’s in the shower, I hear the water running,” you whisper at him, “you can go now—” You glance down towards his groin, your jaw dropping. “What—…Satoru, why the fuck is your dick staring at me right now?!” you whisper-hiss at him.
He pulls you into the coat closet, pushing your front against the door to where it clicks shut, and you gasp when his hands pin your wrists crossed behind your back and his dick presses into the plush of your ass.
“You talkin’ to your mom while your pussy’s stuffed full of my cum was the single hottest thing that’s ever grazed my lizard brain,” he tells you, flipping your skirt up and hooking your panties to the side, his index finger briefly brushing against your entrance to find it still leaking from the way your walls were pulsating from his words. And then he aligns his tip to your entrance. “Now keep quiet while I do this, ‘kay?”
“Oh—” you gasp, your cheek pressed against the door as you arch your back and push your ass out for him, “okay—” you say, barely vocalizing the first syllable before he’s already stuffing himself inside of you with one solid glide of a push, making you yelp loudly and he has to instantly cup a hand over your mouth.
“Shhhhhh,” he hisses at you, immediately starting to pound you from behind, “told you to— fuuuck,” he catches sight of his length covered with a mix of your glassy arousal and his white cum, now starting to cream at the base of his cock, “jesus christ—” he breathes out, squeezing the flesh of your ass harshly with his other hand and you let out another yelp, “I told you to fuckin’ keep quiet.”
“I’m—mff,” you muffle against his palm, “I’m trying but,” your hips move back in time with his, “feels good, feels too good,” you mewl, and his hand desperately yanks up the fabric of your shirt so he can squeeze at your breast.
“Yeah?” he grunts, hypocritical for telling you to keep it down when he was slamming his hips against your ass with so much fervor he wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was reverberating across the entire house, “you like it when I fuck you while your mom’s all clueless just up the stairs?” His rhythm falters, feeling his release building, and his hand reaches in front of you to rub your clit, making you drop your head against the door with tightly closed eyes. “Gets— you—wet, doesn’t it?” he torments you, his lips near your ear as he slams his hips against you harshly with every enunciated syllable.
“Mhm, mhm,” you easily agree, or maybe that’s because it’s all you can really articulate, and he angles his hips up so his balls slap more fervently against your clit, making you scream into his palm while he picks up the pace of the circles he draws on your clit and in one, two, three— beats of his pounding heart, he feels you come undone around his cock, gushing wetness leaking out of you, he can feel the mess of fluids splattering on the skin of his thighs due to each of his heaving thrusts as he cusses out a fuuuuuuckkk before spilling his cum inside of you, a short-lived and thicker release this time that has you mewling from overstimulation, and in a few following thrusts, he’s given you everything he had to give.
His eyes open, he wasn’t even aware he had shut them in the first place, and he glances down at where the two of you were joined. Rings of arousal coat the length of his half-pulled-out dick, and the second he retreats all of it, a bulging push of his cum seeps out of you, dripping and pooling all over the hardwood floors.
“Holy shit, I wish I could take a picture of this,” he says, taking a step away to commit the sight to memory, your legs trembling and still slightly spread, ass pushed out and when you wiggle it a little, he lets out a huff of an exhale because he just can’t believe how sexy you are. Are all college girls like this? He’s never been to college, his old man’s been trying to get him to go for years, but maybe this is what finally convinces him.
“No pics,” you breathe out once you catch your breath, standing up straight slowly, “that’s my one sex rule.”
He takes a step closer to you, flipping your skirt back over your ass while you shimmy your shirt down to cover your chest. “That’s the only rule you have? Anything else goes?” he asks.
You spin around to face him, his eyes briefly flitting down to the still exposed skin of your midriff. “I have a feeling I’d be making up more specific rules if it was with you.”
He smiles, his hands grabbing your hips before pressing you up against the door again. “I also had a rule. It was to not fuck you. Wait, no, to not flirt with you. Which, technically, I didn’t do.”
You blink your eyes at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“What?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I didn’t.”
“Huh—” you scoff, “how do you think we got into this situation in the first place?? You didn’t just say wanna fuck? You were insufferably flirty with me.”
“Nahhh nah nah nah nah, baby, that’s not flirting,” he tells you, thumb running circles over your hips, “that’s, like—…I don’t even fuckin’ know how it worked on you to be honest, I was just being stupid.”
“Oh okay so I’m stupid.”
“I never said you were stupid?”
“Well you said you were being stupid so me falling for it must mean I’m stupid.”
“Pshhh. You’re cute. Pulling weeds, by the way? Adorable.”
Your hand slowly roams up the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching at your wrists until you uncovered up to his collar bone, and you stare at his skin. He tries to not let the way his heart’s beating faster show through the heave of his chest.
“Why do you have all these scars, anyway?” you whisper to him.
“Too many girls tryna stab me,” he tells you.
You roll your eyes. “Seriously.” Your thumb traces the one you had left on him.
“I—” He stops himself.
Does he tell you? Should he tell you? What, just because he’s seen you naked and you took his dick like a queen he’s supposed to open up to you about these things now? He doesn’t know. Maybe he could? Maybe you already suspect what he does at night. And if not, at the very least, I’m an underground boxer might make you think he’s hot? At the very worst, you’ll report him to the cops and he’d get fired as your little brother’s babysitter then thrown into jail, but not before the busted cartel gets him first.
“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling it from his chest, “no hyper personal details until you’ve had my dick in your mouth at least once or twice. That’s my one rule.”
You snort. “I could’ve guessed that rule from a mile away.”
He hums. And then there’s the sound of steps creaking down the stairs above the two of you.
You both make eye contact, eyes widening, internally yelling at each other: how the fuck did we get into this situation twice?!
This time, Gojo opens the door and stumbles out of the closet, leaving you inside of it, just in time for your mom to come down the stairs.
“Satoru. I was looking for you,” she says as she rounds the post. “Have you picked up Yuuji? He has to go for his swimming lessons soon.”
“Ah, nope, was just about to head out,” he says, letting out a cough to diffuse tension, “sorry, I was—” he points his thumb over his shoulder to behind him, “…pulling out some gnarly weeds.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “I see. Well, thanks. If you want, I can add a gardening stipend to your paycheck. Let me know.” And he’s not sure how to respond because he’s not sure if she’s joking.
He heads out the door, the keys to your mom’s minivan in his palm as he throws them up into the air and catches them a couple times. And just before he gets inside the car, he turns on his heel to face the house and pulls his phone out of his pocket to type in a message for you.
3:22pm Gojo Satoru: Send over those me-specific sex rules soon
.
.
.
[the end]
a/n. hope u enjoyed im shitting bricks posting this bc i haven't posted a oneshot smut since february but thanks so much for reading i appreciate u!!
i got way too invested in the whole underground boxer thing 😂😂 but the fact i managed to keep everything under 12k is an accomplishment to me bc if u read my other fics you know i’m a yapper LOL
i have another kind of a similarly written smut oneshot n it’s a lil angsty (totally different au tho) i’ll probs post that one next but yea i really like, hmm, i really like exploring entire characters within a short amount of time i enjoy writing the obscure lore drops xd it’s been kinda fun so far
anywho much loveee hope to see u around! <3
summary: two years had passed since you first met gojo satoru, and it was two years of having an agonizingly one-sided crush on the white-haired genius. for the most part, you were okay with keeping it down and acting like the nights you spent fantasizing about what it would be like to be his were normal. you were fine keeping it hidden until something between the two of you shifts, and you're left wondering if this crush you have on him is truly as delirious as you think.
genre: 18+, nerdjo, slow burn, angst + happy ending (duh), fluff, eventual smut (nerdjo being a munch), some mention of insecurities but nothing major
word count: 33k (oops)
note: nerdjo bu set in oxford! art credit! @to00fu
jjk masterlist
It began at one of the English department get-togethers.
Two years ago, when you felt like you had to come to every single event in the hopes of striking expeditious luck at one of them. And it’s not that you particularly disliked these events, but they weren’t the first thing you’d think of when it came to how you’d prefer to spend your free time.
The weather was just getting chilly enough where you’d rather stay in your dorm and wrap yourself in three blankets and a sweater, and the year had been dragging on long enough where you’d rather just talk about the wonders of Shakespeare and his sonnets in the confines of your next research paper and not with academics who made you feel inferior.
You had been invited weeks in advance, and yet you still found yourself dreading being here, the more it led to it, and even more when you were in the thick of it. Awkward small-talk with students you’ve seen around briefly and stiff handshakes with male professors who think that they have better places to be were just mentally taxing, and you counted the seconds until it was all over.
Thankfully, it was busy enough that you could slip into the background without many people even noticing you were there, but not so crowded that you could just slip away entirely without somebody asking where the great Dr. Howard’s research assistant had gone. And anyways, it wasn’t too horrible. You had taken to silently recounting Othello in your mind moments before everything changed.
There was a small tap on your shoulder. It startled you at first, and you looked around in your small corner to see a man waiting patiently behind you, a sheepish look on his face as you tried to gather yourself up.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, and you blinked out of your stupor as you tried to recall in your brain if you had met him before to save yourself from the embarrassment of him having to re-introduce himself, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions.
You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself.
“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.”
Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self.
“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?”
His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded.
“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.”
Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done.
The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked.
“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.”
“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”
You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible.
The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun.
“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.”
Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice.
“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.”
You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look.
“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have.
You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from.
“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly.
Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave.
“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.”
That’s when you felt your breathing stop.
The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them.
You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side.
You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth.
When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face.
“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.
The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back.
You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray.
Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.
“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”
The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look.
“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds.
Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently.
“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”
You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face.
“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.”
“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”
You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it.
You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue.
“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.”
Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening.
That was your sophomore year.
Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months.
Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night.
It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better.
Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.
Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited.
But you’re fine keeping it down.
You were fine until recently.
—
“I’m debating switching majors.”
Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down.
“To what?”
She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating.
“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?”
“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot.
“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification.
“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.”
Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance.
“His side?”
Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless.
You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks.
Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it.
Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant.
But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him.
At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that.
When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him.
So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine.
What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity.
Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was.
Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.
And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party.
So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend.
“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum.
You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance.
Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm.
You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing.
“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions.
You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing.
Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave.
“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop.
“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.”
You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you.
“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen.
You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face.
“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.”
You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track.
Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses.
Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else.
They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue.
He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was.
Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again.
Smudges.
You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him.
After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo.
He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return.
Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.
“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject.
“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew.
“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?”
You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name.
“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?”
Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name.
“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."
Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here.
Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.
“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.”
Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue.
Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.
“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.
But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.
Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this.
Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent.
“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up.
You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.
“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone.
Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in.
There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.”
Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator.
“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor.
You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you.
“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”
Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment.
“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”
You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position.
“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect.
“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.
“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?”
There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes.
“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!”
Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.
“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly.
“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it.
You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for.
The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work.
Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person.
It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting.
“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.”
You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard.
Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.
When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.
He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it.
“What’re you reading?”
Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes.
“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.”
Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.
“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”
His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie.
“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.”
“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.”
You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back.
“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs.
“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?”
Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor.
“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.”
His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy.
“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”
You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.
“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam.
They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal.
Like you have for the past two years.
—
The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate.
You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for.
For the most part.
Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days.
The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.
Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table.
“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink.
You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes.
“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.”
She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.
“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding.
“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement.
“You don’t like Shakespeare?”
Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question.
Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room.
“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.”
Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you.
“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.”
Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend.
“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised.
Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces.
“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work.
You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it.
“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts.
Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable.
“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment.
“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.”
You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion.
“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them.
“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely.
“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it.
You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her.
Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection.
“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.”
“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.”
He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers.
“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”
“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”
Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement.
Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention.
You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on.
The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders.
“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.”
You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths.
“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.
He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.
“Water?”
Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth.
“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”
You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles.
“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out.
Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist.
You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face.
Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison.
The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck.
Cute in a schoolish way, you think.
“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…”
Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words.
“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth.
Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento.
Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal.
Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior.
One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting.
Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.
“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior.
“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”
His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words.
Satoru looks at you, taking another sip.
“What?”
You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words.
“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”
His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.
But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest.
You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were.
The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of.
Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).
But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.
And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.
“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.”
Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.
“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.
Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.
“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”
You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.
Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed.
That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand.
“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-”
Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press.
“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!”
Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly.
“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”
You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.
You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.
“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself.
“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.”
Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst.
“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile.
He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to.
“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries.
“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!”
Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care.
“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left.
You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room.
“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters.
“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself.
“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!”
You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own.
“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”
Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.
You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason.
“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.”
That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement.
“Why’d you move?”
Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind.
“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.
The rest of the night continued as it usually does.
If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal.
—
Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties.
It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes.
Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear.
It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.
Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long.
Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once.
shoko: pick up
shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya
shoko: pls pls pls pick up
shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back
shoko: pls
You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this.
It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line.
“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better.
“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.”
The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat.
“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at.
“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-”
You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling.
“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-”
“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.”
A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head.
“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.”
You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.”
“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-”
This time, she’s cut off, but not by you.
A knock sounds over your door.
You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.”
She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done.
“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought.
“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend,
But Satoru.
Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.
Damn you, Shoko Ieiri.
“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”
His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh.
“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly.
“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”
You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away.
“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”
He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater.
“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price.
Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction.
“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”
Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough.
This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself,
Everything was going to be fine.
—-
The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom.
“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.”
The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night.
It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know.
But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air.
“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself.
“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.”
He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were.
“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks!
“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.”
Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly.
“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.”
You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet.
Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them.
Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this.
Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line.
Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash.
Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-
And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile.
The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience.
You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone.
From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason.
It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most.
You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way.
Like he was right now.
Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start.
You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention.
When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut.
She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote.
“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends.
“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”
The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent.
“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.
Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit.
“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.
“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”
Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting.
When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark.
You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding.
The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other.
He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage.
“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand.
“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably.
Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat.
“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.”
It’s yours.
Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.
“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.
You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you.
—
Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was.
The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts.
You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it.
The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused.
Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second.
When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch.
A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains.
“Funny, huh?”
Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment.
“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.”
You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now.
People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit.
“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods.
You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.
Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours.
“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words.
“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity.
After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays.
That’s what you did.
And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such.
But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this.
And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you.
“Are you enjoying it?”
His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.
“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.”
He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self.
As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself.
“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat.
“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words.
Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.
You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.
He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.
There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice.
But, of course, he does.
He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely.
“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek.
You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise.
“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.
“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-”
But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.”
He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up.
“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else.
You feel tears prickly in your eyes.
And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back.
—
When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis.
There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending.
Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.
“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly.
You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.
“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you
“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”
You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.
The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door.
His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder.
“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall.
The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter.
You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush.
At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it.
You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.
Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky.
You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face.
“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter.
“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were.
Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next.
You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.
After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man.
Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner.
2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.
You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into.
His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust.
It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too.
So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming.
You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure.
Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out.
People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.
This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you.
Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was.
To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone.
You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again.
Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place.
The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them.
When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.
Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.
“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.
“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.
“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?”
This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift.
Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.
“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.
A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.
“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.”
And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.
“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle.
“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?”
You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair.
“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves.
“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly.
He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking.
Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you.
“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”
You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is.
He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly.
“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off.
“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.
But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.
“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.
He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look.
And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.
—
As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm.
You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away.
“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.”
That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed.
With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase.
It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.
He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you.
You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting.
Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.
You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers.
It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you.
You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway.
Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile.
He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers.
“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed.
“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head.
“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk.
You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over.
“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction.
“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world.
“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”
He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up.
“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?”
His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.
“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back.
You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf.
You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you.
Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying.
The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names.
Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention.
Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer.
A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.
The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside.
Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips.
Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat.
It’s a polaroid of the two of you.
You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably.
But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet.
You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.
Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out.
You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them.
“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake.
In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand.
His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film.
“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf.
“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit.
“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?”
You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug.
“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”
“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?”
Damn him.
You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile.
“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied.
He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits.
You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.
“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare.
“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”
He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything.
“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest.
“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.
“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,
But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken.
He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it.
Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly.
Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply.
“Were you…Were you going through my things?”
The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut.
“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles.
“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself.
He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing.
And then he moves.
His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.
“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”
Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses.
…huh?
You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues.
“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time.
“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.
“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back.
“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”
The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.
Not the way you did.
“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”
He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression.
“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?”
You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods.
“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”
Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.
“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”
You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile.
“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”
“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”
“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.”
When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of.
“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”
Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his.
Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily.
“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.”
You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.
“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.”
Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away.
“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.”
You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.
“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes.
“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.”
You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.
“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”
You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts.
“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view.
“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”
And he’s right.
The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.
“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics.
“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.”
You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements.
“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles.
“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.”
You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling. His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation.
“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”
The question makes you stop.
Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back.
It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one.
After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you.
“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face.
Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks.
“What about…what about the others?”
The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building.
“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him.
“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.”
He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest.
“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”
You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.
“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips.
“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.”
You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours.
He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet.
You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next.
His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in.
“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.”
You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side.
“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.
He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.
“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.”
He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues.
“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it.
“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.”
You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either.
“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.
“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”
You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.
“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?”
He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra.
“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”
Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue.
“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.”
He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh.
“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?”
You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine.
“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command.
Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.
“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;
“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.”
When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach.
“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully.
You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him.
His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else.
“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.”
His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on.
“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them.
Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.
His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad.
“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?”
You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in.
When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this.
“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.
“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.”
He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.
Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.
Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened.
You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more.
When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain.
“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.”
Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright.
“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”
Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows.
“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains.
“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”
You let out a breathless laugh.
Because of course he had.
“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly.
You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.
“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”
You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.
It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly.
Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.
You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling.
Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly.
“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours.
You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.
You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.
“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck.
At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.
“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?”
He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable.
“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name.
You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.
He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.
“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”
Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.
“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?”
He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek.
“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.”
You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.
His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better.
“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one.
“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.”
You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones.
“I want to be yours too, Satoru,” you say, and he groans, his eyes rolling back like those were the only words he’s been dying to hear, and he lets out a victorious laugh, something happy and sickeningly sweet because the girl he’s been in love with for the past two years just so happens to love him back.
