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the lamb: chapter 7

Sukuna is reincarnated into the modern world, only to realize that being a villain is actually kind of a bore. Now a teacher at Jujutsu High by pure technicality, he’s decided being a “good guy” is way more entertaining, mostly because it still lets him do whatever he wants while everyone thanks him for it. Unfortunately for you, that also means you get assigned to him as a specialist, since your technique is one of the very few things that can smooth out the jagged, overwhelming nature of his cursed energy after he uses it. The problem is… you’re absolutely terrified of him. Every second in the same room feels like your body is trying to shut down, and the idea of having to touch him to do your job makes it even worse. Sukuna, on the other hand, finds that fear hilarious and treats you like the funniest toy he’s ever been gifted.

pairing: sorcerer sukuna x sorcerer f!reader

wc: 11.4k

content: mdni, slow burn, kinda enemies to lovers, objectification, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion, possessive sukuna, violence, murder, blood, gore, dubious consent vibes, true form sukuna, yuji's not his vessel (...and probably smut at some point)

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“All right,” you say, closing the textbook and sliding it back across the desk toward him. “That’s enough for today.”

Yuji lets out a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms over his head until his shoulders pop quietly before dropping them again.

“I actually think I got it this time,” he says, sounding almost surprised by the realization himself. The corners of his mouth lift into an easy grin as he gathers the loose worksheets into a crooked pile, shoving them between the pages of his notebook with all the organization of someone who has long accepted that future Yuji will simply have to deal with the consequences.

“You did,” you assure him, offering a small smile as you slide your pencil back into its tray. “Just remember to slow down a little during the exam. You already know more than you think you do.”

“Yeah...” He laughs under his breath as his gaze drifts somewhere past you. “I'll try.”

He reaches for his backpack, fingers hooking around the zipper. It catches for a moment as he pulls it halfway closed before the warning that has been sitting at the base of your throat since the morning slips past your lips.

“One more thing, Yuji,” you stop him. “About Sukuna. You really shouldn't provoke him like that.”

Yuji's hands stop moving as the zipper gets caught beneath his fingers, and he stares down at it, his shoulders growing a little tense. For a second, he doesn’t move at all, and then he exhales slowly through his nose, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a quiet, self-aware laugh.

“I know,” he admits, his voice softening as his gaze drops briefly to the floor before returning to your face. “Sometimes I really should keep my mouth shut.”

The honesty of the answer catches you off guard, and you find yourself tilting your head, studying him more closely and searching his expression for any hint of sarcasm or deflection, but finding none.

“But?” you prompt gently, leaning your forearms against the desk blotter.

“But...” His shoulders rise in a small, almost helpless shrug, and one corner of his mouth twitches upward as if he cannot quite help the reflex. He shifts his weight in the chair, fingers brushing absently against the strap of his backpack. “Sometimes he deserves it.”

He reaches down and gives the zipper another firm tug, this time pulling it all the way closed, but instead of letting go, he keeps both hands resting on top of the canvas, his fingers drumming against the fabric restlessly.

“And besides,” he continues, glancing up at you again, eyes growing a bit more serious, “if you let him walk all over you every single time, he gets worse.”

You frown, leaning back in your chair, the words settling in your mind as you try to make sense of them. Every day with Sukuna has been a lesson in shrinking yourself—holding your breath, yielding your desk, and moving your files out of the way.

“Worse?” you repeat, your voice sounding thin to your own ears.

“Yeah.” Yuji nods as though it's the most obvious thing in the world, his expression settling into something thoughtful. “He keeps pushing until somebody finally pushes back. If nobody does, he just... keeps going.” He lifts his right hand, gesturing vaguely in the air as if trying to trace the shape of the idea, his fingers curling and uncurling before he lets them fall back to his lap. “I don't know. It's just how he is.”

You glance toward the closed office door, thinking back to the tutoring session only a few days earlier, the insults, the contempt in Sukuna's voice every time Yuji had opened his mouth, and how he dismissed the boy’s entire existence while eating takeout on your broken couch. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your desk before you force yourself to look back at the teenager sitting across from you.

“I just...” You hesitate, your brows drawing together as you try to soften the thought before it leaves your mouth, searching for words that don't sound as judgmental as they feel. “I don't understand why he treats his own nephew like that.”

Yuji lets out a small, awkward laugh, short and a little strained, as he shifts his weight in the seat, his sneakers squeaking against the floorboards.

“Well...” He scratches absentmindedly at the back of his neck, and his fingers linger there for a moment. “I don't think he sees me as his nephew.”

You blink, your composure fractured by the simplicity of his tone. “What do you mean?”

The question hangs between the two of you for several long seconds. Yuji doesn't answer right away, just leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs as he stares fixedly at a small, dark knot in the wood of your desk. For a moment, you consider telling him to forget it, that he doesn't have to explain anything to you, assuming you've accidentally stepped over a boundary into something too personal, but he doesn't look wounded or uncomfortable. If anything, he looks like he’s sorting through an incredibly cluttered drawer, trying to find the plainest words available.

“He killed my uncle,” he says eventually, his voice perfectly even. “Technically.”

Everything inside you goes entirely still. Your breath catches sharply in your throat, a sudden, cold drop hitting your stomach so hard it leaves a bitter taste behind your teeth. Your mind frantically tries to parse the sentence, but the casual delivery refuses to lock into the horror of the concept.

“...What?” you manage, the word barely a whisper.

Yuji finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours, registering the total, bloodless shock on your face. His expression changes immediately, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his features as he straightens up in the chair.

"Oh... You didn't know?"

You can only stare at him and shake your head slightly, your mind struggling to catch up, and he shifts his weight again, one foot tapping lightly against the floorboards as if he’s suddenly realized he’s made a massive social blunder and isn't sure how to fix it.

“Sorry,” he adds quickly. “I kinda thought everybody here already knew.”

He exhales slowly, his shoulders rising and falling as he looks down at his hands, turning them over as if the story were written right across his skin.

"My uncle's name was Ren. He and my dad were twins." His fingers move restlessly over the corner of one of the blank scrap notebooks on your desk, absently smoothing the paper down only for it to curl back up the second his touch leaves it. “Then Sukuna... kind of took over his body.”

“Kind of?” You tilt your head, your voice sounding thick and strange as you try to follow the thread.

“Gojo explained the reincarnation thing to me back then, but honestly...” He lets out a small, self-conscious laugh, dragging his palm down his face until his lower eyelids tug down, his gaze dropping to the desk between you. “I still don't really understand how it worked. Sukuna's fingers survived for a thousand years or something and... I don't know.” He lifts his left hand, gesturing wildly toward the ceiling. “Sorcerer stuff. And suddenly… Sukuna was there.”

He says it in the exact same tone he used when he explained how he fumbled the negative sign on page forty-two. The matter-of-fact tone makes its reality twice as terrifying. Your throat feels dry as you force your lungs to take in air, trying to piece together what he’s describing.

“So...” Your voice comes out softer than before, almost hesitant. “Your uncle was still... there?”

“At first.” The answer comes without hesitation, but his fingers freeze instantly against the notebook, pressing his palm flat to the paper to ground himself. “For a little while.”

Yuji's eyes drift toward the window, his posture shifting as he leans back in his chair, though the distant, unfocused look on his face makes it clear he isn't really seeing the campus trees or the afternoon sun outside anymore.

“I kept thinking Uncle Ren would come back.” His smile turns smaller and more fragile, the corners of his mouth tightening into a thin line as his gaze drifts aimlessly from the window to your bookshelves. “Then one day Gojo sat me down and told me there wasn't anyone left to come back.”

Silence settles heavily between you. You move slightly in your seat, your fingers curling into tight fists in your lap as you search your mind for something—anything—to fill the space between you, but nothing comes. No apology feels large enough, and no reassurance feels honest enough to offer without sounding entirely hollow.

Yuji notices the hesitation anyway. His shoulders lift just a fraction before dropping again, and that familiar, sheepish look creeps back onto his face as he glances back at you.

“Sorry,” he says, his mouth pulling into a small, defensive smile. “That probably came out way heavier than I meant it to.”

“…Yuji.”

He gives a small shrug, his gaze dipping back toward his sneakers. “You kinda… get used to it,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost careful.

The simplicity of the statement makes your stomach turn. The toe of his shoe traces a faint grain line across the floorboards, over and over, as if he needs a physical focal point to keep the conversation moving.

“I hated him,” he admits after a moment, and his brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to sort through the feeling even as the words leave his mouth. “I mean… obviously.” A quiet, humorless laugh escapes him, and he exhales through his nose, shaking his head just a little. “I still kinda do sometimes.”

You nod slowly, watching him as he avoids your gaze. “I think that’d be understandable.”

“Yeah… probably.”

He rolls the word around for a second, his tongue pressing lightly against his teeth as if testing how it feels to say it out loud, before smiling again. This time, though, the expression doesn’t come as easily. It wavers, looking much more uncertain than the grin he'd worn while solving quadratic functions ten minutes ago.

“But it's...” He trails off, his gaze drifting down to the desk as his fingers go back to tapping absently against the strap of his backpack. He searches for the right word, his brow knitting together in concentration, then lets out a quiet breath when nothing quite fits. “It's complicated.”

You don’t interrupt him. You simply wait, giving him the space to find his way through it.

“My brain still... I don't know. It still puts him in the same place sometimes.” Yuji frowns at himself, then lets out an embarrassed laugh, the sound soft and a little self-conscious, before quickly adding, “Not because I forgot what happened or anything.”

“I didn't think that.”

“I know.” He exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as some of the tension leaves his spine, and his gaze flickers back up to you, then away again, like he isn’t quite sure where to look. “It's just... sometimes my brain still forgets for a second.” He shakes his head at himself, a small, almost disbelieving motion. “Like...” He pauses, searching again, his lips pressing together before he finally settles on something concrete. “Sometimes I still catch myself calling him 'uncle.'” He gives a small shrug, one shoulder rising a bit higher than the other. “Usually because I'm annoyed.”

You can’t really answer. The absolute contradiction settles heavily in your chest, pressing down on your lungs, making it impossible to respond with anything as simple as pity or agreement. It lingers there, unresolved and heavy, as you watch him shift his weight and reach for his bag.

Finally pushing himself up from the chair, Yuji shoulders his backpack, adjusts its strap, and offers you the same bright smile he had walked in with an hour earlier, though now you can see the faint strain beneath it if you look closely enough.

“Anyway,” he says, his tone lifting as he gestures lightly toward the door, clearly deciding he has spent more than enough time talking about himself. “Thanks for today. I actually think I might survive next week's quiz.”

“I think you will too.” You find yourself smiling back despite everything you have just heard and the cold weight in your stomach, the expression coming more easily than you expect.

His eyes light up in response as he reaches for the handle and slides the office door open. He steps halfway through before pausing, his hand still resting on the frame as he glances back over one shoulder.

"Oh... and, teach?"

You look up from your desk, meeting his gaze as he lingers on the threshold.

“If he starts pushing…” He grins, though there's an unmistakable sincerity beneath it now. “Push back. Don't make it easy for him."

Your expression softens. “Yuji...”

The grin eases, the familiar warmth returning to his face as he lets the tension slip away entirely.

"See you tomorrow in class!”

With one last wave, he disappears into the corridor, leaving the words hanging quietly in the office long after the sound of his footsteps has faded away.

—

The second-years have long since outgrown the need for someone to stand over them every afternoon, correcting every stance and counting out every rep. Most training sessions now are basically just set-aside time to spar, mess around with half-baked ideas, and beat the hell out of each other until someone lands a hit hard enough to leave a bruise worth bragging about. Today’s no exception. Panda and Maki have claimed the center of the practice grounds, trading heavy hits that kick up little clouds of dust every time they clash. Off to the side, Yuta and Inumaki work through quieter drills, pausing after each exchange to pick apart what went wrong before circling back for another try.

None of it really has anything to do with Sukuna, or at least it shouldn’t. For a few more steps, he keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead, moving as if nothing in the world could bother him. That familiar irritation, though, starts to creep in, subtle at first, barely more than a whisper at the back of his mind. It’s easy enough to ignore until it isn’t, until every sloppy move at the edge of his vision starts to grate—Panda overcommits to a strike, Maki slips around it without breaking a sweat, and instead of punishing the opening, she just resets. Panda laughs, and they start again.

That alone is enough to get under his skin, and Sukuna’s pace slows so subtly that most people wouldn’t even catch it, until finally, the annoyance grows too loud to ignore and he stops altogether. Crimson eyes slide toward the training field, and for several long seconds, he stands there in silence, watching the two students, his expression flattening with every exchange.

Another exchange and another messy adjustment that screams hesitation. Another split second wasted thinking instead of acting, and another opportunity tossed aside because both of them just fall back into the same comfortable rhythm they’ve drilled a thousand times before. The coffee cup crinkles faintly in his grip.

A sharp click of his tongue cuts through the training grounds, the sound edged with clear annoyance.

"...Enough."

The word isn’t loud, but it lands with enough weight to kill every movement almost instantly. Panda’s fists drop first, confusion flickering across his face as he glances toward the edge of the field. Maki straightens a little more slowly, her annoyance already written across her features before she even bothers to turn. Yuta and Inumaki freeze mid-drill, all four of them tracking Sukuna as he steps off the stone path and onto the packed earth. He takes his time, walking straight into the middle of the training ground, never once meeting their eyes.

"What exactly is this supposed to be?" he asks, gesturing vaguely toward the churned dirt beneath Panda's feet.

Silence hangs between them, full of uncertainty, because not one of them can tell if he actually expects an answer or if it’s just another test.

Sukuna’s eyes drift lazily over the footprints carved into the dirt, the scuff marks from all those resets, the careful spacing that betrays how rehearsed it all is. With the toe of his shoe, he nudges one of the impressions, scraping away the edge until the clean outline blurs and disappears.

"Tell me what, exactly, you think you're practicing."

The command lingers, stretching out over the training ground until the silence feels almost suffocating. Eyes flick from the mangled footprint to Sukuna, then finally land on Panda, who stands awkwardly in the center of it all and stares down at the dirt as if it might offer some kind of answer. His brow creases as he tries to figure out if Sukuna’s talking about the mess at his feet or the drill they’ve been running.

"...My stance?"

The words come out after a long pause, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. Shifting his weight, he tries to catch any flicker of approval in Sukuna’s face. The sorcerer’s tongue clicks softly again, and the sound alone is enough to make Panda’s shoulders tense, a subtle warning that lands sharper than any shout.

“Wrong,” Sukuna replies, barely glancing up, his gaze fixed on the scuffed mark in the dirt, as if Panda’s answer hadn’t even grazed the edge of what he wanted.

Panda’s brows knit tighter, his ears twitching faintly as frustration starts to crawl up his spine. He stares at his feet, then flicks his gaze back up, searching Sukuna’s face for any hint of what he’s missing, but finds nothing but that same unreadable stare.

"My footing?" he tries again, more cautiously, bracing for the same answer, adjusting his stance almost without thinking.

“Wrong.”

Sukuna’s voice stays perfectly level, which somehow makes the irritation in it sting even more. His gaze doesn’t waver, pinning Panda in place with intensity that leaves no room for argument.

Panda’s eyes drop to the ground, searching the scuffed dirt for answers that refuse to show themselves. His shoulders tense as he opens his mouth, hesitates, then shuts it again, forcing himself to look up only when the silence becomes unbearable.

"...Then what?" he asks, frustration bleeding through clearly.

No explanation comes. Sukuna steps forward calmly, closing the distance until there’s almost no space left between them, his presence pressing in, heavy and unyielding. His eyes drag slowly over Panda’s posture, taking in every detail with a cold, assessing focus that makes Panda stiffen. A faint curl twists Sukuna’s lip, and he lets out a quiet, deeply irritated scoff, as if the sight alone has confirmed something he already despised.

"Stand still."

Instinct takes over and Panda shifts his weight, but Sukuna’s hand clamps around the back of his neck before he can even finish the motion. A sharp, controlled jerk drags Panda’s upper body half a step forward, breaking his balance in an instant, only for Sukuna to shove him upright again just as abruptly. It’s quick, precise, and so deliberate it leaves Panda off-center, scrambling to recover.

"Did I tell you to move? If I tell you to stand still, you stand fucking still."

Snapping upright, Panda’s spine locks tight, a reflexive attempt to reset himself. The weight shift is barely perceptible, just enough to try and steady the ground beneath him—until Sukuna’s boot comes out of nowhere, catching the outside of Panda’s lead foot with a sharp, precise kick.

The impact isn’t even that strong, but the timing is flawless. Panda barely has a second to register what happened before his balance vanishes out from under him once more. Instinctively, his body scrambles to correct the shift, but Sukuna’s already there. His hand catches Panda’s wrist at the exact moment the adjustment begins, twisting his shoulder just enough to collapse the motion completely.

The ground comes up fast, slamming into Panda, and dust bursts up around him, stinging his nose as the air is knocked clean from his lungs. He lets out a sharp breath, irritation flaring hot as he props himself up on one elbow, jaw clenched tight.

"You—"

"Again."

Planting his hands in the dirt, Panda shoves himself upright a little too quickly. The control in him slips, and it’s written all over his face, jaw clenched tight as he squares his shoulders for another round.

"You didn't even—" he begins, voice rising as he throws a hand out in exasperation.

"Stand." Sukuna’s voice cuts off the protest again, shutting down any hope of argument before it can even start.

Grinding his teeth loud enough for anyone to hear, Panda bites back whatever retort was about to slip out. Shoulders bunching, he drags in a slow breath, shoving the frustration down as he resets his stance, obeying even though every muscle in his body wants to do the opposite.

Sukuna circles him once, and his slow pace makes it clear he’s already written Panda off as a lost cause. His gaze drags from boots to shoulders, pausing somewhere around Panda’s hips, each pass making his contempt more obvious. Every angle seems to uncover a fresh disappointment, his expression souring with every slow circuit and each new flaw he finds.

No warning comes before Sukuna’s hand slams into Panda’s shoulder firmly, carrying just enough pressure to force a reaction without knocking him flat. Panda braces, muscles coiling as he leans into the push, but the angle’s all wrong. Sukuna’s foot slides smoothly behind Panda’s ankle, hooking it, and in the same breath, he redirects the force of Panda’s own resistance straight into the dirt. The ground disappears beneath Panda, crashing him onto his back with a heavy thud, sending a burst of dust into the air around him.

A sharp exhale escapes as Panda rolls to his side, chest heaving with the effort to swallow his frustration. He pushes himself upright faster this time, barely pausing to catch his breath before shooting a glare up at Sukuna.

"...What the hell was that?" he snaps, annoyance crackling in his voice.

Sukuna doesn’t bother to answer, his gaze already sliding down to Panda’s feet, as if the fall never happened. "Stand."

This time, Panda doesn’t hesitate. He snaps back into position, sharper and more alert, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitch beneath his fur. Every part of him braces, trying to guess what Sukuna will throw at him next.

Sukuna moves in again, hand landing on Panda with a casualness that’s anything but careless. Each contact forces a new adjustment—knees bending, shoulders shifting, hips angling, every part of Panda searching for some kind of balance. His breathing evens out and focus sharpens while frustration slowly melts into concentration, but every adjustment is short-lived. Every time he thinks he’s found it, Sukuna tears it apart with barely any effort, wordlessly exposing its flaw with minimal effort, stripping it away, and leaving Panda to start from scratch.

By the seventh round, the tension in Panda’s face has shifted. Irritation drains away, replaced by a quiet, stubborn intensity as he watches his own movements, hunting for something that might finally stick.

The training ground has gone silent, the earlier thuds and scuffs swallowed up by a tense stillness that presses in from every direction. Inumaki stands off to the side, arms loose but eyes razor-sharp, tracking every twitch and stumble. Yuta hovers just behind him, shoulders hunched as if bracing for impact himself, gaze darting between Panda and Sukuna, and even Maki, usually the first to react, stands frozen, attention locked on Panda, brow furrowed as she tries to piece together whatever lesson Sukuna’s wringing out of this exercise.

Planting his feet again, Panda moves slower, adjusting his stance yet again, weight settling with visible effort. His breathing is heavier, each inhale measured as he tries to read what’s coming, but it’s absolutely pointless. Sukuna circles him lazily, but his gaze is anything but—sharp and searching, sweeping over Panda’s posture from every angle. Once, then twice, Sukuna loops around, head tilting as if he’s seeing something no one else can, his expression unreadable.

Sukuna makes another slow pass, narrowing his eyes just a touch as he studies the tiny shifts in Panda’s balance. Panda fights the urge to move, muscles coiling tight as he forces himself to stay still, even as the tension coils tighter in his legs and shoulders.

Seconds drag by, long enough for Panda’s focus to start fraying at the edges, but he refuses to break. His eyes flick up, just once, searching for any hint, but as always, there’s nothing. Sukuna just walks, watching with a flat, impossible-to-read gaze.

At last, another quiet click of Sukuna’s tongue slices through the silence, sharp and dismissive, before he turns away.

Panda blinks. "...That's it?"

No answer comes. The mistake that dragged Sukuna out here in the first place is gone now, even if Panda’s stance is still a mess and holds enough awkwardness to offend anyone with functioning eyes—at least he’s not repeating the same basic screw-up. His balance and footing have shifted just enough to fix it, not gracefully or cleanly, but just enough to get rid of the one thing that had warranted Sukuna’s attention.

With that gone, there’s nothing left to hold his interest, and Sukuna moves to Maki instead, like Panda’s vanished the second he stopped being worth correcting. He lifts one hand and a single finger curls toward her, the gesture small but commanding.

"You," he says, his voice carrying easily across the silent field. "Attack."

The instant the word leaves his mouth, Maki’s already moving, muscle memory kicking in before thought can catch up as she closes the distance quickly and strikes. Any other teacher would have to scramble to keep up, forced to react rather than just stand by. Her grip is unyielding, timing sharp, and for a split second, it almost feels like every hour she’s spent training is finally about to pay off.

Sukuna shifts half a step to the side, so casually that it barely registers as movement at all. It’s so slight it reads as pure dismissal, as if he simply chose not to be in her path rather than actually dodging. There’s no effort in it, no rush, just that infuriating ease that makes the miss sting more than if he’d countered or dodged with speed. Her weapon cuts through nothing but air.

"Did you intend to advertise it that loudly, or was subtlety never an option?"

A sharp breath hisses out through Maki’s nose as she pulls back, forcing herself to reset. Her grip tightens, knuckles whitening, and irritation flickers in her eyes, but it’s aimed more at herself than at him. She shifts her weight, planting her feet with extra care, determined to get it right this time.

This time, she moves in, switching up her rhythm—her first step shorter, less committed, baiting him with a feint before driving into the real attack. It’s a subtle shift, enough to trip up anyone who relies on patterns instead of gut instinct.

Sukuna slips out of range just as easily as before, that same infuriating effortlessness in every movement. He doesn’t even look at the weapon—his gaze stays locked on her and the small betrayals in her posture, tracking every twitch and shift in her body that gives away the strike before it lands.

“Again.”

Maki clenches her jaw and draws in a slow breath, fighting to loosen the tightening muscles. She tweaks her stance, adjusts her grip, determined to patch whatever opening Sukuna keeps slipping through, and then she launches forward again, refusing to let irritation slow her down.

Sukuna doesn’t so much as twitch, just tracks her with that flat, unreadable stare, catching every tiny adjustment before she’s even finished making it. The moment she swings, he slips past the attack as if it’s nothing, his expression flattening further into something even more unimpressed, as if she’s only proving a point he’s already made to himself.

"No."

Maki stops herself halfway through the recovery. "No?" she asks before she can stop herself.

"You changed the correction, but the mistake’s still there.” A curl tugs at his lip, but he doesn’t bother to explain, just steps back and waits. “Again.”

Irritation flashes across Maki’s face, but she shoves it down, forcing herself to focus. She abandons the last adjustment entirely, shifting her footing and trying something new—tightening one part of her stance only for Sukuna to see it messed up another.

He stands still, watching her close the distance. At the last possible second, his hand snaps out, catching her wrist before the strike can land. A quick twist throws her angle off, and he shoves her arm aside with a flick, letting go before she can even process what happened.

"Worse."

A sharp exhale escapes her, and she resets, this time zeroing in on her upper body, putting all control into her muscles. Determined not to give away anything, she lunges, but Sukuna only shifts the bare minimum, his hoodie barely rustling as he tracks her with a lazy turn of his head.

"You moved before you'd actually decided."

A frown tugs at her mouth as she draws back, rolling her shoulders in a half-hearted effort to shake off the tension winding tighter beneath her skin. Each breath comes faster, edged with a frustration that prickles along her nerves, and she forces herself to adapt faster than feels natural, even though every instinct screams to dig in her heels. She goes in again, this time letting her gaze drift, refusing to lock onto any one target as she closes the gap.

Sukuna’s lips curl just a little. "You looked where you were going to strike."

Sweat slips down her temple, catching at her jaw before she wipes it away with the back of her hand. She tries to shut off the overthinking, pushing herself to move without letting every tiny decision get tangled up in doubt.

But there’s a flicker of hesitation in her moves, a stiffness in her limbs that wasn’t there before. Sukuna tilts his head, unimpressed and making no effort to hide it.

"You've started thinking about my reaction instead of your own movement."

Pulling back slower this time, Maki tries to keep her breathing steady, but it’s already starting to slip. She’s given up trying to hide the frustration—it’s there in the set of her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip, in how her stance refuses to settle the way it used to. Every attempt to fix one thing just throws something else off, and what once felt solid now sits strange and unfamiliar in her hands. It’s as if every year of training is being unraveled, each adjustment peeling back another habit that only survived because the last flaw covered it up.

Sukuna watches her for a moment longer, face unreadable, then lets out a quiet breath and looks away, already bored. He’s checked out before she even runs out of mistakes, moving his gaze past her only to land on Yuta.

Without a flicker of doubt, the boy steps forward, with the training katana already balanced in his grip before Sukuna even finishes turning. There’s none of Panda’s uncertainty in the way he holds himself, just an unwavering resolve. Cursed energy rises in him almost on reflex, threading through muscle and bone, pouring into the sword until it vibrates with a low hum.

"Attack."

He moves the instant the word leaves Sukuna’s mouth, as if he’d been waiting for it all along. Every motion is precise, without wasting effort or wild swings, just the clean, disciplined technique drilled into him over endless hours. Cursed energy pulses through him, reinforcing each movement, sharpening the weapon’s edge just enough to bite deeper, but never spilling over. There’s a careful balance in how he channels it, a restraint that keeps him ready for whatever comes next instead of burning out in a single, reckless blow.

Sukuna doesn’t so much as blink as the strike comes in. His face stays unreadable, gaze flat and bored, while the sword slices through the space between them. Only at the last possible second does he bother to move, lifting a hand lazily to catch the flat of the sword, and its momentum dies instantly, a faint shiver running up the wood, but Sukuna’s grip is steady as stone.

Neither of them moves for a long, stretched-out moment. The air hangs heavy, thick with tension that makes Yuta’s skin itch, as his effort slams up against something utterly unmovable. Sukuna’s eyes linger on the katana, then flick up to meet Yuta’s, his face still a blank slate, not even a flicker of reaction breaking through.

“…Again,” he says, his voice low and unhurried.

The sword slides free from Sukuna’s grip without resistance, as if it had never been trapped at all. Yuta steps back, pulling in a slow breath, resetting his stance with the same steady focus and determination. This time, he throws more weight behind the swing, letting cursed energy surge through the sword until the air around it thickens, warping with the pressure as he brings it down.

A quiet breath slips from Sukuna’s nose, the barest hint of acknowledgment—if you could even call it that. Even with the extra force, something’s still missing, something that doesn’t quite hit the mark he’s waiting for. It still isn’t enough.

Instead of dodging, Sukuna steps right into the attack, closing the gap with unsettling ease. One hand flicks the sword aside like it’s nothing, barely a thought behind the motion, while the other slams into Yuta’s forearm hard enough to shatter his rhythm. Before Yuta can even think about resetting, Sukuna’s fingers clamp down around his wrist, locking him in place and making it clear who’s in charge here.

"Again."

With every repetition, more cursed energy pours out of him, the reinforcement growing denser, sharper, and more precise each time. The pressure over the training ground thickens, heavy enough that even Maki’s eyes narrow, her gaze sharpening as she tracks Yuta’s every move.

And yet, despite all of it, Sukuna’s face stays blank, crimson eyes watching without a flicker of approval or even mild concern. The irritation simmering beneath that calm is no longer about Yuta’s technique, or his control, or even the sword. It’s something simpler, and somehow even more maddening.

Every time Yuta pushes harder, he still stops at the same invisible line, holding back each swing with the same restraint, no matter how much power he pours in. He never fully commits or crosses that threshold, and never lets himself go all the way—not once does he drop the leash, no matter how much Sukuna demands it.

Another strike, another catch—Sukuna’s fingers clamp around the wood like it’s nothing, stopping the katana cold, but this time, he doesn’t let go. His grip stays locked, unyielding, as if the sword weighs less than air, while his crimson eyes rise to meet Yuta’s, studying him in a silence that feels endless.

A few seconds drag by. Instinct kicks in and Yuta tries to wrench the sword free, tightening his grip, shifting his stance, but Sukuna’s hold doesn’t move at all. The sword might as well be welded in place, completely unmoved by all of Yuta’s effort.

"...Why?" Yuta asks quietly.

Sukuna drops his gaze from Yuta’s eyes to the sword, lingering there like the weapon might hold more truth than the boy holding it. He tracks the cursed energy running through it, thinking about every tiny adjustment and every careful calculation in Yuta’s grip. Every movement is precise and intentional, and still, every strike is held back. Sukuna can feel the instinct guiding him, the discipline drilled in so deep that it decides exactly how much force is allowed in a training match. More than that, he senses the invisible wall Yuta won’t cross, the line that keeps him just shy of real, lethal intent every single time.

A faint curl tugs at Sukuna’s mouth, so slight it would slip past anyone not paying close attention. He lets go of the sword, fingers sliding off it, only to catch Yuta’s wrist instead. With barely any effort, he drags the boy’s arm down, forcing the tip of the blade to droop uselessly toward the gravel, draining the last bit of threat from the attack.

"Again."

Yuta drags a breath through his teeth, the wet, ragged sound scraping at the hush that’s settled over the training ground. Sweat slides down his temple, carving a path through the dust on his skin before dripping into the dirt between his shoes. He lunges, pouring every bit of drilled form into the thrust, but the wooden sword barely has time to threaten before Sukuna’s hand snaps out, fingers locking around Yuta’s wrist with the unyielding grip of a vise.

A sharp hitch catches in Yuta’s breath, muscles going taut as he tries to yank free, but it’s absolutely pointless. With a lazy twist, Sukuna forces Yuta’s arm down yet again, dragging his whole upper body along until he’s shoved into a rigid, low stance that leaves no room for argument.

“Is that all?” Sukuna rasps, his deep voice carrying a dry, heavy deadpan that cuts through the sweltering heat. His thumb presses against the bone of the boy’s wrist until the teenager's fingers twitch involuntarily.

Old habits bleed through in Yuta’s posture, his shoulders dropping in a reflexive show of politeness as he bows his head. “Sorry,” he manages, the word soft and sincere.

A dry, rasping sound slips from Sukuna’s chest, his mouth twisting into a sharp, mocking sneer that tugs at the tattoos on his face. He leans in, just enough for his breath to warm the space between them, his voice dropping into a low, biting deadpan.

“Do you think that noise fixed your mistake?” Sukuna drawls, his eyes tracking the sharp bob of Yuta’s throat. “If apologies improved technique, you’d be competent already.”

Yuta drags a breath through his teeth, sweat slicking his temple before it slips down and disappears into the dust between his shoes. "I was... I was trying to minimize the opening—"

"I don't care about your openings," Sukuna says at last, his voice flat and devoid of interest, as though the words aren’t even meant for Yuta but simply spoken into the air. "I don't care if you have more reserves than the rest of these modern ants combined."

His grip tightens for a heartbeat, just enough to drive the point home, then he lets go with a flick so careless it almost feels bored, as if the whole exchange never mattered at all.

“The only thing that’s worth my time,” Sukuna rumbles, his dark nails tracing a slow, absent circle in the air as he walks, his index finger shifting lazily to follow the drift of the dust motes, “is if you’ve actually decided to kill me when you swing.”

The words hang there, as silence settles over the training ground all over again. Even the faint scrape of gravel and distant movement seems to vanish under the weight of his judgment. Sukuna holds Yuta’s gaze a moment longer, unreadable, then turns away without waiting for an answer, his eyes drifting over the field without ever settling on anyone in particular.

His patience, whatever little of it existed, is gone.

Only then do his words spill out, almost absent-minded, now that the conversation has finally landed somewhere that actually deserves his attention.

"Every single one of you is obsessed with what you can do, but you've all mistaken ability for combat,” he goes on with a profound contempt coloring every word. “You inherited techniques, collected weapons, learned how to shape cursed energy into prettier and prettier tricks, and somehow convinced yourselves that possessing those things makes you dangerous. It doesn't."

He lets out a quiet scoff, a raspy and low sound from the back of his throat, shaking his head like the thought itself is too exhausting to bother with.

"They teach you how to reinforce your bodies," Sukuna continues, slowing as he reaches the white chalk line marking the edge of the drilling area that the students draw for themselves. "They teach you combinations, formations, efficiency, restraint. They fill your heads with rules before any of you understand the only question that has ever mattered."

At last, he stops walking. Boots grind into the gravel as he turns to face the low stone steps of the auditorium, but his gaze drifts past the training grounds, slipping through the trees toward the distant skyline.

"When you stand in front of another person..." The silence that follows feels absolute as the second-years wait for the rest of the thought to follow. "...have you already decided they're going to die?"

He isn’t expecting any of them to answer, and whatever justification they might try to muster wouldn’t matter anyway. The answer is obvious.

“All they ever teach you is how to kill curses. Convenient, isn't it?" He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “You spend your whole life fighting things that don’t think, then a human stands in front of you, and suddenly every answer you’ve been given stops fitting the question.”

Finally, he looks at them, crimson eyes sliding down the line of students until they lock onto Yuta’s sweat-streaked face.

“You already know what it looks like when another sorcerer decides to kill you, and yet you all convinced yourselves that day was unusual. It wasn’t. It was the only honest fight you’ve ever had.” His lower lip curls into a sharp, mocking sneer that makes his face tattoos shift against his cheekbones. "And you learned absolutely nothing. You still treat killing like a special occasion. You wait until you’re desperate, until there isn’t another choice, until your enemy gives you permission to kill back,” he spits that word like it’s poison, “but by then, you've already waited too long.”

His gaze slips from Yuta, sliding sideways without a hint of hesitation until it lands squarely on Maki. She stands perfectly still, spear braced tight across her torso, knuckles white where her fingers clamp the polished wood.

"You’re not trying to kill me. You're trying to win." His expression hardens, whatever amusement draining out of his face entirely, leaving it cold and flat. "I can see it every time you move. You’re all still negotiating with yourselves—should I attack, should I wait, commit, defend? You swing and you’re already thinking about your next block. Step forward, and your mind’s already planning the retreat. You’re so terrified of dying that you’ve turned combat into a set of neat little rules you practice in the dirt until you think you’re safe.”

Another short, raspy chuckle escapes him, stripped of any humor, the sound bouncing off the corrugated tin of the equipment sheds behind the boundary line.

“Violence isn't a conversation,” he says, his hand rising from his side to gesture vaguely at the open space between them, his dark nails catching the bright glare of the afternoon sun. “It doesn't have room for your manners or your sentimentality. A thousand years ago, if you hesitated to strike, someone had already taken your head off. You don’t hide what you want to do. You don’t hide the intent of the slaughter. You don't wrap your energy in these pathetic little layers of deception because you're afraid of the counter. You reveal it completely."

He takes two steps forward and his presence fills the space, looming over the center line again.

“If you weren’t prepared to split someone open from shoulder to hip, they split you open instead. If you couldn’t put your hand through a man’s throat, you didn’t get a second chance. That’s what mattered. Techniques ended the fight—intent decided if you lived long enough to use them.”

Turning slowly, he lets his crimson eyes drift over their faces, with that empty, unsettling look that hits harder than any punch. To him, he’s just stating a simple fact: everything they know about living and surviving is far beneath him. He expects them to grasp a kill-or-be-killed mindset they’ve brushed against once before, and the longer they stand there, breathing hard, mouths parted in confusion, the less he thinks of them.

Panda shifts, claws digging into his knees as he stays silent. Inumaki keeps his chin tucked into his high collar, eyes wide and unblinking in the harsh light.

“I've never understood why people talk about surviving battles. I never walk into battle wondering if I’ll live. I walk into it, deciding who dies.” He lets out a quiet scoff. “The strangest thing about killing another sorcerer is how often they keep fighting after I’ve already killed them—they think they still have a choice.”

His eyes slide from Maki to Yuta without slowing.

"She fights without a technique. He’s got a technique most sorcerers would kill for. Doesn’t matter. If they haven’t already decided the person in front of them is leaving here dead, nothing else means a damn thing."

He shoves his hands back into his pockets, his gaze drifting toward Inumaki, letting his eyes linger on him for a long moment, weighing whether there’s any point in wasting another second on this. Another click of his tongue breaks the silence—there isn’t. His boots grind into the gravel as he turns toward the narrow stone path leading back to the main facilities.

——

Heat presses in from all sides, the afternoon air so thick and unmoving it feels like you’re wading through it as you step out of the infirmary. Over here, tucked away from the open fields, the quiet feels just refreshing. The stone path narrows, winding through the oldest, shadiest corners of Tokyo Jujutsu High, and the usual racket from the training grounds fades to a distant hum. Breathing in slow and deep, you let the sharp scent of pine work its way into your lungs, easing some of the tension that’s been coiled in your shoulders. There’s something about visiting Shoko in her little sanctuary that always feels like a reset—a rare, steady patch of ground where the world isn’t always threatening to tip out from under you.

With your hands shoved into your uniform jacket, fingers idly tracing the cold edge of your keyring, you start back toward the main building. Just as you round a thick cluster of bamboo and the path widens near the edge of the secondary courtyard, a heavy, scuffling noise grates across the gravel, slicing straight through the hush.

“Teach!”

The call is cheerful but heavily out of breath. You pause mid-step, turning your head toward the noise.

Panda and Yuta appear from the edge of the training grounds, making their way toward you. Panda lifts one enormous, dirt-streaked paw in a lazy wave, while Yuta shuffles along beside him, shoulders slumped and his wooden training katana slung over his shoulder like it weighs a ton. They’re both a complete mess. Panda’s white fur is streaked with damp earth and smeared with grass stains, and Yuta’s shirt is plastered to his torso with sweat, his dark hair clinging in messy, damp tufts to his forehead.

“Got a minute?” Panda rasps, stopping a few paces away, chest still heaving.

Pulling your hands free from your pockets, you offer them a calm, slightly curious look. “Is everything alright?”

Panda’s left paw drags up to the back of his neck, claws working through fur that’s matted with sweat and bits of gravel. A dry, theatrical sigh escapes him. “So… any chance you could tell Sukuna to dial it back a little?”

A blink is all you manage, the question catching you so off guard it takes a second to find your voice. “…Dial what back?”

“The everything,” Yuta replies, his mouth tugging into a tired, awkward smile while he leans into the wooden hilt of his sword. “He was… particularly enthusiastic today.”

A loud, dry snort bursts from Panda, echoing in the quiet courtyard. “Enthusiastic?” His paw sweeps toward the empty training field behind them, where the white chalk boundaries are completely blurred and stomped out. “I think he tried to psychologically end us.”

Yuta lets out a quiet, breathless laugh, his gaze dropping to his boots as he shifts his weight from heel to toe. “Yeah. But that happened after he destroyed us physically.”

“I think I got thrown at least five times,” Panda grumbles, his dark eyes rolling so far back it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck. He presses a paw to his forehead, trying to tally it up in his head.

Yuta glances over at him from the corner of his eye and mutters, “…Seven.”

“See? I lost count,” Panda sighs, his massive head shaking in disbelief as he stares down at the dirt. “He was enjoying that way too much.” Straightening up just a little, he leans in, expression turning earnest, almost pleading. “Seriously, though—could you talk to him?”

Your brows draw together, a sudden confusion rising in your chest as you look between the two of them. "Me?"

“He actually listens to you,” Panda says, his tone so matter-of-fact it might as well be carved into the campus stone.

Your mouth opens, ready to protest, but the words catch somewhere between your teeth and your tongue, refusing to come out. The whole idea is so ridiculous it nearly makes you laugh—Sukuna doesn't listen to anyone; he merely tolerates your presence because your Weaving technique makes him stop itching, nothing more. Yet somehow, they’d spun your forced survival sessions into some kind of secret authority, as if you have even a shred of control over him. Like you could ever tell him what to do.

You barely get a breath in, let alone a chance to set the record straight, before a sharp, familiar voice slices through the air.

“Oi! You two!” Maki calls out from the far side of the field, her spear slung casually across the back of her neck while she leans against the equipment sheds, looking every bit as impatient as she sounds. “Are we drilling or are we gossiping? Get back over here!”

Panda’s ears twitch as he instantly looks over his shoulder. He spins back around, offering you a rushed, almost clumsy salute with his paw before he starts edging away toward the field. "Thanks, Teach. You're the best!"

Yuta hesitates, hanging back for a second longer, embarrassment and gratitude flickering across his face in equal measure. He dips into a quick, apologetic bow, knuckles whitening as his grip tightens around the strap of his training sword. "Sorry. And thanks."

He turns on his heel and jogs after Panda, the two of them kicking up little bursts of dust with every step as they hurry back across the field to where Maki is standing with her arms crossed, her glare fixed on them like she’s been waiting all morning.

Rooted in place on the narrow stone path, you let the warm breeze ruffle your hair and stir the leaves overhead while you watch the students disappear. Your hands slip back into your pockets, keys clinking together in the hush, and you fix your gaze on the empty gravel at your feet. Nothing comes to mind—just a dry, hollow ache in your throat as the absurd weight of their assumption presses down, heavy and impossible to shake off.

“He actually listens to you.”

Blankly, you stare at the dust-streaked path, eyes wide and unblinking, while a stunned, barely-there whisper escapes before you can stop it. “…What?”

Dragging yourself forward, you shift your weight and force your legs to keep moving, each step carrying you closer to the main building. All you need to do is make it to the center of campus, unlock your office, and bury yourself in the mindless comfort of grading quizzes and prepping for the next round of classes.

The path ahead stretches long and dappled, sunlight flickering through the dense canopy overhead. Rounding a thick cluster of bamboo where the walkway widens at the edge of the secondary courtyard, you catch sight of two figures standing beneath a pair of old trees, right beside a tori gate.

Principal Yaga stands with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark uniform jacket looking entirely too hot for the weather. Next to him, towering easily over the administrator, is Sukuna.

Looking completely relaxed with his hands shoved into his pockets, he’s listening to whatever Yaga’s droning on about with a lazy, heavy sort of tolerance, his head tilted just enough to look bored. He’s not doing anything really, and his energy isn't flaring, but somehow his massive shoulders still manage to swallow up half the width of the dirt path.

Instinct screams at you to find another route, but you’re already too close to double back without making it painfully obvious. Jaw tight, hands buried deep in your pockets, you force yourself to keep a steady pace. It’s fine. You’re fine. He’s busy, you tell yourself, fixing your eyes on the main building in the distance. If you just look like you’re in the middle of something important, maybe you can slip past while Yaga’s still talking.

You’re barely ten meters away when Sukuna’s head snaps toward you, all that lazy indifference gone in an instant. Crimson eyes lock onto you, and whatever conversation he was having with the principal evaporates from his mind like it never existed.

He finishes whatever thought he was on in a flat, gravelly rumble, not even glancing back at Yaga. A curt, “Later,” and he turns on his heel, striding toward you with unhurried steps that eat up the distance before you can even consider veering off into the grass to avoid him.

Sukuna plants himself squarely in your path, massive chest blocking the walkway and leaving you no choice but to stop dead in front of him. Beneath the automatic caution that always kicks in when he’s this close, a bone-deep exasperation settles in your gut. Your shoulders drop a fraction as you look up at him, a silent, exhausted groan rattling around in your head. If only you could just barrel straight through him and keep moving, pretend he wasn’t there at all.

Behind him, Yaga doesn't look surprised or particularly insulted by the abrupt exit. He glances your way, the smallest flicker of dry amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, then shakes his head, slides his sunglasses higher on his nose, and strolls off toward the faculty wing. Clearly, he’s more than happy to leave you stranded with this particular mess.

Sukuna towers above, his shadow cutting off the harsh sunlight that had been burning across your face, while his eyes linger on you for just a moment before sliding away, drifting lazily toward the training fields stretching out behind him.

“Your era breeds nothing but weak sorcerers,” Sukuna says flatly. “It’s a disgrace. The strongest one apologizes every time he misses, the one without a technique still pulls her strikes the moment she’s convinced she’s landed one. Even the cursed corpse has learned to laugh at his own mistakes before anyone else does. They’ve already accepted failure.”

You listen to the rasp of his voice, your mind instantly replaying the exact same complaints he has made while sprawled across your office couch, breaking your pens and staring out your windows. You know every beat of this rant by heart.

You shift your weight from foot to foot. “They’re still learning,” you reply quietly, eyes skimming the ground instead of meeting his.

Sukuna’s lips curl, and he arches a brow at you, leaning in just enough for his shadow to creep further over you. “Then they’re learning the wrong things.”

A quiet sigh slips out before you can stop it. “You’ve mentioned,” you say wearily, your thumb tracing the keyring in your pocket.

A short, dry grunt rumbles out of his chest, close enough to amusement that it almost passes for it. His smirk widens by a fraction as he watches your expression flatten into the same weary resignation it always does whenever he starts in on this particular complaint.

“Every teacher wastes time correcting technique while ignoring intent. You can drill a sword swing for ten years, but if the idiot holding it is still waiting for permission, it’s useless. They’re still trying not to kill.”

Frowning, you finally glance up at him. “They’re students.”

“They’re sorcerers,” he corrects, not even glancing at you. “The distinction only exists because your era insists on pretending it does.” Then, he suddenly clicks his tongue. “Come,” he rumbles, turning his chin back toward the path ahead.

You stay rooted exactly where you are. “Where?”

He rolls his shoulders, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “The office,” he grunts, as if the answer should be obvious.

“Why?” you ask immediately, keeping your voice level and slightly stubborn, even though the main building was already your destination. You had every intention of going straight to your desk, but there’s no way you’re letting him think he’s actually ordering you around. It’s pointless, of course—you know you wouldn’t be able to say no, regardless of what you’d planned to do instead.

Sukuna edges half a step closer, crowding into your space until the weight of his presence fills the whole width of the dirt path. He looks down his nose at you, his tone dipping into that dry, almost conversational bite.

“I’m done standing out here,” he rasps.

He doesn’t bother waiting for your answer before turning his back. A resigned breath slips out through your nose. You already know exactly how the rest of your afternoon is going to play out: Sukuna’s decided you’re spending it with him, and every plan you had quietly rearranges itself around that decision.

As soon as your boot crunches against the gravel, Sukuna shifts his weight beside you and falls into step, heading down the path toward the distant building. He doesn’t make a show of matching your stride, but his long legs slow just enough to keep his shoulder perfectly lined up with yours as the two of you walk side by side down the wide path.

Back near the edge of the secondary courtyard, Panda leans his bulky arms against the low stone wall. His dark ears twitch as his gaze follows the path, and he gives Yuta a sharp nudge with the back of his paw, nodding toward the walkway.

“See?” Panda mutters, a quiet, completely satisfied tone in his voice.

Yuta follows the gesture, blinking sweat from his eyes as he watches Sukuna ditch the principal and head straight for you. The two students watch as you talk for a minute, then Sukuna falls into step beside you, and together you disappear behind the trees on your way to the main building.

“Told you,” Panda adds, his large head shaking as he turns back toward the other two of their classmates.

Yuta lets out a slow, relieved breath, nodding in agreement. “Hopefully it works,” he says quietly.

—

The office key presses into your palm as the lock clicks open beneath your fingers. You step inside and set your bag beside your desk in its usual spot without a second thought. Sukuna trails in behind you, not bothering to wait for an invitation, because he never does, and drops onto the couch.

There’s no need to look back. After months of this routine, you already know he’ll sprawl wherever he pleases, settle in for hours, and somehow shrink the room to half its size just by being here.

You stack the quizzes into a neat pile, fingers smoothing out the bent corner of one that got crumpled in your bag. Only then do you glance over your shoulder, half-hoping for some obvious reason for his presence, even though you already know better

"Do you need another weaving?" you ask. It’s the only explanation that comes to mind, and honestly, asking outright has always been easier than trying to untangle whatever twisted logic Sukuna’s working with.

"No," he answers, not even pausing to consider it, like the question barely registers and the idea of offering any further explanation hasn’t even crossed his mind.

A single blink is all you manage, thrown more by how certain he sounds than by the answer itself. You wait, hoping he’ll elaborate, but he doesn’t bother, so you just ask, "Then why are you here?"

This time, your voice comes out more cautious, edged with the suspicion that whatever answer he gives will only tangle things further.

"I'm sitting," Sukuna replies bluntly, like that alone should settle the matter and you’re ridiculous for even asking.

He makes no attempt to clarify what he means, not even a hint of justification for why that sitting has to happen here, in your office. Apparently, just being here is both the reason and the answer, and he’s perfectly content to leave it at that.

For a moment, you just stare, trying to figure out if he’s being deliberately obtuse or if, somehow, this actually makes sense in his head. The longer you think about it, the less sure you are that it even matters.

"Right," you finally murmur, quiet and resigned, because there’s nowhere left for this conversation to go and you’re almost certain he knows it.

A sigh escapes through your nose as you sink into your chair, resigned to the reality. Sukuna has decided your office is where he spends his free afternoons, and whether he actually needs anything from you stopped mattering weeks ago. If he wants to sit here, he does; if he wants silence, the room obliges; and if he decides you’re both spending the next few hours inside these four walls, the day quietly rearranges itself around that choice, neither of you ever acknowledging it out loud.

Reaching for the first stack of papers, you start marking the margins, grateful for the familiar rhythm as your red pen travels across each page, leaving behind short notes before you flip to the next sheet and repeat the process. The routine steadies your thoughts better than anything else, giving your mind something predictable to settle into while the minutes drift past.

More time slips by than you realize, and the quiet stretches out until it starts to feel unfamiliar. Your pen slows as the absence of interruption grows harder to ignore, another page turning beneath your hand while you wait, almost unconsciously, for something that never comes. No complaints about modern sorcerers, no low, amused remark from across the room, no attempts to derail your focus, and no impossible questions tossed out just to watch you stumble through an answer.

The only sounds are the scratch of your pen against paper and the occasional rustle of his clothes as he shifts on the couch. The room settles into a strange silence that presses against your ears until it’s somehow louder than his usual presence. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of you, and your eyes lift from the page.

Sprawled across the couch, Sukuna hooks one arm lazily over the backrest, his broad shoulders sinking deep into the cushions. One leg stretches out in front of him, the other bent just enough to let him claim an unreasonable amount of space, even while sticking to his human form. His attention isn’t on you at all; he’s focused entirely on the phone resting in one enormous hand, thumb gliding across the screen with a surprising ease as he scrolls through whatever has managed to keep the King of Curses occupied for nearly an hour.

You catch yourself staring way longer than you mean to, the sight settling in with a faint, almost ridiculous disbelief. Sukuna, of all people, actually owns a phone.

It throws you off, though you can’t pin down why. Logically, after months of being reincarnated, it would be weirder if he didn’t have one by now, considering how quickly he adapts to anything he decides is worth understanding, no matter how loudly he complains about modern society.

For a split second, you wonder if Yuji ever tried teaching him how to use it, but the thought vanishes almost as soon as it appears. There’s no universe where Sukuna would let that kid teach him a single damn thing, especially not something this trivial. He’d either figure it out himself or bully someone else into explaining it.

Watching his thumb swipe across the glass, another thought sneaks in, bringing an unexpected wave of relief. At least he doesn’t have your phone number. Or if he does, he has no interest in using it, which is a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed until now.

You silently beg the universe to keep him uninterested in digital harassment, letting your gaze drift away from the device in his hand. It catches on the couch beneath him, and a slight frown tugs at your brow as something about it refuses to settle into place.

At first, you can’t quite put your finger on what feels off, because the difference isn’t immediately obvious, but the longer you look, the clearer it becomes: the couch sits perfectly level beneath him, no longer slumping toward the corner where one of the legs snapped under the weight of his true form. When he shifts against the backrest, the frame stays silent, not a single strained groan or ominous creak to warn that the rest of the legs might give out next.

Once you notice the silence, other differences start to surface. The armrests are wider, the space between them more generous, and the back extends higher behind his shoulders than you remember. You go still, breath catching for a moment as the realization finally lands—the couch is bigger.

Your eyes flick from Sukuna to the couch and back again, as if staring hard enough might make the old one reappear. Clearing your throat, you finally cut through the silence that’s settled over the room.

"Did you replace my couch?" The words slip out before you can stop them. The idea of anyone else replacing the couch in your office without so much as a warning is impossible to picture.

Sukuna finally looks up from his phone, brow knitting together like you’ve just interrupted him with a genuinely baffling question, one that doesn't make the slightest sense to him.

"No," he replies after a beat, confusion flickering in the way his eyes narrow. When you just stare, letting the silence stretch, he adds an irritated, "What?" like you’re the one who needs to justify asking something so stupid.

For Sukuna, your question doesn’t even register as logical—that wasn't your couch. The moment he decided your office beat the teacher’s lounge, it became his, and every afternoon since has only hammered that point home. He sprawled across it, napped on it, ate entire meals on it, ignored people from it, and waited there while you worked, until weeks of staking his claim turned the couch into just another piece of territory, worn in by sheer, stubborn use.

When one of the legs snapped and left the whole thing sagging toward the floor, groaning every time he shifted like the rest might collapse, he just swapped it for one that suited him better. There was nothing to discuss—he hadn’t replaced your furniture, just his own.

You keep staring at the wider couch, letting his answer sink in, the implications washing over you in slow, quiet waves as you take in its size again. It isn’t just newer—it’s unmistakably big enough for his true form, the extra space impossible to ignore now that you know what to look for. It hits you hard in your chest that Sukuna no longer treats transforming into his true form in your office like an exception.

By swapping out the couch, he’s made it clear that, sooner or later, he already expects it to happen again and that this version of him will be just another part of your afternoons.

← prev chapter ◦ chapter 7 ◦ next chapter → series masterlist

a/n: yeah... i don't know. but kudos to sukuna for trying to teach lmao

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