cw: MDNI, sukuna x f!reader, sukuna shows you his dıck piercings, he has a little crush on reader and is oddly respectful
Sukuna was widely known for two things:
1. Being an asshole.
2. Having multiple piercings on his dick.
And despite his shitty attitude, women still flocked to him in hopes of at least getting a peek.
You’re no better than any of them. The thought of what his dick could possibly look like has always lingered in the back of your head in the years that you’ve known him. Going out of your way to scratch that little itch you have is something you wouldn’t dare to do though.
It’s not like he was a friend or anything. Just an acquaintance, which was close to enough to know that if that side quest ever went wrong, there was no avoiding him. Yeah, you may not talk much at parties or random get togethers, but his presence alone was too demanding to ignore.
And on the off chance’s that you do talk, he is suffocating. It’s not even because of the way he acts. Surprisingly enough, you’ve never actually been on the receiving end of his temper when it’s soiled. It’s just his presence— the weight of his stare, the bass of his voice, the way he demands space.
Sukuna makes you nervous, and you’re pretty sure he knows that too. You wouldn’t say you were a timid person by any means. You could hold your own, had a decent amount of confidence, but it was never enough to handle him for longer than small increments of time.
He knows that too.
It’s why he keeps his distance. Look, he’s not a monster, and you’ve never done anything to bother him. He knows what he’s like, and if he’s too much for you, keeping his distance isn’t something he minds doing.
Sukuna’s not perfect though. He’ll come up and bug you after he gets a couple of drinks in him. His version of it. Which is, in a slightly lame way, just talking. Maybe a little flirting— saying that you smell nice, or that he likes whatever the fuck you did with your hair, yada yada. Sometimes you fold, sometimes you don’t. It’s different every time, he thinks of it as a little game he likes to play once in a while.
On this particular night, you had a little more to drink than what you usually had, and lucky for him, you didn’t actually crumble 5 minutes into talking about something as mundane as your job.
He wasn’t following you around and marking his territory on you like some dog, but he can admit that there were a few times he lingered around you. Not that you noticed, it was one of the very few times you let loose, so therefore you weren’t overly aware of your surroundings.
It wasn’t until everybody left when things got interesting though. You both just so happened to be spending the night at a shared friend’s house. Separate sleeping arrangements, of course. But you two were the last ones awake, in the basement, sitting and talking on the couch he was planning to sleep on.
It started with him asking about your dating life, if you had anybody you were seeing or not. You two were still drinking. Not too much, but enough for the conversation to inevitability turn suggestive.
Until he straight up told you that he enjoyed putting women in headlocks and fucking them until they cried. It was a piece of information that you definitely didn't mind being told, but it was only a matter of time before it'd circle back to you.
"Alright, what about you?"
“I don’t know,” you let out an awkward laugh, clearly flustered from the sudden pressure he put on you.
He just smiles, eyes drifting down to your lips. “I’m just asking what you like— nothing to be shy about,” he hums.
You take a moment to think about it, deciding for once to push past the shyness you tend to feel around him. "Alright, fine."
And without hesitation
“What about dick piercings?”
“I don’t— huh?” Your brain short circuits, already telling yourself that this can't be happening. It’s too good to be true. “I’ve never been with anyone that’s had one before, but I guess they’re nice.”
You really don't know why you say you guess. They are nice.
Your answer makes Sukuna look at you as if you’ve experienced nothing but back-to-back tragedies in your life, all because you've never been with someone pierced before.
“Yeah— feels good, too.” His response of course does not match his face or his tone, it sounds more like he’s pitching a sale. “Especially when you have a few of them stacked over each other like mine.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“That’s—“ your throat grows dry at the thought, “did it hurt?”
“Nah, felt more like a pinch.”
“And there’s… how many?”
“Five,” he says the number like it carries weight and meaning, and at this point, it does. “One right under the tip and the rest is a Jacob’s ladder.”
You try to imagine it and end up looking confused as you open your mouth to say something, only to close it due to the words dying in your throat.
It happens 3 times before he eventually cuts in again.
“Wanna see it?”
What kind of a question is that? Of course you wanna fucking see it. Why wouldn’t you? You still hold on to what little respect you have left though.
“That wouldn’t be weird or anything?”
“Maybe, but it was me who brought it up. Can’t blame you for wanting to see.”
He’s full of shit and knows exactly what he’s doing. But you go along with it because this is something you've thought about for years. Less than a minute later, he’s unbuckling his belt and zipping his pants down.
There’s a moment of (fake) reluctance when he palms his boxers and remembers that it’s not just the piercings you’re going to see. It’s also his cock, which, in his honest and humble opinion, is a work of fucking art. Especially when it’s hard, like right now. He almost feels like he has to warn you, but decides not to and instead asks if you're ready.
You weren’t sure. You’ve been internally screaming this entire time though, and knew you’d explode if you didn’t see it already, so you gave him a nod.
Then your jaw nearly drops as he pulls his boxers down low enough for his entire cock to spring out. Spring’s not even the right word to use, it was too heavy for that, and if anything, just settled right on his stomach.
It was long and thick, a couple prominent veins running down his shaft. Big, dark pink tip that had some precum dripping from it. And then the five piercings.
Holy shit
It didn’t help that his hand was loosely wrapped around the base, lids growing heavier the longer you stare.
“Oh my god?”
“Yeah,” he rasps.
“You’re fucking huge.”
“I know.”
You don’t really care that much about the piercings despite them being the only reason why he has his dick out right now, but he is not complaining. By all means, stare at it. Please.
Drool, even.
He huffs out a laugh as he sees a little bit of it collect at the corner of your mouth, and swipes it off with his thumb before raising it to his mouth and licking it clean.
“Sorry,” you say without an inch of shame.
“You’re good,” he casually says, not trying to ruin the romantic moment you’re currently having with his dick. “Probably from one of the drinks you had earlier.”
“Mhm.” Neither of you believe that, but just go along with it. “Do the piercings ever get caught in your boxers?”
“Never,” he shakes his head. “They’re smooth against everything. . . You can touch them. If you want.”
Your hand’s already reaching out before that sentence is even finished, and his abs involuntarily flex at the feeling of your fingertips brushing over the underside of his shaft.
You say nothing, because you can’t think of anything respectful to say, and just continue to trace up until you get to his tip.
He feels you pull back and takes a good guess at why you did as he watches you rub your fingers together.
“Shit, sorry— fuck, you’re kidding me,” he suddenly groans out.
You licked precum off your fingers, but didn’t realize it until after.
Your eyes widen in panic. “Oh my god— that was so weird, I’m sorry.”
“No, that was— it wasn’t weird,” he tries to put a response together, but he’s honestly just as shocked as you. “You're fuckin’ nasty— did it taste good?”
You can’t even believe you’re saying this right now, but, “Honestly, yeah.”
“Jesus,” he lets out a low laugh, throwing his head back for a moment to take a deep breath, which turns into a deep, drawn-out hum when he feels you wrap your hand around his base. “You’re fuckin’ killin me right now.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” you whisper at first. “We should just—“
He opens one eye. “Fuck?”
“Yeah.”
notes: dick piercing kuna deserved his own spot in my master list so i freshened this up from side character reader 🫶🏻
SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after nearly a decade of silence.
01. wide awake all night thinking about you / 02. we should stop watchin’ the news / 03. tired of you still tied to me / 04. tell me i’m no one else’s but yours / 05. do you think of me too? / 06. say what you want, but say it like you mean it / 07. you and i could be okay / 08. everything hurts, except for you / 09. you’ll go fight a war, i’ll go missin' / 10. am i making you feel sick? / 11. while you were torn apart, i would still wait with you there / 12. if youre not scared,... fuck around and find out / 13. nine going on eighteen / 14. i'm tired of you, too tired to leave / 15. ...
SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.
a/n: i lowk fucked up the timeline so bare w me as i rework the ending to fit the canon timeline... also thank u to babygirl @nanamisbbygirl for reading half of this over for me smooch smooch smooch
series m. list | m. list
February, 2015
You, Nanami, and Satoru all stare.
“...Well, that’s not creepy at all,” you say, swallowing.
“We should call for backup,” Nanami says immediately. His tone is calm, but his hand is already hovering near his tie. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
Beside you, Satoru gulps.
It’s small. A little click in his throat. If you didn’t know him, you’d miss it. But you do and you catch it.
“It’s fine,” he laughs, brushing it off, posture loosening in an exaggerated way. “I’m not the strongest for nothing. Nothing can touch me.”
“That’s not the point,” Nanami replies. “If this ties to Geto, we shouldn’t be reckless.”
“Backup means paperwork,” Satoru says. “Paperwork means Yaga. Yaga means lectures. You wanna listen to him yell about protocol for an hour?”
Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’d rather that than die in a building with you.”
You clear your throat. “We could at least let Ijichi know we’re placing a veil.”
Nanami nods. “That, I agree with.”
Satoru blows out a breath. “Fine, fine. Call him,” he says, waving a lazy hand. “But we’re still going in.”
You step aside so Nanami can pull out his phone. He walks a few paces away, murmuring into the line. Satoru stands in front of the open doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, staring into the dark.
You step closer. “You okay?”
He doesn’t look at you. “Yeah,” he says. “Just remembering the last time I was here.”
You want to ask again, but you don’t.
Nanami returns. “He knows. If he doesn’t hear from us in two hours, he alerts Yaga.”
“That’s not how safety nets work,” Nanami mutters.
“Veil?” you suggest.
Satoru’s expression shifts, familiar focus sliding into place. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
The three of you spread out into a rough triangle around the front of the building. You press your palm to the ground, channeling your cursed energy as the air thickens, warping around the property line. The sky dulls slightly, sound dimming like someone put cotton over your ears.
The veil snaps into place with a low, humming thrum.
Immediately, the atmosphere changes and the building in front of you feels heavier.
Satoru strolls back to the entrance, more casual than he should be. “Alright,” he says. “Guess we’re going in.”
You shoot Nanami a look. He returns it.
You step over the threshold together.
Inside, the air is stale and cold, layered with dust and something metallic underneath. The entry hall is wide, lined with empty sconces and faded banners, whatever symbols once printed on them long since worn away. Your footsteps echo too loud against the tile.
“Cursed energy is strong,” you murmur. “But… strange.”
“Like it’s old,” Nanami agrees. “Leftovers.”
“Or bait,” Satoru adds lightly.
You glare at him. “You’re not helping.”
He grins briefly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You move in formation without needing to talk about it — Satoru ahead, you to his left, Nanami slightly behind to the right, covering angles. Your fingers twitch at your sides, threads itching just beneath the skin, waiting to be called.
“Same layout as before,” Satoru mutters mostly to himself, gaze tracking over the corridors. “Main hall straight, ritual chamber lower level, living quarters on the upper floors.”
You reach the main corridor. It stretches long ahead, doors on either side, all closed. Nanami glances down at his watch.
“We stick to the plan,” he says. “Ground floor sweep, then lower levels. If this place ties to the case, there may be more cursed tools or records stored here.”
“And curses,” you add.
“And curses,” he agrees.
Satoru gestures down the hall. “Let’s clear left first. We’ll work our way around.”
You check the first two rooms: empty. Just old offices, paper rotting on desks, shelves with half-collapsed books. You can feel a faint residue of fear in the walls — the kind that soaks in and never fully leaves.
Third door, the knob fights you for a second before giving way with a sharp click. You push it open with your foot.
It’s a meeting room. Low table. Cushions. A blackened stain on the tatami that you hope is mildew and not what you think it is.
“Nothing,” you say.
You turn to suggest switching sides when Satoru stops walking.
He’s staring at a door at the far end of the hall. A single, unmarked sliding door. The cursed energy there is… thicker. Like something breathing behind it.
Nanami follows his gaze. “That the ritual chamber?”
“No,” Satoru says slowly. “This was… a storage room. Back then.”
“And now?” you ask.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.
You approach slowly, the hairs on your arms standing on end. Your cursed threads itch harder now, reacting on instinct.
Nanami moves up beside you. “I’ll open it,” he says.
Satoru doesn’t argue.
Nanami’s hand slides the door to the side in one smooth motion.
The smell hits you first. Not rot, exactly. Something older. Stale incense and old blood and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay buried under layers of time.
Inside, the room is darker than the hallway should allow. Talismans crowd the walls — fresh ones, not old — plastered over each other in desperate, chaotic layers. In the center of the floor is a circle carved deep into the wood, filled with blackened residue and something like ash.
You feel it before you see it.
“Satoru,” you whisper. “Do you feel that?”
He nods once, eyes narrowing, pupils pinpricks of blue. “Yeah. That’s not native to this place.”
“Is it Geto?” Nanami asks quietly.
Satoru doesn’t answer right away. He steps into the doorway, scanning the ceiling, the corners, every inch of the room.
“There’s been curses here,” he says. “Recently, and they’re high-grade. But they’re gone now.”
“Guarding what?” you ask.
Nanami crouches near the circle, careful not to step inside. “This looks like it’s been used more than once,” he says. “Ritual summoning. Or… transfer.”
A chill runs down your spine.
“Transfer of what?” you ask.
Nanami looks up at you. “Cursed tools. Spirits. Followers. Take your pick.”
“Must be important if they left protection behind,” Satoru mutters.
You take a careful step back from the door. “I don’t like this.”
“Me neither,” Nanami says. “But at least we know we’re in the right place.”
Satoru’s eyes flick to the far corner of the room. “There.”
You follow his gaze.
A small wooden crate sits tucked into the shadows, half-concealed by hanging talismans. It’s marked with the same insignia you saw on the boxes in the school basement — the ones with cursed tools bound for an unknown address.
Nanami exhales. “So the routes connect.”
“Time Vessel Association to that elementary school,” you say slowly. “This has to be one of their hubs.”
Satoru steps fully inside now, talismans fluttering slightly as his energy brushes them. “I’ll check for traps,” he says. “Stay there.”
You watch him move through the room — deliberate, controlled, the air warping subtly around him as Infinity slides into place. He reaches the box, crouches, runs a hand above it without touching.
“Nothing active,” he says. “Seal’s old. Somebody dropped this off and never came back for it.”
“That we know of,” Nanami replies. “We should still be cautious.”
You shift your weight, the prickling on your skin not entirely fading. For a moment, the edges of your vision blur — a flash of something like memory that isn’t yours.
A shrine. A child. A mother inside.
You blink it away.
“Same type of box as before,” Satoru says. “Same brand, same stamp. I’m gonna open it.”
“Wait,” Nanami starts. “We should—”
The rest of his sentence dies.
Because the moment Satoru’s fingers lift the lid, the cursed energy in the room spikes.
Not a little.
A lot.
It floods the chamber, pours into the hallway, makes your knees nearly buckle with the force of it. It’s thick and heavy and familiar in a way that makes bile rise in your throat.
Because you’ve felt this before.
“Fuck,” you whisper. “This feels like—”
“Geto,” Satoru finishes quietly.
Nanami straightens, fists clenching.
“Yeah,” Satoru says.
There’s shadows at the far end of the hall that move.
Not a trick of the light. Not your imagination.
“Nanami,” you say, your threads already unfurling from your chest. “Behind us.”
He turns, stance dropping into combat in an instant.
Satoru sets the lid aside and stands, the crate’s contents still hidden from your view.
“Looks like we’re not alone,” he says lightly.
“Look,” you say quietly. “This is more complicated than we thought.”
Satoru glances at you, then back down the hallway, jaw tightening. The shadows shift again.
“We came here for proof,” you continue, steady despite the way your pulse is climbing. “And we got it.”
Nanami steps closer to the crate, eyes sharp, already assessing what can be moved quickly. You scan the corridor through the doorway, counting the distortions in the cursed energy, trying to separate fear from familiarity.
“Nanami,” you say, not looking away, “collect the proof. Take it back to the car and have Ijichi meet us around the back.”
He nods immediately. No argument. No hesitation.
“Satoru,” you add, finally turning to him, “I need you to distract them while I figure out if these are Suguru’s curses.”
Satoru’s gaze snaps back to you. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” you say. Then, firmer: “And do not — and I mean do not — exorcise them unless I tell you to.”
For a split second, something dark flickers behind his eyes. Then he exhales and gives you a crooked smile. “Bossy,” he says. “Alright. I’ll play.”
Nanami closes the crate, securing it with a talisman from his pocket. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “If things escalate—”
“They won’t,” you reply, though you’re not entirely sure you believe it. “But come back ready.”
Nanami doesn’t waste another second. He slips out of the room, footsteps silent as he disappears down the opposite hall.
The air grows heavier the moment he’s gone.
Satoru cracks his neck, cursed energy flaring just enough to make the shadows recoil. “Okay,” he mutters. “Your move.”
You step forward, threads unfurling invisibly into the hall, brushing against the presence waiting there. The moment they touch, your chest tightens.
You know this feeling.
The threads make contact with the closest spirit and it lets out a sharp, wounded wail. It’s high and thin, like metal scraping bone.
“Go,” you say.
The silks ignite instantly, pale and almost beautiful as they tighten. Your vision tunnels, the hallway blurring as you slip into the curse’s mind with practiced ease.
Satoru nods once. He reaches over, squeezes your hand then steps away, calm as ever as his cursed energy swells and spills outward like a rising tide.
The moment you’re gone, he moves.
You fall into the curse’s consciousness easily. Too easily.
There’s no structure here.
But threaded through the mess are flashes like brief, jagged impressions.
The curse thrashes as your threads dig deeper, its energy splintering under your control. You pull back, fast.
“Second grades!” you shout, voice echoing down the hall as you snap back into your body. “They’re not intelligent. No long-term memory. He didn’t leave them—”
You don’t finish the sentence.
“Kill them,” you shout.
Satoru doesn’t hesitate.
The hallway erupts.
His infinity drops for a split second and then cursed energy detonates outward. The spirits barely have time to scream. One second there are thirteen shadows clinging to the walls, the next they’re gone, erased so cleanly it feels like the air exhales in relief.
Your threads tighten around the spirit you’re still attached to.
It whines.
With a sharp pull, you collapse its core and the curse dissolves into ash at your feet.
Silence crashes down around you.
Satoru stands at the far end of the hall, hands in his pockets like he didn’t just wipe out over a dozen curses in seconds. He looks back at you, eyes sharp.
“Second grades?” he repeats.
You nod, breathing hard. “Guard dogs. Nothing more.”
His jaw tightens. “But he was here.”
“Yes,” you say quietly. “I think so.”
Nanami’s footsteps approach fast from behind, cleaver crutched tight in his fist. He takes in the scorched hallway, the lingering residue, your expression.
“…So,” he says. “It’s real.”
You swallow.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We’ll talk in the car.”
Nanami doesn’t linger.
The moment the hallway settles and the cursed residue begins to dissipate, he motions sharply toward the back exit. You follow without argument, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, your silks retracting slowly as if reluctant to let go.
The night air hits you like a reset.
Ijichi is already there, engine running, eyes wide when he sees the three of you emerge in one piece. He doesn’t ask questions — just unlocks the doors and gestures hurriedly.
The ride back to Jujutsu High is quiet.
Too quiet.
The city lights blur past the windows as you sit stiffly in your seat, replaying flashes you wish you could forget — robes, pressure, that unmistakable weight of presence that still lingers in your chest.
Finally, Satoru breaks the silence.
“So,” he says lightly, too lightly. “What did you see?”
You hesitate, then exhale slowly. “Not much. Honestly. The curse wasn’t intelligent enough to hold onto anything long-term.”
Nanami glances at you through the rearview mirror. “But.”
“But,” you continue, “I think it saw him. I’m not sure though, everything I caught was in split seconds..”
Satoru’s jaw tightens. “That’s not very helpful.”
“Yes,” you say. “At least they weren’t his.”
Nanami folds his arms. “That’s consistent with Geto’s pattern. He wouldn’t risk traceable connections.”
The rest of the drive passes in heavy silence.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Yaga roars, his voice rattling the shelves behind his desk.
The three of you sit across from him in a neat, miserable line. Nanami is straight-backed, hands folded in his lap. Satoru is slouched, legs stretched out, expression carefully unreadable. You sit somewhere in between, shoulders tense, jaw clenched.
“I expect this kind of nonsense from him,” Yaga snaps, stabbing a finger toward Satoru. “But you?” His glare swings to you. Then Nanami. “I expected better. Both of you.”
No one interrupts him. It wouldn’t help.
“You violated protocol,” he continues, pacing now. “Entered a high-risk site without clearance, engaged unknown curses, and collected evidence without authorization. Do you have any idea how much heat that brings down on us? On you?”
Satoru opens his mouth.
“Do not,” Yaga barks. “Say a word.”
Satoru shuts it again, lips pressing into a thin line.
Yaga exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve spent the last two hours dealing with the higher-ups. Do you know how many favors I burned tonight?”
Nanami finally speaks. “We wouldn’t have gone if we didn’t believe the lead was credible.”
Yaga stops pacing. Looks at him. “And?”
“And we were right,” Nanami says calmly.
Silence drops.
You slide the photos and records forward on the desk — the crate markings, the talismans, the residue analysis. Yaga picks them up slowly, eyes scanning each page, his expression darkening the longer he looks.
“…Damn it,” he mutters.
He sinks back into his chair, shoulders heavy. When he looks up again, the fury is still there — but tempered now by something more dangerous.
Concern.
“I believe you,” he says at last. “And I believe this ties to Geto.”
Your chest tightens.
“But,” he adds sharply, “this was the last time you pull something like this. I mean it. No unsanctioned operations. No heroics. You lay low. All of you.”
Satoru lifts a finger. “Define—”
Yaga slams his palm on the desk. “Lay. Low.”
Even Satoru nods.
“I’ll get you clearance,” Yaga continues. “Limited. Controlled. And if the higher-ups smell even a hint of rebellion, I will not be able to protect you again.”
He looks directly at you now. His tone softens — just a fraction.
“You’re too important to lose,” he says. “All of you are.”
The room falls quiet again.
“You’re dismissed,” Yaga says finally. “And don’t make me regret this.”
You stand together, file out into the hall, the weight of everything settling heavier with each step.
Nanami stops at the edge of the parking lot, keys already in hand.
“I’ll stay in touch over the next few days,” he says, voice quieter now that the adrenaline’s worn off. “We should… coordinate. Carefully.”
You nod. “Yeah. Thank you. For earlier. For everything.”
He inclines his head — not quite a smile, but close enough. “Try to get some rest.”
With that, he turns and heads toward his car, shoulders stiff as he disappears into the dim glow of the lot.
You and Satoru head the other way, toward your detective classroom. The halls are mostly empty now, lights dimmed, the familiar quiet of Jujutsu High settling in around you.
The moment the door shuts behind you, Satoru groans dramatically and flops into one of the rolling chairs.
“I’m exhausted,” he complains, spinning once. “And starving. And emotionally traumatized.”
You snort, dropping your bag by your desk. “You don’t have to wait for me, you know. You can go home.”
He swivels the chair to face you. “And be alone? Absolutely not.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, already pulling out your notes. “You’re such a baby.”
He grins. “A baby who just fought thirteen curses for you.”
“Barely broke a sweat,” you say, settling into your chair. “Order food while I work. We’ll both go home after.”
Satoru perks up instantly, pulling out his phone. “Anything you want?”
You pause, then sigh. “Something warm. I don’t care.”
“Ramen it is,” he declares, already tapping away. “See? I’m helpful.”
You shake your head, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips as you turn back to your work.
The moment Satoru unlocks his apartment and steps inside, something in him shifts.
You feel it immediately — the subtle drop in pressure as his Infinity clicks off. He kicks off his shoes, shoulders finally slumping as the tension of the night bleeds out of him.
“Home,” he sighs, stretching his arms over his head. You snort, toeing off your own shoes.
The word lands softer than you expect.
You set your bag down by the couch, rolling your shoulders. “I’m gonna shower,” you say. “Can you grab me some clothes?”
“Already on it,” he says, wandering toward his bedroom. He pauses, then calls back, “I really need to shower too, by the way. I smell like cursed residue.”
You lean against the doorframe. “You can go first.”
He pops his head back out, your hair already coming loose from its tie. “Nah.”
“Nah?”
“Nah,” he repeats cheerfully. “I’ll wait. Ice cream calls to me in my hour of need.”
You laugh. “You’re so greedy.”
You grab the clothes he tosses your way and head toward the bathroom, shaking your head as he crouches in front of the freezer like it’s an altar.
“Don’t eat the last of the strawberry,” you call.
“No promises!” he replies, spoon clinking triumphantly.
The water’s already running by the time you realize it.
You’re soaked, hair plastered to your back, steam curling around the small bathroom — and there’s no towel anywhere in sight.
“…Great,” you mutter.
You hesitate for half a second, decrease the water pressure, then crack the shower door just enough to peek out. “Satoru?” you call.
“Yeah, angel?” he answers immediately, mouth full. You can hear the freezer drawer close.
“I forgot a towel,” you say, already feeling a little stupid. “Can you bring one? And don’t peek.”
“Oh,” he says, voice dripping with fake seriousness. “I would never abuse my position as your boyfriend.”
You snort. “You’re terrible.”
You laugh despite yourself. A second later, you hear footsteps, then the soft knock against the door.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m opening it a crack. Hand coming through. Eyes closed.”
The door opens just enough for his arm to stretch inside, towel dangling from his hand. You reach for it and come up short.
“…I can’t reach,” you admit.
He exhales. “You want me to—?”
“Just come in,” you say quickly. “Close your eyes.”
He hesitates, then steps inside, turning his face fully away, one hand still holding the towel out like a peace offering.
You’re about to grab it when you notice it.
The faint pink creeping up his neck. The way his ears are definitely red.
You blink.
“Right,” you say, realizing your mistake. “You have six eyes.”
He freezes. “I—”
You sigh. “It’s fine. You can look. I’m literally dripping everywhere.”
He opens his eyes carefully.
“Wow,” he mutters. “You’re… uh.”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” you warn.
He clears his throat, hands you the towel properly this time. “Right. Sorry. I’m being normal. Very normal.”
You throw the towel over the door to the shower and then glance at him. “Actually… can you do me a favor?”
He tilts his head. “Anything.”
“Wash my hair?” you ask. “I’m too exhausted.”
His expression softens immediately. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”
He steps closer, gentle hands gathering your hair, fingers careful as he works the shampoo in.
“Am I doing this right?” he asks, fingers tentative as they move through your hair, careful not to tug.
You hum softly, leaning back into his touch. “Yeah,” you say. “Just… a little more pressure.”
He adjusts immediately, hands warming, movements smoothing out as he finds a rhythm. You can feel him relax as you do.
“Okay,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I can do that.”
You smile, eyes closed, letting the water and his hands do their work.
“Okay,” he says, breathy. “Rinse.”
You turn away from him, ducking back under the stream. The water runs warm over your scalp, carrying the shampoo away, your shoulders relaxing as you tilt your head back. When you straighten again and blink the water from your lashes, you notice he’s staring very intently at the tile floor.
His hands are at his sides. Rigid. Like he’s afraid to move wrong.
“Hey,” you say softly.
He hums in response, still not looking at you.
You smile to yourself. “Your turn.”
That finally gets his attention. “What?”
“Get in,” you repeat, stepping aside just enough to make room. “You said you needed a shower too.”
He stares at you for a second, clearly recalibrating. “You’re… serious?”
“Mmhm.”
There’s something almost funny about it — the way he’s suddenly shy, the strongest sorcerer alive reduced to a boy caught off guard.
This is Satoru Gojo. Your best friend long before he was your boyfriend. You know he’s not inexperienced. You know he’s been seen naked before, you know that he’s probably showered with one of his girls dozens of times. That’s not what this is.
This is you.
“You don’t have to,” you add lightly, though your pulse has started to pick up. “I just thought—”
“I know,” he cuts in quickly. “I just— okay. Okay.”
He reaches for the hem of his shirt, hesitates, then pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. You force yourself not to stare. Mostly.
When he steps under the spray beside you, the space suddenly feels much smaller. His shoulder brushes yours by accident and neither of you moves away.
You’re hyperaware of everything — the sound of water against tile, the heat of his skin, the way his breath stutters just slightly when you turn toward him.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly, not unkind.
“So are you,” you reply.
He laughs under his breath, soft and disbelieving. “Yeah. Guess I am.”
Your eyes drift over him before you can stop yourself.
You’d seen him shirtless before — training, missions, the occasional lazy afternoon — but this feels different. Water beads along his shoulders and chest, tracing the lines of muscle there from years of combat and discipline. He’s broad where it counts, lean where it matters, strength worn easily rather than flaunted. Every movement feels deliberate, controlled — like he’s always holding himself back, even now.
You tear your gaze away before he can catch you staring.
You reach for the bottle on the shelf instead, pumping shampoo into your palms as his hair ever so slightly darkens under the spray, white strands clinging to his forehead.
“Bend down a bit,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.
He does immediately, lowering himself without question.
“Hm,” you murmur, tilting your head. “Yeah. That’s good.”
Your fingers slide into his hair, working the shampoo in gently at first, then with more confidence.
He exhales, a low sound he doesn’t quite realize he’s making.
“Feels nice,” he admits quietly.
You smile to yourself, hands continuing their careful work.
“Okay, careful,” you murmur, hands sliding to his shoulders as you gently guide him back under the stream. Water cascades over his hair as you reach up, fingers combing through to rinse the suds away.
He opens his eyes slowly.
He doesn’t pretend not to look.
There’s no subtlety to it as his gaze takes you in, drops of water tracing your skin, steam curling around you both.
“Angel,” he says softly.
You hum in response, turning just enough to grab the conditioner and press it into his palm.
His fingers still for half a second before he nods, careful hands working the conditioner into your hair with surprising gentleness. He’s focused, earnest — like he’s afraid to do it wrong.
“You know,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. You turn to face him, close enough now that there’s almost no space left.
“Thank you, baby,” you say quietly. “You’re beautiful too.”
The words hit him harder than any curse ever could.
You feel it in the way his breath stutters, the way his hands still at the ends of your hair. He looks away, jaw tight, clearly trying to regain composure and failing just a little.
“…You can’t say things like that,” he mutters, half a laugh, half a plea.
You tilt your head. “Why not?”
He finally meets your eyes again, blue gaze dark. “Because I’m trying really hard to behave.”
“And you think I’m not?” you say, voice low and teasing.
Satoru exhales sharply, a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for a while. His hands slide from your hair to your waist, tentatively at first.
“I know you are,” he admits quietly. “That’s kind of the problem.”
You step closer anyway. The water drums against tile, the space between you disappearing until there’s nowhere left to look but at each other. His forehead dips toward yours, noses almost brushing.
“I just don’t want to rush you,” he says. “Or mess this up.”
Your fingers curl into his arms, grounding. “You’re not,” you whisper. “I trust you.”
That does it.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
He leans in. And when your lips finally meet, it’s gentle. Unhurried.
Your hand comes up behind his neck, drawing him closer, and the kiss deepens just a fraction. You get greedy, brushing your tongue along his bottom lip in a soft question.
He answers without hesitation, mouth opening as he slips his tongue in, slow and sure. You’re close enough now to feel the shift in him—the way his body responds before his mind can catch up. His hands wander from your waist, palms warm as they settle at your hips, then lower, squeezing you just enough to pull you fully against him.
You break the kiss with a breathy laugh, forehead resting against his. “Let me rinse off quickly,” you say, voice light even as your pulse races.
“Okay, I’ll be right here,” he replies.
You rinse the conditioner from your hair, tilting your head back as warm water cascades over your shoulders. When you shut the tap off, the sudden quiet feels loud. Steam curls in the air between you as you step out, grabbing a towel and drying yourself off slowly, deliberately.
You glance over at him without meaning to.
He’s still damp, water beading along his chest and stomach, hair darker from the shower. There’s something almost unfair about how broad he looks in the soft bathroom light.
And your gaze gets lower. He’s big. So very big.
You swallow, heat pooling low in your belly.
He catches your look and huffs out a quiet laugh. “I’m impatient,” he says, voice rough.
Before you can respond, he’s moving. He scoops you up easily, tossing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing at all. You gasp, half-laughing as he carries you out of the bathroom, the world tilting as the bedroom comes into view.
His big bed’s barely an impression before you land on it, soft sheets catching you as he follows close behind, looming over you with that hunger.
He straightens slowly, eyes never leaving you as he stands at the foot of the bed. The room feels smaller now, quieter in a way that makes every breath sound too loud. He doesn’t rush but there’s an edge to him like he’s holding himself back on purpose.
“You okay?” he asks, voice lower than before.
You nod, propping yourself up on your elbows. The sheets are cool beneath your palms, your heart still racing from the way he carried you in here like there was no question about where you belonged. “Yeah,” you say.
“I’ll try not to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” you reply, softer now.
Satoru moves closer, climbing onto the bed, bracing himself above you without touching at first. His hand finally comes to rest beside your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without being overwhelmed.
“Tell me if you want me to slow down,” he says.
You meet his gaze, steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I will.”
He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek.
His lips trail lower tracing the line of your jaw with deliberate slowness. The brush of his breath against your skin sends a shiver racing down your spine. He follows the curve of your neck, kissing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, then lower still, mapping every inch like he’s memorizing you.
When he reaches the swell of your breasts, he pauses, hovering there, his mouth hovering just above your skin. You feel the heat of his exhale, the barely-there tease of it.
“No marks,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
Satoru lifts his head just enough to look at you, brows furrowing in that exaggerated pout he knows you can’t resist. “No marks?” he echoes, voice low and playful, almost wounded. “Not even a little one? Just a tiny one right here?” His thumb brushes the curve of your breast, gentle, tempting.
You bite your lip, fighting a smile. “Satoru.”
“Come on,” he drawls, leaning in to nuzzle against your collarbone. “I’ll be good. I’ll keep it hidden. No one has to know but us.”
You shake your head, though your resolve is already crumbling under the weight of his gaze, those piercing blue eyes looking far too innocent for the man they belong to. “No. I mean it.”
He sighs dramatically, the sound half-exasperated, half-amused, but there’s no real fight in it. “Fine,” he concedes, lips brushing your skin as he speaks. “You win. This time.”
And then his mouth is on you, warm and insistent, latching onto your breast without warning. The sudden suction pulls a sharp gasp from your throat, your back arching off the sheets as pleasure sparks through you like electricity. His tongue swirls, teasing the peak, and he hums low in his throat, the vibration sending another wave of heat pooling low in your belly.
You thread your fingers into his white hair, holding him there, your breath coming in short, uneven pants. He takes his time, worshipping one side before moving to the other.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Look at you. So beautiful. So perfect.”
Your cheeks burn, but you can’t look away from the way he’s staring at you— like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. His hand slides down your side, slow and careful, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hip.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing. “Is that good trembling or bad?”
“Good, baby,” you whisper, barely audible. “Very good.”
He smiles, that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart stutter, and leans down to kiss the valley between your breasts. “You’re doing so well, angel. Just letting me see you like this… I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.”
His arousal is unmistakable now—hot and heavy against your thigh as he shifts closer, pressing himself against you without pushing. He’s achingly hard, and the feel of him makes your breath hitch.
“Feel that?” he asks quietly, voice rougher now. “That’s all for you. Only you.”
He kisses lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, pausing to nuzzle against the soft skin just above your navel.
You thread your fingers through his damp hair again, holding on as he settles between your thighs. He looks up at you, blue eyes bright and searching, waiting for permission even now.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice thick with need but steady. “Anything. I’ll give you anything.”
You swallow, heart pounding. “Touch me,” you breathe. “Please.”
His eyes flutter closed for a second, like your words are a gift, and then he’s there—gentle fingers parting you, exploring with the same careful reverence he’s shown every other inch of you. He strokes slow, teasing circles around your clit, watching your face the whole time.
“Like this?” he asks softly.
You nod, a small whimper escaping as he finds the perfect pressure, the perfect rhythm.
“You’re so wet for me, angel,” he murmurs, awe in every word. “So ready. God, I’ve dreamed about this… about you letting me touch you like this.”
He dips his head, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh first, then higher, until his mouth replaces his fingers. The first warm swipe of his tongue makes your hips jerk, and he hums in approval, holding you steady with gentle hands on your hips.
“Easy,” he soothes between slow licks. “I’ve got you. Just feel it. Let me take care of you.”
He’s thorough, devoted, licking and sucking with careful focus, praising you with every breath against your skin. “So sweet,” he whispers.
His tongue traces lazy, deliberate patterns, savoring every shudder that runs through you. Each time you gasp or arch toward him, he answers with a low, pleased sound, like your reactions are the only thing that matters in the world.
After a few minutes of that slow, worshipful attention, he pulls back just enough to look up at you again.
“Want more?” he asks, voice rough and low.
You manage a breathless nod, fingers tightening in his hair. “Yes… please.”
A soft smile curves his mouth. “Good girl.”
He kisses the sensitive spot just above where you ache, then slides one finger slowly inside you, easing in with deliberate care. You’re so slick from his mouth that he meets almost no resistance, but he still watches your face, checking for any sign of discomfort. Finding none, he curls his finger gently, searching, until your back bows off the bed with a sharp cry as he brushes that perfect spot inside you.
“There it is,” he whispers, voice reverent, like he’s found something sacred. He adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, scissoring just enough to make you feel full without overwhelming you. All the while, his tongue returns to your clit, lapping in time with the slow thrust of his fingers.
The dual sensation is almost too much. His mouth is hot and his fingers firm, stroking that spot again and again until your thighs start to tremble around his shoulders.
He curls them deeper on the next thrust, sucking gently at the same time, and the pleasure coils tighter, hotter, until you’re panting his name like a prayer.
“That’s it, angel,” he praises, voice muffled but fervent. “Let go for me. I’ve got you. Cum whenever you’re ready.”
The heat builds fast now, a tight coil low in your belly winding tighter and tighter with every stroke, every soft suck. Your thighs tremble harder around his head, muscles tensing as you try to chase the sensation, but he holds you firmly in place, refusing to let you rush it.
“Close already?” he murmurs against you, voice husky and reverent. The vibration sends a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, and you whimper his name in answer. “Good. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.”
He speeds up just a fraction, enough to push you right to the edge. Two fingers thrust deeper, curling harder, while his lips close around your clit and he sucks gently, rhythmically in time with the stroke of his fingers.
The pleasure sharpens, crests, becomes almost overwhelming. Your back arches off the bed, fingers twisting tight in his hair.
“Cum for me,” he whispers, the words hot against your skin. “Let me have it, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
That’s all it takes. The coil snaps.
A broken cry tears from your throat as the orgasm hits— hard, blinding waves of it rolling through you, making your whole body shake. Your walls clench rhythmically around his fingers, hips bucking helplessly against his mouth as he keeps licking, keeps stroking, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, gasping for air.
He doesn’t stop until the last shudder fades, easing his fingers slowly and replacing his tongue with soft, soothing kisses against your thighs, your lower stomach, anywhere he can reach while you come down.
When you finally go limp, chest heaving, he crawls back up your body, pressing tender kisses to your skin along the way. His lips find yours, and you taste yourself on him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against your mouth.
You reach for him, fingers brushing the hard line of his cock straining against his skin, voice soft and needy. “Baby,” you whisper, “let me touch you.”
He exhales shakily, eyes fluttering as your hand closes around him— velvet-hard, pulsing in your grip. For a moment he just lets you explore, hips shifting slightly into your touch, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
But then he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, a wicked little smile tugging at his lips.
“Open first,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint.
You part your lips without hesitation, and he slides those two fingers — the ones still slick and shining from being buried deep inside you — slowly into your mouth.
You close around him instinctively, sucking gently, swirling your tongue along the length of his fingers just like you want to do to the rest of him. His breath catches, pupils blown wide as he watches you with something like reverence.
“Dirty girl,” he says, thumb brushing your cheek. “So perfect for me.”
You hum around his fingers, the vibration making his jaw clench. When he finally draws them out, they’re wet with your saliva, glistening in the low light. He brings them to his own mouth for a brief, teasing taste, eyes locked on yours the whole time—then leans down to kiss you, deep and filthy, sharing the mingled flavor of both of you.
Only then does he guide your hand back to his cock, wrapping your fingers around him again, showing you exactly how he likes it—slow, firm strokes from base to tip, thumb circling the head on every upstroke. His forehead drops to yours, breath coming in ragged pants against your lips.
“That’s it,” he praises, voice breaking on a groan as you twist your wrist just right. “Just like that, angel. Feels so fucking good.”
His hips rock into your grip, controlled at first but growing more desperate with every stroke. You can feel him thickening in your hand, the slick bead of precum at the tip smearing over your fingers, making everything glide easier.
He kisses you again, messy and open-mouthed, swallowing the little sounds you make as you work him faster. “Not gonna last long,” he warns.
You can feel him swelling even thicker in your grip, the vein along the underside pulsing hard against your palm.
But then he stills your hand with a trembling grip on your wrist and opens his eyes,.
“Stop, wait,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “I’m too close. Want… fuck, I want to finish inside you. Need to feel you around me when I cum.”
You nod, breathless, guiding him between your thighs. He settles over you, forearms braced on either side of your head, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance.
You tense instinctively as he presses forward, just the tip stretching you, and a nervous little laugh escapes you. “Toru, it’s huge,” you whisper. “It won’t fit.”
He stills immediately, dropping his forehead to yours, breathing hard through his nose like he’s trying to rein himself in. One big hand slides down to cup your cheek, thumb stroking gently.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “You can take it, angel. We’ll go slow. We’ll make it fit.”
He kisses you then reaches down between you, fingers circling your clit again, teasing until you’re relaxing under him, hips tilting up for more. Only when you’re melting, does he try again.
The blunt head pushes in— slow and relentless with a pressure that has you gasping, fingers digging into his shoulders. It burns in the best way, that impossible stretch, but he keeps murmuring praise against your lips.
“That’s it… just like that. So good for me. Feel how wet you are? Your body wants this— wants me.”
Inch by thick inch, he sinks deeper, pausing whenever you whimper to let you adjust, rocking gently until your walls flutter and yield around him. Then he’s finally seated fully inside you and buried to the hilt.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking. “You took all of me. Perfect… so fucking perfect.”
He stays still for a long moment, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him, letting the fullness settle into something blissful. Only when you wrap your legs around his hips and whisper “move” does he start with slow, deep rolls of his hips that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, building that exquisite pressure all over again.
“Look at you,” he whispers reverently, eyes locked on where you’re joined, then dragging up to your face. “Taking me so well. Gonna fill you up, angel. Gonna cum so deep inside you.”
He starts slow, like he promised. Deep, measured thrusts drag every thick inch of him along your walls, pulling out almost to the tip before sinking back in until his hips meet yours. Each slide has you gasping, the stretch still bordering on overwhelming, but the ache melts into pure bliss as he finds a rhythm that hits that perfect spot inside you over and over.
His mouth never leaves yours, kissing you through every moan, swallowing the little cries you can’t hold back. “Feel so good around me,” he groans against your lips, voice fraying at the edges. “So tight… fuck, angel, you’re gonna make me lose it.”
You wrap your legs higher around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. The angle shifts and suddenly he’s grinding against your clit with every thrust, the pressure building fast and fierce again. Your nails rake down his back as the heat coils low and urgent in your belly.
“Satoru—” you whimper, voice breaking. “I’m… I’m close again.”
He growls low in his throat, pace picking up, hips snapping harder, faster. “Yeah? I want you to cum all over my cock this time — wanna feel you squeeze me when I fill you up.”
The words alone nearly send you over. He reaches down between you, thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, slick circles that match the relentless drive of his cock. It’s too much and the pleasure hits sharp and sudden.
You cum with a choked cry, back arching, walls clamping down hard around him in rhythmic pulses. But this one is different: deeper, more intense. A hot rush of wetness floods out of you, soaking his cock, his thighs, the sheets beneath you as you squirt in long, helpless waves.
He curses, thrusts stuttering as he feels it. “Fuck yes, just like that. Soaking me… my perfect girl.”
The sight and feel of you coming undone like that breaks the last of his control. He buries himself deep — one, two, three hard thrusts — and then stills, hips pressed flush to yours as he cums with a guttural groan. You feel every pulse of him inside you, thick and hot, filling you exactly like he promised, until there’s so much it starts to leak out around his cock even while he’s still buried to the hilt.
He collapses forward, careful not to crush you, forehead pressed to yours as you both tremble through the aftershocks. His arms shake as he holds himself up just enough to keep most of his weight off you, lips brushing soft, reverent kisses to your mouth, your cheeks, your temple.
“God,” he breathes, voice hoarse and awed. “You’re incredible. Felt you cum so hard… and I—fuck, I’ve never cum that much in my life.”
He stays inside you, softening slowly, like he can’t bear to pull out yet. When he finally does, gently, you both watch as his release follows, creamy white mixed with your wetness, dripping slowly from you onto the ruined sheets.
He groans again at the sight, thumb brushing tenderly through the mess before pushing it back inside you with a possessive little hum. “Mine,” he whispers, kissing you slow and deep. “All mine.”
“‘M tired,” you murmur.
“Yeah… me too, angel.” His voice is hoarse, utterly spent, but there’s a smile in it. “You wrecked me.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead and shifts, sitting up just enough to look down at the mess beneath you both. The sheets are… well. Thoroughly ruined and damp in places, sticky in others, marked with the evidence of everything you just did.
He chuckles, low and fond, cheeks flushing a little. “We made a mess, huh?”
You groan dramatically, hiding your face in his chest. “Your fault.”
“Oh, absolutely my fault,” he agrees without hesitation, grinning. “And I’m not even a little sorry.”
He kisses you once more then carefully untangles himself. “Stay right there. I’ll take care of everything.”
You watch, sleepy and sated, as he pads naked to the bathroom, returning with a warm, damp washcloth. He’s impossibly gentle as he cleans you up—wiping between your thighs, down your legs, soothing every tender spot with soft touches and quieter praises. When he’s done, he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee and tosses the cloth aside.
Then he strips the bed with quick, efficient movements, bundling the ruined sheets into a ball and disappearing for a moment to drop them in the hamper. He comes back with fresh ones—soft, clean, smelling faintly of laundry—and remakes the bed around you, lifting you effortlessly when he needs to slide the fitted sheet underneath.
Once it’s done, he crawls back in, pulling the cool, crisp sheets over both of you and gathering you close again. You curl into him immediately, head on his chest, leg thrown over his, fingers tracing idle patterns over his skin.
✧ PAIRING: wolf!toji fushiguro x f!reader | 9.2k words
✧ SUMMARY: ok so more hybrid au tendencies, um scenting, sorry toji has a slight obsession with making sure you smell like him?, uhhh blood, lots of blood, violence, murder
✧ RHEYA'S NOTE: help not me disappearing since june.. sorry for the wait everyone :333 here's an extra long chapter that i hope makes up for it !! nothing too crazy this chapter except for the violence.. otherwise we're back to our regular emo pining wolf guy :33
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your eyes shoot open, heavy breaths escaping your throat. your body is uncomfortably hot, sweat making your shirt stick to your back as you stare at the ceiling. your mind is spinning, images of vans and black boots and guns that make bile rise in your throat.
toji barges into your room—all hulking breaths and coiled muscles that make you flinch in surprise. jade eyes dart around the room, wide and frenzied in a way that you haven't quite seen before.
"toji—" you reach out a trembling hand, and his ears flick at your voice. he's immediately turning, gaze swimming over your figure. his clawed hand grips yours without even thinking, and you relax a little at the contact.
"what happened?" he asks, voice low and terse as he sits on your bed. you can see the tension in his muscles, the rigid posture of his tail and ears, but his green eyes are looking straight into your soul.
you stare at him for a second, panting, before throwing your arms around his neck. he stiffens at the contact, and immediately you realize what you're doing.
shit. you've overstepped.
you're about to pull away but then you feel one palm patting in between your shoulder blades—awkwardly, and a little too heavy handed, as though unfamiliar with the gesture, but it's there all the same. he is warm, reliable and sturdy, and yet you feel the thundering of his heart against your own. your mind is spinning, but you're aware enough to feel the way tears are collecting at your waterline.
"what's wrong?" the wolf's voice cuts through the fog in your head. you swallow tightly, shaking your head.
"nothing," you murmur, pressing your forehead into his shoulder. "just had a weird dream. sorry."
you hear him exhale, tension leaving his frame. toji's voice goes slightly amused, a semi snarky chuckle escaping his lips. "some scary ass dream, huh? i could hear you crying."
you pull away and shove him, huffing indignantly. "i wasn't crying!"
he leans back on his palms, canine smirk and all. "sure. that's believable."
you groan in exasperation, flopping backwards into your pillows. "you know, you're a lot more likeable when you keep your mouth shut."
he skillfully ignores you. "what was the dream about?"
you stiffen.
(should you admit it—the way you saw police and men in black uniforms appear at your front door, demanding you fess up to your crimes? is it the right thing to do—telling him that they raised weapons loaded with some kind of tranquilizer and pointed it at his chest? do you share that? the same way you shared your home, your life, your heart?)
"honestly... i can't even remember anymore."
he makes a sound that's halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "tch, idiot."
your foot meets his ribcage, not hard enough to hurt but not lightly either—he barely winces. instead, his grin widens, and you feel like you're seeing it happen in slow motion, capturing every frame.
"whatever. get your ass up," he pats your foot, before standing up. "thought you had work today?"
you nod with a groan and he rolls his eyes. "then get up. quit being lazy."
"bitch," you mutter. he bares his teeth at you, but it's teasing, as you've learned to pick out over all these months. you suppress a smile, but he seems to still catch it, and he offers you a slanted smirk before rolling his eyes again and stepping out.
your smile drops. you're not exactly sure why a silly dream bothers you so deeply; after all it's not like it was real. but maybe just the idea of toji being snatched away from your life is enough to make you uneasy. and if you look deeper into that, if you wonder why a stray hybrid you picked up off the streets has managed to keep such a tight hold on you—well, you're not sure you'll like what you find.
(an intense feeling, one that you know he keeps no space for in his life.)
these thoughts have been consuming your mind for weeks, and it's becoming increasingly more difficult to go about your day pretending that you aren't crazy about the wolf hybrid living in your home.
so unfortunately, it ends up spilling out in a tumbled admission to the people you trust most.
you let out a weary groan, hitting your head against the table. utahime gives you a sympathetic look, patting your shoulder. "it's literally not a big deal."
your head shoots up, pinning her with an incredulous look. "being in love with my hybrid?!"
she rolls her eyes, sipping her tea as she leans an elbow against the wall of your cubicle. one heeled foot crosses over the other, hip jutting out accordingly. "it's pretty common now."
"yeah but..." you hesitate, chewing on your nail. "i don't think toji would be so open to it."
utahime's brows shoot up to her hairline. "why not?"
"well..." you trail off, trying to figure out how to explain without saying too much. "toji kinda hates humans."
utahime snorts under her breath. "can't blame him. we suck."
you nod in what you feel is agreement. "he finds it really hard to trust humans, so i'm pretty sure anything romantic is off the table for him."
"but he trusts you, doesn't he?"
utahime's stare is pointed, and you fidget uncomfortably. yes he does and you know this. but that trust probably stems from the fact that you showed him some simple kindness—it says nothing about any sort of romantic feelings. "yeah, but still. besides i'm sure he'd much rather settle down with a nice hybrid who understands him well."
(the thought is sharp, stinging—the quick pinprick of a needle. but it aches all the same. you know that it is unrealistic to expect toji to stay with you forever. in fact, you're surprised he's even stuck around this long. but the thought of him leaving and settling down with someone else doesn't just make you sad; it makes your stomach churn. uncomfortably, nauseously.
something green.)
"jealous?" utahime's hits you with an unimpressed quirk of her brow. you groan, embarrassed that she's caught you so easily.
"yeah..." you mumble, pressing your cheek into your desk, hoping the surface will open and swallow you whole. your friend chuckles quietly.
"well, i didn't expect you to admit it." she once again pats your back with a mixture of pity and laughter before taking a sip of her tea. "i'd say just go for it."
"go for what?" you stiffen at the voice, craning your neck to eye shoko ieiri as she walks over.
"nothing," you pout, but utahime doesn't miss a beat.
"she's in love with her hybrid." her matter-of-fact tone makes you groan yet again, shutting your eyes and ignoring the heat that's crawling up your neck. you hear shoko's quiet laugh, half amused and half disbelieving. you take a peek at her expression and find her brow quirked and a slanted smile on her lips.
"is that a bad thing?" she questions, taking a seat next to you. you shift to face her, watching the way the pointed dark brown ears atop her head twitch to the sound.
"yeah." your voice is muted, dull, smothering a huff, and her grin widens.
"how so?" she leans closer conspiratorially, and you notice the way her long tail is slowly flicking side to side. "you have a problem with hybrids?"
you pick your head up to throw her an offended glare, as though the very implication has wounded you. she grins wider, enough to show her fangs, and you reach over to shove her arm gently. "you know i don't."
"yeah yeah." shoko waves her hand dismissively, before resting her chin on it. "so what's the problem?"
you hesitate. you had mentioned to them that you had "gotten" a hybrid. but for the sake of toji's safety, you had kept the details of his background hidden. but these two are... the closest friends you've ever had. it's obvious they'd never do anything to put you in a position where you might be in danger.
so...
"you can't be mad at me when i tell you." you pin both of them with a meaningful stare. shoko's smile drops a little, brows pinching as she scoots closer. utahime does the same, her tea all but forgotten as she crosses her arms.
"what?" shoko asks, voice taking on a gentle lilt that you rarely hear from her. you swallow, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling.
"i didn't... buy him. or adopt him from an agency," you admit, narrowing your eyes. utahime's voice comes out confused in return.
"what do you mean? i thought you said you adopted him?"
"no," you admit. "i found him. in the streets."
there's a pause, and shoko shrugs. "so what? lots of people take in strays. it's a long process but you can make it official at an agency—"
"no i can't," you interrupt. utahime makes another sound of confusion, but shoko studies your pinched expression with a guarded look in her eye. she says your name once, resolutely, and then puts a clawed palm on your hand.
"what happened?" she asks, a little strain in her voice. you look up at her with a defeated expression that makes both of your friends paused.
"he's.. from underground." your voice is barely a whisper, but shoko's dark ears twitch as they catch it. utahime gasps so loud it makes you wince.
"are you crazy?!" she hisses, getting in your face with wide, worried eyes. "that means he's a predator! you took in a predator that used to fight underground?!"
you nod, a little miserable. saying it aloud makes you sound like the stupidest person alive. but you don't regret it (how could you, not when toji has become the very oxygen you breathe).
you look at shoko, awaiting her reaction, but her eyes are trained on your desk with a surprising intensity. "so... he's not a dog, is he?"
"wolf."
she nods, even as utahime seems to be on the verge of a heart attack. you wince guiltily at her scolding, chastened. shoko however, looks at you critically. "do they know he's escaped?"
you sink your teeth into your bottom lip nervously. "i'm not exactly sure. i think his family does though, and they aren't happy about it—real shitty people."
utahime looks like she can't get any paler, but shoko's face is taut with an intensity you haven't seen before. "are you in danger?"
"no," you answer. "no, i don't think so. his family might threaten him, but the worst they can do to me is call the police. i won't get in trouble, since i'm human, but if the police find him they'll drag him back. and shoko, i-i can't, he's… i mean—"
"it's okay." she squeezes your hand. "i know, i get what you're saying. all you need to do is be careful."
"shoko!" utahime's protest is silenced by the resolute look of the cat hybrid in front of you.
"you have to keep him safe," shoko affirms grimly. "conditions down there are already rough. but if they recapture him and send him back… it'll be brutal. he broke the rules, and they don't see us hybrids as living creatures—to them, we don't even really feel pain."
the implication is there, and it makes your stomach churn.
"don't tell anyone else about him," she gravely continues. "if anything does end up happening, you guys can come hide out at my place. but do not tell people that you have him. and if they found out, lie and say he's a dog—husky or something that looks close to a wolf so people aren't suspicious he's a predator. predators already don't have the best reputations—even the ones who are good."
your thoughts briefly drift to nanami, who had run away from underground and was still doing his best to help others like him.
"okay." you nod emphatically, chewing on your nail again. "okay."
shoko's tense posture relaxes marginally, her dark tail giving a low, slow swish. you glance at utahime, and grimace helplessly at her worried frown. she seems to take your expression with more grace than expected, and she sighs, sitting down in her chair.
"you sure this isn't dangerous for you?"
you exhale shakily. "honestly, i don't know. but i don't really care about me right now. i don't think i'd be able to take it if they took him back to that hellhole. and the thing that worries me is he looks like a wolf, y'know? he's massive, and the ears, tail, teeth—"
you cut yourself off with a groan, putting your face in your palms.
"of course, he just had to be the most obvious predator out there." shoko leans back in her chair as she rubs her temples in mock exasperation. "dogs…"
"you're just saying that because you're a cat!" utahime pipes up, and shoko rolls her eyes in response.
"well yeah." she then turns to you. "gotta be a little biased. besides, it doesn't matter as long as he plays off a domesticated breed well."
"what, like you?" is utahime's retuning question.
"i mean, i'm not a predator hybrid," shoko shrugs casually. "i'm just a sweet, pretty burmese cat, thank you very much."
"you definitely should've been a predator. you aren't domesticated at all. in fact, wet raccoon is probably more fitting." your voice is a playfully mutter, and her tail whacks at your arm in retaliation, which only elicits a laugh.
"oh wow, you think you're funny."
a beat of silence passes, and it gives enough time for your amusement to fade and your worry to come back. the cat hybrid at your arm takes notice, and gently pats your hand. "relax. he'll be okay. just… remember what i said."
you give her a sidelong glance, a bit curious. "you're pretty calm about this whole thing. know a lot of underground escapees?"
you're only joking when you say it, but she pins you with a mirthless stare, and your smile drops.
"i may not be a predator hybrid," she finally says, resting her body weight on the arm of your chair. "but… i live with two of them."
both you and utahime look at her sharply, taken aback. this had never been brought up before.
"what?!" utahime hisses, gaping. "since when?"
"few months ago." she answers.
"you never told us..." utahime gapes and shoko shrugs with a sigh.
"i was trying to be careful. i didn't want anything accidentally getting out and putting us in trouble for no reason," she admits, and you nod before she even gets the sentence out.
"trust me, i get that."
her lips quirk up at your obvious show of understanding before she continues.
"one of the two i have, he's from underground too." shoko taps her claws against your desk absentmindedly. a sadness you haven't seen on her before permeates the shades of her eyes. "took a lot for him to get out of there, but i'm never gonna let him get taken back."
it's familiar, the resolve in her voice. you've heard it in your own tone multiple times before.
"but..." she sighs, a strangely fond smile on her face. "even if he's from down there, he's sweet. i know he'd never hurt anyone. so yeah, if i need to lie and hide him…"
you understand—of course you do.
"what about the other one?" utahime asks, dragging her chair closer and lowering her voice. "also an escapee?"
"yeah but not from underground." shoko answers, leaning back in her chair. "his story… well, i'm sure you've heard of what happens when rich people get their hands on rare animals."
your brows dip, anger flitting over your expression. humans have always been known for parading around predator animals in their captivity—a show of wealth, power, status. of course they extended such liberties to hybrids too. collared them and confined them to their mansions—forced them to heel and sit pretty like some sick trophies.
there was so much wrong with the way hybrids were treated, you were starting to lose track of all the atrocities.
"yeah…" you finally say to her, nodding grimly. "i hope he's doing okay now."
"he's doing a lot better." a soft smile flickers across the cat's face. "he, uh, hates physical contact. he wouldn't let me near him the first few weeks. but now, he's comfy with me. and he gets along with the other guy pretty decently too. not at first though—they fought like crazy."
her fond smile makes the weight in your chest ease.
"what kind of hybrids are they?" utahime can't keep the curiosity out of her voice.
"a snow leopard and a panther," she chuckles, shaking her head. "wrangling them out of fighting was definitely an experience."
"sounds like three cats under one roof is enough of an experience," you grin, and she laughs—your expression softens. "i really hope they stay safe."
"that's the plan. they're my secret for as long as i can keep them." she smiles resolutely. "i hope toji stays safe with you too."
"that's the plan," you repeat with a wry smile.
(and of course, you mean it.)
****
(but that is his plan too.)
late at night, toji's feet take him back to the cursed place he received his name. his family home is just as he recalls, dull and unwelcoming. he stands by the entrance gate with ice in his expression, hood pulled up over his ears and claws digging deep into his pockets.
it is easy to enter the zenin compound undetected. as much as it angers him, his body remembers all the secret entrances, the gaps where servants don't mingle and guards don't tread. it comes back to him the same way people describe the skill of riding a bicycle—like it had never left, just waiting to be rediscovered.
it's as quiet as he remembers it to be—an oppressive, grating sort of silence that stifles down any semblance of comfort. as usual, it feels nothing like a home; cold and mechanical. while years ago he would've been used to that, toji feels utterly spoiled now.
(after understanding what kind of warmth it takes to make a home.)
it's well after midnight, nearing two in the morning when toji slips into the silent halls. it was intentional, of course, because he knew his uncle was a stickler for his rules and routines ("the house must be quiet by midnight. not a pin drop to be heard, never a hair out of place. you know nothing of discipline, filthy mutt—").
naobito's rules say the house should be asleep by now, and that's exactly what toji is greeted with. so, it was fairly simple to find himself standing in front of his uncle's chambers, fists clenched. he slips inside and slinks across the room; phantom-like. there is an ugly feeling roiling in his stomach now. possibly, it had been building since the day his family shipped him underground, but he can't be sure.
his uncle was dozing deeply, against fine silks and cushions. oddly enough, his face lacks the disgusted expression toji was so used to seeing. it's strange, he thinks, that someone so hateful could manage to look so peaceful.
(perhaps in death, naobito zenin's expression wouldn't be poisoned by hatred.)
toji pauses, standing at the bedside like some sort of reaper. could he, truly, be the one to snatch the life force of his own blood?
(but then he remembers the earnest expression you gave him. intent and resolute.
"... if there's an unwelcome guest showing up at the door, and we've asked them—no, begged them—to leave us alone and they haven't listened... then maybe the only thing left to do is force them to leave."
that's what you had told him, with a flame in your eyes that was almost blinding. you had given him your express permission—no, your approval. you had effectively told him that you wouldn't feel any different about him whether his hands were red or not.
at the end of the day, wasn't he doing this for good reason? for the two of you? doesn't that make it justified—taking out a threat that endangered the fragile bubble of peace he had so carefully cultivated for himself?
and if it wasn't justified, then well… toji didn't mind being the monstrous animal his crazed kin believed him to be.)
his claws are around the old man's throat in instant; no hesitation. naobito's eyes fly open, a strangled gasp escaping his throat as toji's grip tightens. it takes a minute for the realization to settle, but then the fear seeps in. his uncle scratches at toji's hands, but the wolf barely flinches, staring down at his flesh and blood with a vacant expression.
"to... ji—" it's a pitiful cry, smothered and pained, but toji doesn't care. his claws dig into the flesh of naobito's throat, drawing red rivulets of blood. it spills down the curvature of his neck, seeping into the pillows under his head and staining them maroon. the old man's hands fly up to push at toji's face, but he finds he can only reach the apex of the hybrid's chest. the efforts are futile, like pushing against a brick wall, and toji looks down at him blankly.
"i warned you, didn't i?" the wolf can barely recognize his own voice, low and tainted with heaviness. it comes out feral and strained like he's never heard before. "to leave me alone?"
naobito's eyes bug, the skin of his face discoloring—shades of blue, shades of purple. he tries to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a pained stridor, wheezes and whistles. the old man's eyes shine with desperation.
"s-sor—"
no. he doesn't want to hear it. no apology would ever be good enough to earn forgiveness, not from naobito zenin. that ugly feeling that had been settling in his gut surges upward, mixing with a deep anger he had repressed since he was a clueless pup. it overtakes him, quick and fast—lightning in his veins.
toji's claws tighten, and then stretch, and then twist, until he hears a resounding snap. the room goes utterly silent. no more choked wheezing or gasping, no more rustling of the sheets. he only now realizes that his fangs have been bared in a desperate snarl, chest heaving with effort. the skin on his hands prickle, and he looks down to find them torn and scratched, no doubt the work of the dead man under him.
he hesitates for a second, before pulling back his hands. for a second, toji stares at his uncle's lax expression, countenance frozen in horror, and a sick sense of satisfaction crawls through his veins. it warms the ice sitting in his blood vessels, making his fingers twitch and tremble.
but he pushes down his disgusting sense of accomplishment for now, and then quickly cleans up. he does his best to erase the traces of himself. he knows that when his uncle's body is discovered, they will scour his form for residual clues on who his murderer could be. but naobito's adamance to ensure that toji's existence remained unknown would come in handy now. after all, the zenins never exposed the shame of their bloodline. there was no record of toji zenin even being born, and that would play to his advantage.
and so, he didn't care much about what he left behind. perhaps they'd find his fingerprints, or maybe his blood. but he effectively didn't exist, and so those identifying features wouldn't be able to identify him—the black sheep; the stain.
it's almost scary, how toji moves onto to his next target. as though it was something to brush off. he had just killed his own uncle with his bare hands, and he'd felt good doing it. now he was tracking down his sick cousin with the same intentions. he almost didn't feel like himself, possessed by some vengeful being puppeteering his limbs.
even before he enters his naoya's room, he knows that his cousin is awake. his ears flick as he hears the sound of rustling and movement, along with the dull sounds of a tv. toji almost bites back a laugh—funny how his poor cousin could be lazing around so peacefully while his father lay dead down the hall.
there's no point in wasting time. toji slips inside silently, rage now taking over him again. he's briefly reminded of the anxious way you spoke about naoya that day; how shaken you were despite your attempts to hide it. it makes toji irrationally angry, and all he cares about is channeling that anger towards his next sin. he grits his teeth, seeing his cousin lounging on one of his chaises and watching tv without a care in the world (like he hadn't threatened toji's only source of peace). naoya's back is turned, still unaware of his hybrid cousin looming behind him. while it would be easy for toji to reach out and snap his neck, a sick twisted part of him wants to prolong this—to make his asshole cousin suffer the way toji had suffered since the day he was born.
"hey," toji is surprised at how level his voice remains, because internally he feels like some disturbing mess. he can feel the ice in his expression as he watches naoya, hawk-like. but naoya doesn't flinch, as though expecting this development.
"decided to come crawling back? finally learned your place?" naoya's grin is stretched wide, hand propped behind his head. he doesn't even turn to look at toji. perhaps, if he did, he would've noticed the blood splatters on his hoodie, the murderous look in his eyes.
"i take it your pretty little friend told you about our conversation?" the blonde chirps, and toji can almost hear the smug grin.
"she did." the wolf's voice trembles with barely concealed rage. "you had no right talking to her."
"jealous?" his cousin sings back. "i've gotta hand it to you, toji. you really scored. ran away without getting caught and managed to trap a pretty thing like that in your bullshit."
naoya's back remains turned, and he waves his hand carelessly as he continues. "well, whatever. frankly i don't give a damn what happens to her. just get back underground and make yourself useful. we haven't got any earnings for months. honestly, father should've dragged you back earlier because this whole game is ridiculous—"
"i told you bastards," toji interjects, taking another step closer, to the point where his shadow is looming over his cousin's frame. "to leave me alone. you could've just listened, right?"
naoya's scoff is bitter and haughty all at once. "leave you alone? don't you get it, you pathetic freak? you are no—"
that's all it takes. toji's claws are wrapped around the nape of his neck in mere seconds. naoya chokes on a scream, hands flying up to claw at toji's hands desperately, just as his pathetic father had done mere moments ago.
"what?" toji's voice is murderous, bordering a snarl and yet strangely even. "i'm what?"
naoya's words come out in a garbled mess of sounds, and that sick pleasure courses through toji's veins yet again.
"go on, cousin. say it." the taunts come freely, years of repressed rage filtering through. "you've tortured me for years. even as brats you couldn't be fucking worse—"
naoya's feet flail, skin going pallid as he wheezes.
"and all i could do was fucking endure it. to listen to that crap every fucking day of my life in this hellhole. and then…" he bares his teeth. "you pricks had the audacity to make me your little plaything. for years i kept up with your bullshit."
toji licks his lips, claws pinching into his cousin's throat.
"truth is, i should've killed you the minute i knew i was able to." toji's grip tightens, and naoya sputters, eyes bugging in almost the same way his father's had.
it's messy, but toji doesn't hesitate. it's a liberating feeling, cutting through rotten sinew and muscle with the fangs and claws he was blessed with. bitter wine spilling over his tongue and into the creases of his palms. a high like never before; utter relief. the eyes that have been burning into his shoulder blades finally being pulled from their sockets, crushed under his feet. there's no remorse behind his jade green gaze. instead there's a freedom that he hasn't been granted in all the years he's been alive.
he slips out of his family home just as silently as he entered.
toji presses his bloodstained hands into his pockets, tugs the hood over his hair to conceal his pointed ears and red speckled face. leaves the house behind without a sliver of hesitation, and in it, all of the debris of his past—the blood, the decay, and every minute of the agonizing life he was forced to live under the curse of his birth.
tomorrow morning, chaos will ensue. police will be called, news channels will sing. but all of that will not matter, because toji will be safe in the bed you gave him, his ears picking up the sounds of you finally waking up. the thought brings a strangely satisfied smile to his face, and he's able to push away the bile rising in his throat as he heads back to you.
he slips into the house quietly, knowing you're probably still deep in sleep, exactly the way he had left you. all he wants to do is get inside, wash the grime out of his skin, and fall asleep for as long as he can. the lights are off, his sharp eyes immediately adjusting to all the shadows and shapes of your apartment. perhaps, if he was human, he wouldn't have noticed you at first. but he is, regrettably, an animal, and that's exactly how he catches your figure sitting on the couch.
you shift when you hear the door open, turning to peek over the couch, and suddenly a jolt of fear shoots through him—which is ridiculous because he had never felt fear before in his life. and yet these days, when it came to you, he seemed to be feeling it constantly.
"toji?" you call out, and something in your tone tells him you know exactly where he was and what he was doing. another spike of fear, cloying at his ribcage that trembles with every rapid pulse of his heart.
"don't get up." his voice is a foreign sound, strained and choked. he sees you freeze, and his teeth grind against each other.
"toji," you repeat, this time not so much a question. this time, there's an undeniable softness warping around the syllables, and it makes him feel even worse. he hears you stand up, and he panics.
"just... go to bed," he spits out. now he can properly taste it, the residual flavor of iron. now it travels down his system and settles in a place that makes him nauseous—a sickening, infecting thing. what had he done? "seriously, go to sleep—"
"toji."
he stiffens. there it is. that firmness in your voice that leaves no place for him to argue. a tone that he'd never expected himself to come to obey, to value. it's not in his nature—relenting—especially to those weaker than him. but he finds that he does with you. relents and indulges and gives and gives and gives.
he remains in place, ears flickering at the sound of your muffled footsteps approaching. even in the dark, the precision of his eyesight is both a blessing and curse. he's able to make out every single micro expression that teases the contours of your face when you walk closer.
first, it's confusion and concern. then your eyes focus on the stains on his skin and splatters on his face and suddenly it's morphing into wide eyed shock. he waits for it, the inevitable disgust to bleed into your expression. for that unfiltered sweetness that you so graciously look at him with to gradually drip away from your eyes.
but it doesn't. instead, your expression pinches in a way that looks almost grateful. grateful and sad and heartbroken and safe.
(that's what it was, he thinks. the reason why guilt didn't threaten his resolve, why morality didn't seem to come knocking at the door when he was elbow deep in zenin blood.
safety. your safety. protected in between his bloodstained palms—warm and untouched.)
"are you okay?" you murmur, looking at him. it's a intense stare, your eyes bright with some unknown emotion he can't quite place. he nods once, staring back at you as though breaking the contact itself was a sin.
he purses his lips, fingers twitching at his sides. "you'll never have to worry about him again."
"toji." again, the caress around his name, steady and soft. "that's not what i asked."
his stare bores into yours. (a part of him wishes you'd crumble under the intensity of his gaze, but he'd be foolish to count on it. if anything, he's the one who will buckle at the knees; always relenting for you.)
"yeah." there's there odd tension in his vocal cords. it makes the muscles in his throat strain uncomfortably, grating against each other. "i'm okay."
the stiffness in your shoulders dissipates, and you take a step closer, studying him, before asking him something he doesn't quite expect. "do you want to shower?"
toji's expression flickers—confusion. perhaps you're asking him because you can't stand the sight of him covered in blood (or maybe because you recognize that he hates the feeling of it on his own body a lot more). he stares at you wordlessly, his gaze awfully heavy. black pupils take up all the space against their jade green backdrop, zeroing in on every single feature. his tongue darts out to wet his lips. you're so close, so tantalizingly close.
the slope of your nose, the curves of your cheeks, the planes of your face. colored irises, similarly dilated pupils, fluttering lashes. parted lips, tender flesh. gods above.
toji swallows tightly, standing before you and feeling like all the strength in his body has left him. he feels dirty, utterly abhorring that you're seeing him like this. but there is some small part of him that almost preens with delight because no, you aren't running. you're looking at him the same way you always have (grateful and sad and heartbroken and safe).
(i've done it. not just for me, but for you. for us. knees soaking in a red river and the carcass in my palms. holding it up for you; an offering. it's all i have, but i hope it's enough. hope that it's enough to convince you that my body is worthy to be cradled between your palms. please. please. please—)
"yeah," he finally responds to your question, and you take his hand in yours without question. once again, he's reminded of your differences. soft skin against clawed fingers, this time, with the added color of blood (staining you wine red, right?) and heavy with sin. but you don't mind (you never do), just leading him back into the bathroom the way you did all those months ago after forcing him to take shelter from the rain in your little home.
(it's almost laughable, thinking back to that night. the most you had been worried about was him accidentally seeing your dirty underwear. now here he was, killing in your name, even if he'd never admit it.)
you do just as you did that night. push the shower curtain aside, turn the water on, dip your fingers underneath until it's the perfect temperature. and then you turn to look at him with that ridiculous sweetness in your eyes that managed to ensnare him from the very start—a siren call in its own right.
and just as he did that night, he allows you to lead him into your space, craving comfort in the midst of every chaotic moment he hasn't been able to escape.
"thank you." your voice cuts through the sound of the shower running, and his narrowed gaze finds yours. he doesn't realize that you've taken his hand again, thumb pressing into his bloodied knuckles meaningfully. for a second, he almost recoils, hating the way the stain seeps into your clean skin, but your grip is tight; unwavering.
"it's nothing..." he answers back, breaking eye contact to study a spot on the wall. it's strangely difficult to swallow, tight and uncomfortable. he can feel the steam from the running shower seeping into his back. his right ear flicks absently, claws giving a slight tremor in your grip. when he glances back at you he finds your eyes are bright with something again—intense flames intended to burn him from the inside out. you look like you want to disagree with his words, but instead your lips twitch into something like a smile, squeezing his palm just slightly.
"wash up." you drop his palm, and he immediately misses the contact. "and then go to bed."
he nods, pathetically acquiescent—as he always is in front of you. something in your gaze tells him you would've thanked him another thousand times if he let you. but you settle for leaving that fire in your eyes, something akin to gratitude and a bit of pride flickering in the embers, and he finds that a lot easier to comprehend. when he stands in the shower, watching the blood mix by the drain and turning the water a faint pink, he is reminded of his time in his cell.
and just like back then, he is glad the blood is not his.
he sleeps soundly that night, after having washed away the evidence of the horrors he had committed. his tense limbs relax when he thinks about the conviction in your eyes, his shoulders feeling less burdened now that the remaining ties to his old life have been permanently cut.
****
it's amazing, the feeling of enjoying peace.
of course, both you and toji know this doesn't mean he can prance around freely. but still, there is a difference—limbs freed from heavy shackles.
despite having to keep his features hidden—hood up, hands tucked into pockets, eyes down—toji feels perfectly content even in public. he does his best to avoid stepping into crowded places, but even then, he feels much lighter. he feels relieved at the absence of greedy eyes drilling into his back.
and you? well, you feel much more comfortable heading to the convenience store at night, or traveling to work, or walking home under the streetlights—no longer needing to peek over your shoulder for another zenin ambush.
for the first time in weeks, everything feels normal.
"so yeah, shoko says it's good," you explain, folding your pajama pants. toji makes a noncommittal noise, eyes trained on the tv as he works on folding one of your t-shirts.
"you know i don't mind what we already have," he mutters.
you huff out a quiet laugh, setting down the folded pants and reaching for another article of clothing from the laundry basket—toji's tank top. "yeah, but still. she says her hybrids love the meat from this place. it's apparently great quality."
he gives you a sidelong glance, attention still split between your voice and the tv. "you said she has cats?"
"panther and snow leopard."
"huh." he turns his head. "sure, if you're down—we can try this place."
you grin, pleased for some strange reason. "great. i'll buy some of the regular meat from the grocery store too though. just in case you don't like the new stuff."
toji snorts, smirk tickling his lips. "yeah right, you just want some for yourself."
"um? i'm getting it for you, asshole!"
"yeah right, you'd probably starve me and eat it all yourself."
the pillow you chuck bounces harmlessly off his chest, and he quirks and unimpressed brow. "really?"
"next time i'll throw a brick." your grin is evil and toji snorts in response.
"oh i'm so scared," he smirks—all fangs, no threat.
the knock on your door makes both of you pause, smiles vanishing. toji's on his feet in an instant, bristling.
"let me," you whisper, grabbing his forearm before silently making your way to the door. he watches, tense and ears rigid, ready to pounce.
you approach the door and quietly look through the peephole. your stomach drops. two police officers stand there, expressionless. you turn in abject horror.
"go!" your hiss is just barely a whisper, but toji hears you all the same. in a second he's out of sight, no doubt hiding in his bedroom, and you clear your throat, steeling yourself before opening the door.
(that's it, caught. your nightmare has become reality. guns and black boots and tranquilizers and—)
"sorry to bother you, ma'am." the officer in front nods at you politely—his graying mustache twitches when he speaks. "we're just going around the neighborhood to inform about a potentially dangerous individual. some murders occurred a few weeks ago, and the suspect is a large predator hybrid, most likely a canine or a feline. it's also believed that this hybrid may have escaped from the underground hybrid arena, which makes it far more dangerous than regular hybrids."
you push down the flicker of irritation at the dismissive way he speaks about hybrids (it, he had said, completely unfazed). clearing your throat, you nod, putting on the face of a curiously concerned citizen. "did it happen here?"
"no," the second officer admits, dark brows furrowed. "the murders occurred much deeper in the city, but because of the dangers, we've been advised to warn citizens in the neighboring districts just in case."
the first officer frowns, expression showing some semblance of agreement with his colleague's words. "we also wanted to ask if you've seen any suspicious activity nearby? any individuals that stood out to you?"
(yeah, you almost roll your eyes. the one currently hiding in my guest bedroom.)
"nothing i can think of," you make a face that screams disappointed, as though personally distraught you couldn't be of more assistance. "from what i've seen, the neighborhood has been pretty quiet these days."
the officers nod in unison, though you aren't sure if they're displeased.
"please make sure you avoid secluded areas, especially at night. this monster is on the run, and it's very likely it's hiding out in residential areas or other quiet places." the first one nods sagely. "be wary of large predators around, and don't hesitate to call the station if you see any suspicious individuals."
he hands you a flyer, and you take it reluctantly, disgust settling on your tongue. despite that, you conjure up a placating smile and nod. "of course. thank you so much."
they tip their hats at you, before turning around to leave. you watch them go with a neighborly smile until you can't see them anymore, before quietly shutting the door. it's almost ridiculous, how fast your heart is beating as you stand there, wide eyed. almost caught, you realize. shaking off the initial relief, you head back to toji's room and push the door open. he's sitting on the bed, back straight and ears alert. they twitch upon your arrival, and he gives you a level stare.
"i'm assuming you heard all that?" you question quietly, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress—quite a bit of space in between both of you. toji grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn't say much else. you grimace. "it's okay, they're just going around warning people. otherwise they don't have anything pointing to you."
"yeah..." he mutters, one claw languidly fiddling with a loose thread in the bedsheets. you hesitate before reaching out and patting his forearm lightly. his green eyes meet yours carefully—studying, calculating.
"it'll be fine." your voice is earnest, coaxing, and his subconsciously tense shoulders relax just a bit. he nods silently, like he believes you.
(the two of you wordlessly decide to never bring up how strongly fear had gripped both of you that night—burying the feeling deep underneath the steadying rhythm in your ribcages.)
****
but the fear grips toji a lot stronger than he expected.
that cloying feeling in his chest returns, always present like some dangerous looming shadow. he thought he escaped it by ridding himself of his remaining family. but now it clings to him, makes him rigid when the mailman rings the bell or the pizza guy drops food off.
he does his best to show that he's unaffected, that he isn't scared. but it's a lie. he is scared—more scared than he was when naobito gave him away, more scared than the arena fights, more scared than he was when he ran.
he's scared now for a completely different reason.
(you're the one who always answers the door. without fail, you flash him a smile and open the barrier the protects from the outside world. and that makes him sick. because you're being a fucking shield for him—even if you don't realize it.
it terrifies him, because if they do end up coming for him… you'll be on the other end of the barrel as soon as they knock on the door.)
he's never fully at ease. even now, as he sits next to you on the couch with the lights off as some movie plays on the tv. it's meant to be a time for him to relax, and yet his mind races. he can't stop thinking about his hands around the zenins' throats, or the way you stood at the door facing those policemen.
it makes him anxious. restless—like he wants to claw at the inside of his skin until blood is drawn.
you're talking, he realizes. commenting something as you gesture to the tv animatedly. it's funny—normally he can never tear his focus from you. but now, he finds himself unable to quell his thoughts, even for your sake.
he murmurs some sound that can pass for agreement, dragging his gaze to the screen. nothing he sees of the movie registers in his brain.
(he wonders how long it would take for people to hunt him down. it's not like your house is all that protected. and while the zenin household was far enough from your neighborhood for them to be considered separate worlds, he still felt uneasy.)
your laugh cuts through the din in his head, and he realizes he's missed another joking comment about the movie playing. he barely reacts, ears flicking.
(he feels so sick. he wonders if he made you feel the same way when he came home that night after murdering his family.)
your arm presses against his bicep—steady, grounding, warm—and he almost shudders, snapping out of his thoughts.
"you okay?" you ask him quietly. toji glances at you. something just below his chest constricts. the light from the tv bounces off the slopes of your face.
(he thinks the light caresses you a lot more gently than he ever could.)
"yeah." his voice is just as quiet, but much more strained. you purse your lips at the tone, fixing him with that same poring gaze from the night you met him in that damn alleyway.
"you sure?"
he wants to tell you—wants to say that the only thing he cares about is you and your safety. that he regrets crawling into your perfect life and messing it up with all his shit.
but instead, he opts for a strained "yeah, i'm fine."
he feels your eyes on his face for a second longer, searching through every dip and curve. utterly tempted, he drags his gaze back to yours. a moment of charged silence follows, and he thinks there is ice slowly freezing his innards.
"okay good." you smile, a soft gentle thing that he shamelessly zeroes in on.
(something in him knows he is so wrong for you. the more that you give him, the greedier he gets with you.)
when his eyes fall on your lips, something predatory flashes in them. but then he looks away, and the contact is broken.
(toji knows that his feelings for you aren't entirely one-sided. even if yours don't come close to the near obsessive devotion he's developed towards you, he knows something is there. he can tell in the way your entire being seems to curl towards him. he's aware that you look at him far too softly for it to be a coincidence.
maybe a month ago, the thought would have pleased him—made his tail wag like some overeager pup waiting to be at your beck and call. but now it makes his gut churn, makes his ears stiffen and tail bristle. because he is far too aware that he cannot be what you need—what you deserve. not like this, with all the blood slipping through his claws.
but still, it's not your fault. how could he ever fault you for being so naively trusting towards an animal like him? after all, you saved his miserable life in more ways than he'd ever be able to explain—he'd never been good at words. too angry and cold and nothing like you.
but you deserved to hear it directly from his lips at least once before things got any worse.)
"thanks," he mutters gruffly, keeping his gaze trained forward like it would pain him to look at you directly. "for… y'know…"
(for everything, he wants to say. for giving me a chance, for letting me in, for allowing me the privilege of seeing you everyday. but toji zenin has never been good with words—he's a mindless animal, after all.)
he realizes it's not much to go off of, but he hopes you understand his random statement better than he can articulate it. you do, because of course you do.
"don't worry about it." you answer earnestly, content as you watch the images move across the screen. "i'd do it again. you deserved at least that much."
he doesn't know what to say to that. he feels strange—awkward in a way that he never was, even as a whelp. the skin under his claws tingles, and his ears flick. he keeps his mouth shut for a long while, focusing on the movie even though his thoughts are racing faster than he believed possible.
(he realizes that the thing he is feeling is called greed. he wants you, gods above, he wants you so terribly it aches. perhaps he's always wanted you, since the day you held that umbrella over his head, standing in that alley in your fuzzy pajama pants. he wants to stab himself just for thinking it—because he's known for a while that your claim over him has solidified into stone.
but still… he can't.)
maybe in another life he would have the courage to face you. to explain that he loves you and he's sorry that he can't indulge in those feelings. but in this life he knows that he isn't allowed such a privilege. unfortunately, in this life, you and him are perpendicular lines, intersecting at just one point and then never again. you are the sky and he is the earth, only meeting at the horizon line but never being allowed to cross it. he has overstayed his welcome long enough—the horizon is all he is given.
any more than that and he'd be asking for too much.
(greedy, greedy thing.)
he swallows tightly, fists clenching—he can feel the points of his claws digging into the meat of his palms.
(if he was truly selfish, he should open his mouth and say it. tell you the truth—admit you've had him by the neck since the day you put that plate down in front of him.)
"hey." his voice comes out strained, vocal cords grating together roughly (say it, say it, say it—). he's met with silence, save for the low thrum of voices from the tv.
something in his stomach plummets when he turns his head to look at you. cheek pressed against his shoulder, deep breathing—fast asleep.
(selfish, selfish animal.)
he takes a deep breath, eyes falling shut in mild anger—though he's not sure whether it's at you or at himself. your scent floods his nose, comfort amidst everything. he would inject you into his very veins if he could. he wants you to know him in every way, wants to sear himself into you. he wants to overwhelm your senses and dig himself into every inch of you he can. he wants to live within the synapses firing in your brain, carve a space between your ribs and press his forehead against the apex of your heart to listen to it thud.
he wants you to never stop thinking about him, to never forget the way he took a hold of you in his bloody claws. he wants you in a way that makes him sick.
(go on, toji. be selfish.)
it's instinctual, the way he raises his other arm and slowly presses his wrist (of course, one of the places his scent is strongest) against the pulse point on your bare neck. it makes him shudder, and it also makes him angry—he's angry you have enough power over him to command his decisions even in sleep. he's angry he let himself get attached enough to fucking scent you—as if he's some kind of mate. he's not, he has to remind himself. he's the stray you generously took in, and all he rewarded you with was blood and danger and animalistic tendencies you'll never understand the weight of.
and yet still, despite his anger, the wolf in him preens with delight. you'll carry his scent with you—he's found a way to show the world that you've tucked him in your ribcage just like he wanted.
he knows it'll mean nothing to you. hell, you won't even know what he'd done, leaving a stamp of his presence in your life there for all of his kind to see. but he knows—and the knowledge makes something sick and twisted stir in his gut.
when you shift and slightly nuzzle into his palm, he almost vomits.
(toji had done nothing but ruin your life. ruin you.)
he drops his palm, and watches you for a few minutes longer. something settles deep in his stomach.
(you're everything. and i've always been selfish with you.)
toji stands, his lungs feeling crushed under some weight. he doesn't extract you from his arm, just hefts you up and walks back to your room like he's holding the most important thing in his small world.
he makes quick work of setting you down, pulling the blanket to your chin, and heading for the door. there he stops, turning to watch you breathe peacefully for a few seconds. he waits, as though committing the sight to memory, before shutting the door behind him without another word.
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18+ ⸝⸝⸝ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 & nerd!reader making out for the first time (spoiler: he’s a goner) <3
the air is thick with it—wet, greedy kisses that sound like he’s trying to overwhelm you, even as his mouth keeps brushing yours like he’s afraid to let go.
sukuna kisses you while you’re on his lap like a starved man, lips moving with a kind of urgency that blurs the line between respect and pure want.
one hand stays firm at the back of your neck, his palm hot against you your skin. the other swallows your face, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that almost feels wrong on him. though his grip tightens as if he can’t help it—holding you there, trapping you in him.
you’ve kissed him before, sure—shy, hesitant things that barely brushed the surface since the time you’ve began dating.
he was your first boyfriend. your first kiss.
but you’d never done anything like this before.
sukuna won’t ever admit it, but you were too damn cute today—your oversized sweater, glossy lips, baggy jeans, and glasses slipping down your nose. of course he couldn’t hold back any longer.
his tongue slides against yours and you whine into his mouth, finally melting above him. your fingers twist in his shirt, he lets out a low sound against your mouth—something between a groan and a laugh.
your glasses press crookedly against his face, the cool frame digging into his cheek as he kisses you harder. he doesn’t even care. if anything, it only spurs him on. he growls a quiet curse against your lips, chasing you when you try to pull back to fix them. his hand shifts from your neck to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as if to say don’t you dare.
you try to mumble something—maybe an apology—but it’s swallowed by the next kiss.
he tastes like heat, a gatorade, and something dizzying (though that’s probably just a side effect of his lips on yours).
the way his breath shudders when you instinctively lean further into him makes your stomach flip.
it’s messy. it’s clumsy. and it’s so him.
it’s almost funny, how this even started. the two of you had always been a little mismatched—him, loud and infuriating; you, the quiet one in the front of every lecture with the best grades.
he’d tease you endlessly just to see that your flustered reaction, calling you nerd like it was your name.
when sukuna came crashing into your life, he was loud and unapologetic—the kind of guy who ruled every room without trying. but you? you were the quiet, awkward, stuck behind your laptop type. you were someone he shouldn’t have noticed, let alone liked.
but he did. somehow.
he’d lean against your table in the library during study sessions just to get under your skin, tossing out comments that made your face heat up. “you’re really gonna skip dinner to study for a test?” or, “how are you still cute with those eye bags, nerd?”
but every time, you couldn’t help but wonder what a guy like him was doing in a library and talking to a girl like you.
the teasing was constant, but something else hid underneath it—something that made your chest tighten whenever he looked at you a second too long.
it was in moments where your eyes accidentally met his across campus and you immediately glanced away, convinced he hadn’t really been looking at you. or when you caught his gaze while he was laughing with his friends and had to pretend you weren’t wondering why someone like him would notice you at all.
and now, with your glasses tilted and your lips swollen from his kisses, that same look flickers in his eyes. the one that says he doesn’t mean half the things he says because around you? sukuna’s never really been as sharp as he pretends to be.
he leans in again, and before you can think, the kiss deepens. slower this time, but heavier—like he’s sinking into it.
your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt once more, and that’s all it takes for him to lose whatever restraint he had left. with a low sound that sends heat rushing to your face, he shifts his weight, guiding you back until your shoulders hit the mattress.
the world tilts. your breath stutters.
his hand braces beside your head, his body hovering just above yours. your dorm room feels too small now, every breath shared.
“relax,” he murmurs, voice rough, but his eyes are soft—softer than you’ve ever seen them. dilated until you can barely see the crimson color of his eyes.
when he kisses you again, it’s needier, like he’s afraid the moment will end too soon. your glasses slide a little down your nose again when you move to sit up on your elbows, and he laughs quietly against your mouth—a sound that makes your breath hitch—brushing them back up with his knuckles before kissing you once more, even harder this time.
your heartbeat is wild, matching the rhythm of his. you’re flustered and overwhelmed but you don’t want him to stop. not when he’s looking at you like that. not when every kiss feels like a secret he’s been holding in for far too long.
your breath catches when his lips leave yours for only a moment—just long enough for him to look at you like he’s still trying to understand how he ended up here, above you, wanting you this much. his thumb skims your cheekbone, slow and distracted, like his body is moving ahead of his thoughts.
“y’know,” he mutters, voice low and almost irritated, “you drive me insane.”
you barely have time to process it before his mouth is on yours for the nth time—now nothing like the seemingly controlled kisses from before.
it’s like he’s losing patience with himself and with you. with the space between your bodies that he keeps trying to erase.
when he pulls back, it’s not far. just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, breaths tangling.
“you don’t even get it, do you?” he murmurs, words barely shaped.
you manage an breathy exhale, answer confused, “g-get what?”
he doesn’t answer.
instead, his gaze drags over your face like he’s memorizing something he refuses to say out loud.
and then without warning his mouth drops to your throat.
the shift is instant. rougher. desperate.
his hand curls at your hip, dragging you closer as his lips find the warm skin beneath your jaw, kissing, then biting. soft, then not soft at all. your breath hitches, fingers gripping his shoulders, and he makes a low noise against your neck like that reaction alone is all the explanation he’s willing to give.
he doesn’t stop there.
his mouth trails lower. it’s almost like he’s trying to chase every shiver he pulls from you. his nose skims your throat, breath hot against your skin.
his grip on your hip tightens, not enough to hurt—just enough to tell you he’s losing whatever control he walked in with.
you gasp when he pulls you fully against him, the closeness stealing your breath even further. that little noise goes straight to his head. his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pressing your chest against his, keeping you there like he doesn’t want to let go.
“stay still,” he breathes against your neck. except you can hear it in his voice, the way it cracks a little—he’s the one who can’t stay still.
his lips find a spot just beneath your ear, and when you shudder, he laughs. this time quiet and breathless, not mocking at all. like he can’t believe what you do to him.
he mouths at your pulse again, deeper, lingering like he’s trying to mark the moment into memory.
your fingers slide up into his hair without thinking, and the second you tug—just barely—his breath catches hard against your skin.
the sound that leaves him is almost pained.
he kisses down your neck again like he needs you closer than your body will physically allow.
and then, he’s grinding his hips against yours and that’s when you feel it.
a whimper escapes you and then you realize he doesn’t even know it. the movement was instinctive. heat blooms in your chest and low in your stomach, sudden and sharp, and he just hums against your skin, lost in the closeness between you.
“kuna—” it comes out as a whine as you push him back, eyes wide.
he grunts, reaching instinctively to pull you back in, “what?”
then his eyes catch where you’re looking and a flash of awareness hits him. a faint red color blooms upon his cheeks as he realizes exactly what it is.
he’s hard.
fuck.
ryomen sukuna was not a man who got hard just from just kissing.
sukuna hides himself at the crook of your neck, “just—just stop— don’t look! i-ignore it.”
did he just stutter?
series masterlist | open taglist!
this is my first sukuna fic (that i'm posting at least) and the first thing i've written since disappearing off the face of tumblr!!! i hope i wrote him well enough because this has been in my drafts for months😓
ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader (f)
ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.
ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, weed usage, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot
ᰔ status. ongoing
ᰔ word count. 72.5k
ᰔ taglist. open (feel free to comment!)
chapter index.
ch1. gojo satoru sent you a message
ch2. terms and conditions
ch3. returning the favor
ch4. a day in the life of a hot soccer player
ch5. these feelings are hard to find
ch6. devil's advocate
ch7. to lose someone you love
ch8. a little cottage on the countryside
ch9. words you've been wanting to hear
ch10. pending...
additional content.
official headcanons pt1. fluff, mild nsfw | link
anon headcanons. fluff | link
a note from the author. hello! my name is ellie, and this is my first long fic series called 'kickoff' which i began posting earlier this year in january! if you do decide to read it, i thank you very much from the bottom of my heart as it means a lot to me :””) please let me know if i missed any tags or warnings! and for those who may want to know before reading, this series will have a happy ending <3
୨୧ Summary: Satoru Gojo is supposed to be Romeo, and you’re Juliet. Perfect casting. Perfect play.
So why is Ryomen Sukuna—the campus bully everyone hates—standing onstage in full costume, telling you to “Get the fuck down from there, Juliet.”?
enemies to lovers, fluff and crack, slow burn, Theatre AU , 0% seriousness 100% silliness
01 || 02 || 03 Taglist Index
01 - Not My Prince Charming
Your crush on Gojo Satoru wasn’t exactly a secret, but it wasn’t public knowledge either. It lived in that quiet middle ground of “people probably knew,” but were too polite to say anything. You’d known him since middle school as your families were long-time business partners, so it wasn’t strange to see the two of you together. Back then, it had been harmless. Background noise. A mild academic admiration with eyebrows.
But things changed
Specifically, he changed.
It started the summer after your third year of high school. He came back from a trip abroad somehow taller, deeper-voiced, and built like he’d been sculpted by a department store mannequin artist. He’d been attractive before, sure, in that quiet, symmetrical, tragic backstory kind of way. But now? He looked like he’d been personally airbrushed by God’s PR team.
The crush didn’t hit like a truck. It arrived like a monthly subscription: quiet, persistent, and increasingly difficult to cancel.
You didn’t panic right away.
The panic took its time. It showed up quietly during lunch, when you caught yourself adding vinaigrette to your salad with the kind of soft-focus intensity usually reserved for perfume ads. Like maybe if you drizzled it slowly enough, he’d glance over. Like maybe the dressing was a metaphor.
Still, you weren’t delusional. You knew just walking up and confessing your undying admiration was a little too forward. You needed something... elegant. Strategic. Scripted.
So when you heard he was cast as Romeo in the university’s upcoming Romeo and Juliet production, your plan practically wrote itself.
You would audition. Get cast as Juliet. Share romantic dialogue. Maybe a stage kiss. Let the chemistry “blossom organically.” Fall in love with iambic pentameter.
It was flawless.
Until it wasn’t.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
Gojo was cast as Romeo weeks ago. Naturally, every theater enthusiast, Literature major, and their mother had auditioned. The student assistants who were in charge of the castings in a rare show of bureaucratic responsibility, had conducted a rigorous, multi-phase assessment of all the Juliet candidates. There were monologue rounds. Improvisations. Emotional authenticity scoring. Someone even cried. Twice.
None of it mattered.
Because Nanami, the director, misplaced the shortlist.
And when you showed up at the Performing Arts office to ask about auditions, he blinked once, glanced at the empty chair in front of him, and decided: “Yeah. Sure. You’ll do.”
That was how you became Juliet. Not through talent. Not through fate. But because Nanami couldn’t be bothered to dig through a filing cabinet.
You had secured Juliet.
Gojo was Romeo.
Your fate was sealed.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
You spent the next two days memorizing your lines. Highlighted them. Annotated them. Whispered “parting is such sweet sorrow” to your ceiling at night. This wasn’t just a play. This was the beginning of a romantic arc.
Your first rehearsal was set on a Wednesday.
You showed up early. You wore your best “effortlessly alluring but academically focused” outfit. You applied lip balm. Twice.
And then… you waited.
And waited.
You glanced at the time. Ten minutes past start.
A few of the supporting actors were present, chatting near the stage. Someone from lights was climbing into the rafters. The director was hunched over a binder, muttering about costume budgets.
Still no Gojo.
You shifted your weight on the prop balcony (read: a poorly reinforced makeshift tower meant to evoke “Juliet’s window,” but mostly evoking the risk of shin splints). The director had told you to wait there for blocking, which you did. Proudly. Nobly. Alone.
Then the stage door slammed open.
You turned.
And time stopped.
Because standing there, in full costume attire—black boots, white open-collared shirt, red sash—was not Gojo.
It was Ryomen Sukuna.
Who looked you dead in the eye and said:
“Get the fuck down from there, Juliet.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“No,” you said.
“What?”
“No.”
He stomped toward the stage. “You’re on the fuckin’ wrong mark.”
“I am in the correct mark. The mark of sanity. The mark that says you are not Romeo.”
Sukuna pointed at you like it was your fault. “The white-haired princess sprained his ankle doing some dumbass campus festival stunt. They dragged me in ‘cause I’m ‘physically convincing.’”
You looked at him.
At his dumb poorly dyed hair. At his boots. At his perfectly fitted sash.
Oh god. He was physically convincing.
No. Focus.
You turned to the director. “Excuse me. Mr. Nanami? This can’t be happening.”
Nanami looked up from his binder. “It’s happening.”
“But this is Romeo and Juliet. Not... How to Commit Verbal Arson in Twelve Steps.”
Sukuna climbed onto the stage and picked up the script. “Shut up. Let’s get through this crap so I can leave.”
You stood there, stunned. Like someone had hit pause on your mental slideshow of “future wedding with Gojo.”
“Why are you even doing this?” you asked.
He scowled. “Course credit. And the director owes my mom a favor.”
You briefly considered lying down on the floor and letting the stage curtain smother you into the next dimension.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
The first read-through was a disaster.
Sukuna refused to speak in anything other than his regular voice. You tried to keep things dignified, but it was difficult when he read lines like “With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls” while glaring at you.
He also refused to call you “Juliet.”
Instead, he pointed.
Or mumbled “you.”
Or said “drama chick.”
You were half an hour in when he said, “This script sucks.”
You snapped your head toward him. “Shakespeare wrote that.”
“Then Shakespeare sucked.”
The girl playing the Nurse gasped somewhere in the corner.
Nanami sighed. “Take five.”
You stomped off the stage, pacing in angry loops near the prop bin.
This was not the plan.
This was supposed to be poetic. Romantic. Tastefully pining.
Not Sukuna yelling, “Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set on the fuckin’ fair daughter of this rich-ass Capulet.”
You sat down on a crate and rubbed your face.
He followed you a minute later. Not to apologize. Just to stand there.
“You gonna cry?”
You looked up. “No.”
“You look like you’re gonna cry.”
You inhaled deeply. “I’m going to end you.”
He clicked his tongue. “Not my fault your little blue eyed prince bailed.”
“I didn’t do this for him,” you lied.
He raised an eyebrow.
You turned away.
At the end of the rehearsal, Nanami announced, “We’ll be keeping Sukuna as Romeo. His delivery’s modern. Energetic.”
You turned back toward the man who once told a professor that office hours were for cowards, and watched him nod proudly.
Cut the cameras.
Deadass.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
You showed up at 3:47.
Not because you were eager. But because the alternative was sticking around near the vending machines, where Yuuji and Todo were mid-argument about whether orange soda had a more “alpha-coded flavor profile” than grape.
You slowed. Listened.
“…I’m just saying, grape is situational. Orange commits.”
You had heard enough.
You turned on your heel and headed straight for the auditorium. Whatever that debate was, you refused to be involved in it.
Inside, the auditorium smelled faintly of duct tape and unresolved tension. The lighting crew was testing gels. Someone was stress-sewing lace onto Juliet's second act skirt. A fog machine sat ominously untested near the orchestra pit.
Sukuna was already there, in the front row, hoodie up, arms crossed, legs spread wide. He wasn’t glaring at the set anymore. He was evaluating it. Like the stage was up for consideration, and so far, it was underperforming.
You reminded yourself not to take it personally.
He probably just hated the theater. And group bonding. And vowels.
Still, when he took the stage twenty minutes later and read his lines with all the romantic nuance of a filing cabinet being pushed down the stairs, it was hard to feel charitable.
“Love’s light wings… somethin’ somethin’ climb these walls… love can’t be stopped, yadda yadda,” he muttered, barely scanning the page.
“You just yadda-yadda’d Shakespeare.”
“I summarized.”
“It’s not a podcast.”
He flipped a page. “Do you want romance or efficiency?”
“I want a scene partner who doesn’t treat sonnets like court depositions.”
He shrugged. “That's just showbiz.”
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Rehearsals didn’t evolve. They looped. Every new run-through promised improvement but instead delivered new and creative forms of disasters.
"Can you just try to take this a bit more seriously?" You plead.
"Fine." He cleared his throat, “Then plainly know,” he said, “my heart’s dear love is set on the fair daughter of rich Capulet.”
He paused.
“—Even if she’s a nosy perfectionist with the stage awareness of a malfunctioning spotlight.”
You snapped your gaze to him. “That’s not the line.”
“Sure felt like it.”
You stepped forward. “Are you incapable of sincerity?”
He raised a brow. “Are you incapable of chill?”
“I have chill!”
He glanced around theatrically, sweeping his arm across the room. “Is chill in the room with us?”
Your scream started as a dignified growl and pitched into a gremlin-level screech halfway through—
“AAAGH—”
“Take five,” Nanami said, not looking up.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
You were supposed to be on break.
Instead, you stood at the edge of the stage, squinting at your blocking mark and trying to figure out how anyone was meant to deliver tragic sincerity while planted next to what looked like a plastic fern duct-taped to an old mop handle. Whatever emotional weight this scene was supposed to carry had already been undercut by the set design.
A girl from the costume crew darted across the stage clutching a fraying hem in one hand and a needle in the other, whispering what sounded like a very urgent prayer. Two stagehands were engaged in a silent turf war over which side of the fog machine was “safer.” And someone behind you was taping down cables with the kind of misplaced urgency usually reserved for landing aircraft.
Sukuna, meanwhile, was across the stage, thumbing through the script. He had the unreadable focus of someone who could believably be reviewing an instruction manual for explosives, and frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what it was.
For someone who recited his scenes like they were mandatory evacuation instructions, he sure seemed invested when no one was watching.
You frowned. That was… confusing.
But before you could think about it any further, one of the fog machine crew yelled “Test run!” and you were immediately blinded by an unholy cloud of artificially-scented smoke.
You coughed. Somewhere in the mist, Sukuna muttered, “The hell is that smell?”
“Emotion,” someone offered helpfully from the wings.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
You tried venting to Nobara.
“It's supposed to be love declarations, not a hostage trade!” you said, still coughing up stage fog from that unfortunate smoke test run.
She nodded, sipping her juice pouch. “And yet, you two kinda work on stage.”
“We don’t.”
“It’s got that classic enemies-to-actual-enemies vibe.”
You snorted. “At this rate the stage is going to blow up before we get to Act III.”
She raised a brow. “So if the stage spontaneously combusts, I’m not allowed to call it chemistry?”
“I will personally throw myself into the flames.”
Nobara grinned. “I think he likes watching you squirm.”
“That is not romantic.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
You glared at her. She offered you some juice.
You accepted it. Begrudgingly.
✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧
“Let’s run exits before we call it a day,” Nanami said, lifting his fifth cup of coffee, a quantity that, by now, felt less indulgent and more necessary, given the dumpster fire of a day he’d been managing.
You blinked. “Exits?”
“We’re practicing farewells.”
You returned to your mark. Slightly crooked. Slightly tired. Slightly aware that Sukuna was watching you a bit too intensely.
The cue hit.
He turned.
“Farewell,” he said flatly. Then, with zero theatrical training and the poise of a man exiting a convenience store, he raised two fingers in a casual salute. “Later.”
You stared at him.
This was supposed to be Juliet’s emotional goodbye. A farewell drenched in longing. The kind of goodbye that echoed through eternity—or at least until intermission.
You inhaled. Tilted your head. And replied in your best “not-about-to-lose-it” tone:
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night… till it be morrow.”
Sukuna blinked once. “That was real moving,” he said, voice flat. “You almost sounded like you meant it.”
He didn’t wait for a reaction. Just left you standing there: jaw tight, hands twitching, and very aware that he was definitely smirking as he walked away.
a/n: sorry in advance lol this was such a treat to write after progressing with Darling Dearest which is a complete contrast to this silly fic, thanks for reading!
❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]
❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞
❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. self-loathing. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). medical content. minor descriptions of wounds. mentions of arachnids. tags will be updated as series continues.
❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.
❦ words ; 17.8k.
main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon
Setting down the pencil on your final exam is a relief you never knew could feel so good.
Like a rainbow at the end of a storm, a hot shower during a snowstorm, or a nice home-made meal after a full day’s work. You’re more than willing to admit that it might be dramatic, but as you leave the building behind for what you hope is the last time, the sun beaming down on your skin really does have that effect.
You suppose after a year of struggling to keep up with everything and a tense last week, that sort of relief feels earned.
This day didn’t feel like it would ever come. You didn’t want to be one to give up so easily, but your avenues were minimal and it felt like whether you turned left or right you were met with one blockade after another.
Your heart swells to think that it’s Sukuna who found a solution, shoving the blockade aside from a road you didn’t think to approach. You’re not quite sure how he did it, but as the tape pulled aside and your dream became tangible, holding your exam schedule now feels surreal. With the final one completed, you neatly fold the paper and tuck it into your pocket, unable to stop grinning.
Slipping your bag from your shoulder, you pull your phone from the front pocket and power it on, awaiting any incoming messages.
Two from Shoko, and three from Sukuna. You shoot a quick text to Shoko to let her know your final is finished and you’ll meet her and Kento for lunch soon, before opening your messages with Sukuna.
10:43 AM Kuna <3 || hey princess
10:43 AM Kuna <3 || let me know how your exam goes
10:44 AM Kuna <3 || i know youll kill it
You smile at his encouragement.
11:38 AM You || Definitely killed it!! Thanks Kuna :)
With your phone in hand, you make your way over to your car to meet your friends. It vibrates again, lighting up with a text that reminds you of just how lucky you are when Sukuna’s name flashes across the screen.
11:42 AM Kuna <3 || thats my girl
Unable to help but grin at your phone like an idiot, you allow the butterflies in your stomach to grow and flutter like monarchs preparing for migration. He may be a bit of a dry texter, but it makes his encouragement and compliments remarkably sweet.
Your heart batters at its cage as you attempt to put together a message to thank him for helping you get to this point, guilt still pricking at your chest with every step, when he sends another couple of messages.
11:44 AM Kuna <3 || still going out with shoko and kento
11:44 AM Kuna <3 || ?
Settling on an easier reply to his first message, you figure you can thank him later, opting to focus on being free of schoolwork. Free of Kaori.
11:45 AM You || Thanks Kuna <3 yeah I’m just about to head over!
You hope he’s smiling at his phone as much as you are. Tucking your phone into your pocket as he lets you know to have a good time and text him once you’re home, you make your way to the sushi place that Shoko had chosen.
Stepping into the quaint little shop, you’re greeted by the fresh scent of fish and cooked rice. The lighting is warm and inviting, red brick decorating the walls as each booth mimics the appearance of a vintage food stall you might find pressed up against a building.
Making your way across the vinyl flooring, you peer around the slats dividing the booths at the end of the restaurant to find your friends seated waiting for you. Shoko’s head whips up at the sight of you, her usual slow drawl and drowsy expression replaced with something eager. “So?” She pushes you for the details on your final exam.
“I think I killed it,” you grin.
Getting to her feet, she hugs you tightly. “I’m so happy for you, oh my god,” she murmurs, pulling back with a grin. “Congrats girl!”
Kento regards you both warmly from where he sits across from Shoko’s spot. “Congratulations,” he adds, punctuating his cheer with your name.
“Thank you both,” you beam, slipping in beside Shoko. “Thanks for all the help with studying too, Ken.”
“Not a problem,” he hums.
A collective sigh of relief is breathed through the air as another year is finished and you and Kento can look forward to walking across the stage at graduation, while Shoko is sure to do so in the years following. Your parents may not be there, but they’ll get to watch a video and all of your friends will be there to cheer you on.
“I still can’t believe Sukuna pulled that shit off,” Shoko nudges your arm, earning a grin from you that can only be properly encapsulated with the term ‘lovestruck’.
“Pulled what shit off?”
Your eyes widen as a flash of pink strikes your vision, a devilish smirk meeting your gaze as the man in question slides into the booth across from you.
A bashful simper spreads across your lips at the sight of him. You need to chew on your lip in order to hide even an ounce of the eager grin that you’re positive you can’t shake as the three people who’ve kept you sane (and driven you mad) this year all surround you. Your heart warms as Sukuna offers a fistbump to Kento, who looks startlingly out of place as he obliges.
“Took you long enough,” Shoko quips, casting a knowing glance at your eager grin.
“You made it sound like a closer walk than it was,” Sukuna snorts, leaning over his fist.
“Maps said it was ten minutes!” She insists.
As they bicker over Shoko accidentally choosing the wrong location, you can’t help the way you check out the man across from you. Over the past couple of weeks he’s noticeably bulked up again, his skin no longer gaunt. He still looks undeniably tired, but he carries himself in a way that makes it seem like your run-of-the-mill bout of waking up a bit too early. His hair is well-groomed and styled, and for the first time in a long time, glimpses of the real Sukuna don’t just claw and slither through the cracks.
He now sports a snarky grin as he wittily replies to Shoko, one that he used to reserve for little moments in the safety of his home. Now he snorts a laugh as your friend rolls her eyes.
He’s still guarded, you can see him holding back as he tries to find his place within your friends who once threatened to knock his lights out if he hurt you (rightfully so). Now, though, his shoulders aren’t permanently tensed. He’s present, and in the moment. He’s sharing the real Sukuna more openly.
There are stresses in his life, but not the kind that press down on him from every side until the walls close in and his lungs cave. He still has a lot on his plate and for that you do find yourself unable to shake some guilt that he’s giving up two years for you.
“Alright, alright,” Shoko concedes, “I’ll triple-check next time. Just quit your complaining and order,” she rolls her eyes, shoving the menu towards Sukuna.
He shoots you a sly smile from across the table, nudging your foot. “Pick whatever you want. I’ll cover you.”
“I can cover my own, that’s alright Kuna!” You nudge him back.
“Nah, I got the check from Kaori, I gotcha princess.”
“She actually paid?” You gasp.
“Mhm. She returned some of the kids’ shit, too.”
“Only some?” Shoko frowns.
“I wasn’t expectin’ any, so–” he cuts himself off with a haphazard shrug.
Kento leans back with a frown. “I would hope she was left no other option than to hand things over given that she should be tried in a criminal investigation.”
“No kidding,” Shoko agrees. She runs a hand through long brown hair, taking a sip of her drink. “Have you heard anything about it?”
The brute nods, a more serious air to his hardened features. “It kinda went over my head, but the judge referred it to a higher court or something. My lawyer said I might need to testify but it’s gotta go through the whole court bullshit again, so it won’t be for a bit.”
The table nods with an overall solemn dust settling over the situation, though it’s blown over with a firm “good,” from Kento, who offers a smile. “I’m glad her methods turned on her.”
In truth, you hope they bite harder. You hope the next headline you see is her downfall.
“For the record, I offered to kill her,” Shoko points out with a smug grin.
Sukuna snorts, much to Kento’s disdain as he flashes her a warning glare. “Guess I know who to call if shit goes down,” he snickers in spite of the blonde’s tight-lipped frown. That’s just who your friend is, but knowing him for as long as you have, you still spot a glimmer of amusement hidden well within those auburn irises.
“Do you have any plans for the payout?” Kento moves along before Shoko and Sukuna can continue.
A flash of uncertainty swims in claret pools as Sukuna’s gaze slides to your friend. Money is still a subject that Sukuna prefers to keep to himself, weary of those around him when he’s managed so long on his own. While he’s grown capable of relying on others for some things, he remains steely when it comes to income.
When he spots no malicious intent within the blonde, you’re surprised to find his guard lowering his walls just enough to allow for a glimpse into his life.
“Paid off my bills last night,” he starts, “most of the rest is in an investment account for the kids, but I kept some aside for Christmas, birthdays,” he shrugs, fiddling with a thick black ring on his middle finger, “day to day sort of stuff.” He sucks in a breath as his attention turns to the titanium on his digit. “Think I’m gonna get a new place.”
Shoko and Kento both murmur their collective congratulations and approval over Sukuna finally having the money to let him live rather than just exist.
You tilt your head in that cute way that Sukuna’s always loved, garnering a smile from him. “Did you have something in mind for a new place?”
“I wanna give the kids their own rooms,” he admits, tapping a finger on the table in thought when the waitress arrives to gather your orders. After placing them, he picks up right where he left off. “Cho turns thirteen soon, n’ Yuji turns six in a couple of weeks, I think it’ll be good for them to have their own space. Think Cho’s needed it for a while, honestly.”
As Kento discusses good neighborhoods and open houses he’s recently spotted nearby, always on top of being the responsible one, Sukuna’s hand stretches to the center of the table. He settles it with his palm upright, expectant.
Shoko shoots you a knowing grin as your fingers slips between his like it’s second nature, as though your heart isn’t battering so hard you fear the entire restaurant can hear. His thumb glides across your knuckles before firmly gripping your much smaller hand, his calloused skin never failing to set yours alight. The way his touch has the ability to kindle a flame within your chest– and between your thighs– is something you think you’ll never grow tired of.
As Shoko pokes for details about what it was like to take your exams after petitioning, the table falls into easy conversation. Seeing your crush and one of your closest friends fit in with Kento in spite of their differences in the past fills you with a tepidness that you don’t think anything could bring down at this point.
And for once, you don’t feel like you need to watch your back, lest Kaori or anyone else try to take it from you. It’s just you and your friends enjoying life (and sushi) as it is, here in the moment.
When Sukuna slides his card out to pay not just for you, but all four of you, he’s met with protests and the opening of wallets, but he keeps a strong palm over the paper at the edge of the table, unwilling to let any of you place your cards down.
“Kuna, you can’t just–”
“Look, don’t get used to it. But for the next little bit, shit’s on me.”
Kento offers his glass in cheers, a little more his speed, which Sukuna smirks at, followed by your and Shoko’s thanks.
“Oh yeah, you guys have plans tomorrow, right? Taking her out on a hot date?” Shoko pries with a knowing expression as she nudges you.
Heat rises to the tips of your ears as Sukuna fixes you with a simper. He’s always been smug when it comes to his ability to fluster you, but you find that same heat dusting his cheeks too. “Yeah, I was gonna call her tonight,” he admits, though his attention is solely on you. “It’s a little unconventional,” he chuckles, averting that sharp crimson stare, “but I’m hoping she doesn’t mind.”
“Cuuuute,” Shoko jeers at your side, chewing on a toothpick. “Well, you can have her tomorrow then, we’re having a girls’ night tonight.”
“We are?”
“Mhm! I just decided,” Shoko shrugs, knocking her heel playfully into Kento’s shin when he attempts to protest that he planned on applying for jobs tonight. “It’s your turn to choose a movie anyway,” she points out, which satisfies him in spite of his huff.
“Fine. Can we please leave my nails alone this time?” He pleads.
Groaning, the brunette beside you throws her head back. “You’re no fun.”
Sukuna snorts. “Have a good night,” he offers, clapping a hand down on Kento’s shoulder. On his way out, he turns his attention to you. “I gotta get back to work, but I’ll text you details,” he gruffs, leaning down and letting his lips brush your forehead briefly before leaving a chaste kiss where they brushed. “See you tomorrow, princess.” Standing upright, he flashes a wave at Shoko and Kento. “Thanks for the invite.”
With hands in his pockets, he pushes out the door, leaving you a blushing mess to be teased by your friends for the rest of the night.
–
Shoko had opted to stay over to help you choose an outfit given the occasion, as you feel a sense of deja vu with her seated cross-legged clutching your heart-shaped pillow atop your bed.
“Did he give you an idea of what to wear?”
You shake your head, staring at Shoko’s reflection in the full-length mirror ahead of you. Twirling in the cute floral dress you’re trying on, you chew on your lip. “He said Choso’s still been having a hard time with anything outside of their usual schedule, so I actually think he planned something at home?” You explain.
“Poor kid. Is he seeing anyone about that?”
“Yeah, but he only started a couple of weeks ago. I think they’re trying to have him work towards feeling better gradually.”
“Makes sense. He’s pretty young to have gone through what happened. I’m sure I don’t even know the half of it.” Leaning forward over the pillow she’s clutching, she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Honestly, I think I’d love a lowkey first date. It just feels like less pressure and I hate first dates.”
Trying on a dress in a gorgeous silver hue with sleeves that flow just past your elbows, you turn to face her. “I’m still nervous,” you admit, “it honestly doesn’t feel different from a first date with someone I don’t know.”
“Not that one,” she casually breaks the conversation to turn down your dress, ignoring your pout as she adds, “I know you don’t have shoes that go with that, we’ve been over this.”
Right.
“Anyway, it might feel that way now, but you’ll feel better once you’re there.”
Changing into a cardigan with a cute frilly black skirt, you turn back to her as you button it up. “You’re probably right.”
“I like the first dress better.”
Staring down at your outfit, you tilt your head questioningly.
“It said ‘date’ more, this one’s closer to what you usually wear. And it’s just about summer, you’ll overheat. Anyway, you’re lucky. You get to skip right past all the ‘will-they won’t-they’ stuff and not knowing if they like you back. I mean, you told me he basically said he wants to ask you to be his girlfriend.”
“He did,” you agree thoughtfully as you glance at her through the mirror, reverting back to the first black floral dress you had on. “And trust me, I still went through all that anyway,” you laugh, grateful to be beyond that. “But I don’t know, I just don’t wanna mess anything up. I really like him, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” she chuckles, “but I mean the guy’s one of your best friends. I don’t think you could do anything wrong in his eyes.”
Your cheeks warm as you face the first outfit choice in the mirror again, pulling out a pair of heels that accentuate the white flowers stippling the dress. “I guess you’re right.” Trying on the shoes, you grab matching necklaces and rings, doing up the look as much as you can while still keeping it casual enough for his house. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
Spinning to face her, you fiddle with the necklace you’ve just clasped around your neck. “You know Sukuna’s, um, reputation?”
“Yeah?”
“What if I’m like–”
“I’m not listening to you worry about sex with him. The way he looks at you is like– bordering on gross it’s so cute. I’m pretty sure you could admit to murder in the middle of it and he’d still like you.”
You can feel heat climbing to the tips of your ears from the base of your neck, your heart hammering as she cuts you off.
“I just don’t wanna bore him. I know he’s been with–”
Shoko smiles understandingly as you divulge a genuine insecurity. “Just talk to him. He’ll listen.”
Settling an ounce of your nerves, you nod. She’s right. Sukuna clings to your every word and you don’t know why you would think he ever wouldn’t, pushing aside the concerns you now recognize as irrational.
Leaning back against the headboard of your bed, Shoko tosses your pillow aside as she stares at your ceiling. “I’m so jealous. My sex life is so stale.”
You chuckle. “I mean, you’ve been really busy this year.”
“You’re telling me,” she groans, dragging hands down her face. Muffled, she adds, “next year is only gonna be busier.”
“Are you still into that one girl from your class?”
She groans, earning your laughter.
“Why don’t you just go talk to her?”
“I have four more years of classes with her, if I mess up now, I think I’d die of embarrassment.”
Wrinkling your nose, you offer a small nod. “Okay, fair. I get that.”
“If you didn’t, I’d call you a hypocrite,” she snorts. “You almost ready? He should be here soon, right?”
“Just about,” you eagerly look yourself over, giving an approving nod at your appearance in the mirror. Flipping around to face her, you sit on the edge of your bed. “You know what else he texted me last night?”
“Spill,” she insists, scooting closer.
“He said he’s taking steps with Choso so that he can take me out on what he called a ‘proper’ date,” you explain, making quotations in the air with your fingers. “Which,” you shrug, “I mean honestly I don’t really care what we do, I think anything he does is sweet.”
“Aw.”
“He said he wanted to take me out for our first date, but couldn’t wait any longer. He told me he didn’t want to waste any more time.”
“That’s disgustingly cute,” she chuckles, picking at her nails. “I’m happy for you, girl. I’ll admit I doubted him, but he seems like a good guy.”
“Yeah,” you smile to yourself, staring down at your freshly manicured nails, courtesy of Shoko’s steady hands. “He’s matured a lot over the last year.”
Your phone vibrates on the nightstand by Shoko’s side. She passes it to you, staring expectantly.
“He’s here,” you grin.
“Go have fun,” she matches your beam, giving you an encouraging hug as you both make your way out of your apartment, down the elevator towards the car parked out front. The engine is rumbling in the low evening light, though what really surprises you is the car itself. It’s not Toji’s, but Satoru’s.
You knew they’d grown to tolerate one another, but this goes beyond that. You’re happy to see it.
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Sukuna scrambles to sit up in the sports car, shoving his phone in his pocket and getting out of the driver’s seat. He wouldn’t generally classify himself as a gentleman, but when it comes to you, he won’t let you think his father raised anything less.
Stepping out into the still-warm air, he shoots a nod at Shoko as she heads for the bus, before fixating on you.
He swears in that moment that you’re an angel. Shades of pink settle among fluffy clouds overhead, hanging low in the sky. Their beauty pales in comparison to you, a soft pink tone dancing across your skin. Your dress accentuates your curves as though it was made for you, the bashful and eager gleam in your eyes sending his heart into his throat.
“Hi Kuna,” you greet your date, taking note of the fact that he almost seems to glow. He looks bulkier, healthier. Your eyes catch on the crimson silk tie that hangs from his neck. Just as you’d intended when you gifted it to him, his eyes shine when he wears it, especially with the black button-up and slacks he sports.
Or maybe they shine for another reason.
“Hey, Angel.” His voice is low, gravelly and breathy with a husky undertone. His eyes flicker across your figure, settling on your face. “You look… Fuck,” he chokes on words with a breathy laugh. “Gorgeous.”
As if his choice of pet name didn’t already knock the air straight from your lungs, the tone he uses when he compliments you nearly has your knees collapsing from under you. Diffidently, you bite your lip, averting your eyes down to the clutch in your hands.
Swallowing hard, Sukuna adjusts the watch on his wrist and closes the distance between you. The rough skin of his finger brushes your chin as he lifts your gaze. He’s kissed you before, yet it still feels like the first every time. He’s insistent as he seeks your lips, using the opportunity to guide you back towards the car. When his back hits the side of the vehicle, he drops his hands to your waist as his thumbs rub circles over the linen of your dress.
When you pull back for air, Sukuna clears his throat, though his tone still has a heady quality. “Didn’t have to get all dolled up for me, y’know.”
“I wanted to,” you shrug, “and you’re all dressed up anyway!” You insist with a bubbly giggle.
“Mm. Well, aren't I lucky?” He grins wolfishly, the kind that betrays that honeyed look in his eyes, giving away how equally eager he is. “C’mon, get in,” he insists, moving aside to open the passenger door and let you slip through.
“Such a romantic, Kuna.”
He smirks at your teasing, one shoulder lifting in a haphazard shrug. Making his way around the car, he puts the vehicle into drive. “Tryin’ to be,” he offers, a flicker of something you just barely miss hidden in crimson irises before you can acknowledge it. With one hand on the wheel, the other settles on your bare thigh, sending heat jolting through your form like a wildfire. It rages quicker than anyone could possibly put out.
You’ve seen Sukuna done up in nice clothes for a multitude of occasions, but between the scarlet tie, a thin gold chain tucked into his collar with a matching watch, and the warmth of his palm that he not-so-subtly wiped on his pants before settling on your thigh; this feels different. He looks nervous, sure, and his sweaty palm certainly betrays the look he tries to hide behind a pinched brow, but there’s a healthy lease on life that lingers within the way he moves with a bit more energy.
In spite of the way he taps the steering wheel as he pulls out of the lot, he seems more himself.
Like he’s finally allowing himself to pick up his pieces. They don’t fit the way they once did, but he finds a new arrangement for them. One with scars and gaps, but they make him stronger.
You can’t be certain if it’s first date nerves or something else, but something awkward settles in the air between you.
At least, Sukuna can sense it. He wonders if you can. Or maybe it’s the feelings of inadequacy he can’t seem to shake in the face of the one and only selfish thing he’s allowed himself the opportunity to pursue.
When you fall into easy conversation though, the tension dissolves, and Sukuna allows himself to breathe.
His spiralling thoughts will be the death of him.
“How’s Choso’s therapy been?”
Sukuna waves his head back and forth in a ‘so-so’ manner. “He’s getting there. School’s alright now, but he has a hard time with anything to do with leaving the house. Think he’s got it tied to Kaori pickin’ them up and can’t separate the two.”
“Is he okay right now?” You express your concern as you peer over at Sukuna, realizing that Sukuna is, in fact, gone right now.
He eyes you briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Yeah. Satoru’s there with ‘em,” he starts. You suppose that makes sense given the car. “His therapist wants us to work on leaving for short amounts of time where I give him an exact time I’ll be back.”
“So, twenty five minutes or something?”
His gaze flickers towards the clock. “Yeah. We may need to hang out for a little bit. She didn’t want me to be early, either.” He frowns. “My bad, princess.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head. “I’m just glad he’s making progress.”
Your date hums along in agreement. It’s clear there’s something on his mind, but he’s come a long way when it comes to communication. If he wants your thoughts, he’ll ask.
That, and the crowd of camera-laden reporters around his house seems like it’s of more importance at the moment.
“Are they here for you?” You breathe, wide-eyed as he pulls into a visitor stall further from the entrance of his apartment. He pulls his hand away to put the car in park, huffing at the sight of a full crowd of hungry reporters fiending for a story.
“Shit,” he huffs. “Can’t imagine a celebrity moved in recently,” he mutters, eyeing the damaged outer walls of the building that don’t exactly scream ‘celebrity’.
“How did more find you?”
You can physically see the gears turning in Sukuna’s mind as he goes over what could have happened, when they come to a sudden grinding halt. “Satoru. They must have followed him.” His grip on the gear shift tightens, his knuckles paling.
Reaching out, you offer a hand of comfort, brushing your thumb gently over his rough skin. He adjusts his jaw, suddenly conscious of the pain pulsing through the muscle as he grits his teeth.
“Fuck. I’m gonna need to look at new places sooner than I though. I just–” he rolls his eyes in frustration. “Dunno how I’ll keep them off my trail.”
“Maybe there’s like a legal path you can take or something.”
He snorts. “Appreciate the thought, princess, but if I never see a court room again, it’ll still be too soon.”
Inhaling quietly, you chuckle. “I don’t think anyone can blame you for that.” Squeezing his hand, you shrug as you offer another thought. “Just don’t give them anything. Eventually other stories will be more interesting.”
He shuts his eyes, nodding. “Guess you’re right,” he agrees. Spending a moment staring ahead and taking in the scene, he steels his resolve. “Hold on a sec,” he grunts, slowly unlatching the door so that he can slip out unnoticed. He keeps his movements slow, making his way to the back in search of something. He returns a moment later, shutting the trunk as quietly as he can manage and makes his way to your door. “C’mere,” he murmurs softly, offering a hand.
Draped over his arm is a hoodie, though you know it isn’t his. You can’t recall if you’ve ever seen your date wear a zip-up hoodie, let alone a blue one. Still, he cares more about keeping you out of the limelight as he slips it up over your shoulders, zipping it up and pulling the hood up over your head.
“My hair,” you frown, more to yourself than him.
A puff of air leaves his nose as he exhales. “You’ll live, princess,” he chides teasingly, softening as he lowers his head slightly. “You always look pretty, ‘kay?” Even as your heart does a little flip, he doesn’t wait for an answer, straightening as he locks the car and pulls you into his side. His grip is tight as his arm encircles you, fiddling with his keys.
Approaching the paparazzi, you dip your head, focusing on the burly man’s dress shoes as you’re met with an onslaught of invasive questions. Who you are, what Sukuna plans to do next, whether he thinks Kaori will return. Each one is another reminder of layers upon layers of stress that Sukuna is trying desperately to shed himself of, but the world has other ideas.
With a tap of a fob, he’s opening the door and letting you in ahead of him, shielding your body from the reporters. Seconds before the door closes, you just barely make out, “I thought that was Choso until I saw their legs.”
You gape in disbelief, whipping your head around on instinct at being mistaken for a child. Your date is still blocking you, snorting as he watches your reaction. “I don’t look like Choso!” You exclaim, meeting his gaze.
“You’re wearing a hoodie that has–” he pauses, staring down at the design on the back. “A Pokemon or something on it and you’re short,” he chuckles, a grin spread across handsome lips.
Groaning, you make your way up towards his apartment. “I’m wearing a dress,” you mumble.
“They couldn’t see your legs,” Sukuna shrugs. “I was blocking you.”
“I’m not even that short!”
Plopping a hand down atop your head, Sukuna chooses not to argue. At least, that’s what one might say were it not for the teasing lilt to his tone. “Mhm. ‘Course.”
Playfully shoving his bicep, he chuckles as he holds the door to his apartment open for you.
Of course, you weren’t expecting anything too fancy. After all, Choso still isn’t comfortable with Sukuna being gone long.
But you’re stunned into silence at the transformation his apartment has undergone. The TV and couch have been shoved aside in favor of moving the dining table to the center of the room. A bouquet of pink and white flowers sits next to a lit candle in the center of the table and you can’t make heads or tails whether that or something in the oven is what smells of vanilla.
The lights have been lowered in general, using the hall light to keep a modicum of illumination on the table, set with two plates and utensils. It’s otherwise practically spotless, outside of the kitchen itself, where Choso is tampering with food under Satoru’s supervision.
Your head swivels around to your date, lips pursed in disbelief as tears threaten your carefully applied makeup. He’s scowling, trying to read your reaction before you can even voice your thoughts. Even in the low light, you can make out the blush warming his cheeks, nerves apparent in the small shifts of his eyes as he examines you.
“If it’s too much, I–”
“This is so sweet.” You pout up at him, in disbelief that your hardened and mild friend is putting so much into romance. He never really struck you as the type, though you suppose he does look a bit out of his element right now. Still, it’s the thought and effort that mean more than you can ever say. “It’s perfect, Kuna.”
He lets out a breath, reaching forward to push the hood of your zip-up down. As though it’s an affront to him, his scowl deepens as he’s reminded that it isn’t his. “Take that shit off,” he grumbles with an envious timbre to his gravelly voice.
Chewing on your lower lip, you unzip it and slide it off of your shoulders, placing it in his outstretched hand. He huffs, pulling Satoru’s keys from his pocket as he turns towards the lanky man standing in his kitchen.
“Satoru,” he calls, tossing the sweater and keys in his direction before your friend’s even started turning in this direction. The fratboy still effortlessly catches it, grinning at the sight of you both.
“My sweater?”
“Don’t ask,” Sukuna hisses, devoid of any real heat, although there’s an obvious hint of jealousy laced within the fiber of his being that Satoru clearly picks up on. With raised brows, he just shrugs it off.
“Sweet. Well, nothing burned down. The little man’s just fixing up his outfit,” he points over his shoulder in the direction of the boys’ room. “Lemme know if you need anything else.”
Invidiousness fades in favor of something more genuine. “Thanks, Satoru.”
It’s still strange seeing them be all buddy-buddy. Even as they bump fists on Satoru’s way out, it’s hard to imagine that things flipped so easily. Regardless, it warms your heart.
“There’s a crowd out front as a heads’ up,” Sukuna warns, brushed off by a wave from the fratboy.
A clang draws your attention to the kitchen as you slip out of your heels, curiously watching as Choso sets a bowl down. His gaze flickers between you and Sukuna, unreadable when he settles on his older brother. When you search the eldest’s expression, you can’t make out what’s going through his mind either, but the little boy’s lips quirk into a small smile before he turns back to what he was doing, greeting you with a small “hi.”
Returning his quiet greeting, you give him a wave. The little boy quickly turns back to the kitchen to continue stirring something on the stove. About to move further into the apartment, Sukuna reaches out to gently tug you back. “Just… Wait a moment,” he chuckles, the blush on his cheeks deepening. It’s uncharacteristic for him, but cute as hell.
Sure enough, Yuji comes bounding back into the room in the tiniest little suit with a crooked black bowtie and slicked back hair. It takes everything in you not to coo at the sweet sight as it occurs to you what exactly is going on here.
When Yuji spots you, he’s quick to jog over to a piece of paper set atop the table and make his way over to you and Sukuna. “Hi! Welcome to, uh, the Itadori restaurant,” he waves his hand behind him. You raise a hand to cover your lips at just how sweet this whole ordeal is as Choso continues puttering around in the kitchen. “Come sit at your table!”
In (of course) typical restaurant host fashion, the little boy takes both your and Sukuna’s hands, guiding each of you to either side of the table. He drags each chair across the floor, presenting the spots eagerly before setting a menu in front of each of you.
“Thanks, Yu,” Sukuna grunts.
With a little frown, he shakes his head. “It’s sir!”
“Sure. Thanks, sir.”
He puffs his chest out proudly. “I’ll be back!” He proclaims, disappearing into the hall.
Giggling as the little boy disappears, you tilt your head at your date. “Kuna, this is so sweet.”
With a noncommittal noise, he glances back at his younger brother in the kitchen. It’s clear there’s something he wants to say over the ordeal, but he opts not to in front of the boy. “Glad you like it, princess.”
You knew from the start what being friends with Sukuna entailed, let alone dating him. He’s a package deal, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sukuna’s jaw unclenches as you embrace the unconventional date, grinning each time Yuji pokes his head around the corner, eagerly awaiting you to choose your meals. Which…
“You in the mood for mac and cheese?” Sukuna gruffs amusedly from across the table. You giggle, admiring the way the low light seems to sharpen his jaw.
“You know, I think I am,” you giggle.
“That’s good,” he hums, holding the flimsy paper menu written in crayon before him.
It’s a limited menu tonight, one could say. Your options? ‘Mac’, ‘Cheese’, and ‘Mac and Cheese’. Written in Yuji’s finest red crayon. The ex-history major won’t readily admit it, but it doesn’t just warm his heart, it melts it.
It all seems too good to be true. Seeing Choso peek back at him sheepishly while the pitter patter of Yuji’s steps can be heard from behind. You, dressed up in a gorgeous dress sitting across from him with a jovial grin.
He’ll admit this isn’t what he had in mind for a first date. Truthfully, he’d prefer to keep this particular side of his relationship with you to himself, but seeing you point to the mac and cheese on the menu as his little brother takes down your order with a big grin, he’s not too upset about this outcome.
When you look up expectantly at Sukuna to order, you catch him slumped forward on his fist, worn eyes staring at you. There’s a dazed fog clinging to his expression, accompanied by a little smile characteristic of him in little moments like these. The times where he’s able to relax and put his trust in you.
You match his smile, turning your attention back to Yuji. “He’ll have the mac and cheese too,” you murmur to the little host, who nods and runs to deliver the order to the kitchen as though Choso didn’t hear every single word.
Reaching across the table, you brush your fingers against the hand that isn’t folded under his cheek. His fingers twitch, instinctively finding a place intertwined with yours. “You seem happy,” you comment, soft and sultry as you admire the serene look on him.
He hums. “Guess I am.”
“You guess?” You tease, a sly grin spreading across glossed lips.
A puff of air leaves his nose, amused as he shakes his head. “I am,” he relents, gaze flickering towards Yuji to watch the little boy scamper across the apartment. Pools of cerise pinpoint you once more, fixing you with a surprisingly calm expression. “I am.” There’s more conviction this time, as though he isn’t just agreeing with you, but rather noticing it for himself for the first time.
It warms your heart in ways you can’t even begin to describe. It feels like the scene from The Grinch where the monster’s heart grows three sizes, only yours wasn’t small to begin with. Now you’re simply overflowing with adoration and glee, if your smile is anything to go off of.
“Feels like I’m supposed to be askin’ what you do for work or something,” Sukuna breaks the silence.
With a giggle, you shake your head. “Not much of a date guy, huh?”
He inhales slowly. “Never really had time,” he admits, reminding you subtly that he’s been a guardian since he was freshly eighteen.
“No better time than the present, right?”
He hums. “You know, it is kinda funny,” he begins. “I know your coffee order and work schedule n’ what you do for fun but I dunno your favorite animal.”
“Yeah, I guess we kinda skipped past that phase,” you laugh. “We went straight to trauma dumping.”
“Healthy,” Sukuna quips sarcastically, squeezing your hand when you laugh. “Still feel like I should know, though.”
You reply softly with your favorite animal, earning a hum on his part.
“Cute,” he gruffs. “I like tigers.” He sits upright, fiddling with a ring on his free hand. “Feels like I’ve known you a lifetime, you know.”
“Hopefully in a good way.” A hint of nerves are evident in the little chuckle that parts your lips.
He stares at you for a beat. The sharp gaze you’ve grown so familiar with has softened, showing you that side of Sukuna you seldom see. The version of him reserved for home. Not the kind of home where four walls surround him, but the kind that can only be found within a beating heart and pulsing blood.
Heat rises from the base of your neck to the tips of your ears. For once, you finally have the clarity to see what your friends have been seeing for so long. Seated across from you is a man who reveres your very existence, who stares at you like you hung the moon in the sky.
Because to him, you did. You’re not just a star like he once thought, you’re the whole damn galaxy. Brilliant and bright, and filled with color, and he’ll be damned if he can’t live in it. For once, he’ll be selfish. He can’t say he shines through the dark like you do, nor does he have the elegance or prosperity of a planet. He can’t even be sure that he has the drive of a comet barreling through the vacuum of space anymore.
Truth be told, he doesn’t know where he fits within your universe. But for once, he won’t cast himself aside. He’ll be selfish this time, he’ll seek his own happiness. But he won’t be dense, either. He knows. He knows now that he does belong somewhere within that universe, even if he has yet to put a name to the place. He’ll embrace whatever spot it is that he’s earned, for he’s not sure after everything he’s put you through why you stick by him. He’s not sure why you chose him or think he’s deserving of you.
But he considers himself the luckiest man on earth to sit across from you right now. He won't waste another chance.
“Yeah,” he breathes at last. “Yeah, in a good way.”
Unsure where exactly his mind’s at right now, you begin quizzing him on his favorite things– color, films, shows, books, music– anything that you just never quite got to know about him. He quizzes you in return, laughing as you admit that you’ve starting to grow fond of the move Ice Age.
“Even the second one?”
“Even the second one.”
“Shit. If that’s your taste in movies, we gotta work on that,” he slyly grins.
“Hey! It’s cute, and it’s like,” you gesture vaguely at the apartment, “sentimental.”
“Is it sentimental, or are you?”
Tilting your head from one side to the other, you shrug. “Bit of both.”
“Thought so,” Sukuna hums, though he’s distracted by his little brother poking his tongue out as he carefully carries a large bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese over to you first, then another to your date. It’s just as you taught the older Itadori to make it, bread crumbs sprinkled over the noodles.
The whole thing is beyond sweet.
“Enjoy!” Yuji grins, dragging Choso over to their room so they can eat their own bowls.
Chewing on your lower lip as the boys give you space, you barely suppress a huge grin. Once the boys are out of sight, Sukuna pushes to his feet, reaching into a top cabinet over the sink and pulling out a bottle of wine.
“We, uh–” he chuckles to himself at how scuffed this whole date is, insecurity creeping in that he has to brush aside. “We don’t have wine glasses, but–” he shrugs, holding the bottle out. “Figured it’d be nice. You want some?”
“Please.”
With wine in hand and your date before you, everything feels like a dream.
“Thanks for organizing this, Kuna. This is seriously so sweet.”
He sighs. “Glad you think so. It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but–” he clears his throat. “I didn’t wanna wait any longer. ‘M kinda hoping I’m done being a dumbass.” He pauses briefly. “About this– you– anyway.”
“You make it sound like you’re gonna be a dumbass about something else.”
He smirks as you cuss, even though you’re just repeating his words. “Oh yeah, I will. Just dunno what yet.” His smirk widens into a grin as you laugh, taking his first bite of mac and cheese. With raised brows, he nods his approval. “Shit, you taught the brat well.”
Nodding your agreement as you finish your first bite, you point a fork at the meal. “Has he ever told you why he wants to be a chef?”
The brute wracks his brain, but can’t recall if Choso ever did. “Don’t think so.”
“He told me that you used to make soup with him.”
Leaning back in his chair and scratching his chest, he distantly stares at the sliding door for the balcony. “Yeah, I did. It wasn’t anything fancy, but I used to make it outta whatever we had. Choso was…” he pauses, shrugging. “Eight or nine. He loved to dump the ingredients in, he’d get broth everywhere.” The smallest of frowns tugs insistently at his lips. “Things were okay when we cooked. Felt like we were a real family.”
“You are,” you point out, cocking your head curiously.
“I know. Didn’t feel like it back then, though. I didn’t make us feel like one.”
Finishing the bite of food you’ve just had, you lean back in your chair. “That’s in the past now, Kuna.”
He nods slowly with a long inhalation. Otherwise still, he seems to stare through you, as if deep in thought.
“The boys are doing so much better. They’re home, where they want to be.”
Another nod, another long inhalation. He knows you’re right, but guilt is a beast that lingers within. Insistently stuck like honey every step of the way. He’s not sure he’ll ever be rid of it, but it’s duller now in the presence of his family.
The two Itadoris carry their hearts on their sleeves. It’s easy enough to tell how they’re doing, and while Sukuna has clearly improved too, he’s a tougher read. Still guarded, even when he’s at ease. He knows only a world of keeping to himself and ensuring his brothers are taken care of. He so rarely thinks of himself at this point that he hardly knows to check in on himself.
“How are you doing, Kuna?”
He blinks, a crease between his brows as he stops to consider your question. He’s been so caught up on cleaning up after the storm that Kaori wrought that he hasn’t had time to think about himself. Somewhat stunned, he takes a moment to reply, his heart tugging at the sight of your head tilting in that cute little way that’s so you.
“Good. I’m good,” he replies with a scowl that you’re not quite sure even he believes.
“You don’t have to pretend around me, you know,” you point out, haphazardly waving your fork.
Another blink, the gears turning in his mind. “‘M not. Shit’s weird right now, but good. Kinda feels too good to be true,” he admits, quieter. Careful that his siblings don’t hear if they’re listening in.
If he’s being completely honest with himself, it’s nice to have someone look after him. It’s nice to have someone there for him when he’s always been the one providing. He supposes he’s had that for a while now, he just couldn’t accept that someone might do such a thing for him.
He was a fucking dick. He’s not sure that’s something he’ll ever rid himself of, he is a dick. He’s grumpy and rough around the edges and loses his temper when it counts the most. Endlessly putting the people he cares about the most in the middle of his fire.
You bump his heel, his long legs outstretched beneath the table. “I know what you’re doing,” you tease, although it’s soft. “Stop getting in your own head.”
His attention snaps back to you, pulled up from the depths before he can begin navigating them. “You know me so well.” With a lop-sided smile, he returns to his dinner.
“And yet I didn’t even know your favorite animal!” You retort. “Wait, is that why you got Yuji that tiger plushie?”
“In a way. That was mine.”
“That’s so cute,” you pout.
He rolls his eyes, amused. “Yeah, yeah.” He lowers his voice, glancing back to the hall where his brothers’ room resides. He can hear Yuji loudly cheering about something and continues. “Kaori got it for me when I was like twelve. I always thought it’d be nice for Yuji to have something from his mom, even if I thought she was a piece of shit. I don’t think he knows it was from her and just thinks it’s from me.” He reaches out his fork-free hand, curling his fingers around yours. His skin is rough, though his touch is soft, gentle. Always, with you. “I think it’s better that way, though.”
You share his silence, squeezing his fingers in agreement. “It’s weird to think that there was a time where she tried.”
“Oh, no,” Sukuna snorts, “she never did. The only thing she knew about me was that I liked tigers. She didn’t even ask me or give the gift in person. My dad gave me the gift. I don’t even think she wrapped it, just grabbed it.”
“God, she sucks,” you groan as you finish your dish. The sound of your fork hitting the bowl serves as a bell of sorts for your waiter, who you hear come barreling down the hall. As he arrives in the room, he slows to a casual gait, pretending he didn’t just dash down the hall.
“How was your food?”
Your date hums. “Great, thanks Yu.”
“It’s ‘sir’!” He insists with a little pout as Sukuna pushes his bowl to the edge of the table.
“‘M not calling you ‘sir’ every time.”
“I’m giving you no stars!”
Sukuna’s brow furrows as Yuji pads away with his bowl. “You don’t rate your guests, brat.”
“Watch me!”
With a dramatic roll of his eyes, the eldest brother watches as you indulge his little brother's wishes, thanking your host with a ‘sir’ as he takes your own dish. “You spoil him.”
“He’s had a long few months,” you shrug. “And he’s too cute,” you add, lowering your voice as you peer over your shoulder to watch the too-short boy dump your dishes in the sink before asking if he can get you anything else.
“We’re good, sir,” Sukuna begrudgingly growls, devoid of any real irritation. “Go play with Cho. Let him know dinner was good.”
“‘Kay!” In a flurry of pink hair, Sukuna’s tiny clone disappears back around the corner en route to his room.
Sukuna lets out a breath, clearly eager for a semblance of real time alone with you. Getting to his feet, he slides his chair around the table, shoulder-to-shoulder with you. His voice is like gravel when he speaks again, lowered for only you to hear as it grates against his throat.
“Thanks,” he gruffs, “for comin’ here for our first date, and lettin’ them be a part of it.”
“I told you, it’s sweet,” you insist.
“I know, I–” he sighs, shutting his eyes and leaning his head into yours. “It’s not just that. Means a lot that you put up with my shit.” The air stills briefly. You can hear him swallow a lump in his throat. “If I pull somethin’ stupid on you again, don’t let me get away with it.” He lifts his head, staring down at you with sincerity that baffles you.
“You know I forgive you for everything that happened, right?” You query, a knit between your brows.
He hums. “I know.” You’re too sweet to him. “Doesn’t change what I did. Don’t put up with my shit if I pull something like that again. Promise me.”
Your lips press into a thin line as you stare at him, a protest on the tip of your tongue. You bite it back, only because you know he’ll double down, taking another approach until he gets the response he wants. “I’m not keeping track of things like that, Sukuna. You don’t ‘owe’ me anything,” you begin, making silent quotations in the air with your fingers as he stares down at you from where he towers beside you. “We can’t build the foundation of a relationship on keeping track of mistakes. Besides,” you perk up a bit, “will you do anything like that again?”
He shakes his head adamantly without an ounce of hesitation. “Fuck no.”
Setting your hand on his chest, you let your fingers curl around the silken red tie that hangs from his neck. “Then we have nothing to worry about.” It only takes a little sheepish tug and shining eyes for him to kiss you.
A corded forearm moves to the back of your chair, the other keeping you firmly pressed to him when he deepens it. “Too fuckin’ good to me,” he mutters between kisses. He doesn’t let you break the kiss to reply as his tongue swipes across your lower lip to seek entrance.
He tastes cheesy, a thought that makes you smile inadvertently, but it's his smell that invades your senses. It’s intoxicating, the woodsy scent of his cologne dancing in tandem with the typical musk of Sukuna. Your fingers rest over his pulse, racing. It’s good to know you have the same effect on him as he has on you.
“What’s got ya all smiley?” Your date grunts as he pulls back, smug when he’s sure you’ll say him.
“When did things change for you?”
His expression shifts, subtle. “What do you mean?”
You’re certain he knows exactly what you mean, that he’s playing a thinly veiled game of avoiding the question. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell you, but rather that words have never been his strong suit, and that’s a subject– hell, a story– that he doesn’t know how to divulge.
But there’s been enough avoidance between you that you just want an honest answer. “Your feelings.”
He sighs, sitting upright. Fingers toy with the fabric of your dress, bunching it up at your hip as he deliberates. “That month that we didn’t talk,” he begins, quietly examining your expression. “The kids missed you. A lot. They were always askin’ for you. Guess you know that, though.”
They (or, Sukuna, you suppose), did send a lot of emails. “Did they miss me, or did you?” You tease as your lips quirk up.
He lets out a breathy chuckle. “We all did. It was a wake up call that I took you for granted. It was hard to manage things with work and the kids and the lawsuit.”
You let the thought hang between you for a moment, drawing little circles on his chest. He leans back down to capture your lips, frowning when a splayed hand on his chest stops him. You might even say he’s pouting based on the matching pull of his brow. “I missed you too, you know.” That softens his expression quickly. “It sucked. I basically told you I liked you during our argument and,” you shrug, “you were one of my best friends. I spent so much time around you that it was weird trying to figure out what to do without you.”
He sighs, moving his hand from the back of your chair to scratch at his five o’clock shadow. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Yeah, I didn’t realize that you confessed. I was talking to Uraume about it later and they pointed out that it sounded like you did.” The lump in his throat bobs idly as he stares out into the darkening sky in the window beyond. “Guess it wouldn’t have really mattered anyway with the way things worked out.”
“Wait, you knew I confessed?”
“Yeah, I just figured the feelings were gone.”
Practically in disbelief at this point, you shake your head. “I know we hadn’t seen one another, but… Why?” You were so obvious.
He shrugs, able to smile over the ordeal now that you’re happily within his arms. “I’m a dumbass.”
Your laughter is like a song, soothing his nerves as he leans back in again. Closing the distance, he swallows the melody with his tongue. The cotton of your dress bunched between his fingers flattens as his large palm engulfs your waist, the pads of his fingers squeezing with enough strength to send his need like a shock straight to your core. Shifting from the back of the chair, his fingers brush the nape of your neck, testing the waters before his hand settles on your skin. With his thumb brushing your jaw, he tilts your head back to deepen the kiss.
Every piece of him is electric, from his taste to his smell and the feeling of his hands gripping you as though he can’t get enough. There’s a fiery ache between your thighs that has your brain stuck on the way you feel slotted against him in his strong grip.
For a moment, you’re taken to another world. Heaven.
But you’re quickly reminded you’re in Sukuna’s kitchen.
“Ewww!”
The scowl on Sukuna’s face is unmatched as he fixes his little brother with an unimpressed glare. “Dinner’s over, sir. I just drew a bunch o’ shit for you, go color.”
Yuji pouts in tandem with a colossal glower that could match even Sukuna’s.
“Wonder where he gets that from,” you murmur under your breath with a grin.
Sukuna’s palm moves from the back of your neck to cup your lips, muffling your laughter as Yuji proclaims that he wants to watch a movie.
“We can watch one tomorrow,” Sukuna dismisses the little boy.
“I don’t wanna watch one tomorrow, I wanna watch one now!” He stomps a foot dramatically, pointing at the TV that’s pushed into a corner as though it might turn on at his beck and call.
“Yuji,” Sukuna warns, clearly doing what he can to hold back his irritation, although it slips through the cracks.
“I already finished coloring, I wanna watch How to Train Your Dragon!” He protests without hesitation, pushing his older brother’s buttons.
Sukuna is many things. Patient isn’t one of them.
“You’re not gonna get what you want by acting like a brat,” he hisses, lowering his arms from around you as he gets to his feet. “We talked about this earlier, you promised to be good.”
There’s a wobble to Yuji’s lip as he stares up at his towering older brother. “I am good,” he whines, sucking in a harsh breath as the flood gates begin to crumble. Peering past Sukuna and Yuji, you can just barely make out Choso’s figure watching from the corner where the hall meets the main living space.
“Then go back to your room like you promised, Yu.”
As tears gather on his lash line and the situation grows dangerously close to a breakdown, you slip into the conversation beside Sukuna, settling a hand on his bicep when you spot the knot in his jaw. He shifts it as though it might ease the tension rippling through his muscles, but it does little to soothe his frustrations.
Sensing that something beyond Yuji simply wanting to watch a movie is going on, you decide to step in. Slipping in front of your date, you lean over, closer to Yuji’s height. “You said you finished all of your coloring, Yuji?”
He nods, though his gaze flickers away. “Yeah. All of the Sonic ones.”
Sukuna huffs behind you, clearly privy to something that you aren’t.
“So there are ones that aren’t Sonic?”
He kicks a foot out, his little bowtie slightly askew as he juts a lip out while staring at the ground. “Yeah.”
“So why did you lie then, honey?”
He’s silent as he continues kicking at imaginary pebbles by his feet. After a beat of silence, his shoulders lift and fall, avoidant of your gaze.
The little boy’s always been a troublemaker, but he’s also a good kid. You’re willing to bet there’s a reason he’s outright lying to you about something that doesn’t matter one bit. Couple that with the fact that he’s been unwilling to share and you can guess where this new tendency came from.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, still avoidant of your gaze.
You glance back at Sukuna, who’s noticed Choso as well, distracted by the sight of his middle brother lingering at the edge of the scene.
“You know,” you return your attention back to Yuji, “when something is bothering Choso, it helps him to talk about it.”
He stops his movements, staring earnestly at you. “I can’t.”
A purse of your lips. “Why can’t you?”
“Because I talk too much.”
A blink, long and slow. “Who told you that?”
“Mr. Kamo.”
White hot rage. You feel it burning in the six foot eleven brute behind you before you even cast him a glance. His fists ball at his sides, lips curling into a furious snarl directed at a man you hope to never see again.
You straighten slightly at the revelation, wondering if these little outbursts the boy’s been having are all connected to comments from Noritoshi and Kaori. There’s a lesson in trusting adults somewhere within Noritoshi’s venomous teachings, but you’re not sure where to begin in a way that makes sense to a five-year-old.
Unfortunately, with all the eloquence he can muster up, Sukuna beats you to it.
“That fucking asshole,” he hisses.
Which is to say there’s a complete and utter lack of eloquence.
Before the boy can mimic Sukuna’s words, you shoot your date an insistent look and kneel back down. “Noritoshi Kamo is a mean person and he’s wrong,” you begin. It’s clear that Yuji agrees from the little nod he gives you. Chewing on your lip, you briefly consider your words, careful what you present to the five-year-old. “Not every adult is right about everything, you know.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm. Sometimes we still make mistakes, and sometimes we just don’t know everything.”
Shifting in front of you, the little boy takes a step forward.
“It’s important that you listen to the people around you, but if anyone ever tells you something and deep down you feel like it’s wrong, you should trust that feeling. It’s called intuition.”
“In-too-shun.”
“Intuition,” you correct him with a sweet smile. “It’s that feeling in your chest when something doesn’t feel right.”
There’s a downward tilt to his eyebrows as he processes what you’re saying. His gaze is distant, as though he’s thinking through his time with Noritoshi and Kaori, and times where things didn’t feel right.
“I think I have that now.”
Your brow raises, at a loss for what the hell that means.
“You think you have what?”
“In-too-shun.”
Stifling a laugh, you slip down onto your knees to sit on the floor in front of him. “And what’s your intuition telling you?”
He peers up at you, pulling at your heart strings as he fiddles with his fingers. You can hear sirens blaring distantly outside, but they fade as quickly as they begin. “That I’m scared.”
Your amusement drops in place of concern as he takes another step towards you. “Why are you scared, honey?”
He continues to fiddle with his fingers as he twists to look behind him. Choso is still stagnant at the corner, his expression unreadable. When Yuji twists back towards you, he beckons you closer as though he has a secret to tell you. Leaning forward, you move your ear close so he can whisper to you, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Um– Choso doesn’t like being without Kuna and um–” he pauses, pulling back as though he’s checking that the brunette can’t hear him. “I’m afraid if we spend too much time in our room, then he’ll cry again.”
Your heart snaps into a million tiny little pieces, scattering across the floor as the little boy confesses that he’s willingly taking the fall in order to keep an eye out for his older brother. Something all three of them seem to have a habit of. It’s sweet, but entirely heartbreaking.
“Did he seem unhappy?” You whisper back.
“Um– No, but–” he cuts himself off with a shrug.
Nodding, you take a deep breath to center yourself and put on a smile. “You’re a good brother, Yuji.”
His eyes shine as he meets your gaze.
“Why don’t you and Choso go get ready for bed, and once you’re ready, maybe we can work something out, okay?”
He nods, something between eagerness and genuine concern alight within deep auburn irises. The little boy just about jogs off before turning back to give you a quick hug, tugging on Choso’s shirt as he drags his brother back to their room.
Sukuna seethes as he stands tall behind you. His chest rises and falls heavily with each breath, the creases in his forehead bringing you the worry that they might become permanent given his tendency to scowl.
Resting your hands on his chest draws his attention as you slide them up to his cheeks, cupping his face. If there’s one thing you know well when it comes to Sukuna, it’s the kind of comfort he needs. Brushing your thumbs over his cheeks, a smile finds its way to your face as you feel his jaw unclench in your hold.
“It’s in the past, Kuna. All we can do now is reassure him, but they can’t hurt him or Cho anymore.”
He lets out a breath, heavy as he leans down into your grasp, a hand coming to rest over one of yours. Those sharp crimson eyes are still alight with fury as he fixes his stare on you, but it’s lowered to a simmer, and you’re certain you can put it out.
“You’re doing a good job with them,” you assure him, watching as the flame flickers. “Your lawyer covered your bases, you don’t need to worry.” Giving him a beat to settle, you let your thumbs brush over weathered skin, the scar under his right eye barely protruding from his skin any longer.
Seeing him now, you can’t help but consider how far he’s come. There was no outburst from any of the brothers. No tears, no wailing. Sukuna’s frustration with Yuji never boiled over. It stayed steady before disappearing, or maybe morphing into something else as you managed to get him to talk through his emotions.
They’re getting somewhere. All of them are, because they care. They’re all still learning to navigate life, trying to figure out where they’ve come from and where they’re going, but they’re all taking the past into account. You can see Sukuna’s growth in the way that although he still sucks with words and comfort, he’s willing to fumble his way through the fog in an effort to be what his brothers need.
Though you think the real growth is held within the fact that he’s trying to be someone not only you and his brothers can be proud of, but he, too, can.
With one last brush over the scar beneath his eye, you slide your fingers back through his hair and pull him down by the neck.
You can taste his gratitude in the way he melts into your embrace, shifting quickly from relaxation to something much more heated. His fists loosen as his palms settle on your waist with an intense grip, allowing him to deepen the kiss right where he’d left off.
He swallows your gasp when he spins you suddenly. The backs of your thighs hit the table as he smoothly slides his grip down to your ass, lifting you with ease onto the wooden surface. Your chest surges with lust, pulse racing as he leans over you. His fingers slide up your spine, slow and sensual but laced with the immense need he feels.
Before things can get too far given the near-outburst that only just happened, you try to pull back, but Sukuna is insistent with a hum of disapproval.
You giggle into the kiss, hand on his chest to stop him before your need grows.
In his case, literally.
Exasperated, a puff of air leaves his nose as he glances back towards the hall. He mutters a curse under his breath, pulling back as he tries to compose himself as though you weren’t a bit too late pulling back, on his part. He adjusts the crotch of his pants, his shirt riding up as it’s pulled from his waistband to give you a look at the band of his boxers peeking out.
Slutty.
“Keep starin’ and I’m gonna have to lock myself in my damn room while,” he grumbles, a faint hint of blush dusting the apples of his cheeks. With a breath, he sets his palms atop your thighs and leans down to be closer to your height. “What’d the kid say to you?”
“He’s worried about Cho,” you breathe, drawing little circles over the rough skin of your date’s knuckles. “He said he didn’t seem unhappy now, but he was afraid that if they spent too long away from you, Choso might cry.”
With a drawn out inhale, Sukuna leans his head into the crook of your neck. His breath fans over your back, sending a shiver up your spine as he seeks your warmth. “Right. Okay,” he mutters, remaining still in your embrace.
Slipping your arms up around him, you run your nails over his scalp in gentle back and forth motions, your fingers mussing his hair at the base. He couldn’t care less if his hair gets disheveled when the feeling has his eyes fluttering shut as he relishes in the tranquility of the moment.
“You’re a goddamn angel,” he mutters, though it’s completely unintelligible.
“Hm?” You tilt your head to get a better look at him.
“Don’t worry about it, angel,” he murmurs, kissing your neck as he stands up. The flustered expression on your face when it comes to sexual intimacy and teasing never fails to make him smirk. “So, I guess we’re watching How to Train Your Dragon, huh?”
“Guess so,” you agree.
“At least I won’t be compared to a fuckin’ mammoth this time.”
“No, but your brother might compare you to the main character.”
“I’m nothing like him,” he retorts.
“Yuji’s got a very overactive imagination though,” you tease as you make your way towards the TV to pop the disc in the player and drag it and the couch back in place. Sukuna leaves to calm down a bit before checking on his little brothers, being led by the hand by little Yuji a few minutes later. With his little tiger plush nestled between his arm and side, he plops himself down on the couch between Sukuna and Choso, trying to maneuver Sukuna’s arm so that he can cuddle into the eldest brother.
With a mischievous snort, the brute lets his arm go fully limp, forcing Yuji to use all his might to lift up his sibling’s bulky forearm. “Kunaaa!” He whines, pouting as he’s forced to take a different approach, instead slipping beneath the limb once he’s lifted it enough. “There.”
Sukuna’s chest visibly rumbles, amusement woven within cerise irises. Once his little brother has settled, he holds his other arm up as you hit play on the DVD, staring expectantly at you.
Tucking yourself under his arm, you pull your knees up to rest on his thigh and lean into his chest. His arm secures around you, resting over your hip as he pulls you close. With Yuji and Choso piled under his other arm, the possibility of a future without them feels like a distant memory. His worries slip like droplets down his skin, whisked away as he’s able to relax into the cushions, glancing warmly from side to side.
It’s domestic as hell. It feels so far out of his wheelhouse with how much he’s fumbled the last several years, but it’s finally becoming familiar.
Homely. The kind of feeling he’d be happy to wake up to every morning and return to every night.
You shift in his arms, peering up at him from under your lashes.
The night wasn’t what he’d hoped for, neither plan A, B, or C if he’s being honest with himself. But truthfully? He thinks he likes Plan D anyway. For as frustrated as he is that he can’t get you alone and take you on the date that you deserve, this feels like a taste of a future that isn’t so bitter and filled with long nights of unrest.
Settling back into the cushions, he gives your hip an affectionate squeeze before focusing on the movie.
It doesn’t come as a shock that Yuji passes out as the moon rises higher in the night sky. It casts a tranquil glow across the wall behind the TV, bathing you in its gentle embrace. It’s as if even mother nature is enjoying the peace.
Choso, weary-eyed, watches without comment as Sukuna slips away when the movie ends with the younger Itadori softly snoring in his arms. The young boy waits a beat after his brothers disappear, yawning before turning to face you. “Thank you,” he murmurs quietly, lethargic as sleep threatens him to the bone.
“What for, honey?”
He straightens, his gaze flickering from the shelf of movies to the TV and down to his feet. He kicks them out in front of him listlessly, fiddling with the material of his pajama pants. “Um– I know Kuna really wanted to take you out for dinner.” His brow furrows as he searches for a way to explain himself, but you jump in first.
“Tonight was perfect, Cho. You’re a great chef.”
He scarcely moves, but there’s a tug on his lips as his eyes slide towards you. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” you agree, smiling. “I’d say you learned from the best.”
His shoulders shake as he quietly chuckles at your comment, until he breaks out into a genuine laugh, grinning down at the ground. “You spend too much time with Kuna. You sound like him.”
You wrinkle your nose playfully. “Can’t have that now, can we?”
A click of the tongue from the edge of the room has Choso sputtering as he tries to contain his laughter. He hides his face from his older brother’s unimpressed glare, but the disdain in his expression falls quickly at the realization that Choso is laughing again.
His shoulders fall to his sides, shock written in the widened whites of his eyes.
“Why don’t you go get some sleep?”
Choso nods quietly, yawning as though his body is in agreement. Hopping from the couch, he pads over to you for a hug. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Choso.”
On his way to his room, he throws his arms around his older brother too, who ruffles his hair. “Goodnight, Kuna.”
“Night, Cho. Good job on dinner.”
His disbelief remains staunchly on his face as he watches the little boy close the door to his room behind him. At last, relief washes over him. Everything in his body decompresses as the soft glow of the TV and moon envelop you on either side.
He moves towards you with that weary expression he tends to embody, the one that never truly leaves his bones, masked with aloofness. His movements are slow as his knees sink into the cushions on either side of you, his hands caging you in as they settle on the back of the couch. If he were any smaller, you wager a bet he might collapse on top of you, but you’re pretty sure he’d crush you given the size difference.
Still, he does lower himself enough that he’s half-embracing you, and half… well, laying on you anyway. Tired, but lighter than usual. Wrapping your arms over his shoulders, you pull him in closer, enjoying the moment to yourselves.
“Don’t think I’ve seen him laugh in months,” he grunts, smiling against your hair when he flips you both so that you’re laid out on top of him, earning a surprised yelp.
Situating yourself and brushing your dress down, you nod your agreement. “I know things aren’t perfect, but you all seem a lot happier.” Pressing a finger pointedly into his chest, you add, “you included.”
“I am.” The smile he dons is contented and easygoing, nothing but warmth swirling within the pools of sanguine staring down at you, lidded. “Would be nice to get a chance to talk to you without needing to look over my shoulder for two brats, though.”
“Quit calling them brats,” you give him a playful shove to the chest, though your smile betrays you.
“They’re brats. I call it like I see it. You are too.”
“I am not!” You feign offense.
“You are.”
“And neither are they!”
“They definitely are. Yuji compared me to a fucking dragon.”
Giggling, you fiddle with the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know, I mean a dragon’s pretty cool.” In spite of Sukuna’s dramaticism as he huffs, he doesn’t protest this time. “I think he just sees you in the things around him. You’re his hero, you know.”
He drags a hand down his jaw, a parasite nipping at the pit of his stomach with the reminder that he feels undeserving. “Yeah. ‘Course.” Blinking as he turns his attention back to you, he can see you reading his expression. He knows you can make out the parasite, the unbidden creature eating away at him, so he speaks up before you can. “Night’s still young. We’ve still got wine. You wanna stay for a bit?”
“I’d love to, Kuna.”
He smirks. “I got the wine. Meet you in my room.”
It doesn’t feel so much like intruding, being in his room these days. More like an invitation to a deeper part of him. You make your way past his drafting table, parsing the art atop it. It seems as though it’s mostly related to work, which doesn’t come as a shock, though there are a number of sketches that are clearly for the kids, or at least Yuji.
Slipping your fingers from the edge of the table, you make your way to the edge of the bed, peering at a stack of Blu-rays piled on the nightstand. They’re mostly horror. You recognize a handful of the films, though one sticks out to you. Pulling it out from the stack, you stare at a yellow and orange cover with a massive spider on it. Tarantula! is sprawled across the cover in cheesy font, and when you flip it over, the film seems to be in black and white.
You recognize the cover from one of Sukuna’s hoodies, so you figure it must be one he particularly enjoys.
His steps aren’t too far behind you as he pulls the door shut behind him with wine and two glasses in-hand. “Whatcha got, princess?”
“Is this one of your favorites?” You query, holding up the cover for him. He squints slightly, smirking once he makes out what you’re holding. “It’s a good one. Cheesy as hell, in a good way.” He takes a seat beside you, setting down a glass while he pours wine in the other one. “They just let a tarantula run around in a bunch of miniatures. Kinda loses the scare factor when you look at it that way.”
“That sounds kinda fun,” you muse, looking over the back of the case.
He shrugs, setting down the first glass as he fills the second. “Here,” he hands you the glass, setting the bottle beside the stack of blue cases.
“Could we watch it?”
He peers up at you, a brow raised. “You want to?”
“Yeah.” Sipping on the wine as though it might steady your nerves instantly, you peer up at him from under your lashes. “I wanna know more about the things you like.”
He freezes midway through reaching for his wine, blinking. His heart palpates in his chest as a saying runs through his mind. To be seen is to be heard. If such a thing is true, then he feels adored right now. It’s not something he’s accustomed to, but he could get used to it.
His mouth is dry as he clears his throat, reaching for the glass he just poured himself. “Yeah,” he agrees, downing more alcohol. “If you want.” With another swig of wine downed, he sets the glass aside. “We’ll need to watch it on my laptop though, don’t wanna wake the kids.”
“Sounds cozy,” you hop to your feet, grabbing his laptop and setting it on the bed. Sukuna offers you a change of clothes, sure to specify that you look gorgeous, but he’s not sure how comfy dresses are. Taking up his offer, you get changed in the washroom into a familiar Metallica shirt and a pair of sweats, fixing your makeup in the mirror.
As you stand back to look over your appearance, it occurs to you just how lucky you are to be so comfortable around Sukuna. Under any other circumstances, you surely would be nervously checking your appearance and politely sitting with crossed legs and letting Sukuna take the lead within his own home. Glancing down at the toothbrush he bought you that’s still sticking out beside yours, you find yourself smiling over how happy this makes you.
How happy he makes you.
No wonder your cheeks hurt.
Padding back into his room, he’s stretching his arms overhead as he rolls his shoulders out, laying back on his bed with his laptop on his legs. A too-tight muscle shirt clings to his pecs, gray sweats adorning his lower half like he knows what they do to you. His gaze flickers up to you, the slow expansion of his pupils not lost on you at the sight of you in his clothes. Only now he doesn’t need to hide just how much he loves that sight.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, lifting the covers for you to crawl in beside him.
Before he can hit play as you cuddle into his side, curled up so perfectly against him that he swears you were bestowed into his life by an angel, you pipe up.
“Thanks, Kuna. Tonight’s been really special.”
He shifts to get a better look at you. “You don’t mind our date bein’ unconventional?”
“You’re a package deal.” You worry your lip between your teeth as you peer up at him. “And I happen to like the whole package.”
He raises a brow at you, smirking. “Cheeky girl,” he comments slyly. “Once Cho’s comfortable though, I still wanna take you out. Give you a real date.”
“Stop calling this date fake.” With a little shove to his side with your shoulder, you get your point across. “I appreciate that you opened up a bit earlier, though. It’s nice to know where your head’s at, honestly.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, well– I owe you a lot more than what I gave you, but I’m tryin’ to be careful what I say around the kids.”
“No rush,” you lean into him further, your eyes fluttering shut briefly at the feeling of his grip on your waist tightening. “I’m happy with the way things are, we can go at our own pace. I’m not going anywhere if you’re not.”
He hums, and although words aren’t his strongest suit, you know he’s content when he sets the laptop aside briefly to pull you into his lap. He sets the laptop back atop your thighs, arms enveloping you in his ardor as his chin rests on your shoulder.
“Ready?”
As the movie plays, you find yourself giggling at the use of puppets and what may as well be nature documentary footage. Given the year the film was made, it makes sense, but it certainly takes any fear factor out of the movie.
It shouldn’t surprise you that Sukuna struggles to keep his hands still with you finally tucked into his chest. Even as you query about what a character said through the crackly old audio, his hands don’t pause as they slide from your waist to your hips and settle on either side of your thighs. His palms encompass so much of your legs that the mere thought sends heat from the base of your neck to the tips of your ears.
As if that wasn’t enough, the warmth of his breath cascades into the collar of the loose Metallica shirt hanging from your shoulders, bathing you in warmth that feels all-encompassing. It’s not stifling though, it’s welcome, sitting somewhere between a warm hug and the kind of intoxicating sensation you want to chase. His arms are strong and secure around you, but the way his touch wanders is downright exhilarating.
The brute may be known for having a tough shell to crack, but truth be told he’s an easy book to read once you get through the first barrier. It’s not hard to tell that he’s hungry for the feeling of your skin. Both because he continually runs his hands up and down your thighs, dipping beneath the shirt’s hem to your bare waist, and one far more obvious answer that’s pressed against your ass right now.
Craning your neck to look at him, you find lidded eyes staring back at you, sultry as they are tired. With your attention on him, he slides his hands up to your waist again. Dipping his fingers beneath the elastic waistband of the sweats you borrowed (which are already yours, if he’s being honest with himself), he rubs small circles into your hips.
His voice is gritty with lust, and deepened with sleep. “You drive me crazy.”
“In a good way?” You press, earning a low grunt as you maneuver your ass back against his hardened boner.
“Always,” he agrees, shifting to lean his forehead into your shoulder. “But I get the feeling you know that.”
You can’t help the mischievous giggle that escapes as he breathes a heavy sigh out. It’s nice to know that you can fluster the ever-cocky Ryomen Sukuna given that one shift in dynamics would have you heating up from head to toe. You’re almost surprised he hasn’t pursued anything, a thought that brings out nasty insecurities. You’re grateful that his face is buried in your neck at that moment, unable to make out the nerves plastered across your face.
The sensation has you adjusting in his lap again, searching for wordless comfort.
“Princess.” There’s an edge to his tone that’s dangerous. As though one wrong move might awaken something dormant.
“Mhm?”
“‘M trying to be a gentleman on our first date,” he mumbles into your shoulder.
It’s sweet. Painfully so, both in the way that it eases your nerves and the adoration swirling in his eyes when he shifts to face you again. “Kunaaa,” you breathe, a little pout crossing your lips.
He shuts his eyes tight at the sound of your breathy sigh. “Not helping,” he grumbles, clearing his throat.
“Sorry,” you giggle sweetly, hitting the pause button and setting the laptop aside so that you can get a better look at him. Every shift of your hips has him blinking like he’s seeing god trying to keep an ounce of self control as his head rises from your shoulder. “I, um–” he stares quizzically as you pause. “I want it– this– too, you know.”
His lip twitches upwards. There’s the cocky bastard you know. “Shit, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearin’ that,” he chuckles, breathy. “But I uh–” He scowls, avoidantly finding the wall more interesting than you all of a sudden. “I want our first time to be special. Not that this moment isn’t, just…” he shrugs, “y’know. The house to ourselves, a night out first.” He shrugs again.
“You know, you’re pretty romantic when you want to be,” you murmur, cupping his jaw. He leans into the sensation, huffing indignantly.
“Tell that to my dick,” he scoffs, cut off by his own chuckle when you laugh. He lets the moment ride out, watching your eyes flutter open and shine as you regard him. It makes him feel human again. Not like the machine he once considered himself, working every waking hour to make sure his brothers were cared for. He’s alive. It took a metaphorical slap in the face to accept that life isn’t always out to get him and he could have avoided that fate, but that’s the thing about being alive.
You learn.
And he’d like to think he’s better for it.
But it’s still not enough.
Because you deserve the best. He’s not sure he can live up to that, but he’ll try damn hard.
“You deserve romantic, though.” He shrugs, pivoting his head to kiss your palm. He can already hear your protest as your lips part, eyes softening. That he’s enough, that you don’t need anything special, that you knew what you were getting into, that he doesn’t owe you anything. But that’s a tough pill to swallow when he’s spent the last few years living as a shadow of a man and put you through that as well. “Please.”
It’s rare for your date to reason with so much conviction, so you give him a little nod. “Okay,” you relent softly, twisting in his lap further to kiss him.
“You gotta stop moving your hips though,” he groans against your lips.
“Sorry!”
Pulling the laptop back to your lap, you can’t tell who the remaining forty minutes of the movie are harder for. You, or him. He may be physically hard, but you can’t feel bad for him when he’s making you squirm.
His hands remain on the waistband for a couple of minutes before gliding up your body beneath your shirt, exploring as though everything he said moments ago has flown out the window, but he never quite follows through with anything. Like a cruel game of teasing he’s set up for both of you now, the bottoms of his thumbs brushing your lacey bra.
Every minute shift in his breathing can be felt as it fans across your skin. Each hitch, each heavy exhale. They all settle across your skin like dew over grass in the early morning. Like frost, it sends shivers up your spine in spite of the heat that gathers between your thighs.
Gripping the blankets over your lap, you can hardly sit still as his hands travel back down to your thighs. Despite the barrier of sweatpants, the heat of his palms sears your skin as he kneads and squeezes the plush of your thighs. As though he wasn’t the one who asked you to sit still only a few minutes ago, you can’t help the way you squirm when his fingers linger on your inner thighs.
“Kuna,” you breathe, an air of lust to your timbre that he can’t get enough of. His head tilts, lips brushing your pulse point.
He hums, a mischievous lilt to his tone.
With his intentions made clear, you clutch the blankets tighter. “Tease.”
Another hum. Your breath hitches as his lips begin working their way in a slow cadence down to the sensitive skin at the crook of your neck. In spite of your protests, you still tilt your head to give him better access. With parted lips, a broken sigh permeates the air.
“Put the laptop on the nightstand,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice– deep and gritty– against your skin driving you wild. As you follow his lead, he maneuvers you to sit on his lap. He’s still painfully hard, his restraint barely held together by glue and tape. With your knees on either side of his thighs, it occurs to you that Sukuna is a big guy.
And that extends to all parts of him.
The thought has your skin alight– with lust and nerves.
But he doesn’t give your mind any time to wander when he’s kissing you like the damn world depends on it. The way they collide with yours, his hands dragging through your hair and over your spine, there’s a note of desperation within his actions. As though he’s committing a sin and fears he’s on his final plea.
But there’s something else, too, hidden under the fervor of his actions. A tremble, just barely noticeable, in the tips of his fingers as they slip beneath the shirt– his– hanging from your shoulders.
“Are you okay?” Your words come out piece by piece, peppered between kisses.
“Hm?” He’s barely paying attention, caught up on the taste of fermented grape on your tongue.
You pull back a hair, cupping his face to keep his attention. “You’re shaking.”
He blinks, processing your words. Flexing his fingers behind you, he pulls them away to get a look at them himself. “Shit,” he dryly mutters.
Concerned, you shake your head. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.”
With a disdainful tilt of your head and fall of your shoulders, you breathe an exasperated, “Sukuna.”
He flexes his fingers again, then pushes them back through his mussed hair. “I think it’s withdrawal.”
You blink, focusing on the tremor of his fingers on your waist. Even at his worst, you’re pretty sure he didn’t drink enough for it to be alcohol. Not to mention you had wine earlier. “Nicotine?” He nods. “You quit?” You query with raised brows.
Another nod. In spite of his grimace as withdrawal symptoms hit, he seems veritably at ease. “It’s not hitting you too hard?”
“Not yet,” he sighs. “I only just quit today. I could only ever afford one or two a day so I think this is just the start.”
Sliding your hands back from his cheeks to the nape of his neck, your fingers thread through the short strands there. “Can I help with the symptoms at all?”
He shifts forward, capturing your lips with a simper that doesn’t let up. “Just gotta get my fix.”
“That’s so cheesy,” you groan into his shoulder, laughter spurred on by the rumble of his chest beneath you.
“Yeah, but I figured you’d get a kick out of it.”
Your chest swells as you pull back to find him grinning at you, genuinely. The fading dark circles beneath his eyes do little to dull the stars shining within crimson aurora.
“I’ll be alright,” he assures you, squeezing your waist. “I, uh–” his gaze travels to the ceiling, in a circle and back down to the photo of him and the kids with his father sitting atop his dresser. “I can’t let everyone down again. You n’ Uraume were right to get on my ass about it.”
“I still didn’t go about it the right way. I’m sorry about that.”
“That shit wasn’t your fault.”
“I still shouldn’t have made assumptions.”
His chest rises and falls, the air between you heavy as you address your argument from a few months ago. “Thanks.” It comes out as a grumble, unintentionally.
As much as he does appreciate your apology, he blames himself heavily for the outcome of that night. He doesn’t really know how to voice his disdain for his own stupidity, nor does he know how much he even should address it when together you’ve come so far. Then there’s the fact that he knows you’ll tell him not to worry or apologize or something of the sort because even through all of his growth, you’re still too sweet for him.
Not addressing it feels equally wrong, even if he’s fumbling for words. “‘M still an asshole for that, by the way. Everything I said and did.”
“Kuna, it’s not–”
He kisses you to stop you from making his misgivings into anything less than what they are. “It is. Just accept the apology, princess.”
It’s not exactly an apology in the traditional sense, but you suppose it is for him. “Okay,” you murmur with a lingering kiss to his forehead, “thank you. And– I’m really proud of you.”
He huffs, the whole moment a little too sappy for a brute like him as warmth blooms under your lips. He may be opening up to you more these days, but he can only tolerate so much of that gooey feeling in his chest. “Alright, alright. Enough with the sappy shit. Let’s finish the movie.”
You giggle at his avoidance of all things sentimental and vulnerable, careful as you twist back around in his lap now that he’s finally not hard so that you can finish the movie. For as much as you try though, it’s nearing midnight and you’ve spent so much time cramming for finals that your body is betraying you.
Try as you might, you can only fight off sleep for so long in the sanctity of your crush’s arms. In and out as the actors scream over the blown up footage of a tiny tarantula, your world slows as sleep cradles you.
Sukuna’s crimson gaze is warm as he regards you, asleep in his arms. It’s all that gives away how he really feels as he quietly looks over your features, otherwise neutral. It feels too good to be true after everything he put you through to be the one holding you tight. As though he shouldn’t be the one to provide your security when he’s hurt you.
He knows better. He knows life isn’t black and white like that. You’ve told him that this is what you want and the rational part of him chooses to believe you and put his trust in you.
It’s the nasty feelings of inadequacy that still get to him. However much he tries to uproot it, it always seems to come back like a weed. Spreading and growing further over his heart and mind.
His brow furrows as he considers the fact that it’s venomous thoughts like these that caused him to hurt you in the first place.
Sukuna isn’t scared of much, but when it comes to you and the kids, just about every roadblock feels like the potential of a fissure opening up and swallowing him whole.
And when so much of his life revolves around you three, it leaves him feeling painfully powerless. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, to accept that he’s only human. That he can’t always be the proud and independent man he presents himself as. It fills him with fire. It burns with every lick of its smoldering tongue, but it fuels him too.
He supposes it’s why he wants to do better.
His fingers curl into the plush of your waist, shutting his eyes as he indulges in the moment of peace. He focuses on the sounds of your soft breaths in an effort to pull himself from an ocean of thoughts he isn’t prepared to face, letting out a breath as he locks away his concerns for the time being.
He contemplates waking you to give you the option to go home, but you’ve stayed the night enough that he’s confident enough that you’ll opt to stay anyway, he’ll just take the couch. As it stands, your toothbrush became a permanent addition to his house so long ago that you already live here as far as he’s concerned.
Then there’s also the matter of the journalists that could still be outside, for all he knows.
Moving with as much delicacy as someone of his stature can, he sets his laptop aside and adjusts you in his lap so that he can loop an arm beneath your knees, the other supporting your upper body. Standing upright, he settles you back down where he was sitting, pulling the covers up over your body.
He moves around the room as he cleans up for the night, checking in on his brothers before lingering beside the lamp in his room. The back of his fingers brush your skin briefly as he stands bedside. Swallowing hard as the room goes dark, he pads quietly back out to the couch to turn in for the night.
–
Kaori’s faux kindness.
Noritoshi’s idle glares.
Your tears.
His breathing picks up.
Choso’s silence.
Yuji’s cries.
The bottom of a bottle.
He gasps, flinging himself upright in a cold sweat as his sharpened crimson gaze adjusts to the low light of the early morning hours. It takes his mind a moment to catch up that he’s awake, that it’s a nightmare.
Just a nightmare.
… Right?
The idea of remaining quiet in the dead of night is thrown to the wall as he travels the familiar length of the apartment, swinging the door to his brothers’ room open. He blinks at the low moonlight washing in through the window, bathing the space in a blue so soft that one would think nothing could ever hurt the two kids both still sound asleep.
But his mind is still racing, and while swinging their door open and shutting it in a few mere moments may not wake his brothers who are long used to Sukuna puttering around at night, you sure aren’t accustomed to that.
Well, and his door squeaks.
You jolt beneath the covers as you’re alerted awake by his sudden appearance.
“Kuna?” You cautiously call out, disoriented by your sudden awakening.
“Princess?”
Sitting upright, you rub at your bleary eyes, trying to make sense of your surroundings. When your vision straightens and you’re able to make out more than just a shadow, you take in the state of the room, his room. You don’t remember falling asleep, but based on the state of the blankets beside you, he must’ve been on the couch. Curiously doing a once-over of him, it becomes increasingly clear that he’s breathing hard.
“Are you alright?” Your voice is still thick with sleep as the blankets fall to your waist.
The sight of all three of you safely within reach helps settle his heartrate, though he’s still somewhat shaken and disoriented himself. “Yeah,” he breathes, his timbre equally raspy, “yeah.”
Rubbing the corner of your eye, you glance at the clock. Three in the morning. “What happened?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep.”
Even deliriously weary, you recognize his avoidance anywhere. “Come here,” you murmur, lifting the covers to your side. He lingers in the doorway for a moment before accepting your offer, shutting the door behind him. He settles into the spot beside you, letting his guard down as you scoot closer when he sits against the backboard.
Your fingers curling into the thin material of his muscle shirt is a comfort like no other. Grounding him in the assurance that this is real. He’s not in some sort of perpetual nightmare where he’ll find all three of you gone, finding the meaning for himself in the saying ‘misery loves company’.
You hide a yawn in his chest, eyes shut as you lean all of your weight into him. “What’s wrong?”
In spite of your languid movements and dozy drawl, he’s confident you’re still listening. “Just… got in my head about shit.”
You yawn again, your breath warm as it weaves into the cotton over his chest. “Nightmare?”
A beat, then– “yeah.”
Your eyes flicker open. With saccharine irises staring up at him, the imbalance in his breathing steadies. Even with smeared makeup that he’s sure you’ll pout at him about in the morning, you still look like an angel.
“What was it about?”
There’s something intimate in seeing you this way. He supposes having earned so much of your trust and adoration is a part of it, but there’s something to be said about sharing a vulnerable moment like this with one another, both half-asleep. Caught in-between the world of the waking and that of the dreaming, you tend to see another side of people. One where walls don’t exist and thought comes second.
It leaves him feeling exposed in a way that goes beyond just sharing vulnerabilities. With you, though, he doesn’t feel the need to turn his nose at the mere thought. It’s as though you’re within a pocket of time all your own– just the two of you.
His arms encircle your middle, letting out a breath as he lowers his face to the crown of your head. His words are muffled by your hair as he speaks, a low grit to his already raspy voice. “Just woke up thinkin’ the last month was a dream.”
Your mind works an extra moment to figure out what he means. “Getting the kids back?”
His chest rises and falls heavily. “You and them.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you drowsily mumble into his chest. “Your brothers are safe, too. I promise it was just a dream. Did you check on them, too?”
“Mhm.”
You push up on his chest in an effort to lean up and leave a sweet kiss on his throat. He grunts, running his thumb up and down your waist in a silent reply.
“I’m here,” you murmur again in assurance, followed shortly by another yawn. “Why don’t you stay?”
“You sure?”
“Mhmmmmm,” you hum with a sweet little drawl that allows him a little slice of peace. “Then if you wake up again, I’ll be here and you’ll know it was a dream.”
He has no way of knowing whether or not you can read him like that and just know this isn’t the first time he’s woken up this way, but he welcomes the kind of care you harbor for him. And just as he doesn’t let go of you as he slips down onto the pillow, he won’t let go of this feeling, either.
He’s pretty sure you pass out again before your head even hits the pillow. He pulls you closer, tucking your back into his chest. He slips a leg between yours, the weight of your limb soothing him closer to the depths his body seeks. As his breathing falls into pace with yours, his mind sheds itself of the night’s thorns and allows him to sink into a restful silence.
main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon
❦ a/n ; hi :') it's been a while, i'm sorry for the wait and i hope it was worth it <33 i burnt out pretty hard in november and have been slowly working writing back into my life and finding joy in it again. i think i've finally hit a stride with motivation though, which has been so nice to find again.
thank you so much for all the love and support over the last couple of months, it's definitely helped me work through a lot of the burnout and motivate me and i'm so glad to finally be back.
everyone is heaaaling and kuna is a sap at heart and writing those really tender moments is so precious to me <33 i have big plans for the next chapter that i can't wait to share and i'm expecting it to be loooong so please look forward to that!!
happy holidays to those who celebrate, and i appreciate each and every one of you <33 ty all for sticking with me 🫶
❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.
satoru gojo┊teachers!au OF LOVE & LESSON (PLANS) ⭑ masterlist
PAIRING. ── teachers au, physics!gojo x english!reader
⭑ ─ everyone thinks you must be in love with gojo. you would rather set the whole school on fire then prove them right.
SERIES SYNOPSIS. ⭑ you’ve spent years teaching english at jujutsu high across the hall from your most unbearable coworker—physics teacher satoru gojo—enduring his smug grins, loud lectures, and endless interruptions. but after a messy breakup with your high school sweetheart, the school rumor mill decides you and gojo must be secretly dating—because apparently all that yelling and eye-rolling counts as foreplay. suddenly, you’re stuck chaperoning events together, dodging nosy students and staff, and dealing with an ex who can’t mind his own business. but the worst part? gojo thinks it’s all hilarious, as you try not to get caught up in his own chaos…or your own feelings. the real question is: how long can you insist you hate him before everyone (and maybe even you) realizes you don’t?
TAGS. 18+, fem reader, teachers AU, modern au, nerd!gojo, the cast of jjk as teachers and students at a normal high school, workplace romance, forced proximity, rom com, sit com, opposites attract, slow burn, enemies to lovers, (kind of), workplace shennanigans, slice of life, lotsss of banter, friendships, fluff, humor, slight angst, mutual pining
WARNINGS. jealous ex bf! naoya, scenes of smoking cigarettes & drinking, nsfw, smut
STATUS. 1/11 (?) UPDATES BI-WEEKLY
WORD COUNT. 7.7k+
TAGLIST. OPEN! leave a comment on this post to be added, leave an “🍎” emoji in my inbox to be removed if your preferences change <3
SERIES TAGS. #of love & lesson (plans)
⋆˚꩜｡☆˖ ao3. playlist.
art twt/@su2kuna. twt/@aliyartss. twt/@6enasiass. divider by @cafekitsune.
CHAPTERS. ⭑
chapter 1 ⟶ for jane austen
EXTRAS. ⭑
mae's note. ⭑ HIII, i'm so excited to start this fic and to start posting more on tumblr <3 i've been a silent reader for so long but i've decided to take the scary leap into posting my writing (as a full fic) and i hope that there's an audience out there who will have as much fun on this journey as i willlll. i wanted to dedicate this entire fic to @celestie0 who writes a gojo x reader series called "in holy matriphony" which is honestly what inspired me to start writing again. ( the dynamics in this fic between gojo and reader were really inspired by my love for that series!! ) she's an incredible and hilarious writer!!
Sukuna is the type of man who wants you in his space when he’s doing his own thing.
He's already half lost in his own headspace when he tells you in the evening that he has plans to game with the boys, dropping the names as if, for once, the squad has changed. It doesn't; it’s still Satoru, Suguru, Toji, Jin, and maybe Choso if he shows up late, which, naturally, is a given.
It has never been a problem between you, so like every other night, you grab your book, smile at him and tell him to make you proud and to shoot Gojo at least once if the opportunity presents itself. That earns you a low snort and a glance that says he absolutely will.
Not even ten minutes into your book before your phone buzzes softly against the soft fabric of the couch, flicking to life with a single message from Sukuna: Come here.
Letting out an amused huff, you carefully set your bookmark in place and pad down the hallway, curious and suspicious at the same time. You’ve learned by now not to assume anything with this man.
The moment you step over the threshold of his gaming room, you stop short.
In the corner, angled carefully so it doesn’t intrude on his meticulously arranged setup but still positioned to face it, is an armchair you’ve absolutely never seen before. It’s deep, wide, and looks impossibly comfortable. If you had to guess, it was clearly chosen with that exact purpose in mind. Right beside it stands a small, round table, holding your favourite gummies and a soft, neatly folded blanket.
Sukuna doesn’t even turn around fully when you enter. His eyes merely flick toward you, headset already on, and he grunts, “Bring your book and sit.”
At first, you are unsure how to react. This is typical Sukuna behaviour–doing something extremely thoughtful that invariably makes your heart give a little leap, and then instantly pretending the gesture is nothing extraordinary, getting openly annoyed if you dare to offer too much gratitude.
In this case, however, it hits way harder. It isn’t some random expensive gift, but an actual invitation into his personal space. It’s fascinating how he can rearrange his life to make space for you, before ever admitting he wants you in it.
Without dwelling on it too much, you retreat, returning a minute later with your book and two steaming mugs of tea, which you place on the small side table.
You take a step toward his setup, stopping right behind his chair. Your fingers immediately find their way into the dark, soft hair at his nape, scratching his scalp lightly without disturbing the placement of his headset. Leaning down, you press a kiss on the top of his head and murmur against it, “Thank you, Kuna.”
His attention is completely absorbed in navigating the game lobby which the boys are slowly joining, yet you know he heard you. The corners of his mouth curl into that distinct, smug half smile that only appears whenever he’s utterly pleased with himself.
As you settle in your new spot, the fluffy blanket over your legs already, your mind begins to cycle through the logistics of the surprise. The effort, the subtlety, and the fact that a piece of furniture this huge hasn’t magically appeared. When did he bring it home without you noticing? You picture him, somehow managing to sneak it past you, maybe in the middle of the night, or when you were out running errands, and the image makes you break into a wide, cheerful smile.
The boys’ loud and chaotic chatter spills through his headset. Sukuna and Suguru instantly launch into their favourite pre-game agenda item: rage-baiting Gojo, who is already talking thrash and making impossible threats. Jin, as always, attempts to mediate, and, also as always, fails spectacularly, while Toji’s deep, throaty laughter rumbles in the background.
Somehow, Sukuna manages to split his focus, giving the majority of his attention to the intense game in front of him, while still reserving a small, steady sliver for your presence.
Every so often he flashes a quick, assessing glance over his shoulder to ensure you’re comfortable, before returning his gaze to the game, satisfaction setting over his features.
At one point, in between the kills, he reaches back blindly, his hand finding your knee, resting there for a second, before snapping back to the keyboard, never once breaking eye contact with the monitor.
There is no need for you to speak or comment on the game. You understand fully that it’s not about keeping you entertained or actively engaged in his activity. It is a simple act of proximity and knowing you are physically in his space, choosing to be there, simply existing alongside him while he does his own thing.
So you sit there, comfortable and included, because even when he’s busy, he still finds a way to make room for you without ever making it feel like he's making a sacrifice or giving something up.
notes: couldn't sleep last night and got an idea for a short series of gamer!Sukuna drabbles. so, more to come, i guess.
ps: you can't convince me this isn't how he'd act.
✧ PAIRING: wolf!toji fushiguro x f!reader | 9.2k words
✧ SUMMARY: ok so more hybrid au tendencies, um scenting, sorry toji has a slight obsession with making sure you smell like him?, uhhh blood, lots of blood, violence, murder
✧ RHEYA'S NOTE: help not me disappearing since june.. sorry for the wait everyone :333 here's an extra long chapter that i hope makes up for it !! nothing too crazy this chapter except for the violence.. otherwise we're back to our regular emo pining wolf guy :33
prev. | series masterlist
your eyes shoot open, heavy breaths escaping your throat. your body is uncomfortably hot, sweat making your shirt stick to your back as you stare at the ceiling. your mind is spinning, images of vans and black boots and guns that make bile rise in your throat.
toji barges into your room—all hulking breaths and coiled muscles that make you flinch in surprise. jade eyes dart around the room, wide and frenzied in a way that you haven't quite seen before.
"toji—" you reach out a trembling hand, and his ears flick at your voice. he's immediately turning, gaze swimming over your figure. his clawed hand grips yours without even thinking, and you relax a little at the contact.
"what happened?" he asks, voice low and terse as he sits on your bed. you can see the tension in his muscles, the rigid posture of his tail and ears, but his green eyes are looking straight into your soul.
you stare at him for a second, panting, before throwing your arms around his neck. he stiffens at the contact, and immediately you realize what you're doing.
shit. you've overstepped.
you're about to pull away but then you feel one palm patting in between your shoulder blades—awkwardly, and a little too heavy handed, as though unfamiliar with the gesture, but it's there all the same. he is warm, reliable and sturdy, and yet you feel the thundering of his heart against your own. your mind is spinning, but you're aware enough to feel the way tears are collecting at your waterline.
"what's wrong?" the wolf's voice cuts through the fog in your head. you swallow tightly, shaking your head.
"nothing," you murmur, pressing your forehead into his shoulder. "just had a weird dream. sorry."
you hear him exhale, tension leaving his frame. toji's voice goes slightly amused, a semi snarky chuckle escaping his lips. "some scary ass dream, huh? i could hear you crying."
you pull away and shove him, huffing indignantly. "i wasn't crying!"
he leans back on his palms, canine smirk and all. "sure. that's believable."
you groan in exasperation, flopping backwards into your pillows. "you know, you're a lot more likeable when you keep your mouth shut."
he skillfully ignores you. "what was the dream about?"
you stiffen.
(should you admit it—the way you saw police and men in black uniforms appear at your front door, demanding you fess up to your crimes? is it the right thing to do—telling him that they raised weapons loaded with some kind of tranquilizer and pointed it at his chest? do you share that? the same way you shared your home, your life, your heart?)
"honestly... i can't even remember anymore."
he makes a sound that's halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "tch, idiot."
your foot meets his ribcage, not hard enough to hurt but not lightly either—he barely winces. instead, his grin widens, and you feel like you're seeing it happen in slow motion, capturing every frame.
"whatever. get your ass up," he pats your foot, before standing up. "thought you had work today?"
you nod with a groan and he rolls his eyes. "then get up. quit being lazy."
"bitch," you mutter. he bares his teeth at you, but it's teasing, as you've learned to pick out over all these months. you suppress a smile, but he seems to still catch it, and he offers you a slanted smirk before rolling his eyes again and stepping out.
your smile drops. you're not exactly sure why a silly dream bothers you so deeply; after all it's not like it was real. but maybe just the idea of toji being snatched away from your life is enough to make you uneasy. and if you look deeper into that, if you wonder why a stray hybrid you picked up off the streets has managed to keep such a tight hold on you—well, you're not sure you'll like what you find.
(an intense feeling, one that you know he keeps no space for in his life.)
these thoughts have been consuming your mind for weeks, and it's becoming increasingly more difficult to go about your day pretending that you aren't crazy about the wolf hybrid living in your home.
so unfortunately, it ends up spilling out in a tumbled admission to the people you trust most.
you let out a weary groan, hitting your head against the table. utahime gives you a sympathetic look, patting your shoulder. "it's literally not a big deal."
your head shoots up, pinning her with an incredulous look. "being in love with my hybrid?!"
she rolls her eyes, sipping her tea as she leans an elbow against the wall of your cubicle. one heeled foot crosses over the other, hip jutting out accordingly. "it's pretty common now."
"yeah but..." you hesitate, chewing on your nail. "i don't think toji would be so open to it."
utahime's brows shoot up to her hairline. "why not?"
"well..." you trail off, trying to figure out how to explain without saying too much. "toji kinda hates humans."
utahime snorts under her breath. "can't blame him. we suck."
you nod in what you feel is agreement. "he finds it really hard to trust humans, so i'm pretty sure anything romantic is off the table for him."
"but he trusts you, doesn't he?"
utahime's stare is pointed, and you fidget uncomfortably. yes he does and you know this. but that trust probably stems from the fact that you showed him some simple kindness—it says nothing about any sort of romantic feelings. "yeah, but still. besides i'm sure he'd much rather settle down with a nice hybrid who understands him well."
(the thought is sharp, stinging—the quick pinprick of a needle. but it aches all the same. you know that it is unrealistic to expect toji to stay with you forever. in fact, you're surprised he's even stuck around this long. but the thought of him leaving and settling down with someone else doesn't just make you sad; it makes your stomach churn. uncomfortably, nauseously.
something green.)
"jealous?" utahime's hits you with an unimpressed quirk of her brow. you groan, embarrassed that she's caught you so easily.
"yeah..." you mumble, pressing your cheek into your desk, hoping the surface will open and swallow you whole. your friend chuckles quietly.
"well, i didn't expect you to admit it." she once again pats your back with a mixture of pity and laughter before taking a sip of her tea. "i'd say just go for it."
"go for what?" you stiffen at the voice, craning your neck to eye shoko ieiri as she walks over.
"nothing," you pout, but utahime doesn't miss a beat.
"she's in love with her hybrid." her matter-of-fact tone makes you groan yet again, shutting your eyes and ignoring the heat that's crawling up your neck. you hear shoko's quiet laugh, half amused and half disbelieving. you take a peek at her expression and find her brow quirked and a slanted smile on her lips.
"is that a bad thing?" she questions, taking a seat next to you. you shift to face her, watching the way the pointed dark brown ears atop her head twitch to the sound.
"yeah." your voice is muted, dull, smothering a huff, and her grin widens.
"how so?" she leans closer conspiratorially, and you notice the way her long tail is slowly flicking side to side. "you have a problem with hybrids?"
you pick your head up to throw her an offended glare, as though the very implication has wounded you. she grins wider, enough to show her fangs, and you reach over to shove her arm gently. "you know i don't."
"yeah yeah." shoko waves her hand dismissively, before resting her chin on it. "so what's the problem?"
you hesitate. you had mentioned to them that you had "gotten" a hybrid. but for the sake of toji's safety, you had kept the details of his background hidden. but these two are... the closest friends you've ever had. it's obvious they'd never do anything to put you in a position where you might be in danger.
so...
"you can't be mad at me when i tell you." you pin both of them with a meaningful stare. shoko's smile drops a little, brows pinching as she scoots closer. utahime does the same, her tea all but forgotten as she crosses her arms.
"what?" shoko asks, voice taking on a gentle lilt that you rarely hear from her. you swallow, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling.
"i didn't... buy him. or adopt him from an agency," you admit, narrowing your eyes. utahime's voice comes out confused in return.
"what do you mean? i thought you said you adopted him?"
"no," you admit. "i found him. in the streets."
there's a pause, and shoko shrugs. "so what? lots of people take in strays. it's a long process but you can make it official at an agency—"
"no i can't," you interrupt. utahime makes another sound of confusion, but shoko studies your pinched expression with a guarded look in her eye. she says your name once, resolutely, and then puts a clawed palm on your hand.
"what happened?" she asks, a little strain in her voice. you look up at her with a defeated expression that makes both of your friends paused.
"he's.. from underground." your voice is barely a whisper, but shoko's dark ears twitch as they catch it. utahime gasps so loud it makes you wince.
"are you crazy?!" she hisses, getting in your face with wide, worried eyes. "that means he's a predator! you took in a predator that used to fight underground?!"
you nod, a little miserable. saying it aloud makes you sound like the stupidest person alive. but you don't regret it (how could you, not when toji has become the very oxygen you breathe).
you look at shoko, awaiting her reaction, but her eyes are trained on your desk with a surprising intensity. "so... he's not a dog, is he?"
"wolf."
she nods, even as utahime seems to be on the verge of a heart attack. you wince guiltily at her scolding, chastened. shoko however, looks at you critically. "do they know he's escaped?"
you sink your teeth into your bottom lip nervously. "i'm not exactly sure. i think his family does though, and they aren't happy about it—real shitty people."
utahime looks like she can't get any paler, but shoko's face is taut with an intensity you haven't seen before. "are you in danger?"
"no," you answer. "no, i don't think so. his family might threaten him, but the worst they can do to me is call the police. i won't get in trouble, since i'm human, but if the police find him they'll drag him back. and shoko, i-i can't, he's… i mean—"
"it's okay." she squeezes your hand. "i know, i get what you're saying. all you need to do is be careful."
"shoko!" utahime's protest is silenced by the resolute look of the cat hybrid in front of you.
"you have to keep him safe," shoko affirms grimly. "conditions down there are already rough. but if they recapture him and send him back… it'll be brutal. he broke the rules, and they don't see us hybrids as living creatures—to them, we don't even really feel pain."
the implication is there, and it makes your stomach churn.
"don't tell anyone else about him," she gravely continues. "if anything does end up happening, you guys can come hide out at my place. but do not tell people that you have him. and if they found out, lie and say he's a dog—husky or something that looks close to a wolf so people aren't suspicious he's a predator. predators already don't have the best reputations—even the ones who are good."
your thoughts briefly drift to nanami, who had run away from underground and was still doing his best to help others like him.
"okay." you nod emphatically, chewing on your nail again. "okay."
shoko's tense posture relaxes marginally, her dark tail giving a low, slow swish. you glance at utahime, and grimace helplessly at her worried frown. she seems to take your expression with more grace than expected, and she sighs, sitting down in her chair.
"you sure this isn't dangerous for you?"
you exhale shakily. "honestly, i don't know. but i don't really care about me right now. i don't think i'd be able to take it if they took him back to that hellhole. and the thing that worries me is he looks like a wolf, y'know? he's massive, and the ears, tail, teeth—"
you cut yourself off with a groan, putting your face in your palms.
"of course, he just had to be the most obvious predator out there." shoko leans back in her chair as she rubs her temples in mock exasperation. "dogs…"
"you're just saying that because you're a cat!" utahime pipes up, and shoko rolls her eyes in response.
"well yeah." she then turns to you. "gotta be a little biased. besides, it doesn't matter as long as he plays off a domesticated breed well."
"what, like you?" is utahime's retuning question.
"i mean, i'm not a predator hybrid," shoko shrugs casually. "i'm just a sweet, pretty burmese cat, thank you very much."
"you definitely should've been a predator. you aren't domesticated at all. in fact, wet raccoon is probably more fitting." your voice is a playfully mutter, and her tail whacks at your arm in retaliation, which only elicits a laugh.
"oh wow, you think you're funny."
a beat of silence passes, and it gives enough time for your amusement to fade and your worry to come back. the cat hybrid at your arm takes notice, and gently pats your hand. "relax. he'll be okay. just… remember what i said."
you give her a sidelong glance, a bit curious. "you're pretty calm about this whole thing. know a lot of underground escapees?"
you're only joking when you say it, but she pins you with a mirthless stare, and your smile drops.
"i may not be a predator hybrid," she finally says, resting her body weight on the arm of your chair. "but… i live with two of them."
both you and utahime look at her sharply, taken aback. this had never been brought up before.
"what?!" utahime hisses, gaping. "since when?"
"few months ago." she answers.
"you never told us..." utahime gapes and shoko shrugs with a sigh.
"i was trying to be careful. i didn't want anything accidentally getting out and putting us in trouble for no reason," she admits, and you nod before she even gets the sentence out.
"trust me, i get that."
her lips quirk up at your obvious show of understanding before she continues.
"one of the two i have, he's from underground too." shoko taps her claws against your desk absentmindedly. a sadness you haven't seen on her before permeates the shades of her eyes. "took a lot for him to get out of there, but i'm never gonna let him get taken back."
it's familiar, the resolve in her voice. you've heard it in your own tone multiple times before.
"but..." she sighs, a strangely fond smile on her face. "even if he's from down there, he's sweet. i know he'd never hurt anyone. so yeah, if i need to lie and hide him…"
you understand—of course you do.
"what about the other one?" utahime asks, dragging her chair closer and lowering her voice. "also an escapee?"
"yeah but not from underground." shoko answers, leaning back in her chair. "his story… well, i'm sure you've heard of what happens when rich people get their hands on rare animals."
your brows dip, anger flitting over your expression. humans have always been known for parading around predator animals in their captivity—a show of wealth, power, status. of course they extended such liberties to hybrids too. collared them and confined them to their mansions—forced them to heel and sit pretty like some sick trophies.
there was so much wrong with the way hybrids were treated, you were starting to lose track of all the atrocities.
"yeah…" you finally say to her, nodding grimly. "i hope he's doing okay now."
"he's doing a lot better." a soft smile flickers across the cat's face. "he, uh, hates physical contact. he wouldn't let me near him the first few weeks. but now, he's comfy with me. and he gets along with the other guy pretty decently too. not at first though—they fought like crazy."
her fond smile makes the weight in your chest ease.
"what kind of hybrids are they?" utahime can't keep the curiosity out of her voice.
"a snow leopard and a panther," she chuckles, shaking her head. "wrangling them out of fighting was definitely an experience."
"sounds like three cats under one roof is enough of an experience," you grin, and she laughs—your expression softens. "i really hope they stay safe."
"that's the plan. they're my secret for as long as i can keep them." she smiles resolutely. "i hope toji stays safe with you too."
"that's the plan," you repeat with a wry smile.
(and of course, you mean it.)
****
(but that is his plan too.)
late at night, toji's feet take him back to the cursed place he received his name. his family home is just as he recalls, dull and unwelcoming. he stands by the entrance gate with ice in his expression, hood pulled up over his ears and claws digging deep into his pockets.
it is easy to enter the zenin compound undetected. as much as it angers him, his body remembers all the secret entrances, the gaps where servants don't mingle and guards don't tread. it comes back to him the same way people describe the skill of riding a bicycle—like it had never left, just waiting to be rediscovered.
it's as quiet as he remembers it to be—an oppressive, grating sort of silence that stifles down any semblance of comfort. as usual, it feels nothing like a home; cold and mechanical. while years ago he would've been used to that, toji feels utterly spoiled now.
(after understanding what kind of warmth it takes to make a home.)
it's well after midnight, nearing two in the morning when toji slips into the silent halls. it was intentional, of course, because he knew his uncle was a stickler for his rules and routines ("the house must be quiet by midnight. not a pin drop to be heard, never a hair out of place. you know nothing of discipline, filthy mutt—").
naobito's rules say the house should be asleep by now, and that's exactly what toji is greeted with. so, it was fairly simple to find himself standing in front of his uncle's chambers, fists clenched. he slips inside and slinks across the room; phantom-like. there is an ugly feeling roiling in his stomach now. possibly, it had been building since the day his family shipped him underground, but he can't be sure.
his uncle was dozing deeply, against fine silks and cushions. oddly enough, his face lacks the disgusted expression toji was so used to seeing. it's strange, he thinks, that someone so hateful could manage to look so peaceful.
(perhaps in death, naobito zenin's expression wouldn't be poisoned by hatred.)
toji pauses, standing at the bedside like some sort of reaper. could he, truly, be the one to snatch the life force of his own blood?
(but then he remembers the earnest expression you gave him. intent and resolute.
"... if there's an unwelcome guest showing up at the door, and we've asked them—no, begged them—to leave us alone and they haven't listened... then maybe the only thing left to do is force them to leave."
that's what you had told him, with a flame in your eyes that was almost blinding. you had given him your express permission—no, your approval. you had effectively told him that you wouldn't feel any different about him whether his hands were red or not.
at the end of the day, wasn't he doing this for good reason? for the two of you? doesn't that make it justified—taking out a threat that endangered the fragile bubble of peace he had so carefully cultivated for himself?
and if it wasn't justified, then well… toji didn't mind being the monstrous animal his crazed kin believed him to be.)
his claws are around the old man's throat in instant; no hesitation. naobito's eyes fly open, a strangled gasp escaping his throat as toji's grip tightens. it takes a minute for the realization to settle, but then the fear seeps in. his uncle scratches at toji's hands, but the wolf barely flinches, staring down at his flesh and blood with a vacant expression.
"to... ji—" it's a pitiful cry, smothered and pained, but toji doesn't care. his claws dig into the flesh of naobito's throat, drawing red rivulets of blood. it spills down the curvature of his neck, seeping into the pillows under his head and staining them maroon. the old man's hands fly up to push at toji's face, but he finds he can only reach the apex of the hybrid's chest. the efforts are futile, like pushing against a brick wall, and toji looks down at him blankly.
"i warned you, didn't i?" the wolf can barely recognize his own voice, low and tainted with heaviness. it comes out feral and strained like he's never heard before. "to leave me alone?"
naobito's eyes bug, the skin of his face discoloring—shades of blue, shades of purple. he tries to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a pained stridor, wheezes and whistles. the old man's eyes shine with desperation.
"s-sor—"
no. he doesn't want to hear it. no apology would ever be good enough to earn forgiveness, not from naobito zenin. that ugly feeling that had been settling in his gut surges upward, mixing with a deep anger he had repressed since he was a clueless pup. it overtakes him, quick and fast—lightning in his veins.
toji's claws tighten, and then stretch, and then twist, until he hears a resounding snap. the room goes utterly silent. no more choked wheezing or gasping, no more rustling of the sheets. he only now realizes that his fangs have been bared in a desperate snarl, chest heaving with effort. the skin on his hands prickle, and he looks down to find them torn and scratched, no doubt the work of the dead man under him.
he hesitates for a second, before pulling back his hands. for a second, toji stares at his uncle's lax expression, countenance frozen in horror, and a sick sense of satisfaction crawls through his veins. it warms the ice sitting in his blood vessels, making his fingers twitch and tremble.
but he pushes down his disgusting sense of accomplishment for now, and then quickly cleans up. he does his best to erase the traces of himself. he knows that when his uncle's body is discovered, they will scour his form for residual clues on who his murderer could be. but naobito's adamance to ensure that toji's existence remained unknown would come in handy now. after all, the zenins never exposed the shame of their bloodline. there was no record of toji zenin even being born, and that would play to his advantage.
and so, he didn't care much about what he left behind. perhaps they'd find his fingerprints, or maybe his blood. but he effectively didn't exist, and so those identifying features wouldn't be able to identify him—the black sheep; the stain.
it's almost scary, how toji moves onto to his next target. as though it was something to brush off. he had just killed his own uncle with his bare hands, and he'd felt good doing it. now he was tracking down his sick cousin with the same intentions. he almost didn't feel like himself, possessed by some vengeful being puppeteering his limbs.
even before he enters his naoya's room, he knows that his cousin is awake. his ears flick as he hears the sound of rustling and movement, along with the dull sounds of a tv. toji almost bites back a laugh—funny how his poor cousin could be lazing around so peacefully while his father lay dead down the hall.
there's no point in wasting time. toji slips inside silently, rage now taking over him again. he's briefly reminded of the anxious way you spoke about naoya that day; how shaken you were despite your attempts to hide it. it makes toji irrationally angry, and all he cares about is channeling that anger towards his next sin. he grits his teeth, seeing his cousin lounging on one of his chaises and watching tv without a care in the world (like he hadn't threatened toji's only source of peace). naoya's back is turned, still unaware of his hybrid cousin looming behind him. while it would be easy for toji to reach out and snap his neck, a sick twisted part of him wants to prolong this—to make his asshole cousin suffer the way toji had suffered since the day he was born.
"hey," toji is surprised at how level his voice remains, because internally he feels like some disturbing mess. he can feel the ice in his expression as he watches naoya, hawk-like. but naoya doesn't flinch, as though expecting this development.
"decided to come crawling back? finally learned your place?" naoya's grin is stretched wide, hand propped behind his head. he doesn't even turn to look at toji. perhaps, if he did, he would've noticed the blood splatters on his hoodie, the murderous look in his eyes.
"i take it your pretty little friend told you about our conversation?" the blonde chirps, and toji can almost hear the smug grin.
"she did." the wolf's voice trembles with barely concealed rage. "you had no right talking to her."
"jealous?" his cousin sings back. "i've gotta hand it to you, toji. you really scored. ran away without getting caught and managed to trap a pretty thing like that in your bullshit."
naoya's back remains turned, and he waves his hand carelessly as he continues. "well, whatever. frankly i don't give a damn what happens to her. just get back underground and make yourself useful. we haven't got any earnings for months. honestly, father should've dragged you back earlier because this whole game is ridiculous—"
"i told you bastards," toji interjects, taking another step closer, to the point where his shadow is looming over his cousin's frame. "to leave me alone. you could've just listened, right?"
naoya's scoff is bitter and haughty all at once. "leave you alone? don't you get it, you pathetic freak? you are no—"
that's all it takes. toji's claws are wrapped around the nape of his neck in mere seconds. naoya chokes on a scream, hands flying up to claw at toji's hands desperately, just as his pathetic father had done mere moments ago.
"what?" toji's voice is murderous, bordering a snarl and yet strangely even. "i'm what?"
naoya's words come out in a garbled mess of sounds, and that sick pleasure courses through toji's veins yet again.
"go on, cousin. say it." the taunts come freely, years of repressed rage filtering through. "you've tortured me for years. even as brats you couldn't be fucking worse—"
naoya's feet flail, skin going pallid as he wheezes.
"and all i could do was fucking endure it. to listen to that crap every fucking day of my life in this hellhole. and then…" he bares his teeth. "you pricks had the audacity to make me your little plaything. for years i kept up with your bullshit."
toji licks his lips, claws pinching into his cousin's throat.
"truth is, i should've killed you the minute i knew i was able to." toji's grip tightens, and naoya sputters, eyes bugging in almost the same way his father's had.
it's messy, but toji doesn't hesitate. it's a liberating feeling, cutting through rotten sinew and muscle with the fangs and claws he was blessed with. bitter wine spilling over his tongue and into the creases of his palms. a high like never before; utter relief. the eyes that have been burning into his shoulder blades finally being pulled from their sockets, crushed under his feet. there's no remorse behind his jade green gaze. instead there's a freedom that he hasn't been granted in all the years he's been alive.
he slips out of his family home just as silently as he entered.
toji presses his bloodstained hands into his pockets, tugs the hood over his hair to conceal his pointed ears and red speckled face. leaves the house behind without a sliver of hesitation, and in it, all of the debris of his past—the blood, the decay, and every minute of the agonizing life he was forced to live under the curse of his birth.
tomorrow morning, chaos will ensue. police will be called, news channels will sing. but all of that will not matter, because toji will be safe in the bed you gave him, his ears picking up the sounds of you finally waking up. the thought brings a strangely satisfied smile to his face, and he's able to push away the bile rising in his throat as he heads back to you.
he slips into the house quietly, knowing you're probably still deep in sleep, exactly the way he had left you. all he wants to do is get inside, wash the grime out of his skin, and fall asleep for as long as he can. the lights are off, his sharp eyes immediately adjusting to all the shadows and shapes of your apartment. perhaps, if he was human, he wouldn't have noticed you at first. but he is, regrettably, an animal, and that's exactly how he catches your figure sitting on the couch.
you shift when you hear the door open, turning to peek over the couch, and suddenly a jolt of fear shoots through him—which is ridiculous because he had never felt fear before in his life. and yet these days, when it came to you, he seemed to be feeling it constantly.
"toji?" you call out, and something in your tone tells him you know exactly where he was and what he was doing. another spike of fear, cloying at his ribcage that trembles with every rapid pulse of his heart.
"don't get up." his voice is a foreign sound, strained and choked. he sees you freeze, and his teeth grind against each other.
"toji," you repeat, this time not so much a question. this time, there's an undeniable softness warping around the syllables, and it makes him feel even worse. he hears you stand up, and he panics.
"just... go to bed," he spits out. now he can properly taste it, the residual flavor of iron. now it travels down his system and settles in a place that makes him nauseous—a sickening, infecting thing. what had he done? "seriously, go to sleep—"
"toji."
he stiffens. there it is. that firmness in your voice that leaves no place for him to argue. a tone that he'd never expected himself to come to obey, to value. it's not in his nature—relenting—especially to those weaker than him. but he finds that he does with you. relents and indulges and gives and gives and gives.
he remains in place, ears flickering at the sound of your muffled footsteps approaching. even in the dark, the precision of his eyesight is both a blessing and curse. he's able to make out every single micro expression that teases the contours of your face when you walk closer.
first, it's confusion and concern. then your eyes focus on the stains on his skin and splatters on his face and suddenly it's morphing into wide eyed shock. he waits for it, the inevitable disgust to bleed into your expression. for that unfiltered sweetness that you so graciously look at him with to gradually drip away from your eyes.
but it doesn't. instead, your expression pinches in a way that looks almost grateful. grateful and sad and heartbroken and safe.
(that's what it was, he thinks. the reason why guilt didn't threaten his resolve, why morality didn't seem to come knocking at the door when he was elbow deep in zenin blood.
safety. your safety. protected in between his bloodstained palms—warm and untouched.)
"are you okay?" you murmur, looking at him. it's a intense stare, your eyes bright with some unknown emotion he can't quite place. he nods once, staring back at you as though breaking the contact itself was a sin.
he purses his lips, fingers twitching at his sides. "you'll never have to worry about him again."
"toji." again, the caress around his name, steady and soft. "that's not what i asked."
his stare bores into yours. (a part of him wishes you'd crumble under the intensity of his gaze, but he'd be foolish to count on it. if anything, he's the one who will buckle at the knees; always relenting for you.)
"yeah." there's there odd tension in his vocal cords. it makes the muscles in his throat strain uncomfortably, grating against each other. "i'm okay."
the stiffness in your shoulders dissipates, and you take a step closer, studying him, before asking him something he doesn't quite expect. "do you want to shower?"
toji's expression flickers—confusion. perhaps you're asking him because you can't stand the sight of him covered in blood (or maybe because you recognize that he hates the feeling of it on his own body a lot more). he stares at you wordlessly, his gaze awfully heavy. black pupils take up all the space against their jade green backdrop, zeroing in on every single feature. his tongue darts out to wet his lips. you're so close, so tantalizingly close.
the slope of your nose, the curves of your cheeks, the planes of your face. colored irises, similarly dilated pupils, fluttering lashes. parted lips, tender flesh. gods above.
toji swallows tightly, standing before you and feeling like all the strength in his body has left him. he feels dirty, utterly abhorring that you're seeing him like this. but there is some small part of him that almost preens with delight because no, you aren't running. you're looking at him the same way you always have (grateful and sad and heartbroken and safe).
(i've done it. not just for me, but for you. for us. knees soaking in a red river and the carcass in my palms. holding it up for you; an offering. it's all i have, but i hope it's enough. hope that it's enough to convince you that my body is worthy to be cradled between your palms. please. please. please—)
"yeah," he finally responds to your question, and you take his hand in yours without question. once again, he's reminded of your differences. soft skin against clawed fingers, this time, with the added color of blood (staining you wine red, right?) and heavy with sin. but you don't mind (you never do), just leading him back into the bathroom the way you did all those months ago after forcing him to take shelter from the rain in your little home.
(it's almost laughable, thinking back to that night. the most you had been worried about was him accidentally seeing your dirty underwear. now here he was, killing in your name, even if he'd never admit it.)
you do just as you did that night. push the shower curtain aside, turn the water on, dip your fingers underneath until it's the perfect temperature. and then you turn to look at him with that ridiculous sweetness in your eyes that managed to ensnare him from the very start—a siren call in its own right.
and just as he did that night, he allows you to lead him into your space, craving comfort in the midst of every chaotic moment he hasn't been able to escape.
"thank you." your voice cuts through the sound of the shower running, and his narrowed gaze finds yours. he doesn't realize that you've taken his hand again, thumb pressing into his bloodied knuckles meaningfully. for a second, he almost recoils, hating the way the stain seeps into your clean skin, but your grip is tight; unwavering.
"it's nothing..." he answers back, breaking eye contact to study a spot on the wall. it's strangely difficult to swallow, tight and uncomfortable. he can feel the steam from the running shower seeping into his back. his right ear flicks absently, claws giving a slight tremor in your grip. when he glances back at you he finds your eyes are bright with something again—intense flames intended to burn him from the inside out. you look like you want to disagree with his words, but instead your lips twitch into something like a smile, squeezing his palm just slightly.
"wash up." you drop his palm, and he immediately misses the contact. "and then go to bed."
he nods, pathetically acquiescent—as he always is in front of you. something in your gaze tells him you would've thanked him another thousand times if he let you. but you settle for leaving that fire in your eyes, something akin to gratitude and a bit of pride flickering in the embers, and he finds that a lot easier to comprehend. when he stands in the shower, watching the blood mix by the drain and turning the water a faint pink, he is reminded of his time in his cell.
and just like back then, he is glad the blood is not his.
he sleeps soundly that night, after having washed away the evidence of the horrors he had committed. his tense limbs relax when he thinks about the conviction in your eyes, his shoulders feeling less burdened now that the remaining ties to his old life have been permanently cut.
****
it's amazing, the feeling of enjoying peace.
of course, both you and toji know this doesn't mean he can prance around freely. but still, there is a difference—limbs freed from heavy shackles.
despite having to keep his features hidden—hood up, hands tucked into pockets, eyes down—toji feels perfectly content even in public. he does his best to avoid stepping into crowded places, but even then, he feels much lighter. he feels relieved at the absence of greedy eyes drilling into his back.
and you? well, you feel much more comfortable heading to the convenience store at night, or traveling to work, or walking home under the streetlights—no longer needing to peek over your shoulder for another zenin ambush.
for the first time in weeks, everything feels normal.
"so yeah, shoko says it's good," you explain, folding your pajama pants. toji makes a noncommittal noise, eyes trained on the tv as he works on folding one of your t-shirts.
"you know i don't mind what we already have," he mutters.
you huff out a quiet laugh, setting down the folded pants and reaching for another article of clothing from the laundry basket—toji's tank top. "yeah, but still. she says her hybrids love the meat from this place. it's apparently great quality."
he gives you a sidelong glance, attention still split between your voice and the tv. "you said she has cats?"
"panther and snow leopard."
"huh." he turns his head. "sure, if you're down—we can try this place."
you grin, pleased for some strange reason. "great. i'll buy some of the regular meat from the grocery store too though. just in case you don't like the new stuff."
toji snorts, smirk tickling his lips. "yeah right, you just want some for yourself."
"um? i'm getting it for you, asshole!"
"yeah right, you'd probably starve me and eat it all yourself."
the pillow you chuck bounces harmlessly off his chest, and he quirks and unimpressed brow. "really?"
"next time i'll throw a brick." your grin is evil and toji snorts in response.
"oh i'm so scared," he smirks—all fangs, no threat.
the knock on your door makes both of you pause, smiles vanishing. toji's on his feet in an instant, bristling.
"let me," you whisper, grabbing his forearm before silently making your way to the door. he watches, tense and ears rigid, ready to pounce.
you approach the door and quietly look through the peephole. your stomach drops. two police officers stand there, expressionless. you turn in abject horror.
"go!" your hiss is just barely a whisper, but toji hears you all the same. in a second he's out of sight, no doubt hiding in his bedroom, and you clear your throat, steeling yourself before opening the door.
(that's it, caught. your nightmare has become reality. guns and black boots and tranquilizers and—)
"sorry to bother you, ma'am." the officer in front nods at you politely—his graying mustache twitches when he speaks. "we're just going around the neighborhood to inform about a potentially dangerous individual. some murders occurred a few weeks ago, and the suspect is a large predator hybrid, most likely a canine or a feline. it's also believed that this hybrid may have escaped from the underground hybrid arena, which makes it far more dangerous than regular hybrids."
you push down the flicker of irritation at the dismissive way he speaks about hybrids (it, he had said, completely unfazed). clearing your throat, you nod, putting on the face of a curiously concerned citizen. "did it happen here?"
"no," the second officer admits, dark brows furrowed. "the murders occurred much deeper in the city, but because of the dangers, we've been advised to warn citizens in the neighboring districts just in case."
the first officer frowns, expression showing some semblance of agreement with his colleague's words. "we also wanted to ask if you've seen any suspicious activity nearby? any individuals that stood out to you?"
(yeah, you almost roll your eyes. the one currently hiding in my guest bedroom.)
"nothing i can think of," you make a face that screams disappointed, as though personally distraught you couldn't be of more assistance. "from what i've seen, the neighborhood has been pretty quiet these days."
the officers nod in unison, though you aren't sure if they're displeased.
"please make sure you avoid secluded areas, especially at night. this monster is on the run, and it's very likely it's hiding out in residential areas or other quiet places." the first one nods sagely. "be wary of large predators around, and don't hesitate to call the station if you see any suspicious individuals."
he hands you a flyer, and you take it reluctantly, disgust settling on your tongue. despite that, you conjure up a placating smile and nod. "of course. thank you so much."
they tip their hats at you, before turning around to leave. you watch them go with a neighborly smile until you can't see them anymore, before quietly shutting the door. it's almost ridiculous, how fast your heart is beating as you stand there, wide eyed. almost caught, you realize. shaking off the initial relief, you head back to toji's room and push the door open. he's sitting on the bed, back straight and ears alert. they twitch upon your arrival, and he gives you a level stare.
"i'm assuming you heard all that?" you question quietly, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress—quite a bit of space in between both of you. toji grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn't say much else. you grimace. "it's okay, they're just going around warning people. otherwise they don't have anything pointing to you."
"yeah..." he mutters, one claw languidly fiddling with a loose thread in the bedsheets. you hesitate before reaching out and patting his forearm lightly. his green eyes meet yours carefully—studying, calculating.
"it'll be fine." your voice is earnest, coaxing, and his subconsciously tense shoulders relax just a bit. he nods silently, like he believes you.
(the two of you wordlessly decide to never bring up how strongly fear had gripped both of you that night—burying the feeling deep underneath the steadying rhythm in your ribcages.)
****
but the fear grips toji a lot stronger than he expected.
that cloying feeling in his chest returns, always present like some dangerous looming shadow. he thought he escaped it by ridding himself of his remaining family. but now it clings to him, makes him rigid when the mailman rings the bell or the pizza guy drops food off.
he does his best to show that he's unaffected, that he isn't scared. but it's a lie. he is scared—more scared than he was when naobito gave him away, more scared than the arena fights, more scared than he was when he ran.
he's scared now for a completely different reason.
(you're the one who always answers the door. without fail, you flash him a smile and open the barrier the protects from the outside world. and that makes him sick. because you're being a fucking shield for him—even if you don't realize it.
it terrifies him, because if they do end up coming for him… you'll be on the other end of the barrel as soon as they knock on the door.)
he's never fully at ease. even now, as he sits next to you on the couch with the lights off as some movie plays on the tv. it's meant to be a time for him to relax, and yet his mind races. he can't stop thinking about his hands around the zenins' throats, or the way you stood at the door facing those policemen.
it makes him anxious. restless—like he wants to claw at the inside of his skin until blood is drawn.
you're talking, he realizes. commenting something as you gesture to the tv animatedly. it's funny—normally he can never tear his focus from you. but now, he finds himself unable to quell his thoughts, even for your sake.
he murmurs some sound that can pass for agreement, dragging his gaze to the screen. nothing he sees of the movie registers in his brain.
(he wonders how long it would take for people to hunt him down. it's not like your house is all that protected. and while the zenin household was far enough from your neighborhood for them to be considered separate worlds, he still felt uneasy.)
your laugh cuts through the din in his head, and he realizes he's missed another joking comment about the movie playing. he barely reacts, ears flicking.
(he feels so sick. he wonders if he made you feel the same way when he came home that night after murdering his family.)
your arm presses against his bicep—steady, grounding, warm—and he almost shudders, snapping out of his thoughts.
"you okay?" you ask him quietly. toji glances at you. something just below his chest constricts. the light from the tv bounces off the slopes of your face.
(he thinks the light caresses you a lot more gently than he ever could.)
"yeah." his voice is just as quiet, but much more strained. you purse your lips at the tone, fixing him with that same poring gaze from the night you met him in that damn alleyway.
"you sure?"
he wants to tell you—wants to say that the only thing he cares about is you and your safety. that he regrets crawling into your perfect life and messing it up with all his shit.
but instead, he opts for a strained "yeah, i'm fine."
he feels your eyes on his face for a second longer, searching through every dip and curve. utterly tempted, he drags his gaze back to yours. a moment of charged silence follows, and he thinks there is ice slowly freezing his innards.
"okay good." you smile, a soft gentle thing that he shamelessly zeroes in on.
(something in him knows he is so wrong for you. the more that you give him, the greedier he gets with you.)
when his eyes fall on your lips, something predatory flashes in them. but then he looks away, and the contact is broken.
(toji knows that his feelings for you aren't entirely one-sided. even if yours don't come close to the near obsessive devotion he's developed towards you, he knows something is there. he can tell in the way your entire being seems to curl towards him. he's aware that you look at him far too softly for it to be a coincidence.
maybe a month ago, the thought would have pleased him—made his tail wag like some overeager pup waiting to be at your beck and call. but now it makes his gut churn, makes his ears stiffen and tail bristle. because he is far too aware that he cannot be what you need—what you deserve. not like this, with all the blood slipping through his claws.
but still, it's not your fault. how could he ever fault you for being so naively trusting towards an animal like him? after all, you saved his miserable life in more ways than he'd ever be able to explain—he'd never been good at words. too angry and cold and nothing like you.
but you deserved to hear it directly from his lips at least once before things got any worse.)
"thanks," he mutters gruffly, keeping his gaze trained forward like it would pain him to look at you directly. "for… y'know…"
(for everything, he wants to say. for giving me a chance, for letting me in, for allowing me the privilege of seeing you everyday. but toji zenin has never been good with words—he's a mindless animal, after all.)
he realizes it's not much to go off of, but he hopes you understand his random statement better than he can articulate it. you do, because of course you do.
"don't worry about it." you answer earnestly, content as you watch the images move across the screen. "i'd do it again. you deserved at least that much."
he doesn't know what to say to that. he feels strange—awkward in a way that he never was, even as a whelp. the skin under his claws tingles, and his ears flick. he keeps his mouth shut for a long while, focusing on the movie even though his thoughts are racing faster than he believed possible.
(he realizes that the thing he is feeling is called greed. he wants you, gods above, he wants you so terribly it aches. perhaps he's always wanted you, since the day you held that umbrella over his head, standing in that alley in your fuzzy pajama pants. he wants to stab himself just for thinking it—because he's known for a while that your claim over him has solidified into stone.
but still… he can't.)
maybe in another life he would have the courage to face you. to explain that he loves you and he's sorry that he can't indulge in those feelings. but in this life he knows that he isn't allowed such a privilege. unfortunately, in this life, you and him are perpendicular lines, intersecting at just one point and then never again. you are the sky and he is the earth, only meeting at the horizon line but never being allowed to cross it. he has overstayed his welcome long enough—the horizon is all he is given.
any more than that and he'd be asking for too much.
(greedy, greedy thing.)
he swallows tightly, fists clenching—he can feel the points of his claws digging into the meat of his palms.
(if he was truly selfish, he should open his mouth and say it. tell you the truth—admit you've had him by the neck since the day you put that plate down in front of him.)
"hey." his voice comes out strained, vocal cords grating together roughly (say it, say it, say it—). he's met with silence, save for the low thrum of voices from the tv.
something in his stomach plummets when he turns his head to look at you. cheek pressed against his shoulder, deep breathing—fast asleep.
(selfish, selfish animal.)
he takes a deep breath, eyes falling shut in mild anger—though he's not sure whether it's at you or at himself. your scent floods his nose, comfort amidst everything. he would inject you into his very veins if he could. he wants you to know him in every way, wants to sear himself into you. he wants to overwhelm your senses and dig himself into every inch of you he can. he wants to live within the synapses firing in your brain, carve a space between your ribs and press his forehead against the apex of your heart to listen to it thud.
he wants you to never stop thinking about him, to never forget the way he took a hold of you in his bloody claws. he wants you in a way that makes him sick.
(go on, toji. be selfish.)
it's instinctual, the way he raises his other arm and slowly presses his wrist (of course, one of the places his scent is strongest) against the pulse point on your bare neck. it makes him shudder, and it also makes him angry—he's angry you have enough power over him to command his decisions even in sleep. he's angry he let himself get attached enough to fucking scent you—as if he's some kind of mate. he's not, he has to remind himself. he's the stray you generously took in, and all he rewarded you with was blood and danger and animalistic tendencies you'll never understand the weight of.
and yet still, despite his anger, the wolf in him preens with delight. you'll carry his scent with you—he's found a way to show the world that you've tucked him in your ribcage just like he wanted.
he knows it'll mean nothing to you. hell, you won't even know what he'd done, leaving a stamp of his presence in your life there for all of his kind to see. but he knows—and the knowledge makes something sick and twisted stir in his gut.
when you shift and slightly nuzzle into his palm, he almost vomits.
(toji had done nothing but ruin your life. ruin you.)
he drops his palm, and watches you for a few minutes longer. something settles deep in his stomach.
(you're everything. and i've always been selfish with you.)
toji stands, his lungs feeling crushed under some weight. he doesn't extract you from his arm, just hefts you up and walks back to your room like he's holding the most important thing in his small world.
he makes quick work of setting you down, pulling the blanket to your chin, and heading for the door. there he stops, turning to watch you breathe peacefully for a few seconds. he waits, as though committing the sight to memory, before shutting the door behind him without another word.
if you asked to be on the tag list but don’t see your name here, it’s either because your blog was blank/empty or didn’t have an age. if your name is here but you didn’t get a tag notif, check your privacy settings !!
— you just really have the biggest crush on your boyfriend sukuna , for some odd reason.
1.4k wc. warnings—suggestive, but mostly just fluff.
a/n. quick thing i whipped up because i can’t sleep and this is my reward for studying :3
You don’t really know how to explain it sometimes. It’ll happen at the most random of moments. You’ll just be sitting there, peacefully watching Netflix or something, bundled up on the couch in a hoodie twice your size (belongs to him), when he’ll walk in—loud footsteps stomping through your apartment like he owns the place (he kinda does), letting the door slam behind him with a grunt that barely passes as a greeting. Then he leans down, mutters something under his breath you don’t even catch, and kisses you. Softly. Briefly. Like it’s nothing.
Scratch that. Like it’s everything.
His kiss is always in direct contrast to how he acts the second you’re in the same vicinity, like he totally doesn’t want to be kissing you—except he’s always the one to do it first. Always the one seeking you out like some subconscious pull he doesn’t know how to fight.
Or when you’re doing something as mundane as washing the dishes. Lost in your little dissociative bubble, just vibing with the warm water and the clinking of plates. He comes up behind you without a sound this time, which is rare, and just stands there. And that alone has your stomach flipping.
Giddiness?
You feel like a teenager, like one of those girls in the early 2000s movies clutching their hearts as their crush walks past in slow motion. It’s stupid. You’re literally washing dishes. And he’s just standing there. But then his arms come around you from behind, thick and warm and solid, and he gruffly mutters something about how he should be doing the dishes tonight.
You don’t even know what he’s saying. You can’t process anything except his chest against your back, his chin on your shoulder, the way he exhales like being near you soothes something he’ll never admit out loud.
It happens again when he’s sitting on the couch, groaning low and frustrated at his laptop. His pink hair messy, eyebrows drawn together, mouth forming that irritated pout he always gets when he’s trying to concentrate. It happens when you walk past him, catching his eye mid-stride, and he just stares at you—blank and deadpan, but it does something to you. You grin, and the corner of his mouth quirks up before he shakes his head like you’re the ridiculous one.
It happens when your fingers brush as you pass him the salt. When his thigh, firm and warm, presses into yours while you sit side by side watching some dumb movie you’ve both seen three times already. When you hear the steady sound of his breathing in the middle of the night, and suddenly everything feels safe.
You may or may not have a tiny crush on your boyfriend.
Yes. Boyfriend.
You don’t know how it happened—he’s loud, he’s rough around the edges, he’s snarky to a fault—but you’re hopelessly, embarrassingly, irrevocably enamoured with him.
You stare at his back muscles in the mornings as he sits up, groggy and shirtless, scratching the back of his head. You trace the tattoos that stretch over his strong arms, his back, his chest. You memorise the sound of his laugh, the one he tries to cover with a cough when it’s too genuine. You still get that blooming feeling in your chest—like fireworks in reverse, soft and warm instead of loud and blinding.
The same feeling from middle school crushes, from sneaking glances in high school corridors, from scrolling through fanfiction about a character you were fixated on. The same feeling from that first motorcycle date, when he’d wordlessly handed you a helmet like he wasn’t nervous at all (he was). The same feeling as that very first kiss, the one that left you dizzy and kicking your feet like a tween.
Genuinely just a big, fat fucking crush.
And now you’re in bed with him, curled into his side, and he’s shirtless, wearing those stupid grey sweatpants that do something to your brain. His pink hair’s tousled, messier than usual, falling over his forehead in soft strands. He’s scrolling on his phone, attention half on you and half not, but you’re clinging to him anyway.
“Hello,” you say with a grin, arms wrapping around his torso as you burrow into his warmth. He smells like that stupidly expensive cologne he always wears—the one you told him made him smell “exactly what I wanted to experience when I’m ovulating,” which earned you a smirk and a very not safe for public comment.
“Fuck you mean hello? You think you’re Adele or somethin’?” he grunts, but his hand slides into your hair, fingers scratching lightly at your scalp before he leans down and kisses your cheek, hoisting you effortlessly into his lap like it’s nothing. (There it is again—the swooping, heart-flipping feeling.)
You blink at him, properly taking in his face up close. The sculpt of his jaw. The way his mouth curves naturally, even when he isn’t smiling. The faintest red tint to his irises, which always makes your heart race just a little faster. He’s beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.
“Oi. Quit starin’ at me like that, woman. ‘S fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, scowling at you, but it’s undermined by the soft way he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and gently pinches your cheek lovingly.
“Sorry,” you mumble, eyes still locked on his. “You just look really good. Do I ever tell you that? That you look really good? ‘Cause you do. All the time.”
You kiss his face lightly—nose, cheeks, jaw—pressing little pecks across his skin while he sits there suffering through it with dramatic sighs and minimal resistance.
“Christ. You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, grabbing your face with one large hand and smushing your cheeks together until your lips pucker. There’s a barely-there blush across his cheekbones that he definitely pretends doesn’t exist.
He narrows his eyes. “And for the record, you annoy the absolute shit outta me. Always goin’ on about how I look like this, how I look like that. Shut up, won’t you?”
But his thumb is skating across your lower lip again, his eyes softer than they were a second ago. No heat behind the words. Never is, really.
“Kuna,” you murmur, eyes crinkling as you press another kiss to his thumb, “I think I have a crush on you.”
He blinks. Then huffs out a low, lazy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah?” he says, voice rough, teasing. “Bit late for that, ain’t it?”
And then he pulls you in, arms locking around you as he leans back against the pillows and lets you bury yourself into his chest—grumbling under his breath the entire time, but never letting go.
You can’t help but smile, your cheek pressed against the ink and warmth of him.
You’ve got a crush on your boyfriend.
You’re tracing patterns on his bare chest now, fingertips ghosting over his tattoos like you’re trying to memorize the exact grooves of his skin. He exhales slowly, eyes half-lidded, arm heavy and warm across your back.
“Keep doin’ that,” he mutters, voice low and silky, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re tryna get somethin’ outta me.”
You blink up at him innocently, chin on his chest. “And what if I am?” you ask, trying not to grin.
He scoffs, hand dropping to your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make your stomach flutter. “Tch. Figures. Can’t even cuddle me without havin’ some hidden agenda.”
“It’s not hidden,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly so your lips brush against his collarbone. “I’m being very transparent.”
You feel more than hear the low growl that rumbles in his chest, like you just challenged him and he’s all too happy to rise to the occasion.
“Is that so?” he says, hand sliding a little lower now, hand gripping your ass through your lounge shorts. “You sure you’re ready to back up that pretty little mouth of yours? Or you just talk big?”
You hum, pretending to think, your lips brushing higher, close to the hollow of his throat. “Maybe I’m just desperate for attention.”
He snorts, but there’s a hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “No shit,” he says, but his other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, tilting your face up to look at him properly. “Lucky for you, I got a bit of time to kill.”
And the way he says it—voice low and dangerous but playful, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement—you know exactly what he means.
“You’re sexy,” you breathe, even as your legs shift over his hips and your fingers curl around his shoulders, anchoring yourself.
“Yeah? Everything about me turns you on?,” he smirks, large hands grasping your hips to move them against his own. “Now quit starin’ at me like I’m some goddamn post on that fucking tumblr app and do somethin’ about this little crush of yours.”
You giggle, right before he pulls you in by the waist and the teasing turns into something deeper—kisses growing slower, more deliberate, his hands mapping out the shape of you like he’s committing it to memory.
Somewhere in between his lips mouthing at your neck and his hand sneaking under your shirt, cupping the warm, fullness of your breasts, he mutters against your skin:
“Still think it’s just a crush, huh?”
You can’t even answer—your thoughts are too hazy, your heart too loud.
But if this is what crushing feels like, you hope it never ends.
i lowkey feel so needy and weird before my period like it’s like ovulation but kind of worse and rn i need to suck on sukuna’s boob sorry i’m severely sleep deprived
synopsis — satoru gojo is your bestfriend and you are his. but sometimes, lines between friendship and something more seem to blur.
pairing — bestfriend! satoru x reader
word count — 10.6 k
warnings — making out, somewhat heavy petting, they take off each other's shirts but that's about it LOL, angst (not a sad ending though), reader feels unwanted at times.
Satoru Gojo.
How long have you known him? Your whole life, probably.
Scratch that. Not your whole life, but definitely the majority of it.
It started in preschool.
You were the quiet kid—the one who clung to the edges of the classroom, never quite fitting into the messy, chaotic whirlwind of children who seemed to make friends like it was the easiest thing in the world. You didn’t know how they did it—how they found each other in the noise, how they paired up so effortlessly, how they just knew where they belonged.
You, on the other hand, spent most of your time alone, stacking blocks in the corner, drawing quietly, or waiting for the teacher to tell you what to do next.
And then there was him.
Satoru Gojo, the loudest, brightest, most obnoxiously happy kid you’d ever met. He was the kind of child who ran instead of walked, who laughed at things no one else found funny, who always had a scrape on his knee but never seemed to care. He was larger than life, in a way that made your stomach twist—not quite jealousy, not quite admiration, just… confusion.
So when he plopped down next to you one day, completely uninvited, you weren’t sure what to do.
“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, peering at the tiny house you were building out of wooden blocks.
You shrugged. “Building.”
“Cool,” he said, grinning. “Can I help?”
You hesitated. You didn’t want help. But before you could answer, he was already reaching for the blocks, stacking them in ways that made no sense.
“You’re ruining it,” you mumbled, frowning.
He blinked at you, then back at the house. “Oh.” And then, without missing a beat, he knocked it over entirely.
You gasped, horrified.
He just laughed. “Now we can build it again!”
You decided, in that exact moment, that you hated him.
But Satoru Gojo was persistent.
He started following you around—not in a creepy way, just in an annoying way. Every time you thought you’d shaken him off, he’d pop up again like a bad penny, grinning that ridiculous grin of his.
Eventually, you just… let him.
It was easier than trying to get rid of him.
And somewhere along the way, he became your first real friend.
Your moms met not long after.
It happened at pickup time, when Satoru ran straight past his usual waiting spot to grab your hand instead. “Can I go to their house?” he asked his mom, all wide eyes and uncontainable energy. “Please, please, please?”
Your mom looked vaguely alarmed, having not expected to suddenly be responsible for another child, but Satoru’s mom just laughed.
And that was that.
Your friendship expanded beyond the preschool walls, spilling into weekends and playdates. Satoru’s house became as familiar as your own, with its too-big windows and fancy furniture that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to jump on (but did anyway). In return, he practically lived at your place, showing up unannounced, eating snacks straight from your pantry, making himself at home in a way that should have been irritating but never really was.
By the time middle school rolled around, he was less of a friend and more of a permanent fixture in your life.
“Okay, but listen,” Satoru said one afternoon, sprawled across your bedroom floor, Switch in hand. “If you had to pick one Digimon partner, like one to be stuck with for the rest of your life, who would it be?”
You barely looked up from your homework. “I don’t know. Agumon?”
“Agumon?” he repeated, scandalized. “That’s so basic. It’s like saying your favorite Pokémon is Pikachu.”
You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally the main character’s Digimon.”
“Exactly!” He threw his hands up. “No originality. None. Zero. I expected better from you.”
“You asked me,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes.
“Yeah, but I thought you’d at least think about it.” He sighed, dramatically flopping onto his back. “I should’ve known. I’m best friends with a casual fan.”
“You should be grateful you have a best friend at all,” you shot back.
Satoru grinned, tilting his head toward you. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
At some point, he started wearing glasses. Not for fashion, not because he wanted to, but because years of staring at screens in the dark, playing Digimon and Pokémon and whatever else he was obsessed with at the time, had officially caught up to him.
“I’m blind,” he announced the day he got them, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely, totally blind.”
You snorted. “You’re, like, mildly nearsighted.”
“Same thing,” he said, already taking them off to examine them. “Do I look smarter with them?”
You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Not really.”
“Rude.” He huffed, sliding them back on. “What about cooler?”
You threw a pillow at his face.
He laughed, catching it easily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
—
Then came high school.
At first, nothing changed.
Satoru was still Satoru—loud, annoying, always in your space. He still showed up at your house unannounced, still texted you at odd hours about random nonsense, still sat next to you at lunch like it was a law of the universe. He was your best friend. Your person.
And for the first two years, you were inseparable.
There wasn’t a single moment where people saw one of you without the other. Satoru Gojo and you. You and Satoru Gojo. Always a pair. Whether it was cramming for exams together, getting kicked out of the arcade because he got too competitive, or spending Friday nights playing whatever old game he got obsessed with that month, he was your constant.
Until junior year.
It started small.
A casual comment in gym class about how fast he was. A joke from a teacher about how he should try out for the football team. A half-dare from some of the guys he barely knew.
And somehow, against all odds, Satoru Gojo became an athlete.
You didn’t think much of it at first. It was just another one of his phases, right? Like that time he swore he’d master speedrunning or decided he was going to learn five languages at once. But he was good—annoyingly good. Tall, fast, with ridiculous reflexes that made him impossible to catch on the field.
And people noticed.
By mid-season, he wasn’t just some new player—he was the star. The guy everyone knew, the guy who had a crowd around him in the hallways, the guy who got called out over the school speakers for game-winning plays.
The guy who no longer just belonged to you.
The first time you really felt it was when he showed up at your house one evening. That part was normal. He still did that, still made himself at home on your couch, still stole whatever snacks he wanted.
But something was different.
You were sprawled out on your bed, flipping through a book, when you glanced up and noticed.
“Where are your glasses?” you asked.
Satoru blinked, as if he had to think about it. “Oh. Right.” He shrugged, plopping down next to you. “They’re kind of a hazard in football, so I switched to contacts. Figured I’d just stick with them.”
You sat up, frowning. “But you hate contacts.”
He grinned, stretching lazily. “Not anymore.”
And just like that, something in your chest twisted.
It wasn’t just the glasses.
It was the way he stopped rambling about Digimon, the way he never asked if you wanted to rewatch old anime together anymore. It was the way his schedule started filling up with team hangouts and parties you weren’t invited to. It was the way people started looking at you differently when you were with him.
Because Satoru Gojo wasn’t just Satoru Gojo anymore.
He was Gojo.
Senior year was when it really started to hurt.
He still sat with you at lunch, still texted you silly memes at night, still acted like nothing had changed. But everything had.
He would often cancel on your invitations, his responses still typed in that absurd, unmistakable way of his—yet his excuses always seemed to follow a familiar pattern. It was always something urgent, something unavoidable: he had to rush off to practice, or there was a party he couldn’t miss, or someone needed his help and he simply couldn’t bring himself to say no. Each time, it felt like a rehearsed script, as though his priorities were perpetually elsewhere, leaving you to wonder if you’d ever truly make the cut.
Every time he plopped down next to you, people stared. Whispered.
“Why’s he sitting with her?”
“Shouldn't he sit with the rest of the team?”
“Is she, like, his childhood obligation or something?”
You weren’t an idiot. You heard it. You felt it.
And it made you snap.
“You don’t have to sit here, you know,” you muttered one day, keeping your eyes on your tray.
Satoru frowned. “What?”
“I said, you don’t have to sit here,” you repeated, sharper this time. “If you’d rather be with your actual friends—”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
You clenched your jaw, hating how defensive he sounded. “Nothing. Forget it.”
He didn’t forget it.
You fought about it. About how he didn’t get it, about how easy everything was for him, about how he could walk into any room and belong while you felt like you had to justify existing.
“You act like I abandoned you,” he snapped, voice low and frustrated. “But I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”
And you hated that he was somewhat right.
So you patched things up. Not because you fully understood each other, but because you both wanted to. And by the time graduation rolled around, you could almost pretend things had gone back to the way they were.
But then came college.
And somehow, Satoru Gojo managed to be even more himself than ever.
Bigger. Louder. More impossible to ignore.
If high school had turned him into a star, then college made him a supernova.
He was everywhere—at parties, in clubs, on the field. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to be around him.
And somehow, despite it all, he still tried to keep you close.
“Come with me tonight,” he’d say, sending you an invite to some massive party. “It’ll be fun.”
You always said no.
At first, he laughed it off. But after a while, he started looking at you differently—like he noticed the way you avoided him now, the way you barely answered his texts, the way you pulled away whenever he tried to meet your eyes.
And one night, when he showed up outside your dorm after another party, half-drunk and grinning, you saw the exact moment that grin faltered.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Why would I be mad at you?” you replied, your tone lighter than you felt, as if you could brush the question aside with a casual shrug.
Satoru studied you intently, his glasses nowhere to be found, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times. His gaze was sharp, unrelenting. “Because you’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe, or hurt.
You forced a laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing. “I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Not you.”
The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your throat tightened. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s just—” you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to piece together the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for weeks. “You don’t need me anymore, Satoru. You have them. All your cool—I don’t know, jock and cheerleader friends, everyone else who likes you. You don’t have time for me now.”
He blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice rising slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His hands gestured vaguely, as though trying to grasp the words you’d just thrown at him. “You think I’d just—replace you? Like it’s that easy? No, like seriously fucking explain to me what the absolute hell you mean?” He mutters out angrily, words slightly slurred.
The air between you felt heavy, charged with emotions neither of you had fully acknowledged until now. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, leaving only silence hanging in the space between you.
You let out a bitter laugh. “It means I’m tired, Satoru. Tired of feeling like a ghost when I’m with you. Tired of pretending I’m okay with being the weird friend you keep around out of habit.”
Satoru opened his mouth, then closed it.
And for the first time in your life, you saw it—hurt. Real, genuine hurt in his stupidly bright eyes.
“You think that’s what this is?” he said, voice quieter now. “Habit?”
You didn’t answer.
Because if you did, you might have to admit that you missed him. That you missed the late-night anime marathons, the dumb inside jokes, the way he used to act like you were the only person in the world that mattered.
But you weren’t sure if that version of him still existed.
And you definitely weren’t sure if you had the courage to find out.
Satoru stared at you for a long time, the weight of your words settling between you like a stone. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, couldn’t decipher the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for something—but wasn’t sure if he should.
Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t get it,” he admitted, voice lower now, quieter, like he was afraid too many words would push you further away. “You’re acting like I left you behind, but I’m right here.”
You bit your lip. “You don’t see it.”
“Then make me see it,” he shot back, suddenly frustrated. “Because all I know is that one day we were fine, and the next, you started treating me like a stranger.”
That stung.
Because wasn’t that what he did first?
He wasn’t the one being looked at differently in high school when he sat next to you at lunch. He wasn’t the one feeling like a burden when you tagged along with him to something you thought was just going to be the two of you. He wasn’t the one realizing, little by little, that your best friend was outgrowing you.
But how could you even say that? How could you explain it in a way he’d understand?
“It’s not just one thing, Satoru,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… everything.”
Satoru exhaled sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “That’s real specific.”
You rolled your eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
You hesitated. He looked serious, standing there under the dim glow of the dorm hallway lights, arms crossed, gaze steady. But what would it change? Telling him wouldn’t undo the years of growing distance, wouldn’t erase the fact that you felt like you didn’t fit in his world anymore.
Maybe it was better to let it go.
So you shook your head, stepping back toward your door. “It’s late. You should go.”
Satoru let out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine,” he said, jaw tightening. “Run away, then. You’re good at that.”
That hurt more than it should have.
But you didn’t argue. You just stepped inside, closed the door, and pretended the ache in your chest wasn’t real.
It got worse after that.
You thought maybe that argument would clear the air—that he’d finally see why you had been keeping your distance. But if anything, it only made things weirder.
Satoru still texted you, but not as much. He still invited you to things, but there was something almost hesitant in the way he asked, like he was bracing for rejection. And when you turned him down (because of course you did), his replies became shorter, more clipped.
Then, one night, he stopped asking altogether.
You didn’t realize how much you had come to expect it—his name popping up on your phone, his easy confidence that somehow, eventually, you’d say yes. But when Friday night came and went without a text, something inside you twisted.
Maybe this was what you wanted. Maybe it was easier this way.
So why did it feel so awful?
A week later, you ran into him by accident.
Literally.
You were coming out of the campus library, arms full of books, when someone rounded the corner too fast and nearly tackled you.
“Oh, shit—sorry—”
You looked up, heart dropping to your stomach.
Satoru.
Your hands clenched around the books, pulse stuttering. It had only been a week, but he already looked different—like he’d fully settled into his role as that guy. Loose hoodie, messy hair, the faint scent of cologne and something vaguely alcoholic clinging to him.
You swallowed hard. “Hey.”
His expression flickered—just for a second. “Hey.”
It was awkward. Awkward. When had things ever been awkward between you?
You shifted your grip on your books. “Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“Yeah, no, my bad,” he cut in quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
Silence stretched between you. Too long, too tense.
Then, suddenly, his eyes dropped to the stack in your arms. “Of course you’re carrying, like, ten books at once.”
It was such a Satoru thing to say that, for a second, you almost smiled.
Then his gaze flicked up to yours, something softer in his expression, and your breath hitched.
And then—
A voice called his name from across the quad. Some guy you didn’t know, waving him over. Satoru hesitated. Then, with a small exhale, he gave you a lopsided grin. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
He didn’t wait for a response before turning away.
And you stood there, watching him go, feeling like something important had just slipped through your fingers.
Days passed. Then a week. Then two.
And for the first time in years, Satoru Gojo wasn’t part of your life anymore.
No more texts. No more unannounced visits. No more standing at your dorm door at 2 AM, grinning like he belonged there.
You had wanted this, hadn’t you? You had wanted the space, the distance, the freedom to not be caught in his orbit.
But now, without him, everything just felt… quiet. You hated it.
You missed him.
—
It was months before you and Satoru spoke again.
At first, you kept waiting for him to text you, to pop up at your door with some stupid excuse, to send you a meme like nothing had happened. But days passed. Then weeks. Then months. And Satoru Gojo—your best friend since childhood—became just another person you saw in passing.
Sometimes, you spotted him across the quad, surrounded by his usual crowd. Sometimes, you caught glimpses of him at the library, laughing too loudly with friends who barely even acknowledged your existence.
And it hurt.
More than you wanted to admit, it hurt.
But you told yourself this was how things were meant to be. That he had moved on, and you needed to do the same. That whatever had existed between you belonged to another lifetime, one where you weren’t the quiet girl who spent her nights buried in books, and he wasn’t the golden boy who belonged to the whole damn world.
You thought you were doing fine. You thought you were getting used to it.
Until the professor announced lab partners.
The moment your name was called, a small, high-pitched voice cut through the classroom.
“Uh… who?”
Laughter rippled through the room. You felt your face go hot, every muscle in your body locking up as the girl—some blonde from Satoru’s usual group—looked around in exaggerated confusion.
It was humiliating.
Because she wasn’t just some random classmate. She was someone who had spent actual time with Satoru. Who had probably been to his dorm, who had probably sat next to him at parties, who had probably heard him talk about people in his life.
And she had no idea who you were.
You didn’t even dare look at Satoru. Didn’t want to see his reaction. Didn’t want to see whether he’d step in, whether he’d say anything—
But he didn’t.
He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t correct her either.
Didn’t turn to acknowledge you. Didn’t make some joke to brush past it. Didn’t do anything at all.
Just stared at the table like he was somewhere else entirely.
And that, somehow, was worse than anything.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral as you scribbled down the details of the assignment. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
—
Working with Satoru again was… weird.
Not just because of everything that had happened between you, but because neither of you seemed to know how to be around each other anymore.
Gone were the days of effortless conversation, of teasing remarks and stolen fries and arguments about Digimon evolutions. Now, everything felt stilted, careful, like you were two strangers trying to relearn the language of each other.
Sometimes, it almost felt normal.
Like when you sat across from each other in the library, bent over research notes, and he’d randomly hum the Sailor Moon theme song under his breath. Or when he muttered something stupid under his breath about the professor’s handwriting, and you nearly choked on your water holding back a laugh.
But then, inevitably, the moment would pass.
Because girls from his usual group would come over, acting like you weren’t even there, their voices too sweet as they draped themselves over the back of his chair.
“Satoru, are you coming to the party on Friday?”
“Satoru, when are you free? We should all hang out.”
And he’d always answer them. Always give some noncommittal shrug or a lazy smirk. But you could tell—even if no one else seemed to notice—that he wasn’t really there. That when he looked at them, he wasn’t listening.
And yet, he never told them to leave. Never told them that you were working. Never acknowledged you at all when they were around. So, after a while, you just stopped expecting him to.
And then, one day, you got sick.
Not just a little sick. Not just a sore throat or a cough you could push through. No, you were the kind of sick that made your whole body ache, that sent shivers down your spine no matter how many blankets you curled under.
But it was a project day. And despite everything, you still had responsibilities. So, begrudgingly, you shot Satoru a text.
Come to my dorm. I can’t go out today.
He didn’t reply right away. But twenty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You barely managed to drag yourself over, your vision swimming slightly as you opened it.
And there he was.
Looking the same as always—messy white hair, sharp blue eyes, hoodie slung over his frame like he’d just rolled out of bed.
The only difference? The way his expression immediately dropped the second he saw you.
“Shit,” he muttered. “You look awful.”
You groaned, stepping aside to let him in. “Thanks for the confidence boost.” He kicked off his shoes, setting his bag down before eyeing you carefully. “Have you been drinking water? Eating enough? D’you eat somethin’ you weren’t meant to eat?”
You rolled your eyes. “How am I supposed to know, I just woke up sick as hell.”
Instead of a snarky remark, Satoru just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, before you could protest, he was guiding you toward the bed, nudging you to sit.
“You’re not working like this,” he said firmly. “Lie down.”
“I’m fine—”
“Lie down.”
You hesitated.
This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the version of Satoru you had gotten used to in the past year. The one who was always a little distant, a little out of reach. This was… him.
The Satoru you had known since childhood. The one who always knew when you were exhausted, even when you swore you weren’t. The one who used to push his fries onto your plate when you were too stressed to eat.
The one who, for the first time in months, was looking at you like you were still his best friend. So, slowly, you lay back down.
Satoru exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get you some tea or something. You have any?” You nodded weakly. He moved toward your desk, rummaging through your stash of instant tea packets like he had done it a million times before.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was familiar.
Safe.
And even though you felt like death warmed over, for the first time in months, you didn’t feel so alone.
—
From that day on, something shifted.
It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t dramatic, but it was there—a quiet, almost imperceptible change in the way things were between you and Satoru. The library, once the default meeting spot for your project sessions, was suddenly off the table. He stopped suggesting it altogether, and at first, you didn’t think much of it. But then, one afternoon, he showed up at your dorm unannounced, arms loaded with snacks and a careless shrug when you stared at him, bewildered.
“Library’s too loud,” he said, brushing past you and stepping inside like he owned the place. “Figured we’d get more done here.”
You didn’t question it. Not then, and not a week later when you found yourself in his dorm instead, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he scrolled through research notes on his laptop.
“Library’s too crowded,” he explained that time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
After that, it just became… routine. Your project meetings moved from the library to your dorms, back and forth, as if by some unspoken agreement. The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible, but it was there. You still weren’t quite friends again—not the way you used to be, back when everything was easy and uncomplicated. There was still a careful distance between you, an unspoken awareness of all the time that had been lost, all the moments that had slipped through your fingers. But things weren’t cold anymore. They weren’t distant.
Satoru filled the quiet moments with mindless chatter, the way he always had. He teased you about your typos, stole your pens when you weren’t looking, and groaned dramatically whenever you made him do too much reading. Slowly, bit by bit, the pieces of your friendship started falling back into place. Not completely. Not yet. But enough that sometimes, when the two of you were laughing over something stupid, it almost felt like the past year had never happened.
Then, one day, everything cracked open.
It was late—much later than usual—and the two of you were sitting in his dorm, textbooks and notebooks sprawled across his desk. You were both exhausted, the kind of tired that made your eyes burn and your thoughts sluggish. Satoru was absentmindedly flipping through one of your old notebooks when he suddenly snorted.
“Oh my God.”
You blinked up at him, too tired to muster more than a mumbled, “What?”
He turned the notebook toward you, pointing at a messy doodle in the margin. It was a Digimon—a rough, scribbled outline that barely resembled anything recognizable. But something about it made him grin, leaning back in his chair like he’d just uncovered a hidden treasure.
“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Feels like a whole different lifetime ago.”
And then, in a voice so casual, so familiar, he added—
“Remember when we made a whole ass PowerPoint ranking every Digimon evolution?”
That was it.
That was what broke you.
It was so stupid—just a random memory, an offhand remark. But the second he said it, something in your chest twisted violently. You clenched your jaw, swallowing hard, telling yourself not to be dramatic. But then your vision blurred, and suddenly, you were crying.
“Oh—oh shit.”
Satoru’s chair scraped against the floor as he shot up, eyes wide with panic. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
You barely managed to shake your head, your hands gripping your knees as you tried to steady yourself. But the tears kept coming, and then—through the hiccups, through the pathetic, trembling gasps—you broke.
You clenched your jaw, trying to hold it together, but the tears spilled over anyway. Your chest heaved as you choked out the words, “I miss you. I—God, Satoru, I miss you.”
His face went slack, his usual confidence faltering as he stared at you, stunned. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, like he was trying to process what you’d just said. Then his voice came out quiet, almost fragile. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”
You shook your head, your hands gripping your knees so tightly your knuckles turned white. “No, you’re not. Not really. You’ve been… gone. For so long. And I—” Your voice broke, and you hated how weak you sounded, how raw and exposed you felt. “I don’t want to be without you anymore. I don’t—I don’t want you to hate me.”
Satoru’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw his composure crack. His eyes glistened, and he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to fight it, but a single tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, his voice trembling as he muttered, “You’re so fucking stupid. How could I ever hate you?”
You let out a shaky laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “I don’t know. You just—you stopped talking to me. You stopped needing me. And I thought… I thought you didn’t care anymore.”
He shook his head, his hands reaching out like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. “I care. I care so much it’s stupid. I just—” He paused, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to come back after everything. It felt like you were pushing me away.”
“You could’ve just— I don’t even know what to say,” you hiccuped, your voice barely audible. “You could’ve just… stayed. I don’t know— like yell at me, tell me that you care for me or something. I wish I wasn’t so stubborn about not speaking to you either, but god, maybe I just wanted you to like— tell me how much you needed me. Because it never felt like you did anymore.”
Satoru’s face crumpled, and he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping like the weight of everything had finally caught up to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’d already ruined everything.”
You looked up at him, your vision blurred by tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just… I needed you. And you weren’t there. And really, it was my fault too, for not communicating—”
He cuts you off, his own tears falling freely now, though he didn’t seem to care. “I know. But I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to fix it. I— I should’ve been there for you more often because God, life without you is just so horrible, and I’ve been so horrible— ”
“You’re fixing it now,” you said, your voice trembling. “Just… don’t leave me again. Please.”
He let out a choked laugh, his hands finally reaching for you, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I won’t,” he murmured into your hair. “I won’t. I promise.”
You buried your face in his shirt, your hands clutching the fabric as you cried. His body shook against yours, and you realized he was crying too—quietly, almost like he was trying to hide it, but you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hands trembled as they held you.
“I missed you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Every fucking day. I just didn’t know how to say it.”
You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, because the weight of everything—the months of silence, the distance, the ache of missing him—was finally crashing down on you. But for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t a bad kind of crash. It was relief. It was the feeling of something broken finally starting to heal.
Satoru’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice firm despite the tears. “Not again. Not ever.”
You nodded against his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”
It took a long time for the tears to stop, for the sobs to quiet into shaky breaths. But even when they did, neither of you moved. Satoru kept holding you, his arms tight around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. You felt like you were home.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and puffy, but he was smiling—a small, tentative smile that made your chest ache in the best way. “You’re stuck with me now, like y’know, the annoying kid who’d follow you around as kids,” he said, his voice soft. “Just so you know.”
You laughed, the sound watery but genuine. “Good. Because I miss that Satoru, and I’m not letting you go again either.”
He grinned, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Deal.”
And just like that, something shifted. The distance between you closed, the cracks in your friendship slowly mending. It wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was a start. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything was going to be okay.
—
After that night, Satoru made it a point to talk to you during class.
It was weird at first—uncomfortable, even. Because now, whenever he sat beside you, people stared. People whispered. But Satoru didn’t care. And after a while, neither did you.
Then, one day, it happened.
You were in the middle of a conversation when one of the girls from his usual group strolled up, her friends lingering just behind her.
“Dude,” she drawled, arms crossed. “We’re waiting for you.”
Satoru didn’t acknowledge her.
She huffed, looking at you for the first time.
“Who even are you?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Silence.
Then—calmly, lazily—Satoru turned to her.
“Fuck off.”
Her expression twisted. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said, resting his chin in his hand. “We’re talking.”
You swore you saw steam coming out of her ears.
She spun on her heel, storming off in a flurry of designer fabric, and Satoru just turned back to you like nothing had happened.
You blinked at him, stunned. “That was… aggressive.”
He shrugged. “Don’t like her.”
You snorted. “You used to hang out with her all the time.”
“Yeah, well.” He gave you a pointed look. “I was an idiot.”
And maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the certainty in his voice, the way he leaned in just a little closer like this—this—was what mattered.
But for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Something warm. Something steady. Something that told you, without a doubt—
Satoru Gojo wasn’t leaving you behind again.
—
It happened slowly.
At first, it was just the way things had been before. You and Satoru were best friends again—finally, properly—and you were making up for lost time.
You sat together in lectures. You ate together between classes. You spent hours holed up in each other’s dorms, either working in silence or complaining about whatever god-awful assignment was due next.
And it was good. It was easy.
But then—then—things started to shift.
It was subtle at first.
A hand brushing against yours for just a little too long. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in a too-crowded study session, his breath fanning over your ear as he leaned in, muttering something you could barely focus on.
The way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.
The way yours lingered, too.
—
It was a Friday night, and you were at Satoru’s dorm, lying on his bed while he sat at his desk, spinning lazily in his chair.
“I don’t wanna study,” he whined, stretching his arms over his head. “Let’s do something fun.”
You turned a page in your book, unimpressed. “And what exactly do you define as ‘fun’?”
“Dunno,” he mused. “Wanna go for a drive?”
You sighed. “Satoru, it’s almost midnight.”
“And?” He grinned, kicking his feet up onto his desk. “C’mon, live a little.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose. “You just don’t want to do your readings.”
“Obviously.” He snorted. “But also, I feel like getting snacks.”
You hesitated, torn.
Then, finally—
“Fine.”
His eyes lit up. “Knew you’d cave.”
You rolled your eyes, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before I change my mind.”
—
It was raining by the time you got to the convenience store.
Not heavily—just a light drizzle, enough to make the streets shimmer under the streetlights.
Satoru grabbed half the store’s supply of junk food while you rolled your eyes, paying for your single bottle of tea. Outside, the air was cool, the pavement slick beneath your feet.
“I’m driving,” you said as he dug through his bag of snacks.
“Nah.” He grinned, tossing a chip into his mouth. “I got this.”
You gave him a look. “You almost crashed last time.”
He scoffed. “That was a red light, not a crash.”
“You ran the red light.”
“Meow.”
You cringe, snatching the keys from his pocket. “Oh my god. Absolutely not.”
Satoru laughed but let you.
And for some reason, that made your stomach flip.
—
Back at your dorm, Satoru made himself at home—because of course he did.
He sprawled across your bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other mindlessly tossing a snack in the air and catching it with his mouth.
“You should be paying me rent at this point,” you muttered, shutting the door behind you.
“I would,” he said, grinning, “but I’m broke.”
You huffed, settling onto the bed beside him. “What, your trust fund isn’t enough?”
He smirked. “Nah, gotta save that for important things.”
You rolled your eyes. “Right. Like overpriced sunglasses.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head, reaching for the remote.
And then—a shift.
Satoru turned his head to look at you, and when you met his gaze, something in his expression softened.
“Hey,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “Hey.”
He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Your breath hitched.
His fingers lingered at your temple, just for a moment. His touch was warm, featherlight.
You exhaled, heartbeat stuttering.
And then—just as quickly—he pulled back, flopping onto his back with a dramatic groan.
“What should we watch?” he asked, stretching like nothing had happened.
You exhaled.
Your chest felt tight.
“Uh.” You cleared your throat. “Dunno.”
And just like that, the moment passed.
—
But the tension didn’t. If anything, it only got worse.
It was in the way his hand brushed your waist when he reached past you.
The way he sat just a little too close, his knee knocking against yours under the desk.
The way his fingers trailed across your wrist when he grabbed something from you, his touch slow, deliberate.
And—God—it was in the way he looked at you.
Like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out.
Like he was waiting for something.
Like he wanted something.
And maybe—just maybe—so did you.
—
By the time second year rolled around, you weren’t sure what you and Satoru were anymore. Still best friends, technically. Still Satoru and you. But there was something else, too.
Something unspoken.
Something fragile and complicated and new. And neither of you dared to acknowledge it.
—
The weather had started to change, the air cooler as autumn crept in. You could feel it in your bones—when the days shortened, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows. It made everything seem a little softer, like the world had gone quiet just to give you and Satoru a chance to breathe, to figure things out.
You were both sitting in the small, somewhat neglected corner of the university park, surrounded by towering trees with golden leaves fluttering to the ground. You were both on the grass, sitting close enough that your shoulders brushed whenever you shifted. It was the kind of quiet afternoon you could’ve stayed in forever, and maybe that was why you weren’t quite ready to let it end.
Satoru stretched, his arms reaching high above his head. “Ugh, my back’s killing me. Who knew studying could be so physically demanding?” He rolled his shoulders, groaning dramatically.
You shot him a sidelong glance, your lips curling into a smile despite yourself. “I think that’s just you, Satoru. You’re a professional at making everything harder than it is.”
He shot you a grin, a smug little thing, like he knew you couldn’t resist teasing him back. “Oh, please, I make things look easy. It's a gift.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the great Satoru Gojo.”
He raised an eyebrow at that, catching the teasing tone in your voice. “That’s right. You should be honored to sit next to greatness.” He nudged your shoulder with his, the warmth of his body spilling into yours. The touch was light but undeniable. Familiar.
You chuckled, nudging him back. “I don’t know if I’d call you ‘great’ when you still lose to me in Mario Kart every time.”
Satoru gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d just struck a mortal wound. “You—I’m just going easy on you because I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m a gentleman like that.”
You could hear the playful teasing in his voice, but the way he looked at you—his eyes crinkling at the corners with that boyish grin—felt like something deeper.
“I don’t need you to go easy on me,” you teased, leaning in just a bit too much, your voice soft. “I’m pretty good on my own, thanks.”
That was when you noticed it—the way his eyes flickered for a second, his lips curving down ever so slightly before he caught himself. His gaze held yours for a second longer than normal, and for the first time in a while, you both just stayed there. Not a word. No jokes or banter. Just the space between you thick with unspoken things.
Satoru was the first to look away, clearing his throat. “Anyway, want me to go grab us something from that little café over there? You could use some food if you’re gonna keep up with me.”
You hesitated. He’s back to that again. The Satoru who was always making sure you were fed, always thinking ahead for both of you, even when he had to act like nothing was different.
But you didn’t want to ruin the moment, not now. Not when everything felt right.
“No, I’m good,” you said softly, shaking your head. “But... thanks.”
Satoru studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, before he dropped his shoulders with a sigh. “I swear, you’re impossible.” But even as he said it, his hand reached out—just a quick pat of his large hand atop yours. The briefest of contact, and for a moment, the world paused around you.
The warmth of his hand lingered even after it was gone, and you could feel your chest tightening, your pulse picking up. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
And for the rest of the afternoon, you stayed like that. Silent. Comfortable in the space between you, letting the quiet be enough. But you both knew it wasn’t just the park that made the air heavy—it was everything unsaid that clung to it.
Eventually, the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the grass. You sighed, looking up at Satoru. “We should probably get back soon. It’s getting late.”
He glanced at his phone, then at you, and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.” He paused. “Hey, you want to walk with me to my dorm? I’m not ready to head back alone yet.”
It wasn’t even a question, not really. But you could feel his eyes on you, like he was waiting for your answer to matter just as much as the offer itself.
You nodded, and the tension between you both lifted just a little as you both stood, stretching out the stiffness in your legs. “Sure, let’s go.”
As you and Satoru walked side by side, the night air crisp and cool against your skin, the silence between you felt heavier than before. It wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite. It was charged, like something waiting to tip over the edge. Every step you took together seemed to draw you closer, and you could feel the warmth of his body beside you, even in the chill of the evening.
You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, his hand brushed against yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away. The tips of his fingers grazed your knuckles—light, tentative. Like he was testing the waters. Like he was waiting for you to stop him.
But you didn’t.
You swallowed, trying to focus on the rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath your feet rather than the way your skin tingled where he touched you. It was such a small thing, barely even a touch, but it sent your heart skittering against your ribs. And when you finally dared to glance up at him, Satoru was already looking at you, his lips curled into something between amusement and something softer, something unreadable.
“What?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
Satoru tilted his head, his silver-white hair catching in the glow of the streetlights. “Nothing.”
A lie.
Because there was something—so much something—wrapped up in the way his eyes flickered over you, lingering for just a second too long on your lips before he looked ahead again.
The air between you felt tight, humming with something unsaid.
You were nearing his dorm now, the pathway growing quieter, fewer students passing by. It was just the two of you, footsteps slowing, the night pressing in close.
Satoru exhaled a slow breath, and then—without thinking, or maybe because he had been thinking about it too much—he reached out again. This time, his fingers laced through yours, not just a brush, not just an accident. A deliberate touch, a quiet declaration.
Your breath caught, and you felt him squeeze—just slightly, just enough.
“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure he should be asking.
You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. You?”
His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dunno,” he said, squeezing your fingers again. “You’re kind of distracting.”
Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your neck. “Oh, I’m distracting? That’s rich, coming from you.”
He huffed a laugh, the sound warm, teasing. “No, I mean it.” He stopped walking, tugging you gently by the hand so you turned to face him. “You ever notice how quiet things get when it’s just us?”
You blinked, your throat tightening. “Satoru—”
His free hand lifted, his fingertips barely skimming your jaw. He wasn’t quite touching, just there, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like he wasn’t sure if he should close the space between you.
And God, you wanted him to.
Your pulse pounded in your ears. It would be so easy. Just one step closer. Just one little push, and—
Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand falling away, his fingers untangling from yours. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Never mind,” he muttered, laughing under his breath like he was scolding himself. “Forget I said anything.”
Your fingers twitched at your sides, the absence of his touch making your skin feel cold.
“No,” you said, firmer than you expected. “I don’t want to.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide, startled. “You don’t?”
You took a breath, steeling yourself. “No.”
Satoru stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a low chuckle, he shook his head. “You really are impossible.”
And then, before you could overthink it, before you could talk yourself out of it—you stepped forward, pressing your palm against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. His breath hitched, his body going still under your touch.
The silence stretched again, thick and unyielding.
“Say it,” you whispered.
His hands hovered at your sides, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “Say what?”
You looked up at him, unflinching. “Whatever it is you’re holding back.”
Satoru exhaled, a sharp, unsteady thing. His hands finally settled on your waist, hesitant at first—then firmer, more certain. His fingers pressed into your hips, grounding himself in the feel of you.
And then, his voice—low, raw, real.
“I don’t want to be just your best friend anymore.”
Your breath caught.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The words hung between you, heavy and dangerous and everything.
Then, Satoru leaned in, his nose just barely brushing yours, his lips hovering so close. His breath was warm, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.
“I want more.”
And then, finally—finally—you closed the space between you.
The kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was hungry, desperate, like the both of you had been waiting too long to do this, like neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips crashed against yours, and you gasped against his mouth as he backed you up against the door of his dorm, hands gripping your waist tighter like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, feeling the heat of him seep into you. His body pressed against yours, and the air between you turned thick with something intoxicating, something impossible to stop now that it had started. The small, breathless noises you made against his mouth only seemed to push him further, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare skin, warm and firm and so much.
The door behind you dug into your back, and for a fleeting moment, a thought broke through the haze—what if someone sees us?
As if he could read your mind, Satoru groaned against your lips, impatient, and without breaking the kiss, he reached behind you, fumbling for the handle. The second the door swung open, he practically pulled you inside with him, kicking it shut before his lips were on yours again, urgent, demanding.
You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was guiding you backwards, hands never leaving your body, mouth never straying too far from yours. You stumbled together, his grip firm, his kisses growing deeper, hotter, more insistent as you moved through the dark room.
By the time you reached the bedroom, your pulse was a wild, unsteady thing, your skin burning under his touch.
His mouth was warm and soft against yours, kissing your lips like he was afraid you were gonna disappear. Using his strength to his advantage, he manhandled you into his lap on the bed, while he sat up against the headboard. His tongue prodded into your mouth experimentally, and when you obliged him entry, he swirled it around with yours before licking into the cavern of your mouth, tasting you as if you were one of those sickeningly sweet delicacies he enjoyed.
His hands roamed from your waist to your hips, to your thighs before stopping hesitantly over your ass, to which you dragged them down until he was squeezing and kneading the supple flesh with his hands, mouth slotted against yours.
You pulled back slightly, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. But Satoru didn’t let you go far. His hands were firm on your ass, keeping you anchored to him as his lips trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tilted your head to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair.
His mouth moved lower, pressing hot, lingering kisses along the column of your neck. Each touch of his lips against your skin felt like fire, and you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped your throat. His hands slid up your sides, his touch firm but gentle, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. One hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other cupped the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek.
“Satoru,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, but he didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he captured your lips again in a desperate, hungry kiss that left you dizzy. His tongue slid against yours, and you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance as the world around you seemed to fade away.
His hands roamed your body with a kind of urgency, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. One moment they were in your hair, the next sliding down your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, and you tugged at it impatiently, wanting—needing—to feel his skin against yours.
He broke the kiss long enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time. His hands found the hem of your top, and you lifted your arms without hesitation, letting him pull it off and discard it somewhere on the floor. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it did nothing to quell the heat building inside you.
Satoru’s hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over your ribs, brushing the underside of your breast under your bra. You arched into him, chasing the friction, desperate for more.
His mouth found yours again, urgent and unrelenting, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate stroke that left you breathless. He kissed you like he wanted to consume you, like he didn’t care about anything else but this—you.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven. Every kiss, every touch, every press of his hands left you dizzy, lost in the haze of heat and want.
And when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his lips swollen from kissing, you swore you’d never seen him look at anything the way he was looking at you now.
Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.
Both of your chests were heaving, your own shirt flung on the bed somewhere and Satoru’s completely off and forgotten somewhere on the floor. His hands were still settled on your waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over your heated skin. His head lolled back against the couch, a lazy, satisfied grin stretching across his lips.
“Damn,” he exhaled, voice slightly hoarse. “I think I saw the pearly gates for a second there.”
You scoffed, giving his shoulder a weak shove, while reaching for your shirt. “Dramatic.”
He only laughed, the sound bright and breathless. “I mean it, nerd. Who knew you had it in you?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers curling against his shoulders. “Satoru.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
His grin widened, but he obeyed—for all of two seconds. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he waggled his brows. “You know, we should really make this a regular thing. Like, for health purposes. I feel like I just did an entire cardio session.”
You smacked his arm. “Oh my god.”
He gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his bare chest. “See? That was uncalled for. Here I am, trying to improve my well-being, and you’re—”
“Satoru.” You fixed him with a look, but the corners of your lips twitched. He was impossible.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating under your fingertips. “Okay, okay, I’ll be good.” His grip on your waist tightened slightly, as if to ground himself—or maybe to keep you exactly where you were. “But… just so we’re clear, this isn’t, like, a one-time thing, right?”
You blinked, his sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. His usual playfulness was still there, but there was something else beneath it—something genuine, something careful.
You swallowed. “What do you mean?”
His gaze flickered over your face, searching. “I mean…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at you again. “I was serious, you know. About liking you. More than a friend.”
Your breath hitched. “You were?”
Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Obviously. You think I just let anyone straddle me and—”
You smacked his chest. “Can you not ruin the moment?”
He caught your wrist before you could pull away, lacing his fingers through yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter. “I was serious,” he repeated. “I am serious.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I like you, and I want to do this properly.”
Your heart thudded against your ribs. “Properly?”
He nodded, suddenly looking almost shy. “Like… an actual date. Multiple dates. Boyfriend privileges. All that cute shit.” His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “So, what do you say?”
Your stomach flipped, warmth spreading through your chest. “You’re actually asking me out?”
Satoru huffed a laugh. “Well, yeah. What, you thought I’d just kiss you senseless and leave you hanging?”
You bit your lip, pretending to think. “I dunno. You are kind of a menace.”
His brows shot up. “A menace?”
You giggled, and he groaned, tightening his grip on your waist. “Okay, that’s it, you’re legally required to say yes now.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile stretching across your lips. “Yes, Satoru. I’ll go out with you.”
His face lit up, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, arms wrapping fully around your waist. He shifted, rolling you onto the bed so he was hovering over you, his weight pressed deliciously against yours.
“Guess that makes you my girlfriend now,” he murmured against your lips. “Which means—” His fingers trailed down your side, teasing. “—I get unlimited make-out privileges.”
You huffed a laugh. “You’re so weird.”
“Would you like it if I said sex privileges too?”
“I’m gonna seriously hurt you—“
Satoru only smirked before cutting you off with another kiss.
—
A few months into dating Satoru, you realised three things.
One, he had absolutely no concept of personal space. If he was near you, he was touching you—whether it was throwing an arm over your shoulder, draping himself across your lap, or trapping you against a wall just to say hi like a complete menace.
Two, he was shamelessly, overwhelmingly, ridiculously obsessed with you. If he wasn’t texting you, he was calling. If he wasn’t calling, he was physically finding you. And if he couldn’t find you, he’d send a stupidly dramatic voice memo about how he was “perishing” without you.
And three, he was always teasing. Always testing his limits, pushing your buttons, flashing that damn smug grin whenever you got flustered.
Like right now.
“I think you should stay over.”
You blinked up at him from where you were curled up on his bed, wearing one of his hoodies that was way too big for you. “I am staying over.”
Satoru huffed, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. “No, I mean, like, actually stay over. Move in.”
You snorted. “Satoru.”
“What? I’m serious.” He nudged your knee with his own. “Just think about it. That trust fund has enough money— actually maybe more— for an apartment near college. We basically live together anyway.”
“Not even close.”
He scoffed. “Oh, please. You leave clothes here, you steal my hoodies—”
“They’re practically dresses on me.”
“—and you’re here more than you’re at your own place.”
“That’s a lie.”
Satoru gasped dramatically. “Oh, so I’m imagining you in my bed every night?”
Your face warmed, but you shot him a glare. “You’re exaggerating.”
He only grinned, scooting closer until your noses nearly brushed. “You love sleeping here,” he drawled. “You love my bed, you love my cuddles, you love this d—”
You smacked a hand over his mouth, but it barely muffled his muffled laughter.
“I swear to God, Satoru—”
Before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist and flipped you onto your back, caging you beneath him in one smooth motion. His weight was just enough to make your breath hitch, his silver lashes casting shadows over sharp blue eyes.
“You love me,” he finished, his voice dipping lower, teasing, smug.
Your stomach flipped.
“…Debatable,” you muttered.
Satoru barked out a laugh. “Debatable?” He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck as his hands slid under his hoodie, warm palms settling against your waist. “You’re literally in my bed wearing my clothes right now.”
Your breath stuttered as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just below your ear.
“Admit it,” he murmured. “You’re obsessed with me.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping his bare shoulders. “Satoru—”
“I mean, I don’t blame you.” He grinned against your skin, pressing another kiss, this one lower. “I am insanely hot.”
You groaned. “You ruin everything.”
Satoru laughed, bright and breathless, before rolling over, pulling you fully on top of him with ease. His hands never left your waist, fingertips dancing over your skin in slow, lazy patterns.
Then he suddenly reached behind him, grabbed something off the nightstand, and slid his glasses onto his face.
You blinked. “I thought you preferred contacts now?”
Satoru hummed, adjusting them slightly as he gazed up at you. “Yeah, but I dunno…” His lips curled into a small, lopsided smile. “You always liked me better in these, didn’t you?”
Your breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t wrong—there was something about the way his glasses framed his face, how they softened him just a little, made him look more like the Satoru you’d known before he became everyone else’s.
“…You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered.
His grin widened. “And yet, you’re still staring.”
You scoffed, reaching up to pluck them off his face, but he caught your wrist, tugging you down until your noses brushed.
“Admit it,” he murmured. “You like me better like this.”
Your heart pounded against your ribs.
“I like you anyway,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.
Something flickered in his eyes—something soft, something warm—before his grin turned teasing again. “Good,” he said, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. “Because I was gonna keep you here all night either way.”
You barely managed to mutter, “You’re so weird,” before he cut you off with another kiss.
i don't like this work at ALL lol but tbh i wrote this because i want to be wanted UGH hdhjsdh
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: Beneath the rain’s steady rhythm, you cross paths with a stranger, sharing an umbrella on a quiet, forested road. What begins as a fleeting act of kindness unfolds into an unexpected connection, leaving questions and longing lingering like the rain-soaked air. Will you meet again?
𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 — teacher!geto suguru x afab reader
𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜/𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜 — fluff, teacher au, polite and gentle Geto, shy reader, adorable reassuring dynamic, losts of blushing from reader, walking hand-in-hand, Suguru is a true gentleman, Satoru makes an brief appearance at the end.
𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 — 5,9 k
𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 — One of my favourite texts, I see the potential to write a part two, let me know what you think and if you like it c:
𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 — september - sparky deatcap
𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝
Rain had been falling in torrents since late afternoon, a warm deluge that soaked the earth and wrapped the air in the scent of wet leaves and damp soil. It was almost the end of summer, that fleeting stretch of warmth before the world cooled and grew crisp. You held onto the net of small purchases, pressing them close to your side.
Your sandals squelched against the wet asphalt, water seeping through with each step, though you hardly minded anymore. It was too late to avoid the inevitable, and there was a sort of childish thrill in the way the rain drenched you, despite the protection of your transparent umbrella.
The umbrella itself was a delicate thing, clear plastic that mirrored the drops of rain as they slid down its surface, catching the muted gray light of the cloudy sky. You tilted it slightly to better see the road ahead.
Around you, the world was hushed, softened by the rain. The desolate fields you had passed earlier were now behind you, the tall grass bending under the weight of the downpour. The trees of the forest loomed up ahead, dark and dense, the kind of green that seemed almost black when wet. Their leaves glittered with moisture, heavy with rain that dripped in a rhythmic patter to the forest floor.
Your village was still far off, a small cluster of houses tucked away from the busier parts of the world. It always felt like another century back there, with its narrow lanes and low stone walls.
Your friend had been kind enough to drop you off to work in the morning, but their day had gone another way, leaving you to make the journey home on foot. You didn’t mind too much; there was something oddly peaceful about being alone with the rain, even if your calves would ache by the time you made it back.
The forest stretched on, its canopy forming a natural tunnel that swallowed the sound of your footsteps. The air was warm, almost muggy, but the rain kept it fresh, a relief against your skin. You could hear the distant gurgle of a stream somewhere, the kind of noise that made you want to linger, to breathe it all in. But your arms were growing tired from carrying your bag of purchases, and you quickened your pace slightly, already looking forward to dry socks and tea.
Just ahead, a bus stop stood at the side of the road. It was a modest thing, little more than a metal frame with a roof and a bench, its glass walls speckled with droplets that caught the light like tiny jewels. You recognized it immediately as one of the few stops along your route, though the buses never came often enough to rely on them.
From a distance, the figure standing under the shelter’s roof was striking - a tall man with long, raven-black hair, though one strand of hair spilled to the side, framing his face. He wore dark clothes that resembled some sort of uniform, their edges dampened by the rain, though he seemed largely unbothered by it, his sharp eyes focused on the phone he held in one hand.
Glow of the screen cast a faint light on his face, accentuating his features. He didn’t look up as you drew closer, too absorbed in whatever he was reading or typing.
You hesitated, unsure if you should tell him.
It felt like an awkward thing to point out - that the nearest bus wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. You knew this, of course - you’d lived here all your life, and the unreliable bus schedule was just part of the routine. But there was something about him, standing so composed in the rain, that made you reluctant to correct him. You didn’t want to come off as rude or condescending, even though he looked far too poised to be ruffled by something so trivial.
With slow, carefull steps, you moved closer, finally able to get a proper look at the stranger’s face. And then you stopped, caught entirely off guard.
He was beautiful - stunning, even.
His features were sharp but balanced, his skin pale against the wet strands of dark hair framing his face. There was an elegance about him, the kind you’d only ever read about in books, a kind of beauty that seemed out of place in a bus stop on a rainy day in the middle of nowhere.
Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you froze, suddenly unsure of yourself.
It wasn’t just admiration that stopped you - it was the feeling that he might notice. And he did. The stranger raised his gaze, meeting yours with piercing eyes that made your stomach flip.
You felt as though you’d been caught in the act of something, though you couldn’t quite say what.
"Excuse me…" you began, voice unsteady, the words slipping out before you could overthink them "From this stop, the next bus will leave in two hours."
You saw his expression change, face hardening for just a moment before he glanced at his phone. A flicker of realization crossed his features, followed by the subtle tightening of his jaw. You watched him absorb the information, weighing it in the way one might consider an unexpected puzzle piece.
"Which destination are you trying to go to, sir?" you asked tentatively, hoping to soften the atmosphere.
Calmly, the stranger made a slight shift in position. Then the most beautiful and melodious voice you ever heard reached your ears.
"I was supposed to have transport arranged..." he stated, tone both polite and precise "...but it didn’t show up. I’ve been walking this way for a while, trying to get to the nearest railway station." with a resigned smile, he looked out at the falling rain "For now, I’ll just wait until the rain lets up."
Okey, so no formalities.
You bit the inside of your cheek, a twinge of pity blooming in your chest. His tired eyes, or the strange comfort in his voice, either way, something compelled you to help him. You wavered, unsure if it was sympathy or his charisma that compelled your reaction.
Taking a small step forward, you hesitated again before speaking.
"I-I would give you my umbrella if I could.." you stammered, shyly "but… I could share it with you instead. I-if you’d like of course. I’m walking that way, anyway." your voice was almost drowned out by the rain, a nervous glance upward preceding your anxious wait for his reply.
The stranger’s eyebrow shot up in surprise, then a smile softened his features. It wasn’t just any smile - it was warm, affectionate, the kind that could melt away the weight of the rain.
"That’s very kind of you." he said gently, a sincere gratitude coloring his tone "But are you sure? I wouldn’t want to trouble you."
You nodded quickly, almost stumbling over your own reply "It’s not a problem at all."
Heat rose in your cheeks. Then, he approached.
"May I hold the umbrella?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with the kind of humor that made you feel at ease.
You blinked at him, caught off guard by his earnestness. Then, in a burst of nervous laughter, you blurted out "This isn’t some elaborate plan to steal it, is it?"
He chuckled in response, the sound rich and unhurried, with a warmth that made your heart skip "I promise you, I’m not that desperate. Though I must admit, it’s quite a fine umbrella."
You couldn’t help but laugh at that, a little more freely this time "All right." you said, handing it over "No running off with it, right?"
His smile widened, and he inclined his head in mock solemnity "You have my word."
As he took the umbrella from you, he glanced at the bag in your hand "That looks heavy." he said, his tone still gentle "May I carry it for you? It’s the least I can do."
You blinked, surprised by his offer "Y-you don’t have to." you said quickly, though the weight of the bag was starting to bite into your shoulder.
"I’d like to." he replied softly, his voice full of tact and patience. He met your gaze with an earnestness that left you speechless for a moment "Let me repay your kindness in some way."
Before you could overthink it, you handed him the bag, watching as he slung it over his shoulder with ease. He took the umbrella from your hand as well, holding it high enough to shield you both.
"Thank you." you murmured, feeling your cheeks flush again.
He smiled down at you, his presence at once intimidating and comforting "It’s the least I can do."
You fell into step beside him, careful to keep your hands close to your chest to avoid brushing against him by accident. The umbrella bobbed slightly as you walked, its surface dappled with countless raindrops that caught the dim light filtering through the trees.
His shoulder brushed yours occasionally, and each time, you felt a jolt of awareness that made you press your hands tighter together.
The rain continued its steady symphony, the forest growing deeper and darker around you. For a while, neither of you spoke, the quiet punctuated only by the soft rustle of leaves and the rhythmic tap of rain against the umbrella. Yet, despite the silence, the atmosphere felt warm, a shared sense of understanding hanging in the air.
The proximity of this stranger, his presence just inches from you, made your skin prickle. Your attempt to edge further away left your shoulder and arm exposed to the rain’s relentless assault, cold water trailing down your skin. You shivered involuntarily.
He noticed immediately. Without a word, he adjusted his stance, stepping slightly out from under the umbrella’s reach, allowing more rain to fall on himself. Then, with an effortless, almost graceful motion, he raised his elbow, lifting the umbrella higher in a silent gesture of encouragement. The movement was subtle but clear, his expression calm, his eyes soft as they flickered to you.
"Please, come closer." he said gently, his voice steady but filled with warmth "You’re getting soaked. That’s not good."
The simple suggestion caught you off guard. Your heart fluttered in your chest, a mix of embarrassment and warmth. You felt your cheeks begin to burn, a blush rising that had nothing to do with the summer rain.
"I-I’m fine!" you stammered, the words tumbling out unconvincingly "I don’t want to invade your personal space."
He tilted his head slightly, his long raven-black hair shifting with the movement. A polite smile curved his lips, one that carried both reassurance and a trace of quiet amusement.
"I wouldn’t ask if I minded." he said, his voice as soothing as the patter of rain around you "But I won’t push." slowly, he lowered his hand, letting the umbrella dip back to its previous position.
You hesitated, a tangle of emotions swirling inside you. Embarrassment, nervousness, and something softer - an inexplicable pull that made it hard to look away from him. His behavior was so composed, so gentlemanly. The way he moved, every gesture precise yet natural, left an impression. His politeness was disarming, his patience soothing, and yet his presence was almost overwhelming.
Your gaze flicked over him again, taking in the details you’d been too shy to linger on before.
His profile was sharp, his jawline defined, the curve of his lips soft and poised in a way that seemed almost practiced. His eyes, when they turned to glance at the rain-soaked path ahead, were striking - a light amber that seemed to hold a quiet intensity, like they noticed more than they let on. The line of his nose was elegant, his skin smooth and pale, save for the faint shadows under his eyes that hinted at sleepless nights.
He radiated a quiet confidence, the kind that didn’t demand attention but drew it effortlessly nonetheless. But also some kind of laziness, like some kind of easiness, that was calming and reassuring. His voice, when he spoke, was enveloping, each word seeming to hang in the air just a second longer than necessary. It was a voice you could listen to for hours, soothing yet alluring in a way that made your heart quicken.
You wondered if you should get closer. Your shoulder was getting more and more wet, which was an added encouragement to get closer to this absolutely handsome man.
It's just sharing one umbrella.
Finally, you exhaled softly, giving in to the pull you couldn’t quite resist.
With slow, uncertain steps, you moved closer, slipping your hand between his arm and his side. The warmth of his body was immediate, a stark contrast to the cool dampness of the rain. You felt the firm strength of his forearm beneath your fingers, the contours of muscle that you hadn’t expected but now couldn’t ignore.
Your fingers pressed lightly against his arm, and you bit your lip, heat spreading through your cheeks even more. It was impossible not to notice how solid he felt, how steady. You dared a glance up at him, hoping for some sort of reassurance, but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was focused ahead, his expression calm and unreadable, though there was a faint curve to his lips, almost as if he were holding back a smile.
The moment felt absurdly intimate, and your mind raced with thoughts you couldn’t quiet. The way he held the umbrella so steadily, the ease with which he carried your bag, the slight tilt of his head as he kept an eye on the path ahead - it all made you hyperaware of the closeness between you.
For a brief moment, you wondered if anyone passing by would mistake you for a couple. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat to your face.
Are you not dreaming too much?
His voice broke the silence after a moment, soft and steady "Comfortable?" he asked, glancing down at you briefly.
The question sent your heart racing again, though there was nothing teasing in his tone - just genuine care "Y-yeah." you managed, though your voice wavered slightly.
His eyes softened, and the faintest trace of a smile touched his lips "Good." he said simply, his gaze returning to the path.
Walking like this, hand in hand with this beautiful stranger, felt surreal. You tried to focus on the rain, the trees, anything other than the growing warmth in your chest. But it was impossible not to notice every detail - the curve of his lips when he smiled, the faint sparkle of raindrops caught in his dark hair, the steadiness of his voice whenever he spoke. It all left you feeling utterly unmoored, caught in a moment that was both ordinary and extraordinary, with no idea where it might lead.
The rain continued to fall in soft, persistent waves, the sound of it soothing as it mingled with the rhythmic crunch of your footsteps on the wet gravel path.
"Are you coming back from work?" he asked, the words floating gently between you.
Your thoughts snagged on the word, circling back to the weight of your day. The rain, the walk, the shopping - it had been such a long day that the details of work already felt distant, blurred by the rhythm of the journey home.
Noticing your brief silence, the stranger glanced at you, his expression open and polite "Ah - was that too personal?" he asked, his tone softening with genuine consideration "I didn’t mean to pry."
You shook your head quickly, flustered by his tactfulness "No, not at all." you reassured him, your voice a little breathy as you hurried to fill the space "I was just…thinking. Yes, I’m coming back from work."
He nodded slightly, a faint, encouraging smile tugging at his lips. Something about his attentiveness made it easy to keep talking, so you did.
"I work at the local library." you said, your voice growing steadier as the words tumbled out "I run classes with the kids from the nearby school sometimes. You know, little activities - arts and crafts, storytelling, that sort of thing." you smiled faintly at the thought, picturing the chaos of sticky fingers and mismatched crayons that usually accompanied your sessions "I also run an art club there, and…sometimes I help a friend in his flower shop. It’s not really a job, just something I do to help out."
He tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes watching you with quiet curiosity as you spoke. When you finished, he nodded again, as if considering your words carefully before speaking.
"That sounds fulfilling." he said finally, his voice carrying a note of admiration "You must be good with children."
You laughed softly "H-hah.. Well.. They can be a handful, but…yes, I like it. It’s nice to see their creativity come alive. I guess you get used to the chaos after a while."
His smile deepened slightly, and you caught the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes "I can imagine." he said.
Wanting to turn the attention away from yourself, you hesitated for only a moment before asking "What about you? Where do you work?"
He smiled again, this time with a touch more ease "I’m a teacher!" he said simply "I work with teenagers in high school. My friend and I - someone I’ve known since my school years - we both teach there."
The way he said it, with just the faintest trace of fondness, made you smile too. There was something reassuring about the way he spoke of his friend, a subtle warmth that hinted at years of trust and shared experiences. It made him seem…steadfast.
You glanced up at him shyly "Do you like it? Teaching, I mean."
His answer came without hesitation, his voice soft yet certain "It’s difficult." he admitted, a thoughtful look crossing his face "Teenagers require a lot of attention, and…a lot of patience." he glanced at you briefly, the faintest curve of his lips returning "You probably know what I mean. You work with children too."
You nodded, returning his smile "I do, but…I think teenagers would be a whole different challenge."
"They are." he said with a light chuckle, his deep voice carrying the faintest note of weariness. Then, as if to counter it, he added "But I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. It’s not always easy, but…it feels right. Like I’m where I’m supposed to be."
His words struck you in a way you hadn’t expected. There was something deeply genuine about the way he spoke, an unshakable confidence in his choice of work. It made you pause, your gaze lingering on him as your thoughts wandered.
You studied him quietly for a moment, considering his features again with fresh perspective. His composure, the way he carried himself, the gentle tact in his words - it all seemed to fit perfectly with the image of a teacher. You could picture him in a classroom, standing before rows of students, his sharp eyes softening as he patiently explained something. His presence, so calm yet commanding, seemed tailor-made for guiding others.
You realized you were staring and quickly looked away "You seem…well, like you’re made for it." you said quietly, hoping the compliment didn’t sound too forward.
He glanced at you, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before his smile softened.
"That’s kind of you to say." he murmured, his voice as warm and steady as ever.
But... there was curiosity in your head.
You wanted to ask what he was doing here, in a small town that offers little except rural peace and quiet. You didn't know what he could even do here. However, you didn't want to be nosy, so you sidestepped the question, leaving silence.
Perhaps he was visiting someone or had an errand to run here?
The dark embrace of the forest began to loosen its grip as you emerged into a wide clearing, where the rain seemed to soften just a little. The shift was almost imperceptible at first, but with each step, the oppressive weight of the dense trees gave way to the open expanse ahead.
Fields stretched out on either side of the path, their crops swaying slightly in the breeze. Droplets bounced off the umbrella with a little more delicacy.
The silence between you and the stranger was not awkward but companionable, like the quiet that comes with a shared understanding. The air felt fresh, cleansed by the rain, carrying with it the faint earthy scent of wet soil and the sweetness of grass. You let your gaze wander over the scenery, taking in the rolling hills in the distance, dotted with clusters of trees and lined with distant hedges. The outline of your small town was barely visible ahead, its railway station like a speck on the horizon, still far off but reassuring in its presence.
The stranger’s voice broke the silence, low and calm "It’s beautiful here." he said, his tone soft, almost contemplative "Fields like this, the hills… It’s peaceful."
You turned your head slightly, catching the way his eyes lingered on the landscape, his expression relaxed but thoughtful. There was something about the way he spoke - simple, understated - that made you feel the weight of his words. His appreciation for the scene seemed genuine, unhurried, and you found yourself smiling without thinking.
"It is." you agreed quietly, glancing out at the fields "You don’t really notice it sometimes, not when you see it every day." he hummed softly in response, a thoughtful sound that didn’t demand more words.
Without realizing when or how, you found yourself speaking again, your voice spilling into the stillness as easily as water flowing over stones. You talked about your friend from the flower shop, recounting little quirks and habits that made you laugh. You shared snippets of life in your small town, anecdotes about the library and the children who always managed to surprise you with their boundless creativity.
He listened attentively, nodding occasionally, his faint smile encouraging you to continue. At one point, you glanced up at him and noticed the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes softened as he listened, as though he was genuinely invested in every word you said. The realization made you feel oddly self-assured, your initial shyness melting away as the conversation grew.
Eventually, you turned the question back to him, asking about his life, curious about what kind of life this composed, enigmatic stranger led.
"I teach in Tokyo." he said, his voice carrying a faint note of wistfulness "It’s…different. Busier, louder. There’s always something happening, but it’s not without its charm."
You say that most of your friends moved to the city after graduation.
So he went on to talk about his friend, the one he had mentioned earlier.
"He’s…energetic." he said with a small chuckle "And very teasing. Honestly, he’s the best person I’ve ever met, but don’t tell him I said that - he’d never let me live it down."
You laughed at that, charmed by the small glimpse of his life.
He shared a few anecdotes about their time teaching together, little moments of chaos or hilarity that had unfolded in the classroom. The way he spoke about his students and his work confirmed what you had already suspected - he was dedicated, thoughtful, and quietly passionate about what he did.
In return, you found yourself sharing even more stories from your own life. You recounted small, funny moments - like the time you had accidentally herded a neighbor's chickens into your yard, thinking they were lost, only to have the neighbor laugh and tease you for trying to "adopt" them. Or the summer afternoon when you and a group of friends decided to build a raft out of old planks and rope to sail across the pond, only to have it sink halfway through, leaving everyone soaked and laughing.
You both laughed easily, the sound mingling with the rain as it continued to fall lightly around you. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like a stream winding its way through familiar terrain. His presence, which had initially been a little intimidating, now felt warm and grounding, like a steady current guiding you forward.
At one point, you ventured to ask if he had a family, expecting perhaps a brief mention of siblings or a spouse. Instead, what he shared left you momentarily speechless.
"I have two daughters" he said suddenly, his voice soft and contemplative.
You blinked, caught off guard "You…you have kids?" the surprise evident in your voice. He looks quite young.
He nodded, glancing at you briefly before his gaze returned to the path ahead "They’re both in their teens now. I adopted them when I was just a little older than they are now - barely finished with school myself. They didn’t have anyone else... and I couldn’t imagine leaving them to fend for themselves."
The revelation left you momentarily speechless. You turned to look at him, truly look at him, as if the weight of what he’d just said needed a second to settle.
"That’s…incredible." you finally managed, your voice quieter than before, in awe "I can’t even imagine taking on that kind of responsibility at such a young age. You must have sacrificed so much."
He offered you a faint smile, one tinged with a mixture of humility and pride "It wasn’t easy." he admitted "But they’re everything to me. They’ve shaped my life in ways I can’t even begin to explain."
You couldn’t help but picture it - this tall, composed man stepping into a role that most would shy away from, shaping not just his own future but that of two young lives. It was admirable, truly.
"What are they like?"
He smiled again, this time with a warmth that softened his sharp features "Oh, they’re full of life, though very different from each other. One’s quieter, more reflective - she is very fond of plushies and all similar crafts using yarn. The other is…well, let’s just say she keeps me on my toes. She’s fearless in a way I never was. She loves photography and good food."
You simply nodded.
"I think they would enjoy your art classes. The way you talk about it makes me want to visit it myself." he added after a moment.
"You think so?" you asked with shiny eyes.
He nodded with a tender smile "Absolutely. They love anything that lets them express themselves. Art, storytelling… They’re always asking questions, wanting to understand more about the world. I think they’d have enjoyed listening to you. You have that…spark."
The compliment made your cheeks warm, and you quickly glanced away, focusing instead on the sights around you.
The conversation shifted naturally to other topics. You spoke about the world, exchanging thoughts about the small joys and challenges of everyday life. You found yourself opening up more, sharing little pieces of your own mind and heart.
As the rain finally stopped, he closed the umbrella with a soft click, holding it casually at his side. You expected him to move away then, to reclaim the space between you, but instead, he stayed close. His hand remained loosely linked with yours, his warmth still a steady presence beside you.
The world around you seemed to exhale, the fields and trees glistening with a fresh sheen as the last droplets clung to leaves and blades of grass. The sky above remained a soft, pale gray, the kind of color that hinted at the sun’s return but didn’t quite promise it yet.
With each step, the railway station came closer into view, its outline growing sharper against the backdrop of the hills. But the approaching destination only made you more aware of the fleetingness of the moment. You felt a pang of something you couldn’t quite name, a mix of gratitude and reluctance, as though part of you wanted to stay in this quiet, rain-kissed world just a little longer.
The train station finally came into view, small and modest, with its quaint stop marked by a weathered sign bearing the name of the town.
Just beyond, on one of the intersecting streets, you noticed a sleek black car with tinted windows. It stood out starkly against the quaint, rural charm of the area.
Leaning casually against the side of the car was a tall man - even taller than the stranger next to you, but dressed in a similar uniform. What immediately drew your attention, however, was his unmistakable shock white hair and a black blindfold wrapped around his eyes. His presence was striking, almost aloof, despite the relaxed posture and the wide grin that spread across his face.
"Yo, Suguru!" the white-haired man called out, his voice carrying easily over the distance. His grin widened, impossibly cheeky, as though he found the entire situation endlessly amusing.
Suguru.
So this stranger’s name was Suguru. You repeated it silently to yourself, letting the name settle in your mind. It suited him somehow, elegant and distinct, much like the man himself.
You hadn’t asked, too shy to break the natural flow of conversation earlier, the name rolled around in your mind, attaching itself to the face you had grown so familiar with over the past hour.
As you neared, you hesitated slightly, loosening your hand from his and stepping away to give him space. Suguru’s warmth lingered for a moment before the cool air slipped between you, a quiet reminder that your paths were about to diverge. He stepped forward to meet the white-haired man, who straightened from his casual lean, revealing that he was indeed taller than Suguru by a noticeable margin.
The two men greeted each other with an ease that spoke of years of familiarity. The white-haired man’s smile remained fixed as he raised a brow.
"What took you so long?” he teased, his tone light but carrying an edge of mischief.
Suguru’s expression remained calm, though you caught the faintest flicker of irritation in his eyes "You left me." he said simply, his voice steady but firm "You were supposed to wait."
The white-haired man shrugged nonchalantly, clearly unbothered "I figured you could handle it." he said, waving a hand dismissively "In the meantime I bought some souvenirs!"
Then his grin returned, sharp and teasing "Besides, looks like you found yourself a companion."
At that, Suguru glanced over his shoulder at you, and for a moment, his amber eyes softened. He stepped back toward you, handing over your shopping bag and umbrella with both hands, his movements deliberate and courteous.
"Thank you." he said, his voice kind and sincere, with just a hint of warmth. He bowed slightly, a gesture that felt both formal and personal "For your time, your help, and your kindness."
You felt a flicker of embarrassment under his gaze but managed a small smile in return "I’m glad I could help." you said honestly "And…that you found your transport."
Suguru reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small card, holding it out to you. You accepted it hesitantly, your fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. Glancing down, you read the text printed neatly on the card.
Geto Suguru
Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School
(There was a phone number printed underneath.)
"If you’d like to talk..." Suguru said softly, his tone measured but kind "...or if you see something…unusual, don’t hesitate to call."
Your heart fluttered slightly. His words lingered in the air, their meaning layered with a subtle weight that you couldn’t quite place.
You nodded slowly, your thumb brushing over the edge of the card "Thank you." you said, your voice a little quieter now, tinged with a shy kind of gratitude.
The white-haired man let out an exaggerated grunt from behind Suguru, clearly impatient "Alright, alright, we’re on a schedule here, Suguru! Let’s go!" his voice was teasing, but there was an underlying firmness that suggested he meant it.
Suguru glanced over his shoulder at him, then back at you "Goodbye." he said, bowing slightly once more.
You returned the gesture, bowing politely before straightening up and giving him a small wave "Goodbye." you said softly.
As you turned away, your steps taking you toward the village path, the rain-soaked world around you seemed to glow. The thick gray clouds began to part, their edges gilded by the first rays of sunlight breaking through. The golden light spilled across the fields, painting the wet grass and the distant rooftops with a soft shimmer. You adjusted your shopping bag and umbrella, your figure gradually retreating into the peaceful scenery.
You felt happy and excited to have another conversation with him someday.
Behind you, Suguru watched silently. His soft eyes lingered on your silhouette, his expression unreadable but calm, as if committing the sight to memory. The way you walked - unhurried but purposeful, your damp hair catching the faint glimmer of sunlight - held his attention in a way he didn’t fully understand. There was something quietly remarkable about the moment, about you, and for a fleeting second, he almost considered calling out to you again.
Almost.
From beside him, Satoru nudged him playfully in the ribs, his usual grin tugging at his lips "You’re staring~" he teased, his tone both amused and pointed "Should I be worried? Or are you just enjoying the view?"
Suguru didn’t glance away immediately, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched you take another step into the sunlit clearing.
"Just appreciating kindness." he replied, his voice calm but tinged with something softer, almost thoughtful. Then, with a flicker of amusement in his own tone, he added "And a view like that deserves a moment, doesn’t it?"
Satoru let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes behind his blindfold "You’re such a romantic, Suguru. Just don’t go writing poetry about this later, alright?"
Suguru chuckled lightly, finally turning toward the car "Not everything needs words, Satoru." he said, his tone warm with a trace of amusement "Some things just stay with you."
Satoru tilted his head, his grin widening as he opened the car door "Alright, philosopher. Let’s go before I turn into a sap too."
Suguru gave one last glance in your direction, his gaze lingering for a second longer than he intended, before stepping into the car.
As the car rolled away, Suguru found his gaze lingering on the path where you had disappeared, his thoughts quiet but persistent. He wondered, just briefly, what might have happened if he’d stayed a little longer - if there’d been more time to talk, to walk beside you under the clearing sky.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, as he told himself, almost absently, that this wasn’t the last time he’d see you.
satoru gojo┊teachers!au OF LOVE & LESSON (PLANS) ⭑ masterlist
PAIRING. ── teachers au, physics!gojo x english!reader
⭑ ─ everyone thinks you must be in love with gojo. you would rather set the whole school on fire then prove them right.
SERIES SYNOPSIS. ⭑ you’ve spent years teaching english at jujutsu high across the hall from your most unbearable coworker—physics teacher satoru gojo—enduring his smug grins, loud lectures, and endless interruptions. but after a messy breakup with your high school sweetheart, the school rumor mill decides you and gojo must be secretly dating—because apparently all that yelling and eye-rolling counts as foreplay. suddenly, you’re stuck chaperoning events together, dodging nosy students and staff, and dealing with an ex who can’t mind his own business. but the worst part? gojo thinks it’s all hilarious, as you try not to get caught up in his own chaos…or your own feelings. the real question is: how long can you insist you hate him before everyone (and maybe even you) realizes you don’t?
TAGS. 18+, fem reader, teachers AU, modern au, nerd!gojo, the cast of jjk as teachers and students at a normal high school, workplace romance, forced proximity, rom com, sit com, opposites attract, slow burn, enemies to lovers, (kind of), workplace shennanigans, slice of life, lotsss of banter, friendships, fluff, humor, slight angst, mutual pining
WARNINGS. jealous ex bf! naoya, scenes of smoking cigarettes & drinking, nsfw, smut
STATUS. 1/11 (?) UPDATES BI-WEEKLY
WORD COUNT. 7.7k+
TAGLIST. OPEN! leave a comment on this post to be added, leave an “🍎” emoji in my inbox to be removed if your preferences change <3
SERIES TAGS. #of love & lesson (plans)
⋆˚꩜｡☆˖ ao3. playlist.
art twt/@su2kuna. twt/@aliyartss. twt/@6enasiass. divider by @cafekitsune.
CHAPTERS. ⭑
chapter 1 ⟶ for jane austen
EXTRAS. ⭑
mae's note. ⭑ HIII, i'm so excited to start this fic and to start posting more on tumblr <3 i've been a silent reader for so long but i've decided to take the scary leap into posting my writing (as a full fic) and i hope that there's an audience out there who will have as much fun on this journey as i willlll. i wanted to dedicate this entire fic to @celestie0 who writes a gojo x reader series called "in holy matriphony" which is honestly what inspired me to start writing again. ( the dynamics in this fic between gojo and reader were really inspired by my love for that series!! ) she's an incredible and hilarious writer!!
