I feel like everyone talks about how sexy, attractive and sassy Rouge is (nothing wrong with that), but it makes me sad that so many ONLY pay attention to her body , Rouge is my favorite female character in the franchise because she's smart,caring in her own way,an exceptional spy and double agent,exceptional fighter,funny, supportive and not afraid to be herself (among other things i could list) , but the thing that always made her stand out for me is how incredibly CUTE she is, specially when she gets exited about shiny things,she's effortlessly cute despite her "purpose" to be flirty and femme fatale
I adore when she's drawn with softer shades of pink and purple,she's adorable
While I think it's important to respect her anatomy,and that there's nothing wrong with having curvy female characters in the franchise, and despising how she's been treated recently, I also think we can appreciate other traits of her character that aren't brought up as often,she can be just as cute as Amy or any other girl in the group,and I think that's cool
౨ৎ experienced!sukuna x virgin f!reader
[adult boutique au] - ongoing series
❝ chasing your dreams isn't all it's cracked up to be. your apartment shakes when the train passes and eating a scoop of peanut butter and calling it girl dinner is getting depressing. when you finally manage to land a job at a store that sells sex toys, it's possibly the biggest relief of your life. there's just one issue:
you're a virgin.
you don't know the first thing about toys and you don't want your cute and flirty white-haired co-worker to know. against your better judgement, you find yourself turning to your other co-worker for lessons and learn the hard way he's just as much of an asshole in bed as he is at work. ❞
౨ৎ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. fwb but you aren't friends. slow burn romance/fast burn smut. sukuna is 23ish, reader is 24/25ish. reader is sexually reserved but confident, nerdy, and a band geek. arrogant!sukuna. mild love triangle with gojo. dom!sukuna. mild corruption. size difference. sex toys & explorations of safety in kinks. destigmatization of virginity & sex. smut & piv. virginity loss. see masterlist for full cw.
౨ৎ wc ; 11.1k.
౨ৎ art ; ackshuallyvalerie
main masterlist || series masterlist || ⪡ prev || next ⪢
The door rattles on its hinges as the smell of approaching rain floods the shop’s interior. You can’t be sure whether the wind or Sukuna’s hand carries the door hard enough to slam on its hinges, his expression untelling. Little has changed since you asked him to be whatever the hell you are now two days ago, but you have noticed one thing, as small as it is.
His gaze lingers on you.
Not in the kind of way one might hope. You get the feeling that in spite of the fact that he’s still mildly inconvenienced by you, you equally surprised him. It’s as though he thought he had you figured out and now he’s trying to understand what he missed where once he was sure he had you read back to front like an open book.
It’s unnerving. The flapping of wings in the pit of your stomach is exchanged for a more ill-seated churning when Satoru leaves and Sukuna takes his place. Yesterday when you didn’t have the gumption to ask how the hell this arrangement was meant to work, you might have called it nerves, but by only day two, it’s just frustrating.
The brute glances up from whoever he’s texting, visibly fiddling with his lip ring that shifts each time his jaw ticks.
You meet his gaze from behind your phone, dropping the device from your gaze when he doesn’t waiver.
“Do you mind?”
His head tilts an inch, his chin raised just enough that his smirk feels condescending. “Not at all.”
You can’t decide whether you prefer Sukuna when the weather in his world is stormy or when it’s sunny and he’s amused. They’re a different brand of asshole.
“You know, asking you for help was pretty fucking hard to do in the first place,” you begin, frustrated with the theatrics of your co-worker. His brow cocks as you pin him in place with your words. “So I’d appreciate it if you stopped making me feel weird about it.”
His lips press into a thin line, any hint of amusement fading. “Look,” he begins with equal frustration. “I’m not trying to make you feel weird for asking for help. I don’t give a shit how you learn about what we sell, even if it’s because of Satoru. I told you that from the start. If you want someone’s instruction, whatever. That’s fine.” He pushes up off the counter, all six-foot-something of him towering over you. “You’re allowed to ask questions about sex, especially here. But you knew from the start what I’m like.”
The demeanor he carries himself with that gives you the sense he thinks he’s above not just you, but everyone, still simmers under his skin. You can see it in the way he carries himself, like that egotistical mindset never fades.
But you can’t be upset when he’s honest with you, and open too in the subject that makes your stomach flutter. His words aren’t comforting, but they settle your frustration and nerves. Something in the way he’s direct and has nothing to hide reminds you why you ever asked him in the first place.
Pushing his fingers back through his hair, he shakes his head. “Why not just tell Satoru you don’t have experience?”
Your shoulders rise and fall as you face him. “It’s not…” You sigh, your gaze falling. “Just about Satoru.”
“Then what’s it about? What’s getting to you so much that you asked me?”
Running your tongue over your lower lip, you worry it in between your teeth. When it takes you a moment too long to reply, Sukuna grunts questioningly again, pushing for an answer.
“I just…” you stall, scratching your shoulder. “I shouldn’t still be a virgin at this age, right?”
Somewhere under all of that snide overconfidence is a man who was raised right, in spite of all of his shortcomings and his belittling behaviour. His nose scrunches, his head shaking from side to side in short, disbelieving movements. “What? Who fucking cares, that’s your choice.” Then, something else dawns on him as he starts up again before you can answer. “Wait. You’re a virgin?”
“See, it does matter! And whether it’s Satoru, or any other guy, they’re just gonna think I’m a prude or something because I haven’t–”
Running a hand over the faint stubble along his chin, his jaw briefly hangs open as he listens to your retort. When you keep going, at last he interrupts. “No, it doesn’t matter.” He pauses, pinning you in place with adamance. “The reason I’m asking is because I want to make sure you actually want to do this shit with me,” he states plainly, no amount of teasing present in the serious gaze he fixes you with. “I’m not fucking around when it comes to boundaries and consent.”
As much as his condescension and total righteousness is frustrating, you can appreciate his ability to be serious when there’s a need. At least he has a couple of redeeming qualities under all of those layers of snide narcissism.
Shutting your eyes as you try to formulate an answer, you give a short shake of your head. “Look,” you sigh, waving a hand through the air as your lashes flutter. “I don’t know what possessed me to choose you,” you begin, earning a snide huff from the other party, “but I wanna do this. I’ve tried dating apps and things but I feel like it’s so hard to meet people organically and I finally found someone I really like, so I just don’t wanna mess things up with Satoru, okay?” Your shoulders hang as his expression remains largely unreadable.
Your closing remark has your co-worker dragging his hands down his face. When he finally drops them to his sides with a plop as they hit the denim of his jeans, he gives a haphazard shrug. “All this for that asshole,” he mutters. “Why start with an arrangement like this, anyway? Why not go to the bar if you’re so against dating apps? It’s not like some one night stand means anything either.”
You grimace. “I want someone I trust.”
He won’t admit it, but it’s humbling to a man like Sukuna. Not because he doesn’t think of himself as trustworthy, but because he’s given you no real reason to put so much of your trust in him. He’s been cruel from the start and only a few days ago was reminding you that no matter your deal, you aren’t friends.
He’s still for a long time, a genuine disgruntled frown unrelenting.
“Fine,” he gruffs at last. “For the record though, Satoru wouldn’t care that you’re a virgin. If he did, he’d be a piece of shit.”
If only your mind would wrap itself around that concept. Twenty some-odd years on an earth that treats virginity– particularly at your age– as taboo has taught you otherwise.
“Oddly insightful from you.”
Displeased as you throw snide commentary back at him, he takes another step forward. “No matter what you think of me, I wasn’t raised wrong.” His tone is low, almost dangerous, and you’re surprised when warmth spreads to the pit of your stomach. You’re grateful he’s already turned back to his laptop as you find yourself blinking at nothing in particular. “What did you want to try anyway? And you’re buying, FYI. This is for you, not me.”
You hum thoughtfully as you find yourself staring between the gaps in the shelves at the far end of the story. Your gaze briefly stops upon reaching the vibrators, which feels like a fairly low barrier of entry.
“A vibrator?” You query.
Sukuna, leaning over the counter on his elbows with his back facing you, rolls a muscle in his shoulder. “Sure.”
His lack of enthusiasm has you grimacing. “We get an employee discount, right?”
“Half-off.”
“That’s pretty good,” you comment in an attempt to make conversation as you slip out from the counter and walk to the wall to look over options.
He hums his agreement, typing as his eyes skim whatever project he’s working on.
Taking the hint, you let your attention drift back to the wall of silicone and plastic. Although there are a variety of different options, you’d made up your mind a while ago upon hearing Sukuna’s explanation.
With a small black bullet vibrator in a discreet box with a purple-blue gradient in-hand, you make your way back to the counter, setting it aside. Whether out of curiosity or a subconscious movement, Sukuna’s attention flips to you as he evaluates the box on the counter. He languidly shoots you a glance before you fall into nothing more than background noise for him once again. You don’t get much of an idea of his thoughts on your choice, if he has any.
And much like his silence on your choice, that’s how you spend the evening, aside from when he teaches you to close. Over the past month or so you’ve grown to find the dead air less and less uncomfortable and no longer feel the need to fill it. He still shoots you a disapproving side eye every time a customer asks a question that’s left to your anti-social co-worker because you can’t answer it, but it’s noticeably less harsh.
By, like, a fraction. He’s irritated still, but he’s not outright disappointed.
You call that a win.
You’re pretty sure your friends back home would call it sad.
But you can’t talk to Yuki or Choso about your arrangement with Sukuna anyway, so you suppose it’s not worth thinking too hard about it.
By the time you’re flipping the open sign and turning the lock on the door, Sukuna is ringing up the vibrator you chose, along with a bottle of something you didn’t add. He slides the payment terminal towards you as you make your way back. You don’t question his judgement upon finding the label to say toy cleaner. With your card in-hand, you find yourself hovering hesitantly over the payment terminal.
The question atop your tongue feels stupid.
“What?” Sukuna gruffs when you don’t speak your mind.
“Is this… a good choice?”
He sucks in a breath, measured. “It’s a fine first choice. It’s kinda cheap, but it’s a good starting point.”
“I know the quality and how long it’ll last would be affected, but does how cheap it is affect much beyond those two things?”
Another breath, but it’s equally measured. He picks up the box, his gaze darting across the lettering that covers it. “If it was your only toy, I’d say to invest in something better, but if we’re trying a lot, cheap is fine.” His mild expression seems to pick you apart when you’re faced with sanguine irises that flicker across your face. There’s the faintest hint of an upward quirk of his lips when he catches your pout.
“You never actually answered my question,” you mumble snarkily, snatching the box back from him.
No longer tempering his amusement, he shifts to the other foot with a full-blown smirk. “It’s a cheaper plastic or silicone. Less durable, the motor inside will give out quicker, and the battery won’t last as long. It’s louder than more expensive ones, too.” He glances at the box, a thoughtful narrow to his eyes. “It probably runs on watch batteries, which get expensive the more you go through.”
You recall him mentioning that to a customer, but given the circumstance, you suppose he’s right that it won’t matter. Nodding, you tap your card without another thought. He takes a bit of extra time to show you the remaining closing procedures which feels less like a courtesy and more like a curse given that you run on his clock at his will now, but you suppose a couple of extra hours won’t hurt here and there.
Even if you won’t be paid.
Shutting off the lights at the back, you make your way to the door where he waits. “So,” you start, digging through your bag for your keys, “my place is pretty noisy, should we–”
“Where do you live?”
“Oh, uh– I’m next to the station on third street.”
“Good. Meet me at the pub on the corner.”
You blink as he tosses you the store keys, barely managing to catch them in clumsy fingers. Before you can even protest, he’s already getting into the old but well-maintained black Honda across the street.
“O-kay,” you mutter to yourself, turning back to the door as you pull down the security shutter, locking both it and the glass door. His engine has already rumbled long into the distance by the time you finish fiddling with the old finicky locks and get in your beat-up vehicle. “You have to wait for me anyway, asshole.” Your muttering somehow feels better left for the world to hear rather than internalized.
The ride to the coffee shop has you once again replaying every life decision that brought you to this point in life. Maybe you should have given time to that guy who was trying to flirt with you in the library. Then again, you were studying for your final. Maybe you should have indulged the man who told you that you were pretty at a karaoke bar once. Well, no, he was creepy.
You’ve just been focusing on yourself and your fingers have done the trick anytime you were horny.
Not to mention, you can’t help but find that you don’t see yourself in porn and it doesn’t leave you feeling satisfied. That’s not even beginning to mention that much of what you found feels performative, which doesn’t cut it at an adult shop.
Though, that’s a lie too. Because at the end of the day although you are curious and this is something that you’re intrigued by given your environment lately, you’re equally hoping to impress Satoru.
Maybe Sukuna’s right that you should just tell him.
But that also feels like an uphill battle.
Stupid. This whole thing has you feeling like you’re overthinking everything and in an effort to stop thinking so damn much, you shut your car off and push into the pub.
Sukuna’s sitting in a booth at the back, already nursing a drink in one hand. His opposite arm is lazily strewn across the back of the booth, his gaze following you with that striking intensity that never fails to make your hair stand on end. Slipping in across from him, you watch as he leans back, completely at ease. As much as his arrogance can piss you off, his ability to remain calm and even puts out any fires your nerves threaten to stoke.
“Want anything?” He asks, jutting his chin towards the drink menu. Curiously, you flip to the first page before Sukuna’s hand comes down authoritatively, stopping you from browsing the menu he just offered. He flips to the back page confidently. “Non-alcoholic only.”
Fixing him with a scowl, you point towards his drink. “What are you drinking, then?”
He slides it an inch closer to you, an offer to test him. “Non-alcoholic IPA.” He lifts his hand from the menu, finally allowing you to browse your options as he leans back again. “We have rules to go over. Need your head on right and your consent after.”
As much as you don’t appreciate his commanding nature, you can admit it settles your nerves that he’s taking this seriously. He’s so flippant and dismissive when he wants to be that the soberness with which he’s treating the situation is reassuring.
In fact, it’s even a little hot, as much as you don’t even want to so much as think of the compliment. Truthfully though, you appreciate that he knows when to turn the damn attitude down.
Inhaling slowly, you look over the menu, waiting for the waiter to arrive. You order a Pepsi just for the sake of having something to hold and hide your fiddling as Sukuna’s gaze scarcely departs you.
“I thought we went over the rules already?” You ask when you finally have something to focus on. The condensation is cool against your fingers, a much-needed departure from the facetious personality across from you.
“Of the agreement, sure.” He starts, bringing his glass to his lips as he leans back casually. “But I’m not doing this without knowing what you want.”
“I thought I–”
He doesn’t give you the time of day, glass still held between his fingers as he leans forward on his forearm. “You want me in charge, yeah?”
You blink, nodding.
“You understand that that puts me in a dominant position for our agreement, correct?”
Your cheeks warm as you nod again. “That’s kinda what I wanted,” you admit quietly.
He hums, a hint of his teeth gleaming behind a smirk. He lets the moment hang a second longer, basking in the way you squirm under his gaze. Throwing back what’s left of his drink, he sets the glass on the table with a dull clank. “Right,” he begins, “so you’ve never been with anyone before?” He asks, growing more serious again.
His ability to casually swing back and forth between both moods is beginning to piss you off.
“Yeah, you know that,” you reply snarkily.
His eyes narrow. “Not what I mean, sweetheart. You ever done anything with anyone? In any capacity?”
You chew on your lip briefly. “I gave a guy a handjob once,” you admit quietly, painfully aware of the public setting.
Sukuna’s eyes avert for a moment as he considers how to approach things. “That's it?”
“I– Yeah, can you stop asking?”
His throat bobs as he swallows, frowning. He lays his thoughts out plainly, straight to the point and without the arrogant attitude. “Think what you want of me, but I’m not trying to embarrass you. I already told you it doesn’t matter. I’m asking because it gives me a good sense of where to start.”
Sitting upright, you nod slowly.
“Do you masturbate?”
With every question, you swear your face gets warmer. “Yeah.”
“But no toys?”
“No.”
He rolls his jaw, prodding his tongue against the side of his mouth. “Alright. I can work with that. Do you know what you like when you touch yourself?”
“Do we have to do this somewhere so public?”
He snorts. “No one’s listening. The closest table is so sloshed you’d think it’s three in the morning,” he points out, motioning over your shoulder. Admittedly, he’s right. There’s a group of three women and two men all slumped over, eyes red-ringed and laughter bubbling from within.
With a sigh, you turn back to him. “Fine. So what rules do we need to go over, then?”
“I need to know what’s completely off-limits for you.” He taps a finger once on the table. “I’m kinky but there’s shit I’m not into either.”
“Okay, um,” you take a moment to consider the toys lining the walls and some of the porn you’ve seen while browsing. “I don’t know, I guess I don’t think I’d be into whips or spanking.” Sukuna hums. “I know the candles are for… wax play, right?”
“Mhm. Some people like the pain.”
“I don’t think I would want anything painful.”
He nods his agreement. “Anything like that is off the table.”
Tapping your nails along the sides of your glass, you wrack your brain of the items that line the walls at work. “I don’t think I’m into collars or muzzles or anything.”
“Alright. No pet play. You not into being tied up, or just the pet part?”
Your hesitation is brief as you consider the difference. “I think I’d be okay with being tied up,” you muse. “Not yet, but–” you shrug, cracking a smile. “It sounds kinda fun.”
Sukuna smirks. “She’s a little kinky, I like it.” His lidded expression sends heat up the back of your neck and straight to the pit of your stomach. You adjust the way you’re seated, crossing one leg over the other as you focus on the glass in front of you. Amused, your counterpart pushes for details. “What about gags, handcuffs, and blindfolds?”
“I’d be open to those.”
His smirk grows, teeth bared just enough to call it a grin. “Alright. No whips, and pet and pain play are past the ceiling. Anything more intense than that’s off the table, yeah?”
You nod, grateful that he isn’t leaving you to try to come up with things when you’re scarcely familiar with the products at your own job.
“Hair pulling? Choking?”
You take a moment to consider it, but nod. “That’s fine.”
That seems to be the majority of his questions as he leans back in his seat again, stretching his arms overhead. He has that same expression from the day you originally made the agreement, the one that makes you feel like you’re no longer background noise in his world. Like you’ve surprised him and he’s willing to humor you.
“Alright. Anything else we can go over if it comes up,” he shrugs. “I just needed a baseline.” Yawning, he takes a moment to let his thoughts settle as he works out details in his mind. It gives you a moment to reset, gratefully taking the opportunity as you lean back in your seat, no longer fixated on your glass.
It occurs to you in that moment that he’s surprisingly quelled your nerves. You can’t place whether it’s through making a point of doing this in a public setting but ensuring this stays between you, or the way he’s actually maneuvering this conversation in a way that makes you feel open and in charge. Either way, you have to hand it to him that for a guy who’s made it clear he isn’t fond of people, he’s good with them. With you.
He spends a moment thinking things through before at last continuing. “Are you familiar with the traffic light safe word system?”
You meet his gaze, shaking your head.
“I need you to understand that even if I’m the dom, your word is my law. You tell me green and you leave shit in my hands to make you feel good. You tell me yellow and we’ll stop for a bit to figure out what you don’t like or what doesn’t feel good. You tell me red and my hands are off of you. What you say goes, you understand?” He leans forward with an intensity that seeps straight to your bones.
“Okay. I understand.”
“Good.” His shoulders rise and fall as he sucks in a breath, letting it out gradually. “And for the record, no kissing. No making out. No sex.”
As he repeats his rules, you press your lips into a thin line at how much he loves to remind you that you aren’t friends and these aren’t benefits. “You mentioned.”
“I’ll take my shirt off if it makes you comfortable, but that’s all you’re getting from me.”
“How sweet,” you comment dryly as he completely ignores your previous retort.
He grins, shrugging like the chivalrous man he is. “You didn’t ask for love, sweetheart.”
“And if I had?”
His grin stays in place, his chin lifting an inch as he regards you with the kind of expression only someone as conceited as Sukuna himself can manage. “Then you’d be switching to morning shifts.”
You want to roll your eyes, but you can at least respect his honesty, even if it’s painfully self-centered. You suppose it’s in part why trust comes easily with him. It’s not out of respect or friendship, but rather the simple fact that he doesn’t sugarcoat things. For better or for worse, he means what he says and has nothing to hide.
Jutting his chin in a motion to your nearly-finished glass, he keeps that painfully smug expression as he gruffs out a question. “Ready to go?”
Downing the last of your drink, you nod as you make your way to the bartender. She rings up your drinks together, only for Sukuna to step aside for you to pay.
Chivalry might just be dead, after all.
Your counterpart shoves his hands into his pockets with a haughty smirk, watching every micro expression cross your face as realization tents your brow, before twisting into a glare. Sukuna’s gait is entirely casual as his boots hit the pavement outside. When he comes to a halt by his car, his hand settles on the roof. “Send me your address,” are his last words before he ducks into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbles on and his music begins in an instant, a booming bassline that’s faintly familiar, but it’s too muffled to make out.
Sucking in a breath, you let the music fade as you head for your car, sending him your address just around the corner. You take an extra moment to make it to your car, breathing in the cool summer night air. The ever-present murky smell of smog hits you the moment the sharp scent of alcohol dissipates, but you’ve grown accustomed to it by now. The air on your skin is refreshing, and gives you a moment to think.
In spite of his frustrating tendencies, Sukuna treats sex– in all forms– differently from the men you’re used to. Not just men, but everyone. Even your closest friends. It’s not an expectation, it’s not something that requires any pressure. It’s whatever you want it to be, and whatever you’re comfortable with.
You appreciate the fact that in spite of you wanting him to take charge, this is all still at your beck and call. Sukuna says everything like it is. As much as you despise that for how plainly he’ll point out any fault the moment he finds it or throw you under the bus in a heartbeat when he sees himself as a man who’s always in the right, you appreciate the fact that he doesn’t make things into a spectacle either.
How many parties have you been to where ‘never have I ever’ turned into a wave of judgement, or a game where you found yourself lying to avoid it? How many times have you avoided parties altogether, hating the way all concepts surrounding you seemed to change over something that shouldn’t be everything it’s so often perceived as?
Hell, growing up in an era where sex was perceived as something cool and sold to adults through media only to be thrust into a new era where censorship is pushed more than education, it was bound to twist the perception around virginity.
Your own insecurity is an unfortunate side effect of those two very things clashing with one another. Just like your insecurity in the impression you’ve given Satoru, regardless of if you’ve actually spoken to him or not.
Which is why Sukuna’s attitude around sex is a breath of fresh air. There’s no judgement from him that you’ve abstained for so long.
And for that, you find yourself excited as you pull up to your house.
The man in question is parked before you even arrive, standing at the brick staircase by the time you lock your vehicle. The three-story building towers overhead, yet he still looks big at the base of the stairs.
His arms are crossed as he leans back casually, eyes on his phone. The racing jacket he sports hangs heavily over his broad shoulders. It looks like a replica F1 jacket of sorts, and in spite of its large size, the muscle definition beneath the tank top clinging to his skin is still obvious. It’s almost unfair that he’s so attractive and such a dick.
Just as the thought crosses your mind, his crimson eyes lift from his phone screen. He pockets it, looking you up and down once before letting you lead the way. You pull the front gate open without a word, unlocking the inner door and shutting it to latch behind you. Your apartment resides on the second floor, a single room backing onto the subway. Convenient, but noisy as all hell.
You like to think of it as the epitome of what it means to chase your dream, but in reality you know it’s little more than measly tape to cover up the fact that it feels more like failure. You’ve only been here for a couple of months and played at a couple of crappy venues that didn’t turn out well and you aren’t about to give up now, but your apartment fails to feel like home.
When you flick the lights on, it gives a warm glow to the run-down apartment.
“Make yourself at home,” you offer of the small space. It’s nothing more than a studio with a bathroom. A kitchenette sits at your immediate left with a microwave, fridge, and a single plug-in hot-plate, while your bed is pushed into the corner at the back. You’ve managed to fit a small TV on a table in the corner, and a tiny couch beside it, but that’s about all there is to see of your small space. Wallpaper peels at the top corners and there are stains and scrapes over the old wooden floor that could very well be older than you.
You’ve done what you can with the space. Over the couch is a number of signed and framed band posters and by the TV sits a cork board with memorabilia pinned to it. Old concert ticket stubs, set lists, and guitar picks all pinned or clipped in place. A lamp sits behind the TV in the corner that makes the space feel more warm, giving light to the two gaming systems sitting under the table. It’s not perfect, but it’s very you.
As you set your keys and bag on what little counter space you have, Sukuna takes in the sight of the small space, his gaze lingering on the signed posters and memorabilia before landing on your guitar, leaning against the couch haphazardly.
“You’re a concert girl?” He queries. It’s hard to get a read on where the question comes from when his tone lacks any real interest or enthusiasm.
“When I could afford it,” you agree with a wry laugh.
He hums, kicking his shoes off and dropping his jacket beside your guitar on the couch. He plops down on the double bed, picking up a drumstick sat on the small night stand wedged between the bed and the tiny table the TV sits atop. He twirls it on a finger as he continues to look around while you fiddle with the box for the bullet vibrator you got, picking at the tape keeping it shut.
Like a sixth sense, your hair stands on-end when his striking gaze settles on you again. He continues to fiddle with the drumstick, but his expression is otherwise unreadable. His slightly narrowed gaze gives you the idea that something is on his mind. “What?”
“Just thinking,” he mutters, his gaze dropping the full length of your body again.
Standing still at the counter, you chew on the inside of your cheek as he checks you out. Or something similar to that. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this question would arise. A part of you had hoped to avoid it, but given the nature of your agreement with Sukuna, the question doesn’t bother you as much as it might from someone else.
“I won’t be offended, you know.”
The drumstick stills in Sukuna’s fingers. “About what?”
“If you ask.”
“Can you be fucking direct?” He sneers, his eyes narrowed to pinpricks as he fixes you with the kind of gaze that would have made your skin crawl a month ago. Back then, you would have taken it for genuine frustration, but you know now that this is a man who finds pleasure in the fact that one look can make someone avert their gaze.
But you don’t budge, turning to face him with the bullet vibe in-hand. “You wanna know why I’m still a virgin if I’m open enough to ask you for this arrangement.”
You can’t blame him. You get the feeling you’re a year or two older than him based on the fact that you graduated already and he’s in his last year. Your reply even seems to intrigue him as he leans forward just enough to show interest. You have his attention, although he doesn’t say it. He may not judge you for it, but you certainly can’t blame him for being curious. After all, your request was a bold one in the first place.
With a sigh, you set the toy on the counter as you manage to free it from its packaging. “You know how I told you I’m from a small town?”
“Mhm.”
“How small do you think I meant?”
He shrugs, having clearly never considered the question. “Ten thousand,” he throws out a haphazard guess.
“Four hundred people.”
His nose wrinkles at the mere thought. Fitting for a guy who seems well-versed in navigating life in a massive city.
“So my options kinda sucked with guys my age,” you laugh dryly, returning to the counter where you set the toy down. You turn to him suddenly, a finger held out pointedly towards his chest. “Don’t even get me started on the older men.”
He snorts, barely more than a push of air from his nostrils that gives way to his amusement.
“It was one of those roadside attraction towns where our whole thing was like,” you wave a hand through the air, looking for the right words to describe it. “Having one of those weird statues or whatever that people will pull over to see.”
“Yeah? So what weird thing did you have, then?”
You crack a smile. “The world’s largest garden gnome.”
He blinks in disbelief, in sudden understanding of the whole situation. One single garden gnome painting a whole picture of who you are and how you grew up. “Damn. That blows.” There’s something so strangely friendly in the interaction that’s unbefitting of everything he is, but for a moment you forget this is Sukuna you’re speaking with.
You laugh. “Yeah. It’s not even the world’s largest anymore from what I’ve been told. So now we’re the ‘original’,” you make finger quotations in the air, “world’s largest garden gnome.”
He snorts again, pushing a hand back through his hair. “No wonder you like punk music. You did need to get out of your town.”
You surprise even yourself at how heartily you laugh. When he’s not being a stick-in-the-mud, it turns out he’s kinda funny. In fact, when he isn’t acting like he’s above you, there’s even a sort of warmth to him that you don’t mind. Whether it’s a public front and he’s dropped the curtain for a moment or he’s growing more comfortable with you is yet to be determined.
Or maybe this is like a one time event that you were lucky enough to witness.
“You must have gone to the city pretty often if you go to a lot of concerts,” he muses. “No interest in hooking up with a guy or doing this shit with someone before now?”
You frown, glancing up from the instructions on the bottle of toy cleaner as you loosely skim them. “I never really considered any of this until the shop. And I’d rather be with someone I know.”
He grunts in irritation before you even finish the first sentence, but he lets it go by the time you finish. At least his frustration with you is purely on a work level. “You don’t know me,” he points out. “You don’t know jack shit about how I am in bed and you barely know me outside of it.”
“I trust you, though.”
His gaze drifts to the floor, something stoic passing over his expression as he allows the thought to sink in. “You trust me,” he parrots dryly, for no other reason than to solidify them for himself. You open your mouth to elaborate, but he’s already talking over you before you can spit out a second word. Infuriating man. “Right. And now you want me to show you the ropes–” he pauses at the irony of his statement, a smug smirk returning to his lips. “Literally.” He stands up from your bed, tossing the drumstick aside in the midst of his amusement.
With a roll of your eyes, you stop whatever narcissistic or teasing comment was about to leave his parted lips, steering the conversation another way before he’s too frustrating to handle. “I can make a guess.”
Sukuna pauses, stepping towards you with curiosity. “About–” he raises his brows. “What I’m like? In general, or in bed?”
“Both,” you shrug. “You like to be in charge. You like to have someone who’s willing to admit that you’re better at something and you like to be mean about it. You like when people feel small around you, it makes your ego feel good like the big man that you are.”
Where you expect offense, you only find amusement, which unfortunately isn’t in your favor either. At the end of the day, he’s still running this interaction like he owns it. His head tilts, his grin unrelenting. The way the muscle shirt he sports clings to his chest as it rises and falls feels unfair. He’s a tease without trying, all because he has the fortune of being hot. “Oh?” His voice comes low, a grit to it that sends heat between your thighs. “Are we guessing, or psychoanalyzing?”
You shrug. “It can be whatever you want.”
His gaze flickers around your face as you move past him to the spot where he was just seated. The amusement laced through sanguine eyes as he watches you sits under your skin in the kind of way that has you grimacing. The way he picks you apart so effortlessly is a shadow compared to the pile of things about him that frustrate you, but you hate the way it gets under your skin.
He has no issues making himself at home either, moving his jacket aside so he can manspread obnoxiously on the couch across from your bed. Your brows tent downwards as he doesn’t hesitate to reach for your guitar either, as though he knows that, too, will get under your skin. “Here, I’ll move that.”
You dart towards him, picking the instrument up before his fingers can graze the neck, setting in on the stand it should have been on anyway. His brow quirks, head tilting as he watches your every movement. The way he moves through life so easily is grating.
When you take a seat again across from him on your bed, you tap your foot a couple of times on the worn wood below. It sounds hollow, even beneath your clothed feet. “So… What should we do?” You query, praying you can find a rhythm with him that makes everything more comfortable.
A smile curls at the corners of his lips. “I told you. You’re–”
His words come to a quick halt, expression twisting into disbelief and clear concern as your apartment rattles briefly, before the obvious noise of the subway passing behind the building follows, and the room settles as it comes to a stop. Unphased, you await his next words.
“You fucking live with that?”
You shrug. “Yeah. I uh– didn’t really realize it would be an issue until I moved in.”
A puff of air leaves his nose, his eyes trailing between you and the window where the train’s shadow cast across the floor moments ago. “How the fuck do you sleep? The subways run all night.”
“They’re less frequent at night,” you offer.
“How the fuck do you get off with that noise?”
Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you shrug. “It’s just background noise.”
Sukuna hangs in a state of disbelief for a moment, crimson boring into you like even he’s questioning how the fuck he got here now. When the moment settles, he runs his tongue over his teeth and shakes his head, muttering a curse under his breath. “You’re something.”
“Thanks,” you reply dryly. The nerves of opening yourself up to someone buzz more as you draw Sukuna’s attention away from the train. Your leg bounces involuntarily, a hollow thump to it as you wait for a reply to your question, no matter how snarky it’ll inevitably be.
But the arrogance never comes. His eyes flicker down to your leg, the previous curl of his lips gone and replaced with something far more staid. With a hand on the couch’s armrest, he moves across the small room with ease, his large frame casting a long shadow over the floor as he blocks the lamplight. Your heart pumps hard against its cage, jumping to your throat when his palm settles on your leg, pressing it to the hardwood to stop its pace.
“Relax.” His voice has a sultry tone that feels foreign to you yet lived-in, like he knows just how to pitch his voice to send it like a shock straight to your stomach. You shift at the sensation, drawn to his gaze as he leans in with a brazen chuckle, clearly pleased that he can affect you in such a way. “Stop talking. Stop thinking. About all of this shit. About me, about the job, the money, the train. Turn your brain off.”
He’s right, painfully so, about every little thing on your mind. But the most relief you usually get is a warm cup of tea on a cool night, and even then it’s disturbed by a train every few minutes. It’s not like you haven’t masturbated, particularly since starting at the shop, but your brain always seems to need something to latch onto and porn feels so performative you can’t get into it.
Sukuna gives you something to focus on, taking the bullet vibrator from within your fidgeting hands as his other hand glides from your thigh to your torso over your shirt. His thumb frames your breast, the sensation sending a shiver straight up your spine. He uses just enough force that you could call the pressure he uses to guide you back onto your bed a ‘suggestion’ rather than a command.
“Give me a color.”
“Green.”
“Good,” he hums, low and smug as you watch his smirk grow into something painfully self-assured and egotistical as he flashes his teeth. You don’t have time to be annoyed when your lashes are already fluttering as he drags the bullet vibrator in his palm over your clothed pussy with just enough pressure that your breath catches. “And it’s not even on yet,” he purrs in that ever-condescending tone.
“I should have asked someone less–”
He grinds the vibrator against your clit in an effort to stifle your attitude, shooting you a smug smirk when it works. “But you didn’t.”
Your scowl barely has a chance to form before it dissipates as he glides a thumb beneath your shirt. The sensation has you shivering as he scrutinizes every micro expression you make when his thumb glides over the sensitive skin of your bare stomach. Goosebumps rise in its stead, inevitable as your body reacts to the sensation. You jolt when his touch is so feather-light that it feels more ticklish than something sensual, and like everything else he picks it up and files it away for later.
When he stops at your hipbone and dips two fingers beneath your waistband, you instinctively suck in a breath, stiffening. His movement pauses, eyes narrowing as he fixes you with a sharp gaze that you recognize as instruction.
“Green,” you breathe.
Something smug in his expression has you swallowing your pride at the realization that submission came easily. He’s too keen to have not noticed how you’re not running your mouth anymore, and you don’t need to read between the lines to know that he enjoys that fact.
With your consent, two fingers drag your pants down, haplessly discarded as his gaze trails the length of your legs slowly. You can’t make out what he’s thinking, your hair standing on end as some part of you longs for warmth in a partner who might revere you, but that isn’t what you asked for. It’s not who Sukuna is.
When his eyes meet yours, they narrow an ounce. “Stop worrying,” he admonishes the thoughts he seems to be able to sense as though your insecurities are written in the air for him to see. It warms your cheeks further than they already are. When he catches the twitch of your brow, whether it’s a tell that he’s correct or some bratty form of defiance, he brings a hand to your jaw, his thumb and finger forcing you to keep his gaze. “I’m serious. Bodies are all different, and–”
“That doesn’t make me feel better, Suku–”
His thumb and finger shift until he’s pressing your cheeks together to shut up your protests. “Everyone is different. You should be. Stop fucking worrying.” He loosens his grip enough to allow you to nod, no longer pursing your lips. “Focus on my hands. Focus on the feeling. Don’t think about the fucking train that’s gonna pass in three minutes. Don’t distract yourself.”
He releases your face, shifting his hand until he’s prodding your abdomen pointedly with a finger. He waits for your gaze to follow before continuing.
“Masturbation is one thing because you know exactly what you want and can make yourself finish quickly, but bringing another person into things changes how your body and brain work.” He moves his hand back to the bed as he leans over you, watching with a faint smirk as the other hand presses the small vibrator, still off, into your clit and you take in a sharp breath. “If you get distracted by all the dumb shit going through your head and don’t stay focused on how you’re feeling, your body won’t let you cum. You’ll go straight into overstimulation without orgasm, or your body just won’t respond. It’s common as shit and a lot of people don’t think they can cum with a partner.”
You blink at how strangely insightful and educational the tattooed prick can actually be. Your shoulders fall into the mattress as you focus on the pressure of the hard silicone pressed into your clothed pussy.
There’s another side to it as well that has your mind ready to reel into something far more tangential, as much as you know you should listen to his advice. The fact is that the very same man who told you not to expect love or care from him is sitting here reassuring you, all the while explaining to you just how much he understands the human body. It’s not just from a biological or fact-driven perspective either, he’s putting your pleasure first.
Sure, it’s worth acknowledging that at the end of the day your arrangement does revolve around your pleasure, but Sukuna’s not just insightful. In one way or another, it’s caring. Whether he wants to acknowledge it or not, you’ve heard horror stories of men not being able to find the clit and it’s driven you further into insecurity surrounding the very concept of sex as someone with no experience.
Sukuna isn’t just skilled or good as you’re sure he’ll put it. He’s put time into this. Not just the kind that comes with being with people, but the kind that comes with research and education.
You knew he could talk about toys without batting an eye.
This is deeper.
He flicks your forehead, eyes flashing with irritation as you protest with a yelp. “What did I just tell you?”
“You’re just kinda being sweet,” you excuse yourself, blinking at him from where he’s crouched over your lower torso.
Something flashes in his eyes. “Don’t fucking mistake being good at what I do for sweetness.” His lip curls, the word dripping in disgust like the very concept is venomous to him. “Or do I need to remind you that this is a fucking deal and the moment this shit’s over you’re nothing more than my co-worker who doesn’t know fuck-all about the product?”
You let out a disbelieving scoff at the way he manages to kill the vibe entirely over what you might consider a compliment. “You’re right. You’re a dick.”
He straightens as he takes command of the situation once more, making himself look bigger as he leans over you. He shifts the reins like he owns your every reaction and can predict the situation. With a flick of his thumb, he turns the bullet vibe on, the vibration a sudden and intense sensation even over your panties. It’s a stark contrast to what your fingers feel like.
“Now stop thinking.” He drags the vibrator from your clit back across your clothed slit, your lips parting as you arch into the sensation.
“How am I supposed to focus when you’re being such an ass?” You grit in spite of the pleasure.
“Now you know why I’m good at this shit.”
He drops the attitude again as he manages to turn you on without the sensual touch or words of a partner, but rather through other methods.
Keeping a steady, albeit low vibration setting over your clit through your panties, he slips a hand under your shirt again. His thumb glides smoothly over your nipple, raising goosebumps along with his calloused touch. Sharp crimson eyes fix on the way your gaze finally shifts from his movements to the ceiling, your hands reaching for the blanket laying over the mattress. Your fingers curl into the cotton as all thoughts of insecurity and Sukuna’s attitude finally dissipate and all you’re left with is a tingling sensation that spreads warmly to your extremities.
“Thaaat’s it,” he guides you in a low tone that acts like sparks in your mind, kindling a fire that burns out whatever last thoughts served as a distraction. At last it’s just you and the sensation of his finger circling your nipple, slow and sensual as he takes the time needed to work your body up to a point where the vibrator won’t be too much.
The mattress dips as Sukuna shifts, his footsteps lost on you as the train passes by the window. It’s nothing more than background noise with your exterior senses dulled to focus only on touch. You blink at the tattooed man as the noise of the vibrator is silenced, lidded eyes watching his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.
“Color?”
You swallow hard. His gaze lowers as he watches the movement, every tiny detail catalogued as he reads your reaction.
“Green,” you reply, breathless.
He gives a nod, fixed still on your expression when he gives the first tug. On instinct your legs twitch to close, so he guides you through the nerves rather than ignoring them. “You’re good,” he gruffs. It’s not soothing, but somehow it settles a modicum of the uncertainty that comes with putting your trust in someone else in such a vulnerable way.
Once they’re over your knees, he tugs the panties off, sending them across the room.
You still can’t help instinctively trying to hide yourself from him, squeezing the blanket tighter between your fingers as the cool air of your apartment reaches your dripping core.
“You want my shirt off?”
The question hangs before you, eyes dipping down to the black muscle shirt he sports, tight over his built chest. It’s the kind of thing you would spot at a gym, but it’s just loose enough over the rest of his torso that it looks less like he’s showing off and more like he effortlessly owns the look and everyone else is just mirroring him.
Pulling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. When you meet his gaze again, it’s smug. He knows every last word that just ran through your head like he’s heard it before and the thought should piss you off, but you can’t be too bothered when he sets the vibrator on your abdomen and grabs the hem of his shirt with crossed arms. He pulls it up over his head with intention, flexing his biceps as he does so and sets it aside. Conveniently, his shirt doesn’t fly across the room.
The tattoos that curl around the sides of his neck snake over his shoulders in thick off-black lines that curve over his pecks. There are another set of bands similar to his wrists on his upper biceps and circles at his shoulders. They sharpen the persona given off by his intense egoism and dyed black hair, but they also accentuate his muscles in the kind of way that has your pupils dilating as you trail over the lines before falling to his abs.
As if that sight isn’t a show enough, at the base of his abdomen is a snail trail that you fix on just enough to earn a chuckle. It’s startlingly pink, matching the roots you spot every few weeks when they grow out.
Your hips shift as your stomach clenches at the sight. The cool air makes it obvious how turned on you are, and when you look back up, Sukuna is smirking. You’re feeding his ego more than you could know.
Satisfied with your reaction, he settles both hands on your thighs, slowly pulling them apart. Exposed to him once again, you find that action has surprisingly replaced your nerves with something far more debauched that has your mind racing.
This time, in all the right ways.
When your legs stay spread, he picks the vibrator back up, flicking it back on in one deft movement. The bed dips when he settles between your legs, dragging the vibrator through wet folds and over your clit, you arch into it with a soft moan. “Now you’re getting it,” he smirks as at last you let go of the endless stress of thoughts and give in to pleasure. “A bullet vibe is too small for much else besides placing direct pressure on the clit,” he explains as though your mind isn’t on another plane. “So it works best with other forms of stimulation.”
He keeps the small vibrator pressed directly to your clit. Your head falls back into the mattress, balling the fabric of your blankets up into your fists.
“You gotta work with me if you want this shit to work,” he continues, his hand pressing your thigh down when he adds additional pressure to the vibrator and your legs jolt shut on instinct. “What feels good?”
“I– hah–” You blink, cloudy eyes fluttering open to drag across the ceiling until they find his gaze, impossibly red and horribly smug as a moan tears your words apart. “The pressure is nice.”
“Nice?” He parrots the word, dripping in amusement. “I’m using a vibrator on you, don’t mince your words.”
You arch into the sensation in spite of his chatter, but he pulls away when you don’t reply immediately. Swallowing hard, you adjust your grip on the blankets and blink as your mind reels trying to catch up to what he wants. “It gets me a lot closer when you press it into my clit.”
He hums.
“But it’s kinda nice when you take it away too, makes the feeling l-last longer,” you stammer over the sentence when he tests your words, pulling it away for a moment. Your hips jolt, but the sensation is nice.
Vibration isn’t like your fingers. It’s far more intense and works you to the edge quicker when Sukuna knows how to maneuver the toy. “That’s called edging,” he gruffs, pulling the vibrator back as he waits for your eyes to meet his again. “This is a pretty tame form of it, but the human body wasn’t built for a vibrator so you’ll cum too fast if I don’t and it’s not as good.” You nod weakly, gaze flickering back down to the small device that he’s still holding away from your body. “Some people like being brought to the edge and coming down over and over, though. If that’s something you wanna try, that’s fine, but let me learn what you like first.”
You nod again, chewing on your lower lip as you buck your hips into his waiting hand.
He clicks his tongue, amused. “Eager.” Before you can retort with something equally cheeky, he presses the vibrator back to your clit as the stimulation curls through your body again, warm and welcome. It blossoms from your stomach to your chest until you can feel yourself teetering at the edge again, only for Sukuna to pull back. “Finger yourself.”
“What? Me?”
“You fucked stupid already?” Condescending prick. “Yeah, you. I told you, a bullet vibe works best with outside stimulation and I wanna see what you do to get off.”
You huff out a sigh, but your fingers slip from the blanket, down your body until you feel slick gather along your fingers. They’re cold, the thin windows giving way to a chill that seeps into your skin. The sensation has you sucking in a breath when they touch your skin, one finger slipping first between your folds, cool and pleasant, and then another. You work yourself open at a comfortable pace and adjust your hips until you find a rhythm and depth that feels nice, though it’s nothing compared to the vibrator.
“Could you cum just from that?”
“I don’t think so,” you breathe.
He hums in acknowledgement, pressing the vibrator with gradual pressure back into your clit. Your fingers stutter, pausing altogether. “Keep going,” he mutters. Even through the fog of bliss, you follow his instructions and keep the pace, your fingers curling into your walls as they begin to convulse around you.
Your breaths turn to soft, somewhat shy, moans with every second the vibrator spends pressed to your sensitive bundle of nerves. The world around you is fuzzy and you swear you can even hear the static that gathers at the edges of your vision. When your abdomen begins tensing and the rhythm of your fingers grows less accurate, more frantic, he uses more pressure to elicit the exact reaction he’s looking for. The sensation throws you over the edge without warning, hitting you in waves far more intense than the best orgasm with your fingers has ever given you.
As your body reacts to each wave of the orgasm, muscles clenching in time, the vibrator shifts slightly and the sensation heads straight into overstimulation. Sukuna reads the reaction and pulls away, letting you come down naturally. Your chest rises and falls heavily as you stare up at the rickety old ceiling.
Letting go and giving in entirely to the pleasure feels good. Your thoughts don’t race. There’s no constant stream of what needs to happen for the rest of the day or when you’ll head to the bar for your next gig. You’re just on cloud nine.
You feel Sukuna rise from between your legs. He moves around the apartment like he owns the place, opening the only door that doesn’t lead out without asking, and returning with a towel.
Pushing up onto your elbow, you hold out a hand expectantly, but Sukuna holds it out of reach. “No. I told you you’re not getting sweet, but I’m not leaving you without aftercare.” He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, folding the towel into something more manageable before holding it out for you to wipe your fingers on. “An arrangement like this,” he waves the folded towel haphazardly between you once you’re done with it, “means that the person in the dominant position should be helping clean up and make sure the sub is in the right headspace.” He speaks so matter-of-factly, you have a hard time believing this is the same guy who asked if you applied for the wrong job.
Tonal whiplash if you’ve ever heard it.
“If you ever have sex with someone who puts you in a submissive position and doesn’t give you aftercare, dump the prick.”
Truthfully, you’re not sure Sukuna has any right to call someone a prick, but you nod regardless. You’re not about to protest when he is cleaning you up and has gathered your panties and pants for you.
Once he’s satisfied, he sets the towel aside and pulls his shirt back over his head. He grabs you a glass of water as you cover yourself back up, and is surprisingly domestic as he checks in on you. “Feel good?”
“Yeah.”
“See what I mean when I say the bullet vibe is best with outside stimulation?”
You blink up at him from where he’s standing, a neutral expression plastered to his face as though nothing’s happened and there isn’t a tent in his pants. “Yeah, I guess.”
His eyes narrow, chin tilted up slightly. “You guess?”
“Sorry. I just don’t know what to do now.”
Unbothered, he simply nods, his gaze passing to the window as a train casts a dark shadow over the apartment, gone in a split second. He runs a hand through black strands of hair, revealing the pink at the roots before crossing his arms over his chest. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been… whatever we are, with someone.”
He snorts. “Can’t say I have either, sweetheart. Just talk with me until I know you’re back in a normal headspace. Tell me what worked and what didn’t.” He brings a hand up to his shoulder, rubbing the muscle along his back idly as he stands a short distance away.
Now fully clothed, you sit upright. “Okay.” Letting out a breath, you navigate the blissful fog still hanging over you in search of something to answer. “I appreciate that you took your shirt off,” you admit, heat climbing your spine as it curls up to your ears. You press on, grateful that he doesn’t make a big deal out of it in spite of his minute smirk. “I liked when you used pressure, but it was a lot when I came.”
He hums. “That’s overstimulation. Was it a lot in a bad way?”
Your brow knits together in thought. It was too much in the moment, but you don’t suppose you’d label it as bad. “No. Not exactly. Just too much.”
Shifting to the other foot, he considers your words. “Overstimulation is a pretty common kink. There’re a lot of people who like being pushed into that territory because it is a lot but the stimulation is also pleasurable and it can push you to cum again pretty quickly.”
“I think I saw that in some of the porn I tried watching.”
“I would say it’s one of the more common kinks in the kink community. Makes sense.”
You nod slowly, considering the sensation as you shift, your body still feeling particularly loose. “I think I’d try it.”
“Sure,” he agrees, seeming to only half pay attention when he pulls his phone out. A dim blue light illuminates the lower half of his face before he shoves it back in his pocket. “You seem good. Feeling alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. I’m leaving.” He turns abruptly on his heel, tossing his jacket over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. “Clean the vibe,” he reminds you. “And don’t use it too often. We’re not built for electronics, we’re built for fingers. It’ll fry your nerves and regular stimulation won’t feel as good.”
You nod solemnly, his advice adding up. “Wait!” You call when his hand rests atop the old door knob, the golden paint chipping away as it gives up the facade of luxury. “You don’t want anything?”
“No.”
You shake your head. “Why did you agree to this, then?”
He pauses, turning fully to face you. His gaze travels to the darkened path over the wooden floor where enough steps have been taken that the wood has physically worn away. “It’s convenient,” he offers, “having you take my shifts. It’s…” he trails off for a moment, his tongue running over his lower lip. “It’s helpful, really.”
You’re shocked at the sincerity behind the admission, like in spite of how frustrating and egocentric he can be, he feels he owes you honesty.
“But you’re right.” He lets the words hang, pools of cerise washing intensely over you as your head tilts quizzically. He blinks as he searches for the words to put his thoughts together. “Look, it pisses me off that you applied to this job in the first place, but you’re here now and Jillian likes you.” He shrugs his shoulders. “There’s fuck-all I can do about that and you should have known this shit before applying.”
Your eyes narrow as he repeats something you’re getting real sick of hearing. You can’t say you’re sure how this goes with the statement ‘you’re right’, either.
“But this shit is hard to learn if you don’t have an in.” His hand leaves the door handle with a hollow metallic clang as he takes a step towards you. He’s still across the apartment, but it bridges a gap of sorts. “Sex is treated as something you’re not supposed to talk about and kinks are taboo. So finding resources brings you to all sorts of sketchy sites or outdated books because the resources surrounding it suck.” He shrugs. “You should have a way to learn and experiment without feeling stupid for not knowing shit or for asking questions.”
“You literally called me stupid for asking a question not even ten minutes ago,” you interject.
“I didn’t call you stupid. I asked if I’d already fucked you stupid, because the question was stupid.”
You throw your hands in the air at his brazen reply, in disbelief that he can somehow manage to be simultaneously the most frustrating man on earth and unusually open and honest on topics that deserve discussion.
“It’s not stupid to ask questions about sex, or toys, or rules, or anything that makes you more comfortable. It’s not stupid to ask questions about your body or ask me to adjust to something that feels better.” He begins his clarification as though it helps at all. “It’s stupid to ask who I meant when I said ‘finger yourself’ when you’re the only other person in the room,” he snorts, amused as you shoot him a deadpan expression. “And it’s stupid as all hell to apply to a store where you don’t have any fucking clue what we sell.”
“You’re–”
“Yeah, yeah. Save it for later.” He makes a quarter turn, hand on the handle again. “I gotta go. See you at work.”
And with that, he’s gone.
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౨ৎ a/n ; helloooo!! thank you all so much for all of the support :') i couldn't possibly have imagined all the love for this series, so it seriously means a lot.
i've gone for what i think is a fun writing challenge for myself in giving sukuna and reader both a very interesting dynamic, while also showing that sukuna's views on sex are very different than traditional ones bc of his line of work. we'll see more of satoru's perspectives as well and where those views come from!! reader, of course, struggles with insecurity in spite of the fact that she is bold and confident and slowly but surely we'll see more of that come into play in further chapters as well as where it comes from.
Sukuna is reincarnated into the modern world, only to realize that being a villain is actually kind of a bore. Now a teacher at Jujutsu High by pure technicality, he’s decided being a “good guy” is way more entertaining, mostly because it still lets him do whatever he wants while everyone thanks him for it.
Unfortunately for you, that also means you get assigned to him as a specialist, since your technique is one of the very few things that can smooth out the jagged, overwhelming nature of his cursed energy after he uses it.
The problem is… you’re absolutely terrified of him. Every second in the same room feels like your body is trying to shut down, and the idea of having to touch him to do your job makes it even worse.
Sukuna, on the other hand, finds that fear hilarious and treats you like the funniest toy he’s ever been gifted.
pairing: sorcerer sukuna x sorcerer f!reader
wc: 9999
content: mdni, slow burn, kinda enemies to lovers, objectification, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion, possessive sukuna, violence, murder, blood, gore, dubious consent vibes, true form sukuna, yuji's not his vessel (...and probably smut at some point)
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The quiet of your office does absolutely nothing to soothe the ache in your back and shoulders after yesterday’s depletion. Ever since your arrival at Jujutsu High, your body has always sensed the exact moment Sukuna enters your vicinity. Even after almost a week, it still reacts with the same immediate jolt of dread as on your first day. The pressure he exudes spreads heavily ahead of him, so you always know when he’s moving through the building long before he reaches your office.
You clench your fists as you stare at the open folder Gojo left yesterday, listening unconsciously to the approaching footsteps. The exhaustion from the previous weaving session still lingers, leaving you feeling hollow. Your nerves are raw and entirely overstimulated, and every brush of cursed energy across your senses feels unpleasantly sharp, even hours later. Your reserves aren’t any better; they recovered overnight, but not fully.
The door slides open without a knock, but you stopped expecting one a while ago. Sukuna stalks in, looking annoyingly calm. His uniform isn’t torn, and not a single speck of dust clings to it. He’s spent the morning trailing the first-years, watching them fight a Grade 3 curse. Judging from the thoroughly bored expression, it clearly hadn’t required much effort at all, and the lack of real violence has left him restless and dangerously starved for something more interesting.
Your heart jumps the moment his eyes, glinting with that familiar, cruel amusement, lock onto you. He moves with a deceptive, unhurried ease toward your desk, one large hand hanging loosely at his side while the other remains tucked into his pocket. Without even a flicker of warning in his expression, he reaches out and drops something small and hard onto your open report with a sharp click.
Tap.
Your already frayed nervous system completely misfires. A choked, involuntary shriek of pure terror tears in your throat before you can smother it. Your hands slam down and frantically shove off the desk, sending your chair crashing back until it hits the wall. Even then, you can’t look away from the disgusting thing sitting on your papers.
It’s a completely desiccated eye, or at least you think it is. It’s a shriveled, leathery ball about the size of a big grape, dull gray in color. It isn’t wet or slimy—just dry and brittle, more like something preserved than a living organ. The black pupil is still horribly visible, a tiny frozen dot that seems to stare straight at you.
Sukuna gives himself exactly five glorious seconds to simply watch your complete breakdown. Then he throws his head back and lets out a loud, booming laugh, full of pure, unadulterated delight. He looks at your shaking, panicked form against the wall and leans on the edge of your desk, crossing one arm over his chest while the other large hand rests right beside the specimen.
“You’re fucking unbelievable,” he rasps, his voice thick and shaking with the raw force of his amusement as he takes in the white-knuckled, death-grip you have on the chair’s armrests. A slow smile stretches his lips when he nudges the dry sphere a centimeter closer to your side of the desk with the tip of his finger. “It’s not even wet or moving. Why are you screaming?”
You didn’t even realize you’d made a sound. Heat rushes to your face in a deep blush of embarrassment, but you can’t peel your eyes away from the grotesque thing.
“The first-years wiped out a nest this morning,” he says casually, tilting his head slightly. “Grade 3. Weak, pathetic little parasites.” His grin sharpens while he watches your expression carefully. “This one kept staring after they crushed the rest of it.”
“What,” you manage to choke out after an agonizing moment, your voice a pitiful croak, your throat feeling impossibly dry, “is wrong with you?”
That only makes him laugh harder. The sound crashes heavily through the office as he looks entirely pleased with himself and the terror he’s effortlessly caused.
"Consider it a souvenir... princess," he purrs, the condescending title dripping from his lips as he actively savors the tight, painful hitch in your breathing. “I knew you’d like it.”
Your stomach clenches and twists into a tighter knot. You hate the genuine enjoyment on his face. The worst part is that the thing itself barely matters now. The eye is disgusting, yes, but not truly dangerous compared to everything else about him. What bothers you most is knowing Sukuna saw some shriveled thing during the mission and immediately thought of you.
He finally lets out the last bit of laughter and straightens from the desk. A faint, triumphant amusement lingers in the corners of his mouth, but his attention is already drifting, bored with the aftermath of his game. The pressure of his cursed energy doesn’t fade, staying heavy in the room long after his gaze leaves you.
There’s no real need for weaving today, but Sukuna wants it anyway. The feeling from yesterday surprised him. For him, the state of his energy after fighting is like a dull toothache he’s constantly aware of and can’t easily ignore, or a phantom itch deep in a muscle he can’t reach. It’s a constant background noise he’s simply learned to live with.
The first time you touched him, the difference was barely registering, but yesterday it was distinctly, and strangely, bigger. A small part of that constant, grating awareness had simply gone quiet. It wasn’t entirely gone, and he doubted it ever could be, but the constant itch has eased a fraction, even if he cannot pinpoint where the change originates. Today, he can still feel it less irritating than it was forty-eight hours ago, and he wants more of that silence.
“Stop shaking,” he barks, his voice dropping into a dangerous, flat tone that cuts through your panic. “Get up.”
He doesn’t need to explain for you to understand. Your fingers grip the chair’s armrests while your body stays stubbornly frozen for one second too long, exhaustion still weighing heavily in your muscles. Your reserves didn’t recover nearly enough for another full session so soon. Judging by Sukuna’s look, he doesn’t care.
“I... my reserves haven't fully recovered,” you whisper anyway, the honesty feeling like a confession of weakness.
Sukuna’s eyes narrow, a cruel curve to his mouth mocking your hesitation. “I didn't ask for a status report. I said get up.” The second command is colder.
Before he decides your reaction time has become irritating, you force yourself upright. The abrupt movement immediately sends a wave of dizziness over you. Your body is still so strained that even this simple act makes your balance waver for a second. Sukuna watches the entire pathetic process with mild disdain before pushing away from the desk.
“Move.”
The command sends you shuffling uncertainly to the center of the office, farther away from both the desk and the couch. Cold dread settles in your stomach as soon as you stop. Yesterday, you at least had something nearby to brace against when the cursed energy overload began tearing through your nervous system. Here, you have nothing.
Sukuna follows you slowly. The pressure in the room grows heavier with each step he takes until your pulse starts to race before he even reaches you. Your body remembers too well what happens when you touch him: the overload, the nausea, and the violent pressure of his cursed energy crashing through your senses, blurring your vision as your technique pushes against the tangled buildup.
He stops directly in front of you, gesturing with a lazy, almost bored flick of his hand to you. “Do that again.”
There’s no mockery or amusement in his voice now. It’s more unsettling than if he had laughed, because for the first time since this arrangement started, Sukuna sounds truly impatient for the weaving itself.
Even though fear still claws relentlessly at your chest, your body moves faster this time when you finally raise your hand toward him. Instinct has already taught you that hesitation accomplishes nothing but making the wait worse before the inevitable contact.
Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, visibly irritated by the minimal delay anyway. “About fucking time.”
After trying to swallow a hard knot in your throat, you press your hand against his chest. The impact of touching his cursed energy still slams through your nervous system, making your breathing catch.
Even in a somewhat improved state, every pulse of Sukuna’s colossal cursed energy crashes brutally through your senses as your technique hooks into the fractured buildup again. It’s still overwhelmingly compacted, almost solid, but the small section you smoothed yesterday still exists somewhere deeper within the structure, like microscopic channels forced between layers. Unfortunately, the difference it creates is still far too small to let you weave as you would with anyone else, leaving you with no choice but to take the exact same approach as before.
Without wasting energy exploring the structure again, you press most of your cursed energy hard against the first compacted section you find, forcing a narrow separation between the layers. The immense strain tears through your limited reserves, leaving just enough for the thinnest threads of your technique to slip in and smooth the splintered, jagged edges before the structure threatens to collapse in on itself again.
“Tck. The weakest, most pitiful output on this campus,” he mocks dismissively, but weaving steals all your attention, and the insult barely registers.
It’s grueling, repetitive work that leaves your head spinning. The heat of his presence mixes with your heightened senses until your world shrinks to the small patch of fabric under your trembling fingers. Your breathing turns ragged and uneven from the effort, and exhaustion drains your muscles far faster than you’d like. Sharp pain shoots up your arm from the constant output, and your hand shakes harder the longer you keep contact, but you don’t let go until the jagged edges finally yield and smooth out.
Sukuna stays perfectly still, watching the sweat on your forehead as he takes in the rough, almost violent way you have to use your delicate technique on him. When your hand finally slips away from his chest, your fingers are numb and your vision flickers with black spots.
The sudden loss of contact makes dizziness crash through your head, and your balance immediately tilts sideways. Your knees nearly buckle, your body finally giving up the fight to remain upright after burning through almost all your cursed energy. Your reserves just aren’t big enough for weaving sessions this close together.
You barely manage half a step before a large hand clamps tightly around your upper arm. The grip jerks you upright so hard your shoulder aches. Sukuna lets out a low chuckle; letting you fall and crack your skull open on the floor would be an inconvenient nuisance he has no desire to deal with, especially now that the weaving has finally yielded what he sought and left him craving more.
“Pathetic,” he says lazily, watching your chest rise and fall desperately as your breathing struggles against the pressure filling the room. He can sense that you didn’t manage to ease the itch as deeply as you did yesterday, but a subtle difference is still there. The silence you’ve forced into his energy is undeniably real. “You can barely handle a fraction of it without looking ready to collapse.”
Sukuna’s grip on your arm stays crushingly firm as your body struggles to steady itself under the lingering overload tearing through your nerves. Your vision still isn’t steady either. The room keeps spinning at the edges every time your pulse spikes too sharply from the aftermath of the weaving.
He watches the tremble in your legs and the effort it takes for you to remain standing as his cursed energy presses through the room around both of you. Then, abruptly and without the slightest warning, his grip vanishes entirely.
The sudden loss of support almost sends you stumbling sideways again before you manage to catch yourself this time, forcing your exhausted body to lock your knees so you don’t fall. Your skin throbs where his fingers dug in just moments ago.
Another quiet, dismissive laugh leaves him at the reaction.
“You look worse every time,” Sukuna muses lazily, a faint amusement replacing his earlier irritation. “Maybe your body’s finally realizing what it’s touching.”
Your stomach clenches into a cold, unpleasant knot.
The strangest part of this arrangement is that the weaving is over, he got what he wanted, and there’s no real reason for him to stay, and yet he does. After his boredom with simply watching you reaches its limit, he turns away and strolls back to your desk.
The dried eye still sits on your paperwork where he left it. He picks it up between two fingers, glances at it, then drops it back onto the report with another hard click. Then he throws himself onto your couch, sinking into the cushions like he has every intention of settling in for the foreseeable future. All the while, he makes absolutely certain to flood the room with his cursed energy, keeping it heavy and pervasive enough that your body never fully relaxes, even with several meters of safe distance between you.
You stand and stare at the disgusting object on your desk for a long, exhausted moment. Meanwhile, Sukuna stretches one arm across the back of the couch and closes his eyes, as if he belongs here now.
-
The days start to blend together. You wake up, go to work, sit at your desk, and at some point, the door opens without a knock. After that, the next few hours become harder to track. Sukuna doesn’t need an excuse or a mission to show up anymore; he just appears whenever he wants, taking over your office. What used to be a frightening surprise when the door opened has become a predictable, daily intrusion you’ve learned to endure in silence.
He’s there every day, stretched out on the cushions, while his cursed energy fills the room and makes it hard to focus even before he starts interfering directly. He’s relentless in his boredom; sometimes he watches you work in complete silence for almost an hour, then grabs your reports and reads them out loud in a mocking tone. He wanders around, touching things just to distract you, or leans over your shoulder to watch your hand tremble as you write. One afternoon, he snaps a pen in half between his fingers while staring directly at you the entire time, just to see how you’ll react.
What’s worse, you start adapting to his presence without realizing it. You find yourself instinctively shifting your body and adjusting your movements carefully around him to avoid even the slightest accidental contact as he makes himself at home in your space. You stop leaving stacks of paperwork near the edge of the desk because he always knocks it off, or you start working on reports late in the evening because experience has already taught you that if you start in the morning, there’s a decent chance he’ll eventually show up and ruin your focus, or, on not-so-rare occasions, your work.
The cycle of his activity leaves you with less and less time to recover between the moments when your hands are pressed against his chest. While the big missions happen less often now, his demand for the weaving only grows more persistent because he can feel the contrast by now and has gotten used to the calm you force into his energy. The parts you’ve already worked through stay intact, but new splinters form whenever he uses his techniques again. Even so, there is less of it than at the beginning, and the frayed edges aren’t as tightly packed, but you still end each session more exhausted than you expect. That’s why it never gets easier.
You reach for things on your desk and notice they’re not where you left them. It never stops bothering you, but you keep working anyway. More often than not, however, you feel trapped by the endless biting and mocking comments, and the mess he leaves behind serves as a permanent, stinging reminder that he doesn’t see you as a person—just as a fascinating, resilient toy he hasn’t quite figured out how to break yet.
By the end of the third week, you sit at your desk, staring at the door after it closes behind Sukuna. The room is quiet again, but it still doesn’t feel empty.
After a moment, you push away from your desk and head to Yaga’s office before you can talk yourself out of it. When you get there, you don’t give yourself time to hesitate and knock right away.
“Enter,” comes the muffled command.
You slide the door open to find Yaga sitting at his desk, surrounded by his half-finished cursed corpses. He looks up, his dark sunglasses reflecting the dim light of the room. For a long moment, he simply studies you.
“I need a favor, Principal,” you start, surprised that your voice is steady, though you find yourself smoothing the fabric of your pants to keep your hands from shaking. “And I think it will help the school as much as it helps me.”
Yaga pauses, letting the doll in his hand go limp for a moment. His shoulders tense, as if he’s expecting a tough request. His gaze remains fixed on you, unreadable behind the tint of his lenses.
“I’ve been looking at the curriculum for the first and second years. Or, rather, the lack of it. And I’ve seen Ijichi’s schedule,” you say, shaking your head as the image of the man's perpetually exhausted, graying face flashes in your mind. You take another step into the room, your gestures growing more animated as you speak. “Between driving sorcerers to mission sites, setting up curtains, and acting as Gojo’s personal errand runner for everything that isn't in his contract, he’s barely surviving. He doesn’t have the time to properly teach trigonometry or calculus, and the students are the ones suffering for it.”
Yaga lets out a low, barely audible hum of agreement, finally looking back down to adjust a piece of fabric on his desk. He knows better than anyone that Ijichi is the school’s most overworked resource.
“I’m already here full-time. If I take over teaching math, it would really help Ijichi,” you say, twisting your fingers behind your back as you try to sound logical. “I can’t just sit in my office for ten hours a day, waiting for the door to open. I need something else to focus on, something with rules and logic.” Your voice gets quieter as you admit, “If I have a routine that isn't just... him... I think I'll be more effective when he actually is there.”
The principal leans back. He’s acutely aware of the orders you received from the Higher-Ups and that you’re essentially stuck in your room when Sukuna is on the campus. He weighs the pros and cons. If you teach, it takes a big load off the Windows and assistant managers, and the students get a teacher who cares about them. More importantly, it gives you a chance to be someone besides Sukuna’s Weaver.
“Ijichi has mentioned that trying to teach the first-years anything while also handling mission reports is a losing battle. Itadori, especially, seems to have a unique talent for avoiding understanding math, no matter how simple it is,” Yaga says, with a faint frown on his face as he looks at you over the top of his glasses. “General studies have always come second here. The assistant managers do what they can, but their main job is mission support.”
He pauses, pulling a thread tight with a sharp snap that fills the room. “Satoru, even if he wanted to teach, is many things, but a provider of a stable learning environment isn’t one of them. He’s too chaotic and unpredictable. Atsuya’s patience is far too thin for that, and Sukuna...” He lets out a dry huff, almost like a laugh, and shakes his head. “Well, Sukuna only cares if they survive a hit.”
He picks up his needle again, showing he’s already made his decision.
“If you want the job, it’s yours. It’ll give Ijichi one less thing to worry about—maybe even keep him from crashing his car from lack of sleep—and it’ll give the kids some structure they really need.” He pauses, holding the needle in the air, then adds bluntly in a lower voice, “Just remember, math is logical. Sukuna isn’t. Don’t let the comfort of numbers make you forget who you’re dealing with. He might follow my rule about not killing the students, but he’ll make your life a headache if he thinks your new job is amusing.”
“I know,” you say, nodding quickly as genuine relief washes over you for the first time in weeks. “But I’d rather deal with that kind of headache than go crazy staring at my walls all day until I lose my mind.”
“Fair enough.” Yaga nods, already focused on his work again. “I’ll have the materials and class schedule sent to your office. Just don’t expect the kids to thank you when they see how much homework you give them.”
-
The first-years’ classroom is just three doors down from your office. It’s smaller than you thought it would be, but it feels much cozier than the classrooms you remember from your own school days. Morning sunlight slips through the windows, lighting up dust that floats slowly in the air. Outside, you can barely hear the muffled sounds of birds and the second-years’ training drills. The room feels strangely calm.
You stand by the board for a moment before class officially starts, shuffling your lesson plans in your hands out of nervous habit and running your fingers along the edges of the papers. Your attention keeps drifting unconsciously toward the door to the hallway.
The building is quiet, but after almost three weeks of Sukuna showing up without warning, you’ve started to listen for the specific, terrifying weight of his presence. Your heart beats a little too fast, like a quiet survival instinct is always there, whether you want it or not.
A fluttery lightness replaces your dread for a moment as the first-years come in. Megumi is first, seemingly bored until he sees you at the front. He blinks a few times with a frown, surprised to see you instead of the always-tired Ijichi. You give him a small, reassuring nod and point to the desks in the middle of the room.
Nobara comes in less than a minute later, looking annoyed by the concept of morning itself, and drops into an empty chair. Yuji is the last to arrive. He almost trips over the threshold because he’s already bowing and apologizing for being late before his feet are even fully inside the room.
“You’re actually thirty seconds early, Yuji,” you say, glancing at your watch with a small smile.
“Oh!” He stops mid-step, almost stumbling forward from the sudden stop.
He tilts his head at you, looking genuinely confused for a heartbeat, then suddenly brightens. A big grin spreads across his face as he shuffles to his chair and sits down with the boundless energy that seems to define him.
Once they’re settled, you set your papers on the teacher’s desk and lean against it. You consciously pull your focus away from the hallway and pin it to the three students in front of you, determined to give them at least an hour of normal, boring education.
“So. I’m officially taking over your general math classes from the assistant managers,” you announce.
Nobara perks up, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. “Ijichi finally died?” she asks, sounding hopeful.
“No, he’s very much alive,” you reply, unable to hide a small smile. “But I think trying to manage Gojo’s schedule almost did him in.”
Yuji snorts into his sleeve, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Megumi lowers his head, but you notice him biting his lip to hide a small smile.
“Actually, I had a long talk with Principal Yaga, and we agreed that Ijichi has too much on his plate. With Satoru’s unpredictable requests and all the mission planning, he’s barely keeping up,” you continue, your tone softening with genuine sympathy for the man. “He shouldn't have to worry about your general studies while he's busy driving you across the country and handling everything else.”
“So no more solving for X in the back of the car?” Nobara asks, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes, sounding skeptical but not too upset. “I’m pretty sure half my last test was marked wrong just because his driving made my handwriting impossible to read.”
“Exactly,” you say, smiling as you turn to the board. “I want to see where everyone is. We’ll work through a few problems together and—” You notice Yuji’s shoulders slump and his face fall into despair. “—Relax, Yuji. It’s not a test. No grades today.”
“Somehow,” he mutters, putting his forehead on the desk, “that sounds worse.”
Nobara huffs loudly and rolls her eyes at him. “You’re definitely the reason we’re doing this. I hope you’re happy.”
“I’m literally not!” Yuji protests, sitting up straight and waving his arms defensively.
You grab a marker before their bickering turns into a real argument and decide to take it easy on them. You write the first equation on the board:
2(x - 3) + 4 = 10
“I’m less interested in the answer and more in how you get there. Talk me through your reasoning out loud—no silent thinking,” you say, stepping aside so they can see the board. “How would you start?”
“Oh, I got this!” Yuji blurts out. He doesn’t even reach for a pen or paper; he leans so far forward he’s almost out of his chair, eyes narrowed at the board with intense focus. Nobara looks annoyed that he volunteered first. “Okay, so ten minus four is six, right? And then the thing should become three, and three minus three is zero, so x equals zero.”
Megumi already looks tired and rubs his temples. You stare at Yuji for a long, silent moment, trying to figure out the mental gymnastics he just performed to get to that answer.
At the same time, Nobara’s hand shoots out to point at him. “That made absolutely no sense.”
“It DID in my head.”
“That’s the problem!”
Yuji turns to you with wide, hopeful eyes. “I got close, though, right? The logic was solid?”
“You skipped so many steps, I honestly don’t know how you arrived at zero,” you admit.
Nobara snorts and stands up before you can even think of calling on her. She grabs another marker from the tray and rewrites the equation under yours: 2x - 3 + 4 = 10
“Six,” Megumi says before you can stop her from writing further.
Nobara freezes, then slowly turns to glare at him. “I know that, Fushiguro. I was getting there.”
“You just wrote it wrong,” Megumi points out, gesturing at her work and already sounding tired even though class started less than ten minutes ago. “It’s inside the parentheses. Two multiplies both terms.”
Stepping closer to the board again, you tap the marker against your palm and rewrite the equation under Nobara’s attempt. As you explain the order of operations, you notice your shoulders finally relax. Your voice steadies, and by the time you finish solving the equation with them, you’re gesturing naturally, the marker becoming an extension of your thoughts rather than a distraction.
The second problem goes more smoothly. You write the new system under the first equation while the students copy it down.
x + y = 10
x - y = 2
“This time,” you say, setting the marker down, “don’t try to solve it right away. Tell me what the equations are describing first.”
Yuji frowns at the board, mouthing words to himself for a few seconds as he thinks. Suddenly, his expression changes and his eyes widen.
“So one number is bigger than the other by two. And together they make ten,” he continues, leaning further over the desk now and talking faster. “So if they were both five, then one of them just needs to steal one from the other. That means… six and four.”
A moment of stunned silence settles over the room because, despite the wording being unconventional and bordering on ridiculous, the logic itself is completely correct. Nobara glares at him like she’s absolutely pissed by this.
“There’s no way YOU understood that faster than me,” she hisses, slamming her pen on the desk.
Yuji points triumphantly across the room with a grin. “I told you I’m not bad at math.”
“You absolutely are.”
The hour passes in a rhythm that feels surprisingly pleasant and grounded. It isn't smooth, exactly—Yuji continues to approach half the problems with just enthusiasm, and Nobara gets more irritated each time Megumi finishes an equation before she’s even halfway through. Still, it all feels real.
But the chaos gets easier to handle once you figure out how each of them thinks. Yuji isn’t lacking smarts, but he needs the concepts explained before the notation itself starts to make sense to him. Nobara understands more than she shows, but her impatience leads her to rush through the fine details. Megumi knows the basics so well that sometimes he explains things to the others before you can cross the room to assist.
By the end of the lesson, the board is covered in equations, corrections, arrows, and half-finished ideas. The students start packing up, and as you watch them argue about who’s buying lunch, you almost feel like a normal person in a normal world again.
“Yuji,” you say as he grabs his backpack, “can you stay for a minute?”
“Ooooh,” Nobara teases, dragging out the sound obnoxiously as she throws her bag over her shoulder. “Someone failed the non-test.”
“I didn’t fail!” Yuji protests, his face turning red.
“You absolutely failed,” she counters, nodding firmly.
“It wasn’t even graded!”
Megumi looks completely uninterested in the argument and is already heading for the door with his backpack. Yuji keeps defending himself with increasingly questionable logic until Nobara clicks her tongue, mutters something about him being a hopeless idiot, and drags Megumi out by his sleeve when he doesn’t move fast enough for her liking.
The classroom gets quiet as soon as the door closes. Yuji stands awkwardly by his desk, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He watches you with a mix of curiosity and worry as you start erasing the board.
“Am I in trouble?” he asks after a moment.
The question surprises you, and you pause with the eraser on the board.
“No, not at all,” you answer, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs and drops his eyes down to his shoes. “At my old school, teachers only asked me to stay after class if something bad happened or I broke something.”
His honest answer leaves you feeling uneasy.
“You’re not bad at math, Yuji,” you say, turning to face him.
Yuji stares at you for a moment, then points back at the board behind you as if the messy calculations are physical evidence of his failure.
“I’m pretty sure that’s proof I am,” he says, giving a small, self-deprecating laugh.
“You’re not bad at math, just at structure,” you tell him, putting the eraser back. “Your logic is actually really good. You see the connections faster than you can write them down.”
He tilts his head and blinks at you, thinking it over. The reaction is small, but it hits you that no one has probably ever bothered to explain the difference to him. Most people probably just saw the disorganized mess of his work and thought he was careless or not smart. But during class, you noticed that under all the clutter, his reasoning was sharp. It’s chaotic and impulsive rather than a neat process, but it’s still smart thinking.
“You have a good instinct for answers, but your basics are a mess right now. When the problems get harder—and they will—your intuition won’t be enough to keep up.”
Yuji sighs and his shoulders drop. “Yeah, I figured. Ijichi usually just sighs and gives me the answer when I get stuck.”
“But you pick up the main ideas really quickly when I explain them,” you continue, leaning back against the desk and meeting his eyes. “The problem is you skip steps because your mind jumps ahead before you properly organize your work.”
Yuji looks startled by the assessment.
“That’s…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s actually exactly how it feels. I think.”
You nod. “If you’re up for it, come by my office a few times a week after class. We’ll work on the basics together before they turn into bigger problems.”
Yuji’s entire face brightens almost instantly, the gloom vanishing as if it were never there. He’s clearly used to being treated as an academic afterthought, so having someone offer to sit down and help him with his messy algebra seems to catch him completely off guard.
“Really? You’d do that? That’s awesome!” he exclaims, his voice booming in the quiet room. “I actually want to get this stuff! Before, teachers either gave up entirely or treated me like I was five the second I struggled.”
You look at him for a few seconds and let out a quiet sigh.
“Well, I’m not planning to do either of those things.”
A huge grin spreads across his face so wide and so fast it almost feels physically impossible to stop once it starts. It’s so infectious that you can’t help but smile back.
“Okay. Yeah! I’ll definitely be there!” He beams, shifting from foot to foot.
There’s no hesitation in his answer whatsoever, no hint of embarrassment about needing extra help.
“Then it’s a deal. Let’s start with twice a week,” you reply, feeling a sudden, genuine sense of purpose. You’re already thinking about how to make space for a second chair in your office. “Maybe three if necessary.”
“Ouch, three times? You’re a tough one, Teach,” he jokes, though his eyes are still bright.
“It’s only until you catch up, Yuji,” you laugh softly at his dramatic reaction, and a sheepish, lopsided grin pulls at his lips. “Come by tomorrow after you finish your physical training. I’ll have some practice sheets ready.”
“You got it! I'll be there!” The boy gives you an enthusiastic thumbs-up, already spinning around and heading for the door with a renewed bounce in his step. “See ya tomorrow!”
The casualness of the statement barely registers until he’s already disappeared into the hallway, leaving the classroom quiet behind him once more. Only then do you realize Yuji said it the way someone might talk about visiting a friend rather than meeting with a teacher for extra work.
—
Meanwhile, a little over two hours away from Tokyo, another district is already falling apart.
The curtain covers almost six city blocks. Outside, abandoned emergency vehicles clog the roads, left behind when the curse moved too quickly for the managers to keep up. The main commercial area is already in ruins, crumbling under relentless, brutal impacts.
Broken glass sparkles across the asphalt, catching the chaotic flashes of emergency lights. The remaining managers wait, with their shoulders slumped from exhaustion and faces pale with undisguised fear, knowing there’s a Special Grade inside the veil. And now, they strain visibly, trying not to look directly at what approaches the curtain.
Sukuna doesn’t slow down as he reaches the perimeter. The managers tense up instinctively as soon as he passes them. One of them tries to give a report, but Sukuna tunes him out before the first sentence fully leaves his mouth. The man’s palpable fear is already grating enough without adding unnecessary talking and irrelevant explanations on top of it.
Sukuna steps through the shimmering, oily curtain without a backward glance. The barrier ripples violently under the pressure of his cursed energy, then seals shut again behind him.
Inside the barrier, the air is heavy and hard to breathe. The district stinks of pulverized concrete dust, the acrid tang of burning electrical insulation, leaking gas, and the deep, metallic scent of fresh blood. The taste of iron lingers on his tongue, carried by the air.
Cheap construction materials, too. Sukuna notices it immediately. Most of the structures lining the street are newer, with decorative facades and weak support systems. They may look sturdy but are built with thin concrete, minimal reinforcement, and poor load distribution. Half the district is already collapsing under pressure that older buildings might’ve endured longer.
He clicks his tongue in contempt at the sight of it as he moves deeper into the ruined street.
Fucking pathetic. The Higher-Ups really dragged him out here to clean up garbage again.
Up ahead, the ground trembles violently. Another massive strike sends roofing material and shattered masonry cascading from already-pocked buildings. A distant, raw scream cuts through the air, only to be cut short moments later. Sukuna dismisses the sound with a brief spike of irritation.
A mountain of debris blocks the street ahead. Twisted steel sticks out from slabs of crushed concrete and broken glass, showing where a building’s upper floors have collapsed. Sukuna doesn’t bother searching for another way through, since such inefficiency is a human limitation. He instead walks straight toward a department store front, not slowing his stride as his hand rises in an almost dismissive gesture and slices the air.
Dismantle cuts perfect squares through the concrete wall as he walks by, leaving holes behind him. He hates the filth of these places, the gritty dust and the stale, awful smell left by those who didn’t escape.
He’s halfway through the shattered lobby when the atmosphere changes. The pressure flooding the district suddenly surges, so the drifting dust hanging in the air seems to freeze for a moment. Deeper ahead, cursed energy flares, rupturing several surviving windows all at once before the attack even comes.
The curse emerges. It’s a huge humanoid figure, taller than Sukuna even with its back hunched. Long limbs slam against the ruined floor, leaving new craters with every step. Its body is packed with dense, layered muscle under dark, taut skin that moves strangely over its joints. Its face barely resembles anything human beyond the placement of eyes and jaws, but those are stretched far too wide across its skull.
All morning, it has been demolishing buildings and infrastructure. Now, sensing the sheer threat Sukuna poses, it hurtles across the lobby, launching itself directly at him.
Good. At least this one understands territory.
The creature is brutally fast, but Sukuna stays calm and doesn’t flinch. He lets the curse believe it has an opening and that its reckless charge gives it an edge. The huge fist flies at his head. At the very last moment, Sukuna tilts his head. The movement is so slight and effortless that it seems an insult to the creature. At the same time, he attacks.
Not bothering to fully extend his arm, he flicks two fingers, sending a series of Dismantle slashes that cut through the air.
The curse’s dominant arm is instantly cleaved away at the shoulder and segmented into three pieces before the creature’s nerves can even register the injury.
The invisible blades continue their destructive path, leaving deep trenches in the wall behind the monster. They slice across the street beyond, shearing the roofs off a row of parked cars and cutting down a traffic light pole. A moment later, the sound of the destruction catches up, filling the air with a deafening eruption of collapsing stone and the hiss of broken utility lines.
The curse lets out a wet, guttural shriek of pain as it staggers backward. Already, the mutilated stump of its shoulder begins to bubble and reform.
Sukuna finally pauses, his lips curling slightly. “Huh,” he rasps with slight curiosity in his voice. “You actually survived the first touch.”
A flash of genuine, malicious interest crosses his expression. He realizes that this might actually provide enough resistance to be worth the dirt on his boots. A pleased grin slowly stretches across his face as he watches the graying flesh stitch itself back together. The arm is entirely whole in seconds. The curse immediately forgets pain and charges again, driven by the pure instinct that standing near Sukuna guarantees death.
The rest of the store explodes around them. The curse's frantic movements tear through supporting walls, collapsing them completely. Shelves and shattered displays fly out into the street as Sukuna sidesteps to avoid a blow. The curse is now so fast that just moving causes more incidental damage than its actual strikes. Every missed swing leaves deep craters in the floor or walls, or sends parts of the storefront crashing outside.
Sukuna grins wider. The fight finally breaks the crushing boredom that has stuck with him since he accepted this assignment.
The curse attacks again, its claws shearing the air where Sukuna’s torso was just moments ago. Sukuna answers with a light, shallow Dismantle across the creature’s ribs.
The cut opens the curse entirely from shoulder to hip, but doesn’t fully sever it. Layers of muscle and tissue are briefly exposed beneath the gaping split, then blur as the fissure welds shut. Sukuna stands perfectly still, close enough that dark blood splashes his uniform as he watches it heal.
He lands a heavier strike that shears through the curse’s thigh. The curse roars, shaking the ruins, then counters frantically, ripping a jagged slab of fallen concrete from the ground and hurling it at him. Sukuna doesn’t even bother to block. He walks forward, and his technique cleaves the projectile into a shower of harmless cubes before it reaches him.
The curse stomps, making the floor buckle. The rest of the ceiling collapses, sending concrete and steel crashing down. Sukuna dodges effortlessly, jumping up and landing lightly in the wreckage moments later. The curse bursts from the dust cloud, immediately throwing massive chunks of rubble toward him.
Sukuna carves the flying debris with slashes before the curse can close the distance. Each slice instantly atomizes huge chunks of concrete, reducing them into pebbles that scatter through the ruins. The creature's movements remain stubbornly aggressive despite the damage it sustains, regenerating injuries almost as quickly as Sukuna inflicts them. For minutes, the fight is a relentless, chaotic barrage of impacts violently shaking the whole district.
Buildings around them continue to collapse under the pressure. The curse breaks supporting columns to trap Sukuna, but he just tears down walls whenever the space gets too tight and starts to annoy him. Floors keep collapsing, forcing him to constantly adjust his stance. Dust fills the air, quickly reducing visibility across the street until the ruins begin to disappear behind clouds of pulverized concrete.
By the third building collapse, Sukuna is clearly running out of patience.
They crash through the storefront onto the wide, ruined street. The curse is desperate, throwing derelict cars and ripping up the asphalt to make obstacles. Every time a section of the road caves in and he has to shift his weight, Sukuna feels a spike of irritation. He’s truly tired of having to adjust his footing.
“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, stopping dead in his tracks and dropping one hand to the broken asphalt. “Cleave.”
Cracks spread across the asphalt in a spiderweb pattern, and the whole street erupts from below. Dust and debris fall back down, leaving a massive crater. Sukuna stands untouched on the only solid ground left. He’s just destroyed a big part of the street just to give himself a flat surface to stand on.
A moment later, the building they had just left groans and slowly starts to collapse, its foundations irreparably damaged by the Cleave as well. The curse screams through the falling debris, half its torso reduced to shredded muscle. Skin races to regenerate over the raw tissue as it launches itself at Sukuna again.
Far-off emergency sirens wail, but are drowned out by another crash that bursts water lines underground, sending water shooting into the air.
Sukuna laughs sharply, his voice echoing over the crashing storefronts. He’s honestly amused; the creature has lasted this long only by stubbornness while continuing to embarrass itself, even though the outcome was inevitable the moment Sukuna stepped past the curtain.
“You’re still trying?” he asks, tilting his head with curiosity, but the curse replies with another attack.
Good. At least it hasn’t started running yet.
The tide turns several minutes later. The curse finally realizes the gap between them isn’t closing, no matter how aggressively it attacks. It changes its tactics, growing cautious and using shattered infrastructure and blind spots created by debris to put distance between them instead of fighting head-on.
Sukuna’s smile vanishes, his expression hardens, and all enjoyment dissipates. He loses interest the moment the curse starts fighting defensively. Now he just wants to get it over with.
The curse smashes through the side of a nearby office building, trying to get away from Sukuna. Without slowing down, Sukuna sends slashes that cut through whole sections of the building ahead of the creature. The building splits into massive pieces, burying terrified civilians hiding in the lobby. The curse keeps running, heading deeper into the maze of ruined blocks.
This fucking thing.
It’s only still alive because the district itself keeps getting in the way, and Sukuna is quickly running out of patience with both the curse and this place.
Finally, trapped in the empty shell of a parking garage, the curse realizes its stalling hasn’t worked. It’s panting heavily, and its healing can’t keep up with the constant cuts appearing on its body. Good, because Sukuna’s getting really tired of looking at it.
For the first time during the fight, he sees hesitation in the curse’s behavior. It’s not fear, but more like instinct—the moment survival overrides every previous aggressive impulse.
Suddenly, the space around them twists. Damaged buildings groan, their upper floors bending at strange angles. The ground under Sukuna fractures and splinters. Windows implode, shards of shattered glass reversing their trajectory midair, as the curse’s innate technique violently compresses the environment. Entire sections of the district are dragged in, collapsing toward the center of the street in a swirling funnel of dust, debris, and twisted infrastructure.
Sukuna actually pauses for a moment. “Oh. So you did have one more trick,” he says, sounding pleased.
Maintaining the technique is ripping the curse’s own body apart. Its skin splits along its limbs and torso faster than regeneration can fully repair the self-inflicted damage. Roads break open, structural columns twist through the concrete floors, and tons of building material from nearby buildings hurtle toward the curse, trying to crush Sukuna under the weight.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, hundreds of intersecting slashes appear in front of him. Everything the curse pulled in is instantly cut to tiny floating fragments before the mass can reach him. Sukuna steps calmly through the dense, drifting cloud of dust and blood and reaches out, closing one hand around the creature’s throat as it attempts one last weak attack.
Cleave activates instantly, perfectly matching the curse’s durability. The creature’s body is severed so completely that regeneration never even begins this time. Flesh, bone, and cursed core divide cleanly beneath Sukuna’s grasp, falling into the rubble in wet, messy pieces before turning to dust.
Outside the barrier, the managers stay tense as sudden silence falls over the district, nervously exchanging glances. Emergency teams wait farther back behind the containment line. Then Sukuna finally steps out through the curtain.
They stand up straight as soon as they see him, covered in dust and clearly annoyed but otherwise entirely unharmed. The assistant manager maintaining the barrier lowers it almost right away, revealing damage so bad that several people freeze in shock when they see the full scale of the destruction.
The area looks more like a bombing site than a sorcerer’s operation. Roads are torn open, exposing broken tunnels beneath the asphalt. Flames spread through ruined storefronts, and sections of the street keep collapsing without warning, unable to withstand the cumulative structural stresses from the fight. Rescue workers hesitate at the edge, recognizing the danger posed by the infrastructure and how close everything is to falling apart.
Sukuna ignores everything and heads for the car waiting for him. Daichi walks up as Sukuna gets close. He glances briefly at the ruined district behind the sorcerer, then quickly looks back at Sukuna’s face, gauging his mood first and foremost.
Smart.
“Fifteen minutes, Daichi,” he says flatly, walking past without looking at him. “Then I’m done standing in this shithole.”
Daichi nods immediately, not wasting time responding aloud, and heads for the edge of the perimeter. The other managers jump into action the moment he starts giving orders. Operations surrounding Sukuna’s missions are always larger than standard deployments for exactly this reason. Normally, a sorcerer’s assignment just needs one assistant manager and a report written once everyone has safely returned. But Sukuna’s missions require an entirely different, specialized setup, since once the barrier is lowered, vast sections of the city may no longer physically exist.
Full support teams are mobilized before he even arrives. Extra managers wait outside the curtain to coordinate the inevitable emergency response, and separate staff is ready to start preliminary structural assessments right away. Everyone knows that when Sukuna fights, the destruction always goes far beyond the curse itself.
As Sukuna moves toward the sedan waiting farther down the blocked street, Daichi performs a quick sweep of the outer area, noting the most significant structural failures and the most immediately visible damage patterns before rescue teams move in. His role isn’t to conduct a thorough investigation, as no one assigned to Sukuna has the luxury of time for that. He notes the scale of roadway collapse, the number of buildings visibly beyond salvage, how far the destruction spreads, and which sections still seem too unstable for responders. Around him, city emergency crews start moving carefully into the ruins.
Sukuna, meanwhile, waits exactly as long as he said he would, not a second more. As soon as Daichi jogs back, Sukuna gets in the back seat without acknowledging the chaos behind them. Another staff member takes the driver’s seat, since keeping up with Sukuna is, unfortunately for everyone, the top priority. The car pulls away from the disaster zone, and Daichi starts working from the passenger seat, with a tablet balanced on one knee.
The report for Yaga, written during the drive back to Tokyo, is inherently incomplete. It’s based on Daichi’s quick notes and incoming updates from the teams still on site. These updates include detailed damage reports, casualty estimates from first responders, municipal emergency data, and rushed infrastructure reports from local officials desperately trying to stabilize the area. That’s why almost every report from Sukuna’s missions uses the same standard line: “Secondary destruction patterns not yet conclusively attributed.”
What Daichi finishes before they reach Tokyo is just a first draft. The final report, sent to the principal and the Higher-Ups later, adds in new data and the remaining reports collected long after Sukuna leaves. Even then, it’s almost impossible to fully capture the scale of Sukuna’s fights on paper once whole parts of the city are reduced to collapse zones and debris fields.
—
MISSION INCIDENT REPORT
Tokyo Jujutsu High
Filed by: Daichi Sera
Mission ID: 2018/SZK/021
Operational Details
Location: Shizuoka, Shizuoka
Mission Start Time: 12:16
Mission End Time: 12:49
Assigned Sorcerer: Ryomen Sukuna (Special Grade)
Original Threat Assessment: Special Grade
Post-Operation Threat Assessment: original assessment correct
Curse Status: Exorcised
Damage
Civilian Casualties:
· 40 deceased
· 96 hospitalized
· 17 critical
Sorcerer Casualties: —
Structural Damage:
Extensive structural failure was documented throughout the central commercial district and adjacent mixed-use sectors within the curtain perimeter. At least eleven buildings experienced partial or complete collapse during the engagement. Additional surrounding structures sustained severe damage to foundations, load-bearing systems, and segmentation, necessitating ongoing engineering assessment. Severe roadway deformation was also observed in the central district, including multiple large-scale asphalt ruptures that exposed underlying utility infrastructure. Significant secondary collapse persisted after curtain removal due to compromised structural integrity in adjacent sectors.
Infrastructure Disruption:
Severe disruption to municipal infrastructure was reported throughout the affected zone. This included widespread roadway collapse, ruptured underground utility tunnels, compromised gas and water mains, electrical grid failure, and loss of emergency access corridors within multiple sectors of the operational area. Several evacuation routes became inaccessible during the engagement due to cascading debris collapse and ongoing structural instability. These conditions resulted in delayed emergency response deployment and prolonged civilian extraction timelines. Restoration estimates remain pending due to unsafe conditions in portions of the district that are still undergoing stabilization assessment.
Additional Notes
· Secondary destruction patterns within the operational zone could not be conclusively attributed exclusively to recorded curse activity at the time of preliminary assessment.
· Multiple structural collapses continued after the curse exorcism as a result of cumulative foundational destabilization sustained during the engagement.
· Emergency response mobilization required expanded support coordination because of ongoing infrastructure instability within the affected district.
· Post-operation assessment was delayed across several sectors due to residual collapse risk and restricted responder access.
· Full reconstruction of the engagement sequence remains incomplete due to extensive overlap between curse-generated and secondary environmental destruction patterns.
· Preliminary civilian casualty estimates are expected to increase following debris clearance and completion of secondary search operations.
· Civilian casualty figures are believed to have been significantly reduced as a result of successful early-stage evacuation procedures initiated under emergency tsunami and seismic response protocols prior to full curtain deployment.
You’ve been staring at the report for half an hour, trying to make sense of what you just read, but you stopped really reading a while ago.
Your eyes are stuck on the same section, somewhere in the middle. The words blur, and the ache behind your eyes just keeps getting worse. Casualty numbers and infrastructure assessments repeat in your mind, no matter how many times you try to stop thinking about them. Forty dead. Eleven collapsed buildings. Secondary structural failures continue after curtain removal. Emergency extraction delayed due to roadway instability. Everything is written in the same cold, official language that somehow makes it all feel worse.
Three weeks ago, parts of the report would have felt distant, and your mind would have softened the details to protect you from imagining too much. Now, the details stay with you much longer than you want. The collapsed roads, the delayed extraction routes, and the ruined buildings all leave mental images, even though you never saw the destruction yourself.
The thirty minutes you had before feeling the spike of pressure in the building definitely weren’t enough. Your shoulders tense before your thoughts fully catch up, while the familiar weight of Sukuna’s cursed energy fills the corridors of the school heavily so that the air itself seems denser several seconds before he actually reaches your office.
The door slides open and Sukuna steps inside, still in the same uniform from the mission. The dark fabric is torn in several places from falling debris, with a thin layer of concrete dust clinging stubbornly to the sleeves and shoulders, and dried blood splattered on the chest.
He walks closer and leans over the desk, glancing at the sheet of paper in front of you. Even from here, the residue around his cursed energy feels much worse than last time, but after a mission like that, it was bound to be.
“That thing was stubborn enough to stay entertaining for a while.” He lets out a low, rasping chuckle. “Almost made the trip tolerable.”
Sukuna stares at the report for another moment before losing interest in it entirely and dismissing it with a flick of his hand. His gaze shifts back to you, and the amusement in his expression grows sharper.
“Well?” he asks lazily, tilting his head. “Fix it.”
Your stomach tightens, a cold knot of dread forming in your gut, but there’s no point in delaying. After three weeks, you know the drill well enough that your body moves on autopilot, even while your mind is still stuck on the words from the report.
Slowly, you push up to your feet and move around the desk toward him. You want to ask him to lie down again, but you’ve been through this many times, so you swallow down the urge. As soon as you get close, the full change in his residue hits you, and your whole nervous system recoils instinctively before you force it back under control with a shaky breath.
Sukuna notices your expression tighten the second you feel it. “Too much this time?” he asks mockingly, his voice dropping an octave as he watches you struggle.
You ignore him as best you can. At least, you try to. Your heart rate climbs, thudding against your ribs, as you reach out to bridge the gap. Your hand presses against the center of his chest, feeling the heat through the uniform. You curl your fingers into the fabric and carefully force your cursed energy into the fractured buildup around him. The process is exhausting right away.
Three weeks of repeated weaving sessions have taught you to recognize the structures faster and locate the worst compression points without wasting energy blindly searching through endless overlapping layers. But knowing the process better doesn’t make the actual strain any easier to handle.
The residue is tightly compressed and still needs your technique to force the layers apart before you can properly thread through the gaps. You focus harder, breathe slowly to calm your heart and save stamina, and push more cursed energy into the structure.
The layered compression surrenders reluctantly under pressure, countless splintered sections grinding against each other before finally separating enough for your technique to slip between them. Sweat slowly gathers at the back of your neck as your reserves steadily drain from the effort.
After several minutes, the structure finally starts to respond to your control and the sections separate. Your cursed energy carefully flows through the narrow gaps you’ve forced open, weaving through fractured layers before they can collapse again.
Sukuna watches your concentration tighten under the strain of weaving. He leans down curiously, resting one hand on the desk behind you, boxing you in between his body and the wood.
“What exactly are you staring at so hard?” he asks, and his face is suddenly so very close to yours that it fills far too much of your vision at once.
The proximity jolts your nerves, and a sharp spike of panic throws off your rhythm. The layers you just spent minutes separating collapse back together the moment your focus slips. Everything wedges together again, and you feel it through your technique as it tears free from the structure all at once, instantly shattering the connection between your energy and his.
He keeps his face dangerously close, watching the tremor in your fingers. The flow of your cursed energy against him vanishes, and as it does, a realization settles on his face as he pieces together your reaction.
“Oh,” he murmurs softly.
Humiliation burns under your skin while you struggle to steady your breathing again.
“You can lose it,” he says, almost thoughtfully, and his smile widens slowly. “Interesting.”
You pull your hand away, but Sukuna catches your wrist before you can retreat fully, tightening his grip around your arm. His gaze stays on your face with open amusement now that he understands what just happened and knows your concentration during weaving is yet another thing he can control or manipulate at will.
“Start over.”
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series masterlist
a/n: small note before someone comes for me with a math textbook.
yes, i know this isn't the level of math most 15 year olds would normally be doing. i just needed a few simple equations for the scene and decided to keep them easy enough that nobody would have to solve an entire set of algebra problems while reading a fic.
tldr: yes i know. no i don't care. we're here for sukuna, not algebra.
summary: between sleepless nights, bruised hands, and captain levi’s relentless attention, the line between self-preservation and self-destruction begins to blur. captain levi watches you like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake. the problem is that you can’t stop watching him back.
words: 5.6k
part: 3/? (pt 1) (pt 2)
content warning(s): age difference, power imbalance, loss of innocence, canon-typical violence, circa season 1 of aot, aged up recruits, slight eren yeager/reader, not so slowburn, eventual explicit sexual content.
chapter specific warnings: kissing, innuendos, beginnings of smut, slightly dubious consent
author's note: HOUSE real big CAR real big DICK real big EVERYTHING real big. porn next chapter lowkey. this is mostly a filler chapter kinda? next chapter will be mostly smut
Sleep last night did not come easy, which wasn’t surprising at all. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind betrayed you with thoughts of Captain Levi Ackerman.
Except this time it wasn’t the odd things that you remembered about him from random parts of the day like the way he strutted across the fields or how he held his blades in an odd clutch different from everyone else. Now, all your mind focused on was the feeling of his hands on your face, thumb running across the cut on your face. If you thought even harder, you could feel the heat radiating off of his body, the smell of linen and bitter tea.
But what your mind focused on the most was the way that he stepped away from you, acting as if it was the most innocent thing in the world, and walking out of the library to leave you stranded. You could remember the frustration you felt afterwards, alternating between grabbing him and dragging him into the library yourself or throwing one of the old dusty books at his head.
It was stupid. Everything about him was stupid. His stupid eyes, his stupid hair, his stupid voice, and his stupid self-control and how it decided to stop only when it was convenient to him. He should’ve stopped things before he decided to put his hands on you and looked at you like that. He should’ve stopped things before he made it impossible to think about anything else other than him.
You spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of the barracks, listening to everyone shamelessly sleep around you in their own beds. At some point, sleep must have somehow taken over you because when you opened your eyes, sunlight leaked through the windows.
There was a kick against your bed.
“Wake up.”
You groaned, pulling your quilt up against your face, shielding yourself from the light like you could somehow convince the night to come back. “Go away.”
To your disdain, the blanket was ripped away from your body through your hands, to which you opened your eyes. Turning your head, you saw Eren standing on the side of your bed, already dressed and ready to go for breakfast, looking well rested. Traitor. “I’m sick,” you lied, turning your back to him. “Tell the Commander.”
“Good morning to you too,” Eren said, his hand coming to your shoulder and pulling you back to face him from your lying position. You grabbed your pillow, which wasn’t really a pillow from the way it barely supported your neck, and threw it at his face. He caught it with one hand like it was nothing because well, it was nothing. “You know, violence isn’t really a healthy coping mechanism.”
You glared. “You woke me up.”
“You slept through the bell.”
That perked you up, sliding your legs over the side of the mattress and hauling yourself up. Everyone else was almost ready too, so you made sure to pick up the pace a little bit more, pulling the straps past your legs and throwing on the dark green scout’s cloak over your body, which seemed determined to remind you of how much little sleep you got. Conversations between different groups got louder the more awake everyone got, and eventually people started to make their way downstairs to the mess hall. Footsteps blended into a familiar noise of another day starting. You hated how every single soldier looked normal like they always did, and you felt like your brain had been put through a meat grinder once and then again for good measure.
As you walked downstairs, you almost tripped over your feet on the last stair, shielding your face from the redness that bloomed across your cheeks. You hoped that this wasn’t the start of a trend today, you really didn’t need more pressure on yourself and you definitely didn’t need any more attention from Captain Levi.
You tried and tried to drill that into your brain.
Connie and Sasha were already at your usual table when Eren and you walked over with your plates in hand. Mikasa, Jean, and Armin followed soon after, along with Reiner and Bertholdt. It was mostly silent between all of you, quick quips here and there because everyone seemed focused on trying to wake up rather than having any real conversation. Sasha was already through most of her meal before any of you could even get settled in, pushing Jean with her shoulder to try and convince him to give her some of his.
“You are an animal,” Jean informed her, but he relented and gave her half of his bread anyway.
Today was supposed to be normal.
The world seemed to have other plans.
You, Eren, Mikasa, Sasha, Connie, and Jean were asked to come back upstairs to one of the larger meeting rooms. This room was typically only used for the higher ups like Commanders and Captains, recruits barely came in there unless they were being reprimanded. Or at least that’s what Jean kept saying as he led your group into the room.
“I told you,” Jean muttered for probably the fifth time when he saw that Commander Erwin, Hange, Miche, and Levi were already standing at the front of the room. “We’re in trouble for sure. Thanks, Eren.”
“I didn’t even fucking do anything why do you always think its me —”
Your hand shot up to push Eren’s back, telling him to shut up once you were all in hearing range. Maps were settled down on the table, spreading across the entire surface weighed down by various books and folders. When you looked over them, you saw the folders that you were sorting through last night, so maybe you guys weren’t in trouble after all. It wasn’t a disciplinary meeting, it was a planning meeting. Once all of you were shuffled inside and the door was closed, Commander Erwin stepped forward and the chatter within the group silenced almost immediately.
The Commander stepped forward and glanced over at Jean. “At ease,” Erwin said. “You’re not in trouble.” Jean then visibly relaxed and a smile tugged at Hange’s mouth. Their eyes glinted with something that you couldn’t decipher when they looked over at Eren.
“We’ve received reports from several supply teams operating near the eastern routes.” Erwin placed a large hand against one of the maps, finger touching one of the paths traced with red ink. “Near Karanese, there has been some increased Titan activity near Wall Rose. As you all are aware, Titan’s have started to bleed into Wall Maria territory after breaching the Shiganshina district and its Wall Maria entrance. It seems like they have started to head for the outlier district of Karanese, causing disturbances and civilian unrest.”
You could feel Eren tense next to you at the mention of Shiganshina.
“Normally, this wouldn’t warrant an immediate investigation from the Survey Corps, but we are heading that way for another reason that doesn’t pertain to this particular group at the moment, and we are going there to get a firsthand look before the rest of the Corps follow.”
It was obvious that Erwin was not telling the full truth, but it wasn’t in your nature as a recruit to ask any questions to see what he was hiding. It must’ve been for a good reason from the way that you saw Levi give the Commander a side eyed glance. Your eyes lingered a few moments longer on the Captain and it seemed as though he felt it, flicking his eyes in your direction before immediately looking away. It was barely a heartbeat amount of time, enough to make your stomach drop before turning your attention back toward the map.
“You will be operating under Captain Levi, Section Commander Hange, and Section Leader Miche. Normally we would not take a group this small, but since Eren will be joining us on this mission, we thought it best to stay discreet. And it seems as though he is much less volatile when he is around people that he knows best.”
You glanced at Eren along with everyone in the room, and he looked vaguely offended. “I am not volatile.”
“Right,” Hange said, like they didn’t believe a word he said.
Erwin’s hand shot up. “As I was saying, you’ll travel along the inside of Wall Rose to Karanese to stay there a few days to survey the area before the rest of the Corps catch up with you. If everything proceeds according to this schedule, you’ll establish a halfway camp shortly before midnight tonight.”
Midnight tonight. Great, just the way that you wanted to spend your evening.
“Pack light,” Erwin instructed as everyone began to move toward the door. “You’ll leave three hours before sunset.” The meeting dissolved almost immediately after that. Chairs scraped against the floor and conversations began to start again, hearing Eren start to complain about having to sleep outside in the forest. Sasha hushed him, saying she grew up with the forest and it really wasn’t that bad.
The group of you spilled into the main hallway, walking towards the barracks to start gathering your things before departure. You were halfway down the corridor falling into step next to Jean before you heard a voice behind you that stopped your movement. Confused, Jean also stopped next to you.
“Cadet.”
Slowly, you turned around, seeing Captain Levi standing near the doorway of the meeting room. You saw that Erwin was already walking in the opposite direction with Hange and Miche. Levi held a folder beneath one arm, the same folder that you had organized in the library last night. Your pulse stumbled, remembering what you endured while trying to put them into the folder last night with him. “What?” you asked, immediately cringing at how defensive it sounded. Jean huffed a breath beside you, obviously bewildered by your question as well.
The Captain didn’t notice or he was choosing not to acknowledge it.
“The route reports.”
“The what?”
He gave you that look that crossed his face every single time someone said something particularly stupid during training.
“The reports you organized,” he continued, eyes searching yours while gears began to shift in your brain. Levi held the folder out toward you and you stepped forward automatically to take it, fingers brushing his for only a brief moment, being everything and nothing at the same time. When you looked back up at him, you could have sworn that you saw his jaw tighten imperceptibly, letting go and letting the folder rest in your hand. “You’ll be helping with leading the group since you’re already familiar with them.” Your eyes brightened. “Don’t let it get to your head. I know it's hard to think after hitting your head, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
Asshole.
“Yes, Captain,” you said with a nod. Levi gave you a glance as he walked away, disappearing into the meeting room, door clicking shut behind him.
Jean walked with you towards the barracks in the now empty hallway. “Am I missing something?” Referring to the weird interaction he had just witnessed.
“Nope.”
You pushed through the doors and it seemed the room was already chaotic, everyone frantically gathering supplies for departure. Once you made it over to your bed, you started to grab the essentials. You kneeled down to take the pack out from underneath it, placing it next to you as you reached for the bedroll and spare clothing you kept stored. Extra shoes and a small medical pack also made its way into the bag. You organized your stuff and then reorganized it to just make sure that everything you needed was there.
“Hey,” Eren called, walking over with his already packed things. “What did the Captain want?”
God, did anyone have anything else to talk to you about except Levi? You were already spiraling about the fact that you would be spending several days with him in close proximity, even taking some charge to lead everyone through the routes that had been mapped before. All of you would be together, so it wouldn’t be that bad, right? Nothing could happen. This wouldn’t be another library scenario where you found each other alone again. As long as you stayed close to Eren and the others, it would be fine.
You grabbed the file the Captain gave you and showed it to him. “Reports.”
“He gave you those?”
Nodding, you said, “They are the ones he made me get from the library last night.”
“Oh right, you never told me how that went,” Eren said. It was so normal the way that he said it, you almost wanted to laugh, but it hit you that he had absolutely no idea what had occurred in the library. No one did. You were holding this stupid weird secret from all of your friends and the only person who knew about it acted like it never even happened. If you thought about it one more time, you were sure that you would rip out your own hair.
You let out a huff. “It was boring. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
Lie.
Lie, lie, lie. It made you feel sick. Eren believed you immediately, because why would you have any reason to lie to him?
“Fair enough.”
And then Eren went back to grabbing his things, shoving them into his pack. The guilt sat heavy in your stomach, you’d never really lied to any of your friends before. Not about things that truly mattered, and especially not things that made your chest ache every single time you thought about it. Though a part of you knew this was something that you shouldn’t share. What were you supposed to say? That Captain Levi touched your face in the library? That you made a fool of yourself telling him that he wanted to kiss you? Or, even worse, he walked away while you closed your eyes and practically threw yourself at him? Absolutely not.
Outside the barracks window, the afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent, which meant that in the next hour or so you all would be on horseback riding away from headquarters. You slung your pack over one shoulder and everyone else in the room was reaching the same conclusion. It was exciting, if you didn’t think of all the details. This was your first real expedition being in the Scouts, and as long as you didn’t die, this could be a good thing for you to show the higher-ups that you were more than just a recruit.
Sasha stopped near the doorway, prompting everyone to look. “Oh, it’s starting to rain.”
You immediately crossed to the nearest window and sure enough, there were small droplets starting to strike the glass, only a few, but you could tell that it would get worse throughout the night.
“Wonderful,” Jean muttered under his breath.
A knock echoed against the barracks door and a veteran Scout stepped inside the doorway. “We leave in fifteen.”
Golden hues of orange and pink stretched over the horizon, the sounds of horse hooves filling your ears. Fields of grass swayed in the breeze while the forest began to come closer and closer into view, casting long shadows across the landscape and the group you traveled with. You were closer to the front of the group, helping to lead the other recruits down the slightly marked road from past expeditions. For a moment it was easy to forget things like Titans and death. You adjusted your grip on the reins and glanced over at the formation.
The conversation between you and Eren, who was riding right next to you, drifted through easier territory. Mikasa joined in once in a while, especially when Sasha started to be concerned that she wasn’t going to have enough dried meat on the way there. Eventually the sun dipped below the horizon and orange skies faded into deeper blues, the temperature dropping enough to make you shiver.
Everyone was tired and everyone was hungry, ready to stop and set things up before the rain became something more than just drizzle. Thankfully, Hange seemed to agree, as their hand lifted near the front of the formation and the entire column gradually slowed, the smell of trees overwhelming your senses.
The relief was immediate when you slid from your horse, boots sinking into the damp earth below. The trees surrounding the group seemed to capture some of the rain, making it less wet but still enough to track mud on your shoes. Your legs protested the movement after hours from being on a saddle, walking over to tie your horse on a tree trunk and giving her a pat on the head. She huffed through her nose, nudging your shoulder for attention that you gladly gave her.
A distant roar of thunder echoed beyond the forest and the rain worsened immediately, becoming steady rainfall.
“Alright guys, let’s get the tents set up as soon as possible,” Hange ordered, pulling out their own tent from the supply packs attached to one of the bigger horses. The camp exploded into motion, Sasha and you going to grab tents for the recruits. They were big enough to house two people and people were already starting to section off into pairs.
You dropped one near Jean and Connie.
“I’m not sharing with him,” Connie said, pointing his thumb to Jean.
Jean rolled his eyes. “Just get it set up.”
Other tents dropped between pairs, and you went to grab the last one, though when you searched through the large bag, there were none left. Your brows furrowed, looking around to see if you had left one on the ground. But there was nothing, there was truly none left. “Uh,” you said out loud, escaping out of your mouth before you could stop it. “We’re missing a tent.”
Hange looked up from where they were hammering the stakes for Mikasa’s tent. “What? No we’re not — Oh. That’s right, we did tear one on an earlier expedition. I thought that it got replaced but I guess it wasn’t.” You stared at Hange, blinking. There was no way something like this was happening on your first expedition out.
This was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful and not horrifying whatsoever. Hange stood up and started counting, turning towards you when it was clear that the group was one tent short and the only person left over was you. “It’s fine, we’ll find you a place to sleep,” they said, walking closer in the middle of the group and you saw the moment the light bulb went off in their head.
No.
“Hange,” you said carefully.
Their lengthy finger pointed across the camp. “Levi has room! He always wants to have the tent to himself but I’m sure he’ll manage for one night.” Your soul left your body, following their line of sight and seeing Levi in the process of securing his tent. At the sound of his name, he looked up directly toward Hange. He hadn’t caught the last part of your conversation and you were not looking forward to what he was going to say when he heard the idea.
“What?” Levi asked, obviously annoyed that he had to stop working and stay in the rain for a minute longer.
“We’re missing a tent.”
“Absolutely not.”
He had finally seemed to put the pieces together about the situation. And it was even worse that now that he was publicly denying having anything to do with a tent involving you. Your head snapped over to him and looked at the way his grey eyes squinted, tips of his hair dripping with rainwater across his face. “Hange,” he said slower this time, “I’m saying no.”
“It’s one night. Do you really want a recruit sleeping outside in the rain?”
For a moment it looked like Levi was considering it, the realization hitting you like a slap across the face. The rain was getting worse, pattering across the canvas tents from the dripping tree leaves overhead. The Captain stood with one hand resting against the support beam of his tent, the damp fabric of his shirt clinging to his shoulders. He looked unimpressed with this whole situation, his typical stoic face almost a scowl. “There has to be another solution,” He pushed.
Hange clicked their tongue. “Name one.”
Levi looked away, sighing. “Fine.”
It felt like a death sentence.
Your mind betrayed you, replaying every detail that happened last night. Rough hands against your face, the look he gave you when you grabbed his wrist to stop him from pulling away.
I know you want to kiss me.
Maybe the forest floor in the mud would be okay.
“See? Problem solved,” Hange said, clapping their hands together and delightfully going back to the shared tent with Miche. Levi had already turned away from the conversation, hands returning to pull the ropes with noticeably more aggression. Something about it irritated you, the way he moved with visible unhappiness. You didn’t know why it bothered you though, it really shouldn’t bother you. He was your Captain and things were merely platonic. You definitely weren’t reeling still at the one-sided humiliation of the previous time you were alone with him.
You resigned, sighing and grabbing your pack to walk toward Levi — and now your — tent. Levi looked up from where he was kneeling, tying the last rope to the wooden tent stake at the front. He refused to even look at you, standing and pushing past you into the flaps of the tent. The dark green canvas fell closed and you stood in place, hearing the mud beneath your boots squelching. One moment he was looking at you in the library, wanting to pull you apart piece by piece, and the next he was acting like you were personally inconveniencing him, like you had planned for there to be a missing tent.
The rain started to soak through your jacket and you finally moved, ducking through the tent entrance.
“Take off your shoes,” Levi said with his back turned to you. “If you get mud on the floor I will make you sleep outside without a second thought.” No hello. No hi, how are you? Just threats. Vague threats of the same nature he said all the time to the recruits on the field. The tent was illuminated by a single lantern, oil burning as it hung from the center beam. It wasn’t a particularly large tent, just enough for two people before it turned uncomfortable. His side was already set up, bedroll placed neatly with his pack next to it, and the other side was empty for you. Everything on his side looked meticulously cleaned and organized, even his cloak was folded into a neat square in his corner of the tent.
You kicked off your boots near the entrance next to his, dropping your pack and taking the bedroll out of the straps. Thankfully, the canvas underneath your feet was dry, giving you much needed relief from the hammering rain against the top of the tent. It was painfully silent between the two of you, the only sound was from you trying your best to unpack your things in a way that wouldn’t upset him. Everyone knew that Levi was somewhat of a clean freak just by the way he acted around headquarters, but having to share a space with him was obviously a whole different thing altogether.
Thunder got louder above the forest and you took off your cloak, sitting down on the mat. Your shoulders were aching, exhaustion beginning to settle into your bones, though you still felt awake due to who was sitting across from you. Still silent, seemingly a pro at hospitality. He sat on his own bed, one knee bent while he was inspecting one of his blades before shoving it back into the holder. The edge had caught the glow of the lantern.
The silence stretched until you said, “You know.”
Levi didn’t even look up. “What?”
At least he answered, that was a start.
“You could try to stop acting like this is the most miserable thing in the world.”
Levi’s eyes lifted, annoyingly unreadable as they locked onto yours. “You’re in my tent.”
“I didn’t plan this!”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
The nerve of him to say something like that to you. Did he really think that you were trying to get closer to him when he made it very clear last night that he wasn’t interested in anything that had to do with you? He was the one who pulled away and you didn’t say anything about it when he did, and you hadn’t told anyone else. This was the last place that you wanted to be.
Or so you kept telling yourself.
As soon as you opened your mouth to say something, he already beat you to it. “Let’s get some sleep.”
It was the one good thing that he said to you today.
The darkness consumed everything in the tent. The only thing that provided light was the occasional lightning strike from somewhere far away. You stared at the ceiling, laying underneath the quilt of your bedroll, trying to keep warm. Sleep wasn’t seeming to come no matter how much you tried. You closed your eyes and started to count backwards, and when that didn’t work you listened to the rain pattering on the side nearest to you, and you even went as far as to think about tomorrow’s route by tracing the paths through your memory. Nothing seemed to work since every single distraction led back to the same place.
Levi. The painful knowledge that he was only a few feet away made you turn on your side and then back to your back, then to the other side trying to find somewhat of a comfortable position that might lull you to sleep. But from this position you were facing him, a lightning crash let you see his silhouette of him lying on his back.
“You sound like you’re trying to dig a hole through the ground,” he said suddenly, obviously not asleep like you thought that he was.
You kept your eyes on the place he was even though you couldn’t see him anymore in the darkness. “You’re awake?”
“What gave it away?”
You rolled your eyes even though Levi wouldn’t be able to see it. The darkness felt different now that you knew that he was awake, almost suffocating. “What, are your dreams keeping you up?” You asked, a childish teasing tone.
“Sometimes.”
The answer came and you were thrown off your game, so much that you thought maybe you had imagined it. You blinked into the darkness, another flash letting you see that he was still laying in the same position. It unsettled you more than if he had just told you to shut up like he usually did. It wasn’t like him to tell information about himself, but this felt different than just that.
Rain hammered against the tent. “What about?” You questioned.
Levi was silent for a full minute, then another. Enough that you were beginning to wonder if he was going to answer at all. You shut your eyes, thinking that the conversation had dissolved into nothing. A soft feeling of sleep creeped up on you, relief flooding through your body.
“People.”
Your eyes opened, staring back to where he was. People. A simple word that made you question what he meant. He didn’t dream about Titans or missions, or things from his childhood that he probably wanted to forget but couldn’t push down. The answer was . . . surprisingly raw. Levi never really struck you as the type of person who was haunted by other people. He was always so headstrong, so sure of himself, and he always commanded everyone's attention when he was in a room. He never seemed terrified about anything or anyone.
“Like who?”
You wished you could take the question back, it was too personal and too intrusive. Though you tried to rationalize it by telling yourself that he had already given you an inside look into his mind. The rain continued to fill the silence, steady, relentless. Wind pushed against the side of the tent, fabric shaking. Just like the last question, Levi didn’t answer. You began to be aware of your own breathing, the feeling of fog leaving your mouth every time you breathed out.
Perhaps he thought that your question crossed a line that he didn’t want you to cross.
Perhaps it was easier to put a hand on someone's face and make them flail enough to ask him to kiss them than talk about himself. You wouldn’t have blamed him, no matter how much you wished it wasn’t true.
Fabric shifted quietly from his side of the tent. It wasn’t much, but it let you know that he was still awake. The silence continued, in a way that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t, it was like he was weighing if he should say something or not. The world narrowed to the space between you and him, the same way that it had in the library. Suddenly the rain and the wind and the cold didn’t matter anymore.
When Levi decided to speak, you barely heard it over the thunder. “Lately . . .”
Another pause.
“You.”
Your heart was beating so hard that you were almost sure that he would be able to hear it from all the way over there. Though, the more you thought about it, he wasn’t that far away from you at all. Only a foot or so, enough that you could hear his steady breathing if you tried hard enough to. He said that like it was the most obvious thing, like it wasn’t supposed to affect you the way that it did. Your mouth went dry, staring with wide eyes where you knew that he was laying. Waiting for him to clarify himself, or take it back, or tell you that you completely misread the conversation.
“You hit your head,” he spoke, voice sounding irritated. Though it didn’t seem it was towards you, towards himself. “You were unconscious for two days.”
The lightning flashed again.
“You didn’t show up for training, you weren’t there to talk, and you weren’t there to give me those looks you think I can’t see.”
The two days in the infirmary, almost three weeks ago at this point. You hadn’t realized that he cared that much about you during that time, or even if he cared about you at all now. You thought back to what Eren said when you woke up from your sleep in the hospital wing, how he said that Levi was checking on you.
Is she awake?
Is she dead?
A crash brightened the space again, showing you just how close your bedrolls were together. Just a step away. You couldn’t stand it, the tension a physical weight making it impossible for you to breathe. He was close, so close that before you could stop yourself, you shifted a bit closer.
This was dumb, it was dumb and wrong. You were being an idiot. And still, you couldn’t stop yourself from doing it. You sat up and paused right next to him, sitting close enough to his bedroll that when the lightning flashed again you could see the sharp lines of his face below you, jaw set, eyes fixed on your face now that you moved towards him.
Reaching out into the gloom, your hand pressed against the pad of his bedroll right next to his face.
The kiss you planted on his lips was hesitant, a tentative probe, like you were trying to test the waters. And to your dismay, Levi remained completely rigid, a statue of muscle, lips completely unyielding to yours. Below you, he didn’t have the ability to pull away, but he didn’t lean in either. Levi simply stayed completely still, a wall of resistance that seemed as though it refused to crumble at all. Your eyes widened. You had made a mistake. This was bad, this was really, really bad.
You had just kissed your Captain. It wasn’t just something that you could fantasize anymore. It wasn’t just something that you could imagine happened if he hadn’t paused in the library. It was real, and it was dying in between the two of you. Like a beautiful blooming flower that had been set aflame, burning out into a crisp, lifeless.
There was nothing in between you two, you realized. It had been all in your head. You made things up to fill in the gap that you thought was there but it wasn’t. You’d be kicked out of the Scouts. One complaint from Captain Levi was enough to make that happen, you knew that. Erwin trusted him more than anything.
But then, the lightning crashed again, and he was looking right at you. It revealed the desperate look in your eyes, searching for something, anything.
Levi seemed to snap at that precise moment.
The change between the two of you was sudden and borderline violent. Whatever soft kiss you had given him was immediately swallowed up in the way that he kissed you, hand grasping onto the back of your head and anchoring you to him. He didn’t reciprocate, he consumed, knocking the air from your lungs as he continued this almost punishing pace of kisses. You could barely breathe, and the only amount of air that you could breathe out was immediately consumed by his mouth.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” He muttered against your lips, though he didn’t give you any time to respond, because he pulled you so close on top of him to stun you. His hand on the back of your head gripped then, pulling you by your hair to push you away. You couldn’t see his face in the dark, only hearing himself gasp for air. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
summary: between sleepless nights, bruised hands, and captain levi’s relentless attention, the line between self-preservation and self-destruction begins to blur. captain levi watches you like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake. the problem is that you can’t stop watching him back.
words: 6.0k
part: 2/? (pt 1) (pt 3)
content warning(s): age difference, power imbalance, loss of innocence, canon-typical violence, circa season 1 of aot, aged up recruits, slight eren yeager/reader, not so slowburn, eventual explicit sexual content.
chapter specific warnings: almost kiss, teasing, flirting, tension, mentions of sex, levi cockblocking himself
author's note: this is the second chapter of a multi-chapter fanfiction cross posted on my ao3. hope you guys enjoy! my inbox is open for fic requests and headcanon requests, as well as just to chat.
A deep ache throbbed behind your eyes, spreading towards your jaw and neck, reaching to your shoulder and seemingly finding a home there. It pulsed beneath your skin, feeling unbearably hot like something was trying to push out of it. Your body ached in strange places, soreness stretching to places you had never thought they could reach before. At least you could feel your heart thumping. That had to count for something.
There was the inexplicable smell of alcohol and linen reaching your nostrils, causing your brows to furrow. Slowly, consciousness began to drag you towards some sort of light, eyelids feeling impossibly heavy despite you forcing them open. A second passed where you looked towards the ceiling, the soft lantern light emanating across the wood.
“Hey,” a voice came from beside you quietly.
You blinked, slower, enough to turn your eyes toward the chair sitting near your bed. You turned your whole head then, feeling the softness of a pillow behind you. It was Eren. The moment that you made eye contact with him, relief hit his face, making your chest tighten painfully. He had clearly been sitting there for a while, slouched against the wooden chair beside your head with his arms folded over his chest. There were dark circles around his eyes and he looked so, so tired.
“You look awful,” you mumbled weakly.
Eren let out a tiny laugh. “That’s what you decide to say after being unconscious for almost two days straight?”
You stared at him blankly. Two days? You tried to comprehend losing that much time, and you failed miserably. The only thing you could remember last was the forest spinning, Commander Erwin talking and Hange examining you. And then there was nothing. You squeezed your eyes shut, the movement sending another throb through your skull.
“Don’t do that again,” Eren said, leaning forward in his chair. “You scared the shit out of everyone.”
Your mouth twitched. “Everyone?
“Yes, idiot. Everyone.”
Something warm bloomed inside of your chest. Quiet footsteps echoed somewhere outside of the room, other soldiers returning to the mess hall for dinner. Everything felt too calm to be true, though that’s how infirmaries had always felt to you. Detached from reality, a place of rest. Your gaze shifted back to Eren. “How long have you been sitting there?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Only a few hours. We’ve all been taking shifts. Commander Erwin thought that it was unnecessary, but Captain Levi gave us the okay. He was the one who lugged you back most of the way.”
Your brows furrowed. “Captain Levi?”
Eren nodded once, stretching in the chair. “Yeah. He said that someone should stay in case you woke up confused. Maybe he actually felt bad for what happened.”
You stared at Eren, a quizzical look on your face. Captain Levi feeling bad for anything felt almost absurd to think about. It wasn’t impossible, there had to be some humanity locked deep within him behind his cold gaze. But . . . it was strange to think about. Like trying to picture a wolf apologizing to a sheep after biting it. You shook your head, no. It didn’t make sense. He was probably just trying to cover his own ass after what happened.
“He doesn’t seem like the type,” you muttered, something lingering oddly in your chest. Because despite everything, like the insults and the sharp remarks, and how he always seemed like he was one moment away from throwing half of you recruits into a wall — he still caught you. He still carried you back. And apparently, he still made sure that someone stayed behind while you were unconscious.
Eren hummed. “He’s actually been checking in on you. Maybe he doesn’t hate you as much as you think he does. He stopped by the infirmary once in a while to ask if you’d woken up yet.”
Heat reached your cheeks and you were lucky that the light was dim enough to not show it.
“What did he say?” You asked.
His expression flattened slightly, clearly trying to mimic Levi. “Is she awake.” A pause. “Is she dead.” Another pause. “Why is Hange still here.”
Both of you erupted into fits of laughter.
Eren spent the next few minutes catching you up on some of the things that happened while you were unconscious. Everything seemed pretty typical, but a part of you knew that Eren was just trying to make you feel less bad about skipping whole days. He told you about all the people that came to see you. It seemed like you had made more of an impact on the people around you than you even noticed. Armin fell asleep in the chair beside your bed while trying to read to you (something about Hange saying familiar voices would take you out of your sleep), Mikasa threatened Connie at least twice for making too many jokes. Jean apparently complained the entire time he visited, but he had also been the first person to volunteer to watch you.
It felt strange hearing all of it. Not a bad strange. Just incredibly unfamiliar.
Before you had joined the Scouts, you hadn’t ever really stopped to consider what it would be like to belong somewhere. Truly belong somewhere. You had been pushed out of your home in Shiganshina by Titans, and forced to live the life of a refugee in a place where no one wanted you or your neighbors. Joining the military was a last ditch effort in order to stay with your friends at first, but now you couldn’t imagine yourself anywhere else. Being here had stitched everyone together in a messy and uneven way, something that would probably never fully come undone. Even now, waking up in the infirmary, there was someone sitting right beside you, waiting for you to wake up.
“See? You’re not allowed to die now. Too many people would be annoyed about it,” Eren said, pushing your shoulder. “So don’t let something like this happen again, or we’ll think that you’re just doing it for attention.”
“You’re evil,” you stated, a grin on your face.
Eventually, everyone heard that you were awake again and your friends came to visit you. That was, until Hange kicked them out and said that you needed your rest. Connie had attempted to argue, but Eren and Mikasa dragged him out by the collar with promises that they could come back and visit in the morning. As much as you wanted to stand up and leave with them, you knew that it was best to take it easy. You were still getting your strength back. Soon enough, you would be back on your feet. And everything would return to normal.
Right?
The evening had fully darkened now, moonlight slipping pale and silver through the infirmary windows. There were a few remaining sounds of soldiers moving through headquarters and somewhere in the small office that was nearby, you could hear pages turning. Hange, most likely. They were probably going over documents of her research until it calmed them to sleep. Did they ever sleep? You really weren’t sure.
You shifted slightly beneath the blankets, trying to reach for the cup of water on the table beside the bed. However, you immediately regretted moving too much when the pain flared in your shoulder. Hange told you that it had almost been dislocated, and that you were lucky or that would have had you out of commission for a few weeks. Through your winces, you were able to take the cup and take a big gulp. It felt good down your throat, obviously parched from being asleep for two days.
A quiet scoff came from the doorway.
“You’re actually awake”
Levi stood near the entrance of the infirmary, arms crossed over his chest while leaning against the doorframe, expression unreadable from so far away. From what you could see, there were bandages wrapped around one of his forearms that disappeared beneath the rolled sleeve of his white shirt. He walked closer now, crossing the room with the same authoritative drive he used when crossing the battlefield. Once he was at the foot of the bed, you could see the darkened bruises blossoming on the pale skin of his collarbone. He looked tired behind his eyes.
He looked less like the untouchable strongest soldier and more like the man that you had been in the forest with, who had enough forethought to grab you so you didn’t end up with more injuries than you already had. A part of you wondered how badly he was actually hurt, and before you opened your mouth to say it, you thought about how it was better not to ask.
“Hange said that your shoulder is still unstable,” Levi said.
You glanced over your body, the bandaging wrapped beneath the straps of your black knitted tank top a testament to just how unstable it was. You shrugged with your good shoulder. “I’m hard to kill.”
He huffed out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. His eyes were still looking at you and you almost felt like a bug under a microscope the way that they scanned from your shoulder to the cut that was already half healed on your cheek, your lip still cut and busted in one area.
“You’re reckless,” he said finally, though it seemed to be less of an insult because it lacked its usual bite. “That isn’t the same thing as being hard to kill.”
Your fingers tightened around the blanket in your lap. “You make it sound like I did it on purpose. I didn’t. I promise I didn’t see you there until it was too late. It was a one time—”
He spoke your name, which cut you off from your half assed explanation of something that you weren’t even sure you were remembering correctly. Your name sounded weird on his lips. You were used to him calling you cadet, or soldier, or anything other than the name that you had been born with. There was no sharpness behind it either, just a soft syllabuled word like he had said it so many times before. Your heartbeat stumbled awkwardly beneath your ribs.
You desperately wanted to know what he was thinking. Did he think that this was all your fault? Did he despise you for giving him injuries that he wouldn’t have if you had been looking where you had been going?
Levi seemed to realize that he had been staring too long at you, because his expression began to harden again, putting an invisible distance between the two of you. “You’re off training for the next several days,” he said.
Your face dropped immediately. “What? I’m fine.”
“You’re not using your ODM gear until Hange clears you.”
It was a clear order. One that you knew you had to obey.
The next two weeks passed strangely. It wasn’t slow, but also wasn’t quick. You were banned from ODM drills and almost all drills that didn’t have the gear either which, frankly, felt worse than your obvious head injury and your shoulder which had practically healed completely. While everyone else was off training in the forest or doing sparring drills or going out for small expeditions, you were stuck doing everything else. Inventory. Repairs. Cleaning. You were sure that if you had to wash the windows one more time or count another potato, you were going to explode.
“He’s doing this on purpose. I’ve been fine for at least two days now and I’m still a glorified maid,” you complained to Sasha, scrubbing blood off of a set of blades that had been used in the latest expedition to kill some Titans that got too close to one of the walls.
Sasha glanced over at the far side of the room where Levi stood, reviewing some paperwork beneath the dim lantern light. “Maybe he just likes staring at you.”
You dropped the blade into the water bucket. Scrambling, you sifted your hand through the liquid to try and find it while saying, “What?”
Sasha shrugged, like it was the most common thing in the world. “I’m just saying. He keeps assigning you to everything that keeps you very close.”
You finally found the blade at the bottom of the bucket and pulled it out with an irritated splash, water dripping down your forearms while you held a scowl on your face. You told yourself that she was being crazy, that he was just keeping you close by in case your brain decided to hemorrhage or something like that. You spent so much time in your head, that was the whole reason that you had gotten hurt in the first place.
You really needed to stop reading so much into things.
And you really needed to stop looking for him every time you did something for some type of approval on his part.
Unfortunately, your body decided to betray your mind, because even after telling yourself all of that, your eyes drifted toward the far side of the room where Levi was standing. The room was busy with soldiers doing menial tasks like cleaning gear and washing clothing and Levi still managed to look entirely separate from all of it. Completely self-contained, not worrying about anything around him. He was so sure of himself and his entire life that you wondered how long it had taken him to get to this point. You had heard the rumors about him, possibly too many rumors that you knew not all of them could be true. Though all of them had at least one thing in common with each other: he used to be very well known in the criminal underground before joining the Scouts. How he got to the Scouts was a bit of a mystery. Some people said that it was because he was bored being a criminal, and others said it was because Erwin took him captive and made him join the Scouts.
Regardless, it all came down to the same idea that Captain Levi was incredibly different than almost everyone you had met before.
The dinner bell rang and everyone was quick to finish or abandon their work. Once you polished the rest of the blade in your hand, you and Sasha walked into the hallway and met up with the others for another delicious meal of some-sort-of-vegetable-soup. You slid into your usual spot beside Eren, nudging him with your elbow before digging into your meal.
“Oh, hey,” Eren said, nudging you with his own elbow in response. “I missed you out there today. It feels so wrong to see you just stand and feed the horses all day.”
You sighed. “Tell me about it.”
He laughed quietly beside you, the sound warm enough to pull a smile across your face. This was normal. You needed normal, especially lately. You listened while your gaze drifted absently across the mess hall. There were more soldiers coming in now, crowded into nearly every single table. And despite your better judgement, your eyes found Levi in the crowd.
He sat near the farthest table from the entrance near Commander Erwin and Hange, with one hand curled around a teacup while the other seemed to fiddle with the same papers he had been looking at earlier. Your gaze lingered for only a second before you looked away, although it was too slow that you realized Eren had noticed.
“You okay?” he asked.
You blinked once, feigning indifference. “Hm?”
“You zoned out again.”
“Oh,” you said, shrugging. “Just tired, I guess.”
Eren studied your face for another moment and you wondered if he could see through your lie. Another moment passed before he said, “You’ll be back to training soon. Don’t worry.”
You nodded vaguely, lowering your gaze back towards your soup before Eren could say anything else. Around you, the conversation was shifting between if Connie could survive out in the wilderness alone while Sasha argued that he would die within hours. They kept talking while you tried your best to eat your food as fast as possible, longing for your bed and a good night's sleep. At least then you could begin to hope that you would be able to train in the morning.
“Captain!” Armin exclaimed, looking at you, which made you raise your eyebrow. But then you heard the sound of shifting footsteps behind you, and it was then that you realized Captain Levi was standing right behind you and Armin was looking at him and not you. The entire table straightened, Connie stopped talking mid sentence and Mikasa lowered her fork from her mouth. Even Jean looked less interested in arguing about his wilderness survival now that Levi stood behind your shoulder.
You turned in your seat, watching Levi look down at the table with an unreadable expression. His attention lingered briefly on the rest of your friends before settling on you.
“Are you done eating?” he asked.
You blinked once, glancing down at your mostly empty bowl. It had only been ten minutes of you sitting down, was he really going to make you do something else? You could only imagine what he was going to make you do now. Muck out the stables? Clean the floors near the bathrooms? You almost shivered at the idea of having to get your hands dirty like that. “Uh, Almost,” you replied.
“After dinner, go to the library.”
Your brows furrowed. “The library?”
That dusty old place? What could Levi possibly want you to do there? You were sure that the room hadn’t been touched by any soldier since the military started using headquarters again. How could it have gotten that dirty?
“There are old scouting formation records that need to be reorganized. It’s impossible to get records to Commander Erwin in the sorry state it's in right now,” he spoke. When he saw the quizzical look on your face, blinking a few times to make sure you were hearing him correctly, he spoke again. “You’re not training. Which means unlike anyone else, you shouldn’t be tired. Perfect for staying up later to do some paperwork.”
Eren muttered something under his breath but you couldn’t hear it. You were too busy trying not to overthink the assignment or the fact that Levi had thought of you specifically for it. Again, you reminded yourself that you were thinking too much into things. It was a simple assignment, something that shouldn’t take too long and then you could go back to your life. And as far away as possible from whatever feelings you were having being near Levi for too long.
“I can do that,” you replied.
Levi sat farther into his heels, his eyes traveling from your eyes to the soft bandages that poked out of your uniform from your shoulder. He watched for a moment longer before walking away through the mess hall, boots echoing softly against the wooden floors.
The library smelled of mildew and leather, a place that had a considerably less amount of foot traffic just by the looks of it. There was a fine line of dust along the top shelves where books that hadn’t been touched in years laid in wait. Luckily, those ones seemed to still be in chronological order. The ones that needed attending to were on the middle and lower shelves. It was clear that the groups of military who were here before left in some type of hurry, different papers strewn in between each book in a disorganized array.
You dragged your fingers along the spine of one of the books while moving through the shelves, eyes scanning the faded lettering stamped along the leather bindings. Lanternlight glowed softly through the library, stretching shadows between each row of books, the heavy wooded doors fading any distant muffled noise. It felt almost abandoned, in the way that churches were quiet.
A strange sort of heaviness settled in your body while you scanned each text looking for proper dates. Every single book in this room represented years of work, years of people fighting for the same thing that you were fighting for, and years of hope for a better life. Most of the soldiers that were in these past formations were probably not alive anymore, due to such a high casualty rate in the Scouts. Your gaze drifted to one of the papers sticking between two books, pulling it free and scanning the handwritten notes that covered the page. Words from a different time.
To your right, Levi was sitting at the head of one of the many wooden tables, scanning over documents himself. It seemed like he was looking for something, the way that his long index finger traced the faded lines of text. If you watched him for too long, you found yourself staring at the vascular contours of his hands, a vein or two sticking out against his pale skin. The finger he was using traced so delicately as to not disturb the pages beneath it.
You wondered, for a split second, if that finger would feel as delicate tracing the vertebra of your spine. And instead of the usual mortifying feeling you had thinking about your commanding Captain that way, all you could do was replay the motion over and over in your head. Your stomach twisted in on itself, the familiar feeling of heat rising to your cheeks.
To try and combat this embarrassment, you looked back down at the papers in your hands, setting them down on the table and beginning to order them by date. Your fingers moved quicker than your thoughts, trying so desperately hard not to think about Levi touching you in any capacity beyond dragging you out of life-threatening situations or carrying you from the forest after you passed out from injury. It was one thing to notice that he was attractive, unfairly attractive, but it was another thing to imagine the exact way that his hands would roam your body while standing only a few feet away from him.
Levi sighed, a sound that caught your attention in the intimate space between the two of you. When you turned to look at him, he had his hand running through his dark hair to the back of his neck, an obvious tiredness in his actions that made you wonder why he insisted on doing this tonight instead of tomorrow in the morning. Your memories flashed back to that night you had been outside with him and how late that was. Perhaps he also had trouble sleeping after all of these years.
“Something wrong, Captain?” You asked, trying to make polite conversation regardless of your splintered and fractured feelings towards him. His hand paused briefly where it rested against the back of his neck before dropping back down to the papers. There was such a pregnant pause between your question and his answer that you almost thought he would ignore your question entirely.
He leaned back into his chair, the creak of wood under the legs of it. “Headache.”
You pretended that you didn’t hear the gruffness of his voice when he said it, the low timbre scratching right into your bones. It was such a common, simple word, and yet you were reeling from it. It took everything in you to not ask him more questions, to dig into how he was feeling, how he felt about what happened between the two of you in the forest. So, instead you tried to go back to work.
It was hard though, because you could hear the scrape of Levi’s thumb against the old paper whenever he turned a page, or the quiet shift of his boots against the floorboards. You could hear the occasional low exhale through his nose when he realized how worn the words were on the page of whatever he was reading. You wondered if other people noticed these things about him too, or if they were too busy being afraid of him to even think about it.
“I’m sorry,” you stated before you could stop yourself. Your eyes drifted back to him, watching him roll up one of his grey sleeves. “For what happened in the forest.”
His finger stilled against the page.
You continued. “During the crash you got hurt because I wasn’t paying attention.”
Levi stared at you, silence stretching thin. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. Maybe you should have just kept your mouth shut so you could get out of here and stop thinking so much about him. He was your Captain, it was so inappropriate to even think about thinking these incessant thoughts about him.
“You really need to stop thinking so much,” he said. An observation. If this had been a month ago when you were just getting to know your Captain, you would have probably taken it as almost an insult the way that he said it. Knowing Levi now, you knew it was just his nature. Levi stood up and put the book he had been reading away on one of the middle shelves, leaning against the wood afterwards to look at you fully.
Your fingers twitched. “And what?” you asked. “You don’t think about mistakes after they happen?”
“I don’t make mistakes.”
You stared at him flatly for a moment, then a laugh escaped your throat before you could stop it. It wasn’t loud, just tiny enough that it slipped without any instinct. Levi’s eyes squinted, as if to ask why you were laughing when he was serious. He walked closer to you, footsteps echoing within the wooden walls of the library. It was here that you could see his face completely, every single painfully handsome detail. His jawline was sharp, so sharp that you wondered if it would soften with a kiss against it, or how it would look with a mouth shaped mark just along the junction between his jaw and his neck.
His eyes stayed glued to yours, dark grey circles that looked right into yours, searching for something. You weren’t sure what.
Maybe he didn’t know either.
Your pulse beat so hard beneath your skin that you wondered if he could see it in the vein in your throat. He was so close now, close enough that if you leaned forward even slightly, your knee would brush against his leg. You could feel his breathing again, the same way that you had felt when you had landed on top of him in the clearing. Calm and concise, like he wasn’t affected by being so close to you.
A hand came up, pausing for a moment while he looked into your eyes, and then landed on your cheek, tracing the faint line that still was present from the accident. Your breath caught in your throat. Levi’s hand was rougher than you expected it to be. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had touched the healing wound. Eren was obsessed with making sure it was healing properly. But Levi’s hands felt different than Eren’s, his touch felt different than Eren’s. His fingers curled against your jaw, steady and warm, thumb tracing carefully along the fading cut.
It was impossibly gentle for a man who was capable of tearing Titans apart with ease.
You kept your eyes fixed on his face while he examined the scar, gray eyes lowered beneath his dark lashes. You could see every tiny detail that you had spent the last two weeks trying desperately not to notice, like how the faint scar near his lip was pale with age, or how his expression softened just slightly when he stopped thinking so hard about maintaining his sharp persona that everyone expected from him.
“You’ll scar,” your Captain murmured, thumb brushing once more against your cheekbone.
You swallowed. Hard. “That bothers you?”
His eyes shifted from the pale line slowly back toward your own.
“No.”
You remembered then the way he had said ‘no’ that night outside. The same certainty, a quiet finality beneath the word.
Then you must have gotten what you wanted, right, Captain?
No.
It hit you over and over again, just like it had that night beneath the moonlight, the coldness settling in your bones. Something about the way Levi said things made them feel immovable and absolute. He had already carved the thought into stone before speaking it out loud. He looked at your scar like it didn’t lessen you in any way, thumb lingering against your cheekbone before his hand moved, signalling he was going to move away.
Your instincts took over, right hand shooting up and curling around the pale expanse of his wrist, holding his hand there against your face. The entire room seemed to stop breathing while Levi stilled beneath your touch. Your pulse was slamming violently against your ribs the second you realized what you had done, eyes blown wide as you failed to reach eye contact with him.
This was your Captain. The same Captain who would kill a Titan without blinking. The same Captain who people stepped aside for in hallways like he had silently commanded it. Your Captain whose hand was still cupping your face while your fingers curled around the bones of his wrist like you couldn’t bear the idea of him pulling away.
Instead of letting go, your grip tightened only slightly, prompting Levi’s eyes to drop towards your hand. His gaze then lifted towards your face again and you could’ve sworn that something dark flickered behind his gaze. It wasn’t exactly anger. Something worse than that.
Your breathing was shallow, every inhale catching in your throat while his skin burned warm beneath your fingers. The tendons shifted subtly underneath your grip, his hand flexing as if to test the sturdiness of your hand. Neither of you had moved still, while the library became deathly quiet around you. You couldn’t hear the muffling of footsteps in the hallway anymore, nor the flickering of the lantern on the table.
“Careful.”
The word, that singular word, scraped against your spine.
Still, you didn’t let go.
Levi inhaled sharply. A tiny sound, barely there. And the noise nearly destroyed you. His eyes narrowed, though it didn’t look like irritation in his gaze. More like restraint, like he was forcing himself not to react to you the way that his body wanted him to. His thumb brushed slowly along your cheek, eyes still focused as if trying to memorize the exact details of your face.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” he murmured. “Eventually you’re going to get yourself into trouble.”
“How am I looking at you?” You muttered back, mouth going slightly dry. The question held there between your body, like a pulled blade, inches from being stabbed directly into his heart before having him bleed out on the library floor. His demeanor changed then, the same hand on your face tracing a slow path down your cheek to your jaw, finding purchase there before continuing its descent down, down, down and landing on the junction between your head and your neck. You gulped, which he could feel beneath his fingers. He didn’t squeeze, just held you there through his hand and his gaze.
He stepped forward then, pinning you in between him and the table. “You know exactly how,” he said quietly. His eyes traveled downward to your mouth. “Do you want me to do something about it?”
Yes. Your body screamed. Yes you wanted him to do something about it. He had been driving you crazy for the past two weeks, invading your thoughts and infecting your mind with only him. He made you stay close to him under the guise that he was watching your recovery. You hated him because he didn’t let you go back to training. And you hated him for making you seem like a maid to order around on your every whim. And you hated him now, for looking at you like you were the one who was coaxing him into something that he didn’t want. You knew he wanted something, it was evident. But something told you that he would never admit it.
You wanted him to kiss you so bad that it physically hurt, an aching thing that you couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard you tried. In fact, you weren’t even sure that if he kissed you it would go away. It would be easier that way, if he kissed you and things would go back to normal. But the way that he was looking at you now wasn’t helping your rationale. He wanted this, you knew that he did. You could feel it in the way that his hand absentmindedly flexed against your throat as your breathing sped up and then slowed back down.
And still, he was making you say it.
“You’re cruel,” you whispered to him, inspiring a look of amusement from Levi. He hummed, the sound brushing against your lips from how close he was standing.
You hated him for that too. For being so composed while your thoughts were spiraling into something embarrassing, something desperate beneath his gaze. You could barely even remember why you had been in the library in the first place. The reports, which were strewn lazily along the desk you were practically sitting on, felt absurdly unimportant to the both of you.
“You keep asking questions you already know the answer to,” you stated.
Levi’s other hand came to brush his fingers against your jaw, thumb coming up way too close to your bottom lip.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Then answer it.”
A command, one that you were expected to answer. Under normal circumstances, you would have answered right away. Yes, Captain. But the words caught in your throat. It felt wrong to call him Captain at a time like this, when he was this close to you that you could smell the fresh linen scent emanating from his clothing and something like black tea on his breath.
Swallowing your pride, you spoke low, “I know you want to kiss me.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” he said, a fact. But his voice was devoid of any type of uncertainty. It sounded wrecked.
“Why?” You whispered.
Because I won’t stop.
Every inch of your body leaned unconsciously toward him, waiting for the kiss that felt inevitable now. His forehead pressed against yours and your eyes fluttered shut, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your mouth.
And then?
Nothing happened.
Furrowing your brows in confusion, you opened your eyes. Levi was still looking at you, watching you unravel in front of him, as your stomach twisted and your heart beat right into your ears. What the hell was he waiting for? You had laid out what you felt and what you knew that he felt and . . . he wasn’t doing what he was supposed to be doing!
“Captain,” you whispered, the title slipping free through your mouth, sounding all the more desperate than respectful.
Levi stepped back, your pulse thrumming hard while his hands slipped away from you. His fingertips ghosted along your skin before they disappeared. The sudden loss of warmth hit you immediately and your body almost followed him on instinct. Which Levi seemed to notice, a faint exhale from him. It sounded almost like satisfaction. Like he had wrestled himself back under control and knew exactly what denying was doing to you. His breathing had calmed down, rolled sleeves exposed forearms with the same veins that you had been eying earlier.
As if it was the most normal thing in the world, he reached down toward the table.
“Organize the rest of these papers, then you can leave,” he said evenly.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’m very serious.”
“You were just —”
“Just what?” Mocking.
You gave him a look, one that was half pleading and half accusatory.
And instead of continuing the conversation, he turned on his heel and left, the sound of the library doors closing echoing through the room.
apocalypse - one
undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]
warnings [mdni] - angst | implied trauma | mean sukuna
wc - 7.3k
series masterlist
∞
ryomen sukuna knew three things about his soulmate.
she drank too much caffeine, she slept curled on her side whenever anxiety crawled beneath her skin and whenever she read for hours on end or colored, the noise in his head quieted enough to let him breathe.
it was fucking irritating.
the first time she got under his skin, it was in the middle of his first match.
he’d nearly put his fist through the guy, rage sitting ugly beneath his ribs as blood pooled in his mouth and sweat dripped down his spine.
then suddenly, he was overcome with serenity he’d never experienced before.
a calmness that wasn’t his own, never his own.
something soft slipped beneath his skin then, warm and quiet in a way he wasn’t used to. like somebody had pressed cold hands against the back of his neck after years of burning where he stood.
he’d won that match.
“again?” toji muttered from across the gym, cigarette balanced lazily between scarred fingers.
sukuna rolled his jaw once before slamming another punch into the heavy bag hard enough for the chains overhead to rattle violently.
“fuck off.”
toji smirked, tongue peaking out to lick at the scar against his lip.
the gym smelled like rust, sweat and the metallic ting of blood that both men were used to. it was a shitty set up buried beneath the city in the lower levels of an abandoned parking structure. it barely looked legal from the outside and the inside wasn't much better.
the concrete floors, flickering lights and men all too violent to exist comfortably above ground.
and it was the place ryomen sukuna felt alive.
sukuna had been fighting since he was fifteen and filled with a rage even he couldn’t understand.
toji found him bloody outside a convenience store after some older guys tried jumping him for gambling money.
it was clear they didn’t get the money but sukuna took that fire in his gaze out on them.
sukuna still recalled the way toji looked down at him, droplets cascading down his sharp features and dark hair, damp cigarette hanging from his mouth while blood dripped steadily from sukuna’s split brow.
“you fight like an animal,” toji began, taking a drag of his fading cig before tilting his head at the salmon haired boy, “what if i told you that you could beat the shit out of guys every day and get paid for it?”
a fucking dream is what that was. he gets to utilize his anger and he could finally get out of his father’s house.
how could sukuna even say no?
somehow, it turned into this.
years later, ryomen sukuna had become the name whispered through underground rings across the city. not because he was the biggest or the strongest, but because he was cruel.
there was something deeply unsettling about the way sukuna fought.
controlled, almost lazy sometimes. like violence came so naturally to him that he didn’t even need to think about it.
people feared men who fought emotionally.
they feared ryomen sukuna more because he never did.
most nights, he fought beneath screaming neon lights while crowds chanted his name loud enough to shake the walls.
they bet on him like he was a sure thing and fuck, did he get a shitload of money from it.
he’d leave each night, beaten and bruised with a duffel of cash hanging off his shoulder.
he was living the dream.
that was until he arrived home, in his apartment downtown, and sat in silence while somebody else’s emotions bled quietly into his chest.
a girl he’d never met yet somehow knew like the back of his hand, all too intimately.
he knew she liked coffee because of the bursts of energy he’d feel during mornings where he usually slept in because his fights usually carried into the night.
he knew she did yoga often because his muscles weren’t as sore as they would get when he was younger and god knows it wasn’t his doing. he didn’t stretch nearly as much as toji nagged at him to.
he also knew that she despised him.
that one was obvious.
their bond always sharpened after his fights. her irritation sat bright and hot beneath his ribs every time he came home bruised and bloody.
sometimes he couldn’t differentiate between his own rage and hers.
maybe they were more alike than he thought.
truthfully, sukuna didn’t know how to do things any differently and frankly, he didn’t care enough to.
he hated this whole soulmates shit. why would the universe ever pair two people together with the utmost certainty that they were perfect for each other?
and what fucking masacre did this girl commit to be bonded with him of all people?
violence was the only thing sukuna had ever been good at and he wouldn’t change that for anyone, especially some girl who was almost a mere figment of his imagination.
he did that sometimes. pretended that he was a non-existent and that he was merely hallucinating her.
non-existents made up a very small part of the population and they were essentially humans who didn’t have soulmates. like toji was.
lucky bastard.
sometimes sukuna believed toji was lying because he’d get this distant look on his face some days, kind of like himself when he felt his own soulmate torment him.
so maybe he was a late bloomer?
either way, he was in a better situation than sukuna was.
“your girl’s pissed again?” toji commented dryly from where he leaned against the boxing ring ropes, head tilted with a knowingness sukuna hated.
toji was the one sukuna had to confide in because who else did he have?
when he was overwhelmed as a young teenager about his soulmate, toji would be the one he would reluctantly go to. the older man had taken him under his wing, so yes, he did trust him more than anyone.
he also knew that toji cared about him in his own fucked up way.
sukuna’s knuckles ached tonight, phantom annoyance curling beneath his skin that didn’t belong to him. it was her.
probably studying somewhere in the city while silently wishing death upon him.
the thought almost made him grin.
throughout the years, pissing her off became a hobby of some sort, though he knew she didn’t find it nearly as amusing as he did.
“at least you know she’s got personality.” toji stated once more as sukuna finally stopped punching and turned to shoot the man a glare.
“shut the fuck up.”
toji huffed out a laugh, “god help you both when you finally meet.”
the thought made sukuna freeze momentarily.
it was almost sad.
usually, at least from what sukuna knew, people usually couldn’t wait to meet their soulmates.
then there was sukuna, filled with dread at the mere idea.
sukuna hated even talking about the bond.
he hated how aware he was of her.
because despite everything, the distance and never seeing her to begin with, she felt woven into him already, like a haunting.
some nights, when his insomnia clawed violently at his nerves after fights, he’d feel her wrap her arms around herself beneath warm blankets god knows where.
and sleep came easier those nights.
he couldn’t explain it and truthfully, he didn’t like to think about it.
he hated talking about her because the truth was ugly.
that he didn’t particularly hate her. which is exactly why he knew meeting her would ruin everything.
naturally, his solution was to sabotage everything which is why he started to sleep around with non-existents whenever he got the chance.
and he knew what it did to her.
good. he hoped it made her despise him enough to never want anything to do with him, whether they meet now or twenty years down the line.
sukuna didn’t want anything to do with her.
∞
you hated downtown on friday nights.
it was always too loud and all too crowded.
neon signs bled into rain-slick streets while bass-heavy music spilled from every open doorway along the block.
girls stumbled across sidewalks in tiny dresses and tall heels, drunken laughter cutting through the humid summer night air while taxis lined the streets endlessly.
the city looked beautiful after dark, but you still wanted to be everywhere but here.
“stop looking at people with that judgy look of yours.” shoko muttered beside you, nudging your shoulder lightly as the three of you crossed the street.
“i’m not judging, i’m just looking around…” you defended with a huff as you hugged yourself protectively, little kitten heels clicking against the pavement.
“you are judging,” utahime confirmed, “it’s your classic disgusted and glare-ey look.”
“well excuse me, you’re the ones who brought me to crackhead-ville.” you glared at the two girls as shoko rolled her eeys before hooking her arm through yours anyway.
she pulled you towards the entrance of yet another overcrowded building downtown.
apparently, tonight’s party was being held somewhere above an abandoned old bar. or beneath it.
either way, something you found entirely too ominous but you were too distracted when shoko was explaining to actually disagree.
your soulmate had spent the entire evening restless beneath your skin. not angry but worse.
aware.
you felt him constantly tonight.
a steady pulse of adrenaline humming through your bloodstream that didn’t belong to you.
your chest had felt tight since leaving the penthouse, some strange tension settling low in your stomach like your body was anticipating something before your mind could catch up.
it was unsettling.
you blamed the lack of sleep, or rather, you blamed him. you blamed him for it all.
“ew, ew…” you muttered as shoko pulled you through the door into what you could only describe as chaos.
warmth and noise hit you instantly.
bodies crowded wall to wall beneath flashing lights while music shook violently through the floorboards.
cigarette smoke lingered in the air despite the open windows somewhere deeper inside the space.
you physically recoiled.
“oh my god,” utahime muttered beside you, laughing softly at the expression painting your features, “you look horrified.”
“i am horrified!”
shoko snorted, “rich kids.”
you threw her a glare before the three of you squeezed through the crowd until you reached a quieter section tucked near the back of the room.
a curved leather couch sat half-empty beneath dim red lights, thankfully far enough from the speakers that your skull stopped vibrating the second you sat down.
you exhaled deeply, chest deflating as you blinked up at your friends who were looking at you with amusement.
“drinks?” utahime questioned as shoko nodded eagerly while you merely hummed, shoulders tense as you gazed around the sea of bodies.
utahime disappeared toward the bar while shoko took a seat beside you, the leather beneath you sticky in a way that had you shuddering, sitting at the very edge of the couch.
fuck, you hated this and you couldn’t explain why.
yes, you hated parties in general but you just felt wrong.
“you’re being weird tonight.” shoko observed, eyes narrowed on your tense figure.
you frowned faintly, “i know…i feel weird.”
your skin felt like it was buzzing, chest vibrating in a way it usually wasn’t.
it wasn’t necessarily bad, but simply off.
you felt your soulmate more than ever tonight, you were almost hyperaware.
he felt electric.
every emotion coming from him felt sharper somehow, close enough that you could almost mistake them for your own.
your pulse kept jumping for no reason.
fuck, you hated this.
“is it devils dick?” shoko casually asked as your eyes closed momentarily.
how would you explain that it was both yes and no.
yes, the bond felt different tonight.
but no, it wasn’t muscle aches or phantom pain you were feeling on his end, though you didn't want to speak too soon.
it was a friday after all. friday nights usually meant bruised ribs by saturday morning.
“oh my god, guys!” hime stood before you, handing shoko her drink before placing a water bottle in your hand, “everyone’s saying gojo and his crew are gonna be here!”
your eyes rolled gently, very much aware of utahime’s obsession with those random illegitimate fighters.
underground fights happened constantly throughout the city.
illegal betting rings buried beneath clubs and abandoned buildings, violent enough that respectable people pretended they didn’t exist despite everyone secretly knowing otherwise.
your father even told you how known politicians and well known figures even placed bets they hid from the public.
and lately, there was one name that everyone kept talking about-
“do you think sukuna would show up?” shoko questioned, eyes wide with excitement, taking a sip of her cherry vodka as you looked between the two girls.
ryomen sukuna.
you’d heard it constantly from utahime the past few months.
uathime, shoko, sora and percy often went on double dates to these underground fights you had zero interest in.
you were very much used to fifth wheeling alongside your friends, that wasn’t the issue. the issue was rooted in the prospect of spending the night in a filthy underground boxing ring riddled with people and violence alike. yuck.
still, amongst all the fighters utahime gushed about, ryomen sukuna seemed to be the most known.
the undefeated underground fighter with pink hair and a snake tattoo across his shoulders and collarbones.
people were terrified of him just as equally as they were obsessed with him.
“percy says sukuna knocked his opponent unconscious in under thirty seconds last week!” shoko stated, taking another sip as utahime nodded frantically.
“he’s insane!” utahime gushed, “like, gojo is obviously a show off and just cares about the clout he gets but sukuna? he’s terrifying…”
utahime continued, you were sure. you could see her mouth moving but you didn’t-couldn’t register the words she'd uttered.
the world around you turned hazy, just enough to feel like everything slowed in a way that definitely wasn’t normal.
your heartbeat stopped, not metaphorically, but physically.
a sharp wave of adrenaline crashed violently into your chest hard enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs.
you went still, every muscle in your body tightening instinctively.
you could see both of the girls leaning towards you, brows furrowed in concern, mouths moving and uttering words you knew were dipped in concern. you couldn’t hear any of it.
you swallowed hard, eyes darting up and around you, as if a siren was luring you towards the crowd, come to me, come, come.
fuck, were you drugged or something?
your heartbeat stuttered painfully beneath your ribs, once, twice then again.
you felt like you’d been dropped underwater while everyone else remained above the surface.
the bond felt raw and entirely too overwhelming.
it felt like standing at the edge of something life-altering, like your soul had recognized something before your mind could catch up to it.
for the first time since you’d first felt your soulmate, he didn’t feel far away.
you had grown used to the idea of him, something intangible and not truly real.
merely a ghost haunting the edges of your nervous system, phantom bruises in the middle of lectures and an adrenaline rush at three in the morning.
he was the deep-seated exhaustion that riddled your body but didn’t belong to you.
but this felt real. close enough to touch.
the sensation crawled slowly beneath your skin, winding around your ribs like invisible string being pulled tighter and tighter and tighter until you thought you might choke on it.
the realization hit your bloodstream like a drug.
he was here, you knew it. you could feel it in your bones.
your eyes darted towards the door that had swung open, summer air rushing inside alongside four figures dressed almost entirely in black.
the first thing you noticed was height.
they all carried themselves with the same dangerous sort of confidence, the kind that came from men who had never truly feared consequences before.
one of them had snowy white locks, the tallest of the bunch, bright enough to catch beneath the flashing lights, sunglasses balanced lazily across his nose despite the fact that it was nearly midnight.
another stood beside him, quieter with shoulder length black locks with stretched gauges in his ears and sharp eyes that swept across the room once before settling into bored indifference.
the third one was shorter than the rest but still tall, black locks in two spiked buns with a joint resting between plump pink lips, eyes hooded in a way that exposed that joint not being his first of the night.
they were all attractive in a way that felt almost unfair and dangerous.
people moved out of their path without being asked.
your eyes turned to the one trailing just a step behind them and your breath caught so violently, it hurt.
the salmon colored locks gave him away.
ryomen sukuna.
tattoos curled dark against tan skin disappearing beneath the collar of a black shirt that stretched across broad shoulders.
even from where you stood, you could see the dried blood and bruises across his knuckles.
he looked nothing like what you’d imagined from shoko’s descriptions.
and simultaneously, exactly like it too.
something deep inside you snapped taut, your stomach dropping.
you could tell he was dazed too, jaw locked and eyes blinking at a slow pace, eyes looking around the sea of bodies.
the soulmate bond surged so hard beneath your ribs, you physically recoiled, fingers gripping the edge of the leather couch.
oh god. no, no, no.
oh my god…
“oh my god,” utahime whispered beside you, though unlike you, she sounded impressed rather than horrified.
shoko looked moments away from passing out entirely.
“that’s him!” she breathed out quietly.
you couldn’t answer, breath stilling and hands trembling.
because sukuna had stopped walking.
fuck, the realization came slowly enough to feel cruel.
maroon eyes met your own and the room around you dissolved entirely. the music became muffled noise, lights blurring and the crowd disappeared.
all you could see was him. him. him. him.
he was all you could see, feel and you knew all he could see was you.
sukuna felt it the second he stepped through the doorway.
you.
the bond snapped violently alive beneath his skin hard enough that his entire body locked for half a second mid-step.
he almost thought someone had drugged him until he remembered he hadn’t even drank anything yet.
then what was this feeling?
his eyes locked on yours and he felt the most alive he’d felt in his life.
something even the ring and the violence couldn't offer.
there you were, all too pretty and wide eyed.
he barely heard gojo speak beside him anymore, the lanky man rambling on about some idiot from last week’s fight who apparently called him out on twitter after.
sukuna ignored him completely because across the room sat a girl staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.
and in some ways, he was your ghost.
he haunted you and lived under your skin in ways he was sure you didn’t appreciate in the slightest.
his soulmate.
years of phantom feelings crashed together all at once so violently, it almost made him sick.
because the realization hit him harder than he’d anticipated and yes, he had anticipated this.
the moment he’d meet his soulmate.
well, he dreaded more than anticipated it.
it hit him hard because he realized that he knew this girl.
sukuna had never met you, yet, he bet he knew you more than the two girls hovering over you. more than fucking anyone.
you were the girl whose stress bled into his bones during finals week, the girl who wrapped her arms around herself at night and somehow lulled him to sleep from miles away.
you were real.
and you looked soft.
that was the first thing he took note of.
soft skin, soft wide eyes, soft pink shimmery gloss coating your plush lips he recognized only through phantom warmth he’d felt against his own skin before.
his soulmate was a pretty little thing, so pretty it almost made his chest ache. in your tiny skirt and halter top.
far too fucking pretty to belong anywhere near him.
“sukuna?”
choso’s voice cut through the haze faintly and sukuna snapped out of it, gaze finally leaving hers to glance at his friend who tilted his head towards the other side of the room.
sukuna resisted the urge to glance at you as he made his way across the room.
fuck, fuck, fuck!
this couldn’t be happening, this was a fucking nightmare.
just as he made it across the room, he felt it.
warm fingertips brushing his own skin despite his hands at his sides.
his pulse stuttered once.
his gaze snapped to yours once more and your eyes widened instantly when you noticed his hand drift to his neck where your own hand was resting.
slowly and carefully, sukuna lifted his own hand.
his fingers brushed lightly against the side of his jaw, a barely there touch.
yet, across the room, your breath hitched sharply as warmth bloomed against your own jawline seconds later.
not imagined or coincidence. it was all real, so so real.
your stomach twisted violently.
oh no. no no no no.
shoko was gazing at you, “what’s wrong?!”
you couldn’t answer, eyes stuck on a pair of crimson that held you hostage.
her eyes narrowed as both her and utahime followed your gaze before catching sukuna’s eyes on you.
then they both looked between you both a total of five times before realization hit.
“wait,” shoko whispered harshly, hand shooting out to grip your arm, “WAIT.”
utahime’s jaw physically fell open, “holy shit…”
your heartbeat pounded so violently, you thought you might faint right then and there beneath the flashing red lights.
what you despised most is that it made sense.
of course it was him. a violent and dangerous underground fighter, fuck, that explained everything so perfectly.
if fate was a person, you’d have her by the neck right now.
because sukuna was still staring at you, as if he knew you already and perhaps, he did.
then horrifyingly, he smirked.
and suddenly, you understood exactly why the entire city feared ryomen sukuna.
sukuna moved before he could really think about it, jaw clenched but determined.
one second he stood on the other side of the room and the next, his body was already weaving through the crowd toward you like the bond itself had wrapped invisible fingers around his spine and dragged him to you. you. his soulmate.
people moved instantly to let him pass.
you took note of that immediately.
you noticed the way conversations died around him, the way bodies shifted out of his path and nobody dared touch him, even accidentally.
it was fear, you realized. people feared him.
the recognition made your stomach twist.
“oh my god,” shoko whispered harshly beside you, nails digging into your arm, “he’s coming over here!”
“i can see that.” you hissed back faintly, though your voice barely sounded like your own.
fuck, you should leave. you should absolutely leave.
except, you couldn’t move, body drilled to where you sat, frozen in place while ryomen fucking sukuna rossed the room toward you like some predator chasing prey.
closer and closer and closer.
until suddenly, all his 6’4 glory was towering above you.
your breath caught embarrassingly hard.
up close, he was worse.
taller than you’d imagined and broader too.
there were faint bruises scattered along his jawline beneath the dim lights, on the very spot that you woke up feeling sore. fresh cuts healed across his knuckles.
and his eyes, god, they looked at you with the same recognition burning through your own chest.
sukuna looked down at you for a moment too long.
fuck, you were even more ethereal up close.
that thought hit him first and annoyingly hardest.
his pretty little soulmate sitting curled into the edge of a leather couch looking at him with wide doe eyes, almost expectantly with a mix of fear and restraint.
“hey.”
his voice slid down your spine like smoke.
low, dangerous and rough in a way even your mind couldn’t conjure up.
fuck, was this really happening?
your throat tightened instantly, “hi.”
the word left you horrifyingly softer than you’d intended and sukuna’s lips twitched at the sound.
your voice was his favorite sound, instantly.
“um,” shoko hummed, eyes wide as she shared a glance with utahime, “we’ll give you two a second.”
you almost wanted to yell in protest, but the two girls were already shuffling away, shooting you encouraging looks.
as you glanced up at the dangerous man once more, you felt your heart still in a way you hadn’t ever felt before.
not in fear or apprehension but calm.
he made you feel calm, your body stilling and quieting in a way you hadn’t expected.
regretfully, fuck, you despised it, but when that gentleness overcame you and you looked up at him…
his disheveled pink locks, his handsome rugged features and his dark eyes, all of it was him.
and you felt stupid for trying to deny that this man was your soulmate.
who else would it be?
“i’m sukuna,” he stated lowly, moving to take a seat beside you, leaving an appreciative distance between you, “ryomen sukuna.”
your name left you softly with a nod.
as you gazed at each other, the same realization overcame you both.
even with barely an introduction, you knew each other.
while sukuna had only fond memories of what you’d done for him, your mind was riddled with poisonous ones.
this was the man who often trained in the middle of the night, filling you with soreness and a rush of adrenaline that left you sleepless most nights.
he was the one who fucked other girls knowing what that put you through.
your heart clenched.
beyond all those things, he was the one who hugged himself to sleep after that one night of utter hell.
he was the one who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps left you nauseated and pained in bed.
as much as you wanted to forget those things, to snap yourself out of the sad patheticness that riddled you, how could you?
how could you when those were the only memories that kept your hope that he wasn’t a total monster alive?
your eyes travelled along his bloodied knuckles, “you get those a lot.”
sukuna’s fists instinctively clenched at the attention.
“and you burn yourself with whatever you do your hair with at least twice a week.”
your eyes widened instantly.
“and you get punched like every other day!”
sukuna’s mouth twitched and you hated how your eyes drifted towards the movement and your heart stuttered.
“barely.” sukuna stated cooly, a small smirk painting his features.
your eyes drifted toward him again before you could stop yourself.
and then you remembered.
every phantom feeling, every sleepless night and every ache.
all attached to him.
the violence, the pain, the girls.
your jaw tightened, "you’re not exactly the best person to be connected to, you know.”
sukuna’s expression didn’t shift much, still cool, but you felt it.
the hollow drop in your stomach that wasn’t yours. guilt.
real and immediate, it almost made you laugh in disbelief.
of course he felt guilty, he had to know he was a fucking nightmare.
sukuna leaned back slightly, jaw working once as his gaze flickered away from yours for half a second, “yeah, i bet.”
your brows lifted, “that’s it?”
his eyes returned to yours, low and indifferent.
you scoffed, anger bubbling up so quickly, it nearly startled you, “that’s all you have to say?”
sukuna let out a breath through his nose, “what do you want me to say?”
“oh, i don’t know,” you let out a sharp little laugh that held not an ounce of humor, “maybe sorry would be a good place to start?!”
sukuna’s head tilted, “sorry.”
you stared at him in utter disbelief before a laugh left you once more, this time softer and dripped in something worse than anger, “wow…”
sukuna’s eyes borrowed, “what?”
“you’re unbelievable is what!”
“you asked for sorry.”
“not like that!” you nsapped, voice rising just enough to have your cheeks flushing, “not like you’re apologizing for stepping on my shoe!”
his expression hardened slightly and you felt it immediately, the irritation beginning to curl beneath his skin.
ugh, you hated how the closeness made both your emotions so heightened.
“you have no idea what you put me through,” you continued, voice trembling despite you rbest efforts, “none.”
sukuna’s gaze darkened, “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“act like i wasn’t there too.”
you blinked at him, something hot and ugly twisting in your chest.
was he for real?
“you were there?” you repeated quietly, “you were there?”
his jaw clenched, “don’t-”
“no, please,” you leaned forward slightly, anger sharpening every word, “explain it to me. because to my knowledge, you were the one making my life miserable while i was the one trying to keep us both sane!”
sukuna looked at you for a long moment, jaw clenching and unclenching.
the lights washed over his face in flashes of red, making him look even more unreal than he already did.
“you think i wanted this?” he stated more than asked and your heart clenched.
hurt shot through you, your eyes growing glassy against your will because you knew he wasn’t referring to the pain he’d put you through.
he meant the soulmate thing in general, fate as a whole.
he didn’t want you.
you bit the inside of your cheek, willing your tears to stay in your eyes before breathing out, “no. but neither did i.”
silence settled between you then, not peaceful but loaded.
sukuna could physically feel your hurt and his eyes dropped briefly to your hands where they trembled in your lap.
your fingers curled instantly, too proud as you hid the movement.
it was too late. he’d seen it.
even worse, he’d felt it.
“i didn’t know.” he stated lowly and you froze.
your eyes flickered up, “what?”
his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, expression unreadable.
“at first,” he clarified, “i didn’t know what it did to you.”
your chest tightening, knowing what he was referring to and his words didn’t soothe you in the slightest.
“and after?”
in fact, it made it all worse.
especially as he said nothing.
your face fell slightly, all the anger in you cooling into something quieter and melancholic.
“after, you knew.”
his gaze remained on you as his fingers flexed once against his thigh, “yeah, i knew.”
your eyes burned and you hated yourself for it.
you hated that it still hurt despite knowing already, you hated that hearing him say it aloud made it real in a way the bond never had.
“why?” you asked, the one word absolutely humiliating as much as it was devastating.
sukuna looked away first and somehow, that hurt too, “because it was easier.”
your lips parted faintly, “easier?”
he lout out a grunt, “if you hated me, you wouldn’t look for me.”
the words settled between you like something deadly.
for a second, you genuinely couldn’t speak.
then you did, “that is the stupidest, shittiest thing i’ve ever heard.”
hsi eyes snapped back to yours, scowling, “careful.”
“oh, fuck you!” you hissed lowly, “you don’t get to do that! you don’t get to hurt me on purpose and then act like it was some noble sacrifice.”
his jaw tightened, “it wasn’t noble.”
“yeah, no shit.”
“it was necessary.”
you laughed once, incredulous, “necessary? well, congrats, you got what you wanted, i absolutely fucking despise you.”
sukuna’s jaw clenched, eyes glaring at you, “good. because you don’t know shit about me, this saves us both the hassle.”
“i don’t know you?” you shot back, “i know you more than anyone, probably. i know your body hurts more often than they don’t. i know you clench your jaw when you’re mad. i know you can’t sleep because of your nightmares and unless somebody practcially forces your nervous system to shut down, you could go days without it. i know you’re so angry at the fucking world, it makes you so hateful.”
sukuna went still, too still.
you swallowed hard, eyes burning once more, “and i know that for years, i was the one cleaning up the damage you left behind.”
his eyes darkened, “cleaning up?”
“yes,” your voice cracked despite yourself, “me. i was the one hugging myself to sleep because you wouldn’t. i was the one stretching every morning because your body always felt like fucking concrete. i was the one coloring like a goddamn toddler at three in the morning because it was the only thing that made your anger stop choking me!”
sukuna said nothing and you hated that even more.
you wanted him to argue back, to answer, to fucking care.
“do you know how pathetic that feels?” you whispered, “taking care of someone who kept hurting me?”
his expression shifted, barely, but you felt it again.
the guilt, even deeper this time.
sukuna looked at you like he wanted to say something cruel and couldn’t quite manage it, settling with, “you didn’t have to do all that.”
your laugh came out watery, tears now trickling down your heated cheeks.
fuck, you felt nauseous, you felt so fucking sick.
“yeah, i know that now.”
something passed across his face then, a flicker of pain so quick, you almost missed it.
but the bond didn’t allow you to miss anything. you felt it bloom in your own chest, sharp and unwanted. his.
for one terrible second, you almost let it soften you.
almost.
because there it was again.
that tiny, stupid sliver of hope you’d spend years nurturing because it was the only thing that kept you mildly sane.
the one that whispered that maybe he wasn't all cruelty. maybe there was something beneath all that violence and pain.
maybe the boy who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps got bad had to exist somewhere inside the man sitting in front of you.
you looked at him then, through your blurry vision, really and truly looked.
the hard line of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes and the casual arrogance sitting across his shoulders like armor.
and that hope crumbled quietly inside your chest.
not dramatically or all at once, but piece by piece, like something old finally accepting it had been dead for a long time.
utter disappointment filled you then. you should have known better.
this shouldn't be surprising.
sukuna had spent years telling you exactly who he was, painting you the worst image of himself and you had hoped it was just that.
the worst of himself.
except the worst was all of him.
sukuna was cruel. not because he didn’t know better but because he did.
because he’d known what hurt you and decided hurting you was easier than wanting you.
you swallowed around the ache in your throat, suddenly exhausted in a way a thousand years of sleep couldn’t fix.
all you wanted was to be home now, cuddled up with ani in your room alone.
“right,” you whispered, nodding once to yourself.
sukuna’s brows pulled together slightly, “right what?”
you pushed yourself to your feet, smoothing trembling hands over the front of your skirt because you needed something to do. anything that didn’t involve looking at him.
“this was enlightening.”
his eyes narrowed, “sit down.”
the command sparked something sharp beneath your ribs, the thorn twisting in your heart.
you let out a hollow laugh, “fuck you.”
his jaw flexed, “don’t make a scene.”
your name left him then and you hated the way your stomach fluttered at the melody of it in his voice.
fuck, your heart hurt.
because he was your soulmate. yours.
because some sick, twisted part of you had expected the universe to redeem itself when you finally found him.
you expected the first moment to feel like every story you’d grown up hearing, witnessed amongst your friends.
warmth, recognition and relief.
instead, you were standing in front of the man who had turned your body into a battlefield and your heart into collateral damage.
“i hope i never see you again.”
something flickered across his face then and you didn’t stay long enough to decipher it.
you turned around, the crowd swallowing you almost immediately as you walked away.
music slammed back into your skull, bodies pressing close as you pushed through them with shaking hands and blurred vision.
your chest felt too tight, lungs too small for the oxygen your body ached for.
behind you, you felt sukuna rise before you saw it. the immediate pull.
his presence growing closer and your heart stuttered stupidly.
some miserable, pathetic part of you sparked alive at the thought before you could kill it.
maybe he did care.
maybe he was going to take back all the words he regretted, that he would stop you and apologize properly this time.
he would say what you’ve been waiting years to feel.
the thought was so humiliating, it almost made you sick.
“fuck are you lookin’ at?!”
you heard his voice aimed at the crowd of people that were watching you both, probably since your conversation on the couch.
you shoved through the door and stepped into the narrow hallway outside the main room, the music muffling instantly behind you.
the air was cooler here, damp with rain and cigarette smoke, blue neon bleeding through the cracked windows at the end of the corridor.
you took in a breath like you hadn’t breathed in days, eyes shutting as your heart hammered against your chest, trying to simply process everything that had taken place.
“hey.” his voice followed you out and you froze, heart stilling.
stupid, traitorous thing.
you turned slowly, eyes fluttering open.
sukuna stood a few feet away, tall and shadowed beneath the hallway light.
away from the party, he seemed even more dangerous. less like a person and more like a warning your body had spent seven years failing to understand.
he was an enigma.
for one breath, neither of you spoke.
your hope stood there too, fragile and shaking, fucking pitiful.
waiting.
sukuna’s gaze dragged over your face once, catching on the wetness beneath your eyes and his expression tightened faintly.
say it, you thought bitterly.
say sorry! say you didn’t mean it!
say something!
his jaw worked once, “no one can know.”
your brows furrowed, the hope dying cleanly.
“excuse me?”
sukuna stepped closer, voice lower now.
his mouth opened to clarify when his gaze met your own once more.
your wide glassy eyes. your pretty face that was streaked with tears, your plump bitten lips.
the little sniffles that left you, making his ribs ache.
and suddenly, he froze, the words stuck in his throat.
fuck, he had to get it together.
“about this.”
your lips parted faintly, “about us?”
the word us felt absolutely pathetic in your mouth.
all too soft and hopeful. undeserved, even.
something in his eyes shifted at the sound of it but it was gone before you could hold onto it.
“there is no us.”
oh. you actually felt that one.
not through the bond, nor as some phantom ache borrowed from him.
the pain was yours, all yours.
you laughed once, quiet and disbelieving as you took a small step back, “wow…”
sukuna followed you, taking one step forward as his jaw clenched, “listen to me-”
“no,” you shook your head slowly, voice trembling, “no, i think i understand perfectly.”
sukuna’s eyes darkened, “you really don’t.”
“oh my god,” you shook your head, “i can’t believe i thought-”
you stopped, humiliation burning up your throat.
sukuna stared, taking a step closer, his chest now brushing your chin, “thought what?”
his voice was almost desperate and you swallowed, blinking hard, “nothing.”
his face tightened and he felt it anyway, of course he did.
the hope and hurt.
the fact that some tiny, unbearable part of you had wanted him to come after you because he simply couldn’t let you leave.
sukuna looked away first as you took a step back. fucking coward.
“it’s dangerous.” he stated as you stared at the side of his face.
“dangerous?”
“yes.”
“for who?”
his gaze cut back to yours, “for you.”
you almost laugh but he continued before you could.
“people know me and if they know about you, they’ll use you. you make me weak.”
the words landed colder than you'd expected.
sukuna watched you closely, as if waiting for the fear to register and maybe it did.
somewhere deep, deep down, but anger got there first.
“so that’s what this is?” you whispered, tears leaving you without you noticing, “damage control?”
his silence was answer enough and you nodded faintly, tears burning hot once more.
“right.”
“you need to keep your mouth shut about it.”
you flinched before you could stop yourself and sukuna paused, regret flashing through instantly.
“don’t talk to me like that.” you stated lowly and his jaw clenched.
“i’m trying to keep you safe.”
“oh, how big of you.”
the hallway seemed to shrink around you both.
outside, rain tapped gently against the glass.
inside, bass thudded like a second heartbeat through the walls.
you looked at him then, this man that fate had tied to you with an invisible string and cruelty dressed up as destiny. and for the first time since you’d felt him at sixteen, you stopped wondering what it would be like to find him.
because now you knew and god, you wish you didn’t.
it felt like losing something you’d never even had.
“is that all?” you questioned lowly, clearing your throat once.
sukuna stared at you, nose flaring and throat bobbing once, “yeah.”
another piece of you gave out as you nodded, “okay.”
the word was so calm, it made his eyes sharpen.
you turned away, walking past him but his hand caught your wirst before you could take full step.
skin met skin and the bond went silent, completely and utterly silent.
no buzzing or aching or distance.
just him, all warm and real. terribly real.
your breath hitched at his touch. it was the first time he’d ever touched you.
sukuna froze too, fingers wrapped around your wrist like he’d touched fire and couldn’t make himself pull away.
for one second, just one, all the cruelty fell quiet.
and you felt him beneath it, scared and lonely, wanting and waiting.
you felt it and you hated him for letting you feel it now.
slowly, you looked down at his hand then back up at him, “let go.”
his grip tightened by a fraction, “this is the best thing for the both of us.”
your face crumpled before you could stop it.
you pulled your wrist free and this time, he let you.
“oh, trust me, not having to be stuck with you? i couldn’t agree more.” venom laced your words as sukuna’s expression changed, tightened and you felt the hurt then.
sharp and immediate and you were glad for it.
you turned and walked away then, tears streaming down your cheeks and a sob left you as soon as you were out of his vicinity.
for the first time, the bond didn't feel like a thread pulling you closer…
it felt like noose.
∞
an | was so late with this but had the worst past few days so SORRY! anyways PLSSS lmk what u think cuz i'm iffy abt the direction of this BUT this is lowk my fav thing i've written omg! this is kinda like a prologue pt2, next chapters will deffo be longer! i cannot wait to write more of these two and sukuna's a dick but bear w him ! also each chapter in the masterlist will be titled a song and i recommend listening to it while reading for the vibes 🫡
also lowk need toji BAD i wanna give him some lore so lmk if u want a one-shot of him in this au!
౨ৎ experienced!sukuna x virgin f!reader
[adult boutique au] - ongoing series
❝ chasing your dreams isn't all it's cracked up to be. your apartment shakes when the train passes and eating a scoop of peanut butter and calling it girl dinner is getting depressing. when you finally manage to land a job at a store that sells sex toys, it's possibly the biggest relief of your life. there's just one issue:
you're a virgin.
you don't know the first thing about toys and you don't want your cute and flirty white-haired co-worker to know. against your better judgement, you find yourself turning to your other co-worker for lessons and learn the hard way he's just as much of an asshole in bed as he is at work. ❞
౨ৎ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. fwb but you aren't friends. slow burn romance/fast burn smut. sukuna is 23ish, reader is 24/25ish. reader is sexually reserved but confident, nerdy, and a band geek. arrogant!sukuna. mild love triangle with gojo. dom!sukuna. mild corruption. size difference. sex toys & explorations of safety in kinks. smut & piv. virginity loss. see masterlist for full cw.
౨ৎ wc ; 9.4k.
౨ৎ art ; ackshuallyvalerie
main masterlist || series masterlist || next ⪢
There comes a point where you have to wonder if you just aren’t meant to be applying for jobs. The amount of rejection emails and calls you’ve gotten is staggering, and that doesn’t even begin to touch on the amount of applications that simply haven’t gotten a reply.
‘We regret to inform you’ feels like a personal attack at this point.
Sitting outside this particular store, however, has you questioning if maybe you just aren’t cut out for work at all.
It’s not like you expected a paying gig right out the gate when you moved to the big city to chase your dream of becoming a musician, but you at least figured you would be able to get something that pays in the meantime.
At this point, every rejection is a shot straight to the heart.
You applied to every store you could find with a hiring ad. Both online and in-person, skipping over the occasional store that you felt you weren’t cut out for. Now, it’s come to the point where you don’t have the luxury to be picky.
Still, the shoe store that wouldn’t hire you? At least you have shoes, even if they’re worn-in Vans and Converse for the most part.
The reception job at the law firm? It’s not like you have a degree or can cite any, but you know general laws.
This? You sigh as your gaze traces the letters across the failing light box, deep red letters spelling out Adult Boutique.
It’s not that you have anything against it.
It’s that you’ve never used a sex toy.
Hell, you don’t know the first thing about them.
You’ve never even had sex before.
Sighing, you throw your head back against the headrest of your old rusting sedan and take a moment to breathe in the harsh disappointment of chasing your dreams. Your hands settle in your lap as you set aside any reservations you have, snatching your resumé from the passenger’s seat and shutting the door behind you. You walk with as much confidence as you can muster into the shop, but it’s almost humiliating how far out of your wheelhouse you are when you’re met with the interior. For as confident as you are, it drains from you in an instant.
Humiliation is a kink though, right?
“ID?” You pause in the doorway before you can get much of a look at the store, staring at a man with piercing blue eyes and white hair. He’s handsome, maybe a year younger than you, and his friendly smile is horribly infectious.
You stand like a deer in the headlights, your lips caught in an embarrassing ‘o’ before your mind catches up. ID. You’re in an age-restricted store. Right.
“Shoot–” Your hands fly down to your pockets, reaching for the wallet…
… That you left in the car.
Your jaw hangs ajar at the realization, warmth climbing from the back of your neck to the tips of your ears as the handsome clerk’s startlingly blue eyes pin you in place.
You shut your eyes, biting down on your lower lip. “I’ll be right back.”
In the midst of your walk of shame back to your car across the street, every thought reminds you that you could just leave. You could forget this ever happened and simply accept you aren’t getting the job. The fact that your wallet is so empty that you left it in your unlocked car in a shady part of town serves as a reminder that, again, you don’t exactly have the luxury of being picky.
With a forlorn sigh and a drag of your hands down your face, you put on your best confident smile and make your way back inside. The clerk grins as you hand over your ID, leaning over the counter on forearms that you swear you’re not staring at.
They’re just veiny.
And incredibly hot.
“Sorry,” you sigh as you pocket your ID again.
“Don’t worry about it,” there’s a small wave of his hand to brush you off, and when you look up to meet his eyes, there’s a particularly sultry look to his gaze. It’s enough to warm your cheeks again, and you can only pray he doesn’t notice how much you’ve been staring. “Looking for anything in particular?” He bears a lopsided tilt to his grin that sets your nerves further alight as your stomach ties in knots under the handsome stranger’s gaze.
It’s gotta be a bad combination to be clueless on everything around you and thinking about the hot man in front of you rather than the job you’re applying for.
Shaking your head to center yourself, you put on your best smile. “Yeah, actually.” The man’s expression changes to intrigue as you hand over your resumé. His eyes skim it, brows raising.
He gives you a once-over, setting the paper down with a more genuine grin. “We could use the help,” he admits. “The owner’ll be in tomorrow morning, I’ll have her give you a call.”
That’s the most positive response you’ve received to an application thus far. Although you find yourself nervously eyeing a bottle of G-Spot Stimulating Gel on the counter that you don’t know the first thing about, you’re honestly relieved that things could be looking up. You can handle this job with a bit of research, surely.
“That would be great,” you offer a smile. “Thank you.”
–
So, the good news is that you have a job. The bad news is that you still don’t know the first thing about what you’re selling. Admittedly, you probably should have done some research or looked over the product offerings on the store’s site, but somewhere between preparation for a new job and trying to sleep through the train shaking your apartment every few minutes, you forgot.
The kind woman who interviewed you over the phone and the store’s owner– Jillian– greets you at the door as you push into the store. Her graying hair is curled tightly at her roots, her eyes wrinkled at the corner and kind. She wears a pale pink wool sweater that compliments her lip gloss, standing at about the same height as you. She’s old enough to retire and still gorgeous all-the-same.
“Welcome, dear,” she smiles brilliantly at the sight of you, ushering you towards the front counter with a hand on your shoulder. “I appreciate the help, it’ll be nice to step back from the counter and keep my job behind-the-scenes.”
“I’m happy to help,” you reply with a kind grin, keeping up your best customer service attitude. As she leads you behind the counter, your eyes flick to the two tall men standing behind the counter. You recognize the first as the hot white-haired man who accepted your resumé. Cheery, charming, and strikingly handsome with toned muscles visible from under his white t-shirt.
The man beside doesn’t bear the same welcoming nature. In fact, they’re the definition of polar opposites.
Standing a couple of inches taller than the one you recognize, he has black hair that must be dyed, pink roots standing out like a rose among thorns. His ears are pierced in a multitude of ways with matching brow and lip piercings and tattoos that travel up the back of his neck, reaching his jaw. He’s in far darker and more casual clothes, arms crossed over his broad and built chest with his hip leaned on the counter, and a look of mild disinterest that does no favors for your nerves.
Where the white-haired man bears a friendly smile and a button-up that makes him look ready for a job in a cubicle, his black-haired colleague is very clearly assessing your every move, and looks like he could be on-stage at a dingy bar.
She introduces you to the men, earning a grin from the one you recognize and… nothing from the man with black-dyed hair.
“I’ll be in every couple of days to do the cash deposit,” she explains. “I’ll also drop by to check on the office and put together paperwork, but Satoru–” she points to the white-haired man who casually salutes in greeting, “and Ryomen–” her hand waves towards the frowning man who doesn’t react save for a glance at the older woman, “will train you. Satoru usually does the opening shift and Ryomen does the closing shift. We’re closed Mondays and Tuesdays, but you’ll work the rest of the week.” You’re grateful for the consistency, if nothing else. “You’ll take the midday Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, you’ll be alone for a bit while the boys are in classes, and you’ll take the closing shifts on weekends to help Ryomen during busy hours.”
His gaze, a crimson so striking you have half a mind to wonder if they’re contacts, flicks to you, indiscernible, then back to Jillian.
“You won’t be alone while you train of course though, the boys and I will cover until you’re comfortable being alone.” She pats you once on the shoulder. “Does that work for you, dear?”
“Not a problem at all,” you nod. You clasp your hands together politely.
“Perfect!” She claps once in glee, clearly happy to step away from serving customers. You can understand that sentiment. “I’ll grab your paperwork.”
Satoru’s gaze follows her as she heads for the back room, then turns cheerily to you. “Hey, newbie!” He steps forward from the counter, outstretching his hand. “Nice to meet you.” Shaking his hand, you match his grin. “Well, by name anyway.”
You turn your expectations to Ryomen, who doesn’t move from the spot he’s standing in. His weight shifts to the other hip, still leaning against the counter when he juts his chin out in less of a greeting and more of an acknowledgement. “Hey.”
“Nice to meet you, Ryomen.” You give him a little wave.
“Sukuna,” he corrects you. His words aren’t sharp per se, but they carry a blunt edge. “Only the old lady can call me Ryomen.” His voice is as gruff as his style and stature, fitting of the brutish impression he gives off. His slightly narrowed eyes give off the notion that he’s evaluating you. Reading you.
With a tight-lipped smile, Satoru scratches at the back of his head. He shoots you an apologetic glance as you uncomfortably gather that this isn’t unusual for Sukuna.
“Got it, sorry.” You offer an apologetic smile, which he accepts with a nod.
Satoru steps forward to save you from the interaction, motioning with his head out to the store’s floor. “Why don’t I show you around?”
You nod gratefully, letting him lead you away from the counter. Sukuna’s gaze is quick to drop to the counter as he leans over a book of some sort, his chin resting atop his hand. You turn your attention back to Satoru as he leads you through the long back area of the store
A colorful assortment of dildos and vibrators line the walls of the first aisle, anything from glass to silicone in different shapes and size varieties. The light in the far corner flickers when you step into the aisle, faux wood creaking under-foot. The store has that sort of old strip mall feel where, although well-maintained, its age is evident in the old fixtures and failing lights.
“Sorry about him,” Satoru’s voice is a near-whisper as he shakes his head. His hair falls in front of those striking blue eyes as he leads the way down each aisle. You’re not sure you’d really call it showing you around, but you’re certainly walking the floor. “He’s uhhh–” he waves his hand through the air as he searches for the right term. “Moody, or something.” He chuckles. “I don’t know, you get used to it. Don’t take it personally.”
“He doesn’t seem like a customer service person,” you admit sheepishly, keeping your voice down.
Satoru does no favors keeping his own down as he barks a laugh. “No, not really, hey? He’s Jillian’s friend’s son, so–” he shrugs as you mentally connect the dots that landed him this job. “It’s an easy enough gig and honestly business is slow.”
“That’s a shame,” you offer, mostly for Jillian’s sake, although you don’t mind it being slow.
“I said it was slow, not bad,” he grins, eyes narrowing to that sultry gaze he shot you when you dropped off your resumé last week. “We have a lot of regulars. People who spend a lot. You’ll recognize them in time.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’ll be nice to have some company for the end of my shifts,” he adds, tilting his head to eye you. He crosses his arms over his chest, catching your attention as you glance at his muscles just long enough to consider yourself caught. He takes the opportunity and swings with it. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you.” His voice drops a tone, the flirty lilt warming the tips of your ears.
“Yeah, it’ll be nice to get to know you too.”
Jillian returns with paperwork before Satoru can take the opportunity to flirt any further– but you get the feeling he will. It seems to go hand-in-hand with his personality. Once everything is signed and Satoru has headed off for class, Jillian leaves training in Sukuna’s hands as she retreats to the back to file your paperwork.
Sukuna’s gaze is a slow drag down your form as he evaluates the dark blouse and nice jeans you chose to wear. Admittedly, you now feel a little overdressed given his relative comfort and ripped jeans, but in spite of the judgement clear as day in his eyes, he keeps it to himself. At least, as long as you don’t count the frown he bears. You can’t really tell if that’s meant for you or if that’s his neutral expression.
With a sigh, he shuts whatever book is on the counter behind him and gives you a rundown in short, clipped sentences. “Floor work first, cash after. You worked cash before?”
You nod, though the register looks fairly old here.
He gives a hum of approval. “Good. The floor's pretty self-explanatory. Everything is ordered by brand, then color. Shipments Mondays and Thursdays. Back room for any overstock.” He points over his shoulder to where Jillian disappeared as he lays out instructions like facts. “No clock system. Just work when you work. Pay is every second Friday. You’ll get a check.”
Again, you nod.
His gaze travels the length of your figure, but it doesn’t feel as though he’s checking you out. It’s an evaluation. And you’re pretty sure you’re failing before you’ve had the chance to start. “I don’t care what you do when customers aren’t around. Study, read, go on your phone. I don’t give a shit.”
“Oh, okay. That’s kinda nice.”
His tone is apathetic as he hums in agreement. “I didn’t have time last night and I know Satoru’s lazy ass didn’t clean this morning, so I’ll get you to organize the shibari while I put some shit away.”
You nod, slipping away from the counter onto the floor. His gaze tracks you as you very unconfidently thread through the rows in search of shibari. To your horror, nothing is well-labeled, which means there isn’t a distinct section with some big flashy sign to point you in the direction of a kink you don’t know the name of.
“It’s at the back,” Sukuna’s low voice calls out. Biting down on your lip, you move towards the back of the store, your gaze trailing along the wall. There are a number of bondage devices you can’t name, ropes that you assume go with bondage, and chains and whips that all feel bondage-adjacent.
So, more or less, you’re still at a loss.
Really failing that evaluation now.
Behind you, Sukuna is replacing products that were atop the counter at the front, but his movements stop when he fixes you with his narrowed gaze. “The ropes,” he points them out on the wall with displeasure prickling around the edge of his sandpaper-scraped voice. Now that you look at them, it feels obvious given how out of order they are.
“I know!” Heat flares beneath your skin in all the wrong places. Still, you won’t let him get to you. “I was just looking.”
He doesn’t reply, his crimson gaze boring into your expression so hard that you’re pretty sure he can see right through you.
At least you can’t fuck up the organization of the ropes.
Quietly sucking in a breath, you turn to the wall, pulling down the plastic-covered rope bundles that are out of place.
“So,” you turn your gaze over your shoulder. “You’re in school?”
“Mhm.”
“What are you taking?”
“Business.”
He’s difficult, too. Great.
Once the ropes are in a more sound order, you spin on your heel to face him. He’s already turning away, moving to a different area to put away a vibrator.
“Can I–”
“Here.” He tosses a bottle of lube at you, caught clumsily in unexpecting fingers. “Put that away, too.”
Pressing your lips into a tight line, you nod, more to yourself than him. At least you know what lube is.
You search the store for the spot where it belongs, twisting it on the shelf so the label faces out, then make your way to the counter where Sukuna’s already standing over his book again. Before you have the opportunity to speak, the bell over the door rings as a customer walks through the door. She’s around your age, and quickly flashes ID towards Sukuna, who nods.
A regular, you suppose.
The tattooed clerk’s eyes trail to you, jutting his chin out expectantly towards the customer.
Making your way up to the woman with cute blonde hair cut short, you fall into your customer service voice. “Can I help you find anything?”
“Hi!” She beams at you, her smile putting your first day nerves at ease. “Thank you, but I know where most things are,” she waves you off politely. “I appreciate it, though!” She moves past you towards the back of the store, whirling around suddenly as her gaze shifts between you and Sukuna. “Oh, actually, did you get any more of the cherry stimulants in?”
You turn your attention to Sukuna, who fixes you with a lazy unsure expression. “She can check for you.” He leans his hip on the counter again, arms crossed over his chest as he faces you. “It’ll be in the back. They come in a box with a cherry logo on them.”
Worrying your lip between your teeth, you nod as you make your way to the back.
Truthfully, the cramped room is a bit of a relief from the uncomfortable tension Sukuna just seems to naturally exude. Him and Satoru are big personalities in the most opposite way you can possibly imagine, but at least Satoru is willing to chat.
Jillian glances over her shoulder from an old computer at the back of the room. “Everything going well, dear?”
“Yeah,” you grin, though truthfully this already feels like a disaster where you’re being scornfully judged by your colleague and accidentally making enemies on day one. With one of the only people you work with. So that’s great. “There’s just someone looking for stimulants.”
She shifts in her chair, doing a once-over of the boxes. “Not back here. There’s an inventory list on this computer that you can usually use, but I don’t want to lose progress on your files. Can you ask Ryomen to check the holds drawer? Satoru might have put some on hold if he knew they were looking.”
“Sure, thank you!”
With a grateful smile, you head back to the front and relay the information to Sukuna.
“Holds drawer’s there.” He points to a handle on the lower inside of the counter. Within are a number of boxes and small sachet packs. “Mm, there they are.”
Clearly one of the sachet packs is what she’s looking for. Unfortunately, they all fail to say exactly what they are on the front with bright and bold brands rather than descriptors or even a damn cherry logo, which means you haven’t the faintest clue what you’re looking at.
“The orange one,” Sukuna adds when you’re still paused staring at the drawer. There’s an unimpressed lilt to his tone that has you wincing before you pull the sachet pack from the drawer. You do what you can to keep your expression neutral and feign confidence when you stand upright again.
The whole situation is tense and embarrassing. It might at least be tolerable with Satoru, but Sukuna either enjoys your suffering or he’s an asshole.
The unfortunate third possible option is both.
His grimace as you set the pack in his hand isn’t lost on you, although you choose to head towards the register in hopes that he can at least teach you how it works and you can get on with this day. He chooses not to say a word to you as the customer finishes looking around, returning to the front with a rose-shaped vibrator.
“Ooh, thank you!” She grins as she spots the packet at the register.
Sukuna nods, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re paying attention. “Just type the amounts into the register,” he explains, putting both prices from the stickers into the old machine. Once he hits the equals button, the cash drawer pops open as he gets the total and it calculates tax for him. The customer flashes a card, so Sukuna shuts the drawer and types the amount into the machine to his right. “While she pays, get the serials on each tag and write them here,” he explains, pulling the number from each barcode and writing them on a pad of paper left of the register. Once her payment is processed, a receipt prints, which he hands to her, keeping the second copy under the till. Finally, he bags the items.
She thanks him, giving you a polite little wave and retreating out the door.
You let out a breath, nodding. “The register seems easy enough,” you try more friendly commentary in spite of his half-assed teaching, but you suppose by now you shouldn’t expect Sukuna to be receptive. He hums, a judgemental flash in his eyes as he pins you in place with a narrowed gaze like he can see something you can’t.
He works his jaw in a slow grind of teeth like he wants to say something but thinks better of it, dropping your gaze. “I’ve got to study. There’s not much else to the job besides that, so keep yourself busy.”
Thankfully the rest of the day passes without much of a hitch and you’re able to leave as evening hits, with Sukuna staying to close the store.
He doesn’t give you another word for the remainder of the day. He doesn’t expect you to handle customers. He handles the till. He doesn’t even look at you as you let him know your shift is over. You aren’t sure whether to be grateful or dread the rest of your shifts with him, but thankfully you’re able to spend more time with Satoru tomorrow.
Given that you’re off a couple of hours before close, you use the opportunity to stake out local bars with stages and take note of a small pub tucked away in a little corner. The outside has a sign that doesn’t light up in the night’s cover, but within it’s rather warm, with string lights hung over a stage in the back. While you work on your online presence, it’s the perfect spot to get your stage skills up.
The thick metal of the door is cool on your hand, creaking on its hinge as you press through to the interior warmth. There’s a small two-man group on-stage performing low-energy grunge that seem to be garnering decent attention from onlookers and groups you would be willing to bet are regulars based on the way they move around the small scene.
Adjusting your jacket over your shoulder, you make your way to the bar. The bartender looks to be a couple of years senior to you, with short brown hair kept neat aside from a couple of stray strands that fall over his forehead. He has a prominent nose and sunken eyes that give him an overall air of tiredness.
The apron he wears over a clean-cut button-up pulls taut across his chest as he reaches overhead to set a bottle of whiskey along the back wall before turning his attention to you with a polite smile. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, um, actually,” you begin with a polite smile, “I was wondering who I need to impress to be up there.” You point to the grunge band at the back as his gaze follows you.
He hums, his calm demeanor shifting from the routine of bartending to something more friendly. “I can give you the owner’s email. If you fit in with the crowd, he’ll work with your schedule.”
Casting another glance at the two men on-stage, you nod, chewing on your lip in an effort to hide your giddy smile. “That’d be great. So… what– a little moody, kind of chill? Maybe some minor chords in there?”
The bartender chuckles, picking up a glass like routine simply fills his subconscious. “Sounds to me like you’ve already got the gig.”
Leaving behind the smell of drowned sorrows and shared laughter, you can hold onto the fact that while your day took a turn for the worst, it’s just a job. Once you leave the building, you don’t have to think about it and can focus on music. Sukuna isn’t the end of the world and if you can manage to stay out of his hair, surely you can find some sort of common ground with him.
–
Wind whips too fast across the street when you lock your car behind you. Your unzipped coat flails in the wind, leaving you with a flustered expression as the shop door slams shut behind you.
“Hey newbie,” Satoru greets you with an amused grin. You flash him a smile as you smooth down your outfit, far more casual than the previous one with jeans and a band shirt. “How was yesterday?” He asks, wiping down the counter and tossing the wipe in a garbage as he claps his hands together to brush them off.
The chuckle that parts your lips is half-hearted as you drop your laptop bag atop the front counter. “Kind of a disaster?” You wince, shaking your head. “Is he seriously always like that?”
Satoru stands upright, running a hand through white locks. “He gets better when you get to know him, but yeah he’s kind of an asshole,” he laughs brightly, unbothered. “I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips.”
“Sure, if the chips are sour,” you mutter.
Satoru snickers, nodding. “What happened anyway?”
“I didn’t immediately know where everything is without being shown,” you wave a hand through the air, letting it hang there for a moment in disbelief.
Satoru, unphased, grins. “Oh, yeah. Sounds like a classic case of not running on Sukuna’s schedule. You should really get on that.”
You throw your head back with a sigh, giving a dismissive wave of your hands. “Whatever, it’s a new day, right? Maybe it won’t be so bad today.”
Satoru teasingly sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Sorry newbie, but my sources are telling me today’s weather is looking cloudy in Sukuna-land.”
Satoru’s unseriousness helps settle a modicum of your nerves as you find yourself laughing at his charm.
“But hey, you’ve got me for a couple of hours first.” He grins, settling the balls of his palms atop the counter as he leans his weight back. One of his sleeves, rolled to the elbow, slides down his forearm to his wrist. “What did he go over with you, anyway?”
You laugh loosely. “Like, nothing. He gave me a thirty second run-down of the till and told me I don’t need to clock in or out.”
“That’s gold,” Satoru shakes his head in an effort to get hair from falling into his line of sight. “I thought he’d be nicer to a pretty girl like you.” His face lights up as you avert your eyes, smiling at the scuffed floor underfoot. He keeps the conversation flowing like it’s second nature. “Tell you what, I’ll actually try to show you around before he gets here, and you can tell me what brought you to the city.”
Recovering quickly, you fix him with a humbled expression at the callout. “Is it that obvious that I’m not from here?”
Satoru barks a laugh. “Yeah. You’ve got small town energy.”
“Small town energy? What does that even mean?” You follow him out from behind the counter as he leads the way to the back room first.
“Just vibes,” he shrugs. “It’s good. Cute,” he grins. You get the feeling he’s a bit of a flirt through and through, but truthfully you enjoy the attention.
Plus, he’s hot.
“Thanks,” you murmur with a bashful smile, chewing on your lip. “I uh– I wanted to give my dream a shot before tying myself down in a career I hate.”
His eyes light up as he turns to you with a palm on the door handle for the back room. “Oh yeah? What’s your dream?”
“Singing. Music,” you admit, feeling just shy enough that you avert your gaze in spite of your giddiness.
“No way.” He’s grinning widely now, his hand leaving the door handle as he chooses to lean against it instead, arms crossed tantalizingly over his chest. “I feel like I’m obligated to be the annoying guy who asks you to sing for me now.”
You laugh heartily. “At least you know it would make you that guy.”
With a chuckle, he finally turns around to lead the way into the back room. He peppers actual explanations of the job’s inner workings between personal questions.
After explaining the inventory system on the back computer and how boxes are organized, he leads the way back through the aisles, pointing out different sections as you walk. “So, do you take gigs between shifts?”
“When I can,” you nod. “I’m trying to put together the money to get some studio time soon. I have some self-recorded stuff, but I don’t think I’m much of a producer.”
“Will you at least tell me what genre?”
“Um,” you shrug thoughtfully, “I guess like punk or indie rock?”
“Oooh, so you’re a moody guitar girl. I like it, I like it.” He nods his approval with a wide grin. The faintest of dimples forms at the corners of his lips, giving him a charmingly boyish smile.
Your genuine shared laughter sends flutters to the pit of your stomach, warm and welcome, as you finish threading through aisles and head back to the front counter. Satoru pushes up on forearms that flex under his weight as he settles atop the counter. You follow suit on the opposite counter, head tilting as you inquire about him.
“Jillian mentioned you’re in school, what are you taking?”
“Business,” he replies with a lopsided smile.
“Oh, like Sukuna?”
“Damn, you got an answer out of him?” Satoru chuckles. “Yeah, he’s a year ahead of me but we’re in the same program. I think he wants to do the whole company startup thing though, I’m looking to kinda take over for Jillian and eventually buy this place if things work out. She’s holding out until I finish.”
Your brow raises as you fix him with an inquisitive look. “You wanna take over here?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he chides, gaze lidded with an almost-cocky attitude. “Don’t get me wrong, I know it doesn’t seem busy even with online orders, but I actually think there’s a huge untapped market here.” He straightens and you can see the passion and drive gleaming in his eager gaze. “I think the way sex toys are sold both online and in-stores is outdated and makes a lot of people feel uncomfortable and I want to try to do something new to help people feel more comfortable and open in terms of sex.”
You blink, nodding at the insightful way that he goes on to explain the ins and outs of his opinion on the industry and how, although he loves Jillian, he can see a lot of ways to use his knowledge to improve the business and hopes to change the way kinks are viewed.
It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to you just how inexperienced you are, but as you nod along to his passionate explanation, it occurs to you just how experienced he is. He doesn’t say it outright, but he talks about the way condoms are made and how bad they can be for some people, how he hopes to bring in products for people who struggle with medication killing their sex drive, and even the intricacies of what products work well and which don’t and how he would love to stop stocking them altogether.
It shouldn’t come as a shock– it doesn’t– after all, he’s hot and flirty, but it certainly gives the butterflies in your stomach an edge that you aren’t sure what to make of. It’s not uncomfortable– Satoru’s still kind and has a welcoming personality– it’s closer to inadequacy. Like you should know more, and not just for job purposes. It doesn’t sit well.
But you shouldn’t be thinking about your coworker like that anyway, right?
Thankfully, before you can think too hard about the subject, Sukuna walks through the door with a heavy step to his boots.
Maybe ‘thankfully’ doesn’t suit his arrival, though. His gaze flits briefly between each of you before he heads straight to the back, giving you both a noncommittal wave as you greet him.
When the door shuts behind the brute, Satoru turns to you. He grimaces, faux empathy shining in cerulean seas. “The weather report was right.”
The day passes so quickly with Satoru even without a single customer entering the store that the rest of the day feels like a slog without him. Or maybe it just feels like a slog because Sukuna makes it clear he wants nothing to do with you. He even stayed in the back until Satoru had to leave in spite of the changes in their regular schedules just to train you.
He’s not even that unfriendly with Satoru either from what the kinder of the two told you. He tried to reason that your tattooed co-worker simply isn’t fond of new people, but you’re pretty sure your inexperience grates on his nerves.
And unfortunately, every little slip up seems to tack on. Your shifts with Satoru are a breeze that leaves you grinning bashfully over your new crush while your shifts with Sukuna have you questioning every life choice you’ve ever made.
Your first weekend closing shift with Sukuna, you’re pretty sure you confirm your suspicions that he simply doesn’t like you.
The bell rings overhead as a tall man with dark hair walks through the door. You greet him and offer a hand, but his gait is purposeful as he heads into the back after flashing ID. Passing the time by fiddling with a pen as Sukuna stares blankly at the door with a hand lazily strewn over his textbook page, your gaze lifts when the man returns.
“Excuse me. Do you know the difference between this–” he shows you a bullet vibrator, “and this?” He holds up a hitachi wand next, “aside from size?”
Your jaw hangs open stupidly as you try to formulate a response but find yourself at a loss when size seems like the reasonable answer. Feeling your face flush, you glance sidelong at the business major.
If looks could kill.
The worst part? It’s not even glare.
It’s the most unfiltered and raw disappointment you’ve ever seen.
He huffs, pushing up from the counter. “The bullet is discreet but weak. It takes batteries and they usually only last for five hours overall. It’s still a good amount of use, but they might be watch batteries, which can be a pain.” He shoots you a pointed stare that makes you wonder if you would rather have just embarrassed yourself in front of Satoru in spite of your crush. “The wand is rechargeable, way stronger, lasts about fifteen hours, and has a lot more vibration modes,” he explains confidently.
The man nods, setting the bullet aside as he brings the wand to the counter. Over the course of the past few days, Sukuna’s taken most of the floor-related duties away from you in spite of the fact that you have tried to do some research and are getting to know the sections and general genres of toys. That question simply didn’t come up. Yet for all of the times he’s made a motion for you to take over cash, he doesn’t even offer it this time.
You get the feeling this goes beyond his usual irritation.
You can practically feel it radiating off of him in waves of negative energy.
The moment the customer walks out the door, Sukuna’s palm splays across the counter as he turns with frustrating evenness to face you. Somehow his ability to keep his actions level while being visibly affronted is worse than if he would have just yelled.
“Do you think you’re cute for making my job harder or did you just apply for the wrong fucking job?”
Okay. Fuck this guy.
“You can’t be serious right now.”
He lifts his hands in a loose shrug. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” He replies, dry and even with venomous fangs.
You scoff, but relent nonetheless given that he is close to the store’s owner and you can not afford to lose this job.
Literally.
You can’t call a scoop of peanut butter dinner again.
“Look, I’m sorry, this is just–” you hesitate, your mind muddled as you search for an explanation. Sighing in exasperation, you throw your hands up, letting them fall to your sides with a plop against your jeans. You settle on the truth before you take too long to reply. “Sex toys are new to me.”
His jaw ticks as he leans his hip back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. Somehow, he makes Satoru look small– not thin or short, but small– given how much bulkier he is. He’s hot too, but his personality stands as a bit of a wall between you. His jaw works, eyes narrowed as he takes in your words.
At last, he chuckles. Dry and devoid of any amusement. “Why the fuck did you apply here if you don’t know anything about the shit we sell?”
“Because I need a job?” You reply incredulously.
He huffs a sigh. “Just my fucking luck.” He turns back to the register, haphazardly tossing the receipt into a small bin under the counter before he grabs the bullet vibrator and heads out onto the floor. “Figure that shit out,” he calls sourly without looking back at you. “Watch porn or buy something, I don’t give a shit. Just don’t make my job harder.”
Leaning back against the counter where it meets the wall, you let your head fall back in disbelief.
Asshole.
–
You wish you could say your first month passes seamlessly, but Sukuna makes the seams painfully obvious.
With Satoru, they’re subtle but you still feel them.
They both present separate problems.
Sukuna is an outright asshole and you want to get things right if only to not hear his virulent voice. The silence is somehow better.
Satoru is kind, open, and caring, but leagues ahead of you in experience and you have a massive crush. There aren’t enough customers in the morning to embarrass yourself in front of him, but you do find yourself wanting to impress him and against your better judgement, you’re pretty sure you’ve given him the impression you know what you’re doing from what little research you’ve done and what you’ve picked up over the month.
At least you’re trained enough that you get a couple of hours to yourself between Satoru’s departure and Sukuna’s arrival now that their hours aren’t extended in order to train you.
“You gonna be okay on your own?” Satoru asks, shrugging his jacket over his shoulder.
“I’ll be fine,” you brush him off with a smile.
He nudges your arm, unknowingly sending goosebumps in a trail up your skin. “Good. Text me if you need something. Or, I dunno. If you’re bored.”
Your heart does a little flip. “Yeah. Okay, thanks.”
You watch bashfully as he leaves, offering a little wave. Once he’s out of sight, you lean on your forearms over the counter. With a forlorn sigh, you drop your chin to the vinyl below, staring blankly out the window. Truthfully, it’s nice to have a breather between each man. You need the time to prepare yourself to handle Sukuna.
Your mind’s distraction comes in the form of your phone buzzing a few minutes later.
1:36 PM Satoru || not bored yet? ;)
A distraction to be sure. Whether it’s fortunate or not– yet to be determined.
The door seems to be opening more and more with him these days and as giddy as that makes you, nerves are beginning to show more and more at the seams. It’s foolish really, and you know that, but you find yourself constantly coming back to your lack of experience.
1:37 PM You || Give me like 5 more minutes and then I will be
You can practically hear the laugh he barks, having grown fond of his company.
You’re still casually texting back and forth when Sukuna’s shoulder presses on the door. He moves confidently through the shop, casting a single glance at you before dropping his bag off in the back room.
He’s still a pain in the ass, but Satoru was right that you do get used to it. You’re not sure that you’d call that a win, but at least you’ve come to some sort of silent agreement with him out of sheer necessity.
He didn’t leave you with many options after realizing just how little you know about the industry. When he got in the following day and returned your greeting with a painfully mild ‘don’t bother’, you had to figure out some sort of system that would prevent him from interacting with you altogether if it means his attitude is milder.
That’s how you landed here. He handles the floor and questions, you handle cash. You can tell he hates the arrangement given that he’s not a chatty guy, but at least you aren’t pinned in place by his vile appraisal every time you interact.
He’s civil.
Civil enough.
Most of the time.
For him, anyway.
He’s less judgemental, at least, and when you are able to help on the floor, he tends to leave you be more often than not. It’s like the loosest form of appreciation you can think of.
You’re pretty sure ‘tolerates’ is a fitting word for how he sees you. Like some sort of intrusive insect that sits just out of reach.
When he re-emerges from the back with his coat shrugged off, you’re surprised to see him in a black button-up and slacks, carrying his usual aloof expression as he makes his way to the counter. Admittedly, it’s a good look for him.
It’s unfair that he gets to be hot and an asshole.
“Is there a reason you’re staring?”
Thank god you don’t find him intimidating anymore. He’s a dick. Even to customers from time to time, but you don’t find yourself feeling small under his judgement. Maybe you should, but your ability to quickly bounce back could easily be placed at fault.
Blinking, you avert your gaze. “Sorry. I’m just not used to seeing you so dressed up.”
He examines your expression as though he suspects a lie in your words. “I had a presentation,” he explains, surprisingly open as he offers the explanation willingly.
Holy shit. It’s the first sunny day in the Sukuna forecast.
“What sort of presentation?”
“A marketing pitch.”
“Oh, nice.” You nod, trying to keep the peace. “How’d it go?”
He nods, turning to the counter to open his laptop. “Good. We’re gonna workshop it a bit, but I’m hoping to pitch to investors soon.” There’s pride within the evenness of his voice that has you tilting your head, intrigued to get something genuine from him.
Leaning in, you push to see how much you can get from him. “Like, a startup idea?” You recall Satoru mentioning something of the sort.
His gaze fixes you from over his shoulder. You get the feeling with him that he’s always trying to read you. “Yeah. A platform where people can pitch their businesses to customers within a certain distance without needing social media.”
“Oh,” you blink, mildly surprised. “That’s a really good idea.”
He hums, turning back to his laptop.
“You don’t really strike me as the CEO type, if I’m being honest.”
“I’m not,” he agrees, surprisingly unbothered by the observation. You consider yourself lucky he doesn’t take it as an insult. “I’d be looking for a co-founder to handle the personal, financial, and sales bullshit. I’d run strategy and go-to-market.”
Admittedly, yeah. That suits him. He’s sharp and straightforward, he seems like the type to be more inclined to work on strategy and run everything without the constant need for approval and help from others.
“That sounds more your style. What made you think of the platform idea?”
He doesn’t look back as he replies. “Just seemed like something that would make money.”
You recognize that as Sukuna being polite. He’s shutting you down without a look that makes your skin crawl for once. You suppose it’s as good of a time as any to return to your texts. Your friend from back home has been religiously sending memes during your shifts to get you through the Sukuna days and today is no exception. You laugh at a few of them under your breath.
The day is as uneventful as usual. Sukuna even casts an approving glance in your direction when you correctly answer a customer’s question. He’s not so bad when he isn’t glaring every couple of minutes.
You pray the weather stays sunny in Sukunaland.
Shutting the register as a customer leaves, you turn back inside the store to find Sukuna back to work, hunched over his textbook and regurgitating the information into notes. You opt not to bother him, turning your attention instead to a flickering bulb in the back of the floor. Much like both men have chosen not to mention or fix it, you have too.
Turning your attention back to your phone, you cast a smile at your latest text from Satoru.
5:53 PM You || The weather's looking surprisingly sunny today!!
5:54 PM Satoru || be on the lookout for rain. the weather can change on a dime
5:54 PM You || I can handle a bit of rain
5:55 PM Satoru || i’ll bet you can ;)
There your stomach goes doing flips again. Your thumbs fiddle with the edges of your phone case, pulling at the plastic as you stare at the message with that horrible mix of nerves and your stomach tying in knots. You get so caught up in your own self-doubt, you don’t realize you’re staring at Sukuna, busy with his own phone.
“What?” He gruffs, retaining that hint of annoyance.
“Hm?” You blink, brought back to the present. Before you, Sukuna is leaning against the counter, phone in-hand as his jaw shifts left and right. His lip ring noticeably catches like he’s fiddling with it. “Oh. Sorry.” With a shake of your head, you stare back down at your screen. Your gaze catches on the winky face. The underlying meaning behind it and his text. The impression you’ve probably given off working at a sex toy boutique.
The goddamn butterflies, though. The same ones causing the wave of self-consciousness that you know is foolish. But fuck is it hard not to feel that way when Satoru is undeniably the kind of guy that has people hanging off his shoulder with little to no effort. Your experience shouldn’t matter, but society has taught you to think otherwise.
“Hey,” you speak up on impulse before your mind can catch up to the move your mouth is already making. You can’t be certain whether it’s bravery or stupidity. “You know a lot about what we sell, right?”
His eyes narrow, minute. Just enough to catch your attention. “Yeah. I’m good at my job.”
The dig at your knowledge has you pressing your lips together. God, he’s frustrating. “Asshole.” His brow raises slightly, like something he once deemed uninteresting or unuseful has caught his attention and he’s appraising the situation to find if you’re deserving of it. “Is there, like… a way to improve without watching porn?” You query, worrying your lip between your teeth.
No longer engrossed in his laptop upon noticing your stare, Sukuna’s gaze bores into you. He doesn’t particularly make you uneasy now like he did when you first started, but it is sharp in spite of the evenness behind it. “I told you. Buy toys.”
You suppose you could have been a bit more specific. “No, I know that. A lot of them need a partner, though.”
He waves his hand in disinterest through the air like you’ve already answered your own question and he’s done entertaining any more. “Find one, then.” He’s already looking away as he replies.
You suck in a breath. “I’m from a small town. I just moved here, I don’t really know anyone.”
Sukuna just stares at you again like he expects you to figure it out yourself. His arms cross over his chest, his hip leaned against the counter. It’s not until the air turns stifling, your words hanging a hair too long as you meet his gaze that he cuts the tension with a disbelieving laugh.
“You’re asking me?” You can’t make heads or tails of his expression when it sits somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. It’s akin to the look you got upon calling him an asshole.
“No! Or– maybe? I don’t know.” The wince you shoot him is humiliating as you try to navigate the stormy seas you’ve set yourself sailing through.
“Why don’t you go ask Satoru?” He queries, pushing a hand back through his black-dyed locks like this question was never meant for him. Still, his tone doesn’t give off the impression that he’s irritated by you, so much as something more curious in nature.
Your gaze averts as your jaw hangs open in a frustrating moment of hesitation. Briefly glancing at the texts sitting in your hand is the only tell Sukuna needs, unfortunately able to read you like a book for some god forsaken reason.
“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” he chuckles, airy and amused. He pushes up off the counter, taking a step towards you like he’s laying out a challenge. “You don’t give a shit about the job. You’re trying to impress that fucker.” He rakes his tongue over his teeth, standing over you like he owns this damn conversation.
You cross your arms over your chest, fixing him with your own judgement. “You don’t have to make a big deal out of it.”
He pushes a condescending breath through his nose, smiling with nothing but mockery. “I don’t, but I’m gonna. You two would hit it off.”
Frowning, you opt to not give him the reaction he wants. Your nails dig into the skin of your arm. “I think I liked you better when you didn’t talk as much.”
“Most people do,” he smirks. He steps forward, hands in his pockets as he leans over you. “You still want me to teach you a thing or two, sweetheart?” His tone drips with condescension now that the person he once saw as little more than a pain in his ass has become something he can toy with.
You roll your eyes. You hadn’t expected your quiet co-worker to be this kind of an asshole. Why couldn’t he just say no and move on? Where did all the theatrics come from? “Why are you such a dick?”
“Answer the question,” he deflects, unbothered and painfully egotistical.
You huff, staring at the lemon-shaped vibrator sitting atop the counter that you’ve been contemplating buying for the last hour. “Fine. Yeah, I do.”
He blows a breath through his nose, standing upright again once he’s gotten your admission in his hands. “What’s in it for me?” The way he stands over you, chin tilted, and eyes narrowed, makes you huff.
You hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead. Hell, you didn’t expect to even voice your thoughts out loud. You barely even know enough about him to offer him anything. “I took business as a minor,” you suggest. “I could tutor you.”
“Nah, I’m set.”
You shrug, exasperated. Your hands wave uselessly through the air before plopping back down at your sides. “What do you want, then?”
He regards you with a thoughtful expression. “I’ll train you to close. Doesn’t matter what you’re doing, if I ask you to take my shift, you drop whatever you’re doing and take it.”
You shift your jaw to the left, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You expected worse.
“And you don’t tell Jillian or Satoru you took my shift. I keep the money.”
Ah. There’s the ‘worse’ you expected.
Frowning, you give the nerves in the pit of your stomach a moment to settle over making a deal with the devil. You want to say figuratively but you aren’t so sure. “Fine.” You extend your hand, but the man shakes his head, frowning.
“Rules first, then we shake.” He holds up his pointer. “Don’t tell a soul. Not even your friends back home.” Another finger. “No kissing. No making out. No sex.” He holds up a third finger. “This isn’t a little romantic fantasy thing. This isn’t a relationship. Don’t call this shit friends with benefits or fuck buddies, either. We’re not friends. Don’t expect anything cute from me. Got that?”
You don’t bother holding back a scoff. “I wasn’t going to, trust me.”
He smirks, unbothered. “Good.” His hand extends first this time.
For a long moment, you stare. You contemplate your life choices. You debate just ignoring your fears with Satoru and praying you can play the role of having experience. You equally contemplate just telling him you have no experience and that you’re nervous.
But somehow, the way nerves churn your stomach makes the butterflies worse. You want to squash them. You want to impress Satoru.
And you know. You know it’s stupid. You know you shouldn’t have to impress him, but the heart and mind don’t always connect, do they?
Against your better judgement, you clasp hands with him. You go to do the actual motion of a handshake but he keeps your hand in place. When your gaze raises to meet his in a silent question, he’s scrutinizing every little movement in your features.
His expression doesn’t hold the condescension you expect. His gaze is devoid of amusement, fixated on the frown you bear. “You really sure about this?”
You don’t hesitate to nod.
His eyes narrow a sliver. “Well, aren't you full of surprises?” There’s that hint of assholery. “One more rule.” His hand remains unmoving, still clasped with yours as he holds your gaze. “Either of us can shut this down at any time. It still never gets mentioned.”
You nod. “Agreed.”
Finally, he goes through with shaking your hand. “When are you looking to start?”
Your nose wrinkles at the way he makes it sound. “Do you have to say it like it’s a– I don’t know, job or something?”
“Oh, my bad,” he sneers, his grin too proud. “When do you wanna get fucked?”
You shouldn’t have asked.
Pulling your hand away from him, you rub your temples. You’re definitely not about to prod any further, lest he get more vulgar. “I’m free ton–”
“Not tonight,” he interrupts. “I got someone coming over to study.”
Scheduling ahead doesn’t sit right with you either. “Can we just decide during shifts? See how we’re feeling?”
“Whatever suits you,” he shrugs. The mild arrogance to his tone is… another can of worms to unpack, but as your colleague turns back to his studies, you only have one question for yourself.
What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
main masterlist || series masterlist || next ⪢
౨ৎ a/n ; i hope you enjoyed the first chapter of what will be a VERY kinky series LOLOL. i'm having a lot of fun with these two so far and i hope you are too <3
as a note, i'm trying moving tags to another blog which some of you may have seen due to changes in how tumblr's bot detection system is working, so please bear with me while i figure out how to not get my account flagged while doing taglists 🙃 edit; it's not working. if you weren't tagged, bear with me while i try to figure it out :')
Sukuna is reincarnated into the modern world, only to realize that being a villain is actually kind of a bore. Now a teacher at Jujutsu High by pure technicality, he’s decided being a “good guy” is way more entertaining, mostly because it still lets him do whatever he wants while everyone thanks him for it.
Unfortunately for you, that also means you get assigned to him as a specialist, since your technique is one of the very few things that can smooth out the jagged, overwhelming nature of his cursed energy after he uses it.
The problem is… you’re absolutely terrified of him. Every second in the same room feels like your body is trying to shut down, and the idea of having to touch him to do your job makes it even worse.
Sukuna, on the other hand, finds that fear hilarious and treats you like the funniest toy he’s ever been gifted.
pairing: sorcerer sukuna x sorcerer f!reader
wc: 9.1k
content: mdni, slow burn, kinda enemies to lovers, objectification, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion, possessive sukuna, violence, murder, blood, gore, dubious consent vibes, true form sukuna, yuji's not his vessel (...and probably smut at some point)
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You had exactly one day. One blissfully, almost unbelievably calm day when the office didn’t reek of ozone and the air felt still for once. You spent most of it shuffling between your office, sorting files, and reading old mission reports to get a sense of the teachers and students, and the infirmary, where you helped Shoko organize supplies you barely recognized while she complained dryly about students getting hurt doing the dumbest shit imaginable.
Sukuna was nowhere to be seen, which meant no Weaving that left you feeling as if your nervous system had been flayed.
By the afternoon, when you finally got back to your room to unpack the last boxes, the campus felt almost manageable. It was a short, fragile break that made you think you might actually survive here. That night, exhaustion finally beat out anticipation, and you slept well for the first time.
On your third official day, that sense of calm starts to crack as soon as you step onto the walkway toward the main building.
As you walk past the open training grounds, you feel the change in the air right away. It’s not the harsh pressure of a direct confrontation, but it’s still there, just less intense. You stop short, your heart skipping as you spot a massive figure sitting on the stairs by the running track.
Sukuna isn’t even wearing his uniform. He’s in a dark, oversized hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms and loose gray sweats, looking less like a jujutsu sorcerer and more like someone dragged outside against his will. He might seem almost normal, if it weren’t for the heavy, dense cursed energy pouring off him.
The students are gathered several meters in front of him, scattered across the grassy field, with their bags and weapons carelessly tossed beside them. Even though you haven’t met them yet, you recognize them as second years from the reports you read yesterday.
Maki leans back on her hands with a wooden practice spear resting beside her, while Panda sprawls nearby with his arms folded behind his head. Toge has his phone in one hand, scrolling through it, and Yuta sits off to the side with his elbows on his knees.
It’s an utterly bizarre sight. Sukuna’s very clearly meant to be leading a class, but he isn’t speaking, demonstrating techniques, or even encouraging them. He’s just staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, his eyes narrowed as if the very existence of the sun and the presence of the students were a personal insult to his intelligence and time.
All the while, the students just… sit there, patiently waiting for time to pass, talking in low, hushed tones. Panda mutters something under his breath that draws a quiet snort of amusement from Maki, and Yuta fires back a quiet response, making Toge lower his phone and glance between them.
"Is he actually going to start today?" Yuta whispers, looking toward the man with a look of cautious exhaustion.
Maki huffs, shifting to lean back onto her elbows. "He’s been sitting like that for twenty minutes straight. I honestly don't think he even remembers we're here."
“Salmon,” Toge says softly, adjusting his collar.
Their casual attitude makes your head spin. They’re sitting right in front of someone who could destroy the whole campus without even standing, yet Maki checks her nails, and Panda rests his head on his paws like he’s just napping in the sun.
"Hey," she calls out suddenly, her voice a bit louder now as she tilts her head toward their teacher. "Are we actually doing anything today, or are we just here to watch you breathe?"
He turns his head slowly toward her. All she gets is a deeper scowl, a clear command to stop talking before he gives her a reason. The pressure in the air grows heavier as he lets more cursed energy fill the area to make his point.
The students go quiet right away. Maki straightens under his stare, her shoulders tense, while Sukuna says nothing for several long seconds. Even from the walkway, the silence feels uncomfortable. Then he clicks his tongue.
“Did I tell you to talk?” he asks flatly.
The girl sighs. “No.”
“Then shut up.”
Sukuna turns his attention away again, clearly more annoyed by the question than it’s worth. The students settle back into silence, looking used to this routine, as if this is just how class goes sometimes.
Several minutes go by with nothing happening. Yuta finally mutters something to Panda, who snorts loudly, breaking the silence. Sukuna reacts right away. Without even looking, he grabs a broken piece of concrete from beside the steps and throws it.
The chunk whistles through the air and slams into the grass, narrowly missing Panda’s head. It explodes on impact, scattering fragments everywhere. Panda jerks to the side with a loud, surprised, “Shit!” and Toge almost drops his phone.
“Too loud,” Sukuna rumbles, his voice low and rough, sounding more tired than angry. He keeps staring into the distance as if he hasn't moved a muscle. "Your voices are grating on my nerves."
Panda brushes dust and grass fragments from his fur and glares in the teacher’s direction. “You almost took my damn head off!”
“You still have it,” Sukuna replies dismissively, still not looking at him. “Now, keep quiet, or the next one won’t miss.”
Maki snorts under her breath again, and Panda mutters something you can’t quite hear from where you stand. Still, no one panics or leaves. Within seconds, the group settles back into the same spots as before. Panda keeps grumbling quietly, Toge goes back to scrolling through his phone, and Yuta lets out a heavy sigh, like this entire interaction falls somewhere between mildly irritating and completely expected.
The normalcy of it all unsettles you more than any open threat could. This is the same person who once painted the Heian era red, but now he just looks like a grumpy teacher who would rather be anywhere else than here, babysitting four teens in the sun.
You stand there for a few more seconds, struggling to understand how they can be so relaxed around him. Just two days ago, you could barely stand in the same room as him without shaking violently, and now you’re watching four students sit nearby while he throws concrete at them if they get too loud.
Taking a careful step back, then another, you slip away before he can possibly notice you standing there awkwardly. The reports clutched tightly in your arms suddenly feel ridiculous. You hurry toward the main building, reach the heavy office doors, and slip inside, your footsteps echoing as you rush to your desk.
On the training grounds, a full fifteen minutes pass without Sukuna moving or speaking one bit. At some point, Maki gives up pretending class is going to happen at all and stretches out fully on the grass, laying her head down comfortably on Panda’s massive stomach.
“This might actually be a new record,” Panda mutters under his breath, his voice a low vibration against her head. “We’re almost forty minutes in, and he hasn’t properly threatened anyone yet.”
“You almost got brained with a rock,” Maki replies without opening her eyes.
“That barely counts as threatening.”
Yuta exhales quietly from where he sits. “Do we actually think he forgot we’re here?”
“No,” Panda answers immediately. “He’s ignoring us on purpose.”
Toge nods without lifting his gaze from his phone, “Salmon.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Panda replies.
The group sits in silence for a while, with only the faint sounds of movement from elsewhere on campus breaking the quiet. Eventually, Sukuna gets bored with the ordeal of sitting there. He stands up without saying anything or looking at the students he’s supposed to be teaching, then walks across the training grounds toward the main walkway, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats.
The second-years sit up and watch his unhurried steps, all of them a little confused. Normally, Sukuna follows a predictable, if frustrating, pattern: he either refuses to show up entirely or sits in his sulking silence until the very end of the period. Leaving halfway through is new, and it makes the space feel oddly empty.
“Uh…” Panda slowly lowers his phone and looks between the others. "Did we... do something?"
"Inumaki?" Maki glances at Toge, who only shrugs, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Yuta blinks several times, processing the sudden change. “Wait.”
Maki pushes herself to her feet, her brows pulling together slightly as she watches Sukuna walking away. “Is he… leaving?”
“He’s definitely leaving,” Panda confirms.
“But class isn’t over yet.”
Maki looks at him flatly. “You say that like class started.”
“That’s not the point.”
Sukuna reaches the walkway, and Yuta finally speaks, his voice a little louder and more urgent from behind him, “Um… sensei?” only to receive absolutely no response whatsoever.
Then, the pink-haired man disappears around the corner, and silence drops over the training grounds for several seconds. The group just stares toward the walkway like they genuinely expect him to reappear and explain himself somehow.
Panda looks between the others one more time. “Did he actually just ditch us?”
“That’s new,” Maki mutters, a hint of grudging interest in her voice.
Toge lowers his phone again. “Salmon roe.”
“Right?” Panda says immediately. “Usually, he at least threatens us.”
Yuta continues staring toward the gate with visible confusion. “Do you think something happened?”
“With him? Probably.” Maki snorts.
Yuta still looks uncertain. “Should someone check where he went?”
“No,” Maki and Panda answer immediately and in perfect unison.
“Fish flakes,” Toge replies at the exact same time, shaking his head.
Maki clicks her tongue, pushes herself to her feet, and stretches. “Whatever. If he’s not coming back, I’m not wasting the rest of the period sitting here like an idiot. Let’s spar or something.”
-
In your office, you’re trying, and mostly failing, to lose yourself in the familiar, tedious rhythm of paperwork. The routine is a comfort you desperately need to wade through, but even the crisp rustle of mission reports offers little distraction. You’re halfway through sorting a stack of them when the door slides open without warning.
The cursed energy immediately floods the room. It’s so immense and abrasive that your body recognizes it before your conscious mind even registers the man standing there. You don't need to look up to know it’s Sukuna.
The class he was supposed to teach had been boring from the start. It’s nothing new, though. Those brats never truly resisted or challenged him, and today was no different. They sat where they were supposed to, spoke in low voices when they thought he wasn’t paying attention, and waited for something to happen. Sukuna had stayed just long enough to confirm that nothing of interest would happen. Even throwing something at the loud one had failed to stir anything but a flicker of annoyance, only reminding him how little interest he had in the whole farce.
But this is so much different. And because of that, Sukuna doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside as though the office has always belonged to him, and you’re merely a temporary fixture.
The effect of his presence hits you instantly, sharp and obvious. There’s no attempt to hide it yet, no control or delay, merely a direct, instantaneous terror at his proximity. And that reaction to him being in the same room, without needing to be provoked or forced, is finally something that doesn’t bore him to death.
Sukuna’s attention, which has been wandering all day, finally settles fully on a single, gratifying object—you. His gaze lingers on your hands, which give away everything, and your breathing, which speeds up no matter how hard you try to calm down. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a person desperately try to force themselves to act normal when every instinct tells them to run, hide, or simply drop dead. He hasn’t seen such an intense, uncontrolled reaction as yours in a really long while.
Pathetic, he thinks, and a lazy, amused smile curls at the edge of his lips. She’s trying so hard to pretend I’m not here, but her whole body shakes like I could tear her apart just by looking at her.
You have no idea how to control your reaction, and that makes you much more interesting than the students he left behind. The way you keep trying, even though you know you’re failing so miserably, only adds to his enjoyment.
Finally, through the paralyzing fog of your fear, you force a breath into your tightening throat in a small, desperate act of defiance. Then, you make a sound, which is something you haven’t been able to make in his presence until now.
"I... I wasn't informed you'd need... Weaving today," you stammer, and the sentence barely holds together.
Your voice breaks halfway through, and the slight, undeniable stutter makes the humiliation worse once the words leave your mouth.
“I don’t,” he states flatly.
Unlike the first time, he decides to take a seat. He grabs the bottom of one side of the couch, drags it effortlessly away from the wall with a horrible, scraping noise, and drops it right across from your desk. Then he sinks into it, somehow looking even bigger in the small space, like he’s taking up all the air just by leaning back.
He sits there for several long minutes, saying nothing and just staring at you. The silence drags on, making every second feel longer. His stillness only adds to the pressure, letting your mind imagine all the things he might do.
You lower your gaze back to the reports. Staring up feels impossible under the weight of his attention, but the words on the page have turned into meaningless black smears. You force yourself to grip the pen, but the moment you continue writing, it becomes painfully obvious how badly your hands are shaking again. The nib digs into the paper with too much force, leaving a jagged, ugly trail of ink where a simple, smooth line should have been.
Sukuna watches closely, noticing when your hands start to shake too much to write and when your breathing grows short again, even though you try to hide it. You react to him like a trapped animal, calming when the pressure lifts, then panicking all over again when it returns. He finds this endless cycle of fear and relief so fascinating that he wants to stay just to see what you’ll do next.
“Don’t let me… stop you,” he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly sound that scrapes against your frayed, exposed nerves. He knows, with absolute certainty, that you can’t write even one coherent word now.
The sudden sound of his voice being so close startles you so much that your hand jerks and the pen rips through the paper. Heat floods immediately into your face in a flush of shame.
The sorcerer stands without warning, abandoning the couch to occupy a space far more intrusive and sitting on the edge of your desk. His massive frame casts a shadow that swallows the document you were just trying to fill. He leans back, bracing his weight on his hands until his face is barely inches from yours, his heat radiating off him like an open furnace. He does nothing but just stare.
Your mind is utterly unable to hold onto the concept of the paperwork while he’s this close. The mission reports, the ink, the dates—it all evaporates. You try to pull back and create even a fraction of space, but you’re pinned between the leather of your chair and the massive, unyielding wall of his presence. Your hands are a disaster, shaking against the desk so violently that you can no longer hold the pen.
"You're making a mess of the ink," he says, his tone sharp and expectant. He moves a single finger and slowly drags it through the wet ink of your attempted signature, smearing it across the page until it’s an unrecognizable blot.
This time, he stays in your office much longer, content to simply exist in your space and watch you unravel, piece by piece. He reaches for a small ceramic paperweight on your desk. You flinch hard, bracing for the sound of it cracking under his touch, fully expecting him to crush it simply because that’s what he did the last time. He doesn’t break it, only rolling it under his palm, watching your pupils dilate with each slow rotation.
Sukuna pulls away and opens one of your desk drawers without asking. You watch as he glances through the contents, clearly uninterested, then clicks his tongue and leaves the drawer partly open.
For one brief, hopeful moment, you think he might finally leave, but he only grabs one of the reports from the edge of your desk, stands up, and lazily flips through it as he begins to pace around the small office. His lingering stretches on for nearly another half hour after that. At one point, he sits on the windowsill, blocking the light. He opens one of your drawers again, not to look through it, but simply to open it. He picks up random objects from your shelves only to set them down somewhere else moments later. Every single time your breathing starts to stabilize, even slightly, he either speaks or moves unexpectedly close, and your body immediately betrays you all over again, plunging you back into full-blown panic.
Suddenly, he stands and leaves without a word, leaving the door open, the couch out of place, and a trail of your things displaced in his wake. The silence he leaves behind feels almost overwhelming after how long he stayed.
You stay seated stiffly at the desk, doing nothing productive, while your breathing refuses to settle back into a normal rhythm. Every inhale feels slightly too short, not severe enough to tip into panic but uneven enough that you keep noticing it anyway. That awareness only makes it harder to stop focusing on your own body.
The strangest part isn't even the all-consuming fear anymore, though that is still a heavy presence. It’s a paralyzing, hollow disorientation and disbelief, followed by a surge of helplessness as you stare again at the skewed couch.
You can’t stop thinking about how he walked in here without actually needing anything. It wasn’t for Weaving, and you’re sure no one sent him for any other reason. He abandoned an entire class halfway through just to come here, moved the whole piece of heavy furniture for no reason other than to sit there, watching you panic and struggle to hold a pen properly, then wandered around, touching your things because… what exactly? Because he was bored? Is that what Satoru and Shoko meant?
Your stomach knots at the thought. The more you dwell on it, the heavier it feels, because there’s no practical reason you can find to make sense of what happened.
Slowly, you force yourself to stand from the chair, your legs unsteady enough that the first few steps feel clumsy and awkward. The office suddenly looks unfamiliar, even though it’s exactly the same room as an hour ago, but a drawer remains slightly open from when Sukuna looked through it earlier; one of your books is on the wrong shelf; the reports spread across the desk look terrible now, with several pages visibly damaged from him smearing the ink of your name and your repeated, panicked mistakes.
You look around at the mess for several seconds before rubbing your hands once against your pants in a useless attempt to steady yourself. There’s just no way to fully process that he came here simply because he was bored.
After a while, you walk over to the couch, staring at it as if the situation might make sense if you look long enough. Then you quietly start pushing it back to its place by the wall.
It takes a surprising amount of effort because your arms still feel tense, and your muscles are tight and exhausted from holding your body rigid for far too long. By the time the couch finally stands back where it belongs, you’re already a little out of breath again.
You press both hands briefly against your face and exhale slowly through your nose, trying desperately to calm your breathing before anyone else finds you like this.
—
Soon after, you leave the office and step into the fresh air. Without Sukuna's overwhelming cursed energy, everything feels strangely off, almost dizzying, after spending an hour with him.
You slide open the infirmary door and see Shoko slumped in her chair. The blue glow from the computer screen highlights the dark circles under her eyes. She doesn't move at first, just exhales a thin stream of cigarette smoke toward the cracked window, then slowly looks over at you.
"There you are," she says, leaning back, the chair creaking under her weight. "I was wondering how long it'd take before you came hiding in here again."
The word hiding should probably sting, but you’re too drained to care. You just let out a weary sigh and pull the door shut, leaning against it for a second.
"I'm not hiding," you mutter, though your lack of conviction makes it a lie.
"Hm." She hums, a skeptical sound as she taps ash into an overflowing tray without looking away from the screen. “Sure.”
Looking around, you notice there’s an assortment of medical instruments on the counter that weren’t there yesterday. At this point, you figure half the things in this room exist purely for show, to intimidate, or because sorcerers have a knack for getting hurt in increasingly creative ways.
She turns on the electric kettle, then pushes the chair near the supply cabinet toward you with her foot.
“Sit down before you fall over. You look exhausted,” she says. As you sink into the chair, she asks, “So, how’s the roommate behaving?”
You almost choke in surprise, your eyes going wide. Shoko doesn’t react, just takes a slow drag from her cigarette.
“He…” You hesitate, your fingers twisting in your lap as you try to figure out how to even describe what happened in your office without sounding completely insane. “He came into my office today, but he didn’t need Weaving.”
“Mhm.”
“He just... was,” you say, and Shoko hums, waiting. You let out a slow breath, look down at your hands, and go on, “He dragged the couch to the middle of the room, sat for a bit, then moved to my desk, and spent almost an hour touching things. I don’t even think he was looking for anything.” Remembering how his eyes followed your every move makes your skin crawl.
Shoko stares at her monitor for a beat before offering a flat, "Sounds annoying."
You blink at her, stunned by how much she’s downplaying it. "Annoying? That’s it?”
“What else do you want me to say?” she asks, finally turning her chair to face you. “He gets restless when he’s bored.”
“He started going through my drawers, Shoko.”
“That’s rude," she says, her tone as dry as bone, and picks up the medical report from her desk.
“He smeared ink all over my paperwork.”
“Extremely rude.”
You stare at her in disbelief while she calmly turns a page.
"And he walked out of the middle of his own class to do it."
"Huh. That's a new one," Shoko admits after thinking for a moment, a hint of real interest showing. The kettle clicks off, and she stands up to pour hot water into two ceramic mugs. “Usually, he at least waits until after hours to become a public nuisance.”
"Nobody else finds this alarming?"
“Alarming compared to what?” She hands you a mug, her eyes showing a tired hint of amusement. “You’re talking about Ryomen Sukuna. His baseline behavior is already a natural disaster.”
You let out a surprised laugh, and Shoko gestures at you with her cigarette.
“See? You’re adjusting.”
“I think ‘losing my mind’ fits better.”
"No." She sinks back into her seat, the tea steam curling around her face. "Give it a week.”
The thought weighs on you. You’re not sure what’s worse: Sukuna himself, or how everyone else acts like his presence is just another part of daily life.
"If it helps, you aren't the only one having a miserable morning. Utahime is in from Kyoto, actually. She came by earlier looking like she was ready to explode.”
You look up, glad for the change of topic. “Dark hair, looks very traditional? I think I saw her. She seemed… focused.”
“Oh, she was," Shoko snorts. “Focused on not murdering Satoru. He accidentally wiped her entire inbox and her favorite playlist when he borrowed her phone.”
You stare at her, the mug halfway to your mouth. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was. She cornered him outside for almost twenty minutes. I could hear her yelling from all the way down here… Honestly, I think she cared more about the music than the emails.”
“And what did he do?”
“Stood there with that stupid, clueless grin, asking if she’d tried turning the phone off and on again. And that’s not all, of course. Later, during the exchange planning, he kept sending her photos of herself with curse spirits edited into the background.”
A genuine, quiet laugh bubbles up from your chest, surprising both of you. Shoko doesn’t say anything, but her expression softens ever so slightly.
“It’s always the same when she visits. I don’t know why she still talks to him.”
"Does he ever actually apologize?"
"Satoru? Never. He just waits for the yelling to stop, then asks if she wants to get sweets. It’s so frustrating." Shoko shakes her head, pulls out a fresh cigarette from a package, and tucks it behind her ear. "And then there’s Mei Mei. She’s trying to convince Yaga she needs a proximity bonus on her contract because Sukuna is on campus. That woman literally wants to bill the school for the stress of walking past his door."
“Wait, seriously? She’s actually trying to charge for that?" you ask in disbelief.
"She’d charge for the air you’re breathing if she could find a way to invoice for it.” Shoko rolls her eyes, and a flicker of genuine irritation crosses her face. "With Gojo’s ego and Mei Mei’s greed, it’s a wonder this place is still standing. Sometimes I think the students are the only adults here."
You laugh again, this time more freely. "Speaking of them," you say, shifting in your chair to get comfortable. "How are the first-years? I haven’t seen them since my first day."
"They’re fine. Satoru took them to a warehouse in Saitama for a field trip yesterday. It was just a couple of weak curses that Megumi could have handled with one hand tied behind his back, but Yuji still managed to trip over a pallet."
"Is he okay?"
“It’s just a scratch,” Shoko says, waving her hand dismissively. “But he came in here about an hour after you left, acting like he’d survived a massacre. Can you believe he actually had the nerve to ask me for RCT for it? I think he just wanted an excuse to hide from whatever training Satoru has planned for them later in the evening.”
"I don’t blame him," you say, leaning your head back against the cool tiled wall. "I’d stay in here all day if I could."
Shoko snorts again, reaches into a drawer, and slides a few small foil-wrapped chocolate pieces across the desk to you. "Eat that. Your blood sugar is probably in the basement, and I don't feel like explaining to the Higher-Ups why their favorite specialist fainted in my infirmary."
—
The next afternoon, you sit at your desk, deep in thought, when someone knocks on the doorframe.
“Come in.”
The door slides open and Takashi, the young official who informed you of Sukuna’s arrival a few days ago, steps in with a thin folder under his arm. You’ve seen him enough lately to recognize him right away.
"Principal Yaga asked me to bring this to you personally. It’s the preliminary report from the Nagano mission this morning,” he says, crossing the room before placing the folder onto your desk.
You automatically glance at the front page. MISSION INCIDENT REPORT. Your stomach tightens before you even realize why.
Takashi notices the shift in your expression immediately, though he says nothing about it.
“Sukuna is currently returning from the mission site,” he continues in the same even tone. “Should be back on campus within the hour.”
Hearing the timeframe stated so plainly unsettles you more than you expect. Your fingers start their usual, nervous twitch against the desk as you whisper, "Already?"
The man gives a brief nod, then turns toward the door again without lingering. “If Principal Yaga requires anything else, someone will inform you.”
The door clicks shut, and with a long sigh, you open the folder. This isn’t a polished summary for the Higher-Ups; it’s a raw report from Daichi Sera, Sukuna’s assigned assistant manager.
MISSION INCIDENT REPORT
Tokyo Jujutsu High
Filed by: Daichi Sera
Mission ID: 2018/NGN/042
Operational Details
Location: Nagano, Nagano Prefecture
Mission Start Time: 10:40
Mission End Time: 11:27
Assigned Sorcerer: Ryomen Sukuna (Special Grade)
Original Threat Assessment: Grade 1
Post-Operation Threat Assessment: original assessment correct
Curse Status: Exorcised
A Grade 1 curse, a Special Grade sorcerer, and a successful exorcism. It looks simple on paper, but your eyes linger on how long the mission took.
Everyone knows Grade 1 curses are dangerous. You saw what they can do to sorcerers like Sota, whom you had to weave just before you were brought here. Still, you don’t have to be a combat sorcerer to know it should be a non-entity to a Special Grade sorcerer.
You have felt his cursed energy, stood directly in it, and touched it. Your body nearly shut down from the sheer scale of it pressing against your senses; the memory still sits uncomfortably beneath your ribs whenever you think about it too long.
Someone like Sukuna shouldn’t need forty-seven minutes to exorcise it. It should have taken seconds, just a flick of his wrist and it’s done. But he was there for almost an hour. That feels disturbingly long for someone so powerful.
You stop reading and close your eyes as a wave of nausea hits you. Curses kill people; you’ve known that all your life. But after seeing how long Sukuna stayed on site, the numbers don’t add up.
The memory of how he looked at you, smearing ink across your paperwork, with chilling indifference on his face, flashes behind your eyelids. A second later, another one follows, of Yuji saying people only get in the way of Sukuna. And now twenty-six families are being notified of deaths. To him, these numbers aren’t a tragedy; they’re likely just a byproduct of his afternoon.
Structural Damage:
Four commercial and residential structures were confirmed to have fully collapsed within the primary engagement zone. Seven adjacent buildings sustained partial structural failure, including compromised load-bearing walls and severe façade collapse. Road deformation was observed across approximately 80 meters surrounding the curse appearance site. Secondary fire damage was reported following the rupture of underground gas infrastructure. Structural assessment remains ongoing.
That paragraph you have to read twice. Your breath catches on the words road deformation. That, along with four collapsed buildings, wasn’t just a curse being exorcised, but the result of violent, overwhelming power. You remember how the pressure changed when he walked through the building’s threshold, and if that was what you felt from him in a hallway, you can only imagine the destruction he leaves behind when he actually fights.
Infrastructure Disruption:
Localized power outage affecting approximately 460 households within the containment radius. Water main rupture confirmed beneath the eastern roadway sector. Emergency transit services are suspended across the central district pending debris clearance and structural inspection. Civilian evacuation perimeter established in cooperation with municipal emergency response teams.
Still, your mind keeps circling back to those forty-seven minutes. The curse should have been dead long before this much damage happened.
For the first time since arriving at the school, you realize the fear you felt around Sukuna inside your office was only a fraction of what he can actually do. The extent of his power isn't just about killing a curse, you realize. It’s about the total disregard for everything surrounding it.
You sink back into your chair, the paper crinkling under your whitening knuckles. You’re a Weaver. Your job is to smooth his energy so it stops eroding the environment, but looking at all this collateral damage, the task feels impossible—like trying to polish a hurricane.
Additional Notes
· Observed structural damage exceeded both the projected impact range associated with Grade 1 curse manifestation and preliminary curse behavior assessments.
· Secondary destruction patterns could not be conclusively attributed solely to recorded curse activity.
· Current casualty estimates remain preliminary pending continued recovery operations within collapsed structures.
· Recovery operations ongoing.
Exceeded projected impact. The report very politely suggests that the curse, dangerous as it was, shouldn’t have been able to cause this much damage. That last line weighs on you. People are still trapped, and somehow that feels worse than the casualty numbers.
You lower the report slowly onto the desk afterward and sit there staring at it in silence.
Less than half an hour later, the atmosphere in the office changes. It’s not an explosive burst of power, but a slow, creeping heat that seems to seep from the floorboards. The pressure gets heavier and more suffocating, thickening the air until your throat feels too tight to breathe deeply.
Before you can even make a conscious effort to calm your breathing, your door slides open without the courtesy of a knock. Sukuna walks in, and the office suddenly feels half its size, filled with his oppressive presence. His cursed energy feels way rougher than before, its jagged edges scraping against your senses as soon as he enters. He must have used his techniques a lot for it to be this frayed.
His uniform is a mess. The heavy fabric is shredded across one shoulder, another deep rip runs along his side, showing part of the tattoo on his stomach, and a long tear runs down the side of his hakama, fluttering as he moves. Strangely, even with his clothes in this state, there’s no blood anywhere on him.
Sukuna clicks his tongue sharply. With his brow furrowed in irritation and his eyes burning with danger, he looks like he’s exactly one minor inconvenience away from setting the whole building on fire just to watch it crumble.
“Insolent little fucking parasite,” he spits, the words dripping with pure, unadulterated loathing. He doesn't look at you, but the venom in his voice makes your pulse skip a beat and then race as he crosses the office.
You watch with wide, wary eyes as he drops heavily onto the couch against the wall. He lands with enough force to make the frame creak under his weight.
“That idiot followed me across the entire campus.” Sukuna leans his head back against the cushions, while visible disgust twists his features into a grimace. “He wouldn't shut up for a second. Spent the whole walk from the gates pestering me to ‘teach him properly’ like I’m some pathetic coach he can just summon on a whim."
His cursed energy continues to fill the room heavily, making your bones ache. You grab the report just to have something to hold, already knowing that weaving after a mission like this will be an insufferable, grueling task.
"I told him to get lost, and he just kept going,” he growls, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if the mere memory of the conversation is enough to ignite his temper all over again. “Rambling about how since I'm 'already here,' the least I could do is help him with his cursed energy output.” His upper lip curls back to reveal a flash of teeth. “I should’ve ripped his fucking throat out halfway through that sentence.”
Your heart pounds in your chest, and your fingers grip the paper until it crinkles as his energy flares and the images of destruction you just read about flash through your mind. Somehow, even without him saying it, you know exactly who he means.
“I put him through the concrete divider outside the training hall instead,” he mutters after a moment of silence, sinking further into the couch and closing his eyes. You can already picture Yuji stubbornly picking himself up and starting all over again. “Didn’t help. He got back up and kept asking. Irritating little shit.”
Of course, your guess was right, and you hate it more than anything. Your eyes drop back helplessly to the report and the casualty numbers. Sukuna’s eyes snap open, sensing your distraction right away.
“Hm.” The sound rumbles in his chest as his gaze flicks lazily toward the paper in your hands. For a second, his eyes linger on it. “They gave you that already?”
A cold feeling settles in your stomach, but you can’t say anything, even if your throat would let you. Your thoughts are stuck between the reality of destroyed buildings and dead civilians, and Sukuna lounging on your couch, complaining about Yuji asking him for training advice. The lack of remorse feels impossible for your brain to process.
“The curse was annoying,” the man says at last in an entirely dismissive tone. “It kept running every time I cornered it.”
Clearly, nothing else about his mission matters to him or is worth a single mention. For Sukuna, the worst part of the afternoon was just Yuji talking too much. He stares at your pale face for a moment, then lets out a quiet, mocking snort. His mouth curls with cruel amusement.
“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Sukuna’s voice drops to a low, taunting purr as he studies your visible discomfort. He’s right—a small part of you actually wants to, given everything that’s happened. “If you’re gonna be sick every time I kill something, this arrangement’s going to become very exhausting.”
The words hit with the sting of a slap, but you stay completely still, unable to move even a muscle. The silence that follows stretches through the office, growing heavy and thick enough to choke on.
Sukuna tilts his head, his eyes glinting. “What? Seeing the numbers made you forget what you’re here for, little thing?” he asks mockingly when you still offer no answer.
A new wave of nausea and fear tightens your stomach, but you force your clenched fingers to relax from the crumpled pages. You set the report aside on the desk, and even that small movement felt stiff and exposed under his intense gaze. The palpable roughness of his cursed energy presses heavily through the air, vibrating through the room, brushing every one of your senses raw, leaving your hands already faintly numb and tingling at the thought of touching him again.
Your fingers tremble slightly against the desk as you manage to push yourself upright from the chair. The motion alone sends a dizzying sensation through your body. The closer you move toward the couch, the worse his cursed energy feels. It’s heavy, leaden, and rolls in restless, violent waves. You stop beside where he’s sitting, glancing first at the space on the couch, then quickly back to him.
You desperately try to find your voice, but your throat is so dry you have to swallow hard first.
“The couch,” you manage after a moment, hating how weak and thin your own voice sounds compared to his. You gesture vaguely with a quick, nervous flick of your hand toward the length of the furniture. “It would… it would probably be easier if you lay down.”
It’s not even an unreasonable request. If he just lay down, you could actually sit and focus fully on weaving instead of fighting to stay upright the whole time. It’d make things easier for both of you, with less wasted energy and less chance of you passing out before you even get through half the splinters.
Sukuna stares at you, his crimson eyes unblinking, but the cruel curl of his smile does not reach them. Instead of doing as you requested, he rises to his full height, reminding you that there’s only one person in control here, and that person is him. You instinctively back away, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, as he takes step after deliberate step into your personal space. You continue retreating until the solid wood of your desk presses against the backs of your legs, and you’re effectively trapped between him and your workspace.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. By standing, he’s effortlessly destroyed the small advantage you just tried to create. More importantly, while the weaving might be useful, your fear and agitation amuse him. If he can have both usefulness and entertainment at the same time, there’s no reason he would deny himself either.
“I think I’ll stand,” he says flatly.
The first weaving session flashes violently through your mind all over again, and your mouth instantly goes dry. The memory of his hand locking around your wrist and dragging you bodily against his chest is still vivid enough that your nerves seize in a painful spasm of panic before anything has even happened yet. You can already feel the phantom echo of that overwhelming contact crawling beneath your skin.
Sukuna’s eyes narrow faintly as he watches your hesitation. Something ugly and impatient flickers briefly through his expression when your breathing stutters in your throat.
“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, mockery dripping from every syllable, letting more of his cursed energy surface. “You were so eager to touch me before.”
The overwhelming presence floods the entire room, pressing down like a physical weight, and when it almost swallows you whole, your lower lip trembles involuntarily. You know he’s doing it intentionally, but it doesn’t make the suffocating pressure easier to endure.
The shredded fabric hanging from his uniform brushes faintly against your skin when he leans down slightly to look at you properly and purrs, “Don’t tell me a little property damage scared you out of touching me.”
Carefully, you lift your hand. This time, he doesn’t move to grab you, which somehow feels worse. The anticipation becomes almost unbearable as you force your arm to close the final gap, every nerve in your body tensing as your palm nears his chest.
“Come on. Do it—and try to be less of a disappointment than you were on Tuesday."
Even before you make contact, you sense the heat radiating from his body, thick cursed energy rippling beneath and above his skin as if alive, ready to burst the instant you touch it.
The moment your skin touches the fabric over his chest, the world tilts sharply, and a muffled gasp escapes your lips. The energy slams through you, sending a physical shockwave up your arms that settles in your teeth. You had foolishly hoped the second time would be easier, but his power overwhelms you all the same. This time, though, you curl your fingers into his uniform right away, willing it to keep you from swaying or falling completely.
As your technique properly activates, the difference in his cursed energy startles you, and your concentration almost breaks immediately. Even from a distance, you could tell it was in worse condition than last time, but now that you touch it, you realize how much of an understatement that was. Given what you’re seeing right now, it’s hard to believe the walls in your office haven’t actually cracked and split since he arrived.
During the first session, the splintered edges shifted constantly, catching and grinding against each other before eventually slipping free. Now, the entire structure feels compressed and hardened beyond that point. The countless layers still move, but there’s no longer enough space between them for the fractures to separate properly once they catch. Instead, they wedge together, locking tightly against each other until the buildup around them forces them to grind harder rather than release.
It creates a second obstacle almost immediately. The fractured buildup has become so compacted that it’s paradoxically easier to clearly define a section, but there still isn’t enough room between the locked layers for your cursed energy to properly thread through them. Every small gap that you used during the first weaving is gone now, crushed shut beneath the sheer density of accumulated layers.
What’s worse, you realize, is that targeting a small fragment won’t make any meaningful difference today. So you isolate a much larger compressed section and abandon any hope of a delicate touch. Forcing nearly all of your cursed energy directly against that section, you press into it. It’s an agonizing strain.
“Your output’s dropping,” Sukuna notes lazily, leaning in slightly to watch you with cruel attention. “Already running out?”
Sweat pools coldly at the back of your neck despite the oppressive heat saturating the office. The sustained effort sends sharp pain shooting up your arm, and your hand shakes harder the longer you maintain contact with him. Black spots flicker across your vision, your knees shake beneath you in a sudden spasm, and Sukuna’s grin widens, savoring your weakness.
“There it is again—that look,” he murmurs, his voice laced with satisfaction.
You grit your teeth until your jaw aches. Slowly, under the pressure of your technique, the wedged layers begin to shift apart by infinitesimal fractions. Barely enough space opens between them to matter, but it’s sufficient. Seizing the opening instantly, you send the small reserve of cursed energy you held back and guide it into the sliver of a gap before it can lock shut again. You don't try to comb, but rather press, smoothing the frays and splinters on both sides while they’re temporarily separated.
When you finally let the structure collapse back together, the two sides no longer catch. They slide smoothly against each other, flat and realigned, so you can finally release the technique completely.
Exhaustion hits you so hard that your vision blurs. Your hand jerks away from his chest almost instinctively, as if burned. For one awful second, your balance threatens to go with it, but you catch yourself on the edge of the desk before your legs give out beneath you. You breathe shallowly and unevenly, fighting for air.
It’s a bigger win than last time, but you’re almost completely wiped out, and your reserves are almost depleted. If every mission like this keeps compressing the residue tighter, you aren’t sure you’ll ever be able to smooth it all out unless your output improves far faster than it currently does or your reserves somehow grow.
All you want is to sit in your chair and put some distance between you and him. You just need a little space to gather your thoughts without feeling like your nerves are on fire.
But Sukuna doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching every twitch of your face, blocking the path to your chair. His cursed energy continues pressing heavily through the office around both of you. The realization that he expects you to somehow move around him settles unpleasantly into your stomach.
Avoiding contact with him feels absurdly difficult right now. Your legs are still weak from using so much cursed energy, and getting closer to Sukuna sends another wave of overstimulation through your body.
You twist awkwardly sideways between him and the edge of the desk, desperately trying to avoid brushing against him, even accidentally. Your breathing turns shallow the moment his shredded sleeve shifts dangerously close to your arm. He makes no move to help you; he just stands there like a mountain, watching with a glint of amusement as you struggle to squeeze through the narrow gap he’s left you.
At one moment, you think you’re going to stumble into him, but you manage to steady yourself against the desk once more. Finally breaking free, you force your body to take the final few steps to your chair, where you practically collapse. Your head drops into your hands as you try to stop the world from spinning.
The relief is agonizingly brief. You hear the slow shift of fabric, then footsteps. Every muscle across your shoulders and the nape of your neck locks tight. The office already felt too small after being so close to him to weave, but the moment Sukuna stops behind your chair, the remaining space seems to disappear entirely.
He reaches past your shoulder to tap the folder, then leans forward, bracing both hands on the desk on either side of you. His head is so close you can feel his breath, and you’re trapped without him ever touching you. If you pull your chair back, you’ll hit his legs; if you stand, your head will be against his chest. It makes you feel small and even more disoriented.
Sukuna is entirely unconcerned with how your heart is hammering against your ribs. His attention is fixed on the report, his eyes scanning the lines of casualties and structural damage purely for his own satisfaction. A low, vibrating sound eventually rumbles through his chest, almost a purr of contentment that you feel as much as hear.
“Observed structural damage exceeded projected impact range,” he reads the words with a slow, mocking cadence. In your peripheral vision, his lips curl into the widest grin you’ve seen on him yet. “No shit.”
As his eyes continue moving across the page, he moves a little closer. You hold your breath, your chest aching with the effort to remain still, as you wait for any sign of remorse or a comment about the twenty-six dead, but it never comes.
“Secondary destruction patterns could not be conclusively attributed solely to recorded curse activity.” He lets out a breathy chuckle full of genuine amusement. “Cowards. Just write my name next time.”
A sharp knock on the door cuts through the room before you even have a chance to respond to Sukuna’s mocking words. The sound is so sudden that your entire body jerks. Your shoulders jump, and the wheels of your chair screech as it skids several centimeters across the floor. You realize with a jolt of terror that the movement almost sent you into Sukuna’s legs, and you freeze, eyes wide. He just laughs again, a rasping sound at the back of his throat, clearly enjoying your jumpiness.
The door slides open, and Satoru walks in with several folders tucked loosely under one arm. He’s already speaking before his second foot is even inside, “Hey, Shoko said you need the—”
The air in the room feels so heavy it’s hard to breathe, and he scuts himself off as his eyes sweep the room. He takes in everything at once: you, tense and worn out behind the desk, your shoulders so tight they betray you’re still panicking despite your obvious attempt to hide it, your breathing quick and shallow; Sukuna, standing over you with his arms on either side; and the space, or really the lack of it, between you. Gojo knows stepping in would only make Sukuna more interested in you, so he tries to keep things casual.
"Wow," he chirps, his voice bright and jarringly out of place in the pressurized heat of the room, tilting his head. Your face burns immediately. “I leave campus for a few hours, and suddenly you’re hanging around offices voluntarily. Should I be worried?”
You glance at the white-haired man, and your heart beats even faster now that someone else is here to see this nightmare.
A low, vibrating chuckle rumbles through Sukuna’s chest. “Watching people struggle passes the time better than most things.”
“Fair.” Gojo nods like that’s completely reasonable, stepping further into the office. “Honestly, this might still be healthier than your usual entertainment.”
You try to swallow, but your throat is dry as you watch them speak over your head, neither of them looking in your direction.
Satoru leans over to see the report on your desk, then glances back toward Sukuna, his grin widening. “So, how many buildings this time?”
“Not enough,” Sukuna says simply.
Satoru actually laughs for a moment, but the way they talk about it so casually makes your stomach twist. You squeeze your eyes for a second, trying to block it out.
“See, this is why nobody likes mission paperwork when you’re involved. Anyway, I only came to drop these off.” He waves the folders in the air before dropping them on the desk in front of you, right in front of your hands. “I’m gonna head out before I accidentally become productive. Have fun and don’t work too hard.”
He winks, though you can't see it behind his blindfold, and turns to the door.
Sukuna cornering someone just because he enjoys watching them struggle around him isn’t surprising, but his staying voluntarily in another person’s space this long is definitely strange. You’re clearly terrified, which Sukuna finds openly entertaining. Combined with the fact that Sukuna hasn’t given you even a bit of space since the door opened, the entire thing becomes completely unpredictable… and something Gojo knows he needs to watch closely.
Once the door slides shut behind Satoru, Sukuna turns his full attention back towards you.
“Now…” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, “where were we?”
You close your eyes, and your breath catches as you try to pull yourself together.
Unfazed, he returns his gaze to the casualty report. He reads the words “Recovery operations ongoing” in a bored tone that feels awfully threatening and makes your skin crawl. “Hm. Sounds tedious, doesn’t it?”
A strong shiver runs through you at how little he seems to care. Sukuna notices and gives a last, rough laugh close to your ear. Satisfied with the reactions he has wrung out of you over the time he was here, he finally pushes off from the desk. The suffocating pressure of his energy slowly fades as he walks to the door and leaves without looking back.
You’re left trembling in your chair, staring at the report of twenty-six dead—a tragedy that, to him, is nothing but less than an hour’s worth of fun.
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series masterlist
a/n: before anyone asks: yes, i know the pacing is slow. unfortunately for all of us, sukuna enjoys psychological warfare and i fear i accidentally matched his freak while outlining this fic, so now i’m making you suffer intentionally
trust me though, sukuna's starting to enjoy himself a little too much around reader, which means he's about to become an absolutely unbearable problem for literally everyone involved
synopsis ⸺ your early 20s gave you exactly three problems: grad school, keeping a certain trio from meddling, and the raging crush on your best friend's older brother.
pairing; r. sukuna x f!reader
tags; modern au, mechanic sukuna, pervy reader, reader has a nickname, best friend's older brother, minor age gap, secret relationship, mutual pining, eventual smut, hookups, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, sexting, alcohol, weed.
Yes, you had technically lent Yuji your copy of Abe Kobo a few weeks back for the sake of leisure alone, and you didn’t technically need it back. You didn’t have a paper to write, or a speech to do, or even the slightest desire to be reading psych fiction on this warm Tuesday afternoon.
The book, after all, was but a simple ruse meant to get you closer to Sukuna, if only for a brief moment.
You see, after that unfortunately unsexy exchange on your porch the other weekend, you spent the rest of it pondering your next steps. Eating breakfast in the morning, sitting in your exam hall, touching yourself in the shower at night, your mind was constantly occupied by the mystery that was Sukuna’s feelings.
On Monday, you finally decided that the best course of action was to simply ask him yourself.
This was you taking the high road, like the adult you were. And the high road meant accepting defeat – if it ever came.
Arrogantly, you doubted it would.
You’d had sexual chemistry with people before. The longing stares, the subtle touches; wanting each other so badly, so carnally, that words on their own weren’t enough.
With Sukuna, words weren’t even needed in the first place.
You could tell he was reserved by nature, showing more than he would tell. To some, that’d be an obstacle. But you? You knew how to play his game. Every lingering stare and nearly-smile meant a tally mark for your mental diary. And last Saturday, you realized you had enough of them to make a case.
You were fresh after class, strolling down the quiet streets of the Suginami neighbourhood with a C.C. Lemon in hand and a game plan in your mind:
On this day, you’d do your damn best to try to seduce Ryomen Sukuna.
After weeks of mixed signals, you wanted proof that this wasn’t just a figment of your frustrated imagination, but evidence of mutual attraction. Lust. Whatever it was, you were ready to confront it.
Worst-case scenario, you’d get rejected. Easy. You’ve been there before, and you knew how to walk out with your head high.
Best case?
You’d get to live out all your fantasies: from the hot, nasty sex to the flowery dates and breakfast in bed. If things went right, you’d get to date him. Bound by friend code, you’d also need to tell Yuji.
But as you toss your emptied bottle into a trash can, you reason that it was a predicament for a later breakdown.
Yuji and Sukuna’s apartment building comes into view like a brick-clad tower against the setting sun, familiar enough to make you smile, but not quite enough to set your nerves at ease.
“Oh, Sukuna? I didn’t expect you here!” You rehearse, inputting the four-digit code and buzzing yourself in. “How’s Gojo? Uh-huh. Yeah. No, I don’t think I’ll go out with him.”
You push up the staircase; floor one, two, three, then four. You’re a bit out of breath as you reach the last step, arriving at their door in a heavy whisper. “Oh, this? This…this is nothing, just a–”
Red-cheeked and frizzy from the heat, you realize the door to your soon-to-be-lover’s apartment is cracked open, letting a stream of natural light into the dim hallway.
You step forward hesitantly, placing your palm against the wooden surface and pushing gently. The hinges creak, making you cringe at how sloppily you’ve just blown your cover.
“Yuji?” you call into the lit space, pushing further. You spot the foyer with its familiar stack of shoes. Something whirrs in the distance. “It’s Bunny. You left the door open.”
No answer comes, so you slide through the crack and leave the door as you found it. You step further into the apartment, realizing that the soft drone you heard earlier is actually a running showerhead.
The bathroom (or what you assume to be one) is lit from the inside, a sliver of smoke escaping from the gap at the bottom of the door.
Because you decided to make your visit impromptu, you couldn’t know who was inside. Asking outright would be weird, calling Yuji right now would be suspicious, and leaving was too cowardly, even for you.
Could be Yuji, could be Sukuna. Either way, you’re standing in their apartment unannounced, and you have approximately thirty seconds before a half-naked man walks out and asks what the fuck you’re doing here.
“I’m just gonna get my book and go!” Lie. “Take your time in there.” Another lie.
Then, your feet carry you forward.
You witness the living room in daylight for the first time. The couch sits snug against the wall, a few magazines lining the armrest. The coffee table, without the clutter of empty bottles and pizza boxes, almost looks tidy.
And when you spot the door to Sukuna’s room cracked open, you forget about your book entirely.
Your heart hammers a steady beat against your temples as you approach, sliding your socked feet over the wooden floors to avoid making noise. And once within reach, you peek your head into the gap all against your better judgment.
What if he’s the one in the shower?
You spot the edge of his desk, a laptop sitting atop. You take a step forward.
What if he catches you snooping and all your plans go to hell?
An office chair draped with clothes. Another step.
But, maybe most importantly, why were you snooping in the first place?
A half-empty water bottle on what looks to be a makeshift nightstand. A stack of more car mags.
You can’t help but take a deep breath. The clean scent of air mixes with Sukuna’s signature smokiness, reminding you of a leather jacket saturated with cigarette smoke. Not the pre-made stuff, either, but a pure spice of tobacco.
And then you’re deep enough to see his bed. His covers are rumpled against the mattress, two pillows scattered as though someone had woken in a stupor and flung them about.
In your sickest fantasies, you’d sit atop his covers in your nicest lingerie, hair done up and fresh-faced in expectation. He’d march in all sweaty from the day, tank top stained with the same engine grease that’d cover his forearms, eyes narrowed and tired but ready to take in all your sweetness.
Evening, he’d mutter. That for me? And of course it would be for him. Everything you’d do would be for Sukuna. You’d help him undress and suck him off gently, letting him grab your hair at the scalp. You’d utter quiet praises against his hip bone: you’re always so soft for me. My sweet, hardworking man. Letting me take care of him after his long day.
You’d continue until he was whimpering. Until he was asking – pleading to fuck you.
And you’d let him.
Keep it on, he’d insist, toying with the little bow atop your panties. All dolled up for your man.
Your man.
You’re practically salivating by the time an inconspicuous floorboard creaks behind you, making you spin around so fast you nearly lose your balance.
“Yuji–”
Except it’s Sukuna.
He stands tall in the hallway, shirtless and glistening with moisture. His forearms are thick and tattooed, crossing over his pecs with the white towel hugging his hips hangs so damn low that you can easily peek his happy trail, painting the tan skin between his V-line.
Then, after you’ve finally assessed your priorities, you witness his face.
He’s not smiling, but he’s not exactly frowning, either. He simply looks at you with a slight tilt of his head, like he’s genuinely curious why you’d be creeping near his door.
“Hi,” you squeak, voice about three octaves too high to sound casual, let alone sexy. You clear your throat, trying to summon some semblance of dignity that never really comes. “Sukuna.”
“Hi,” he echoes flatly, and you quickly realize he’s waiting for an explanation.
“I was just–” You gesture vaguely toward yourself, then Sukuna’s room. “Book. Yuji borrowed my book. I need it back.”
His gaze flicks over your face, then your body. He always did this. No matter what you were wearing, he’d always make sure to check you out. For you, this was just another tally mark for the ever-expanding collection.
“Wrong way,” he states, nodding towards the only other room in the hallway.
And sure enough, Yuji’s door stands closed a few feet away, a faded band poster tacked to the wood.
You swallow thickly. From the get-go, you knew you had the wrong room. You’d been inside a few times already. There was no mistaking it, and no good excuses you could conjure.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “Right. I knew that.”
“Mm.”
He doesn’t move, and neither do you. You’re both looking at each other, waiting for the other to make a move, no matter how small. And meanwhile, he’s still taunting you with that low-slung towel, and wet hair, and all those damned tattoos that make him look good enough to eat.
Your eyes catch on a stray droplet of water, sliding down his chest, over the ridge of his pectoral, then eventually splitting in two at the divot of his abs.
“See something you like?” he asks.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, lips squeezed tight like you’re trying hard not to smile like the freak you are. Sukuna’s expression, on the other hand, hasn’t changed – save, of course, for the brief tick of his jaw you’ve gotten so used to.
“No,” you lie. “I mean–I wasn’t–I was looking for it. The book.”
His brow arches. “In my bedroom.”
“I got turned around.”
“In my bedroom.”
You open your mouth, close it, then open it again with a dry smack. Nothing decides to come out. So being the fucking siren you were, you crack a smile at him instead.
He stares at you with his eyebrows knit, long enough that your crooked grin eventually flattens to an unsure smile.
And then, with nothing more than a soft grunt, he walks past you, close enough that you have to press yourself against the doorframe to avoid touching him. The smell of his soap and warm skin fills your nostrils, and you hold your breath until he’s gone.
“Wait here,” he mutters.
And then he disappears into his room. The door clicks in front of you, leaving you standing there like a lost puppy. There’s the soft rustle of fabric, another grunt, then finally a thud of a drawer.
When he finally emerges, he’s wearing dark jeans and a loose t-shirt, his hair still damp. He’s rubbing a towel over his head, and the flatness of his affect makes you want to yell.
You invaded his privacy. You, essentially, broke into his home just to ogle him. And now he was parading around like you weren’t even there.
“The book,” he says, tossing the towel onto the armchair you remember seeing Toji sit in last time you came over. “What’s it called?”
“What?”
“The book. That Yuji borrowed. What’s the title?”
Shit.
“Uh,” you rack your brain through all of Abe Kobo’s novels, trying your best to remember the one you had left. “It’s kind of literary. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it.”
He tips his head to the side, eyes glinting. “Try me.”
You stare at him with that same goofy smile, and he stares back, unfazed. You knew you couldn’t bide your time for long.
“The Woman in the Dunes,” you blurt.
He raises an eyebrow. “Abe?”
“Yes.” You nod, your chest thrumming. If you got this wrong, you were fucked. “You’ve read it?”
“Uh-huh,” he hums, moving towards his brother’s door. You follow suit, keeping your steps quiet behind him and trying your hardest not to implode. Were you ignorant for assuming Sukuna didn’t know the classics?
“I need it for a citation,” you try to convince him as he pushes into Yuji’s room.
The space is a mess of clothes, empty cups, and a full trash bin sitting tucked in the corner, right next to a bookshelf that Sukuna slowly approaches. You watch his head crane as he scans the spines, finger trailing smoothly across them.
“You read a lot?” he asks without turning.
“Whenever I can.”
“Mm.” His finger stops. He pulls a slim volume off the shelf, glances at the cover, then holds it out to you. “This it?”
You step forward with your heart hammering in your chest. The book is small, paperback, with a familiar minimalist design.
The Woman in the Dunes.
“Yeah. That’s the one.” You literally exhale in relief.
But he doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, his fingers stay curled around the spine, with yours wrapped around the other end.
“You could’ve just asked,” he says quietly.
Your eyes widen, and you’re sure he can tell. With a thick swallow, your lips part despite the sudden rush of adrenaline and pure, uninhibited dopamine. “For the book?”
“For whatever you came here for.”
And, once again, your breath catches at the unimaginable instinct this man seems to possess. It was either that, or something entirely supernatural you didn’t want to dig into right now, not when his dark, steady eyes kept on yours, the book still wedged between you like a delicate bridge you couldn’t help but want to burn down.
You clear your throat. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He stares at you for another long moment, long enough for you to remember your plan. You were meant to be more. You were meant to be seductive, and confident, and finally try to win him over, if only for one night.
Yet here you are, fingertips trembling as he finally lets the book go.
“Sure you don’t.”
He walks past you again, arm brushing yours despite having space not to, and heads toward the living room again. After a brief moment of shock, you follow, watching him slide into the kitchen, never looking at you.
So this was it. You had your stupid, unnecessary book in hand, and Sukuna was apparently bidding you a wordless ‘fuck off’ which, for you, meant no more excuses.
With your plan an epic failure, it was time to leave.
But you scan the back of his t-shirt, a little damp where his shoulder blades meet, arms working steadily as he pours himself a glass of water from the sink. Yuji isn’t around. You have nothing to do back home but sit and whine. You can practically hear the choir of your ancestors cursing you out for letting the moment slip away.
Say something.
“I don’t need the book.”
No time to second-guess yourself or rehearse. The words slip out as they’ve always meant to, raw and honest.
You watch Sukuna’s head tip back as he drinks the last of his water, the glass clinking loudly against the counter. You watch his mighty back flex, shoulders rolling once, then twice.
Then he turns to you. His eyes look different from before, something about the light, though you can’t exactly say what.
“Yeah?” he asks, arms crossing.
You clutch the paperback to your chest like a shield. “I don’t need it. I mean, I do. Eventually.” You follow the contours of his face, softened in the dim, eastward light casting from the window. “But that’s not why I came.”
His brow furrows slightly, arms squeezing tighter over his pecs. The movement makes his t-shirt stretch across his shoulders. “Why did you come?”
You swallow, then again, placing the book you allegedly came for on the TV console.
Here goes nothing.
“I wanted to see you.”
Your confession hangs in the air like the naked, vulnerable thing it was, surprisingly bold in contrast to the anxiety wrecking your insides the moment you realize you’ve finally done it; not exactly a full-on “I want you”, but for now, this was as close as you could get without retching.
For a brief, cruel moment, you worry he’ll leave, laugh, or be polite with his inevitable rejection, god forbid. Whatever came, you were ready. You’d walk out with a smile and your head held high, just like you planned it.
So when none of that comes, you can’t help but freeze.
Ryomen Sukuna, with his eyes narrowed and the slightest quirk of his lips, shifts his weight away from the counter and takes a slow step towards you.
“See me,” he repeats, pocketing his hands.
“Yeah.” You persevere, pinching the skin of your elbow to make sure all of this is really happening. “Do you have time? To hang out. Or something.”
“Or something.”
Finally, unable to handle the tension, your body forces out a dry chuckle. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
And there it is again: that little twitch at the corner of his mouth, disappearing before you can commit it to memory. It’s not quite a smile, but with everything you’ve just forced yourself to say, it feels like a weight off your shoulders.
You stand at this almost-proximity for exactly seven beats of your rabbiting heart, taking in each other’s expressions and letting your breaths intermingle into one off-key harmony.
When he finally speaks again, you think he’s never sounded better.
“You smoke?” he asks, jaw flexing.
Your brows scrunch, then relax, scanning his face for a sign of jest. But there’s nothing you find save for the briefest flare of his nostrils, which makes you wonder about something you probably shouldn’t.
“Sure,” you clear your throat. “Yeah.”
He nods. You nod.
And then, like a lost, lovestruck puppy, you follow him into his room and watch with bated breath as he closes the door behind you.
And just like a wish come true, you finally get granted permission to see his space in full.
Two bookshelves stand against the far wall, stuffed with spines of every color: worn paperbacks next to shiny hardcovers, a few in English, most in Japanese. They’re not decorative, you can tell. He reads, and he reads a lot. Above them, the shelves are cluttered with the artifacts of a life lived: a small bonsai planter, a branded ashtray, and a leather-strap watch you’ve never seen him wear.
That same bed you’ve only peeked at before sprawls on a frame of wooden pallets, twin-sized, unmade. You edge your calf towards the mattress, not yet confident to take a seat.
Sukuna, meanwhile, is already opening a drawer. You briefly glance at the plastic rolling tray filled with various paraphernalia, biting your bottom lip as he begins the preparations.
Yes, you smoked. In fact, you’d smoked plenty of times. A shared joint here and there at house parties, late-night sessions with Nobara, and even the occasional self-roll when you were feeling particularly stressed.
You had a mini bong stashed in your sock drawer. You always kept papers on you, just in case.
You knew how to handle yourself.
Except this was Sukuna you were dealing with, with his battered Zippo and metallic grinder that you convinced yourself had nothing on the plastic little thing you had once gotten from the dollar store.
The sharp schrrrk, schrrrk, of it reaches your ears, view obscured by the girth of Sukuna’s back as it flexes for your racy enjoyment. You can nearly spot the outline of his delts through the dampened t-shirt, tan skin glowing in the soft afternoon light.
And, you think, maybe the fact you can’t see him roll is for the better. You doubt you could keep your cool if–
Except then, as if on cue, he turns towards you.
His lower back anchors against the desk as he sprinkles the fragrant flower onto a prepared paper. His chin is tipped down, brows furrowed by just the slightest pinch, sexy as ever in his focus.
“You’re quiet.”
His voice is flat and not quite teasing, but there’s a thin current underneath his words that makes you feel like he’s asking you to bite back.
Except you can’t. Not when your skin sears with the simple fact of standing in his room, through his invitation, no less.
“Can’t a girl appreciate craftsmanship?” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your burning ear.
He looks up for a split second, making you wonder when you started feeling so nauseous. “Uh huh.”
You watch him roll the joint with those thick, calloused fingers, so delicate and precise as though he were performing surgery. And when he goes to wet the paper, you try, miserably, to keep any uncouth thoughts at bay.
This, of course, proves particularly hard when he decides to shoot you a look at the exact moment you’re biting your lip, totally transfixed at the fantasy of his flattened tongue dragging a slow line up your pussy.
You’re gone.
“Seems you’ve done this before,” you comment quietly, whipping your gaze towards the nearest available object that just so happens to be a set of dumbbells loaded up to the max. Fuck. No wonder he was so carved out.
“Might’ve picked up a thing or two,” he says flatly, rolling the joint between his palms with ease. He gives it a final lick, seals it, then tucks it behind his pierced ear as a seasoned carpenter would do with a pencil. You swear you feel your pussy pulse.
And with a stretch of his neck, he kicks a pair of black slides towards your feet.
You blink down at them, taking in their sheer size. Maybe a Japanese 30, or higher. Did they even make shoes this big?
“What’s this for?” you ask.
He eyes you down, taking in the little divot of chest your top so graciously uncovers, then flicks over your wiggling toes.
“Just wear ‘em,” he mutters, already turning toward the sliding door in only his socks. He pulls it open, letting a warm breeze swirl into the room, his eyes fixed patiently on you.
So, convinced you might not get another chance, you eagerly slip your feet into the slides. As expected by your earlier measurements, they’re massive. Your toes barely graze the front, and you feel like a baby duck taking the first few steps, but at least they’re his and you’ll be warm.
The balcony is small, with just enough room for two people. A plastic chair sits folded against the wall, just below a rotating, unused clothesline. When you lean over the railing, it feels warm against your forearms, heated by the earlier sunlight.
Sukuna steps in behind you, sliding the door most of the way shut. You spot the glint of that silver lighter in his hand, the free one reaching to pull the joint from behind his ear. As he joins you against the railing, you watch with bated breath as the flame flickers to life.
He burns the paper tail away, then tucks the filter between his lips. It dangles there haphazardly as his free palm shelters the flame from dying, lighting the tip orange with the soft hisssss of his inhale.
He holds it for one second, two, jaw straining slightly. When he exhales, the steady stream emerges milky on the backdrop of dusk.
“Nice view,” you offer, eyes fixed anywhere but.
He doesn’t answer or look at you. Instead, you watch in awe as he takes another drag, this time slower, then passes the joint to you.
And, of course, you make sure your fingers brush. They’re calloused and warm against your cooler ones, making enough contact to send a jolt of electricity down your spine.
You mutter a soft ‘thanks’ and bring the filter to your lips, slightly damp from Sukuna’s drag. You inhale slowly and steadily, letting the warmth sink into your lungs, convincing yourself that you’re fine. The drag is smooth, you’ve smoked before, and you can do this.
But then, for no reason at all but superficial curiosity, you decide to shift your gaze to Sukuna.
He’s already looking at you.
His eyes, dark and narrow, study your face like you’re the most interesting thing on this balcony. Not the shimmering sunset or even the shape of the smoke between you – only you; you and your heart-eyed stare, pupils surely blown out just for him.
Your breath hitches. Fuck. The smoke glides down the wrong pipe.
You cough loud and ugly, leaning over the railing as your eyes sting with tears. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! How gullible were you to think this day was finally going your way!?
By the time your cough subsides and you’re stable enough to pass the joint again, Sukuna’s lilt rises with an almost-chuckle that you pray is not a mockery.
“Easy,” he says as your eyes come into focus. He brings the joint to his smiling – yes, crooked but smiling lips, his eyes never leaving yours.
And fuck, you want to die. This seasoned professional you were, once having taken three back-to-back bong rips at a party without a single cough, suddenly bested by a single, puny puff.
All because the hottest man you have ever fucking seen agreed to a “hang out” with you.
“I’m good,” you strangle out, wiping your eyes. “Totally fine. Thanks.”
Another sound leaves his throat as he takes the joint back, something between a hum and a breathy chuckle. You’re not sure which one is worse.
But surprisingly, you don’t feel awkward. Standing on your crush’s balcony in his slides, smoking his weed, you were feeling… fine. Comforted, even, despite the quiet brewing between you.
And eventually, between grazing fingers and the setting sunlight, you start feeling it.
Hard.
The first wave of numbness hits you somewhere between the fourth or fifth drag, like a sluggish, benevolent flush behind your eyes. The second, much more overwhelming, comes with a tangible buzzing under your skin, settling into your limbs like hot, hot honey.
Whatever you’ve been smoking in your life so far had nothing on what Sukuna gave you.
Your shoulders start feeling loose against the railing, the too-big slides like iron weights against the wooden parquet.
Sukuna is quiet beside you. You don’t know when he decided to move closer – or maybe it was you who did – but your shoulders currently press against each other, the warmth of his body nearly scorching against your thin top. The closeness feels too good to overthink.
“You good?” he asks, and it takes your brain a few seconds to piece the question into something legible.
“Mm.” You blink slowly, turning your head to look at him. His face is half in shadow and half golden from the last light of the day. “Yeah. Great.”
You think you see his lip quirk. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You wonder if he’s feeling it as much as you are.
“I can tell.” Maybe not. No surprise there, though; he was about twice your size and probably held thrice your tolerance.
That’s fine, you think. You’d let him settle in.
The neighbourhood swims with dog barks and bird song, settling muffled into your ears like you’re seated underwater. You wish you had some music to play right now, if only to drown out the fervent beating of your own heart.
Sukuna, when you peek at him, looks the same as always. That sharp jawline you’d love to kiss all over. His neck, so thick and good to bite. And, of course, the hooked nose you’d thought about riding countless times before.
But most of all, you can’t help but notice just how close his hand seems to yours, pinkies so close you could easily grab on.
“Kuna?” The nickname leaves your lips unprompted, tongue loose and mind hazy.
He must not notice or care, because all you get in return is one of his standard-issue grunts. Whatever the case, this wordless consent and his sudden, curious gaze on you give you a little headrush.
So you lean into him just a smidge, craning your neck up to make sure he can’t look away, then hit him with the best, most lighthearted smile you can muster up.
“What’s your type?”
Something in his eyes sharpens. You bite your bottom lip, waiting to see if he withdraws.
He doesn’t.
“My type,” he repeats flatly.
“Uh-huh,” you push, enunciating your next sentence with cruel intention: “A few weeks ago, Satoru asked me the kind of person I’m into.”
Hook, line, and sinker: that seems to catch Sukuna’s attention. His eyebrow quirks, then lowers, then pinches in the center. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Your smile widens to a grin. “But I never got to hear your answer.”
His eyes bore into you, flicking over every feature like he’s trying to figure out the best place to anchor his focus. He’s quiet like that for a long, long while. You watch, hypnotized, as the joint burns low between his thick fingers, close enough to burn, but it doesn’t.
“Dunno,” he finally says, turning towards the sky and taking a drag. “Never really thought about it.”
“Liar.”
He looks at you again, a twinkle in his eye that, paired with silence, you take as a sign to continue.
So, with a slight smirk and a deep exhale, you take the joint from his grip and place it loosely between your lips. You pray it looks as cool as you feel, because you’d be damned trying to be that bold again.
“Everyone thinks about it,” you explain with a shrug that puts his nonchalance to shame. “Even you.”
The silence that follows settles in like a gentle feather, stirring the high in your bones and making the edges of your vision feel fuzzy. You really, really didn’t need that last puff, but at least everything looks so much more beautiful now.
The sky above has deepened into a gradient of indigo and blue, painted with thick, milky clouds that swirl and stretch far into the city. You breathe in the cooling air, feeling skin press against skin.
Right.
Your gaze briefly flicks down to where you and Sukuna are pressed together, still. You suddenly realize that neither of you must have felt the need to move, or maybe it was something much, much more compelling.
When you look back up again, his eyes are darting over your face. Starstruck by the color of his eyes, you stay quiet as you look right back.
“You’re staring,” he mutters.
“Maybe.” You say, voice thick with the smile you’re barely trying to hide anymore. “You should probably answer my question if you want me to stop.”
He huffs, then extends his forearms over the railing. They must look wonderful like that, speckled with ink and close enough to touch, but you can’t help but stay fixated on his face instead.
“Bossy,” he speaks into the air.
“You’d be surprised.”
But he, in fact, still doesn’t reply. And you don’t push.
You sit there, side by side, passing the shrinking joint between each other until the purple fades to navy, and navy fades to black. Clear and unobscured, the sky stands as a grand canvas for the speckling of stars. You spot Andromeda. Then, the faded light of Alpha Persei.
Then a sudden gravel comes from your side, so low you almost rack it up to your overactive imagination:
“Someone who can handle silence.” And eventually, he continues: “Who doesn’t need to fill every second with noise.”
You breathe out a chuckle, leaning your head against your folded arms. “That’s it?”
His eyes flick to yours. “It’s enough.”
You shiver, because it’s the kind of graveness you didn’t ask for or even expect in the first place. You, with your butterfly-filled tummy and hot cheeks, thought nothing when you asked Sukuna what you now realize to be a very loaded, very suggestive question.
“Okay,” you swallow thickly, feeling tension in your throat at his sustained eye contact. “What else?”
His lips, against all odds, curl into a crooked smirk. “You want more?”
Your breath catches silently.
Don’t say it like that, you think. Don’t make me believe you mean something you don’t.
And maybe it’s the haze of your high or the intimacy of a warm evening, but you feel emboldened enough to hold his gaze for longer than you’ve ever managed thus far. His pupils, close enough to catch your reflection, are blown enough to steal the color of his eyes. Something in your chest flutters.
“I want to know you better.” You say, smileless and forthcoming. “And this is just how I’m going about it.”
Which, by most accounts, meant that you wanted him – his hands under your shirt and tongue against yours, joint be forgotten – you just didn’t have the guts to tell him any other way.
Yet.
The hum of a nearby train rattles through the balcony, sending subtle vibrations up your legs. Sukuna’s arm flexes against yours. You’re still looking at each other.
“Someone who knows what they want.” He says in a low gravel, his palm splaying against his forearm.
He taps once. Twice.
You watch, mesmerized. “And?”
Three.
You feel the weight of his gaze, even in the dark.
Four.
Laughter echoes somewhere in the streets. You hold your breath, his lips part. “Someone who isn’t afraid to ask for it.”
You realize you’ve lost track of time. The sky has gone dark, you had to get home by ten, yet here you were, shamelessly eyeing the lips of your best friend’s older brother.
“That’s not a type.” You swallow.
His fingers stop tapping.
Sukuna pushes off the railing slowly, turning his body toward yours. The movement, as unexpected as it feels, seems completely unhurried and utterly intended. His shoulder blocks out part of the streetlights behind him, and suddenly, the balcony feels much, much smaller than it should.
You tilt your chin up to keep eye contact, but he’s already leaning down to compensate. Just slightly, just barely, juuuuust enough to crowd your space without committing to touch.
His head tilts, lip quirked to display those sharp, delicious canines of his.
“Isn’t it, Bunny?”
His voice is low and smooth like molasses, cruising over your nickname and causing your breath to stutter in your throat. Your back presses against the wall, but there’s nowhere for you to go as if you wanted to be anywhere but under his cool regard, so close to getting exactly what you came for.
“I–” You start, then stop. You stare up at him, lips parted, realizing that in the moment you needed her most, your mouth has decided to run cotton-dry.
And Sukuna doesn’t move, or blink, or even consider letting you out of his sight.
He watches you with those dark, half-lidded eyes, waiting.
For what? You can’t say.
So you just can’t help it – you look away first. Your gaze drops to his chest, shoulders, everywhere and anywhere but that burning, preying stare. Your hands clasp together. You think you let out the softest whine.
Fuck. You were doing so well, and now everything was falling apart the moment he gave you a taste of your own medicine.
So you wet your lips, suddenly self-conscious. Did you have coffee earlier? Was your breath okay? If this was going where you thought it was, did you–
A sound catches your ears.
Not a big one, or mocking, or even remotely loud, but curious nonetheless. You look up, red and confused, and sure enough, you catch the unthinkable:
The object of your wildest desires swats a hand over his mouth, thick fingers loose over the bottom of his face. Ears pink, eyes crinkled, and the sharp points of his canines peeking through his fingers like those of an unruly wolf pup.
Ryomen Sukuna, in all his terrifying acclaim, was giggling.
You refused to believe that very same, sour-tempered man was allowed to exist so carefree, so devil-may-care, with you, of all people – a no one, essentially – his little brother’s best friend, someone he met mere weeks ago.
No, this wasn’t the Sukuna you knew.
But the weed did what the weed does, and suddenly your brain was committing this rare, once-in-a-lifetime image to memory forever, hoping one day you could do this to him every day for the rest of your lives.
But before you got there, you had to deal with a complete, utter loss for words.
So, as seconds pass and he continues to yip, you speak with barely contained shock:
“W-Why–What–” you swallow, face scorching. “What’s so funny!?”
His air-dried hair sweeps in the breeze, highlighting the thin pinch of blush coating his temples. His eyelashes are enviably long, brushing the peak of his cheekbones as he finally drops his hand enough for you to see his face in full again.
You’ve never seen him like this. Unfiltered. Young. Boyish, even.
“Your face,” he says, still fighting laughter. “Like a skittish little rabbit.”
He’s not even trying to hide it anymore. His shoulders shake, standing there and giggling at your very appropriate reaction like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen his entire fucking life.
You should, maybe, be a bit mortified by this situation. You are, to an extent, with your red face, shallow breaths, and… okay, he might be a bit right to laugh.
He’s precious. In the rawest, most juvenile way, he’s adorable enough to admire.
And maybe you would, too, if it wasn’t for the relentless flips your heart was currently doing.
Because seeing him wane off his laughing fit with a certain sparkle in those eyes, pink-cheeked and positively towering over you, makes you, for lack of better words, feral.
He places the stub of your shared joint between his lips, curled at the corners and taunting.
He leans his flank against the railing, one arm sprawled. His finger lifts.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Without much else to focus on but his thick digits and the soft, autumn breeze, you soon realize that more than anything tonight, you want to kiss him.
And you want it badly.
The thought cuts through the haze like a blade, heart hammering against your ribs and making your palms clammy with sweat. Your lips part.
Do it, something ugly within you whispers. Take what you want.
You push off the railing.
It’s just a shift of weight, but it brings you chest to chest with him. You’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, and certainly close enough to count the individual lashes framing his dark, suddenly curious eyes.
His hand drops from the railing. The tapping seizes once again.
“Sukuna.”
You watch his throat bob. “Yeah?”
And as the Universe herself had intended, you don’t answer with words.
Your hand reaches for the ashen filter hanging between his lips, forcing it out before taking advantage of his parted lips to rise onto your toes and smash your mouths together.
Your kiss is not soft, or gentle, or even particularly romantic.
I’m not scared of you, it says. I’m not scared of this.
But he freezes for half a heartbeat. You feel the quick exhale of surprise through his nose and the slight stiffening of his shoulders as they collide with yours.
Then suddenly, his large hands are cramping onto your waist with near-burning firmness.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips.
And then you’re both gone.
He kisses you back with animalistic hunger, lips parting to press heavier against yours. He tastes herbal, and ashen, and surprisingly sweet, and you part wide open to drink him up as best your body allows you.
His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck as you pull his body flush against you by the belt loop of his jeans. But even when your breasts press against his chest, and your hips grind at the apex, you just can’t get close enough.
A small, embarrassingly desperate sound escapes your throat. He swallows it like it’s his.
That’s right, you think, dizzy and triumphant. That’s fucking right.
You’re not sure who uses their tongue first, but it doesn’t take long for your kiss to become open-mouthed and messy. Hot, shallow breaths intermingle, him nipping your bottom lip, you licking along his teeth until you’re struggling for air.
Air. Fuck, what’s that? And when was the last time you breathed in, anyway?
So you part suddenly, loudly, pulling back just enough to gasp.
You stare at each other, lips parted, chests heaving with desperation. His hands are still firm against your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Yours are against his chest – you’re unsure when you put them there – feeling the ridges of muscle through his thin t-shirt.
No words are exchanged in those seven seconds.
His chest rises and falls beneath your palms. His heartbeat is fast and wild against your fingertips, and yet only half the pace of yours.
His jaw ticks. His eyes drop to your lips.
“Sukuna,” you whisper.
Then you’re on each other again, without hesitation. His mouth crashes into yours, tongue sweeping across yours, and you open for him eagerly.
His hands slide from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He pulls you flush against him, and you feel absolutely everything, from the muscular planes of his abs to the hardening tent in his jeans.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! This wasn’t real. None of this could actually be happening right now!
You moan into his mouth, totally forgetting you’re only on the fourth floor, in open air, for anyone to hear or see.
Naturally, you don’t give a fuck.
Instead, your hands leave his belt loop, sliding up his chest, then his shoulders, then his neck. You tangle your fingers in the barely-damp hair at the nape and tug just enough to make him hum low and rough into your throat.
His hands slip beneath the hem of your top, his palms flat against the bare skin of your waist, warm, and calloused, and huge. His thumbs trace slow circles over your hips, and you shiver, arching into his touch.
Then, like the echo of your wildest fantasies, he tucks two digits into your waistband, bunching your pants and panties together to feel against the ridge of your tummy.
You gasp, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe your name against the corner of your lip: “Bunny.”
That’s all: just your nickname. But the way he says it, god, like it’s a damned prayer to you, and being this greened out and dick-hungry, you knew exactly what he was asking for.
“Yeah,” you breathe, “Yes–fuck–yes, you can–”
Your phone, slid into the back pocket of your jeans, rings its sorrowful tune.
It’s jarring and entirely too loud, too soon: a tinny pop theme that slashes through the tension like a bloodied sword through flesh.
Still tangled together, still breathing into each other, you freeze.
Sukuna’s hands don’t move from your waist, his lips still hovering over yours, close enough that you could capture them again if you just–
The phone keeps ringing, a steady vibration against your ass cheek.
“You–” His voice is wrecked, but still teasing. “You gonna get that?”
Oh yes, you should. You know you should. But Sukuna doesn’t make it easy with his thumb teasing the lacey hem of your panties – yes, you wore your nicest pair just in case – lips swollen and pecking at the corner of yours.
You worry that if you move now, the spell might break forever.
“It’s probably my mom,” you manage thinly, quickly realizing your mistake.
Fuck, were you twelve!?
He crooks a brow. “Your mom.”
“Yeah, my parents they–” you choke, too dizzy to think straight. “They’re coming home tonight. They were, uh… abroad.”
You feel him huff softly against your cheeks. “Abroad.”
“Yeah.”
The phone stops ringing, but the much-expected silence that follows is completely deafening.
You stare at each other: his hands still on you, and yours on him. You slide your digits from his hair to his shoulders, anchoring hard in case you were to pass out from… fuck, maybe everything that just transpired?
And then, so softly you almost miss it, he exhales:
“You should probably call her back.”
You should. You should? You should. But you can’t move, and you couldn’t even dream of wanting to.
But eventually, like all good things coming to an end, you make the adult decision to sever from him. Immediately, you want to gasp at the loss, skin cooling rapidly in the nighttime breeze as he, too, parts from you, anchoring his back against the railing.
“Thanks again,” you nod, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes. It’s not regret, though. For the first time in years, you feel truly, authentically shy in the presence of a man you like.
You think he may hum a goodbye to you at some point in your reaching for the sliding door, a simple ‘uh-huh,’ or just a nod of his head.
Except once you step foot into his room again, his gravel reaches you clear as day one last time:
“Bunny.”
You nearly get whiplash from how fast you twist your head to glimpse him one last time before farewell. There’s a softness to his face you’ve never seen before, sharp lines blurred by the coming night, not quite his regular self yet.
You wish you could stay and take it in for a little longer. You wish you could kiss him goodbye.
“Yeah?” You breathe out, halfway through kicking his slides off.
His jaw flexes, and you see it so clearly in the sharp light creeping in from the hallway. He hovers by the sliding door for a few beats of your heart that you expectantly count, before his chest hollows with a loud exhale:
“Don’t forget your book.”
Before tonight, you’d feel hollow hearing this kind of response. But now? With your lips freshly bitten and your pussy practically salivating at the unresolved sexual tension that you helped build up?
You grin back at him, sharp and confident, and for a split second, you think you glimpse that youth in him again.
“Goodnight, Kuna.”
And then, before anything more can even think to transpire, you’re gone with the wind.
You shut his door behind you, take your book off the TV console, slide into your outside shoes, then practically float down the dim apartment stairwell.
Once you’re outside, the fresh air hitting your face makes it feel like you’re not even high anymore. Trembling and buzzing, yes, but sober. Completely and utterly sobered up.
And though it takes you an hour, with your copy of Abe Kobo pressed to your chest, you decide to walk the rest of your way home. At some point, you find yourself skipping like a schoolgirl, laughing out loud at nothing, startling a stray cat off a wall. A group of passing teenagers looks at you like you’ve lost your damn mind.
And maybe you have.
But for the first time in your life, you feel like all the fantasies you’ve been touching yourself to on your lonesome might actually have a chance to materialize. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.
Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t just someone you wanted to fuck anymore. He was someone you would – and could – fuck, kiss, and make yours.
Like a perverted girl, reborn a woman.
☆
a/n; hope this was worth the wait and that kuna's not toooooo OOC yarrrhh brooding characters are hard to write you all but that's why they're so sexy!
Ryomen Sukuna is as revered as he is feared. He is beset with offerings almost constantly. Amongst his endless libations, manuscripts and scrolls began to pile up like fallen leaves. He needed a keeper of his priceless tomes, someone to organize the nearly-constant new additions and fetch volumes should he call. It was truly some twisted design of the stars that you were chosen.
You find solace in the library of Sukuna's estate. Comfort in paper, comfort in ink.
Divider by @miscellaneous-misty
Posted on AO3
Content:
Safe/mostly sane/consensual sex, brief eye trauma, possessive behavior, canon-typical violence including death and torture, FAB reader using she/her pronouns;
See AO3 for a full list of tags/warnings
Comfort in paper, your mother used to say. Comfort in ink.
A woman accustomed to bowing her head, she found submission easier to stomach with a scroll beneath her eyes. She would occupy her flighty hands with crisp pages, drown herself in the waters of calligraphy. You used to wonder, did she find freedom there, between the characters and illustrations? Or was she just decorating the walls of a mental prison?
Even if you could ask her, you don’t think she would have an answer.
After all, you wouldn’t have one if the question was turned on you - unlikely as that is.
Comfort in paper.
It’s difficult to describe Ryomen Sukuna.
He’s inscrutable to you, not quite divine, not quite monstrous. Oh, surely his appearance is frightening, with ghastly appetites to match. A quadruplet of eyes and arms, a chiseled abdomen bisected by a jagged maw. Functional, you know all too well.
It’s one of the first things you recorded, following the sack of your family’s ancestral manor. The arm of a dissatisfying servant bitten clean off, down a mysterious gullet. Droplets of blood still decorate the kosode you wore that day. You hear the servant’s agonized cries in your dreams.
Comfort in ink.
Whatever he is, Ryomen Sukuna is as revered as he is feared. He is beset with offerings almost constantly. Tributes, sacrifices. The label is as interchangeable as his moods. Amongst his endless libations, manuscripts and scrolls began to pile up like fallen leaves.
Eventually, the master saw fit to do something with them.
The library is cool and dry, somewhat removed from the rest of the manor as Sukuna rarely finds his entertainment in reading. Should he deign to, though, disorganization is apparently an unacceptable inconvenience.
He needed a keeper of his priceless tomes, someone to organize the nearly-constant new additions and fetch volumes should he call.
It was truly some twisted design of the stars that you were chosen. A cosmic luck you’ve yet to determine as good or bad. His most faithful vassal, Uraume, found you cowering in your family’s library. Had asked if you knew your letters and numbers, then presented you to the cursed king as a useful war prize.
Books are your sanctuary now as they were then; you hardly leave for more than food and rest. And sometimes not even then. You’ve woken any number of times at your writing desk or curled up in some corner. Have skipped meals in favor of reorganizing shelves and updating the catalog.
It’s not, in fact, fear of Sukuna that dedicates you to your work.
Well… maybe it is a little.
But truly, you do love books, and the ones Sukuna is gifted are splendid. You take your joy in perusing the volumes when time permits. Comfort where you can find it.
The rest of the manor is perilous. Besides the master himself, there are curses currently in Sukuna’s favor (or at least tolerated) that roam about, preying upon various servants like yourself. Members of his harem that enjoy tormenting those they see below their status.
Not to mention the more-than-occasional gruesome displays of violence. The palace is decorated in trimmings of viscera and gore, dripping into the floorboards and staining the tatami. You’d prefer to avoid the sight (and smell) when you can.
Like your mother before, you bury yourself beneath paper and prose. Keep your eyes fixed on brush strokes and your head bent towards scrolls until everything beyond the library doors fade away.
A haven from it all, you believed.
Foolish.
It’s a mild morning when you hear the doors open some meters away - Kiro with the weekly additions. You’re perched on a step-stool, a half dozen books stacked beneath your chin. You slide another collection of poems amongst its brethren, blowing loose hair from your face.
“Please tell me there’s not another copy of Genji,” you call mildly. “I fear we’ll need another library just for those.”
“If that is all you fear, then you’ve forgotten who you serve,” a deep, all too recognizable voice sneers.
A yelp snags between your teeth. You hop off the stool and hurry around the corner, horrified to find that your ears were not deceiving you.
Ryomen Sukuna is in the library.
You drop to your knees, realize you’re still holding the books, and awkwardly hold them out in front of you to duck your head as low as you can. Pray that it’s enough to appease him when you’ve already tested his temper. He’s flayed others for less.
There’s a long, frightening moment of silence. Four of your frantic heartbeats thunder in your ears. Then Sukuna grunts.
“Bring me the atlas.”
You pause, blink. “W-which atlas, my lord? You have sixteen.”
He clicks his tongue - as if you’re wasting his time with trivialities. “The one I received last winter.”
He received three last winter, in fact. You weigh the dangers of asking for further clarification against the risk of retrieving the wrong item. Choose the latter and back away with a quiet murmur.
Your mind races as you carefully set your last task aside. Instinct guides your feet to the correct shelf, providing precious spare seconds to make your guess.
Last winter’s atlases didn’t all arrive together. Two came from a northern lord, and you remember Sukuna had barely glanced over the offerings when they were presented. Nothing about their coverings would have indicated their contents without opening them.
The third had come from a curse user that had killed a prominent jujutsu sorcerer, and brought the man’s wealth to Sukuna. And he had leafed briefly through that one.
You pluck it from the row and return to Sukuna, anxiety nearly knocking your knees out from under you. Somehow, you keep your hands and voice steady as you present it, again as low and deferent as you can get your body.
“Apologies for the delay, my lord.”
Like this, his already impressive height feels towering. Behemoth. It’s been some time since you were in his presence, but longer still since you had his attention. It is just as horrible as you remember. The back of your neck prickles.
Another breathless, terrifying moment as he opens the book. You’ve either guessed correctly, or you’re dead.
Without a word, he turns on his heel and strides away. The door slams behind him, but even then, his presence lingers. Like you aren’t alone despite his absence.
You’re not sure how long it takes, but you eventually peel yourself off the ground, dust yourself off, and return to shelving books. When Kiro comes by later, you’re careful to confirm that it’s him before opening your reckless mouth.
Comfort in paper. Comfort in ink.
You inventory the new manuscripts, soothing yourself by writing down as many details as possible - to later find by any random criteria demanded.
Sukuna returns two days later. This time, you see him enter from your little writing desk where you’ve been diligently working on your… hobby. You stand as hastily as caution permits, trying not to spill ink on your hard work. You shuffle from your station and bow (properly this time) before he’s passed the first shelf.
You stay like that, breathing as slowly as you’re able, until his heavy steps stop far too close for comfort. His shadow swallows you whole, almost a physical thing pressing down between your shoulder blades. You wet your dry lips and wait.
“Bookkeeper, this tome was dissatisfying,” he rumbles. “The maps were of poor quality.”
And how is that your fault? Moreover, what are you meant to do about it?
“I… apologize, my lord,” you offer.
“Did I ask for your empty apologies?” he snarls. Your chest constricts. “Find me a better one.”
A small, hopeful seed of relief blooms in your chest. That, at least, is something you can do.
“Of course, my lord. May I ask… is there a specific map you wish to see?”
“You may not.”
Well, then. “Yes, my lord.”
You shuffle back to the encyclopedias. Your eyes flick over the spines, rifling through your mental catalog. You’ve only got one opportunity to please him. The consequences could mean death - at best.
No pressure.
With your stomach twisted in hard knots, you make your selection. A painstakingly hand-painted series of maps, including entire spreads that unfold from the pages. It’s beautiful, colorful, and accurate from what you understand.
You return to Sukuna.
“I hope this pleases you,” you say with sincerity.
He takes it from you without a word. You don’t dare peek at his expression - not when he’s got a spare set of eyes to monitor your continued deference. As you await judgment, you distract yourself by imagining which pages he’s looking at. You’ve been rather taken by the illustration of Heian-Kyo and it’s waterways.
“This will suffice,” he says at last, and again, sweeps out of the library.
You’re quicker to stand this time, wiping your damp palms on your mo. Well… that was nerve-wracking. You take a long moment to breathe, slowing your heart. Then make a note in the records that Sukuna-sama does not care of Master Riyoshi’s Complete Atlas of the Gods’ Lands.
Three days later, Sukuna departs on another campaign of terror - this time expanding his territory south.
You fill another page of your ongoing “hobby” with gossip whispered around the servants’ quarters and dining tables. The why and how of his departure, conjectures of his plans. Debates of the death toll.
You try to record only what seems like witness accounts, though you’re always meticulous to leave out your sources.
Without Sukuna to reign them in, his usual circle of sycophants are emboldened to play at authority. His favored concubines order about servants and take liberties they wouldn’t otherwise dare. Curses torment and devour humans they’re certain won’t be missed. Still, somehow, it’s not as frightening as the king himself.
You simply keep to small groups and lock yourself in the all-but-forgotten library. Kiro continues to deliver new contributions weekly. You devote an entire shelf to The Tale of Genji. The sanctity of your library is restored.
Sukuna returns to the manor two months later. You hear about the “campaign” from vassals that traveled with him. Fire and blood, devastation rippling out from his every step. Screams, suffering, horrors that make you doubt any gods you grew up worshiping.
So, standard fare for Sukuna’s travels.
You even make a rare appearance in the throne room to observe his victory feast from afar, milling with the other servants. It’s as horrid as always, but there are some stories to be gleaned from the attendees’ idle chatter.
Sukuna himself never contributes to the tales, you notice. Most of the time, he lounges on his throne with his chin on one fist, all four eyes half-lidded. Bored, it would seem to you. He rarely converses, and when he does, it’s usually to scoff at some other curse making grandiose claims of its own feats.
You observe for as long as you dare, then retreat to the library. You work deep into the night, until your vision blurs and your hand cramps. Eventually, you surrender to sleep and leave your notes out on the writing desk to finish drying. You’ll likely need to correct any mistakes made in your fatigue anyway.
Sukuna visits the next day as you’re doing just that.
It’s poor timing for you, disheveled by the trials of transcribing the previous evening and well into today. Ink has stained your hands (and likely your face as well) and your hair is haphazardly pinned with a single (clean) hashi.
Even so, you leave your writings to bow as deeply as ever, mouth glued shut from too little to drink for several hours. You finished your cold tea near midday and it appears the sun is already diving for the horizon.
“What, no useless pleasantries this time?” he sneers.
Gods forbid you’re polite.
“How may I serve you, Sukuna-sama?” you ask.
“Your recommendation was adequate.”
You sense movement above your head, but resist looking - until you feel a not-gentle thunk to the crown of your skull. You blink and carefully tilt your chin up. The atlas is waved impatiently in your face.
“Burn that other one, it does not belong in my collection.”
“As you wish, my lord,” you demure, hiding your dismay as you accept the tome.
Not well enough, it would appear, as you see his brow arch in your peripheral.
“Ho? You disagree with my decision?” he asks.
The sadistic anticipation lacing his voice sets your teeth on edge. Now that’s a test if you’ve ever heard one, and you have no doubt about the consequences if you fail.
“It’s not my place to disagree, Sukuna-sama.”
The mouth on his stomach parts in a grotesque and unkind grin.
“But you do disagree,” he insists.
You press your lips together, searching for a suitable response and finding none. You hug the atlas to your chest. Appeasing mercurial curse kings was not amongst your etiquette lessons as a young noblewoman.
The silence stretches for a beat longer.
“Not going to deny it?” he prods, a touch impatient.
You pick your words carefully. “I wouldn’t insult you by lying.”
And he chuckles. It’s rich, deep, rumbling in that barrel chest like thunder. The sound surprises you so much you nearly look up.
“There is a brain in there after all,” he muses, “fitting for a bookkeeper.”
You’re probably supposed to thank him for that backhanded compliment. You stay quiet instead, wishing he’d just leave.
Comfort in paper.
“Do what you wish with the book, but do not complain of needing more space,” he says.
Oh yes, because a singular sub-par atlas is the space problem. You nod, teeth in your cheek, counting seconds.
“See that you continue to be of use,” he adds.
It takes you a half second too long to realize he expects a response.
“I shall do my best,” you murmur.
He turns and stalks away without another word.
The conclusion of the conversation strikes you wrong. As if you missed a word or two somewhere along the way, and it changed the entire meaning.
You sift through the conversation in your mind. Turn over each syllable, every intonation, trying to discern what you could be missing. But alas, any greater implication (if it exists) is lost to you.
Best not to dwell, you remind yourself. Sukuna remains incomprehensible to you. He is carried by his own whims alone, without rhyme nor reason. You need only concern yourself with avoiding his wrath.
You glance down at the atlas, still clutched to your chest. There’s brownish staining around the bottom edge of the pages. Blood, you realize with slow unease. You haven’t a clue how to remove it, or even if you can. In the end, you put it back in its rightful place and make a note of it in your records.
Uraume has grown on you, with time.
Not to say that the two of you are close, or even proper friends. In fact, they’re even more ineffable than your shared master. But you two have a cordial acquaintanceship that is satisfying in its own way.
You often recommend books for them to peruse in the little free time they allot themselves. In turn, they occasionally bring you sweets from Sukuna’s tributes that he has no interest in. Part of you thinks that they’ve made an unwitting poison-tester of you, but the delicacies are usually worth the small possibility of death. (After all, everyone knows Sukuna is immune to such toxins.)
They are quiet company you don’t mind sharing, on the occasions they visit.
Tonight, you are sharing tea. They’ve come late in the evening - presumably, Sukuna has retired and has no need of them. You don’t ask, and they do not offer the information freely.
They’re reading the newest addition to the poem collection, occasionally commenting to you about the prose or the imagery. You’ve read through it, though only two or three made any deeper impression on you.
Poetry was your weakest writing and reading form to study. An embarrassment for a nobleman’s daughter, sure, but you are no longer that. You’re Ryomen Sukuna’s librarian.
“What are you occupying yourself with this evening?” Uraume asks.
It’s an unusual display of interest, and you try not to look paranoid as you answer.
“Just records,” you sigh. “Perhaps I’m torturing myself with more paperwork than necessary.”
You set your brush aside and draw your wrist in, rubbing your thumb along the tired tendons.
“You are thorough, as one should be serving Sukuna-sama,” they say.
You hum, glancing at the neat lines of reisho drying on the parchment. A story you heard a stable-hand telling a gardener, about Sukuna decimating a larger town during his last travels.
You wonder if he truly did rip a grown man in half with his bare hands. You wonder if it matters, knowing without a doubt that he could.
“Yes, you’re right,” you murmur.
As a teenager, your tutors lectured the importance and the hazard of a historian’s duty. They walk a fine line recording events and decisions faithfully, without displeasing their sponsors. One unflattering turn of phrase or misplaced adjective could incite a prideful lord to replace them with a more complimentary one.
It’s foolish, chronicling Sukuna’s exploits. Dangerous. Your little “hobby” could very well get you killed. Yet, you feel compelled to ink some record of the king of curses from as objective a perspective as you can. (Truly, you don’t need to dramatize the horrors, they are evident in themselves.)
Historians are important. Necessary. Sukuna doesn’t have one - you’ve asked around. So at the very least, you’ve tried to document significant events, if not the day to day matters of the manor.
“Is Sukuna-sama’s collection truly growing so large?” Uraume asks, glancing at the shelves.
All of them have at least a handful of books occupying them, though two-thirds are laden by now. Organized by genre, then by author - and lacking an author, by title. Though there was one manic week that you had everything organized by color.
“It grows all the time,” you answer, “though it helps that only you and Sukuna-sama visit. I don’t spend much time re-shelving.”
A pity that, but you’re not surprised that no one else would risk Sukuna’s wrath by perusing his collection without express permission. And really, who going to weather the peril of asking?
“Speaking of, I’ve finished this one,” Uraume says, tilting their borrowed manuscript towards you. “Quite lovely, thank you for your recommendation.”
You tuck it into your arm with a small smile and bow. “I’m happy you enjoyed my suggestion, Uraume-san. Shall I fetch you another?”
They pick up the tea set, long finished, from the reading table (that no one else ever uses) and shake their head.
“I will turn in.”
“Ah, good night, then.”
You turn away and weave through the stacks to replace the book, grateful to stretch your legs. Perhaps you’ll follow they’re example. It’s growing late and you have sleep to make up for.
Uraume is gone by the time you return to the library’s disused seating area. With a yawn, you snuff the few lanterns left lit, and think even once about the papers left out on your writing desk.
You’re taking inventory of new additions when you’re summoned to the throne room.
It feels like the floor has fallen out from beneath you. You have never, never been summoned to the throne room before. Have only even seen it a handful of times.
A few scant months ago, Sukuna had spoken to you directly once - the day you were assigned your current position. Now you’ve spoken thrice in an unnervingly short span and you’re suddenly demanded in the throne room?
His recent visits to the library must have something to do with it, but you scramble to reason why. If you’d angered him in any of those interactions, you would have been punished on the spot. He doesn’t make a production of discipling servants - he doesn’t even usually do it himself, instead leaving it under Uraume’s purview.
So why?
Being summoned to the throne room bodes nothing good. Sukuna isn’t generous with rewards, and you have certainly done nothing to warrant one.
You stride through the halls in a frantic haze, heart trying to claw up your throat with each step. An attempt to abandon the rest of your body as a lost cause. You swallow it back with sour bile.
There’s a reason you tend to avoid the throne room - and not just because Sukuna (and other curses) frequent it. The towers of bones are the least of the grim designs. Uraume told you once that they stopped replacing the rugs some time ago, the blood is just easier to mop up from a bare floor.
Panic and fear make you foolish; you don’t immediately drop your eyes when you enter. Instead you seek out Sukuna’s hulking form.
He’s reclined in his throne as usual, and he’s… reading something. Or at least one pair of eyes is.
As soon as you notice the lower pair are watching you, your gaze drops like a stone. You’re in a precarious enough position as is, you shouldn’t provoke his wrath any further.
You drop down into a bow for possibly the last time, breaths coming short and fast. And you wait. He knows you’re there; he’ll acknowledge you in his own time.
You’re almost grateful for the extra moment to collect yourself. If nothing else, you won’t die begging and screaming like your father.
“Tell me, what’s your position here?” Sukuna begins at last.
The tone - casual, almost bored - unnerves you. You both know the answer, yet you have no doubt he expects an answer.
“I’m your bookkeeper, Lord Sukuna,” you answer, as steadily as you can.
“I thought so,” he drawls, shifting. “And are you lacking books to keep?”
You blink, confused and even more uneasy for it. “No, my lord.”
“Really?” Paper crinkles, then rips. “Then explain why this garbage is in my library.”
You jolt as something lands a scant breath away from your head. Uncannily, the scroll unrolls directly beneath your face. Your own handwriting greets you.
Oh.
Oh no.
“I…”
It can’t get any worse, so you dare to rise a bit, touching the edge of the parchment like it’s all just a horrible mirage. But it’s real. Horrifically real.
You curl trembling, bloodless fingers into your palm. Struggle for the air to speak, even as words swim through your mind like frantic fish. You grasp for any of them, knowing that what little grace you’ve been given will dwindle quickly if you delay.
“I was trying to keep a record,” you manage finally, “of the king of curses… for historical purposes.”
He snorts. “And what use do I have for a record about myself, hm?”
You carefully don’t point out that nothing is eternal. All things end, including his reign - even if it’s not within this lifetime… or the next. Nor do you think it’s wise to mention that historical accounts aren’t necessarily for the subjects they’re about.
But he hasn’t killed you on the spot. Perhaps he is only going to make an example of you, but you grasp at the gossamer hope that you can survive this transgression. Maybe, if you convince him that there is some merit…
“For details you may wish to… review one day,” you say, carefully avoiding any implication that his memory is less than perfect. “Names, places, dates… even weather. Things that you may find irrelevant in the moment but could be useful later.”
He hums. “You think I don’t pay attention to relevant details?”
“You will live a very long time, Sukuna-sama,” you reply, and leave it at that.
He huffs, but… it doesn’t sound angry. Exasperated, perhaps? You’re sorely tempted to glance at his expression, but paranoia keeps your eyes down. Unwilling to risk angering him now when it seems you might survive this encounter.
“Fiiiine,” he drones at last, “but if you’re going to waste your time on this, you’re going to do it properly.”
Nothing on earth could keep your head down at the moment. You blink up at him, dazed on a mix of relief and confusion.
“Properly?” you repeat.
“That,” he gestures at the torn half of scroll with one lazy arm, “was shit. You didn’t even get half of it right.”
Ah. That’s… fair, though ominous.
“Apologies, my lord. I only heard the stories secondhand…”
“No shit,” he scoffs, rolling one set of eyes. “From now on, if you want to write it all down so bad, you’ll be there to see it for yourself.”
What.
You’ll… what?!
“Might as well fix whatever trash you’ve already written while we’re at it,” he continues.
“Fix” it? Never mind his dismissal of your archival abilities - what does “fix it” mean?
The mean smirk on his face is not reassuring. A fresh pit of dread opens in your stomach.
“Of course, my lord,” you say, voice too high.
There’s a long pause, thick enough to smother you. Then he audibly scoffs.
“We start tomorrow - your hands are shaking too much to write legibly.”
Finally, reprieve. You scramble to your feet, still bent at the waist. “Yes, my lord.”
For the first time in your life, paper and ink don’t promise comfort like they once did.
When you return to the library, you squat down in the farthest corner from the door and allow yourself to hyperventilate.
The first day is a new kind of suffering that you’re sure Sukuna invented just for you. He must be proud.
Uraume fetches you from the servant’s quarters, sleep-rumpled from tossing and turning all night, and not at all prepared to face Ryomen Sukuna at such an early hour.
You’re escorted to the throne room and bow low as usual. Sukuna waves dismissively to the floor below him, where writing materials have already been set out. You hastily fold yourself behind the parchment, mix the ink, and select a brush to begin transcribing.
You’ve never been present for a typical day in Sukuna’s court, but you’re far too nervous to appreciate the novelty. Sukuna is right behind you, practically peering over your shoulder. And while you assure yourself that he’s already forgotten your presence (insignificant and uninteresting as it is) the back of your neck prickles constantly.
You’re hyper-aware of how you’re sitting. How you’re holding the brush. Each stroke of your tidy reisho characters. Even your breathing and minute shifts to relieve aches in your knees and hips feel like a liberty too bold to take.
You expect to be killed or maimed every hour. Still, you dutifully record the curses and curse users milling in the throne room, murmuring amongst themselves. Most stay to the edges and corners, though a brave handful approach Sukuna with tributes or offers of entertainment.
“Entertainment,” as it turns out, is usually torture and/or execution. You keep your eyes on your parchment as often as you can, and try to keep those notes as short and precise as possible.
There’s feasting (with dishes that look uncomfortably human) and news from the edges of Sukuna’s ever-growing territory. Sukuna himself speaks very little, and participates in the violence fleetingly.
You’d be more surprised if your anxious mind had any room for it.
The day ends when Sukuna stands, one pair of arms stretching while the other settles on his hips. All those in the throne room fall silent and freeze.
“Get lost,” he says plainly.
And the throne room is suddenly very empty - save for you, Uraume, and Sukuna himself.
“Alright, let’s see it,” he says.
You blink, realize he’s speaking to you, and quickly set your brush aside. One of his many hands is already extended, so you hand him the stack of notes gathered by your thigh. While he begins perusing them, you free the latest from beneath a stone weight and blow gently on the half-dried ink.
“Huh,” he muses, rifling through the parchment, “you’re not half-bad at this.”
Was that… a compliment? Has the stress finally made you delirious? Perhaps forgoing meals all day has you hearing things.
“I’m… glad you’re pleased, my lord,” you say anyway.
He grunts, attention seemingly caught on one of the pages - though you have no idea what could have drawn his fickle attention. He doesn’t seem irritated, at least. Granted, your eyes are usually on the floor, so you wouldn’t know… what that… looks… like…
Your eyes lock with the bottom pair of Sukuna’s, watching you askance and half-lidded, just as you realize your error.
Trying to recover, but already knowing it’s too late, you drop your gaze to your lap. Thankfully, he indeed doesn’t seem irritated enough to take offense this time.
“You’re dismissed for the evening,” he drawls handing the papers back, “unless you need records of which concubine I’m fucking and what positions I’m fucking them in.”
His tongue curls around the words like poison and honey, mocking yet lurid. It’s not nearly the most provocative thing you’ve ever heard, but somehow, the crudeness catches you off guard. Your face radiates heat. Your hand spasms around the fresh records and you practically leap to your feet, bowing quickly at the waist.
“No, my lord, that’s not typically part of court records,” you say, far too quickly to be polite. “Have a pleasant evening, my lord.”
And you flee from the throne room - only realizing once you’re safe in the library that you are lucky to have made it there at all.
Your mother had another saying - or more accurately, an addendum to her mantra. She’d say it when the back of your hand stung and bruised from tutor corrections via thin bamboo shoots. Or when your father’s dissatisfaction became too explosive. Or when you’d stare out the window too long, tracking the birds with visible envy.
Comfort in paper, comfort in ink, she’d begin, smoothing your hair back from your face, all the better to read. With these, all things are bearable.
In her defense, you once thought, her advice was not designed with curses, with Sukuna, in mind. She could not have known that her only daughter, a scant two years after the fever took her, would bear witness to horrors that could make gods shudder. Her wisdom could not have accounted for flaying skin, cannibalism, and bone gardens.
What solace could plant pulp and pine soot provide, in the face (two faces) of embodied cruelty?
Yet, as the days progress, you find more than meager comfort in your new task. With each stroke of the brush, your hands steady and your spine uncoils. Every completed page dulls the sharp blade of Sukuna’s doubled gaze scraping between your shoulders. Your lungs learn to function with shallower breaths while Sukuna reviews the day’s records. The death knells ringing through your skull fade to echoes with every dismissal to the library.
It takes a few days, but you optimize your record-keeping. You begin discerning the details of importance, develop a shorthand to keep pace with spoken word. Sukuna offers no praise, of course, but you keep all your limbs, blood, and organs, which is approval enough.
It becomes bearable, your position near Sukuna’s throne, keeping his records. Even being spoken to by him (and by extension, speaking to him) become commonplace.
“Keeper, how long has it been since this worm last squirmed before me?” He sounds bored. Worse, he sounds annoyed about being bored.
Cautiously, you tilt your face up from your work. The curse trembling at Sukuna’s feet is indeed uncannily worm-like, but also familiar. And, for now, in one piece.
(That is one thing you’ve yet to be desensitized to - the violence. You’ve become adept at knowing when and for how long to keep your eyes on your documents. Though, of course, you can’t stay completely blind to it all. You doubt you’ll ever adjust to it, but a small part of you, shamefully, hopes there comes a day that you do.)
“Ten days, my lord,” you answer, clear and concise.
“And what did it want last time?”
From the corner of your eye, one of Sukuna’s dark nails tap-tap-taps the orbital bone of some long-dead creature.
“Permission to hunt in… Mizushima,” you reply. The clarification of just what he was hunting goes unsaid.
Sukuna makes a derisive noise behind you. “And now you’re back, crying to me because you can’t kill a few measly humans?” he sneers.
“Th-the sorcerers, Sukuna-sama…”
You make a small note about the sorcerers (this is the third account of them being an issue in Mizushima this month) and pause to take a sip of tea. Uraume, indispensable pillar of the estate that they are, has begun to deliver you food and drink through the long days in court.
“Did I stutter?” Sukuna asks, dangerously bland. “Keeper, did I stutter?”
Oh, dear.
You set your cup primly aside. “You did not, my lord.”
Quietly, you slip the fan from your sleeve and unfold it.
“If you can’t even manage to slaughter a couple humans, you no longer have permission to exist.”
You strategically place the fan in front of your paper just as Sukuna makes a sharp gesture with two fingers of one hand. Slimy green remains innards spatter the floor and the front of your fan, thankfully protecting the day’s records. Some, unfortunately, also gets on your hand - but that’s what your handkerchief is for.
“I’m sick of this,” Sukuna announces. “All of you get out and don’t return until you have something of interest.”
You finish the last of your tea while the various courtiers hastily vacate. Uraume silently appears at your side to collect the empty cup and saucer. You nod at them politely, then begin organizing your stack of dried documents to take with you.
“And where do you think you’re going, keeper?”
You pause, pages half-shuffled into a neat pile. His expression is still mild, which you’ve come to find usually precedes something that makes you nauseous. As always, you pick your words carefully, but you’re getting better at it.
“Usually, you no longer have use for me once you’ve adjourned court. Can I be of further service, my lord?”
“I’ve got some time to kill,” he drawls with a disconcerting flash of sharp teeth, “we will begin fixing that trash you wrote before.”
“Ah,” you say, unbalanced by the change in routine. “I would need to fetch them—”
He holds out one hand lazily. “Uraume.”
They place a manuscript into his palm - your previous attempt at record-keeping, you realize. All compounded into one document. A sliver of embarrassment flares in your cheeks. The thing is only slightly thicker than notes you would take in a single day.
(Never mind that Uraume had to have gone through your things to get them all. You’ve given up on silly notions like privacy or autonomy.)
“Of course, my lord.”
You pull a fresh sheet of parchment and wet your brush. “Are we beginning with the first entry…?”
He skims over it and makes a face. “Boring.”
Well, yes. It’s not supposed to be an epic, you don’t say. It’s just supposed to be a factual account, dry as the paper it’s written on. You keep your mouth shut as Sukuna leafs through other entries, then stops about a third of the way through, brows arching.
“We’ll start with this one,” he says.
“What’s the date?” you ask, and jot it down in the top corner. “Okay, whenever you’re ready, my lord.”
It was one of the bloodier days in the court - a foolhardy band of sorcerers that had tried to storm into the estate all on their own. It had been audacious (and stupid) enough to trickle down even to the servants. You’d gotten various contradictory accounts so had only been able to record the vaguest and most common bits of the stories.
Sukuna tells you about the rumors that had led up to the confrontation, and how he’d allowed them easy passage through his territory. Evidently, he just wanted to see if they had “the stones” to actually face him. He gleefully tells you that half of them had pissed themselves when they finally made it to the throne room and to Sukuna waiting for them.
He speaks smoothly, unhurried, cadence ebbing and flowing with amusement and annoyance in turns. Often adds dry commentary that you genuinely find humorous, much to your shock.
At one point, needing clarification but wary of interrupting, you raise a finger to catch his attention. He glances at you over the top of previous faulty account with an arched brow.
“Hm?”
“Was it just the five sorcerers, or did they have a…” you cast about for the word, “entourage… or something?”
“A war party?” he supplies.
You nod, wiping excess ink from your fingers on a rag.
“Oh, yeah. Dumb as hell, dragging a bunch of human servants along with them,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I left those maggots to the others. They’re not even worth eating, usually.”
By “others” you realize he means curses and curse users that hover around like flies. (You discard the offhand comment about his unusual diet with barely a flinch.)
“I see,” you hum, adding it to the record, “thank you, my lord. If you’d like to continue…”
The rest of the story is every bit as gruesome and bloody as you’re expecting. It’s somehow easier to hear, knowing that it’s inevitable. Sukuna is especially detailed during this part, but much like every day in court, you keep your eyes on your work and just write what is said.
Following the story’s conclusion, you offer him the corrected version for inspection, but he just waves you off.
“Don’t you have books to organize or something?” he says. “I don’t need to read every little thing.”
And while he sounds aggravated, you get an odd… warmth about it. Like he’s already assured of your work’s quality. You try not to brighten too noticeably.
Appreciation from anyone, even Sukuna (especially Sukuna) is always gratifying.
“Yes, my lord.” You bow, collecting your materials. “Good evening.”
Over the next several days, a new pattern establishes itself.
You always wake early, hours before Sukuna is willing to entertain anyone. You sweep and dust, catalog the books, and prep your writing materials. Uraume always fetches you when Sukuna finally deigns to hold court.
Curses and curse users try vainly to curry Sukuna’s favor by whatever means they can think. Sometimes he grants boons, more often he makes a mess of the floors. When he grows bored, he dismisses everyone and the retellings of your initial, faulty records continues - though it’s never done in the court room again.
He gets sick of sitting there, apparently, so you follow him to whatever pastime he’s engaging in. Sometimes lounging by the koi pond, watching the fish. Other times, sitting on the engawa near the library while he smokes hookah and drinks sake. Once in the archery field, as he looses arrow after fiery arrow at (initially) living targets.
The first time you have a session in the library, his face twists with distaste. The space is clean, of course, but barren of anything but basic furniture and books. He becomes restless quickly and ends up perusing his own collection while recounting a battle near Heian-kyo. Apparently, recalling victory isn’t enough stimulation for him.
(The next morning, you stop short in the doorway, tea halfway to your mouth. The once bare floors are now carpeted with lush, vibrant rugs. Atop them, lavish couches and lounges have been arranged around polished tables. There are fine silk-shaded lanterns, tapestries on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. It’s beautiful, the finest library you’ve ever seen, and you fall asleep on one of the cushioned settees that evening.)
Whenever Sukuna is done speaking, you return to the library. Always the library. You complete any lingering tasks from the morning and clean your brushes, hanging them to dry for overnight.
You never quite forget the danger of Sukuna. It’s impossible when his cruelty and power are on display daily. Yet… a part of you settles. As if, at some point, you passed some milestone that made you an unlikely target for Sukuna’s casual wrath. Perhaps sunken-cost of his valuable time, perhaps you’re just more convenient alive than dead.
Eventually, a small writing desk becomes a fixture in the throne room. Your usual spot just to the side and a little in front of Sukuna. Your joints are so grateful for a proper seat that you make a point of thanking Sukuna when court adjourns - though you can’t quite force yourself to look at him as you do.
The next morning, a new set of brushes is waiting for you. Beautiful, and finely made. The handles are lacquered, carved with rolling cloud designs, and the material… you suspect it’s made of bone. Even so, it’s a gift you know better than to decline. (And truly, it is so nice… you tell yourself it once belonged to an animal, and pretend to believe it.)
Eventually, you deplete your stock of ink sticks and inform Uraume, hoping they’ll be able to procure more. Surely you’re not the only one using ink in the estate.
“What would be needed to make more?” they ask. “Buying so much of it may not be economical.”
Quietly, you despair at the prospect of making your own ink sticks. The sheer amount of time it will take, never mind the skill required for it to be usable, is enough to make you teary.
“Well, typical ink is usually just pine soot, nikawa, and maybe something to make it smell more pleasant,” you muse. “The more expensive kinds just have pigment mixed in.”
They hum. “I will procure more ink.”
You blink. Have they already discarded the idea of hand-making it? Gods, you hope so.
“Thank you, Uraume-san.”
The following day, a stick pressed into the shape of a dragon is waiting at your desk. When you activate it and begin writing, the ink is deeply red. You marvel at the color, hand hovering over the page.
The back of your neck prickles, that unmistakable feeling of Sukuna’s eyes on you. As usual, you keep your eyes down.
You shouldn’t waste it, but you find yourself adding a little flourish to your characters that day, just to see the lovely flow of crimson.
You thank Uraume later for finding such nice ink on such short notice, you feel all four of his eyes on you again. But when you turn, he just motions for you to follow him to wherever you’ll be transcribing his next story.
With winter approaching, evening creeps up to smother the sun faster than usual. It requires more light - which usually involves a servant following the two of you around with a lantern on a pole at a respectful distance. However, Sukuna catches you trying to warm your half-frozen fingers one too many times and tsks something about “shivery handwriting.”
The two of you being working in the library more often. Despite the new decorations (presumably for his benefit) Sukuna still wanders the shelves, sharp eyes catching on every new volume that’s been added since his last visit. During a pause (he’s telling you about something decidedly less interesting for him, so he keeps trailing off, trying to remember details you usually ask for) you sense him approach from behind you.
His shadow blots out the candlelight before he even stops, much closer than necessary. Not so long ago, that would have frozen you into a trembling, hyperventilating statue. Now, accustomed as you are to having him at your back, and knowing he’s not as prone to random violence as you once thought, you have the capacity to notice two things.
The first is that he radiates heat. You’ve seen him produce fire from nothing - something about his technique, you think? - at the archery range. You didn’t consider that it would manifest in other ways. It’s almost nice, honestly, with the chill in the library.
The other thing is that he smells… good. Disturbingly good. Most curses that you’ve been unfortunately close to stink of decay, refuse, old blood. But Sukuna smells like incense, like woodsmoke and cloves. Something of earth, something a little divine - unexpected, yet fitting.
Clearing your throat a little, you turn your head and come face to… mouth with… well with the mouth on his stomach. That, too, you’ve become familiar with - though not usually so close. You tilt your chin up to peer at Sukuna. He holds a book over your face, brows arched.
“We really do have a lot of these,” he says.
You glance at the cover again and see the title. The Tale of Genji.
“So many,” you blurt with feeling. “You’d think it’s the only novel ever written!”
He snorts, then casts the book a skeptical look. “Is it even any good?”
He’s asking your opinion? Shock almost robs you of an answer.
Maybe it’s the crippling loneliness of your position in an estate like Sukuna’s, but you’re eager for some small connection. A chance to speak slightly more freely than normal.
“It’s not bad by any means, but I think it’s popularity is a little inflated,” you muse. “I suppose it depends on your taste.”
He grunts, one set of eyes considering the novel at length. The other pair slide to you.
“You’re getting ink on your hand again.”
“Oh!”
While you clean, Sukuna drops himself onto one of the couches. Privately, and safely away from all four of his shrewd eyes, you marvel at the sheer breadth of him. Sitting as he so often is, and as much as you keep your eyes on your writing, you sometimes forget how much he outmeasures any human. By every dimension.
A couch that nearly swallows you seems to only just fit him comfortably.
“Are you done yet?” he calls.
“Ah, yes, my lord,” you reply. You can wash your brushes later. “How may I be of service?”
He tosses you the book. There’s no stopping the dismayed yelp that squeaks out as you fumble a bit, hugging it to your chest. He doesn’t look at you, but the mouth on his stomach snickers.
“Read it,” he commands, stretching out. “Let’s see if it’s actually any good.”
It takes you a beat too long to realize that he means you’re to read it out loud. You balk for a brief moment, confused and nervous. But it wasn’t a request.
Overly aware of yourself in a way you haven’t been since you were a teenager, you perch on one of the armchairs. It’s a thick manuscript, you don’t expect Sukuna to be entertained for more than an hour - and that’s a generous estimate.
You clear your throat one last time, crack it open, and begin.
No matter the amount of time you spend with Sukuna, you’re always reminded of his unpredictability.
The reading sessions are folded into the new routine. Your days are now library, court, transcribing Sukuna’s stories, and then finally reading Sukuna stories. Or just the one, so far. It’s a very long book, after all.
Not once has he appeared bored, despite your prediction that he’d lose interest quickly. Yet, whenever he props his chin on one of his hands, his eyes are always clear. Engaged. He even comments sometimes, or makes faces. He’s actually listening.
You’d be self-conscious, if you had the energy.
This addition to your schedule is not a small one - you read until Sukuna is satisfied, usually well into the evening, when the lanterns begin to dim. You suppose fatigue doesn’t drag at him like it does a human. Like it does you.
Your work doesn’t end when he’s retired to his chambers. You still have to finish any tasks left from the morning - inventory, cleaning, storing away the day’s records. Most recently, checking and replacing any books.
Apparently a few members of his harem, wondering what has their king so preoccupied, have discovered the library. And with his blessing (more accurately, the shooing motion he makes over the back of the couch) they’ve begun perusing with relish. Most of them come from noble families, as spoils of war or appeasement to Sukuna, and seem eager for a bit of familiarity from their previous lives.
Truly, you don’t mind. They are respectful of the books and treat them with care. Often, they even leave their picks out for you to replace, rather than try to do it themselves and disrupt your organization system.
But it is another task you must account for.
Uraume, intuitive as they are, has been providing a steady stream of strong black tea - which you find keeps you more alert than matcha.
Alas, the benefits of tea only extend so far.
“Keeper.”
“Ah, yes, Sukuna-sama?” you ask, blinking yourself from the hypnotic daze his deep voice lulled you into.
You’re in the library again, because it’s been raining all day. The thrush of water on the roof and against the windows is an unfortunately effective accomplice challenging your ability to stay awake.
“Am I boring you?” he asks, audibly displeased.
You wince and rub at your eyes with your free hand. The characters are starting to blur, which does not bode well for reading later. “No, my lord, I’m sorry.”
You startle as he appears in front of you from seemingly nowhere - he’d just been wandering the shelves, as he usually does.
All four of his crimson eyes pin you in place. Looking at you. You’re startled to recognize the familiarity of its intensity; usually you’re facing the other way.
“You look bad.”
Perhaps it’s the fatigue. Perhaps it’s the tone. Perhaps it’s that he says it at all.
But you laugh. And he arches his brows, apparently nonplussed. And you laugh a little more.
“Apologies, my lord,” you say, struggling to contain your giggles. “I just… I must look unfortunate if you’ve noticed enough to say so.”
He snorts, crosses one set of arms. “I am not oblivious.”
“No, my lord, you are not,” you agree. You’ve just always operated under the assumption you’re beneath his notice. Even if he observed your exhaustion, you wouldn’t have ever expected him to acknowledge it aloud.
“Explain.”
You hesitate. There’s an answer, but you know better than to make it sound like you’re complaining. Buying time, you busy yourself with setting your brush very carefully to the side - you’re likely to ruin the entire record at the pace you’re going.
“I’m staying… that is to say, you…” You fumble for the correct combination of words, but your mind provides nothing but the same droning as the rain outside. “There’s just…”
You press your mouth together with a small, frustrated sigh at yourself. Each failed syllable has tightened your nails into your palm, anxious crescents carving into clammy skin.
“Keeper.”
You swallow back another incoherent jumble of words. “Sorry, Sukuna-sama.”
He clicks his tongue. One of his hands (from the pair that’s not crossed) run through his hair, as if he’s frustrated with you as well. There’s a beat of silence. You don’t expect death anymore, but you’ve strained so often to please him that you’re not longer sure what will happen if you don’t.
“Speak plainly for once,” he commands. Your eyes flick nervously at his expression. His brows are smooth, and the top set of eyes are cast elsewhere, disinterested. But the bottom set are still trained on you, slightly narrowed. “I have no patience for you to be clever this evening.”
Clever…? What does that even mean?
Seeing the mouth on his stomach tightening, you tuck the thought away. Sukuna has given you an order and there’s really no other option but to obey.
“I’m so fucking tired,” you blurt.
All four eyes snap to your face, his brows jumping nearly to his hairline. You think his eyes might even widen a little - or maybe that’s just a trick of the light and your fuzzy vision. Then he barks a laugh, deep and booming.
Unlike the sadistic cackle of soon-to-be-dead subjects, or the dangerous chuckle of incoming retribution, this sounds genuine. (It’s rare, but you’ve heard it in response to Uraume’s dry comments, or the couple times you’ve asked incredulous questions about his stories.)
“Is that so?” he asks.
You nod and groan softly, rubbing at your eyes again. Composure has abandoned you, like the admission has spent the last of your endurance. You slump.
“Yes,” you sigh. “I’ve been staying up late to finish work in the library.”
He grunts. “Let me see today’s records.”
Wordlessly, you pluck them from the top of the stack and hand them over. Sukuna inspects them more closely than ever before. Two hands hold the pages, one rests on his hip, the other settles on his chin contemplatively.
“You wrote crooked,” he announces. “And you used ‘spicy’ instead of ‘lucky’.”
Despair wells in your soul. “I’ll rewrite them.”
He waves you off and steps closer to set them on the stack himself. This close, the scent of him washes over you, warm and (you’d be more surprised if you weren’t so weary) pleasantly familiar.
“You have proved yourself capable as my historian and my bookkeeper,” he says, “but my collection has grown too impressive to be attended to by one human. Your priority is at my side, not scurrying amongst dead trees.”
Not sure where’s he’s going with this, and mildly baffled by the “scurrying” part, you make a little noise of agreement.
“Tomorrow, you will train a substitute to operate in your absence while you are transcribing.”
Whatever you were expecting, it’s not that. Part of you fears that you have worn out your usefulness - that you are teaching a replacement, that you’ll be killed or (and this is somehow much worse) demoted.
“Yes, my lord,” you mumble, eyes dropping to your lap.
There’s a half-beat of silence. He grunts again, as if aggravated. Perhaps you weren’t appropriately grateful…?
“If you find that one assistant is not enough, inform Uraume, and they will recruit more. I won’t have my library falling into disarray when I went through the trouble of making it look halfway decent.”
Assistant.
Oh.
Relief and appreciation make you lightheaded. “Of course, Sukuna-sama,” you breathe, “thank you.”
He clicks his tongue and, voice stern, commands, “Clean up and go to bed immediately. I will only spare you a single day. Make use of it.”
“I will, my lord.”
You only realize once he’s gone that the evening’s story is unfinished. Well… it will keep. It will have to; he told you to clean up and go to bed. And you have no doubt that he will somehow know if you don’t.
Besides, your bed is singing a siren song you can no longer resist.
(Late morning the following day, and eating a full meal for once, you hear that Sukuna is in a foul mood. The throne room floors are already bathed in blood, curse and human alike. The estate shakes so badly at one point that it knocks a haphazard stack of manuscripts to the floor.
Sukuna appears just as you’ve finished training your new assistant, a nervous young man named Moriyoshi, at the time you’d normally begin reading Genji. He seems composed, but you see agitation in the line of his jaw and the set of his broad shoulders. When you offer to read to him, he turns and walks away without a word - but not without eying the desk between you and Moriyoshi.)
A week passes, and Moriyoshi grows increasingly frazzled each day. On the eighth morning, he approaches you as you’re gathering your writing materials. His hands are pressed together as if in prayer.
“Please, Shikako-san, it’s too much!” he murmurs, eyes flicking nervously at the doors. “I don’t know how you did it, but I can’t keep up!”
You blink. Is it really so much? But, well, it’s probably more difficult to learn the system than it is to design it, as you did. And you’ve been excruciatingly detailed with the records.
“I’ll speak to Uraume-san. Prioritize the catalog for today and I’ll come to help this evening.”
He looks near tears with relief. “Thank you, Shikako-san!”
Shikako-san?
He’s fleeing into the shelves before you can ask about the new title. Suppose calling you “historian” is apt enough, though. You brush it off and continue with your day.
You approach Uraume with Moriyoshi’s request for further help that same evening, after Sukuna’s excused you.
“Sukuna-sama will not be pleased,” they sigh, “you’ll need to train this one as well.”
“And help them catch up with whatever’s fallen behind,” you agree. A headache is building; you massage your thumbs against your temples. “My work won’t suffer this time. It’ll just be one more day.”
They give you this look. Inscrutable as they are, you have no hope of deciphering what it’s meant to convey, if anything. But you’re left with the distinct impression that you’ve exasperated them, somehow.
You tentatively thank them for their patience when they bring you a cup of tea, but they just give you that look again and sweep out of the library.
By next morning, you have three new assistants. Kiro is among them, scratching sheepishly at the back of his head as he admits he always liked delivering books to the library. Enough so that he’s apparently been reprimanded for spending too long with you before, asking questions about how you organize and handle the additions he’d brought.
“He’s more use there than procrastinating tributes to the concubines,” Uraume explain when you ask about it later. “Make good use of him.”
You hum your agreement and politely pass Sukuna one of your handkerchiefs for the goblet he just cracked.
(During a break from training your assistants, you overhear one of the servants whispering that Sukuna is planning another campaign. You resolve to ask him about it that evening, which you’ve insisted could be spent catching up with the day’s record.
He’s not planning another campaign.
He is, however, going to annihilate - and that is the word he uses - a band of sorcerers making noise in the south.)
Uruame rouses you before the sun has risen. Sukuna likes to leave early and the travel should only be two days with good weather, they say. You have no idea what they’re talking about, but stumble into your clothes and out to the stables anyway.
Apparently, you’re accompanying Sukuna to slaughter the unlucky souls that have drawn his attention. You should have known this would come eventually. In a vague sense, you did. You’ve transcribed several accounts of previous battles already - it just seemed like such a distant concept that the reality of actually going startles you.
Still, you go.
Travel for violence, as it turns out, is almost identical to travel for any other reason. In a word, boring. There wouldn’t be much to record even if you could. Mostly, you sit in the carriage with Sukuna and Uraume, reading until the road gets bumpy enough to make you nauseous.
Every so often, you look out the windows, taking in the landscape - scarred from the memory of Sukuna’s rampages. You pass settlements, none with a population that could exceed a few hundred, but many solitary curses. You try to drudge up any particular feeling about the evidence of his devastation - but all you can muster is melancholy at the loss of natural beauty.
In the evening, you ask Sukuna how he usually handles rebellions and upstarts, which evolves into a conversation about curse users, jujutsu sorcerers, and cursed techniques. He’s more talkative than usual, and your fingers itch to write it all down - but it’s long gone dark and you don’t want to get paper too close to the fire.
In the absence of your usual diversions, you’re left to just watch him. The constant shifts in his faces, the gestures he makes, the pitch and lilt of his voice. Moreover, you notice a lingering tension in the posture of his spine and the slight tick of his lower right hand. It’s not the aggravation you’ve come to implicitly recognize.
It’s… anticipation, you realize.
He spills blood daily but a proper battle is a rare novelty for him. Surely it won’t provide much challenge, but it must be better than nothing.
And indeed, he does seem to get genuine enjoyment from the fight.
A band of maybe thirty individuals with varying levels of strength, according to Uraume. Sukuna tears through them, mouth split wide with maniacal delight. In the air one moment, crashing through trees the next, then crushing them into the earth.
It’s brutal, and drawn out. Blood is spraying, limbs are strewn about like plucked petals. The crunch of bones and cartilage echoes in the air. Part of you wants to look away, to be sympathetic to the terrible suffering of these other human beings.
Yet you can’t take your eyes off Sukuna. The fluidity of his movements, casual and effortless, but deliberate and skillful, even to your untrained eye. You didn’t understand what “controlling the battlefield” meant in historical documents until now. It’s… impressive.
“Sukuna-sama is enjoying himself,” Uraume observes next to you. “He seems to be utilizing many of his abilities.”
You should not admire him. Especially not for this… though you’re not certain admiration is the correct word, either.
Still, marveling at what is essentially the torture of others…
You’ve been dragged over many of your moral lines, but this one you seem to wander across on your own, too busy staring at the king of curses.
When it’s over, he’s so blood-soaked that half his tattoos are obscured. Both mouths grin madly, lips and teeth stained with meat. He sighs - the sigh of a satisfying meal - and runs a wet hand through the peach fields of his hair. There’s a beat of silence, as if the world needs a moment to recover.
Then Uraume approaches him with a damp towel, fresh garments folded over one arm.
But you. You’re still rooted to the spot, caught in the crimson glow of his wild eyes. Your heart stutters, somehow startled, though you haven’t once looked away. Even from this distance, you can see his pupils blown wide.
Fear, cold and sharp, cracks through you for the first time in a long while. The old and now unfamiliar terror that he could pounce on you at any moment. You swallow past a dry throat and drop your eyes, falling back on old habits.
“There a river nearby?” You hear him ask. Your stomach flips at the smoke coming from the heat in his voice. “This won’t be enough. I think there’s bits of brain stuck to me.”
“There is,” Uraume answers, professional as always.
When you peek up, his gaze has dropped to them and he’s arching an eyebrow. “Which one?”
“Both.”
He snorts, but takes the cloth anyway, body language softening. You take a deep, steadying breath.
Your notes. You need to write this all down. Well… maybe not all of it. But you need to record everything; that’s what you’re here for, after all.
Comfort...
(For once, you’re not sure what you’re comforting yourself from.)
Your new assistants are waiting for your return, lined up at the entrance to the library. They welcome you back with nervous smiles and awkward bows, apparently nervous for your evaluation of their performance in your absence.
A thorough investigation reveals that they’ve done quite admirably. All documents are back where they belong, the catalog is up-to-date, and every surface is spotless. You thoroughly compliment their efforts, with only a gentle note about adding more details to a few entries, to keep track of the books’ wear over time.
“Ah, there was one other thing, Shikako-san,” Moriyoshi adds as you’re filing the travel records away.
“Hm?” you ask.
You glance up when he doesn’t immediately continue. He’s wringing his ink-stained hands, picking at a hangnail.
“Lady Katsumi has been commandeering Kiro-kun,” he says.
You pause. “What? Why?”
“She… she says that as Sukuna-sama’s favored companion, a history should be taken of her as well,” he explains.
Well… yes, you suppose so. Your father (and grandfather) had secondary wives with their own scribes, and they weren’t the only ones you’re aware of. It’s standard in most noble houses, even expected.
It didn’t occur to you until now because, well, you didn’t think Sukuna has a favored companion. He has concubines yes, but they don’t enjoy the same luxury that most others of their station do from what you’ve heard. You, certainly, were never envious of their position at the estate.
“I can ask Uraume-san for a couple more assistants, but Sukuna-sama will have final say. He’s been cross about all the help we need, but at least one or two other women likely need records too.”
Moriyoshi nods, seemingly content that you’ll handle it, and turns.
“Oh, one other thing, Shikako-san.”
You grimace. “Yes?”
“Genji-san has conquered his entire shelf.”
“Dammit.”
You bring it up before court begins the next day, mixing the ink to your preferred opacity. (The lovely red color has become standard and you can’t say you mind, even though it now conjures images of Sukuna destroying that sorcerer camp.)
“If there are servants to spare that can write, the library could use them.”
From the corner of your eye, Sukuna’s expression shifts, mercurial. “Are the ones you have that incompetent, or are your powers of book-keeping truly so magical?”
You can’t hide your frown - not at the caustic mockery in his voice, but at the slight against your assistants.
“Well, not for the library specifically,” you explain, “but some of your concubines are supposed to have their own records, my lord.”
He rolls all four of his eyes, expression turning sour. (It’s better than angry.) “Is that so?”
You tuck your hair back, casting about for the hashi you usually use to keep it out of your face. Alas, it appears to have been lost during travel. Perhaps you have a bit of twine in your pockets?
“The more favored ones, at least,” you muse. Wordlessly, Uraume offers you a simple wooden comb. You take it with a grateful smile. “But my assistants will fall behind if Lady Katsumi borrows Kiro-san again.”
Sukuna tsks. “I don’t favor any of them; that would be like preferring one spoon over another.”
Crude, but not surprising. (He once referred to children as a “snack between meals,” after all.) You huff softly, too focused on pinning your hair to shake your head.
“Ugh, fine, if it keeps them quiet,” he grumbles. “Uraume will see to it.”
They bow crisply, “As you wish, Sukuna-sama.”
“Thank you for your generosity, Sukuna-sama,” you add. There’s definitely not a needling note in your polite tone. (And he definitely doesn’t let it slide with just a flash of his big, pearly teeth.)
A comb, made of familiar white material and a red inlay carved into handle, greets you on your writing desk after lunch.
Three scribes are added to your (regrettably) growing staff. You send them off to the concubines’ wing of the estate with a small but sincere prayer for their fortitude.
It’s not all of them, really. You’ve come to realize that most of Sukuna’s harem are quite pleasant. Beautiful, graceful, and appreciative of the library, they visit often to borrow books or enjoy them on the couches. Like every other human in the estate, they just want to go about their lives safely.
Lady Katsumi, however, is one of the few that are categorically unpleasant. And the books always smell like strong perfume when she returns them.
“Do you think they’ll be alright?” Kiro asks, brow furrowed with worry.
“If they’re not, I’m sure Sukuna-sama won’t mind if they go back to their previous roles.”
As long as he’s not bothered about it, he couldn’t care less.
“I’m glad I’m a librarian,” Kiro adds.
You hum. “Me too.”
All four of your assistants cast you strange glances, but you don’t have time to question them about it - Sukuna’s holding a banquet this evening and you’re required to attend. You really only stopped in for more paper and a fresh brush. If nothing else, maybe you can practice your disused painting skills instead of following conversations Sukuna isn’t likely to participate in.
A handful of weeks pass. You finally finish reading The Tale of Genji.
It’s a bit later than usual into the evening, both of you eager to finish that last stretch of the story. Sukuna’s lounging with his arms spread across the back of his usual settee, one leg stretched out across the divide between you two. He finished his sake about an hour ago - you’re still sipping at the second cup he poured you.
“Well, my lord?” you ask, glancing up. Sukuna’s eyes are already on you. (As they so often seem to be these days.) “Did it live up to your expectations?”
He hums as he considers the question, cracking his neck.
“Not bad, but definitely not worth the entire bookcase you’ve dedicated to it.”
“Sukuna-sama,” you groan, “it’s not my fault you keep receiving them. I am but a humble keeper of your collection.”
He smirks. “My collection could stand to thin.”
“Perhaps you should threaten to decapitate the next person to bring you a copy,” you muse through a yawn.
It’s only when you see how his eyes light up with wicked delight that you realize what you’ve said. Gods, what’s happened to you?!
“And people say I’m cruel,” he purrs. “You’re bloodthirsty, huh?”
You click your tongue, flustered, and stand to set the book on Moriyoshi’s desk - it’ll be a good opportunity for him to practice catalog updates. “I’m not.”
“Have you gotten a taste for it after all this time?” he continues, rising. Stretching those thick tattooed arms. “Is that it, Shika?”
You glance over your shoulder to frown at him, nose scrunching. He’s closer than you expect. (As he so often seems to be… these days…)
“Please don’t mock me, my lord,” you huff. “I’ve given you no reason to.”
“I don’t need a reason to do as I please with you,” he intones.
It strikes you odd. Different. Something in his voice, maybe, or the way he tilts his head towards you. Your stomach flutters, low and deep in your gut.
“And it pleases you to mock me, Sukuna-sama?”
His mouth curves crooked and devilish as he looms over you. “You make it so enticing when you pout like that.”
You can’t hold his eyes anymore; your knees are threatening to buckle. You don’t know what that means, what to do with the rapid tapping of your heart. Breathing feels like a manual process.
Casting about for a distraction, any distraction, you remember that one of your new scribes had requested that you review his notes. You shift away to pluck them up from the desk he left them on.
“I do not pout,” you reply - then remember yourself, “my lord.”
His heat follows. “You do.”
You catch yourself just before you can turn to scowl at him. This may be unfamiliar territory that you’re treading, but you can sense that you’re playing with fire. Perhaps literally.
Entirely distracted, you pretend to skim through the record.
“As my lord says,” you demure.
He snickers at your dry tone, and then - gods in the heavens - leans closer. If possible, you read the report even more intensely but process even less.
“And what has my shika-san’s eyes away from her king?”
“I thought you don’t like when people look at you, my king.”
There’s a beat of silence where you worry that you’ve finally gone too far. But then he hums, deep and low, just by your ear. He must be nearly to your shoulder, you think wildly. You don’t dare turn your head to check.
“It’s a privilege that most don’t deserve.” He still sounds amused. “And your king asked you a question.”
You flip back to the front of the document, willing your hands to stay steady.
“Kuzusuke-san asked me to review his transcription from today,” you explain, “but… honestly, it looks acceptable to me. Unless he’s missing something important that I wouldn’t know about.”
“This is from the concubines?” Sukuna inquires, giving the first couple pages a once-over.
You nod, “I guess one of them complained.”
He makes an aggravated noise, sounding more distant now. “If his work is suitable, then pay it no mind. You have a more important task to complete.”
You’ll look it over again when the spice of his scent isn’t clouding your mind. You turn to him now that you’re confident his face is no longer so dangerously close.
“I do?”
“You must pick a new book to read,” he declares.
You blink, lips parting. A new one?! He wants you to keep reading to him? Not that you didn’t think he enjoyed it - if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have sat with you every evening, listening and commenting. But still… you thought the novelty would wear off when you finished Genji.
“Ah, yes, my lord,” you manage, “what… would you like me to read?”
He waves an impatient hand. “How should I know, you’re the librarian.”
A baffled giggle escapes you, for lack of any other appropriate reaction. His lower set of eyes is half-lidded - though you don’t think it’s with boredom this time.
“As my lord commands,” you say, “I shall have a story picked by tomorrow evening.”
You tell Kuzusuke to be more complimentary, going forward. Lady Katsumi is silent for about a week.
One morning, Uraume wraps you in an exquisite crimson kakumaki in defense against the cold.
Lady Katsumi sends a handmaid to complain that Kuzusuke’s records are sloppy and too vague. You advise him to be as detailed as possible, even if it’s tedious. When the same handmaid returns two days later, you assign another scribe to help supplement his records. The handmaid doesn’t return.
Your blood-stained and rather overused fan is replaced with one that you know by now is bone. There’s a lavish, gold-leafed painting of your favorite koi from the pond in Sukuna’s garden.
Lady Katsumi makes a personal appearance in the library. She’s resplendent in layered silk, dripping with gold and silver jewelry, accented by jade and coral ornaments. Long, thick, glossy hair to match her immaculate ohaguro, and piercingly shrewd eyes.
Her attendants look like they were dragged out of bed far too early to dress her so nicely to intercept you before court.
She tells you that Kuzusuke’s handwriting is too ugly to transcribe for her. She demands another, so you assign Hiratake, who puts on a brave face when she snaps at him to follow her back to her quarters. Kuzusuke at least waits until the entourage is gone to cry his relief.
You’re sitting off to the side of Sukuna during a feast, painting an unflattering caricature of a curse user you think poorly of. Noticing your concentration - or perhaps even more bored than you - Sukuna hooks his fingers under the lip of your seat. In one long, slow, spine-tingling pull, he slides your chair (and by extension you) to his side.
He glances at your little art project and smirks. “His forehead should be bigger,” he says.
You hum and start all over again, this time making the curse user’s head bulbous and shiny.
For the first time - possibly ever but at least since your promotion - everyone survives that feast.
Another of Lady Katsumi’s handmaids returns to the library two days later, complaining that Hiratake asks too many questions. You advise him to just fade into the background as much as possible, and write only what he sees and hears.
A new tribute is brought before Sukuna. When this happens, he has you pull records to compare with previous offerings, partially to decide if it’s acceptable. This time, he motions you close to read over your shoulder - quicker than listing items aloud, granted. But the disparity in heights has you perching carefully on the arm of his throne.
When a bottle of sake piques his interest among the inventory, he cracks it open right there.
“Not bad,” he muses, glancing into his half-empty cup. He presses it to your bottom lip and, lacking another course of action, you drink.
When it’s empty, you hum appreciatively. It’s sweet and crisp, tastes a little like apricots. Sukuna brings the bottle to that evening’s reading session.
Lady Katsumi reportedly bursts in around midday later that week. You wouldn’t know because you’re not there, still sitting in court with Sukuna. Apparently, she’s got a number of complaints that all seem to amount to Hiratake being an insufficient scribe.
By the time you hear of it, it’s far too late in the evening for you to be patient. Exasperated, you switch him out for the last of the scribes on your staff, Masayuki.
Sukuna’s in a foul mood. You’re not sure what’s sparked his temper this time, but you keep your fan handy. He calls an end to court even earlier than usual and storms to the archery range. You, as always, follow at his elbow with Uraume.
He doesn’t speak for a long time, firing arrow after vicious arrow at squirming targets. Without anything to transcribe, you sit and begin weaving blades of wilting grass together.
“I’m guessing you haven’t learned any skill with weaponry,” he says after he’s painstakingly “finished” three “targets.”
He sounds calmer now, at least, and his expression when he half-turns towards you is simmering rather than boiling. You absently offer the tiny basket you’ve crafted.
“You’re correct, my lord. I learned how to arrange flowers instead,” you answer.
He snorts, lower set of eyes tilting with amusement as he inspects your miniature craft.
“I will teach you when it’s warmer,” he says. “Your fingers will freeze before you hit a target in this weather.”
You nearly ask why. Instead, you challenge him to make increasingly difficult shots, and he proceeds to make every single one. The showoff.
Lady Katsumi approaches Uraume, saying that Masayuki makes her feel unsafe - though she doesn’t provide any specific or punishable instances of behavior.
Considering the nature of this particular issue, it’s brought to Sukuna for judgement. He crosses his arms as he listens to Uraume’s secondhand account, one set of eyes on the ceiling, the other askance at seemingly nothing. Then he turns to you.
“Is Masayuki a problem?” he asks.
You certainly don’t know him well, but you can understand how a complete stranger might balk. He’s taller and wider than the other scribes, and has a gruff speech pattern. But you’ve also seen the careful way he holds his calligraphy brushes and how he looks at Moriyoshi.
“He can be intimidating, but it’s not on purpose,” you say finally. “I would be surprised if he… regarded any woman.”
Sukuna makes a “huh” noise - that’s a new one you gleefully tuck away in your mind.
“Fine, give her one of the other two,” he says, not realizing that you’ve already done that.
You simply nod, at your wit’s end. You send Kiro as a temporary placement while you figure out a more longterm solution - it usually takes a few days before she starts complaining.
As luck would have it, Sukuna has a meeting planned three days later. Normally, you would sit in on any meeting as a witness to any deals or promises made. (Not that Sukuna is beholden to anything but a pact - but he likes to know precise wording for the purpose of being the menace that he is.) However, this meeting is with a sorcerer, one that’s apparently expressed a desire to defect.
“It’s a trap, isn’t it?” you ask curiously.
He shrugs. “Probably.”
It will be futile regardless, you know. Just an opportunity to kill more annoying sorcerers. And if, by some slim chance, the offer is sincere, Sukuna won’t pass up the allure of corruption and betrayal.
“You’ll stay here this time,” he explains. “Sorcerers are a pain in the ass, who knows what stupid shit they might try with you there.”
You haven’t gone a single day without Sukuna in… months. Nearly a year. The prospect makes you uneasy now, when you once would have felt bone-melting relief. But it is an opportunity to investigate this ongoing problem with Lady Katsumi.
“Try not to miss me too much, Shika,” he coos with a smirk.
You fix him with a blank look and do your best impression of Uraume. “I shall do my utmost, my lord.”
He cackles.
You trudge to the harem’s wing with Kuzusuke and Hiratake that morning. Kiro was once again near tears with relief and Moriyoshi was apologetic as you prepared your supplies. You wave away their concern while tucking ink bricks into the pocket of your mo.
Lady Katsumi has her own private chamber in the concubines’ sprawling quarters. She really must be favored, despite Sukuna’s scoffing. Or (more likely) he just can’t be bothered by the social underpinnings of such gestures.
Reflective of the woman herself, it’s richly furnished and decadent, every piece carefully selected and positioned to display opulence and refined taste. The air is so sweet that you can feel a headache already brewing. Never did you think you’d miss the sour odor of curse guts.
“My scribes’ work has been insufficient for the lady,” you explain, “so I’ve come to understand what improvements can be made.”
She glances at you in the silver mirror she’s poised in front of, the final touches of her ensemble being clasped and pinned in place. If you had blinked, you would have missed it, but there’s animosity roiling behind her serene facade. It’s as unexpected as it is unwarranted, but you shrug it off.
“So thorough,” she croons, “I see why my king has tolerated you for so long.”
You hum, a noncommittal but passable response while you date the beginning of the day’s record.
What proceeds is the single most infuriating handful of hours you’ve experienced since coming to Sukuna’s estate. It reminds you of those years before, when you were still a nobleman’s daughter. Here in the concubine’s wing - or at least with Lady Katsumi - that culture of doublespeak, backhanded compliments, and needle-sharp barbs is alive and well.
It’s like nostalgia’s loathsome cousin. You quickly come to understand why Kiro and Hiratake were near tears when you relieved them of this particular duty.
You’re forced to sit through an extended tea ceremony and a poetry reading. Then dragged through the frosty gardens, not at all prepared for the chill and denied the opportunity to fetch your kakumaki. She takes lunch but titters that it’s unsightly for servants to dine with higher stations, and you are too busy serving her to excuse yourself besides.
You wouldn’t think it was personal - after all, she’s done nothing but clap and snap her fingers at every servant unfortunate enough to be within hearing distance. However, you’re not blind to the hostile and disparaging looks she repeatedly scans you with. Even if it is targeted for some reason, you still don’t take it to heart.
When she’s done eating, she demands to read through your notes thus far. You offer them without a word.
She barely glances at it before clicking her tongue. “What is this ink? It is so cheap.”
“It is what Uraume-san has provided,” you answer. It’s also not cheap, you’ve seen the seal on the artful boxes they come in.
“I’ve heard there is a red one,” she says, “that color more befits my station.”
You tilt your head, amused. “That is the ink Sukuna-sama has chosen for himself.”
The implication is clear - if she persists, she is likening her station to Sukuna’s. And that is a death sentence. No one here is loyal (or scared) enough that such a slight will stay within these chambers.
She must realize it because she stills, eyes widening in equal parts anger and uncertainty. But she recovers impressively fast.
“Very well, perhaps blue,” she says breezily, “his majesty finds me quite fetching in blue.”
“Perhaps,” you agree, only just leashing your sarcasm.
The corners of her mouth pinch anyway.
There’s flower arranging, then music while she paints. You transcribe it all as faithfully and thoroughly as you would for Sukuna, borrowing lessons from court days to pass the time as it drags.
“You are by far the least annoying of Sukuna-sama’s scribes,” she observes apropos nothing, voice sugary.
You don’t look up from a painstaking description of the tea she’s drinking. “A high compliment,” you remark, flatter than is polite.
“Perhaps you should be my scribe from now on,” she continues, “surely it must be under consideration, if he’s let me borrow you for the day.”
Your bite the corner of your mouth to curb a chuckle. Somehow, the idea that Sukuna loaned you out is so outlandish it’s funny. He’s not exactly renowned for his charity and magnanimity.
“Yes, I think I’ll ask Sukuna-sama to give you to me,” she muses brightly. “He denies me nothing, especially when I remedy his travel tensions.”
This time, you can’t help it, you snort. It’s loud and rude and unmistakably mocking. From this last journey you took with him, he made it abundantly clear that the only remedy he desires after travel is the onsen and strong sake.
Lady Katsumi’s eyes narrow as she lowers her teacup. “You dare doubt the king’s generosity?”
“Certainly not,” you reply, irony audible. “In fact, I can ask him when I’ve finished transcribing for him tonight. You’ll have plenty of time to prepare your… remedies.”
Her face twists. Suddenly. Violently.
You’re so taken aback that you don’t react in time. Her bejeweled arm winds back, then hurls her half-empty teacup at your head. She aims true.
Exquisite ceramic shatters across your right eye.
Jagged shards flay your brow, cheekbone, eyelid - and the thin, gelatinous membrane of your cornea.
A scream rips from what feels like your very soul. The pain is beyond excruciating. Not even the white-hot yet burning-cold you’ve rarely experienced. It’s something else, something defying any of the pretty words now emptied from your howling mind.
You didn’t know that agony was a complete sentence until now.
Your hand flies up on protective instinct, in vain. Something hot and wet coats your palm, seeps between your shaking fingers, slides along the tendons of your hand.
It doesn’t feel like blood, you think hysterically, it doesn’t feel like blood.
It’s smearing across your cheeks, streaking down your jaw, and dripping from your chin.
In your panic and pain and horror, you don’t hear what Lady Katsumi is saying. She’s speaking, voice like poison-tipped needles, but you can’t make out the syllables. Can’t understand anything over the ragged sounds spilling from your throat.
Until you hear a new voice. A voice you recognize. A voice that, despite every reason telling you otherwise, brings relief. The pain doesn’t subside in the slightest, but somehow it becomes more bearable.
You try to open an eye. Your only eye, now. The thought brings a fresh wave of misery.
“Sukuna,” you choke out.
His shadow cloaks you, an immovable barrier between you and the room. Through swimming vision, you make out the watery lines of his tattoos. The maw of his stomach is baring its fangs, snarling. You can’t make out his face.
A large, firm hand circles your wrist. The one protecting the gaping wound in your skull. A whimper shakes free from your raw throat. You resist an unexpectedly gentle tug.
“I can’t…” you sob, shaking. “It hurts…”
Another hand steadies your swaying body, firm at your waist.
“Drop your hand,” he says. His voice is low and hard, each word articulated slowly. Purposefully. “Let me see.”
Despite every fiber of your body crying against it, your arm goes lax and Sukuna guides it down. A third hand takes your chin between between thumb and forefinger, tilting your head back.
His features are still blurry. You can just make out the tense line of his angular jaw, and the muscle ticking there. The top pair of his eyes are tight around the edges, but carefully blank, matching the smooth set of his brows. But the lower pair… the lower pair blow wide when they see the damage. And they burn.
Sukuna leans down, leans close. The smoke and spice of him mingles with the copper of blood. The severe line of his mouth parts. His tongue, hot and slick, flattens against your cheek and drags. Follows the sticky-wet mixture of blood and tears and fluid, all the way to the corner of your ruined socket.
You watch through your remaining eye as his pupils dilate. Ink spilled into blood.
Your mind falls silent. Still.
The pain retreats like the rush of a tide. In its place, a discomfiting tingle, akin to falling asleep on your arm, begins to radiate across your face.
“There now,” he rasps, giving your chin a tiny shake. “All those tears over a few scratches.”
At some point, your free hand curled around his wrist. Perhaps an aborted attempt to stop him (though the urge never even crossed your mind, and you wouldn’t have been able to besides) but more likely seeking stability.
“Sukuna…” you mumble.
“Open your eye, Shika.”
Your heart leaps when you find that you can.
You’re staring up at Sukuna with both eyes wide, vision clear. The shredded skin around them stings, but it’s nothing, absolutely nothing to what you felt before.
“Oh,” you whisper, hoarse, “I was just panicked… how silly.”
His eyes flicker. You’re still too frazzled to parse what it means, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen this expression on his face.
“Silly,” he echoes. It almost sounds like agreement. (You know it’s not.)
The hand still around your wrist tightens fractionally. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be a reassuring gesture or a tiny sliver of the storm brewing behind his eyes, slipping out.
“Uraume.” He calls. “See to my shika’s wounds. I will find you both. Later.”
“Yes, Sukuna-sama.”
A white shape at the edge of your restored vision steps closer, but doesn’t intrude. Sukuna still hasn’t released you. You draw in a slow breath, what feels like the first in a long time. You squeeze his wrist slightly in return.
“Welcome back, my king.”
He releases you all at once, leaving you momentarily unbalanced. But he doesn’t remove your hand from his arm, doesn’t step away. You find your footing, unlatch your fingers, and force your weak legs to turn towards Uraume. Whatever you look like - and it must be truly awful - it makes their usually stoic face twitch. The temperature seems to plummet.
As soon as you begin wobbling away from Sukuna, their hand curls tightly in the sleeve of your kosode and drags you away.
Sukuna remains behind. A final glance over your shoulder reveals Sukuna, staring at your blood pooled on the floor and Lady Katsumi frozen, wide-eyed and gray, standing by her tea table.
Uraume doesn’t take you far. One wing over, weaving through chambers and halls to avoid the busier engawas. You follow along quietly, focusing on the unnatural chill of their hand in yours to stay tethered. Your efforts are unsuccesful.
It seems that between one blink and the next you’re in an unfamiliar room, warm and quiet. Uraume sits you on a cushioned stool.
Another blink and they’re leaning over you with a warm cloth, dabbing at the cuts around your eye. That numbing tingle returns, one by one, then fades like a dream. In its absence, you feel nothing but water cooling on your skin.
“There,” they says, satisfaction in their voice.
A third blink and they’re pressing a hot cup into your hand. The welcome taste of sencha washes over your tongue and soothes your sore throat. You sigh, tension leeching out of you with every sip.
They press a steaming rice bowl into your hands when you’ve finished your tea. You spare a thought to protest, afraid you won’t be able to stomach anything - but one glance at Uraume’s expression and you swallow any refusal with the taste of nori. It stays down.
Once the bowl is empty - or at least empty enough for their posture to soften - Uraume helps you stand again.
“A bath,” they explain when you hesitate.
They slide open a shoji door, revealing steps down to a private stone onsen. You’re left to undress in privacy, with promises to bring a towel and fresh clothing. The heat makes you shudder; you didn’t realize how cold you were until now.
You sink gratefully into the depths and settle on the little shelf carved out as a bench. Your mind drifts for a long time, gaze focused on nothing while you massage the various stains from your hands. Thoughts float to the surface like dead fish, flashing their pale bellies with blood-soaked images.
The animosity in Katsumi’s eyes. The tight press of her painted lips. The twist of her features. That fraction of a second as the teacup hurtled towards you, and you realized what was about to happen.
You banish each one with the memory of Sukuna standing there. Shielding you, protecting you. Easing your pain and fear.
It’s so fantastical a concept that you almost dismiss it as a hallucination. But you remember the firm, grounding press of his hands on your body, the searing heat of his tongue on your cheek.
Ryomen Sukuna healed you.
Almost unconsciously, you raise your hand to your face again. Tremulous fingers brush featherlight over your eyebrow, eyelid, cheek, temple… and find nothing. No scratches or cuts, just bits of dry blood that Uraume couldn’t get without rubbing at your skin more vigorously.
You don’t know what it all means. Lady Katsumi’s hostility. Sukuna’s care - and to a lesser extent, Uraume’s. Every action and reaction seems displaced or hyperbolic. A fire ignited by the smallest spark, onto timber you don’t remember collecting. You scour your mind for answers and discover none in the wreckage of your composure.
Well. You’re no philosopher or scientist. You’re just a bookkeeper - Sukuna’s bookkeeper. Perhaps that’s explanation enough.
Sighing, you open your eyes and drop them to your clean palms.
Two thick, dark bands circle your wrist. The one Sukuna was holding.
As it turns out, the unfamiliar bathing chamber that Uraume brought you to is Sukuna’s. After everything else - after he healed your eye instead of reveling in your pain - this is somehow the easiest development to swallow.
Sukuna enters as Uraume is finishing a braid in your wet hair. You’re dressed, and clean, and calm now. And when he approaches, you’re warm too.
His expression is as impassive as you’ve ever seen it, even his lower set of eyes gaze at you steadily, unreadable. No blood on his skin or clothes. You tilt your head back to address him as he stops, as close as he was in Katsumi’s chambers.
“How was the meeting?” you ask.
His arm curls around your waist and begins lifting you from the stool. But before you can get your feet under you, the lower arm loops under your thighs. He scoops you up, raises you until your shoulders are just above his.
You open your mouth. He tilts his head and presses his nose into the column of your neck. Words flee like startled birds. Strands of peach hair feather across your jaw and ear, ticklish. Hot breaths caress the sensitive skin of your throat. He inhales, deeply.
“Sukuna-sama?” you murmur, more curious than alarmed.
He shifts. Lips graze the tender hollow beneath your jaw. They part. You think, for just a fraction of a second, that you feel the wicked points of his teeth.
“A trap, as I said,” he rasps.
It takes you a moment to recall your question. You hum, mouth curling in a small but genuine grin. “As you said, my lord.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” There’s no heat - well, no angry heat - in his voice.
“I’m not,” you huff, amused at his audible offense.
“Then you’re mocking me.”
“Never, my lord.”
He hums, pulls back far enough to scowl at you properly. It’s a fearsome expression; you should be afraid. (You’re not.)
“I thought you once said you wouldn’t insult me by lying,” he says.
“And I have not,” you promise, “does my king doubt me?”
His eyes don’t waver. “No.”
Your hands hover over a freshly bound volume. The cover has been treated to a mellow tan shade, a slight sheen of polish where the candlelight hits just so. The edition number is imprinted across the front and the spine in bold, precise Tensho. It could be mistaken for normal leather.
Splendid work, truly.
“Shikako-san, would you like me to shelve that for you?” Kiro asks.
You blink, glance at him. Only the twitch of his fingers betrays his nervousness. All of your assistants have been a bit skittish since… well, since.
“Set it on an empty shelf,” you say, offering it across your desk, “these are the records I’ve taken for Sukuna-sama so far. More will follow.”
“Ah,” he says. He’s especially gentle as he takes it despite the new, strong bindings. “Are congratulations appropriate for this?”
You hum, noncommittal. “Not necessary, but thank you, Kiro-san.”
You turn back to your court preparations, sure that you were just imagining the sweet, cloying scent clinging to the volume.
Your new quarters are steadily, and not entirely by your own volition, being filled. Pieces of Sukuna’s tributes begin finding their way inside. (Well, more accurately, they show up outside the door and you feel compelled to bring them inside.)
A large, luxurious rug with patterns and colors you admired aloud. A beautifully glazed tea set that your fingers lingered on when you poured a cup for Sukuna. Paintings that caught your eye. An armoire for your steadily growing (and colorful) wardrobe. You already have a private book collection stacking up on a stately writing desk.
It’s farther from the library, but Uraume doesn’t mind helping you wake a little earlier, especially since your chambers are on the way to Sukuna’s.
Your reading and writing sessions begin taking place in his sitting room, since the weather’s taken a turn for the frigid. Sometimes you share a couch, thighs pressed together. Other times, he drops onto the tatami mats by your chair and leans his muscular shoulder against your calf. Once, he sits you between his thick thighs with your back to his broad chest, so that he can rest his chin on your shoulder and follow along.
The minuscule part of you raised on propriety and modesty balks and flails at this change in your interactions. Like most traditions and social expectations, Sukuna gleefully smothers it with hands that toy with your hair. You settle into it a little easier, a little quicker, each time. You even come to expect it, leaning into him.
He sends you to bed every night with a smirk, knowing you can’t sneak away to stay up in the library. Not with him so close. That doesn’t necessarily mean you sleep as soon as you return to your own room, though.
It’s only because you’re so detail-oriented that you notice how empty the halls are each morning and every evening. Surely, with your quarters between Sukuna’s and the concubine’s wing, you expect to hear one or more of them passing. You never do; perhaps they’re just too quiet to detect. (You don’t think about shadows you never see moving beyond the wall.)
There’s a festival on the horizon, and the estate is abuzz with preparations.
Sukuna is pleased by both the unapologetic hedonism of celebration, and the opportunity to corrupt a traditionally religious event. As long as he’s not bogged down with tedious decisions and monotonous logistics, that is. For the most part, he just sits in on those meetings for posterity. You, however, are always dutifully taking notes (and doodling when the vassals in charge of planning argue) usually while sat on his lap.
Most of the record-keeping of finer details are left to your assistants. They seem equal parts harried and excited by the busyness of the festival schedule. You provide them support and direction when needed, and take those assignments that put them within devouring distance of the less trustworthy curses organizing things.
Those curses might even have considered taking advantage of you, were it not for the unmissable black bands around your wrist. Because they decorate the arm of your writing hand, and you must pull your sleeve back to keep it out of the ink, they’re always on display. Bold and unmistakable, an exact match to the ones on Sukuna’s own wrists.
You’ve caught more than one of his sycophants gawking at them, but none ever dare to question aloud. (Mind, you’ve also caught Sukuna himself staring at them. Repeatedly. Though using “caught” is a misnomer because it implies guilt. You doubt Sukuna is even capable of such a feeling.)
In all honesty, you can’t recall ever interacting with a curse (other than Sukuna) one-on-one until now. You were rightfully terrified of them before, and they had no reason save predation to approach you. Things are different, even if the exact nature of that difference still eludes you.
They regard you with a certain respect now - or at least a healthy dose of precaution. They maintain an arm’s (or appendage’s) length from you, and keep their eyes always trained over your shoulder. If you didn’t know better, you’d think some of them were even scared.
As the date draws closer, the masses flock to the town hosting the festivities. Fewer make the perilous voyage to the estate itself, humans and curses alike, hoping to be permitted to stay. You don’t understand it - or at least you would not have, once upon a time. They do not know Sukuna as you’d like to think you do, so you can’t fathom why they’d take the risk.
Not that it’s truly any concern of yours. You’ve no time to muse on the folly of others, your hands are full enough as is.
Perhaps too full - you forget yourself, and the nature of this place you live in.
It’s evening and you’ve gone to fetch a new story to entertain Sukuna. Your assistants have been excused for the evening, most other servants are preparing to retire. The halls are empty. Deserted.
You turn a counter and nearly collide with someone, only just stop short and stumble around them.
“Oh!” you say. “Apologies, I didn’t hear you coming.”
The man standing in front of you is taller than you, though not nearly as imposing as Sukuna. He’s muscular, bald, and tanned, wearing a leathery black… apron, of some kind. He only just arrived today, you think, Sukuna had some interest in his craftsmanship. Something about bones, maybe?
“Oh, it’s…” he starts, but then he sees you and his eyes widen, “it’s you…”
The corners of his mouth start stretching and curling.
“Me?” you ask, uneasy.
“So fine and delicate,” he murmurs, almost to himself. That awful smile keeps growing. More deranged. More manic. Deforming the dark markings around his eyes. “I could make so many beautiful things with those bones…”
You dredge your voice up from the pit of your stomach, where it dropped along with your heart.
“I’m sure you could, but it would be foolish to try.”
“Shhhh.” He starts reaching towards you. “Bookshelves don’t need to speak.”
You jerk back, heart racing, and raise your arm protectively. The sleeves of your kosode and uchiki slide down your forearm.
“Neither do maggots.”
The man freezes. Your eyes flick up to the monstrous shadow behind him, find the four scarlet eyes glowing in the darkened hall. Your would-be attacker’s eyes begin to water, as they finally notice the black circles on your wrist.
“Or dead men,” you mumble.
“My clever shika,” Sukuna purrs.
Four large hands clamp onto the mans arms, two each, just above the elbows.
“R-Ryomen S-S-Sukuna-sama,” the man chokes out, whimpering.
And then Sukuna pulls. It’s terrifyingly fast, and yet just slow enough to be agonizing. First skin tears, then muscle. Tendons and ligaments snap, thick and wet. And finally the joints of the man’s shoulders yield, disconnecting from their sockets with a squelching pop.
You squint at the sight and fold your arms protectively over your book. Take a step back to avoid the blood spray.
The severed limbs flop when they hit the ground, grotesque. You only cast them a cursory glance, the disgust vague and distant after all this time. The body, bleeding and twitching but still alive, follows with a louder thump.
You turn back to Sukuna just as his gaze lock onto you.
Your mouth opens thank him - only for the breath to be knocked out of you. Dizzy and disoriented, it takes a beat to realize you’re horizontal, and the surface against your back is soft.
You blink, dumbstruck, at Sukuna’s face looming over yours.
“Helpless woman,” he growls, “how many ways must I show that you are mine?”
You don’t think he’s expecting an answer - if he is, then he robs you of the ability when he ducks his head and bites. A yelp jumps from your throat. Your hands latch onto the closest support, which just so happens to be the corded muscle of his lower arms.
More startled than pained, you squirm and gasp as he clamps down harder. Bruising but still not breaking skin. His tongue laves over the flesh between his sharp teeth, hot and deliciously dexterous. A low groan rumbles from his chest, more felt than heard, shaking you to your foundations.
He’s breathing hard, you realize. Hard and fast, puffing hot by your ear.
“Sukuna-sama…” Your voice is breathy and high, unfamiliar. “W-what…?”
You can’t finish the thought as he pulls away - though not without licking a stripe up to your jaw, teeth grazing. You feel as if the air has been stolen from your lungs again. His eyes are glowing, more pupil than iris. His lips are shiny with saliva, wicked fangs peeking out.
“All the times you have spoken to me,” he intones, “and this is the first time your clever tongue has faltered.”
You blink at him, head spinning. He’s so close. You’ve long grown used to the raw power that radiates off him but this is something else, writhing and hungry in a way it’s never been before. You’re all too aware of your heart pounding against his broad chest, giving you away.
And you have no idea what to say. Surely you’ve stuttered in front of him before… you just can’t think of any instances. Can’t think of anything really.
“I-I don’t… Sukuna-sam-ah!” The moan what spills from your lips is utterly embarrassing, loud and lewd, provoked by the thick thigh wedged between your own. Pressing tight and hard right where you’re starting to ache.
“My name,” he demands. There’s something almost desperate prowling at the edges of his voice. “Just my name. Say it.”
You drag your tongue over your bottom lip, watch the way his bottom pair of eyes fixate on it.
“Sukuna,” you whisper.
All four eyes snap back to yours.
“Again.”
“Sukuna,” you murmur.
His top pair of arms snatch up your wrists and pin them to the mattress. The dry riiiiip of fabric accompanies a rush of air across your overheated body. Something (big) presses hard against your hip. You shiver, but you’re not cold.
“Louder,” he snarls.
You feel movement from his abdomen. Realize what’s happening just as that unnatural mouth parts, and saliva drools onto your bare pelvis.
“Sukuna,” you moan as a slippery tongue laps between your thighs.
An inhuman sound rips from his throat as he tastes the arousal already dripping from your sex. Your eyelids flutter, hips twisting and twitching, not sure if you’re pressing into the unfamiliar pleasure or shying away from the intensity of it.
His mouth, his proper mouth, crashes into yours and swallows the noises that pour from you in earnest. The tongue that dominates yours mirrors the curls and flicks of the one lavishing your cunt with attention.
His hands are everywhere, pinning your shoulders to the bed, squeezing your thighs, massaging your breasts and thumbing your nipples. It’s so much, too much, but you’re too busy sucking on his tongue to do anything but whine about it.
When he breaks this kiss, all four of his eyes are half-lidded, radiating lust. He chases the taste of you across his swollen lips.
“I’ll have you screaming my name by the end of this,” he promises.
The tongue between your legs presses flat. You’re embarrassed that your hips instinctively rock against it, clumsy and needy.
“Th-that’s obscene,” you babble.
His grin is crooked and absolutely wicked. “Compliments won’t save you now, little one.”
You mewl as two of his hands grip your hips and hold them still. That ravenous tongue starts a slow, torturous circuit. Slow and covetous around your clit, then dragging down to your virgin hole, teasing with delicious pressure, threatening to dip inside.
“Look at me.”
It’s a struggle, especially when that damned mouth won’t stop. (You think you might cry if it did.)
“You’re going to come on every finger that stretches you,” he says, voice deeper and darker than a moonless night. “And if you’re still conscious by the time I’m done, I’ll fuck you on one of my cocks.”
You boggle at him. “O-one of…?”
The chuckle you get in response is mean.
You don’t even have a chance to insist, because his tongue curves back up to that bundle of nerves and grinds. You’re vaguely conscious of a hand leaving your hip, fingertips skimming down your thigh, to your knee, before looping back up to play in the wetness pooling from your entrance.
“Always so observant,” he coos.
His hands are much, much bigger than yours. Even if you indulged in masturbating more than occasionally before now, you don’t think it would have prepared you. The stretch isn’t frightening enough to make you clench up, at least. It still makes you keen, grasping at one of the arms planted on the mattress by your head.
“Theeeere we go,” he purrs, languid and smug, “already so tight, precious girl. How does it feel?”
“G-Good,” you hiccup, “so… so good. I don’t think I’m going to…”
“What’s this? Already?” he chuckles - then outright cackles when he notices how you clench at the sound. His finger crooks inside you, stroking your walls with every pump of his arm, unhurried. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you hold it. At least not tonight.”
That dark promise winds you up even tighter, even faster. Coupled with the rhythmic undulations of his tongue and the devilish, curling motions against your sweet spot…
You come so fast it leaves you lightheaded, a tidal wave of euphoria that washes over you, leaves you gasping and limp. It’s almost gentle for how quickly it takes you.
Sukuna works you through it until your back is flat to the bed again. Your limbs are tingling, skin sensitive.
He drops a biting kiss to your collarbone. “That’s one.”
That’s all the warning you get before he withdraws his hand, only to return with two fingers already slippery from a mix of saliva and your own slick. Riding the buzz of climax, you barely feel the stretch of them being tucked inside.
You are, however, very aware of them flicking against your overstimulated walls.
“I-I can’t,” you gasp.
“You can,” he promises, “and even if you can’t, you will.”
You writhe beneath him, mind blank as fresh parchment, swept up in sensation beyond anything you’ve experience before. Not like this.
He pumps his hand faster, harder. His tongue flicks cruelly at your swollen clit, over and over and over again, until you swear your heart beats in time with every hot lash.
He palms one of your breasts roughly, dips down to take a nipple into his mouth, scraping his teeth over the aching peak. It feels better than it has any right to, like there’s a direct connection to your fluttering pussy. Winding you up, and up…
The mouth on his stomach closes around your clit and sucks, then licks at the trapped little bud.
There’s nothing gentle about this orgasm. It crashes into you like a tsunami, sweeping you away in a rush of ecstasy. The hand not clawing at Sukuna’s forearm pushes insistently, helplessly at his shoulder. He just huffs in amusement and shoves his fingers as deep as they’ll go.
In the aftermath, you’re a trembling, panting mess. Incoherent, overwhelmed. Blessedly, his movements slow and then stop. Finally, you can breathe. You swallow past a dry throat and try to focus your vision.
When the image of Sukuna sharpens, your heart stops. He looks as ravenous as when this all began.
“One more, I think,” he muses, “you’ve been so good, you deserve to be spoiled. Don’t you, Shika-hime?”
Your face burns.
“Sukuna,” you warble, “d-don’t call me… don’t s-say that.”
But you recognize the unrestrained greed in his eyes, the sadistic pleasure curling his lips.
“What was that?” he snickers. “It’s just like a princess to be so ungrateful, hm?”
You feel a finger prodding at the tight, puffy seal around his other two. A hysterical mix of anticipation and dismay sears through your veins and springs your shaky limbs into action. You try to scramble back, up the bed, away, anything.
But you should know better than anyone. With Sukuna, there is no escape. And there is no mercy.
He only needs two hands to pin you immobile, writhing and pleading nonsense. He starts fucking you on his hand again, abusing your poor walls with ruthless strokes, and starts working another finger inside.
The stretch is noticeable this time, mostly just pressure but even the slight sting complements the excessive pleasure at this point. It doesn’t stop you from tucking your face into his forearm as you dry sob. Even for all that, your legs wrap around that tapered waist to keep him close - as if he’d go anywhere when you’re suffering so exquisitely.
“Oh, listen to those pathetic noises,” he mocks, “you can do better than that.”
His tongue licks around your entrance, keeping his movements slick and easy as he works you over faster, harder, fingers pounding at that swollen spot inside you. In its place, the thumb of a different hand presses against your clit and rubs viciously, up and down and in tight circles.
Your leg kicks out, a reaction you’re not entirely in control of. His free hands clamps down on your ankle and jerks your leg wider. You feel exposed, displayed. His fingers hook inside your entrance and jerk. Your lips part on a soundless scream.
A palm wraps around your throat, his thumb and forefinger cupping your jaw. Only just tight enough to make a claim, to make you feel it. He angles your head, leans closer, and spits directly on your tongue. You swallow, cunt spasming at the lewdness.
He buries his fingers deep just as he strikes your clit with the flat of his fingers.
Tears build and spill as your vision crackles, a high-pitched cry of his name filling the room. All you can think, all you can understand anymore. You feel weightless, outside your own body, overwrought and incandescent in a way you don’t think humans were meant to be.
You’re not even finished with your third orgasm when you realize, with dawning horror, that the weightless feeling isn’t just your mind strung out. Sukuna’s hands are holding you, maneuvering you. There’s a distant rustling sound, and then your sore pussy is being absolutely violated by an impossibly thick cock.
You know better than to waste your energy on frivolous things like escape or begging. Instead, you do as any intelligent being does when directly in the path of Ryomen Sukuna’s conquest. You surrender.
Your arms slink over his shoulders and loop around his neck, nails biting into hard muscle. Hiding your face against his neck, you breath in the heady scent of his lust, and distract yourself with mouthing along his rumbling throat.
You sink down bit by torturous bit, willing yourself to relax, to yield. The worst part, you think to yourself, is that it still feels sinfully good.
Something presses against your stomach, wet and sticky. When you peek down, you choke out a stupid noise. There’s a twitching, leaking cock rubbing against your abdomen… but there can’t be anything but a cock splitting you open now.
Which means… which means…
One of my cocks, he said.
Even you aren’t sure if the moan that comes out is wanton or miserable. Either way, it makes Sukuna laugh into your hair.
“Halfway,” he soothes. At least, you think it’s meant to be soothing, though it misses the mark because you already feel stuffed full.
You squeeze your eyes shut again and set your teeth against his collarbone, biting as he guides you down… until you finally stop. You swear you feel him in your throat.
“I think I deserve a reward for my generosity,” he says - and perhaps it’s supposed to be a drawl, but right now he sounds borderline deranged. “Don’t you?”
“Ngh!”
His fingers dig into the plush of your hips and thighs. He lifts you up until you’re halfway off the length you took so long to take… and then he drops you. And then he does it again. And again. Faster, faster, harder. Until he’s bouncing you like a toy, like an object for his own pleasure. He’s not even straining with effort, tilting his head back with a gutted groan, proclaiming his pleasure to the ceiling.
When his hips starting thrusting forward to meet you on each descent, you realize why he chose the bottom of his two cocks. The shaft of the other one glides over your clit with every movement, and shows him exactly how deep he is in your guts.
Tears streak down your cheeks again, all of it too much, too intense, but perfect.
He fucks you straight through another, pitiful orgasm, your rippling cunt only serving to encourage him to keep going. Your hands rake over his back and shoulders, no sense for how hard, only that it makes it all bearable, somehow.
You’re not even surprised when another orgasm tails the last, but the strange, sharp pressure makes you squirm, makes you whimper. It builds and builds, inevitable as the sunrise, and finally bursts. A flood of liquid splatters the two of you, drips onto the blankets below, and sets Sukuna off into a final series of brutal, bone-rattling thrusts.
His teeth sink into your shoulder and break skin this time as he hilts himself inside you. Every twitch and spurt feels magnified to your overused nerves. You don’t even feel the bite he just took out of you. Part of you even feels endeared by it.
But most of you feels deeply, viscerally satisfied as your eyes slip closed and your mind goes dark.
The festival lasts three long days and nights. There’s drinking and feasting, singing and dancing and music, skilled craftsmen showcasing their talents. Fireworks streak through the cold evenings and each morning brings delicate layers of frost and snow. Merriment prevails, even with the congestion of human bodies attracting curses in the streets.
You spend the first day planted on Sukuna’s lap, every part of your body deliciously sore and shoulder aching pleasantly. He’d laughed when he noticed your unsteady legs and stiff steps that morning, excused you from your usual duties to avoid an extra trip to the library.
Kiro transcribes in your place that day, recording the brave troupes that wait their turn to entertain the king of curses. You are tasked with attending to Sukuna’s appetites between performances, offering sake and feeding him decadent foods. He snickers every time his teeth snap dangerously close to your fingertips, and you always level him with an unimpressed look.
The second day, you are feeling recovered enough to accompany Sukuna to the festival grounds. A wide and respectful path parts well ahead of him, making it easy for you to stay by his side in the crowd. He takes - doesn’t buy, of course - anything that catches his (or your) fancy from the stalls. You end up with a beautifully illuminated manuscript, a new collection of ink in various colors, and jingling silver hair pins.
You show your appreciation that evening in Sukuna’s private onsen, riding each of his massive cocks in turn. His big hands guide you until your body adjusts to the rhythm he prefers - fast, rough, and hard. He keeps his face buried in the crook of your neck, tonguing the bite mark healing on your shoulder. Sharp nails scratch stringing lines over your ass and thighs, little pinpricks when he squeezes that make you gasp and moan.
You come apart on him twice before he spills inside you even once, cheated by the clever thumb that toys with your throbbing clit. He clicks his tongue when you get teary after the third, body shaking with exhaustion and doing little more than wriggling in his lap. He lays you flat on the cold stones and takes his pleasure from your limp and willing body, your knees hooked in the crook of two arms. The upper ones.
You expect the third day to be the one he most enjoys - and he does, though not for the reason you expect.
It’s slated to be a tournament series of fights between curses, curse users, and a handful of unfortunate sorcerers taken hostage. Exactly the type of bloody entertainment that Sukuna savors.
You should be busy recording the event as best you can, given you only have your human eyes to follow the action. Instead, when Sukuna drags you onto his throne to straddle his thighs, he tosses your writing materials aside. You can already feel him hard and pulsing against the small of your back.
A powerful arm bands around your waist, while two other hands sneak between the layers of your uchiki and kosode. He’s deliberate about it, keeping your body hidden from view by fabric but leaving no casual observer to question what’s happening.
“My lord, the battles…?” you whisper, face hot enough to steam.
“Boring,” he declares, “this is far more interesting.”
Calloused fingers part your pussy lips, glide down to your defenseless hole, still tender from the previous night. Yet, damningly, you know you’re already soaked. You feel his lips part in a mad grin, teeth pressed to the nape of your neck.
“Oh? What a hypocrite, shika-hime,” he whispers in your ear, “it seems you don’t care much for the battles either.”
You bite back a whimper, nails scraping across one of the skulls decorating the arm of his throne. It’s true, you’re not seeing a single thing in front of you. You’re too hypnotized by the cruel movements of his hand. He keeps dipping just the tip of his finger past your entrance, teasing, occasionally circling back up to your clit until you’re trembling with the effort to stay still.
By contrast, you feel him shift behind you, reclining against the back of his throne. He’s leisurely with his touch, almost mindless. Absent. When you glance at him from the corner of your eye, his chin rests in one of his palms, eyes half-lidded in the general direction of the ongoing fight.
Your body can only take so much. You know it, and he knows it. When it becomes obvious that you’re on the knife’s edge of orgasm, he speaks, though his voice stays pitched low, just for you.
“If you make a single sound, I’ll kill every person that looks this way.”
As a general rule, you don’t like unprovoked death on your behalf. You try to remind yourself of this with each whine and keen you swallow back while pleasure seizes you in wave after wave.
A shuddering breath spills from your lips as you come down, the danger passed. Until two fingers plunge into your still-twitching cunt.
You bite into your bottom lip hard. He’s relentless, keeping you still and flush against him, tapping at your pleasure spot over and over. At this point, you wouldn’t risk drawing attention to yourself even to flee.
“Sukuna,” you whisper in his ear, “please…”
He slides you a sly look and tsks. “So spoiled. Very well.”
His fourth hand smothers your mouth. The relief is short-lived. The skin touching your lips morphs, parts. A slick tongue curls around yours, teeth nipping. It’s a filthy makeshift gag but you wouldn’t complain even if that unnaturally long muscle wasn’t down your throat.
The hand that’s been methodically fingering you senseless retreats. You know better than to hope. You’re still not prepared for the wet slap against your sensitive clit. It’s loud, but the sounds of the fight are thankfully louder. He does it again, and again, an inaudible chuckle with every irrepressible jerk of your body.
Three fingers spread you open again. The palm pressed to your mound shifts in a way you recognize, and you brace yourself as a new tongue wiggles alongside his fingers. You suck on the one licking into your mouth when another orgasm shudders through you. It leaves when your jittery hand grasps at his wrist, needing air, even shaky and uneven as it comes.
Your eyes fluttered closed at some point. Now, you’re too afraid to open them - someone must have noticed by now, surely. Unless the fear of Sukuna’s wrath for looking upon him without permission is stronger than the morbid curiosity of what he’s doing to you here, in front of everyone. You hope that’s the case; it won’t stop Sukuna either way.
His fingers drag as they leave you. A promise that he’s not done with you yet.
You hear fabric rustling behind you and squeeze your eyes closed tighter. Oh, you are going to be ruined if he doesn’t stop, you’re far too sensitive. He can’t, he can’t. No, no, no, no no no…
“Keep your voice down,” he reminds, sounding amused, “unless you want this festival to end in a massacre.”
He hums contemplatively as he lifts you. Just enough to notch the flared, leaking head of a cock at your entrance.
“Maybe it should,” he muses. You sink down as quickly as you dare, knowing you’ll forget yourself if he draws it out. “My shika-hime gets so wet for her king spilling blood, doesn’t she?”
His cock pulses. Without even moving, he’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, making your cunt hug tight around every vein and ridge. You’re already well on your way to another orgasm.
“Sukuna,” you whine quietly, tucking your face against his neck, “d-don’t say things like that.”
“You dare order your king?” He sounds horrifically delighted. His finger begins tap-tap-tapping, like it does when he’s annoyed, except he strikes your clit every time. “I ought to punish you for your insolence.”
Punishment is no bluffing matter - so why does it make you clench down so tight that even Sukuna groans?
“You’re not allowed to come again until I give you permission.”
Knowing him, that may not be for the rest of the night. Your stomach tightens. He keeps drumming his finger against your tingling bud.
“I-if I do…?” you venture.
The sadistic grin that curls his mouth nearly sends you over the edge right then. Why is that so attractive? Anyone else - anyone with sense - would be terrified. Or at least not aroused by their own terror.
“You’ll become the entertainment,” he answers, greed and anticipation thick in his voice, “I’ll let them live just long enough to see you break on both my cocks. And then I’ll fuck you in the lake of blood left behind.”
You believe it. Sukuna doesn’t make threats; he makes declarations.
“Y-Yes, my king,” you gasp, digging nails into your palm.
He hums, deep and raspy. “Keep behaving, perhaps I will let you come. Eventually.”
His finger starts spiraling over your clit again.
You manage to hold on just long enough for him to demand you finish, so that he can feel your pussy strangling his cock.
He still kills a handful of nosy onlookers, but you’re too blissed out to notice.
The year turns over. You’ve grown used to the feeling of Sukuna touching you, always. Whether it’s just a hand on the back of your neck, or his entire hulking body flattening you against the nearest surface. You learn the pattern of his breathing in the morning. Find a new fascination with the silky fall of that sakura-pink hair.
More rings of vicious teeth begin to decorate your skin. Bruises speckle the canvas of your flesh like stars. The slight ache between your thighs is ever-present but you never quite become accustomed to the exhilarating stretch of his cock.
That doesn’t stop you from being tempted by the promise of both.
When you bashfully approach them, his harem is kind enough to offer their collective wisdom. They sit you down in the library with scrolls illustrating positions, adding their own experienced advice to the diagrams. You’re pleasantly surprised by how quick they are to aid you; you hope it’s not entirely due to the incident with Lady Katsumi.
“Shikako-san is very brave,” one of them compliments, squeezing your arm. (You don’t fail to notice how she carefully avoids the markings on your wrist.)
You don’t really get it, but you smile at her anyway.
Later that evening, when you pause your usual reading to nervously admit to your little tutoring session, Sukuna practically coos. He bends you over the couch right there and introduces your tight, untouched hole to the pleasures of a skilled tongue. And then a finger, rubbing his own cock through the thin membrane separating your clenching channels.
The next time they visit, several of the concubines thank you. For what? You have no idea, but you’re happy that they’re happy.
As the weather warms, Sukuna makes good on his promise to teach you archery. You’re abysmal at it the first few times you try, owing to his teaching method. That is to say, pressing himself tight to your back and adjusting your technique by hand. It doesn’t help that you’re so unexpectedly turned on by the pitch of his “teaching” voice and the sternness of his touch.
The hard bulge that always presses against your back assures you that he’s not unaffected either.
Alas, that doesn’t stop him from mocking your difficulties learning. Luckily (and much to his glee) you become quite responsive to his condescension as well. Especially when he ends each lesson balls deep inside you, an arm or hand around your throat.
With the turn of the season, your nightly reading rituals evolve as well. Sometimes, Sukuna picks up where you left off the previous evening, making use of his mouth while yours is stuffed full of cock. He seems disproportionately amused that you insist on swallowing his spend, unwilling to risk stains on the books. (You think you’d faint from humiliation if you saw them noted in one your assistants’ catalog descriptions.)
You’re delighted when the koi pond finally thaws, revealing the graceful sway of fins and scales you’ve been missing. Sukuna indulges you every time you ask to visit, sprawled on blankets in the sprouting grass while you lean against the prop of his leg to read.
He takes his reward for his charity one bright evening, a full moon heavy in the sky. The light spills over the ridges and curves of carved muscle, forms a halo behind his head. Deceptively divine.
There’s nothing holy about the hunger in those glowing eyes, the saliva dribbling from the corners of the maw in his stomach. Those cruel hands have wrought enough suffering to make the heavens weep, and that wicked tongue would gorge on the tears.
You don’t long for blunter nails scoring your ass, or gentler teeth nipping your throat. You don’t yearn to escape the rough palms that splay your thighs wide. You arch into every possessive squeeze and press. Welcome his brutal cock into your aching pussy with moans that echo only pleasure.
You twist and shake with each impatient finger that stretches your other hole, pacified by the hand rolling your clit in distracting circles. You don’t need him to speak, don’t need sweet platitudes or honeyed encouragement, when the savage growls bubbling from his chest are praise enough.
When Sukuna finally tilts back to line his cocks up with a hole each, you can only brace, knowing you’re not nearly prepared enough, regardless of any physical pain you may feel.
Your mind whites out as both heads press, press, press - and pop past resistance. Babble spills from your gaping mouth, half-words and raw little “ah” sounds, loud and uninhibited. His fingers rub across your lolling tongue, the flavor of slick is cloying; you can taste your own desperation.
He half-thrusts once, twice, gaging. Then finally forces himself as deep as he can go, carving a space inside you. Delirious, you think there must be some sort of cursed technique at play here, because the human body simply can’t be built to take him. If your cervix were an obstacle, he’s easily surpassed it.
You feel conquered, owned, possessed. The bands around your wrist tingle. He twists his head to mouth at them and (completely unrelated, you’re sure) your eyes water. A reedy little “please” slips from your lips.
Sukuna draws back and slams home again without restraint.
He’s going to break you.
“I’ll put you back together,” he breathes, only just audible over the obscene, wet noises of your coupling. “Just like before.”
You nod like a puppet on a string, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. He hunches over you, two arms beneath your shoulders to keep you from sliding up the blanket. Forcing you to stay, to take it. Between the panting and the slap of skin and the crescendo of ecstasy rushing in your ears, you hear him.
“Mine,” he rasps, snarling and savage, “not permitted to die… you’ll stay mine… by my side...”
You whimper, “Yes, yes, yes! My king… ‘Kuna.”
At the next festival, a curse corners you on your way to check on your assistants.
“You’re just a human,” it burbles. Spindly, lecherous hands paw at the air as it draws closer. “He won’t miss one human, one servant…”
You snort, snapping your fan open to wave away the putrid stench of it.
“I’m not a servant,” you correct, as the curse is spontaneously diced into neat cubes. “I’m the shikako.”
