I reblog only the finest morsels tumblr has to offer in the fanfiction department, meaning anything that tickles my pickle and makes me go hehe yippee!
dear fanfiction authors - I want you.
for realsies tho, all you heroes out here in the trenches, fighting the good battles, tearing through word documents and note apps and what have you so we can bust all over the screen to peak erotic literature - check your bed. i am in it.
(also huge shoutout to fluff and hurt/comfort!!!!!! i been going THROUGH IT lately, and while I usually just want an anime character to spit in my mouth, a 12 hour cuddle marathon doesn't sound too awful)
never played COD because im broke as fuck, however it does not matter, as the freak transcends my financial situation. the aforementioned mask kink is debilitating and life threatening, thank you for your concern.
currently rewatching season one of jjk where ill probably stay forever because i dont want any of my meow meows or husbands dying. (edit: moved on to season 2 and quit the moment dadaman exploded)
supernatural enthusiast, carry me to bed my wayward sexyman or something like that.
sometimes i experience full body possession, draw a hot man and go to sleep for a hundred years. might post that who knows.
sum: you get sent into a mission with Sukuna once again, because Yaga is a son of a bitch. Things go as they usually do, but when you both leave the battle grounds, something has changed. Not something, someone. Sukuna is acting even weirder than his usual unbearable self.
tags: fluff, true form sukuna, everyone is alive and teaching on jujutsu high, yeah sukuna too, you and sukuna are worse than sukuna and gojo in the bickering, this curse is a damn parasitic piece of shit, some yearning happening right there if you pay attention.
Part One: Tainted Love | Part two: Fake Out. | Part Three: Heartbreak Feels So Good
art by: @lacquerheadd
You are starting to think Yaga actively enjoys making your life harder.
There is no other explanation for why, out of every capable sorcerer on staff, he keeps pairing you with Sukuna.
Not Gojo, who would at least turn the whole thing into a joke and buy you coffee after. Not Nanami, who would be quiet and efficient and get the job done with minimal nonsense. Not Shoko, who would smoke through the paperwork and call the whole thing stupid with enough honesty to make it tolerable. Not even Suguru, who has the patience to stand there looking disappointed until people correct themselves.
No. It is always you and Sukuna.
You and the strongest sorcerer in history.
You and the most insufferable bastard currently breathing.
You and the man who looks like a calamity given shape — two meters of muscle and old violence, four arms, four eyes, black markings cutting over his skin like deliberate blasphemy, a mouth in his stomach, arrogance in every movement like the world itself should be grateful he has not split it open.
You hate how he talks to people. You hate the way he looks at colleagues like they are barely worth acknowledging. You hate how he acts like being right excuses being unbearable. You hate how he can do almost anything better than anyone else and never lets anybody forget it.
Most of all, you hate that Yaga keeps looking at both of you like this arrangement is somehow useful.
“He responds to you,” Yaga had said once, standing in his office with his hands folded behind his back while you stared at him in disbelief.
“He responds to me because I tell him to go fuck himself.”
“Yes,” Yaga had answered, completely serious. “That.”
You had looked at him for a long moment, then pointed towards the window, towards the rest of the school grounds as if the answer might be outside.
“There are students here. Children. Young people trying to learn. Why would you keep sending me as if I’m his goddamn handler?”
“Because,” Yaga had said, calm as stone, “when Sukuna gets excited in the field, collateral damage rises.”
“And that’s my problem...?”
“It becomes everyone’s problem.”
You had wanted to strangle him.
Instead you had left with your mission file and a headache already forming, knowing exactly how the day would go. Sukuna would be waiting somewhere he had no business standing, probably with that bored look that made it seem like he found all of this beneath him. He would say something cutting within the first thirty seconds. You would snap back. He would smirk, because apparently pissing you off counts as entertainment. Then you would head out, do the job, and try not to kill each other before the curse did.
That is exactly how it goes.
The abandoned lot lies on the edge of the city, boxed in by half-demolished warehouses and rusting chain-link fences. Wild grass pushes through broken concrete. There are whole stretches where the ground has caved in, exposing older foundations below, damp and black and threaded with cursed residue so thick it prickles over your skin before you even step past the police tape.
The reports say several missing persons over the last three weeks. Homeless people mostly. Two thrill-seeking teenagers. One contractor who ignored every warning and came in after dark because he thought urban legends were good fun until one of them bit him in half.
You stand with your hands in your pockets while the veil settles over the property and mutter,
“This place smells like shit.”
Beside you, Sukuna tilts his head slightly, scenting the air with that infuriatingly calm expression.
“Special-grade adjacent.”
“Glad the mighty king of curses can identify the obvious.”
His upper right hand flexes once, like he considers swatting the comment away and decides against it.
“You should be grateful I am here at all.”
You snort.
“I was doing fine before you decided to become faculty.”
His gaze cuts to you, all four eyes narrowing just enough to say he has noticed the wording.
“Doing fine.”
“Mm.”
“You sound unconvinced by your own lie.”
“And you sound exactly like why I hate staff meetings.”
One of the corners of his mouth lifts. It is the expression of someone amused in a way that promises trouble.
“Stay out of my way,” he says.
“You first.”
Then the ground ahead bursts open.
Concrete erupts in a spray of dust and jagged chunks. A shape drags itself up from the collapsed trench beneath the lot, huge and slick and wrong, all fused mouths and jointed limbs, too many eyes opening across its torso as though a dozen separate curses have been forced together and told to breathe with the same lungs.
It lets out a wet howl that vibrates through the air and into your teeth.
Sukuna steps forward like he has just been offered dessert.
You grab the back of his uniform before he can launch fully into it.
“Hey.”
He glances back over one shoulder.
“Remember,” you say flatly, “the job is exorcism. Not redecorating half the district.”
His sneer deepens.
“You insult me.”
“I babysit you.”
That earns you a low, ugly chuckle, and then he moves.
Watching Sukuna fight is always an ugly kind of miracle.
You hate admitting it, even in the privacy of your own mind, but the truth of him in battle is impossible to deny.
He does not simply engage a curse. He dominates space around it. The entire field shifts to him, bends around his presence, becomes his terrain. It’s mesmerizing to watch how mercurial he becomes as he fights.
The thing lunges and he slips aside with contemptuous ease, lower right hand catching one limb, upper left hand tearing another off at the joint.
Black blood sprays.
The curse shrieks.
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
You swear under your breath and move in before he can get too carried away, cursed technique flaring hot and bright along your arms as you carve through the mass splitting away from the main body. Smaller appendages skitter over the broken concrete, each with snapping teeth, trying to circle behind him and burrow into the blind spots he barely has.
You destroy three in quick succession, pivot under another, and shout,
“Left!”
“I have eyes,” Sukuna says, but one of his hands snaps out anyway and crushes the crawler before it reaches him.
“Use all of them, then.”
You hate him a little more every time you have to watch him enjoy himself.
“Are you done fucking around yet?” you shout, voice carrying over the crash of rubble.
All four of his eyes cut up toward you for a second. The upper pair narrows. The lower pair looks almost amused.
“Come down and do it yourself, then.”
You grit your teeth so hard your jaw pops.
The central body of the curse rears back. One of the mouths in its chest stretches open far wider than anatomy should allow, cursed energy building at its core.
You feel the surge a heartbeat before it fires.
“Sukuna!”
He does not dodge.
Of course he does not dodge.
He plants his feet and meets the blast with a grin that makes your stomach drop, as though the worst thing about him is not his strength but the way he enjoys using it. The impact tears a trench through the lot, pulverizing a warehouse wall behind him, and smoke blooms upward in a thick black cloud.
When it clears, he is still standing there.
Mostly.
His uniform hangs in scorched strips off one shoulder. Burned skin peels back along his side, already knitting itself together under reversed cursed technique, steam curling off him in ghostly streams. One of his eyes blinks through blood. His stomach mouth stretches in something like delight.
You stare for half a second too long.
Then he launches himself into the curse’s open chest.
The lot becomes carnage.
You do not know how many minutes pass, only that your lungs burn by the end of it, your forearms ache with the recoil of your technique, and the entire property looks like a bomb testing site.
The giant curse lies in sections. One piece still twitches. Sukuna stamps his heel through it with almost lazy finality.
Silence comes back in ragged pieces.
Dust drifts through the low evening light. The veil trembles and begins to dissolve. Somewhere beyond the lot, traffic resumes its distant hum, indifferent as ever.
You push sweaty hair out of your face and glare at the destruction.
“Yaga is going to have an aneurysm.”
Sukuna rolls one shoulder. Fresh skin has already replaced the worst of the burns. His eyes remain on the remains of the curse like he is still listening for another round.
“Then he should have sent me alone.”
You give him a look.
“So you could level the entire neighborhood?”
“It would have been faster.”
“It is always ‘faster’ with you. Then someone has to explain to the authorities why half the block vanished.”
He says nothing to that. He only stands there, breathing slow, steam fading from his skin.
That is when you notice something is off.
Not because he is quiet. Sukuna can be quiet, but it's the sort of quiet that makes people nervous because it is never truly absence, only restraint.
This is different.
The fight is over. He should either be needling you or insulting the curse for not being worth the trouble or looking half a second from demanding another hunt just to work the restlessness out of his system.
Instead he is staring.
Not at the remains.
At you.
You frown.
“What.”
His gaze does not move.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
His upper hands flex once at his sides, and for a strange, disjointed second he looks like a man listening to a conversation happening very far away. Then he clicks his tongue and turns from you.
You stare after him.
“What,” you repeat, more to yourself this time.
He does not answer. He only starts walking toward the exit gate.
You tell yourself it is nothing.
You tell yourself he is always odd. That trying to parse Sukuna’s moods is a guaranteed way to ruin an evening. That you are tired, sweaty, and already late getting back to campus, and the last thing you need is to start inventing new ways the king of curses can be bizarre.
By the time you both return to Jujutsu High, night has settled properly.
The school buildings sit under warm exterior lights, calm and orderly in a way that feels almost insulting after the wreck you just left behind. Students move through the corridors in pairs and clusters, some heading back from training, others from evening study. There is the usual mix of chatter and half-suppressed teenage chaos that clings to a boarding school no matter how many cursed objects or monsters exist around it.
You want one shower, one hot drink, and several hours where no one says the name Sukuna anywhere near you.
Instead, you stop by one of the halls because Suguru catches sight of you through an open classroom door and waves you in.
You lean on the frame, arms crossed.
“You look too relaxed. That means either your class went well or Gojo is somebody else’s problem tonight.”
Suguru smiles in that infuriatingly composed way of his.
“Both, actually.”
“Disgusting.”
Three of his students snicker. He ignores them.
“How was the mission?”
“Awful. Filthy lot, ugly curse, Sukuna in a fantastic mood which, as you know, is the worst possible mood for him.”
Suguru’s mouth tilts.
“And yet you are intact.”
“Barely.”
You start to step in fully, already reaching for the back of a chair, when the room shifts.
No. Not the room.
Your awareness of it.
Like someone large has entered your orbit without making a sound.
You turn.
Sukuna stands in the corridor behind you.
Not speaking. Not moving. Just there.
Weirdo.
Four eyes fixed on you.
You stare at him.
“Can I help you.”
“No.”
“Then why are you looming.”
“I am standing.”
“You are being weird.”
One of Suguru’s students abruptly remembers they have somewhere else to be and bolts. Another follows. Suguru watches the exchange with the kind of calm interest usually reserved for storms visible through safe windows.
Sukuna says nothing.
You wait.
He keeps looking at you.
A slow crease forms between your brows.
“What the fuck do you want.”
His expression shifts, faintly, like annoyance at the question itself.
“Nothing.”
“Then leave?” you feel yourself almost snapping from how infuriating this man is.
He does not.
Suguru coughs into one hand, definitely hiding amusement.
“Maybe,” he offers mildly, “he has something to discuss.”
“Then he can discuss it like a person and not like a haunted wardrobe.”
Sukuna’s gaze flicks to Suguru, then back to you.
“You speak too much.”
“You are welcome to fix that by walking away.”
He still does not leave.
You end up standing there another ten seconds just staring at him before you realize this will go nowhere. You ignore him, then, and keep talking to Suguru. Sukuna is still there, not speaking, not leaving, just occupying the space at your side like some huge, unsettling piece of furniture that breathes.
You turn again, already irritated.
“What, Sukuna?”
He looks at you in that same strange way he did at the lot. Intent and still. All four eyes fixed on your face and he seems to be fighting an internal battle you don't wanna know about.
Suguru shifts beside you.
Sukuna’s mouth curls just slightly, not quite a smile.
“Nothing.”
The answer lands wrong once again and you want to rip his face off for it. Instead, you stare at him.
“Then fuck off.”
He stays there another few seconds, then opens the door to the building when you move toward it.
Holds it. Actually holds it.
You stop short.
He lifts his chin, impatient now, as if you are the one making this weird.
You go through because standing there arguing about a door would somehow be even more humiliating. Suguru follows behind you, and you hear him exhale through his nose in quiet disbelief.
Later, when you pass the teachers’ lounge, there is a cup of coffee on the desk you usually steal from.
Black, no sugar. Exactly how you take it.
You look around the room.
Nanami looks up from grading. Shoko is half-asleep in a chair. Gojo is sprawled across the couch in a way that should not be physically possible.
“Did one of you—”
“Not me,” Shoko says without opening her eyes.
Gojo grins, too quick, too wide.
“You’ve got an admirer.”
“Shut up.”
Nanami adjusts his glasses.
“It was Sukuna.”
You stare at the coffee like it might be poisonous.
“He sneered the whole time,” Gojo adds helpfully. “Which somehow made it worse and funnier.”
You do not drink it immediately. You spend almost a full minute glaring at it first, eyebrows pinched so tight your forehead hurts. Then you drink it anyway because you are tired and the coffee smells good and you refuse to let him ruin caffeine for you too.
That evening in the cafeteria he corners you near the drinks machine.
There is no better word for it.
He does not touch you, he is simply too large, too close, too solidly there.
One second you are reaching for a canned tea, the next he is in front of you, broad shoulders blocking the aisle.
Students scatter without being told.
You keep your expression flat through effort and sigh.
“What.” you ask again, flat, thinking of how many times you're gonna have to ask him what the fuck is he doing in a single day.
He tilts his head, studying you.
“Come with me tonight on a date.”
You bark a laugh before you can stop it because what the actual everloving fuck.
“No.”
His upper right eyes narrow.
“You declined too quickly.”
“I’d rather eat a brick than going out with you.”
There is a beat of silence. Then, incredibly, he tries again.
“Tomorrow, then.”
You actually look behind you, just to check if Gojo is hiding somewhere filming this for blackmail.
When you turn back, Sukuna is exactly where he was, waiting.
You feel your eyebrows drawing together again, and now you are actually feeling yourself worry a bit.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He does not answer that either. He only watches you, gaze tracking every tiny shift in your face like he is memorizing it.
You step around him and leave.
It gets harder after that.
Every hallway seems to have him in it. Every room. Every conversation.
You are talking to Shoko in the infirmary and he appears in the doorway, says nothing, leaves only when you do. You are reviewing lesson plans with Nanami and he passes by three times in ten minutes despite having no reason to be in that wing at all.
By the time you find Gojo leaning against the training field fence after class, you are already keyed up and meaner than usual.
“There’s something wrong with him,” you say.
Gojo, for once, does not joke immediately. He watches Sukuna across the field, where he is standing utterly still while first-years pretend not to stare.
“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”
“He keeps following me.”
“Mhm.”
“He asked me out, Gojo.”
Gojo’s grin flashes, then fades when he sees your face.
“Okay, yeah. That part’s new.”
You fold your arms hard over your chest.
“Whatever happened in that lot, it didn’t end there.”
Gojo grows a little more serious then, eyes hidden behind his blindfold but attention unmistakably sharp.
“Suguru thought so too.”
“Is it possession?”
“Maybe.” He tips his head. “He’s less murderous than usual.”
“That’s not really comforting.”
“No, I know.” He pauses. “He’s focused, though. Weirdly focused.”
“On me,” you say flatly.
“On you,” he agrees.
Your stomach sinks a little at hearing it aloud.
The day keeps going. You teach. Or try to.
The students are restless, the evening humid, the classroom too warm. Chalk dust clings to your fingers. You are in the middle of explaining the structure of a barrier technique when the door slams open hard enough to hit the wall.
Suguru stands there, breathing a little fast.
Every head in the room turns.
“Come with me,” he says.
You blink and stare at him, wide eyed.
“What?”
“Now.”
Something in his face empties your lungs.
You hand the chalk to the nearest student without even looking.
“Read the next section. Quietly.”
No one argues. Suguru is already crossing the room, already grabbing your arm, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that it is clear you are moving whether you agree or not.
The corridor outside is too loud.
Banging. Splintering wood. The sharp, ugly sound of impact from somewhere deeper in the building. Another crash follows, heavier this time, and the floor trembles under your shoes.
You wrench your arm back just enough to keep pace beside Suguru instead of behind him.
“What happened?”
He keeps moving.
“Don’t stop.”
“What happened, Suguru?” you try again, hating the suspense.
Another impact. Closer.
Students are being herded the opposite way by other teachers, pale and wide-eyed. The fluorescent lights overhead shiver.
Suguru finally answers, voice clipped.
“Sukuna lost his mind. He thinks we want to keep him from his wife.”
Your blood runs cold.
A roar of ruined plaster tears through the hall ahead. Then a body comes through the wall to your left in a burst of dust and broken concrete.
You jerk back so hard your shoulder smacks the lockers.
Gojo rolls with it, hits the ground, comes up on one knee already grinning like a lunatic even with blood at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, that’s fun,” he says, wiping his lip with the back of his hand.
You stare at the ragged hole in the wall, heart pounding high in your throat.
Heavy footsteps.
Not hurried. Not wild.
Heavy and deliberate, each one shaking dust from the ceiling.
Suguru moves half a step in front of you without seeming to.
“Satoru,” you call, because your voice is the only thing you can hear clearly.
He stands, brushing concrete grit off his shoulder.
“We think something latched onto him during the mission.”
Your head whips toward him.
“What kind of something?”
“The annoying kind.”
Another step.
The outline filling the ruined classroom beyond is too big to be anyone else.
Four arms. Too many eyes reflecting in the powdery light.
Tattoos cutting dark over skin and bared muscle where his uniform top has torn at the shoulder.
He looks at no one else.
Only you.
Your mouth goes dry.
Suguru answers the question you have not yet managed to ask.
“It seems to have rooted itself in a fixation. And that would be his wife.”
You hear your own voice, thin with disbelief.
“What wife?”
Sukuna steps through the broken wall.
Concrete snaps beneath his feet. Dust clings to his shoulders and hair. There is a shallow cut across one cheek that is already closing.
Suguru responds with something you refuse to believe,
“You.”
“What?” You laugh once, breathless. “What the fuck do you mean, me?”
Gojo cracks his neck to one side.
“We think the curse hit the first person he properly focused on after the fight.”
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
Sukuna keeps walking.
His face is wrong in a way you cannot fully explain.
Controlled, but stretched over something feverish and absolute, like a man having a dream with his eyes open.
The hallway suddenly feels too narrow, too bright, too full of dust.
Gojo lowers his voice a fraction.
“We need time.”
You tear your eyes off Sukuna long enough to glare at him.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
“How much time?”
Another step. Closer now. Sukuna’s gaze does not waver.
Suguru says,
“Not much.”
You hate both of them for making you understand before they say anything else.
Your tongue feels thick.
“So I’m bait.”
“No,” Gojo says, "I mean..."
“Yes, I am.”
Neither of them answers.
That is answer enough.
You inhale once, too sharp, lungs burning with plaster dust and adrenaline. Your whole body is telling you to run, but that would be worse. You know it. They know it. Sukuna would tear through half the school to catch up, and then you would still end up here except with more blood in the hall.
So you step around Suguru.
Behind you, both men tense.
Ahead of you, Sukuna stops.
The silence that falls is almost worse than the noise.
You have to tilt your head back, craning your neck to look at him fully.
Up close he is ridiculous, monstrous in scale and presence, all brutal strength and heat. Your pulse is beating so hard you can feel it in your gums. He smells like dust, sweat, iron, the sharp ozone tang of cursed energy.
His eyes drag over your face like he is checking for injuries.
When he speaks, his voice is low and rough and terribly certain.
“Will you stop avoiding me now?”
Your eye twitches.
Of all the possible things he could have said, that one nearly makes you laugh from sheer disbelief.
“You are destroying a school hallway,” you say. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “And throwing teachers through walls.”
His expression does not change.
You force yourself to keep going.
“If you want me anywhere near you, you stop doing that first.”
For a second you think it works. He goes stiller, somehow. Listening.
Then you add, because someone has to try,
“You are cursed, Sukuna. There is something wrong with you.”
He scoffs.
Then, something happens so fast your body does not understand it at first.
One moment you are standing in front of him, furious and shaking and holding your ground on principle alone.
The next the floor is gone.
His hands are on you, one pair lifting, another securing, and suddenly your stomach drops as your body is hauled clean off the ground.
You hit his shoulder with a hard jolt that knocks the air out of you.
“What the fu— put me down!”
The world swings sickeningly. One of his arms braces the backs of your thighs to keep you from slipping while another settles heavy across your back. You can feel the heat of him through your uniform, the impossible solidity of muscle under skin.
You twist enough to glare back over his broad shoulder.
Gojo and Suguru are both staring.
Dust drifts lazily through the hall between all of you.
You do not dare say don’t fight him.
Do not dare say wait.
Do not dare say I am fine, because you are very much not.
So you settle for a look sharp enough to cut with.
Hurry the fuck up.
Suguru’s face hardens in understanding. Gojo’s grin is gone now, replaced by something colder.
Sukuna turns and starts walking.
You slam a palm against his back once, more insult than actual resistance.
“This is kidnapping, you know?”
“You were leaving.”
“I was not.”
“You were going to.”
“I teach here, asshole!”
“So do I.”
The absurdity of it all almost makes you choke.
The half-destroyed hallway lurches past beneath you as he carries you through it like your protesting means nothing at all. Broken plaster crunches under his feet. Teachers and students vanish from doorways the second he looks their way.
Night air spills in from somewhere ahead, cooler now, carrying the smell of rain and pine from the grounds.
You hate how helpless this feels.
You hate how your body is learning the shape of being carried by him against your will, cataloguing every hard line and shift of motion because it has no choice.
Hate the helpless bounce of each step.
Hate the strain in your stomach from trying not to panic.
Hate that you cannot tell if the shaking in your hands is fear or anger.
Probably both.
By the time he crosses the threshold out of the school building, the sky has deepened to indigo.
Campus lights are beginning to flicker on, pale and sterile against the trees.
You look back once over his shoulder.
The ruined corridor is now only a bright wound in the darkened building. You cannot see Gojo or Suguru anymore. You can only trust they are moving, searching, doing something useful while you are hauled farther and farther from where anyone can intervene quickly.
Sukuna does not head toward the staff wing. He does not head toward the road either.
He takes the stone path that leads toward his place.
Your mouth goes dry all over again.
He adjusts his grip on you, not gentle, not cruel either, just certain, and keeps walking as if this was always going to end with you in his arms and the whole school behind you.
The night feels suddenly huge.
You stare at the dark line of rooftops ahead, pulse hammering, every possible outcome crowding your head at once, and realize with a fresh stab of dread that whatever happens next, you are going to have to face it alone with him before anyone finds a way to stop this.
And Sukuna, maddened and resolute and carrying you like something already his, does not slow down once. You can’t do much, so you start thinking.
Thinking in that situation, unfortunately, is not helping much.
You had assumed the worst. Some locked room. Some insane display of territoriality. Maybe chains. Maybe Sukuna sitting outside a door like a living threat. Maybe a version of his fixation that becomes monstrous the moment there are no witnesses.
His home is large in the way that makes modern luxury seem almost embarrassed by itself. Not ostentatious, not cluttered, but it is expansive, high-ceilinged, clean-lined, expensive enough that you can tell every object in it was chosen and nothing was accidental.
Dark wood. Stone. Low lighting. Wide windows now reflecting the last of evening back at the room.
He still does not put you down until the front door has closed behind him.
When your feet finally hit the floor, you stagger. He steadies you at the waist automatically.
You slap both his wrists away.
“Hands off.”
Every one of his eyes fixes on your face.
Then, unexpectedly, he lifts all four hands and steps back half a pace.
The gesture should make you feel safer.
Instead it makes the room somehow stranger.
Because he is looking at you like restraint itself is painful.
His expression still carries its usual contempt at the edges, the natural sharpness of his face, the habitual sneer of someone made to rule through force. Yet underneath it there is something else working hard to surface. An almost restless pull in his body. His hands twitch once at his sides. Twice. Like he wants to reach and is stopping himself.
You swallow the lump in your throat.
The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable.
So you ask the first thing that comes out, voice low and somehow with real curiosity.
“What the hell is wrong with you.”
He stares.
“You are being impossible.”
“You abducted me from work.”
“They tried to keep me from you.”
“What,” you say, voice hoarse with secondhand embarrassment, “is wrong with your fucking brain.”
His mouth hardens.
“You are being difficult,” he goes on, voice low and rough with that peculiar certainty that only makes this worse. “Skittish. Avoidant. For no reason I can see. It is tiresome.”
You fold your arms, partly defensive, partly because you do not know what else to do with them.
“No reason?”
“You are my wife.” He says it like it is the simplest truth in the world. “You should let me embrace you. You should let me have you beside me as I wish.”
Half of you dies on the spot.
The other half goes up in flames so hot you swear your face could light the room.
You stare at him, unable to decide whether you want to laugh, scream, or throw something. The problem is that none of those responses would help. Not with the curse. Not with the school. Not with Satoru and Suguru buying time back there, trusting you to keep this disaster contained.
So you swallow the first ten things you want to say and force something else out instead.
“I am tired after the mission,” you say carefully, because this is still a game you are playing to keep him contained. “That’s all.”
His eyes hold yours for one long second.
Then he decides, with the ruthless simplicity that is very much still Sukuna, that this has a solution.
You know what he is doing a beat too late.
One moment you are standing.
The next you are in his arms.
Not hauled over his shoulder this time — scooped cleanly up, one set of arms under your knees, another at your back, as if carrying you like this is self-evident.
Your hands fly to his chest on instinct.
“Sukuna.”
“You are tired,” he says.
“That does not mean you can just keep picking me up.”
He looks down at you like the objection itself is irrelevant.
“I can.”
You open your mouth.
Close it again.
Because there is no point, and because he is already walking deeper into the house, and because some traitorous part of your body has noticed how warm he is.
Not warm. Hot.
He carries heat the way furnaces do, deep and constant, a living banked blaze under skin and muscle. It rolls into you through every point of contact.
You hate that you notice. You hate more that it feels good after the tension of the day.
He takes you to his bedroom.
Of course he does.
It is larger than your entire apartment had been in graduate housing.
Wide low bed. Dark sheets. Minimal furniture. Everything precise. The room of a man who does not need excess to prove anything. The curtains are half open, letting in city light in smeared bands.
You tense the moment he lowers you, but he does not trap you against the mattress.
He lies back first.
Then he settles you on top of him.
You freeze.
Completely, absurdly freeze.
Your cheek is pressed against the broad plane of his chest before you can decide where else it should go. One of his upper hands spreads over the middle of your back, heavy and steady. Another rests at your waist. The third braces lightly at your hip, not gripping, just holding your balance. The fourth lifts, pauses near your face, and then tucks a strand of hair carefully behind your ear.
The tenderness of it startles you harder than the kidnapping itself.
You do not know what to do with your face, your hands, your breathing, any of it. Your cheek grows hotter by the second where it is pressed to him, and you are suddenly grateful he cannot see all of it from this angle because if he does you might actually pass out.
He sounds almost practical when he speaks.
“Rest.”
That is all.
Just that.
Rest.
You stay rigid for nearly a minute, every muscle waiting for the catch.
There is none.
His hand on your back begins tracing idle shapes, broad slow passes that do not ask anything from you. The one at your waist only keeps you from sliding when his breathing shifts. Beneath your ear, his heart beats strong and even. No hurry to it. No escalation. No hidden demand.
You stare at the dark fold of his robe and think, in a stunned detached way, that you did not know this existed in him.
Not kindness exactly. Sukuna would spit on the word if someone used it about him.
But care, perhaps. Possessive care. Practical care.
The kind of thing that might surface only under very particular circumstances and then pretend afterward it had never been there at all.
You are so tired.
You do not know whether this tenderness belongs entirely to the curse or if it is only dragging something real out into the open and warping it beyond reason. The thought itself is dangerous. You shove it away.
You should not be wondering what Sukuna would be like with feelings. You should not be wondering whether there was ever a version of reality where he would touch someone like this without madness involved.
That is the problem.
Or maybe it is not the problem at all. Maybe the problem is that you have spent enough time around him over the last years to know the angles of his temper, the cadence of his contempt, the way he stands in a room and dares the world to be worth his effort.
Maybe the problem is that your relationship with him has always existed in clean familiar lines — professional, adversarial, sharp — and now every one of those lines is blurring because he has laid you on his chest like something precious and told you to sleep.
Your phone vibrates against your pocket.
You jolt like you have been caught.
Sukuna’s hand on your back stills.
“Ignore it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“It might be important.”
“It is not more important than your state.”
A pause.
Then, to your surprise, he does not stop you. He only grunts and lets you squirm one arm free enough to fish your phone out. The angle is awkward. You keep your cheek where it is because lifting your whole face feels impossible somehow.
The message is from Gojo.
managed to figure things out w shoko. curse should burn out on its own. keep him contained.
You squint at the screen, then type one-handed with ferocious irritation.
how long
There is a stretch where only Sukuna’s breathing and the faint city noise beyond the glass fill the room. He notices the device again after a minute and makes a dissatisfied sound.
“It distracts you from resting.”
“It is communication.”
“It is annoying.”
“You are annoying.”
That earns the smallest low chuckle, felt more than heard through his chest.
Then the reply comes.
around two days. yaga says do NOT bring him back unless u want the rest of the campus remodeled. sorry <3
You close your eyes.
Two days.
Two whole fucking days.
A fresh message follows before you can even process the first.
seriously though, are u okay?
You stare at it.
Then type back: no
delete it.
Type again: alive
Send.
The phone vanishes from your hand a second later.
You make a startled sound and lift your head just enough to glare. Sukuna has taken it with one of his upper hands and set it on the nightstand far beyond your reach.
“It was keeping you awake.”
You stare at him.
“You cannot just confiscate my phone.”
“I just did.”
“You are a twat.”
His thumb, the one resting between your shoulder blades, resumes its slow path.
“Sleep.”
And maybe it is the day finally catching up to you. Maybe it is the heat of him under you, the steady weight, the way his body is impossibly firm and yet more comfortable than any mattress has a right to be. Maybe it is the bone-deep exhaustion of adrenaline wearing off all at once.
Sukuna makes a quiet sound of satisfaction at your silence. His hand resumes its slow path along your back, tracing idle shapes that have no purpose except to soothe. The effect is immediate and humiliating. You can feel sleep creeping in through the cracks of your exhaustion no matter how hard you try to resist it.
After a while, one of his free hands finds one of yours. His fingers curl around it, big and callused and terribly warm, and that is what nearly undoes you.
You feel it happening and resent it instantly because this is absurd, because you should not be able to drift off draped over the most dangerous man alive, because some part of your mind is still screaming about every level on which this is wrong—
But his hand keeps moving. Slow. Measured. Thoughtless.
Your own body, traitorous bastard that it is, takes that as permission.
You fall asleep.
When you wake, the room is darker.
Not full night-dark. More the strange almost-blue hour before dawn or after it, where shapes exist in softness and the city outside has not fully committed itself yet. For a few hazy seconds you do not remember where you are.
Then you realize you are in a bed that is not yours, wrapped in warmth that is definitely not blankets alone. It takes you a moment to understand that you are no longer on top of Sukuna.
You are on the bed, curled toward him instead, one arm trapped between your chest and the mattress, your face almost buried in the broad wall of his chest. Sukuna is wrapped around you from both sides, his arms forming an inescapable cage.
His body is at your front, at your back, everywhere. You are boxed in by heat and muscle and the steady rise and fall of him breathing.
One arm heavy over your waist. Another tucked beneath the pillows behind your shoulders. A third resting over your thighs to keep you close. The fourth somewhere beneath your head, bent in a way that has caged you in without discomfort.
You lie there and breathe once.
Twice.
The peace of it is almost unbearable.
It feels nice.
That is the part that hurts, because for one dangerous second, you forget.
You forget the curse. The school. The fact that this is not normal, cannot be normal, should not make your chest feel this unbearably full.
All you know in that second is peace. Warmth. The strange, heavy comfort of being held like your place is meant to be exactly there.
If you let yourself stay in this feeling too long, if you let yourself believe the quiet and the warmth and the impossible steadiness of him mean something you are allowed to keep, you will be an idiot. Worse than an idiot.
You will be someone building softness out of a curse.
Out of a mistake lodged in a monster’s head.
Then you move.
Only a little. Just enough to test if you can untangle yourself.
His arms tighten at once.
“Stop wiggling, woman.” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
You go still on instinct, then scowl at yourself for it.
“I need to get up.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You do not.”
You angle your head back enough to glare at the underside of his jaw.
“I need to go home. I need a shower. I need clean clothes. I’m not spending the whole night covered in dust and sweat.”
That gets one eye to peel open. Then another. And another. Then all of them are on you again.
His face, when he finally looks down at you properly, is rumpled with sleep in a way you did not know he could be. It lasts only a second before that familiar disdainful look settles back into place.
“You can shower here.”
You close your eyes.
Sometimes you truly believe he is a moron.
“What would I wear, genius?”
He scoffs, offended by the question itself.
“I have infinite options for you.”
You drag a hand down your face.
At this point, what are your options? You are here. The curse needs time. Yaga wants him contained. Satoru and Shoko need these forty-eight hours to pass without bloodshed. You can either keep fighting every step of it and risk setting him off again, or you can endure it.
So you exhale and sit up at last, helped rather than hindered by the fact that Sukuna immediately releases you the moment he realizes you are not trying to leave the room entirely.
His bathroom is larger than your whole apartment kitchen.
Hot water pounds down over your shoulders and back, washing away the grime of the mission in long, steaming streams. Dust lifts. Sweat goes with it. The ache in your muscles sharpens first under the heat, then loosens bit by bit until you can finally breathe without feeling every bruise and strain from the day.
You stay in there too long on purpose.
Partly because you need it. Partly because you are delaying whatever awkwardness waits outside.
By the time you step out with damp hair and flushed skin, wrapped in a towel, Sukuna is waiting in the bedroom with a folded bundle in one of his hands.
He hands it over without ceremony.
It is one of his kimonos. Light fabric, soft, expensive in a quiet way, and much too large. You put it on anyway because there is nothing else to do. The hem drags. The sleeves swallow your hands. The collar slips wide enough at the neck that you have to tug it back into place.
When you emerge from behind the divider, he looks up.
And grins.
That wicked, knowing grin that makes you instantly suspicious.
“What?”
He looks you over once, slowly.
“It suits you.”
The compliment strikes clean through your guard.
You feel it happen. That awful, helpless rush of heat from throat to cheeks.
Sukuna’s grin widens.
You consider throwing something at his head. Instead you just glare and look away, which only gets you a low chuckle in response, deep and pleased and so uncharacteristically unguarded that you almost trip over your own thoughts.
He takes you to the kitchen next.
You expect arrogance there too, maybe uselessness, maybe the kind of man who has a beautiful kitchen he never touches because someone else does it for him.
Instead he cooks.
Quickly, efficiently, with the ease of someone who knows where everything is and uses it often.
Steam curls up from the pan. Oil hisses softly. Aromatics hit the heat and bloom into something that fills the whole room and makes your stomach tighten painfully with sudden hunger. He moves with the same economy he uses in battle, no wasted gestures, no hesitation, just one precise action flowing into the next.
You sit at the counter and watch despite yourself.
“You cook?”
He cuts you a glance.
“Do you believe I live on air?”
“I believed you lived on spite.”
That earns a low scoff that might almost be amusement.
When he sets the bowl in front of you, it looks simple. It tastes anything but.
The first bite makes a helpless little sound leave your throat before you can stop it.
He notices immediately.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“Good?”
You hate how easy honesty is when the food is this good.
“Annoyingly.”
He hums, satisfied with that.
You eat. You keep eating because it tastes incredible and because your body is still trying to catch up with the fact that you are clean and warm and no longer actively panicking.
By the time you finish, your limbs feel heavier in a different way. Rested, but only partly. The kind of tired that comes after a deep sleep taken too early, when the body has been tricked into thinking it is healed more than it is.
A yawn catches you by surprise.
You cover it with the back of your sleeve and stare down into the empty bowl, weighing what is left of the day. Or night. Time feels oddly meaningless in here.
The light outside the kitchen windows is pale and uncertain, somewhere between dawn and a cloudy morning.
You consider your options.
You could ask for your things from home. Message Shoko to bring clothes. Ask Yaga how classes are being covered. Try to impose some kind of schedule on this madness so you do not lose your mind first.
You could also admit, at least to yourself, that another hour of sleep would not be the worst thing in the world.
Sukuna watches you from across the counter, having finished his own portion long ago. He has that look again, attentive in a way that feels nearly predatory if not for the strange care threaded through it.
“You are still tired,” he says.
It is not a question.
You rub at one temple.
“That tends to happen after a mission, a kidnapping, a cursed delusion, and several identity crises in the span of one day.”
His expression does not change.
“Then sleep more.”
You let out a dry laugh.
“You know,” you mutter, “most people would ask what I want to do.”
“You are deciding,” he says, almost dismissive. “I am only stating the correct answer.”
There he is.
That pedantic, unbearable certainty settles over you so neatly that, absurdly, it is reassuring.
You lean your elbows on the counter and look at him through damp lashes and the remnants of your exhaustion.
“If I stay awake, you hover. If I sleep, you turn into a weighted blanket. If I leave the room, you follow me like an overgrown guard dog. So really my options are terrible.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, his mouth twitches.
“Correct.”
You snort despite yourself.
The sound surprises both of you.
Something loosens in the room after that, not fully, not safely, but enough for the tension to shift shape. Still dangerous. Still bizarre. But no longer poised right at the edge of breaking.
You know, instantly and viscerally, that the decision has been made without you.
“Do not,” you say, pointing your chopsticks at him in warning. “Do not pick me up again.”
His gaze drops to the chopsticks, then lifts back to your face.
And sure enough, a minute later you are back in his room.
This time at least you walk there on your own.
A victory. A tiny, humiliating victory.
The borrowed kimono brushes your ankles as you sit, then sink, then let yourself lean back into the bedding with a slow exhale. The fabric smells faintly like him too, which is not helping. Neither is the way he watches you do it, standing at the edge of the bed for only a heartbeat before climbing up after you.
And then he is over you.
For a second your thoughts blank entirely.
The movement is smooth, controlled, almost lazy in its certainty, yet the sight of it sends a sharp nervous thrill all the way through you.
Four arms bracket you in an instant, two planted beside your head, another pair settling lower near your sides and hips, his whole body a towering wall of heat and weight above you. He does not crush you. He only hems you in so completely that the rest of the room seems to vanish around the edges.
Your breath catches.
You try to keep your face composed, you really do, but the strain of it breaks all at once when his head dips and his nose brushes the long column of your neck.
A small, bright, utterly traitorous giggle bubbles up and bursts out of you.
It surprises you so badly your eyes widen right after, but it is too late to swallow back. It leaves you in a breathless little rush, nervous and euphoric all at once, and the second it is gone you feel every hair on your body stand on end.
Sukuna stills.
Not much. Just enough for you to feel it.
The tip of his nose drifts once more against your throat, slower this time, as if he is testing the reaction again. Your whole body shivers beneath him. Not from fear. Not from tension. From something warmer and far more humiliating.
That is when the truth hits you in a way you cannot sidestep.
Maybe you do feel something for him.
Maybe you have for longer than you let yourself think about, and all the irritation, the bickering, the professional distance, the snapping at each other in hallways and training grounds has been covering something else. Something softer. Something much more dangerous because it would have required honesty, and honesty with Sukuna has never once felt safe.
Your body gives you away before your mind can catch up.
It does not tense under his. It eases.
It yields to his warmth like it was waiting for a reason.
You realize, dimly, that your hands have closed around the front of his kimono at some point. You do not remember doing it. You only know that your fingers are twisted in the fabric near his chest, holding on like you might drift away if you let go.
The knowledge makes your face burn hotter.
Sukuna says nothing about it.
He lowers his mouth to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, where the collar of his borrowed kimono has slipped wide enough to bare skin, and presses a kiss there. You feel like the touch, tender as it is, scorches your skin. Then he presses another. Then another, each one unhurried and gentle in a way that does not suit him at all and yet somehow suits him perfectly in this terrible, secret place inside your chest you have not wanted to name.
There is no greed in it, no taking, no forceful urgency. Only a kind of reverence that seems impossible on him, as though he has found something he wants to handle carefully even if he does not quite understand why.
Your thoughts scatter for a moment.
You feel ridiculous.
You feel warm all over.
You feel like your bones have gone loose under your skin.
Why are you melting into this?
Why are you sinking into his touch like something half-starved finally given warmth?
Are you really this touch deprived? This affection-starved? This vulnerable to one man pressing his mouth to your shoulder like you are something precious instead of the colleague he bickers with until both of you are ready to bite?
The answer comes easy enough that you almost laugh at yourself.
Probably yes.
And what is worse, if someone offered you another version of this moment — cleaner, saner, not born from a curse and a crisis and two exhausted days trapped in the same house — you suspect you would choose it too.
Because now you know.
Not about the curse. Not about whatever is rotting sweetly through his mind and telling him wife and mine and come here.
You know something about yourself.
About why bickering with him has always come too easily. About why his attention burns in ways other people’s never do. About why even at your angriest with him there is still some fierce bright wire of awareness underneath. About why being held by him, absurd as it is, feels less like revulsion and more like the world narrowing into something dangerously simple.
You like him.
God help you, you like him.
Maybe you have for a while.
Maybe all that friction had been hiding sparks you never let yourself name because naming them would have been stupid, and risky, and deeply inconvenient.
Maybe the realization should come later, in saner circumstances, under any sky other than this one.
That thought only survives a second before his hands slide down and close around your hips.
The breath leaves you in a quiet rush as he shifts forward and lets more of his weight settle over you. The mattress dips deeper. His body presses you into it, broad and hot and so heavy it wrings a helpless groan right out of you.
Your arms move on instinct, lifting from where they had fisted his clothes and winding around his neck instead.
He exhales against your skin at the feel of it.
His face lowers, rests, nuzzles almost absently against the upper swell of your chest where the borrowed kimono has fallen a little farther open under the pressure. The sensation is so unexpectedly intimate that your mouth curves before you can help it, not quite into a smile, not quite into anything you have worn before.
It feels strange on your face. Soft. Open. A little dazed.
He breathes you in.
Deeply.
Like he is memorizing you through scent alone.
The heat of it against your skin turns your stomach over in the gentlest possible way. You do not know what to do with the feeling it gives you.
It is too mixed up, too warm and embarrassing and oddly tender to sort through quickly. So you do the only thing your body seems capable of doing.
Your fingers slip into his hair.
At first it is cautious. Just the pads of your fingers easing into those unruly pink strands, feeling how thick and slightly coarse they are beneath your hand, the warmth of his scalp underneath. Then it becomes a slow caress, your hand moving on its own, combing back through the mess of his hair with careful strokes.
Sukuna goes still again.
A low sound leaves him, almost too quiet to hear, more vibration than voice where his cheek is pressed to your skin.
You feel it everywhere.
For one long second you are acutely aware of everything at once. The solid drag of his weight over your body. The stretch in your shoulders from the way your arms hold around his neck. The soft whisper of the kimono fabric open at your chest. The warmth of his breath as he turns his face a fraction and brushes another kiss there, just below your collarbone this time. The callus of one thumb moving in a slow circle against your hip through the fabric.
Your pulse beats so hard you think he has to feel it.
You stare at the ceiling because looking down at him would probably finish you off in some new and mortifying way.
“This is insane,” you whisper.
His mouth shifts against your skin, not quite a smile, not quite not.
“Hm.”
You let out a breath that almost turns into another laugh.
“You are infuriating even now.”
“And yet,” he murmurs.
And yet.
The words settle heavily between your ribs.
You tug lightly at his hair before you can think better of it, just enough to make him lift his head. His face rises from your chest, and you finally look at him properly from this distance, close enough to count every line of ink on his skin, every lash shadowing those too-watchful eyes, every small shift in the hard shape of his mouth.
He looks different like this.
Not softer — Sukuna does not become soft. But there is less distance in him. Less iron. Less of that endless guarded contempt he wears around everyone and everything.
Beneath it, you catch something intent and raw and almost boyishly stubborn, something that makes your heart hurt in a way you do not appreciate.
Hunger dressed in gentleness.
He studies your face like he does not understand why you are letting him stay there.
The thought lands harder than it should.
Because maybe he does not understand. Maybe neither of you does.
You are the first one to look away.
Your pulse is far too loud in your ears. The room smells like soap from your shower, like warm rice and broth from the food he made, like clean linen and the faint iron scent that always seems to cling to him under everything else. His heat cages you in. So does the bed. So do his arms.
This should be impossible to enjoy.
It is not.
That realization makes you feel a little sick and a little giddy in equal measure.
You clear your throat and aim for dry, unimpressed, normal.
“You’re staring.”
“I am looking at my wife.”
Your whole body jolts with mortification so abrupt it nearly turns into a laugh.
“That is still... odd.”
“So are you,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “You keep insulting me while touching me like this.”
You open your mouth, close it, open it again.
There is no argument available to you that does not sound pathetic.
Because he is right in the most infuriating way possible. You are touching him like this.
Worse, you do not want to stop.
You settle on glaring at the side of his face, which would probably be more effective if your hand were not still buried in his hair.
He looks maddeningly satisfied.
“Don’t smirk,” you say.
“It displeases you?”
“Yes.”
He smirks more.
You hate him. You really, truly do.
You hate how easy he makes it look to pin you here with four arms and a single look. You hate how his voice drops into that low register whenever he speaks to you like this and your stupid body listens to it. You hate that he cooks well and runs hot and apparently has a hidden talent for being unbearably attentive.
You hate that under this curse, with his mind bent sideways and all his edges turned toward you, he is showing you a shape of himself you had never been allowed to know existed.
You hate, most of all, how badly some soft and neglected part of you wants this to mean something after it ends.
He lowers his head again, slower this time, until his forehead rests near your shoulder. One of the hands at your hips slides to your side, spanning your ribs. Another remains firm at your waist. The upper pair shifts only enough to ease some of his weight from his arms and let it settle more fully across you.
You should feel trapped.
Instead you feel held.
Your fingers resume their slow pass through his hair, no longer even pretending it is accidental. The strands slip between your fingers as you smooth them back, over and over, until his breathing changes.
It deepens. Slows.
A tension you had not even fully registered in him starts to ease little by little under your touch.
The realization makes something in you ache.
So much of him is made of resistance. Teeth. Pride. Violence held on a short, vicious leash.
To feel him quiet under your hand like this, even a little, feels like being trusted with something you should not have access to.
You swallow against a throat that suddenly feels tight.
His hand on your side spreads wider, fingertips grazing the bare strip of skin where the kimono has slipped apart. The contact is light, almost absentminded, yet it sends another tremor through you.
Not because it is too much. Because it is not. Because he is touching you like he already knows the exact line where your body will welcome it rather than flinch.
Maybe the curse helps with that.
Maybe the curse has nothing to do with it.
That thought is too large to face right now, so you turn your head slightly and press your cheek against his hair instead.
He gives a low hum of approval.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The room holds around you, quiet and warm, the outside world reduced to faint sounds beyond the walls. Your body loosens by degrees beneath his. The hand in his hair slows, then lingers, your fingers idly combing the same path again and again. His thumb keeps tracing small circles against your side as if he has forgotten to stop.
Sleep starts circling the edges of you again, soft and inevitable.
You are not ready to examine what it means that you feel safest with four arms caging you in.
You are not ready to decide whether this softness is yours, his, or something the curse merely dragged into the light before either of you could stop it.
Right now all you know is sensation.
The press of him over you.
The heat.
The impossible comfort.
The way your chest feels too full to contain itself.
And the awful, tender fact that when he buries his face closer and your fingers sink a little deeper into his hair, you do not want him to move at all.
ever since satoru got braces, it's been difficult for the two of you.
you had to endure with his whining and groaning on how much it hurt constantly & those stupid things got in the way of everything. "gotta go baby, the club is holding a meeting right now." he leaned down for the usual goodbye kiss, only for him to accidentally cut your bottom lip.
he watched in horror when the smallest amount of blood oozed out. "oh my god!" he gasped, wiping it away as you winced. "im so sorry im sorry!"
if you thought the lack of kisses to prevent more cutting, imagine how hard it was to not get eaten out like always.
"toru.." you sighed, adjusting yourself on his thigh, suddenly feeling the effects of ovulation taking over. "yea sweets?" he looked down at your through his glasses before looking back up at his computer screen. his hand moved in muscle memory, jotting down formulas from memory.
"are you almost done studying? I need you."
a sigh fell from his lips, trying to stop himself from melting at the wya your head tucked into the crook of his neck. you could faintly feel the incoming of a stubble tickle your cheek. "we don't have any condoms. I forgot to stop by the store for some."
"I dont want your dick today," you licked a stripe on his jawline. "I want your mouth."
that certainly got his brow to raise, because surely you didn't forget the last time he tried eating you out. "are you shaven?"
"..no" you pursed your lips. "babe please please pleaseeee!"
"nuh uh, as much as I love your bush, I do not want to spend my Saturday night picking out pubes from my teeth." you were about to accept fate before a lightbulb turned on in your head. "why don't you just eat me out through my panties?"
⋮
"are these the ones I got you?" he dragged his finger down your clothed cunt, making you have a camel toe after sticking your panties into your folds. "Victorias secret right?"
you nodded, whining when he touched your clit.
"fuck, I want to taste you so bad." he pouted. satoru didn't get his braces off until next year, so you still had a long way to go. "this will do though." he finally closed in, lapping at your cunt through the now drenched underwear.
"satoru!" you moaned out, throwing your head onto the pillow, tangling your fingers into his hair. "shit.. can still taste ya so well like this." he rubbed your thighs lovingly, encouraging you to grind against his face.
your hips stuttered with every movement, gasping when he delivered a smack to your hip. "don't stop." his voice coming out muffled, too busy stuffing his face in between your legs. his nose pressed deliciously at your clit, forcing an orgasm right out of you. "that's all it took to make you cum?" satoru pulled away, rubbing your puffy folds, spreading around your juices.
he pulled your panties to the side, leaning back down to lap you up.
"satoru wait!-"
you yelped when his braces unfortunately got caught in your bush. ".... dang it."
suguru is obsessed with aftercare...and you apparently
There’s a soft rock song playing in the background when Suguru finally finishes inside you, his hair sticking to his sweat slicked forehead and his eyes looking at you with that soft gentle quality he only reserves for you.
He swipes his thumb over your cheek as your eyes flutter open, allowing for the last wave of post-orgasmic bliss to wash over you.
“Hey gorgeous,” Suguru whispers softly, slowly making his way out of you and peppering kisses along your jaw, neck, and chest.
“Hey loser,” You reply back, smiling up at him as your eyes drift close again.
Suguru slowly gets up, making you groan as you feel the loss of his weight and his warmth. “Come on, you should shower,” He says, lifting you up with his strong arms and carrying you to the bathroom.
He strokes at your hair and allows his hands to roam all of you, as if he’s trying to remember you through engraving your body on his fingertips.
You push at him delicately, creating distance as you stretch out your limbs languidly.
“I have to shower,” You say faintly, your voice hoarse and your throat a little sore. Suguru closes the distance once again, kissing your lips with fleeting warmth and slowly trailing his hands all across your body again.
“I don’t see why I have to go for that,” He mumbles in between kisses, alternating from kissing your lips, to your earlobes, to your neck, and to your jaw.
“I have to shower,” You reiterate, feeling a soft giggle bubble in your throat as you feel his touch hovering over somewhere ticklish.
“Exactly, let’s go,” Suguru says, dropping his hands to yours and leading you towards the bathtub.
“I don’t remember showering being a group activity,” You chuckle as you see Suguru pout.
He shakes his head, his long raven hair falling perfectly over his shoulders and accentuating his form as if giving him an outline. “It is now,” He replies defiantly.
You shake your head and give him a look that has no heat in it whatsoever—only love, a quiet bubbling love that is subtle but definitely there. “Well you can find someone else to shower with because it won’t be me.”
Shaking him off of you, you make your way to the shower, stepping in and you’re about to turn on the water before you feel someone wrap their strong arms around your waist.
Suguru pulls you into a deep kiss, a one that is not messy but slow. It’s slow and it’s purposeful. A love letter laced in tongue.
He gives you a soft laugh when he hears you moan softly into his lips, pulling back to brush hairs from your face and tuck it behind your ears, “It wouldn’t be the same,” He says finally after looking at you for ages. Stroking at your cheek and holding your jaw.
“What?”
“It’d have to be you, it’ll always be you baby.”
You look at him incredulously, your heart beating a mile a minute before you watch him turn away and walk out of the bathroom, leaving you to shower like you asked.
You can’t help but miss the way his arms slotted around you perfectly, and the way his breath felt on your skin as he poured out his sentiments.
When you finish, you see Suguru on the bed, hair wet and wearing a big band tee and long pajama pants, smoking a cigarette while looking out the window.
You climb on the bed and slot yourself right in between his legs like you belong there—and part of you thinks that in more ways than one, you do belong there.
He reaches up at your face and cups it in his hands, pulling you down to kiss him. Soft, sweet, and deep like everything is with him.
He palms at your hair, and kisses you like he means it—like he really wouldn’t want to do this with anyone but you.
When you pull back you give him a smile, your voice dipped in honey and totally saccharine, “You smell like cigarettes.”
!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukuna’s jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukuna’s lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukuna’s dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rot—somehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukuna’s attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lord’s table, and dismantled the man’s entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
I'm SICK and TIRED of the Kento Nanami mischaracterization.
(Now playing, "Sweet" - Cigarettes After Sex)
(MDNI! Lots of nsfw/sex talk, Husband!Nanami, fluff, comfort(?), smut, short drabble, Reader is heavily implied fem, pregnancy talk, I suppose? Just soft sex with Nanami.)
Kento Nanami does not fuck.
This man is not coming home after a hard day at work and "fucking the shit out of you." Half the time, he can barely get the dinner you made him in his stomach before he's crashing.
This man is not getting off on being called daddy. Or spanking you while calling you his "good little girl."
Nanami views the idea of coming home to you as the only good thing about leaving in the first place. So when he does come back home to you, he expects softness. Comfort. Not lust.
Nanami isn't a lustful man. This isn't to say he doesn't like sex. He adores it. With the right person, of course. But it's not something he does for his own greed. Kento does not fuck. He makes love.
As cheesy as he knows he'd sound if he ever said it out loud, it's the only descriptive that's ever felt right to him. Nanami doesn't want to grab you by your legs and pin you to the wall and "fuck" you. That sounds aggressive, degrading. As if his spouse, his love, his reason for coming home at all, was something to be used.
Nanami pours all of his love into having sex with you. (Literally and figuratively)
He's not grabbing your chin and spitting into your mouth. He's interlocking your fingers, his lips ghosting over yours as his forehead rests against your own.
He's not saying "look at this pretty fuckin' thing..." while admiring the way your cunt clenches around him. He's saying, "You're so pretty... my angel.." while looking into your teary eyes.
Yes, Nanami is Cumming inside of you. But it's not because he wants to "claim" you or prove he "owns" you. But because he wishes to one day start a family with you. A real family. With the love of his life.
This man isn't rolling over and falling asleep on the opposite side of the bed after sex. Nanami cleans you up as if the touch of water on its own will make you disintegrate like cotton candy. He wraps you up in his big arms, knowing there's not a single place on earth you could be safer. He's kissing the top of your head and rubbing your back as you both fall asleep.
《A/N: stop headcannoning Nanami as some weird lowk abusive freaky BDSM husband 🙏 SUKUNA IS RIGHT THERE.》
♡ sukuna finds his little nephews trying to look like him, with you responsible for it !
sukuna knows something is off the second he steps through the door. he shuts it behind him, keys jingling softly, eyes narrowing as he shrugs off his jacket.
“i’m home,” he calls out. “why’s it so—”
he stops.
there you are, frozen in the middle of the living room like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, and around you, yuji and choso are still busying themselves with their own markers.
both grinning, and all three of you covered in marker. black marker. lines streak across your arms and faces— a little messy, uneven, but unmistakably patterned after sukuna’s tattoos.
“…what,” he says, confused.
“look!” yuji beams, throwing his arms out. “we look like you, uncle kuna!”
choso nods proudly, pointing to his cheek where a slightly wobbly version of sukuna’s tattoos curve under his eye.
“yuji helped me do that one!”
sukuna steps forward, crouching down to take a closer look. one of the lines is way too thick, another smudged where choso clearly moved too soon.
“they’re cool, right?” yuji insists.
sukuna looks at you as you’re trying to surpress a smile, and that’s when his eyes narrow further.
“…and you let them do that?”
you hold your hands up immediately. “okay, listen—”
“not to mention,” he interrupts, gesturing at you. “you joined in.”
yuji puffs up. “but you also have them!”
“mine are permanent. and not done by someone who clearly can’t draw a straight line.”
you cross your arms. “they just wanted to be like you.”
sukuna clicks his tongue, looking away briefly before rolling his eyes. “…then why are you covered in them too?”
“it looked like fun..”
“bathroom,” he orders, jerking his head toward the hallway. “both of you. wash it off before it stains.”
“aww—” yuji starts.
“now.”
they scramble, but choso pauses on the way, looking back.
“can you draw them on us next time?”
sukuna gives him a look, and they disappear, whispering to each other like that answer isn’t final.
you’re about to go as well, but sukuna turns his attention back to you.
“you’re staying here,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping. “tryna be like me, huh?”
“mh-hmm.”
“yeah?” he says, amused. “tryna turn them into mini-me’s?”
“they basically are,” you defend. “and they kept asking about your tattoos, and i just—”
“and you just thought, ‘why not let them draw all over themselves?’”
you shrug. “it made them happy.”
he stops right in front of you now.
“you’re lucky it washes off,” he mutters.
“…they adore you, y‘know.” your smile softens slightly. “and you’re not as upset as you pretend to be.”
he leans down just enough so his eyes lock with yours, something sharp but amused flickering underneath.
“…tch, now i’d love to know the real reason you’re covered in black marker as well,” he says.
“i just really like your tattoos..”
finally a smirk tugs at his lips, his hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb tracing over the black pattern and smudging it slightly in the process.
“i do like these on you,” he murmurs. “careful. i might return the favor.”
your eyebrow lifts. “oh?”
his gaze drops briefly, to your arms, then back to your face.
“wouldn’t be hard,” he adds. “it’s what i do for a living, after all.”
you laugh under your breath. “are you offering to tattoo on me?”
a smirk tugs at his mouth as his gaze drops, flicking from your shoulders to your chest and back up.
“what about the tattoos beneath?” he asks quietly. “wanna replicate those, too? how about i—”
from the bathroom, yuji’s voice rings out. “it’s not coming off fast enough—”
sukuna straightens instantly, irritation snapping back into place.
“scrub harder!” he barks.
then, quieter, to you—
“…we’ll finish this conversation later.”
you can only imagine what that means.
⸝⸝ if you enjoyed this, consider checking out the masterlist for this series. ♡
celebrating Toji and his wife finally expecting, the boys get completely wasted, and Sukuna, operating on pure drunk logic, leans straight into whatever nonsense his brain serves up next
—this time, deciding it’s the perfect moment to remind his wife exactly who she married
crack, fluff
(part of my drunk!sukuna drabbles mini-series)
Sukuna has hit that point in the night when his internal engine is redlining, but his steering is completely shot. About three minutes ago, he realized his wife is standing by the fridge, and now, his brain finally decides it’s time to remind you who you’re married to.
As he pushes off the counter in Satoru’s kitchen, his body sways a fraction before he corrects it with a grunt. He stalks toward you, fully convinced he’s moving with the grace of a panther; in reality, his balance is gone, and he’s navigating the short distance with a wide, unstable stance just to keep from tipping over.
Suddenly, he slams a hand on the stainless steel right next to your head, a little too hard, cutting off your conversation with Yuki and startling you both. He boxes you in completely against the refrigerator and looks down at you, his eyes a little glazed over but burning with that familiar, cocky heat.
“Kuna?” you whisper, half-amused, half-nervous as his massive body crowds you.
Running on the broken logic of being five drinks past his limit, Sukuna doesn’t bother answering. He decides the talking part is over and it’s high time for a cinematic, breath-stealing kiss that usually leaves your knees weak.
It’s a total disaster. His depth perception checked out for the night, causing him to misjudge the distance entirely, and his chin bumps against yours awkwardly. He winces, his nose smashes into your cheek, and he lets out a low, ruffled huff of frustration.
"My bad," he mumbles against your skin, his breath hot and smelling of whiskey.
Not giving up, he tries to reset, but his motor skills are pretty much just a suggestion at this point. He finally finds your mouth, but it’s all wrong—too much teeth, a little too much pressure, and his hands are grabbing you way too hard. It’s a messy, uncoordinated, toothy wreck of a kiss that goes on for a few seconds too long while he blindly tries to find a rhythm that just isn't there.
When he finally pulls back, he looks ridiculously triumphant. He stays there, forehead resting against yours, and a lopsided, smug smirk spreads across his face. Brushing a thumb over your reddened cheek, he looks you dead in the eye with absolute, unearned confidence, as if he’s just pulled off a miracle.
“Yeah,” he rasps, his voice low and brimming with arrogance. “Still got it.”
You stare at him, slightly disbelieving, as he holds that intense, smoldering pose for exactly three more seconds. Then, the intensity in him vanishes like someone pulled the plug, his gaze drifts past your shoulder, and his brow furrows in a brand new, life-or-death emergency.
"Where’s the pizza?" he demands urgently. "I’m starving. I swear I smelled pepperoni."
He doesn’t even wait for you to point toward it, pivots, narrowly avoiding a collision with an open cupboard, then stumbles back toward the living room, leaving you a little breathless and wondering whether you should tell him that his ‘still got it’ kiss was actually a threat to your jaw.
“It’s on the coffee table!” you just call out, smoothing your hair as Yuki practically doubles over, laughing way too loud.
"Good," his slurring voice echoes from the hallway, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Don't let Satoru touch it. It's mine."
his breath falls in soft wisps against the shell of your ear. you’re flushed tight against him, your back against his front; two of his four arms wrapped tightly around your waist while the other two busy themselves with being your own customary pillow.
you let out a happy sigh, turning around in his hold so that you’re facing him. you bury your face in his chest, cheek squished up against one of his pecs. he’s big. and he’s warm. and he’s yours.
above you, sukuna grumbles like a tiger that’s being roused from its sleep. you hide a smile, utterly amused by the befuddled noises he’d make when he was still on the edge of slumber. he huffs, and one hand moves from your waist to the back of your head; cupping it, and pushing you tighter against him. you smile, curling into him and tangling his legs with your own. if someone were to walk in right this moment, they likely wouldn’t even see you. you’re almost entirely consumed by his huge frame. your very own giant.
one of your arms wraps around his waist, too, trailing it up his back and softly caressing around his shoulder blades with your nails. he lets out a low rumble, something almost resembling a pur. you let out soft murmur against the skin of his chest.
he’s awake. you know he is. you’re awake, too. he knows you are. still, neither of you speak. the silence is nice, comforting, as close to peaceful as it can get when you either are the king of curses or are married to the king of curses.
you’re tangled together, still drowsy, still half asleep. it’s soft and cozy, and entirely unbecoming of a man such as him. but you don’t say that out loud. and neither does he. though, despite being aware of that, he didn’t particularly care. sukuna never explains himself or his deeds, anyway. he just does them. because he wants to. and that’s enough. he owes no further explanation to anyone.
yes, he likes to sleep. he really, really enjoys it. like a bear that goes to hibernate. and yes, he prefers doing it with his wife nearby and in his arms. and there isn’t a soul alive out there who’d dare question him on it.
୨୧ THINKING ABOUT 💭
៸៸ modulo yuuji as your boyfriend . . .
୨୧ ៸៸ boyfriend yuuji is very physical without even realizing it. a hand on your lower back whenever he walks by, fingers brushing yours before holding your hand, as if testing the waters.
୨୧ ៸៸ boyfriend yuuji will bite you. not hard, not out of anger, just purley out of affection. random, soft little nips, usually when you’re teasing him or getting a little too cute for his sake... same energy as pulling you closer or hiding his face in your neck! he just needs to do something with all that loving he has for you.
if you complain, yuuji will just laugh and say it was just a “baby bite”. but when you start frowning he immediately caves, thumb rubbing over the faint teeth marks, soft little apology murmured against your skin, pressing a quick kiss, batting his eyelashes up at you to earn your forgiveness.
୨୧ ៸៸ boyfriend yuuji apologizes all the time. soft, repeated “sorry”s into your shoulder. mostly for things that aren’t even his fault… things you don’t fully understand, but comfort him nontheless.
୨୧ ៸៸ boyfriend yuuji doesn't sleep very well, or very often. waking up in the middle of the night from vivid dreams of the past . . . but he relaxes everytime he wakes up to you by his side.
୨୧ ៸៸ boyfriend yuuji whose a retired puppy at heart. he’s still soft at his core, just… a bit slower now. he gets weirdly proud over small achievements: “i fixed it!” “told you i could make it better!” and he looks at you like he’s waiting for that soft praise.
on top of that, yuuji isn’t fond of loud environments anymore. though he now refers quiet places, late night walks, soft music in the background . . . the small things that ease the soul.
୨୧ ៸៸ boyfriend yuuji will get random bursts of energy out of nowhere. you could be eased up on the couch, and suddenly he’s trying to wrestle you or pulling you off. “c’mon, get up.” “for what yuyu???” “i dunno yet!”
yuuji also loves to pick you up randomly , showing off his strength — simply laughing his ass off as you beg him to put you back down.
୨୧ ៸៸ boyfriend yuuji whose still yuuji . . . just more yuuji than ever.
Your family sets you up with potential husbands….. rich, influential JJK men… for a business marriage. You try to scare them off by acting weird but it backfires… and now you have 4 men obsessed with you.
Pairings : Yandere JJK men x Reader
Ft. Gojo, Sukuna, Toji, Nanami
Tw: Mdni, some 18+ jokes
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Last part
You know that moment in horror movies where the protagonist hears a noise in the basement and instead of doing the sensible thing… leaving, calling the police, burning down the entire house… they grab a flashlight and go investigate?
That's you.
You are the idiot in the basement.
Except the basement is your own life and the monster waiting in the dark is the shitshow you've created by fake engaging yourself to Gojo Satoru
Also, your period is late.
Not because you're pregnant… you haven't had sex in so long your hymen is probably growing back… but because stress does fun things to the human body, and your body has apparently decided that regular menstruation is a luxury you no longer deserve.
THE ANNOUNCEMENT (AKA THE DAY YOU SIGNED YOUR OWN DEATH WARRANT)
The engagement announcement went live three days ago.
Your mother had insisted on handling the press release, which meant the entire thing read like she'd written it while experiencing a simultaneous orgasm and divine revelation. There was a photo of you and Gojo that his PR team had staged…. you in a beautiful dress, him looking like he'd been carved by angels.
You looked happy. In love, even.
It was all bullshit, of course.
But convincing enough that had your aunt calling seventeen times in two hours, your grandmother sending you a vibrator "for your wedding night, dear" (GRANDMA, WHAT THE FUCK), and every gossip site in Japan running headlines about how "Playboy Heir Finally Tamed."
Ha.
Tamed.
If only they knew that your ‘fiancé’ had spent last night on your couch eating your snacks while you both watched a documentary about cults and discussed which of his exes would most likely try to murder you at the engagement party.
(The answer was.. at least four, by the way. He'd made a list.)
☽☽☽.
"Oi relax."
You blinked, dragged back to reality. Gojo was standing in your kitchen, holding a spatula, wearing an apron that said "KISS THE COOK" in huge pink letters… sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms withh visible veins and….
Jesus Christ, stop staring at his forearms like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.
“You okay?” He leaned against your counter, arms crossed.. those fucking forearms again.… watching you with those impossibly blue eyes. Eyes that belong on Instagram thirst traps… not in your kitchen.
“No”fuck “I mean Yeah..”
Smooth. Very convincing. You should definitely go into acting.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
"The engagement party is tomorrow," he said, like you could possibly forget. Like you hadn't been having stress dreams about it for a week. In last night's dream, you'd shown up naked and Sukuna had been the priest. You'd woken up screaming.
When did your life become a sitcom written by someone who clearly hates you?
"I'm aware." Your voice came out flatter than a pancake
"You need to be convincing." he said
Oh, thanks, Captain Obvious.
"I'm aware of that too." You bit back the urge to throw something at his head.
"Which means….”
"If you're about to give me a lecture on how to pretend to be in love with you, I will throw this cereal box at your head." You picked up the cereal box... Frosted Flakes…. slightly crushed from where you'd been stress gripping it for the past ten minutes.
Gojo held up his hands in surrender "Wouldn't dream of it."
A looong pause.
"Also," he added, casual as anything, "Sukuna RSVP'd."
The cereal box slipped from your fingers. It hit the floor with a sad little thump, and Frosted Flakes exploded all over your kitchen tiles
THE PROBLEM WITH BLOCKING PEOPLE (THEY FIND OTHER WAYS TO FUCK WITH YOU)
Blocking someone only works if they care about the block.
Sukuna Ryomen did not care about the block.
Sukuna Ryomen cared about absolutely nothing except getting what he wanted, and… horrifyingly… what he wanted was you. Which was flattering in the way that being stalked by a very attractive serial killer is flattering. Like, yes, you’re special, but also you might end up in a freezer.
"He can't just show up," you said, pacing your living room while Gojo watched from the couch "This is our engagement party. OURS. As in, mine and yours. As in, not his."
"Technically, it's a joint family event." Gojo's voice was maddeningly calm. "Both families invited their own guests."
"And your family invited him?"
"His family does business with my family."
"Your family does business with CRIMINALS?" you stopped pacing and stared at him.
Gojo gave you a look that said ‘you sweet summer child’
"Sweetheart." Oh, you hated when he called you that. (Loved it.) (Shut up.). "My family is criminals. Just the white collar kind."
Right. The Gojos. Old money that bought politicians and moved markets and probably had at least three skeletons buried in their houses.
"It's fine." He said
Two words that have never, in the history of the English language, actually meant ‘it’s fine.’
"It is not fine. What if he makes a scene? What if… " Your voice dropped to a horrified whisper usually reserved for speaking about your sex life or the ending of Game of Thrones. “.….what if he he says something?”
"He won't."
"How do you know?" you asked
Gojo's expression shifted into something unreadable. "Because if he does, he admits he was competing for a woman and lost. And Sukuna Ryomen does not lose."
That... actually made sense. In a fucked up, masculine ego, dick measuring contest kind of way. Which was, now that you thought about it, the only way anything in your life made sense anymore.
"What about the other two?" you asked, dreading the answer.
"Nanami sent a very polite decline … 'professional obligations.'" Gojo air quoted, and something in his voice suggested he knew exactly how much bullshit that was.
Nanami. Sweet, serious Nanami. He'd said he wanted to date you properly. Had asked you to dinner and you…
STOP, your brain screamed, before you could bury yourself further down that guilt hole. Focus on surviving tomorrow.
"And Toji?"
A pause. A pause so long that your heart had time to do three separate backflips and land badly on each one.
"Toji," Gojo said slowly, "didn't respond at all."
You weren't sure if that was better or worse.
THAT NIGHT (THE ONE WHERE YOU MADE SEVERAL QUESTIONABLE DECISIONS)
You couldn't sleep.
Which was becoming a pattern. Every night since the announcement, you'd lain in bed… thinking about all the ways tomorrow could go wrong.
Sukuna causing a scene. (Most likely. Almost guaranteed. Should probably have security on standby.)
Your dress ripping at an inopportune moment. (You'd stress eaten three pints of ice cream this week. It was a valid concern.)
Your mother drinking too much champagne and telling everyone about that time you peed yourself at a family reunion when you were eight. (You were sick and you had a fever. It wasn't your fault.)
And Toji.
Always, eventually, Toji.
You hadn't messaged him…. you weren't that stupid…. but you hadn’t blocked him either. Just so you could see if he was online. Just so you could torture yourself with the knowledge that he was out there, somewhere, existing, probably not thinking about you at all.
Your phone buzzed.
Toji: Heard you're getting married.
You stared at the screen. The timestamp said 1:47 AM
You: Engaged.
Toji: Same thing.
( No it fucking isn't you absolute Neanderthal ) A pause. He was typing something. Deleting it then typing again. Oh ffs
Toji: You happy?
You stared at the question. Were you happy? You were surviving. You were managing. You were playing a role so well that sometimes you forgot it was a role at all. But happy?
You: I don't know.
More dots. More waiting.
Toji: I'm not coming tomorrow. But I'll be around.
Before you could ask what that meant… before you could ask anything… he went offline. The green dot disappeared. You threw your phone across the bed and screamed into your pillow.
Everything was fine. (nothing was fine)
THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY (AKA THE LONGEST NIGHT OF YOUR MISERABLE LIFE)
The venue was obscene.
There was no other word for it. Crystal chandeliers dripping from ceilings that belonged in a cathedral. Champagne fountains… plural, because apparently one champagne fountain was for peasants… bubbled expensively in multiple corners. A string quartet playing something classical that you were probably supposed to recognize but didn't because you were uncultured and also currently experiencing what felt like a heart attack.
You were wearing THE DRESS. The Dress was... a lot.
Gojo's stylist had picked it out, and you were pretty sure she hated you, because The Dress was designed to make breathing impossible. It was silk. It was backless. It was the color of sin.
You looked hot. You also looked like you were about to pass out. (Schrodinger's Girlboss: serving cunt while dying.)
"Smile," Gojo murmured, hand warm on your lower back as he guided you through the crowd. His fingers rested just above the curve of your ass. “You're supposed to be the blushing bride."
"I'm about to be the vomiting bride if you don't….”
"Darling!!!” Your mother descended upon you like a vulture. Behind her, your father trailed like a hostage. "Oh, look at you.So beautiful!!! Satoru, isn't she beautiful? She gets it from me, you know."
She grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together. "My little girl, getting married to a GOJO. Your aunt nearly fainted when I told her. She spilled wine all over her new carpet."
Good, your aunt was a bitch. That woman had once told you that you'd never find a husband
"Mom…."
"And the ring!!!!" She grabbed your hand, examining the rock Gojo had gotten you from god knows where. It was massive.
"Isn't it gorgeous?" you said, because that was your line. The line you'd rehearsed.
"It's perfect. Oh, Satoru, you have such wonderful taste." Your mother actually batted her eyelashes at him. BATTED. HER. EYELASHES. While your father stood three feet away, staring at the champagne fountain like he was considering drowning himself in it.
Relatable, Dad. Truly.
"Thank you, ma'am." Gojo's voice was smooth as silk. "Though I must say, your daughter makes anything look beautiful."
Your mother made a sound like a mating cat. Gojo was going to get her pregnant with compliments alone if he kept this up.
"We should mingle," you said quickly, before your mother could start planning grandchildren. Or worse, providing helpful suggestions about how to make grandchildren. “So many guests to greet!"
You grabbed Gojo's arm and fled. Fuck this
"That was dramatic," he said, once you'd put sufficient distance between yourselves and the parental orbit.
"She was looking at you like you were a piece of meat."
"Most women do." he was smirking. This was all very amusing to him.
"Disgusting." You rolled your eyes. "Just help me survive the next three hours."
"Only three?"
"After that, I'm faking a medical emergency and leaving."
"Dedicated to the bit. I respect it."
A waiter appeared, bearing champagne on a silver tray. You grabbed a glass and downed half of it in one go, which was probably not the behavior of a refined future Mrs. Gojo but fuck it
"Easy," Gojo said, eyebrow raised.
You were about to respond when you felt it. That prickling sensation at the back of your neck. The one that said someone was watching you.
You turned.
And there, across the room, glass of whiskey in hand, dressed in a suit that probably belonged on a Bond villain…
Was Sukuna Ryomen.
Ah, fuck.
THE CONFRONTATION (OR… WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH DANGEROUS MEN)
He didn't approach immediately.
That would have been too easy. Too much like something a normal human being would do. He just... watched. Like he had all the time in the world and was planning to use every second of it to make you uncomfortable.
"Don't engage," Gojo murmured, fingers tightening on your waist.
"I'm not."
"You're looking at him."
"Satoru.” You gritted out his name “It's a survival instinct."
"It's called FEEDING THE BEAR, and you need to stop."
But it was too late.
Sukuna was moving. Cutting through the crowd like it didn't exist. People instinctively parted for him because Sukuna Ryomen was a predator even in a room full of billionaires.
"Gojo." His voice was smooth…. Dark like whiskey aged in a coffin. "Congratulations."
"Sukuna." Gojo gave a fake smile. A mirror held up to avoid. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Your family invited mine. It would have been rude to decline."
"Since when do you care about being rude?" The words dripped with sarcasm.
Sukuna's lips curved. "I don't."
"And the bride." his gaze slid to you and pinned you in place like a butterfly caught in a spiderweb. "Don't you look... radiant."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"Thank you." Your voice came out steadier than you felt., which was honestly a miracle considering….
"I have to say," he continued, taking a slow sip of his whiskey, savoring your obvious discomfort, “I was surprised by the announcement. You two seemed... mismatched."
"Love works in mysterious ways," Gojo said flatly.
"Does it?" Sukuna's eyes hadn't left your face.
"If you'll excuse us," you said, grabbing Gojo's arm, "we have other guests to greet."
"Of course." Sukuna stepped aside, politely. A wolf wearing a sheep's costume that was clearly several sizes too small. And as you passed, his voice dropped to a murmur only you could hear "This isn't over."
You didn't look back. You didn't breathe until you were on the other side of the room, as far from Sukuna as physically possible without leaving the building entirely.
"Well," Gojo said, "that was fun."
"I'm going to kill this bastard."
THE GARDEN (OR…. WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER GO OUTSIDE ALONE AT PARTIES)
You needed air.
That was the excuse you gave yourself as you slipped through the french doors and into the garden, leaving Gojo to handle your combined families' questions about wedding dates and children and whether you'd be taking his name.
(The answer to all of those was "fake," "fake," and "FAKE," but you couldn't exactly say that.)
The garden was beautiful. Of course. Everything about this party was beautiful… expensive… it made you feel like you were walking through a movie set instead of real life.
There were fairy lights strung through the trees. A stone path winding through manicured hedges. A fountain in the distance.
You walked until you couldn't hear the music anymore. Until the voices faded. Until you found a bench, hidden behind a wall of roses, and collapsed onto it like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
Your feet were SCREAMING.
These heels were gorgeous, and they were also torture devices designed by someone who had never actually walked anywhere in their entire life. Probably designed by a man.
You kicked them off.
Flexed your toes and made a small sound of relief that sounded like a moan.
"That good, huh?"
You nearly fell off the bench. Because there, leaning against a nearby tree like he'd appeared from the shadows themselves, was…
"Toji."
He looked... the same. Leather jacket, dark jeans, that scar on his lip curving with his smirk. Like he hadn't texted you last night and thenghosted you. Like he hadn't said he wasn't coming and then SHOWN UP ANYWAY.
Men. Fucking men.
"You said you weren't going to be here," Your voice came out shakier than you wanted.
"I said I wasn't coming." He pushed off the tree, walking toward you "I didn't say anything about lurking in the garden."
Right….
Silence stretched between you.
"Congratulations," he said finally, smoke curling from his lips
"Thanks." It came out flat and empty. Like the word didn't mean anything because it didn't…. the engagement wasn't real, the marriage wouldn't be real, your entire life had become a performance and the curtain never closed.
"Gojo's a good choice." A drag on his cigarette, the ember glowing bright. You hadn't even noticed he was smoking. Too busy staring at his face. ( Jesus Christ. Get a grip) "Rich girl… richer husband"
Ouch
"Toji….”
"I'm not asking for an explanation." He turned, finally, and his eyes were dark. Pools of something you couldn't name and didn't want to. “You don't owe me one. We weren't anything. A couple dates. One ride on my bike. A stuffed cat."
"I still have the cat," you said, and immediately want to punch yourself. Why would you say that? What does that even mean in this context?
But his expression Softened. Like ice cracking under spring sun. He laughed and god, you forgot what that sound did to you. Like a really good orgasm, but for your ears.
"You're something else," he said. "You know that?"
"I've been told."
Usually as an insult. But the way he said it made you want to be something else forever.
More silence.…
"He treats you right?" Toji asked "Gojo?"
"Yes."
It wasn't not even a lie. Satoru did treat you right. He' was considerate and funny and he remembered that you hate cilantro and he bought you pizza when you forgot to eat. He'd never once made you feel small or stupid or worthless.
"Good," he said. "That's... good." He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his heel, and began to walk away. And you were going to let him. You were going to sit here on this bench and watch him leave and that would be it.
Except…. "Toji."
He paused.
"I'm sorry," you said. ( Sorry for not choosing you. Sorry for choosing the safe option. Sorry for being a coward. Sorry for…)
He didn't turn around. "Go back to your party princess” And then he was gone. Swallowed by the shadows like he'd never been there at all.
☽☽☽.
Satoru found you in the garden ten minutes later, shivering in your designer dress that was designed for looking good, not for warmth.
"You okay?" The gentleness in his voice made you want to cry
"No."
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping down onto the bench beside you. He looked concerned but didn't push.
"Absolutely not."
"Do you want more champagne?"
"God yes."
He produced a bottle from somewhere… literally where had he been keeping that?… and the two of you sat on the cold stone bench, passing it back and forth like teenagers. The silk dress was going to be ruined. Grass stains and champagne and probably tears if you weren't careful.
"Sorry about the guest list," he said eventually. "I should have checked."
"Your mother is a bitch."
"Hey…..."
You laughed, and it echoed off the stone walls, and for a moment everything felt almost okay. Inside, someone started playing the piano. Guests were dancing now, twirling under the chandeliers.
"We should probably go back in," you said
"Probably."
Neither of you moved. The cold seeped through the thin silk of your dress. The bench was cold. Your ass was numb. Your feet were still bare, toes curling against the stone. Above you, the stars were out… or what passed for stars in the light polluted city sky.
"Thanks," For what? You weren't sure. For the champagne. For the silence. For not asking questions you couldn't answer. For being here, even when he didn't have to be.
He looked at you, and there's something in his eyes you couldnt quite name. Something that made your chest tight.
~~~
The car ride home was quiet.
Satoru insisted on driving you himself, which meant sitting in his expensive sports car while Tokyo blurred past the windows.
The car slowed at a red light, and you glanced out the window at the pedestrians crossing… couples holding hands, friends laughing, normal people living normal lives and…..
Your breath caught.
Toji.
Standing on the sidewalk with a woman. She was beautiful… tall, with dark hair that caught the streetlight. Toji was smiling at her, leaning close, saying something that made her laugh.
The light turned green. The car moved forward. And you felt something ugly and hot twist in your stomach.
Of COURSE he moved on. Why wouldn't he? You rejected him. You got engaged to someone else. What was he supposed to do, pine forever? Sit in his apartment crying over you?
No. He found someone else.
Someone prettier
Someone better.
"What?" Gojo noticed your expression. Nothing escaped those crystal eyes. “What is it?"
"Nothing." You turned away from the window. "Just tired."
He didn't push. He never pushed. (Sometimes you wished he would.)
☽☽☽.
The next few days passed in a blur of work and avoidance and one memorable evening where Gojo showed up at your apartment and you accidentally fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie.
You woke up three hours later, drooling on his very expensive shirt, while he scrolled through his phone with his free hand like this was completely normal.
"Morning, sleeping beauty," he said.
"It's night." Your voice came out scratchy.
He turned his phone off, setting it aside. "You snore, by the way."
"I do not” Slander. Defamation. You were going to sue.
"Like a tiny, adorable chainsaw."
You shoved at his shoulder… or tried to, but moving would have required disentangling yourself from his side, and you were warm and comfortable and apparently had lost all self respect.
"Why didn't you wake me up?"
He shrugged. "You're kind of cute when you're unconscious."
"Creep”
His arm was still around your shoulders. You didn't remember him putting it there, but it felt like it belonged there. Like…
(Dangerous thought. Delete delete delete)
"I should go," you said, not moving.
"This is your apartment."
Oh. Right…
"Then you should go."
"Mm." He didn't move either. "Probably."
The moment stretched. Warm and quiet and filled with something you couldn't name. Didn't want to name. Because naming it would make it real, and if it was real, then you were fucked. More fucked than you already were
Then Dumpling jumped on Gojo's lap, broke whatever spell had descended, and you both laughed…. awkward and relieved and maybe a little disappointed.
SATURDAY NIGHT: THE FUCKENING
Shoko picked a takeout place… one of those casual spots where e you could wear sweatpants to without anyone judging you. Not that you were wearing sweatpants. You had some dignity left. A tiny, pathetic amount, but still.
You were on your fourth beer while Shoko regaled you with tales of her latest dating disaster.
"And then," she said, gesturing wildly with her chopsticks, nearly taking out your eye, “he asked if I wanted to see his sword. And I thought, kinky… that’s a code word for sex, right? Wrong. It was actual swords in his bedroom above his bed."
"Red flag."
"Red fucking flag.” She agreed
You snorted “Walking…"
You stopped mid sentence.
Because there, across the restaurant, standing at the counter waiting for her order….
The woman. The one from the sidewalk with Toji. She was even prettier up close. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect goddamn everything.
“Holy shit”
"What?" Shoko asked, mouth full of noodles
"Don't look now, but….”
"What?" She immediately looked because that's what people do when you tell them not to look.
"I said DON'T LOOK."
"That's the universal signal to look immediately.” Shoko craned her neck without an ounce of shame. “Who am I looking at?"
"Her. From the other night. The woman with Toji."
Shoko turned back to look again, not even trying to be subtle. “The hot one?"
"SHOKO."
"What? I'm just saying….”
The door opened and Toji walked in. And sat down at the woman's table.
"FUCK," you hissed, sinking lower in your chair. "FUCK FUCK FUCK."
"Okay," Shoko said carefully. "Maybe we should…”
"I need another drink."
"I don't think that's…”
"DRINK. NOW."
She flagged down the waiter, who brought you shots. Four shots later, you'd lost all semblance of rational thought. You were a cliché. A walking stereotype of a drunk woman.
"WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?" you slurred, gesturing wildly toward Toji's table. "Coming here with her. Being all... all happy and smiling…”
Toji laughed at something the woman said and you saw red. Like a bull seeing a matador's cape.
You stood up.
"No,Absolutely not.” Shoko grabbed your arm. "Sit down."
"I can't."
"You absolutely can. Let me show you." She patted her chair. "See? Easy. Now you try”
But you were already walking…stumbling, really… across the restaurant.
The alcohol was in control now. You were just a passenger in your own body, watching in horror as your feet carried you toward Toji's table.
"Oh no," Shoko muttered behind you.
~~
"Excuse me," you said, too loud, as you stopped in front of their table. Every head in the restaurant turned. Toji looked up. His expression shifted from surprised to amused in the span of about half a second.
"Hey," he said, casual as anything “Fancy seeing you here."
"Toji."
"...that's my name."
"You." You pointed at him with a wobbly finger that was only mostly aimed in the right direction. "YOU have some NERVE."
The woman looked between you and Toji with raised eyebrows. She didn't look upset, though. If anything, she looked... entertained?
"Is this the one?" she asked.
"The one?" You rounded on her. "Listen here, lady, I don't know who you think you ae, but he…” you jabbed your finger toward Toji "….was mine first. Well, not mine mine, but we had a moment, several moments actually, and we rode on his motorcycle and his hands were on my thighs…..”
"Okay, maybe….” Toji started and he was trying not to laugh. This asshole
"DON'T INTERRUPT ME." You turned back to him, swaying slightly "You were so sad at the party and I felt bad about it and then you're out here with her….”
"….." awkward silence
"Do you even know how hard it is to be fake engaged to someone?” Oh no no no, why was that coming out of your mouth. “Do you know how many CANAPÉS I had to skip because I was panicking? I didn't eat a single shrimp. NOT ONE."
Your priorities were very clear here.
"That does sound tragic," the woman said, clearly entertained. She was laughing at you or trying not to, anyway. Her lips were twitching.
"IT WAS." You swung back to her. "And who even are you? His GIRLFRIEND? His WIFE? His….”
"His sister." She interrupted
“Because I don’t give a fuck whoever…”
Oh fuck. (You're probably wondering how you got here. Well. Alcohol.)
The floor needed to open up. Right now.
You prayed to every god you could name… and several you made up on the spot… for a sinkhole, an earthquake, anything to save you from this moment. God? Jesus? Budha?
"Sister sister?" you repeated, voice small.
"We share parents. That's usually how it works." Toji said, and now he wasn't even trying to hide his grin.
Yuki… the sister… raised her hand in an awkward wave. "Hi. Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you, actually."
Heard a lot about you?? The floor still wasn't swallowing you.
“I need to go," you said, voice strangled. "I need to…”
Toji's hand caught your wrist. Before you could react… before you could pull away or apologise… he was standing, yanking you toward the exit with a muttered "Be right back" to his sister.
"What are you… "
"Shut up."
Rude "Excuse me?"
"You've been talking for five minutes straight.” He pushed through the restaurant door, dragging you behind him. “Give it a rest."
He pulled you outside, around the corner of the building, into a narrow alley
"Toji….” All the fight went out of you at once, leaving you painfully sober despite the five shots still sloshing in your stomach.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, I just…"
"Hey." His hand was on your face suddenly, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes.(God, his eyes are beautiful) "Shut up for a second."
"But… "
"What did I just say?"
You shut up. First time for everything.
Toji looked at you for a long moment. The streetlight behind him turned his edges soft. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you forgot how to breathe.
"You're a mess," he said. " A beautiful mess”
"Is there a point to this, or…”
He kissed you.
THE KISS (OR… THE MOMENT YOU REALIZED YOU WERE FUCKED)
It wasn't gentle.
You didn't expect gentle from Toji, and you didn't get it. His mouth was hot, demanding, one hand fisting your dress while the other cupped the back of your neck like he was afraid you'd run.
You weren't going to run.
His lips parted yours, tongue sliding against yours, and you made a sound… small, desperate, completely humiliating… that seemed to break something in him.
"Fuck," he breathed against your mouth. "Do you have any idea….”
"Shut up."
"…how long I've wanted to….”
"Shut UP." You pulled him closer and hee came willingly.
His body pressed yours and the cold wall against your bare shoulders should have been a shock but all you could feel was him… finally there, after weeks of wanting and denying and pretending.
His hand slid up your thigh. Your hands slid under his jacket. And the world narrowed to this… his mouth on your neck, your fingers digging into his back, the ragged sound of both of you.
"We should…” you gasped. "Toji…”
"Say my name again."
You did. Moaned it, really, because his hand had found a spot that made you see stars. Made you understand why people wrote poetry about this shit.
"We have to stop," you managed, though every cell in your body was screaming at you to absolutely not stop, to let him pull you into his lap, to see exactly what would happen if you…
"There you are”
You shoved Toji off you so hard he nearly fell into a trash bin.
Shoko stood at the edge of the alley, phone in hand, expression caught somewhere between horrified and delighted.
"I've been looking for you for twenty minutes," she said. Her eyes landed on Toji, traveled down to where his hand was still on your waist, traveled back up to your probably swollen lips “…..oh. OH. Oh wow, okay."
"It's not what it looks like," you said.
Liar. Liar, pants on fire. Pants very much wanting to come OFF, actually.
"It looks like you were about to fuck in the alley."
"Okay, it's a little what it looks like."
Toji, the bastard, just smirked. Like he hadn't just had his hand up your dress. Like he wasn't currently looking at you like he wanted to finish what he started.
“Come on," he said, "I'm taking you home."
~~~
Toji drove you home on his motorcycle.
You clung to him the whole way, arms wrapped around his waist, cheek pressed against his back. The vibration of the engine between your thighs was not helping your current state. Neither was the way he smelled.
When you got to your apartment, he carried you up the stairs (all five fucking flights, because your building still didn't have a working elevator), barely breaking a sweat while you clung to his neck like a koala. A horny koala
He set you down outside your door, and you fumbled for your keys, which took at least seven years because your bag was a black hole where useful items go to die. Your phone was there. Old receipts. Gum wrappers. A condom from 2019 that you should probably throw away. Everything except your keys.
"Got it," you announced triumphantly, holding up the key ring like you've found the Holy Grail.
"Congratulations." You could hear the smile in his voice.
"Don't mock me." You said, struggling with the lock because your hands were shaking.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
You unlocked the door. He followed you inside. Dumpling… your cat… immediately appeared… meowing at the intrusion. Probably about to give you a lecture on bringing home strange men. Dumpling, the cockblock.
"Hey, cat," Toji said
Dumpling sniffed his shoe suspiciously, then apparently decided he was acceptable, because she started rubbing against his ankles.
"You lil Traitor”
Et tu, Dumpling?
Toji laughed…. and when he looked at you, there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch.
He stepped closer. Cupped your face in his hands and kissed you again… slower this time.
~~~
Across the street, a car pulled up.
Gojo Satoru sat behind the wheel, fingers frozen on the ignition, watching as you disappeared through your doorway in another man's arms.
His hand tightened on the steering wheel.
In his pocket, an engagement ring…. the real one. He bought it three days ago and has been carrying it around ever since, waiting for the right moment. He'd been planning to surprise you. To suggest that maybe, possibly, the fake engagement didn't have to be so fake after all.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The door closed behind you. Through the window, silhouetted against the warm light of your apartment, he saw Toji pull you close. Saw you rise on your tiptoes to meet him halfway.
His chest ached. A dull, hollow thing, like something had been carved out and left empty. He sat there for a long moment. Minutes, maybe. An hour. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring.
It was beautiful. White gold band. Diamond that caught light like captured starlight.
Clause one: neither party shall develop genuine romantic feelings for the other.
He’d broken the rule. Weeks ago. Maybe from the start, if he was being honest with himself.
He’d fallen in love with you somewhere between the fake dates and the real laughs, between your dumb jokes and your inability to walk in heels, between the moments when you looked at him like he was just Satoru, not the Gojo heir.
Gojo Satoru drove home alone, with an empty passenger seat and a full heart that had no one to give itself to.
EPILOGUE (OR… THREE MONTHS LATER)
"You're late." Toji threw himself onto your couch, narrowly missing Dumpling.
"Traffic." You said
"You don't have a car."
You collapsed onto the couch beside him. "There was an old lady. She was walking very slowly. I couldn't pass her without seeming rude."
"Did you try?"
"No, I respect my elders."
"Liar."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. You'd been smiling a lot lately.
It wasn't perfect. Nothing ever was. Your mother still called weekly to ‘check in’ (guilt trip you about choosing "that vagabond" over a Gojo heir). She'd sent you seven articles about Satoru's recent philanthropy work, as if that would change your mind. Your father chose to stay silent which was somehow worse than the guilt trips.
But Toji was there.
Every night on your couch. Every morning making burnt pancakes in your tiny kitchen. Every moment feeling more real than anything else in your life.
Your phone buzzed.
Gojo: Saw the news about your parents finally accepting Toji. Congrats. Also, I hate you both.
You laughed.
You: You're dating a supermodel.
Gojo: She's boring.
You: Find someone else then
Gojo: Working on it. Also, Sukuna keeps asking about you. Should I be concerned?
You: Tell him I'm very happy and also blocked him again.
Gojo: He'll love that.
"Who's that?" Toji asked, not opening his eyes.
"Gojo."
"Still weird that you're friends."
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes” He said pulling you down onto the couch with him and kissed your forehead.
You were happy. Actually, genuinely happy.
The idiot in the basement actually made it out alive.
(For now.)
Sukuna was still out there. Satoru was still carrying around a ring he hadn't returned. Your mother was still plotting ways to break you up.
But that was a problem for future you.
THE END (probably)
A/n : Your reblogs and comments are appreciated ♥︎
Sorry for the late update. I was lacking motivation but I finally finished it. I hope y'all like it♥︎
Boyfriend!Simon Riley that tries to get into whatever hobby you do. you like to read? he’s reading whatever book you picked up while you’re in the shower so he can casually talk about it later with you. you like to draw? well, Simon might not be the best, but he’ll model for you if you want. he’ll doodle on napkins and leave them around your home for you to see - little, scribbled skulls with hearts.
Boyfriend!Simon Riley that makes it his priority to keep you safe. sleeps closest to the door, walks with his body closest to the road, stares daggers behind you while you talk to a cashier - he can’t help that one though, poor man just has a habit of staring.
Boyfriend!Simon Riley that’ll swap shoes with you if your feet hurt from wearing heels or the soles of your shoes are bothering you. takes his off without hesitation - if your shoes can handle it and you need a good laugh he’ll try walking in what you were wearing, “Bloody hell, how the fuck were you walkin’ in these?”
Boyfriend!Simon Riley that trusts his team to watch you if he has to step away. knows Price’ll scare off anyone with a glare, and Gaz will watch your drink if you get distracted. Chuckles when he comes back and sees that Johnny is talking him up - ever the wingman.
Wingman!Johnny that, even before you started dating Simon, would make him sound good, “Yeah, lass, toughest man on base— you better get with ‘em quick, yeah?”. fist bumps Simon when he tags in, “He didn’t give you too much trouble, did he, love?”
