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(cunt)yji, or you can call me kash [any pronouns work for me <3 :3]. the reigning ruler of divine divas and a certified cunt connoisseur. here for a good time, not a long time.
this blog deals with nsfw and dark content on occassion, be mindful when interacting! ☆⌒(*＾-゜)
kashimo's always been reckless, especially whenever he's slotted into his favourite place in the world. right between the plush flesh of your thighs.
you had never expected him to be, because for the longest time, you had amusedly watched as the tips of his ears would flush pink, ivory skin mottled red as kashimo coughed and kneaded at the back of his neck. the medieval sorcerer being surprisingly prudish to the concept of anything intimate, that is, until . . he got his first taste.
and he's just so fixated. so unflinchingly devoted to the slick, twitching mess of you. it's visible in the way he presses pale lips to the inside of your thighs, sharp fangs tucked away lest they pierce and puncture.
you can see jus' how desperate kashimo is to dip your hips into his mouth, from the way he nudges your knees open wider with his chin. like you're a book he's desperate to study front to back, cover to cover, to memorise every sopping fold that oozes translucent slick over his slender fingers.
"you're already shaking, little dove," kashimo murmurs, voice thick and raspier than his typical snide tone. cyan eyes flashing with unbridled desire as he drags his electric gaze across your soaked cunt.
the sorcerer's grinning when he says it, that little flash of mischief tucked behind the sharp tip of his tongue, as though he knows exactly what he's doing to you. and worse? he knows that he's only just begun.
". . hajime, i –" you whisper, breath hitching when he brushes the very tip of his shapely nose against your inner thigh. pressing his lips to your skin in a way that blooms a fresh bruise that you'll marvel at tomorrow.
the sorcerer's gaze flickers up, jewel-turquoise eyes ringed by lashes of the very same shade. the effect is almost disconcerting, but fascinating all the same.
"mhm?" kashimo's voice is airy, distracted. and he's far too busy mouthing along your skin, open-mouthed kisses soaking into your flesh like he's trying to leave a trail, some path back to you, in case he ever gets lost, "you nervous?" he grins, "don't be, i'm not."
yeah, hajime kashimo never gets nervous. or apprehensive. you've yet to introduce him to every wonder of the modern world that the edo period lacked, but you know that if you dangled him over the edge of the mariana trench, he'd probably excitedly ask you to just drop him right in, just for fun . . . and right, where were you?
the moment kashimo finally presses a tender, leering kiss to your cunt, soft and slick, your body tenses with a gasp. and marble-sculpted hands tighten at your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin. keeping you open and steady. he hums, as though he's just tasted ambrosia.
"ouh, wait. ." he mutters, "that's, that's good. keep 'em open for me, little dove, i like that."
and kashimo's messy with it, shameless. his eager tongue laps through your glossy folds, slow and steady, as though he's trying to memorise the way you taste, every twitch of your thighs alongside him.
and you can only jolt beneath him, your hand blindly groping out to curl into the soft strands of his teal hair, latched right around one of the knots he pulls his hair up into.
kashimo just groans, lips dragging up to your throbbing clut, suckling the nub with a soft, wet sound that echoes in the space between your legs.
". .there she is," kashimo reverently whispers, half to himself, half to the trembling, quivering mess of your swollen pussy, "you gonna' cum just from this? just from my mouth, sweet thing?"
and what else can you do, but choke on your reply? fingers threading through blue-green strands, already damp with exertion. and he's moaning at that, a grunt that gives way to a needier, unabashed sound. as though you're the one pleasuring him.
"if i had known that you'd like it this much. ." his tongue teasing at your clit in lazy circles now, deliberately slow before laving down to part your sticky, messy folds, "like me right here?" gentle breath fanning over your folds, hot and uneven. and you can nearly sob when his eager lips wrap around you once more, right over the throbbing pulse that jumps up and down.
"say it, wanna' hear how much you like it."
you can only nod, desperate. angling your hips just so, in a way that slick pools and trickles, and he shakes his head to side to avoid wasting even a drop. but there's just so damn much. .
kashimo lifts his head just enough to look you in the eyes, chin gleaming with spit and slick, lips swollen pink and tacked with your arousal.
"hey, what did i jus' say?" he's slowly inching the very tips of his fingers into your glossy entrance that's winking up so prettily for him. "use your words, little dove. don't make me ask twice."
"y-yes," you pant, eyes fluttering as stars begin to prick at your vision, feeling kashimo's digits press and meld to every crevice of your gummy, sticky walls. searching eager for that sweet spot, "yes, i like it. i l-love it when you – . ."
that's all kashimo really needed to hear. there's a faint jostle in the bouncy mattress beneath you, and you have no doubt he's probably rutting himself up against the soft bedding. eager to chase some friction of his own beneath the thick weave of his ivory martial pants.
the sorcerer eats as though he's starved, sucking your clit like air is a mere second priority to him. licking into you, greedily pummelling his fingers into you, and curling them against the rough patch towards your abdomen that makes you squeal.
you can hear the god of lightning groan, pant against you as though it's euphoric, hands bruised into your thighs. and you're already tipped over the edge, hips stuttering, mind startlingly blank. mouth parted in a soundless gasp as your brows knit together.
but. . just before that sweet release knocks on the door, kashimo pulls back slightly. fingers still curled and oodling pretty, sloppy patterns in you. but that searing gaze is trained up at you, through half-lidded, ruined eyes.
"you better cum, better make a fuckin' mess," kashimo breathes, slick strands of your arousal clinging to his lips as they part, "all over my face, can you do that? mhm, can you do that for me?"
when kashimo has his mind set to pleasuring you, it's never casual. never tame, never a favour. not a warm-up, nor a means to an end. the tip of his nose bumps right up against your pulsing, swollen clit, you can hear the sorcerer mutter, almost to himself, like a vow, "gonna' have you on my face next."
I'M SO INSECURE LIKE MY WRITING AND MY BLOG AND MY FREE TIME AND HOW I SPEND IT GOING OVER DETAILS BUT IT NEVER COMES OUT THE WAY IT'S SUPPOSED TO AND THE FORMATS ARE SO BASIC AND I JUST END UP GIVING UP AND SHITTING OUT SOME HALF-BAKED SHIT.
MY VENT ASIDE, HOW DO YOU DO IT? SO PERFECTLY AND JUST UHSNVIUFVJNS
basically tips haha crazy greatly appreciated
hi nonnie, i'd love to help u out but honestly i've been going thru the same issues as well LOL, i feel my writing is lacking when it comes to others. but anyways;
when it comes to writing tips i did talk about it
here (part one) -> here (part two) -> here (part three) -> here (part four)
talking about actual concepts, you don't need something that's "different" or "quirky" - seriously, there are so many fics with the same trope (e.g nerdjo, boss [character] x secretary reader, college au's etc.), what matters is how YOU write it and continue with the story.
people on tumblr prioritize quality > quantity, so even if it takes you a month to write a oneshot (or even a 500 word drabble) it's fine. only post once you feel satisfied. <- not feeling satisfied? revist the draft after a few hours/the next day. it will help you work on it with a much clear mind!
also, brain-storming with your friends and mutuals is always a fun task to do. sometimes when i'm writing a fic i get confused on how to progress, and discussing it with a person who knows what i am writing about helps loads!
technical stuff: when you're posting a fic, try to make one of two things engaging (because we all are humans, and shiny things catches our eye):
the visuals - your header picture, markdown whatever
your opening line - grab your reader's attention and make them wanna read more!!
you don't need a degree in photoshop to come up with a good visual. if you post three pics from pinterest and post it like this ( example here ) that also looks great. a great site i use for markdown is https://spacegen.carrd.co/ !! i swear to god it has saved me everytime and all you need to do is just copy and paste.
i hope this helps and all the best :) i've literally shifted accounts so many times because of demotivation (do not try this at home) so i get what you mean. it's a matter of luck and practice, so hang in there!
Synopsis: A bold color choice, a little too much free time, and way too much devotion. One question: is that really the shade they think it is?
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, MDNI. Smut & crack. Established Relationship. Geto has not deflected, Toji is a DILF/older than reader (can be just by a couple of years, but feel free to read it how you'd like), Sukuna true-form is not implied since he only has one cock, but feel free to read it as such. Reader has a vagina + bush/fem-bodied. Hair pulling, doggy-style, P in V, dirty talk, creampies [implied], oral (seperate f. and m. receiving), riding, 😺 referred to as "her", dom! Nanami, top! Toji and Geto (seperate), sub! Choso, power bottom/switch! Sukuna
Note: From @nkopurin and I with love 😍 Thank you for helping me brainstorm this idea hehe <3
✶⋆.˚ Ao3
GOJO SATORU
It started with a need.
Not a hair-related one, not initially. It began with something far more sacred and carnal. You were in bed one night, Gojo passed out like a very tall, very dumb angel after an equally dumb but impressively athletic session of “babe, let’s try standing up this time” — and your eyes, glazed but focused, landed on the thing.
Not the thing. His thing. Your phone, really, but more specifically, a photo of his dick. It wasn't anything risqué; in fact, it was borderline artistic. Backlit like a renaissance painting, his hand casually wrapped around the base like he was offering it to a museum. It was… majestic.
And pink.
Not an obnoxious pink. Not bubblegum, not fuchsia. It was a warm, flushed, expensive pink. Like blushing porcelain. The kind of pink that made you understand why entire cultures assigned gender to colors. This one? This was the tip of Gojo Satoru pink. A pink that made you feel cherished, cursed, and absolutely deranged all at once.
So you screen-shot it.
Uploaded it to a color picker site.
Hex code #F7A5B3.
Suspiciously gentle. Suspiciously perfect. Definitely suspicious, considering the site immediately tried to sell you 400 crypto coins and an NFT of someone else's nipple. But you took that code and ran.
Now, you couldn’t just buy that color in a bottle. No one in the hair dye industry had taken the noble, godly risk of bottling Gojo Satoru's dickhead hue. Cowards. And so, Saturday morning, armed with seven different pinks from a local store, a bowl, and a wildly misplaced sense of purpose, you began to mix.
“This is what God made me for,” you whispered, wrist-deep in dye, adding a smidge more ‘peach dazzle’ to your cauldron of horny alchemy.
The end result? Perfection. If a cherry blossom had an orgasm, this would be the aftermath. You smoothed it into your scalp, grinning like a lunatic as your bathroom mirror caught the glint in your eye—the kind of glint that only comes from knowing your hair now looked like your husband’s dick tip.
When Gojo walked through the door that evening, adjusting his blindfold with one hand and tossing his bag with the other, the first thing he did was stop. Blink.
And then blink again, which was impressive, considering he was blindfolded.
“Oh?” he said, already walking toward you with the cautious reverence of a man approaching a shrine. “New hair?”
You didn’t say anything. Just angled your head in the light so it caught that very specific pink, glowing like divine foreskin in the golden hour. Gojo's brows lifted, then furrowed, then lifted again.
He leaned in.
“Is this… me?”
You nodded solemnly. “Tip-inspired,” you clarified. “I color-matched.”
He said nothing for a long moment. Just took your chin gently in his hand and peered at your hair like he was identifying a long-lost artifact.
“…Baby, that’s so fucking hot.”
You snorted. “I figured you’d like it.”
“Like it? I feel seen. My dick feels celebrated.”
He kissed you hard, and somewhere between the makeout session and him half-carrying you to the bed, he muttered:
“I should return the favor.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding seriously. “Solidarity. Pubes.”
“No.”
“C’mon, I could go pastel! Lavender balls! Romantic!”
“Satoru, no.”
He was already halfway to the bathroom. You heard drawers opening. Things crashing. You had to throw a towel at him to stop the chaos. He caught it, grinning.
“You’re no fun,” he pouted, clearly half a second from ordering glitter dye off the internet.
“You’re not dying your happy trail. That’s the hill I'll die on.”
“Fine. But next time you do highlights… might I suggest the undertones of my shaft?”
You slapped him with the towel.
Your hair, though? Flawless. Divine. Blessed. And every time Gojo kissed the top of your head afterward, you could tell he knew exactly what he was kissing.
TOJI FUSHIGURO
It started with the nails.
Well—technically, it started with Toji giving you a lazy grunt of “go treat yourself or whatever” and sliding over a thick roll of cash like he was paying off a hit. And you did treat yourself. Just not in the way he expected.
Toji didn’t ask many questions when you came home, freshly manicured, tapping your newly adorned fingers against the countertop just loud enough for him to notice. You watched him squint, suspicious already. “The fuck’s that color?” he muttered.
You gave a tiny smile, tapping the pad of your thumb against your ring finger for emphasis—the ring finger that had his initials done in dark, bold lettering, sharp and crisp over the muted pink polish. “Oh, this?” you said sweetly. “Just something inspired by you.”
He blinked. Then looked again. His brow creased.
“That’s my—wait. That’s my fuckin’ d—”
“Tip,” you offered helpfully. “Yup.”
Toji clapped a hand over his face and groaned like he’d aged ten years in a second.
“You’re despicable,” he mumbled through his palm. “Absolutely insane.”
And you just shrugged. because he hadn’t not given you the money for it. And anyway, it was a lovely color—rich, dusky, masculine in that very specific flushed way. The shade that only existed when he was half hard and half annoyed and half threatening to fuck your brains out for misbehaving, which was often. But then, of course, the nails weren’t enough. Because what’s a set without a matching main event?
The next time he saw you, it was in the evening light, your freshly dyed hair catching the low amber glow. And you swore you saw his soul leave his body.
“You didn’t,” he said flatly.
“I did,” you grinned.
He stared long and hard. The color was perfect. That dusky, raw pink, slightly darker at the roots. You’d even toned it to match that exact heat-flushed, post-shower hue he sported when he was about to fuck you against the nearest surface. He didn’t ask how you explained the shade to the ladies at the salon. He refused to. The possibilities alone were giving him a headache.
“Y’need therapy,” he grunted.
“Probably,” you chirped.
He dragged a hand down his face. Muttered, “...Fuckin’ hell,” and shook his head.
Still—when the lights were out, and your ridiculous little tribute of a hairstyle was bouncing under his hand as he pounded into you from behind like he had something to prove, he didn’t complain.
His grip was punishing in your hair, the strands twisted tight around his fingers, just enough pressure to keep your head arched back perfectly so he could see your expression melt every time he shoved in deeper.
“Look at you,” he grunted, his voice ragged, his thrusts brutal and steady, “Wearin’ my fuckin’ cock like a badge.”
He tugged harder, yanked your head back until your mouth parted and your eyes fluttered. His hips snapped forward again, loud and wet and obscene.
“Crazy fuckin’ woman,” he rasped, biting down on your shoulder now, lips dragging against sweaty skin, “—gettin’ salon dye to match my dick, the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Everything,” you choked out, nearly delirious. “I’m so gone for you, baby, fuck—”
And he laughed. Full chest, low and amused, filthy even in his exasperation. His hand smoothed over your scalp for a second—like he might show you tenderness—and then he pulled again, drove in with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.
“You’re gonna have to go back to that salon with a limp,” he growled in your ear, “Let ‘em see what happens when you walk in smellin’ like my cum.” You moaned, shuddering, knees almost giving in.
Toji was too old for this. Too grizzled, too tired to understand your generation’s brain rot. But that didn’t mean he didn’t fuck like he was born for it. Didn’t mean he didn’t leave you twitching and trembling and ruined by the end of it.
And when he finally collapsed next to you, panting, sweat-slick and sore, he rolled over just enough to look at your hair again.
“…It is a nice color,” he muttered reluctantly.
You smiled against his chest. “I'll get the matching lipstick next.”
He groaned again, reaching over to slap your ass, hard.
“Despicable.”
“Yep.”
“…Fuck, I love you.”
“You'd better.”
CHOSO KAMO
Choso is agitated.
Not angry—no, that would’ve been easier to deal with. Choso doesn’t really do anger the way others do. He just gets… tense. Quiet. Eyes narrowed, arms crossed, head tilted slightly like he’s watching a very slow train wreck he’s emotionally invested in. He's standing at the edge of the bathroom now, shoulders stiff, gaze locked on your hair like it personally offended him.
“You didn’t tell me it would be permanent,” he says, voice calm but too calm.
You blink. “It's not?”
His whole body jerks like you just threw a bucket of ice water at him.
“...What?”
You laugh, a little confused, a little charmed. “Baby. It’s not permanent. It's semi-permanent. It’ll fade in, like, six weeks.”
He's silent. Comically silent. His eyes dart back to your hair.
Then to your face.
Then to your hair again.
“…Oh,” he says softly.
And then—
“Oh.”
He sounds heartbroken.
You watch him slowly sit down on the edge of the tub like you just told him you were dying.
“It’ll… fade?”
You nod.
“But—" he gestures vaguely at your head. “You did it for me.”
“I can touch it up,” you assure him, walking over, hands light on his shoulders. “You can even help.”
He brightens subtly. Barely. But it’s there.
“…Okay. Okay. But I wanna be there when you do it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “To help?”
“To supervise.”
“Supervise what?”
His voice drops to a mutter. “The accuracy.”
Which is how you end up here, two weeks later, with a towel around your neck, gloves on, dye ready—and Choso already pantless, sitting obediently on the closed toilet seat with his dick in his lap like a willing participant in some sort of medical study.
“You sure you’re okay like that?” you ask, flicking open the dye tube.
He nods. Quickly. “I don't wanna interfere with the process.”
He's already a little hard. You try not to giggle. Try.
You crouch, squinting, face inches away from his flushed, semi-erect cock.
“Hmm. Looks a little warmer in tone today.”
He shivers.
“C-could be the lighting,” he says, voice pitched slightly higher than normal.
You tilt your head. “Or blood flow.”
He inhales through his nose, thighs twitching. “Possible,” he says weakly.
You bring your face even closer, inspecting from another angle. Your breath ghosts over the tip and he whimpers, hands flying to his thighs like he’s trying to pin them down from shaking.
“Stop me if this is too much,” you murmur, not moving away at all. He nods quickly. Too quickly. “No, n-no, ’m good. I'm—I'm fine. I wanna help.”
You hum, pressing a kiss to the underside, featherlight. Then lick a slooow, curious stripe up the length.
He chokes. “N-not during the dye,” he says, voice paper-thin and trembling. “I-it’s not safe—what if the chemicals—”
“I'm careful,” you murmur, already taking him in. He breaks. Visibly. One hand reaches for your shoulder, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t pull—just holds, clinging like he’s about to float away.
“Oh—fuck,” he breathes, already leaking, already shaking. “Fuck, you can’t—you c-can’t focus on the color like this—”
“I don't have to,” you whisper against the head, lips slick with him now. “I already got it memorized.”
He lets out a noise so soft, so pathetic, it makes you suck harder just to hear it again.
By the time the dye’s halfway through processing in your hair, he’s slumped back, completely undone, flushed all over and breathing like he just got resuscitated. His thighs are twitching, his hands are useless, and his eyes are glassy, blinking at you like you just changed his worldview.
“That wasn’t supervising,” he mumbles, dazed.
“It was quality control,” you reply, deadpan.
He groans.
“...When’s the next touch-up?”
You grin, leaning forward to press a sloppy kiss to his lips.
“Four weeks. Mark your calendar.”
RYOMEN SUKUNA
Sukuna is, at first, appreciative.
He’s lounging on his throne, fingers lazily tapping against the armrest as he watches you strut in with that smug look on your face and new hair on your head. The color hits him first. Soft, almost sugary—like the inside of a bleeding peach. Not quite natural, not quite real. A pink that seems too whimsical to exist in his world of blood and ash. He hums, raising an eyebrow as he gestures vaguely in your direction.
“An offering, is it?”
You grin. “More like a tribute.”
“Hmm,” he muses, and you can see the faintest curve of amusement on his lips. “A show of worship. How very devoted of you.”
But then he really looks at it, tilting his head as he squints.
“…What the fuck kind of color is that.”
You blink.
“It’s the color of your cock.”
The silence is immediate and violently loud. Sukuna stares at you like you just announced your intention to marry Gojo Satoru instead of him. His eye twitches, something deep and ancient inside him glitching. And then:
“What the everloving fuck does that mean, you insolent little—”
“You’re loud for someone whose tip looks like a cherry blossom, Suku.”
“It does NOT—”
He's on his feet now, pacing, hands in his hair, swearing in languages the Earth has long since forgotten. The sheer rageful fluster radiating off him is so intense, the walls tremble. He points at you, points at your hair, then points at his own crotch like he’s about to hold it up as exhibit A.
“What part of me—what part of that—makes you think it looks like that color?! Have you lost your mind?! Are you blind? Are you mocking me?!”
You’re nearly doubled over, wheezing with laughter, half in awe and half terrified that you’ve managed to turn the King of Curses into an angry little ball of embarrassment. He growls, bare-chested and barefoot and furious, stomping back to his throne with his arms crossed.
“You’re never allowed to speak again,” he grumbles, sulking. “Blasphemy. Absolute heresy. You should be punished—”
“Say less,” you chirp, tossing him a wink.
He sputters.
Later that night, the punishment is you straddling him on his throne, bouncing on his cock with your pink-stained hair swinging wildly around your face—and it turns out, for all his complaints, he has not stopped staring at it. His head’s tipped back against the throne, jaw clenched, trying to focus on anything else but the way your hair bounces perfectly with each slam of your hips.
“Fuck—quit movin’ like that,” he rasps, voice strained.
“You mean riding you?” you ask sweetly, snapping your hips a little harder, watching his hands twitch at his sides like he’s barely holding back.
“No—the hair. Your fucking hair.”
You grin.
He grabs your waist suddenly, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and slams up into you, making you squeal.
“You gonna do it again?” he huffs against your throat, panting. “You gonna keep it that color just to drive me mad, you little slut?”
“Yup,” you whisper, biting your lip, rolling your hips just right. His hands shake as his head drops to your shoulder. You feel the smallest, most pitiful groan leave his chest.
He’s losing it. Completely. Eyes hazy, body shuddering under yours, trying desperately to focus on the feel of your cunt and not the goddamn glow of your cursed hair in the dark.
“Never been more disrespected in my life,” he groans, dragging his tongue across your throat. “I hate you. Fuck, I hate you—”
“You’re gonna cum inside me again, aren’t you?”
He whimpers.
And it’s the prettiest little sound you’ve ever heard him make.
NANAMI KENTO
Nanami is speechless.
Not the stunned, dazed, jaw-dropped kind. No—this is the quietly judging, emotionally restrained, deep sigh echoing from the depths of his tired soul kind of speechless. Glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, brow twitching, card bill in hand.
“You spent how much on what?”
You sit innocently on the couch, hair freshly dyed and glowing with that faded, strangely warm blush-pink hue, scrolling on your phone with the nonchalance of a criminal who thinks they've pulled off the perfect heist.
“...I had to match it perfectly.”
He rubs his temples.
“With my—?”
“Yup.”
He closes his eyes, breathing through his nose as he reconsiders every life decision that led him to this moment. Not that it’s entirely surprising. You’ve always had the most questionable taste in financially irresponsible love languages. This isn’t even the worst of it.
No, the worst was that one time you used the card to commission a hand-stitched, button-eyed plushie of him from a niche artist in another country. He found it tucked under your pillow one night, arms outstretched like it missed him. He didn’t say a word. Just...sat down and took a long sip of his whiskey.
But this? This has his hands in your hair more often than he consciously intends. Long fingers carding through it when you're curled up in bed beside him. Resting on your shoulders while he's driving, letting his knuckles brush the strands of your hair absently as he shifts gears. Sometimes even during mundane moments—while you’re reading, eating, brushing your teeth. He's obsessed in spite of himself.
The problem is, he notices the fading.
“Have you not been using the sulfate-free shampoo I bought you?”
You pause mid-bite of your snack.
“...There’s special shampoo?”
His eye twitches.
And now you’re here—kneeling on the bedroom floor, blinking up at him as he stands tall, sleeves rolled, belt long forgotten somewhere on the bed. His cock is heavy in his palm, leaking against the curve of your cheek, and he’s dragging the tip slowly across your flushed skin like he’s painting strokes on a blank canvas.
“Hm,” he muses, low and annoyed. “The pink’s uneven.”
You whine, shifting closer, trying to suck him in—but his other hand tightens in your hair and pulls.
“Ah-ah. Not yet. I'm still inspecting.”
“‘Nami,” you whimper, thighs pressed together. “Please—”
He swipes the tip across your cheek again, purposefully slow. “I give you a card. I tell you to be responsible. And you blow hundreds on a dye job you didn’t even bother maintaining.”
You’re panting now, needy, humiliated, as you try to squirm closer for a taste. But he’s holding you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, burning up, mouth open and empty.
“You know,” he mutters, voice dropping lower, “Maybe if you showed me how sorry you are… I'd consider booking the touch-up appointment myself.”
Your eyes sparkle. He scoffs. “Not for free, sweetheart.”
And then finally, finally, he slides the head past your lips, slow and deliberate, watching your lashes flutter and jaw slacken like you’ve just taken communion. He doesn’t fuck your mouth—no, not yet. He holds you there, just the tip resting on your tongue, sighing deeply like he's indulging your little obsession only out of obligation.
“If the color’s still uneven tomorrow,” he mutters, stroking the crown of your head with firm, possessive care, “We're going back to the salon.”
His hips shift just enough to press deeper, and you moan around him.
“After you shampoo. Twice. With what I tell you to use.”
He smiles faintly as your eyes roll back.
Finally. Some accountability.
GETO SUGURU
Geto is trying. Really, truly trying not to laugh.
He walks in, drops his keys in the bowl by the door like always, and greets you with that same low, warm “I’m home” he always does—but then he sees you. Sees the way you’re standing there, all proud and glowing, doing a little turn in your socks like you’re unveiling a whole new self.
And then he sees the hair.
He freezes.
You beam. “Surprise!”
He stares, tilting his head a little as he walks a bit closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s analyzing a cursed object.
“…You dyed your hair,” he says eventually, in that careful, measured tone he uses when he’s trying to piece together a truly confusing curse puzzle.
You nod enthusiastically. “Guess what the color is?”
He squints. Then he blinks.
Then he looks you straight in the eye and says, completely flat:
“My dick?”
Your smile turns so wide that he groans immediately and drags a hand down his face.
“Baby…”
“Don’t you love it?”
“It’s not that I don’t—I mean, the color’s nice, but… that’s what you chose to color-match?”
You puff your cheeks out. “It’s a soft, warm tone with pink undertones! It's romantic!”
“It's the color of my tip.”
“Yes!!”
And that’s when it hits him—just how absurdly hilarious this is. And how absolutely you. He tries to keep it together, he really does, but a smile breaks across his face, tired but amused, and he’s shaking his head like he’s going to lose it. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, wiping at his eyes. “I can't believe you spent money on this. I can't believe I'm involved.”
“You’re the inspiration!” you say defensively, fisting your hands by your sides like you’re presenting a noble act of sacrifice.
He loses it again.
But hours later, when he’s on his knees between your legs, the teasing is far from over. His tongue drags up your thigh slow and indulgent, and he hums like he’s appraising a piece of art. “So... she got the full treatment, huh?”
You moan softly, head falling back. “Mhmm.”
But then he pauses, finger resting just above your mound as he raises a single brow.
“Then why was she left out?”
You blink, dazed. “...What?”
He leans in closer, kisses just above your clit, right at the edge of your bush, and whispers, “She didn’t get a dye job too.”
You slap his shoulder.
“Stop calling it that!”
“Why not? She’s the one who got snubbed,” he says with an exaggerated pout, kissing lower now, slow and taunting. “All that love for my tip, and poor baby down here didn’t get a single brush of attention.”
Your thighs twitch as your face burns. You’re whining now, hips shifting, trying to chase his mouth, but he pulls back just enough to keep you squirming.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he coos, dragging a finger along your slit. “I'll make sure she gets a little pampering tonight.”
“Sugu—”
But you’re cut off by your own gasp when he licks a stripe up your folds, groaning like he’s tasting a five-star meal. His grip tightens around your thighs, spreading you wide, burying himself between your legs like he’s trying to eat the embarrassment right off of you. You’re squealing now, every moan mixed with some mortified whimper as he talks to your pussy like she’s got her own name, her own needs, her own complex about being left out.
“Mmm, she’s being shy,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue with practiced precision, “but I know what she needs.”
You buck against his face, legs shaking, trying and failing to close them around his head.
“Stop making me blush you—fuck—”
“You’re the one who dyed your whole head the color of my cock,” he says, eyes glinting as he looks up, mouth shiny and smug. “You don’t get to be shy now.”
And that’s how your plan to be sweet and romantic ends with your legs thrown over his shoulders, his tongue fucking you open while you babble apologies and try not to die from the sheer secondhand shame of being verbally roasted by your own pussy. And Geto? He’s never been more in love.
a/n: hello !! it has been many a moon since i have written smut....i even pulled out the fancy layout i used to use back in the day :PP (i post smut panels/headers on @cuntpress if you're a writer btw <3) be nice please
dearest mimi, i would love to hear your thoughts on zombie! husband/bf satoru if you are willing ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹
kashi 🥺 i barely see you much these days hello 🥹
as of right now i am thinking about….. how zombie husband satoru absolutely despises wearing a shirt 😼 and pants 😼😼 and underwear 😼😼😼
he prefers walking around naked. something about how the clothes rub against this skin just sends him into a sensory overload and bc he is incapable of expressing it properly from how he is unable to speak — he grunts and growls while tearing it off like a mad man until he’s calm again. so you have no option but to let him wander around naked.
. . . and sometimes, you’ll catch him staring at you longingly and so innocently for long periods of time, and his cock will harden in front of your eyes with each passing second — he doesn’t even notice it happening >: ) all he sees and cares abt is you <3
just read ur enemies to lovers sukuna post + oh my god 2014 grunge sukuna is GENIUS. if you ever feel like indulging the idea can u imagine a sukuna x reader where he’s really big on tumblr w the edgy gifs and he dresses cool and reads camus or whatever and reader is a lolita skins lana del rey girlie who totally has an internet crush on him after he posts an artsy shot of him smoking a cig with bicep in full view and she sends him cryptic asks and thinks of him when she listens to ultraviolence!!! UGH you’ve set something off in my brain😭😭
shot up from my seat reading this omg anon i love your brain
i'm currently on a writing break till may but know that i will be incorporating this for sure !! i deffo wanna do an enemies to (friends to) lovers thing with sukun where they bond over music - now that i think about what i have written, i may change the setting a bit but will keep the music and tumblr thing the same :)
thank you for your brain worms once again it's gonna be so fun writing this ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆
implied fem reader + one night stand turned -> baby daddy sukuna | modern au, slight angst and mentions of abortions
he was not supposed to care.
he made it very clear from the jump — the moment you stood there with trembling fingers and that little plus sign shaking in your hand — he said no. flat out.
“get rid of it.”
no inflection, no hesitation. like it was a business decision — clean cut, transactional.
you cried. of course you did, and that irritated him. not because he didn’t expect it — people always cried around him, usually for very different reasons — but because you meant it. you kept saying shit like “it’s a life, ryomen. it’s mine. i’m keeping it.”
and for some godforsaken reason, that intrigued him.
he could’ve disappeared. could’ve gone ghost like it was nothing. but no, instead he sends money every month. doesn’t ask for receipts, doesn’t ask how you’re doing — just sends it. like clockwork. a habit. a system.
and then the texts started. once a week, always the same tone.
sukuna [10:38 am]: how far along
sukuna [1:00 pm]: any complications
sukuna [6:45 pm]: what are you eating
sukuna [8:09 pm]: stop eating that
cold, efficient. might as well be a fucking doctor.
and yet you answer him every time like you owe it to him. like his disapproval still somehow has weight. you even tell him the stuff he doesn’t ask, like when the baby first kicked. or when you had morning sickness so bad you fainted.
you expected silence, but the next morning there’d be a delivery at your door — electrolytes, iron supplements, snacks. you pretended not to care, and he pretended not to send them himself.
he doesn’t come to check-ups, doesn’t ask about names. doesn’t send any of those useless stuffed animal bullshit things new parents get excited over. but he thinks. silently. like, how someone like you — soft-spoken, annoyingly hopeful — could still look him in the eye and choose to have his kid.
and then you’re in labor, and for some reason it’s him you call. not your friend, not your mom, not a cab. it’s sukuna.
and he doesn’t even think. just grabs his keys, doesn’t change clothes — just a tank top, sweats, and fury in his grip as he clenches the steering wheel and breaks five traffic laws to get to the hospital.
you’re already screaming when he finds you, sweaty and biting curses into your palm, and the nurse asks who he is and he says “the fucking father.”
he stays the whole time — pacing, arms crossed, jaw locked. doesn't say much — just sharp nods when you cry out that you can’t do it, low grunts of “yes you can.” doesn’t hold your hand. but he stays.
and then there’s crying.
two of them.
twins.
he stares at them like they’re alien creatures, wrinkled and red and noisy, and he thinks fuck, he’s in it now.
a nurse hands one over, then the other. and he’s never held anything this small before. never held anything with such… complete fragility.
they’re warm and loud and his.
his chest tightens, not with panic. not even with regret. but something heavier. something… tethering. you’re half-asleep but watching him. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just looks down at the kids — the fucking kids — and mutters,
“…they’ve got your nose.”
and that’s how it starts. not with love, not with some grand revelation — just with curiosity turning into presence.
hello my beautiful beloved. how may thou be, how do the winds blow for your fate? dearly i have missed your presence on my dash and even dearer still in my heart
hi bby 😝😿 taking a hiatus honestly, haven’t been writing as much because of exams…..please tag me in all your fics so i can binge read it during my weekly tumblr logging in session
lesson learnt: well, satoru, don’t try to clear the air with your housemate after listening to her masturbate! it won’t end in your favour.
( ﹫note 2 himself : maybe being a bit of a perv works ??? )
+ love, ‘un: okay so he eavesdrops on you a bit ⸝ handjob given: mature content, 18↑ only! ⸝ just a fun post while i try to work out of a writersblock
Satoru has a crush on you. He’s had it ever since you ended up sharing the same house.
No, he never made an attempt to form a connection — besides having manners and engaging in small talk whenever you lingered for too long in the same room. He can’t even look into your eyes for five seconds. Truly doomed.
It’s not like Satoru isn’t confident— he is! After you’ve settled in and agreed upon the yes and no’s with him, he’s found himself unable to charm you into his arms. Satoru knows he’s quite handsome, and has the height to make up for the lack of a better personality.
You were also kind, making sure you buy for him when you’re grocery shopping. You care for him whenever he falls ill, and you never enter his room or touch his belongings without asking. You’re simply the best room neighbour anyone can ask for.
The only problem is that Satoru’s… well, he’s Satoru. He can’t help himself to not eavesdrop if he hears something interesting. This happened a grand total of three times.
The first time, Satoru wasn’t sure if he heard right. Maybe it was the TV? Perhaps a show you were watching? Unable to tell where or what exactly he heard, he tried pushing his ear against your door. Eventually he shrugged it off and continued on with his previous activity. The sounds were too low for him to put a finger on it.
The second time came with some sceptical thoughts. Yet again, he’s hearing the same soft moans but this time it’s followed by a low buzzing sound. Surely you’re just having the time of your life with an electrical massager? He had to gaslight himself in order to trash any perverted thoughts that crept into his mind.
The third time around he gave up. Satoru, with a little bit of shame left in him, stood in his eavesdropping position against your door. Your moans are still soft, the buzzing sounds come in here and there. He’s aware his habit of not minding his business might land him on your hitlist, but he can’t help himself. Your sounds were addictive — the sweetness of it going into his ear and straight to his dick.
Satoru delayed his departure from your door. The blood on his lip due to biting it didn’t bother him. The heat creeping up his neck wasn’t uncomfortable. The growing tightness of his pants was put on hold to be dealt with later. He allowed himself a little more time to indulge in your moans.
Three times Satoru let his perverted mind get the better of him — well, it can be sized down to once. He only jerked off once (after the third time) and refused to face you for an entire day.
One side of him felt ashamed. You’re his crush, and whatever you did behind your door is your private business. He should’ve never “confirmed” it. The other side of him sends blood rushing to his dick every time he looks at you and remembers your moans. His mind takes it up a notch by imagining how your body reacted to self pleasure.
It’s a never ending battle inside him, and the only way to calm both sides is to face his fears and have a conversation with you. Only then would he know true peace but for now, he’ll stick to his hand.
“Like this?” A question followed by a light squeeze around Satoru’s dick.
Instead of the “yes,” he said in his mind, Satoru gave you a short gasp. His arms were firm at his sides, hands balled into a fist as you rejected his pleas to touch you. It was a punishment for his previous actions.
He was completely at your mercy — sitting on the loveseat, pants pooled at his feet. Your warm hand offered a stimulating contrast to the chilled air. Sometimes he opted for leaning his head back, sometimes he went for biting his lips to cage in any moans. It doesn’t match the imaginary dominant image he built up.
Unsatisfied with his reaction, you lowered your hand to grasp his balls, grazing your fingers against the skin. Still, Satoru doesn’t cave in. His jaw tightens, exhaling a shaky breath through his nose.
“I thought you liked me?” You faked a pout, lazily jerking him off. Using your thumb, you rubbed it over his head, spreading the precum to lubricate it even more.
“Fuck—y-yes! I do,” a whimper leaves him. His hips rut upwards in desperate attempts to increase the friction between your hand and his dick.
“But you’re not showing it.” You argued, slowing your movements altogether.
You're having fun, playing with Satoru as he experiences frequent cutoffs in pleasure. He can’t decide whether you’re giving him the best handjob of his life or the worst. The constant edging and taunts makes him tighten his abs but you never allow him an orgasm — hell, you haven’t even let him close.
His bottom lip burns, frustrated tears welling up in his eyes, and he’s probably dug deep into his palm by now. Never has he ever been toyed with for this long. He’s never seen his tip coloured in such an angry red. Satoru might have to beg.
“Please,” Satoru whines, lifting his hips slightly just to feel something—anything.
“Please what?” A smile decorates your face, eyes softened at his desperate figure.
“Do something, please. Touch me.” Finally, he begs, eyes locked on yours hoping you’d give in.
Now you’re satisfied. That’s all you wanted to hear: Satoru begging. That’s all it took for you to bring one hand focusing on his length, jerking it in a steady up-and-down motion. The other gives its attention to his head, keeping your fingers loose as you run it over his head while one finger draws circles around his tip. You kept one hand on his shaft, using it as the main source of pleasure while the other switched to fondling with his balls.
You don’t have three hands, but you do have a mouth. You switched your position to comfortably lower your head to his dick, gathering saliva to spit on his tip. Poking your tongue out, you swirled it around his tip, sliding between the ridge before you fully engulfed his head in your mouth, using it to cover half the area your other hand did.
Satoru’s groans turned into full fledged moans, whimpering whenever you squeeze ever so lightly. The pace of his breathing quickens, his chest falls as fast as it rises, his cheeks fully dusted in a pale pink.
Believe him, he tried his best to not touch you, but he couldn’t dig his nails into his palms anymore. He needed his hand tangled in the strands of your hair, pulling at it whenever he liked without care.
“Close–shit, I’m close,” he chokes out, throwing his head back at your choice of response.
You fastened your speed, coordinating both your head and hands to move the same. Satoru's hand tightens its grip on your hair, somewhat trying to ground himself. The heat of the orgasm’s too strong—your name flows from his lips like a mantra as his hips twitch upwards.
Satoru’s the sensitive type; one, two, three seconds was all it took for Satoru to paint the insides of your mouth with a warm liquid. His torso tenses, body twitching in response to your hand loosely running up and down his dick, helping him ride through his orgasm.
You clean yourself up while Satoru calms down from his high, using your fingers to gather any loose cum that may have landed on your chest.
“Hey,” Satoru weakly calls out to you, smiling ear to ear when you meet his gaze.
“Yeah?”
“Can we do that again — without the edging?”
His bold request made your eyes bulge. It seems that you misunderstood Satoru once he truly became comfortable.
“Let’s not go too fast, Satoru.”
BYE first smut go easy on me i didnt know how to continue/make things flow/end it without switching apps like a fool & if u made it this far mb if there r errors!! i cant reread this yet #shame
couldn't focus on anything all day bc I was too busy thinking about satoru and his foreign girlfriend :o
➽─────────────────────────────❥
you two met, but could hardly speak the same language... so, of course, you let your bodies talk.
one hookup after another led to sneaking around just to spend time together. you're in japan on a teaching job, all things included, and satoru is... a teacher as well -- at least, that's what you understand from it all.
he's obnoxiously adamant about his strength, but he was often so excited explaining It to you that you just couldn't understand. he's such a puppy, piecing together his biggest words and obscene phrases for you to try and translate.
since you both have that teaching archetype, most of your time spent together is enlightening and purposeful. but, satoru likes it the best when you bake for him.
him and his sweet tooth. he could eat an entire tray of desserts in one sitting and still ask for more. the sitting favorite in your nearly non-existent apartment kitchen was cake. all kinds -- layered, plain, cupcakes, and pops, he's certainly not picky. he'll sit and watch you make it for ages, then be right next to you once you deem it cool enough to eat, though he thinks you're saying 'it's too cold to eat'.
today, he's trying brownies.
and of course, his stupidly long fingers are in your pan as soon as you take them from the oven.
"they're hot!" you slap his long fingers away when he tries to grab.
"then, give me one."
so you'd step in front of him, pressing yourself between his hips and the countertop. using your body as a shield to protect your sacred work.
instead of digging into your brownies, he pouts and rests his head on your shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. he's not giving his words any enunciation so it sounds like he says, "if that's what I can have in the meantime,"
you pause for a second, eyebrows furrowing. then, you cave, turning around and asking him, "what?"
"i don't mind having you in the meantime," he replies this time, crystal clear and with a weird look in his bright eyes. your romance is still too young to pick up on every one of his hints, but you can definitely tell his intentions by the way he's trailing his fingers from your hips, down to your...
it's awkward as hell, but you bite your lip, staring past his shoulder and not into his all-seeing gaze. "sex?"
"mhm."
that night, satoru felt hotter as he fucked you easily, hovering over you in missionary with a hand pressed to your cheek. sweat was beading from his light brow, and even he was losing his breath.
"hot. so hot." you moan, eyes pressed shut to try and shun your quickly approaching orgasm. you knew your boyfriend could go on for hours, that's definitely not you.
"thank you babygirl. love it when you call me that."
"no, 's fucking hot."
he kisses you quiet, hips shuddering as they guide the perfection - literal perfection of his cock inside of you. it's making the heat worse, you're left panting against his sweet lips.
and when you're both done and dripping in condensation, brownies are calling your name. it's only when you leave the bedroom, does the heat wave engulf the entirety of your body.
fucking oven.
you left it on. there's no way your shitty one-bedroom could regulate the heat in the middle of summer.
satoru starts panting like a dog, pretty face screwed up in worry as he glances down at you.
"hot." he complains, but does nothing to fix the situation. your left eye twitches.
naked, you head back to the kitchen, flipping the oven off and checking for damage. when you turn around, satoru is at your tail... like a puppy. you give him a smile.
TOMORROW IS GONE ౨ৎ Part One ⊹ ࣪SukuGo x Female Reader
Synopsis: When the past claws its way into the present, Sukuna is left standing in the wreckage of a fate he swore he’d never repeat. A part of him died screaming the name of one he loved, and now, in a cruel mirror of history, you and Gojo are slipping through his fingers the same way—another lesson that love, no matter how fierce, is never enough. As blood stains his hands and regret poisons his soul, one question lingers: was he always meant to lose, or was his name the curse that doomed him from the start? ( AO3 )
Content Warnings: Med student SukuGo x female reader, bicurious/bisexual sukuna and gojo, polyamory, college setting, heavy angst minimal comfort.
Trigger Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI. Descriptions of illness and hospitals, toxic family/friendship dynamics, alcohol and drug use, body dysmorphia, sexual harassment.
series masterlist next chapter
The administrative office was one of those places you had subconsciously ignored for months, half out of laziness and half out of sheer disinterest. It took you nearly a year to find it—nearly a year of wandering through halls, asking for directions, and giving up halfway before you finally ended up here. And now, standing at the entrance, you weren’t sure why you ever thought you needed to. The air smelled faintly of old paper and stale coffee, the walls were a shade of beige that could only be described as “government-issued,” and the woman at the front desk looked like she had seen far too many students come and go to care about one more. But you weren’t the only one here.
Sukuna stood at the counter, a furrow between his brows as he gripped his schedule like it was an offense to his entire existence. He had an air of frustration about him, the kind that made the receptionist’s fingers slow down on her keyboard, her voice dipping into something almost resigned. “You’re enrolled in eight courses,” she said, barely looking up from the monitor. “Yeah, that’s the problem,” Sukuna deadpanned.
“I signed up for five.”
You blinked. That was odd. If you had to guess, you’d think Sukuna would be the type to take extra classes, not less. In lectures, he was always the first to answer, his tone flat and uninterested but efficient—like he had better things to do. Then he’d be the first to leave, slinging his bag over his shoulder before the professor even finished dismissing everyone. You watched as he adjusted his rimless glasses, the movement so quick and practiced you almost missed it. They didn’t suit him—not because they looked bad, but because they sat at odds with the dark tattoos that stretched over his skin. They framed his face, carved sharp and intimidating, but no one ever said a word about them. They wouldn’t dare.
Sukuna wasn’t the kind of ‘nerd’ people bullied. No, he was the kind who could shut someone up with a look, the kind who carried himself with an ease that made his intelligence seem more like a weapon than a quirk. He was built like a tank, broad shoulders filling out his sweater, a hint of softness at his waist hidden under layers of fabric. He never seemed to care about how he looked, never spared a glance in the mirror, but people still watched him. Followed him. The other ‘outcasts’ gravitated toward him like he was some kind of messiah, and you could see why. He didn’t go out of his way to include anyone, but he never pushed them away, either. He was the kind of person people just wanted to be near—like being in his presence alone was enough to make things feel less… bleak.
And maybe that was why it startled you when his eyes flickered to you.
For a second, he hesitated. The papers in his hand crinkled under his grip, his jaw tensing. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth discussing in front of an audience, he brushed past you, his shoulder nearly knocking into yours. He smelled clean—something deep and woody, but not overwhelming. The administrator barely looked up. “Come back if there’s an issue,” she called, but he was already gone.
You exhaled. The receptionist raised a brow, unimpressed.
“Next?”
-
The next time you saw Sukuna, it was somewhere you never expected—inside the small, fluorescent-lit pharmaceutical store tucked between the campus clinic and a convenience store. The place smelled sterile, a mix of rubbing alcohol and something vaguely minty. Shelves lined with neatly arranged medicines and hygiene products stood like silent sentinels, and the low hum of a refrigerator filled the quiet space. You had been standing near the register, shifting from foot to foot, hesitating.
It wasn’t that buying pads and painkillers was embarrassing—it was just awkward. And seeing Sukuna standing at the counter, tapping his fingers against the glass display case, only made it worse. You thought about waiting for him to leave, you really did. But your cramps had other plans, gnawing at you in slow, insistent waves. So, with a resigned sigh, you stepped forward and muttered your request to the pharmacist.
Sukuna didn’t react.
Not when the cashier rang up the items, not when he pulled out his wallet, not even when he casually slid the bag across the counter toward you. It was smooth, efficient—like this was something he did all the time. “Total?” he asked, as if buying pads and painkillers for you was the most normal thing in the world. You stared at him, fingers hesitating over the bag’s plastic handles.
“You—”
“It’s fine.” he barely glanced up as he handed the money over, his face set in its usual unreadable expression. You thought he might say something about the administrative office. Maybe a passing remark about the scheduling mess, some acknowledgment that he had seen you before. But he didn't. He didn’t even look at you properly—not in a way that felt like recognition.
Just a face in the crowd.
You weren’t sure why that thought stung. It wasn’t like you two had ever spoken. You shared a class, sat in the same room, but that was all. Still, you had assumed—no, hoped—he would remember. But he didn’t. And you couldn’t decide what hurt more: the fact that he had helped you so easily, or the fact that, to him, it was just another errand.
-
Sukuna, as a matter of fact, does know who you are.
How could he not? You were the only one who made him feel like there was a tight coil wound up in his stomach, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar. It annoyed him at first. He wasn’t the type to dwell on people, to let fleeting interactions fester in the back of his mind. But with you, it was different.
It had always been different.
He saw you first, months before you ever noticed him, on a day much like any other. The school was noisy, filled with the shrill laughter of children and the exhausted murmurs of staff trying to keep up. Sukuna had been waiting by the gate, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, when he saw Choso dart toward you. “High-five!” Choso had grinned, holding up a tiny hand, and you—without hesitation—had smacked your palm against his.
“Oowww,” you exaggerated, shaking your hand like his hit had been anything but soft. “You’ve been working out, huh?” Choso beamed, giggling, before running toward Sukuna. You didn’t even glance in his direction. He doubted you even realized he was there. But he saw you.
You, the student volunteer who had crouched down to tie a kid’s shoelace without being asked. You, who always lingered a little longer after activities, chatting animatedly with the staff. You, who smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. Sukuna should have forgotten you. But he didn’t.
He didn't have time to entertain things like this. His days were rigid, structured around class, assignments, and taking care of Choso. It wasn’t like he minded—but Choso wasn’t just a responsibility. He was his little brother, left in his care because the Kamos were too busy moving around to take him along. They sent money every month, an automated transaction with no warmth, no questions, just numbers on a screen. It was a clean, methodical process, and sometimes, when his phone pinged with a deposit, it felt almost mocking. Choso, too young to understand, would ask meekly, “Did Papa call?” and Sukuna—because he was good at fixing things, at making sure Choso never had to feel unwanted—did what he could do best.
He wrote.
Letter after letter, careful and practiced, as if Noritoshi himself had penned them. He bought envelopes, stamps, made sure they were sealed just right. Every Sunday, he’d hand Choso a fresh letter, watching as his eyes lit up, tiny fingers fumbling with the paper, reading words that were never really written for him. He spent extra money on those stamps, even though they’d never reach a destination. But it was worth it. Just like seeing you again had been worth it, even if you didn’t think he remembered you.
-
Sometimes, you’d ask Gojo about Sukuna—not because you were desperate for information, but because it was easy. Casual. Gojo took the same courses as Sukuna, purely by coincidence, which meant he saw him more than you did. and Gojo being Gojo, never just summarized. No, a passing comment about something Sukuna said in class would turn into a full-fledged, word-for-word recollection, complete with exaggerated impressions and hand gestures.
"He said," Gojo would begin, voice dropping into something low and mocking, "'If you can’t even grasp the fundamentals, then why are you in this class?'" he'd scoff, pushing up his glasses. "Can you believe him? Such a condescending bastard. Almost as condescending as me. Almost."
Sometimes you’d think Gojo was the only one who could match Sukuna in brains. Brawn, though? Not so much.
Gojo liked to claim he had a “lean, sleeper build,” a phrase he used with utmost confidence whenever the topic of strength came up. But you knew better. You had known him long before he became the loud-mouthed, effortlessly brilliant guy everyone saw now. You knew him from sleepovers as kids, nights when he'd collapse on the floor, unable to move, his body betraying him in the cruelest way possible.
Rhabdomyolysis. Rhabdo, for short.
It wasn’t fair. It never was. Just when you thought he was getting better, he’d push himself too far, ending up in unbearable muscle pain that left him unable to do anything but grit his teeth and wait for it to pass. But that was what you admired about him—no matter how many times it knocked him down, he got back up, thrice as strong, twice as stubborn. He studied and studied, pouring himself into his work, determined to get into med school. His mother had asked you to look out for him before you both left home. It was a simple request, spoken softly but weighted with unspoken worry.
"Make sure he doesn’t overwork himself," she had said. But how were you supposed to do that when Gojo lived to push his limits? Rhabdo came from overworking muscles, and Gojo did exactly that—gymming to prove a point, lifting heavy boxes just to impress whoever was watching. He tried too hard, stretched himself too thin, all because he didn’t want to be seen as just a ‘nerd.’
It made you wonder. Why was he so ashamed of his intelligence? Why would someone like him, who had knowledge in abundance, ever think it was something to hide? You just hoped that, in his pursuit of finding friends, he didn’t lose himself.
Sometimes, you’d try to talk to him about it. About the late nights at the gym when he should’ve been resting, about the way he pushed his body past its limits like he had something to prove. "Satoru," you'd start carefully, voice threading the needle between concern and hesitation. "You know you don’t have to do this, right?"
He'd barely look up, stretching out his arms like he hadn’t been deadlifting a weight that could snap him in half. “Do what?”
“This.” you motioned vaguely—at the gym bag at his feet, at the faint tremor in his fingers, at the exhaustion lurking beneath his grin. “You already have enough on your plate, why are you pushing yourself so hard?”
Gojo scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off your words. "Why wouldn’t I?"
"Because it’s hurting you," you said, and for a split second, something in his expression wavered. Then, just as quickly, it hardened.
"Look," he exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses. "I don't want to be strong in just one way. You think I like how people look at me? Like I'm just some brain on legs? I want to be the strongest. Not just in brains. In brawn too." His voice was sharp, edged with frustration, but beneath it, there was something raw. Something that made your chest ache. But how could you tell him that it was impossible? If you took this from him—this goal, this driving force—what would he have left to fight for? That very thought scared you.
So you hesitated. You let it go.
But a voice inside nudged you.
Just try.
So you did.
"Satoru," you murmured, softer now, "You don’t have to prove anything to anyone."
His head snapped toward you so fast you almost flinched. His porcelain skin flared up with anger, jaw tightening as his hands curled around his glasses, gripping them so tightly you thought they’d snap between his fingers. "You don’t get it," he hissed. "We’re not kids anymore. You don’t have to run behind me like some duty-free nanny."
The words landed like a slap, sharp and unexpected. And then—just as suddenly as it appeared—that fire in his eyes died out. "Shit," he whispered, like the air had been knocked out of him. His hands trembled as they loosened around his glasses, and he reached for you, fingers barely brushing your wrist before stopping short. His voice cracked when he spoke again.
"I—I didn't mean that."
Of course he didn’t.
Because Gojo, for all his bravado, had never been good at watching his words when he was scared. And right now, he was terrified.
Terrified that he had pushed you too far, that you’d finally had enough, that this—the only thing he was sure of—would slip away.
But you wouldn’t go. You could never go.
Because he was your best friend.
Because you only had each other.
So you exhaled, slow and measured, before placing your hand over his.
"I know," you said simply. "But you have to stop doing this to yourself, Satoru."
He swallowed hard, but didn’t pull away.
Maybe he wouldn’t listen now. Maybe he never would. But at least he knew you weren’t leaving.
-
Sukuna knew of Gojo. Not just because they shared multiple classes, but because Gojo was impossible to miss.
White hair, piercing blue eyes, skin so pale it almost looked translucent under harsh fluorescent lights—he somehow fit the conventional beauty standard for men while simultaneously sticking out like a sore thumb. Sukuna had seen him in class, answering questions with an ease that was almost infuriating. Where sukuna would take a split second to process, Gojo would already be speaking, words spilling out like they had been waiting on the tip of his tongue.
But Gojo never noticed the brief glances Sukuna threw his way. Never noticed the way Sukuna, seated at the back of the room, would lean back just enough to watch him.
Gojo surrounded himself with people who seemed eager to bask in his brilliance but unwilling to match it. Sukuna saw them for what they were—leeches. People who, if they tried hard enough, would wring Gojo dry for notes, explanations, anything to make their lives easier. But Gojo didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he even liked it.
But Sukuna knew a different Gojo, too.
He saw him once at the gym, attempting a deadlift well beyond his capacity. Sukuna had expected him to fail. Not because he doubted Gojo's strength, but because he had seen too many people try and fail at the same thing—pushing past their limits just to prove a point.
But Gojo did it.
Somehow, through sheer force of will, he lifted the weight. Held it. His hands trembled violently by the end of it, but he still slammed the bar down with enough force to rattle the plates. Then, without a word, he stormed into the locker room.
Sukuna followed shortly after, towel slung over his shoulder, fully expecting to see Gojo hunched over in exhaustion. But instead, as soon as their eyes met, Gojo straightened, flexing as if that was the reason he had come here in the first place. "Not bad, huh?" Gojo grinned, still slightly breathless. His voice carried its usual arrogance, but there was something else beneath it. Something less sure.
Sukuna had seen this before.
People pushing themselves to extremes for validation, for praise, for their masculine ego. But this wasn’t just about validation. This was about approval. About being seen.
Gojo wanted acknowledgement.
So Sukuna gave it to him.
"Not bad," he said simply, drying off his face with his towel.
It was barely anything. Just two words.
But Gojo’s fingers twitched slightly, barely noticeable, before he turned away to grab his bag.
Sukuna didn’t miss the tremor in his hands as he walked out.
-
Sukuna sat in front of his home altar that night, after putting Choso to sleep. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic outside and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, the fabric of his ratty t-shirt stretching slightly before settling back into place. It barely fit him now—too tight across his chest, too loose at the waist. A weird, unbalanced fit that he should probably care about, but didn’t.
He used to, once. Back when he was a teenager, obsessing over online gym influencers, starving himself to get the perfect cut. But life had softened him, just a little. The kind of softness that clung to a body despite the strength underneath. Now, he didn’t care if there was a bit of pudge, didn’t punish himself over it. He was past that, or at least he told himself he was.
He cleaned the altar with slow, deliberate movements. Wiped down the framed photo. Lit the incense. Set down a bowl of noodles, still steaming faintly, the scent curling around him like something almost familiar, almost comforting. And then, finally, he looked up.
Yuuji.
His younger brother. His bright, beaming, sunshine of a little brother, frozen forever in the photo before him. The four-year-old with a grin wide enough to split his face in half. The kid who used to grab the nearest marker and scrawl on his own cheeks, lines crooked and smudged, just so he could match Sukuna.
"Look, ‘Kuna! S’like you!"
The words echoed in his head, so clear it was like Yuuji had just spoken them. His chest tightened.
"Yeah, yeah, dumbass," Sukuna had grumbled back then, rubbing at the mess Yuuji had made with a sigh. "You got it all wrong. Here, lemme do it properly."
He'd taken the marker from Yuuji’s tiny, eager hands, the tip cool against his baby-soft skin as Sukuna traced the lines carefully. Yuuji had giggled, scrunching his nose when the ink tickled, eyes crinkling in that way that made everything feel weightless.
Sukuna could still feel the shape of his little brother’s face under his palm. Could still see the way Yuuji had reached out to return the marker with those trembling hands—hands that shouldn’t have been shaking at all. He should’ve known. Should’ve seen the signs.
But he hadn’t.
The viral infection that led to Rhabdo. The fever that burned too hot, too fast. The weakness that shouldn’t have been there in a boy so full of life.
"‘Kuna... one more? Please?"
His voice had been so small. So unlike him.
"You dumbass," Sukuna had muttered, uncapping the marker, ignoring the sickly pallor on his brother’s face. "Fine."
He never finished the last line.
Because Yuuji’s body had slumped forward, eyes fluttering shut before Sukuna could even realize what was happening. Before he could scream his name.
Before everything fell apart.
His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. Gojo's trembling hands flashed before his eyes. The way they shook after the deadlift. The way he flexed to cover it up. The way he reached for Sukuna’s acknowledgment like it was something vital. It was too similar. Too close.
Sukuna’s throat felt tight.
The incense burned low, curling in on itself, the faint scent of sandalwood thick in the air. But Sukuna didn’t say goodnight. He stood up, turned away from the altar, and left the room without looking back.
-
The next day, you saw Sukuna again.
His rimless glasses were fogged up from the weather, condensation clinging to the lenses as he stepped out of your shared English class. He didn’t seem to care, though. Didn’t bother wiping them off, just adjusted them with a casual push up the bridge of his nose before shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants. You should’ve just walked away. Should’ve focused on anything else. But your mind, traitorous thing that it was, dragged you back to that night at the pharmacy.
A simple transaction. Nothing more.
So why did it replay in your head every time you sat behind him in class, watching the slow rise and fall of his broad shoulders as he shifted in his seat? Why did your gaze always drift to the way his fingers tapped absently on the desk before he spoke, answering questions with that same calm, clipped confidence? It was driving you mad.
But you didn’t talk to him this time either.
Just like every other time, you let him leave, let him walk past without a glance in your direction, and you told yourself it didn’t matter.
But then your gaze flickered past him, to where Gojo sat at the back of the class, surrounded by those same people—the ones who laughed too loud at his jokes, who clung to him like his presence alone could elevate them. And then there was Sukuna, head tilting ever so slightly in Gojo’s direction.
Watching. Not speaking. Not interacting. Just observing, like he always did. Gojo probably didn’t even notice.
But you did. And that realization made something settle uneasily in your stomach.
Because as much as you hated even formulating the thought, you were jealous of Gojo.
Gojo, who got Sukuna’s attention, even if it was just a fleeting glance. Gojo, who didn’t have to wonder if Sukuna saw him, because Sukuna always did.
You hated it.
So you stood outside class after it was over, lingering near the hallway, watching from a distance as Gojo continued to talk, his voice carrying over the chatter of students filtering out.
You watched him laugh with people who didn’t care for him the way you did. Who didn’t know the late nights spent studying, the way his body ached after pushing too hard at the gym, the exhaustion he tried so hard to mask. They didn’t know him. Not really.
But Sukuna was still watching him.
And you didn’t know which hurt more.
-
Gojo always found you after class.
For all his cocky bravado, for all the laughter he surrounded himself with, he always ended up here—beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pressing his weight into you like you were the only solid thing in his world.
"Man, did you hear that guy today?" he huffed, his voice light, teasing. "He really thought he had that answer, huh? God, Sukuna looked like he was about to hurl his textbook at the wall."
You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. "You always notice Sukuna."
"‘Cause he’s always looking at me," Gojo shot back, grinning, "like I personally ruined his day just by existing."
You didn’t reply. You didn’t tell him that Sukuna wasn’t just looking at him—he was watching him. You didn’t know why you kept that to yourself, but you did.
Gojo's arm was heavy around you, and you should’ve been used to it by now—the sheer presence of him, all six feet and something of him, always larger than life. But something felt off today. His shoulder, where it pressed against you, was sharper than you remembered. The bone jutted out just a little too much.
He was getting thinner.
You swallowed, keeping your expression even as he kept talking, hands gesturing wildly, voice brimming with excitement over something you weren’t even fully hearing.
"And then I said—"
But you could feel it, even if he didn’t say it. The exhaustion. The weight he wasn’t carrying properly.
"—and then he just stared at me like I had six eyes! Can you believe that?"
"Totally," you murmured, forcing a small smile. You wondered—would he ever tell you? Would he say something if you asked? Or would he just laugh it off, throw another joke at you, distract you with that brightness of his, the same way he always did?
So you did what you did best.
You listened.
You allowed yourself to smile, just a little, as he cracked another joke, his laugh ringing through the chilly afternoon air. And as his arm draped over you, you leaned into him just enough to keep him steady. You hoped—no, prayed—that he’d keep leaning on you, that he’d never think he had to bear it all alone. Because people looked up at the starry sky and saw the universe. But you? You saw it in Gojo's eyes. And you’d be damned if you let anyone take that universe away from you.
"You’re making that face again."
Gojo's voice jolted you from your thoughts, and when you turned to look at him, he was grinning, sharp and teasing, like he had you all figured out.
"What face?" you asked, playing dumb.
"That face," he said, gesturing vaguely at you. "The one where you overthink so hard I can hear the gears turning. What's up? You didn’t even react when I said I'm going to a house party tonight."
"That's because I don't think you should go," you admitted, crossing your arms.
"Awwww, come on," he groaned, tilting his head back dramatically. "Don’t be a grandma about this. I need to socialize! Be young! Make questionable decisions!"
"Satoru," you deadpanned. "You’re literally three chapters ahead in every class, you barely sleep, and you push yourself to the limit every single day. Do you really think a house party is what you need?"
"Yes!" he said, beaming. "And for your information, I sleep plenty. I had a whole two hours last night. Very refreshing."
"Oh my god." You wanted to strangle him. Or shake him. Or both.
"Look," he said, throwing an arm around you again, "I get why you’re worried, but I'm a big boy, yeah? I can handle myself."
"Can you?" you countered, raising an eyebrow.
"I can," he said, then smirked. "But I love that you’re worried about me. Makes me feel special."
You rolled your eyes, pushing his arm off you. "I'm serious, Satoru. You know what these parties are like—drugs, alcohol, fights. You—"
"I won't drink," he cut in.
"You say that now," you muttered.
"I won't," he insisted, poking your cheek. "C’mon, don’t you trust me?"
You exhaled, shaking your head. "Of course I do. But I also know you."
"So you know I'm very responsible."
"That is literally the last thing I'd call you."
"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest. "You wound me."
You bit your lip. There was a part of you that wanted to just say it—to tell him to stay, to stay with you instead. But what right did you have? Didn’t he deserve the full college experience too?
But then a traitorous voice whispered in your mind—at what cost?
"Satoru," you said softly. "Just… promise me you’ll be careful?"
His expression shifted, just for a second—so quick you almost missed it. Something softened in his eyes before he gave you a lopsided grin.
"I promise."
You wanted to believe him. You really did.
-
The music was deafening, the bass thrumming through your bones like an impending sense of doom. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and something suspiciously smoky, but none of it mattered. None of it registered, not when your eyes were locked onto the scene before you.
Gojo Satoru, your best friend, was wasted beyond belief.
His usual porcelain skin was flushed a deep, terrifying red, his glasses skewed on his face as he wobbled dangerously on his feet. The crowd around him whooped and hollered as he laughed—too loud, too bright, too fake—before stumbling forward to lift yet another girl into his arms. She squealed, giggling, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he staggered, his grip unsteady.
"Gojo, Gojo, Gojo!" the jocks chanted, banging their fists against the counters, urging him on. You felt something hot and ugly curl in your stomach.
This wasn’t him. Not the Gojo you knew.
The Gojo you knew didn't need lipstick-stained validation. He didn’t need to prove himself to a bunch of people who wouldn’t even remember his name tomorrow. But here he was, drunk out of his mind, chasing approval like a dying star chasing its last bit of light.
And then he swayed—his knees buckling slightly, his grip on the girl faltering. The crowd jeered, booing, throwing crumpled napkins and shot glasses onto the table. "Aw, c’mon, Gojo! Don’t quit now!" someone shouted.
That was the final straw. You pushed forward, shoving past the sweaty bodies in your way until you reached him, grabbing his wrist in a bruising grip. "That’s enough," you snapped. Gojo blinked down at you, his pupils dilated, sluggish, unfocused.
"Wha—"
"I said that’s enough," you repeated, tightening your grip.
He yanked his arm away. "Get off me," he slurred, his voice sharp, venomous. "I'm having fun."
"Yeah?" you challenged, your jaw clenching. "Because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it."
He laughed, the sound bitter and mean. "Oh, what—now you’re my mom?"
"No," you said. "I'm your best friend. And right now, you're acting like an idiot."
His expression twisted, and for a second, you swore you saw something crack—something real. But then it was gone, replaced by drunken bravado as he threw his arms out dramatically.
"Well, excuse me for trying to live a little," he spat. "Not all of us can be perfect little worrywarts like you."
The words stung, but you didn’t let them show. Not now. Not here.
"We’re leaving," you said instead, grabbing his arm again.
"Like hell we are!" he barked, wrenching himself free so violently he almost fell. "Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?"
Your stomach twisted. In all your years of friendship, he had never spoken to you like that. But you pushed past it. "I'm the only person here who actually gives a shit about you," you said, voice steel.
His breath hitched, but before he could say anything else—before he could throw another drunken insult your way—you pulled him forward, ignoring the protests, the boos, the groans of disappointment from the crowd.
"Party’s over, Satoru."
He cursed at you the whole way out. You just hoped it’d be the last time he ever did.
-
The sound of glass shattering against concrete snapped you out of your daze. You whipped around just in time to see Gojo toss an empty bottle of vodka into someone’s backyard, his fingers still twitching from the force of it. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" your voice wavered, barely above the sound of the crickets chirping in the distance. Gojo just laughed—sharp, bitter, nothing like the laughter you knew. "What? You gonna scold me now?"
"You promised me, Satoru," you said, stepping closer, your hands shaking at your sides. "You fucking promised me."
"Yeah? Well, maybe I lied."
The words hit like a slap to the face.
"Why are you doing this?" your voice cracked, but you didn’t care.
"Doing what?" he threw his arms up, nearly stumbling over his own feet. "Having fun? Being normal? Sorry, babe, not everyone wants to be a fucking saint like you."
"You think this is normal?" you gestured wildly to him—to his red-rimmed eyes, his trembling fingers, the way he swayed even while standing still. "You think blacking out at some shitty house party, letting those assholes use you, is normal?"
"You don’t get it," he muttered, voice slurred as he ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "You never get it."
"Then help me understand!" you grabbed his wrists, forcing him to look at you. "Talk to me!"
But instead of answering, his lips curled into something ugly. Something cruel.
"You wanna know why I drink? Why I do this shit?" he leaned in close, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol.
"Because it’s the only time I don’t have to be fucking alone."
Your breath caught in your throat.
"You’re not alone—"
"Bullshit," he snapped. "You—you think you know everything, don’t you? Think you know me so fucking well?"
"I do know you," you pleaded. "Satoru, please—"
"No, you don’t," he shouted, yanking his hands away. "You don’t know what it’s like! To be—" his voice cracked, his face contorted with something too raw to name. "To be the smartest guy in the room and still feel like a fucking idiot! To have everyone watching, waiting for me to be perfect—"
"No one is asking you to be perfect, Satoru!"
"Oh, yeah? Then what the fuck do you want from me?!"
"I just want you!"
Silence.
The only sound was the ragged breathing between you two, the wind rustling through the trees, the distant hum of the party still raging behind you. Gojo's lips trembled, his hands balled into fists at his sides. And then, before you could stop him—
"Fuck you," he spat.
Your stomach dropped.
"Fuck you for always thinking you know what’s best for me. Fuck you for always trying to fix me. Fuck you for—" his voice broke, but he kept going, as if he couldn’t stop. As if the words were being ripped out of him unwillingly. "For making me feel like I matter when I fucking don’t—"
You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears spilled, hot and relentless, and the worst part? Gojo was crying too. Cursing at you, hurling insult after insult, but his hands were shaking, his entire body trembling like he was trying to hold himself together and failing miserably.
"You do matter, Satoru," you whispered, voice barely audible over the wind.
"Don’t lie to me," he choked out.
"I'm not lying," you said, gripping his arm again, tighter this time. "And you know I'm not."
He let out a shaky, bitter laugh, wiping at his face harshly, as if trying to erase the evidence of his tears. But you didn’t let him hide. Not this time.
"We’re going home," you said firmly, dragging him away, away from the party, away from the people who didn’t give a shit about him.
He didn’t fight you this time.
But as you walked, your hands still gripping his, you realized something. You and Gojo both lost a piece of yourselves in that house tonight.
-
The neon glow of the pharmacy sign flickered against the inky darkness of the night, the hum of a faraway streetlamp buzzing in your ears as you half-dragged, half-supported Gojo toward the entrance. You didn't even know why you had come here—maybe it was the light, maybe it was the silence, or maybe it was the simple fact that you had nowhere else to go. "Just—just sit here for a second, okay?" you muttered, trying to ease him onto the curb.
"Nah, fuck that," Gojo slurred, shoving you away with an alarming lack of coordination. He stumbled, nearly face-planting onto the concrete before catching himself. "I can stand. See? Perfectly fucking fine."
And then he banged on the glass door. Loudly.
"Satoru, stop—" you hissed, grabbing his wrist, but he just laughed.
"What, scared the big bad pharmacy guy’s gonna come out and bite me?"
The door creaked open before you could respond.
Sukuna stood in the doorway, his rimless glasses perched low on his nose, eyes flicking between you and the disheveled mess of a man you barely managed to keep upright. His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but then his gaze fell on Gojo's slumped figure, the uncoiling tension in his shoulders almost immediate.
"Shit," he muttered.
"I'm so sorry," you started, your words spilling out in a rush. "I know it’s late and we shouldn’t be here, I just—he’s—"
"Hey," Sukuna cut you off, voice even. "Stop apologizing."
You swallowed hard.
Gojo, meanwhile, groaned, leaning his full weight against you. "Why're you talkin' to him?" he grumbled, his breath hot against your neck. "He’s—he’s a fucking narc, y’know that?"
"Satoru, shut up," you whispered harshly.
"Nah, seriously," Gojo slurred, tilting his head up toward Sukuna with a lopsided grin. "You—you think you’re better than me, huh?"
Sukuna stared at him, expression unreadable.
"I don't think anything," he said simply.
"Bullshit," Gojo scoffed, shoving at your shoulder weakly. "See? See how he’s looking at me? Like—like I'm pathetic or some shit."
"Satoru—"
"You do think that, don’t you?" Gojo laughed, voice cracking. "Fuckin’—fuckin’ ‘oh, look at Gojo, the big dumb idiot who can’t even hold his liquor.’” His hands trembled at his sides, fists clenching, unclenching. "God, I hate this. I hate you. I hate—"
His voice wavered. His legs buckled.
And before you could catch him, Sukuna was already there, arms braced beneath Gojo's shoulders, hoisting him up with practiced ease. "C'mon," Sukuna said, nodding toward the parking lot. "Let's get him out of here."
You blinked at him. "Wait—"
"You’re not dragging him all the way home," Sukuna deadpanned. "I have a car. Use it."
You hesitated, glancing at Gojo—his head lolled against Sukuna’s shoulder, breath uneven, the fight in him slowly fading.
"Okay," you exhaled shakily.
Sukuna silently led you toward a slightly beat-up Toyota Corolla, the headlights flickering as he unlocked it. Together, the two of you maneuvered Gojo into the backseat, his long limbs sprawled across the worn fabric. As you shut the door and stepped back, Sukuna leaned against the roof of the car, watching you. "He always like this?" he asked, voice low.
You hesitated. "Not always," you murmured. "But…lately? Yeah."
Sukuna didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The understanding in his gaze was enough. "Let's get him home," he said finally. You nodded, and as you slid into the passenger seat, you couldn’t help but wonder—why did Sukuna care? And why did it feel like, for the first time tonight, you weren’t the only one?
Gojo's breath hitched in the backseat, his chest rising in uneven, shallow gasps. His head lolled back against the seat, unfocused, half-lidded eyes rolling as if struggling to stay present. His body twitched weakly.
"Satoru?" your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch.
Your fingers curled tightly around Gojo’s glasses, the sharp edges digging into your palm as if they could anchor you, keep you from spiraling. The lenses were smudged, still warm from his skin, and yet the weight of them felt wrong—felt heavy, like something final.
"Fuck," Sukuna muttered under his breath, the first real sign of frustration you’d heard from him tonight.
You barely processed the car speeding up, the streetlights blurring into streaks of white and yellow, the world outside moving too fast while your mind remained stuck, frozen on the image of Gojo’s unfocused, half-lidded eyes rolling back, his body twitching weakly against the backseat.
"’Toru," your voice cracked as you turned in your seat, reaching for him, but he wasn’t coherent enough to respond. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each inhale rattling in his chest like a loose screw threatening to give out.
"Shit, shit—" you whimpered, a tremble running up your spine.
"He's gonna be fine," Sukuna said, but his voice was too tight, too forced to be reassuring. His grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, jaw clenched so hard you swore you could hear his teeth grind. Gojo groaned again, his whole body shuddering like it was rejecting itself, and your hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bit into your skin.
"He promised," you whispered, blinking rapidly, your vision going blurry. "He fucking promised me he wouldn't drink."
Sukuna didn’t say anything. Didn’t offer any empty platitudes, any reassurances that would have only made you cry harder. Instead, he pressed down harder on the gas pedal, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
The hospital entrance came too soon and not soon enough.
You barely registered the screech of tires as Sukuna parked, barely processed the way he was already out of the car, yanking open the back door. It all felt unreal, like you were watching from outside your own body as Sukuna hoisted Gojo up without hesitation, barely even wincing when Gojo suddenly convulsed, his body going rigid before he retched all over Sukuna’s sweater.
"Fuck—just hold on, alright?" Sukuna hissed, more to himself than to Gojo, adjusting his grip as he strode toward the ER doors.
You wanted to move. Wanted to run after them. Wanted to do something. But your legs refused to cooperate, refused to carry you forward as you stood there in the parking lot, clutching Gojo’s glasses to your chest like they were the only thing tethering you to reality.
You were useless.
You barely noticed when Sukuna disappeared into the hospital, when the doors swung shut behind him. All you could hear was the phantom echo of Gojo’s laughter from earlier tonight, distorted and slurred, bleeding into the sound of his broken cries as they rushed him to the ICU.
You stood there for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was only minutes. Minutes that stretched on like an eternity, the weight of your failure pressing down on you until you could barely breathe.
You don’t remember how you got here, only that one moment you were outside, clutching Gojo’s glasses so tightly your knuckles went white, and the next, you were sitting beside Sukuna in the dimly lit hallway, the sterile scent of disinfectant and the faint beeping of heart monitors pressing against your senses.
Sukuna sat opposite the ICU doors, his sweater now stuffed into a disposable hospital bag, his phone screen casting a cold glow on his face as his thumbs moved across the screen. There was something unnervingly delicate about the way he held it, as if the device was a fragile thing in hands that were anything but.
The moment you sat down next to him, he put the phone away. No hesitation, no lingering glance. It was a simple movement, but something about it made your throat tighten. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face before slipping his glasses off and hanging them on the front of his shirt—a worn Nirvana tee, washed so many times the design was beginning to fade.
You hadn’t ever seen him without a sweater before, and the sight of him like this—bare arms, broad shoulders, a body that spoke of quiet strength but with an undeniable softness—made something clench inside you.
You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the sheer absurdity of the past few hours, but your lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. Fleeting. Fragile.
Sukuna didn’t acknowledge it, but he didn’t ignore it either.
The silence between you both stretched on, heavy but not suffocating. Your ears strained, trying to pick up anything from the ICU, but the only sound was the distant hum of the hospital, the occasional murmur of nurses passing by.
"Sorry," you finally said, your voice raw, barely above a whisper.
Sukuna let out a low, almost exasperated grunt, a sound that could have been a scoff if it wasn’t so tired. "For what?" he muttered, tilting his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.
"For—" you gestured vaguely, feeling absurdly helpless. "For dragging you into this. For—"
"Don't," he cut you off, voice rough but not unkind. "Not your fault."
You swallowed hard, looking down at your hands, the frames of Gojo’s glasses digging into your fingers. You wanted to tell him everything—about Gojo, about yourself, about how this felt like a nightmare you’d had before but never woken up from. But you didn’t. Instead, you let the silence settle again, let the exhaustion press down on you like a weighted blanket.
Your body ached, your mind felt too full and empty at the same time, and when your eyes slipped shut, you didn’t fight it. Sleep took you like a warm embrace, and somewhere in the haze before unconsciousness fully claimed you, you thought you felt something—an arm shifting ever so slightly, the air moving beside you, the briefest hesitation of warmth before it disappeared.
You didn’t dream.
-
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was warmth—an unfamiliar, solid warmth that wasn’t yours to have. The second was that your head was resting against something firm, the slow rise and fall beneath you steady, grounding.
Sukuna.
You jerked back almost immediately, your pulse spiking as your head left his shoulder. Your absence made him shift slightly, his frown deepening, but he didn’t wake up. Arms crossed over his chest, his head lolled slightly, pink hair mussed from sleep, strands sticking up rebelliously despite his efforts to smooth them out the moment his eyes fluttered open.
You swallowed hard, trying to fight the mortifying heat creeping up your neck. Your fingers twitched towards the crinkled fabric where your head had rested, some ridiculous impulse telling you to smooth it out, to erase any evidence of your momentary weakness, but before you could, a voice cut through the quiet.
"Excuse me, you’re here for Satoru Gojo?"
The doctor. middle-aged, tired eyes, clipboard in hand. You scrambled to stand, Sukuna following suit, his presence now feeling suffocatingly close, too solid beside you.
"Yes," you managed, voice hoarse.
"Are you his immediate family?"
"No, but—"
"But we’re the only ones here," Sukuna interrupted, voice steady, unimpressed.
The doctor sighed but didn’t argue, flipping through his clipboard before glancing back up. "He has a history of Rhabdomyolysis, correct?" you nodded, the word hitting like a familiar gut-punch.
"His current episode was exacerbated by excessive alcohol consumption and exertion. His CK levels were significantly elevated on admission—over ten thousand U/L, which is dangerously high. We administered IV fluids aggressively to prevent acute kidney injury, but he’ll need close monitoring. His creatinine was elevated, but not enough to indicate severe renal impairment yet. However, another episode like this could push him towards irreversible damage. He needs to avoid alcohol completely, and any strenuous physical activity should be moderated. He was severely dehydrated, which worsened the muscle breakdown. Do you understand?"
You nodded, but you didn’t. Not really. The words were running together, tangling in your head like a mess of wires, sparking against your rising anxiety.
"He'll also need to monitor for any signs of compartment syndrome—persistent pain, swelling, decreased sensation. If he experiences any of those symptoms, bring him back immediately."
You barely registered the way your breathing was starting to quicken, your vision blurring at the edges.
"Got it," Sukuna said beside you, voice clipped, sharp. The doctor nodded once, glancing between the two of you before turning on his heel. "He’s stable now. You can see him."
You weren’t sure how you moved, weren’t sure how your legs carried you down the hall, but suddenly, you were there. The sight of him nearly knocked the air from your lungs.
Gojo, hooked up to IVs, his skin pale, lips cracked, dark bruising under his eyes.
But worst of all was the stillness.
He’d never been still. Not when you were kids, not even when he was sick. You blinked rapidly, trying to force the image away, but your brain, cruel as it was, offered another instead—
"It's super juice!"
Gojo's voice, high-pitched with childhood excitement, his chubby fingers tapping against the IV line in his arm, legs kicking at the hospital bed as he grinned at you.
"S’gonna make me a superhero. Just watch."
Your eight-year-old self had believed him. You had nodded solemnly, clutching his tiny fingers in yours as if he’d slip away if you let go.
But superheroes weren’t supposed to be fragile. Superheroes weren’t supposed to collapse in the arms of people who barely knew them, weren’t supposed to have their bodies betray them time and time again.
The first sob tore out of you before you could stop it. You pressed a hand to your mouth, the weight of everything, the years, the worry, the helplessness, slamming into you all at once. Sukuna exhaled sharply beside you, and you didn’t fight it when his hand found the back of your head, fingers curling, firm but not forceful, grounding you as you broke.
-
"It's super juice!"
The words echoed, reverberating in the empty, sterile white of the hospital room. His eight-year-old self swung his legs back and forth, IV taped to the crook of his arm, a beaming grin splitting his chubby face.
"S’gonna make me a superhero. Just watch," he declared, looking at you expectantly.
You, sitting beside him, tiny fingers curled around his even tinier hands, nodded solemnly, as if you were his trusted sidekick. "Duh, ‘course it will," you said, ever the believer, the unwavering supporter.
Satoru grinned wider.
"You still got my Superman?"
Your eyes lit up, and you practically scrambled for your backpack, the zipper catching as you yanked it open. "Yeah, yeah! I kept it safe, promise!" you pulled it out with both hands, presenting it proudly.
Except—
Satoru blinked.
That wasn’t Superman.
His tiny fingers reached out hesitantly, wrapping around the plastic figure, the shape familiar, the weight just right. But when he turned it over—
Not Superman's chiseled jaw, not his perfect spit curl, not the familiar "S" crest on his chest. Instead, two thin black lines slashed across the figure’s cheeks, the eyes a sharp, knowing red, the unmistakable look of—
"Sukuna?"
His voice came out small, confused. He looked at you, expecting the same confusion, the same disbelief, but you just smiled.
"Yeah, he’s strong, isn’t he?"
Satoru's stomach churned. His grip tightened on the figurine, the hard plastic biting into his palm.
"But he’s not Superman."
The words barely left his mouth before the figurine started to melt, its face warping, the red eyes sharpening, almost glowing. The smirk stretched, curling up unnaturally wide, the plastic softening, twisting, until—
"Satoru."
His name was spoken, deep and distant, like an echo through water.
His body jolted.
A sharp inhale, eyes snapping open—except they didn’t. Not fully.
His eyelashes fluttered, the world around him too heavy, his body sinking into the mattress, into the IVs, into exhaustion. His breath came slow, sluggish, as his gaze drifted, unfocused. A burly figure sat just outside the ICU, salmon-colored hair catching the dim, artificial glow of the hallway lights. Beside him, smaller, curled up, the hair color Gojo oh so loved. His lips barely parted, the thought an exhale—
"How bizarre."
And then, the pull of exhaustion won, dragging him back under.
Gojo knew the sound of your crying like the back of his hand.
It was the sound of late-night movie marathons when the protagonist died and you cursed the director through choked sobs. It was the sound of stifled laughter in class until your tears dripped onto your notes. It was the sound of allergies when spring rolled around, your voice thick with complaints about pollen and your own body betraying you.
But this was different.
This wasn’t a sound he knew, and he hated it.
His throat was raw, his body weak, but the words spilled out instinctively, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he rasped—
"You cryin’?"
He hoped it was in the voice you loved, the playful lilt, the teasing edge.
Your head snapped up instantly, eyes wide and glassy, and for a second he thought you might break all over again. But then relief flooded your face so fast it made him dizzy, your breath hitching as you let out something between a sob and a laugh. "You asshole," you choked out.
He tried to chuckle, tried to match your laugh, but the pain punched through his ribs like a fist, dragging his breath into something sharp and broken. And that’s when he noticed it.
Sukuna’s arm, heavy around your head, the way your body curled slightly into his side. Gojo's vision blurred—not from fatigue, not from painkillers—something else, something he refused to name.
"So," he coughed, swallowing down the dryness in his throat, "You two get cozy while I was out?" He meant for it to be a joke, but his voice wavered, weaker than he wanted it to be.
Sukuna, who had been quiet this whole time, only tilted his head, crimson gaze unreadable. "Yeah," he said, voice low and lazy, "So don’t do it again, dumbass."
Gojo wanted to snap back, wanted to roll his eyes, but all he could do was watch as Sukuna’s hand, the same one curled around your head, reached forward and ruffled Gojo’s hair. “Seriously," Sukuna muttered, "Don’t scare her like that again."
Gojo blinked, disoriented, but before he could process anything, Sukuna leaned back against the chair, arms crossed, eyes shutting as if nothing had happened. And you just reached for Gojo’s hand, gripping it so tightly, he thought he might actually feel strong again.
You didn’t know when Sukuna left, only that at some point, the weight of his presence had disappeared from the room. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he knew you needed this moment alone with Gojo.
Gojo, who was trying so damn hard to act like nothing happened. Like this was normal. "So," he started, voice scratchy but still trying for that usual lilt. "I didn't do anything too stupid, right?"
Your fingers curled slightly in the sheets. You stared at his hand, pale and bandaged, IV hooked into his arm, feeding him strength he no longer had on his own. How could you tell him? Tell him about the things he said? The way he spat curses at you, sharp enough to wound, drunk enough to forget? The way he shoved you, both physically and emotionally, as if he wanted to break you just as much as he was breaking?
So you didn't. You forced a smile, the kind that didn't quite reach your eyes, and said—
"Nah. Don't worry about it."
Maybe he’d never remember that night. Maybe you’d never tell him. Maybe that was enough.
Meanwhile, outside the ICU, Sukuna let out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair before pushing his glasses up his nose—a nervous tic he hated, but couldn’t quite shake. He typed out a quick text to his neighbor:
Thanks for watching Choso longer than expected. Will be back soon. Owe you one.
He didn’t expect his pharmacy shift to turn into... this. And just when he thought he could breathe, the doctor from earlier approached him again, clipboard tucked under his arm, mouth pressed into something unimpressed.
"You the guardian?" the doctor asked, voice dry.
"No," Sukuna replied, just as dry.
"Could’ve fooled me," the doctor scoffed, flipping through the chart. "You’re the only one asking the right questions."
Sukuna stayed silent, adjusting his glasses again.
"Kid’s got a history of exertional Rhabdomyolysis, probably exacerbated by alcohol consumption. His CK levels were through the roof when he came in—classic case of severe muscle breakdown. Creatinine levels showed acute kidney strain too. Not to mention dehydration, electrolyte imbalance—"
"Yeah," Sukuna cut in, "I read the labs. Is he gonna be fine?"
The doctor raised a brow.
"You in medicine?"
"Pharmacy," Sukuna muttered.
"Figured," the doctor said. "He’s stabilizing. IV fluids are flushing out the myoglobin, kidneys are responding well. But if he pulls another stunt like this, he might not be so lucky next time."
Sukuna exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly.
"Keep him away from alcohol, heavy lifting, and anything that’ll push his body too hard for a while," the doctor continued. "Not that kids these days ever listen."
"I'll make sure he does," Sukuna said, voice steady, final. The doctor hummed, giving him one last look before walking away.
Sukuna pushed his glasses up again. He didn’t like being in the middle of things, never had. But if it meant keeping you and Gojo from falling apart, then he’d take the brunt of it.
-
You held your breath as you peeled the hospital gown off Gojo's frame, the fabric slipping too easily over his frail shoulders. He wasn’t supposed to look like this—Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to look small. Weak.
The staff had been hesitant, but between your persistence and Gojo’s insufferable whining, they eventually caved. Sukuna had driven you to Gojo’s house to grab his clothes, and when he dropped you back at the hospital, he didn’t say much—just a curt nod before heading back to wait outside.
Gojo looked down at himself, rolling his shoulders as he flexed his fingers, examining his body like it was foreign to him. And then he clicked his tongue.
“Damn,” he said, patting his stomach with a frown. “Gotta start bulking again. Gym every day. Soon enough, I'll be strong enough to lift you, too.”
"Satoru." your voice was quiet, hands tightening on the sweater you were about to help him into.
"What?"
You didn’t know how to answer. You didn’t know when he was serious anymore, when his jokes were actual jokes or just flimsy shields to deflect reality. Was he just saying this because he wanted to move past what happened? Because he thought he could pretend like nothing was wrong if he made you laugh?
Except you weren’t laughing.
Gojo frowned, catching the way your shoulders curled inwards, the slight tremor in your fingers as you bunched up the sleeves of his sweater.
"You’re mad," he said, softer now.
"I’m not mad, Satoru," you exhaled, looking up at him. "I just—" you swallowed, struggling to find the words.
"—I don't wanna do this again."
He knew what you meant.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just let you help him slip the sweater over his head, his fingers brushing against yours when he went to pull it down. The fabric smelled like you. He didn’t say anything about that, either.
Because if he did, he might be the one to start crying instead.
-
The busted Corolla rumbled beneath you, the engine sputtering like it was trying to clear its throat. Outside, the world passed by in a blur of brightly lit streets, but inside the car, it was just the three of you—Gojo snoring in the backseat, you in the passenger seat, and Sukuna at the wheel, his fingers drumming against it as he drove.
It was cruel déjà vu, the way Gojo was sprawled out in the back, except this time, his snores rattled through the car, louder than the engine itself. His glasses sat skewed on his face, dangerously close to falling off, and the Digimon sweater you picked out for him was riding up slightly, the fabric bunching in on itself. He'd regret that later when the print stretched out weird.
You should fix his glasses.
You didn’t.
The silence between you and Sukuna stretched, heavy but not suffocating. You weren’t sure what to say. You’d spent more time with him in the last twenty-four hours than you had since college started, but somehow, neither of you had really talked—not about what happened, not about Gojo, not about anything. It felt weird, like some sort of dirty little secret. You hesitated before finally speaking, voice quiet over the low hum of the radio.
“Thank you.”
You’d been apologizing too much lately—always looking at Sukuna with guilt in your eyes, whispering sorry after sorry like you owed him something for being here. But this time, you just thanked him instead. He didn’t respond right away, just tapped his fingers against the wheel in thought. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, almost like a laugh.
“You finally figured it out.”
You frowned. “Figured what out?”
Sukuna shifted slightly, one hand leaving the wheel to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. In the dim glow of the sunlight filtering through the glass, you caught something softer in his features—something that almost looked like amusement.
“That ‘thank you’ sits better than ‘sorry.’”
You blinked. Then, slowly, you smiled. Gojo let out an obnoxiously loud snore from the backseat, and the moment was gone, but somehow, the silence that followed felt a little less heavy.
-
Monday came faster than you could prepare for it, and somehow, you felt more anxious about going to class than Gojo—who, by all accounts, should’ve been the one worried. But no, he was his usual self, strolling through the halls like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ended up in the ICU.
“You good?” Gojo asked, glancing at you with an easy grin as you walked beside him. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I should be asking you that,” you muttered, eyeing him up and down. He looked… fine. Not great, but fine. His usual oversized sweater swallowed him up more than usual, and there were faint bags under his eyes, but otherwise, he was just…Gojo.
He grinned. “I feel like a thousand bucks.”
“That’s not the saying.”
“Nah, ‘course it is. I'm not even expensive enough to be a full million.”
Before you could retort, a loud chorus of “AYYY, GOJO!” rang through the hallway, and your stomach dropped.
The people from the party.
“Party legend! You were insane, man!” one of the guys hollered, clapping Gojo on the back so hard he almost stumbled forward. “Can’t believe you carried all of ‘em! Thought you were gonna drop the last one, but nope, you powered through, my guy!”
Another girl whistled, grinning. “You gotta come again this Friday. We’re going all out this time—got some xans, some weed, and a hell lot more fun than last time.”
Gojo blinked, his confused smile wavering slightly. He waved at them, soaking in the attention, but his fingers toyed with the Digimon keychain hanging off his sling bag—a tic, one you knew all too well. He was overwhelmed. Before he could say anything, one of the girls shoved her phone in his face, and you saw whatever color was on his sickly complexion drain completely.
The blurry video was unmistakable—Gojo, chugging shots like water, his face flushed and his limbs loose as he grinned at the camera, girls screaming his name in the background. And then, the next clip: him picking girl after girl up, his movements growing sloppier, his body swaying, but the crowd cheering him on, girls kissing his cheeks, rubbing against him like he was a prize to be won. Your fingers twitched with the urge to snatch the phone and smash it against the tiled floor.
“Holy shit,” Gojo breathed out, his voice barely above a whisper. He laughed weakly, awkwardly, his fingers fumbling with the keychain. “I—uh—didn’t know I did all that.”
“You were a fuckin’ legend, dude!” one of the jocks whooped. “Gotta top it this Friday.”
“Oh, and don’t let your little babysitter here ruin the fun this time,” another girl teased, her eyes flicking toward you. “You don’t gotta pick him up again, babe. He can handle himself.”
“Yeah, let him have some fun, will you?” another chimed in, nudging you with a smirk. “We’ll take care of him if he blacks out. Promise.”
Your nails dug into your palm as your jaw locked. Gojo looked at you then, and it was like you could see the war waging in his head—this wasn’t how he wanted to hear about that night. This wasn’t how he wanted to remember it. But before either of you could say anything, the jocks pulled him along, dragging him to the back of the class as the bell rang. You stood frozen at the front, heart pounding, hands clenched at your sides, watching as Gojo—your best friend—got swallowed up by the very people who nearly destroyed him that night.
Your eyes flickered to the back of the room, where Gojo sat sandwiched between jocks and party girls, still fumbling with the Digimon keychain as if it could ground him. He wasn’t paying attention to the class. Neither were you.
You almost desperately sought out Sukuna instead.
Even in a lecture hall this large, he was always easy to find—broad frame, unmistakable pink hair, a presence that demanded attention even when he wasn’t speaking. He always sat at the front, where he could see everything, where he could be seen. But today, he wasn’t there.
Your stomach twisted.
You didn’t even realize you had gotten up until you were meekly approaching your professor at the podium, your voice barely above a whisper as you asked, “Uh, sorry—do you know where Sukuna is?”
The professor gave you a kind but tired smile, as if she had been asked this before. “Oh, Ryomen? He dropped the subject.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
“He—he what?”
She sighed, shaking her head. “Such a shame, too. He was one of my brightest students. Would’ve aced the finals with his eyes closed.” You stood there, stunned, barely nodding as you thanked her and returned to your seat.
Sukuna dropped the class.
Your mind reeled back to the last time you saw him at the administrative office, his voice low but firm as he argued with the staff about cutting down his subjects.
“Five. I'll do five, not eight.”
“But you’re more than capable of handling—”
“Five.”
You never thought to ask why. Would it be fair of you to ask now? It’s not like you were friends.
Whatever the past twenty-four hours had been, it didn’t change the fact that you weren’t in any position to question his choices.
But still—his absence left a weird pit in your stomach.
"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," Gojo wheezed, practically skidding to a stop in front of you, his glasses askew, white hair messier than usual, his entire face flushed like he had run a marathon. "You—you're not gonna believe what just happened."
You swallowed the bile rising in your throat. "Satoru—"
"They—" he cut you off, shaking his head in disbelief, hands gripping the straps of his sling bag. "They were teasing me. Under the desk. Like—like actually teasing me. You get what I mean, right?"
Your stomach turned. "Gojo, what—"
"Like, their hands—like, not just one, okay? Multiple." he laughed, breathless, exhilarated. "And they kept saying how much they loved me at the party, how they wanna see more of that side of me—"
Your fingers curled into fists. "Gojo, do you even hear yourself right now?"
But he wasn’t listening. "I mean—fuck, is this what college is supposed to be like? Because I get it now, I get why everyone hypes this shit up—"
"Stop."
He blinked, the grin on his face faltering at the way your voice cracked.
"What?"
You bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste iron. You didn’t know what hurt more—the fact that he was telling you all this so excitedly, or the fact that he genuinely didn’t understand what just happened to him.
"They weren’t teasing you, Satoru," you said, forcing the words out. "They were violating you."
He scoffed, shaking his head. "What? No, they were just messing around—"
Your nails dug into your palm. "Satoru, do you even hear yourself?"
His smile faltered. "What?"
"They were touching you under the desk," you said, your voice eerily calm. "In the middle of class, while you couldn't do anything about it. And you think that's—what? normal?"
He scoffed, scratching the back of his head. "I mean, it's not that big a deal, right? It's just… college stuff, right?"
"No," you bit out. "It's not."
He frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "You’re overreacting."
"I'm not," you shot back, voice tight. "Satoru, you almost fucking died that night, and now they're acting like you getting blackout drunk and barely remembering anything is just some fun little game?"
He flinched. "Okay, but—"
"No, listen to me." you inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to stay steady. "You don’t even remember half of what happened. They do. They remember everything, and they’re still joking about it."
He licked his lips, avoiding your gaze. "But it’s not like I didn't want it."
Your heart dropped. "What?"
"I mean—" he exhaled, voice uncertain for the first time. "I didn't say no, right?"
Your hands were shaking. "Because you didn't know what was happening, Satoru."
He let out a weak laugh, like he was trying to brush it off. "I mean, isn’t this just how it works? People drink, party, mess around—"
"Is that what you think this is?" your voice cracked, anger and something more bitter clawing its way up your throat. "Satoru, this isn’t some wild college experience, this is them taking advantage of you. You were drunk. Too drunk to even walk, too drunk to even stay conscious, and now they're acting like it was all just some… some fun joke—"
He rubbed his temple, sighing. "I don't know, okay? I don't know how this shit works. I've never—" he sucked in a breath. "It’s just… they liked me. They actually liked me. Isn’t that a good thing?"
Your vision blurred. "Not like this."
He blinked at you, expression crumbling, like he was just now realizing the weight of what happened. His fingers fumbled with the Digimon keychain on his bag, the way they always did when he was overwhelmed.
And for the first time, he didn't have anything to say.
-
Gojo was late.
Not because he woke up late—he never did. Not because he got lost—impossible. But because he was stuck in his own head. Your argument from English class still clung to him, cloying like the remnants of a bad dream.
"Oh, so now you care?"
"You always do this, Gojo. You joke, you push, and then when people actually need you—"
"That's not fair."
"Yeah? Well, neither is this."
His jaw tightened.
So when he walked into Bio, he was already on edge. He just needed a distraction.
And if anyone was good at giving him one, it was Sukuna.
Which is exactly why he practically skidded to a stop next to Sukuna’s desk, breathless, grin stretched wide across his face. "Oi, where the hell were you?" Gojo ruffled his already-messy hair, glancing around as if waiting for Sukuna to tell him it was all a joke. "You weren’t in English today. That’s, like, your thing."
Sukuna didn’t even look up from his notebook. "Dropped it."
Gojo's smile twitched.
"Huh?"
"Dropped the class," Sukuna repeated, pen tapping against the page like he was already over the conversation.
Gojo blinked. "You—what? Why the hell would you do that?" He let out a huff of disbelief, his laughter awkward, forced. "Man, should I be celebrating? One less rival for me, huh?"
Sukuna finally glanced up, eyes dark and unreadable behind his glasses. "Sure."
Gojo's stomach twisted. He didn’t like that tone. He didn’t like the indifference, the way Sukuna looked through him instead of at him. He didn’t like not knowing what the hell was going on.
Before he could say anything else, a few voices from the back of the room called out.
"Yo, Gojo! Over here!"
He turned.
The leeches. They were grinning, waving him over like nothing had changed, like they hadn’t spent the entire morning joking about him behind his back, like they hadn’t made him the punchline of some twisted little game. He hesitated, and then—
A sharp exhale.
When he turned back, Sukuna was staring at him. Not with pity, not with amusement. Just… staring. Like he was waiting for Gojo to make a choice. Like he already knew what it would be.
Like he was daring him to sit in the back again.
Gojo clenched his jaw, his fingers curling around the strap of his bag.
He turned on his heel and dropped into the seat next to Sukuna.
The room felt different up here, the voices fading into the background. He could practically feel them staring, but he kept his eyes ahead. Sukuna smirked. "Thought you liked sitting back there."
Gojo exhaled through his nose, gripping his pen a little too tightly. "Yeah, well… I like keeping you on your toes."
Sukuna hummed, not saying anything else. But somehow, Gojo still felt like he had something to prove.
-
Gojo barely took two steps out of the classroom when Sukuna hit him with a question that made his stomach twist.
"So how long have you had Rhabdo?"
His grip on his bag strap tightened. A part of him itched to just wave it off, make a joke, pretend he had no idea what Sukuna was talking about. But Sukuna had seen him at his absolute worst this weekend—half-conscious, barely breathing, hooked up to IVs like some pathetic weakling. Lying was pointless. So he shrugged instead.
"Since I was eight."
Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered.
Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets as they walked, eyes straight ahead. "You know how it is. I was a sickly little guy, hospital trips, IVs, the whole deal. Doctors told me to be careful, to take it easy." he laughed, but it felt hollow in his chest. "But nah, I thought, screw that—I'll just get stronger."
That was what did it. Sukuna, previously listening with that unreadable expression of his, scoffed outright.
"You’re an idiot."
Gojo's eye twitched. "Wow, thanks, Doc. Real insightful."
"No, really, you're a goddamn idiot," Sukuna continued, looking at him like he was some particularly dense patient. "You think pushing your body past its limits is making you stronger? Rhabdomyolysis isn't some gym bro bullshit where you just 'power through' it. You're literally breaking down your own muscle fibers. Your kidneys can’t handle that kind of strain, idiot."
Gojo rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Muscle fibers break down, myoglobin floods the bloodstream, kidneys overwork themselves, yadda yadda, renal failure." He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not dead yet."
"You could be."
Gojo stopped walking. Sukuna had already turned to face him, standing there in that ratty Nirvana tee with his rimless glasses pushed up just enough that his eyes—dark, piercing, too damn knowing—could bore straight into him.
"Do you even hear yourself?" Sukuna asked, voice low, measured. "You’re playing chicken with your own body. Your muscles break down faster than they can repair. You think the answer to that is what? Doing more damage?"
Gojo's fingers curled into fists inside his hoodie pockets. "So what, you want me to just sit around and rot? Let it win?"
Sukuna exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "This isn’t a battle, dumbass. This is biology. Your body isn't some enemy to be beaten into submission—"
"It is to me."
That stopped Sukuna cold. Gojo clenched his jaw, looking anywhere but at him. "You don’t get it."
Sukuna tilted his head. "Oh, I get it just fine. You think you have something to prove."
Gojo scoffed. "I don't think. I know."
Sukuna watched him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, gaze steady behind his glasses.
"Do you think you’re the smartest because you’re Satoru Gojo," he asked, voice quiet, but cutting. "Or do you think you’re Satoru Gojo because you’re the smartest?"
Gojo's stomach lurched.
Before he could respond—before he could even think of what to say—Sukuna was already walking away, hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy jeans, his tee riding up just enough for Gojo to see the hint of his waistband. He stood there for a moment, watching Sukuna disappear down the hallway, his brain rattling with something he didn’t want to name.
He was Satoru Gojo.
Wasn’t he?
The door creaked as Sukuna stepped into the apartment, exhaustion pressing against his shoulders like a deadweight. He rolled his neck, stretching out the stiffness from the chairs and the sheer mental load of the day, before kicking off his boots with a heavy sigh.
"S’kuna!"
Choso’s voice piped up from the kitchen table, where he sat hunched over his workbook, pencil gripped tight in one hand and his tongue poking out in concentration. Sukuna felt something in his chest uncoil at the sight—his little brother, safe, alive, chewing over arithmetic like it was the most important thing in the world. "You’re back," Choso said, blinking up at him expectantly. "Did Papa send a letter?"
Sukuna felt his stomach drop.
Shit. He hadn’t written one.
He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing an easy hum out of his throat as he walked over, peeking down at Choso’s workbook instead. "I'll check the post office later," he said, voice smooth despite the guilt curling in his ribs. Choso's expression barely wavered as he scribbled a neat answer beneath a problem.
"One hundred eleven."
"What?"
Choso tapped his pencil against the paper. "Twenty-two plus eighty-nine. It's one hundred eleven."
Sukuna let out a quiet chuckle. "Look at you, little genius." he reached out, ruffling Choso’s already messy hair. "Bet you’re gonna be better at math than me soon."
Choso beamed, tilting his head to lean into the touch, and Sukuna’s tired heart ached in a way he didn’t know how to name. He left him to his numbers, wandering toward his bedroom, but his feet hesitated as he passed by the altar in the corner of the living room.
Yuuji's altar.
It wasn’t much—a framed photo, a small cup of sake, a stick of incense long since burned down. But it was enough.
Enough for Sukuna to let out a tired scoff as he stared down at the grinning boy in the photo, hair a shade too bright, eyes wide with an innocence that made something curl in Sukuna’s gut.
"Still making sure I don't forget you, huh?" Sukuna muttered, running a thumb over the dustless edge of the frame. He exhaled through his nose.
He’d lost Yuuji. And maybe that’s why, even against his better judgment, even against the bristling irritation and sheer stubbornness of the brat himself, Gojo was making every last one of Sukuna’s protective instincts claw up his spine. Because if he could stop it—if he could stop someone from slipping through his fingers again—shouldn’t he?
But was that really his job? His jaw tightened, and he shoved the thought aside, heading for his room. Outside, Choso hummed quietly to himself, diligently writing out the next answer.
Sukuna’s room was everything about him and nothing at the same time. It had the bones of a lived-in space—the essentials of a person who had settled, who had chosen this place as home—but it carried none of the weight of belonging.
His desk, a second hand thing with chipped edges, bore the scattered remnants of job postings—cafés, pharmacies, gas stations, pet shops—places that didn’t require much beyond a working body and a willingness to show up. The papers were curled at the edges from handling, some with pen marks circling pay rates, shift timings, and benefits that never seemed to be enough.
His wardrobe sat half-open, revealing stacks of neatly folded clothes, the organization ruined by his own hands as he shoved fresh laundry into the shelves without much care. His bed was plain, a single pillow with a slightly flattened center, blankets that rarely got pulled up beyond his waist when he slept.
His walls were once a shrine to teenage tastes—old posters of bands that blasted from his headphones, rappers whose lyrics he scribbled on the edges of his notebooks. But now they were wiped clean, replaced with laminated periodic tables, skeletal diagrams, biochemical pathways. Sterile and practical. Just like his life had to be.
But sometimes, his gaze would drift to the guitar case leaning against the far corner of the room, untouched for months, maybe even a year. And sometimes to the wooden drawer by his desk, where a collection of fountain pens lay in their felt-lined case, waiting for hands that no longer had the luxury of holding them just for the sake of writing. He could indulge, maybe. But not now.
Not when an EMI still loomed over him, the weight of Yuuji's hospital bills pressing down on his shoulders even after all this time. It was going to be a year since his brother’s death, but the payments didn’t care. They still came, still drained his account month by month, a reminder that grief had a cost even after the funeral ended.
That was why he dropped classes. Not because he wanted to. God, he didn’t want to. But something had to give. And if it had to be something he liked, then so be it.
Sukuna sat at his desk, the dim yellow light from his study lamp pooling over the page, catching on the slow strokes of his pen as he wrote. The paper was thick, the kind that absorbed ink just right, the kind that made each word feel permanent. He tapped the edge of the page with his fingers, hesitating. A dark thought slithered into his mind, one that had come to him more times than he was willing to admit.
The allowance. It was always there, always replenished, sent for Choso under the guise of family obligation, of keeping up appearances. The Kamos were anything but poor—they wouldn’t notice if a little more was spent than usual, if Sukuna siphoned off just enough to make the monthly payment disappear.
It would be so easy. His grip on the pen tightened. But what kind of brother would he be then?
He had already failed Yuuji once. To fail Choso too—to take from him what little security he had, what little proof that their father even thought of him—would be unforgivable. His parents’ savings weren’t an option either. Dipping into that would only fuck him over in the future. And what then? He’d still be here, still slaving away, just to replace what he took. Sukuna scoffed under his breath, pushing his glasses up his nose in frustration, as if that could straighten out the mess in his head.
No. He’d do what he always did—he’d shoulder it. He’d figure it out.
He shook off the thoughts and focused on the letter in front of him. His handwriting was practiced, deliberate, written in the exact way he knew would make Choso’s face light up, even if just for a moment. The words were careful, warm, carrying the weight of a presence that wasn’t really there but needed to be believed.
"Choso, hope you're taking care of your big brother like you promised.
Japan's getting colder these days—I hope you’re wearing the sweater I sent you last time.
I have to tell you about this bakery I found, their melon bread is almost as good as the one we make. I'll send some next time if I can.
Study hard and eat well. I miss you."
He folded the letter neatly, sealing it in an envelope with a practiced ease. He reached into his drawer, pulling out a stamp, pressing it into place with the precision of someone who had done this a hundred times before. When he was done, the envelope looked authentic, as if it had traveled across oceans, as if it had come from somewhere distant, somewhere real.
Somewhere that wasn’t here.
Sukuna stood, shrugging on his leather jacket, the weight of it grounding him for a brief moment. He tucked the letter safely into his pocket, walking toward the front door. “I'm going to check on the letter,” he said casually, forcing his voice into something neutral, something easy.
Choso, still bent over his homework, barely looked up. “Okay! Tell me if it’s there!”
Sukuna nodded, stepping out into the cool evening air, exhaling softly.
Relieved.
Relieved that Choso still believed him.
Relieved that, for now, the facade was still intact.
-
The fluorescent lights of the store buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the aisles. Sukuna moved on autopilot, feet carrying him towards the refrigerators at the back. His hand twitched as he reached forward, fingers hovering over the condensation-covered cans.
A beer.
For a second, it was pure muscle memory. All those nights in high school, leaning against some grimy rooftop ledge, cracking open a cheap can just to prove a point—to himself, to the world, to whoever the hell was listening. He scoffed under his breath, annoyed at the thought alone, and instead grabbed a can of Coke, rolling the cold aluminum between his fingers before heading to the counter. The letter stayed tucked securely in his pocket as he paid.
The automatic doors whooshed open, and he stepped out into the cool night air, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. And that’s when he saw—
You.
You, standing under the dim orange glow of the streetlamp, arms crossed as you scrolled through your phone, the light bouncing off your features in a way that made you look softer, almost tired. Something in his chest lurched, but it settled into something quieter when you looked up and spotted him.
“Oh, hey.” your voice was warm, familiar, and it made something in him loosen just slightly.
He didn’t know why he lingered. Maybe it was the way you smiled at him—small, but real. Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t look like you were waiting for anyone in particular, and neither was he.
“You just get off work?” you asked, eyeing the way his sleeves were rolled up, the leather jacket hanging off his frame like an afterthought.
“Nah,” he replied, lifting the can of Coke as if that explained anything. “Just needed some air.”
You hummed in response, nodding as if that made sense.
It was quiet for a moment, but not uncomfortable. Sukuna took a sip of his drink, the carbonation fizzling against his tongue, before you sighed, rubbing a hand over your face.
“Gojo's stubborn,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.
Sukuna let out something between a chuckle and a scoff. “You’re just figuring that out now?”
You gave him a look, half-amused, half-exhausted. “No, but… it’s different when you see it from someone else’s perspective.”
Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “How so?”
You hesitated, looking down at your feet before shaking your head. “He’s not just stubborn with me, he’s stubborn with everyone. Including you, apparently.”
“Obviously,” Sukuna said dryly, thinking about the way Gojo had planted himself in the front row of biology today, how he had accepted Sukuna’s challenge with that damnable easy grin, despite everything.
The corner of your mouth twitched.
“He told me you called him an idiot.”
“Because he is,” Sukuna retorted.
You actually laughed at that, and Sukuna found himself holding onto that sound longer than he should have. But then the conversation shifted, the air between you both cooling ever so slightly as he admitted, “I know about the Rhabdo.”
Your smile didn’t fade instantly, but there was a moment—a flicker of something, so quick that if Sukuna hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed it. But he was paying attention.
You froze for just a second before exhaling, lips pulling into something smaller, wearier. It wasn’t sad, not quite. It was resigned, and he hated it.
He hated the way you looked as if you had already accepted something terrible, as if you had made peace with a fight you hadn’t even finished fighting yet. Because he knew that look.
He had worn that look when he was eighteen, standing beside a hospital bed, watching a younger version of himself—of Yuuji—grinning through the pain, just as stubborn, just as reckless, just as determined to live on his own terms even if it meant shortening the time he had left. Sukuna’s grip on his can tightened for a second before he sighed.
“You’re just gonna let him keep doing this?”
Your shoulders stiffened slightly. “What choice do I have?”
“You make him listen.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Have you ever tried making him listen?”
Sukuna huffed, because yeah, fair point.
But still.
“So what now?” he asked.
You let out a humorless laugh. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s your plan?”
“Plan?” you echoed, incredulous. “You’ve met him, talked to him. You really think I can make him stop?”
“You can try.”
You scoffed. “Oh, sure. And when he shrugs it off like he always does?”
“Then you try again.”
You gave him a long, searching look.
“Why do you even care?”
Sukuna looked away, running his tongue over his teeth.
Why did he care?
Because he had seen this before. Because he knew what it looked like when someone ran themselves into the ground, all while the people around them stood helplessly, watching it happen. Because—
Because it wasn’t his job.
He sighed, shaking his head. “Just… don’t let him push you out.”
Your expression softened, just a fraction. “You make it sound like I have a choice.”
He didn't have an answer for that.
-
Sukuna didn’t even get a chance to set his keys down before Choso practically lunged for the letter, snatching it with both hands like a kid being handed a golden ticket. He held it up to the light, squinting at the familiar slant of the writing as if it would reveal something extra if he looked hard enough. His little lips moved silently as he read, his brows scrunching in focus.
Sukuna didn’t comment, only watching as Choso, after a decisive nod to himself, ran to the dining table. He grabbed the nearest scrap of paper—one of Sukuna’s old worksheets from Biology class—and his blue crayon, already pressing it to the page with an eager grip.
“‘Kuna, how do you spell squirrel?” Choso asked without looking up, tongue sticking out in concentration.
“Just sound it out,” Sukuna said, stirring the soup he was throwing together for dinner. Choso muttered under his breath, scribbling something.
“S-q-u-r-l,” he announced proudly.
Sukuna huffed a small chuckle. “Close enough.”
The little one kept writing, pausing only to tap the crayon against his chin like a scholar deep in thought. He took this seriously, as if he were writing a letter to a king instead of a fabrication Sukuna had created for him. And when he finally finished, he hopped off the chair, clutching the paper to his chest like a secret treasure.
“Here,” he said, all but shoving the letter at Sukuna as he stepped out of the kitchen. His grin was beaming, the kind that made his dimples show. “Don’t forget to send it, ‘kay?”
Sukuna took the paper carefully, ruffling Choso’s messy hair in response. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice quieter than before. “I won't forget.”
Choso beamed once more before running off, mumbling something about finishing his addition problems.
Sukuna exhaled, turning the letter over in his hands before heading to his room. The paper was warm from being held so tightly, the edges slightly crinkled. He shut the door behind him, sitting on the edge of his bed as he finally unfolded it, the glow of the bedside lamp casting sharp shadows on his face. The letter trembled slightly in his hands, but only because he was gripping it too hard. He forced himself to ease his fingers, flattening out the creases in the paper.
The crayon-scribbled letters were large and uneven, but neater than before. Choso’s handwriting was improving. Sukuna should have felt proud, should have smiled at the little details—the way Choso still switched his lowercase ‘b’ and ‘d’ sometimes, the way he made his ‘g’ too round like a balloon.
But that last line.
dear papa,
i did math today. 22 plus 89=111. my teacher said i am very smart. she gave me a star sticker, but it was pink. i wanted a blue one. next time i will ask.
today i saw a squrreal. its fur was crazy like when you wake up and forget to comb your hair. it was eating a nut and looking at me like it knew a secret. do squrreals have secrets?
i ate biscuits today. the round ones with sugar on top. you said too much sugar is bad, but one is okay, so i only had five.
i watched wicked yesterday. areeanna grandday sings nice. the witch was not a meanie. i think she just needed a hug. do you think bad people are really bad, or are they just sad?
also i asked my teecher why do people go to heaven. she said god misses them so he brings them back to him. i think god should miss me too. then i can meet yuuji again. i miss yuuji.
love, choso
His chest ached. A quiet, dull throb. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth would snap.
"I think God should miss me too. Then I can meet Yuuji again."
His fingers traced over the letters, smudged slightly where Choso had gripped the paper too hard. In the dim lighting, the deep blue crayon looked almost black, the pressure of the strokes making the paper feel rough under his fingertips. His throat tightened.
For a brief second, he considered grabbing the letter and heading straight back to Choso’s room, waking him up just to—what? Tell him that God doesn’t miss people? Tell him that missing someone shouldn’t mean wanting to disappear?
Instead, Sukuna pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, exhaling through his nose. He closed his eyes for a second before refolding the letter with careful, precise movements.
Then, he reached over to his nightstand, opening the drawer where every single one of Choso's letters lay stacked, neat and safe. He placed this one on top.
He should write back. Tell Choso about his day, tell him that squirrels probably do have secrets, tell him that bad people are usually just people who hurt too much. But not tonight. Tonight, he just needed to sit with it.
-
Your room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft amber glow of your bedside lamp. The fairy lights strung along the wall flickered faintly, casting uneven shadows over your cluttered desk. Your chair was still pulled out from earlier, a half-empty mug of tea beside your closed laptop, the steam long since disappeared.
A couple of books were stacked haphazardly by your pillow—ones you kept meaning to read but never got around to. A Digimon plush, a stupid little gift from Gojo years ago, sat beside them, its wide embroidered eyes staring blankly ahead. And then there was your phone, still warm from the call, resting in your palm as you stared at the screen.
“Listen, I know I was acting like a little shit,” Gojo started, voice softer than usual, a little hesitant. “I'm, like, marginally self-aware, y’know?”
You snorted, shifting against your pillows. “Yeah, only marginally.”
“Shut up,” he whined, dragging out the last syllable.
You could almost see him, sprawled out in his bed, tangled in his sheets, glasses pushed up onto his forehead as he stared at the ceiling. “But, uh, really,” he continued, voice quieter now. “I just—I dunno, I don't think those girls meant anything bad, y’know? They were just messing around.”
You sighed. “Gojo.”
“Satoru,” he shot back. You rolled your eyes, rubbing your temple. “Just because they didn’t mean anything bad doesn’t mean it wasn’t. You were uncomfortable, right?”
He was quiet for a second. “I mean…”
“Don’t ‘I mean’ me,” you huffed. “You told me yourself you didn’t even remember most of that party, and now you’re gonna defend them?”
Gojo groaned dramatically. “Ugh, why do you have to be right?”
“Someone has to be.”
“Wow.”
“Mhm.”
A beat of silence passed, comfortable enough, until Gojo suddenly piped up, “Anyway! I'm not going this Friday.”
You blinked, sitting up a little. “You’re not?”
“Nah,” he said, so casual, so him. “Rather spend my friday night with my favorite girl, playing Digimon.”
Your breath hitched before you could stop it, heart clenching in a way you didn’t recognize. You swallowed. “Satoru—”
“Ah-ah-ah, no need to get all emotional on me,” he teased. “Just let me kick your ass in peace.”
You scoffed, shifting your phone to your other ear. “Please, you wish you could beat me.”
“Nah, I’d win.”
And when you said your goodbyes, when you finally disconnected the call, you stared at the ceiling for a long time, phone resting on your chest. Satoru still had a long way to go. And maybe, so did you.
series masterlist next chapter
Hello everyone, it's been a hot minute 🙂↕️ This was supposed to be a Valentine's day release (dedicated to my lovely mutuals) I started working on from January onwards, but one plotline turned into another and eventually here I am, writing it as one of my first full-length fics. A bit hesitant to post it on Tumblr, but I hope you enjoy :)
the love of my life @nanamiskentos <- aka the best proof-reader and hype woman on this site. i love you so much, thank you for giving me the audacity and confidence to share my fics with the big wide net and making me and my work feel seen <3
no gojo post is complete without @gojao <- my favorite gojo girlie, forgive me for gatekeeping this fic from you but you know i had to keep this one a surprise >⩊< i love u so very much you brighten up my dash with every single post you make
my beautiful gorgeous wife from the other side of the world -> @nkopurin, i know this is not a toji post but i still want to dedicate this to you, you've been such a light and my fav writer to work with /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡ thank you so much for helping me always
my favorite desi girls and possibly the only women who hard-carry the community... @baepsays @deathofacupid and @fushitoru. i may not be at your freakuency when it comes to your writing <- because it's just that good, but it doesn't hurt to try :P
my iya -> @chososcamgirl, wrote all this bone-crushing angst thinking about you...i hope you're doing well when you see this ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀)
my baby who inspires me to be a better writer -> @emphistic in another life we are soulmates sitting besides each other as we write our fics. i love you and your work so very much <3
i could not end this without tagging trish <- @starmapz and kale @to00fu, your works inspired me to take up this project again after abandoning it for nearly a month. thank you so much for your contributions to jjkblr and to my motivation as well (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)
Obligatory taglist mention, thank you for your interest in my work <3 @poopooindamouf @paradisestarfishh @voideddd @deathofacupid @uselessbitch8008 @jayathelostdragon @sukubusss @starmapz @your-mum3000 @sukunaslilsocks @aaazade @jeonwiixard @skyxxx17
