After a long, brutal day at work, Sukuna comes home hungry and in no mood for disappointment. When he discovers that the ramen he has been craving all day is mysteriously missing from the fridge, it’s only a matter of time before a ridiculous and completely unnecessary argument breaks out.
Fortunately, there’s a tried-and-true protocol in this house for when things get this stupid.
cw: sukuna’s having a meltdown, petty argument, married stupidity, possibly slightly toxic but they are who they are | wc: 1.3k
He’s in a mood the moment he shuts the garage door behind him. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched, sweat dried into his collar from ten hours of wriggling under that goddamn engine, only to discover the real problem was electrical all along. The worst part? That entire mess of a car wasn’t even for a decent customer. It was for some smug jackass who spent half the day hovering over his shoulder, asking dumbass questions, and the other half talking shit about “labour costs.”
And Sukuna, miracle of patience that he is, didn’t beat him to death with a torque wrench. But it was a close call.
So when he finally steps into the house, muscles aching and his shirt sticking to the back of his neck from how fucking hot the garage was all day, he’s starving. He drops his bag by the door, too exhausted to think and too wound up to be soft yet, and doesn’t even call out to you like he usually does. Instead, he stalks straight into the kitchen with one clear mission: the leftover ramen he made himself last night. Extra pork, extra spice, two marinated eggs, seasoned perfectly, and untouched because he forgot to take it to work this morning.
It’s been on his mind since noon. He thought about it through three different test cranks, a misfire, and nearly getting his thumb pinched under the intake.
The fridge is yanked open, his hand shoots up to pull it out and… stops mid-air. He stares inside for a few seconds, blinking.
Then slowly, with the kind of restrained menace usually reserved for very specific, very unfortunate people, he closes it again and looks to the counter. The container’s empty, rinsed out and sitting in the sink. His jaw clenches so tightly he can feel it in his temples.
He exhales through his nose, and as he rounds the corner, still fuming, he finds you on the couch in his oversized tee, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling your phone like nothing’s wrong.
You look up the moment you sense him there. “Hi, Kuna!”
“You ate it.”
His voice is low, and you always joke that it’s the kind of low that precedes either an explosion or a murder, and considering the day he’s had, even he’s not sure which is coming. He’s standing just a few feet from the couch now, arms crossed, glaring down at you like you’re the one who ruined his life and not just accidentally eaten some leftovers.
“The ramen? Yeah, I was starving after work. Sorry, I thought—”
“So you ate mine?” His voice jumps up a notch, sharp and incredulous. “You didn’t think, hey, maybe that was for something? Maybe don’t just take shit that’s not yours?”
You put your phone down and sit up straighter, narrowing your eyes. “I didn’t take shit. I live here, Sukuna. You weren’t home, I was exhausted, and it was one container of food.”
“That I made. For me.” He’s gesturing now, a full-body snarl of irritation and disbelief, pacing half a step before rounding back to you again. “I was dreaming about that shit for hours. I was under a fucking car all day with some idiot client breathing down my neck, stuck with a part that wouldn’t fit, the lift jammed twice, and the one thing, the one goddamn thing I had to look forward to was that bowl. That bowl. And you—”
“I didn’t know!” you snap, standing now as well, eyes blazing. “You didn’t say anything, there wasn’t a note on it, and it’s not like you never eat my leftovers without asking!”
“That’s different,” he growls, stepping closer. “Because when I do it, I don’t take the last fucking good thing in this house after the day I’ve had.”
“It’s just ramen. I’ll make you more. Or order some. It’s not like I did it on purpose.”
“Not on purpose? You live with me. You know that container. You know it’s mine when it’s in there.”
“Oh, come on. It’s food. It’s not sacred. I had a long day too. Meeting ran over, boss dumped extra reports on me, and traffic was a nightmare. I saw the ramen and ate it. Big deal.”
“Big deal?” He steps forward, voice dropping darker, frustration boiling over after the day he’s had. “It’s not about the ramen. It’s about thinking of someone else for once. I work my ass off with my hands all day and come home to find the one thing I was saving gone. Again. It’s thoughtless, woman.”
Your eyes flash as you step closer, too. “Thoughtless? You think I’m thoughtless? I do the laundry, the groceries, the bills while you’re at the shop. One slip-up and I’m the bad guy? You’re being an asshole, Sukuna. It’s ramen. Grow the fuck up.”
“Grow up? I’m the one busting my back fixing cars so we can afford this place, and you’re calling me an asshole over—”
“Oh my god, I work too.” Your arms spread wide in disbelief, voice rising along with his. “And it was a fucking ramen! It’s not like I burned the house down!”
“I would’ve preferred that at this point!” he shouts, pacing again and running a hand through his hair like it’s the only thing stopping him from exploding. “At least if the house was on fire, I wouldn’t be fucking starving on top of it!”
Your jaw drops. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”
“I am, and I don’t give a shit. I earned that damn bowl.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh, caught somewhere between fury and absurdity. “Are you seriously trying to fight me over soup?!”
“Yes!” he shouts, without hesitation, every bit of reason crushed by the hell that was his day and the betrayal lurking in his own fridge. “Because you don’t—”
You stare at him as he yells and fumes, and before he can finish another furious tirade, you lift the hem of the shirt to flash him.
And just like that, his brain blue screens mid-sentence.
His mouth stays open, half-formed words fading into nothing. His hands, previously gesturing wildly with righteous fury, now hang uselessly at his sides. His eyes fixate on your tits like you’ve just hit him with a stun grenade. You’re still holding up his shirt above your breasts, calmly, without a single word. Like you haven’t just pulled the emergency brake on his entire nervous system with a single move.
It’s complete silence.
Then his throat works around a swallow. His jaw shifts once, twice. And very slowly, very clearly, he exhales like something inside him has simply given up the fight entirely.
“...Fuck the ramen,” he mutters, voice rough, dazed, and completely undone.
You bite your lip, trying to suppress the smirk and not beam with triumph. This particular method you pull out only on the rarest occasions—when he’s spiraled into full ridiculous-over-nothing mode, and nothing else will snap him out of it. But damn if it isn’t effective.
You drop the tee back down, covering yourself again, and watch as he visibly tries to reboot his system. He doesn’t even look mad anymore, just wrecked.
Reaching forward, you grab the front of his shirt with both hands and pull him down towards you. He leans down, wrapping his arms around your waist and forgetting there was even a fight happening, while yours wrap around his neck, feeling his breath steady against your shoulder.
“I’m sorry I snapped. I shouldn’t have reacted that way,” he mutters after a beat, nose brushing your temple. “Bad day. Really bad day.”
“I noticed,” you murmur. “I’ll make you a new one. Extra spicy.”
His chest rumbles with a quiet, defeated laugh, arms pulling you closer.
summary! your best friend satoru gojo has had a massive crush on you for years, the only issue is, he's pretty slutty. all he wants is you, god, you're the only thing he cares about these days, but he's too insecure to let himself want someone as beautiful and kind as you are.. he feels like he doesn't deserve such a loving person, so he sticks to his promiscuous lifestyle until you two can't handle pretending you're not enamoured with each other anymore. (insecure gojo, angst to comfort, gojo uses sex as an escape (no explicit mentions of said sex between others), toxicity, he's a sweetheart i promise)
satoru was off-his-fucking-face drunk.
he saw you from across the room chatting it up with shiu, a well known plug around campus, and a very attractive one at that, although he hated to admit it.
he knows he probably shouldn't of felt that stab of jelousy that just radiated through his gut, he's supposed to smile, then shrug all nonchalantly, cmon. don’t be weird. she talks to people. you talk to everyone. that’s how this shit works. he thinks.
but then he clocks the way shiu leans in closer, not to the point he's feeling all up on you, but he's close enough that it really, really pisses gojo off.
so, like any good 'best friend' who was almost blackout would do, he stalked over and threw his floppy, muscular arms around your waist with a deadly glare.
"can you fuck off shiu? no one wants you around here fucking up freshman with your fucking sketchy shit." he slurred, clinging to you like a koala.
"good cussing, satoru." shiu smiles with a new cigarette hanging from his lip.
"i hate you."
"i know, buddy..." he replies, winking at you before slipping the back of smiles into his pocket, "well uh, i'll leave you two alone then?" the obviously more mature man offers, you clench your teeth and pull one of satorus arms off of your body.
"sorry, kong. we'll chat another time?"
"no, you won't. go away shiu." satoru quipped, the black haired man just waves with a chuckle and moves on. he knew drunk gojo wasn't to be taken to heart, after all.
good riddance, he thought. everyone knew you were his, so why wasn't shiu getting that?
he sighed, but deep down he hated that part of himself. the obsessive part that wants to pull you away while knowing full well he's never once made any sort of claim on you. he doesn't get to play guard dog when he himself is the one who's taught everyone he's nothing more but a temporary play thing for others to use.
he knows it's pathetic, but still, he couldn't help but cling to you. it was just second nature to him at this point.
once shiu's gone, you exhale curtly. this always happened. despite your and satoru's relationship being nothing more than a tight friendship, he always got disgustingly possessive when you gave your attention to others, especially men, and especially at parties.
you sigh, then pry his other lanky arm off you with a big huff, fuck, he was heavy.
“you’re being ridiculous, satoru,” you groan, yelling over the music even though he's loud enough for the both of you, “i was only asking him how his studies were going.”
“don’t care,” satoru mumbles with his cheek pressed to your smaller shoulder. “don’t like him.”
“you don’t like anyone who talks to me.”
“mhm.”
you groan softly, this has happened so many times it’s become expected at these kinds of things. you reach for his collar and tug it, steering him away from the kitchen before he can latch back on to shiu who was now talking to maki.
“come on,” you roll your eyes. “you’re piss faced.”
he laughs boisterously, a stark change from the pout he was wearing a few seconds ago. “only a bit.”
“you’re literally swaying.”
“and? i sway when i'm sober.”
you can be bothered arguing with this meat head. instead, you turn toward the stairs and brace for impact because right on cue, his hand slides into yours and he pulls you up them.
“satoru,” you hiss, but he’s already halfway up, pulling you along behind him.
“i want to go to my room,” he says bluntly. “it's too fucking loud down there.”
he keeps a tight hold of your hand all the way up the spiral stairs with his thumb brushing your knuckles over and over, a nervous little tic he did when he got overwhelmed.
people smile and shout at the both of you as you walk pass, you think you can make out sukuna yelling his name, but he ignores all of them with a scoff like the dismissive drunk he is.
the moment you’re inside his room he shuts the door with his foot and leans back against it, still holding your hand.
this is always the part that makes your heart go all soft.
satoru looked so much gentler when he was inebriated like this. physically he’s still got that massive muscular upper body, still takes up all of your personal space and all, but he seems so fragile. like he’s set down the flashy go getter version of himself everyone else sees and picked up the one he only lets you have.
“sit,” he says dragging you toward his bed.
you smile at his slightly slurred speech and sit, he drops down beside you with his long lanky knees bumping yours. he immediately scoots closer until his leg presses against your own. his hand itch's until it's touching yours, your wrist, then your fingers, lacing them together.
he was always a little touchy when drunk.
“you okay?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says with a smile, then, “you’re really good.”
you laugh and lean back on your free hand. “that wasn’t the question, silly.”
he shrugs, flopping back onto the mattress and dragging you with him so you’re both propped up against his bashed up and faded wooden headboard. he loops his strong arm under your back and around your waist, pulling you closer to his body. okay, maybe a lot touchy.
you and satoru had a special kind of thing going on.
in freshman he spotted you from across the way at a mixer, he clocked you from the other side of the room and decided, for reasons he never really explained, that you were his person now.
he stole your cup, replaced it with a fresh one, and talked your ear off until you forgot what being nervous actually felt like, he seemed like a suave man on the outside, but this guy poured straight chronically online brainrot humour into your brain for like, two hours straight?.
by the end of the night you were sitting on the curb together, sharing fries he'd door dashed to the frat laughing like you’d known each other forever.
from then on, it was just a thing. you studied together, even though he never actually studied and mostly complained. you slept over, even though you both had comfy beds of your own.
you knew his school schedule, his little moods, the signs that meant he needed to leave a party early and unwind somewhere else. he knew when you were lying about being fine and when you needed him to just sit there and not try to fix anything.
people joked about you two all the time.
geto once asked why you didn’t just date already. satoru laughed far too loud and said that’d 'ruin absolutely everything'. you giggled too, telling yourself it was better like this, that you liked having him without the risk of romantic intimacy.
but like everything, the truth always came out.
one night where the both of you were almost blackout drunk, he took you upstairs after throwing his guts up into the toilet. you laughed at him and he flipped you off back, cleaning up then pulling you into his room like a rag doll.
he held you in the middle of the floor after you'd both toppled over, and he admitted everything to you through very crappy, slurred speech.
he told you how much he loved you, how badly he wanted you all to himself, how no one else could do it for him. you admitted the same, you told him how much you needed him in your life and how you felt more loved with him that anyone else.
you kissed, it was gross and quick but it happened. your feelings were out in the open.
for that night, at least.
morning came and the previous confession felt like small tiny fragments in both of your minds, you just couldn't remember any of it fully.
you went about your little friendship like nothing had changed. from what was left in your brains, you had a semi-clear thought on it all.
oh shit, maybe she/he likes me back?
sometimes, late at night, you’d lie next to him while he talked about nothing, sometimes you thought you caught drawls of that night in how he went quiet when you mentioned another guy, or when his hand squeezed yours that little bit tighter. but then he’d joke it away, or pull back, or remind you with a grin that you were his best friend.
so you stayed quiet, and so did he.
because being close to him like this felt better than not having him at all, loving him quietly was safer than risking losing him.
you didn’t know he was doing the exact same thing, from the other side of that line, telling himself over and over that you deserved better than him and that wanting you meant destroying his favourite thing in the world, your friendship.
now, your eyes drag over his pretty face as he stares up at the celling, letting out a long sigh that smelt like hard solo.
then he starts talking.
“god, this theme sucked actual nut sacks." he announces. “it was so bad, y/n. tell them to never do it again.”
you snort. “hm? weren't you the one hyping it up last week.”
“can you be quiet? i was lying. why are you lying to me?" he was making no sense.
“i feel like that's not... a proper answer?” you shake your head like you yourself were letting it go, he wasn't sober enough to be answering things correctly.
“rude.” he turns his head to look at you. “everyone looks stupid.”
“you’re wearing bright red board shorts and no shirt."
“yeah,” he says seriously. “so fucking stupid.”
you glance at the discarded lifeguard whistle on his desk, the red plastic stark against the silky oak. “you look fine, toru.”
“nah.” he shakes his head, hair flopping into his eyes. “everyone’s dressed like baywatch rejects. i hate it.”
“you hate fun.”
“i love fun.” he squeezes your waist as to prove his point. “this just isn’t fun fun.”
“yeah? what’s fun fun then?”
his face turns and he's suddenly looking happier. gosh, these drunken mood swings.. “like... a onesie party.”
you laugh and sit a bit closer. “of course.”
“like animals,” he adds, gaining conversational momentum. “or dinosaurs. geto would be a gorilla. choso would be like, a wolf or some shit.”
“yeah? what would you be?”
he breathes out an answer before you can even finish your sentence. “a bunny.”
“oh wow, no you would not.”
“i absolutely would. i'd buy ears and everything.” he whines with a forlorn expression, oh we're sad now? perfect.
you picture it and bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard, but he notices.
“see,” he says, now smug (you seriously couldn't keep up). “way better than 'surfer sluts'.”
you look at his shorts, then back at him. “at least the name was semi-creative?”
“tch, only thing creative 'bout it.”
he rambles on, complaining about the trashy pitbull music, about how someone spilled a drink on his nice new grey decarbra's, about how the freshmen are hella annoying this year. his hands wonder as he talks, sometimes he's squeezing your fingers, sometimes drifting to your hip, sometimes tracing the line of your knee cap? he's doing it absentmindedly so you guess it was fine.
you two chat about how shitty the party was for a good half hour, circling back to old gossip and relationship dramas, laughing and spit balling for ages. you'd never tell him but you loved these moments, where he'd laugh and talk to you like you'd known him since he was born, rather than just a few years ago.
he always looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the universe, whether you'd be out on long drives in his fancy car, or over at your dorm making really crappy cupcakes, he'd always gaze at you so lovingly. the bond between two best friends, am i right? you pushed away the thought of his lips on yours.
he sobers up a tad so the conversation is semi coherent on his end.
eventually, he circles the topic back you like he always does.
“so, you talk to shiu a lot,” he says quickly, darting his eyes back and forth from your face to gage your reaction.
“you know i talk to everyone,” you reply.
“yeah, but like.. you talk to him a lot.”
you smile at his badly hidden jealousy, “he’s in my stats class, satoru. nothing more.”
“still.”
you roll your eyes. “i asked how his studies were going. that’s it.”
he hums but it sounds very unconvinced.
“you get so weird about this,” you add. “it’s not that serious, i promise.”
he shifts closer again and his forehead drops to your shoulder. “i just don’t like when guys look at you.”
“they’re going to look at me.”
“i know.” his voice drops. “i hate it.”
you bump his knee with yours. “that’s a you problem, toru.”
“rude,” he repeats, but there’s no real malice in it.
you blurt out quickly, regretting it as soon as it pours out, "you're the only guy i'm this into, satoru, don't worry." fuck why did i say that?!
gojo's heartbeat is now thumping. she means that... in a friend way, right? of course. of course she did. no biggie...
he bites his lip as his hand goes all shake dragging up and down your arms.
you sit in silence for a bit as he and you both process, listening to the muffled frank ocean seeping through the floor boards. his thumb keeps tracing your knuckles, slower than before like he’s losing steam, getting sleepy.
to satoru, his room feels so much safer because no one’s looking at him like they want to eat him alive. not in here, with you. there's no one staring, waiting for him to be alone so they can make a move. sure, he's into it, but sometimes he jsut wants this, with you.
this is the version of him that he loves, sitting. talking. hands brushing without it being a big deal.
he wonders, not for the first time, why this version never feels like it’s allowed to want things. to want things like you.
the silence is comforting, but you make the mistake of opening your mouth. you promise you were only trying to lighten the mood, and/or distract from your almost confession earlier.
“c'mon,” you say lightly, not really thinking, “you should be thriving tonight, not sulking up here in your room. i mean, this theme was basically made for you.”
he lifts his head. “uh? what’s that supposed to mean?”
you shrug. “you know, surfer sluts. pretty fitting, no?"
you don't realise, but he goes stiff at your throw away comment, his fingers pause their ministrations on yours, his grip loosening until your fingers slide apart. he sits up straighter, and his body naturally moves away. his blue gaze dropping to the floor.
he’s heard it all before. much worse than this. louder than this. laughed off in locker rooms and kitchens and group chats.
'he's a slut.'
'a manwhore.'
'gojo’s just being gojo.'
he knows deep down he's built it, with every hook up being another brick. it was easier than being the guy who wanted one girl and didn’t know how to ask without ruining everything.
but fuck, he doesn’t want you to see him like that. that’s the fucked part. he doesn’t mind anyone else thinking it. just not you.
“oh,” he says.
you tilt your head, smiling. “oh, what?”
“nothing.”
you watch as his face turns into a distant blunt pull, you can't tell if he's still going through his drunken emotional switch ups or what.
“hey,” you say. “hey, i was joking.”
“yeah,” he mutters. “i know.”
he doesn’t look at you. oh shit.
without him pressed against you, the room suddenly inflates ten fold, when did it get so cold? the space between your bodies is small but very prominent, like a missing piece to a puzzle you'd spent hours putting together.
“toru?” you try again.
he scratches at his neck, a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times but never really questioned. “it’s fine.”
it’s clearly not, but you don’t push. you’ve learned when to stop.
he swings his legs off the bed and leans forward, elbows on his knees. the chatter downstairs seeps up, laughter and shouting coming through the walls. he stares at nothing, his mouth moving like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to swallow.
“everyone thinks that,” he says eventually, “so you’re not wrong.”
you frown, then fling your own legs off of the couch and hug into his side. “hm? thinks what?”
“that i’m just… that.”
oh.. you wince to yourself and drag a hand up and down his arm for comfort, “hey.. i didn’t mean it like that.”
“i know.” he huffs a laugh lacking all the humour it usually had. “doesn’t really matter how you meant it.”
he looks down at you, “it’s true.”
you don't know how to answer, because you know it's true, too. you didn't mean to be rash, but he was a slut. this guy averaged two girls a week and bragged to almost everyone about it, why was he getting angsty now? his constant rotation was the main reason you hadn't brought up your feeling for him since that night. who sleeps with that many chicks if they really did like someone for real?
he keeps going, words pouring now that the dam’s cracked.
“i mean, look at me,” he says, gesturing at himself. “everyone here’s fucked me or wants to. it’s kind of my thing now, not that i totally mind, it's just.. not all i am.”
“i don't think that's all you are, okay? you're my bestfriend, satoru. i know you better than that.” you're trying so hard to save this sinking ship.
'bestfriend..' he echoed in his mind, a solemn smile playing at his mouth, he wanted to be so, so much more than that.
"yeah, i know you don't think that.” he shrugs, smiling softer. “you're the only opinion i really care about, anyways.”
you tap his wrist for his hand again and he lets you intertwine your fingers. his heart blips, you don't normally initiate this type of intimacy, it was always him grabbing for your hand.
"of course satoru, don't worry,” you say.
he wants to say something else but whatever it was stays lodged behind his smile, any sadness he had was long gone, he was now hyper fixated on your hand.
"i know you wanna tell me something else."
“yeah but.. forget it,” he says almost too happily.
you squeeze his hand. “c'monn, tell me.”
he shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes again. “it’s stupid.”
“you’re stupid,” you say gently.
stupidly in love with you..
~
satoru stretches and lets out a deep, throaty groan. he somehow didn't have a hangover this morning, that was surprising.
he yawns and rolls over to bury his face into the pillow, his head feels packed with cotton and gravel, but it's not necessarily throbbing.
he's halfway through another groanish yawn when he realises the blankets that are pulled over his chest, when did they get there?
he stares at the ceiling, frowning. his comforter is pulled up to his chest with the corners tucked around his shoulders in a fashion he never ever does himself because he’s lazy and tall and always hangs off the bed. someone even kicked his shoes into place on his shoe rack.
you, of course it was you.
your face floats right to the front of his mind clear as day. your pretty little laugh, your hand in his, the precious way you were looking at him when he knocked out, you looked so beautiful.
he had morning wood and the thought of you was only making it pulsate harder. you were so kind to him, you'd always been there as an anchor, no matter what. he'd crash at your place when he felt like it, he'd squeeze into bed with you and hold you against his body.
shit, your body.. he presses his boner into the bed and groans, draging a heavy hand down his face.
“fuck.”
he's loved you for years, every girl he's ever fucked was a distraction. a distraction from the fact he never felt good enough to have you, all of you, all to himself. he hated it.
he catalogs the evidence like it’s a horrible case against him and his promiscuous ways. the kind words you'd always spewed, the way you can leave him without it feeling like you're really gone..
he racks his brain for every girl who’s woken up here and slipped out before he got to learn their last names. how none of them ever did this. how none of them stayed this gentle with him.
he tells himself thats gotta mean something.
then, he reminds himself that wanting something doesn’t mean he deserves it..
as he's having a deep, 'i love my bestfriend but i'm too much of a whore to deserve her, what the fuck do i do?' crisis for the fiftieth time this month, the door slams open.
“rise and shine, whore,” sukuna bellows, stepping into the room blowing a fat cloud of sweet vapor straight into the air. “get the fuck up. house looks like a dump.”
satoru squints at him. “i hate you.”
“yeah, yeah.” sukuna hits the vape again. “come clean. you threw up in the downstairs sink.”
“that wasn’t me.”
“it was absolutely you.”
satoru rolls onto his side and curls in on himself dramatically. “fuck off.”
sukuna snorts. “get up and mop you insufferable asshole.”
he waits until the door slams shut again before forcing himself to sit up. he scratches at his neck, then glances down at himself, he's still shirtless and in these ridiculous shorts. he grabs his geek bar off the side table and takes a hit, then throws it aside and sniffs.
he grabs a pair of grey sweats off the floor along with boxers from his draw, he strips, poses nakedly in the mirror for a good ten seconds, and pulls them on, not bothering with a shirt. he comes down the stairs barefoot, every step reminding him of how much of a lightweight he is. he makes it to the bottom and, holy fuck, the house was a mess.
empty cups are everywhere, bottles spilt into the carpet, peoples sweaty clothes strewn all over the place, what a palace.
choso is sweeping loads of trash into a big rubbish bag on the floor, nanami is wiping down the counters with a pissed off look, sukuna and toji are flipping the couch back over.
geto spots him before everyone else, "there he is,” he smiles, clapping a hand on satoru’s shoulder. “you okay?”
“no.”
geto grins. “heard you were real fucked up last night.”
satoru sighs. “don’t.”
he grabs a rubbish bag and starts scooping cups off the floor, his mind keep floating back to you, over and over again. he can still feel your hand in his, he can still see the way you'd hugged into his side when he got all quiet.
that’s the last thing he remembers before everything goes black is you.
he clears his throat. “hey.”
no one looks up.
“hey,” he tries again, louder. “did anyone see y/n leave last night?”
ino looks up like hes been waiting for a question like that, “why,” he asks. “you forget where you put her?”
satoru shoots him a look. “shut up.”
“i think she left kinda early,” nanami says without looking up. “before two.”
satoru’s chest loosens just a bit. “yeah?”
“yeah,” nanami continues. “she walked out with-"
toji stood up from kneeling besides the couch,
“shiu,” he says casually, cracking open a beer he had in hand. “she went home with shiu.”
the room goes quiet for exactly a second.
satoru stops and the trash bag slips from his fingers.
“what,” he says.
toji shrugs. “saw them out front walking to his car. sure looked cozy.”
he feels his heart beat thump, his head starts to throb and his eyes feel like they want to water and spill.
“that’s not-" he laughs weakly. “that’s not funny.”
toji takes a sip. “wasn’t joking.”
geto raises an eyebrow, watching satoru a little too closely. “you sure, man?”
toji nods. “yep.”
it feels like someone socked him in his mouth, his ears ring, the house feels claustrophobic, suddenly everything's very wrong.
you wouldn’t.
would you?..
he thinks about the way you held his hand, the way you tucked him in, all 6"4 of him, the way you told him he was 'the only guys you were this into.'. maybe that never happened ? maybe it indeed was just a figure of his imagination.. fuck, maybe his whorish lifestyle had finally scared you off..
he breathes in deep. if you did sleep with him, satoru doesn’t get to be hurt. he’s the guy who taught you this was normal, that this was so right and casual.
if you chose someone else, all that means is you learned the rules from watching him doing it over and over and over again.
his chest tightens and he laughs again. “ha. wow. okay.”
ino bursts out laughing. “are you deadass?”
sukuna snorts. “c'mon bro, you hook up with mad girls. don't be pressed when she does the same.”
geto covers his mouth, he wants to laugh but he knows he shouldn't. “that’s rough, but sukuna's right, satoru.”
gojo wipes a hand down his face quickly, blaming the hangover. “yeah. hilarious.”
“guess surfer sluts really was her thing,” toji adds, smirking.
that one lands.
satoru bends down and picks up the rubbish bag again with his eyes fixed to the floor, “i’m gonna go take the trash out.”
"okay, bro."
~
now, in your defence, while you did go home with shiu, you didn't sleep with him.
you couldn't, not when you were this deep under the satoru spell.
"thanks for letting me crash here, i didn't want to disturb gojo's sleep. oh, and yuki brought higuruma over last night. didn't wanna be up until 4 listening to them fuck."
you're half dressed under the covers, wiping your eyes as he come in with a cup of coffee.
"i got you, don't worry." he smiles from the door of his room, he let you take his luxurious bed while he slept on the equally as nice couch. shiu was surprisingly rich for a collage kid, maybe all that 'sketchy shit' as satoru liked to put it, was really selling.
he brings the cup down onto the table besides your bed and flicks your nose, "just remember your promise, gotta do that last section of the assignment for me, payment for my generosity."
"mm, wouldn't dream of leaving you without proper compensation." you laugh, taking the cup and sipping gently.
he looks from one of your eyes to the other like he's appreciating your presence, then quickly looks away and spins around.
"gotta make a few runs this morning, leave whenever you feel like it, yeah?" he throws over his shoulder.
you give him a thumbs up and he nods, waving while walking out.
the morning scuffles along, you eventually pull yourself out of his beautiful bed and get dressed into whatever clothing you could find that'd fit you in his draws. there were a few women's camis aswell as sweat pants in here, oh no, did he have a girlfriend?
as if being summoned by the universe, who else but shoko walks into the house, with her own key, no less.
she locks eyes with you for a second then smiles and waves like she couldn't care less.
"sh-shoko? what the fuck?"
"hey, y/n. is shiu still here?" she was so calm you just had to pry.
"why? are you two a thing? god, i promise this isn't what it looks like, i was just at a party and he offered to-"
"hush, i don't give a shit if you fucked him, girl. he's not my man."
phew... wait- not phew! you guys didn't even do anything!
you explain to her what went down, and she, in turn, told you why she was there. turns out she and shiu were hooking up on the dl, but she only felt for him physically, so you weren't a bother to her. "yeah, we fuck and he gives me drugs, pretty sweet deal. would recommend."
"yeah, i'm so good, thanks."
after that semi-akward interaction you gathered your stuff and got the hell out of there.
shiu's place was just off campus so the walk back to your own apartment wasn't far. like you did every morning after a party, you tried to give satoru a call. only, after the third ring, the line went dead.
satoru was finishing up the last little chores around the frat when he got your call, he stared at his phone as it rung on the kitchen bench, your name in cute heart emojis flashing on the screen.
he declined.
the last thing he wanted right now was to talk to you after shiu had been apparently digging in you. no way.
"yeesh, that's harsh, man." choso commented from his spot sitting at the breakfast bar.
"it's nothing, just busy right now." satoru tries his best to sound nonchalant but it's obvious he's still very much annoyed.
"oh yeah? you stop training when she calls you, man. you're never 'too busy.'" choso makes air quotes around that last part.
satoru sighs and chucks the last of the solo cups in the recycling bin, then takes off back up the stairs.
he shuts his door far harder than he needs to and falls onto his bed.
shiu.
the name keeps coming back, no matter how hard he tries to shove it away.
he tells himself he has no right to feel like this, none. he fucks around constantly, hell, it’s practically his brand. he’s built this whole thing around being easy, wanted and available. so why does the idea of you choosing someone else make his chest feel so disgusting?
you’re your own person. you always have been. he’s never tried to cage you, never tried to tell you what to do or who to see. that’s not him and he prides himself on that.
still.
you’re supposed to be his person.
not like that, he tells himself. not in a gross way he gets to possess but in the way you always end up together. the way you fall asleep next to him without it meaning anything and somehow meaning everything at the same time.
he massages the bridge of his nose with both hands.
get over it.
get over it.
get over it.
god, he just can't. instead, he unlocks his phone and stares at your pretty contact photo, the stupid nickname. his thumb taps call before he can talk himself out of it.
it barely rings twice before you're answering all giddy.
“toru!” your voice is so bright. “oh my god, i was just about to try you again. are you hung over?”
he feels pain coil up in his tummy.
“no,” he says flatly.
on your end, you're taken back by his bluntness “oh! uh, okay.”
he winces internally at your dejected response but doesn’t soften the blow. if he does, he’ll crack, and he can’t afford that right now.
“what’s up?” you ask, still trying.
“nothing,” he replies. “just busy.”
your heart clips like it'd been hooked onto a fishing hook.
“…hey, uh, are you.. are you mad at me?”
he scoffs sharply. “why would i be mad at you.”
your voice dips. “i don’t know. you’re being kinda blunt, i guess.”
he laughs curtly. “i’m allowed to be blunt.”
“not like this,” you say quietly. “you’re never like this with me.”
that hits him in his throat. he pretends to ignore it when in reality it throws his heart for a loop, "what do you want,” he asks, it's so clipped.
you go silent for a second, clearly recalibrating. “i was wondering if you wanted to hang out later? maybe get food or something. i can come over.”
normally he’d say yes without thinking. normally he’d already be planning how fast he could ditch whatever else he had lined up.
today, though, his jealousy makes the decision for him.
“can’t,” he says. “i’ve got a girl coming over.”
the line goes very quiet.
“…oh,” you say.
gosh, he can picture your face. the sweet little drop in your eyes you try to hide. the way you probably nodded even though he can’t see you.
there’s a mean, awful part of him that hopes it stings. not because he wants to hurt you, but because he wants proof that he matters the way you matter to him.
the rest of him despises that part. hates that when things feel out of control he reaches for the only thing that’s ever numbed really it.
he doesn’t want the girl coming over. he wants you. he always does. but wanting you feels so dangerously hard in a way fucking his feelings out never does.
“right,” you add. “that's okay.”
he should stop. he should backtrack and admit to what he really wants, he wants to talk to you about shiu, why you did it when you know he hated him, why you'd sleep with that fucker of all people, get some sort of closure. instead, he keeps going, so cruel and careless.
“yeah,” he says. “don’t really feel like cancelling either. kinda want good company.”
that’s a lie. he feels like shit. but he wants it to sting, shit, he hates that he wants that.
you swallow audibly. “okay. well. have fun then.”
“always do,” he replies, too fast.
the silence is horribly awkward.
“…i know you said you're fine, but really, toru, are you good?” you ask, one last attempt.
he exhales through his nose. “yeah. don’t bother coming over tonight, okay?”
there it is. the line he knows will hit you deep.
your voice wobbles a little, “i wasn’t.”
“good,” he says. “talk later.”
and before you can respond, he hangs up.
the second the call ends, regret slams into him full force.
“fuck,” he grumbles, slamming the phone onto the bed.
he presses his palms into his eyes and groans. what the hell was that? why did he do that?
you didn’t deserve that. he’s supposed to be your best friend, not... not whatever that was.
he tells himself he’s doing you some sort of fucked up a favor. that pushing you away now is kinder than letting you see how messy he actually is when he cares.
it sounds noble until he admits the truth. he ran because staying would’ve meant being honest with you.
he sits there for ages, replaying your tone over and over until it makes him feel nauseous.
he hates this. hates how jealous he feels. hates that he can’t say anything about it without blowing everything up. hates that he took it out on you because he doesn’t know how to handle it like a normal person.
his phone vibrates, instead of checking the notification he unlocks it, opens a different app, scrolls, and sends a message he knows he’ll definitely regret later.
gojo: come over
her reply is quicker than he'd thought it be.
xxx xxx xxx: omw ;)
he drops the phone and leans back, staring at the ceiling. this is what he does. when things get too much, he drowns them out. replaces one feeling with another until it’s all numb enough to ignore.
a knock sounds at his door twenty minutes later.
he doesn’t give himself time to think it over, he opens it, steps aside, and lets the girl in. she smiles at him, then she reaches for his arm like it's her god given right.
the door clicks shut behind them.
and even as he kisses her, his mind betrays him, flashing back to your voice on the phone, so sweet, so soft and hurt.
he squeezes his eyes shut and pushes it away.
anything to not feel like this.
~
now, the party a few days later is so much worse.
the theme is white out so the crowd looks like a sea of seagulls packed into this seats living room.
you're clad in a pretty little white dress with big white heels and matching accessories, pretty basic yet still jaw dropping.
you're walking past the tv when satoru comes into view, today, not only was his hair white, but his entire outfit was too.
he’s across the room near the kitchen island, leaning back against the counter with a drink in his hand and two girls pressed in real close. one of them is laughing like a hyena at something charming he said, her fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans like she’s testing how far she can go. the other is touching his arm, tracing up his strong bicep.
he's too busy with them, he doesn't even spare you a fleeting glance.
you try not to look, you really, really do. but it’s just so difficult when that used to be your spot. when that used to be you next to him, stealing sips of his drink, talking shit about everyone else at the party like you were above it all together.
you frown, the conversations you and satoru had lately have been few and far between. he's dry as hell, and suddenly busy every time you ask to hang out.
you keep telling yourself it’s fine, it's all good. people grow apart all the time, it's collage! maybe he’s bored of being your friend. maybe you leaned too hard on a friendship that wasn’t meant to last.. and while you tell yourself it's fine, your chest twists and ticks and throbs with pain.
you step toward a couch where choso, shoko and geto are lounging around, all three of them clock your mood the second you flop beside them.
“hey, you good?” geto asks, passing you a drink.
you shake your head. “i’m okay.”
choso gives you a look. he's not gonna push but he'd like to. “you wanna sit here with us?”
“yeah,” you say quietly. “that’d be nice.”
you sit between them with your legs tucked up, watching the party happen around you like it’s something you’re not really part of anymore. your eyes keep flocking back to satoru like some sort of pathetic magnet.
you loved satoru's company. he was your favourite person on earth, you'd spend every second with him if you could, now he was pushing you away? you'd of at least liked a conversation about it. maybe a warning.
hes getting loud talking like he's the only person worth listening to in the entire room, patting girls on the ass and leaning in close to their necks to hear them properly.
every time he laughs or slings his arm around their shoulders, you feel your heart crack.
you miss him. god, you miss him so bad. not whatever this was.
choso nudges your knee gently. “c'mon, you don’t have to stay if it’s not fun.”
you shake your head again. “i don’t wanna be alone.”
he nods like he understands that more than you realise.
time drags on and an hour passes. then another. you try talking to other people, but it feels so wrong. your attention keeps snapping back to satoru.
he’s still backed against the kitchen island with a drink he hasn’t touched like, forty minutes, he's pretending bf to laugh at those girls terrible jokes, letting them sleaze all over him.
normally he’d lean into the gag. he'd flirt back and say something stupidly charming and let the night dissolve into a forgettable hook up.
but tonight it just feels so weird.
the girl on his left moves in with her mouth near his ear, saying something he pretends not to clock. her breath fans over his skin and his stomach churns, not with excitement but with this dull guilt that keeps scratching his lungs raw.
he looks at their faces and feels a light sense of absence.
he thinks about how easy it would be to disappear upstairs with one of them. how everyone would nod like yeah, that tracks. just gojo being gojo, and the thought makes him want to rip out of his own skin.
he didn’t want this shit tonight. he didn’t want these grabby hands all over him. he’s so tired of being wanted in the most bare minimum way.
he wanted you here.
eventually, after you'd stared holes through the back of satorus head, choso leans down to your ear. “you wanna go upstairs for a bit? i’m gonna smoke.”
you stumble over your words. “oh, i uh, i don’t smoke.”
“i know,” he says quickly. “you don’t have to. just… sit with me. i don’t really wanna be alone either.”
good, you really needed an escape right now.
“okay,” you say. “yeah. i’ll go with you.”
you stand together, weaving through the crowd toward the stairs. you can tell people are staring but you don’t look over your shoulder.
choso leads the way up, your shoulders brushing as he pulls out a pre roll with a smile.
across the room, satoru is midway through a sentence when he spots you. he wants to smile, its his reflex when he catches sight of you, but then he remembers he doesn’t get to do that right now, and the happy pull of his lips dies before it ever reaches his face.
you’re walking up the stairs with choso, close enough that your arms are touching. you’re leaning in to hear what he’s saying, head close to his mouth in a way satoru hasn’t had in days.
his put on smirk falls immediately.
“hey,” one of the girls says, pulling on his arm. “you listening?”
he pulls his wrist free without looking at her. “yeah. go get a drink or something.”
she frowns. “what?”
“look, just go,” he snaps.
both girls scatter away, muttering throw away curses but he really doesn’t care. he’s stalking over to where geto and shoko are now sitting with bottles to their lips.
“great,” he says bitterly, sitting down hard onto the couch. “first she’s fucking shiu and now my best friend? perfect.”
geto thinks for a second. “...what?”
shoko squints at him. “what are you talking about?"
satoru laughs bitterly, “don’t play dumb. i just saw them.”
geto follows his eyes to the stairs and sees you and choso disappearing around the corner. he sighs. “they’re going up to smoke.”
satoru scoffs. “yeah. sure, she doesn't smoke.”
“no,” shoko cuts in, annoyed. “actually sure. choso asked if she’d sit with him.”
satoru’s face drops into a deeper scowl, “since when does she hang out with him like that."
“since always?” geto replies. “they’re friends you just hog her, normally.”
satoru shakes his head. “this is bullshit.”
shoko sets her drink down with a dissatisfied groan. “you don’t get to act like this.”
he snaps his head toward her. “like what.”
“like you own her,” she says flatly. “you don’t.”
geto nods. “man, you’ve been pushing her away all week.”
“because she doesn’t want me,” satoru fires back. “she made that pretty clear.”
shoko raises an eyebrow. “did she now.”
“she went home with shiu.”
shoko’s face twists. “oh my god.”
geto leans forward. “that’s what this is about? you're ditching your best friend because she wanted to get her pussy ate?”
“what- no-,” satoru says. “you make it sound like-" he stop himself from spewing words he doesn't really mean. "it's just the fact she knows i hate that guy. that and everything else..."
shoko exhales sharply. “she didn’t fuck him.”
satoru freezes. “what.”
“she didn’t sleep with him,” shoko repeats. “she stayed the night because she didn’t wanna wake you up at the last function.”
the wave of relief that flows through him is euphoric, but it's followed closely by guilt. because despite everything you still chose him in the quiet ways. and he’d repaid that by pushing you as far away as possible.
geto turns to shoko. “oh, are you serious?"
“dead serious,” she says. “i walked in that morning. she was fully dressed and half asleep. they didn’t do shit.”
satoru feels like the floor drops out from under him and his heart is smudged into the wood.
“she told me herself,” shoko adds. “she was worried about you that morning, too. wanted to go over straight away and see if you were hung over.”
he's taken back by the revelation, satoru feels like he can't breathe.
geto runs a hand through his hair. “man…”
“also,” shoko continues, clearly not done, “she’s been really upset. you know that, right?”
satoru stares at the stairs. your face flashes in his mind. the way your voice sounded on the phone. so hurt.
“i'm gonna be honest, you’ve been acting like an asshole,” geto says gently. “and she’s been taking it like a champ. i'd of socked you in the jaw by now."
the music seems to disappear into the depths of his mind as he reels.
you didn’t fuck shiu.
you weren't up there sleeping with choso.
god, he thinks about the way he spoke to you. the way he brushed you off so calloused, the way he said he had a girl coming over and didn't brush her off for you, like he'd always done.
his stomach drops.
“oh fuck,” he whispers.
shoko watches him closely. “you're a real asshole, you know.”
he swallows. “fuck, i know.”
geto snorts.
satoru rubs a hand down his face, standing abruptly. “i need air.”
he takes off, on his way past he stops at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at them.
for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel angry.
he feels scared, typical gojo reading too deep into things and reacting rashly. he really needed to work on that.
~
"i don't know cho... this is the first time something like this has happened. i feel like he hates me or something... i just don't know what i did."
choso, bless his heart, had been listening to you pour your heart out about gojo for the past half an hour, blowing smoke out his open window. that last part caused his zooted brain to form a coherent thought.
"it's probably because you fucked shiu." he announces in uneven tones, he was more than a little gone.
you stare at choso like he’s just spoken another language.
“uhm?” you quiz.
his head falls to look at you from his spot by the window, he’s so relaxed he looks like gravity might forget about him any second now.
“yeah,” he nods, very sure of himself. “that’s gotta be it. gojo’s dramatic like that.”
your stomach drops, not in guilt, but in pure disbelief.
“i didn’t fuck shiu,” you say with a bitter taste in your mouth.
choso's neck rolls and he rubs his face, “…huh?”
“i didn’t sleep with him,” you repeat, “nothing happened. i crashed at his because i didn’t wanna wake satoru up and yuki had a guy over our place."
he processes this slowly with his face scrunching, the thought is buffering.
“okay,” he says after awhile, “but you went home with him.”
“yes,” you snap. “but that’s not the same thing.”
he hums, then shrugs. “dunno, sounds the same.”
you were gonna punch this loser.
“oh my god,” you mutter. “i have to go.”
“go where?” choso asks genuinely curious.
“i have to tell satoru,” you say grabbing your phone. “not because i did anything wrong, because i didn’t. but because he thinks i slept with someone he hates.”
choso sighs again. “you know you’re allowed to sleep with people.”
“i know that,” you say quickly. “this isn’t about that. it’s about him thinking i did it behind his back with someone he clearly can’t stand.”
choso nods like this makes sense to him, even though it absolutely does not. “okay.”
you pause at the door. “can you not tell anyone else?”
he raises two fingers in a salute. “your secret is safe with me.”
you don’t trust that for a second, but you’re already shutting his door.
you bolt down the stairs two at a time looking over the crowd. the stupid partys still bumping. you look for his pretty white hair, for his broad shoulders, but with everyone wearing the same color it became impossible.
you groan and head for the couch you left shoko and geto at.
“where’s satoru,” you breathe.
“uh. outside, i think.” geto responds surprised.
“yeah,” shoko adds. “went out front. needed air, apparently.”
you nod and make your way to the front door, the coolness of the night sweeps over your face and you notice a very tall man almost instantly.
he’s leaning against the lamp post across the street with his phone in one hand and his vape in the other.
he only vapes when he’s stressed.
stepping closer, you clock just how small this moment feels and how big it could blow up and become if you say the wrong thing.
“toru,” you say softly.
he looks up.
the second his eyes land on you, he feels his heart pulse.
“can we.. can we talk?” you ask.
he doesn’t answer, he gives you the most longing stare you'd ever seen. then, he steps forward and pulls you into his arms.
hard.
his biceps wrap around you so tight, his scrunched up face presses into your hair, his grip is stable and you want to cry at how passionate this feels.
he breathes out a shaky, “i’m sorry.”
you wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him back.
“i’m so sorry,” he repeats. “i was a dick. i shouldn’t have been so rude. i should’ve talked to you, communication and all that shit.”
you move back to look up at him. “hey. hey, it’s okay.”
he shakes his head. “no, it’s not. i acted like a stuck up cunt. i thought you slept with shiu and i just… i lost my mind.”
you sigh. “i didn’t. i swear. nothing happened. i should of told you that.”
he nods quickly. “i know. shoko told me. i just… god. i’m sorry i made you feel so shit.”
you reach up and rub your thumb under his eye. a sweet gesture you’ve done a hundred times before. “i’m sorry you got that impression.”
he leans into your touch for half a second before catching himself. “i had no right to be mad even if you had slept with someone. i know that.”
you nod. “yeah. you didn’t. but i get it's because you thought i did it behind you back, especially with someone you really hate."
a beautiful, silent moment exists between you two before you step back, forcing a small smile. “are we all good?”
he lets out a weak laugh. “yeah, you're so good.”
“that wasn't the question, silly.” you add, gently.
after that, you'd both agreed to ditch this lame party and stay at yours for the night. yuki was at higuruma's, so the place was all yours.
at your apartment, you both shower separately then change into comfy sleep clothes. his essentials hoodie ends up on you without either of you talking about it. when you come back into your room, he’s flopped onto your bed with his big arms spread, staring at the ceiling.
“c’mere,” he says, patting the space beside him.
you smile and crawl in next to him, turning onto your side so your head rests against his chest. he adjusts automatically, one arm coming around you, fingers threading through your hair in slow, relaxing strokes.
it feels like safe, blissful warmth. like coming home.
you lie there in silence for a while, listening to his breathing even out.
then he speaks again.
“hey, uhm.. sorry for blowing you off for a chick, the other day, by the way.”
you lift your head. “huh?”
he grimaces. “i lowkey didn’t even have plans. i invited her over after i hung up. just wanted a distraction.”
your chest does a confusing little blip.
“would’ve liked to see you instead,” he adds quietly.
your heart aches and swells at the same time. you press your face back into his chest, “it’s fine.” laughs at your adorably muffled voice, then sighs. “i shouldn’t have done that.”
you shrug. “you’re allowed to see people.”
he hums. “yeah.”
you hesitate, then say it anyway. “i don’t care about the girls you hook up with. doesn't really effect our friendship, right?”
the words feel so distasteful and strange, but you push through.
he smiles a forlorn smile. "right.”
he pulls you a little closer, brushing his lips against your temple in an almost kiss. he threads a piece of your hair through his fingers like a coiled ribbon, feeling the individual stand's texture against the pads of his fingers. this was his therapy, the soothing lull of you, with him.
he can feel your soft breathing slow down as you knock out, the way you always do when you know you can trust him to stay with you.
and god, that trust truly destroys the last bit of careless arrogance he carried in him.
because just hours ago he was so sure you’d replaced him. that you’d looked at someone else and chosen them.
but you no, didn’t.
you never did that.
every girl he’s ever dragged into his bed flashes through his mind in quick, ugly snapshots like those old black and white movies.
they've got faces he can't remember, voices that sounds distorted and wrong, and their bodies look like every other persons. it's surreal.
he tells himself, not for the first time, that he never meant for it to get this bad. it all started as some quick fun. then it became a boarder line addiction, one he desperately wanted to break.. he feels sick at how it turned into something people expected from him, something he leaned into because it meant no one would ever ask him for more.
no one except you.
you wriggle around adorably in your sleep, your knee hitting his thigh, and it smacks him all over again how easy it would be to lose this bliss. how close he came. how close he kinda still is.
he’s been hiding behind it for so long. the flirting. the girls. the persona. acting like he doesn’t care.
but lying here with you? knowing you didn’t do anything wrong, knowing he almost burned the best thing in his life because he couldn’t get over his own shit, something in him finally snaps into place.
he doesn’t want to be that guy anymore.
he wants to be someone you can choose without any hesitation. someone who doesn’t make you doubt where you stand. someone who doesn’t reach for distractions the second things feel too hard for him to handle alone.
i’m gonna fix this, he thinks.
he’s not stupid enough to think it’ll be easy. habits don’t disappear overnight. insecurity doesn’t vanish just because he wants it to. but he can stop hiding behind other people. he can stop pretending he’s fine with the left over crumbs when what he wants is everything.
he wants to earn you.
not with big gestures or revolting drunk confessions he can’t really back up, but by showing up differently to what hes been doing. by choosing you the way you’ve always chosen him.
he was gonna stop. he couldn't be labeled a good for nothing playboy anymore,
~
"so bro, did you figure shit out with your girl?"
"what, you mean y/n? yeah, man. that's all sorted."
gojo was back at the frat the next day after a very messy, long night of staring at your sleeping face, (and fighting to overwhelming urge to kiss your pretty nose.) he was chatting it up with toji who had heard about the drama through shoko.
"just curious, are you two like.. a friend with bennies kinda situation? or what." he asks, shaking his banana protein powder violently in it's can to break apart the clumps.
satoru starts drumming his fingers against the kitchen bench, trying to sound nonchalant. "nah, man. she's just my friend. i've got other girls for that shit." he winces at that douchey response... hm, if he wanted to stop the slut allegations he needed to work on how he talked to guys like toji.
"yeah, and she's just fine with that?"
"i dunno, bro."
toji shakes his head and chuckles, then geto interrupts from the couch.
"ever think of like, oh, i don't know. telling her you're into her?"
gojo lets out a fake groan like he's sick of the question, not like he's obsessed over that very idea for around a year now. "can you two lay off? i'll tell her eventually."
"yeah right. you're gonna waste away your life fucking hoe's you don't even like, and she's gonna get a guy hitched. like shiu." sukuna chimes in from the stairs. fuck, was everyone coming down to clock his shit?
"fuck off with the shiu shit, they didn't do anything."
"yet."
he was seriously about to throw hands.
the chaos is interrupted when nanami walks through the large front door holding a piece of paper.
"i just got the theme for the next function." he says, holding it in the air. "it's that stupid white lies thing we did last year in june, remember that?"
oh, they remembered. everyone in white or coloured shirts with sharpie on the front spelling out a little white lie about each person. so much drama came from that, it was insane.
satoru faintly remembers sukuna's shirt saying, 'i'm not cheating on my girl.' and getting his wallet set on fire not long after said girl got to the party.
"sweet, that's easy to set up." toji commented. all satoru was thinking was how you were the first person he had to invite, his hand itching for his phone.
he smiles at your response and pockets his phone, his mind reeling with what he was gonna write on his shirt, as he taps a finger to his chin, the most big brain, amazing thought pops into his head.
god, i'm so suave.
his promise to himself was about to become really real after this party, he just hoped it didn't all go downhill..
you on the other hand, you were contemplating whether or not what you had planned for your shirt was too much. the instant you'd read his text about the theme, the idea immediately popped into your head.
being brave enough to actually go through with it? that was another story..
~
11pm saturday, the frat.
okay, you're really nervous now. you stand outside for way longer than necessary, your jumper covers the secret writing on your shirt, you can't embarrass yourself, yet.
you take a deep breath and walk into the familiar house you'd crashed at so many times.
it's still early, so only the people actually in the frat are there so far. you walk through slowly and the first one you clock is sukuna.
he’s got a beer in one hand (already? smh.), his white shirt is stretched across his muscly chest with thick black letters that read, i hate milfs.
you snort before you can stop yourself.
toji’s near the tv wiring up the music, his shirt says, i’m not a felon.
these guys weren't real, what the fuck.
shoko’s leaned against the counter nearby, one of those big chunky choofs in her hand. her shirt reads, i’m not addicted to nic.
you love her.
you pull out your phone and shoot satoru a text letting him know you've made it, you barely have time to lock your screen before arms wrap around you from behind.
big, hard, comforting arms.
gojo buries his face into the side of your neck, "there you are,” he says, pleased. “you smell good.”
the blush that covers your cheeks is embarrassing. “well, hi to you too.”
he pulls off and beams down at you, although, you can't help but see a slight hint of nerves in his eyes.
“missed you,” he laughs.
before you can overthink that, you notice that his shirt is covered by a loose flannel, hanging open but covering the writing on his chest.
he notices your eyes flick down and smirks. “don’t look yet.”
you scoff. “oh, so you’re hiding yours too.”
“maybe,” he says. “what about you?”
you tug at the strings of your jumper. “mhm.”
his eyes narrow playfully. “suspicious.”
"you love it."
he grins. “yeah. i do.”
he’s tugging you along by the hand, weaving you through the house toward the kitchen the next second.
“come onn,” he says. “it’s still early. let's pregame before it gets all sweaty and gross.”
the kitchen is devoid of people, satoru hops up onto the counter, then contemplates ad corrects himself.
“wait,” he says. “no. you sit.”
before you can argue, he lifts you and plops you on the bench, your face feels hot but you blame it on the lack of air flow.. or the way he’s standing way too close.
he pours you a drink keeping in mind you’re not trying to get wrecked tonight, then puts it beside you.
“there ya go, sweets,” he says.
“perfect.”
you sip, then notice his fingers tapping against the counter like a drum, oh yeah, he's definitely nervous.
you tilt your head, flashing him that gorgeous smile that always made him weak in the knees. "so.”
he looks at you. “so.”
you smile. “what’s your shirt say?”
...
his laugh is strangled and just a little too loud. “oh, uh. straight to the point, huh.”
“you know it."
he rubs the back of his neck. “it’s stupid.”
“uh huh.”
“and you’re gonna laugh.”
“probably.”
he squints at you. “you go first.”
you shake your head. “nope.”
“c’mon,” he whines. “you’re way braver than me.”
you giggle, heart doing that annoying thing again. “mm, absolutely not.”
he rolls his eyes, then comes up with a compromise.
“okay,” he says. “same time, then.”
you pause. “uhm?.”
“we'll both reveal it at the same time,” he continues. “y'know, like one, two, three.”
you stare at him. “c'mon.”
“you're so lame, pleasee,” he plead.
you roll your eyes. “okay, okay, fine.”
he grins, wide and oh so nervous. “really?”
“yeah,” you say, with your fingers are already curling into the fabric of your jumper. “on three.”
he nods. “okay.”
the moment stretches. neither of you moves.
“you count,” he says.
you swallow and nervously laugh. “one.”
his fingers fall into the edge of his flannel.
“two.”
your hands slide to the hem of your jumper.
“three.”
both of your fabrics lift.
his flannel drops open as you tug your jumper over your head, both of you frozen for a good minute as the truth finally, finally stares back at you.
i’m not in love with my best friend.
on both shirts.
identical. same handwriting style.
you stare at his chest.
he stares at yours.
then you both lose it.
you're both toppled over laughing at how ridiculous this was.
“no fucking way,” he gasps.
you wipe your eye, “are you kidding me.”
he steps closer, closing the space until he’s right between your knees, caging you in gently. his smile softens as he looks down at your shirt.
“wow,” he murmurs.
you feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with fabric.
“guess we both lied,” you say quietly.
“guess so.”
his hands caress your face ever so slowly, like he’s giving you time to slap him off but you don’t.
you stare up at him with big, wide eyes. he smiles and inches toward until your noses touch.
he leans in, “can i?” he asks, quietly.
you nod smiling harder than you ever had before. “yeah.”
then, he kisses you.
it’s soft and warm, nothing like that sloppy drunk one you both pretend you forgot.
you kiss him back deeper, your fingers drift through his hair pulling him closer, and the sound he makes against your mouth is almost whiney, wrecked.
the bliss is interrupted by someone yelling from behind you.
“about fucking time,” sukuna bellows.
you break apart laughing again, foreheads still touching. satoru groans and drops his head to your shoulder.
“i’m killing him,” he mutters.
he hops you off the counter, taking your hand. “we’re leaving.”
“where.”
“my room. like, now. these assholes are not ruining my moment.”
you follow him up the stairs both of you grinning like idiots. he's pulling you softly but quick enough the moment isn't lost.
his door closes behind you. the room is dim, only lit by the lamp on his desk, nice and moody.
he doesn’t rush you and he doesn’t pounce like he did with other women. no. he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, “hi,” he says, dumb and fond.
you smile. “hi.”
satoru literally can't fight this urge any longer, he pulls you into his chest and wraps his arms fully around your body. your cheek presses to his chest, right over his heart, and it’s beating oh so fast. one of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your head with his fingers threading through your hair, stroking slowly.
“i’ve wanted this for so long,” he says into your hair. “like, embarrassingly long.”
you laugh softly. “yeah?”
“yeah,” he says. “i just didn’t think i was, like, allowed to? if that makes sense”
you look up at him with a confused smile. “why wouldn’t you be?”
he swallows. his eyes flick away, then back. “because i’m kind of an asshole, if you couldn't tell.”
you knew what he meant. the women, his not so shiny reputation, his arrogance.
“you're not the only one, i didn’t say anything either.” you rub the side of his face.
he smiles into you hand, “why?”
you stop. then take a breath and decide to be brave. “because you sleep with everyone. and i thought if you wanted me, you would’ve... i don't know, stopped.”
ouch, but deserved.
“fuck,” he says quietly. “i hated that you saw me like that.”
“i mean,” you shrug weakly. “it’s kind of hard not to.”
he laughs. “yeah. fair.”
he presses his forehead to yours. “that shit was never about wanting other people, y/n. it was about not knowing what to do with wanting you.”
your head just went really fuzzy at his poetic expression.
“i made a promise to myself,” he continues. “after i realised i was gonna lose you if i didn’t get my shit together. i’m done with it. all of it. i don’t wanna be that guy anymore.”
you search his face, looking for the joke, but he's dead serious.
“i didn’t think i deserved you,” he admits. “so i kept proving myself right.”
for a moment, neither of you speak. then you reach for his hand and hook your pinky around his.
“okay,” you say. “then let’s just… talk. no more of this back and forth.”
“pinky promise.” he smiles and seals it, then leans in and kisses you again. he pulls back for a second then begins to pepper your face in sweet little pecks, making you giggle at the ticking movement.
“i’ve wanted to do this,” he says between kisses, grinning like he can’t stop himself. “just whenever. whenever i felt like it.”
you laugh, hands in his hair now, tugging him back down. “you’re so silly.”
you end up tangled on his bed, just talking. his legs are weaved through yours as he kisses your face occasionally. you tell him you'd been feeling for the past, what, two years? you tell him how the women always made you jealous, how you'd wish it were you he wanted. he spills his guts just as much. he tells you how they never meant anything, how he knew he had a problem and he was working on it, for you.
three hours of straight yap fly by.
he eventually goes really quiet and clears his throat out. “hey.”
“hmm?”
“would you wanna,” he hesitates, suddenly adorably shy, “go on an actual date with me? like. flowers. dinner. me trying really, really hard.”
you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. “yeah. i would.”
his grin is blinding, him and his stupidly perfect teeth.
“holy shit,” he laughs, pulling you close again. “i got the girl.”
you smile, then drift off wrapped up in each other, both of you finally feeling secure in your feelings for one another.
"night, toru."
"good night, sweetheart."
A/N: i'll be writing some spicy/dating headcanons for this fic !!
when your childhood best friend, gojo satoru signs you both up for a couple event to win a hatsune miku figurine, you brace yourself to fake it, win the prize, and never speak of it again. unfortunately, neither of you account for the gameshow digging up past feelings and twisting your friendship into something a little more intimate
pairing: nerd!jo + childhood best friend gojo x reader
content: childhood best friends to lovers, first kiss, pure fluff, satoru (and you) are weebs at a convention 9k+
note: mainly posting this to link drop that you can be added to my taglist by filling out this google forms !!
of all the ways gojo satoru could have ruined your saturday, you had not expected publicly declaring himself your boyfriend in front of three hundred people and a cardboard cutout of hatsune miku to rank so high.
your best friend rarely has good ideas, so the fact you even agreed to walk through the anime convention on a weekend that could have otherwise been productive and not surrounded by sweaty, smelly people in cosplay, was a miracle.
one second, you’re following him through the convention hall with a drink in one hand and your tote bag slipping off your shoulder, and the next, he’s catching your wrist and pulling you to an abrupt stop around a few busy stalls.
“okay, before you say anything, i need you to stay calm,” he says, a frequent precaution to many of his actions. “and by stay calm, i mean don’t make that face at me, because i can tell you’re about to make that face.”
around you, people stream past in costumes and wigs and carefully crafted props. someone dressed like a magical girl nearly takes your eye out with a glitter-covered staff. somewhere to your left, a loudspeaker announces the beginning of an important ‘sweetheart showdown event’ again, whatever that meant. somewhere to your right, a group of people is arguing whether you can discuss spoilers of an old anime series considering it’s been decades since its release.
slowly, you look up at him.
satoru stares back through his thick-framed glasses, silver hair more unruly than usual, university hoodie half-zipped over a graphic tee that says i paused my game to be here. he has the expression he always gets right before saying something so profoundly stupid that you have to question why you’ve stayed his friend for so long. the reason hits you begrudgingly; you’ve been locked into the title of “satoru’s childhood best friend” since you were five and your parents have no intention of letting it end.
you narrow your eyes. “what did you do?”
he winces immediately. “see, that tone is exactly what i was trying to avoid. if you open with that, it makes me feel like you’re not giving me any room to explain myself.”
“satoru, when have you ever needed room to explain yourself? you usually just keep talking until people get tired and let you continue to yap.”
“that’s weird, it’s almost like you’re suggesting people don’t like talking to me.”
you snort, finding nothing humourous about his statement. “don’t deflect, answer the question.”
he glances over your shoulder toward something behind you, and then back at your face.
“all right,” he says, exhaling through his nose. “so, in my defense, i didn’t think it would sound that serious when they said it over the speakers. it was just meant to be a joke.”
your stomach drops a little and despite the urge to look for yourself what has him so frightened, you do not turn around yet. instead, you look at him more suspiciously. “when who said what over the speakers?”
he gives you a smile so guilty it makes you want to hit him in the stomach.
“well,” he says carefully, “they may have just announced that the sweetheart showdown participants should report to the main stage.”
you blink. “the what?”
“the sweetheart showdown.”
“you can’t just repeat it like i’d suddenly know what that is. those words mean nothing to me.”
“it’s a couples event.”
the convention noise seems to recede for one long, terrible second as you stare at him. he, useless as ever, only stares back. you look around. shoko and utahime hadn’t tagged alone so what couple is he referring to?
then you say, very evenly, “tell me you didn’t.”
“technically, i haven’t told you anything yet.”
“satoru.”
“okay, yes, i entered us, but before you overreact—”
“overreact?” you repeat in disbelief.
“yes,” he says, holding up a hand. “because i can already feel you gearing up to become evil, and i really need you to hear the full story before you decide to kill me in a building full of witnesses. for one, i’m pretty sure i saw a conan cosplay so the chances of you getting away are very slim. and for your mother’s sake, i don’t want her to freak out when you get put behind bars.”
you let out a long, slow sigh at his rambling. “explain yourself, satoru, and maybe you won’t end up on the end of that magical girl’s sword.”
“is that sayaka?”
“yeah.”
he shifts his weight, messenger bag sliding against his side. if you didn’t know him as well as you did, you might miss the nerves. but you do know him, you’ve known him since you were small enough to fistfight over crayons and dramatic enough to stop speaking to each other for two days because he told your class you cried during that one dinosaur pixar film. you’ve known him since he was small enough to climb up the side of your house and through your window, offering you his shiny pokemon cards with large watery eyes, already having cried his little eyes out when you gave him the silent treatment at school.
you know the signs. the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps pushing his glasses up his nose even though they aren’t slipping. the twitch at the corner of his mouth that means he’s trying to construct a joke that will be his lifeline out of this blunder (he hopes).
unfortunately for him, you also know exactly how much trouble that means he’s in.
“why,” you ask, “would you enter us in a couples event?”
“because,” he says, like the answer should be obvious, “the grand prize is a convention-exclusive limited edition figure, and i need you to be a reasonable person about this. look, it really isn’t all that bad!”
“oh, really? please, tell me just how not-bad it is that you signed us up to a dating show.”
“well, it depends on how attached you are to your personal freedom.”
you stare, unimpressed. “satoru.”
“and your dignity.”
“you are not selling anything to me right now.”
“and, like, your legal last name.”
“excuse me?”
he places his hands out as if they alone are enough to hold you back if you so choose to throw yourself at him. “i also told them we’ve been dating for five years and are engaged!”
“five years?” you do the maths. “did you tell them we were high school sweethearts?”
satoru shrugs as best as he can without dropping his hands. “i’m sure you can see where i got the inspiration. sweetheart showdown, highschool sweethearts.”
you stare at him for another second, horror and disbelief evident like you’re waiting for his face to give and to open into a burst of laughter. hell, you wouldn’t even mind if he laughed and pointed right in your face if it meant he could end the moment with ‘oh my god, i’m just joking! you should have seen the look on your face!’. but then you look over your shoulder toward the nearby stage, where a large screen flashes promotional art for the event and your hopes and dreams die at your feet. because right beside the screen in a glass display case, sits the prize.
it takes you less than three seconds to understand exactly why this is happening.
“you signed us up to fake date in public over a hatsune miku figurine.”
he puts a hand to his chest. “first of all, don’t reduce her like that. second of all, yes, but in my defense, this is a limited, collectors edition. if nothing else, think about how much we could earn if we sold it. not that i would, but imagine.”
you point toward the display. “i swear i’ve seen a million of these in that one anime store we go to.”
“those are all bootleg. just goes to show how important it is.”
“important?” you snort, eying how little clothing the figurine is wearing. “or how appealing it is to the male gaze?”
“it’s summer themed,” he corrects hastily. then, at your expression, “and when you say it like that, you make me sound shallow. you’re one to talk, you have bikini figurines in your room too.”
“you are shallow.”
“you know, i contain depths you’ve never even tried to understand.”
“i’ve known you since kindergarten. i know every depth you have, and most of them are frankly very embarrassing.”
that makes him grin, quick and helpless, because it’s true and you both know it. you were there for every one of his humiliating phases. the year he wore fingerless gloves because he thought they made him look cool. the month he got obsessed with card games and kept trying to teach you the rules during lunch. the awful era where he insisted he had powers similar to an anime character he looked up to and kept saying really embarrassing power moves out in public. that one still makes you wince when you remember that you had to be the one to stand next to him and the only one conscious of the stares.
he’s seen you at your worst too, which is probably why he looks so annoyingly calm even now, albeit a little defensive.
“exactly,” he says. “that’s why this works. nobody on this planet knows me better than you do. you know my favorite characters, my most humiliating middle school phase, the name of the first game that ever made me cry—”
“nier automata.”
“see? and i know yours. i know what snacks to buy when you’re in a bad mood, i know you still rewatch the same three comfort movies every exam season, and i know you pretend to hate fantasy rpgs even though you put forty-two hours into one over winter break.”
you narrow your eyes, still slightly huffy despite how satoru has always managed to wear you down. “it wasn’t even that much, like twenty-four hours at most.”
his grin sharpens and he lowers his hands, knowing he’s got you. “but no defense for the fact that you were elden-ring pilled? looks like that’s a win for me.”
“there is nothing to win.”
“there is,” he says, tipping his chin toward the stage again. “there is a figure with removable accessories and crazy good paintwork waiting for me to claim her, and all i need is for you to stand there and look like you can tolerate me romantically for twenty minutes. please. that’s all i ask.”
you’re probably going to say yes. still, you hold onto your fraying dignity for as long as you can because if there’s anything that you are, it’s stubborn. “you can’t say that like it’s an easy ask.”
“for you, it should be.” he tilts his head. “you already tolerate me.”
“oh, so you know?” you hate that, out of everything he’s said, that is the line that almost gets a laugh out of you. you school your features immediately after. “it’s not willingly, trust me.”
“no, but you’ve been pretty consistent with it.”
you make a show of consideration, finger tapping on your bottom lip before you straighten, watching as he brightens along with you.
“yeah, no.”
his face falls at once. it’s dramatic, of course, because he’s him, but you don’t miss the flicker of something potentially genuine beneath the pouting.
“oh come on,” he whines. “don’t say no that fast. at least pretend to think about it, so i don’t feel like i’ve built our entire friendship on a lie that you actually care about my interests.”
“our entire friendship was built on our mothers’ friendship. and the fact that you ripped my princess wig off my head that one time when we were like, two. all because you wanted to be the princess.”
he shrugs like he doesn’t find that particularly worth talking about. “i was always the prettier one growing up.”
“right, like that’s going to make me say yes to your stupid gameshow.”
he exhales, glancing toward the stage again as another announcement crackles overhead.
“all participants for the first round of the sweetheart showdown, please report to the main stage in three minutes!”
he shuts his eyes. “okay, that’s more urgency than i wanted.”
you stare at him. “what even was the process of all this? i doubt you suddenly went up and signed us both up.”
he opens one eye. “well, remember when you needed to go to the bathroom and left me alone?”
you groan, reminding yourself to never leave him to his own devices again.
“you’re focusing on the wrong thing,” he’s quick to say. “the important point is that we qualified. very impressively, by the way. they said we have good chemistry.”
your best friend doesn’t say much else after that, choosing to instead stare at you pleadingly.
that’s another irritating thing about satoru. for all his noise, for all his ridiculousness, and for all the random anime quotes he says on the regular, he knows exactly when to stop pushing and simply let you think. people who don’t know him well never notice that part, nor do they often reach it considering his walls. they only assume he’s all restless energy, all ego and all talk. but they don’t know how quiet and observant he can get, pretty blue eyes peeking past his glasses to hold you in his gaze, waiting for that crack.
it takes a little longer than he had calculated, but you eventually sigh. “what do i even get out of this?”
he brightens instantly, clearly having been waiting for that opening. “i’ll shout you crepes and one merch item under seventy dollars. and i’ll carry your bags for the rest of the day.”
“cheapskate.”
“be serious, we’re at a convention.”
you hum. “under eighty.”
“fine,” he concedes. “under eighty. but if you pick something massive and fragile and i have to be the one to carry it, then you can’t say shit about me complaining.”
with a long-suffering sigh, you adjust your tote bag on your shoulder. “if this becomes the most humiliating experience of my life, you owe me that eight dollars anyway.”
the relief that flashes across his face is almost enough to make you regret agreeing, because it softens him in a way you are not prepared to deal with in a convention this overstimulating. still, you can’t completely suppress your small smile.
then, just as quickly, he’s grinning again.
“you’re my hero,” he says, catching your wrist once more and tugging you toward the stage. “you’re also, for the next twenty minutes, allegedly very in love with me, so maybe try to look less like you’re being led to an execution.”
you let him pull you along for exactly two steps before digging your heels in. “if you say one embarrassing thing up there, i’m telling everyone about the naruto running incident from year seven.”
he narrows his eyes. “that was one sports carnival, and i was committed to the bit. everyone was doing that because of area whatever number it was.”
“but you were the only one that tripped over your own shoelaces in front of the entire grade.”
“because the field was uneven.”
“please, like the real reason isn’t because you were twelve and embarrassing and running with your arms behind you like it helps with the speed.”
satoru huffs, rolling your eyes. “and here i was thinking fake dating would bring us closer.”
you smile sweetly. “if anything, it’s reminding me why this should never be real.”
something flickers across his face at that. it’s probably the shadow of the enormous fursuit you just walked past, something so incredible you pull your eyes away from satoru to watch as they disappear into the crowd.
“did you see that?”
he recovers easily enough, grin returning as he tugs you a little closer.
“sure,” he says lightly. “keep telling yourself that.”
“what? i was talking about the furry.”
before you can decide what exactly he means by that, he’s already guiding you up the steps toward the stage, bright lights spilling across the floor and the crowd noise swelling around you, and suddenly the two of you are standing side by side in front of a microphone while the host beams at you.
“welcome, welcome,” the host says, sparkling blazer catching the stage lights. “our final pair has arrived which means we can go ahead and begin!”
satoru immediately lifts your joined hands in the air. you try to yank it back but he squeezes, just once, quick and sly as he leans down slightly without looking away from the crowd.
“commit to the bit,” he murmurs.
you grind out around an awkward smile, “this better not be for nothing.”
“hatsune miku is on the line. just do it for her. we can share, you can have her on every other weekend.”
“co-parenting or divorced?”
“sure.”
the host interrupts your hush conversation by stepping forward, hands gesturing to speak into the mic. “introduce yourself to the audience!”
“gojo satoru,” he says, and then he places one hand lightly at the small of your back, casual enough that it could almost pass unnoticed if you weren’t suddenly aware of his every touch. “and this is y/n.”
the other finalists are lined up to the side, multiple couples in coordinated cosplay which makes you and satoru by far the least convincing visually. you’re in regular clothes and he’s in his stupid hoodie. there is no universe in which you should be the couple people root for yet you receive a steady polite applause anyway.
the host explains the rules. first, fandom trivia. then the sweetheart sync challenge where couple compatibility is tested. then, if necessary, a final lightning round between the top two pairs.
satoru leans slightly toward you. “see. easy. this is basically just an average tuesday for us, except now there’s a microphone.”
you eye the device warily. “sure, if our average tuesday also involves having our compatibility tested publicly in front of strangers.”
he hums. “you’re right, usually people just assume it.”
the host begins reading the first question. and, honestly, you’d like to say that from then on, the event is a stumbling hot mess of stuttering answers to questions you hadn’t prepared for because what it meant to be in a relationship with satoru shouldn’t feel natural nor easy. unfortunately, reality is often there to smack some sense into you because you and satoru are devastatingly good.
it turns out that years of being his friend, if you can call your deeply hostile, weirdly affectionate arrangement since birth a friendship, has exposed you to so much niche information that your brain is a bank of all kinds of niche anime lore.
“in detective conan, which detective’s name does shinichi combine to create the alias conan edogawa?”
satoru raises his hand quickly, that nerd. “arthur conan doyle and ranpo edogawa.”
“in puella magi madoka magica, what is the name of the witch born from sayaka miki’s despair?” the host asks.
“oktavia von seckendorff,” you answer instantly.
“correct again.”
while the host begins explaining the next question, you turn to satoru slightly. “wait no, because sayaka makes me so sad. she’s my favourite character in that show.”
he smiles softly down at your subtle pout. “i know.”
by question five, you’ve developed a lead you never expected, putting multiple couples in the dust. by question eight, you’re tied with one of the coordinated cosplay couples in first and by question ten, you’re the only one whose hand shoots up to guess the name of a soundtrack correctly. even satoru laughs, throwing you an amused glance amidst the applause.
“it only played for, like, two seconds. and you get on my ass for listening to the digimon theme song when you’ve clearly been studying that anime’s soundtrack.”
you huff. “you can’t call yourself a true fan unless you’ve searched the soundtrack on spotify.”
the host laughs. “i’m starting to see why you two made it this far.”
satoru grins and wraps an arm around your shoulder, drawing you in close until you bump against him. it’s not like you’ve never touched him like this before. he’s always been there to hold you in his arms when you’re down, whispering soft words of comfort against your hair, and he’s the first face you look for in a crowded party on your birthday, bringing him in to blow out your candles together because your birthdays share a night. sometimes you grab him and give him a squeeze when you finally defeat a boss in your darksouls esque game, and he isn’t afraid to hold you close and steal your warmth on cold, winter mornings, draping himself over your back, chin on your head and his cold, sneaky hands finding yours in your coat pocket, making you yelp.
despite all these memories filling your mind and reminding you of just how casual this should be, you still feel a tingle in your chest.
the trivia round ends in a tie between you, satoru, and the cosplay couple dressed as rangkiku and gin. they look annoyingly photogenic and a little too prepared for something called the sweetheart showdown.
the host claps. “all right, now for the fun part. sweetheart sync!”
dread fills you as whiteboards and markers are handed out by staff appearing from the sides.
“oh no,” you say quietly.
beside you, satoru makes a similar face. “yeah, this is where the friendship goes to die.”
the host raises the first card, reading off into the mic. “what is your partner’s favorite food?”
without sparing any time to think, you uncap your marker and press the black tip onto the whiteboard.
you write: anything overpriced and full of sugar.
beside you, satoru writes with an equally horrifying level of confidence.
“reveal!”
you both spin your boards around quickly, head swiveling not to gauge the audience’s expression, nor out of curiosity for what others may have written, but towards each other’s answers.
his reads: whatever i’m eating if i look too happy about it.
laughter plays from the audience as the host begins to read through the boards starting from the right and you huff softly, taking the moment to talk to satoru.
“that’s not even a food. if you don’t know, then just write that you don’t know, dummy.”
“it absolutely is.” satoru tuts, wagging a finger at you. “do you remember that one mixer we went to together? you said you didn’t want any of the finger food because your fingers will get greasy but then you immediately stole my fries anyway.”
“because you were making it a big deal and eating it all up in my face.” you recall the memory for yourself. “what even happened to that mixer? neither of us managed to get a date. i swear one of the guys was interested in me but he never asked for my number in the end. you were talking to him a bunch that night, what happened to him?”
your best friend only shrugs as the host comes around. they laugh a little at satoru’s answer, raising the card in their hand in your pair’s favour.
“i’m counting both as correct.”
the next question appears and a similar trend follows.
“what is your partner’s most annoying habit?”
you put pen to whiteboard and write immediately.
you reveal: talking during movies like the characters can hear him.
he reveals: pretending she doesn’t care and then texting me ‘home yet?’ every time i go out at night.
the audience lets out a collective coo that makes you want to fling yourself off the stage, though not before bashing his head in.
you turn to him in disbelief. “is it my fault for being worried about you? i swear you have the survival instincts of a capybara, i literally almost watched you run into a pole yesterday because you were too locked into a brawl stars game.”
“still counts.” your best friend shrugs. “i couldn’t really think of anything that annoying about you. and for the record, your movie answer is super duper rude. my commentary is valuable.”
“save it for your letterbox review. and anyway, we only really watch thrillers so it’s just you trying to call the plot twist before we get to it.”
“i’m killing it, by the way. i think i’m about thirty-nine out of sixty-two with getting them right.”
the third question is favourite comfort show.
you get his right, though you hesitate between two because he cycles through them based on what exactly he needs comfort from. he’s almost offended you take so long to flip your board considering he gets yours right immediately.
“you remembered that?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
he looks at you like the question is ridiculous. “of course i remembered that. you think i don’t notice you putting it on when you’re feeling overwhelmed? i don’t even like the acting in it but we’ve watched it together at least twenty times.”
you hold his gaze for a second too long, words failing you, before jerking your head to face the front.
satoru isn’t so quick to look away and you can feel his gaze burn into the side of your face until the host, mercifully oblivious or perhaps delightfully aware, moves on to dream vacation, favorite fictional character, worst childhood phase, and ideal weekend.
the embarrassing part is not that you get almost all of them right (failing only at celebrity crush), the embarrassing part is how easy it is.
you know that his worst childhood phase was the year he got into old samurai dramas and started using outdated, overly dramatic japanese like he was born in the edo period instead of suburban tokyo. he knows your ideal weekend includes a bookstore, a café, and being left alone by society at large. you know he still wants to visit akihabara with a budget too irresponsible to speak aloud and that he’ll beg to have you tag along. he knows you hate hiking but enjoy scenic trains and that you like silly sweet treats every now and then, sweeter too when you don’t have to pay for them.
every answer peels back another layer of shared history for the audience to laugh over, and every time the crowd reacts, it drives home the same awful truth: the reason you and satoru are doing so well is because there are very few corners of each other left unexplored.
you find yourself having fun, though only after you’ve pushed that strange feeling to the back of your mind. you’re laughing along with the crowd at silly answers, reminiscing old inside jokes with a smirk, and giggling harder than you should at satoru’s corny jokes. he grins back, face a reflection of your own happiness.
it’s so much fun that when the last question is read out, you’re not nearly as prepared as you should be.
the host smiles too sweetly, drawing everyone’s attention with the tap of their mic. “last question and probably the most important of them all! what was the moment you realised you liked your partner?”
it’s a predictable question for an event called ‘sweetheart showdown’ and yet, you freeze, breath holding still. beside you, you can make out the sudden rigidity in satoru’s shoulders as he flinches.
for the first time all day, neither of you has something smart to say.
you look down at your board as the crowd cheers and the couples around you write.
there are a hundred fake things you could write, a hundred joke answers. or maybe, if you really wanted to give off the impression that you wanted to win, you might write something stereotypical. something about how pretty and soft his hair is, how he has that endearing habit of pushing up his glasses, how he has the most alluring eyes you’ve ever seen. you could even write about the time he won some casual magic: the gathering tournament in high school and took home absolutely nothing except a ten-minute bragging streak and a permanent reputation as the biggest nerd in your cohort. he’d come straight to you afterward, grinning hard, bouncing on the balls of his feet while he talked over himself because, for some reason, your approval had always been the one he wanted first.
you could say something by the book about how his laugh is like music to your ears, and also his ears apparently considering how much he loves to laugh around you, how his smile is the only thing guaranteed to make you smile back.
instead, before you can talk yourself out of it, you write the first thing that comes to mind.
when the host counts down, you both turn your boards.
yours read: when he climbed the fence after we fought and sat outside my window until i forgave him.
his says: when i realised she kept every stupid little thing i gave her and thought i wouldn’t notice.
the crowd breaks into laughter and cheers at that, the host immediately launching into some delighted commentary as they start reading the other pair’s boards first. but you barely hear any of it. the noise seems to flatten at the edges, swallowed up by the fact that satoru is no longer looking at the audience or the judges or even the stupid whiteboard in his own hands. he’s staring right at yours.
then, after a second, he lets out the softest, most disbelieving little laugh.
“climbed the fence?” he reads, and though he says it like a tease, there’s something thinner under it, something almost fragile. “why would i ever do that when i could’ve just opened the gate?”
heat creeps up your neck instantly and burns the tips of your ears.
you keep your eyes fixed on his board because you’re not sure what he might see if he looks at your face.
“at that age you weren’t tall enough,” you mutter.
satoru falls into a silence that does absolutely nothing good for your already fraying nerves. if anything, it makes everything worse. the air between you feels too warm, too thin, and suddenly the stupid little whiteboard in your hands is the only thing keeping you from running off stage.
you quickly re-read his board and say, “what did you notice that i kept from you?”
satoru’s eyes flick down to his own board and then back to yours, like he still can’t quite believe either of you wrote what you did.
“you kept the little cat charm from the shrine trip,” he says. “the one i won from that stupid festival game and gave you because i said it looked grumpy.”
god, you’re just digging your own grave by asking for more details. because yes, you had. it had hung off your school bag for nearly a year before you took it off to keep it from getting scratched or stolen, and even now it still sits in the little dish on your desk with your keys and hair ties and other things too small to matter to anyone else.
you try to be dismissive. “it was a souvenir."
the corner of his mouth lifts, but the smile doesn’t quite settle into his familiar grin. “and you kept every birthday card i gave you.”
“sentimental value. i keep everyone’s.”
“you kept the toy ring from year seven,” he says finally, and now there’s a little more life in his voice again, though it still sounds gentler than usual. “the ugly one from the fair, the one that turned your finger slightly green. i only noticed because you kept it as a necklace for months.”
you look away, feeling fidgety and weird all over. “it’s still jewelry at the end of the day.”
satoru laughs then, but it’s quiet and warm around the edges, so unfairly fond it makes your stomach dip. “yeah, i know. i just liked that you kept a ring i gave you.”
the host fans themselves with the cue card. “is it just me or is it getting warm in here? let’s move on to results! clap your hands everyone, as we find out who will be crowned the sweethearts of all sweethearts!”
the crowd laughs again, eager to reach the climax of the event.
you are also eager, though it’s more because you’re grateful for a breather.
the judges tally the scores while you try very hard not to look at satoru and fail at it almost immediately. when you do glance over, he’s already looking at you, and his expression is unsettled in a way you don’t often see on him. when he sees you’ve caught him, he looks away and pushes up his glasses. you don’t get a chance to sit in that for long.
“we have a tie!” the host announces. “lightning round!”
your head snaps to look at the scoreboard and notice that one of the coordinated cosplay couples had indeed caught up and were now tied with you and satoru. having this drag out for even longer makes your heart plead for mercy but there’s nowhere to run and you’re honestly too close to the hatsune miku figurine to quit now. as they say, 100% of losers quit before they hit it big.
“all right,” they say, pacing the center of the stage with the microphone clutched in one glittering hand, “our final two couples are neck-and-neck, which means it’s time for the deciding challenge. and because our judges are evil romantics—”
the audience cheers like they have been waiting their whole lives for exactly this sentence.
“—the last round is all about physical chemistry!”
you’re not sure what you did in a previous life to deserve this, but it’s here now.
you could honestly answer questions about satoru in your sleep. you could fill out an eighty-questions quiz on his day-to-day life and not only would you solve it with time to spare, but your name would appear in most answers.
touching him is just as common, but suddenly the thought of having him in your personal space is enough to make you break out into a slight sweat which isn’t optimal, especially not when he might be touching you.
the host claps their hands. “final round rules are simple! each pair will draw three prompts from the intimacy bowl. you must perform the prompt naturally enough to convince the judges you are a real couple and then, obviously, the best overall score wins.”
satoru hesitates beside you. he steps forward toward the host, hand reaching out to catch their attention. “like… a kiss on the cheek?”
you almost choke as the host snorts. “obviously. maybe even more.”
satoru looks back at you quickly. “hey, it’s okay. we can just go. we can, like, just be weird on purpose and make it obvious so we can lose. get kicked off the stage and you can call me an idiot and a dummy in the carpark and i’ll still get you crepes. i don’t really care about hatsune miku anyway, i just thought because i played project sekai once i should—”
you cut him off by sticking your hand in the bowl when it comes around. your fingers brush folded paper and then close around the first slip before you can think too hard about what you’re doing.
‘prompt one: fix something on your partner’s face and hold eye contact for three seconds’.
this nothingburger of a prompt. if the two of you hadn’t spent the last few minutes stumbling your way into something dangerous, you could’ve done it without a second thought. but now that there’s this strange, terrible warmth lodged in your chest, threatening to swallow you whole and burn through you from the inside out, even the idea of holding eye contact sounds like hell.
the host gestures invitingly. “whenever you’re ready.”
there is no universe in which you will find yourself ready.
you can see satoru turn toward you from the corner of your eye but you don’t glance over, eyes trained instead at the giant cardboard hatsune miku just off stage and try to remember a time in your life when things were simple and you did not have a crush on your childhood best friend. but you weren’t one of those babies blessed with photogenic memory so you don’t have a single memory where that’s not the case to ground yourself with.
“we can still tank it,” satoru whispers just for you to hear, even as he steps closer and lifts his hand.
the offer is so soft it makes something twist low and mean in your chest because of course, even now, he’s trying to give you a way out.
you look up at him then, not because of the prompt or the crowd or the stupid bright convention stage lights, but the fact that he would rather lose publicly than make this harder on you. his hand is lifted, hovering just shy of your face as he waits for your response.
if only he was smug instead, if he was laughing or if he was being his usual awful self about this, then you would have something to fight against. but instead, he chooses to be sweet. and kindness has always been your weakest point when he is concerned.
so you swallow once and say, “just get it over with.”
and this is ridiculous.
you have known this boy nearly your whole life. you have shared train rides and convenience store dinners and sick days and fights over game controllers and one horrible period in high school where he insisted on explaining the plot of every one piece episode you’d missed. he has sprawled all over your bedroom floor. you have patched scrapes on his knuckles. he has stolen bites off your plate and barged into your room with no restraint. there should be absolutely nothing destabilising about him being a little too close to you.
his hand caresses the side of your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and he does it so gently that you hold your breath.
the host counts cheerfully into the microphone. “one, two, three—”
you know his face, you know every angle of it, every stupid expression, every little shift in his mouth before he says something arrogant on purpose. you know the look he gets when he’s trying not to laugh, the one he gets when he’s tired and pretending he isn’t, the rare, awful softness that appears when he stops performing in front of others and simply sits with you in your presence, content to do nothing important at all.
“okay, now kiss!” the host continues and you both turn away from each other in an instant.
“excuse me?”
“you said no kissing in the pamphlet!” satoru stutters. “not on the lips anyway!”
“you’re a couple, what’s there to be shy about?” they narrow their eyes, ping ponging their gaze between the both of you. “unless there’s a specific reason why kissing in front of an audience of people is unsettling for you?”
you make a gesture of your hand as if to ask if they’re serious. “that is the reason why it’s unsettling.”
the host makes a thoughtful noise before shaking their head. “what a shame, looks like the underdog couple has sadly been disqualified! everyone, please give them a round of applause as they exit the stage!”
“just like that?” you question, incredulously.
“if it matters, i was rooting for you guys.” the host pats you both on the back shortly before gesturing for people to guide you off the stage.
you and satoru stand off to the side away from the sweetheart showdown, both stewing in silence. and god, is it a truly spectacular silence.
certainly not the comfortable kind nor the easy silence you sometimes find yourself in when it comes to satoru. this one feels hot and cramped and absurdly loud for something made out of nothing at all. the convention still rages on somewhere behind you—distant cheering, microphone feedback, music bleeding in from another event hall—but here in the little pocket of hallway just off stage, it’s just you and him and the participatory key chains the staff had shoved into your hands before kicking you out.
satoru is the first to look at his consolation prize.
the acrylic keychain dangles from his fingers, the tiny white cat in sunglasses swinging with every little movement of his hand. he stares at it for one long second, then lets out a short, helpless laugh under his breath.
“a runner-up gift, huh?” he chuckles. “doesn’t feel that good when you compare it to first place’s prize.”
you look down at your own, the black cat with the bow and the little spoon. “tell me about it.”
you fiddle with the edge of the plastic, more so to give your hands something to do than because you care about the cute, though cheap, prize. beside you, satoru rubs the back of his neck, then drops his hand, then shoves it into his hoodie pocket like even he’s run out of ideas for where to put the bundle of nerves responsible for this tension.
“you could have just kissed my cheek,” you start. “it’s not like we’ve never done that before. when we were kids.”
and you’re not sure why that makes your heart picks up so fast. it’s not like he’s going to lean over and do it now, right? not when there isn’t a prize to win or a crowd to please or a host forcing the moment into existence.
“no,” he says and your heart drops. “i couldn’t have just done that.”
your throat tightens. “right, sorry. we’re not kids now anymore, are we? so it wouldn’t have made sense anyway. just—forget i said anything, that was stupid.”
you push off the wall too fast, smoothing out your shirt with shaky hands just to have something to do. “i’m getting kind of sleepy, i’ll head back to the hotel room if you want to keep looking around—”
“if i kissed you up there, i would’ve meant it.”
everything inside you goes still. life seems to go on, the audience from the gameshow shrieks with laughter, someone jogs past the mouth of the corridor lugging an impressive scythe, and distantly there’s a baby crying in the background because you can never really avoid them. and still, somehow, the world narrows down to just him.
satoru looks down for a second, hands clenching and unclenching before he looks up, something like determination on his face.
“i know that sounds really pathetic,” he says, voice quieter than you’ve heard it all day. “there's nothing i can do about that. but i just—i really couldn’t do it like that, not as a joke or for some stupid figurine. definitely not with everyone watching. there’s no way i’d settle for that after i’ve been trailing after you for so many fucking years just to have the pay off be in front of a microphone.”
your eyes widen at his words. years? there could have been something between you two for years?
you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to almost hurt. “what are you trying to say?”
“i’m trying to say that…” he trails off, mouth gaping as if there’s more he wants to say but the words keep catching before they can make it out. he lets out a rough little groan and ducks his head, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “shit, this wasn’t how it was meant to go either.”
“it’s okay,” you whisper, stepping forward to close the distance. “say it. i want to hear it anyway.”
he looks back at you and makes a face though, its chances of passing off as nonchalant fails due to the pink dusting his cheek. “can we just go get crepes? i think the nerves are making me really hungry and something smells really good right now. okay, yeah, let’s just go get crepes.”
he closes the distance between you, not with the press of his lips against yours but with his hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you to turn around. “you know what we haven’t checked out yet? the artist alley. we should totally check in the artist alley.”
you dig your heels into the ground, unimpressed and unmovable. “satoru.”
“yes?”
“isn’t there something else you should saying to me right now?”
satoru’s eyes freeze in their frantic jittering, finally settling on you. you watch his throat work as he gulps particularly hard, all deer-in-headlights and wrapped around your pinky finger. “i’m really craving those crepes?”
you smile and hit him in the stomach. he coughs, folding slightly around the hit with a noise of betrayal. “what the fuck—”
and while he’s doubled over, rubbing a hand over his stomach like it actually hurt, you step right into his space, cup his face in both hands, and kiss him.
satoru makes the softest startled sound against your lips but his hands come up almost too quickly, one landing at your waist to pull you in, the other hovering before deciding your cheek, the side of your neck, your hand on his cheek, all of it is somehow too much and not enough at once.
the kiss is clumsy with surprise and inexperience, though still warm, and there’s nothing hesitant in the way he kisses you back after that first second.
you’re not really sure when to pull back, you always thought it would be a little more intuitive than it really is, and you think you might have pulled back a bit too early since he chases your lips a bit before realising.
you open your eyes to find him staring, and frown. “wait a minute, did you even close your eyes during that?”
“um,” he starts before clearing his throat. “no?”
“you must be kidding.” you blush all the way to the tips of your ears, mind whirring with how you must have looked dazed out of your mind, lips pressed against his. “satoru, it’s kissing 101 to close your eyes!”
he shakes his head, eyes unfocused as he stares at you. “give me a moment. nothing is making sense in my head right now.”
you cross your arms, a feeble attempt at regaining your dignity. “how long is that going to take? because i might as well go first. satoru, ever since we were kids, i’ve—”
“i’m in love with you.”
the words are said with so much clarity that you struggle to believe it’s coming from your flushed face, dorky childhood best friend until he opens his mouth to continue.
“i think i’ve been for a while,” he says at all once, speaking quicker now that the worst has already been done. “long enough that it’s not something dramatic but something that’s always been a part of my life. like, of course i save things to tell you first. of course i wait for you. of course i know what drink to get when you’re sick and which lectures you’ll want to complain about and what new movie releases you’re excited for. i think i’ve gotten so used to you being a part of everything i didn’t even notice when it stopped being friendship and started becoming something else.”
you blink at him. he mistakes your silence for rejection immediately, something like panic seeping into his hurried words.
“and yeah, okay maybe i orchestrated the whole showdown thing because you never seemed to look at me as anything but a best friend. that really sucked. but i’ve never thought of you as just that and i needed you to know. so no, i couldn’t have just kissed you on the cheek. it wouldn’t have been how i wanted it to be.”
you still don’t say anything, too busy standing there with your pulse hammering stupidly in your throat and your entire body trying to catch up to the fact that this is real, that he it, that he means it.
satoru lets out a frustrated breath and drags a hand through his hair. “i mean getting punched in the stomach wasn’t the go-to either but i can’t ever figure you out so i’ll take it.”
that makes you laugh. it bursts out of you all at once, breathless and startled, and the second he hears it, his whole face changes. the panic doesn’t immediately disappear but it certainly falters, teetering into a desperate kind of hope.
“sure, like that's not going to hurt my feelings,” he says weakly. “okay. is that a good laugh or a bad laugh?”
you shake your head, still smiling helplessly. “it’s a you’re-an-idiot laugh.”
“right.” he watches you carefully. “as long as it isn’t a i’m-rejecting-you laugh?”
“it’s definitely not that. those two sound very different and i’m not that cruel.” you look at him, at the boy who used to climb your fence because he was too short to work the latch properly and refused to go home angry, cute little frown between his brows suggesting he won’t give up, not when it comes to you.
and the words come easily, as though you’ve said them a hundred times before.
“i’ve liked you for ages too.”
satoru’s lips part in wonder, shoulders slumping with the loss of a stubborn tension keeping him upright.
“i mean, i figured that’s what you were going to say earlier but this still feels unreal. really?” he breathes out, the corner of his mouth quivering. “are you serious?”
“is my sense of humour so bad that you think i’d joke about this?” you tease softly.
“no, i—” he breaks off, pressing a hand flat to his chest to stop his heart from beating out. “no, hold on. you can’t just say that and make fun of me for being so shocked. you like me? like, like like?”
“like like like.”
he presses a hand to his mouth which is definitely not the gesture you were expecting. maybe a kiss, or a hug, definitely not this sudden quickening of his breathing.
“what the hell is wrong with you?”
he shakes his head, clearing his throat aggressively.
your frown only deepens. “hey, are you okay? should we find somewhere to sit down?”
satoru waves his hands in front of him as he pulls away, leaning one forearm against the pole of a nearby vacant stand, other hand clutching his heart. his shoulders lift on an inhale and stay there for a second too long. when he exhales, it’s shaky around the edges in a way that would be concerning if not for the fact that he’s smiling at the concrete ground, dopey and dazed.
“satoru,” you say.
he glances back at you over his shoulder, and the look on his face is so painfully relieved, so openly, stupidly happy, that it makes your own stomach flip.
“i feel like i’m going to throw up,” he says, voice thin and breathy. “i’m so relieved i almost feel sick. which i get isn’t a cool thing to admit right after getting confessed to so i need you to sympathesise with me and don’t say anything at all.”
you stare at him for a still moment before laughing.
he closes his eyes. “i knew asking you nicely wasn’t going to work.”
“what the hell?” you repeat between chuckles. “you’re acting like that was your first kiss.”
“that’s because it was, you know this,” he grumbles, still catching his breath. “oh my god, the world is spinning. is there an earthquake or is it just me?”
“definitely just you.”
“it’s unfair that you aren’t as affected.”
you shrug. “it helps when there’s someone else more nervous than you are.”
“it almost sours the whole thing,” he says while looking at you from the corner of his eye, lips slightly jutted out and your heart swoons.
“come here.”
he pushes off the stall and turns back to you, though his hand stays over his chest for one more second like he’s still trying to make sure his heart doesn’t leap out of his chest. you look up at him, laughter trailing off into soft giggles and then to nothing at all, just a sweet smile.
you look at the flush lingering over his ears, the slight way his hair is messed up from when you grabbed his face, to the ridiculous little cat keychain he still has clutched in his hand. he looks like a disaster, a pretty one at that.
reaching up, you fix his bangs from poking into his eye. “you were that nervous?”
he laughs softly under his breath, tilting his head into your hand until it feels natural to cup his cheek. “you have no idea.”
“i think i have some idea.”
“no, because if you did, you’d be a lot kinder to me right now.” his eyes flicker down to your mouth, doing a double take when he’s about to look up to meet your eyes because you lick your lips at his gaze. “can i kiss you again?”
you don’t answer right away, not because you’re trying to be cruel nor because you don’t know the answer. this is your satoru, though that thought still feels too dangerous to hold properly, and he’s standing in the ugliest, most overstimulating hallway in the building with pink at the tips of his ears and one hand still hovering near his chest like his own confession had nearly killed him.
you hadn’t let yourself picture something like this. no, that wasn’t quite the truth either. you had pictured it, of course you had, because you are only human and he has always been the one for you. you had pictured this that one time he had showed up to your house, asking your parents sweetly if you were in, plastic bag on his arm full of notes and your favourite drink, acting like it was no big deal to sit on the ground by your bed and play his ds while you were sniffly and snotty curled up in bed and watching over his shoulder. you had pictured this when he let you fall asleep on his shoulder during exam season and didn’t move an inch, even when you started to drool on his shirt.
but at some point you had started burying those thoughts the second they appeared.
because he got older and easier to want, especially after he swore off bowl cuts after his dad had given him a shitty one and he had cried to you while you struggled to not laugh. haircuts on guys really did wonders for their appearance. it had started to feel pathetic to like him, almost childish in a way like some embarrassing crush you should have outgrown before puberty but hadn’t because you were too sentimental, too soft, too far gone to call it what it was..
so you pushed it down and folded it into safer shapes and titles; he’s just your best friend, we just have history.
you want to slap your past self across the face. but because time travel hasn’t yet been invented and you can’t give yourself a mean scolding, you settle for simply smiling and nodding.
“you’re asking as if i’m going to say no.”
satoru’s mouth twitches, but the softness in his face doesn’t move. “i feel like i’m owed caution. you’ve been saying no to me all day.”
you roll your eyes. “that was before.”
“before what—”
you kiss him again because if there’s one thing you know about satoru, is that his mouth is a motor and he never stops talking, not without some sort of divine intervention.
your lips move smoother against one another, tasting the sweet drink he had chugged before the whole showdown incident. the warmth of his mouth, the slight tremor in the breath he takes when you shift closer, the way he seems almost reverent in the small pauses between kisses like he still can’t believe he has you in his arms.
you kiss him back a little deeper and something inside you finally, finally unclenches.
when you pull back, you don’t go far. his forehead drops lightly to yours, and for a second neither of you say anything. the convention noise swells and fades somewhere far away, distant enough to feel unreal.
you can hear him breathing, can feel it even, feel the shape of his smile before he speaks.
“yeah, i definitely feel a little sick.”
“satoru, if you throw up on me i’m going to hit you again.”
“romantic.” he leans forward to steal a quick peck, face beaming when he pulls back because now he has every right to kiss you whenever he gets the urge. “but i think i’d rather have that instead.”
“verdict on your stomach?”
he winces. “unsteady. maybe i need some more exposure therapy?”
you laugh because he’s testing his luck far too much. “nice try. you still owe me that eighty bucks.”
satoru chuckles softly and lets you step back, though his hand finds yours and holds it lightly as if to keep you within his proximity. “and if i remember correctly, i think i still owe you those crepes. man, i am really killing it with this boyfriend thing already.”
he grins, but his ears go pink again, which is so stupidly endearing that you have to start walking before you do something embarrassing like kiss him in the corridor again.
he follows happily, ever the obedient little puppy until something catches his eyes and he digs his heels in, making you stop. you follow his line of sight automatically.
there’s another stage set up farther down the convention hall, smaller than the sweetheart showdown one but definitely louder, all flashing lights and too much pink. a host in a glittery jacket is currently shouting into a microphone while a crowd of people packed around the barricades cheers back. above them, hanging from a sign shaped like a heart with cat ears, are the words:
MIKU MANIA COUPLES CHALLENGE — SPECIAL BONUS ROUND
you close your eyes for one brief, exhausted second. “you have got to be kidding me.”
“come on,” he says, eyes bright enough to rival the stage lights. “let’s go win hatsune miku properly this time.”
you look at him then, really look at him, at the pink still clinging to his ears, the stupidly hopeful grin on his face, the hand wrapped around yours like he’s already sure you’re coming with him. and all at once, all you can think is that maybe saying yes to satoru’s terrible ideas was always going to be your favorite habit.
a/n: i am always going to be a fan of childhood bestfriend slop i fear. im so sleep deprived rn if i messed up ur tag please lmk! i have a scene where they fuck and satoru’s in a miku cosplay so also lmk if ure a freak and wanna see
he’s your slutty frat-boy-best-friend and you’re his sweet, bubbly angel* who has no idea that he’s been in love with you for months. he hasn’t fucked a single soul since he realized his feelings, not one. pretending he’s fine while you curl up into his chest at parties like it means nothing is slowly driving him insane.
!!disclaimer!! best friends to lovers, soft slow-burn, mutual pining, best friends who don’t know how to talk, and a love that’s been there the whole time! angst!!!! comfort!
the rager’s already in full swing by the time you get there.
someone’s shitty bluetooth speaker is blasting throwbacks in the living room, half the frat’s gathered around a beer pong table like it’s the olympics, and the air smells like weed and overpriced tequila. classic friday night.
you don’t even bother knocking. just push open the front door, step over a passed out freshman in a toga, and make a beeline for the couch you always end up on.
and sure enough, he’s already there.
sukuna’s got one arm slung lazily across the backrest, a red solo cup balanced on his knee, and the cockiest smirk you’ve ever seen stretched across his face. his hair’s a mess, his shirt’s riding up slightly at the hem, and his rings glint every time he lifts the cup to his mouth.
you roll your eyes and collapse beside him anyway.
“took you long enough,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “i was about to send out a search party.”
“maybe i didn’t wanna see your ugly face tonight.”
he grins. “liar.”
and you are. but you don’t tell him that.
because this is your ritual. your thing. it doesn’t matter whose party it is, which frat’s throwing it, or how many people are packed into the house, you and sukuna always end up here. same couch. same banter. same rhythm that’s been beating between the two of you since freshman year.
you lean back, pulling your legs up to sit cross-legged beside him. his thigh is warm where it brushes yours, and you try not to notice it.
“how many girls have you hit on tonight?” you ask, reaching for his drink and taking a sip without asking.
he hums thoughtfully. “define hit on.”
you raise a brow. “sukuna.”
“what?” he says, mock innocence dripping from his tone. “i’m just being friendly.”
you scoff. “you’re incapable of being just friendly.”
“you wound me, princess.”
you shove his shoulder and he laughs, head tipping back, throat exposed. and for a second, just a second, your brain short-circuits.
because sukuna’s hot. like, really hot. the kind of hot that should come with a warning label. tattoos and sharp smiles and sleepy bedroom eyes. he looks like every bad decision you’ve ever avoided on purpose.
and he’s your best friend.
your completely infuriating, manwhore of a best friend.
he’s the guy who once had a threesome during finals week and then showed up to study group with glitter in his hair. the one who keeps condoms in every coat pocket and probably knows the names of every bouncer on campus. the same guy who used to text you from girls’ beds, complaining about how their playlist sucked.
and somehow, despite all of that, you adore him.
maybe because he listens when you talk too much, because he knows all your dumb fixations and lets you rant about them for hours. because no matter how many people he flirts with, he always ends up back here, next to you.
“you thinking about me?” he says suddenly, smirking when you blink at him.
“i was thinking about how many diseases you’ve probably caught from this couch,” you deadpan.
he throws his head back again and laughs, loud and unbothered.
“god, you’re mean.”
“you like it.”
“unfortunately.”
you nudge his leg with yours again, more gentle this time. the party rages around you, but this little bubble, this spot on the couch where it’s just the two of you, feels untouchable.
you’ve known sukuna for almost three years now. met him during your first week at university, at some wild frat party you barely remember. you were tipsy and rambling to someone about your favorite childhood tv show and he cut in just to mock your taste. and never left you alone after that.
he’s been a part of your life ever since. group hangouts, movie nights, drunk phone calls at 2am. he’s there. always.
and somewhere along the way, you started telling him everything. even the stupid shit. especially the stupid shit. like how you spent two hours last night researching the mating habits of deep-sea anglerfish. or how you’re pretty sure your TA is in love with the guy who sits next to you.
you talk, and sukuna listens.
sometimes he teases. sometimes he gets this look, soft around the eyes, like he doesn’t even realize he’s staring. and then it’s gone. back to smirks and sarcasm.
you’ve tried not to think too hard about it.
you’re practically tangled up on the couch, like limbs and laughter and shared space all wrapped into one. sukuna’s arm is draped over your shoulders, loose but protective, and your head is tucked just beneath his chin, warm against his chest. his heartbeat is steady, slow, something grounding beneath your ear that feels like a secret only the two of you know.
it’s not flashy or dramatic. it’s the quiet kind of intimacy that’s grown over late nights and early mornings, over inside jokes and too many half-remembered conversations. it’s the softness behind his usual sharp edges, the way his hand casually rests on your arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
you reach up and thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. he tenses for a moment, then relaxes, the tiniest smile tugging at his lips. “you’re such an annoying pest,” he mutters, voice low and rough, but you catch the warmth underneath like a whispered promise.
“you love it,” you say softly, the words a little breathless, like you don’t want to break the moment.
the party buzzes around you, loud, messy, chaotic, but it all fades into white noise. out here, pressed close to him, none of that matters. no flashing lights, no drunken shouts, no prying eyes.
just you and sukuna.
and somehow, even after all the teasing and the bickering and the ridiculous banter, this is where the real stuff lives. in the easy silence. in the way your fingers find his hand without thinking. in the quiet understanding that you’re both exactly where you want to be, even if you don’t say it out loud.
it’s the kind of closeness that’s almost too much and not enough all at once, like your hearts are so tangled up they might burst, but you don’t have to do anything about it. not yet.
because this is your truth. your safe place. the quiet love that’s been hiding behind all the noise from the very start.
“you see who maki came with?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“nah,” you say, glancing around. “who?”
“some guy named dan. total finance bro. talks like a podcast.”
you snort. “god. maki deserves better.”
“everyone deserves better than a dan.”
you hum in agreement, stealing another sip of his drink. he doesn’t complain. he never does.
“what about you?” you ask. “eyeing anyone tonight?”
it’s a casual question. one you’ve asked a hundred times. but this time, he pauses.
“nah,” he says finally. “not really feelin’ it.”
you frown. “you? not in the mood to flirt? is the world ending?”
he shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“maybe i’m growing up.”
you snort. “you literally mooned someone from a moving car last weekend.”
he grins. “growing up gradually.”
you laugh, and he looks at you again. and this time… he doesn’t look away.
“you know,” he says slowly, “you’re kind of the only reason i come to these things anymore.”
your heart skips.
you try to play it off. “because i’m the only one who tolerates you?”
“because you’re the only one who gets me,” he says, voice low. quieter than before. “like… actually gets me.”
you blink. your stomach flips.
but before you can respond, someone calls his name across the room.
he sighs and leans back, rubbing a hand over his face.
“hold that thought,” he says, standing. “gotta go break up whatever stupid shit gojo’s doing.”
you watch him disappear into the crowd, smiling as you watch his back muscles flex with each swing of his arms, you understood the appeal, he was a sexy man. in his own little fashion, he thought of you the exact same way, a drop dead gorgeous girl with a heart of gold, but you’d never even guessed he thought of you as such, after all, what would give you any sort of sign that he was into you when the latest rumour was that he was sleeping around with hot sorority chicks every weekend?
~
the party’s died down hours ago. the house is trashed, half-lit, and still pulsing faintly with leftover bass through the walls. the beer pong table’s been abandoned, someone’s hoodie is hanging from the ceiling fan, and there’s a questionable stain on the rug no one’s talking about.
geto’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with a half-empty bottle of tequila, choso’s sprawled on the loveseat looking like he’s already halfway to sleep, and gojo’s perched on the arm of the couch with a wine glass he definitely didn’t bring himself.
sukuna’s nursing a beer. slouched in a worn-out recliner with his head tilted back, eyes closed, shoulders loose in that i’m relaxed but still kind of pissed way he always gets when he’s overthinking.
he hasn’t said much since reader left.
“sukuna, man,” gojo starts, words slurring a little, “are you going fucking celibate? you haven’t fucked a chick in damn near two months.”
geto snorts, tilting his bottle toward sukuna. “what, you give it up for lent or something?”
“maybe he got neutered,” choso mumbles into a throw pillow.
gojo gasps. “don’t say that, that’s so sad. think of all the women out there missing out.”
sukuna doesn’t open his eyes. just raises his middle finger in their general direction and takes a slow pull from his drink.
“i’m serious,” gojo continues. “you used to be the first one out the door with some girl pressed up against the wall. now you’re… what, sitting on a couch all night with your weird little bestie and dodging blowjobs like they’re the plague.”
geto leans back, watching sukuna over the lip of his drink. “she’s not just some bestie though, huh?”
that gets sukuna’s attention. his eyes crack open, dark and unreadable. “don’t start.”
“not starting anything,” geto says, smirking. “just saying. you used to be all about the sorority chicks with fake lashes and daddy issues. now you’re glued to sunshine incarnate.”
gojo lets out a bark of laughter. “please. she’s too sweet for him. sukuna’d ruin her. he needs someone who can keep up with the slut energy.”
sukuna’s jaw ticks.
choso blinks at the ceiling. “she did bring cupcakes to the last pregame.”
“exactly,” gojo says, dramatic as ever. “she’s, like, wife-coded. sukuna doesn’t do wife-coded.”
“maybe he’s bored,” geto says. “maybe he’s finally fucked so many girls that his dick gave up and retired.”
that gets a laugh from the others, loud and easy.
sukuna doesn’t laugh.
he doesn’t say a word.
he just sits there, beer forgotten in his hand, staring into the dim space between the couch and the coffee table, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud in his chest.
because they don’t get it. they don’t know.
they don’t know how it feels to sit beside someone who trusts you with everything and have to pretend you don’t want to kiss them every time they smile.
they don’t know what it’s like to want something real for once. something soft. something that doesn’t taste like regret the morning after.
they don’t know how long it’s been since he’s touched anyone else. how the thought of it makes his stomach turn. how no one else even registers anymore. how she ruined him for all of it without even trying.
and he’s not gonna tell them.
because they wouldn’t believe him anyway.
so he just shifts in his chair, downs the rest of his drink, and says, flat and final, “maybe i’m just waiting for the right girl.”
it shuts them up for a second.
then gojo laughs again and geto raises his brows like he’s not sure whether he’s joking, and choso mutters something about being too high for this conversation.
but sukuna’s not joking.
not even a little.
the teasing eventually fades, replaced by the quiet clink of bottles and the hum of low music someone forgot to turn off. choso’s officially half-asleep, sprawled sideways across the loveseat with a blanket someone definitely didn’t offer him. geto’s back to nursing the tequila bottle like it personally wronged him, and gojo’s now laying upside down on the couch, legs dangling off the back like he’s trying to cause a scene with gravity.
“so,” choso mumbles, voice thick and lazy. “that mixer next weekend still on?”
“yeah,” gojo says without moving. “gamma’s throwing it with phi sig. should be decent. free drinks and better music than last time. they’re renting actual speakers this time, not just hijacking someone’s spotify on a jbl.”
“can i bring shiu?” choso asks, blinking slow like it takes effort.
“yeah,” gojo says, waving his hand. “he’s in delta nu, right?”
choso hums something that might be a yes or might be the sound of sleep taking him.
sukuna sits up slightly, beer bottle still hanging from his fingers. “can i bring y/n?”
gojo doesn’t even hesitate.
“nah.”
sukuna’s jaw clenches. “why not?”
“you know why not,” gojo says, finally flipping over to sit upright. “it’s a greek-only mixer. she’s not in a frat or a sorority.”
“she’s basically in this frat,” sukuna says, a little sharper than he means to. “she’s at every party. she knows everyone. she’s closer to you assholes than half the pledges.”
geto sighs, not looking up. “that’s not the point. the chapters are paying for the event. they want it to stay within the system. it’s political.”
“it’s bullshit,” sukuna mutters.
“you think i don’t agree?” gojo says, more gently now. “i love her. she’s our friend. but if one non-greek shows up, it opens the door for more, and then it’s a whole thing. alumni get pissy. mixers stop happening. and for what? a night where she already has better places to be?”
sukuna’s quiet for a second.
the air goes still.
because yeah, maybe you do have better places to be. you’re always buzzing around campus, always getting invited to every little thing. somehow you’ve charmed everyone without even trying. the girl who bakes cookies for your friends and brings tupperware to parties. the girl who’ll sit and talk with a drunk freshman for forty-five minutes just to make sure she gets home safe. the one everyone trusts, everyone likes.
but you’re not one of them.
not on paper.
not enough to be invited.
and it stings in a way sukuna can’t explain without sounding like he cares too much.
“she wouldn’t even care,” geto says after a beat. “she probably wouldn’t wanna go anyway.”
sukuna shakes his head slowly. “she would. not for the party. just to be around us.”
“then invite her to the after,” gojo says, too casually. “she can come once the official stuff’s over. like always.”
and that’s what gets under his skin.
like always.
like you’re some shadow they keep waiting in the wings. welcome, but not official. close, but not close enough. always there, always giving, and never asking for anything back.
but sukuna knows you.
knows you’d never say it hurts. never ask for an invite. never press your nose against the glass and say you want in. because you’re sweet. because you don’t want to make a scene. because you think you’re lucky just to be included at all.
and maybe that’s what kills him most.
sukuna doesn’t respond right away. just rolls the bottle between his hands and nods once, like it doesn’t bother him. like it’s fine.
but it does bother him.
because you've been at every party, every hangout, every busted-up couch gathering like this one. you're as much a part of this group as any of them, maybe more. you're the glue, the heart. the one person who always shows up and always makes it better just by being there.
and suddenly you're not allowed?
he gets it. he does. house rules. dumb frat politics. whatever. but still.
he’s never wanted to bring someone to one of these before. never even thought about it. but the second it came up, your name was already halfway out of his mouth.
and now it’s stuck there, burning.
gojo reaches over, clinks his glass against sukuna’s bottle. “next time, yeah?”
sukuna forces a tight smile and tips his drink back.
“yeah,” he lies. “next time.”
~
the next night.
it’s late when you hear the knock.
past eleven. campus is quiet outside your window, the kind of stillness that only happens after a long day of classes and too much caffeine. your desk light’s still on, laptop humming, a playlist playing low as you scribble in the margins of your notes with a pink pen you definitely didn’t borrow from sukuna and never give back.
you blink up at the sound, confused, and push back from your chair just as the front door swings open without waiting for you.
sukuna steps in, keys jingling between his fingers, sweat clinging to the collar of his black t-shirt.
“jesus,” you say, raising your brows. “you ever heard of knocking?”
he shrugs, already kicking off his sneakers. “you gave me a key.”
“for emergencies. or bringing me food. this is trespassing.”
“it’s not trespassing if i live here part-time.”
“you don’t.”
“i do, emotionally.”
you narrow your eyes, watching as he kicks the door shut behind him and rakes a hand through his sweat-damp hair. he looks irritated. flushed. like he’s been fighting someone or about to.
“you coming from a girl’s place or something?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but the words slip out a little more bitter than you mean.
he pauses, one foot halfway out of his sock.
“something like that,” he mutters.
it wasn't something like that. he'd been running, something he'd been doing a lot lately instead of his nightly rendezvous with his copious amounts of side chicks. after he went non intentionally celibate, he'd started putting the excess energy he wasn't using in basketball to do laps around campus.
but he couldn't tell you that. couldn't just say, 'yeah, i've been running marathons lately because my dick goes limp at the thought of even touching another women.' so he just chalked it up to whatever your mind was thinking.
you blink, surprised he didn’t throw a joke at you or roll his eyes. didn’t make a crack about what kind of position she had him in or if he should shower before sitting on your bed.
instead he just pulls off his shirt and flops down face-first into your comforter like he’s lived here forever.
you stare for a second at the smooth line of his back, the tribal tattoos, the way he exhales like your room is the first place he’s been able to breathe all day.
“…you okay?” you ask, stepping toward the bed.
he grunts.
“great conversation,” you mutter, crawling up onto the mattress and poking him between the shoulder blades. “what’s with the dramatics, need to talk?”
he rolls onto his side, arm flung over his eyes, voice muffled. “i’m not allowed to bring you to the mixer.”
you blink. “hm?”
you knew of the mixer and you knew you weren't going, you weren't in a sorority.
“they said no,” he says, finally lowering his arm just enough to squint at you. “strictly greek. no exceptions. even though choso’s dragging that freak shiu and he’s barely greek. and even though you’ve been at more of our events than half the guys actually in the frat.”
you go try not to giggle at his display.
“i see,” you say. “it’s fine ryo. i didn’t expect to go anyway.”
“yeah, well, i wanted you to,” he snaps, sharper than he means to. he cleared his throat abit embarrassed before continuing. “was kind of the only reason i was looking forward to it.”
you stare at him, taken aback.
he groans and throws an arm over his face again. “god. it’s so fucking retarded. i don’t even wanna go if you’re not gonna be there.”
you sit beside him, folding your legs under yourself. "hey don't say that, it's offensive to people like gojo."
he rolls his eyes but a smirk pulls at his lips.
“you have to though, right?” you ask quietly. “frat rules?”
he grunts again, bitter. “mandatory attendance. gotta show face, shake hands, do shots with people i fucking hate. can’t just hang out with you like a normal person. it’s bullshit.”
you watch him for a second, hes clearly very upset on your behalf and it tugs at your heart to see him so sad for you.
the frustration in his shoulders. the tension still in his jaw. how tired he looks even though he won’t admit it. and how different he’s been lately, even if he tries to hide it.
it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him leave a party with someone. months since you’ve gotten a dumb flirty text from him at two in the morning about some girl with lip gloss and a sorority pin. instead it’s been this, late nights of cooking and movies at your place, quiet mornings where he'd crash on the couch, showing up sweaty and worn out without explaining why.
you don’t know what’s going on with him.
and you don’t ask.
because he’s still your best friend, he’s still sukuna, you never know what's going on with men like him. not really.
even if you wish sometimes he’d let you see past all the noise and into whatever he’s keeping buried under his skin.
“you could skip,” you offer after a long pause. “say you’re sick.”
he lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. “and miss out on disappointing every alumni watching the insta stories? unthinkable.”
you laugh.
and he smiles, barely.
then closes his eyes again, and says, quieter this time, “just wish it wasn’t like this.”
you don’t ask what he means.
you don’t have to.
you watch him stew for another minute, sprawled on your bed like a kicked dog, jaw tense and brows furrowed. you can tell he’s stuck in his head again, spiraling over something he can’t fix, so you do what you always do when sukuna gets like this.
you get up and go to the fridge.
“what are you doing?” he calls after you, but there’s already the tiniest lilt of curiosity in his voice.
you peek back over your shoulder, smiling shyly. “making you un-grumpy.”
you return with a container of the cookies you baked the night before, still soft from the fridge, the chocolate chips slightly hardened but perfect for biting into. you plop back down beside him and wiggle the container in front of his face.
“i come bearing peace offerings.”
he raises a brow. “what are they laced with?”
“love and all things happy and awesome,” you say sweetly. “now shut up and open.”
you settle onto his knee, the position so familiar it doesn’t even register as odd anymore. you’re perched sideways, comfortably pressed against him as you hold up a cookie to his mouth like you’ve done a thousand times before with different snacks, different moods, different nights.
he sighs like he’s being tortured, but opens his mouth and lets you push a bite past his lips.
and then he goes still.
you try to hide your smirk. “good, right?”
he chews slowly, then nods once, eyes flicking down to the cookie still in your hand. “fuck,” he mutters. “why are these better than the last ones?”
“because i added cinnamon this time,” you say proudly. “i’m a genius. a visionary. a baker ahead of my time. no need to lay it all on me at once.”
“you’re a menace,” he says, reaching for the container and grabbing one for himself. he takes another bite, then leans his head back with a groan. “jesus christ.”
you beam, satisfied. “mood improved?”
he glances down at you, his arm sliding a little more securely around your waist, holding you in place like it’s just instinct. “a little.”
you twist to face him more fully, still sitting across one of his legs, knees bent and shoulder pressing into his chest. “well, i accept your gratitude. payment accepted in the form of continued affection and possibly letting me pick the movie tonight.”
“you say that like you weren’t going to pick it anyway,” he says, but his voice has gone soft.
you don’t move, just rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. it’s quiet again, in that comfortable, lived-in way. his fingers drift absentmindedly along the hem of your shirt, not even thinking about it, and you feel the shift before it happens.
he sets the cookie down and wraps both arms around you, pulling you fully into his chest.
you blink in surprise as your face smushes into his neck, but your arms slip around his waist anyway, your cheek settling against his skin with a tiny, surprised smile.
this… isn’t unheard of.
but it’s not common either.
not like this.
not this long, not this full-bodied, not this quiet. not this careful.
he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. just breathe in sync, slow and even, held together in the kind of closeness that feels like it means something more than either of you are ready to admit. it doesn’t feel playful. it doesn’t feel casual.
it feels like everything unsaid is pressing in between the space of your bodies.
and still, you don’t pull away.
you stay wrapped around each other, soft and steady in the glow of your little kitchen light. the rest of the world fades out. no frat politics, no mixers, no rules. just your warmth against his chest, the scent of cookies on the air, and his heartbeat pressed right against your cheek.
you smile against him, a little giddy, a little shy, and squeeze your arms around him just a little tighter.
he squeezes back.
"such a softie."
"shut up."
~
friday night, gamma.
the music’s already shaking the walls by the time sukuna and gojo pull up to the house.
the lights are low, the windows are glowing purple, and there’s a line of girls on the front lawn taking pictures against the greek letters like they’re on the fucking red carpet. half of them are laughing too loud, the other half are posing like they’re about to sell flat tummy tea. it’s a mess.
gojo whistles low under his breath. “god damn. they went all out tonight.”
sukuna says nothing, just shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and follows gojo toward the front door, already wishing he’d stayed in.
inside, it’s worse.
the house smells like weed, body spray, and some kind of mango-flavored vodka someone definitely spilled on the carpet. the bass is pounding. the lights are cycling through seizure-inducing colors. and the living room is filled wall to wall with girls in the tiniest outfits he’s ever seen.
crop tops so small they’re practically bras, skirts that could pass for belts, dresses that ride up with every step. legs, boobs, glitter, perfume. like a scene out of a movie, only louder and stickier.
gojo grins, elbowing him in the side. “this is what i’m talking about, man these chicks are drooling.”
“mhm,” sukuna mutters, eyes skimming the crowd without interest.
gojo keeps going, clearly amped. “look at her, jesus. i could write a poem about that ass. might get it tattooed.”
sukuna hums, tuning him out. lets the words wash over him without meaning. he’s good at that now. nodding, smirking, pretending to be the guy they all think he is.
“oh my god,” gojo says again, eyes glued to another girl passing by in a see-through mesh top. “this one’s not even wearing a bra. she’s doing the lord’s work.”
“praise be,” sukuna deadpans.
gojo laughs, already drifting toward the drinks table like a moth to flame, eyes darting everywhere.
sukuna doesn’t follow.
he stands near the door, shoulder against the wall, letting the party swirl around him. girls brush past him on the way to the kitchen, one of them flashing a smile he doesn’t return. he watches two of them grind against each other like they’re auditioning for attention, and someone tugs on his hoodie in passing, trying to get his attention.
he doesn’t even blink.
because all he can think about is how quiet your apartment was last night.
how your laugh sounded when he tried to talk with his mouth full of cookie. how you looked sitting on his knee, eyes crinkling, fingers brushing crumbs from his shirt.
how easy it was.
how real.
and this? this feels like a joke.
he used to love this shit. the noise, the chaos, the attention. he used to thrive in it. let it fill him up, drown out all the parts of himself that didn’t make sense.
but now it just feels loud.
pointless.
empty.
he pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it without thinking.
no texts.
you’re probably curled up on your couch right now with a mug of tea and some documentary about weird animals. maybe wearing one of your oversized sweaters. maybe thinking about him. maybe not.
he sighs, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes for a second.
wishing, more than anything, that he was with you instead.
meanwhile...
your dorm was quiet tonight.
just the low hum of your mini fridge, the soft whir of the fan you’ve wedged into the corner by the window, and the occasional clatter of your own movements as you putter around your tiny kitchen.
you’re barefoot on the tile, hoodie sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your hair pulled back haphazardly. the playlist you always turn on while baking is playing softly, the comfort stuff, the songs you don’t have to think about. your body moves automatically, reaching for ingredients, measuring out flour and sugar like muscle memory.
but your mind’s somewhere else entirely.
you keep thinking about last night. about the way sukuna looked when he walked through your door, sweaty and annoyed and tired, like the world was grating against him. and how he softened when you sat on his lap and fed him cookies. how he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.
that long hug.
you can still feel it.
his arms wrapped around you, your cheek against his chest, the quiet warmth of his body pressed fully into yours like he didn’t want to let go. it wasn’t playful. it wasn’t some joke. it felt like something else. something deeper. something you’re too scared to name.
you missed him the second he left.
you always do.
but tonight, it aches a little more. hell, it aches a hell of a lot.
because you know where he is right now. or, at least, where he’s supposed to be — at that mixer with gojo and the rest of the guys. shoulder to shoulder with every sorority girl on campus. probably surrounded by glitter and perfume and girls in backless dresses.
you try not to picture it.
you try not to imagine him pressed up against someone in a dark corner, hands on her hips, whispering something smooth into her ear. it’s what he used to do, after all. it’s what everyone still thinks he does.
you’ve never asked.
but it’s easier to believe he’s still out there being sukuna, your charming, cocky, slightly feral best friend who fucks around and never gets attached. it’s easier than hoping for something more.
you sigh and lean your hands on the edge of the sink, staring out the window for a moment before pushing off again and turning back to the counter.
if he is out there right now, tangled up with some girl, then so be it. it’s not your business. he’s your friend. he’s always been your friend. and that’s enough.
you shake away the little ache curling up in your chest and reach for the eggs.
he likes custard tarts.
you remember him mentioning it months ago, offhanded, when you were watching some cooking show together and he snorted at a pastry challenge. 'that shit’s easy,' he’d said, and then casually added, 'my grandma used to make those all the time. i could eat like five in one sitting.'
so you’re going to make him some.
you don’t know if he’ll even come by tomorrow, but if he does, it’ll be waiting for him. warm, golden, sweet. something quiet to show him you were thinking about him, even if you won’t say it out loud.
you dust your hands with flour and start rolling out the pastry crust, humming under your breath, praying this suffocating guilt in your chest will soon subside.
back with the man of the hour.
the kitchen is hotter than hell.
bodies packed in tight, music thudding through the walls, the floor sticky with spilled drinks and god-knows-what. it smells like tequila, sweat, and cologne, like every mixer always does. sukuna’s perched at the corner of the counter with a half-empty shot glass in his hand, the burn of whatever cheap liquor they’re using tonight still clinging to his throat.
he’s a few drinks in, not drunk, but warm. loose. not enough to forget, just enough to blur the edges.
“yo,” someone says, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “you still out here slaying or what?
it’s ino, one of the phi sig guys. bleach-blond, grinning like a golden retriever, drunk enough that his words are dragging a little.
sukuna doesn’t answer right away.
he can feel the pause stretching. can feel the weight of it. because he knows exactly where this is going.
“what?” ino says, laughing. “don’t tell me the infamous sukuna went soft on us.”
he’s joking. mostly.
but nearby, sukuna catches gojo’s eyes.
he’s leaning against the wall with a drink in one hand, watching the conversation like a hawk. and when their gazes meet, gojo raises one brow, just slightly. the look is clear.
'just lie to them.'
gojo doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t need to.
because sukuna’s got a reputation. one the frat’s leaned on for years, their golden weapon. their sexed-up, reckless, untouchable president’s right-hand menace. the one who sets the tone at parties, the one who doesn’t hesitate to bang anyone, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t change.
and if word gets out that ryomen sukuna hasn’t laid a hand on anyone in months, that he’s been skipping hookups to hang out with you in your tiny dorm room, baking cookies and trading sleepy smiles? well.
it wouldn’t look good.
not for him. not for the frat. not for the image.
so he swallows the sick twist in his gut and flashes a grin that feels so disgustingly wrong on his face.
“you know how it is,” he says smoothly, rolling his neck like he’s already bored of the conversation. “been busy. but yeah. still getting mine.”
ino laughs and passes him another shot, already leaning in. “anyone good?”
“couple girls from chi o,” sukuna says, shrugging one shoulder. “blonde one — i forget her name. maybe claire? she was loud. pretty sure half the floor heard us.”
ino hollers and claps him on the back, and someone nearby chimes in with a “my fucking guy.”
sukuna downs the shot.
he keeps going.
“hooked up with that junior from zeta last week too. the one with the snake tattoo.”
“mia?” ino gasps.
“yeah,” sukuna half lies, licking his teeth. “she’s got this thing where she likes being choked. like, full hand, no hesitation. freaky as fuck, but she took it like a champ.”
there’s laughter. back slaps. someone throws him another beer.
and sukuna plays along.
he leans into the scumbag act. tells them about how he made her beg. how he didn’t even bother texting her after. throws in some bullshit about how she kept whining for round three and he just left.
and it’s easy, this was how he used to be after all.
his voice is smooth, confident, practiced. he says the words like he’s proud of them. like they don’t taste like ash and piss in his mouth. like they aren’t killing him from the inside out.
because the truth is, he hasn’t touched anyone since he realized he was in love with you.
sure he's fucked those girl before, just not as of late.
no blonde named claire. no snake tattoo. no begging, no choking, no careless sex with strangers who mean nothing.
just you.
just the way you looked at him the other night, eyes wide and sweet while you perched on his knee. just the way you made him feel full with nothing but a bite of cookie and a laugh. just the way your arms wrapped around him without hesitation. like he was someone worth holding onto.
but he can’t say that here.
he can’t be that guy.
so he keeps lying. keeps playing the role. keeps smiling through the noise and the heat and the taste of someone else’s expectations on his tongue.
and all the while, in the back of his mind, he’s wondering what you’re doing right now. if your oven’s still on. if your hands are covered in flour. if you’re thinking about him too.
god, he hopes you are. safe away from this performative monster he's so carefully curated.
later.
things have gone off the rails.
the house is sweltering now, bodies packed in so tight you can barely breathe. music’s still blasting, bass heavy enough to make your ribs shake, lights flickering red and blue and green over swaying heads. sweat slicks the walls, the floors are sticky with god-knows-what, and the air smells like beer, weed, and perfume way too sweet to be expensive.
sukuna’s sunk low into the couch in the middle of the living room, a drink sweating in his hand, head tilted back. his shirt sticks to his skin, his legs are spread, and his eyes are half-lidded, glazed over. he’s a few drinks deep, but not enough to be drunk, just enough to dull the headache that’s been building since he walked in.
choso’s next to him, nursing a blunt, and shiu’s perched on the armrest, scrolling through his phone with dead eyes.
“this party fucking blows,” shiu mutters, not looking up.
“wasn’t it your idea to come?” choso says.
“yeah, and i was wrong. fuck me.”
“everyone’s just trying to fuck each other,” choso says flatly. “like aggressively. it’s like a brothel in here.”
“with worse lighting,” shiu adds.
sukuna doesn’t say anything. just watches the way two girls are sloppily grinding against each other on the floor, their drinks spilling down their arms, mascara already halfway down their cheeks. somewhere across the room, someone’s moaning against the wall like they’re getting railed in public, which, honestly, they probably are.
he’s halfway through zoning out again when it happens.
a blonde drops into his lap like a stone.
he barely registers her until she’s already straddling him, arms looped around his neck, tits pushed up and glittering under the party lights.
“found you,” she purrs, loud in his ear. her voice is syrupy sweet, her lips glossed thick and shiny. she presses a wet kiss to his cheek without waiting for permission, then trails her mouth down to his neck.
his body locks up. 'ew.'
she smells like candy and sweat. her lashes are so fake they look heavy. her nails scrape his shoulder through his shirt like she’s trying to get a grip.
“you’re sukuna, right?” she asks, already moving her hips in his lap. “heard you’re fun.”
he wants to shove her off.
wants to grab her wrists and tell her to get the fuck off him, now. because nothing about this feels good. nothing about this feels right. she’s too close, too loud, too much. and all he can think is 'this isn’t you.'
but then he glances up.
and he sees them.
those same frat guys he took shots with earlier, ino and the rest. watching him from across the room with wide eyes and cocky grins. waiting. expecting. this was what they wanted, wasn’t it? the infamous sukuna he had bragged about not even an hour earlier. the legend. the sex god. they’re watching like they’re about to take notes.
and across the room, posted near the kitchen with a drink in hand, gojo is watching too.
his eyes lock with sukuna’s. one raised brow. jaw tight. a warning in his expression.
'don’t fuck this up. just pretend.' he mouths.
this is his job, after all. the frat’s bad boy, their wild card, the one who never slows down. his reputation isn’t just his anymore — it’s tied to the frat’s image, to the hierarchy, to the ego of every guy in this house who needs him to be that guy.
so sukuna doesn’t shove her off.
he lets her kiss his jaw. lets her whisper something slutty in his ear, lets her press her tits into his chest and grind against him like they’re already alone.
he lets her act like she owns him.
his hands rest loose on her waist. one slides down to her thigh, just for show. not tight. not real. just enough to make it look like he’s into it.
his skin crawls.
he doesn’t smile. doesn’t speak. he just sits there, dead behind the eyes, playing the part.
choso side-eyes him, a brow lifting. shiu’s halfway through another drink, watching the scene with a quiet kind of judgment.
sukuna doesn’t flinch.
but inside, he’s somewhere else entirely.
he’s thinking about you.
your dorm. your stupid cozy couch. your face lighting up when he told you your cookies were perfect. your hands brushing against his. your warmth.
the way you held him like you knew.
and now he’s here.
pretending.
surrounded by noise and bodies and fake gold glitter. kissing strangers in front of an audience, playing the role of someone he hasn’t been in a long time.
and all he wants is to be home.
with you.
the girl’s hands are everywhere.
on his chest, sliding under his shirt. in his hair, tugging hard like it’s supposed to be sexy. her mouth is hot and wet on his neck, and she keeps saying shit in his ear he can’t even hear over the bass rumbling through the floor.
he doesn’t want this.
hasn’t wanted this from the second she crawled into his lap.
but now she’s pulling him up off the couch, dragging him by the hand through the throng of sweaty bodies. she’s laughing, shrieking something about going upstairs, or maybe back to her place, either way, her grip is iron and her intentions are clear. and people are watching.
he can feel the eyes on him.
guys slapping him on the back as he passes, grinning, nodding, giving him looks that say that’s our guy.the same ones who were cheering earlier when she straddled him like a chair in the middle of the party. girls whispering, side-eyes thrown like confetti.
and gojo.
gojo’s standing near the bottom of the stairs now, cup in hand, watching sukuna get dragged toward the front door like some kind of prize.
they lock eyes.
sukuna hesitates for a beat.
gojo steps forward and claps a hand on his arm, grip tight for a second. he leans in, expression unusually serious beneath the usual shine of his grin.
“sorry, man,” he murmurs under the music. “i shouldn’t have made you do all that shit.”
sukuna doesn’t say anything. just nods once, jaw clenched.
“you’re a good soldier,” gojo adds, half-joking, half-sincere. “but you don’t gotta burn yourself out for the frat.”
sukuna’s too tired to respond. the girl’s tugging on his arm again, fingers clawed around his wrist like she thinks he’ll vanish if she lets go.
they step out the front door into the night.
the air outside is colder than it should be, sharp against his sweaty skin. it hits his lungs too fast. makes him dizzy.
she turns to him immediately, mouth already open. “so i live, like, five minutes away. unless you wanna go to yours? my roommate’s out, so—”
her hands are on his chest again. fumbling with the hem of his shirt, nails dragging over his stomach like she’s mapping him out with zero permission. she presses herself into him, mouth seeking his again, clumsy and insistent.
and that’s when it hits.
the disgust.
the wrongness.
the way it makes his skin crawl, makes his stomach twist. not because she’s unattractive, not because she’s done anything “wrong” by frat party standards — but because she’s not you.
and this? this isn’t him.
he jerks away from her touch as she snakes her hand over the bulge in his jeans.
“stop.”
she blinks, confused. tries to laugh it off, like maybe he’s teasing. “what?”
“i said stop,” he snaps, stepping back. “jesus fucking christ.”
her face falls.
“you can’t just—” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head.
“go." he almost yells. "go home,” he says sharply. “alone.”
her jaw drops like she’s about to protest again, but he’s not listening. he turns, already walking, the cold air slicing through his clothes, his breath fogging up in the dark.
he doesn’t look back.
the sounds of the party are muffled now, swallowed up by the night. but they still echo in his head. the music, the laughter, the voices cheering him on like he’s some kind of fucking mascot. the fake moans and the fake smiles and the way it felt to be watched like he owed everyone a show.
he lights a cigarette with shaking hands.
his stomach still feels sick.
and all he can think about, as the taste of cherry lip gloss lingers like poison, is how right it felt to be on your couch. how warm your kitchen was. how soft your hands were when you brushed his hair back from his forehead like he was something worth caring for.
he walks faster.
because if he doesn’t get away from all this now, he’s not sure he ever will.
his footsteps echo off the pavement, sharp in the emptiness, and his lungs burn with every breath. the cigarette is still between his fingers, barely smoked, the ember flickering weakly in the dark.
he can’t stop shaking.
his skin feels wrong. like something’s still crawling on it. like her hands are still there. he rubs his neck with the heel of his palm, hard, like he can wipe it off. the gloss, the heat, the fakeness of it all.
his stomach lurches.
he stops walking and bends forward instinctively, one hand on his knee, the other bracing against the cold brick wall of the nearest building. he spits once onto the sidewalk, tastes bile and tequila and something rotten.
he breathes through his nose.
in, out, in, out.
think of something else.
think of anything else.
but all he can think about is you.
the way you'd light up when you'd spot him on campus, how you'd always gravitate towards him at parties and hang outs. your stupid soft hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hands covered in flour, smiling like he was your favorite part of your day.
and god, all he wanted to was erase his entire past to start a clean, virgin slate with you.
he almost let some stranger girl touch him in a way he wishes only you would. he let her sit on him, kiss him, grab at him, and he didn’t stop it. didn’t stop it until it was nearly too late.
and for what?
some frat reputation?
gojo’s approval?
a bunch of guys who only know his name because of the stories he used to make up?
he could fucking vomit.
he dry heaves once, hard, and his whole body folds in. he grips the edge of a trash bin like it’ll keep him upright, knuckles going white. but nothing comes up. just air and guilt and the way your name sits on his tongue like a bruise.
'you’re not even mine.'
he reminds himself of that again and again. you’re not his. you’ve never kissed. never fucked. never even admitted how you feel.
you’re just friends. best friends, maybe. roommates in a different life. partners in crime when things are light.
but he knows what this is. knows what’s happening to him.
you’ve ruined him.
your gentleness. your kindness. the way you hold his face when you’re teasing him and don’t even realize it. the way you hug him like he’s worth something. like you see him, all of him, and still choose to stay.
and now he’s here. shaking and fucked-up in the street, gagging over the ghost of a girl who doesn’t matter, while you're sitting at home in your dorm when you could of been here with him, that way, he'd never of let another girl get close, he's speaks the night sitting on the porch, with you.
he sinks down onto the curb, elbows braced on his knees, cigarette hanging limp from his fingers. his vision swims, hot and sharp, his head tipping back to stare at the stars he can’t even see through the city haze.
he should’ve stayed with you.
he should’ve just stayed home, with you.
his hands are trembling when he reaches into his pocket. he fishes blindly past his lighter, crumpled receipts, a folded-up flyer someone handed him earlier, until his fingers close around metal.
your dorm keys.
he pulls them out slowly.
they sit in his palm, warm from his body heat. a pink little charm you’d added dangles from the ring, a squishy cartoon animal he never bothered to learn the name of, even though you told him three times. it jiggles as he stares down at it, breath catching in his throat.
he clenches his fist around them.
tight.
like it’ll keep him grounded. like it’ll make you real again.
the night presses in around him. too quiet, too still. but that ache in his chest, the sour twist in his gut, it all starts to blur the second he stands up and starts walking.
~
your apartment smells like vanilla and nutmeg.
you pull the tray from the oven with slow, tired movements, fingers twitching slightly through the worn edges of your oven mitts. you place it carefully on the cooling rack, your shoulders drooping.
they turned out perfect.
golden brown, smooth custard centers with just the right shimmer. they look like something out of a recipe book. the kind of thing you’d proudly serve someone you care about.
someone who promised he’d come over this weekend.
someone who’s probably in a stranger’s bed right now.
you press your lips together and exhale through your nose, eyes fluttering shut.
that ache in your chest still hasn’t gone away. it’s not sharp anymore, not like earlier, when you imagined his hands on someone else, but it’s still there. dull. tight. like a bruise that refuses to fade.
you try to distract yourself. start wiping down the counter. humming softly. pretending.
and then—
bang.
a clatter at the door. a commotion, keys fumbling against the lock. your head snaps up, heart slamming into your ribs.
before you can move, the door bursts open.
a heaving sukuna stumbles inside.
he’s wild-eyed, flushed, sweaty, like he’s run the whole way here. his shirt’s wrinkled, his jacket half-zipped, one sleeve rolled up and the other down. his hair’s a mess. his knuckles are scraped.
he looks terrible.
and he looks right at you.
for one beat, just one, everything stops.
your eyes meet, and it’s like all the oxygen rushes back into the room. the ache in your chest disappears, the weight behind his eyes fades, the tension that was tearing both of you apart evaporates the second you’re locked into each other’s gaze.
you smile first. a smile he so dearly loved to see.
small. instinctive. like it slips out before you can stop it.
and that’s all it takes.
sukuna moves fast, like something in him finally gives out, and suddenly he’s in front of you, arms wrapping around your body like he needs you to breathe. his chest crashes into yours, hard, and his arms hook tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
your hands flutter up, half-startled, and you steady yourself against his shoulders.
he’s holding you like he’s drowning.
“jesus,” you laugh softly, trying to ease the weight, “what, some girl give you blue balls or something—”
you don’t finish the sentence.
because his grip tightens.
his arms squeeze harder, fingers fisting into the back of your hoodie like he’s trying to climb inside of you.
his face buries into your neck. and then you hear it.
a sniffle.
not a dramatic one, not obvious, not loud, but small and choked off, like he’s trying not to let it out at all.
your breath catches.
his body trembles once, a subtle shiver that passes through him like a quake, and suddenly your joke feels cruel, your smile falters, and your heart lodges somewhere in your throat.
your voice drops, softer than you’ve ever used with him.
“ryo…”
you pull back just enough to see his face.
his eyes are glassy. rimmed red. lashes damp like he’s been holding it in for a while. and when he blinks, slow and heavy, a single tear finally falls, trailing down the sharp angle of his cheek.
your heart cracks clean in two.
like your body just knows, like it feels his pain before you can even register it, your own eyes burn immediately. you try to hold it in, but it stings anyway. wells up fast, like your chest doesn’t know how to hold all the ache that’s suddenly there.
he sees it.
his lips twitch, and he forces out a quiet, watery chuckle. “of course you're that kinda person” he murmurs, voice thick. “the type to cry when someone else cries. like it’s a reflex or something.”
you swallow around the lump in your throat. “i've only done it for you.”
that makes him go still.
your hand lifts to his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye, and your voice trembles with the weight of it all. “because i care about you, ryo. so much. more than i can even explain.”
his breath stutters.
and for a second, he doesn’t say anything.
he just looks at you, like you’re something he’s been waiting for his whole life. and then he smiles, soft and small and cracked open, and leans forward until his forehead is pressed to yours again.
you close your eyes.
you fall into each other like instinct.
your arms wrap around his neck again, and his circle your waist. tighter this time. not desperate. just sure.
you still don’t know why he’s crying.
he hasn’t told you anything. hasn’t explained the bloodshot eyes or the tremble in his hands or the way he stumbled through your door like you were home.
but none of that matters.
because he’s sad.
and that makes you sad.
so you hold him. and he holds you back.
"y/n. i love you."
you freeze.
like your whole body forgets how to move.
his voice is quiet, broken at the edges, low and raw like it got scraped out of his chest just for you. you feel it before you even fully process it. like the words ripple through your bloodstream faster than they hit your ears.
you pull back just slightly, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in your throat.
“h-huh…?”
his gaze is already on you. steady. not flinching. his brows are pinched like he’s terrified, like he’s bracing for the worst, but his hands never leave you. they stay right where they’ve been, one at the small of your back, the other cradling your side like he’s holding something fragile.
“i love you,” he says again, firmer this time. “i think i’ve loved you since the first time you told me about some weird show you liked and forgot to breathe because you were talking too fast. i didn’t know it then, but—fuck, y/n. it’s you. it’s always been you.”
your eyes sting.
you’re not sure if you’re breathing.
his thumb rubs absent circles at your hip. his voice is shaking.
“i haven’t touched anyone since i figured it out. haven’t even looked at anyone like that. i tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. i told myself i could just be around you like normal and it’d pass. but it didn’t. it just got worse. everything felt worse without you.”
you press your lips together, hard.
your chest is aching so sweetly it almost feels like pain.
“you don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly, eyes flicking over your face. “i know this is a lot. i just—i couldn’t keep lying. not after tonight.”
you open your mouth, then close it again.
you’re not even sure what expression’s on your face, shock? relief? some impossible mixture of everything you’ve ever felt for him suddenly rising to the surface all at once.
but eventually, finally, your voice comes out.
quiet.
“say it again.”
his brows lift.
you lean in closer, eyes shining. “please. just say it one more time.”
he swallows.
and then he breathes it like a vow.
“i love you.”
you surge forward, arms around his neck, and kiss him like it’s the only thing you’ve been trying not to do for months.
and this time, he doesn’t tremble.
he melts.
like he’s been waiting his whole life just for this.
your lips part from his just enough to breathe.
his eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way your fingers feel curled into the back of his neck. and you watch him for a second — the way his lashes tremble, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s never been kissed before.
and then you say it.
soft.
barely more than a whisper.
“i love you too.”
his eyes open slow.
like he needs to see your face to make sure it’s real.
and when he does, when he sees the truth of it in your eyes, your smile, the way your hand lingers over his heart like it belongs there, he laughs.
it’s small at first. breathless. disbelieving.
then you start laughing too.
and it bubbles out of both of you, giddy and bright, like it’s been waiting there under the surface all this time, the kind of laughter that spills into kisses, that makes your foreheads knock together, that leaves you smiling so wide your cheeks ache.
you’re both a little teary still. a little overwhelmed.
but it doesn’t matter.
because when he kisses you again, deeper this time, fuller, with both hands cupping your face like he’s never going to let you go, it’s not heavy. it’s not hard. it’s not desperate.
it’s just good.
it’s just right.
like the floodgates have finally opened, and everything you’ve both been holding back comes pouring out in warmth and wonder and wonder and wonder.
you’re still holding the edges of each other when he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.
“you’re it for me.”
and you smile.
because he’s it for you too.
you’re both still smiling, flushed and warm and tangled up in each other, when he suddenly sniffs the air.
his nose scrunches. he blinks. then his head slowly turns toward the counter behind you.
“…wait.”
you already know what’s coming.
he sniffs again, exaggerated and dramatic, eyebrows lifting higher with every inhale. “is that—?” he gasps, stepping around you to look.
“your favourite?” you finish, barely holding back your grin.
his eyes go wide. cartoonishly wide.
“you made them?”
you nod, biting your bottom lip, and gesture toward the cooling tray like you’re unveiling the secret ingredient in a baking show. “fresh from the oven. made them for you, actually. figured you might come by after—”
you don’t even finish the sentence before he lets out the softest noise, like a choked gasp of joy, (very uncharacteristically cute for him.) and practically tackles you in a hug.
“you’re so cute,” he says, spinning you around like it’s instinct, like you’re weightless. you squeal, laughing into his shoulder, clinging to him as he twirls you once in a giddy circle. “you made me custard tarts? i could eat you up right here, i swear to god.”
“ahh i see, so you're gonna eat me and the tarts? someone's getting greedy.”
“absolutely.”
you laugh breathlessly, hands braced against his chest as he sets you back down. “god you perv, did you have to ruin it?”
“sorry, sorry,” he mutters, grinning like an idiot.
he leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet, then cups your cheeks like you’re something precious and kisses you again, deeper, like he can’t help it, like you’re his favorite dessert.
“always wanted to thank you like this,” he murmurs against your lips. “for all the stuff you do for me. the baking, the hugs, the late-night pep talks. all of it. i just never had the guts.”
you giggle, your hands sliding up his arms as you melt into him again.
and as he dips you backward like he’s about to marry you right there in your tiny kitchen, you decide the tarts can wait just a little longer.
In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna
“—because he was just making conversation!”
Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Bullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.”
“Oh my god. So what!” you yell. “It’s not like I was gonna fucking let him!”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesn’t see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.
The car screeches to a halt not even a second later.
You’re pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. “You crazy, fucking bitch!” he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“I got a bitch ass boyfriend, that’s what’s wrong with me,” you grumble.
He ignores that. “You break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?” You shake your head. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.” Though as he says that, he can’t quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, “Scratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.”
“Okay, so I’m gonna walk home,” you say, deadpan. “I’ll see you around, asshole.”
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that he’d let you get very far). “Alright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car — we’re going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.”
A hospital visit later, you’re in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. It’s how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when you’ve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of today’s incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: “push me out instead.”
“Hmm?”
Sukuna’s hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. “Don’t jump out of the car. It’s stupid. Your body’s weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.”
A single misstep during training forces you face-to-face with the reality behind Sukuna's control, revealing what it takes to hold it in place when it’s pushed too far. And sometimes, the difference between stopping and not… comes down to something else entirely.
cw: sukuna x f!reader, mma fighter!sukuna, hurt/comfort, angst, anger as care, violence as love language, rough caretaking, loss of control, sukuna is soft (but in a fucked up way), sukuna has issues, sukuna needs a therapist but has a heavy bag instead, sukuna has no chill, sukuna would kill for you but that's not the scary part, and detailed martial arts training descriptions
wc: 7k
notes: okay, baby girls, welcome to my underground mma fighter!sukuna series. this one's set during his regular training, so no underground fighting—but it’s coming, promise.
the whole concept of this series has been pretty close to my heart for a while already, but this fic exists because me and my girl @vennywrites were yapping about fight stuff a few days ago. and she threw some questions at me, we spiraled, and her reaction to one detail sparked this. i won’t spoil it—you’ll know it when you read it. thanks for letting me run wild with it, bb. ♥️
sukuna art by @hazaato
main masterlist ◦ series masterlist ◦ ao3
The warehouse gym always sounds different in the evenings. The usual daytime racket from classes and casual training disappears, replaced by a much heavier quiet. Every impact echoes louder and farther, bouncing off the concrete walls that have seen too much to care. Only a few overhead bulbs are lit, casting a dim, patchy glow across the mats and worn equipment. Right in the middle of it all, the heavy bag swings on its chain with a low metallic creak, its rhythm dictated entirely by him.
Sukuna doesn’t pace himself when the place is empty. There’s no need to hold back or keep things measured, like when he’s demonstrating a technique. Each movement is instinctual and minimal, flowing smoothly from one to the next, sharpened by hundreds of hours of drilling until it no longer requires thought. His guard stays in motion, his stance adjusts subtly between strikes, and his breath is heavy but controlled, sustaining the pace he sets for himself.
The bag hardly has time to settle between movements. A quick, sharp jab comes first to mark distance, followed immediately by a cross that lands with a dull, solid thud, pushing the bag back on its chain. He steps in with it, transferring his weight cleanly through his hips, and before the swing can pull the bag away, he closes the gap, briefly bracing his forearm against it as his knee drives upward. The impact is tight and heavy, not wide, but carried through his entire body.
There’s no pause after. His foot comes down already shifting, pivoting for the next movement as his torso turns in sync. A short combination follows, tighter and with less time between strikes. The punches dig in rather than snap out, gloved knuckles driving into the dense surface in a rhythm that builds and breaks. Sweat starts to bead, catching the low light as it runs over muscles that flex with every movement. His breathing grows louder, each exhale landing with the strike, each inhale quick and controlled before the next one.
This time, the bag swings wider, with the chain rattling faintly overhead. Instead of stopping it, he allows it to sway, adjusting his steps to match its movement, reading the rhythm without effort. His guard briefly lifts, then his weight shifts again, his standing foot pivoting smoothly into the floor as his hips turn sharply, the motion driving cleanly from his core.
The kick comes fast. His leg rises and cuts through the air with full commitment and no restraint, striking mid-level with a heavy, resonant impact that sends the bag snapping back, the chain above jolting with a sharper metallic sound. His right hand moves forward with the rotation to keep his balance, his left staying in guard.
Sukuna doesn’t pause; as soon as his foot touches the ground, he’s already closing the distance before the bag can swing out of reach. His hands come up, shoulders rolling into the next set of strikes as if the kick never broke the flow. There’s no hesitation, no reset, just constant motion and pressure, maintained without strain. His body adapts instinctively to the moving target, adjusting angles and shortening or extending distance when needed.
Time feels different when he trains like this. There are no rounds, no clock to check, nothing external setting the pace. Everything comes from him, driven by a steady, demanding pressure that doesn’t ease, even as his muscles burn and his breath grows heavier. He only stops when he decides he’s had enough, and that point comes late.
Another combination lands, his gloves striking in rapid succession. He shifts again, his foot sliding against the mat to set the angle for the next move. The bag swings back toward him, and instead of retreating, he steps into it, bracing his arm briefly against it as his knee drives up again, higher and sharper, followed by a subtle adjustment of his stance as he shifts his weight back to create space.
From where you stand, your attention stays on him, even in the brief pauses between strikes. Every muscle is engaged, not just defined, but constantly tightening and releasing under his skin. The dim warehouse light catches the sweat gathering on his broad shoulders as they move. His muscular, veined arms hang loose for a split second before snapping tight again, while his thighs flex with heavy, unmistakable power each time he sets his weight for a kick.
The tattoos stand out no matter what he wears, but when he trains, the ink sharpens and stretches over the working muscle until it almost looks like it moves with him. Under the sweat, it’s darker, more defined, and nearly glowing against his skin. His pink hair’s soaked, clinging in uneven strands, some stuck lightly to his forehead, others pushed back.
His jaw is clenched, his expression locked in focus. Sweat gathers along the line of it, tracing the black ink before dripping from his chin. It runs down the bridge of his nose, cutting across the horizontal mark, then past the extra eyes on his cheeks that seem to watch you even when his real ones stay fixed on the target.
You’ve seen him like this more times than you can count, with years of it burned into your memory in fragments of movement and sound. Still, it never becomes so familiar that it can be ignored, because there's always that moment where your body reacts before your mind does.
It’s not just that he looks strong or even dangerous; it’s how everything comes together in motion that feels almost overwhelming up close, like you’re seeing him exactly as he is without anything held back.
Even now, your pulse falters low and uneven as you watch him strip himself down to nothing but motion and power, and it feels like a quiet betrayal that never learns, no matter how many nights he’s come home bruised, bloody, and beautiful in that same brutal way.
In moments like this, no part of him belongs to the outside world. There’s no trace of the man who talks to you, goes through daily routines, or exists anywhere beyond this space. Here, he sharpens, everything in him focused, every muscle working with intent, and each breath fueling the next move.
You can’t look away as his body commits fully to each strike, force, and precision, carrying through with a quiet brutality that doesn’t need to be exaggerated to be felt.
You don’t intentionally choose to walk closer so much as your body does it for you, drawn in by that same helpless awe that takes over when he’s this far gone inside himself. That intense, magnetic rhythm of his training pulls you in, close enough to feel the space around him shift with each impact instead of watching from afar. You gravitate toward him, closing the distance without stopping to consider what that really means.
His focus is unwavering, locked into the movement, into the pattern his body follows without thought. You move closer anyway, captivated by the swinging bag, his instinctive adjustments, and relentless pace pull everything into a rhythm, even as you step into a space not meant for you.
The sound of his rough breathing and low grunts fills the air, matching the rhythm of his strikes, while the heavy impacts against the bag swallow everything that doesn’t fall into that same violent beat. So he doesn’t notice at first.
Sukuna shifts his weight, adjusting his stance for the next strike. You’re already too close when his hips turn, fully committing to a fierce combination: a quick jab to mark distance, a heavy left hook to draw an imaginary opponent into over-blocking on the left and opening a blind spot on the right. He pivots, hips snapping open as his entire body rotates into the middle kick with every kilogram of his two-meter frame driving through it.
His shin whips forward in a clean arc, carrying all the force he’s been putting into each movement since you walked in, full power, no hesitation, no restraint, the strike cutting through the air as it drives toward the scarred leather of the bag.
His peripheral suddenly catches something at the edge, where there shouldn't be anything, and his entire world fractures instantly. Instinct snaps in before conscious thought can catch up, before the kick can complete the way it was meant to.
Stopping it abruptly like that is violent in a different way.
Everything that has already committed locks all at once, with his core tightening hard enough to halt the movement, as his balance fights against the momentum that’s screaming to carry through and pulling him forward. Every thick band of muscle in his thigh and obliques strains and hurts against the impossible demand to stop.
The kick doesn’t gradually slow or ease off; it shudders to a stop just centimeters from your face, so close that the displacement of air lifts strands of your hair and cools the skin it nearly crushes. The gap between impact and restraint is almost nonexistent, with his leg held there in tension that locks through his entire body.
The bag keeps swinging from the previous hit, chains clanging overhead, but he stays completely still, balanced precariously between completing the action and freezing. Sweat drips from his jaw as his chest rapidly heaves, the only movement left in him.
It had been full force.
There’s no doubt about that—his hips remained turned into the strike, his shoulders aligned, and his hand, already moving to follow through, was perfectly positioned. Everything about him was locked into a motion that, if it had landed, would have gone through your skull.
Sukuna glares down at you with a mix of rage and terror, knowing exactly how close that had been. Had he been just half a second slower, the light could have gone out of your eyes right here on these mats, with him as the one to put it out.
His breath comes heavy through flared nostrils, his jaw clenched tight, fury burning hard behind his eyes. His leg stays beside your head for another long second, muscles trembling with restraint, before he slowly lowers it to the ground, but the tension doesn’t ease.
The velcro tears through the silence as he rips off the gloves and drops them onto the mat, and one of his hands shoots up before you fully realize it’s moved. Rough, sweaty boxing wraps bite into your skin as he grabs your jaw, making your teeth click together. The grip instantly feels too tight to ignore, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough that you’re not sure if it’ll leave marks or not.
During his workouts or sparring, he rarely looks at you, always focused so intently on the bag or whoever’s in front of him, that the rest of the world barely exists. But in those rare moments when his focus breaks, and his eyes find you, they burn with a heat that makes your heart skip. Every single time it happens, it makes you feel like you’re the center of his world.
But now, this isn’t that. When he tilts your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze, there’s nothing in his eyes but raw, unfiltered rage.
“Are you fucking stupid?”
The words rip out of him in a low, guttural snarl, his voice raw and rough from exertion, dragged through breath that hasn’t evened out yet. His chest continues to rise and fall harder than when he was working the bag because this is different.
Fingers tremble slightly from the razor-thin edge he’s balancing on, digging in a little deeper, nails pressing crescent moons into the soft skin of your jaw, leaving no doubt about the tension in him. His grip hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you're not someone he needs to control or overpower, and he struggles to unclench, unable to trust himself to loosen his hold even now.
He's aware of how close the margin was, how one mis-timed heartbeat could have turned this warehouse into a grave.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
You should be startled and step back, but you don’t. All you can see, all you can think about, is that the force was there and suddenly it wasn’t, how he stopped it, and how his body resisted every instinct to finish that motion, showing gut-wrenching control to freeze that much momentum a breath away from your face. The shudder that ran through his massive thigh as it slammed into restraint—it hits you hard and deep.
So instead of fear or panic, your eyes widen, and your lips part softly as awe floods through you like heat. Your gaze traces the tense line of his jaw, the sweat still dripping from his cheekbone, the chest tattoos flexing with each furious breath, and you think, stupidly, that it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
Sukuna senses it. Hell, he sees it. The change in your expression and that look in your eyes hit him like a slap, and his grip tightens again in anger. His fingers press harder into your skin as his eyes narrow, a dark flicker passing through them in response to the way you’re staring at him.
“…You think that’s hot?”
There’s no teasing or humor in it. It comes out vicious, almost disgusted, because your reaction is wrong, and you’ve completely missed the point, which irritates him more than the mistake that led to it.
“Do you have any idea—”
He cuts himself off before the sentence finishes as the scene flashes behind his eyes: your head whipping back, the sickening crack of bone hitting shin, and your body crumpling lifeless onto the mats… if he had been even just a fraction of a second slower or unable to stop the momentum.
What bothers him isn’t only that you stepped into range, but that you’re staring at him like what you saw was exciting and that control matters more than the risk that came with it. That’s what breaks him hardest—not the near-miss or the danger, but that you looked at death brushing your cheek, felt a thrill, and found it impressive.
And the truth is, speed and control were only part of it. The rest was luck—a split-second catch at the corner of his eye, something that could just as easily not have happened at all. And if it hadn’t, his body would have finished what it started, and at that speed, there wouldn't have been anything left to control. The physics of a kill don't care about intentions.
Pure fucking luck.
He dismisses the thought with a blink, then refocuses on you, leaning in until his shadow swallows you whole.
“You would’ve dropped right here.”
His voice becomes dangerously calm, too controlled for the fury boiling underneath, while his fingers still hold your jaw in place.
“Head snaps back. Lights out.”
A single sharp breath fans across your face. You feel the pressure of his grip as he speaks, his thumb pressing against your skin, like he’s anchoring the words in place, making sure you don’t look away or dismiss them.
“And if it lands wrong?”
There’s a pause, long enough for the image to fully form in your mind and the weight of it to sink in before he finishes.
“Your brain hits bone. It swells. It crushes itself.” He swallows hard, his throat muscles tightening visibly. “And you don’t wake up. Ever.”
He doesn’t soften it or try to make it easier to hear, because that isn’t the point. He keeps his gaze locked on yours with an almost suffocating intensity, forcing the truth into you, whether you want it or not—how one careless step could have taken you from him forever.
“…and you’re standing there looking at me like it’s fucking impressive.”
The last word grinds out rough and bitter, scraping past clenched teeth as though saying it tastes like ash. He still hasn’t fully unwound since the moment he stopped the kick, like he hasn’t decided whether he’s more angry at you for stepping in or at himself for how close it came.
Sukuna lets go of your jaw sharply, fingers uncurling almost like the contact painfully scorches him, and he steps back immediately, creating space between you like it isn’t a choice but a necessity.
His palm drags roughly across his mouth, wiping away sweat or maybe just the taste of fury still lingering on his tongue. The heel of it presses briefly against his lips before sliding down, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscles tighten beneath the lines of his tattoos.
“Move,” he rasps, knowing exactly what his body is still capable of right now. It isn’t loud, but it leaves no room for hesitation or interpretation. “Go sit down. Somewhere far away from me.”
Something in the way he says it makes it clear this isn’t the right moment to argue or ask questions, making your body respond before your mind can question it. Whatever’s still running through him hasn’t settled or been forced back into the usual calm, controlled version of your boyfriend. You understand, without needing to be spelled out, that staying close would be a mistake, so you step back, crossing the mat until you reach the wall.
The moment you’re no longer in front of him, he picks up his gloves and pulls them on, and his attention snaps back to the bag. The adrenaline from the near-hit, still replaying behind his eyes in vivid, looping flashes, floods through him in waves. His shoulders twitch sharply, like something inside him is trying to tear its way out.
You lower yourself onto the bench at the edge of the mat, still feeling where his grip was, the pressure refusing to fade, and just watch him.
Sukuna turns, adjusts his stance, and unleashes.
The first strike lands with a deep, muffled thud that echoes through the warehouse, louder than anything before, and the bag jerks violently on its chain as his glove drives into it with no attempt to control the force behind it. He immediately follows with a right hook, left uppercut, and elbow smashing into the leather, then steps back and launches into a double backfist.
He pivots sharply on his lead foot, rotating his body and whipping his hand around, slamming the back of it into the bag with a harsh, bone-jarring crack. Then he spins in the opposite direction, returning to his stance, and, at the same time, lands a second backfist with the other hand, a heavy, snapping blow that halts the bag’s swing and sends a vibration rattling up the chain to the rafters.
From that point, each strike gets faster, heavier, uglier, and more brutal than the last.
There’s still skill in it, precision buried under the movement, but it’s no longer what leads him. There’s no pacing, no setup, no careful distance reading—just impact after impact as his body drives forward, fighting to completely exhaust what’s running through him. The rhythm is gone, and the control that defined his earlier movements goes with it, leaving only pure fury and a frantic, heavy-handed mauling.
His guard is shifting not out of habit but because his body demands it. It’s still in that state where everything is reacting instead of choosing. His breathing turns ragged and animalistic, no longer controlled, as he exhales harsh, guttural snarls through clenched teeth. Each inhale is sharp and quick, barely enough before the next strike follows.
He lunges in with a cross-hook-uppercut combination that doesn't just snap out; each strike is a full-body lurch, his shoulders bunching as he drives his gloves into the leather like he’s trying to punch a hole through to the other side. He doesn't reset. He pivots on a dime, his balance hitching as he throws a backfist that carries far too much momentum, the crack of the impact echoing like a gunshot.
Before the bag can swing away, Sukuna’s already launching his massive frame into the air for a tornado kick with a heavy rotation, leading with one knee to pull his body upward before his other leg whips around like a scythe, his shin slamming into the bag with a sickening, thunderous thud. There’s no grace in the landing; he hits the mat hard, his feet scuffing as he immediately throws himself back into the fray.
The bag lurches back, and he lunges into a scissor kick. Left leg strikes low against the leather, but before it can even peel away, he’s already airborne. He uses that brief point of contact to spring upward and switch his legs mid-air, then his right shin snaps into the bag with the force of a closing trap, striking the opposite side high up. The impact is loud, and he nearly stumbles as he lands, his breath coming in broken snarls.
He’s crowding the bag now, almost pressing his chest against it as he catches it in a clinch, holding it into a flurry of driving knees. Each strike is a jagged, desperate explosion, as Sukuna isn’t just hitting it anymore; he’s trying to punch straight through it.
At first, the sheer violence of it all steals your breath, his massive body moving with such unrestrained destruction, the ugly sounds he makes, and how the heavy bag recoils as if trying to escape him. Then you start to see the intentional brutality as he forces every bit of leftover adrenaline into the leather.
But this isn’t just anger. This is the nasty, grinding reality of him clawing control back, forcing it, trying to bleed out a rage that’s too big for his body to contain so that when he finally turns toward you again, he won’t still be a live wire.
Sukuna never knew how to come down gently. Fighting is the only language he trusts to quiet the storm inside, and now he’s speaking it in harsh, ugly sentences—punching until his arms ache and kicking until his thigh muscles tremble from holding nothing back.
That’s when you realise that what you saw before wasn’t just strength or skill, but control held tight, kept in check with effort, ready to break loose when it’s pushed too far.
The bag swings wide, but he doesn’t adjust smoothly this time; he forces it back, stepping in hard and closing the distance as his elbow slams into it to stop its motion, followed immediately by his knee driving upward. His foot hits the ground, and he pivots again, his hips turning into another kick that lands with a force reverberating through the chain above, metal clattering in protest.
Everything about him looks different, even though nothing has physically changed. The same broad shoulders, the same sweat-slicked skin, the same body built for power, but the sight of him no longer settles comfortably in your chest. There’s a new sharpness to him, an edge that isn’t contained anymore, that feels less like a workout and more like a frenzied dismantling.
He’s overextending, his shoulders bunching with frantic, desperate energy that makes his movements look jagged and broken. Every strike is followed by a harsh, wet gasp for air that he rips from his lungs, his chest heaving so hard it looks painful.
Then, he no longer resets his stance and starts firing kicks in rapid succession, over and over in a relentless, blurring cycle of his right shin slamming into the leather. The standing foot never lifts off the floor; it just grinds into the mat, his heel snapping out and whipping back just as quickly to set up the next kick.
The sound of heavy thuds echoes like gunshots through the warehouse. He’s swinging his entire body into every strike, his hips snapping with force that looks like it’s trying to tear the bag from its chains, his right arm flying forward and back, and sweat sprays from his hair with each rotation.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
There’s no pace to it, only desperate, driving speed that ignores the way his left leg is beginning to tremble or how his lungs are scraping for air.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Sometimes, he uses this exercise to check his progress by counting how many middle kicks he can do in half a minute. But this… this is carnage. He isn’t counting or timing himself. He’s just kicking until the room feels too thin to breathe and his muscles scream at him to stop, and then he kicks ten times harder.
He doesn’t look controlled anymore; he looks feral, like a beast spilling rage through every pore because anything less would make him shake, twitch, and snap at the wrong thing—and the only wrong thing here is you.
The rhythm becomes frantic, then ragged, slowly breaking apart as exhaustion finally creeps in. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. His strikes lose a fraction of their vicious snap; his breathing deepens into something closer to gasps. Thud. Thud. Yet, he doesn’t stop until the twitching in his shoulders eases, the fire in his veins calms, and he can trust himself enough to even think about crossing the room again.
The last kick lands harder than the rest, sending the bag swinging wide before the motion cuts off completely. Thud. That one is a heavy, exhausted collision that leaves his leg hanging against the leather for two seconds before it drops back to the mat without any attempt to follow through, as his body has decided all at once that it’s done.
The warehouse is suddenly, violently quiet, filled only with the erratic, metallic clanging of the chains and the sound of him finally allowing himself to go still where he stands.
For a moment, he just breathes. It’s rough at first, uneven, dragging in and out of him like his lungs are still trying to keep up with a pace that’s already gone, his chest rising sharply, shoulders tight, every part of him still carrying the echo of the movement he’d been forcing through himself seconds ago.
Then, slowly, he leans forward until his forehead presses hard against the worn leather of the heavy bag. His arms drape loosely around it, his crimson gloves hanging limp on the other side, wrists crossed, as he clings to it just to stay upright.
Sukuna’s a wreck of heaving lungs and trembling muscles. Sweat pours off him in sheets, dripping from the soaked tips of his pink hair, his chin, and the tip of his nose, tracing paths down the black ink across his pecs and abs before dropping onto the mat beneath him.
He stays like that, eyes closed, for a long time—minutes when the only thing moving is the frantic rise and fall of his tattooed back as his breathing calms, painfully slowly.
Eventually, after what feels like forever, he pushes off the bag and moves like his body is weighed down, crossing to the side to snatch a two-liter water bottle. He rips the cap off and tilts his head back, draining the entire thing in long, desperate gulps. Water spills from the corners of his mouth, runs down his chin, mixing with sweat as it follows the same paths down, but he doesn't seem to care.
When he lowers it, he exhales slowly through his nose, more controlled now, and grabs a towel. He drags it over his face, down the back of his neck, then through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead and scrubbing roughly until strands stand up in wet disarray. He throws it over his shoulder and just… stands there, giving the last of his rage one last minute to leave the room as his chest finally slows to a steady, heavy rhythm.
From the bench, you watch every second of it, your heart steadying in sync with his breathing, but not fully. When his eyes meet yours across the warehouse, hard and unnervingly steady, he doesn’t look quite like your boyfriend. And you know it because before he became yours, you knew him as the man who earns his living breaking people down to build them back up.
“Get up.”
It’s not a request. There’s no edge to it now, no sharpness like before, but no softness either. You rise without protest, and he simply points to the space in front of a different heavy bag that doesn’t hang over the wet mat.
Sukuna walks over, gesturing toward the bag with a tilt of his chin.
“Try.” His voice now echoes the coach from a few years ago, the one who just decided on a very difficult lesson. “Middle kick. Full force. Stop it right beside the bag. Freeze the momentum.”
This isn’t new to you; none of it is—neither the distance, the mechanics, nor the motion itself. You’ve thrown this kick hundreds of times under his watch, drilled it into muscle memory until it felt natural, reliable, and something you trust without thinking. You understand the basics better than most, so surely, stopping a kick you initiate can’t be that hard.
You take a breath and decide to try it without the bag first, kicking into empty air to feel the physics of the movement. Pivot, rotate the hips, and the leg slices upward and to the side. You tense your muscles to try to stop the strike, but the momentum is a relentless force you can’t bargain with, and… instead of stopping cleanly, your leg overshoots, dragging your body around in a clumsy circle until your foot lands heavily on the mat.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath.
“Again. Slow it down,” he commands, his voice flat.
You try once more: you pivot, throw your leg into the air, and tighten your core earlier this time, but there’s nothing for your muscles to grab onto. The momentum of your leg becomes a weight pulling you along, whether you want it to or not, forcing you to follow the motion, your standing foot slipping as you’re pulled into another awkward spin. You end up facing the opposite wall, your leg dropping heavily to the mat with a dull, frustrating sound.
Exhaling sharply through your nose, you reset your stance. This isn’t a rookie mistake; you know better. It’s just... not enough.
After dozens of tries, the air in the gym feels thicker, and your own sweat begins to sting your eyes. Sukuna decided you should move to the bag, hoping that having an actual, physical target in front of you—a reason to stop—might help anchor the movement.
“Don’t rush it.”
You focus intently on your standing foot, trying to mimic how his foot grinds into the mat every time, just like it did when he was doing the speed kicks earlier.
He’s right behind you now, his body radiating heat from damp skin. You breathe heavily, commit to the rotation, hips swinging open with force, and throw all your power into stopping it. Your core tenses in a painful, cramping effort, but it’s not enough, and momentum wins. Instead of freezing inches from the leather, your leg snaps forward, striking the heavy bag with a dull, disappointing thwack. You didn’t stop it—the bag did.
“Again. Don't let the bag catch you.”
Standing just out of range, with his arms crossed over his chest, he watches the alignment of your hips with the coach’s unforgiving eye. You take a ragged breath, the exhaustion pressing down on you, and quickly snap your shin toward the leather, trying to lock your thigh and tense just before contact. You can’t. The kinetic energy continues unimpeded, passing through your knee and smashing against the bag. Smack.
“You’re leaning too much.”
His tone holds no frustration or impatience, which somehow makes it worse, and you grit your teeth slightly before nodding once and stepping back into position. You understand what he means; you’ve heard it before in different contexts. But doing it here, at this speed, with this much force behind the movement, is something else entirely. It requires a physical contradiction: full commitment followed by an instant, complete restraint.
Your quads start to shake, and sweat beads on your brow make it hard to stay focused. Even as you try to snap the kick with everything you have left, biting the air to force the halt, your leg feels like a heavy weight flung from a catapult. There’s no stopping it. Your shin slams into the bag again, the impact vibrating through your bones and up to your hip.
“Again.”
You exhale through your nose, more irritated than anything else—not at him, but at your own body. This is something that should be within reach, a matter of technique and strength, yet it refuses to settle into a functional movement. You reset once more, slower and more deliberate, but it doesn’t make a difference.
Again.
And again.
Each attempt feels close enough to seem possible, but never close enough to actually hold on to the control.
“I can’t,” you breathe out, the words tasting like copper and defeat.
“One more.”
This time, you put every bit of remaining strength into the pivot. Your hips turn, your leg whips around, and you slow it down, more aware of the exact moment the motion needs to stop, tightening your core earlier, trying to anticipate it instead of chasing it.
For a split second, you think you have it—you feel the painful tension in your stomach as you try to control the movement. But the ‘stop’ is too violent for your body. Your standing ankle slightly twists under the force, and to keep from falling, you let the leg hit the bag with a loud thud, lacking the grace you saw from him earlier.
Your leg drops for the last time in frustration, your shin throbbing from where the leather rubbed it for the hundredth time, and you’re left leaning against the bag, your breath uneven now, chest rising and falling faster, the failure feeling heavier than you expected it to.
You can’t do it. Physics is against you—your body simply doesn’t have the brakes or the instantaneous strength to stop that kind of force, even if that force is entirely your own.
As you glance at Sukuna, he’s already watching you, the remnants of his earlier exertion etched onto his tired face. His hand reaches out, gripping your chin to lift your face, making sure you’re looking at him instead of the floor, the bag, or anywhere else. There’s no rage left in his eyes—only a cold, sharp clarity that makes your pulse falter.
“…Now you get it?” he asks, his voice husky and low, carrying a gravelly rasp. His thumb presses against your jaw, not roughly like earlier, but firmly, insistently, to keep your focus locked.
“You’ve watched me for years and thought stopping that was easy?” He exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh—more of a harsh, incredulous scoff at your expense. “It wasn’t. Every muscle in my body fought to keep you from becoming a stain on the mat.”
He leans in closer, and the strong, sharp smell of sweat, leather, and something uniquely his is almost overwhelming.
“That’s why you don’t pull shit like that again,” he says, his grip tightening for a brief, silent warning, his eyes narrowing, the crimson of his irises fading to slivers. “Because next time?”
He pauses, blinking a few times, as if trying to physically rid himself of the image of what might have happened. “I might not catch it in time.”
“I know,” you whisper, your voice catching slightly on the dryness in your throat, your lungs tight with guilt. “I know. That was stupid.”
“Stupid doesn’t cover it, woman,” he scoffs and holds your gaze a moment longer, the intensity of his stare burning into you before shaking his head slightly.
“You’re mistaking what I did for control.” His jaw tightens completely, the muscles bunching under his skin in hard knots. “I saw you just in time. If I didn’t, that kick lands. That’s luck.”
Sukuna spits the word like it’s poison, like something he’s spent his life never needing or trusting. He doesn't look away, but his eyes darken with hatred that luck had any part in it at all.
“I won’t always be this lucky.”
You swallow, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact with him even though it would be infinitely easier to look down and hide.
“I know, Kuna… I shouldn’t have come that close,” you exhale shakily, your voice barely above a breath, but you keep looking into his eyes. “I didn’t think about the follow-through... I didn’t think,” you repeat, shaking your head, trying to convince yourself as much as him, your breath catching harder. “…I didn’t think about what would’ve happened to you if that landed.”
Sukuna’s grip on your jaw flinches, and that tiny tremor gives him away. The thought of hurting you, of him failing to stop, pierces through him before his expression hardens into complete, unyielding refusal.
“No.” The word comes out low, almost shutting you down completely. His grip subtly adjusts on your jaw. “Don’t twist it. It’s not about me.” He exhales quietly through his nose, controlled, but you can still sense the weight behind it, and he leans down so that both of your eyes are on the same level. “You could’ve died.”
“I’m sorry!” you breathe out. “Okay? I’m sorry!”
The silence that follows is heavy, and he looks at you as if he’s still seeing the version of you that died in his mind earlier. Suddenly, the rigid, demanding distance he kept between you for the last two hours snaps, completely and utterly.
His palm slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling roughly in your damp hair as he hooks his other arm around your waist and hauls you against him. It’s not a soft hug by any means; it’s a desperate, grounding collision. He buries his face in your hair, his skin still radiating a feverish heat, while his heart pounds a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.
He needs this. He needs to feel the pulse in your throat against his fingers and the weight of your body in his arms to physically overwrite that one image. Because unleashing on the bag helped bleed out the fury at your stupidity and the terror of what he almost did, but it didn’t quiet the what-if. It didn’t stop the image of you lying broken on the mat from playing on a loop behind his eyes. Only this can stop it.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he mutters into your hair, his voice thick and raw. He holds you so tightly it’s hard to breathe, crushing you until the only sound in the gym is the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing against his. Finally, his large frame begins to lose the last, jagged pieces of that tension. “…Idiot.”
For a long time, he doesn’t move, and neither do you. The frantic heat radiating off his skin begins to even out, but the weight of him is still immense, like a solid, grounding pressure. You can feel the exact moment his muscles finally give up their fight; his forehead drops to rest heavily against yours, your noses brushing as he exhales a long, shuddering breath he’s been holding for hours.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
You hadn’t realized it until he said it. Your legs feel like water, but it’s not just from failing to stop those kicks. It’s the delayed rush of adrenaline from watching him go completely berserk earlier. You’ve seen him in the cage, going feral with a smirk, always the one in control of the carnage. But today, there was no smirk or taunting. Today, your recklessness had broken the one thing he trusted most: his own complete sense of control.
And you saw the hell he just put himself through to get it back. This wasn’t the typical, calculated violence of his matches; this was the single “almost” that was enough to turn his world upside down. He’d nearly torn his own muscles apart trying not to hurt you, physically shredding his own momentum to stop that kick, then beating himself into exhaustion against the bag just to make sure the rage didn’t spill into his hands.
He felt it the moment when his grip went too far, and the pressure crossed a line it shouldn’t have. That alone was enough to lock everything back into place instantly. He almost broke just to keep you safe.
You nod against his chest, and he shifts to hold you even tighter. You don’t need an apology for the lecture, and he isn’t offering one. But as he shields the back of your head with his hand, there’s a quiet acknowledgment of how much that what-if nearly destroyed him.
"I've got you," he murmurs, and it’s the only reassurance you need. "Just... stay still."
He stays exactly like that, anchored to you, using your steady heartbeat to finally drown out the image of the mat that the heavy bag couldn't erase.
notes:
first things first—the tornado kick sukuna did while he went berserk is basically what gojo did to miguel, just without that mid-air pause.
now for the important part: if you ever meet someone who knows how to kick, let this be your lesson—don’t get close when they’re training or fighting. ever. i’m not saying a kick like that will kill you every time, but if it lands wrong? it absolutely can.
and sukuna’s reaction here also comes from that. if reader had turned their head and that kick landed on the neck or the back of the head… those are not places you walk away from easily.
if i even try to picture taking a full-force kick to the head from my coach, who’s around 184cm… yeah. i’d be lucky if i woke up.
and if you watch ufc, k1, or muay thai, you know a single clean high kick or even something like a backfist can knock someone out instantly. and those are trained fighters, in the same weight class, who expect it. now imagine that kind of force outside of that context.
yeah, it’s hot when someone knows martial arts. it looks clean, controlled, almost like art. i could watch my coach for hours, because he’s bulky af and still moves like a fawn when he’s training, fr.
but it’s also violent. it’s a sport where you can clinch someone, pull their head down, and drive your knee into their face over and over. (though in k1, which is my main combat sport, you’re only allowed one knee per clinch)
in professional fights you have rules, you have a referee, so someone is there to stop it. but even then, there are plenty of cases where fighters keep hitting someone after they’re already out because the ref wasn’t fast enough.
now imagine there isn’t one. imagine strikes to the back of the head, the spine, the neck—all the things that are banned in professional fights for a reason. and that’s basically the reality of sukuna’s matches.
so yeah… this series is going to lean more into the hurt/angst side of things, the bad and the ugly of it—especially with the underground fighting scene.
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
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romaincrisis
