𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ you spend three years convinced your academic rival sukuna hates you back, only to find out he’s been hopelessly in love with you the entire time.
✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, secretly soft!sukuna, academic rivals to lovers, forced proximity (paired final project), sukuna wears glasses, miscommunication is the villain, competition as flirting, first kiss, oblivious idiots in love.
the thing about hating ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision.
you couldn't point to a specific day, a singular moment where you looked at him and thought, yes, this is it. this is the person i will dedicate a concerning amount of my emotional energy to despising. it just happened, the way moss creeps over stones or rust eats into metal — it happened slowly, quietly, and then all at once.
maybe it was because you were always neck-and-neck for the top of every class, your names sitting side by side on ranked assignment lists like they were married to each other against both of your wills. maybe it was because sukuna had this infuriating habit of leaning against your shared locker bank every morning, arms crossed, watching you approach with that half-lidded expression that managed to convey how utterly beneath him he found you without him having to say a single word. maybe it was because sukuna never let you win at anything — not group projects, not debate club, not even the stupid karaoke contest at utahime's birthday party last semester where he absolutely butchered a journey song and still somehow got a higher score than you.
whatever it was, the hatred was there. it lived in your chest like a second heartbeat, hot and familiar, something you could always count on when everything else felt uncertain.
you hated ryomen sukuna.
and you were pretty sure he hated you too.
this was simply the natural order of things, as stable and predictable as gravity — you walked into a room, sukuna was there, the air got thicker, you glared at each other, and the universe continued spinning.
it had been like this since freshman orientation when you accidentally took the last chocolate chip muffin from the dining hall cart and sukuna had been reaching for it at the exact same time; your fingers had brushed, and sukuna had looked at you like you'd personally insulted every single of his ancestors, and then he'd muttered something under his breath about how he 'should have known'.
from that day forward, you were locked in.
so when your professor announced the paired final project for advanced literary theory — a fifteen-page analysis of narrative unreliability that would make up forty percent of your grade — and then proceeded to assign partners alphabetically, you felt the universe's cosmic joke land squarely on your shoulders.
"aizawa is with burnham, carlson is with davis... nakamura is with park, and (l/n) is with sukuna."
the room didn't go silent, but you wouldn't have heard it if it had. all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears as you turned your head, slow and dreadful, like a defendant watching the jury file back in.
sukuna was already looking at you.
he sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like he'd been poured into it, all sharp angles and lazy menace. his pink hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that made you want to push it out of his face just so you could see him scowl more clearly. his jaw was set, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes — those stupid, arresting eyes that shifted color depending on the light, red one moment and almost brown the next — were fixed on you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
you glared at him.
sukuna raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to be annoyed with you.
"great," you muttered, slumping in your seat. "just great."
the thing you didn't know — the thing you couldn't know, because nobody tells you these things, because love doesn't announce itself with trumpets and flashing signs — was that ryomen sukuna had been in love with you for three years, two months, and approximately eleven days.
it had started with the muffin.
not because of the muffin, exactly, but because of the way you'd looked at him when your fingers touched. everyone else in the dining hall flinched away from sukuna — he knew how he came across, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who looked like they'd bite if you got too close. but you hadn't flinched. you'd looked at him, and there had been something in your expression that wasn't fear or deference or any of the other things he was used to seeing.
you'd simply looked at him like… he was just some guy who wanted a muffin.
and then you'd taken it anyway, which was either deeply stupid or deeply brave, and sukuna hadn't been able to decide which, but he'd known, suddenly and completely, that he needed to figure it out.
so he'd started showing up at your locker, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because sukuna wanted to see if you'd look at him like that again. he'd started competing with you for grades not because he wanted to beat you but because sukuna wanted you to notice how hard he was willing to try, how he sharpened himself against you like a blade against a whetstone. he'd challenged you to the karaoke contest because you'd laughed at something utahime said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled your nose — and sukuna had wanted to be the reason you made that sound, even if it was because he was singing badly on purpose.
none of it had worked the way he wanted.
somewhere along the way, the wires had gotten crossed so completely that sukuna didn't even know how the hell to untangle them anymore; his attention had curdled into something you perceived as hostility. his proximity had become a threat instead of a hope.
and ryomen sukuna, who had never been good at explaining himself, who had spent his whole life building walls instead of bridges, had no idea how to tell you that every time you glared at him, he felt like he was swallowing glass.
so he didn't tell you.
sukuna just kept showing up, he just kept competing, he just kept finding reasons to be near you, and let you believe whatever you wanted to believe.
it was easier that way. really, it was easier than admitting that he thought about you constantly, that he had a folder on his phone full of screenshots of your discussion board posts because he liked the way you structured arguments, that he'd memorized your coffee order from watching you get it so many times (oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top, which was objectively an incorrect way to drink coffee but he loved that about you anyway).
it was easier than saying; i don't hate you. i never have. i think i would burn the world down if you asked me to, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.
so when professor okamoto announced your pairing, sukuna's heart did something violent in his chest, and he had to physically stop himself from smiling. he raised one eyebrow instead, giving you his most unreadable look, and watched your face crumple with displeasure.
god, you were beautiful when you were annoyed.
yeah… sukuna was so, so fucked.
you agreed to meet in the library on tuesday afternoon, mostly because you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. the sooner you started, the sooner you'd be done, and the sooner you could go back to pretending ryomen sukuna didn't exist at all.
he was already there when you arrived.
this was infuriating because you were fifteen minutes early, specifically to avoid this exact scenario — walking in to find him already settled, already comfortable, already looking like he belonged in a way that made you feel like an intruder in your own study space.
sukuna had claimed the corner table by the window, the good one with the natural light and the extra outlets, and he was bent over a laptop with his reading glasses on.
you stopped dead.
sukuna wore glasses.
you had never seen this before, you had no idea sukuna even needed them, and the sight of them — wire frames, simple and unexpectedly kind against the boy’s sharp face — made something in your chest do a strange little flip.
he looked way softer like this, less intimidating, and you hated that you noticed. you hated that you noticed that the sleeves of sukuna’s sweater were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the lean lines of his forearms. you hated that you noticed the way his hair fell when he was concentrating, how he kept pushing it back with an absent hand.
you hated that you noticed anything about him at all.
"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up.
you bristled.
"i'm not staring. i'm assessing the enemy's territory."
now sukuna looked up, and the glasses made him seem almost approachable for half a second before his expression settled into its usual mask of mild disdain.
"the library is not enemy territory. it's simply a library. with books. which we both really need for this project we're both required to complete."
"don't sound so excited about it."
"i'm not excited about anything involving you."
that stung more than you wanted it to.
you told yourself it was because you were proud, because you hated being dismissed, because sukuna's opinion shouldn't matter to you but it did, it always had, in the same way a splinter mattered — small and sharp and impossible to ignore.
you dropped your bag on the table with more force than necessary and sat down across from him, pulling out your laptop and notebook and pens with aggressive efficiency.
"let's just get this over with."
"eager to escape my company?"
"desperately."
something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast you couldn't name it. he looked back at his screen.
"okamoto wants us to focus on unreliable narration in gothic literature. i've pulled some secondary sources. there's a reading list in the shared document i started."
"you started a shared document already?"
"i'm not an idiot."
"i never said you were."
"you were thinking it."
you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he wasn't wrong, and also because there was something in his tone that didn't sound like his usual condescension. it sounded almost... tired. like he was exhausted by this dance you two did, even though he was the one who kept leading.
the silence stretched between you, strange and unfamiliar.
you'd never spent this much time alone with sukuna before; your interactions were always in crowded hallways or full classrooms, always brief and barbed, always with an audience. now it was just the two of you and the soft sounds of the library — pages turning, keyboards clicking, someone's phone buzzing somewhere in the stacks.
you could smell his cologne; something woodsy and warm, nothing like the sharp, cold scent you'd imagined he'd wear. it made him seem closer than he actually was.
"so," you said, because you had to say something, "gothic literature. fun."
sukuna looked at you over the top of his glasses.
"is that a genuine statement or are you being sarcastic?"
"do i ever not sound sarcastic?"
"no," sukuna said, and then, quieter, "i know."
you didn't know what that meant, and you didn't ask.
the first week of working together was exactly as miserable as you'd expected.
you disagreed about everything — thesis statements, source selection, whether or not to use first-person in the analysis, the correct way to cite a multi-volume work.
sukuna was methodical to the point of obsession, wanting to outline every paragraph before writing a single word, while you preferred to write freely and shape the chaos into something structured later. he thought your approach was inefficient. you thought his approach was suffocating.
"you can't just write without knowing where you're going," he said on thursday, staring at your laptop screen like it had personally offended him. "that's how you end up with a directionless argument."
"it's not directionless, it's exploratory. there's a difference."
"there isn't."
"there is if you have any imagination at all."
sukuna’s jaw tightened. "i have imagination."
"huh. could've fooled me."
the words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw something shutter behind sukuna’s eyes. he looked away first, which he never did, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully, deliberately flat.
"just write the outline. we can argue about methodology later."
you wanted to push. you wanted to know why he looked like you'd actually hurt his feelings, which was ridiculous because ryomen sukuna didn't have feelings, not ones that could be hurt by the likes of you. but something about the set of his shoulders stopped you, something about the way he'd gone very still, like he was bracing for impact.
so you wrote the outline.
and sukuna was right, which made it worse.
by the end of the second week, something had shifted.
you couldn't point to exactly when the hell it happened, but somewhere between arguing about the reliability of jane eyre's narration and debating whether rochester was a gothic hero or just a guy with too many secrets, the edges of your interactions had started to soften.
you still bickered constantly, but it felt less like warfare and more like... a game. a familiar rhythm you'd both fallen into without meaning to.
sukuna started bringing you coffee.
not every day, and not in an obvious way either; he'd just show up to your library sessions with two cups from the campus cafe, one black for himself and one that smelled like cinnamon and oat milk, and he'd set yours on your side of the table without a single comment.
the first time it happened, you stared at the cup like it might explode at any moment;
"what is this?"
"coffee. it's a beverage. people drink it to stay awake when they're doing academic work."
"i know what coffee is. i meant—why did you get me one?"
sukuna shrugged, not meeting your eyes. "you always look like you haven't slept. figured you needed it."
it was such a strangely considerate thing to say, so unlike the person you thought you knew, that you didn't know how to respond. you just wrapped your hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into your palms, watching sukuna over the rim as he settled into his chair and opened his laptop like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
the coffee was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
you didn't think about what that meant.
you definitely didn't think about how sukuna would have had to pay attention to know your order, how sukuna would have had to remember, how sukuna would have had to deliberately choose to get it for you even though you'd never asked and never thanked him properly.
you just drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way your heart was beating.
on the third week, you caught sukuna staring at you.
not the usual staring — the kind where he was waiting for you to finish a thought or watching your face for a reaction during an argument. this was different; this was soft, this was the way people looked at things they wanted to keep.
you'd been reading a passage from wuthering heights aloud, doing the voices for the different characters because you were a huge nerd and because it made sukuna's lip twitch in a way that was almost — almost — a smile. you were in the middle of heathcliff's "i cannot live without my soul" speech, and you'd gotten dramatic with it, leaning forward with your hand pressed to your chest, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, sukuna was just... looking at you.
not at the book, not at the table, but at you.
sukuna’s expression was naked in a way you'd never seen before. all the usual armor was completely gone — the sneer, the boredom, the casual cruelty he wielded like a shield.
instead he looked almost... awed. like you'd done something miraculous just by existing in his general vicinity.
your voice caught in your throat.
"sukuna?"
he blinked, and the mask slammed back into place so fast you almost believed you'd imagined the moment before.
"what?"
"you were staring."
"no, i was just listening."
"you looked—"
you stopped, not sure what you'd been about to say. you looked like you loved me, maybe, but that couldn't be right because ryomen sukuna didn't love anything, certainly not you, certainly not like that.
"you looked weird."
"i always look weird."
"you don't," you said, before you could stop yourself. "you look, you know, normal? i mean, not weird. usually."
sukuna's eyebrows went up.
for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the library's heating system kicked on with a low rumble, and somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly, and you were acutely aware of every single inch of space between you, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch sukuna’s hand, of how badly you wanted to.
you didn't. of course you didn't. but you wanted to, and that was new, and that was terrifying.
"finish the passage," sukuna said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "you were at 'i cannot live without my soul'."
you looked down at the book, at heathcliff's desperate words, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.
"right. yeah. okay."
you finished the passage, but you couldn't look at sukuna while you did it.
the confession happened on a thursday, and it happened because of a paper cut.
you were both hunched over a stack of printouts, cross-referencing quotes, and you were tired — the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too much caffeine and the slow, creeping realization that you didn't actually hate the person sitting across from you, that maybe you'd never hated him at all, that maybe you'd been wrong about everything for three entire years.
you reached for a page at the same time sukuna did, your fingers brushing against his, and you both froze.
his hands were warm.
you'd expected them to be cold, because everything about sukuna seemed cold, but no, they weren't. his hands were warm and broad and surprisingly gentle when he pulled back like you'd burned him.
"sorry," you said, and meant it.
"don't be sorry for touching me," sukuna said, and his voice was strange, tight, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "i don't—i don't mind."
you looked at him.
really looked, the way you hadn't let yourself look in years; his hair was messy from running his hands through it, his glasses were slightly crooked, and there was a tension in his jaw that you'd always read as anger but now seemed like something else entirely. something held back, something waiting.
"you always mind," you said quietly. "you always mind when i'm near you."
sukuna's breath caught, and you saw it, the way his chest stopped moving for just a second, the way his fingers curled into fists on the table.
"is that what you think?" he asked. "that i mind?"
"you act like you do. you've always acted like—"
"i know how i act." sukuna cut you off, and there was something raw in his voice now, something that made your stomach drop. "i know exactly how i act. do you think i don't know? do you think i haven't noticed that you flinch every time i walk into a room, that you tense up when i stand too close, that you look at me like i'm something you stepped in?"
you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
"i know," he continued, and now he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking at the table, at his hands, at anything but your face. "i know you hate me. i've known for years. and i don't—i don't blame you. i'm not good at this. i'm not good at people. i don't know how to be anything other than what i am, and what i am is someone who makes you uncomfortable, apparently, which was never—"
his voice actually cracked, and you felt something splinter inside your chest.
"that was never what i wanted."
"sukuna—"
"just let me finish."
sukuna pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was muffled.
"i need to say this. i've been trying to say this for three whole years, and i just keep messing it up, and i don't care if you hate me after, i just really need you to know so i can stop—so i can stop pretending—"
he dropped his hands and looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bright, and all the air left your lungs.
"i don't hate you," sukuna said. "i have never hated you. not once. not even when you took the last muffin at orientation, which was a crime against humanity and i'm still not over it. not when you argued with me about romantic poetry in sophomore lit. not when you told professor tanaka that my interpretation of frankenstein was 'reductive and borderline misogynistic', which, for the record, it wasn't. i don't hate you. i've never hated you. i—"
sukuna stopped, swallowed, and looked at you like you were the scariest thing he'd ever seen.
"i love you," he said, and the words came out small, almost bewildered, like he was discovering the truth of them in real time. "i love you so much it's embarrassing. i love your laugh and the way you argue and how you do the voices when you read out loud even though you think nobody notices. i love that you're competitive and stubborn and terrible at asking for help and you always push your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. i love that you took that muffin even though you knew i wanted it because you don't back down from anything, including me, especially me, and i—"
his voice broke again, and he laughed, a short, helpless sound.
"i've been in love with you since freshman orientation. i've been in love with you for three years, and i've been so busy trying to get your attention that i didn't notice i was just making you hate me. and that's—that's on me. that's entirely on me. but i needed you to know. before we finish this project and you never have to talk to me again. i needed you to know that none of it was hate. not on my side. it was never hate."
the library was silent.
you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your hands, every part of you that had suddenly come alive.
sukuna was looking at you like a man awaiting execution, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands shaking slightly where they rested on the table.
you thought about three years of mornings at your locker. three years of competitive grading. three years of him finding reasons to be in your orbit, even when you made it clear he wasn't welcome at all.
you thought about the coffee, the glasses, the way he knew your reading voice and your coffee order and the fact that you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were thinking.
you thought about how you'd actually never hated him either; at least, not the way real hatred felt cold and dead. your feelings for sukuna had always been hot, always been alive, always been demanding your attention when you wanted to focus on anything else.
you thought about the muffin.
"you're an idiot," you said.
sukuna blinked. "what?"
"you're an idiot," you repeated, and your voice was shaking, and you couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across your face, wide and disbelieving and probably ridiculous. "three years. three years of fighting over grades and arguing about literature and competing in karaoke contests, and the whole time you were just trying to get me to look at you?"
"to be fair, it worked. you looked at me constantly. just—not in the way i wanted."
"because i thought you hated me!"
"yeah, i know! i realize that! i'm aware that my communication skills are—"
"abysmal?"
"i was going to say 'deeply flawed', but yes, abysmal works."
you laughed.
you couldn't help it; it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been wound too tight for too long, and suddenly you were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down your face, and sukuna was staring at you like you'd lost your mind, which honestly you might have.
"i don't hate you either," you managed, between gasps. "i never hated you. i thought i did, but i don't think i know what hatred feels like anymore because every time i tried to hate you, i just—i just kept noticing things. like the way you tap your fingers when you're reading. and how you always hold the door for people even though you pretend not to. and you helped that freshman find their classroom last week even though you were late to your own class. and you look at me like—"
you stopped, swallowed, and looked at him.
"you look at me like i matter," you said softly. "and i didn't know what to do with that, so i called it hatred. because it was easier than admitting that maybe i wanted you to look at me forever."
sukuna made a sound, something wounded and hopeful all at once, and then he was moving — not dramatically, not the way they do in movies, but slowly, carefully, like the boy was approaching something that might spook.
he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers sliding between yours, and you both looked down at where you were connected like it was the most incredible thing either of you had ever seen.
"so," sukuna said, and his voice was unsteady, "just to be clear. we both wasted three years being convinced the other person hated them, when actually—"
"when actually you have the emotional intelligence of a brick and i'm apparently blind."
"i was going to say we're both complete idiots, but yes, that's also very accurate."
you squeezed sukuna’s hand, and he squeezed back, and the smile he gave you was nothing like the ones you'd seen before; this one was real, this one reached his eyes, softened all his sharp edges, and made him look so sweet and so hopeful and so terrifyingly beautiful.
"what now?" you asked.
sukuna looked at your joined hands, then at your face, then back at your hands.
"well. i have a fifteen-page paper due in two weeks, and my partner is very distracting."
"your partner is sitting right here."
"i know." sukuna lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, feather-light, his eyes never leaving yours. "trust me. i know."
you spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, but you didn't get any work done.
you talked instead — really talked, for the first time in three years. you told him about the muffin, how you'd only taken it because you'd seen him reach for it and wanted an excuse to touch his hand, how you'd spent the rest of the day convinced you'd imagined the whole thing. he told you about the karaoke contest, how he'd picked journey specifically because he'd overheard you say it was your guilty pleasure, how he'd sung badly on purpose because he wanted to see you smile.
"i can't believe you can actually sing," you said, propping your chin on your hand. "and all this time i thought you were just terrible at music."
"i have many hidden talents."
"like secretly being in love with me for three years?"
sukuna’s ears went pink.
"that's not a talent. that's a crisis."
you reached across the table and touched his face, just because you could now, just because he was yours to touch. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, and he closed his eyes when you traced the line of his jaw, leaning into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.
"i'm sorry," you said quietly. "for all the times i was mean to you. for assuming the worst."
"don't be." sukuna turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "you gave as good as you got. it's one of the things i like about you."
"one of the things?"
sukuna slowly opened his eyes, and the look in them made your chest ache.
"i could give you a long list. it would take a while. we might need to order dinner."
"we're still in the library."
"the library has a cafe."
you laughed, and he smiled, and when he kissed you for the first time — soft and slow and a little awkward, both of you smiling too much to do it properly — you tasted coffee and cinnamon and something that felt like coming home.
the thing about loving ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision either.
it just happened — it happened the way spring follows winter, the way flowers naturally turn toward the sun, the way your hand found his under the library table and held on like you'd been doing it your whole life.
But you don't want me to see nobody else. And I don't want you to see nobody.
𝄞 pre-relationship texts with KATSUKI BAKUGOU
𝄞 contains: a whole lotta swearing, reader is in the bakusquad friendgroup, fem!reader, setting is as UA students, slowburn, subtle cues, yes hes ur annoying homeboy, mentions of denki, kirishima, mina, sero, and mitsuki, kirimina and kamijirou mentions, denki STAYS catching strays
𝄞 A/N: this is my first mha post! ik ive js been writing blue lock but i decided to expand my horizons since i recently started watching MHA and im in LOVE. this is very much inspired by @zmbkats's pre-rls texts w bakugou! your post has changed lives.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ shygirl!reader getting her first tattoo with tattooartist!sukuna
cw: none. just sukuna being soft ᢉ𐭩 art by @_avecot on x
You’re in a tattoo shop for your first one—two little butterflies on your left wrist. Something easy and simple, yet you can't help the nervous flutter in your chest as you sit in the corner waiting for your turn.
A guy with pink hair sits behind the reception desk; he looks a few years younger than you, a cheeky smile plastered on his face as he calls out your number. “Yuji” is written on his name tag.
“Door’s to the left, just straight down. Your guy’s waiting for you now.”
Fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, you stand up and nod. You grab your purse, slipping it over your shoulder with a quiet, “Thanks.” Following Yuji’s instructions, you open the door to the left.
A massive figure is sitting in the tattoo chair prepping his equipment. He must sense you because he turns around and looks straight at you, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Hey,” he says, standing up.
He’s easily 6’5” with the same pink hair as the guy at the reception desk. Tattoos crawl up his forearms from under his black sweatshirt, and even his face is inked.
Oh God.
He’s hot.
You manage a quiet “Hi,” but his attractiveness does absolutely nothing for your nerves—if anything, it makes them worse.
He gestures to the chair. “This way, please.”
You sit, feeling small as he follows behind you and pulls his own stool over. He pauses, glancing at the way he’s practically hunched over you.
“You mind if I adjust your chair?”
You blink before realizing why. “Oh—not at all!”
The smirk spreads into a satisfied smile.
“Atta girl.”
His face pulls closer to yours as he reaches down to adjust the lever. His forearm grazes your calf, and a shiver runs up your spine before you can stop it. Goosebumps bloom across your skin.
He adjusts the height until you’re eye-to-eye with him.
“That’s more like it.”
He pulls back to his workstation, his knees brushing yours in the process. Then he reaches out, his large, gloved hand gently taking your smaller one.
“What are we workin’ with here?”
His grip is firm, but careful. Like he’s already decided you’re something to handle gently.
“Just two little butterflies.” You pull out your phone, unlocking it to show him the reference.
He studies the screen for a few seconds before nodding. “Got it.”
He doesn’t let go of your hand.
Instead, he reaches for his stencil paper and a small bottle of transfer gel, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your wrist. His eyes flick back up to your face, catching the way you’re watching him.
He smirks again.
“Do I need to get you a lollipop?”
Heat rushes to your cheeks as you look at him, almost glaring. He lifts a brow, amused.
“Just kidding.”
He traces the spot where the ink will go, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I got you.”
Biting your bottom lip, you give a small nod. “Will it hurt a lot?”
He starts to set up, snapping a needle cartridge into the machine and pouring a few drops of black ink into a small cup. His movements are practiced and steady.
“It’ll sting,” he says, glancing at you. “But it’s nothing you can’t handle.”
You sit still.
“It’ll be over before you know it. Trust me.”
He pushes back the sleeve of your cardigan to expose more of your skin, his thumb lingering against your arm.
Then, the low buzz of the machine starts.
You flinch at the first sharp touch of the needle, your breath catching—
“Easy,” he mumbles immediately.
His hand tightens around your wrist, anchoring you in place. The pain is sharp at first—a hot, scratching sensation. But it isn’t so bad.
Or maybe it’s just him.
Sukuna.
The name you just read from his tag—is the one handling you? His movements are definitely slower and more gentle than you expected.
“Who does your tattoos?” you ask suddenly, hoping the conversation might distract you.
He doesn’t look up from his work, his expression relaxed and focused. He moves with the kind of ease that only comes from years of experience.
“My buddy Toji does ’em sometimes,” he says. “Especially the parts I can’t reach. But most of the time? It’s me.”
You nod. “You’re probably so used to the pain… considering you have them all over.”
Why the hell are you talking? And when did you get so bold?
He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess I am.”
Moving onto the second butterfly, he switches to a smaller needle grouping for the fine details of the wings. His hand still holding your wrist firmly against the armrest to keep you grounded as the needle hits the sensitive skin near your pulse.
When you tense, just slightly—
He notices.
His movements slow again.
Finally, the buzzing stops. He wipes away the last of the excess ink and green soap, the cool liquid a relief against your skin.
“There,” he leans back, studying his work.
“But you should definitely come to me, not him.” His gaze flicks up to yours. “Alright?”
You look down at your wrist. Two perfect, delicate butterflies stare back at you, the lines crisp and clean, exactly what you wanted.
“They’re... they’re perfect,” you whisper, your heart doing a little flip when he doesn't immediately let go of your hand. "Thank you."
He winks at you.
Winks.
“I told you I got you, didn’t I?”
After a few minutes, you make your way outside his tattoo corner to settle the payment with Yuji.
Not long after, Sukuna’s door opens and he emerges, leaning casually against the counter right next to you.
“Consider it free, Yuji.”
Your eyes widen, and so do Yuji’s.
“Oh, no. It’s not fair—” you start, but you're quickly cut off.
He lazily smiles at you. “It’s just two little butterflies. I barely moved.”
You blink at him. “You spent over thirty minutes working on these.”
“Or,” he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head, eyes fixed on you, “we can just grab coffee as your payment.”
A beat.
“That okay?”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips.
It’s just coffee.
Right?
You tuck your wallet back into your purse. “Seems like a good idea.”
His grin widens.
“That’s my girl.”
He follows you toward the exit, reaching past you to hold the door open. As you step out, he slips a card from his pocket and hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours.
“I’ll call you, aight?”
You take it, still smiling. “’Kay.”
“That’s the first time he’s ever done that.”
The door swings shut behind you, but you still catch the voice from inside—low, amused. A dark-haired man leans against the wall. Toji, probably.
“Does this mean I can get my first tattoo for free?” Yuji pipes up.
Sukuna pauses, giving Yuji a sharp glare. “Not until you’re eighteen, kid.” He reaches out and pats Yuji’s shoulder. “Try to be as fuckin’ cute as her, though. But I highly doubt it, buddy.”
soft sukuna just makes me giggle every time ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵)
sukuna gets hit on while you’re busy befriending a stray cat
There’s a cat sitting on a low wall, regarding the world like royalty, bored out of their mind with all their subjects. You stop walking without warning and immediately crouch down, feeling the leather strap of your bag slide off your shoulder, but you don’t care because your attention gets completely rerouted, like the rest of the world has ceased to exist, and you have absolutely nowhere else to be.
It’s a mottled grey tabby, broad, looks elderly and deeply unimpressed with the entire concept of the universe. But somehow, it has decided you are an acceptable company, and you take it very seriously.
Sukuna stands a few steps away with his hands loosely in his pockets, already resigned to the fact that this is just who you are. You see a cat, and you stop functioning.
He can’t help but watch you with a mix of exasperation and a bit of amusement that’s almost close to fondness, mostly because you look so stupidly happy, and that tends to completely override anything else he might think about your sudden, public abandonment of him.
You’re absolutely thrilled when the cat, after a moment of intense, green-eyed staring, allows you to gently extend a finger and touch it. You instantly start a non-stop, ridiculous stream of mushy nonsense, completely forgetting you're technically in public. When it headbutts your hand with surprising force, you burst out laughing, like this might be the best moment of your day. In fact, it probably is, judging by the bright smile on your face.
This is, of course, the exact moment when a stunning woman decides that today is her day, and Sukuna is the ultimate jackpot. Her eyes quickly scan his physique, the imposing height and the lines of his tattoos, like she’s already mentally rearranging her life to make him the centrepiece of her life.
Clearly, she likes what she sees, and misinterpreting his relaxed, nonchalant posture as availability, she saunters up to him with a bold confidence that’s kinda admirable because it takes guts, but in this specific situation, it’s deeply, deeply misguided.
“Well, hello, handsome,” she practically purrs, tilting her head smoothly like she’s already got him. “You look far too interesting to be standing here by yourself.”
Sukuna doesn’t even glance at her, keeping his eyes glued to you crouching on the pavement, scratching a grumpy-looking stray cat behind the ear like it’s your actual job. Your shoulders shake when you start giggling again, and he just watches the curve of your cheek and the shape of your smile, not offering the woman even the slightest bit of his attention.
"Hey," she tries again, moving closer and smiling at him brightly, but it’s obvious she’s surprised by his silence. “You’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you?”
“Not interested,” he responds bluntly, sounding more bored than anything else. He wouldn’t have bothered answering at all if she hadn’t crossed that invisible line and stepped directly into his space.
Then, as her perfectly sculpted brows lift in offence, Sukuna finally grants her the smallest fraction of his attention. He gives her a brief and unimpressed glance, a look he usually reserves for minor inconveniences.
Instead of pointing or turning fully toward her, he merely tips his chin toward the space past her shoulder, as though even the effort of gesturing properly would be giving her too much.
“That one’s mine.”
The woman turns, and what she finds is not what she was expecting.
Her eyes land on you, crouched in an oversized, slightly faded hoodie, with messy hair from the wind and your bag nearly dropping on the dirty pavement, completely oblivious to what’s happening. She watches you for a few seconds, and then she scoffs with open, patronising judgment.
“Really?” she asks in blatant disbelief. “You could do so much better.”
He lets out a slow, almost audibly patient breath, like he’s about to explain that fire is hot to a remarkably slow child.
“I already have.”
The woman stiffens, caught off guard by such a sudden, harsh, and frankly crushing rejection. She opens her mouth again, glancing back at you, and her lips tighten right before she’s about to make a biting comment about your clothes, your slightly awkward posture, or the foolishness of softly cooing at a stray cat without a care in the world.
“Careful,” Sukuna says in a deceptively light tone, slightly lowering his head, while his eyes are dead serious. Even with his hands still in his pockets, his posture signals that if she makes one more insulting remark about you, it won't end merely with her wounded pride. “You’re already leaving.”
That gets through. She mumbles something low and unintelligible under her breath, walking away quickly as her bruised dignity scrambles to catch up with her retreat.
Sukuna turns his full attention back to you, because as far as he’s concerned, the entire interaction is already finished and irrelevant.
You stand up a moment later, dusting off your hands as you hurry over to him, beaming like you have genuinely discovered the meaning of life.
“You saw that cat?!” you ask, full of excitement, grabbing his arm. “He let me pet him!”
“I noticed,” he replies in a tone notably softer than it had been a moment ago.
You look up at him, tilting your head, and your smile slowly turns suspicious. “You look smug.”
“I am,” he confirms effortlessly, and the corners of his mouth curve slightly into a smirk.
You narrow your eyes at him. “And why is that?”
“Because,” he answers, grabbing the sleeve of your hoodie and pulling you firmly against his side, “you’re busy befriending a stray, and the universe keeps trying to hit on me.”
You snort, and a joyful laugh breaks through as you slide your hand into his, lacing your fingers together.
“How rude of it,” you comment, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“Terribly.”
“So... got her name?” you ask playfully, knowing the answer already.
“No.” His voice drops to a low, husky rumble as he rolls his eyes at your teasing. “Didn’t care.”
“Good.”
You start walking, immediately launching into a detailed monologue about how the cat definitely needs a name, some warm milk, and maybe some basic medical check-up. Sukuna walks beside you, gently rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb and listening to your enthusiastic chatter as if it was the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard in his life.
» maturity and age are not always the same, but sometimes they are.«
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TAGS: angst, hurt/comfort, suna x reader based on taylor swift's "all too well (10 minute version), age gap (5 years), happy ending
a/n: thank you so @tetsurousharlot for commissioning this fic!!! this hurt my heart so bad to write, but it was truly so wonderful <3
[commission honee here!]
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Things weren't supposed to end this way. They weren't supposed to end at all. But he wasn't what you expected.
—
TEN MONTHS AGO
"And here we have Suna Rintarou of EJP Raijin — Tell us, Suna, how you think you played today."
You watch him with wide eyes, hands gripping tight onto the barricade around the court. You can't believe that's him. That's him.
Suna Rintarou, EJP Raijin, #7, Middle Blocker.
The man whose career you'd followed with razor sharp focus since his performance on Japan's national team. Standing less than ten feet from you, being interviewed.
"Ah, yeah, I mean, it wasn't my worst game-"
"You scored five points all by yourself-"
He laughs, the sound running down your spine, and then he runs his fingers through his hair, a smirk decorating those perfect features. "I feel like we said the same thing."
You laugh, endeared by that arrogant personality he gives off in every interview.
His eyes flash to yours at the sound.
It freezes you in your spot. You don't know what to do.
His eyes flick down to your shirt, EJP gold and black, and you can only let him. You won't realize it until later, but these tournaments made up of dozens of teams means that seeing EJP fans is kind of rare for him.
He smirks, and you can't tell if it's for you or the interviewer, because his eyes are snapping back to the man in front of him.
You stand there for the whole interview, wondering if you can ask him to sign your shirt or if that's not allowed. Wondering if he's actually glancing at you regularly or if you're just hoping he is.
When he finally says goodbye, he drops his towel over his head and scrubs the sweat away, his feet carrying him right past you. You open your mouth, starting to let out a quiet 'excuse me-', but he's already gone. He disappears around the corner of the barricade and through the door, just to your left.
You deflate, sighing under your breath, trying not to be disappointed. Trying to refocus on the rest of the EJP players, scattered around the court doing interviews. Wondering if you might get another chance.
"Nice jersey."
You turn over your shoulder, that voice all too familiar.
He's definitely looking at you this time.
Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Finally snaps shut. He watches it happen, eyes trained on your mouth and his own lips curling with amusement.
"Hi." It's all you can get out. You feel like an idiot.
He tilts his head. "Hi." Your feet are glued to the ground, but he changes that with just a few words, his power over you enormous. "You gonna keep standing all the way over there?"
You wobble over to him, only separated by the metal bars between you. He's much taller than you'd expected, your neck craning back just so you can meet his gaze.
"Can I," you start, swallowing hard. His eyes flick to your throat, watching, and then come back. "You played amazing today."
His grin this time is real, and you only know it because he looks away, his laugh breathy and surprised. "Thanks. I didn't expect any fans. People mostly watch for Komori."
It registers to you then that the back of your shirt has his name and number on it. You purse your lips.
"Did you wait to say hi until you could see whose jersey this was?" It's bold, but the reward is immediate, his gaze playful and his grin tugging higher.
"Of course I did. What if it wasn't me you were here for?"
"Why would anyone be here for anyone else?"
You hadn't meant to say that.
He looks like he just won a game you didn't realize you were playing. "You're really something." You hope that's a good thing. "You got a name?"
He watches your mouth when you say it. You watch his when he does, too, the syllables of your name stacked just right on his tongue. You don't think you've ever liked your name this much.
"You were gonna ask me something earlier," he says, the depth of his voice painfully distracting. "What was it?"
"Uh-I-" You blink stupidly. "Uh-my jersey-"
"My jersey," he corrects gently, flashing a toothy grin when you visibly warm and look away.
"Can I get it signed?"
"Hmm… I dunno." When your eyes betray the confusion you're feeling, he just nods down at the phone that's been in your hand this whole time. "Can I get your number?"
"My… number?" When he just stares, eyebrows raised expectantly, you nod. "My number. Yes." And then much stronger, more certain. "Yes-Of course. Yes."
You hand your phone over, your hands shaking, and have to keep from burning through your own skin when his fingers brush over yours.
"Got a marker?" he asks, typing in his number and then calling his own phone. You give him the one from your pocket, and he gestures for you to turn around after he gives your phone back. He places one hand — gentle but firm, warm from his game — on your arm to keep you steady while he signs the back. "There. Keep that one somewhere safe, but, uh-" You make a noise, confused.
He slips his own jersey off and puts it right in your hands. Your jaw drops, and you cycle between trying not to ogle him and being shocked that you're holding Suna Rintarou's shirt.
"-wear that from now on, okay?" When you just stare up at him, open-mouthed and stupid, he laughs, his eyes sparkling. His fingers toy with the sleeve of your jersey. "Little more realistic if it's actually my size, don't you think?"
You just curl the shirt up to your chest, unable to breathe. "Thank you." You suck in a breath, blinking. "Suna."
"Rin," he says quietly. "Rin is fine. Better." He stares down at you when you don't respond, unable to do more than nodding and staring back up at him. "Say it," he coaxes.
Your face burns. "Thank you, Rin."
His smile sears its spot right into your soul.
—
On the uber ride home, you stare down at his jersey in your lap, surrounded by the smell of him and the memory that that did in fact just happen.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket.
[3:22 PM]
Rin: it was great to meet you, yn.
Rin: can i see you again?
—
NINE MONTHS AGO
You're not sure what to call this. Not sure you want to bring it up, because it might pop the bubble you've found yourself in with him.
He takes you out the week after you meet — a little pub where no one knows his name and no one asks questions about the baseball cap he keeps low on his forehead.
"Don't want any interruptions," he says, and you believe him, because the moment you're seated in the corner with his back to the door, he spins the cap backwards and gives you his full attention. Asks your major — 'Fine arts. I want to be an artist.' — and lets out a surprised breath when you tell him you're only twenty-one — 'Five years' difference. You seem… older.'
You ask how he got interested in volleyball, because you already know the facts of his high-school and pro-player career. You want to know about him.
"It was just somethin' to do. I guess I realized I was good at it."
You give him a curious tilt of your head. "But do you enjoy it?"
He looks shocked that you ask. "Uh… I guess so? I wouldn't say I don't enjoy it." When your eyebrows furrow, he gives a low laugh. "No one's ever asked me that before. Never thought about it."
The only reason you don't feel like you've overstepped is that he leans forward on his elbows, gaze open and direct.
"No one's ever asked me that, Y/n," he repeats, a low murmur. You feel the weight of it, even if you don't totally understand.
"Do you wish they would?"
His eyelashes flutter, and the depth of his gaze burns through you. "Two for two, fangirl."
You won't love that name later, but you love it now.
"I'm gonna get us some drinks," he sighs, pulling his wallet out. "What's your drink of choice?"
You chew on your lip, contemplating the route of pretending. But you don't want to start out like that with him, don't want to lie just to impress him. "Diet coke? On the rocks?" you joke. "I like 'em crispy."
He stares, eyes flicking between yours in confusion and then — all at once, wallet dropping down to his lap — he understands.
"Oh, fuck. You don't drink." When you just smile sheepishly, his gaze unfocuses. "Wait, you're old enou-"
"Yes," you laugh. "I'm old enough. I just don't like it."
"Damn," he whispers. You start to panic, thinking he's disappointed. "Damn. I wish you'd told me," he says, scrubbing at his brow. "I wouldn't'a brought you here. I look like a dick, don't I?" His laugh is nervous, and you're quick to shake your head.
"Not at all! I didn't wanna tell you… Didn't want you to think I'm lame or something."
He levels you with an amused look. "You must know some really shitty people." And then he stands, spinning his cap back around and holding a hand out to you. "C'mon. I got a better idea."
The little diner he takes you to is perfect. Comfortable. He tells you that he used to come here while he was training for EJP, that the booth you're currently in — in the far corner, hard to see — is his favorite and always has been. That the old woman who runs the place used to toss in freebies for him before EJP signed him, because he was broke, alone, and far from home.
That same old woman emerges from the back and fawns over you, telling you 'Little Rin's never brought a girl here before' and then smacking him with her apron when he cops an attitude with her — 'C'mon, old lady, don't kill my vibe like that.' He looks embarrassed, so you try to hide your pleased grin behind your burger, but it clearly fails, because he's whispering 'Oh, shuttup' and snickering through a mouthful of fries.
You learn about him here, the way you wanted to at the pub, and he lets you see more of him than you'd expected to.
He asks about your classes, your goals. When you tell him you want to own an art gallery, his grin is wide, and he mumbles something about loving a girl with ambition, only shaking his head innocently when you choke and ask him to repeat it. And then he all but begs to see some of your art, wrangling your phone from your hand when you inevitably give in. He swipes through your photos, shaking his head with a fond look and a downward grin, whispering 'You're gonna be big one day, fangirl' more to himself than to you.
He makes you feel special.
When he drops you off at home that night, it's with a quiet walk up to your apartment door and him standing close but not too close.
"Don't want you to get the wrong impression about me."
He isn't shy, but he's not the arrogant Suna Rintarou he lets the cameras see. He's just Rin, his head dipped low and his forehead brushing against yours, the words 'Can I kiss you?" whispered into the space between you.
He's everything you'd dreamed he'd be. Lips soft, hands gentle. Never straying anywhere he shouldn't, taking his time to treat you right. Backing away after a moment, away from your door, to show you that he'd meant it. He's not expecting more.
You invite him in anyway, not because you feel you have to, but because you don't want him to leave, innocent or otherwise.
He just tilts his head, green eyes fond. You like that you've seen that expression so often today.
"Not tonight, fangirl. I wanna do this right."
You tell him to drive safe. He tells you he'll text when he gets home, just so you know he's alright.
He does exactly that.
That was a month ago. Today — many similar dates later — he's just the same.
He takes you to that diner again, telling you on the drive over about how practice had gone. He lets the owner fawn over you again, the embarrassment gone now and replaced by something akin to pride when he watches how you interact with her. He lets you try to slide some money toward him when the bill comes, a genuine laugh leaving him as he slides it right back, the words 'You're funny, fangirl' his only response.
When he takes you home, you invite him in again, like you always do. This time, however, he says yes. Doesn't comment on the poster you have of him in your living room, but you catch him biting down on his lip to keep the laughter in. When you start to make excuses, he just kisses you. Doesn't protest when you lead him down the hall, only picking you up and asking 'Which way?'. The only indication that he's nervous is the breathy tremble in his voice.
He's gentle as ever, taking his time with you and just shaking his head every time you try to tell him you're ready. 'Not yet,' he breathes, his head slotted between your thighs. 'Not yet, princess.'
Later, you realize that the foreplay is as much for him as it is for you. He enjoys it, his eyes always trained on your face when you get close and his grip always a little tighter when his name falls past your lips.
After you're done, you worry quietly that he might never return. It's irrational, but there's a little part of you that remembers that he's Suna Rintarou, and you're just you.
But he assuages it easily, his body curling around yours in your bed that's way too small for both of you, moonlight painting streaks over where he rests his face on your chest.
"Hey… Y/n?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you wanna be my girl?"
Your head flies up, and you find yourself staring down at the top of his. "Huh?"
He turns his face, relaxing his other cheek on your chest as he gazes up you. "Be my girlfriend."
You don't remember what you'd ever been anxious about.
—
EIGHT MONTHS AGO
Dating him is like living in eternal paradise.
He does all the things you'd consider the bare minimum, of course, but you'd met enough men to be surprised that he's doing them at all. Holding doors open for you and helping you out of his car, even though you don't need him to. Paying for everything, even though you don't need him to. Walking you to your door every night, calling you whenever he's not in practice, sending flowers to your apartment if he's out of town for a game — even though you don't need him to.
"I know you don't. Doesn't make me wanna do it any less."
You learn that he just enjoys it, shooting you disgruntled side glances whenever you try to interrupt his habits. You don't want him to think you're leeching off of him — off of Pro Volleyball Player Suna Rintarou — but it seems like second nature to him. It seems like he really believes you should be treated like a princess.
"I got it, princess."
"Cut it out, princess, you know that's my job."
"You like it, princess? I'm glad."
You learn that his Hyogo accent, subtle and hard to hear in interviews, comes out when he's comfortable. When he's with you.
"Hey, what'do ya think about this? PR team sent it t'me."
"Nah, yer not meeting my high school friends. They're all fuckasses — they'll try t'take you from me."
"Careful, fangirl, you'll burn yerself stirrin' it like that. Gimme."
He's the perfect gentleman, never expecting anything more than you give. He turns out to not be one of those guys who takes a mile if you give him an inch. He stays right where you leave him, taking things at your pace and backing off if he feels you get overwhelmed.
He learns to read you. Your words, your body language, even the things you don't mean to write down.
He knows what your faces mean, what it means when you purse your lips to the right and why it's different from going to the left. He figures out what your breathing sounds like when you're sleeping soundly, knows to whisper your name in the dark when the pattern's not quite right. He learns that there's a balance between taking care of you and leaving you be when you're stressed, when school and life get hard and he can only help so much.
But… He still hasn't introduced you to the public or to his team. You don't want it to bug you, but it kind of does.
You bring it up one night, unsure how dating a celebrity athlete is supposed to work.
"Not yet," he says, combing his fingers through your hair and pulling you flush to his body in bed. He's still coming to your little rundown college apartment, because there's paparazzi outside his skyrise building. You don't mention that you wonder about that, too. "Soon, but not yet."
"Not sure about me yet?" you half-joke, a grin pulling at your lips. He sees through it, like he does with everything lately.
"You know it's not that." It's murmured against your temple, his other arm cradling your head against his chest. His fingers toy with the hem of your pajama shirt — his jersey, the same he'd given you that day. "People are just… really nasty sometimes. This is still new. I don't want them fuckin' with it."
You close your eyes, a lingering dissatisfaction sitting in your chest, but you understand what he's saying. You're not sure you're ready for it, either.
"'m sorry," he mumbles. "I know you're not happy with that answer."
"'s okay," you whisper back. "I can wait."
—
SEVEN MONTHS AGO
He compromises on the situation, without ever needing to hear about it from you again. You start to forget about it, honestly, but it's clear that he doesn't, because he texts you one day.
[1:27 PM]
Rin <3: come by the gym when i get out of practice?
You: what time?
Rin <3: four
You: i have studio hours until 5 :((( do you want me to bail? whats up?
Rin <3: no no dont bail
Rin <3: my little artist has macaroni art due at 6
You: this macaroni art's taken me three weeks
Rin <3: macaroni sculpture :')
You grin, finding it endearing that he does that. Teases in that way that's his, in the way that makes it clear he understands your commitments.
Rin <3: okay how bout tmr at four
You: that works
You: but whats up??
Rin <3: see you tmr <3
When you show up the next day to EJP's home gym — overalls splattered with paint and smudged with clay and oil pastels — you find him at the door. The hood of your sweater is pulled up high over your head, because you know there's cameras here.
"Hi," you say, rushing to him. "What's up?"
"Come inside." He's grinning, ushering you through the door. "C'mon, c'mon."
He leads you down the hall, ignoring your questions and just dragging you around different corners until you're at a door that has 'MEN'S LOCKERS' plastered on the front.
"Wait, wh-"
His hand wraps around your wrist, and you're dragged inside. You slap a hand over your eyes, protesting about being pulled into a locker room.
"Guys," he calls out.
A range of voices echo back, ringing louder the further he drags you into the room.
His hand on yours, lowering it from your face gently, is the only cue you take, your eyes cracking open.
EJP Raijin.
You recognize them all — of course you do, who are you kidding? — but it's a truly unique experience to have them all looking at you at once.
"This is Y/n," Suna says, breathing out a pleased sigh.
All the curious stares break when he says it, the group of men relaxing into sounds of recognition.
Komori Motoya calls out from the back, and you find him easily. "So this is your mystery girl."
Washio Tatsuki's voice is somewhere off to the left. "Wouldn't fuckin' shut up about this perfect woman he'd met-"
Someone unseen cuts him off, a snicker accompanied. "Isn't she kinda young, though?"
You realize how you look, your eyes dropping to your outfit.
You look like a damn idiot. A child. Overalls on top of a hoodie, splattered with a mess of art supplies. You might as well have been finger painting.
You scrub at your legs, glancing up at Suna with panicked eyes. "You didn't tell me — I would've changed!"
He's busy glaring at the unknown voice. "She's not young, you fucking asshole."
You're a little young. You know that, and so does he.
"I'm, uh-" You glance around the room, face burning. "I'm finishing up college soon." And then you lower your eyes, tears pricking at the corners because you feel like a fucking fool. Like you're embarrassing him. "It's really great to meet you all. I'm a huge fan-"
"Oh," someone else teases. "A fan, Suna? Really?"
You can see why he was hesitant to do this. To associate himself with you.
"Hey," he snaps, the knife-edge of his voice something you've never heard before. "Make her feel welcome, or don't say shit at all. No third option."
The knot in your throat loosens just a little. He doesn't look as embarrassed as you feel.
"Alright, alright-" Komori calls, pushing through the bodies to get to you. His hand is warm in yours, shaking it gently. "It's good to meet you, Y/n. Thanks for keeping him in line," he laughs, nodding at your boyfriend. "He's been different lately. Better."
Now Suna looks a little embarrassed. But his smile, small and hidden, gives him away.
—
"You didn't have to do that, you know," you mumble, tugging your fingers through his hair. He'd claimed his spot that first night, arms draped around your middle and head perfectly comfortable on your chest. It's the only spot where he can sleep properly.
"Wanted to," he grumbles. "'m sorry they were assholes about it."
You sigh to yourself, careful not to let him hear it. "'m sorry I showed up looking like an idiot."
"You didn't," he protests. "You looked great. I like your outfits and your paint splatters and your messy hands." He gestures down to the spot where your hand rests on his bicep. You move it, noticing the blue smudge of oil pastel on his skin, right between the lines of his tattoos. "I like it all."
You want to say thank you, but your heart feels heavy. "I feel like I make you look dumb-"
"You don't," he bites. That knife-edge from before is back, the back of the blade sliding along your skin. It doesn't hurt, but it warns that something might if you don't heed his feelings. "You don't make me look dumb. You make me better."
You just nod, fingers trailing along his jaw and trying to move on. "I can see now why you wanted to wait."
He's quiet for so long that you wonder if he's asleep. "I don't want them to hurt you," he starts. "I don't wanna hurt you. I-" He swallows, face radiating heat against your skin.
"You what?" When he doesn't answer, you tilt your head so you can look at him. "Rin?"
"-think I love you."
Later, you'll blame this moment for being the reason that half of your soul is missing, passed on to him in the dark of your room and the quiet of his confession.
The truth is that it'd happened long before this.
—
SIX MONTHS AGO
"I don't know, Rin-"
"It's fine, princess, I promise. Please just stop looking at it."
You stare down at your phone, scrolling through a series of tweets tagged #sunayn. There's a few in there that are kind and supportive of Suna Rintarou showing his domestic side, but the majority are made up of comments on things you aren't sure you can fix.
'That's her? She's so plain."
'She's kind of a mess…"
'Look at her hair and her clothes. Did she roll around in mud?'
'She looks like a kid lmao what does he see in her'
Suna gently tugs your phone from your hand, dropping it on the table between you. You're sitting with him at a cafe, your hood pulled all the way up. It's not because he's worried about being caught this time — in fact, ever since going public with your relationship, he's been much more open about being seen with you.
But you feel like an idiot.
"You can't read all that shit, Y/n. It's gonna mess with your head."
You purse your lips. "It already has."
He sighs. "That's why I told you not to look. But you got curious and hurt your own feelings."
There's a part of you, not small in any way, that wishes he'd comfort you a little more.
You pick at the dried paint on your sleeve, feeling his eyes on you as you examine yourself.
"I mean," you start. "Do I look… Is it hard to be seen with me?"
"You know it's not," he says right away. "I've told you that. So many times."
"I know, it's stupid-"
He sighs again, and you get the feeling he's started to get frustrated. "It's not stupid. I just wish you wouldn't get insecure like this."
You don't know what to say. You know it's silly, because he'd chosen you, and that's should be enough. But that terrible, itchy feeling still sinks into your skin, making you doubt yourself. And you wish he would see that.
After a few more moments of this tense silence, you try again. "Would you like it if I cleaned up a little more before meeting you? Dressed a little better?"
Suna's jaw clenches, and you watch him lean back in his chair. Away from you. "Y/n-"
"Would it help?" you cut him short. "Would it help with all this…" You don't know what to call it, so you just gesture vaguely at your phone. "With all this."
He watches you for a moment, examining your face and the tight set of your pursed lips and the unknowable look in your eyes — defeat, frustration, pain.
"Yeah," he finally says, no more than a grunt and the turn of his eyes out the window. Away from you. "It'd probably help."
It hurts more than you'd realized, but that's on you. You shouldn't have asked if you didn't want the answer.
"'Kay."
He sighs, and you hear it. He'd been waiting for you to be upset with him. "Y/n, don't do that to me-"
"I'm not!" You lean forward, bringing your voice down and staring up into his eyes, pleading. "I'm not, Rin. I'm not angry or hurt-" Lie. "-and I completely understand-" Lie.
His eyes flick between yours for a moment, trying to find what it is that you're not saying. But then his gaze flies over your shoulder, his attention caught by something. He smiles politely, and you turn, realizing there's a girl approaching your table.
"Oh, my god," she laughs, her excitement barely contained. "You're Suna Rintarou. Holy shit."
He laughs, one of those fake ones that you'd grown to dislike ever since you'd met his real ones. "Yeah, I suppose I am."
She squeals behind her hand. "Can I get a picture? Or, like, an autograph? Will you sign my shirt?"
Your heart flies into your throat, but neither of them notice — she doesn't notice you because you're not important, and he doesn't notice you because he's too busy standing for a photo. But you notice them — her.
Had you acted that way when you met him? Is that how you'd looked?
No, it can't be. If it were, he'd be treating this girl the way he'd treated you, with his flirty one-liners and his breathy, real laugh. But he's not. He's just taking a photo and signing her shirt, and there's a clear distance that he's placing between them.
"It's really nice to meet a fan," he says, handing her marker back. "Thanks for stopping by."
She squeals again, going in for a hug. He returns it, smiling, and then he glances down at you. You try to hid your feelings, but you know how well he can read you.
"This is, uh-" he starts, leaning away from her and gesturing to where you sit. "This is my girlfriend."
The look she passes over you makes it clear that you'd been wrong. She had noticed you. She just hadn't cared.
"Oh, right, I heard about that." Her voice is saccharine sweet and painfully ingenuine. "Nice hoodie," she says, smiling. And then she points down at your paint-covered sleeves. "But you got a little…"
Your hands drop to your lap. "Yeah. Thanks."
Suna shoots you an alarmed look, quickly interjecting with a kind 'thanks again. nice to meet you.' as the girl walks away. When he sits, it's with furrowed brows.
"What was that?" He looks annoyed when you just stare, wide-eyed and confused. "You can't be rude to my fans. It's not gonna help."
"I wasn't being-" You sigh, swallowing. "I'm sorry. But she was making fun of me."
You've never seen him roll his eyes before. "She wasn't."
You don't respond, don't feel like arguing about something so stupid in this cafe. You just stare down at your sleeves, picking at paint until he sighs and says he's ready to go.
When he drops you off at home, he doesn't come inside. He just plants a kiss on the crown of your head and says he needs to talk to his PR manager.
And then he leaves.
He texts you a few minutes later.
[3:47 PM]
Rin <3: see you tomorrow
Rin <3: love you, fangirl
It makes your day worse.
—
FIVE MONTHS AGO
The fan drama never really goes away. You just choose not to bring it up again, because the few times you'd tried, Suna had only told you to stop thinking about it. To stop worrying about it. To stop looking for problems.
To stop looking for problems.
You hadn't known what to do with that, either.
So you move on, learn to turn your head when it hurts, because Suna Rintarou being able to read you is no longer the fairytale you'd dreamt of.
Things are still okay, otherwise. Sometimes. He's still proudly showing you off, still holding tight to your hand when the cameras flash. You make sure to dress up for him, taking a change of clothes to class with you and doing laundry twice a week instead of once. You don't tell him that your bills have gone up, because he looks so happy to run off the court after his games and gather you in his arms, cameras flashing when he plants his lip on yours.
It feels worth it. The doubt feels worth it, because Suna Rintarou is worth it.
That's what you tell yourself now, head drooping and then flying up suddenly, his voice quiet in your ear.
"The food here is so interesting. Did you know that they eat pasta with pickles? Sweet ones."
You hum, exhausted. "Don't we have some places like that here, too?" You glance at the clock. Three in the morning, but the middle of the day for him.
"Do we?" he mumbles, slurping loudly through the receiver. When you grunt in response, he swallows and stays quiet for a moment. "You okay? You sound weird."
"'m okay, just sleepy."
"What time is it?"
"Three."
"Oh, shit, you said you were tired like two hours ago," he laughs. "'m sorry, babe. I didn't realize. Will you just stay on while I finish eating?"
You want to cry. You're so tired. And-
"'s it okay if I go to sleep, actually? I have a presentation in the morning-"
"Aw, c'mon, princess. Just a few more minutes. I skipped lunch with the team so I could call-"
"Rin, please, I'm exhausted," you whine. "And my presentation's not done yet, so I was gonna get up early and finish it, and I wanted to practice, but now I don't know if I'll have time, and it's worth 50% of my grade, and-" Your voice cracks, tears pricking at your eyes.
"Okay, okay," he says, his voice tight. "Alright. Go to bed."
The air between you doesn't feel good.
"Rin, I'm sorry-"
"No, it's fine."
You mute yourself while you cry, making sure to do it fast so he doesn't ask why you're not talking.
"'m sorry," he mumbles. "I jus' miss you."
It makes you feel worse.
"I miss you, too," you say quietly, knowing he can hear the knot in your throat. "I'm just worried about my grade-"
"I know. Go to sleep, fangirl. I love you."
You've been meaning to tell him you don't like that name anymore.
"Okay. I love you, too."
You wake up at 8:30, with less than two hours until your presentation.
—
FOUR MONTHS AGO
Suna Rintarou is properly famous now, mostly because of his career but certainly in part due to his "questionable relationship with a younger fan".
You've all but altered your behavior, paying double in electric and water bills and being extra careful with not getting paint on your clothes. It comes at the expense of your art, because you're so worried about staying neat and clean that you start to feel smothered any time you pick up a brush.
But it's worth it, you tell yourself. It's worth it, because Suna's able to counter the 'she's too young' slander with the presentation of a perfectly pristine girlfriend, your posture straight and your clothes clean and your smile practiced.
It's worth it. Even if he's changing, too. Even if he's started searching himself online almost obsessively, overly pleased with his image. Even if he's started getting more attention in restaurants and shops and cafes, even if you're unable to go on a single date without him disappearing halfway through it to take photos and sign autographs.
Even if, when you bring it up, he makes you feel bad.
"What the fuck," he laughs, watching you pace your bedroom. "You serious?"
"I don't feel like I'm asking for a lot-"
"You're asking me to ignore my fans. They're basically the reason I get sponsorships and raises and basically a check at all-"
"I'm not asking you to ignore people, Rin," you sigh, tugging your fingers through you hair. "I just would like a little more time with you. I would like to go on a date and not be alone for half of it. Is that really too much?"
"It comes with the territory!" he argues, throwing his hands out, like he has no idea what you want from him. Like you haven't been expressing that very clearly. "That's just how things are, babe."
"And I get that-"
"I don't think you do-"
"I get it," you bite. "But you don't have to always encourage it. You use your name for reservations, and you make sure everyone can see your face when you go places, and-"
"You want me to hide?"
"Oh, my fucking god," you groan, crouching and dropping your head in your hands. "No, Rintarou. No. I just think that, by doing that, you're encouraging people to see and find you when we go out, and that means that I'm basically alone the entire time we're out!"
"Y/n, this is ridiculous," he breathes, shaking his head in frustration. "This is ridiculous. You know I can't control this shit. I can't fucking control that people come up to me when I'm out. That's like half of my job!"
"Okay!" You give up, shaking your head and planting your ass on the floor. "Okay. Fine. What about when it's just us here? When no one's around?"
He looks at you like you're crazy. You don't like that face he's making. At all.
"What about it?"
"You're always on your phone," you say. He groans, a laugh of disbelief leaving him. "You are! You're always fucking googling yourself and seeing what twitter has to say about you, and that's all you do!" You start to tear up. "You don't pay attention to me at all, Rin. Even when we're alone-"
"Stop." That knife-edge starts to hurt. "Stop it, Y/n. And stop fucking crying!" He looks frustrated, confused, like he's trapped. "You always cry when you're angry with me! You're always making me feel like a piece of shit-"
"That's not what I'm doing! I'm just hurt-"
"I can't help that!" he yells, standing. Hovering high over you, the difference between you so clear. "I can't help that my lifestyle isn't what you want. And- the phone? Seriously, that's your argument? I'm not always on my phone!"
"You are," you mumble, staring down at your lap. Defeated. "You are. You don't pay me any attention at all-"
"Attention," he laughs, bitter and sharp. "You could hardly wait to get off the phone with me the last time I was out of town. You didn't want to spend time with me then, and now you want attention?"
You stare up at him, eyes watery and wide and betraying how hurt you are. "I told you what that was about! I told you my presentation was worth half my grade-"
"Right, right," he nods, pacing around you. "Right. Your classes, your grades, blah, blah, blah."
You can't believe this. "What happened to loving a girl with ambition?" you snap, standing. Refusing to let him take that from you. "What happened to that, Rin? What happened to thinking I'm amazing?"
He shakes his head, eyes cold and sharp, knife-edge. "Don't fucking do that. Don't fucking treat me like that." When you start to argue again, he bites out venom. "This is childish, Y/n. You're acting like a fucking child. I can't do this shit."
You can't help it. You want to be strong, but those words — 'I can't do this' — have created a sense of doom, a surge of panic and fear that he might mean it. That you're too much, too childish. That everything you've fought so hard over the last few weeks to contain —
Smile, there's a camera there.
Stand up straight. Not like that.
Something on your sleeve.
You start to sob, your face cracking and your body shaking with the force of the cry that rocks through you. A wail rips out of you, your throat straining as you curl up at the foot of your bed. You feel him step back, clearly shocked, but you can't bring yourself to care. You're so hurt. So hurt.
You don't know how long he lets you sit there, soul aching. But he eventually drops to the floor, right next to you, and whispers 'I'm sorry'. Gathers you up in his arms, holding you tight when you struggle weakly and pulling you between his legs so he can envelope you completely.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "Fuck, Y/n. I'm sorry. I don't want to fight."
It's not really an apology. He's not really saying he regrets what was said. He's not really taking it back or saying that it was out of line. He's just sorry that it continued for so long, that it's not already over.
But it's an apology. And he'd just made it seem like he was going to leave you, so… if he's apologizing, he's not leaving.
Right?
Right?
He curls his fingers into your hair, guiding your face up to his and nudging his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry, princess. I hate this. I'm sorry." You're still crying, so he pushes his mouth against your cheeks, against your tears. "Please. Let's not fight."
By the time you come down, your face is pressed into the crook of his neck and he's holding you tight and the smell of him — warm, subtle — is wrapped around you, making you feel safe.
You let it, not willing to wonder if it's true.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into your hair for the tenth time. "Please talk to me."
You lift your eyes to his, let him see the tears and the burn. "Feels like you're leaving me behind, Rin." Your voice is weak.
He just stares down at you, fingers scratching at your scalp comfortingly.
"I'll be better about it. I promise."
—
Promises are easy to make. Easy to break.
—
THREE MONTHS AGO
"You must be joking-"
"This is insane, Rintarou," you laugh, ripping the bobby pins out of your hair and trying not to trip on your gown, long and flowy and green to match his eyes.
His tie hits your couch, fingers tugging on the buttons so hard that one flies off, hitting your floorboards like a gunshot.
"I'm not the one making something out of nothing-"
"You didn't speak to me once tonight!" you yell, struggling to unzip your dress. He doesn't help, just pacing your living room and shaking his head. "You let me just stand next to you like a shadow, like some freak!"
"Everyone knows you're with me," he laughs. "Everyone knows who you are! No one was surprised to see you with me!"
"So, you admit you didn't speak to me once."
He rolls his eyes and breathes out a sigh that speaks of exhaustion. "Yeah, go ahead, Y/n, word it in the worst possible way." When you scoff, he throws his hands up. "Of course I fucking spoke to you tonight! You were my date!" And then he lifts his eyebrows high. "To a PR event that was about me, by the way. But thank you for making it about you!" He rips his cuff links off, tossing them somewhere unknown. "Thank you, yeah. Great end to the fucking night."
"I'm not making it about me! Anyone with eyes could see that I was the perfect girlfriend, beside you the whole night while you ignored my presence and had your back to me all night!"
"Ignored your-I didn't!" He's making that face. That face you don't like at all. "I didn't ignore you, and if I did, it was a fucking accident! I'm sorry that I had a million people to talk to tonight — I'm so sorry I couldn't give you the attention you wanted-"
"Fuck you," you bite, your eyes burning with anger and tears. But you hold those back, because you don't want to give him something else to mock you for. "Fuck you, Rin. It wasn't about that tonight. It was about the fact that you made me a PR prop and had me trailing behind you all night like an idiot! You didn't even introduce me to anyone-"
"Who gives a fuck?!" He's laughing now, deranged and angry and bitter. "Who cares if you didn't meet them? You don't care about sponsors and press and investors — I barely care!"
You just stare at him. None of this even matters. It doesn't matter that you didn't care about the people who fawned over him tonight. What matters is that he didn't care, either.
He takes your silence poorly. "Let's just stop fighting, Y/n. Please. You'll get it when you're older."
You feel like you've been slapped. He seems to realize what he's said only once it's too late.
He sighs. "Y/n-"
"You can sleep out here tonight," you state, voice plain and empty. "Or don't. I don't really care."
You leave him in the living room and sleep without him for the first time in a while. There's a part of you that knows this is a test. You want him to stay, want him to be here in the morning. You're scared to find out that he won't, scared there's a chance you won't see him after tonight.
—
He's in your kitchen when you wake up the next morning, pushing eggs and bacon around a pan with a solemn look on his face. You can tell by the way he moves that he slept uncomfortably.
But he stayed.
He stayed, and he's still here, setting a plate and a mug of coffee down in front of you when you sit gingerly at the dining table. He stayed, and he's pushing his fingers through your hair, tilting your chin up so he can drop his lips lightly to yours.
"'m sorry."
You don't ask 'for what', even though you would, were he anyone else. You don't ask, because it'll start a fight, because you know he doesn't have an answer.
You just thank him for the breakfast and let him pull you into his lap once you're done, his affection heavy and full of regret. His eyes full of longing and a hint of desperation.
Like he knows something's not right.
—
TWO MONTHS AGO
He gets more famous. Things get worse.
—
"Don't fucking say it, honestly-"
"You expect me to be okay with that?"
"I didn't do anything!"
You start to pace. It's a common practice now. "I told you that it's hard for me to always be dressed up and perfectly spectacular for all of your games and all of your public appearances all of the time-"
He sighs. "Babe. I am not asking that of you-"
"But you are, Rin!" You laugh. "You're not saying it in words, but you love to point me out in the crowd when I'm perfect and beautiful, but I come in with a little paint on my jeans and you suddenly don't know who I am-"
"I don't even remember that!" he yells, pacing around you. "I don't remember that. I'm sorry I don't mention you to the cameras every time, but seriously, are you that insecure?"
"Tell me it's not true then!" you say, prompting him with raised eyebrows. "Tell me I don't embarrass you when I look like this." You wave down at yourself, at your stained overalls and hoodie, the set he once loved so much. "I told you I don't always have time to change after class! Your games start ten minutes after my studio hours end — I'm sorry I'm a mess!"
"You looked great before!"
You blink. He blinks back.
"Yeah," you say, voice cold. "I looked great before-"
"Y/n, that's not-"
"-because I was going to class basically in business attire!" You stare him down like it's obvious. "I've been so damn careful for the last few months, just for my grades to go down because I'm worrying about your reputation-"
"Yeah!" he yells, eyes wide. "Yes, that's exactly it! You are part of my reputation now, how do you not see that? If you don't look good, I don't look good!"
The space between you is cold. Empty.
"You've changed," is all you say.
"People change," is what he says back. "I know you're young, but you might wanna try it one day."
There's nothing left here.
"Get out."
The door slams behind you.
—
ONE MONTH AGO
You haven't seen him since that argument. You've talked, once on the phone but more often just a simple 'good morning' and 'good night', too much left unsaid for you. Too much lingering for either of you to be able to ignore it.
Still, he's leaving town next month, and he's starting to plan flights and hotels and his first thought is apparently you, because he calls one night.
"Hi, fangirl."
You bite down on your tongue. "I don't like that name anymore."
"… Can we please not start like this?"
"Fine. What's up?"
"Come with me. To Europe. Please?"
You sigh, knowing that he's trying. Knowing that this is him trying to get you back to him, back to what's good between you. Not knowing how to solve it but trying nonetheless.
You pull your laptop onto your lap, sinking into your couch. "When is it?"
"… You don't know my game schedule?"
You sigh again, far too common these days, and shake your head. "I know it, Rin, but I'm barely pulling my calendar up. I don't remember everything off the top of my head."
"Oh. Alright. It's the sixth to the eleventh."
You grimace. "I can't. Finals."
"Wait, what?" He sounds far too surprised for your liking. "You don't have exams anymore. You're a senior."
"I still have projects due. You know that." When he doesn't respond, your eyebrows go up. "Did you not know my semester schedule?"
"Babe, come on. Why would I know it? I haven't been in school in ages."
"So I have to remember your entire season schedule, but you can't remember my important deadlines?"
"Babe. I'm sorry-"
His apologies don't work on you anymore.
"No, seriously, Rin. You don't remember anything about my life anymore, is that what you're saying?"
"God, you're being so dramatic," he sighs heavily. "Don't make it sound that bad. And can't you just finish your projects early? You've known my schedule for months — can't you work around it and come with me?"
"It's not that simple, Rintarou. I've been working on them all semester, even with the fucking setbacks-"
"How long could it fucking take to paint something? Just work around it, Y/n, please."
You stay silent long enough that it clicks, what he's just said. What he didn't.
"Princess. I didn't mean it like that. I know how hard you work. I know it's not that easy-"
"Are you just saying what I want to hear?"
He laughs, quick and sharp. "What? Why would I-"
"Because you always happen to understand the problem after you've already fucked up. You never care enough to think of how your words will hurt me before you do it."
"Y/n. None of this has to be that serious-"
"Have fun in Europe, Rintarou."
—
TODAY
You stare down at your phone, gaze unseeing. He's calling, back to back to back when you don't answer. He texts, but the previews come and go without you ever reading them.
[1:22 PM]
Rin <3: baby please pick up
Rin <3: it's not what it looks like i swear
Rin <3: i promise you it's not
Rin <3: please just pick up yn
Rin <3: they completely blew it out of proportion
Rin <3: she was just a fan. it was just a hug, i swear to god
The previews come and go, but the picture on the tabloid stays. The picture that leaks all over twitter stays. A photo of Suna Rintarou with his arms wrapped tight around a girl that looks just like you. Same height, same hair color, same smile.
Suna, #7 written on the back of her gold and black jersey.
You haven't worn yours in weeks.
You wonder if that's why it happened. Because you weren't enough of a fan anymore.
[1:23 PM]
Rin <3: yn i promise you on everything, i would never do that.
Rin <3: please.
You don't answer.
Hours later, with forty missed calls and double the texts, you sit on your couch, staring at nothing. Your dinner untouched on the coffee table.
The doorbell rings.
You don't want to get it.
It rings again. And then again. And then again.
You rip it open, if only to stop him from continuing.
His eyes are bloodshot and red. He's been crying.
"Please, Y/n."
"Did you cheat on me?"
"No!" His voice cracks, and he grabs you by the arms. You push him off. He lets you. "Y/n, I swear I didn't. I would never. I love you. You know I love you-"
"That's the thing, Rin." You shake your head, your voice wobbly and tears clouding your vision. "I don't think I know that anymore. I don't think I've known for a while now."
"Y/n, you have to trust me-"
"Trust you!" you laugh. "You haven't given me a reason to trust you in months! I'm nothing but a pretty little prop for your fucking reputation."
"That's not fucking true-"
"Please, Rintarou." You sigh, looking away. Never letting him in the door. "I can't keep doing this anymore. Just go away. I'll send your shit back later." He stops the door when you try to close it in his face, but you just glare up at him, all anger and pain and betrayal. "Go away, Rintarou."
He lets you slam it this time.
—
Getting over him is nearly impossible. It hurts too much, feels too raw. Every day that passes should feel like a step toward healing, but any — any — memory of him hurts. For weeks and months, it hurts.
For years, it hurts.
—
FIVE YEARS LATER
You glide through the gallery, greeting potential buyers and casual viewers alike. It's not yours — not yet, you hope — but your work is being displayed. Your work is being bought.
You stand by the far wall, taking in the amount of people that have showed up. The friends and family that are here. The strangers that are here. The people who've seen your work posted online and decided it was good enough to be present for.
You take another scan, smiling to yourself.
Until it falls.
He looks different. But it's him.
He's staring up at one of the walls, and even without approaching or rounding the corner to see it, you know it. You know it deeply. Because it's him.
Gold and black, smudged and smeared in anger and pain and betrayal. Smeared in love and longing, for the sake of a man you miss but can't seem to get rid of. Smudged until it's not him, even though it is. Even though he knows it is.
You don't want him to see you. But you can't look away.
He feels your gaze.
You've never forgotten those green eyes, not once.
He swallows, blinks, looks away. Glances again and runs a hand through his hair.
Someone passes between you, and he's gone. You wonder if he was ever really there — you've had more than one moment of imagining him.
"Hi." It comes from your left.
You don't turn, keeping your back to the wall and your head turned to the right, out toward the room.
"Hi," you echo. "You're back in town."
"You knew I was out of town."
You pull your keys out of the pocket of your slacks. There's an EJP Raijin keychain, the number #7 glinting in black against the gold coin.
"You played like shit last week."
He sighs heavily. "Did it make you happy?"
You turn finally, facing those green eyes even though you're not ready.
"No," you say plainly. "Not at all." There's hurt in his eyes, the same you feel deep in your bones. "How did you find me?"
He doesn't look away. "Why wouldn't I keep tabs on you, Y/n?"
You scoff. "Stalker."
"If you say so."
Your eyebrows arch. "Are you here for anything in particular?"
"Just looking around. Interested in a purchase."
"Not for sale." You start to move away, but he stops you. Lays two fingers inside of your wrist, firm but perfectly easy to break if you wanted.
You don't.
"Please, Y/n. Five minutes."
You stare up at him, breathing hard.
"Show's over at eight."
He doesn't even check the time. "I can wait." And then again, stronger. "I'll wait."
—
You've never been back to this diner. Never had the nerve or the courage, because it's always been his.
"Where's the owner?" you ask softly. "Is she well?"
He doesn't meet your eyes. "She passed. Last year."
You choke down the knot that's forming in your throat. "I'm… I'm so sorry, Rintarou."
He nods. "It was a nice funeral. She has a big family. Her son runs the place now."
There's something in your chest that screams of time passing and regret, but you push it away.
You order your food and then stay quiet.
He opens his mouth a few times, but nothing ever comes out. He looks terrible.
"Y/n," he croaks, voice cracking. "I need you to know, with no uncertainty at all, that I never cheated. That I never did and I never woul-"
"I know," you breathe, staring down at your hands. There had been a part of you that had always known. You'd known that he'd changed, but that there would never be a version of Suna Rintarou who would go that far. That he never would, because you remember the man he once was.
You know now that you'd just been looking for a way out.
"I know," you repeat. "I know, Rin." The name falls out, because you still can't get rid of it. It's written into your skin.
He swallows, his knee bouncing under the table and his jaw clenching and unclenching. "The way that I treated you. It haunts me."
You hum. "Which part?"
"All of it." He shakes his head. "Making you feel ignored, making you feel crazy for feeling that way. Making you feel small and unimportant, like I was the only one that mattered." His eyes are starting to water. "You were never small and unimportant. You were never childish or immature. It was me." Both knees are bouncing now. "It was me. I was terrible. I was young and fucking stupid, and I didn't appreciate you the way I needed to. The way I should have." He swallows hard. "I was stupid and selfish and obsessed with my image. And all you'd ever done was love me."
Your eyes burn, but you choose to let the tears fall, because it's okay now. "I'm your age now, you know."
"I know," he says right away. "I know."
"I feel as stupid as I did back then. Maybe even more."
He hears what you're saying. That he wasn't stupid because he's terrible or because he's some evil man who can't ever learn to love the right away.
He was just young. He was young and stupid for falling into the trap of being young.
His eyes meet yours. You'd known it this whole time, but it still weighs heavy — the fact that you will never lose this feeling. The fact that he will never leave you.
First love, painful or otherwise.
"Is there anything else?" you try, your voice rough, tight.
He looks like it's killing him, the thought that you might get up and walk away.
the first time satoru realized you might be a little… academically challenged, in the cutest way possible, obviously, was on a wednesday morning that started completely normal.
at least, normal by satoru standards.
he was leaning against the mission room doorway, sunglasses perched on his head, shirt untucked like he rolled out of bed and into a runway, waiting for you to finish scribbling something in a notebook. he wasn’t even reading it, not really, but he liked watching you write. your glitter pen left tiny sparkles on the page, and your brow furrowed in the most dramatic way whenever you concentrated.
you were adorable.
you tapped the page with your pen. "satoru, can i ask a question? but um… promise not to laugh."
he pushed off the wall instantly, hand to his heart like he was pledging loyalty to his future wife.
"angel, i would never laugh at you," he declared, which was an outrageous lie but you were too sweet to know that.
you chewed your lip, thinking very hard, so hard that he could practically see the single pink brain cell inside your skull running in circles with tiny glittery shoes on.
"so, um," you started slowly, "horses… don’t come from eggs?"
satoru blinked.
once.
twice.
three times.
you looked up at him with the most devastatingly sincere expression, like a disney princess asking a forest creature for directions, waiting for him to confirm or deny something basic to human biology.
"…eggs," he echoed.
you nodded earnestly, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. "yeah. because like, chickens do, and alligators do, and snakes do, and those fish with the sharp teeth do too, so i kinda thought horses were just… big eggs?"
there was a long, long pause. satoru’s soul briefly left his body and hovered near the ceiling.
he cleared his throat, stepping closer, gently taking the notebook from your hands before you accidentally revealed a theory about elephants being inflatable.
"sweetheart," he said softly, tipping your chin up with a single finger because he was dramatic like that, "horses don’t come from eggs."
you stared at him, scandalized.
"then how do they get made?!"
he should not have been as flustered as he was, but the way you said it, like you were honestly distressed about the reproductive mysteries of farm animals, made his brain spark like fried wiring.
"well-" he began.
you cut him off immediately.
"wait, don’t tell me! let me guess." you tapped your chin, brows knitting in adorable, strenuous concentration. "do they… grow on trees?"
satoru made a strangled noise.
"trees," he repeated, voice cracking slightly.
you nodded again, now very confident. "because i saw a drawing once of a baby horse next to a tree, so maybe-"
he couldn’t help it. both hands came up to cup your cheeks, squishing them gently because you were too cute for this universe.
"angel," he murmured, looking like he was about to cry from affection, "you are so incredibly, devastatingly pretty. and i love that for you. but no, horses do not grow on trees."
your eyes went shiny, not with tears, but with the dawning horror of someone realizing a deeply cherished belief about the agricultural lifecycle might be wrong.
"oh."
you leaned into his palms like a sleepy kitten. "then… where do they come from?"
he hesitated.
you blinked up at him with those glossy, trusting eyes.
"do i… wanna know?" you asked quietly, like you were scared the truth might change your worldview permanently.
he smiled, something warm and hopeless curling behind it.
"maybe not today," he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek. "maybe today we just… let horses be horses."
you brightened instantly. "okay! that sounds much easier."
satoru’s heart performed a full gymnastics routine in his chest.
you weren’t dumb. you weren’t clueless. you were just sweet, so sweet that the harsh edges of the world didn’t stick to you the way they stuck to other people.
you were soft in a way he wanted to protect and bright in a way he wanted to guard and absolutely, undeniably precious in a way that made him melt every time you opened your mouth with full sincerity.
"thank you, satoru," you said, leaning your head against his arm like it was the most natural thing. "you always explain things so good."
he laughed quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
"someone’s gotta take care of you, angel."
and you smiled, warm and happy, completely unaware that you were the reason his world kept spinning.
•●SUGURU GETO●•
suguru realized very early into your relationship that dating you meant living in a constant cycle of adoration, confusion, and mild panic, and he handled all of it with the same calm, unshaken patience he used for everything else in life.
but every now and then, you said something so spectacularly, innocently incorrect that he genuinely questioned if the universe had sent you to test him.
today was one of those days.
you were curled on his lap in the quiet warmth of his room, legs tucked under you, head resting lazily on his shoulder while he braided your hair. you loved when he did that, told him it made you feel like a princess, and he loved how soft you got under his hands, all relaxed and pliant, humming little songs that didn’t have lyrics.
you were scrolling on your phone, eyes wide and sparkly, when you gasped dramatically.
“sugu," you whispered, voice serious in the way only you could be serious, “did you know space whales are real?"
the braid in his fingers froze mid twist.
“space… whales," he repeated slowly.
you nodded with full confidence. “yes! look!"
you flipped the screen toward him, and there it was, a very obvious piece of sci-fi concept art, glowing blue creature, sparkles, stars, definitely not real.
suguru blinked once, deeply, like he was internally negotiating with whatever higher power had given him the privilege, and the responsibility, of dating you.
you looked so earnest he couldn’t bring himself to correct you right away.
“love," he said gently, “where did you find that?"
“on a fact page," you replied proudly.
his lips curved a little, the kind of smile he only wore around you, soft at the edges, fond in a way that felt like a private secret. “a fact page," he echoed, brushing a thumb along your cheek in a slow stroke.
“mhm. it said scientists discovered them last year." you lowered your voice, as if sharing something dangerous. “they’re huge. and sparkly. and they swim through galaxies. isn’t that so cute?"
he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, pretending not to wince at the word “scientists."
“and you believed that?" he asked, tone warm, never mocking.
you blinked up at him, puzzled. “why wouldn’t i? it looks real."
he could feel your heartbeat against his chest, steady and trusting, and it made something in him soften in a way that hurt a little. you weren’t stupid, you were just untouched by cynicism, untouched by the instinct to doubt. you believed things because you believed people.
he didn’t want to break that.
but he also could not let you walk into the world talking about space whales like it was common knowledge.
he exhaled slowly, resting his forehead against yours.
“sweet girl," he murmured, “that isn’t real. someone drew it."
you leaned back, eyes wide in betrayal so dramatic he almost laughed. “but… it looks real."
“it does," he agreed, stroking your jaw with his knuckles, “but it’s still just art."
you took a long, slow moment to process this, lips pursing in deep concentration, the kind suguru found unfairly cute, before you sighed, pouting into his chest.
“i liked thinking they were real," you mumbled.
“i know," he said softly, kissing the top of your head with a tenderness that melted right through you. “you have a very big imagination."
“is that bad?" you asked, quiet, small.
he tilted your chin up with two fingers, forcing your gaze to meet his.
“no," he said, voice low, certain, “it’s beautiful. it’s one of the reasons i love you."
you brightened instantly, like a little sun turning back on, and wrapped your arms around his neck in a clingy rush of affection.
“you’re so sweet to me," you said into his shoulder, voice warm and dazzled.
he held you tighter, letting the braid fall loose as his fingers traced slow patterns up your spine.
“that’s because you make it easy," he murmured, brushing a kiss against the shell of your ear. “you see the world in ways no one else does."
you giggled softly. “even if i think whales live in space?"
“especially that," he replied, lips curving against your skin.
and for the rest of the night, you sat in his lap while he finished your braid, humming happily while he explained the difference between real animals and “pretty drawings made by very creative people," and he did it with the patience of someone who would repeat every lesson a thousand times if it meant you’d stay curled against him like this.
•●KENTO NANAMI●•
nanami knew from very early on that dating you meant adjusting his entire worldview around the fact that you could be unbelievably intelligent in the ways that mattered and catastrophically confused in the ways that didn’t.
he accepted this the way he accepted most things, silently, politely, and with the slow resignation of a man who’d long since surrendered to a force he couldn’t control.
today, that force was you.
you were sitting at his kitchen counter, swinging your legs while spreading jam onto a slice of toast with the concentration of a surgeon performing heart surgery. nanami was at the stove, finishing breakfast, glancing over every few moments just to make sure you hadn’t accidentally glued the bread to the counter.
you looked especially soft this morning, messy ponytail, oversized sweater he knew wasn’t yours, lip gloss smudged from your pillow. he didn’t say anything about it, but there was a little warmth in his chest every time he looked at you.
"kento?" you asked suddenly, voice bright and uncertain in the same breath.
"yes, darling?"
you tapped your chin with the butterknife, leaving a tiny streak of jam on your cheek. "where do… raisins come from?"
nanami paused mid stir. very slowly, very deliberately.
he turned around and you were gazing at him with your big, sparkly, painfully earnest eyes, legs still swinging as if your entire existence was powered by sunshine alone.
"where," he repeated carefully, "do raisins come from."
you nodded, relieved he’d understood the question. "yeah. i was thinking about it all night. are they… baby plums?"
he blinked once. "baby plums?"
"mhm." you pointed the jam covered knife at him. "’cause, like… grapes are small. plums are big. raisins are small and wrinkly. so i thought maybe they shrink plums like sweaters in the dryer."
nanami wasn’t an emotional man, but he felt something inside him physically tilt.
he inhaled through his nose, walked to the counter, took the knife gently from your hand before you poked your own eye out with it, and set it down.
"love," he said with a softness that should not have been possible given the subject matter, "raisins are dried grapes."
you stared at him deeply and intensely like he had just revealed a forbidden ancient truth.
"dried… grapes?" you whispered, the way someone might say, 'the killer was inside the house.'
"yes."
you paused, processing. "so they… shrivel?"
"yes."
another pause. "on purpose?"
"yes," he said again, and now there was the tiniest trace of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "very much on purpose."
you leaned back in your chair, hand pressed to your forehead dramatically. "oh my god. i’ve been eating shriveled grapes my whole life."
he rubbed your shoulder gently. "many people have."
"but i like grapes!" you cried. "and i like raisins! but they don’t taste the same at all! oh my god. kento, is this false advertising?"
he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"no, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning down to wipe the streak of jam from your cheek with a napkin. "that’s simply how they’re made."
you looked devastated for exactly three seconds.
and then your eyes lit up.
"wait- does that mean prunes are dried plums?!"
nanami closed his eyes.
"yes."
you gasped so loudly he actually flinched.
"they’ve been lying to me," you whispered, clutching his shirt like your world had just cracked in half. "fruits are lying to me."
he slid an arm around your waist, warm and steady, grounding you before your thoughts spiraled any further.
"no one is lying to you," he said softly, pressing a small kiss to your temple, "you just… interpret things in a very unique way."
you puffed your cheeks. "you mean in a dumb way."
"i would never say that," nanami replied without missing a beat, thumb brushing the back of your hand in a quiet reassurance, "you simply think differently."
"in a dumb way," you repeated, pouting even harder.
he sighed, tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. the affection in his gaze softened every corner of his face.
"in a way that i adore," he corrected gently.
you blinked, heat rising to your cheeks.
nanami kissed you once, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world for you and your fruit based revelations. then he helped you off the stool, guided you to the table, and sat you down in front of your plate.
"eat," he said, placing a cup of juice beside you.
you sipped it suspiciously.
"kento," you whispered, horrified, "is this… dried oranges?"
he stared at you for a long moment. then, finally defeated, he pressed his forehead to the table. "it’s juice, sweetheart."
you brightened, immediately sipping again.
"oh! yay!"
and somehow, impossibly, nanami loved you even more than he did ten minutes ago.
•●CHOSO KAMO●•
dating choso meant signing up for a relationship where both of you spent at least half your time saying things like "wait… really?" and "i didn’t know that," and "ohhhh that makes so much sense now!"
he wasn’t stupid, neither of you were.
you were just… trusting. and soft. and very easily convinced that the world was full of magical rules no one had thought to correct you on.
and choso, bless him, believed almost everything you said.
and you believed almost everything he said.
which is how the two of you ended up in the middle of the living room, staring at a kiwi fruit with matching expressions of pure, devastating confusion.
"so," you said, pointing at it like it might try to escape, "kiwis are… baby coconuts?"
choso’s brows drew together, serious, thoughtful. "i think so," he said slowly, "it makes sense. they’re round. they’re brown. they have hair."
you gasped softly. "right? that’s what i thought! because like… coconuts are big and brown and hairy, and kiwis are just tiny versions! like babies!"
he nodded, completely on board. "yes. baby coconuts. it explains everything."
and the worst part?
you both genuinely believed it.
you sat beside him on the couch, scooting closer until your thighs touched, leaning your head onto his shoulder as if the combined contact would help your shared brain cell spark to life.
"but then…" you frowned, thinking very hard, "why do baby coconuts taste so sour?"
choso frowned too, equally invested. "maybe they grow sweeter as they get older."
your eyes widened. "oooooh! like people!"
he looked down at you and softened instantly, because your eyes were big and sparkly and hopeful in a way that made his chest flutter.
"yeah," he said quietly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, "like people."
you picked up the kiwi again, holding it between both hands like a sacred object. "so does that mean we shouldn’t eat them?"
choso froze, fully horrified.
"eat… baby coconuts?" he asked, voice trembling. "no. that’s awful."
"i know!" you cried. "i never thought about it that way! i feel so bad!"
you set the kiwi down immediately, and choso mirrored you, as if you were both paying respects to a fallen soldier.
a long, tragic silence followed.
finally, choso whispered, "i can’t believe we’ve been eating babies."
you sniffled. "i’m so sorry, little coconut babies…"
he put a hand over yours, eyes solemn. "it’s okay. we didn’t know."
you nodded, teary. "we’re good people."
"we are," he agreed softly.
you stayed like that until the door opened and yuji walked in, freezing when he saw the two of you huddled over a kiwi like it was a corpse.
"uh… what’s going on?" he asked.
you looked up, eyes wet. "we found out kiwis are baby coconuts."
yuji stared.
then blinked.
then stared harder.
"they’re… what?"
choso nodded gravely, squeezing your hand. "it’s true. we realized it today."
you added, "we’re never eating them again."
yuji opened his mouth. closed it. opened it. closed it.
finally, he let out a defeated little sigh.
"no," he said gently, "kiwis are not baby coconuts."
"yes they are," you said, offended.
"they’re not," yuji insisted, dropping his bag and walking over. "please. please google it. i’m begging you both."
you and choso exchanged a look.
a very slow, very nervous look.
"sweetheart," choso whispered, "what if google is lying?"
you gasped again. "it could be propaganda."
yuji stared at the ceiling as if praying for strength.
"i can’t do this today," he muttered.
but you and choso had already tuned him out because you were too busy clutching each other in mutual horror over what else the fruit industry might be hiding from you.
choso pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, whispering, "we’re in this together."
you nodded, clinging to him. "forever and ever."
and the kiwi sat on the table untouched, a tiny, fuzzy symbol of the shared delusion that somehow made the two of you perfect for each other.
•●TAKUMA INO●•
since meeting takuma it meant accepting that your shared brain cell was technically functional but constantly sprinting in the wrong direction with its shoes untied became routine. he adored you, worshipped the ground you walked on, but he also spent at least three days a week convinced you were both legally unfit to operate heavy machinery.
today was one of those days.
it started when you burst through the doorway of his apartment with the kind of panicked energy that made him think something was genuinely wrong. he dropped the bowl of instant ramen in his hands, spilled it everywhere, and launched himself toward you.
"BABE?? WHAT? WHAT HAPPENED? WHO DO I HAVE TO FIGHT? IS IT A CURSE? IS IT A PERSON? IS IT A-”
you threw your arms around him dramatically.
"TAKUMA,” you gasped, voice trembling with emotion, "the moon is disappearing.”
he froze.
that was not on the list of possibilities.
"what.”
"THE MOON!” you repeated, gripping the front of his shirt like a damsel begging a knight for aid. "it’s getting smaller. like, every night. it’s, like, shrinking.”
takuma blinked at you slowly, as if his brain had tripped over itself, fallen down the stairs, and was trying to crawl back up.
"…baby,” he began cautiously, "are you talking about the… lunar phases.”
you looked up at him with the most devastating combination of sincerity and confusion.
"…the what.”
"lunar phases,” he repeated, touching your shoulders like he was grounding both of you. "you know. full moon, crescent moon, half moon.”
your eyes widened, lips parting, entire body going still like someone had unplugged you.
"wait,” you whispered, horrified, "so there’s not just… one?”
takuma inhaled so sharply he choked.
"baby- NO, it’s the SAME ONE it’s just CHANGING SHAPES! LOOK- HOLD ON-”
he grabbed his phone so aggressively he dropped it twice, nearly tripped over his own feet, and slammed onto the couch beside you.
"SEE,” he sputtered, pulling up google images at the speed of fear, "the moon doesn’t disappear. it just- LOOK AT THIS. LOOK. WITH YOUR EYES. PLEASE.”
you leaned in, brows scrunched, eyelashes fluttering like pretty little fans.
"wait…” you murmured, slowly, as if putting together the clues of a murder mystery, "so… the moon isn’t dying?”
he stared at you, mouth open, heart clenching with both pain and affection.
"no,” he said softly, "it is absolutely not dying.”
you let out a dramatic gasp, clutching your chest. "oh thank god. i was gonna write a letter to nasa.”
he put both hands over his face and made a sound that was definitely not human.
"babe,” he groaned, "nasa doesn’t control the moon.”
you paused. "but they should.”
"THEY- WHAT-”
he genuinely choked this time, coughing while pointing weakly at you.
you scooted closer, stroking his back sympathetically.
"it’s okay, takuma,” you soothed, "i know stuff is confusing sometimes.”
his jaw dropped.
"I KNOW STUFF!?” he cried. "YOU THOUGHT THE MOON WAS DYING-”
"well it looked like it!” you argued, crossing your arms defensively. "don’t yell at me, you know i’m sensitive!”
his entire demeanor instantly shifted, from mildly deranged to desperately apologetic.
"no no no baby i’m not yelling, never yelling, i’m just- passionately explaining astronomy!”
you blinked up at him, lip wobbling. "you’re mad at me.”
he panicked so violently he nearly fell off the couch again. "NO- GOD NO BABY- COME HERE.”
he pulled you into his chest, wrapping you up like you were a fragile, expensive, limited edition item he had to protect with his life.
"i’m not mad,” he murmured frantically into your hair, "i could never be mad, you’re perfect and adorable and my whole heart. i just- we need to work on our science knowledge together because i am aging ten years every time you say something like this.”
you sniffled, snuggling deeper into him. "i just don’t want the moon to go away…”
"it won’t,” takuma promised, rubbing your back. "i swear. on my life. the moon is fine.”
you lifted your head slightly, eyes glossy and hopeful.
"…okay. but if it DOES start to disappear again, can we write nasa a letter together?”
he hesitated.
then sighed.
then kissed your forehead in surrender.
"yeah, babe,” he said softly, "we’ll write nasa a letter.”
and somewhere, the universe sighed too, because somehow, disastrously, stupidly, adorably, the two of you were perfect for each other.
•●HAJIME KASHIMO●•
kashimo had lived centuries without understanding softness.
he knew battle, he knew strategy, he knew blood and thunder and the thrill of hunting someone stronger than him.
what he didn’t know was why his chest felt tight every time you smiled at him. or why he was now sitting in your living room, arms crossed, trying to look unbothered while you stared at a microwave like it was a cursed relic.
"hajime," you whispered, tugging on his sleeve with two fingers painted in pastel glitter, "is it… dangerous?"
he glanced at the microwave.
then at you.
then back at the microwave.
"…no," he said slowly, "it is a heating device."
you leaned closer, face inches from the glass as the numbers counted down.
"but it’s glowing," you breathed, horrified and fascinated all at once.
"it is not glowing," he said flatly.
"um, yes it is?" you insisted, pointing dramatically. "look! there’s a light inside! what if something is living in there??"
he blinked.
"the light turns on," he said, carefully, like he was explaining weapon technique to someone who might cry, "so you can see your food."
your mouth dropped open in betrayal. "wait… the food is supposed to be SEEN? by WHO?"
"by you," he stated.
you gasped. "oh my god. i’m being watched?"
kashimo stared at you.
you stared at him.
the microwave beeped.
you shrieked and jumped onto his lap.
he froze. ancient warrior, undefeated in battle, lightning incarnate, completely undone by a microwave noise and the sudden weight of your warm, terrified body clinging to him.
your arms wrapped around his neck, trembling. "take it away," you whimpered into his shoulder.
kashimo slowly placed a hand on your back, unsure if he was comforting you correctly.
"…it is bread," he said, voice stiff. "you put bread in the machine. it is now warm bread."
you pulled back just enough to stare up at him with big, watery eyes.
"bread… shouldn’t explode like that."
"nothing exploded."
"it felt like an explosion."
he sighed, not annoyed, not tired, just the soft exhale of a man genuinely overwhelmed by your entire existence.
"you fear the machine," he said.
"yes."
"but do not fear me."
"never."
your answer was immediate, instinctive, and it knocked something loose inside him, something he didn’t know how to name.
kashimo had been worshipped in his original era. feared. revered.
but no one had ever trusted him like this. no one had ever clung to him like he was safety rather than destruction.
you pressed your cheek back to his shoulder, still holding tightly.
"hajime," you murmured, voice small and muffled, "if the machine eats me, will you avenge me?"
he closed his eyes. "the microwave will not eat you."
"but if it did?"
"…yes," he admitted, because clearly that was the only acceptable answer. "i would."
you relaxed instantly with a happy sigh, fingers playing idly with the collar of his shirt.
"thank you," you whispered. "you’re the strongest. even against appliances."
he didn’t tell you that appliances were exactly the type of thing he was worst with.
instead, he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you fully into his lap, grounding you because you always seemed like you might float away otherwise.
"come," he said quietly, brushing your hair aside. "eat your bread."
you shook your head. "no. it’s been inside the machine."
he exhaled through his nose.
"i will test it," he offered.
your eyes widened. "you’d risk that for me?"
"…it is bread," he repeated.
you gasped, overwhelmed. "you’re so brave."
he took a bite of the toast, chewing with the expression of a man who had killed gods and was now being praised for surviving a kitchen appliance.
"it’s warm," he told you.
"is it dangerous?"
"no."
you stared at the bread, stared at him and whispered, "kiss me first. in case it kills me."
he didn’t hesitate.
he cupped your cheek gently, leaned in, and kissed you. slow, warm, careful in a way no one would ever believe possible from a man who once sought lightning as a form of pleasure.
you melted against him instantly, fingers curling around the front of his shirt like he was the only solid thing in your world.
when he finally pulled back, you blinked up at him dreamily.
"okay," you whispered, "now i’m ready to eat the dangerous bread."
he pressed his forehead against yours and let out a soft, helpless sound he would deny to his dying breath.
he’d faced warriors. curses. storms. death. none of it ever scared him. but loving you? that was the one battle he’d already lost.
and he didn’t mind losing at all.
•●HIROMI HIGURUMA●•
higuruma had always prided himself on being level headed. rational, logical, measured. he liked order. he liked clarity. he liked understanding things.
and then he started dating you.
the prettiest, softest, sparkliest chaos the universe had ever handcrafted.
you were sitting at his dining table now, legs swinging gently beneath your chair, wearing a fluffy sweater two sizes too big because "it’s cozy and your apartment is sooo cold, romi." you looked like a pastel cloud in the middle of his very neutral, very adult home.
he loved it. he loved you.
but he’d never admit how much you scared him sometimes.
today’s fear? you were reading A BOOK. completely voluntarily.
an actual book, with pages and small words.
higuruma paused in the doorway, watching you with cautious optimism.
"what are you reading?" he asked lightly, setting two cups of tea on the table.
you looked up immediately, face lighting up like you’d been waiting for him.
"hiromiii!" you gasped. "okay, so, it’s this thing about… um… quantum physics."
he blinked. "you’re reading quantum physics."
you nodded proudly.
his stomach dropped.
"why?" he asked gently.
you tapped the book with one glossy nail. "because i wanna be smart like you! and also the cover was pink."
he exhaled through his nose, long, controlled, steady, the way he did in court when a witness said something absolutely unhinged and he needed to maintain professionalism.
"may i see the book?" he asked.
you handed it over eagerly.
he flipped it open.
he froze.
"love," he said slowly, "this is a cookbook."
you blinked at him.
hard.
"…what."
"this is a dessert cookbook," he repeated. "not physics."
you snatched it back, flipping through frantically.
"but- but they’re all circles and graphs and diagrams!"
"they’re cakes."
"cakes???"
he nodded.
you stared at the page like it had personally betrayed you. "but… they look like science."
"they look like pastries," higuruma corrected, scooting his chair closer so he could look with you.
you leaned into him, shoulder pressed against his, voice small and confused. "so… i wasn’t learning quantum physics?"
"no."
"i was learning… frosting?"
"yes."
he could see the exact moment your brain short circuited, eyes going glossy in an expression of existential disappointment.
"i’m so dumb," you whispered.
he placed a hand under your chin immediately, firm but gentle, tilting your face toward his.
"no," he said, voice low and calm, "you’re not."
you pouted, eyes downcast. "but i thought i was learning real science…"
you looked so defeated that something in him softened painfully.
"want me to teach you some real physics?" he asked.
your head shot up, eyes brightening instantly. "really?!"
"really."
you gasped, throwing your arms around him like he’d just offered you a lifetime supply of sparkly lip gloss.
"hiromi!!"
he leaned down, lips brushing your hair as he spoke. "but for now," he murmured, "let’s start simple."
"like what?" you asked, still hugging him.
he reached over, grabbed a pen from the table, and held it out.
"tell me why this falls when I drop it."
you stared at the pen. then at his hand. then at the floor.
after a long pause, you whispered with complete sincerity, "…because it’s sad?"
higuruma choked on air.
actually choked.
you looked concerned. "hiromi? are you okay?"
he cleared his throat, straightening his posture like he was back in front of a judge.
"i’m fine," he croaked. "just… surprised."
you nodded solemnly. "gravity is sad."
he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"gravity," he corrected gently, "is a force."
"a sad force."
"no."
"yes."
you stared at each other for a long, intense moment.
higuruma sighed in defeat, running a hand through his hair.
"fine," he murmured, leaning down to kiss your forehead because he couldn’t fight you and also didn’t want to, "gravity is sad."
you beamed, curling into his side like a cat settling into a warm lap.
"thank you," you whispered happily.
he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close, letting your warmth fill the empty quiet of his apartment.
"you’re welcome," he said softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek.
even if your logic made his soul leave his body sometimes, he wouldn’t trade your sweetness for anything.
•●RYOMEN SUKUNA●•
sukuna was very proud of his ability to remain unbothered by absolutely everything.
and then you appeared in a poof of pink and glitter and clumsyness.
and suddenly?
he was bothered by everything. especially today.
because today, you were sitting criss cross on his throne, HIS throne, wearing a tiny pink skirt and fuzzy socks, looking at him with the most tragically adorable expression of confusion he’d ever seen.
"suku," you said softly, "is… is lightning alive?"
he stared at you.
you stared back, eyes shiny and round and full of genuine curiosity.
"lightning," he repeated slowly, "as in the sky thing."
you nodded vigorously. "yeah! because it wiggles."
he closed his eyes, just for a moment.
"it wiggles," he echoed, because apparently repeating things helped him cope.
"mhmm." you tapped your chin like you were presenting a well researched theory. "like a worm. but really bright."
a vein in his forehead twitched.
"lightning is not a worm."
"but it moves like one!"
he exhaled, like a tortured old soul who had seen too much.
"it’s electricity," he said. "energy. raw, uncontrolled power."
your jaw dropped. "ELECTRICITY IS ALIVE?!"
"NO."
you blinked, thinking very hard, which usually ended badly.
"but if lightning is electricity," you said slowly, "and electricity is what makes, like… light bulbs and hair dryers and stuff work… doesn’t that mean hair dryers are alive too?"
sukuna honestly, genuinely, briefly contemplated ripping a hole in space time and walking directly into it.
"no," he said again, voice flat and strained. "stop talking."
you puffed out your cheeks. "you’re being mean."
he opened his eyes and there you were, pout wobbly, lashes fluttery, hands folded in your lap like the saddest little princess to ever exist.
and he felt it.
that awful, embarrassing tug somewhere in the empty hollow where his heart should’ve been.
"i’m not being mean," he muttered, looking away. "you’re being… you."
"me?" you murmured, leaning forward. "is that bad?"
he could feel you staring at him. it was unbearable.
"no," he snapped, too fast, too sharp, "it’s- it’s not bad."
your face brightened immediately, disastrously, and you scooted closer on the throne, your knee touching his.
"so lightning is… what again?"
"energy," he repeated, jaw tight.
"so… not a worm."
"FOR THE LAST TIME, NO-"
you giggled, sweet, airy, soft, and he froze. "you’re funny when you’re frustrated, suku."
his entire body locked up.
"i am not frustrated."
"mmhm."
you reached up to boop his nose.
his NOSE.
the king of curses nearly combusted.
"stop that," he grumbled, grabbing your wrist but not actually pushing it away. "you’re insufferable."
you melted instantly.
"you’re so sweet to me."
"that wasn’t sweet."
"it sounded sweet."
he clicked his tongue.
"you hear what you want."
"and you look at me like you want to kiss me," you said absentmindedly as you picked at your fuzzy socks.
he almost died.
actually died.
just a little.
"i-" he started, voice catching in his throat, "i do NOT-"
you leaned in, eyes bright. "do you?"
he stared at you.
you waited.
he looked away, cheeks suspiciously faintly red.
"eat your food," he muttered, completely abandoning the original topic.
"we weren’t talking about food."
"we are now."
but then you slid off his throne, plopping yourself straight onto his lap without waiting for permission, curling into him with a sleepy sigh like he was nothing more than a giant, angry pillow.
"suku?" you asked softly.
"…what."
you lowered your voice, almost shy.
"thanks for teaching me stuff, even when it makes you mad."
he didn’t know what to do with that.
so he settled for placing a clawed hand on your thigh, gentle, hovering, reluctant.
"it doesn’t make me mad," he muttered.
you tilted your head. "it doesn’t?"
"…it makes my brain hurt," he said, voice low, "but not mad."
you smiled into his chest, arms wrapping loosely around him. "i love your brain."
he swallowed.
and for the first time that afternoon, sukuna didn’t have a single comeback.
because nothing, not curses, not power, not centuries of bloodshed, had ever undone him the way you just did by existing.
•●TOJI FUSHIGURO●•
toji wasn’t a patient man.
he didn’t do soft, he didn’t do gentle, he didn’t do "explaining things slowly so his girlfriend didn’t panic."
and yet here he was, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, watching you stare at a carton of eggs like it contained ancient forbidden knowledge.
"toji," you said, whispering like you were about to confess to a crime, "are these… actually eggs?"
he blinked once.
you held up the carton again, more distressed this time.
"no seriously, like- they’re really eggs? from chickens? real chickens?"
toji dragged a hand down his face. "what else would they be," he muttered.
you looked offended by the question.
"i dunno! i thought maybe they… grew them in factories or something. like, in little machines. egg machines."
he stared.
you stared back.
and then, slowly, toji’s lips curled. not into a smile, but something dangerously close.
"egg machines," he repeated, voice low, amused. "that’s what you think, huh?"
you nodded, suddenly sheepish, twisting your fingers together.
"it just seemed… cleaner."
toji snorted, full on snorted.
you gasped. "don’t laugh! i’m serious!"
"yeah," he said, pushing off the counter to walk toward you, "that’s the problem."
you stuck your lower lip out, pouting in a way that almost made him soften. almost.
he stopped in front of you, one hand braced on the counter beside your hip, the other reaching to flick your forehead lightly.
"c’mere," he said, voice gruff.
you stepped closer, obedient, big sparkly eyes blinking up at him like he hung the moon instead of multiple arrest warrants.
"eggs come from chickens," he said, slow like he was talking to a toddler.
"ew," you whispered, horrified.
"yeah," he smirked, "welcome to nature."
you covered your mouth dramatically. "so they just- fall out?!"
"mhm."
"out of the chicken??"
"mhm."
"LIKE THAT?!"
he nodded, biting back a laugh as your entire face twisted in anguish.
"but then what if the chicken needs it back??"
toji couldn’t help it.
he laughed. loud, unapologetic, head thrown back.
you smacked his arm weakly. "stop laughing at me!"
"baby," he drawled, pulling you in by your waist, "you’re killing me."
you frowned harder. "don’t ‘baby’ me. this is serious! all this time i was eating chicken eggs without knowing they come from the… the chicken butthole!"
"cloaca," he said.
you froze. "the… what."
"cloaca," he repeated, voice deep and calm like he was explaining tax forms. "it’s not a butthole."
you stared at him, deadpan. "…that does not make me feel better, toji."
he laughed again, softer this time, fingers slipping up to toy idly with a strand of your hair.
"you’re adorable," he muttered.
you huffed. "i’m distressed."
he leaned down, brushing his nose against yours for a brief second, something he would deny if anyone asked him later.
"yeah?" he murmured. "and whose fault is that?"
"nature’s," you whispered dramatically.
he snorted. "sure."
you poked his chest. "this is a betrayal. chickens betrayed me. i trusted them."
"you didn’t even know how eggs worked."
"that’s why it hurts worse!"
toji shook his head, lips quirking.
you were ridiculous.
completely ridiculous.
and somehow he liked you more every time you opened your mouth and said something stupid.
he slid a hand up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently into his chest.
"you’re fine, doll," he murmured, voice low and warm in a way he didn’t let anyone else hear, "we’ll work through your egg trauma together."
you looked up at him, eyes softening instantly. "you’re so supportive."
he huffed. "don’t get used to it."
"too late," you smiled, nuzzling into him.
toji rested his chin on your head, eyes closing for a second like he was savoring the moment before he snapped back to his usual self.
"just don’t ask me where milk comes from," he muttered.
you stiffened.
"…wait."
"NO."
but it was too late.
your jaw dropped again. "TOJI- IS MILK JUST-"
"baby please. don't do this."
"IS IT COW JUICE???"
he pinched the bridge of his nose. "i’m breaking up with you," he said flatly.
"no you’re not."
"no," he sighed, pulling you closer despite himself, "i’m not."
and he wasn’t.
because he was already in too deep. too fond. too gone for you.
even if you thought eggs came from an egg machine.
•●SHIU KONG●•
shiu kong did not get paid enough for this.
'this' being you standing in the middle of his living room, holding a bag of flour like it was a bomb, staring at him with the shiny eyed panic of someone seconds from a crisis.
"shiu," you whispered, voice trembling, "does flour expire?"
he blinked at you.
you blinked back.
he blinked slower.
"…yes," he said finally.
your eyes widened in absolute horror. "IT CAN DIE?!"
shiu exhaled through his nose.
long. slow. the exhausted sigh of a man who had killed people for less emotional drain than whatever this conversation was about to be.
"flour does not die," he corrected. "it just goes bad."
you gasped even louder. "LIKE MILK?!"
he nodded once. "yeah. like milk."
"but flour is dry!"
"mhm."
"and milk is wet!"
"mhm."
"so how does DRY MILK happen?"
"…that’s not what flour is."
you stared at the bag again, like it had personally betrayed you, then looked back up at him with a trembling lip.
"i think i’m too dumb to bake."
shiu resisted the urge to laugh, barely.
instead, he pushed off the couch, walked over, and tapped your forehead with one finger.
"you are too dumb to bake," he said plainly.
your jaw dropped. "shiu!!"
"what?" he shrugged. "you asked."
you pouted so hard your whole face scrunched up.
he looked at you and immediately regretted teasing you.
because you looked like a wounded bunny, a bunny he accidentally stepped on, a bunny he would commit arson to protect.
he sighed again, softer this time, and took the flour from your hands.
"i’ll help you," he muttered.
your face lit up like Christmas.
"REALLY???"
"yeah." he scratched the back of his neck, annoyed at himself for giving in so fast. "just don’t cry about flour dying again."
"i won’t," you swore, crossing your heart like you were making a blood oath.
he stared at you for three seconds. "you absolutely will."
you smiled innocently. "maybe…"
he shook his head and began measuring the flour while you watched with all the intense fascination of a toddler watching fireworks.
"shiu?" you asked suddenly.
"hm?"
"why is it called all purpose flour?"
he didn’t look up. "because you use it for a lot of things."
"like…?"
"like baking."
"and…?"
"cooking."
"and…?"
he paused, finally glancing over at you.
you were leaning forward, eyes huge, waiting for him to reveal the secrets of the universe.
"…that’s it," he said.
you gasped dramatically. "BUT IF IT’S ALL PURPOSE THEN WHY CAN’T WE USE IT FOR EVERYTHING? WHY CAN’T IT FIX MY PHONE? OR HEAL SADNESS? OR PATCH WALLS? WHY CAN’T I PUT IT IN MY HAIR FOR VOLUME??"
he dropped the measuring cup. "please don’t put flour in your hair."
"but it’s ALL PURPOSE!"
"not like that, sweetheart."
you crossed your arms. "then it’s lying."
"it’s not lying."
"sounds like lying."
he stared at the ceiling very seriously.
"god," he whispered, "if i ever wondered what my punishment in this life was supposed to be, i think i know now."
you tilted your head. "what does that mean?"
he didn’t answer.
instead, he stepped behind you, hands settling on your hips lightly, a grounding touch, steadying you like you were seconds from spiraling.
"it means," he murmured against your ear, warm breath brushing your skin, "that you’re lucky you’re cute."
you froze and blushed, hard.
"i- i am cute," you whispered shyly.
"mm," he hummed, lips curving faintly, "painfully."
you turned bright pink.
he smirked. not because he was mocking you, but because he liked seeing your brain turn to glitter in real time.
"okay," he said, stepping back, "show me how you cracked the egg earlier."
you perked up instantly.
"oh! like this!" you raised the egg.
shiu’s eyes widened.
"WAIT- NOT-"
you slammed it into the counter like you were breaking a curse object.
egg splattered everywhere.
you gasped softly. "oh."
shiu closed his eyes.
counted to three.
opened them again.
"okay," he said, voice eerily calm, "new rule."
"mhmm?" you chirped.
"you’re not allowed to touch anything in my kitchen unless i’m holding your hands."
you blinked. "like… guiding me?"
"yeah."
"…like we’re baking together?"
"yeah."
your smile was bright enough to blind a god.
"you like me," you whispered playfully.
shiu snorted, grabbing a towel to wipe the counter.
"unfortunately."
you beamed.
and even though he complained the entire time, muttering about your technique, your logic, your inability to understand the mortality of flour, he kept your hands in his for the rest of the night.
even when you didn’t need help. especially then. for someone who claimed to be unbothered, shiu kong held onto you like letting go wasn’t an option.
୨୧●• note: honestly... reader kinda has a point with shiu's one. why is all purpose flour not able to be used for all purposes like??
You don't know when or where it began, but somehow Sakusa hates you, and you're determined to find out why.
"Maybe it's by association since you're always hangin' around these freaks," Suna suggests.
"Rude!"
"Hey!"
"I heard that!"
The aforementioned "freaks" – Hinata, Bokkun, Atsumu – are sprawled across your living room floor, two of them are shirtless, and all of them too engrossed in their video game to wholeheartedly protest.
You and Suna watch as Atsumu scratches something suspiciously close to his nostril before resuming his grip on the controller.
You sigh. "Sunarin, you might be onto something."
But intuition tells you that the wing spiker's feelings stem from something deeper than disgust. You can't put your finger on it but there's always a sharp undercurrent of... tension whenever the two of you are under the same roof.
Tonight, at Onigiri Miya's end of year holiday party, is no exception. Sakusa keeps glancing in your direction way too intently.
If you didn't know better, you'd be... flattered.
But you do know better. You see the pained look that flashes across his face every time you make accidental contact: when your shoulder brushed against his leaning in for a group photo, when your fingers touched reaching for the same pair of chopsticks. That look is your first impression of him - hi, I'm Shoyo and Bokkun's roommate! - he gave you that same look, when you'd held your hand out to shake.
Which is such a shame, because... well, he's funny (at least when he's putting down Atsumu), he cleans up after himself, and it's honestly an understatement that he's quite nice to look at. In another world, he's your ideal type.
"I swear he's glaring at me, guys," you whisper now through clenched teeth. "I feel his glare coming this way."
The glare is distracting you from properly enjoying the negitorodon that your roommates are inhaling.
"Nonsense! Omi-omi just looks like that all the time," Hinata chirps obliviously.
"Like what, like he's dealing with a really bad case of constipation? Like his bowels haven't gotten any action in a long, long time?"
Bokuto pauses chewing to reflect. "Huh... I guess he's looking more serious than usual."
"He hates crowds," Hinata points out.
"He chose to be here!"
"And now Tsum-tsum is over there bothering him," Bokuto says. "Crowds plus Tsum-tsum equals Omi-kun – but unwell." He nods with a sagacious air, like he's dropped a mathematical gem.
"Precision as expected of our Ace!!" Hinata gushes.
You sigh. They're your best friends and you love them, but their innocence is incorrigible and you need space. "Guys, I'm stepping out for a bit."
"Eh? Want us to come with?"
"Nah, I'll be just a few minutes."
Slipping on your coat, you miss how Atsumu elbows Sakusa and looks at you suggestively, and how the latter scowls, shrugging off his teammate's arm, in response.
The air is cool on your face, and the sky is clear. It's a perfect night to watch the stars. You crane your neck all the way back, drinking in the sight, when you're met with a set of dark brown eyes.
"Hi... Kiyoomi-kun! Guess you also needed some fresh air, huh?"
"Something like that," he mutters.
You stand side by side in awkward silence for a few beats.
"Well. it was nice seeing you–"
"I lost a bet," Sakusa interrupts.
You turn to face him. You've not seen him without a mask in a while and had forgotten the little things that make this man's face so beautiful. The curve of his ears, the shade of his lips. The moles that resemble the bright stars in the sky tonight.
"I... lost a bet," he repeats. "To Miya. So now I need to confess to the person I like."
Why is he telling you this? Does he want your help, or what?
"Umm... good luck?" It comes out as a question, which is not what you intended. You try again: "That person is super lucky."
Sakusa looks point blank into your eyes. "That person is you."
"Oh—" Wait. Pause. "HUH?"
"I don't understand it either," he continues agitatedly. "You're best friends with Idiots 1, 2, and 3. You're roommates with them. You... live with them." He shudders. "Which... says something about you. But you're always prepared, you're punctual. You're thoughtful. You've never once acted like my personality and, health standards, made me any less pleasant to talk to. You show up for people, and I don't know, I...
I think you're beautiful. I want to see you all the time. I look for you in every room we might share. I come to stupid gatherings like these on the off chance that you might be there, and when you are I physically have to remind myself to take my eyes off you. It makes me seriously look constipated. Honestly, I don't get it. I've seen you laugh out loud with your mouth full–"
"Hey now–"
"–and you were so captivating I couldn't look away. There," Sakusa finishes self righteously. "I've said it."
You're bewildered. You have no words, after such a speech.
"I thought you hated me!"
"You came to that conclusion all by yourself," he grumbles. "So, will you go out with me?"
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 !!
sukuna has always dated brats with bad attitudes, so when he had a shitty day at the gym and takes it out on his adorable girlfriend he expects to be yelled at back, but instead he's met with the thickest feeling of guilt imaginable.
(angst to fluff, yelling on sukuna's end, lowkey kinda toxic sukuna but he gets better in the end :p)
wc: 3k || art creds: @/akura_tsuna
total and utter brats is what sukuna was used to. girls with a big ego and an ever bigger attitude, but you? his new, adorably sweet girlfriend? you were quite literally the polar opposite of a brat, and he was about to figure that out real quick.
he stomps with heavy and angry footing into the apartment, he was pissed off, like, really pissed off. some ass fuck at the gym decided to get all up in his face over him accidentally leaving a few plates on the deadlift bar, (something he never usually did, his mind was just filled with other stressful life shit.) so he pulled a few punches and that was that.
that asshole figured out quite fast that sukuna's massive muscles weren't just for show.
he let out a groan of pure frustration and anger as he stepped further into the apartment dulling any sort of positivity that dare disturb his ridiculous state of mind.
you’re too occupied pottering around the tiny off campus apartment in your cute little socks and pretty sweater to notice his foul mood just yet. singing some beabadoobee song quietly to yourself while trying to plate up the dinner you'd made just for him.
kuna always comes home hungry after hitting the gym, especially arms, so you decide to give him something nice and warm for when he gets home, y'know, like the great and loving girl you are?
you're about to pour him a glass of ice water when you hear the door shut just a little too aggressively.
you can't help but flinch, not because you’re scared, but because you know that kind of sound. it’s the sound people makes when they're exhausted, frustrated, not very happy with the world. you were used to this energy from others, but you were yet to experience it from your boyfriend.
you peek your head around the corner.
“hey, ryo.” you say in that soft, dainty voice he still hasn’t fully gotten used to. the one that normally made him melt into a puddle of gooey love and adoration, but right now all it does is remind him he’s tired and really agitated. “i got dinner all ready for you, love.”
he grunts, that’s it. a grunt.
he chucks his duffle bag down on the couch, wipes his hand down his face and mutters something under his breath about 'fuckwits at the gym.' you try to ignore the obvious annoyance in his voice and shyly tiptoe back into the kitchen then bring him a pink plate full of dinner, holding it in both of your precious hands, offering it to him like a gift you'd made just to cheer him up.
and then he decides to turn into the biggest dick face on the planet, too frustrated to be civil, apparently.
with no sort of preparation or hesitancy, he sharpens his deep red eyes at you and crosses his biceps over his chest.
“th' fucks this supposed to be?”
you stiffen up a lil. “it's… your dinner?”
you watch as his eyes fall darker and his fists clench. “what? you know i don’t eat before i shower. you put the whole thing together just to let it get cold?”
...huh...?
you'd never been talked to this carelessly by sukuna before... your eyes get the tiniest bit glossy, but you try to fight it off as best you can. “i… i thought you’d want it now because you always say you’re starving when you get back…” you whisper.
“yeah? well, today i’m not fucking hungry.” his voice rises in a way it never has with you. a way he used to talk to girls who’d scream right back at him, get in his face, throw something at the wall. “god, do you ever listen?”
"i- i'm sorry... i just thought-"
"wow? thinking for once? didn't know your dumb little head was capable of that."
...ouch.
you could physically feel your throat pulling tight, it burned to breathe through his venomous insult..
“honestly, the last thing i need right now is some damn girl trying to play house with me after i've just worked my ass off all day, it's fucking annoying,” he shoots, beginning to pace, ignoring the way your face contorted into that adorable yet heart crushing pout.
'some damn girl?...' was that all you were to him?..
he’s not looking at you. he’s talking at you, like you’re just another outlet for whatever’s eating at him. this big, loud, overwhelming presence filling your little apartment with his booming voice rising and rising with each word, and you can’t even process half the things he’s saying because your brain is doing that fuzzy weird panicy thing. you don’t know whether to get up or stay still or just disappear on the spot forever..
you're silently listening, but he just keeeeps on going.
"you think i want you shoving shit in my face the second i get home?! let me take a damn break for once in my life, woman!”
...
behind your ribcage you can feel the crack, crack, crack, of your heart with each piece falling into your stomach and smouldering into a thick ash, like you were an insignificant bug that wasn't worth this man's time.
and it’s right there in the silence that something finally flickers in his stupidly ignorant brain.
because this is the part where someone should yell back, where someone should tell him to go fuck himself, or throw the plate down, or call him an asshole, or storm out. or anything!
but you don’t.
you just stand there ever so sadly, you hold your arms around your body like they might save you from the stomach pains you'd suddenly gotten, the feeling of immense guilt for making him more angry than he already was.
you're stuck staring down at the floor, your eyes feel hot and so full of tears as you gently whisper out the softest and heartfelt apology sukuna thinks he's ever heard in his fucked up life..
“...i’m so sorry.”
ryo's ready to yell something completely unnecessary and rude because he’s still riding the high of adrenaline from lifting too much and dealing with that asshole at the gym today. he’s still acting like he’s dealing with someone who’ll fight him tooth and nail, not his pretty little girl who's easier to rattle than a maraca.
your lashes flutter with wet tears and your pouty lip wobbles, you set the plate down carefully on the counter before your hands can shake too hard and it smashes on the floor.
and then you look up at him.
you look at him like you’re scared you'd messed up big time, like you’re scared you hurt him or made him upset in any way. like you’re scared he might walk away, abandon you. like all of this was your fault.
this is about where sukuna starts to feels like his heart had just been flipped over and fucked in the ass by a 6"3 rugby champ.
he didn’t even know it was humanly possible for his chest to sink into the pits of fiery hell that fast. like, physically, his heart plummets to his feet.
“sweetheart,” he says, but it’s too late. he can already see the tears filling up your eyes as you wrap your arms around yourself tighter than before, so small and so nervous.
“i... i’m really sorry,” you whisper again, voice cracking in that heart stabbing kind of way. “i didn’t mean to make you mad, i was just trying trying to help, i thought you’d be hungry and.. i'm so sorry, it won't happen again."
your voice cuts off as you wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed at the tears that keep falling so freely down your flushed cheeks.
and then, before he can even take a step toward you to console, you beat him to it.
you walk right up to his big, stupid, irritated self and gently wrap your arms around his waist, like you’re apologizing to him even though you didn’t do anything wrong.
your cheek presses against his chest, soft and warm and trusting, yet still so small and scared..
all that rage and tension drains out so fast he actually gets lightheaded. he didn’t notice. god, he didn’t realise! he was yelling. at you. his pretty girl, his soft girl.
the only girl he’s ever dated who doesn’t treat every fucking conversation like a competition. the girl who holds his hand with two hands because his palm is so big. the girl who apologises when someone bumps into her. the girl who triple checks she's not burdening someone before she starts speaking. the girl who’d never raise her voice at him, even if he deserved it.
he was yelling at you.
you huff and puff in uneven spouts against his chest, softly like you’re giving him space to push you off if he wants to. you whisper again in a smaller voice than before.
“i’m sorry. i’m really sorry, ryo. i didn’t mean to ruin your day.”
his throat clamps shut.
he feels something sting horribly behind his eyes and he hates it, because he never cries. never. not for breakups, not for fights, not for injuries. but this? this is different. this is you. and realising he scared you or hurt you, even in some tiny emotional way, is making him physically ache with the pain of a thousand knifes stabbing his chest over and over and over..
“baby, no. no, no, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. i’m the one who’s being a fucking idiot. i shouldn’t have yelled. i shouldn’t have even raised my voice at you, baby.. shit.”
you can feel his biceps crushing you tighter. he’s huge and so warm, yet trembling in the tiniest way, like he’s holding himself together with the sheer willpower of not letting you see him too broken.
you sniff against his pec, trying to steady yourself, because you’ve never heard him sound like this before, so guilty and worried.
his voice cracks, cracks as he tries to spew out another line of consolement, and when you blink up at him, there are salty tears at the corners of his eyes. massive, scary, ryomen sukuna falling apart while hugging you, a soft and quiet little thing.
you just shake your head against him, heavy little sobs shaking your shoulders. “i’m sorry i messed up. i’m sorry you had a bad day and i made it worse.”
oh he’s the worst man alive. actually the worst. he can feel it in his bones.
“baby…” his voice cracks again and he hates it but he can’t stop it. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
you cling a little tighter, like you’re scared he’s gonna pull away. that alone almost makes him sob hysterically on the spot.
your voice comes out all wobbly. “i just… i don’t want you to be mad at me.”
fuuuck..
that’s the moment sukuna’s entire psyche caves in on itself and implodes indefinitely.
“god, y/n,” he whispers. “i’m so, so sorry.”
the apartment goes still and quiet for a good minute before you can whisper out, “it’s okay...”
“no,” he says immediately,“ no, it’s not. i shouldn’t have yelled at you like that, sweetheart. i shouldn’t have said any of that. i just… i had a shitty day and i was being a dick. that’s on me. you didn’t make anything worse.”
“but you seemed so upset…”
“oh my love, not at you.” he swallows “never at you, baby. i swear.”
...
your fingers contract into the back of his muscle shirt, holding on so gently it rips at his fragile soul, though, your tears have almost stopped.
he squeezes you harder, he’s not letting you go until he’s sure you're really okay.
“you’re… you’re really precious to me,” he whispers into your hair, the words tumbling out before he can stop them, way too honest for how he normally talks. “i don’t ever wanna scare you. i don’t ever wanna make you cry because of me.”
you move to peek up at him with those big watery eyes, and he absolutely breaks down for the fourth time that night. he feels the liquid in his own eyes and tries to blink it away, but nope. a tear slips down anyway.
your breath catches. “ryo…? d-did i make you upset?- i'm so sorry!”
he shakes his head quickly, gripping the back of your head as he tucks you back under his chin. “you didn't do anything, y/n. just don’t look at me right now,” he mutters. “just… let me hold you.”
you mumble a quick “okay.”
your gentle response calms him more than anything else ever has.
his arms slip under your thighs and your back in one careful swoop, lifting you off the floor like you weigh less than air, because to a colossal guy like kuna, you do.
you let out a noise of surprise and curl into his arms on instinct, holding onto his shirt as he carries you through the little apartment, the whole 9 yards of princess treatment.
“cmon angel,” he mumbles against your forehead in a sweet kiss, “let’s get you in bed.”
he pushes the bedroom door open with his foot and stands next to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress as gently as he possibly can. the second your back hits the sheets he reaches for the blanket and tucks it around you so fast and frantic you almost giggle. he’s acting like he's scared you’re gonna get cold or crumble into star dust if he doesn’t wrap you up right this second.
“stay here, sweetheart,” he says while brushing the pad of his thumb across your cheek. “i’m gonna eat your dinner real quick and shower and then i’m coming right back. don’t move.”
you nod with your body engulfed under the blankets, and he gives you one last kiss on the cheek before heading back out.
it’s almost funny how different the apartment sounds now, he’s trying to be quiet. him. the guy built like a tank who normally stomps around like godzilla. you hear the plate clink, hear the microwave door shut, hear him crushing to himself like he’s scolding his own reflection, which he should be. then you hear the shower switch on, and everything is chaotic as if he’s racing against some imaginary clock because you’re alone in the bed for more than five minutes and that simply will not do for sukuna.
you hear the bathroom door whip open.
he’s back in seconds with his salmon hair damp and a white tank top thrown on crooked, water still beaded on his fair skin because he didn’t even bother drying properly. he climbs onto the bed quickly, grabbing you like he needs to feel you to be happy and content with his life.
your back hits his chest as he pulls you right onto his lap and you can just tell he's feeling possessive and territorial.
“hey baby.. are you okay?”
you nod softly, but he shushes you anyway.
“it’s alright,” he smiles, kissing the side of your neck. “you don’t gotta say anything. i got you.”
his hand rubs little circles over your hip bones with the other sliding up to hold your jaw with this gentle care no one would ever believe he’s capable of, ever. your tears dried a long while ago, but he still treats you like you’re a precious gem. he rocks you a little in his lap, soothing you like it’s instinct.
“you’re so beautiful, yknow that?” he whispers suddenly, voice hushed like he’s telling you a secret not meant for the rest of the world. “so damn beautiful and sweet and good. you’re… y/n, you’re so perfect.”
you feel your cheeks heat up and he smiles against your skin, just barely.
“i mean it,” he says again, burying his face into your shoulder. “you’re precious to me, baby. so precious i don’t even know what to do with myself sometimes.”
yeah, obviously.
you lean back into him a little more and your hands settle over his wrists. he squeezes you immediately like he’s scared he imagined the whole thing and he might be in some lucid dream still yelling at you.
his voice drops even lower, so soft you almost miss it.
“you’re it for me,” he murmurs. “you hear me? you’re it. i’m done with dating. i’m yours for the rest of my damn life.”
you blush deeply and hide your face in your hands at how bold he's being.
"ryo..."
“i’m never talking to you like that again,” he says quietly. “never yelling. never making you cry. i’m not losing you because i don’t know how to deal with my dumbass moods. you’re too important to me.”
your fingers slide over his hand, giving it the cutest squeeze and he just melts behind you. melts completely with his chest going all gooey and soft.
“you’re my girl,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “forever, or for as long as you’ll have me, baby."
he rocks you gently again, humming in his throat while his hands smooth and stroke over you like he’s memorising the shape of you.
he presses one last kiss to your cheek.
“sleep, angel,” he breathes. “i’m not going anywhere.”
sukuna was used to dating brats, the ones who threw tantrums and screamed like banshees in his face, but now he had you. and he knew in his heart that this whole time he was missing out on the pure bliss that was a calm and sweet relationship, with you.
never in his life had sukuna shed a tear over a girl, but tonight he did. he let a few slip because he couldn't handle the thought of making precious little you feel any sort of negative emotion, and he wasn't even trying to hide it. that how much you meant to sukuna, how soft you'd turned him.
and he was damn well never going back.
A/N i took a break from studying to write ts for you chat that's how much i ❤️ u guys 🥀
Domestic life with toji was something you deeply adored. He’s older now, grey hair growing from his roots, beefier build from fat growing over his muscle, the scruff of his beard, because he rarely likes to shave anymore. He’s retired from his ‘gun for hire’ job, saving enough to live a comfortable life with you. You’re tucked away in a quiet town, house atop of the hill, big yard where you can watch the sun set together.
Mornings are filled with soft kisses and cuddles, followed by a home cooked breakfast, and hot cup of coffee. Both of you sit at the table, toji clicking through the channels to either watch sports or that one tv show he got hooked on in the middle of the season.
Afternoons consist of steamy showers, he’s an advocate for showering together, his tall stature behind yours, back pressed against your chest as the water glides down your body. He kisses down your neck, hands ghosting over your waist and down to your hips. Once you’re both out the shower, he always takes a trip into town to get you your favorite sandwich from the shop, picking himself up the same one because you offered him a bite one day and now he won’t order anything else. He comes home, kicking his boots off, setting his keys down on the table, immediately searching for you because even twenty minutes without you feels like forever.
Evenings are his favorite. He’s sat on the couch, nursing a beer, sweats hanging low on his hips. Without fail, you always wander into the living room, eyes locked onto him, the wooden floor cold under your feet. “C’mere, baby,” he huffs. Just like you always do, you straddle his lap, head resting on his shoulder as the palm of his hand caresses up and down your back. He’s warm, soft, and gentle, your eyes closing as you let your body relax, melting into him.
“Toji?” You mutter, lifting your head.
“What’s up?” He turns his head to look at you. “Something wrong?”
“No,” you shake your head, “just wondering what you wanted for dinner tonight?” You softly smile, resting your head back on his shoulder.
He continues to draw random patterns on your back, brows furrowing as he begins to think. “Ummm,” he pauses, “we can always order out. Quick and easy. What do you say?”
“Good, because I really didn’t feel like cooking.” You smile harder, blinking up at him. He laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.
Lastly, the night. It’s dark and quiet, the moon shining through the crack in the curtains. Crickets chirp loudly, followed by the hum of the fan you have running. Toji’s arm is tossed over your waist, your leg thrown over his hip. Gently, you stroke his cheek, admiring him before pressing a kiss to his lips. “I love you.”
He squeezes you harder, holding you tightly against him. “I love you too, baby. Now, get some rest, yeah? We needa be up early.” He kisses the top of your head, allowing you to rest your head in the crook of his neck until your eyes become heavy with sleep.
stormborns
germansingergirl
