𓇣 The main lavender: In here you will find information about me.
𓇣 Deadly Nightshade: in here you will find the forbidden plant (Things I don’t write for).
𓇣 Lamiaceae: in here you will find the lavender that best suits you (masterlist).
Side Note
──────༺♡༻──────
𓇣 Do not repost my work anywhere. I put a lot of love and effort into writing so don’t do it. This blog is mostly NSFW so minors please do not interact, any blog that doesn’t have age on bio will be blocked.
𓇣 I'm a student and uni work gets in the way sometimes, so in those times I may not be as active.
𓇣 My ask box is always open to anyone who wants to talk.
𓇣 This blog does not tolerate any kind of hate. Please be kind to one another.
goodbye will hurt me (but i’ll let the tears fall anyway)
pairings: toji fushiguro x f!reader, satoru gojo x f!reader
alexa play, good goodbye by hwasa: “goodbye will hurt me but i'll let the tears fall. even if i break in regret, i've loved us after all. it's okay, don't look back my way.”
summary. everyone warned you to stay away from toji fushiguro insisting the man's baggage would dim your light. they claimed, he was far too broken up by the loss of his ex-wife to ever truly love anyone else. yet, you went ahead and fell in love with him, and even decided to marry him becoming the (step)mother of his child. they didn't say: "i told you so," when the light in your eyes faded but you could see it written on their faces.
trigger/warning. non-sorcerer au, modern setting, rich characters, emotional breakdowns, prolonged crying, mild language, implied sexual context, mentions of death, age gap relationship — reader is in her mid 20s, toji is in his late 30s, written chapters, heavy angst, fluff?, love triangle between gojo x reader x toji, office?reader, lawyer!gojo satoru, high school sweethearts — satoru & reader, minor memory loss, alcohol, violence, blood, jealousy, lonely reader, insecurities, regret, groveling, complicated relationships, more tags in each chapter.
status. ongoing, posted: 4.26.26.
author's note. hiya! this was originally posted in january, i never updated due to lack of time but my schedule is opening so here we are <3 anyways, this is heavily based off the kdrama: hi bye, mama — strictly the plot surrounding minjeong and the struggles being a step-mother and the wife of a man who continues to mourn. i'm excited to be writing this but if it sucks, please forgive me …
y/n's moodboards: before marriage, after marriage.
good goodbye, act i.
chapter i, chapter ii, chapter ili, chapter iv, chapter v.
taglist. @scaraworldomination , @viixa , @itsssyagurll , @falsedivide , @ssetsuka , @usbrous , @susususukanana , @ambsbr , @mshope16 , @winkii , @lilly-ium , @setia1256 , @whoreyzontal , @st4rlightisa , @untouchablegojo , @satorupied , @lucy-lulu , @sylusqt , @pnkoo . if you'd like to tagged comment under this post or send an ask!!
Summary: Surreptitious - something done secretly, without anyone seeing or knowing. Just like the way you were secretly obsessing over the new NSFW twitter account. Just like the way the man behind it has been secretly running it. But what happens when you two might be closer than you think?
Genre: modern AU, hate to love
Warnings: alcohol consumption, some form of harassment, small bit of angst, minors DNI
Playlist // series masterlist // main masterlist
──────༺🗲༻──────
A few minutes after getting into his car you fell asleep. You swear you tried to stay awake, yet the tiredness from the entire day and especially the night caught up to you and you couldn’t fight it any longer.
You stirred awake, but didn’t open your eyes. Your eyelids felt heavy, however your entire body felt warm. The next thing you felt was a soft mattress underneath you. A pair of hands tried to rip you away from your source of heat but you didn’t want to. It didn’t take long for you to realize that your source of heat was Kakashi and you were holding on to his neck.
He 's so warm.
Was the only thought running through your mind.
"Y/n you have to let go."
You shook your head. Finally, with a lot of insistence from his part, you let go and laid your head on his pillow. It smelled so good, and so did the sheets. It all smelled like him, his unique scent enveloping you. Yet you felt uncomfortable, the stupid tight dress almost cutting your circulation.
As if reading your mind, Kakashi spoke.
“Do you want me to help you dress something more comfortable or do you want to do it by yourself?”
You mumbled out your answer, too tired to speak coherently.
“You do it.”
You felt him step away, and heard some drawers open and close, then he was by your side again.
"Come on, let me help you"
You tried to grab onto his neck as best as you could while he was helping you change into his clothes. You tried your best to help him but the tiredness wasn’t helping. With his t-shirt already on, Kakashi felt a sense of pride seeing in his clothing, not being able not to praise you.
"That’s it. Good girl."
The sentence made your cheeks burn.
Good girl.
You had heard that before. But where?
Good girl..
Good… girl…
Good…
OH MY GOD.
A moment of clarity washed over you. It was him. Kakashi was the twitter guy.
The realization made you push him away from you. You were quick to pull the covers to cover yourself. You hadn’t pushed him that hard, however he was caught off guard and almost fell to the floor.
Both of you had a shocked expression on your faces, but for different reasons. You because of what you had just found out and him because he thought he had done something wrong.
"What is it? Did I do something wrong?"
"It’s you."
You almost shouted at him and he just looked even more confused.
"It’s me what?"
"Don’t play dumb. It’s you. You are him. The guy from twitter. "
His eyes opened so wide it looked like they were going to explode.
"Y/n let me explain. I didn’t know how to tell you. "
"Did you know that I knew the account?"
You were panicking and so was he, it was all over your faces, but for different reasons. Realization was starting to set in. If he knew then that would explain why he had been avoiding you.
“Answer me!”
“Yes, I knew.”
You felt your face burning hot with embarrassment, and you could see the top of his cheeks changing colors to bright red. You pulled the sheets up to cover your face.
“Oh my god! This isn’t real, this isn’t happening to me.”
“Please Y/n let me explain.”
You brought the sheets down to face him. However he was on his knees near the bed, looking at you with pleading eyes.
“Explain what, Kakashi?”
“Everything.”
You gazed at him and nodded.
“Okay. So, I know this is fucked up, but please listen to me. I knew that you knew. I found out when we studied together. You went to get coffee and left your phone at the table and by coincidence you received a notification. I didn’t mean to look but I did and it was a notification from the account. My account. And I panicked, I didn't know what to do. So I left in a hurry.”
You were quiet, what could you say?
The silence stretched on and it was getting uncomfortable, you knew that.
“Please say something.”
You snapped out of your trance at his voice.
“I don’t know what to say. This is a lot to process. I am embarrassed beyond belief. Part of me still can not comprehend that you know that I view your highly pornographic account.”
“I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. If it makes you feel better, ask me anything and I’ll answer.”
You stared at him. You had so many questions, however now, that you had the opportunity, it seemed as if they had vanished from your mind.
“I don’t know. I guess the only one I can remember is why did you start it?”
Kakashi Shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
You rolled your eyes and threw the covers away from you and began to get up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving. You told me to ask you anything and when I do, you lie.”
In a panic Kakashi grabbed you, hands on your waist to keep you from getting up. You could feel the heat radiating from his hands and it was making inappropriate thoughts run through your head.
“Please, I’m sorry. It’s just difficult for me.”
“It is also difficult for me to assimilate the fact that you know that I basically jerk off to your content.”
You had never seen Kakashi so red in the face.
“Please don’t say it like that.”
You felt his hands tighten around your waist, which made you let out a small gasp.
The air around you was tense. You could feel it and so could he.
“Please just tell me what I have to do for you to forgive me.”
Without a second thought you answered him.
“Take off your mask.”
His eyes widened, and so did yours. The words had come out before you could stop them.
You always had a deep desire to see his face. Did he look as beautiful as he seemed? What kind of expressions did he make? You wanted to see everything, especially if you were having this conversation.
He was unsure, you could feel it. So, you took matters into your own hands. Slowly raising your arms and as carefully as possible your fingertips touched the hem of the mask, while maintaining eye contact. You waited for some form of consent on his part.
Kakashi’s heart was beating fast, so fast he thought it was going to explode out of his ribcage. No one had ever seen his face (except for his parents of course). He was scared yet excited. Someone wanted to see him. The real him. He wanted to let you, to let you in. He needed this, and most important of all, he wanted you.
So he nodded his head, giving all the confirmation you needed.
Slowly but surely you pushed it down. Every millimeter unveiling more of his face.
Your face was on fire, and his cheeks were bright red.
As soon as you unveiled his face, you scooched back to view his face properly and let out a small gasp.
Kakashi interpreted this as a bad sign, and tried to hide his face behind his hands.
“Don’t.”
You grabbed his wrists gently and removed his hands from his face.
For what it might be the first time, you could read his face openly, and you could see the shame and fear in it. He couldn’t even look you in the eyes. You took his face in between your hands and redirected his gaze towards you.
“Kakashi… Do you hate me?”
There was nowhere for him to hide. He knew it and so did you.
You could feel his hot breath on your face. His eyes kept changing between looking into your eyes and your lips. The room was getting warmer, but then again maybe it was you. The way he was looking at you was making your insides burn with desire for him.
In a moment of courage, Kakashi leaned forward, the tip of his nose brushing with yours.
“What do you think?”
His whisper reached your ears, making your cheeks heat up, and the fire in your loins spread. You could feel your underwear getting wetter the closer he got.
“You tell me”
The way your voice sounded, made the white haired man’s dick jump to life. You were playing a dangerous game, he knew it, however he couldn’t and didn’t want to go back.
He desired you.
You desired him.
“I can show it to you, you just have to ask for it”
You looked into his eyes, and so did he.
“Show me”, you whispered in such a low tone you thought he didn’t hear you. However, his small smile was an indication that he in fact had heard you. Loud and clear.
The words you spoke, sent a jolt of electricity down his spine. Although you spoke in such a low volume, his senses were so attuned to you, it was as if he could feel you everywhere.
It was you, you, you. He could not feel or smell anything other than you.
He began to hike up your (his) shirt, to your hips, whilst still kneeling on the ground. Both of his hands kept caressing the outer part of your thighs, leaving a burning sensation everywhere they touched. Your breath quickened as a reaction.
Kakashi began to kiss the exterior of your thighs with such gentleness that made your heart throb, so much so, that you felt the need to, softly, stroke his hair. As a response, the man bit your skin, eliciting a moan from you.
The white haired man continued his ministrations, now kissing the inside of your left thigh, from your knee all the way up to your core, ever so slowly. Once he reached your clothed pussy did he stop, hoovering. His hot breath hitting your clit just right.
You were expectant, waiting for his next move. However you were getting irritated when he didn’t move, so as a way to make him move you pulled his hair a bit, which made him smirk in return and let out a low shuckle.
To torture you even more, he moved on to your right tigh, starting once more at you knee and kissing up your thigh, just like he did before. And once again, just like before, once he reached the same spot he stopped.
You were getting impatient, so once more you pulled his hair, only this time, harder.
“Stop tease, and do something”
The man chuckled, and spoke in a low tone.
“Then say you forgive me.” His hot breath hitting your core, then he looked up at you, you looked down at him.
“I think you’re going to have to work a little harder for that”. A beat passed. “As you wish.”
He turned his head back to your pussy, however this time, he went to your stomach, kissing down to the hem of your panties, and dragged them, with his teeth, all the way down, removing them completely.
He looked absolutely heavenly, with your underwear between his teeth. The sight was making you flush, and leaving absolutely drenched. Which was embarrassing, since he wasn’t even doing anything.
After he was done, he grabbed you by the thighs, and pulled you forward, until your ass was almost out of the bed. You yelped as a reaction, even more turned on. You could see the veins on his arms bulging, making you think how it would be to ride his biceps. Your attention was brought back to the present when he smacked your thigh.
“Focus on me princess, nothing else”
You nodded, staring at him not looking away.
Kakashi moved his face forward, his nose and mouth inching closer to your cunt. You could feel his breath on your clit.
There was a pause.
The tension surrounded you both, the desire building up. Until finally, he had mercy on you and gave you exactly what you both wanted.
His hot tongue darted out, straight to your core, licking a strip all the way to your clit, biting it lightly. You hissed mixed with a moan in response.
“Fuck you taste so good. Look what you are doing to me”
He said this while grabbing his cock by the base through his boxers. You looked down, eyes wide. Even through his boxers, you could see how big and thick he was.
Your pussy started to clench on nothing just thinking about how good he will feel inside you.
“Don’t stop please” you told him out of desperation.
Kakashi chuckled lightly, and went back to eating you out.
The man looked like he was dying of thirst, with your pussy being the only thing keeping him alive. His tongue was circling your clit and from time to time biting it, softly.
Your moans were echoing through the walls, surely bothering the neighbors at this time of the night. You were trying to keep it down, albeit failing.
The noises of him slurping your juices could be heard among the moans as well. He felt like he was in heaven, and didn’t want to come back to earth.
He was sucking on your clit as if his life depended on it, then he inserted his tongue in your hole, and proceeded to tongue fuck you. You could feel it going in and out of you, hot and wet. Everytime he went in he would circle your insides and go back out to flick your clit.
At this point one of your hands was grabbing his hair and the other one was covering your mouth in a poor attempt to conceal your moans. Kakashi did not like this one bit, and so he grabbed the hand covering your mouth and pinned it on the mattress.
“Don’t you dare cover them. Let them fucking listen how good I make you feel”
You didn’t know Kakashi could have such a dirty mouth, but fuck did it make you soaking wet. And the man, perceptive as he is, noticed right away.
As he was speaking to you he used his free hand to start fingering you. His middle and ring finger began to rub your clit, using your juices and lubricant. Then he moved down, and slowly started to pump them in and out of your cunt, at an agonizing pace.
“You love it when I say nasty shit to you, right baby?”
You nodded, not really trusting yourself to talk.
Subsequently, Kakashi delved straight into your pussy, sucking on your clit with want. His fingers kept pumping in and out of you at an agonizing slow pace. Everytime he would go in, he would curl his fingers against your spongy walls, trying to find your g-spot. After one particular thrust he hit that spot just right, eliciting a loud moan from you and a tug on his hair. Kakashi smirked, not stopping what he was doing.
You could feel your orgasm coming, building up at the pit of your stomach. Your toes were curling and your pussy clenching hard on his fingers. Kakashi was so hard he could precum leaking onto his boxers and his cock pulsing every time your cunt clenched on his fingers. He felt like he was losing his mind with only the taste of you, your juices going down his throat like a sweet nectar.
The white haired man knew you were close, and quite honestly if he wasn’t careful he was going to shoot a load into his underwear.
Kakashi could feel your orgasm coming as well, the way you were clenching, moaning and curling your toes were a huge sign. From time to time he would look up, not taking his mouth from your clit, just to see your expression, and it was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. Your head thrown back in pure bliss, eyes close, mouth slightly open. He felt like he was in heaven.
His fingers sped up, curling at the perfect spot never missing your g-spot, and with the added stimulation on your clit, you knew you were about to cum, it was only a matter of time.
“Kashi, I’m gonna cum”, you told him between moans, however you didn’t need to, he already knew. Your cunt was clenching on his fingers, juices seeping out that he would collect with his tongue, your clit throbbing. Everything was almost too much, and so the coil on your stomach burst and your orgasm hit you like a wave.
“Fuck, I’m cuming baby. Fuck”
Your head thrown back, your hand gripping his hair like a vice, pushing his face against your pussy even more. Kakashi was loving it, he would eat your cunt night and day. When you came on his face and fingers, your pussy clenched so hard he had to control himself not to cum with you, your juices spraying onto his face.
After you came down from your high, you looked down and Kakashi was still attached to your clit. You were getting sensitive, your legs spasming.
“Kakashi s’ too much”
Yet he wouldn't listen, to focused on the task. So you pushed against his shoulder with your foot, and finally unlatched him from your cunt.
With the force from your push, the man let go of your clit. Both of you were panting, just staring at each other. Both of your faces were flushed. You closed your legs as if to maintain a bit of modesty.
“Don’t need to hide doll, I’ve seen everything.”
“Well I feel embarrassed all the same.”
Kakashi laughed, getting up from the floor. He leaned on top of you, putting one of his hands on your shoulder and gently pushing you down to lay on the bed. He gently caressed your cheek with his hand.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Your cheeks flushed, and you shook your head no.
“I need words princess”
Your voice was difficult to find.
“N-No!”
“Good girl.”
His hands went to your thighs, squeezing them and spreading them apart. You looked down and noticed that he was still wearing his boxers, however that didn’t stop you from seeing the outline of his cock. From what you could tell he was big, bigger than you ever had, and the tip was leaking forming a wet patch where it was touching.
Kakashi followed the direction of your eyes and smirked.
The man put his right hand on his cock and began to stroke himself through his boxers.
“Like what you see baby”. You nodded, not trusting yourself to talk.
He let out a low laugh.
“Imma need you to use your words, otherwise your not getting anything”
You gulped, the way he was talking was a whole other side of him that you haven’t seen. You breathed in and out, slowly, before saying “Yes”.
Kakashi then took out his boxers slowly, deliberately teasing you, and finally he was completely naked, his cock sprang free hitting him on his stomach, standing proudly in all his 18cm of glory. His cock was pale, the tip pink, veins running the sides of it, on the thinner side but still thick. Honestly it was a pretty dick, which you were dying to have inside you.
Kakashi climbed on top of you, and you put your hands around his neck. You began kissing, his tongue lightly touching your lips asking for permission to enter. You open your mouth, kissing him back as your tongues touch each other. You spread your legs to accommodate him between your thighs. With his right hand, Kakashi grabbed your thigh, hocking your leg behind his back, giving him enough space to rock his cock back and forth between your slick covered folds.
The pressure on your clit made you moan. Each thrust was accentuated by a grunt from him. You wanted him inside you so bad. You break the kiss to tell him “I need you inside me”. Kakashi looked at you and could tell the need in your eyes.
“You’re sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes, please. I’m sure”
The man then grabbed his cock, stroking it a few times, then lined his tip with your entrance, initially giving a few experimental thrust, and then fully seethed himself inside you. Hips stuttered with the way you felt around him. He could feel your walls squeezing him just right, and if he had less self control he would have cum right then and there.
“Fuck, you feel so good. Squeezing my cock like that”
You weren’t doing any better yourself, the feel of his cock and the way it filed you up. You swore that if you concentrated enough you could feel all the veins and ridges.
“Please Kashi you have to move”
He wanted to tell you no, that he needed a minute to compose himself, but you were looking at him with such adoration and lust that he couldn’t. So he began to thrust, squeezing your thigh enough to leave a mark.
He started with a slow pace, just to regain composure. Then you grab the base of his hair, pulling it a bit, so Kakashi in response gave you a hard thrust that made you gasp.
“Careful baby”
“Then go harder”
Kakashi laughed lowly “whatever you like”.
With that, he picked up his pace, his hard cock thrusting into your cunt at a fast pace. He looked down at you, and kept thinking how pretty you looked like this laying on his bed, hair disleaved, face all fucked out, only for him. Well, he at least thought it was only for him. These thoughts gave him a strange sense of possession, because in his mind from then on, you were his.
Unaware of Kakashi's inner turmoil, the only thought in your head was how good his cock felt inside, and how good he looked on top of you. But then he began to look at you and a moment later his eyes darkened, and his hands grabbed your legs and pulled your knees up to your chest, maneuvering you into a matting press. The change in positions made his cock go deeper into you. You could feel everything like this. His thrusts never faltered, you could feel the veins that ran alongside his cock and the tip of his cock hitting your cervix repeatedly.
You grabbed onto his biceps, your nails leaving crescendo marks behind.
“Fuck…Kashi, don’t stop.”
He leaned down and kissed you passionately, your tongues touching, leaving out of breath. Then he began to kiss you down your neck, biting you here and there.
“Fuck..Say that again”
Your arms went around your neck, fingers threading through his soft hair. His cock hammering into you.
“Say what again?” you whispered. breathlessly.
Kakashi moaned while thrusting, your pussy squeezing him just right. He could feel how wet you were, and he wasn’t careful enough he would cum in this instant.
“Call me that again”
“Kashi”
You whispered so sweetly that he thought he was about to lose his mind. He grabbed you again, switching positions once more. Now, he was sitting on the bed while you were on his lap. Never once did his cock leave your cunt. You were so stunned that you were out of breath.
You both stood still, looking at each other.
“Again”
His eyes were so intense staring at your own.
“Kashi”
All of the sudden, Kakashi began thrusting once more. With his hands on your ass helping move you up and down. The way his cock felt inside you was better than you ever had. You had your knees planted on each side of him, and that helped you gain more momentum and meet each thrust.
In Kakashi’s perspective you looked more beautiful than ever, the way your tits bounced up and down was driving him crazy. Kakashi grabbed your breast in his hand, squeezing it and then put your nipple in his mouth, sucking on it like a starved man.
The sudden action made you moan out loud and pull on his hair, at the base of the nape.
“Oh fuck. Don’t stop Kashi, I’m gonna cum”.
Kakashi was already lost in pleasure, he didn’t answer, but he was close to cumming as well. Your walls kept squeezing his cock, and he could feel how wet your cunt was. Your juices dripping down his balls. It was driving him crazy, you were driving him crazy.
Kakashi took your nipple out of your mouth, a line of drool still connecting his mouth to your boob. Then he put your other nipple in his mouth, doing the exact same thing.
He kept speeding up the pace, and you tried to match him, while being careful to not hurt him. His cock kept hitting your cervix just right and the pressure in you kept building up.
When Kakashi bit down on your nipple, creating a ripple of pleasure through your entire body, was when the dam exploded. Your orgasm was so intense, you pulled even harder on his hair, your cunt squeezed his cock so hard that Kakashi couldn’t control himself anymore, he thrusted two more times until he came hard in your pussy, you could feel his hot cum filling you up. He came so much that it started to drip out of your cunt. Your moans mixing together.
“Fuck Kashi.”
His only response was moaning back at you.
When you both came down from your height, Kakashi had already let go of your swollen nipple. You were both panting, faces flushed. His cock still inside you like it belonged there.
He looked at you.
“So…Still think I hate you?”
You could feel his cum dripping from your cunt.
“You tell me”
He laughed.
“No. I don’t”
You kissed deeply, intimately, like nothing mattered.
---------
When you woke up the sun was already high in the sky. Your body hurted, but in a good way. You had fucked trough out the night, and then multiple orgasm later you had fallen asleep tangled in each other.
You still couldn't believe that all of that had happened and just thinking about it made you giddy. However when you looked at Kakashi’s side of the bed he wasn’t there. You picked up his shirt, put it on and went to find him.
He was in the kitchen making something for you to eat. He looked good, sweatpants on, no shirt, scratches on his back, and no mask of course. That face was something to be worshiped.
He noticed you behind him, and smiled at you.
“You’re up”
“So are you”
“Sorry, I wanted to surprise you with something to eat”
He was blushing.
Cute.
You both sat down to eat, but something was on your mind.
“So…”
He quirked an eyebrow at you.
“What?”
“Do I leave after this and we never see each other again?”
Kakashi’s heart started to beat faster, disappointment began festering in his heart.
“If that is want you want”
You placed your hand on his arm.
“What do you want?”
Kakashi began to think to himself that he wanted to be with you, to make you his and make everyone know you were his. He could see himself having a future with you, a chance for love. But he didn’t want to scare you and say all of this. When Kakashi noticed a long time had passed and your hand had already left his arm. He was starting to panic. And then you spoke.
“I see.”
As you were standing up, he grabbed your wrist.
“Wait please.”
You turned around and sat back down.
“I don’t want to pretend like nothing happened”
You breath hitched.
“I want to be with you”
“Be with me how?”
He hesitated again and then took a deep breath and spoke more surely.
“I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine as well. If you have me”
You smiled.
“Thank fuck. I was about to have the worst heart break ever”
He laughed. Then you got up and kissed him deeply.
You sat on his lap, his hands instinctively went to your hips. Then his head snapped at you, and you looked at him puzzled.
“Wat?”
He blushed, and didn’t answer right away.
“Kakashi, what is it?”.
“I just remembered…About my twitter…What do I do? It doesn't feel right to do it, whilst with you.”
“You’re asking about my opinion?”
He nodded.
You stayed quiet for a while, thinking, then an idea came to mind.
--------
You were laying on your back, on Kakashi’s bed again, legs spread wide with him in the middle. He had your pussy on his mouth, eating you out as if his life depended on it.
All it could be heard were your moans and the sound of his mouth slurping your juices.
u “Fuck, don’t stop”
Your hands were on his hair, pulling on his strand every time he gently bit down on your clit, creating jolts of electricity throughout your body.
Right beside both of you was his phone, recording everything.
The audio of him eating you out till you came undone, juices spraying him in the face, was the last post Kakashi ever made on his account.
──────༺🗲༻──────
Previous Chapter
──────༺🗲༻──────
I can't believe it's finally done. I'M FREE. Thank you to everyone that has been following this story, and I'm so sorry for the long wait. Love to all.
Until next time!
xoxo
synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.
wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)
warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.
“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.
Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”
Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience.
Ryomen Sukuna.
The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.
And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”
She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.
You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.
You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—
Freshman Year
It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered. You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.
And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:
“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”
Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself.
You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.
But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.
You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—
“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”
A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji.
“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”
Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—
Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back. You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.
This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.
And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”
Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.
“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”
“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”
Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”
“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”
“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”
That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”
He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—
He rolls his eyes.
“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”
You frown. “Excuse me?”
“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”
Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts.
“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.
“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.
You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”
But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”
“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”
You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.
“I’m annoying because I want to pass?”
”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”
That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”
“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.
“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”
Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.
Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.
“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”
“Yes.”
He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—
“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”
Your blood boils.
What the fuck is his problem?
You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”
Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”
You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”
“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.
You blink. “What?”
“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”
“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”
“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.
Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”
“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”
You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”
He smirks. “Yeah.”
Oh, you hate him.
“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”
“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”
You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.
“I swear to god—”
“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”
Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”
Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.
“We’ll see.”
You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.
“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”
Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”
“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.
“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”
“Yep.”
“You specifically?”
“Yep.”
Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.
“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.
His smirk widens.
“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”
Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval.
“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.
“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?”
For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”
“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”
Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”
“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”
He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”
“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”
You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”
Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”
“Not really.”
Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”
At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.
You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”
His smirk drops.
For a second, there’s silence.
Then—
“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”
You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.
“…Okay?”
“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”
Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”
“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”
Sukuna smirks.
“Good girl.”
–
You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.
“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”
And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.
No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.
“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”
Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”
Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.
…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”
“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”
“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”
Your mouth falls open.
Did he just—
“I— You—”
Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.
“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses.
“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”
Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”
“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?”
Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”
“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”
“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”
“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”
“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”
You want him to get hit by a bus.
Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”
“Because this is a group project—”
“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.
“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”
“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”
“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”
He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”
“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”
“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”
“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?”
You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.
“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.
“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”
You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”
Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”
“What?”
“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”
“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”
Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”
You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”
Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”
Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.
“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.”
You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.
–
You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.
“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”
Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”
Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”
Your eye twitches. “Yes.”
“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”
You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—
Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”
You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”
“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”
—
It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.
“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”
The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”
His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?”
Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”
Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.
“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”
You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.
“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.
–
The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—
The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—
His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”
“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.” You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge. And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–
Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist. Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.
–
By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.
Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.
You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.
And then—
Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”
Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”
Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.
Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”
You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide.
“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”
“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.
He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”
You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”
“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.
You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”
“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”
Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare.
“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”
“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”
“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”
You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”
“Shhh!”
You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”
“Yes, you—”
“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent. And then—
“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.
Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.
Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him.
"The hell? Why?"
"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.
The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.
"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.
"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"
And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.
"I do this every day because of you!"
The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.
Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning.
(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)
You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.
But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.
–
The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”
"Shut up."
For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—
"You formatted this wrong," he says. Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius." You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"
"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”
“Ugly.”
“Sexy.”
"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen."
It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.
Then—
"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”
You flip him off.
He grins.
–
The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.
“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.
“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”
Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”
“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”
He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”
You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?”
Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.
“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”
You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—
Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”
“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.
Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”
Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”
No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”
You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:
“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.
–
It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.
You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.
You glance down.
[8:37 PM] Yuna:
pls tell me ur free next friday night
frat party at Theta house
i need a plus one u owe meee
You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry.
“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”
“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.
“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”
He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.
“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.
“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.
You glance up. “Huh?”
“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”
He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”
Still, you hear your voice soften slightly.
“I’ll think about it.”
Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”
He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”
“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”
He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you. You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.
–
“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.
The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.
“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.
“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.
You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”
“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.
“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”
“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”
You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”
“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.
The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window.
Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.
You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.
Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”
He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.
“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”
You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.
“You look nice, though.”
You freeze mid-step.
“…What?”
His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.”
You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”
Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”
“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I try.”
You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”
“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”
You blink. “Distracting?”
He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”
“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”
“It happened twice.”
“Once,” you insist.
He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”
He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.
“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.
“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”
“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable. You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.
“Shit—”
You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”
You snort. “You walked into me.”
He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow.
“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”
He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”
“Who said you couldn’t?”
You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”
“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.
“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”
“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”
“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”
“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.
“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”
You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”
You blink. “Yeah, why?”
“You know him?”
“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”
“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”
You groan. “Yuna—”
“Just fuck him.”
“What is wrong with you?”
She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.
sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx
You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.
“You good?”
You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”
He grins lazily. “Still here?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.”
There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”
“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”
“Yeah, me. Shocking.”
“You know where I live?”
“You told me. Last week. After lab.”
You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”
“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”
“Ew.”
He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.
You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”
“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”
“Freak.”
He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.
“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”
“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house.
You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”
“Other side,” he says, without slowing.
“What do you mean other side?”
“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”
“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”
“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”
“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.
“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You’re such a dick!”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.
He scoops you up like it’s nothing.
Bridal style.
Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.
“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”
“Put me down!”
“No.”
Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—
His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—
God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”
“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there.
“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.
“Hey—what are you—”
He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”
“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.
“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.
“I’m not looking.”
“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.
“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”
“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”
“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—
Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”
He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.”
You scoff. “So romantic.”
A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.
“You’re welcome.”
And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.
“Get home safe, dumbass.”
You turn over your shoulder.
“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.
–
It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—
There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”
“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.
"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—
You exchange numbers.
It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:
You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife
Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse??
Sukuna: not to me 😏
And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.
You: where u at bruh wtf im already here
There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?
Sukuna: gym
You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.
It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.
You type.
Delete.
Type again.
Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.
You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro
Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long
You: YOU CANT SEE ME
Sukuna: can feel it tho
You: ew
Sukuna: ur welcome
You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.
“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”
He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”
You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.
“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?
You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.
“What?” you say, defensive.
“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort. And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.
“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”
His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.”
A beat.
“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”
You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.
And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”
And one day you realize—
You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.
–
The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned.
Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.
You cross the street.
He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."
"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"
"Yeah, why?"
"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."
You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."
"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."
You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name. The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.
You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”
You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”
He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.
“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.”
You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”
“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this.
When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.
The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.” Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”
You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—
“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.
“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”
You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.
“Freak.”
He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.
–
The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.
“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him.
“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”
Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”
“It’s…marginally cleaner.”
“Uh-huh.”
He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”
“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”
“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”
–
But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.
“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.
“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.
“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”
“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”
“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”
“Shut up, bitch.”
“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”
You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”
“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”
You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”
You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort. But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”
“Because I’m not disgusting?”
“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.
“Dickhead.”
“You’re welcome.”
The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.
“Stop stealing my candy.”
“You ate my gummy worms last week.”
“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”
“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”
“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.
You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.
“You're staring.”
Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”
“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”
You scoff. “Excuse me?”
He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”
“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”
He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”
It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”
You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.
And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.
You don’t.
And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”
You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.
He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”
That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.
“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”
Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch.
“Fuck—Sukuna—”
“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.
“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.
His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth.
“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”
Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.
“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.
And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.
“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever.
His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.
“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”
He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.
“I came here to study!”
“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.”
You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.”
He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”
“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.
“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”
“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.
And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.
It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.
“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”
“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.
Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky. “That was–That was not studying.”
Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”
And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.
–
You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”
“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”
“Then it’s mine now too.”
He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”
“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”
He raises a brow. “Yeah?”
“No.” He squints. “Why not?”
“That’s intimate.”
He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”
“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”
He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.
“SUKUNA—”
“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”
“I can’t walk!”
“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”
“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.
You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.
“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.
“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”
“You should get bent.”
“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”
You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”
“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”
“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”
“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”
“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.
–
The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.
“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”
“I was faking it.”
He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”
“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.
Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.
“Oh shit.”
You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”
“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”
“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.
“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.” Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”
“It is now.”
You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”
“I swear to God—”
Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”
“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”
Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.
Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.
“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”
“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”
–
It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.
And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!”
You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.
Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.
The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”
“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.
“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”
His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”
“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”
You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”
“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”
“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”
“You were laughing with her!”
“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”
“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”
He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.
“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”
He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”
“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”
Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.
“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.
–
Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.
“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.”
“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”
“I make sexy typos.”
“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”
You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.”
He glances up. “What?”
“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.
“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”
He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”
“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.
“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”
He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”
“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”
You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”
“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.”
You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”
“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”
“Say it.”
“I’m good.”
That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.
“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”
“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.
–
it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.
“Behave.”
“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”
Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”
“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.”
He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”
“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue.
“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”
“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.”
You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur.
He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.”
You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”
He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”
“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”
You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”
“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.
a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!
also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3
-> To have found you was the world's regret, not mine
trueform!ryomen sukuna x reader
summary: born with two too many limbs and faces, he was abandoned, left for the nature to bury him in a grave at the mere age of six. apparently, there was one enemy to the nature of the world, who seemed to go against every rule of survival; you.
warning/s: heian era, smut at the end (skipable), sukuna has two dicks, use of sukuna's stomach mouth, p in v, creampies, slight breeding kink, praise and degrading kink, overstimulation, aphrodisiacs, angst, mentions of blood, nearing death (no actual death though), sukuna's villain arc, he was a monster you'd never despise, growing up together, they were both doomed from the start, fluff so i don't end it all, sukuna using you as a weight for training
a/n: i have no words. this man awakens something inside of me.
The rumors had spread like wildfire.
The child born with too many eyes, too many limbs, had devoured his twin in the womb. A demon cloaked in human skin, they whispered. He was evil incarnate, an abomination that would only grow stronger if left unchecked. But killing him outright would be a sin too great for their souls to bear. So they left him to rot. On the desolate side of the country, where even the air could be considered poison, they abandoned him.
They thought they'd washed their hands clean.
They thought starvation would take care of what they couldn't.
But death didn't come as quickly as they had hoped.
Sukuna was nothing more than a husk of a boy now, his four arms limp at his sides, his ribs threatening to pierce through his skin with each shallow breath.
Nature, just as cruel as mankind, had left him no mercy.
And then you appeared.
"Hi,"
The sound was soft, almost too soft for his dulled senses to catch. He barely mustered the strength to crack open one eye, a faint glint of crimson meeting yours.
"What?" he rasped.
You didn't answer right away, instead stepping closer to the monster that the land itself seemed to despise. There was no hesitation in your movements, no fear, no disgust.
"You.. you're just like me," you murmured.
Sukuna's lower right eye twitched, barely enough to take you in. You were as battered as he was—maybe worse. Wounds marred your body, some barely crusting over due to the lack of vitamins, others oozing sluggishly with infection. Your skin looked like it could rip at any given moment, stretched too thin over bones that jutted out in sharp angles.
You looked truly pitiable.
But Sukuna didn't care. Or at least, that's what he thought.
He was going to die anyway. Forming a bond would be useless.
He scoffed, his head lolling back against the harsh, cracked tree he was leaning on, waiting for death to take him away at the mere age of six.
"We're both dying,"
You said what he couldn't, spoke his mind instead of plastering him with questions.
You were younger than him, yet knew such harsh reality to come.
Your lips quirked in something resembling a smile, though it faltered under the weight of your exhaustion.
The boy hummed in return.
With that, Sukuna let his eyes fall shut, deciding to fade out the world— and you— with it.
Hours later, a sharp scent cut through his haze.
Sweet.
Fruit.
His eyes snapped open. He turned his head and found you kneeling beside him, holding a piece of overripe fruit out to him.
"Eat," you simply said.
He snarled— or at least tried to— but his voice came out weak and hoarse, "Don't… pity me."
Your brows furrowed, frustration taking over you. Without a word, you leaned closer, your small hand pressing against his chest. His eyes widened, alarm breaking through his mind.
"What are you—"
Before he could stop you, you raised the fruit to his stomach mouth. Its sharp teeth parted instinctively, and before Sukuna could refuse again, you fed him.
Your fingers brushed against his canines, but you didn't flinch. You didn't so much as blink as the beastly maw devoured the offering, juice dribbling from its corners.
His lower eyes narrowed, glaring at you even as the sweet taste spread across his tongue.
"Stupid brat," he muttered, but his voice lacked any true hatred. Towards you, that is.
You didn't respond, only settling back into your spot beside him, already reaching into a cloth bag for more.
"Wh-what's your.. ah- your name?" you mused as you revealed another fruit to him, guiding it to his stomach.
Unlike him, the maw ate gratefully.
He seemed to think, his body relaxing at the feeling of it getting taken care of.
Truthfully, the boy didn't have a proper name. He was named Ryomen due to his two faces— that was all to it.
He grunted, "Sukuna."
You smiled, repeating the name. With a grin, you revealed your name to him.
And surprisingly, he did the same thing.
He repeated it.
This became your routine.
You, a ghost of a child, scavenged for what little life had to offer. Sukuna, the boy they had condemned as a monster, became your charge.
Each day, you'd sneak into villages, weaving through the shadows like smoke. You stole food, medicine, anything you could carry with your frail form, and brought it all to him.
You hardly ate yourself.
No one knew who you were, only that you'd often show up and steal relentlessly.
"That stupid brat! Don't let her get away next time; she needs to be punished properly!"
"Sinning at such a young age is so unfortunate. May she find the right path."
"—there's no right path for her! The devil's captured her soul— we should finally burn this brat for good!"
Sukuna could say the same about them.
Those 'saints' who left you with infection-littered wounds.
Those 'saints' who chased after you for simple fruit.
A little girl, with more bones than meat.
Was Sukuna really the disgrace of the world when this was the way other people thought of innocent life trying to survive?
Whatever. He didn't have the time to think about it.
Not when he'd hold you with his lower arms to stop your squirming.
He discovered reverse cursed technique at a very young age, which became good use. He'd heal you, acting as if he couldn't hear your sobs.
Sukuna's touch wasn't gentle, nor was it kind, but it was efficient. His hands, rough and calloused despite his young age, pressed against your frail frame, glowing faintly with cursed energy as it stitched together your wounds. He worked silently, his expression unreadable, but his lower eyes betrayed the tiniest flicker of something foreign. Something he wouldn't dare acknowledge.
"You cry too much," he muttered, his voice gruff as if to mask the faint twinge of unease your sobs caused him.
—that, unfortunately wasn't a lie. You'd cry a lot. So much, the beast wondered when you'd ever run out of tears.
But in no sense were you a dramatic little crybaby. You'd cry a lot, but not often. When you did, you usually couldn't stop it anymore, and it would go on for hours— the monster had no idea what to do in that case. He figured he wouldn't kill you for the simple act, since you were so useful.
But that weeping would go on his nerves. It replaced the warm feeling in his organs— the one sitting slightly beneath the sternum— with a cold one. It'd feel like it was clutching, singing a melody of helplessness.
That must've been his nerves, he figured.
You were annoying him, he figured.
You sniffled, your thin fingers clutching at his wrist. "hurts," you whimpered, your face streaked with dirt and tears.
And there it was again— that feeling. Something in his chest was crinkling together.
"Then stop getting caught, idiot," he replied, his tone harsher than he intended. He focused on his work, forcing himself to ignore the wetness in your eyes. "Be faster. Smarter."
"I am fast," you argued weakly, your lips trembling, "they're just... mean."
The feeling in his chest was getting worse. Sukuna frowned, it almost resembled to actual pain.
A rare snort escaped him, bitter and sharp. "The world's mean. Get used to it."
You didn't respond right away, your small body trembling under his hands as he finished patching you up. Finally, you spoke, your voice quiet, almost inaudible. "Why do you help me then? If the world's so mean?"
Sukuna froze for a moment, his hands hovering just above your skin. His crimson eyes narrowed as he stared at you, his jaw tightening.
"Because I don't like broken things," he said simply, his tone cold and dismissive. "they're useless."
You blinked up at him, your expression unreadable. "Then why not let me die?"
He didn't answer, couldn't answer. His lips pressed into a thin line as he pulled his hands back, the glow of cursed energy fading.
"You didn't let me die either. Now shut up and eat," he snapped, shoving a stolen piece of bread into your hands.
You obeyed, gnawing at the stale crust despite how it scratched at your throat. You were used to it by now.
Sukuna leaned back against his usual tree— the one he almost died on— his multiple arms folding across his chest. He stared at you as you ate, his gaze deciphering, as if trying to solve a puzzle he didn't even want to admit existed.
"You're too small," he muttered after a while, breaking the silence.
You looked up, crumbs clinging to your lips. "Huh?"
"You're weak," he clarified, his tone blunt, "pathetic, even."
"Gee, thanks," you muttered, rolling your eyes.
"But," he continued, ignoring your sarcasm, "you're still alive. That means you're stubborn. Maybe too stubborn for your own good."
You tilted your head, watching him curiously. "And what about you? You're alive too."
He smirked faintly, a sharp, cruel thing that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's because I'm stronger than them. Stronger than everyone. I just haven't gotten the chance to prove it yet."
"Then why didn't you leave?" you asked, your voice soft, "If you're so strong, why didn't you leave this place? Why are you still here? Feeding off fruit instead of hunting the animals to the north."
His smirk faltered, his expression hardening. "Because I have something to prove," he grunted, "to them. To the people who left me here to rot. To everyone who thinks they can decide what I am."
He was going to prove that the place they abandoned him to was the reason he was going to turn into a real monster. His career shall start from the place his realization begun. He would tear them apart, and only after this, shall he enjoy his own brought food; his victims.
You didn't respond right away, your gaze dropping to the bread in your hands. When you spoke again, your voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "I think you're just lonely."
His head snapped toward you, his red eyes narrowing dangerously. "What did you say?"
You met his glare head-on, your expression tired, and yet still stubborn, "I said you're lonely. That's why you don't want me to die. You don't want to be alone again."
For a moment, the air between you grew tense. Sukuna's hands twitched, his fingers curling into fists as if he were contemplating smashing your fragile frame into the dirt.
But he didn't.
Instead, he leaned back, closing his eyes with a huff. "You talk too much," he muttered, his tone laced with irritation.
You smiled faintly, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite the exhaustion etched into your face. "And you don't talk enough."
Another silence fell between you, this one less heavy, less suffocating. The two of you sat there, side by side, two broken children in a world that had already decided you didn't belong.
But for now, you weren't alone.
Then days started to turn into weeks, and the weeks blurred into months.
Sukuna grew stronger, his body filling out with lean, wiry muscle as his cursed energy became sharper, more controlled. You were still frail, still weak, but you had learned to move like a shadow, to steal like a raven amongst the humans.
Sukuna didn't understand it. Didn't care to, at first. You were wasting your energy on a lost cause. You should've run far away from him, left him to rot like everyone else had.
But you hadn't. Didn't.
And that caused him to grow over the years.
He grew rapidly, mainly because of his genes— but his muscles weren't something he simply got. He earned them by training.
What to understand under training? Well— he used you as weight, most of the time. You sat on his back when he did pushups or his arm when he trained his biceps. You were useful to Sukuna; that's why he kept you around.
Definitely for no other reason, though.
Nope.
Not because your voice relaxed him, lulled him to sleep.
Not because you smiled at him the day both of you were supposed to be left as nothing more than rotten bodies in this cruel world.
Not because you were so fearless of his anatomy— of him.
Not because you cared for him, so unnaturally much.
Not because you were a complete idiot for doing so.
And to keep things around meant taking care of them, unfortunately. He couldn't risk you dying on him. Not that he'd feel guilty.. sad or anything, but you were useful, could steal. And besides, he had spend a lot of years together with you. You'd grown into young adults together. He got used to your company.
So he never wasted any time when he healed your wounds. You usually had a lot of them, considering villages were basically hunting for you by now.
You even found a little shelter, good enough to hold the two of you. It was an abandoned temple, plants overgrowing the place— but it was enough.
The villagers were growing restless, their whispers turning to shouts, their torches raised.
"The girl's still out there!"
"She steals more than she can eat— she's bringing offerings to the devil himself!"
"We have to end this before they destroy us all!"
Sukuna listened to their cries from the shadows.
"Let them come," he muttered, his voice a low growl.
You glanced at him, worried, "Sukuna…"
He turned to you, his smirk sharp and merciless. "They wanted a monster," he grinned, "I'll show them one."
And for the first time, you weren't sure if you could stop him.
From the day Sukuna decided to show himself to the villages, things changed.
You didn't know what he was doing there. He wouldn't tell you, and you didn't ask. But every evening, without fail, he'd return to the little temple the two of you had claimed. Bloodied.
Always bloodied.
It was never his blood.
His steps would echo against the cracked stones, his frame filling the entrance. He wouldn't say a word, just slump down into his usual spot, waiting for you to do what you always did.
You'd kneel beside him, a bucket of water already at the ready, and begin cleaning him. Your hands worked methodically, scrubbing away the blood that painted his arms, his chest, his face. It didn't matter how much there was or how long it took— you cleaned it all, sitting in silence as the water turned red.
He never flinched. Never winced.
You didn't ask what had happened, and he didn't offer an explanation.
This was your routine now.
You decided you didn't like it.
You were getting left out. He was going cold— you couldn't care less if it were towards the village and the world only— but what about you? You wanted to hear his voice, to talk to him, to be with him.
It was only weeks later that you began to notice them. The marks.
The first time you saw one, it was faint, almost invisible against his skin. A single black line curling along the biceps that met the shoulder. You didn't say anything, even as more began to appear, making their way up his limbs, across his chest, spreading like a dark disease.
You knew what they were.
You didn't need to ask.
Each mark was a crime— a sin carved into his flesh, branding him for the world to see. Murder. Destruction. Chaos.
You knew that.
He knew you knew.
At first, he acted like it didn't matter. Sukuna was stubborn like that, always pretending nothing could touch him. But you saw it, the way his gaze would flicker to you when he thought you weren't looking. The way his hands sometimes twitched when you got too close, as if he expected you to pull away.
He was scared.
Scared that you, out of all people, would abandon him.
But you didn't.
You didn't say a word when the marks began to spread across his shoulders, his back, his neck. You didn't flinch when the blood he came back with multiplied. You didn't recoil when his smile started to look more like a snarl, his eyes gleaming with something you didn't want to name.
You didn't support what he was doing.
But you would never stop him.
For the world had done the same to him.
Because no one stopped when they left him to rot, when they whispered behind their hands and turned their backs and called him a monster before he even had a chance to be anything else.
Because even though you didn't agree with him, even though you hated the blood and the way he was slipping further and further away from whatever humanity he had left…
You would never abandon him.
So you stayed.
Even as the marks spread like a curse, even as the villagers' cries grew louder, even as Sukuna's laughter began to echo like something bad had won against the world, you stayed.
Because that's what you'd always done.
And maybe that's why, when the marks started creeping toward his face, curling along his jaw and across his lower eyes, Sukuna never stopped coming back.
No matter how bloody he was.
No matter how much darker he seemed.
He always came back.
To you.
After Sukuna had received all possible markings on his body, you found yourselves wandering off the place it all started with.
He'd proven himself.
It was time to take over his own estate now. He shall be the god amongst the mere humans whom despised him, with you by his side.
Sukuna found an estate on a whim.
It was a massive structure, sprawling across the countryside like a symbol of decadence. It belonged to a king, or at least someone who thought themselves important. Sukuna didn't care who— it didn't matter. All he saw was an opportunity.
He stalked through the gates, dragging you behind him by the hand like a silent shadow. You didn't ask questions, didn't protest. You trusted him. Perhaps a bit too much.
He wasn't sure what pissed him off more; the way you clung to his side so willingly or the fact that you made him hesitate.
Sukuna had stormed into that estate ready to kill— prepared to cut through guards, nobles, anyone who dared stand in his way. But the moment he stepped inside, the warmth of your hand in his made him pause. Just for a second.
He grumbled, the sound low and guttural in his throat.
"Brat," he muttered under his breath.
You blinked up at him, confused, but before you could ask, three of his arms moved. Two hands covered your ears, and the third wrapped protectively around your head, shielding and blinding you from what he was about to do.
The remaining arm was the one he used to guide his slashes, cutting through flesh and bone as if it were paper.
Guards rushed at him, swords raised, and fell just as quickly. Blood splattered the polished floors, the walls, the pristine decor meant to show off the king's wealth. Sukuna moved like a storm, calculated and ruthless, cutting down anyone who dared oppose him.
But there were some who didn't fight.
Some dropped to their knees without question, trembling as they bowed their heads.
Sukuna's grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light.
"Swear your lives to me," he commanded, his voice a deep, menacing growl that echoed through the halls, "pledge your loyalty, or join the rest of them."
And they did.
One after another, they vowed their lives to him, fear etched into every syllable. Those were the ones he let live.
By the time he finished, the estate was his.
Blood soaked the floors, the stench of death heavy in the air, but it was done. Sukuna had claimed his place.
Servants began arriving the next day, desperate for shelter. They came from villages he'd decimated, from towns that whispered his name with equal parts fear and reverence. They gave their lives to him willingly, swearing fealty in exchange for protection.
Because that's what you had always done.
There was one habit Sukuna had carried with him since childhood— a strange, unspoken thing neither of you dared to label or even fully acknowledge. Whatever it was between you two, it wasn't something the world could define.
Certainly not a couple. That wasn't the right word. No.
But also… not not that.
It didn't matter. No one dared lay a thought on it.
The habit in question? Sukuna couldn't sleep unless you were right there. Not just near him, but with him. On him, preferably.
From the time you were small, he'd insist you lay against his chest, your frail frame curled up against him like you were the only shield he needed. As you grew, it became more than that— skin to skin contact. He craved it, though he'd rather rot in hell than admit it.
When you'd press your cheek against him, limbs tangled together as if the world wasn't constantly trying to tear you apart, Sukuna could actually relax. When your warmth pressed into his, he could let his many eyes close, feel his breathing even out. He swore he didn't care about the way your fingers would clutch at him in your sleep, or how you'd bury your face in the crook of his neck.
Didn't care that you drooled on him, for God's sake.
He definitely didn't admire that.
But there were nights when you'd wake up to find him staring at you, his eyes soft in a way you rarely saw. And he'd smirk, teasingly so, just enough to throw you off.
"You drooled all over me again," he'd mutter, pretending to be annoyed as he wiped at his skin, though the smug tilt of his mouth betrayed him.
You'd groan, shoving at his chest, "Then stop using me as a pillow."
"Who's using who?" he'd reply, wrapping his arms tighter around you so you couldn't escape.
It was stupid. Pointless. But also… it wasn't.
Because in those moments, when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world could burn for all you cared, Sukuna wasn't the bloodied monster that came home to you. And you weren't the ghost of a child stealing scraps to survive. (Which, frankly, you didn't need to anymore, since Sukuna took charge of that. However, the villages contained a.. feeling.. you liked to experience. The bits of humanity. Sukuna didn't stop you, for he didn't understand, but he trusted you.)
There was once, when Sukuna had never experienced you like this. Not once in all the years he'd known you.
You came back from the village as usual, empty-handed this time, but without so much as a scratch on you. At first, he thought nothing of it— maybe you'd been lucky, maybe the villagers were slacking, maybe...
But then, you didn't say a word. Not one.
You were always the one to start conversations. Always the one filling the empty silence between the two of you with your endless chatter, your stubborn questions, your little quips that only made him smirk. So why the hell were you quiet now?
It irritated him.
"Oi," Sukuna barked, his sharp tone bouncing off the temple walls, "say something."
You didn't respond.
He narrowed his eyes, his arms crossing over his broad chest. This was weird. Really weird. Then he got a good look at your face, and something about it made his stomach twist, and the feeling in his chest cold.
You looked sad.
Why did you look sad? You weren't supposed to look like that. That wasn't you.
"Stop making that face," he snapped, scowling to cover the strange unease rising in his chest.
You still didn't respond, huffing and walking away to another room— that definitely was not the one you'd share with Sukuna. For mere sleeping habits, obviously.
Then he noticed you weren't eating either. That was the final straw. Sukuna was no saint— far from it— but when he was half-dead, starving, and barely able to move, you'd shoved food down his throat whether he wanted it or not. You fed him, cared for him, even when he didn't deserve it.
So maybe, he thought, he should do the same for you.
Yes. Yes, that was the answer.
Of course, Sukuna had never been great with the whole 'gentle' thing. Or 'patient.' Or 'subtle.'
So when you didn't eat the dried meat he shoved into your hands, he huffed and decided to take matters into his own hands.
Literally.
"Open your damn mouth," he growled, his lower arms grabbing your face with surprising force. Servants around the room stilled, their eyes widening. They knew you as the King's treasure— they never expected him to care, whatsoever.
You blinked up at him, startled, but still didn't say a word.
"Don't just stare at me— eat!" he barked, attempting to shove the food toward your mouth. When your lips remained stubbornly closed, his frustration boiled over, "Fine, you wanna be a brat? Then I shall make you—"
Without thinking, Sukuna grabbed your jaw, prying your mouth open with way too much force. His grip was rough, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he tried to shove the food in.
"Stop being so damn stupid—!"
Before any of the shocked servants could even dare to say anything, your muffled protest and wide eyes finally registered in his brain. He froze mid-action, realizing he was practically choking you.
"..Oh."
He pulled his hands back abruptly, the dried meat dropping to the ground between you. You coughed a little, your eyes watering, and for a brief moment, Sukuna actually felt awkward.
Which pissed him off even more.
"Whatever," he grumbled, crossing his arms again and glaring at the wall, "you're lucky I even bothered, fool."
You finally spoke then, your voice soft and hoarse from disuse. "…Sukuna?"
"What?"
Your lips trembled, and you looked up at him with that same sad expression that made his chest ache. "Thank you."
He scoffed, turning his head away so you couldn't see the faint pink tinge creeping up his neck. "Don't thank me. Just eat next time."
But you didn't.
And Sukuna, for all his glory, didn't know how to fix you.
And that terrified him.
He didn't know what was wrong, didn't know how to make you better, and the longer you stayed like this— silent, withdrawn, not you— the more it ate away at him. He wasn't used to fear, not like this, and it pissed him off.
So the next time you went into the village, he came with you.
It was a rational decision, he told himself. If he could just see what was going on, maybe he could figure out how to fix it. Plus, he'd make sure nothing happened to you while you were out.
The villagers, of course, noticed immediately. Sukuna wasn't exactly subtle. A hulking figure with four arms and marks that practically screamed danger didn't exactly blend into the background.
This was no longer just you, the lone thief darting through shadows.
No.
This was you and Sukuna, the two of you together.
A pair.
You were the reason Sukuna had survived this long. He knew that. Knew that now the villagers would too. They'd hunt you harder, piece together the truth of how you'd kept him alive, how you'd made him the monster they feared.
He didn't care.
He wasn't going to leave your side anyway.
You were safest with him. No one would dare lay a finger on you while he was there. That was the message he sent, loud and clear, as he walked beside you through the village, your hand clasped firmly in his.
But then he saw it.
The way your expression shifted.
You stopped, your gaze snagged on a group of children sitting in the dirt, their little hands busy smearing bright colors inside simple lines drawn on scraps of parchment. They were laughing, giggling, so blissfully unaware of the two of you.
Your frown deepened.
And that's when Sukuna realized.
This— this— was the reason for your depressive episode.
He froze, staring at you for a moment before he let out a loud, echoing cackle. He laughed so hard his sides ached, his upper hands clutching his stomach while his lower ones rested on his hips.
"That's what's got you sulking?" he sneered, "This? A bunch of brats smearing colors like idiots?"
You turned to him, cheeks hot with embarrassment, lips tugged into a pout. "Shut up."
He barked out a low, mocking laugh, leaning closer as his sharp teeth glinted. "Oh, don't tell me you're jealous of that? You wanna crawl around in the dirt and finger-paint too? What's next, you gonna cry about it? Pathetic."
You huffed, crossing your arms with a glare. "Hey! I haven't cried about such things since.. forever now— you can't bring that up!"
But you weren't mad.
Just pouty.
And he found that absolutely hilarious.
Back at the estate, though, Sukuna couldn't shake the image of your face in the village. That look of quiet longing, of sadness. It stuck with him, crawling under his skin until he couldn't ignore it anymore.
So, begrudgingly, he thought about it. Really thought about it.
And then, with a dramatic sigh, he sat down beside you, crossing his lower arms over his lap while the upper ones gestured at his body.
"Here," he said gruffly, as if this were a full sentence made to understand immediately.
You blinked at him, confused. "What?"
"My marks," he muttered, already annoyed at how awkward he felt, "use them. Color inside the lines or whatever. Just— stop looking like that. It's annoying."
Your mouth fell open in surprise, and he immediately regretted it. "Don't make a big deal out of it," he snapped, scowling, "if it'll stop you from sulking, then fine. Go ahead. You can even add new ones if you want."
Your face lit up, a spark of your usual self finally flickering back to life. "Really?"
"Have I ever said something I didn't mean?" Sukuna grumbled, pretending to be annoyed even as relief washed over him, "Just don't mess it up."
You grabbed a piece of charcoal from your stash with a grin, leaning closer to him. "Don't worry, S'kuna. I'll make you beautiful."
He rolled his eyes.
"To think of it, you're already really beautiful.."
He scoffed, his lips curling up, "I am no such thing."
"To me, you are."
"..."
Your relationship was fine. There wasn't much else you could say about it. You weren't ready to ruin anything, and being in his arms made you content enough.
But there was this constant urge to have more.
You didn't understand these feelings fully, but you did know there were times when you wanted to please him desperately.
That's why you started training. A lot.
Obviously, you'd never live up to the King himself, but there was no denying the fact that you did… bloom. You didn't run anymore— not when you were able to take out people on your own.
And while you did all of this with the intention of keeping yourself safe, you somehow got another reward out of it.
His praise.
Your guilty pleasure.
You tried not to let it show, but you were desperate for it. Almost like a dog wagging its tail, ready for a reward after performing a trick.
And while Sukuna hadn't noticed that you specifically craved his praise, he had noticed that you'd grown a lot more obedient. You'd follow his orders without snarky remarks, without hesitation.
Take eating, for example.
Back then, Sukuna would've been fuming because, despite your circumstances and how you grew up, you were a picky eater. And Sukuna had actually been trying his best to break that habit.
Now? Now you ate without another word. No sarcastic quips. No fights. No using the King of Curses as your personal climbing material to escape his four arms.
Nope.
Just you, grimacing after each bite of whatever questionable food you'd been handed.
Sukuna was confused.
Hence why you didn't get the praise you'd been so desperately hoping for.
Well, fuck you, you cunt. What did I eat this fucking piece of shit for?
As you sat picking at a particularly unappealing piece of food, Sukuna finally snapped.
"Alright," he growled, crossing his arms over his chest, all four of them. "What's your deal?"
You blinked up at him, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb with me." His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly in the dim light. "You've been acting weird. Eating whatever garbage you're given, training like a lunatic, not mouthing off— what's going on with you?"
Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly looked away, pretending to focus on your food. "I'm just… trying to pull my weight, that's all."
"Bullshit," he said flatly.
You flinched, your grip tightening on your fork.
Sukuna leaned forward, "Out with it," he demanded. "what are you trying to prove?"
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are."
You hesitated, biting your lip, and Sukuna's frustration grew. He hated when you shut him out.
"I just…" You took a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just want to make you proud, is all."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Sukuna stared at you, his expression unreadable.
And then, to your utter shock, he let out a low, rumbling laugh.
"That's it?" he said, his tone mocking but not mean, "You want to make me proud? You're such an idiot."
Your face burned with embarrassment, and you opened your mouth to retort, but Sukuna cut you off.
"Listen," he begun, "You don't need to break yourself to impress me. You're already here, are you not? That's enough."
Your heart skipped a beat, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide.
"Now eat," he barked, his tone snapping back to its usual gruffness. "And stop making that stupid face. It's annoying."
A small grin tugged at your lips.
"Yes, your Highness," you said, mockingly formal as you took a big, dramatic bite of your food.
Sukuna rolled his eyes but didn't bother hiding the smirk that spread across his face.
When letters started to come in, no one really knew how to address you.
You weren't his queen. You weren't his wife. You weren't his servant, and you certainly weren't his concubine.
You were you.
A force unlike anything the world had ever seen. The only soul who dared to hold Sukuna's gaze without fear, who could make him snarl one moment and laugh the next.
If there was one thing everyone knew, it was this; Sukuna respected you. A respect so profound that it bordered on reverence— something not even gods themselves could hope to achieve.
One day, another letter arrived.
It was addressed to you, though the sender didn't dare write your name. Instead, it bore a simple title,
The Crow.
The name wasn't unfamiliar. After all, it wasn't far from the truth. You had once been the solitary figure scavenging food for Sukuna, feeding him when the world left him to rot. Always flitting in and out of danger, quick and clever, much like the bird they now associated you with.
Sukuna scoffed at the name when he looked over your shoulder, your legs dangling off of his lap, a sharp smirk tugging at his lips. "The Crow, hm? How poetic."
You rolled your eyes. "What else would they call me? It's better than 'Bearer of Death' or 'The Pest', no?"
He barked out a laugh, leaning back on his throne, "I'd kill them myself if they dared to write something that pathetic."
The letter was an invitation from a village requesting your presence. It was worded carefully, dripping with false flattery and desperate pleas.
"They need you," Sukuna read aloud mockingly. "Right. As if this isn't a trap."
You knew it, and so did he.
But still, you folded the letter neatly and tucked it away.
"I'm going."
Sukuna's expression darkened instantly. His gaze bore into you, sharp and unrelenting. "No, you're not."
You raised a brow, "You're not my keeper."
"Correct. I'm your king," he snapped, hands finding their way to your waist, almost as if silently stopping you from an escape, "and I forbid it."
"Then come with me,"
He stilled, his gaze narrowing as he weighed your words.
"if it's a trap," you continued, "they won't expect you. In that case, we— you don't have to worry about dinner tonight."
Sukuna grunted, a smirk blooming on his face, "You're insufferable."
"So I've heard."
The two of you arrived at the village a few days later, Sukuna at your side.
The air was thick with unease as villagers scattered like mice at the sight of him. His reputation preceded him, the stories of his cruelty and power leaving no room for doubt.
What confused them most was him.
Why was he here? Only you were invited.
The village leader greeted you hesitantly, his voice trembling as he spoke.
"We… we didn't expect both of you to come."
"Clearly," Sukuna drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. His lower arms crossed over his chest while the upper ones rested at his sides, ready to strike if needed. "You thought you'd lure her here and what? Take her from me? Did you think you could threaten me in this way?"
The leader paled, stumbling over his words. "N-no, my Lord, we—"
"Enough." Sukuna's voice silenced the man immediately, "Speak. Why did you call her here?"
The village leader fumbled, his gaze flickering nervously between you and Sukuna. "W-We need her help," he stammered, voice quivering as he addressed the King. "A newborn… was recently b-born here." His words faltered, his fear evident as he glanced up at the King, "He's… different. B-Born with two faces."
The man swallowed hard, his trembling hands clasped together in desperation. "He's sick. None of the doctors outside the village will touch him," he admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his plea. Then, his eyes turned to you, filled with a desperate kind of hope, "We heard the stories— how she saved you— and we thought…"
"You thought wrong," Sukuna growled.
But before he could end the man's life with a single swipe, you stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm.
"Let me handle this," you said softly.
His gaze flickered to you, his jaw tightening. After a long moment, he relented, stepping back with a low grunt.
You let the villager take you to the hut where the newborn was.
You knelt before the makeshift crib, your hands trembling slightly as you reached out to the newborn. He was tiny, frail— two faced.
One face contained of nothing more than fear, whilst the other cried out in pain. Yet, when your arms wrapped around his fragile body, he quieted, though soft whimpers still escaped his lips.
"Shh, little one," you murmured, your voice as gentle as a breeze. Sukuna watched silently from the corner, his arms crossed.
Carefully, you checked the baby's temperature, your fingers brushing over his small, fevered forehead. You examined his tiny body for signs of illness, taking note of the unnatural features that made the villagers so fearful. His two faces twisted slightly as he squirmed in your arms, but he didn't cry out again.
Turning to the trembling leader and a few others standing nearby, you, usually being considered nice, spoke firmly, "He needs specific care. His fever has to be brought down immediately. You'll need fruits rich in vitamins— papayas, bananas, oranges. Vegetables too. Carrots, spinach. And a steady supply of milk." Your gaze hardened, daring them to question you. "If you fail to provide him with these, he won't survive the month."
The leader nodded rapidly, almost stumbling over his own feet as he rushed to fulfill your demands.
Meanwhile, the baby's tiny hand gripped weakly at the fabric of your sleeve, his innocent gaze drifting up to meet yours. His other face, half-formed but expressive, mirrored the longing in his eyes. He clung to you like you were the only safe haven in his fragile world.
But then his gaze shifted, catching sight of Sukuna looming nearby. The King's lower set of eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his lips twitching into something between a pout and a scowl. The baby's hand hesitated, releasing its hold as if sensing Sukuna's displeasure.
You glanced at Sukuna, raising an eyebrow at his ridiculous expression. What was he? Jealous? Of a baby?
Biting back a laugh, you turned your attention back to the infant, cradling him closer and pressing a kiss to his tiny forehead. "Don't mind him," you whispered, though loud enough for Sukuna to hear, "he's just grumpy because he's not the center of attention for once."
Sukuna scoffed, his arms tightening across his chest. "Tch. Keep your bratty comments to yourself."
You grinned at him, unbothered by his tone. "Aw, is the mighty King pouting? You're really going to compete with a newborn now?"
"I do not pout."
"Oh, you absolutely do," you teased, hugging the baby close for emphasis. The infant snuggled into you, his soft breaths warm against your skin. He reminded you so much of Sukuna, except Sukuna's beginnings had been so much harsher, so much crueler.
Your smile softened as you glanced over at the man, "You were like this once, you know," you said quietly, "but worse off. No one held you like this, did they?"
"That's irrelevant," he muttered.
You turned back to the baby, rocking him gently. "Not to me,"
Sukuna didn't respond, but he didn't look away, either. Even in his silence, you knew he was watching, remembering.
He hated this.
Hated the way they looked at you, as if you were their savior. As if they had any right to ask for your help after the world had abandoned you. For no reason, might he add. You were not the devil's incarnation, you hadn't been a bad child, hell, for all he knew, you could be considered an angel. And yet, you were in the same state as he was the very day you two met. The world treated you so harshly for your mere existence. And Sukuna hadn't forgotten.
He stayed silent, letting you work.
When the day ended, you returned to his side, hands stained with herbs. He said nothing.
And yet, the villagers had the audacity to offer you flowers— an attempt at gratitude.
They were beautiful.
They promised you they smelled even better.
Who were you to decline?
But beauty has a cost.
The flowers— so innocent-looking, so sweet-smelling— were anything but.
The trouble began not long after.
At first, Sukuna noticed how clingy you became, latching onto him even more than usual. You'd run your hands through his hair (despite his scowls and harsh hushes), trace the tattoos along his arms, or rest your head on his chest longer than necessary. He didn't mind— not that he'd admit it— but it was odd. It was unlike you to be so needy.
Then, just as suddenly, you pulled away.
Your skin flushed, your breathing uneven. You seemed distant, yet restless, quirking around like a lost little thing.
And in the blink of an eye, you stormed off to the room you shared with him. No explanations. Just silence. The servants barely had time to question your behavior. You disappeared before they could even open their mouths.
Sukuna pretended not to care. You were probably sulking, he told himself. Maybe something the villagers said had gotten under your skin. But the longer you stayed locked in that room, the more agitated he became.
He wasn't going to check on you— not immediately, anyway. That would mean admitting he cared, and he wasn't about to give anyone that satisfaction.
Instead, he sent servants.
The first returned looking pale, as if they'd just seen a ghost.
"What's wrong with her?" Sukuna growled, standing at an intimidating height.
The servant stammered, failing to form a coherent response.
Useless.
A single strike ended their misery, and Sukuna turned to the next.
One by one, the servants were sent to your room, and one by one, they returned looking worse for wear— shaken, nervous, almost beaten down mentally. None of them gave him a straight answer. And that annoyed him beyond hell and earth.
By the third corpse, he was growing impatient.
Finally, one brave— or perhaps foolish— servant stepped forward, bowing low to avoid her wrath. "My Lord… it's not our place to say. You… you should see for yourself. But she… she needs time. Give her a moment, then go to her."
The King's eyes darkened, his lips curling into a snarl. Time? You needed time? For what?
Still, the servant's trembling voice and the hint of genuine concern in their words stopped him from storming in immediately.
"Fine," he grunted, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand, "half an hour. If she's not better by then, I’ll deal with it myself."
The servant bowed deeply, sharing a concerned look before retreating as quickly as they could.
And so, Sukuna waited.
What was wrong with you? And why the hell hadn't you told him?
Inside the room, you were fighting for your life. You were left dizzy and overwhelmed. You pressed a hand to your forehead, trying to steady your breathing, but it was no use. The sensation was maddening, your body betraying you in ways you couldn't explain.
Your abdomen burned. It felt too hot for your body, and you were desperate. Desperate to get rid of it, to loosen it, to feel pleasure.
You cursed under your breath, glaring at the damned flowers on the bedside table. They were the culprits. Had to be. Their sweet, heady scent lingered in the air, mocking you.
And then it dawned on you.
They were aphrodisiacs.
You yelped, mewling in, what you could consider, pain. Pain of the lack of touch.
One thought after another paced into your mind, but the one that stung the most must've been the simple question; why?
Why did the villagers do this? Hadn't you helped them well enough? Weren't you good?
Were they still, after having received your help, desperate to damage the King's property? In order to weaken him?
You scoffed at the thought. Yeah, as if.
The more disgusting thought probably had to be that they weren't in disgust of you, no, they wanted you to reproduce. They wanted more of Sukuna's kind, for the man also had worshippers, not only enemies. And this village had been such as those, you hadn't missed their eyes lingering on the King's large form.
What had you done to deserve this?
You'd have to tell Sukuna eventually.
And that would mean the death of the villagers.
You didn't want that, either.
But it was only a matter of time until said King would find out about your condition.
You thought, maybe he'd find out by the use of his enhanced senses. He'd smell the aphrodisiacs, and know what had happend to you. Or maybe he already knew these type of flowers, and he'd be able to tell by the mere look of them.
What you hadn't expected was for him to find you hopelessly humping a pillow.
The one placed in the bed you shared with him.
You had thought he went hunting— and no other servants dared to enter his room without knocking and getting an approval.
And for his sake, you would've been embarassed to see him standing there, his upper arms crossed, his expression fading from surprised to.. amused? Whatever. The King could never be surprised, could he?
You would've been embarassed, if it hadn't been for the high effects these flowers had casted upon you.
You felt like you were in heat.
You couldn't stop. A mess of whimpers, mewls and moans was what you were.
"..m-m ngh- haa- 'm s-so.. s.. sorry— 'kuna—!"
To Sukuna, you were a sight worth millions.
What could he say? Your tits, once hidden behind your kimono, were out, bouncing along to your hopeless humping. Your hair was messy, your eyes droopy, but open enough for him to catch your blown out pupils— not to mention the fact that you looked up at him as if he were your savior. Your breaths came out shallow, and your moans.. your moans were what he could consider a masterpiece. It only added to his own arousal when you moaned his name. Well, petname now, apparently.
He wanted to touch you.
To demolish you himself.
"They've drugged you. I see. Their village shall burn to the grounds—"
"N-no! -kuna p-please don't leave meee!—" you panted, desperately rubbing your clit now.
He wasn't planning to leave, however hearing you beg for it was a little cherry on top. He smirked, nearing you as he yanked your hand off of your poor bud.
And shit, the way you looked up at him— your eyes glossy, partly embarassed and partly so deep in the haze of your own arousal.
His other hand tangled into your hair, snapping your head up to look up at him.
He spoke lowly, his voice a mere rasp,
"Tell me what you desire, my dove."
"You."
No hesitation.
Well fuck, if that didn't make Sukuna rock hard, then he'd be doomed.
"Hm. Stop your humping on that thing. Come here."
His hold on your hair guided you up. You whimpered, the loss of friction and close release could've been enough of a reason for you to have started sobbing.
"Your body is truly pathetic. You can't even withstand a mere aphrodisiac. How are you to survive in this world without me by your side?"
He yanked you up, holding you with his lower arms by your thighs as he pressed you to the nearest wall. You whined, the little clothing you still owned slipping down your form, leaving you fully naked. He was already shirtless, never fond of any tops.
"Hm. A day ago you would've cried from embarrassment. How amusing."
That's when you felt it.
Your cunt was directly pressed to his stomach.
Exactly where his maw was located at.
He wasted no time, slithering the thick muscle from your thighs to your chasm, and into your folds. The dip was delicious, spreading your arousal all around as it began slipping inside of you.
Sukuna's actual mouth acted with thoughts, for he was the one controlling its actions.
His maw, however, acted on pure instinct. That's why on the day you fed him, it wasn't his actual mouth accepting your offer, but his maw, which knew what he had needed.
And it knew what you needed, now, because it was pumping inside of you like a real dick, stretching you out in ways that should hurt if it werent for the mixture of his spit and your liquid.
You moaned loudly, holding into the man as you squirmed. The canines of his maw brushed over your plush thighs, trying to savour your taste.
It was eating you.
Literally.
You gasped when you felt Sukuna's free hands groping your breasts harshly, running his thumbs over your hardened buds.
He pinched them.
And you cried out. Loudly, at that. It hurt, the overstimulation just adding to it as your breasts swelled.
And then he spat on them, meeting your druggen, almost passed out gaze with his grin.
His tongue, still pushing inside of you as if it were to devour you at any moment, was originally going to make you cum.. but..
"S-stop- 'kuna please! E- haah- enough!"
Said man stopped immediately, his tongue stilling inside of you, your walls pulsating around him.
"What is it, brat? You haven't even had your release yet. Don't tell me it's already too much."
You shook your head, blushing as your hands went around his head. He shot you a confused look before you leaned in to press your lips on his.
He was taken aback. A grunt left his lips as he accepted his fate, though he seemed to still, as if not knowing what to do.
But you giggled, actually giggled at him.
"Want you 'kuna. W-want you to feel good too,"
"Don't be silly. You will wither trying to take me."
"'n y-you'll just heal me then, no?"
"..."
He grunted, removing his tongue from you before placing you on the bed.
You looked so beautiful, spread out like a flower blooming. Your cunt was glistening, spread and messy from his tongue.
And yet, you had the audacity to feel shy at the moment.
Using your hands to cover what's his.
"Remove your hands at once, or I will not take any mercy on you, brat." He snarled, slowly pushing his pants down.
You obeyed.
And there he was.
There they were.
Standing at proud, over-human-sized inches, both of his cocks, glistening with leaking pre-cum.
He was right. You would wither trying to take him.
"Excited already?"
Oh, yeah.
How did you not notice the way you basically went on all fours within seconds, looking at his cocks as if they were treasures.
"S..so big—" your hands wrapped around his lower cock, experimentally giving a few pumps. The King, to all his glory, grunted, his eyebrows furrowed.
"So desperate, my dove. Tch."
Your mouth fell open as you went to take his upper dick, kitty licking over his tip, tasting his cum.
Fuck.
It didn't take long for you to wrap your mouth around his tip, pumping his other rock-hard, desperate cock.
And maybe, he was just as desperate— his hand wrapped around your neck, slowly inching his dick deeper into you.
You could cum on spot for what he said next;
"Good girl. F-fuck."
Not only did the big, bad King just do what you yearned for the whole time (praise you), but he also had stuttered (whimpered, really. But you'll take what you get).
You moaned around his large shaft, bobbing your head when you noticed you wouldn't be able to go any deeper. Tears were running down your cheeks, sobs escaping your full throat.
Your fingers engulfed him, your thumb rubbing his leaking tip while the other hand stroked his base, feeling the vein running underneath.
He was so perfect.
During your moment of bliss, you barely noticed his cussing, let alone his demands.
"G-get off— woman."
But you didn't.
You couldn't.
And he couldn't stop you, for the pleasure was way too great.
With that, he shot, not one, but two big loads onto you, one running inside of your throat and the other outside your throat, soaking your skin with white, sticky cum.
You were eager to swallow, and even more eager to continue, though your mouth was starting to get sore and tired.
"E-enough- for fuck's sake- off!" He groaned as he pulled you off forcefully, your mouth still connected to his dick by the mixture of cum and saliva.
Well fuck, if that wasn't a sight..
His dick remained hard, and you wondered how many releases he needed in order to soften.
"Real fuckin' minx. You think you can take both?"
You shook your head harshly, sobbing at the mere thought.
"Backing out? Already? How pathetic. I haven't even got the real chance to please you."
Without another word, he threw you on your back, gripping your legs and pressing them against your chest— literally folding you.
"'Kuna- Kuna haa!—" you cried out as you felt his tongue dive into your cunt again, his tip prodding the place right under your hole.
"Ca- can't take bo- ahh- both! Please!—"
He hummed, his tongue retreating.
"I suppose you can't, no."
"Huh?— Ah—!"
He entered you without another warning, without any time to adjust.
He was big.
He hurt.
But you did give him your promise that it'd be okay. And he said he'd heal you. So it should be okay if you could feel your walls clampering down on him, begging for a release and for him to stop his torture.
The pain easily mixed with the pleasure when he started thrusting into you, holding your legs with two of his arms, the other two keeping him steady above you. His other tip kept nudging your clit, making you cry out everytime your nerves got any kind of friction.
"Mhh. Such a glorious sight you are, my dove. So vulnerable.. can't even handle one cock, how are you ever supposed to take me?"
Ever?
You would've questioned it, if it weren't for the drool running down your lips, and the tears straining your cheeks. He chuckled, leaning down to you to lick away your tears and saliva.
His chest steadied your legs in position, and he used this as an advantage to run his hands all over your body.
You cried out when you felt multiple sharp teeth nibbling at your skin, some drawing blood, some sucking your skin.
He'd summoned mouths over his hands.
Moaning, you squirmed beneath him, his thrusts brutal enough to send you flying if it weren't for his grip.
"Ngh- ha- c-can't.. g'na cum-"
"Go on, little one. C-cum- fuck-" his breaths where heavy, and you could tell by his twitching cock inside of you that he was close aswell.
"Gonna f-fill you up, gonna fill you up so good— fuck- stop squeezing me like that, wo-hah- woman-!"
You came with a loud scream of his name, him following curtly after.
Hot, sticky cum filled your walls as he pulled out, his upper cock having spurt cum aswell. It coated your abdomen, up to your swollen breasts.
Shit.
"Haa- n-no! Enough-!" You yelped as you felt his fingers back in your hole.
He scoffed, "You're wasting my cum. Keep. It. In."
"Y-yeah as if I could do thaaa- holy shit!-" he filled you to the brim, knuckles deep inside of you, shoving every bit of his sticky substance into you.
"'Kunaaaaaa-"
"Fuck. Fine. I'll let this slip this time."
His hands hovered over the open wounds he'd caused, though he really rather looked smug. He healed you, fixing all what had to be fixed while hoisting you up into his arms.
"..this time?.."
He tilted his head.
"You didn't think this was a one time thing, did you?"
Oh but you did.
Whoops.
Blushing, you looked away.
"I- I don't want to be a concubine."
"..You're a fool to believe I'd consider you as such."
Silence.
Oh. Wait. That meant?..
"You know I'll still end those who hurt you, right?"
"Yeah."
He hummed, "Very well, I'll be on my way tomorrow. If you wish to follow, you are free to do so."
Silence.
"Sukuna?"
"Brat."
"Just.. spare the children and their parents, will you? They just—" you stopped, sighing as you nuzzled further into him, "—they.. he reminded me of you. You were like him too, once. I-.. it surprised me, that they didn't abandon him. I'd like him to do what we couldn't."
And what would that be? You and Sukuna basically could do anything. Were you saying he might've been uncapable of something? He killed all his life, he survived, he lived. What couldn't he possibly do?
"You must be mistaken, little one. We've done everything. We're capable of everything."
To his surprise, your voice came out weak. Weak like he'd never heard before. Not even when the people started chasing you with torches and knives, and spat mean words at you for your mere existence.
cw: divorced dad!toji, dick piercings, blowjobs, established relationship, fluff, mentions of drunkenness, shy silly old man, 18+
masterlist
thinking about dad!toji with a dick piercing—probably an ampallang.
he got it done when he was young, stupid and a little inebriated, a last-second stunt that had his friends dying with laughter. it was funny to him, too, until he woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, with a metal bar running through his tip. it hurt like hell the first few weeks, but he never bothered with removing it. that would just be a hassle he doesn't have time for.
after literal decades with it, it just became a part of him. he pissed with it, lazed on the couch with it, jerked off with it. it borders on mundane.
or it did, at least, until he was sat in the driver's seat of his car with your hands squeezing his bulge, lips slick and bruised from his punishing kisses.
this is the first blowjob he's had in years. you two hadn't done more than kiss up until now, with your deft fingers massaging his thick, clothed length. it's nearly grazing his belly within the confines of his boxers, a big, wet spot spreading throughout the thin material. shit—he's excited. you're thinking about how many times he's probably been sucked off in his life and how subpar this is going to be for him, but all he's concentrated on is the way you're leaning into his crotch, face inching closer to your moving hands.
the seat jerks back, giving you more room to work, and his thighs spread farther apart, eyes shut and throat bared as he leans back into the headrest. your half-eaten takeout is abandoned in the backseat. the local radio is a low buzz in your ears as you pull his jeans down his hips, fingers toying with the waistband of his underwear.
giddy nerves at how new this is mingle with the blood pumping through your veins. you rub your thighs together as best as you can with the contortion of your body kneeling in the passenger seat. he's pinched your chin between his fingers and left a peck on your lips more times than either of you can count. each time the heel of your hand presses into the underside of his covered erection, he hides a groan beneath his breath.
good thing the parking lot is a ghost town. the sun is still ablaze despite the way it's slowly descending, peachy hues illuminating the trail of hair on his stomach from how his shirt rides up and his green, abysmal eyes. when you glance up at him, they're staring at your glowing face. he would never say that you look like an angel, but that's the only thought his sappy mind can muster when he combs his hands through your hair, aroused and smitten.
he doesn't think to warn you until you go to tug his final layer of clothing down his thighs. his eyes widen, maybe the only time he's ever seemed unsure since you met him. "shit, wait—"
a gasp escapes you. his cock hits his tummy, solid and erect. the sun turns silver jewelry into a beacon of golden light. it's delicate and shiny and sticky; the tiny metal beads are drooled on with thick liquid, a long (pathetic, is what he'd call it), clear string of arousal connecting the coarse strands of his pubes to the piercing. the piercing—he has a real piercing jutting through the head of his cock.
you lean farther over the center console, eyes like saucers, your hand clutching his base. he moans weakly. this strong, gruff man—who's a professional corner store beer drinker that always has rough, busted hands—is flushing with embarassment and panting unevenly. he squirms under the assessment like he's about to fail your inspection, his nails awkwardly digging into the leather seat.
"what," you breathe, experimentally stroking him, watching the piercing disappear under his foreskin, "is this?"
he hisses between his teeth. you blink up at him. his face is pink.
"it's, ah, mmh" —you stroke him again, watching his swollen, ruddy skin glide— "a mistake i made a couple decades ago. listen, uh—"
"does it feel good?" you push. he tracks your movements like it pains him to see you so close to where he's begging for your mouth, one pulse at a time. "does it, like, enhance anything?"
your eyes are glazed, lips twisted into a smile. you can't help it—he's painfully pretty like this and full of interesting secrets like barbells on his cock. his hair is a moppy mess atop his head, ruffled from how nervously he's been dragging his fingers through it. he's just cute, and before he can answer, you lean in and offer a flat lick across the pierced flesh.
"fuck." he bodily shivers and collapses from his tense form into a liquid sprawl, palm cupping your head. "shit, please don't tease."
please? he's putty for you—for this, for the feeling of your inquisitive tongue tracing the tangy metal, for the way your warm, wet mouth envelopes the head of his dick like you're hugging him. he's lucky he isn't a kid anymore; at twenty, you wouldn't have been able to even put your lips near him before he'd be shooting into your hand, grunting and bucking against the solid grip.
your dominant hand steadies yourself on his fuzzy thigh as you shallowly bob your head, your other hand sneaking between your legs. the sight of him, all dishevelled and eager, burns a pit of arousal in your stomach—one that's making a mess of your underwear. his length muffles your own groan as you sink deeper on him and nudge your hand into your panties.
his hand tightens in your hair. "shit, baby—you touching yourself?" when you nod around him, he groans, low and growled. "fuck, yes."
the lewd sounds are exacerbated by the tight, warm confines of the car. your wrist rolls as you jerk off what you can't reach, his dick solid and leaking in your mouth as you take more of him. you can't quite reach his balls, but when you get close enough, he nearly whimpers a pained "fuck me" and grips your hair. your tongue continues to tease his piercing, curious and mindful.
he loves it—of course he loves it. you're playing with him like a shiny new toy he just gifted you and it's killing him to keep his hands to himself, to not force you to take the rest of him down your throat in a rough shove of your head. when you pull up and suck hard on his dripping tip, he moans.
"'m gonna cum if y'keep doin' that," he warns, like you don't want him to spill into your mouth, salty and warm—to hear him break because of your ministrations. "baby, baby."
he loves pet names. old school ones, like sweetheart, and baby, and darling. loves calling you them when he's swigging your cheap wine and holding you in his lap. he calls you those things when he picks up the phone or takes you out on dates, when he thanks you for watching his kids when he's busy.
he calls you those things when he's unloading into your mouth in impatient juts and broken cries, pulling at your scalp and thumbing your cheek.
"gonna come, sweetheart—"
that piercing he forgot about—the one that he doesn't particularly care for, the one he just puts up with? the one that's been in the background of his mind for who knows how long? your tongue pushing into it is what sends him reeling over the edge.
he thrusts with a vigorous search for his orgasm, the first one he's gotten by a mouth in too many years. it's evident in the way he freezes as the first rope of cum hits the roof of your mouth. god—he might love you. he might do marriages again, even. might give it another go with you, if you want. why not? you're heaven-sent, with the way you make him feel. you're perfect.
"f-fuck."
satiated tremors ripple the muscles of his biceps, thick gasps escaping his heaving chest, and he's just staring at you. his sore lips are parted, and it's like the wheels in his brain are turning as he watches the spit roll down your chin. he's half-present when you wipe it off with your hand and squeeze his thigh. he licks his lips—your clit has a mind of it's own.
he looks like he's picturing folding you in half and fucking you slow deep—maybe he's considering how difficult it would be to give you head in the backseat? his eyes flicker with want, jumping between your doe-eyed countenance and your circling fingers.
Summary: Surreptitious - something done secretly, without anyone seeing or knowing. Just like the way you were secretly obsessing over the new NSFW twitter account. Just like the way the man behind it has been secretly running it. But what happens when you two might be closer than you think?
Genre: modern AU, hate to love
Warnings: alcohol consumption, some form of harassment, small bit of angst, minors DNI
Playlist // series masterlist // main masterlist
──────༺🗲༻──────
It didn’t take a genius to know that Kakashi was already hating the party. He hadn’t even walked through the door but the loud music was enough to make him want to go home. Honestly, what was he expecting? A party with no music? The inside of the house was worse than the outside. It was packed to the brim with drunk and drugged people.
Kakashi was never one to like these kinds of things yet here he was. He just needed a distraction, something to get his mind off things. As he was passing through the house he searched the faces to see if he would see you however you weren’t there. He felt relieved, but at the same time he was a bit disappointed.
The man decided to grab a drink and then just lean with his back against the wall. This was a bad idea. He had a feeling he should have stayed home. Reading a book or watching a movie. Maybe he should go back to posting on his twitter, yet he couldn't, everytime he tried to record an audio or do anything you would cross his mind. And he felt an immense amount of shame and guilt that would eat him away to the point that he had to stop.
Because he was in deep thought he hadn’t realized that there was someone staring at him. A woman began to walk towards him in a seductive manner, he ignored it at first but then she positioned herself in a way he couldn’t ignore her.
"Do you need something?"
She looked at him with sex eyes, batting her eyelashes and everything before she leaned into him, placing her right hand on his shoulder and rubbing her breast against his arm.
"Yeah, you."
Before he could say anything to her, from the corner of his eyes he saw you looking at him and then leave in a hurry. Fuck. This was just what he needed. He pushed the woman away, in a firm but gentle way.
"I'm not interested."
And left after you.
--------
Before you bolted out of the door you grabbed a bottle of vodka. You didn’t care, you really didn’t care anymore, you just wanted to drown in alcohol until you didn’t feel anything anymore. And that's exactly what you did. You began in the backyard, drinking from the bottle. The liquid burned all the way down your throat in a way that made you close your eyes tightly to ease the sting.
As the minutes passed, the bottle would be more and more empty. Your legs were numb, you had to sit down and you were tired of walking around the backyard. Spotting a bench, you made your way to it and sat down.
What the fuck were you thinking? Of course someone like him would have a girlfriend. He was pretty, smart, and he seemed so caring. You just wanted to crawl on a hole and die. Just thinking about the fact of all the times you tried talking to him, get his number and almost chase after him, while he tried to avoid you probably to respect his girlfriend, made you sick.
With the bottle almost a quarter of the way your thoughts began to spiral even more with doubts and shame. As you were a bit drunk (not a lot), you didn’t notice a guy sitting next to you on the bench. Only when he cleared his throat did you look his way. He looked like he was your age, however his presence was irritating you already. He had his legs spread wide, and his left arm was stretched on the back of the bench towards you.
“Hey.”
You gazed at him with furrowed brows.
Is he talking to me?
You began to look around, and that’s when you heard him chuckle.
“Yes, I’m talking to you pretty girl.”
You looked back at him, then just stared ahead. maybe if you didn’t respond to him he would get the hint and go away.
“Not talking huh. That 's fine. I can do all the talking.”
You rolled your eyes. This couldn’t be your reality, why couldn’t you have a moment of peace to be sad and cry. You swear you hated men.
Since he wasn’t having any response, the man next to you thought it was appropriate to touch your arm. You jerked away at his touch and stood up abruptly.
“What the fuck do you want?”
You screamed at him frustrated, not only because of the events that had occurred with Kakashi but also because he couldn’t take the hint and leave you alone. The nameless man stared at you with wide eyes, as if he had done no wrong and your outburst was uncalled for.
“Jesus calm down.”
You laughed maniacally at that.
“Calm down? I’m the one that has to calm down? How about you take the fucking hint and just leave me alone. Did I request your presence here? No. Did I call you over? No. Have I made any indication that I want you talking to me? No. Then leave me the fuck alone.”
Honestly you didn’t know where all of it had come from but the words flew from your mouth before you could stop them. This was dangerous, you did not know this person, nor what his reaction was going to be. Maybe you should have kept your mouth shut. But sometimes enough is enough.
Suddenly he got up from the bench and walked towards you. The more he got closer to you, the more you walked backwards away from him.
“Why are you backing away? Are you all bark and no bite?”
As turned away to try to go inside, he forcefully grabbed you by the upper arm.
“Where you going now?”
You began to panic, heart racing, sweating, breathing picking up, you could hear the blood rushing through your ears. As you opened your mouth to scream for help, you felt a strong arm wrap around your waist. Your already panicked mind started to panic even more, until you felt a familiar scent reach your nostrils.
You whipped your head back and saw Kakashi, with deadly eyes, looking straight into the soul of the man that was still holding your arm hostage.
“Is there a problem here?”
The man, standing a little less confident now, answered with a shaky voice.
“N-Nha man, we were j-just talking, right?”
“No.”
You deadpan.
“Comon don’t be a bitch.”
Before you could muster out a retort, Kakashi almost flew past you and punched him right on the nose, making him stumble backwards and eventually falling on the ground. Blood was gushing out of the mens nose, now clearly broken. The man was trying to inspect the damage touching his nose with his hands and wincing.
“FUCK, you broke my fucking nose.”
Kakashi crouched down to his level.
"You don’t leave now, I’m going to break a lot more than that.”
The stranger was looking at Kakashi with wide eyes, clearly scared. Quietly, he got up and left. Kakashi stood up and turned around to look at you. While he was calm and collected, you were shocked with everything that had unfolded.
“Should have made him apologize to you.”
“I don’t need his apologies.”
Kakashi was now standing closer to you. You could feel his breath on you.
“Then what do you need?”
You were looking at him, face flushed.
You.
That’s what you wanted to say. It was on the tip of your tongue, almost slipping out. However, something was stopping you, and that something was the exact thing that had brought you to the bench on you right. His girlfriend. So instead you said something else.
“I need to go home.”
His face fell a little, as if disappointed by your answer, yet he masked it so quickly that you wondered if you had even seen it.
“Right. Let’s get you home then, I’ll drive you.”
“NO.”
You practically shouted in his face. He was a bit stunned.
“Why not?”
You furrowed your brows.
“What do you mean why not? You have a fucking girlfriend and you’re saying you take me home? What the fuck!”
Kakashi looked so confused, even with the mask you could see it.
“What are you talking about?”
You scoffed.
“Don’t pretend that you don’t pretend that you don’t know. The girl that you were with inside.”
Kakashi let out a laugh, which made you angry.
“Oh this is funny to you? Screw you.”
You turn to leave, however he grabs you by your wrist. Much more gently than the other guy and instead of feeling repulse you felt like your wrist was on fire with desire, your heart beating fast but not from panic.
“Wait, please. Let me explain.”
And so you stayed to listen to what he had to say.
“She is not my girlfriend. I don’t even know her.”
“Really? She seemed to know you very well, with the way she was pressing against you.”
“Really. She was trying to hit on me. And if you had stayed, you would know that I pushed her off of me and came after you.”
You were searching for some kind of expression on his part that would reveal that he was deceiving you but you couldn’t detect it. He looked honest and sincere.
“You really don’t know her?”
“No, I don’t. I promise.”
After staring at him for a few seconds, you nodded at him.
“Fine. I believe you.”
He let out a big sigh. You were feeling exhausted from all the commotion and you could see it in his face that he was too.
“So, can I take you home now?”
You nodded at him and he guided you to his car. On the way to your dorm you sent a text to Rin, to let her know about your whereabouts.
Y/N: I left the party. Kakashi is taking me back home.
The car ride was silent, there was nothing to be said. The fact that he had been ignoring you long forgotten in your mind. By the time you had arrived at your dorm Rin still hadn’t responded.
Weird.
Kakashi accompanied you to your door, his hand guiding you by the small of your back. You could feel the heat radiating from it, he had never touched you, much less this kind of intimate touch. Not that you minded.
“Do you want to come in?”
The way that you were looking at him made him say yes, knowing that maybe he should have said no. Yet he was finding it more and more difficult to resist you. As soon as you opened the door and stepped inside loud moans and grunts could be heard.
Immediately you could feel your cheeks burn from embarrassment. You looked at Kakashi and you could see the top of his cheeks completely red. Then you understood why she hadn’t responded to you. She was too busy fucking Obito to answer.
After a few seconds Kakashi spoke.
“You can sleep at my dorm.”
It wasn’t exactly ideal, but you weren’t about to stay here and listen to this all night. Kakashi’s apartment was the best adoption.
“I accept.”
And with that you left.
--------
halfway of the ride you had fallen asleep on the passenger seat. Kakashi kept looking at you as if to make sure you were really there and hadn’t disappeared. He knew that there were pertinent matters that needed to be addressed, and even if he didn’t bring them up you eventually would, like the fact that he had basically ignored you and suddenly appeared as a knight in shining armor.
And the fact that she probably comes to your twitter content.
The thought had suddenly crossed his mind, and he shook his head as if to make it go away. But he knew that, no matter how much he tried, the truth would always linger at the back of his mind. The whole situation was fucked up. He knew it, yet he didn’t have the courage to face it.
--------
halfway of the ride you had fallen asleep on the passenger seat. Kakashi kept looking at you as if to make sure you were really there and hadn’t disappeared. He knew that there were pertinent matters that needed to be addressed, and even if he didn’t bring them up you eventually would, like the fact that he had basically ignored you and suddenly appeared as a knight in shining armor.
And the fact that she probably comes to your twitter content.
The thought had suddenly crossed his mind, and he shook his head as if to make it go away. But he knew that, no matter how much he tried, the truth would always linger at the back of his mind. The whole situation was fucked up. He knew it, yet he didn’t have the courage to face it.
Kakashi finally parked the car in his assigned spot and shut off the engine. You looked at you one more time. You seemed so peaceful sleeping, he didn’t want to disturb you, so he decided he would carry you. The white haired man got out of the car and opened your door and, as carefully as he could, picked you up and carried you bridal style to his apartment.
Truth be told, opening the door without waking you was a struggle, however he managed. After making sure the door was closed, he went to his bedroom to put you down to sleep. He would gladly take the couch.
Kakashi laid you on his bed. He grabbed your arms to remove them from around his neck, but you didn’t want to, squeezing tighter.
"Y/n you have to let go."
You shook your head. Finally, with a lot of insistence from his part, you let go and laid your head on his pillow. You seemed uncomfortable with your tight clothing, and he had half a mind to change you into some of his clothes, however he didn’t want to remove them without your consent.
“Do you want me to help you dress something more comfortable or do you want to do it by yourself?”
You mumbled out your answer.
“You do it.”
He hurried to grab a baggy shirt and shorts and began to take your dress off.
"Come on, let me help you then"
You were grabbing onto his neck once again while he was helping you change into his clothes. He could feel you fighting your sleep, yet that didn’t stop him from praising you.
"That’s it. Good girl."
He felt you freeze. As if your mind was processing something. In seconds you pushed him away and quickly pulled the covers to cover yourself.
Both of you had a shocked expression on your faces, but for different reasons.
"What is it? Did I do something wrong?"
"It’s you."
You almost shouted at him and he just looked even more confused.
"It’s me what?"
"Don’t play dumb. It’s you. You are him. The guy from twitter. "
His eyes opened so wide it looked like they were going to explode.
──────༺🗲༻──────
Previous Chapter // Next chapter
──────༺🗲༻──────
Jesus did this take forever to update.
Hope everyone enjoys this. Next and last part will be up soon (hopefully)
Synopsis: forced to get in with the Zenin clan by your parents as a servant, Toji Zenin seemed to damn you more than himself….
Being a servant in the Zenin household was not for the weak-willed or the weak-minded, it took strong foundations of a strong mind to survive within these endless, lavishly adorned walls of the Zenin Compound. One of the three big clans in Jujutsu Society, blossoming the pure, clean bloodline of the strongest sorcerers in the modern and past Jujutsu eras.
Your parents pushed you into being here, young but not ditsy, focused yet polite. The Zenin really didn't care, they just wanted the free labour, but you did get a roof over your head when the Zenin took you in as a servant. Little did you know that your parents literally sent you off to serve strangers and live with them for God knows how long. Your cursed technique was strong and your parents wanted the Zenin to know that and get in with the family, even if you started as a lowly servant. To infiltrate? To gather information? To be married off? To destroy from the inside…? You didn’t know, nor did you care at this point.
The clan leader, Naobito Zenin, sent you off on your way as if he didn't give a single thought, as if he was washing away the dirt on his hands. You were young and inexperienced and you didn't deserve the reward of the bigger duties so you were sent Toji Zenin's way, the black sheep, the damned one in the Zenin clan. You would be the personal servant of Toji Zenin.
Which leads you here now, standing by the foot of his bed, ready to wake him up like you usually do. Late. It was nearing 11 am and the clan needed to be in the training quarters in about half an hour. You glanced at Toji, seeing the drool escape from his mouth, his hair roughed up, and the sheets that barely covered his naked chest. These were the only times you felt Toji not be intimidating. You opened up the curtains and the windows, letting the fresh air ventilate the room. He grunted when the light hit his eyes at the most perfectly uncomfortable angle.
“Get the hell out.” He groaned angrily as he covered his eyes with his bulky forearm.
“Rise and shine, Master Toji.” You say with a faint warmness, anything to keep this civilised and polite knowing he could lash out quickly. The light seeps through the room and bathes it in the sunlight. He looked peaceful lying there, it's shame you had to wake him. He never looked so peaceful while he was awake, and, sadly, we all know the reason why. Toii grumbled and groaned, lifting his arm from his eyes.
“Can't even fuckin' sleep in this damn house.” He opened his eyes and was met by the sight of the sun hitting against your silhouette. He then looked at your face and rolled his eyes, a sour expression filled his face once more. “And do me a favour, and don't call me 'master' if you don't want your teeth punched in.” Toji fucking hated that, fucking hated it all.
You immediately frown. “It's not like I want to call you that, you are my superior. I work for you, I have to refer to you as that.” You explain to Toji as if he didn't already know it clear as day. “Would you like me to bring in a gong and wake you up like that?” You say, a small smile tugging at your lips at the insane hypothetical.
“I don't give a damn if you have to call me that, just drop it.” He growled against his pillow, glaring at you in the process. Toji then sat up from the bed, resting his head on his right hand as he looked at you blankly. He couldn't help but believe that there was some charm to you in how you were so polite. Your expression had an innocence to it that he had never come across in the cesspit that was the Zenin compound. “If you dare bring a gong in here, I'll break it and then your ribs.”
You knew that he was very much capable of doing that, so you didn't push further. But your mouth ran faster than your brain.
“Well then Toji, if you break my ribs...who will be making you breakfast every morning? Speaking of which, if you want food, I'm making some. So get up.” You say a little more firmly this time, you've never been this challenging towards your superiors, part of you wants to take it back, what if the clan deject you for being disrespectful? You frown slightly and leave the room to head back to the kitchen and finish preparing his breakfast.
The first thing he did when you left the room was let out a groan of frustration. It was always like this, you were being too much of a pushover to him. Always too kind. That was what irritated him the most. Maybe he was projecting. He needed to stop thinking that. Toji got dressed into his montsuki and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and freshen himself up, he hated how every day started the same.
-
Soon, you heard his footsteps walking towards the kitchen, a few seconds later his hulking figure appeared at the doorway, leaning against the frame as he crossed his arms.
“I can make my own breakfast.” He declared in a low and husky voice.
“No, you can't.” You say politely but your words carry some weight to them that resounded throughout the whole room.
Each clan member had a specific section of the compound to themselves, so you had an entire kitchen to yourself to prepare food for Toji. He couldn't make his breakfast even if he tried, servants were solely assigned that duty.
You glance up at him leaning against the doorway, you finish plating up his Teishoku and serve them, you place it on the kitchen island in front of you. “Coffee sir-? I mean Toji..” You say softly, fumbling over your words but correcting yourself.
Your words irked him like nothing else, you were so nice to him. He loathed it. What made you so kind in the face of someone like him? “Quit this 'sir' bullshit.” He was trying to play it cool, his eyebrows slightly raised as he spoke. Internally he was confused by your ongoing kindness, you were like this from day one. He didn't like the fact that he had to work around your kindness.
“I apologize. Bad habit.” You let out a nervous chuckle, trying to ignore the burning green gaze zeroing in on you. Your expression was trying to hide the fact that you were uncomfortable with his presence. Toji was a little more than impressed by how you were handling him like this still. After all, most people would be scared shitless already.
As you hand him his coffee, Toji notices the band-aids on your fingers. The skin looked red and brittle and it made him raise an eyebrow. “What happened to them? And don't say 'nothing' or 'it's nothing.” Toii muttered under his breath, trying to distance himself but still be curious at the same time.
“Oh, I burned myself by accident, the stove was too hot.” You respond a little curtly, turning your back and starting cleaning up and clearing away. It was clear you didn't want to talk about it, the real reason was rather daunting as Naoya Zenin threatened to break your fingers because you didn't do a task correctly.
Toji watched with intent simmering eyes as you turned your back to him. The first thing was that your reasoning behind it was obvious bullshit. You were lying through your teeth but quite frankly he didn't car enough to pry even further. "You're really clumsy, aren't you?”
Your shoulders relax as you sigh out, thankful he wasn't reading into it. “I am...I am. ..quite clumsy.” You breathe out.
You both know damn well you were the opposite but for now, it'll do. You turn around and take his empty tray once he finishes eating, giving him an agreeable smile. “Your training starts soon.”
Toji raised his eyebrow as an unamused look was engrained on his face. Why was his rudeness not affecting you in any way? Maybe you weren't listening to a thing he said, which made him even more annoyed. So he decided to try another approach. He just...didn't like how you...talked to him. “Can you stop being so polite to me? I never understand why servants are like this to their masters. Just do your job and stop acting like this.” He grunted.
You turn around and glared at him, annoyed that he didn't realize that I'm just doing my job. Anything less than perfection and obedience would be punished. But then again...who the hell were you to argue with a Zenin? “If that's...what you prefer.” You shrug your shoulders. You thought maybe he would appreciate some form of kindness considering the way his family actively despised him.
“Good...because there's no reason to be nice to me when I'm anything but.” He warned me lowly. Toji was expecting you to break and lash out at him. Yet your reaction and expression left him feeling a little off-put. Why? Why weren't you saying anything? Why aren't you letting him walk all over you? He didn't like those thoughts.
Reluctantly, you nod your head, lips thinning into a straight line, and you try to stay as neutral as possible. If this is what he wanted, who the hell were you to argue? After finishing cleaning the kitchen, you make a move to leave the room. As you made your way to leave, Toji couldn't help but notice that your back was as straight as an arrow. Your body looked so proper and elegant, unlike others. Just your simple back in that tight-fitting kimono was enough to make him stare a few moments longer than necessary. That's when he called out to you and spoke with a neutral expression: “Do you always have to be so proper and respectful?”
Yet his voice was...softer.
You stop in your tracks. “I'm just doing my job.” You reply quietly, trying to get him to grasp that you're just doing what you're supposed to do. You walk away and leave him wordless from the kitchen, letting your words linger in his brain a lot longer than he should have.
-
pt 2 coming soon, get ready for angst and sexy times in the near future.
synopsis: toji will never forget the first night he spent away from the zenin clan and the day he met you.
pairing: toji fushiguro x f!reader | song inspo: saw you in a dream, timeless | hidden inventory: the lost tapes series masterlist
warnings: mentions of emotional abuse but generally pretty much a fluff fic where toji and y/n meet for the first time. | a/n: finally launching my little love project called “hidden inventory: the lost tapes”! 🍒
Now isn’t this just perfect?
Toji’s is just one inconvenience away from just going back to the Zenin clan with his tail between his legs. First, he underestimates just how expensive living in Tokyo is so, with what little pocket money his emotionally distant mother gave him before he left the estate, the first thing he does is spend it all on a girl — in broad daylight — he’s heard his brother, Jinichi, talk about those cute little call girls that crawl the streets of Kabukichō with flyers in their hand for thirty-minute “massages”. Naturally, as a young man whose experiencing the carnal joys the city has to offer, Toji was curious and he took the bait.
A bait that cost him ¥30,000 and the girl was unfortunately sloppy at best.
Now, he doesn’t have money to buy so much as a soggy red bean pancake for dinner. He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking around this dingy part of Shinjuku but as long as the red light district’s trashy ambience is distracting him from the growling of his stomach, then, he’ll stumble around this hellhole until morning.
“Ha! You won’t even last two minutes out there!” That’s what Naobito Zenin, the head of the clan said to him when he left. “Only two things await you when you get out of here, either you’ll die hungry or a cursed spirit will get to you first — either way, you’ll die with your eyes wide open with no one!”
Overrun by his thoughts, Toji doesn’t even notice that he accidentally intruded on a random cockroach and curse-infested alleyway that apparently belonged to some junkie who is now angrily telling him to get lost. “I was just looking for a place to sit down,” Toji scoffs. Weren’t they both bottom feeders in this city? Why was this rancid-smelling meth addict acting like he’s any better than him?
“Well, go sit somewhere else, this place is off-limits!”
It was almost funny how Toji thought that the world beyond the gates of the Zenin estate was any better than the shit show he was born into.
He should have known better than to be enticed by the glitz and glamour of living independently from his abusive family who at least had the decency to feed him maggoty rice from the estate’s second storehouse dedicated to prepare the animals’ food. They also gave him shelter, of course, he’s had to live in the Zenin estate’s shed for a while now since his father discovered he was born useless without an ounce of cursed energy. But at least he was warm, and the termites made him feel less lonely.
He continues on in his aimless quest. The night is still young. There’s plenty of time for self-depreciating introspection.
Hopefully, that grade three cursed spirit that’s been following him around the block for a while now gets to him first before the rain does.
“That guy over there,” your coworker whispers to you from the cash registers. “He’s been there for a while now and he hasn’t ordered anything.”
You look up from your pocketbook, your eyes curiously trained on the rugged looking man whose eyes were downcast, trained on the service water he requested from the counter when he came in. As if he could feel a pair of eyes on him, he looks up, and glances your way for a bit but you quickly hide your face behind your book.
“He kinda looks like trouble, no? Shady too, just look at the scar on his lip…”
“It’s not fair to judge someone like that, Rika-chan,” you whispered to your junior, turning to arrange the menus, painstakingly wiping each one clean with a cloth dampened with sanitizer. A small smirk appears on Toji’s lips at your passive defense of his character and as if to goad you on, he drums his fingertips against the table daring you to say another word. “Anyway, I’ll handle closing the shop tonight. You need to get home since you have class in a few hours.”
That seemed sudden. Rika looks at you funnily before shrugging off her apron in favor of her raincoat. “Well, alright, if you insist. Should I clean up the kitchen at least?”
“I’ll handle it,” you give her a thumbs up, waving her goodbye as she leaves through the backdoor. Now that you’re alone, you could hardly stop yourself from glancing at the mysterious man, and Toji himself wonders if his presence here is starting to turn into a nuisance. You were probably waiting for him to step out so you could close shop for the night but it’s raining hard right now and there are no other places open nearby to take shelter in.
The chair’s feet screeches against the wooden floorboards and you head to the restaurant’s kitchen. Toji stares at your retreating form, looks like he overstayed his welcome. He searches around for a few coins to give to you for your hospitality, of course, it probably doesn’t mean jack shit, but you must have known he didn’t have enough money for a meal when he came in here. You would have realized that immediately. But you allowed him to stay regardless.
You return a couple of minutes later with a bowl miso soup with ginger pork gyoza and shredded cabbages. You set the bowl down in front of him and Toji is thoroughly taken aback, he looks at you dumbfounded. “I don’t have any money,” his voice comes out a little gruffly but you barely flinch at the sharp edge of his tone.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Refilling his water, you explained that while you could have easily stuffed those leftovers back in the freezer, customers wouldn’t want to eat frozen food, so, you decide to heat these items up to give to him instead. “Oh,” Toji answers a little dumbly. “Or you could have thrown them out.” He stares at the sumptuous meal in front of him. Even in the Zenin estate, he never had such good food laid out in front of him before and it was surreal to see a stranger do the things his family should have done for him.
You return to the counter, leaning on your forearms as you engage in light banter with him. “You’re saying I should feed rats over people?” you chuckled, sitting back down, smiling softly when Toji gingerly bringing the bowl of miso soup to his lips, the rich earthy broth warming his throat that he lets out a content sigh.
He smirks at your little remark. “I’m saying you shouldn’t make a habit of feeding strays.” He polishes his soup bowl clean within minutes and you have to remind him to slow down every now and then as you watched him eat ravenously. “You never know when you could get that dainty hand of yours bitten off.”
You blushed pink at that. He was right, being too generous could cost you dearly one day but being the altruistic soul that you are, you’ll probably continue to be graciously selfless despite the risk of being taken advantage of. It’s just how you are as a person who believes that a little kindness can make the world better than it was yesterday. “I…don’t really know about that…whether I get bitten or not by the people I help isn’t really something I can control. The world would be better off if people just learned to be kind to one another.”
Toji hums at your naive countenance, folding his arms over the table. The room is silent for a few minutes save for the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. “You’re kinda dumb, aren’t ya?”
“And you’re a pessimist,” you answered, quirking an amused eyebrow at him. “Who doesn’t even know how to say thank you.” You stand up to clear out the table, a teasing glint in your eyes as your curious orbs collide.
Toji scoffs, leaning against his seat, crossing his legs. At his reluctance, you shake your head, giggling softly. What an infuriating interesting guy. Toji hears the rushing of tap water from behind the counter and he smiles inwardly. The rain begins to slowly stop and he takes this window of opportunity to leave.
You don’t even try to hide your disappointment when you come back to the dining room only to find it empty, the stranger having left nothing in his wake — not a goodbye, not a thank you, and certainly not his name — except a single rusty five yen coin on the table.
Clang-dong!
“Hello, welcome—“ You stop mid-sentence. Your throat constricting with a mix of emotions, the most dominant one being joy at this happy chance, you’d recognize those sharp dark green eyes anywhere despite only first seeing them a week ago. After all, they looked so dangerously beautiful under the dim light of the dining room’s ceiling lampshade. “—back. Welcome back,” you smiled brightly at Toji.
Toji nods, his hand coming up to cover his lips as he coughs once. “Thanks…ah, right — shit, where is it?” After rummaging around his parachute jacket’s many pockets, he finally takes out his wallet and you look at him, bewildered, when he hands a few hundred yen bills to you. “For last week. Sorry I couldn’t pay you back then.”
“It’s fine.” You take his larger, calloused hand and return the money which Toji responds to by stubbornly placing it on the table.
Toji pinches the bridge of his nose when you playfully return the gesture by rolling it up and placing it in his jacket pocket, buttoning it. “Look, it was real nice of you to treat me back then, but I’m not a charity case, alright? I just wanna pay my dues.”
“Then, a simple ‘thank you’ is enough.” Toji just couldn’t understand you. You have absolutely no reason to be nice to him, but you are. For a moment, he begins to fall into the enticing thought that maybe life outside the Zenin estate won’t be too bad after all if there are people like you still around just waiting at random corners to be found in joyful happenstances such as waiting out a storm at a random family-style restaurant over a heartwarming serving of miso soup with tender pieces of gyoza and cabbage.
Relenting, he smirks at you, unable to figure you out. “Thank you.”
“Anyway, need a table for lunch?” you smiled warmly at him as you lead him to the table he sat in a week ago which you now affectionately refer to as ‘his’ table instead of table number four.
Toji nods following your lead and chuckling when you hand him the menu. “Where’s that thing I had last time?“ he oddly flips through the booklet.
“Oh uh…it’s not on the menu actually, but I could make that for you if you’d like.”
“Sounds good.” Toji hands you back the menu. You are just about to scurry away to the kitchen when he calls out to you. “So, do you have a name or should I just keep referring to you as gyoza girl or something?” Embarrassed at the way your knees seem to become weak at his boyish grin, you have to take a few deep breaths before turning around to face him again. “I’m Toji.”
He doesn’t say his last name. He doesn’t feel the need to anymore now that he’s finally closing the door to his past. You nod, noting how the name suited him. It’s brief but strong, muted but loud in its rhythm. Toji. At that moment, you find it impossible to name a prettier sound. After a few excruciating minutes in the kitchen, you come back out with two bowls of miso soup this time around and you sit down on the chair directly in front of him.
“Y/N.”
Toji repeats the melody of your name in his head. “And how much do I owe ya for this, Y/N?”
You shrugged as the two of you dig in, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as you chew the steamed gyoza, joining him as he laughs (well, he’s scoffing more than actually laughing, really), his eyes alight with wonder, when you simply say, “Five yen.”
Angst and Fluff, Canontypical Violence and Death mentioned - requested by @snuggleboots for the Follower Celebration
Soul Mates
Two people bonded over time and distance, who are able to communicate via thoughts. Unlike the Yamanaka Family Jutsu, sight or Chakra usage is not needed. It has been reported that the two parts of the bond do not have to know each other before activating the bond.
The first ever documented case was reported in Yugakure. The subjects noted that they could only hear the voice of their partner the moment one of them turned eighteen.
Ever since then it has been hard to find test subjects since the existence of a bond can only be proven after they’ve turned eighteen.
Soul Bonds are not a genetic inheritance, since their existence is not inherited, as the Hyuuga-Study proved. They can also not be transferred, as a study from Iwagakure proved.
It has proven wise, however, to eliminate bonds between different Nations since the bond can be used to transfer state secrets, willingly or unwillingly.
Most female bond partners die shortly after the male bond partner has been eliminated, as an extensive Study from Konohagakure, Orochimaru, showed.
-
It had been business as usual.
A Shinobi life did not offer much chance for celebration. A birthday is nothing more than a way to calculate age. Kisame knew people who celebrated every day they survived, but he’d never been one for celebration. He certainly didn’t learn it from his parents.
His shoes are filled with liquid and he doesn’t bother to check if it is blood or water. It had been raining all day, making the mission harder for his opponents and a hella lot more fun for him.
But he’s hungry, and cold, and he could use a bed instead of the damp ground.
He’s still pretty far from Kirigakure, but he remembers a small village he had come by a few days earlier and directs his feet toward the approximate location.
Soaring through the air, the rain pelting his face, he wonders what time it is. Not that it matters, but he was born around four p.m., something his father liked to remind him of because his mother had missed making lunch because of his birth.
A branch snaps under his foot and he topples through the air, cursing loudly as he manages to land on a different tree. A shiver runs down his back but before he can think too much about it, he can hear a voice, sweet and distinctly female.
“What was that?”
“What was what?” He turns around, and squints through the rain. He’s pretty sure he’s alone.
“Are you a Yamanaka? I heard about your Jutsu!”
“What the hell is a Yamanaka? Where are you? Show yourself?”
“I’m in the middle of the street, how can you not see me? You’re the one who started cursing at me!”
“What the- I wasn’t cursing!”
“Oh, of course you were! I’ve never heard such foulmouthery before! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” The voice is sweet and young, but the choice of words is a bit old-fashioned for his taste.
“My mother is dead.” He waits, can’t help the smug grin when the voice falters in its reprimand.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know! When did it happen? And how? Are you okay?”
“Easy there, just tell me where you’re hiding and we’re going to get this over with.”
“Again, I am not hiding. But since you’re so blind, obviously, I am going to walk across the street and into the bakery. Can you see me? Can I see you?”
“What bakery?” Kisame’s pretty sure he’s still a long way off any bakeries.
“The main one, you know. Yamamoto’s golden bread, right at the main road.”
“What village?”
“What village? Are you kidding me? What village could I be talking about?”
Something heavy, most likely the truth, settles in Kisame’s gut. His feet suddenly feel a lot less sturdy and he lowers himself until he’s sitting securely on the thick branch.
“What time is it?”
“It’s a bit after four p.m. why? Are you okay?”
“Have you ever heard about soulmates?”
There’s Silence and it’s shocking how unwelcome it is all of a sudden. He hadn’t known a different voice in his head before, but its absence feels so utterly unwelcome now.
“You there?”
“Yeah, I’m just… Are you saying you’re my soulmate?”
“I guess so.”
“That means you just turned eighteen.”
“Guess so.”
“Oh, don’t give me that, you know how old you are, right?”
He laughs, can’t help it. You’re a whole other thing when you’re being sassy with him.
“What does it matter? It was nice meeting you. I will make sure not to bother you again.”
“Wait! WAIT!”
“What?” He blinks into the rain. This, this whole Soulmate thing, is just a big fat joke. Fate hates him, and always has. A Shinobi can hardly hold up a relationship as it is, no less a happy one. A Soulmate Relationship? Where your partner's life is bound to yours to the point that you cannot survive without your other half? That’s just cruel.
“What’s your favorite cake flavor?”
“What?”
“Cake. What kind do you like most.”
“I don’t know. We don’t have much cake here. What’s yours?”
“I like Chocolate Cake. Would it be okay if I got one? For you? For today.”
“You can do whatever you want. I don’t care.”
-
He keeps the promise he gave himself.
He does not bother you. Well, at least he will as soon as he figures out how not to talk to you.
You, however, have no qualms in talking to him.
“Today I got plums. I love plums. I’m going to make a Plum Pudding for my Grandmother, and some jam for my neighbors and if there’s something left over, I’ll make a cake with it. Do you like Plums? What’s your name anyway? Is it Ume? Like Plum? Or do you have purple hair?”
He’s pretty sure you’re not Shinobi. A Shinobi would not act so casually with a Soulmate bond. They are trained to be cautious about any attempt of espionage but you don’t seem to care that you blabber out too much that he should not know.
You’re from Konohagakure, it seems. Your parents died young and you’re raised by your grandmother, hence the old-fashioned way of talking. You like to bake and cook and play good housewife, but sometimes, when you pass a Shinobi on the street, you wonder how their life is. If you could be good at something that is dangerous. Something your grandmother carefully keeps you shielded from.
Your voice is as sweet as the jam you keep blabbering about.
He wonders, not for the first time, how you look like. Are you as plump as the women of Yura? Thin and elegant like the people in Ishi? Maybe you like to put on colorful makeup and dance around in wild clothing like the people of Kimmun?
Whatever you look like, he cannot imagine your body next to his, your life entwined with the one he leads.
Kirigakure has gotten scarier and he’s growing fed up with orders that make no sense, superiors who are more corrupt than the criminals he’s paid to bring in.
***
On your eighteenth birthday, you see the sun rise over an ocean. It’s a breathtaking view and you enjoy it from the safety of your bedroom, the windows facing the forest.
You’re not sure if your soulmate is a quiet man or simply has the self-discipline of a god.
He rarely ever answers your questions, lets nothing slip beside a lot of curse words. But his dreams are vivid and wether he does it willingly or without his knowledge, he shares them with you.
You know they have to be his dreams. You’ve never traveled further than the next Village outside of Konoha. But you dream of lush landscapes, of mountains that pierce the sky, of the sea stretching further than your eyes can reach, of a village hidden in the mist.
He must be from Kirigakure. And while he kept quiet, you’ve read everything about Soulmates you could get your hands on. Most Hidden Villages demand of their population to come forward as soon as their Bond is forged. And while you’ve not heard of a execution in years, you don’t want to know what would happen to you if it got known that your Soulmate is from Kirigakure.
And a Shinobi too.
Some nights his dreams are gruesome and you wake up crying, your mind filled with pictures of dead comrades, of heavy rain that washes away the blood.
He never answers after that and you wonder what he feels about your bond. Is it guilt or would he rather have someone else?
But everytime you tell yourself to give this up, to stop your stories, to let his silence be silence, the wall he’s put up crumbles.
Like today. When he thinks of the ocean and allows you to see it too.
-
“I got a Kunai.” You tell him, the weapon heavy in your satchel. “Will you tell me how to use it?”
“Why do you need to know?” It’s been days since you’ve last spoke. You’re a little surprised that he’s answering.
“I want to be able to defend myself.”
“You’ll do more harm than good with a Kunai.”
“Don’t belittle me.”
“I’d never.” There’s sincerity in his voice. Exhaustion too.
“Bad timing?”
“Hide that Kunai away. Don’t use it until I tell you how. First you need to learn how to use your Chakra.”
“Should we do that later? You probably want to rest.”
“It’s okay.” You wonder what he’s doing right now. Does he sit down to focus on you or is he on the move? You think of him, a voice without a body, tucked into a bed and feel his amusement.
“That is new.” You comment. “I could feel your feelings.”
“I’m sorry-”
“Don’t be.” You interrupt him. “I want to know you.”
“I don’t want you to know me.”
“Oh…” He must feel it too, the pang of disappointment going through you, because he rushes to apologize.
“It’s better for you. Safer. I’m sorry you’re bound to me. I know if I die, you’ll most likely die too, but I don’t have to drag you down. As long as I am alive, somewhere far away from you, you can lead a happy, easy life.”
“Do you think I could love another men with your voice in my head?”
Silence. No matter how much you call, he does not answer.
-
Two weeks after your eighteenth birthday a pair of Shinobi knocks on your grandmothers door.
You’re in the kitchen stirring a pot of compote, but your grandmothers quivering voice pulls you away from the stove. She sounds scared.
“Sit down,” you tell her, her frail shoulders shaking under your hands as you lead her to the kitchen table. “I will handle this.”
“But-”
“It’s all good, obaa-chan. The Shinobi work to help us. Drink some water, it’s all good.”
You return to the door, the woman already inside your house.
“I’m sorry, her health isn’t the best. How can we help you?”
“It’s just a checkup.” The woman smiles but it’s not a friendly smile. “You turned eighteen recently and you got quite a few books from the library, yet you never came to the office to register your soulmate.”
“Oh, of course.” You nod, for the first time glad that your Soulmate is so keen on keeping quiet. “I understand. Sadly I do not have a soulmate. I was hoping I would have one, since my parents were Soulmates, but the books were right. It cannot be inherited.”
“I’m afraid we cannot go by your word alone.”
“I understand.” You nod again. “What do you require me to do?”
The two of them stare you down and you blink up at them innocently. You might not be a Shinobi or have any talents beyond following recipes, but you certainly know how to lie.
“That will suffice.” The man nods curtly. “Sorry about the bother.”
“Oh, of course. Do you want to stay for some tea? I am just making a new batch of cake if you want to stay or come back later for a slice.”
“We cannot stay.”
“I understand. But please don’t hesitate to come back later. It was always important to our family to feed the Shinobi.”
“Why?” The woman puts her hand on her partners arm, halts him in his movements as she stares you down. You wonder what she’s thinking. She’s clearly not trusting you.
“We are only able to live in safety because of the Shinobi’s work. My mother was too sickly to work as a Shinobi and my father was a tradesperson and they instructed me to always be thankful for the hard work of the Shinobi. I wouldn’t dare to disappoint them.” You bow.
“I always wanted… to train too. But I do not have any talent, it seems.” You look at the floor in a show of shame and that seems to pacify them for good.
“There is no cake needed.” They agree quietly. “But thank you for the offer.”
The door closes behind them, but you don’t trust it to keep you safe. You heard of Shinobi who can see through walls, so you don’t dare to exhale in relief and instead keep yourself as busy as you would normally, tell your grandmother in a cheerful tone all about the conversation.
“Oh, I am so sorry that you do not have a Soulmate.” She clutches her chest as she speaks. “It was so lovely for your mother to find your father.”
“Like I’d ever leave you.” You tell her and she pulls you down to kiss your temple before leaving for another nap. She’s been tired a lot these last weeks.
***
“I want to see you.” Kisame shudders at your words. But no, it’s not the words but your longing. He can feel it so intensely, that he’s no longer sure if it’s yours or his.
Life has gotten lonely as a Missing-Nin, his Hitai-Ate no longer a thing he wears with pride.
He’s been building a home, telling himself that it’s meant just to house him and no one else, but his body betrays his mind when he builds it large enough to house a family.
Yet, how can he tell you about it? How can he take you from Konoha, the safe village you grew up in, the arms of your grandmother, to a house on the shore with no neighbors
“It’s not safe.” He tries to answer, but you’ve gotten better at getting him to answer.
“I’ve gotten better. I can already walk on water! I barely miss any more when I throw a Kunai. Please, I just want to see you!”
He doesn’t say no, cannot bring himself to accept the reality so how could he convince you?
But he dreams of you, of all the bits and pieces he’s gotten to know in the last five years.
-
“I’m going to be in Kimmun next month.” You tell him a few days later, resolve audible in your thoughts. “It’s at the edge of the border. I’m going to be there for at least two days and there are plenty of hostels that won’t look too closely at either of us if we pay good money for a room.”
Anxiety closes up his throat. Kisame knows those hostels well enough, has killed in more than one of them.
“You will not go near them, do you understand me? I’ve got my ways, I can get into any room you could stay in.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Okay.” You give in easy. Too easy. He realizes why a few days later when you pick the topic back up, intent on making sure he knows exactly how much you want to see him.
He should feel flattered and he would, maybe, if not for the forbidden Jutsu that he took with him when he left Kirigakure. The Jutsu that transformed his body in more ways than one.
No matter how sweet you are, no matter how much you’re supposed to be suited for him, can he really expect you to be fine with that?
-
Kimmun is lovely at this time of the year. The streets are bustling with people to the point hardly anyone takes notice of him.
It’s an important time for a merchant like you when everyone’s offering and you have to have a good eye and a quick mind to gather the best of the best.
Kisame spots you easily. You’re like a Sakura Tree in a field of wildflowers, all the colors in the world doing nothing but emphasizing your beauty.
You work alone and he wonders when you started, how you convinced your grandmother to let you. You don’t seem a novice anymore, he can see it in the way your eyes seem to catch everything, how you won’t let even the most charming seller convince you to buy something you don’t want.
He follows you up to the Hotel you’re staying in, not too cheap but not too fancy either. As the day turns into night he can see you at the window, looking out into the darkness. You’re obviously waiting for him and he wonders when he turned this way, when the fearsome warrior became a man following the mere wishes of a woman.
But you’re different, aren’t you? You were picked to be with him or maybe he was picked to be with you, either way, it’s a cruel choice for either of you.
It’s best to get this all over with, so he moves even when he dreads it. He didn’t get out of Kirigakure because he was too shy, or unwilling to get uncomfortable.
…
“Close your eyes.” Your back is turned to the window - a grave mistake he will have to make you unlearn. But no, he will not, because this will end here.
“You’re here.” You say, and your voice is filled with too much delight. It makes him feel sick.
“Whatever.” He mutters before he can say “Of Course.”
“Can I look?” You ask, hands over your eyes as you move from one foot to the other.
He puts Samehada down, closes the window behind him, and draws the curtain closed. Anxiety pools cooly in his stomach but he nods first and confirms loudly second.
His eyes are on you, can’t look away no matter how much he wants to. He doesn’t miss one second of your reaction. He waits for the disappointment, for the giddiness to flake at the edges. But you curl your hands into fists in front of you and look up at him as if he hung the moon and the stars.
“What are you looking at?” He asks, his voice a bit too harsh. You’re too delicate to be treated this way, no matter his feelings.
“Can I hug you?”
…
When he wakes up from a nap he didn’t mean to take, your head rests on his chest and his water clone looks over with envy written over his face.
“Get one yourself,” he tells his clone, which is childish, but there’s no one to witness it but himself.
You’re a warm weight, your presence enough to convince him to stay in bed. No one’s been following him, he tells himself, he can enjoy this short time with you.
And even though he knows that he shouldn’t, that he should get as far away from you as possible, for his sake as much as yours, he finds himself bound to you through more ways than one. There’s the look in your eyes when you wake up, or the way you hold onto his hand when he pulls away - just to brush his teeth, okay - or how you insist on getting breakfast in bed and lean in to kiss jam from the corner of his mouth.
By the time another evening rolls around he’s lost sight of who’s the dangerous one of the two of you. You know what you want - him - and he’s never been able to say no to you, it seems. Not when Kisame wants you just as much, not when he’s never gotten anything that belonged to him and only him, before.
He wants to take you home, to the almost-finished house at the shore.
For you, he’d become a merchant or a stay-at-home Dad.
He tells you, whispers it into each kiss until he’s sure you know, repeats it in the realm that houses just the two of you, and tells you over and over again even as you sleep to the point that he knows you dream of him too.
And Kisame’s convinced, he knows it must be, that he will not leave this town without you…
Until one of his Clones goes down, alerting him of the imminent danger.
He needs to leave, right now, when the morning is not even a thought yet in the minds of this city, when your head rests easy right over his heart.
Kisame needs to leave you behind, because there are at least three high class Nin looking for him and if he cannot lead them away from the city, divert their attention with a fight, they will keep looking and they will find you.
He might not want to leave, but he will if it’s the one thing that keeps you safe.
So he does.
***
The bed feels empty when you wake up. His sword is gone from where it leaned against the window sill. Your mind is empty too and there’s no note left out for you to find. When you call out his name, out loud and in your head, you don’t get an answer.
You want to wait, tie yourself to your bed until he shows up again, until he at least answers your questions in your head, but you’ve came here with a group of other merchants - for safety reasons - and you’re expected to leave today, having only a few hours to spare.
So you make yourself go through the motions, wash the memories off your body as best as you can and leave Kimmun so unlike you’ve entered it.
Gone is the hope and anticipation. With every hour spent without his voice in your mind you feel surer of his decision.
To you it might have been a beginning. To him it was an end.
-
One week after your return your grandmother has to be hospitalized.
You hold her hand as she fights for breathe after breathe, as her heart stutters to a stop.
You don’t cry when her body burns, when all that’s left of her is ash and bone shards, happy memories and the ghost of her kiss, the feeling of her lips pressed to your temple or her hands folded around yours as she teaches you.
You return to your now empty house, wondering when you turned this resilient, this cold.
They say that to be loved is to be changed, but in your case it has to be different. Loving Kisame has changed you. You wonder if you changed him too, even just a little.
-
Work consumes you.
There’s no time to bake, no time to make jams.
You don’t dare stop to taste the plums, fearing it will unravel you at the seams.
They say one woman can’t manage a whole business alone, so you smile and nod and ask for their assistance, collect their money and open another shop in Kimmun, because why not?
You keep yourself busy until you search for a painkiller and find your tampons, unopened, unused in, what… a month? Two?
That’s when you break, because what are you supposed to do?
You’re unmarried, have no relationship to name and your business is riding on your good reputation.
It’s on the bathroom floor, hugging your knees like a little girl, that you call out to Kisame for the first time in weeks, call upon his name like he’s God and you’re the sinner.
-
His response is the view of moldy ceiling, the wooden boards covered with black spots.
“What?!” Even your inner voice breaks with confusion.
Memories flood your mind after that.
Running from Kimmun, someone following closely. A fight. Blood, so much blood.
Intense pain shoots through your left leg. A nameless nurse taking care of you.
“Where are you?” You ask.
“I’m hiding.” He says. “I’m not even sure this place has a name.”
“Why didn’t you answer?”
“I couldn’t. I had to focus on the fight and by the time I could answer you’d gone silent.”
“So? You could have called out to me first.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere. Not for the first time you curse your connection. You can tell that he means it.
“What happened?” He asks.
“I’m pregnant.”
Silence follows, but it is not empty. You can feel his doubts wage war on him.
“Is it mine?” He asks, voice quiet, almost subdued.
“Of course it is yours!”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Take me with you. Please! I am all alone here and we could live together, right? I don’t care where we’d be, just let us be together, anywhere is fine.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I don’t care.”
“But I care.”
“If you die, I die. It will always be dangerous.”
“Let me think about it. I want to, I do, but we need to be smart about this.”
“I love you.”
He does not say it back. But you can see what he sees, your head resting on his chest back in Kimmun, your hands joined together. And that is just as good as hearing those three words.
***
Your growing belly is hidden beneath a wide skirt.
You have not complained once since the two of you left Kimmun in the early morning hours.
It will take months for those back in Konoha to learn that you sold your shares in Kimmun too, just like you did with all of your belongings in Konoha. By then it will be impossible to find a trace of you, to hear even a faint whisper of what happened with the lone young girl coming from the village.
The scars on his leg have healed up. Kisame feels no pain as he lifts you up and carries you over the threshold like one does with their new wife, the future mother of their children. Like his father should have done with his mother. Like your father has done with your mother.
He’s twenty-four, a criminal by the laws of Kirigakure, and a Soulmate by the laws of nature. He’s a husband, a homeowner and in a few months, he’s going to be a father too.
Your savings will keep you two afloat for quite some time and there’s a small village a few hours by foot, that will sell them whatever they could need.
He’s not yet convinced that this can last, that you can be happy in a place as lonely as this, that he can keep you safe, but he wants to try.
-
Mikio is six when he takes up the black coat with the red clouds.
He doesn’t do it for the money and not for the name.
But the twins just turned three and you’re pregnant again, yet there have been Kiri-Nin asking for him in the village and he knows he cannot run forever.
Pain’s way might not be the nicest, but he promises peace.
Is there anything he wouldn’t do to make sure you’ll be safe?
“Say goodbye to Papa.” You call out to Mikio who’s drying shells in the sun. The twins are running cirlces around him, probably thinking he’ll be back tomorrow from another trip to the neighbouring village. They don’t know yet about the meaning of missions, or how long three months really are.
But Mikio comes after you. He’s got a nose for things he shouldn’t know about.
“I don’t want you to go.” He says when Kisame steps closer.
“I don’t want to go.”
“So don’t go.”
“‘s not as easy as that.”
Mikio looks away again.
“Listen.” Kisame kneels down beside him, aware how much he’s growing. He’s coming after him with his height. “I’m not going to tell you to look after Ma. That’s not your job. You’re a kid. I have to leave so that you can stay a kid until you grow up. That’s not easy, but I’m doing it for you.”
“Okay.”
“Can I have a hug goodbye?”
Mikio ponders it for a second before crawling into his lap. He’s much too big for that now, growing too heavy for it too, but there had never been a chance for this when Kisame had been a kid, so why should he deny his son something he’d never knew he could have for himself?
-
When he leaves, he takes your voice with you.
It follows him wherever he goes.
Kisame knows when you’re safe, he knows when you’re in trouble.
Sometimes it’s the only thing keeping him sane.
To be loved is to be changed, you’d told him once when he’d complained about how his life had hardened you.
Kisame wonders how he’d have turned out without you.
Warning: Angst with a bit of fluff, Dark Themes, no happy end - it's Kakuzu after all...
Words: 4,6k - tagging @snuggleboots, @missalienqueen and @wing-ed-thing because I think you might like it
Bonus points if you get what the Kid's names are all about...
10.
His father’s hand is heavy on Kakuzu’s shoulder.
Across from him, your mother does the same with you.
You’re shorter than him, your long hair tied into pigtails. There’s the ghost of freckles over your nose, but it could also be the sunlight, broken into a million pieces by the cascading waterfall Takigakure is soon going to be famous for.
You look like a kid, which shouldn’t be that weird. He’s just got ten years old himself.
But everyone at the Academy aims to look older while you seem perfectly fine looking the way you are.
The grip on his shoulder changes, shakes him out of his reverie.
He looks up at his father who stares down at him. Right. Don’t expect any help from the old man.
When he turns toward you, you’ve put your hands in front of your mouth as if to hide a smile. Your mother looks tired.
“Shake hands.” She tells you - or him?
So he does, stretches out his hand for you to take, and watches with almost morbid fascination as you lean down and press your lips to the back of his hand.
By the laws of his and your Clan, you’re married now.
There are no laws for Divorce in Takigakure yet.
-
Your mother dies a year later.
You move in with him because he’s your husband and has to care for you. His father likes to remind him of that every time there’s not enough food on the table for all three of you.
A good man, his father declares, makes sure that his wife has enough to eat.
A good father, Kakuzu wants to throw back at him, would make sure his child doesn’t have to go hungry. But he doesn’t. Because while he might not be scared of anything, he’s too smart to get into trouble with the old man. It’s less risky to stay hungry and give his portion to you.
By the time he’s twelve, he’s doing odd jobs on the side whenever he can, handing you the money whenever he’s sure no one can see it.
You’re a quiet one. He’s too tired to talk most nights anyway, so he’s glad you don’t chew off his ear when it’s time to slip into bed at night.
Ever since his father took up drinking and lost the house, they share a single room and huddle together for warmth at night.
-
“Kakuzu,” You whisper. His eyes snap open, Kunai ready. It takes him a moment to realize it’s you. You haven’t spoken in so long he’s forgotten the sound of your voice.
“What?”
“Sh.” You move a little closer. Your legs are warm against his. He’s never noticed before how warm you are. “Don’t wake your father. I’ve got a job.”
“A job?” He furrows his brows. “You should still be in school.”
“Like they teach me anything useful.” You quip back at him. “There’s this rich family who’s got a gaggle of kids. I make one hundred ryō an hour looking after them.”
His mouth waters at the number. One hundred ryō could buy him a decent meal every night.
“How many hours are we talking?”
They get to planning. Two days later everything is set in motion. They move out while his father is out drinking, taking with them what little stuff they can find use in. There are no rules that forbid them from signing a lease on an apartment now that he’s a full-fledged Shinobi, even at twelve years old.
You celebrate your first night with a home-cooked meal, the best he’s ever tasted. Sure the Miso soup could have used a little bit more salt and the fish had been charred at the edges, but there was no one looming over him, taking away all the good pieces, ruining every conversation with drunken rambling.
“I will never be like my father.” He promises and you smile. It lights up your face, and transforms you into a being of light and lightness.
Kakuzu’s only twelve years old, but he’s seen death and he’s seen misery and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that if this is what love is, he will never get tired of it.
-
Kakuzu’s fifteen when he catches an illness that almost kills him.
Painful spasms shake him as he coughs, skin aflame with a fever that wants to devour him whole.
He barely remembers anything but finding himself with his head in your lap, your hands moving through his hair.
There’s a strange lightness to your voice as you talk to him. He can barely focus on your words but they sound like magic, like you’re summoning something from deep inside him.
When he wakes up from a deep slumber days later you look younger, somehow.
“What was that about?” He asks from the safety of his bed. One day, soon, he will buy a new mattress and a proper Couch, but it held out the last three years and he wants to have a bit more saved, feel a bit safer before he starts splurging again.
“What do you mean?” You’re at the stove, cooking something. He can smell ginger and citrus. You’re a terrible liar.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Kakuzu, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t bullshit me!” His temper comes and goes like a lightning strike, leaving him weak and shivering.
You stare back at him, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry.” He crawls out of bed. “I’m sorry.”
-
Kakuzu is fifteen when he finally understands the terms and conditions of this marriage.
Some Kekkai Genkais let you live longer than others.
On paper, it could be really just that simple. Your Kekkai Genkai lets you live on for years and years and years, your only threat the darkness of your mind.
“Many of us have killed themselves after they lost their partners.” You explain with his head in your lap again, your hand in his hair.
“Is that what happened to your mother?” You don’t answer his question but he can tell the truth from the way your eyes lose their light.
“But why me?” Kakuzu asks, two days later when you’ve curled up next to him after Dinner.
“I have two theories,” you explain softly. “Your Clan has brought forward many members with an exceptionally long lifespan.”
“And the other theory?”
“My Kekkai Genkai feeds on negative emotions. Misery. Sickness.” You fall silent. He doesn’t need you to keep going. He knows his family.
His father, who’s still not managed to drink himself to death. Whose temper is so famous that he’s often sent on three-man-missions alone.
His grandfather, who’s rumored to have killed his first wife over a burnt meal. Who’s still alive because he’s too stubborn to die, living off the roots of the great tree on the edge of Takigakure.
“I’ll never be like my father.” He promises you, again. You press a kiss to the back of his hand like you did when you met for the first time. It’s the only answer you give him.
-
Kakuzu is eighteen when his comrades make jokes about his wife.
They call her the beauty of Takigakure, say she’s even prettier because she never opens her mouth.
He gets cut from the mission roster for two weeks because he breaks one guys chin, and stabs the other guy in the thigh.
If you mind the blow to your wallet, you don’t show it. You’ve always been good at making a decent meal with the least amount of money spent.
But you sit him down when it happens again, a few months later.
“Stop it,” you tell him. “You’re becoming like your father.”
Fear engulfs him. He feels like he’s drowning, like that time he was six and his father threw him into the big cave, told him to swim or sink.
Warm lips press onto his, breathe oxygen into his lungs. He holds onto your waist to keep himself from going under once again.
As long as you’re there, as long as he has you, he will be able to keep afloat.
-
20.
Kakuzu turns twenty just two days before his daughter is born.
She’s got his eyes and your hair, his voice and your eerie stare.
You take one look at her and shake your head, sorrow washing over your features.
“What?” He asks, scared for his life. He’s never seen anything as precious as this little thing in your arms, that’s living and breathing and depending on him.
“She hasn’t got my Kekkai Genkai.” You say, the words like a knife to his heart.
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
The nurse, an old woman that helps with births and the like for a few scraps of meat and a few coins on the side, pats your head.
“What a beautiful healthy thing you’ve got. Cherish it, will you?”
He can see the light dim in your eyes. He makes a promise to himself that even though it might flicker, he will make sure that it does not go out. Ever.
-
Kakuzu likes this little life of his.
He likes waking up to his daughter on his chest, gurgling and garbling, grabbing everything her little hands can get. He likes the sight of you feeding her, how her cheeks are plump and warm, her belly full of milk. He likes seeing you in the village unexpectedly, knowing that the bundle tied to your front is the living, breathing proof that you like him enough, that he might even love you.
It makes everything seem a little less burdensome. Passing his father in the streets, pretending not to hear the insults. Gong on missions that aren’t paid nearly enough for the danger they bring. The lack of good meat on the market, the hunger of the people in the streets.
Being able to come home to you, to your soft smiles and his daughters quiet mumbles.
He could live like this, he thinks. Forever, if necessary.
But his daughter is named Fū, after the soft winds that come and go.
When she’s just two, a sickness falls over the village. You do everything you can but just as the wind does not stay, neither does Fū.
-
Silence has fallen over his home.
Silence has fallen over Takigakure.
There are mornings when he hardly gets out of bed. There’s barely enough money in his pocket to afford the few scraps of meat that are offered at the market. But the beer is cheap.
If he drinks one, he can almost forget the way Fū looked in his arms. If he drinks five, he can almost forget she ever existed.
-
There’s a sharp pain in his left leg.
Kakuzu blinks himself awake and tries to pull away.
“Stop it.” Your voice is hard and cold.
“What-”
“You stepped into broken glass.” You tell him. “I’m sewing you back together.”
“Don’t.” He mutters meekly.
“Why not?”
“I don’t-” He stops. He doesn’t know.
“You promised, remember? You wouldn’t become like your father.”
“I’m not-”
“Kakuzu.” You move, your face now above his. You’ve turned younger again. Have you taken all his misery?
“You should just leave me.”
“I will never, ever leave you.” From you, it sounds more like a threat than a promise. He closes his eyes for a second. Fū blinks back at him. He opens his eyes again.
“What do you want?”
“For you to stop drinking.”
“Granted. What else?”
You falter. “I-”
He sits up and grabs your arms. You’re so close now he can taste your breath. It’s a good thing Fū never got your eyes. There’s a truth in them he will probably never get used to.
“I’ll tell you.” You promise. “Not today. But I will tell you.”
-
He does not touch a drop of alcohol ever again.
Six months later he’s one of the most renowned Shinobi of his village, not that it pays much.
Konoha is a steadily rising threat in the distance but at least the crop is good this year, leaving everyone well fed.
When he returns home from yet another mission, bruised and bloodied, loneliness hanging off him like a second skin, you take his hands and press it to your belly.
“I want to be a mother.” You tell him, eyes alight. “Again and again and again.”
Kakuzu almost shatters at the prospect.
He’s barely survived losing Fū. How can he go through that again?
But he owes you. For keeping him alive. For giving him Fū. For liking him enough.
He watches your belly grow and wishes for a way to know if this one will inherit your Kekkai Genkai or the lack of his.
Two days after his second child kicks for the first time, he’s called to the village leader.
The mission is as simple as it’s deadly. Kill Hashirama Senju.
He will not survive. He will not see his child grow up. But he will also not have to see it die.
Still, there’s something he can do about this. Milk the opportunities he’s got.
“What’s in it for me?” He asks, his nose lifted to the sky. “I have a family to feed.”
You’ve never clung to him as tightly as you do the day he leaves.
When you kiss him goodbye he can taste the words you’ll never say.
Don’t go. Don’t leave me behind. I love you.
He bends down and presses a kiss to the swell of your belly.
“Take care of your mother for me.”
-
You must have bewitched him. Cursed him in his sleep.
That’s the only reason he can find why he survives. It had been a suicide mission after all.
He returns home, glad to be alive. He’s stopped at the village entrance, dragged through different caves than those who’d lead him home. To you. To the child that’s about to be born.
Kakuzu misses all of it.
Instead, he’s sentenced to life in prison. And for what? For not dying on a mission that was meant to kill him?
He’s too proud to beg for forgiveness. But he asks for word on you.
They refuse him even that.
All that’s left is Fū, who visits him in his sleep. And you, whose voice he can hear in every waking hour. It’s the only thing keeping him from going insane.
-
The gurgling laughter alerts him.
It’s a sound that doesn’t belong in a prison.
“Shhhh….” A voice whispers. He knows that voice.
He calls your name, desperate to prove to himself that he hasn’t lost his mind.
You step out of the shadows into a lone ray of sunshine breaking through the cave walls. You’ve gotten a little older. Life up there must have been treating you well.
There’s a bundle tied to your front. You step closer, lift the bundle through the bars that have been made to keep out grown men, not a newborn baby.
“Her name is Mito,” you tell him quietly. “She’s got my Kekkai Genkai.”
Mito. To hope, to wish, to desire. It’s a fitting name for the little girl that’s peering up at him. She’s got your eyes, too.
“I’ve not been a good husband to you.” He tells you. “You should leave me. Find someone who’s a better fit for you.”
His words say one thing. His arms cradling Mito close another.
You reach one hand through the bars, cradle his cheek.
“I’m bound to you.” You state. “I will go nowhere without you.”
Kakuzu looks down at Mito, how she fits into his arms just as perfectly as Fū did.
“What life can I give you?” He asks the little girl. Her chubby fingers try to grab the marks on his hands. Prison tattoos.
Your thumb presses against his cheekbone. His eyes flicker up to yours. There’s a determination in them he’s never seen before.
“I’m bound to you.” You repeat. “Not to this village.”
-
Kakuzu feels strangely nostalgic as he leaves the city, four beating hearts and a forbidden Jutsu in his possession.
In a way, it’s just like when you fled his fathers house, took everything with you what you could use.
This time he’s not holding your hand through it.
This time you’re waiting on the other side of the cave system, the little ox wagon hidden from sight.
Mito sleeps soundly when he arrives, bloodied and proud.
She sleeps through everything. Her parents departure from the only place they ever called home. Her father's transformation through Earth Grudge Fear.
He briefly wonders if she notices a difference when she looks at him. If his little girl can tell the difference between the man he was before and the man he is now.
Because he can tell that it has changed you.
You grow older outside of Takigakure. There’s not enough Misery to sustain you. One morning he wakes up to crowfeet around your eyes. He finds a grey hair on your head a week later.
It brings a new fear to his life.
And fear brings out demons he didn’t know he carried.
The little house he built for you lies in ruins over a fit of anger.
Mito hides behind you, fear in her eyes that look so much like you.
He’s breathing hard, doesn’t even know why he flipped in the first place.
You rake a hand through his hair, pull him close until your heads touch.
He can taste your breath, can feel the misery lift off him.
“Tomorrow,” you tell him calmly, “You will leave. Go on a mission. Bring me back a son.”
-
50.
He’s fifty now.
Mito got married last year. He barely sees her anymore.
There’s a clear distaste in her voice when she speaks to him.
She looks at him like he looked at his father.
Does she promise her husband that she will never be like her father?
Does he believe her?
Because Kakuzu has seen what her temper can do.
She’s his daughter after all.
Yet, he believes in the power of names. He believes that she can be what she desires.
His youngest daughter is two months old. You named her Rin in his absence.
He’s missed her birth, Han’s too. But he held your hand through Yagura’s birth, pretended not to shatter on the inside when you took one look at the little boy.
“He’s not got the Kekkai Genkai.”
Still. Yagura might be his favorite child.
He’s a quiet boy. Likes to hide behind Utakata when no one’s looking for him.
Utakata is his oldest living child, found on that first mission that you sent him on.
“Bring me back a son,” you had said and he’d thought it nonsense until he stumbles over him, starving on the side of the road.
-
Kakuzu doesn’t mind coming home now. He doesn’t mind staying away either.
It’s a fragile thing, this thing between the two of you.
Should he call it love? He doesn’t have anything to compare it to.
He knows you’re never lonely, not with the gaggle of kids that run around your feet all day. He knows you won’t age, not when there’s almost always a kid that cries because it got hurt in one way or another. Not when there’s a growing village nearby, of farmers and their women, with a baker and a monk, all of them looking for someone to tell their sorrows to.
He knows his temper is better left outside his home, directed at people who have the misfortune of crossing him at the wrong time in the wrong place.
Yet he longs to be by your side just as much as you long to have him with you.
He can tell by the way you pull him close when he’s home. How there’s no one allowed to sleep in your bed but him.
When you kiss him, he feels like everything will turn out all right, eventually.
When you hold him close he can almost forget the way Fū looked the day she died.
When he’s got his arms around you, nose buried in your hair he can pretend he won’t die the day Yagura dies.
-
67.
Long before he turns seventy, Kakuzu understands how you feel.
He still looks barely past thirty. It might be Earth Grudge Fear or a Kekkai Genkai his Clan never bothered to explore, but you and he both have lived too many years on this cruel earth to still be this young.
He’s so tired.
Mito lost her first child to a famine.
Yagura lost an arm trying to save Utakata from a mob. So what if his son was born in the land of water? That does not take away his right to live!
There will never be an end to this madness, this sorrow.
There will never be an end to your life if you don’t make sure of it.
“Don’t die.” He tells you at night.
“Don’t die.” You tell him when you see him off.
There’s but a thin line separating the two of you from death and it’s the other's presence.
He cannot leave you behind. He will not leave you behind.
If this isn’t love, what is?
-
81.
Kakuzu’s barely over eighty when he meets Pain.
Bright orange hair and eyes as cold and determined as yours.
He pretends he’s not interested. But he is.
He’s long grown impatient of this world. Of its neverending cycle of pain and misery and sorrow. Why must his children die? Why must you suffer to stay alive? Why must he stay away from you to keep you safe yet come back to make sure you keep on living?
Mito barely looks at him now.
She’s learned by now that she can never outrun his temper. It’s etched into her bones.
Yagura has grown almost silent after the loss of yet another of his siblings.
He’s a grown man, hair turning grey, yet he still crawls into his father's lap when he’s home.
He wants to go back to the simple days.
If only he could turn back time.
If only he could hold Fū one more time.
-
91.
Hidan trails behind him.
There’s movement in the bushes.
Hidan reacts immediately, draws his scythe, curses loudly.
“Shut up.” Kakuzu gnarls. His hand shoots out, catches the perpetrator around the neck.
It’s a little girl, Kunai drawn. His mouth turns dry at the sight. Her eyes remind him of his little Rin, never mind the fact that Rin’s already got three kids of her own.
“Let me down!” She screams bloody murder at him. He drops her like she asked for. She runs away with bloody knees.
“Aw, why did you let her get away?” Hidan asks. “I could have sacrificed her.”
“Take grown-ups for that.” He huffs.
They rest in an inn that night.
Kakuzu thinks of you like he always does when he counts his money. He should check in with you soon, to make sure you’ve got enough for the next months. Winter has been hard this year and you’ve picked up another stray. He got a beetle plush at a fair last month, won it in one of those rare moments when Hidan’s occupied with something stupid. He knows Yagura is going to love it.
“We do offer some special fun if you’re interested.” The innkeeper's grin speaks volumes.
“What do you have in mind?” Kakuzu asks. He’ll kill the guy if he gives him a reason to.
And the guy is stupid enough to do so, dragging a filthy little girl out of the kitchen.
It’s the girl that tried to trap them in the woods earlier, clothes filthy from crawling around the kitchen.
“How much for her?” Kakuzu asks before he can stop himself. The girls' eyes remind him of Fū in this low light. The price is low, telling of the man’s desperation. Or maybe he’s just not a good businessman.
“I’ll take her.” He pays upfront and demands another serving of food, pushing it toward the girl who’s now sitting next to him, trying to crawl into herself.
“Eat.” He demands roughly. “You’re nothing but skin and bones.”
“I’ll let you have your fun then.” The innkeeper moves backward, a slimy grin distorting his face.
“Hidan,” Kakuzu’s tone lacks any emotion. “Take care of him. But be quiet about it.”
-
They leave the next morning a little richer - dead innkeepers don’t need any live savings - and with a child slowing them down.
“What’s that all about? You a pedophile?” Hidan eyes the kid curiously.
“Shut up.”
They turn away from the main road.
It’s less than two days over the mountains if they keep moving at this pace. Most of the time he’s got to carry the kid anyway.
“What’s your name?” Hidan asks the first night when they’re sharing a rabbit Kakuzu caught.
“Kushina.” The girl says before directing her eyes at Kakuzu. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Why should I?” He asks roughly. “There’s no meat on you.”
-
A rustling in the bushes gives him away.
Kakuzu stops short, hand outstretched to keep Hidan back.
“Yagura.” He calls. “I’ve already spotted you.”
Yagura steps out with a smile. His hair has turned almost completely grey yet his eyes are that of a child.
“Have you got me a present?” He asks.
“Why would I get you one? You still suck at hiding.”
Yagura just laughs, stills when he spots Kushina.
“Oh! You brought me a friend!” He crouches down in front of the girl, his remaining hand outstretched. “Hi. I’m Yagura. Do you want to meet my Mom? She likes children.”
Kushina looks up at Kakuzu as if asking for directions. He jerks his head, telling her to go.
Yagura whisks her away, never as quick on his feet as when he’s presented with a new sibling.
Hidan’s muttering something behind him.
Right. He shouldn’t have brought him here.
“Listen.” He mutters darkly. “You can turn around and go back to the village we came from. I’m going to meet you there in a week.”
“No way.” Hidan grins. “I want to see what you’ve got hidden in the woods. Some secret family?”
“So what?” Kakuzu gnarls. “If you dare to threaten them-”
Hidan falls silent, face strangely void of any emotion.
“Fine.” He huffs eventually. “But if you’re late, I’ll leave without you.” He turns back, coat swishing behind him as he moves quickly.
Kakuzu’s not sure what he did to be granted such a favor, but he’s not going to second guess it.
He rarely gets time off as it is.
-
Kushina’s already laughing freely with Yagura by the time he has to leave again.
All those years of misery forgotten in just a few days.
You pull him close, hug him tight.
You barely look older than thirty.
Most people tell you that life must have treated you well.
Kakuzu knows the truth.
“What’s your next target?” You ask.
“The main one in the land of fire.” He recalls. “The nine tails.”
“That’s the worst one, right?” You ask. There’s something scratching at the back of your throat.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m so tired.” You tell him. “I’m so tired, Kakuzu. I want to go home.”
“I know.”
He kisses you, tries to tell you through touch what he cannot say with words.
I love you. Don’t leave me. I’m with you till the end.
“This is the last one.” You tell him when he pulls away. “You hear me? No more kids. No more missions.”
He nods. “I promise.” He says but he knows just as well as you do that his promises don’t mean much.
“I love you.” You whisper, for the first time in over eighty years.
You’ve never had to say it before.
Later, when it’s much too late for it, he’ll wonder why you said it.
꒰ your egg just hatched, @heresan ! ꒱ — sukuna \ teachers \ blind date.
꒰ 18+ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ! ꒱
sukuna may be the most hated teacher alive, but it doesn’t make him immune to a desire for love. or, two teachers walk into a poetry slam for a blind date.
⊹ f!reader ⊹ no curses, teacher au ⊹ fluff. tiny angst. humor. kinda enemies to lovers ⊹ sukuna is a jerk as usual. everyone is a highschool teacher. yuuji x todo poetry bromance. satoru n sukuna are friends. i kinda just threw everyone in a role here, so i hope it fits ⊹ 4.3k lol ⊹ footnote. here it is, tina! thank you so much for attending my event! i wasn’t able to fit everything i wanted because the word count got brazy. i hope you enjoy!
ryomen sukuna may just be the most hated teacher on all of campus, absolutely loathed by students and teachers alike.
in his mind, it matters not if others find him likeable or intolerable. the result of such a decision is personal; that’s not his concern nor is it his business. he’s intended to enrich the minds of his students, not become their friend. he’s supposed to prepare them for the mercilessness of reality, not coddle them.
sukuna is no gojo satoru; he has no desire to meet the youth where they stand in their childishness just to teach them. he doesn’t want to revel in all their senselessness with them. gojo satoru is the most liked, but he’s hardly the best teacher.
sukuna is no nanami kento; he refuses to hold their hands and protect them from their mistakes. in his eyes, their stumbling is a means of development. it gives them individual depth; it helps them determine their own meaning and cultivate their own merit based on what values their subjective experience insists they prioritize. nanami kento is the most entrusted, but he’s still a step below the best teacher.
and sukuna is no you, most certainly no you; he’d sooner perish than perform the sheer amount of mental gymnastics you do to ensure all your wording, teaching, and intent is coated in honey and well-received. you’re the most caring and the most cared for, but you don’t even begin to scratch the surface of being the best teacher.
but sukuna, even for all his standoffish demeanor and strict boundaries, even for all his intolerance and impatience, even for all his frustration and his dismissal, he’s the best teacher here.
you all know it; you all hate it.
he knows it; he knew it before any of those standardized test results signaled it.
his methods feel cruel and they aren’t ideal; no other teacher would dare implement his rigid grading system that leaves zero wiggle room for noncompliance but plenty for creativity ꒰ despite what you all think and say. ꒱
the results his students yield are an endless testament to sukuna’s success at equipping them with tools and allowing them to develop the skills to adequately use them. he’ll correct their inconsistencies, sure, but he’ll never lie to their faces about what he thinks of their capacity as it stands.
he doesn’t care to have them daydreaming about where they could go. he wants them to acknowledge exactly where they’re at.
his sole endeavor as a cultivator of minds is to instill the strength and willingness to critically observe literary material, which in turn gives them the capacity and ability to critically observe themselves and the way they’re present in every environment they encounter.
contrary to popular belief, he wants his students to be better than him.
and so, he can never go easy on them.
he can only lead them to the cusps of their potential and shove them over with a borderline menacing smirk.
and as he listens to the likes of itadori yuuji and aoi todo recite a joint poem for their reattempt at an assignment, he recalls exactly why he’ll never entertain their foolishness.
“jennifer, o jennifer,” yuuji muses dramatically. “your eyes a dazzling reflection of my yearning…”
todo’s eyes are squeezed shut as he recites, “jennifer, o jennifer! i see you parade around every corner of my daydreams.”
“AND YET!” yuuji yells, slamming his fist onto the surface of the podium that stands at the head of the class. “YOU WILL NEVER KNOW THE LOVE MY HEART CAN HOLD FOR YOU.”
in shock, sukuna’s lips part as he stares ahead at the two troublesome boys while they startle the classroom with yet another dramatic recital of a poem that will most assuredly become inappropriate.
“jesus christ,” he hears kugisaki grumble.
“JENNIFERRRRRRRR,” todo yells, stretching out the end of the name with a passionate fist held high as his voice descends down to a whisper. “my jennifer.”
“your chest, your voluptuous bosso—”
sukuna holds up a flat palm. “enough,”
confusion befalls yuuji. his head tilts to the side. “why’d you stop us? we were getting to the best part!”
“considering you’ve failed for the third time in a row at this assignment, i assure you that you were not.”
“WE FAILED?!” the two boys shout in unison. “AGAIN?! HOW?”
an exasperated sigh leaves his lips. “not only is this poem the end result of a dumpster fire and highly inappropriate yet again, but you once again did not follow a single instruction.”
“untrue!” todo protests. “you said it needed to be a poem about our greatest desire!”
a roll of the eyes. “i did not. i said to write a poem that embodies the concept of an emotion; for example, a great desire. not only that, but the poem was to be a quatrain. this is a couplet, at best.”
“well how am i supposed to know the difference?” yuuji says, his voice in a light panic. “i worked so hard on this poem.”
sukuna evaluates the copy of the poem he holds in his hand. inwardly, he admits that yuuji’s ability to weave imagery and eloquent speech is present, but he doesn’t take his assignments seriously enough.
“you earned points for creativity but none for anything else. this was your last chance to correct this, if i recall.”
yuuji’s eyes become wide and sad, lips forming into a pout as he stares at his teacher with a silent plea in his eyes, a plea that sukuna will gladly ignore.
sukuna firmly believes if these simple-minded brats would follow the very simple directions he lays out, they wouldn’t be struggling to pass his class and devoting all their free time to meaningless busy work that he routinely reminds them they can avoid if they set aside their need for instant gratification and concentrated on their academic efforts instead.
todo looks frustrated, angry eyes glued down at his feet as he suffers through his third humiliation.
“b-but!” yuuji tries, only to be met with the shake of sukuna’s head. “please, mr. ryomen! if i fail this class, my mom will take away all my games and manga!”
a soft snort. “i imagine your grades will improve drastically should that occur. take your seats.”
“sir, please!”
hard eyes glare into innocence. “do you think i’m running some kind of circus for you to entertain us all in? if so, i should fail you for boring me. i have one hour to teach you something and lately, i spend a quarter of my time bickering with the two of you about using very basic levels of comprehension to execute a simple task. sit. down.”
and they do, with all their grief and disillusion in tow.
when class ends, sukuna revels in the silence of his free period before his next group arrives.
he sighs, reading over yuuji’s poem again. a problem child most certainly, but a creative one who excels in writing but fails to pay attention to what it is he’s intended to write. sukuna aims to help him understand the importance of discipline and execute it. sure, he’s disappointed now, but with this failure under his belt, sukuna believes his next assignment will be much closer to what he’s been asked to do.
if he knows yuuji, and he does, the boy will still fail to follow a very specific direction, but he’ll get closer, and sukuna will acknowledge the improvement but yuuji won’t receive the reflection of his efforts in points. sukuna is adamant about the boundary of only distributing the points when he executes the task correctly, not for his efforts of doing such a thing.
he doesn’t offer participation trophies.
a gentle knock at his classroom door pulls him out of his thoughts. sukuna peers up from the top of his glasses noticing you standing in the doorway holding up a pink slip of paper that he’s quite familiar with.
so he’s requesting to be removed. insolent brat.
“and what do i owe the displeasure of seeing you?” he asks, looking back down at the papers he intends to grade. “can i help you?”
with a sigh, you enter the room fully and pull up a chair to sit beside his desk.
“my classroom is full and it’s breaking my heart to keep turning away all the students who don’t see a future while having you as their teacher.”
this is precisely why sukuna can’t stand you.
you’re hardly a rival, teaching in the only alternative class for first years to take english, but each time he has the misfortune of making conversation with you, you speak to him as if you are.
“get stronger at rejecting them then.” he counters with ease. “it’s character building.”
your voice gets quieter. “itadori yuuji came to me crying. your class is giving him a level of anxiety he’s quite literally unable to manage. he’s a child, sukuna.”
“mr. ryomen is fine, thank you.” he grumbles. “yuuji’s inability to turn in his assignments on time and follow my very simple directions has little to do with me and everything to do with him. he’s not a child. he’s a teenage boy who we’re expected to prepare for the harsh realities of the real world. do you think his behavior will be accepted in any workplace? no, it won’t. he’ll be terminated. and do you think they’ll care if he comes into their office crying about the consequences of his own shortcomings? they won’t. an average employee is a dime a dozen. he’s not great enough to afford his slacking.”
for a moment, you sit there in silence and despite not looking your way even once, not even sparing you a single glance, he can feel the disappointment rolling off of you in thick waves that crash into him.
“his grandfather just died. it’s already hard enough for him to come to school, mister unreasonable.”
and my wife left me yet here i am each day, dragging my feet into this rundown building without making excuses for not meeting the mark.
sukuna doesn’t speak it aloud, of course. he has enough empathy to keep some of his hatefulness at bay. “and my condolences are with him and his family. i already suggested to his mother that she withdraw him for the time being but yuuji made the decision to return. if he can exercise the autonomy to choose to stay, then he can exercise the autonomy to do his work adequately. i will not hold him to separate expectations because of his circumstances. i would have to do it for all of my students, and where would that leave those who do not have a soul-crushing event that warrants them room to frolic?”
“have you considered that, perhaps, all your students deserve a little room to make mistakes and correct them?” you inquire through gritted teeth. “i swear you have no heart.”
he winces, the words slicing through him just as sharply as the memory of his ex-wife uttering identical words as she rallied her loved ones to assist her in leaving him behind with the future they were supposed to share in love.
“if having a heart were enough to teach these students in a way that matters, i imagine your test scores would be higher. and yet, they’re one of the lowest. i appreciate your concern for my student, but he will simply have to make peace with his failures and let the shame he feels fuel him into accomplishment.”
without another word, you slam the pink slip down onto his desk and huff harshly as you stomp out of the room. he doesn’t understand why you bother time and time again.
you hold their hands and soothe them when they cry. it’s no wonder they have poor self-regulation.
ryomen sukuna has one friend, and it’s the man that he has the least amount of tolerance for: gojo satoru.
even after being told repeatedly that he’s disinterested in being friends, disinterested in having him involved in his personal affairs, disinterested in any level of personal connection outside of the work environment they both share, satoru insists.
he insisted upon himself until the frightful day came that ryomen sukuna lost the only person he had ever brought himself to love, and in response called satoru to sit beside him at a bar in total silence while he drank.
he didn’t need to do anything. sukuna just needed to convince himself that there was another being in this world ꒰ besides the one that walked out on him ꒱ who had a shred of care in their hearts for him.
satoru came without question, came without speaking, came without apologizing for his loss when sukuna uttered the words ‘she left me’.
satoru offered him a soft ‘oh shit’ and ordered another drink for him when his glass emptied out.
since then, at the very least, they’re on a first-name basis but hardly a friendly one, despite what satoru continues to believe.
“so guess what i got for my loving best friend who adores me so very much.” satoru sings as he enters the teacher’s lounge and throws an arm haphazardly over his shoulder.
sukuna shakes his arm off of him and proceeds to sneer. “don’t touch me.”
“well someone’s a grumpy cat today.” satoru mumbles. “so what’s got your panties in a wedgie?”
a disgusted scoff and a demand that comes through gritted teeth. “don’t be lewd.”
“but it’s part of my charm.” satoru says with an exaggerated pout.
sukuna sighs. “what do you want, satoru?”
“well,” he sings, sitting in a chair adjacent to where sukuna stands at the coffee machine, legs sprawled out wide. “you have a blind date tonight.”
an immediate response. sukuna spins to face him, nostrils flaring. “no, i don’t.”
“oh, come on!” satoru groans. “you can’t seriously spend the rest of your life hung up on your ex.”
“i don’t plan to.” he seethes. “but i don’t plan to date, either.”
satoru shrugs carelessly. “okay, so just show up and give her even a little charm so you can bust a nut before you bust a blood vessel.”
“not only am i uninterested in dating, but i would never date anyone you suggested for me.”
of course, the snow-haired man is offended, a palm flat against his chest. “excuse me, i have great taste in women. you’re just a prude.”
“you don’t have taste in anything, especially women.” sukuna grumbles.
satoru ignores him at first, instead redirecting his attention to his phone before mumbling, “i didn’t want to resort to this, but you leave me no choice.”
after he speaks, he turns the screen of the phone in sukuna’s direction to which he’s met with a post on facebook of all places where the words ‘ryomen yuki is in a relationship with fushiguro toji’ are in bold letters across the screen with two identical photos side-by-side, both a sporting a matching picture of them together.
for a moment, his mouth goes dry. the grip he has on his empty mug tightens until he hears and feels the ceramic starting to crack in his grasp.
she’s already moving on. she’s already found someone to replace me. her love was everything to me and mine was nothing to her, a gift that came with proof of purchase so she could return it at will.
unable to continue staring at his greatest loss to date, he turns his back to satoru, the mug slamming down into pieces on the counter.
so it’s really over then. six months of half-expecting you to return because you never bothered to change your name back. another thing you took from me and ran off with. shamelessly. with no remorse. another display of my fragility that you keep attached to you like a badge of honor. your trophy for murdering a deathless man.
“i’m sorry to spring this on you like this.” satoru says, the sadness evident in his voice. “but i think it’d do you some good to get back out there.”
he’s been trying for months to get sukuna to test the waters with someone new, but he admittedly held out for his ex-wife. now, all the rumination and theorizing of returns seems pointless. silly. a wasted effort.
his patience becomes another labor of love that she won’t reciprocate or return back to him, either.
it’s at that moment that he decides enough is enough and he can’t leave his heart in layover, waiting to be carried to a destination he’ll never see again.
with a heavy heart, sukuna mumbles, “fine, i’ll go.”
“atta boy,” satoru says, pleased with his results as he stands and grips sukuna’s shoulders. “and i don’t mean this in a kind of way, but don’t scare the poor girl away, okay?”
sukuna’s eyes narrow as he tilts his head to gaze at him. “and just what is that supposed to mean?”
“it means…” his voice trails as he hums thoughtfully. “be anything but yourself.”
great, another woman to court with only the idea of me and the potential of the man i could become. not the man i already am.
“i can hear the emo engine revving.” satoru sings. “i don’t mean there’s anything wrong with you, but you’re harsh and you know it. actually attempt pleasantries. chivalry. niceties, you know? women like that. they don’t want an unreasonable brute.”
a roll of his eyes. “whatever, where am i to meet her? what’s her name? what does she…like?”
“i’m not telling you anything about her, but i did suggest a date at that bar you like that does poetry slams on fridays. so, at the very least, you both have that in common. you like to wallow over useless things.”
sukuna hums, not entirely opposed to a poetry slam attendance as a first date, a blind meeting.
as a man quite passionate about literature in general, this sounds like a safe option. he can speak less and listen intently. that should be enough to conceal what satoru won’t openly call his awful demanor.
sukuna will never trust satoru again, will never let him set a nosy foot into his life’s affairs.
he never should have. he should have known he was toying with him, should have known that he wouldn’t set him up on a date without going so far out of his way to make a fool of him.
he arrives at the bar with a single, long stem black rose in hand, a gentle symbol of the potential beginning he has to offer, dressed in his favorite deep olive sweater-vest, a white button-up underneath with an elegant black tie tucked into a deep v neckline, and casual but suitable black slacks.
for the first time in a long time, he parts his hair and gels it specifically, nanami kento in mind as he does so, a testament to what he believes is the way a respectable man would present himself to a woman he may want to sincerely court, should things go well.
he waits outside the establishment, unusually nervous but still simmering in a hushed excitement at the possibility of finally laying the death of his first love to rest. he’s grown sick of being a man made into a mausoleum. he stands right where he tells satoru he’ll be.
it doesn’t take long to cling to the notion that all his diligence is a waste of time because now you stand before him staring at him in utter shock and it infuriates him.
what’s even worse is how undoubtedly gorgeous you look in the sleeveless white dress clinging to the shape of your body, the semi-deep neckline showing off the prettiness of your smooth skin and highlighting your assets while not blatantly displaying them. it’s alluring modesty that colors him in the most vibrant shade of surprise.
he’s never seen you outside of class, never seen you outside of oversized, fuzzy cardigans and dress pants. he’s never seen your ankles outside of black, cotton socks and penny loafers, but now he knows exactly what fiber looks like flowing around the shape of your thighs.
if you were to inquire with him regarding the subject of you, he’s never spared you more than passing glances because he finds the weakness in your general demeanor and over-indulgence in decorum to be particularly disgusting.
to him, critically evaluating your level of attractiveness would be a truly pointless endeavor, especially considering he only observes you in a work environment.
naturally, he keeps all of his curiosities centered around responsibilities that just so happen to involve you both.
but now, as you stand before him with widened eyes, shock gazing over shock, sukuna can’t help but memorize you from head to toe.
it isn’t to say that you intrigue him; it is simply to consider why on earth satoru would organize a date with you or have the audacity to believe he would want this.
i should surely kill him for this.
“you’re my blind date?” you ask incredulously.
sukuna sighs, frustration causing his head to lull back and briefly glance at the clarity of the evening sky. “it appears so.”
“why the fuck would shoko think i want to go out with the likes of you?” you ask, an air of offense littering your tone.
the expression contorting your features aimed at him causes a dull pang in his chest.
not because he cares, but because even sukuna isn’t immune to the consequences of harsh rejection in the face of his own anticipation.
the disgust for him is not only evident in the look on your face ꒰ brows raised, eyes full of disdain, nose scrunched, and your lips curved downward ꒱ but it’s indisputable in the tone of your voice. of course, he doesn’t care for you to find him attractive, but the blatant distaste aimed at him when he showed up all the same as you, expecting to engage with someone who could haply lessen the severity of his pain, if even only for a moment, is admittedly disappointing.
“gee, thanks,” he grumbles.
you whine, a groan ascending into a saddened pout as your foot stomps lightly against concrete. “i wore my best dress for you?”
“are you a child?” sukuna snaps at you, taking in your actions with his own observable revulsion. “contain yourself. you act as if we aren’t in public.”
your lips tighten into a straight line, eyes dying as you look at him. “don’t act like you’re not disappointed, too.”
he snorts. “disappointed is an abysmal understatement. do you think i’m thrilled to see you? i came here under the impression i might end up liking the person i met.”
your arms fold over your chest as you grumble, “i highly doubt they’d end up liking you.”
“and i highly doubt they’d end up liking you.” he retorts with ease. “it appears this is a fruitless exertion of energy.”
as if you don’t hear a single word he says, your eyes fixate on his hand which clutches the stem of a rose now fallen haphazardly at his side.
“was that for me?” you ask softly, gesturing to it.
a grunt as he realizes he still holds the physical marker of yet another romantic failure. “i guess. here.”
he thrusts it towards you spitefully, sneering. he expects you to reject it, to which he plans to let it fall to the ground, abandoned as he makes his way back home to sip his weight in roscato, but you become a peculiar creature before him and reach to take it out of his hand, twirling the stem between your thumb and index finger as the softest smile takes your lips.
you don’t look at him as you speak.
“a black rose seems like an unorthodox flower to gift for a first date.” sighing, he parts his lips to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance, as you continue on. “but really, it symbolizes tragedy and rebirth.”
surprisingly, you’re correct. his intensely irritated expression, unbeknownst to him, subdues and softens then.
“yes,” he murmurs. “it was supposed to, at least.”
you stay still for a moment, observing the rose carefully before you look up at him again. sukuna’s eyes subtly widen as he notices a tiny shimmer in yours, the littlest spark of curiosity twinkling as you gaze at him.
“i spent a lot of time getting ready.” you state tenderly. “i’d…i’d rather not go home empty-handed, you know? and i admit, i was looking forward to this poetry slam.”
for the first time in all of the time he’s known you, sukuna’s voice doesn’t carry an undertone of detest when he replies. “as was i. my favorite poet confirmed they’d be performing this evening.”
“so is mine.” you admit sheepishly with a wispy sigh. “kenjaku, he’s one of the greatest poets of our time.”
now, sukuna’s eyes enlarge with palpable shock. “kenjaku is also your favorite? i thought he was an undiscovered gem, but i wholeheartedly agree. truly one of the best poets of our time. he said he’d be revealing a new work on stage this evening.”
silence passes between the two of you, sukuna’s hands stuffing into the pockets of his slacks as he begins to rock on his heels. he would never admit it, but that shared preference is enough to cultivate his willingness to linger, enough to craft an ache to endure the evening despite his preconceived notions.
you eye the entrance, peeking at him from your peripheral vision. “should we…just enjoy the evening? i mean, we’re already here. and there’s a bar, too.”
“there is.”
“which means i can drink away the extent of how insufferable you are.” a playful grin on your lips as you hold out your hand to him. “shall we?”
he stares at your hand before scoffing and leaving it resting without being touched, moving towards the entrance to hold the door open for you as he avoids your gaze.
“after you,”
pairing: toji fushiguro x reader | 1.6k words
summary: boyfriend!toji headcanons, fluff, soft!toji, grumpy x sunshine, he’s a simp but he’ll never admit it !!
rheya's note: grumpy man being soft for the person he really loves? i’m here for it. mamaguro is literal proof that he can and will love !!
bf!toji who is silent with his care for you. he's not one to be open or dramatic about his feelings, but you bet he'll show them in actions. small, mundane things that could only be picked out under critical eyes—like quietly placing an extra mug of coffee next to you as you work, or being the one to walk closest to the street, fingers firmly clasped around your palm. if you point it out he'll just grunt, shaking his head with a quiet "keep walking" all while pretending to ignore your silly little grin.
bf!toji who isn't really the type to be big on words of affirmation, but huge on physical touch. you tell him you did well on a project at school or work and he just hums, giving you a little nod. he doesn't say anything else—doesn't really have to because the soft lingering pat on your head is enough to tell you that he's proud.
bf!toji who is an aggressive yet affectionate lover. if you're doing something and he's not receiving your attention he will come up behind you and put you in a headlock. he thinks it's an appropriate response considering how much he craves your attention and company—why on earth are you focused on something that isn't him anyway? so be prepared to have his heavy bicep playfully curling around your throat or slinging you over his shoulders at random times—it's his way of telling you he misses you. and if anything, he'll do it to hear you whine and attempt to shove him off.
bf!toji who will absolutely take your phone and change your lockscreen to pictures of him. every so often, you'll turn your phone on and see an entirely different picture—sometimes a picture of him at the gym, other times a picture of him blocking out his face—but it's always him.
bf!toji whose own lockscreen is always something that's related to you. he's sneaky with it, always stealing pictures of you when you're not looking. he's got a separate album with them—probably hidden behind a password because it's something only he should be allowed to see. but whether it's a snapshot of his hand intertwined with yours or a blurry image of you fast asleep in his bed, it's always you. because of course you’re the first thing he should be able to see when he turns his phone on.
bf!toji who, as cliché as it sounds, is exactly the type to go feral if someone's made you upset. and he's freakishly observant, noticing even a slight pinch of your nose or wobble in your lips—he's caught them all. whether you're just down or outright sobbing, he's there, standing in front of you with pure anger weighing heavy on his brows. and yet for all his rage he's nothing but gentle as he firmly takes your face in his calloused hands, muttering a strained "what the fuck happened?" as he forces you to make eye contact with him. his own eyes will dart over your features, searching for discomfort or any other emotion as you explain, barely holding back his own emotions because there's no reason on the fucking planet that you should be upset at all.
bf!toji who rarely says the words "i love you" not because he doesn't but because the words themselves don't hold all that much meaning to him. no he'd rather spend his time proving it to you than just saying it for the sake of saying it. but, sometimes if you pretend to be asleep long enough, you'll catch him quietly whisper the words into your hair, almost like he doesn't want anyone to hear it. don't even bother trying to call him out for it—he'll deny deny deny.
bf!toji whose eyes flutter when he lets you trace over his scars. not just the one cutting over his lips but the ones that litter his back and torso—battle remnants that he doesn't remember much of. he's always hated the look of them, indifferent to old memories of a much more chaotic time in his life. but when your gentle fingers graze over the raised skin he'll sigh, oddly quiet but yet so comfortable.
bf!toji who will drop everything if you need him. don't ever hesitate to ask him for things because you're scared of being a burden—he will yell at you (affectionately). you drank too much with your friends and can't get a ride? call him and he'll pick you up even if it's 4 am. you're feeling nervous about walking home from the convenience store even though it's only ten minutes away from home? stay put and he'll come get you so that you can walk back together. shut up about all that "it's an inconvenience for you" bullshit—he'll do it and that's that.
bf!toji who asks if you've eaten today, and when you answer with a sheepish smile he'll click his tongue, crossing his bulky arms over his chest and giving you a pointed glare. then he'll say "get your ass to the kitchen. c'mon, up." while hoisting you to your feet—most of the time he'll just pick you up and plop you on the counter himself.
bf!toji who wordlessly makes you something to eat, whether it's a quick snack put together with leftovers or an actual full meal. then he'll stand in front of you with the plate and demand you eat. even a slight word of protest and he's scowling, already holding up a spoonful while grumbling a low "don't wanna hear it. open up, kid."
bf!toji who hates when you fall asleep on the couch waiting for him to get home. his job doesn't allow for the comfort of a strict schedule, and he's told you this many times. but you're nothing if not stubborn, and he can only sigh heavily as he sees you dozing against the armrest when he pushes the door open late at night. he'll click his tongue quietly, hooking both arms under your back and knees to cradle you against his chest before walking to the bedroom. though some part of him is pleased, knowing that you seem to care about him enough to make sure he's coming home every night.
bf!toji who glares at anyone who even breathes in your direction the wrong way. some guy eyeing you while you're walking on the street? toji looks like he's ready to rip his head off. some "friend" of yours asking too many questions about why you're dating a man like him? well…if looks could kill.
bf!toji who pulls you into his lap when he kisses you, because he likes the way you fit into his space so perfectly. he won't ever admit how it makes him swoon when you giggle against his lips, instead choosing to tighten his grip on your hips and pull you closer to his chest.
bf!toji who enjoys watching you sit on the kitchen counter and swing your legs back and forth—finding it so unbelievably endearing that he ends up just standing in between your legs and burying his face into your neck. his lips will map chaste kisses across your skin, and he'll hide a wry smile as your quiet giggles wash over him.
bf!toji who will notice when you eye something at a store, whether it's a pretty piece of jewelry or a new sweater or whatever—he keeps note. and then weeks later, once you've forgotten all about it, he'll come home and drop a bag into your lap before shoving his hands into his pockets. when you open it and start gushing about how much you wanted it and how pleased you are, he'll huff and turn away, muttering a low "whatever, kid. 's not a big deal."
bf!toji who sees you upset about something, and loops his bicep around your neck and tucks you under his chin. to an outsider it doesn't look like the most comforting form of a hug, but it's toji, and he's secure and he's safe and he's all the comfort you need—a tight squeeze that grounds you in a way that you can't quite describe.
bf!toji who will never admit how interested he is in your gossip. his ideal way to destress after he comes home is to sit on the couch with you in his lap, your arms looped around his waist as you press yourself against his torso and tuck your head under his chin. and even though his eyes are trained on the tv, he has no clue what's going on—he's more focused on the drama you're spilling or whoever you're ranting about. and he makes it known too, occasionally asking "then what happened, baby?" and adding in a few sounds of disbelief. by the end of your rant, he'll be saying something along the lines of "what a fucking bitch," or "honestly he deserved that," and then asks for updates on the situation over the next few days.
bf!toji who silently watches you trace your fingers over the lines on his palms. you're blabbering about something, tucked against his chest as his other arm remains wrapped around you securely, but he's just focused on your hands. it scares him a little bit—the difference between you and him. his palms are calloused, rough with battle and death, while yours are soft, clean of the horrors he's determined to keep away from you. and a small part of him tells him he shouldn't taint you with all his faults, that you deserve someone more capable of loving than he is. but then he feels you brush your lips over his scarred fingers and he sucks in a breath, tightening his grip imperceptibly. even as he hides a half smile against your brow, he knows he isn't going anywhere.
Dilf Heaven @lavenderwriting - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
