hellooo, i saw you wanted reqs so what about toji wanting to get married to reader and he asks about megs opinion on it? i think itd be so cute what do ya think? :))
toji asking little megumis opinion on marrying you .✦ ݁˖
tojis leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, watching megumi sit at the table with his little legs swinging slightly, focused hard on lining up his toys like its serious work.
he stays quiet for a second, like hes figuring out how to even say it, then he rubs the back of his neck and exhales.
"…lemme ask you somethin'," he mutters, voice low.
megumi glances up at him, calm as ever.
toji huffs a quiet breath, pushing off the counter and stepping a little closer, big hand coming to rest on the back of the chair.
"…you like her, right?" he asks, not looking directly at him for a second.
megumi’s eyes brighten a little, the answer coming quicker this time, "yeah."
toji nods once, jaw shifting like hes thinking it through. his fingers tap lightly against the chair, restless for a second before he stills them.
"…what dyou think 'bout her stayin'," he adds, voice a little rougher now, quieter. "..like. forever."
megumi straightens just slightly in his seat, the pieces in his hands forgotten for a second. "...she can?" he asks, a small hint of excitement slipping through before he nods to himself. "yeah. yeah, she should."
toji pauses at that, something soft flickering across his face before he looks away again, clearing his throat under his breath.
"…you be okay if I married her?"
megumi doesnt even hesitate this time, already nodding before the question fully settles. "yeah," he says, more certain now, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth as he looks back down at his toys like hes trying to play it cool.
toji goes quiet for a second, then his hand comes up, resting heavy on megumis head, ruffling his hair once.
"..aight." he says under his breath, more to himself than anything.
Synopsis. Toji Fushiguro: MMA light heavyweight champion, tyrant in the ring, the strongest man in the world. But after a sudden losing streak leaves him without his title, Toji realizes that he suffers from a certain…jinx. The cure: you, his new physical therapist - and what’s between those pretty legs of yours!
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!physical therapist!reader, MMA fighter!Toji, Jinx (the manhwa) AU, he’s mean, matches, slight vioIence (to his opponents), Shiu cameo, jinxes, pússydrunk Toji, oraI (fem rec.), face-sítting, fíngering, spítting, p sIapping, SO MUCH manhandling, HEADLOCKS, slight chokíng, rough s, cervíx kíssing, folding you, p talking, he’s rude, creampíes, cúmplay, tasting it, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 12.2k
A/N. PHEW-
“Ouch! Huge overhand right—Toji Fushiguro is on his last leg, ladies and gentlemen and everyone in-between. I repeat-”
Toji scowls as the commentator’s voice bellows in his ears, like lightning flashes of derision through the thunder of the crowd. Those bastards, he seethes, they sure were singing his praises last season…
He sways ever-so-slightly, and throws a punch- misses- then gets hit with an uppercut that he really should’ve dodged.
Should’ve.
“That is some damage- wow! A shocking turn of events for the once-champion, it seems like Toji is already down for the count tonight.”
The hell are they talking about? He tries to glare down at the table of commentators (which would’ve been easier if said table wasn’t so…tilted).
Why was the world spinning?
Before he knows it, Toji’s on the mat. He feels the referee rush to his side, slamming the ground in countdown. He feels the crowd roar as he’s announced his defeat, yet again. And in that moment, he knows.
It’s a jinx.
.
.
.
“—devastating loss for the man that once ruled the octagon.”
“The latest in his recent losing streak, fans are left wondering when their light heavyweight champion will make his comeback. And what changes have to be made in order to—”
“—almost as if he’s been jinxed, hah!”
You hasten to turn down the volume on your phone. Despite having your earphones connected, all those screams n’ cries n’ protests still melded together into a powerful whirlwind, blaring out from the cheap speakers.
Tinny. The disappointment of the vast audience on-screen was far too much for your device to contain.
And not wishing to draw any more dirty looks from the other passengers on your bus, you muted the video and paused it on a still of Toji Fushiguro.
It was right after his defeat in the preliminaries; his skin glistening in fervent sweat, a cut bleeding from his brow, face scrunched as he rejected the help of someone from his own team. Instead, choosing to get up by himself.
Still silenced, you let the video play on a little longer - and you take in the glump slump of his shoulders. Oh-so-toned. You take in the way he stalks grimly off of the octagon-shaped battleground that the MMA was most famous for.
From here, you could tell that Toji towered above all of the crew- hell, he even towered above his opponent.
So why did he lose?
Alright, so you weren’t an expert in all things mixed-martial arts - but as a physical therapist you think you had some sort of say in the matter!
From here, you determine that this should’ve been an easy win for him. Terribly easy. Practically handed to him: for Toji was built considerably larger, stronger, about 6’3 with a ripped physique that made you understand exactly why the fighter had graced every single sports magazine in existence last season. Every TV show. Every sports exclusive. He’d taken the fighting world by storm at his debut, and he’d held that title ever since.
Infamous.
A wonder to watch on the screen.
A deep v-line. Arms the size of your head.
Those sage, half-lidded eyes of his were intense - especially now, as they blazed with injustice. You could remember feeling them follow your every move, prowling, from the athletics section on every magazine aisle. You think you’d picked up those exact magazines a few times, just to make sure that they weren’t somehow actually following you.
One time, you even remember the shop employee nodding approvingly at your choice.
Everyone knew Toji Fushiguro.
If not from his legendary MMA reputation, then from his irresistible looks. If not from his irresistible looks, then from his reputation as a tyrant in the ring.
If from neither then from his recent streak of losses that shook the fighting world.
It’d come out of nowhere. And no athlete quite expects to lose, but this seemed to have come as a surprise especially to Toji and his team, crew to an athlete that should’ve been at the top of his game.
You ponder - perhaps it was some wear on the joints, or maybe he hasn’t been getting enough electrolytes this season…
You’re pulled out of your little reverie by a cough from the kind ol’ lady seated beside you; the type that was less a necessity of the body, and more a pointed intonation of ‘I don’t know what you’re doing and it seems like neither do you’.
And, suddenly, you realize that you hadn’t just been staring into space as you’d thought- no, you’d been staring (quite passionately) at a paused frame of Toji Fushiguro in all his shirtless, sweaty glory. A close-up of his built figure. A close-up of the tattoo on the side of his toned hip.
Which, you had to admit was quite…attractive- pull yourself together! You turn off the phone that you’d pulled out in the first place for research, lest anyone else on the bus start thinking that you were some kind of pervert (it might already be too late for that, the elderly woman was tittering to herself). Ducking your head in shame, you sigh out in relief as you notice that your stop is near.
“The next stop is Sendagaya Station, Shibuya.” The lilting voice of the conductor rings out, “Please prepare your fares.”
You were glad to finally get off this bus, after a long ride spent toiling to yourself. In no time, you’d paid your fare and was stepping out into the bustling city.
Conveniently, right in front of the gymnasium you were supposed to arrive at: TEAM BLACK, TOKYO MMA GYM. 5F.
To work for Toji Fushiguro.
You check your watch—five minutes early. Dressed in your crisp scrubs, you adjust the glinting golden badge engraved with your name and your position as physical therapist.
And then you step in.
The sound of gloves connecting with flesh, of groaning punching bags, and shouts greet you immediately as you enter. There were a multitude of fights that were ongoing in the expansive gym, but there was only one that you couldn’t take your eyes off of - right in the middle, pummeling his bloodied opponent, was Toji Fushiguro.
From around the ring, teammates and coaches were yelling at the dark-haired man to stop. But he doesn’t.
His stone-cold face specks with blood, and he still doesn’t stop. His opponent taps at the mat to halt the match, and he still doesn’t stop. One of the other fighters in the gym runs up to grab him, and he still doesn’t stop.
Ultimately, you watch as it takes about five men to even match Toji’s strength- forget about overpowering.
“What’s wrong with you?!” One of the men cried out, “‘Free sparring’ doesn’t mean you should actually take the guy apart- someone could have gotten injured!”
“You okay? You seemed lost there, man…”
“Is this about the loss from a few weeks ago- eek!” Several of them stumble backwards as Toji glares at them for that particular comment, and suddenly you’re reminded of the match you’d just watched on the way here. That devastating loss.
You look over and can’t help but notice that the man inside the ring right now is much bigger than the one he’d fought during that match. Much stronger, it seems.
And again, you’re wondering - why the hell couldn’t he win?
“The punk wanted to spar, s’not my fuckin’ problem he couldn’t handle it.” Toji grunts, and it’s the first time you’re hearing his low baritone. Slightly husky.
He rolls his eyes as he shoves off the other fighters, and pulls aside the colored ropes ring to step out. Which is when, slowly, magnetically, his eyes meet yours.
“Who’s this?”
Toji’s in front of you in a split-second, his broad shape looming. His twinkling irises staring down. His black t-shirt skin-tight. His scarred lips slightly quirking upwards—
And before you can even think of responding, you hear a call of your name.
From the other side of the gym, a clean-cut man with a slight spattering of scruff was pacing his way over. He was well-built, like the other fighters here, though with an air of authority with which he wielded a clipboard.
In front of you, Toji repeats your name. Like he was tasting it.
“Ah, you must be the new physical therapist!” The man announces once he’s close enough, and you bow politely to which he does the same. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. The name’s Shiu Kong, m’the manager of these animals- so if there’s anything you need to ask, you ask me.”
“Thank you for having me, and for the opportunity.” You smile, seeing Toji’s stunned expression from the edge of your peripheral vision.
He scoffs, “And what do we need a physical therapist for?”
Shiu instantly smacks him with his clipboard, “Have you had one too many blows to the head?” He barks out, in a tone that was the complete opposite of the gentle way he’d spoken to you. “Huh? Have you? Have you forgotten the fact that you’ve done more losing than winning this season-”
“Alright alright-” Toji waves off, “The fuck? They should put you in the ring next.”
And then he turns to you and sweeps his eyes up and down. Deciding to take a chance, you thrust your hand out in the attempt of a handshake- only for him to take it in his much-larger, roughened one. And instead he flips your palm over and bends- almost like he’s bowing, almost like you’re royalty - and grins. “Pleasure.”
He doesn’t introduce himself, he knows he doesn’t have to.
And with only a slight smirk thrown your way, Toji turns on his heel and heads in the direction of one of the clinical-looking rooms in the gymnasium. Away from all the fighting, you assumed that this will be your office going forward.
Toji’s already there when you enter, and he’s-
…shirtless?
His broad back was all on display for you, every curve n’ divot, every one of his eight washboard abs, every flex of his muscles. He was glimmering with a sheen of sweat that brought out just how toned he was- and you think you could see, closer than ever, the inky spirals of a snake on his hip.
“My clothes are soaked in sweat-” Toji turns to look at you, and you feel your heart race at being caught staring. “I can do this in my boxers, right?”
“Ah, yes!” You try to keep your tone even, and help your client - your client - lay down on the examination table. But oh- he really was attractive. Painfully so.
Not even those smokin’ hot magazines and edits on social media (all part of your…research, of course) had done him justice.
But you had a job to do, and you’re getting started right away. “Do you have any specific concerns?” You ask, pulling a thin towel over Toji’s crotch area as he reclines. And he only sighs and rests his head upon his palms, muscles rippling as he does so.
“Just do your thing.”
“Yes, sir.” You nod, “Then, I’ll give you the full body sports oil massage.”
“Mn.”
You start from his broad shoulders, and then down to his pecs.
And he really wasn’t like any of the clients you’d had prior - no one came even close. You could feel the power in his body, the firmness, the training. Any time you glissade your lotionized hands across Toji’s muscles, he grunts- and, oh, you have to squeeze your thighs together to stop from thinking anything stupid.
You kneaded your way down from his bulging biceps, and onto the side of his hips - where you got a really good look at the snake tattoo. You notice that it also had flowers inked around it.
And then onto his thighs…you’re raising them in external rotations. All the while looking up at his ridiculously handsome face to check whether it hurt, you didn’t register the way your hands somewhat struggled to get a proper grasp on his meaty thighs, especially with the sweat.
You didn’t register the way your fingertips slightly scoured downwards-
“Oh, shit!” You hiss, jumping your hand back. In the few seconds that you’d been distracted by his looks, you’d somehow traced the crown head of something long…and hard.
Looking down, you realize that Toji’s erection was throbbing against the thin layer of his boxers. Barely even hidden by the cover of the towel, the lengthy cylindrical outline was there for your eyes to see - and for your hand to accidentally touch.
Your eyes widen.
How was he so big?
“My- my apologies, sir!” You sputter out, resting your treasonous hands against your sides. “It’s a very common physiological response to get hard- ah- an erection during a massage, and it’s completely my mistake for not noticing. Again, my apologies, I completely understand if you wish to-”
“Whaddaya doing just standing there?” Toji cuts you off gruffly, and you look up at his face in surprise. He raises a dark brow, “Aren’t you gonna finish what you started?”
You blink, “Finish what I…”
“The massage.” He cocks his head, though there’s a knowing smile on his lips - how devilish he looked this way. “That damn Shiu’s gonna give me hell if I don’t get it- so hurry it up, will ya?”
That was close. Hastily nodding, you reach over to massage his thigh once more. “Right at once, sir.”
Looking down, you chose not to make eye-contact with him for the rest of the session. Instead, focusing your entire attention on perfectly executing the massage, step by step - you wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened before!
Toji, however, stared at you through his partially-lidded eyes the entire time.
.
.
.
“That wraps up your treatment for today. Thank you for your patience, Mr. Fushiguro.” You step to the side, giving the athlete the space to stretch out his long limbs and feel the effects of your massage- which, you had to admit yourself, was amongst some of the best in the academy.
He takes his time rolling his shoulders, feeling the way the blood vessels on his muscles flow smoothly. Energized.
“Hm, not bad.” Toji muses, more to himself. “Most of the punks here call me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Fushiguro’-” He nods at you, “You can just call me Toji.”
“Oh- I’m honored, sir- I mean-” Your veins blister with heat, and you think that the slight quirk of his lips might have something to do with it. “—Toji.” It felt so wrong on your tongue, and yet so right.
And before you can let anything further slip (because, really, you’d never been close enough to a client to address them by their first name, let alone be told to do so after the very first session), you turn away from the handsome man to grab your bag of supplies, your coat, and step to fumble with the door handle. “And now- if that’s all, then I’ll be going now. Have a nice day, sir- I mean-”
As you make your very evident escape, Toji can only watch. Can only stare.
He feels his massive erection still throb furiously between his legs, still ravenous. Like never before. And one of his hands snakes down to squeeze—“How…interesting.”
Before the door swings open once more and in comes Shiu, prattling away something about how you ‘left in such a hurry’ and what a ‘sweet lil’ thing’ you were- Toji casually throws a second hand towel over his lap as his best friend (and manager) comes to slap him on the shoulder. “Feeling refreshed, eh? I can see it in your eyes- with her, we might just have hope about winning that next match.”
“Yeah.” He rasps out, throat dry. Toji watches where you left, he can still feel your soft hands tingling on his skin. “Yeah, we might just.”
.
.
.
“Fuck-” The champion spits between his clenched canines- well, future champion. But it didn’t hurt to be a lil’ optimistic, did it? “Oh, fuck- I’ve never been fuckin’ harder.”
He didn’t fucking care. Not right now, not when he had his strong hand rested against the glistening tile of the stall. His head bent forwards, his back wet with the pouring shower, his right hand slipped below his v-line and furiously pumping his cock.
Up and down. Up and down.
Fuck, he was jerking himself off like he never had before. Until the friction of his roughened palm left his long, hot length all red n’ raw- and yet, he still wasn’t stopping. Still couldn’t.
He remembers the feeling of your soft hands on his thighs and Toji bucks-
“F-fuck-” The fighter gnaws down on his scarred bottom lip, trying desperately not to make a sound that will echo out in the gym’s empty locker room. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- s’not supposed to feel this good.” Sure, they had stalls - but right now even the slightest flick of his thumb, right underneath his mushroomy tip, felt so good that he might as well moan out loud.
And the worst part was that he’s sure his very first moan would be your name.
“Fuck, mama, s’not supposed to feel this good.” He snarls, entire body wracking with shivers. The bulging biceps on his arms ripple as he glides his hand down to his base. And all the way back up.
Abs tensing. Veins on his pelvis popping.
With a few more vulgar strokes, he’s hoverin’ his thumb right over the divot on the middle of his cockhead. It was all pink n’ needy, dribbling out in syrupy white cum in absolutely no time- “Look what you’ve done to me.” Toji watches himself through his shaggy black bangs, wet with water and perspiration, cumming all over his hands. “I don’t know what blessing- what c-curse you’ve put on me, but…” Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you?
He rides out his high on his right hand, fucking his fist like he imagines you might tease him through it- just like the way you’d teasingly grazed his tip. Just grazed.
You’d probably take it like such a good girl. Let him paint his gluey white cum all over your face, and just across your lips - it would probably match your scrubs, heh. Biting back a groan, those lecherous thoughts of his only make him finish even faster.
And once the sparks of his high have finally bated - the fountain of his ivory sap stopping - Toji washes off the remnants of his lewd act. Spurting out some cool body wash and cleaning himself off, he slicks back his hair with clean hands now.
Head throwing back, he knew he had to get his mind in focus for the upcoming match - just in a few hours, actually. The car was supposed to be waiting for him outside the gym by now. It was some sort of rebound match of Legends vs. Rookies that Shiu had managed to scrounge together, and it should be displeased at the fact that he was supposed to fight some no-good, hotshot punk- but, honestly he had a good feeling about this one.
Toji’s thoughts stray back to you, and he finds himself cracking a snicker- “You’ve fuckin’ cursed me, woman. You plague me. But…” A thrill zaps through his strong body, “…I like it.”
.
.
.
Toji Fushiguro won the Legends vs. Rookies event.
A wipe-out so clean that everyone was sure it’d go down in history. A comeback so strong that it had already gone down in history.
After that, it was a streak of absolute demolition: the preliminaries, the co-main events, the PPV matches, each and every single fight that was thrown his way- Toji Fushiguro was sure to win without even breaking a sweat (metaphorically).
Hell, at one point even some of his past contenders from his losing streak had demanded rematches, perhaps thinking that they could put the legend in his place once more.
He’d won those, too.
After a season-long losing streak, it was months of winning. And you were giving him his massages on the days before every match.
And Toji was back on the magazine covers, the interviews, the brand deals. Right now you couldn’t even step outside your humble apartment building without being met with at least four different billboards and several commercials featuring him. It was quite strange - seeing the rugged persona in those mediums, and then his still-rugged demeanour in real life.
Though, slightly less so.
There was a faint gentleness to the way that Toji was (when you’d brought this up with some of the other fighters you’d grown close to, they’d fervently denied and showed off their bruises from the pummelings that Toji gave them in the ring).
But you were sure it was there: in the way that he’d always be first in the office, in the way he’d lightly murmur greetings to you and only you, in the way he’d hold open doors and look away as if he wasn’t, in the way that there was a drink of your favorite preference on your desk every morning. And you’d asked around, wondering if it was perhaps Shiu or any of the rookies that was doing so- but they all denied it.
All but one of them.
Toji.
Even Shiu seemed to have noticed that something had shifted in his best fighter. Hell, he was on a winning streak after so long, so of course there had to have been a change.
The other man couldn’t quite pinpoint it, though he gave most of the credit to you and your massages. ‘They must be some sort of magic work!’ He’d exclaimed to you one day, after a particularly tough opponent that Toji had easily beat.
And you yourself couldn’t quite be sure, though you didn’t want to give yourself all the credit. You were only glad that your favorite fighter (yes, after being around MMA fighters for long enough now, you’d determined that Toji was your favorite) was back to winning again.
Only glad you could help.
Which is why, in the ghost entrails of the early morning, at exactly 2:36AM, when Toji texted you - you answered.
2:36AM - Toji (MMA fighter): I need you.
2:38AM - Toji (MMA fighter): For another one of those full body massages.
2:42AM - Toji (MMA fighter): Please.
2:42AM - You: On my way!
As you jumped out of your bed to get dressed, you noticed that you had several missed calls from Shiu, as well. After calling him right back, he informed you that just last week, Toji had come up on a draw during his last match, which was yet another co-main event for the #1 Contender spot.
Of course, you knew of this, you’d watched the match on the gymnasium television. And though it wasn’t the worst of outcomes (especially considering that this was world-class fighting, at a light heavyweight level), considering his winning streak, you were somewhat surprised. And slightly afraid that he’d go back into his rut of losing, just as Shiu was.
Which was why he, too, wanted to reach out to inquire whether you could do one of your ‘magical’ full-body massages on Toji on the night before one of his biggest matches yet. A rematch for the #1 Contender spot - the audiences loved him.
Shiu told you he’d seen Toji moping around after that devastating draw, and knew that the only one who just might have the ability to brighten his mood would be you. So please, if you could go at 2:45AM to the penthouse apartment of a celebrity MMA fighter to give him a massage?
Of course, you said yes.
It seems that Toji’s team had arranged for everything already, and a flashy black car was already waiting outside your apartment building to whisk you off to your destination. You twiddled your thumbs, slightly nervous (for what? You weren’t quite sure) as the car parked in front of a set of gleaming skyscrapers. Apartment buildings of a calibre that you’d only seen in architectural magazines.
Escorted upwards by a few of Toji’s own personal bodyguards past an entrance larger than your entire apartment, and a lobby that practically screamed luxury.
You didn’t even know that Tokyo had such a place.
Massive. Concierges that bowed as soon as they saw you. An orchestra that still played in the dead of night. Chandeliers like miniature suns that lined the ceiling.
Damn, maybe you should’ve become a famous fighter, you whistled. It made sense, though, he is one of the highest-paid athletes in the country. Even the elevators were gilded, shining so brightly that you could make out every inch of your face on its reflection. And the bodyguard’s, too- you quickly straightened up and tried to look as casual as possible as he led you to the very top floor.
A large glowing button simply labelled with a ‘P’.
The penthouse floor had a wide carpeted corridor leading up to it, all golds and reds like the rest of the apartment. You walked up to the expensive-looking door at the end of it, and buzzed the doorbell on its touchpad.
Bzzzz—!
The door swings open.
And there stands Toji Fushiguro, in all his sweaty, shirtless glory.
It almost reminded you of the first time you gave him a massage. Chest heaving. Vision bleary. A glittering bead of sweat lines the curve of his jawline, ending at his chin and dripping downwards. Down, down, down the valley of his pecs.
There was a lewd little flush that overtook his tannish skin.
Like he was…sex-flushed.
Spreading out across his tense shoulders, and all the way down his chest. The back of his neck. You don’t think it even ends as it follows the line of his dark happy trail, those curly lil’ hairs at the bottom of his navel, and then even further down—
Toji’s grey sweatpants hung low on his hips.
Dangerously low.
And you have to force yourself to look away. You swallow as he raises one big, beefy arm and rests it on the top of the door frame. Looking at you through the gaps in his damp bangs, “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, mama.”
“O-oh.” You immediately close your mouth, realizing that you’d been gawking at him for far too long now (how unprofessional!) Sheepishly, you raise your bag of supplies and shake it ever-so-slightly. “I uh- got your text! And Shiu also called to tell me that you wanted an extra round of physical therapy before your match, sir-”
“Toji.”
“Toji-” You amend. Before taking on a stern tone, “And it looks to me like you’d already been up working out before your match. Overstressing your joints will wear them out, you know!”
He scratches the back of his head, a sleazy smile overtaking his face. “Working out- right.”
Tutting, “What you need now is a nice massage and some relaxation. I’ll do your usual with some added therapy for your blood pressure, how about that?”
“Perfect.” Toji grins, and he cracks the doorway open. Just slightly open. So that you have to squeeze yourself between the doorway and his chiselled body - not that you were complaining. “Come on in and give me a- hah, real workout then, how about it?”
“Relaxation, Toji.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Ignoring his teasing, you step inside. It’s a luxurious apartment - one of those stylishly modern types, black and white, with flares of Toji’s MMA career. Boxing gloves on the sprawling couch. A TV that takes up an entire wall, paused on highlights from his last match. A cabinet overspilling with trophies and belts.
Led by him, you stumble past towering artworks that likely cost about five of these penthouses - and that’s about ten thousand of your own apartment.
He walks you through winding hallways, and ultimately into what you guess is the master bedroom.
His bedroom.
The first thing you notice as you step in isn’t the rich furniture, or the king-sized bed, or the draping curtains that were cracked ever-so-slightly to let a sliver of the city seep through. No- it’s the mountain of tissues scattered on the wine-red carpet, the bottle of lotion on his bedside table, the way the dark bedsheets looked like he’d just been thrashing on it.
Toji casually lays back down on his wrinkled bed, and rests his clammy head on two hands. Stretching out.
You hasten to set out your work, coating your palms in lotion, and beginning your massage. As you start off warming up his obliques, you can’t help but blurt out- “M-my apologies for assuming it was a workout-”
Fuck.
Why would you say that?
You gasp, “I mean-”
“Why?” Toji croons, tilting his head to look at you. Trying to avoid his gaze, you quickly shift to extending his legs instead. “It was a workout, heh.”
Your veins bubble, “Oh…”
“And it’s a workout I need before every match, y’know?” Looking at you closely, still, you’re too aware of the fact that you’re massaging his thigh. “The fact that m’fuckin’ my fist like some lecher before every match, you don’t think that’s strange?”
“I see. I don’t really…” Your throat is drier than the Sahara, you have no idea what to say - though, you admit, a part of you wants to hear more. So that’s what he’d been doing, in this very room, on this very bed, just before you’d arrived.
Another part of you is thrilled. Another part of you is confused why you’re thrilled- which quickly morphs into understanding once your brain conjures up a sizzling image of Toji Fushiguro alone with his sweatpants at his ankles, hands fisting his rock-hard cock.
Shaking your head free of those lecherous visions, you attempt to lighten the mood- “Is that why you’ve been winning all these matches lately, hah?”
“Exactly.” And Toji sounded dead-fucking-serious. Rising, he looks you squarely in the eyes with his slightly murky ones. “See, the thing is, I have this jinx.”
Your eyes widen.
“That’s why I was on a losing streak- no matter what happens, it turns out I needa have a real good high the night before a match.” Your hands have stopped their movements, yet he shifts to edge them up higher. Closer. “N’ it needs to be truly satisfying for me to win.”
“So- so these past few matches?”
“Mhm, you’re a smart one, mama.” He shifts on the bed, sitting up. Even closer. “You could say it’s my routine, and it’s very important to me.” His verdant gaze shifts from your right eye, to your left, to your lips. A triangle. “And…I’d found my fix. Just fucking my fist to the thought of her was enough- but lately…lately, I dunno if that’s all I want.”
Your breath catches—he was talking about…“I see- th-that must be quite challenging.”
“Heh, it looks like you still don’t get it.”
Before you know it, his hand grasps yours. And he’s bringing it up- to press an innocent peck on the back of your hand, though the burning look in his eyes was anything but.
Scarred lips murmuring against your skin, “Why’d ya think that on the crucial night before a match, I’d go through all the trouble of calling my manager, informing security, and having you come over?” He chuckles, “And if you still don’t get it-”
And that sweet, sweet kiss he was pressing to your hand?
Well, Toji’s canines slip outwards to lightly bite down - just teasingly. He looks at you through his long, Stygian lashes. “I know the way you look at me, ya aren’t slick- hah! If you want - only if you want - you should know.” Sighing out. A confession. “It’s always been you, doll. Always.”
So he really was talking about you earlier.
Your heart stutters, and the only thing you can think to do - let your hand slip up, just the way it had on the first day you’d given him a massage.
And sure as day, there it was, the massive fucking erection that raged beneath his sweatpants. Just as large - if not even larger - than how you’d remembered him.
Just as needy - if not needier.
You gulp, “Well, I am your physical therapist intended to help you…” You stare at him dead-on in the eyes: they were drunk with lust. Looking as if he was on the very urge of shattering if you just say the word. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t think of him in that way, either. “-win.”
.
.
.
“Oh fuck, you taste so good, mama. Just a lil’ wider now—just a little wider.” At Toji’s throaty beckons, you’re stretchin’ your thighs further apart with a whimper.
Feeling the scorchin’ hot gust of his breath against your core, you arch your back with a yelp once you feel him swat his calloused fingertips against your folds.
Teasingly, he runs his fat thumb right past your pussylips- snagging down on your clit to make you even wetter above him. “Wiiider now- lemme see her properly, mama.” He huffs out, demanding. “No need to be shy with me.”
“M’already stretching.” You’re rebutting, grabbing onto a few tufts of his raven bangs to balance yourself. You knew you didn’t need to be gentle with him- in fact, Toji groans at the feeling of you pulling on his hair, using it as leverage.
After all, he’d been the one to insist on making out with your cunt this way: your thighs straddling either side of his face, your cunt hovering above his mouth.
A beaded droplet of slick dribbles into his mouth and he has his tongue out n’ ready to catch it. Pryin’ your swollen folds even further apart with his thumb, “Atta girl-” As you leak out at his words- “Atta girl, s’exactly how wet I want you.”
“Hmpf- and you haven’t even kissed me yet.” You point out, stubbornly.
To which Toji only grins - oh, how cute you were. “You wan’ me to kiss you? There-” And before you know it, you’re feeling something cold and wet cling onto your pussy. Only later are you realizing that he’d just spat on your cunt, letting the lewd slurp-slurp-sluuuurp ring out for both your ears to hear. “Those lips happy now, or do you want tongue?”
“You’re just so mean- ngh-”
Another probing press of his crowned thumb, once more rolling over your clit perfectly. “Oh, so you do want tongue.”
And Toji says it so casually, as if he’d just stumbled across an epiphany. As if he normally did communicate through the squelching slurps your pussy was giving out-
Because then he’s delving his tongue into you like an animal.
Barely even prepping you, barely even warning you- not before the scourin’ tip of his tongue then enters past your folds. Striking directly against some tender inner part of your walls, before he’s darting it back out and fucking you with his long muscle.
Rutting.
Again and again and again.
You feel your thighs shiver hopelessly at the sheer length of Toji’s tongue - so fucking long that you could feel his ridged tastebuds aim for your very cervix. As if he could reach. “O-oh my god. How are you so big, Toji?”
“Mmm, and I haven’t even put my cock in yet, doll.” He smiles priggishly, his tongue slurping up every wadded ounce of slick that leaves you. “How are you gonna take that then, huh?”
“I don’t know- ngh.” He’s mazing another inch of his tongue in, thoroughly. And it’s enough to leave your body all loose n’ wobbly with pleasure- stupidly, you attempt to hold onto the towering headboard on his bed, but Toji can’t have that, now, can he?
Not when he was the one pounding your pretty pussy with all his tastebuds.
Glued to the slick-filled orifices of your cunt, he’s unhooking your hands from the headboard and bringing it back down to hold onto his scalp. To pull. To rough him up a little. “Don’t even think about it-” He can’t even speak through the rough, open-mouthed kisses he was leaving on your puckered hole. Wetly. Gasping for air- for more tastes of your candied cunt. “In fact…”
Your hips flinch ever-so-slightly once Toji raises his head up - which, with his powerful body, was absolutely nothing even with your weight on top of him. And through his long bangs he takes a gooood, long look at you.
At your cunt.
At the way you were still hovering your hips, and then he’s spanking his familiar hand down on the tip-top of your clit. Making you gasp- “Did you just-”
“Whoops.” Faux-innocently, Toji acts all nice then - pinpointing the top of his tongue into each of those tender spots you loved so much. He unhinges his jaw even further to make sure that he isn’t leaving a single spot unkissed. Long and hard.
Smack!
And again, you’re finding the most tender outer part of your pussy slapped. “Aww, not again.” Toji has the audacity to pout on your behalf. Meanly, his free hand slides over to grip your ass and pull you down. “Anyways…why don’tcha properly fuckin’ sit, mama. Maybe then my hands will stop- heh, slipping.”
And as if to prove his point, his prolonged tongue skids all the way from your glossy hole to your clit. “I mean…”
“Like- fuck!” Still urging you to sit properly with his hands, on the verge of manhandling you. “Who the fuck do ya think you are, honey?”
You shyly try to listen to what he says, grindin’ your treacly cunt all over his open mouth. And oh- oh, it was like heaven for him. He has his greedy maw unfastened and his tongue slurping all over, stickin’ into every orifice even deeper than he had before. “I worry- hngh! I just worry that I might-” But he still wanted more. Still had his neck craning up n’ down to take in everything you gave him. “-suffocate you if you go on like this.”
And it was a realistic concern- fuck, you were hovering your waist right now and still Toji wasn’t stopping to take a breath. Wasn’t even slowing down.
He’s burying himself nose-deep between your pussylips and letting his mouth do more stirrin’ than talking. And it’s only after a few more vulgar fucking strokes of his tongue, a few more swabs inside your pussy that he can even wrench himself away to answer you. “Ohhhh, I get it.” Tugging on your trembling thighs, “You think I can’t handle it, huh?”
“I didn’t say- oh, fuck-”
Without hesitation, Toji plants a rude slap on your pussy once more. Letting those glittering beads of slick splatter all over, “You think m’fucking weak?” He seethes, half-joking. But half-wanting. “Let me get one thing fuckin’ clear, doll.”
And you’re listening intently - because if he sensed you were becoming too far one on the way his tongue lavishly licks, then Toji would once again swat your cunt. Drawing your attention once more.
The fighter stares deeply into your hazed peripherals as he lets his lengthy tongue flop out. Slitherin’ that honed tip right in- “No matter what you weigh, I can bench press more than five of you.” And he gives your pussylips yet another sinful spank! “Now- fucking- sit.”
You’re being seated with an unceremoniously loud sluuuuurp.
Of his tongue stickin’ deep inside you, his upper lip practically glued to your clit. With you riding his face, Toji fills out every tiny geysering nook and cranny. Grazing every velvety bundle of nerves that makes you see stars.
“Oh- please-” He was just ruthless. As if you didn’t know whether to fuck back or run forwards, you’re jolting your hips sloppily up and down. Slick, needy drags to match his lapping tongue.
Again and again.
Slurp after squelch.
Before you know it, Toji wants more - needs more. Even having you on top of him like this, his mouth was ravenous. Licking. Leaning up from the pillows to let you ride his face; all the way from the curve of his chin n’ up to the tip of his straight nosebridge.
As you come back down from one of these particular gyrations, Toji holds you still and - before you know it - you’re feeling the sensation of something elongated and thick entering your cunt.
“Sh-shit, that’s not your tongue…” You blink away the tears in your eyes and look downwards, where the protruding edges of his joints were stretching you intensely.
Two of them- even though it felt like four, with how big his fingers were.
As you wail n’ wobble on top of him, Toji crushes you to his mouth ferociously. And you marvel at the stretch that keeps you hostage - you can’t do anything but take it. But let your mouth fall ajar, and your head throw back, at the feeling of his probing thrusts.
Sultry tastebuds flickering over your clit- “Mmm, s’not my tongue- good catch, doll.” He snickers, “Thought that such a goooood pussy deserved a little something m-more-”
You catch the way that his dark brows furrow, a slight flush tinting what little you could see of his ears. “Wait- Toji, did you just stutter-”
“No the fuck I didn’t-” He’s snapping back.
And in response, you’re having your gummy walls pummeled with some of the rudest jackhammers you’ve ever felt in your entire life. Oh, he’s just swabbing his fingerpads in so deep, mouth pursing to spit against your entrance once more n’ lick it all up.
Letting himself salivate.
Toji drools down a waterfall of your slick, his fingers tuggin’ apart your tight hole to squeeze-squeeze-squeeze in a third finger. “Don’t make me lose focus now.” Grumbling from underneath you, the fighter pins you down with a big, beefy arm wrapped ‘round your waist. Tight. You’re in awe of his sheer inhuman strength. “Don’tcha remember? I’ve gotta- ngh- win tomorrow, n’ this pretty pussy is the key to it, mama. So let me focus alllll my attention on h-her…”
You gasp, “So you did stutter-” And soon enough, you feel yourself growing even wetter at the implication that the strong, cocky Toji Fushiguro was so pussydrunk right now that he was slurring his words.
Gone on your cunt. The way you clenched ‘round his rovering fingers- oh.
And, of course, Toji wasn’t complaining about the fact that you were soaking yourself even more. Only gaping his maw further open, “Mmm, tch-” His fingers pull out with a squelch to spank the front of your core, “-these lips are much nicer t’me.”
“Hey—” You huff, “Just because I got you all ngh- pussydrunk doesn’t mean- oh fuck!”
“What were you saying—?” And then he’d bullied in four fingers - four. Four entire, long digits- he ends off by hitting his mountainous knuckles against your folds with a smack! Smack after smack. Until the skin on his hands were rubbed all raw, Toji probes his fingers inside your cunt. “Oh yes, I think someone was talkin’ all big w’me. Do you know who that, mmm, might be?”
You shake on top of him, his cushy fingertips were glissading oh-so-close to your g-spot. With every rapid thrust, they inched in—“I-I don’t-”
“I see.” And then he’s rolling his tongue ruthlessly against your clit with a few wettened noises. “Do you know then?”
“What do you-”
“Shhh, not you.” Toji rolls his half-lidded eyes. And his vibratin’ words zap through your entire body - he always did make sure to lean in reeeeal close whenever he spoke, but right now, he was tracing his canines over your swollen clit and lightly gnawing. “M’talking to her- aren’t I?”
“F-fuuuck–!” Just then, he’s striking your g-spot. Thunderously. Just then, he’s realizing he did- and repeating the motion in quick, frenzied half-thrusts.
Barely even pulling properly to tease your elastic hole, barely even letting you register the way he bashes your bundle of nerves before he repeats the act. Toji was just vicious with how he batters in your poor cunt, “Yeah? Yeah yeah yeah- ya like that?” He spits, “Who’s stuttering now, mama? Got anythin’ else to say?”
You whimper, “Mm-mm-”
“Mhm, I knew she was chattier anyway.”
Talking to your pussy, Toji nods along like he’s part of the conversation. All those pretty, pretty sounds that he almost wishes he could record and listen to on loop.
So it was only a matter of time before he’s feeling the way your clampin’ walls reach a feverpitch, the way your damp noises only seem to get damper.
And the fighter looks up at you with a glint of excitement in his partially-lidded eyes, “Oh, she’s close, doll.”
“How did you-” Your breath catches- fuck, he’s only accelerating his thorough pushes. The only thing you could register at this point was the perfect way he knew how to work your pussy, all those deepest, most fragile spots.
Quickly enough, those twinges of pleasure at the pit of your stomach are turning into waves.
And you can feel your thighs tremor on top of him, struggling to support your body when your orgasm quakes. “Toji, m’close-” You tug on his sweaty hair, “I think m’gonna c-cum soon.”
“So cum on my face, then?” He answers, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Determined, you don’t even need to hold up your own self anymore - he’s doing so with one hand glued to the side of your hips, the other pressing and probin’ until you’re being fucked by both his mouth n’ his fingers- straight into your high.
Crash-landing into your orgasm, it takes you entirely by surprise.
You jerk your cunt against his mouth, and Toji groans with delight. Back arching. Toes curling. You close your eyes and see entirely white as the surge of euphoria takes over your body.
“Oh my- ngh, fuck. M’cumming, m’cumming m’cumming and it feels so good-” He’s just digging his veiny fingers against every sensitive ridge on your walls, just the way you liked. “Right there, keep going just like that, Toji.”
And usually this would be the point where he says something to tease you. The point where he says something to make you whine n’ try to shut him up with your bloated pussylips.
But he was fucking you so thoroughly through your high that he doesn’t even have the time for that anymore, doesn’t have the patience.
With his scarred lips smoochin’ away at your clit, Toji lets his plump fingertips hit your g-spot. Constantly. With those keen senses of his (honestly you blame the reflexes from MMA), he pinpoints the exact tempo of your high.
Every peak- he bashes in with a swat! at your bundle of nerves. Letting his mouth salivate all down your runny slit, drinking up every sip of your sweet, sweet juices. Like honey. “And you called me p-pussydrunk, heh.” Toji titters away, noticing the glazed look in your eyes. “As if you’re not the one gone on my tongue, doll. As if you’re not the one salivating all like that. As if you’re not the one with the pussy that’s fuckin’ ruined me- fuck.”
Both of you register what he’s said at the same time.
Toji with a sudden gasp, and you with a smug smirk. The strongest of your high has bated by now to nothing more than a few tingles, and you have half the mind to look down at him and ask. “So…ruined you, huh?”
“Sh-shut up.”
That pussydrunkness - oh, Toji Fushiguro was fighting against it. Trying not to cave in. But alas, he couldn’t be in denial any longer after your orgasm has ended, and you’re trying to pull off of his mouth- only for Toji to hold onto your thighs and chase after your cunt.
You whimper from overstimulation as he licks at your teary crevice a few more times, before you the pleasure is too much and you really have to push his sweaty crown away.
“Toji- ngh, m’sensitive.” You squeal, to which he grunts in nonchalance. Still addicted to tastin’ you. Realizing this, you finally huff, “If you let me go now, then maybe I wanna take a shot at- hah, paying you back…”
And that finally makes him pull off. With a raised brow, “Cheh, go easy on yerself- you can’t take me that easily.”
“Oh? Scared?”
“You wish.”
In fact, there was a hint of challenge in Toji’s dazed eyes. In no time, you’re plopped off of his mouth with the most lecherous noise. Seated on the edge of the bed, he got off and tugged down on the flimsy fabric of his sweatpants.
Resting his fist on the dark curls at his base, you’re being introduced to Toji’s proud length.
Tanned. Rock-hard.
Even larger than you’d imagined from all his…accidental erections during your sessions. Long. And he wasn’t lacking in the girth department, either - the plumpest tip, all covered in a layer of creamy pre. It dripped down the nozzle of his cockhead, n’ allllll the way down his shaft.
Body moving before your mind, you’re reaching out to grab at his tannish cock. The flatness of your thumb easily smears the lines of precum he was leaking out, letting them glide along the veins that decorated either side of his shaft.
So textured, you wondered how it would feel inside-
“So?” Toji grunts out from above you, peering down. You notice that he still has the remnants of your slick plastered all across his chin, mouth, all the way up to his cheekbones. Worn like some medallion. He sinks his fangs into his lower lip to stop from making too many needy noises as you inspected his sheer size, “Not too late to back out now, doll- heh- oh.”
You’re making him swallow that cocky laughter of his back.
Because in a few sultry split-seconds, you have your mouth pointed right above the divot on his shaft. Spitting. You let the dollop of spittle ooze down his shaft for a bit, before immediately taking his tip into your mouth.
Oh, he’s reaching for the roof of your mouth instantly.
So thick. So plump. You shut your eyes and groan at the salty-sweet taste that greets you, it’s surprisingly not unpleasant.
And Toji lets off a low whistle at the slobbered display, “Oho?” Looking at you through his lashes, you stare up with doey, teary eyes and he feels himself throb at near the back of your throat. “Sh-shit- dooon’t fucking look at me like that. Oh, you know what you’re doing, woman.”
“Mmmpf-” You moan, your lips ‘round his sensitive slit. They send sinful vibrations that makes the larger man hiss.
“Fuck yeah, you do.” With a mean hand, the fighter grips onto the back of your scalp. Manhandling you slightly, “C’mon, doll. C’mon- let’s see if that slutty mouth o’ yours is just talk.”
And then he’s rutting slightly upwards - gently.
At least, for him. But for you, you’re clawing down the lines of his toned pelvis, struggling to catch your breath-
“Oh? Some claws on ya, girl. Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already? I haven’t even fucked ya dumb yet.” And he has the audacity to make that mocking pout again, “Y’know I’ve been fuckin’ my cock to the, mm, thought of you for months now. And- oh, fuck- keep doing that with your tongue—ngh.”
Your jaw aches, and yet you unhinge it even deeper to let the tip of your tastebuds trace patterns all across the line of his slit. All pinkish and slicked with precum.
He continues, “You wanna know a secret?” It was such a heavenly sight, watching you try to nod with Toji’s fat cock stuffed between your lips. Hell, you hadn’t even taken him all yet. “Right before you came here-” Leaning in, whispering. “-I was jerking my cock- oh-”
“Mhmm—?”
“-to your text, doll.”
Oh, fuck.
You’re plucking yourself off of Toji’s thick crown to gasp- but he doesn’t let you get too far before grabbing you with one hand at your throat. Lightly putting pressure at your sides, he’s crashing his lips onto yours.
“Mmm—” He groans against your lips, tasting you, tasting himself, tasting you. “Get on the middle of the bed, all fours. Wanna see if those other lips of yours are just talk, too.”
“They’re not.” You huff, but do as he says anyway.
Those overworked bedsprings creak as you both reposition yourselves: you on your hands and knees, your face pushed into one of the pillows, and Toji right behind you.
His rough hands bend your spine into a cute lil’ curvature, and then proceeds to bang the ends of his fingertips against your weepy pussy. “Easy there, mama.” Toji coos once you buck with a whimper, “Toji’s here n’ you just have to be my good girl and take it, alright?”
You’re nodding, “Just shut up and fuh-fuck me already.”
“Tut tut, greedy girl.”
But he’s doing as you say anyway - oh, he’d do anything you say, to be quite honest. You’re inching your needy cunt closer to where his erection was upright, and Toji holds onto the base of his cock to just slightly eeeeease his way in.
His plump, puckered tip pries apart your folds.
From his honed end, all the way down to where his cockhead swells, you’re feeling him stretch you wiiide open as he enters. “Oh my- fuck! You feel even bigger than you looked-”
“Why, thank you…heh.” And you swear you can feel his red-hot girth throb even bigger. Wider. Since Toji was rock-fucking-hard, you could sense any and every change in his size. “Now don’t run, alright?”
“Why would I-” You’re cutting your own self off, feeling him give the slightest half-thrust from behind. And it’s enough to make you lurch your hand out and grab onto one of the spindles of his headboard. “-oh- oh, I get it now.”
“Mhm—knew you’d wanna run, all talk.” Shaking his head and his shaggy strands, Toji had to have some extra, extra precaution, you see.
Just a warning wasn’t enough. So without further ado, his beefy forearm reaches out to hold tightly onto your neck. Squeezing either side of it, he feels the way your pulse thunders underneath his touch.
Throat strangled with spittle and whines. “Oh my god-” Even more so when he starts rutting his hips like an animal.
“Easy there, eeeeasy there.” He’s reassuring you from behind, as if his achingly hard cock wasn’t splitting you open incredibly. “S’just the tip, doll. You can take it- shhh, you can take it.”
“Whaddaya mean this is just the tip?” You gasp, feeling your body being pulled into his like a ragdoll. He manhandles you as if you’re nothing, constantly grinding your hips back against that scruffy happy trail of his.
“Well, just the tip aaaaand…” You’re quickly learning that whenever Toji elongates his words, he’s dragging out his thrusts, too.
Letting the thick, vein-covered length of his shaft gliiiide all across your walls and then right back. Baaaack and forth. Baaaack and forth. With a sensual pace, he’s inching his way in- the fat, bulbous end of his shaft acting like the headlight. Spearing. He snickers, “-an inch more. Two.”
Tears stream down your cheeks, and Toji’s lavish tongue careens out to lick at them deliciously. “A-and- oh, how much more is there?”
He casually leans his weight back to check, and the fighter’s greedy gaze gets stuck on the sight of your pussy suckin’ him up. Slurping him.
It’s like your pussylips were stretched apart so widely and struggling to take his merciless pace- yet still clamping down, still glistening with wetness after each one of his rugged strikes. “Oh, just about two inches…three…four-” Toji whispers hotly against your ear, “Y’know what- how about I just tell you after you’ve taken all, mm, nine inches, doll?”
Nine inches?
Oh, you were done for.
You weren’t walking out of this very penthouse.
“Yeah, you’re not.” He confirms your thought- shit, you’d said that out loud. Just so dickmatized by the way his flared ridges were swervin’ all around your tight walls.
The curvaceous line of his cockhead nudges apart your channel, and you feel his hold tighten even further. “But the good news- you’re gonna take- ngh, my entire cock, won’t you?” Breathy. He was speeding up his cadence now. Long, thorough strokes. “Gonna take e-every single inch?”
“Yes-” You claw at the headboard, “Yes yes yes yes-”
And then rings the loudest squeeeelch ever as he’s fitting in a few more inches, “Mhmmm, and you’re gonna- ngh- love it.”
Both you and your sloppy pussy do - and he can tell.
All that arousal. All those cute noises you were making. You’re feeling the exact way the zig-zagged pattern of his veins massages your cunt, just perfectly scratching every carnal inch. And he’s almost bottoming-out, almost feeling his reddened tip hit the back of your pussy-
Before you clench around his rude cock—
And you hear the exact, shattered moment that Toji’s breath catches. “Oh fuck-” He stills, “Oh fuck, this won’t work-”
Blinking over your shoulder, “Toji?”
“Fuck.”
His bass cracks at the tail end of that profanity.
And in a mere instant - so fast that you don’t even have enough time to compute - you’re finding your head trapped in one of Toji’s infamous headlocks.
Sure, he’d often used it in a much less attractive way with his opponents.
But never had he used it like this. And you’re choking at the restraint of his flexing muscles, all bulged and big. His biceps digs perfectly against the front of your throat, and you feel your saliva come out in heaps- “Toji- Toji Toji Toji- oh, I can feel you hit my c-cervix.”
Sure enough, he’d dragged you back to bottom out.
The curvy tip of his shaft cutely bumpin’ your cervix, you feel a sticky layer of his precum drip out at the fact. Pulling back, back, baaaaack - right until his plump crown kisses your hole, and then all the way back in again.
In and out. In and out.
So thoroughly, he’s fucking his rock-hard cock into you. Leaving absolutely no hidden spot unturned, leaving your fuzzy brain in absolute shambles.
“You said- hah, you said I didn’t kiss you, right?” Toji rasps against the shell of your ear, his heated proximity making goosebumps run down your spine. And, honestly, at this point you can barely even remember the conversation that’d led up to him saying this. “Well, here I am now-”
“What you do…oh.”
His cock was hitting your cervix- smooching it. Hard, wettened kisses.
Over and over. Toji smashes you back against his pistoning hips, and with his other hand he’s sliding slithering a hand down to your pussy - spanking. “See? M’kissing her, too, now.” He’s tittering, so thoroughly proud of the way your mouth waters.
“That doesn’t cou-”
Smack!
“What was that—?”
The force of it is so pleasurable that your body automatically holds onto the headboard and tries to heave yourself upwards. Thrashing. To which Toji turns his beady eyes down at the futile escape route-
And immediately slams his hand down on the flat top of the headboard.
“Speak t’me, mama- what was, ngh, that?”
Splitting it straight down in two.
You gape stupidly at the way the bed frame easily cracks underneath his strength, and Toji’s taking the slight distraction as an opportunity to lean back onto his haunches.
And he’s taking you right with him.
Toji’s sitting back on his heels, his buttocks resting on the balls of his feet. And you’re somewhat seated on his lap, still having him fuck upwards into you- with this position, he’s reaching his globular tip so deeply.
Even further than he ever had before, he wetly glissades his tip to pierce your womb. “Ngh- fuck.” Grunting in your ear, “You can’t tell me that doesn’t count, doll.” So he did know what you were about to say.
Stirrin’ up your goopy insides, he feels like velvet inside. And you think he’s slowly molding your cunt to his exact size, every line of his vein, every inch. “See? One kiss.” Toji counts out, and immediately you’re feeling his cocktip swipe your cervix. Thudding. “Two kisses.” Another one. “Three kisses-”
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven- it’s on this one that his glistening wet tip manages to locate your g-spot. Since his shaft was more right-leaning, it was oh-so-easy for him to constantly glide down that one spot.
“E-eight-” You count out, by yourself.
And if you could see him right now, you’d have noticed the way that Toji’s predatory eyes widened with pleasant surprise. Oh, you were cockdrunk. He holds you down to him, “Oho? You can count it by yourself now, huh? Then- haaaah, how about- this?”
“Nine-” You blurt out, saliva sploshin’ down the entire front of your chin. “Ten- ngh, eleven.”
“That was actually twelve, but close enough.” He rolls his eyes - he couldn’t punish you too much for that, just a few sodden spanks at the forefront of your cunt. And that was it, really. He’d decided to go easy on you this time, really. Now for him to smoothly shovel his shaft into you, until you were idly reaching your second orgasm of the night.
Hah- as if.
After two slaps to your clit, the fighter edges himself close to your ear and mutters out. “If you can’t do that- could you at least, mm, fuck back into me.”
You whine, “Do I have to? But you do it so good…”
“Spoiled brat.” Yet another swat down on your slit, he caresses your clit as if making up for it. And before long, you’re feeling the spearheading tempo of his cock slow down. “C’mon now- up! There we go- get to work, doll.”
“Mmpf- you’re gonna pay for this.” You growl, doing your very best to try and get your legs to work. They’d been taking it for so long, limp at the pressure, that your hamstrings were positively screaming now. “Shit- but I wanna go faster, oh.”
Toji rolls his eyes with a scoff, “So go faster, girl. What’s the hold up?”
“It just feels so- so- oh.” It just felt so good is what you wanted to say - but you don’t sputter out the words right at that moment (you didn’t want to feed his ego too much).
“So so oh?” He mocks, “Didn’t I say this pretty pussy of yours was- oh, chattier? Think she might just be more articulate, too- heh.”
“Sh-shut up.”
And as if to prove a point, your sloppy drags only made your cunt echo out even louder. The skin on your ass cheeks burned after each slam against his hips, and Toji was just so ripped that every rut left the indentations of his v-line stinging.
“Ngh- fuck.” You arch your back and attempt to slide down his thick cock easier, rubbin’ that part of your g-spot against where his veins were most prominent.
You hated to admit it, but your limbs were growing all weary. And Toji lets out a huff of breathy laughter as he noticed the way your cadence seemed to be slowing down, “Mmm, feelin’ tired, are we? You’re not tapping out any time soon, m’kay?”
“But- but I’m so-” You whine, your fingers fisting in the silk bedsheets. They seemed to be the expensive type, yet ruined with a damp layer of sweat n’ slick. Soon enough, you’re dropping to the bed with a weary mewl. “-shit, I don’t know if I can go any longer-”
You don’t even get to finish your sentence.
You don’t even get to finish the lone, sloppy thrust that you were stumblin’ across
Not before Toji’s then taking over. He gets up off his haunches, pushing you rudely onto all fours again.
And this time? He wasn’t holding back.
“Allll that talk- cheh.” Toji’s spitting down at your pussy, lubricating it once again despite you not even needing it. Before long, you’re being pounded by his long, heavy cock- feeling every single inch in your throat. “But your Toji just has to finish this pretty pussy off, hm?”
“Yes- yes-” You don’t even feel slightly embarrassed in admitting, “Jus’ wanna cum, Toji- ngh, I’m so close.”
“Oh, mama, I know.” Two rugged pads of his fingers come down to slap your clit, smoothing it over with a few gentle rolls. But you’re so far gone at this point that even that makes you see stars- “And you’re gonna cum allll over my- hah, cock, alright? All over.”
Nodding pathetically, you were just drippin’ in spit and sweat. Body shaking with the pangs of pleasure already- “All over b-but you then you have to cum right in here, okay?”
His breath catches, “Wh-where?” Toji stutters.
Blissfully ignorant, you point down the front of your stomach. Drawing a line right where you could feel his rotund tip bottoming out after every thrust, “I don’t think m’gonna last that long.”
“Oh.”
There was something broken in his voice as he registers what you were just telling him with your actions - that you wanted him to finish inside. To pump you so full of cum that it’ll drip out of you. To make sure you feel him from the outside and the inside.
He’s fucking you so hard that the skin ‘round his pelvis had begun to rub raw, slightly overstimulating his tip against the softness of your cunt. Toji pushes down on your body, pinning you down with his weight.
Manhandling you.
So much manhandling.
In this mean doggy position, he leans down and pinches your clit. “Oh, doll, you can’t even imagine what m’gonna do to ya-” Ruined. Shattered baritone. “-don’t even know how far m’gonna fill you up with my cum. You’re gonna be- ngh, overspilling.”
“Yes yes yes- I want it.” And now you’re gyrating your hips back into his- hah, he could almost tease you for it. So you had the desperation now? “Please- give it t’me-”
“Nuh uh, you have to cum first.”
“But- ngh.” A pinch at your clit, a puckering kiss. And Toji hits your g-spot so hard that you swear you see the pearly gates of heaven: you’re cumming.
Wave after wave of your white-hot high.
The pleasure thrums in your veins, and you’re crying out as Toji hits every precious spot with his globular tip. Pinpointed precisely. Your knees weaken- you were mistaken earlier, this was the best orgasm you’ve ever had.
He’s not too far behind.
With a grunt, Toji cums. And after every riveting peak of your high, he’s pourin’ out in sticky wads of cum. It’s like an ivory sap that takes over every inch of your insides, hot and wet.
You squeal as you feel the gluey layer of it stuff you to the brim, ultimately ending up formulating a ring of white around the girth of his hilt. “Cumming-” You blabber tearily, your brain foggy with the feeling of him cumming inside you. Turning around to face him, “I’m c-cumming, Toji.”
“Mmm, you are. So pretty takin’ my- ngh, cum.” Toji’s rough lips kiss down the line of your spine, and his fingers dip from your clit to tease your creamy slit. “I love this view.”
The more he’s swiping away the droplets of cum that pour out of your pussy, the more that keeps sprinkling out - and he honestly doesn’t know whether that’s his fault or yours.
Letting the treacly glaze drip down to his wrist, Toji brings his sticky hand up to your mouth. “Spread those lips f’me, doll- yeahhh, like that.” He murmurs, thickly. And you whimper as he sticks his adhesive-like fingertips into your mouth, making you suck on the salty sap.
Cleaning it off.
It feels like years - almost like eons - until Toji’s finally finished riding out his high, just as strong as yours. He hunches over as he cums-
“Oh, we’re not done y-yet, doll.” Too soon, you’re being dragged back into his hulking body. And since he was finally done with webbing up your insides, now came the fun part where he was fucking it in. Each n’ every gooey wad seeped into your innards. Those earlier specks that’d leaked out from before? Well he’s using his fingers to push those in, too. “You didn’t think that a world-class fighter had a stamina that low, did ya?”
Gasping, you don’t think you can trust your very eardrums right now. “So you mean to say…”
“Mhm.” Toji’s fucking you into utter stupidity- easily flipping you over, you’re being folded into the sloppiest mating press in existence. He mutters to you as he throws your legs over his shoulders, bending you down. “Y’know…MMA championships have five rounds.”
“Oh- and?”
Toji just grins, drilling out a heavy thrust. “One down, four to go, mama.”
.
.
.
“Wow! That was a mean right hook, I definitely wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that strength.” You bite back a grin at the commentator’s voice—oh, how you knew. “Toji Fushiguro sends Naoya Zenin flying–”
You can’t bring yourself to wince as the two-tone-haired man lands on the other side of the octagon with a shuddering thud.
Too excited from your seat in the cageside area - the closest you could be to the fighters - as part of the team. It was your first time officially accompanying Toji to one of his big fights, as his physical therapist.
And his lover.
Though, that part was a secret (more or less, you swear you’d seen most of the gym giving you knowing looks whenever you clocked into work walking a little funny, or whenever Toji had sauntered into the locker room; hickies, nail marks, and all). But for now you settled into your role as the alert physical therapist, watching out for any points in which Toji showed signs of discomfort or soreness.
“Can you hear the crowd- they’re in uproar!”
“Well, it’s no wonder. Toji Fushiguro’s comeback has been long-awaited- ouch, that’s a nice uppercut from Toji.” Another voice bellows.
And the others hum in agreement. “And after his unfortunate streak last year, the champion found his footing once more. With a winning streak that’s one of the longest recorded in recent years, the man is unstoppable!”
“I guess the million dollar question of the night is - can he win the finals tonight?”
Though your efforts were likely for naught, because your boyfriend was at the top of his game.
Without letting Naoya even get up (some rookie hotshot, according to Toji, who had to be put in his place), the older man is pummeling him with a right hook, left hook, right hook, left hook. Until that cocky face of his looked mangled.
And the referee is rushing to his side- about to crouch on the floor for the countdown. The commentators have their announcement of his win on the tip of their tongue. The crows is already reaching a fever point-
It’s in that moment that Toji looks at you.
Towering, the lone fighter standing in the middle of the cage, he stares.
He smiles.
He points.
“Aaaaand the countdown is over—Naoya Zenin down! Toji Fushiguro has won the title of world light heavyweight champion once more! It’s a historical win for Toji!”
You’re all on your feet. The team claps each other on the back, the commentators are shaking hands. Shiu catches the way that Toji immediately heads for you - barely waiting till the heavy golden belt was draped across his body, barely letting the referee raise his hand in the air. Victory.
And he chuckles, “I already knew.” Taking a celebratory drag of his cigarette, “Guess I’m winning the bet.”
Your eyes bulge, “You guys bet on us?”
“Ever since the first day you walked in, sugar.” He chuffs, and lightly nudges your shoulder with his. “No go to him- before he tears down the cage, that is.”
Shiu was right to be worried. By the time you’re reaching the edge of the octagon, Toji has already jumped down from it- and you’re barely registering his brilliant grin before you’re in his arms. His face crushed into the nook of your neck. Arms looped around your waist.
In the distance, it seems, you can hear reporters and fans alike scream questions about you and your relationship. Something you’re sure will end up on every headline and front page of those sports gossip magazines that you now read. Hell, you can even hear the members of your team catcall and howl from the sidelines.
But right now, it’s as if Toji’s voice is the only sound in your ears. “We won.”
You smile, “You won.”
He shakes his head, “Come off it, silly girl. We won.” And even in front of everyone else, even in front of the cameras, he nods down at the very obvious bite marks on your neck. The way your knees were slightly weak. Your core was slightly sore. Evidence of last night. “And m’gonna win a whole lot more tonight-”
“Five rounds just like this championship, then?” You tease, squirming in his strong arms. And he only pulls you even tighter to him-
“Actually, I hear the IMMAF is trying to make it six rounds…”
A/N. Listen I don’t condone J*o J*ekyung but Toji?? Gimme.
Not ‘cause it isn’t true — it is — but because they think it’s some kind of insult. Like he’s supposed to get pissed and defensive, to deny the accusation and blow up at them for even suggesting it.
On the contrary, he agrees.
You have changed him, and thank fuck for that.
His loser friends give him shit when he orders water instead of beer, laughing that he’s turning hippy or something. But water’s good for him — it won’t give him the bulging belly they all carry around. If that ever happened, he’d bang his head against the wall every day till he dropped the weight. Otherwise, his gorgeous girl wouldn’t nuzzle his defined stomach, wouldn’t pepper kisses along his treasure trail or grind against the ridges till she’s panting and drooling.
That would quite literally be the end of his world.
They exchange mocking looks when he shrugs off young women, muttering loud enough for him to hear that maybe he’s lost all his testosterone, that his dick doesn’t work anymore, that he probably needs pills to get it up. And well, that’s just bullshit — he can go all night with you. In fact, he does. Very often. So much so that he has no appetite for anyone else.
Those bastards think it’s stupid to be a one-woman type of man, that it’s a waste of Fushiguro’s good looks and better physique. But what do those divorced, cheating idiots know?
At least he gets to come home to a warm house, delicious food, and sleep on soft breasts. No one-night stand with some bleached blonde stranger is going to rake blunt nails through his scalp, whisper updates about their day, and coo when all he can muster is a grunt in reply.
Yeah, he has to ask for permission to go on a boys’ trip or hit up the bar on weekends, but that’s only ‘cause he doesn’t know if you’ve got brunch with the girls the next morning or if there’s a farmer’s market you just can’t miss — he really does love supporting local, small businesses. Sweet old Chiyo would be devastated if he wasn’t there to try out her new pickle combo.
And sure, he dresses differently now, smarter and neater than before, but does anyone really miss the stained, unraveling rags he used to just throw on?
Not his fault those cheap assholes don’t recognise that his jumper is cashmere and his jeans are from Levi’s — not stolen off a homeless man. Just like his girl says, you can’t put a price on the value of not contributing to child exploitation and forced labour. Ah, alright — he couldn’t care less about the hypothetical kids in third-world countries, but he does care that you beam when he practices the sandwich method on his own, and when he checks the label and frowns if it says the thing’s made with any hint of polyester.
Why the fuck would he even be dressing to impress his bum friends?
What kinda homo shit is that, he wonders — in a non-derogatory manner, of course. After all, he’s an ally. According to you, anyway.
Bottom line is, the guys can mock him all they want.
summary: in order to pay for university, jeon jungkook decides to market his most valuable asset to the wealthy socialites of campus: himself. donning a suit and tie, tousled hair, and glasses (to look smarter), he becomes every rich daughter’s dream: the perfect boyfriend to bring to balls, dinners, and business gatherings. all while you watch from the sidelines, only able to dream of having that much money to buy yourself what you really want: him.
{friends to lovers!au, college!au}
pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader
genre: fluff, comedy, angst, we’ve got it all folks
word count: 22k
warnings: slightly underage alcohol consumption, mention of words that could be spoken on an crime documentary series but nothing graphic, ravioli-stealing, idiots to lovers, as per usual
a/n: finally! here is the long awaited jungkook fic that i have literally been slaving over since the beginning of january. was this fic supposed to be 10k? yes. did i somehow end up writing 22k anyway? of course! in any case, please enjoy my absolute baby who i love and cherish!
he’s your slutty frat-boy-best-friend and you’re his sweet, bubbly angel* who has no idea that he’s been in love with you for months. he hasn’t fucked a single soul since he realized his feelings, not one. pretending he’s fine while you curl up into his chest at parties like it means nothing is slowly driving him insane.
!!disclaimer!! best friends to lovers, soft slow-burn, mutual pining, best friends who don’t know how to talk, and a love that’s been there the whole time! angst!!!! comfort!
the rager’s already in full swing by the time you get there.
someone’s shitty bluetooth speaker is blasting throwbacks in the living room, half the frat’s gathered around a beer pong table like it’s the olympics, and the air smells like weed and overpriced tequila. classic friday night.
you don’t even bother knocking. just push open the front door, step over a passed out freshman in a toga, and make a beeline for the couch you always end up on.
and sure enough, he’s already there.
sukuna’s got one arm slung lazily across the backrest, a red solo cup balanced on his knee, and the cockiest smirk you’ve ever seen stretched across his face. his hair’s a mess, his shirt’s riding up slightly at the hem, and his rings glint every time he lifts the cup to his mouth.
you roll your eyes and collapse beside him anyway.
“took you long enough,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “i was about to send out a search party.”
“maybe i didn’t wanna see your ugly face tonight.”
he grins. “liar.”
and you are. but you don’t tell him that.
because this is your ritual. your thing. it doesn’t matter whose party it is, which frat’s throwing it, or how many people are packed into the house, you and sukuna always end up here. same couch. same banter. same rhythm that’s been beating between the two of you since freshman year.
you lean back, pulling your legs up to sit cross-legged beside him. his thigh is warm where it brushes yours, and you try not to notice it.
“how many girls have you hit on tonight?” you ask, reaching for his drink and taking a sip without asking.
he hums thoughtfully. “define hit on.”
you raise a brow. “sukuna.”
“what?” he says, mock innocence dripping from his tone. “i’m just being friendly.”
you scoff. “you’re incapable of being just friendly.”
“you wound me, princess.”
you shove his shoulder and he laughs, head tipping back, throat exposed. and for a second, just a second, your brain short-circuits.
because sukuna’s hot. like, really hot. the kind of hot that should come with a warning label. tattoos and sharp smiles and sleepy bedroom eyes. he looks like every bad decision you’ve ever avoided on purpose.
and he’s your best friend.
your completely infuriating, manwhore of a best friend.
he’s the guy who once had a threesome during finals week and then showed up to study group with glitter in his hair. the one who keeps condoms in every coat pocket and probably knows the names of every bouncer on campus. the same guy who used to text you from girls’ beds, complaining about how their playlist sucked.
and somehow, despite all of that, you adore him.
maybe because he listens when you talk too much, because he knows all your dumb fixations and lets you rant about them for hours. because no matter how many people he flirts with, he always ends up back here, next to you.
“you thinking about me?” he says suddenly, smirking when you blink at him.
“i was thinking about how many diseases you’ve probably caught from this couch,” you deadpan.
he throws his head back again and laughs, loud and unbothered.
“god, you’re mean.”
“you like it.”
“unfortunately.”
you nudge his leg with yours again, more gentle this time. the party rages around you, but this little bubble, this spot on the couch where it’s just the two of you, feels untouchable.
you’ve known sukuna for almost three years now. met him during your first week at university, at some wild frat party you barely remember. you were tipsy and rambling to someone about your favorite childhood tv show and he cut in just to mock your taste. and never left you alone after that.
he’s been a part of your life ever since. group hangouts, movie nights, drunk phone calls at 2am. he’s there. always.
and somewhere along the way, you started telling him everything. even the stupid shit. especially the stupid shit. like how you spent two hours last night researching the mating habits of deep-sea anglerfish. or how you’re pretty sure your TA is in love with the guy who sits next to you.
you talk, and sukuna listens.
sometimes he teases. sometimes he gets this look, soft around the eyes, like he doesn’t even realize he’s staring. and then it’s gone. back to smirks and sarcasm.
you’ve tried not to think too hard about it.
you’re practically tangled up on the couch, like limbs and laughter and shared space all wrapped into one. sukuna’s arm is draped over your shoulders, loose but protective, and your head is tucked just beneath his chin, warm against his chest. his heartbeat is steady, slow, something grounding beneath your ear that feels like a secret only the two of you know.
it’s not flashy or dramatic. it’s the quiet kind of intimacy that’s grown over late nights and early mornings, over inside jokes and too many half-remembered conversations. it’s the softness behind his usual sharp edges, the way his hand casually rests on your arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
you reach up and thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. he tenses for a moment, then relaxes, the tiniest smile tugging at his lips. “you’re such an annoying pest,” he mutters, voice low and rough, but you catch the warmth underneath like a whispered promise.
“you love it,” you say softly, the words a little breathless, like you don’t want to break the moment.
the party buzzes around you, loud, messy, chaotic, but it all fades into white noise. out here, pressed close to him, none of that matters. no flashing lights, no drunken shouts, no prying eyes.
just you and sukuna.
and somehow, even after all the teasing and the bickering and the ridiculous banter, this is where the real stuff lives. in the easy silence. in the way your fingers find his hand without thinking. in the quiet understanding that you’re both exactly where you want to be, even if you don’t say it out loud.
it’s the kind of closeness that’s almost too much and not enough all at once, like your hearts are so tangled up they might burst, but you don’t have to do anything about it. not yet.
because this is your truth. your safe place. the quiet love that’s been hiding behind all the noise from the very start.
“you see who maki came with?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“nah,” you say, glancing around. “who?”
“some guy named dan. total finance bro. talks like a podcast.”
you snort. “god. maki deserves better.”
“everyone deserves better than a dan.”
you hum in agreement, stealing another sip of his drink. he doesn’t complain. he never does.
“what about you?” you ask. “eyeing anyone tonight?”
it’s a casual question. one you’ve asked a hundred times. but this time, he pauses.
“nah,” he says finally. “not really feelin’ it.”
you frown. “you? not in the mood to flirt? is the world ending?”
he shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“maybe i’m growing up.”
you snort. “you literally mooned someone from a moving car last weekend.”
he grins. “growing up gradually.”
you laugh, and he looks at you again. and this time… he doesn’t look away.
“you know,” he says slowly, “you’re kind of the only reason i come to these things anymore.”
your heart skips.
you try to play it off. “because i’m the only one who tolerates you?”
“because you’re the only one who gets me,” he says, voice low. quieter than before. “like… actually gets me.”
you blink. your stomach flips.
but before you can respond, someone calls his name across the room.
he sighs and leans back, rubbing a hand over his face.
“hold that thought,” he says, standing. “gotta go break up whatever stupid shit gojo’s doing.”
you watch him disappear into the crowd, smiling as you watch his back muscles flex with each swing of his arms, you understood the appeal, he was a sexy man. in his own little fashion, he thought of you the exact same way, a drop dead gorgeous girl with a heart of gold, but you’d never even guessed he thought of you as such, after all, what would give you any sort of sign that he was into you when the latest rumour was that he was sleeping around with hot sorority chicks every weekend?
~
the party’s died down hours ago. the house is trashed, half-lit, and still pulsing faintly with leftover bass through the walls. the beer pong table’s been abandoned, someone’s hoodie is hanging from the ceiling fan, and there’s a questionable stain on the rug no one’s talking about.
geto’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with a half-empty bottle of tequila, choso’s sprawled on the loveseat looking like he’s already halfway to sleep, and gojo’s perched on the arm of the couch with a wine glass he definitely didn’t bring himself.
sukuna’s nursing a beer. slouched in a worn-out recliner with his head tilted back, eyes closed, shoulders loose in that i’m relaxed but still kind of pissed way he always gets when he’s overthinking.
he hasn’t said much since reader left.
“sukuna, man,” gojo starts, words slurring a little, “are you going fucking celibate? you haven’t fucked a chick in damn near two months.”
geto snorts, tilting his bottle toward sukuna. “what, you give it up for lent or something?”
“maybe he got neutered,” choso mumbles into a throw pillow.
gojo gasps. “don’t say that, that’s so sad. think of all the women out there missing out.”
sukuna doesn’t open his eyes. just raises his middle finger in their general direction and takes a slow pull from his drink.
“i’m serious,” gojo continues. “you used to be the first one out the door with some girl pressed up against the wall. now you’re… what, sitting on a couch all night with your weird little bestie and dodging blowjobs like they’re the plague.”
geto leans back, watching sukuna over the lip of his drink. “she’s not just some bestie though, huh?”
that gets sukuna’s attention. his eyes crack open, dark and unreadable. “don’t start.”
“not starting anything,” geto says, smirking. “just saying. you used to be all about the sorority chicks with fake lashes and daddy issues. now you’re glued to sunshine incarnate.”
gojo lets out a bark of laughter. “please. she’s too sweet for him. sukuna’d ruin her. he needs someone who can keep up with the slut energy.”
sukuna’s jaw ticks.
choso blinks at the ceiling. “she did bring cupcakes to the last pregame.”
“exactly,” gojo says, dramatic as ever. “she’s, like, wife-coded. sukuna doesn’t do wife-coded.”
“maybe he’s bored,” geto says. “maybe he’s finally fucked so many girls that his dick gave up and retired.”
that gets a laugh from the others, loud and easy.
sukuna doesn’t laugh.
he doesn’t say a word.
he just sits there, beer forgotten in his hand, staring into the dim space between the couch and the coffee table, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud in his chest.
because they don’t get it. they don’t know.
they don’t know how it feels to sit beside someone who trusts you with everything and have to pretend you don’t want to kiss them every time they smile.
they don’t know what it’s like to want something real for once. something soft. something that doesn’t taste like regret the morning after.
they don’t know how long it’s been since he’s touched anyone else. how the thought of it makes his stomach turn. how no one else even registers anymore. how she ruined him for all of it without even trying.
and he’s not gonna tell them.
because they wouldn’t believe him anyway.
so he just shifts in his chair, downs the rest of his drink, and says, flat and final, “maybe i’m just waiting for the right girl.”
it shuts them up for a second.
then gojo laughs again and geto raises his brows like he’s not sure whether he’s joking, and choso mutters something about being too high for this conversation.
but sukuna’s not joking.
not even a little.
the teasing eventually fades, replaced by the quiet clink of bottles and the hum of low music someone forgot to turn off. choso’s officially half-asleep, sprawled sideways across the loveseat with a blanket someone definitely didn’t offer him. geto’s back to nursing the tequila bottle like it personally wronged him, and gojo’s now laying upside down on the couch, legs dangling off the back like he’s trying to cause a scene with gravity.
“so,” choso mumbles, voice thick and lazy. “that mixer next weekend still on?”
“yeah,” gojo says without moving. “gamma’s throwing it with phi sig. should be decent. free drinks and better music than last time. they’re renting actual speakers this time, not just hijacking someone’s spotify on a jbl.”
“can i bring shiu?” choso asks, blinking slow like it takes effort.
“yeah,” gojo says, waving his hand. “he’s in delta nu, right?”
choso hums something that might be a yes or might be the sound of sleep taking him.
sukuna sits up slightly, beer bottle still hanging from his fingers. “can i bring y/n?”
gojo doesn’t even hesitate.
“nah.”
sukuna’s jaw clenches. “why not?”
“you know why not,” gojo says, finally flipping over to sit upright. “it’s a greek-only mixer. she’s not in a frat or a sorority.”
“she’s basically in this frat,” sukuna says, a little sharper than he means to. “she’s at every party. she knows everyone. she’s closer to you assholes than half the pledges.”
geto sighs, not looking up. “that’s not the point. the chapters are paying for the event. they want it to stay within the system. it’s political.”
“it’s bullshit,” sukuna mutters.
“you think i don’t agree?” gojo says, more gently now. “i love her. she’s our friend. but if one non-greek shows up, it opens the door for more, and then it’s a whole thing. alumni get pissy. mixers stop happening. and for what? a night where she already has better places to be?”
sukuna’s quiet for a second.
the air goes still.
because yeah, maybe you do have better places to be. you’re always buzzing around campus, always getting invited to every little thing. somehow you’ve charmed everyone without even trying. the girl who bakes cookies for your friends and brings tupperware to parties. the girl who’ll sit and talk with a drunk freshman for forty-five minutes just to make sure she gets home safe. the one everyone trusts, everyone likes.
but you’re not one of them.
not on paper.
not enough to be invited.
and it stings in a way sukuna can’t explain without sounding like he cares too much.
“she wouldn’t even care,” geto says after a beat. “she probably wouldn’t wanna go anyway.”
sukuna shakes his head slowly. “she would. not for the party. just to be around us.”
“then invite her to the after,” gojo says, too casually. “she can come once the official stuff’s over. like always.”
and that’s what gets under his skin.
like always.
like you’re some shadow they keep waiting in the wings. welcome, but not official. close, but not close enough. always there, always giving, and never asking for anything back.
but sukuna knows you.
knows you’d never say it hurts. never ask for an invite. never press your nose against the glass and say you want in. because you’re sweet. because you don’t want to make a scene. because you think you’re lucky just to be included at all.
and maybe that’s what kills him most.
sukuna doesn’t respond right away. just rolls the bottle between his hands and nods once, like it doesn’t bother him. like it’s fine.
but it does bother him.
because you've been at every party, every hangout, every busted-up couch gathering like this one. you're as much a part of this group as any of them, maybe more. you're the glue, the heart. the one person who always shows up and always makes it better just by being there.
and suddenly you're not allowed?
he gets it. he does. house rules. dumb frat politics. whatever. but still.
he’s never wanted to bring someone to one of these before. never even thought about it. but the second it came up, your name was already halfway out of his mouth.
and now it’s stuck there, burning.
gojo reaches over, clinks his glass against sukuna’s bottle. “next time, yeah?”
sukuna forces a tight smile and tips his drink back.
“yeah,” he lies. “next time.”
~
the next night.
it’s late when you hear the knock.
past eleven. campus is quiet outside your window, the kind of stillness that only happens after a long day of classes and too much caffeine. your desk light’s still on, laptop humming, a playlist playing low as you scribble in the margins of your notes with a pink pen you definitely didn’t borrow from sukuna and never give back.
you blink up at the sound, confused, and push back from your chair just as the front door swings open without waiting for you.
sukuna steps in, keys jingling between his fingers, sweat clinging to the collar of his black t-shirt.
“jesus,” you say, raising your brows. “you ever heard of knocking?”
he shrugs, already kicking off his sneakers. “you gave me a key.”
“for emergencies. or bringing me food. this is trespassing.”
“it’s not trespassing if i live here part-time.”
“you don’t.”
“i do, emotionally.”
you narrow your eyes, watching as he kicks the door shut behind him and rakes a hand through his sweat-damp hair. he looks irritated. flushed. like he’s been fighting someone or about to.
“you coming from a girl’s place or something?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but the words slip out a little more bitter than you mean.
he pauses, one foot halfway out of his sock.
“something like that,” he mutters.
it wasn't something like that. he'd been running, something he'd been doing a lot lately instead of his nightly rendezvous with his copious amounts of side chicks. after he went non intentionally celibate, he'd started putting the excess energy he wasn't using in basketball to do laps around campus.
but he couldn't tell you that. couldn't just say, 'yeah, i've been running marathons lately because my dick goes limp at the thought of even touching another women.' so he just chalked it up to whatever your mind was thinking.
you blink, surprised he didn’t throw a joke at you or roll his eyes. didn’t make a crack about what kind of position she had him in or if he should shower before sitting on your bed.
instead he just pulls off his shirt and flops down face-first into your comforter like he’s lived here forever.
you stare for a second at the smooth line of his back, the tribal tattoos, the way he exhales like your room is the first place he’s been able to breathe all day.
“…you okay?” you ask, stepping toward the bed.
he grunts.
“great conversation,” you mutter, crawling up onto the mattress and poking him between the shoulder blades. “what’s with the dramatics, need to talk?”
he rolls onto his side, arm flung over his eyes, voice muffled. “i’m not allowed to bring you to the mixer.”
you blink. “hm?”
you knew of the mixer and you knew you weren't going, you weren't in a sorority.
“they said no,” he says, finally lowering his arm just enough to squint at you. “strictly greek. no exceptions. even though choso’s dragging that freak shiu and he’s barely greek. and even though you’ve been at more of our events than half the guys actually in the frat.”
you go try not to giggle at his display.
“i see,” you say. “it’s fine ryo. i didn’t expect to go anyway.”
“yeah, well, i wanted you to,” he snaps, sharper than he means to. he cleared his throat abit embarrassed before continuing. “was kind of the only reason i was looking forward to it.”
you stare at him, taken aback.
he groans and throws an arm over his face again. “god. it’s so fucking stupid. i don’t even wanna go if you’re not gonna be there.”
you sit beside him, folding your legs under yourself. "hey don't say that, i'm sure you'll get your entertainments worth with what're dumb thing gojos bound to do there."
he rolls his eyes but a smirk pulls at his lips.
“you have to though, right?” you ask quietly. “frat rules?”
he grunts again, bitter. “mandatory attendance. gotta show face, shake hands, do shots with people i fucking hate. can’t just hang out with you like a normal person. it’s bullshit.”
you watch him for a second, hes clearly very upset on your behalf and it tugs at your heart to see him so sad for you.
the frustration in his shoulders. the tension still in his jaw. how tired he looks even though he won’t admit it. and how different he’s been lately, even if he tries to hide it.
it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him leave a party with someone. months since you’ve gotten a dumb flirty text from him at two in the morning about some girl with lip gloss and a sorority pin. instead it’s been this, late nights of cooking and movies at your place, quiet mornings where he'd crash on the couch, showing up sweaty and worn out without explaining why.
you don’t know what’s going on with him.
and you don’t ask.
because he’s still your best friend, he’s still sukuna, you never know what's going on with men like him. not really.
even if you wish sometimes he’d let you see past all the noise and into whatever he’s keeping buried under his skin.
“you could skip,” you offer after a long pause. “say you’re sick.”
he lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. “and miss out on disappointing every alumni watching the insta stories? unthinkable.”
you laugh.
and he smiles, barely.
then closes his eyes again, and says, quieter this time, “just wish it wasn’t like this.”
you don’t ask what he means.
you don’t have to.
you watch him stew for another minute, sprawled on your bed like a kicked dog, jaw tense and brows furrowed. you can tell he’s stuck in his head again, spiraling over something he can’t fix, so you do what you always do when sukuna gets like this.
you get up and go to the fridge.
“what are you doing?” he calls after you, but there’s already the tiniest lilt of curiosity in his voice.
you peek back over your shoulder, smiling shyly. “making you un-grumpy.”
you return with a container of the cookies you baked the night before, still soft from the fridge, the chocolate chips slightly hardened but perfect for biting into. you plop back down beside him and wiggle the container in front of his face.
“i come bearing peace offerings.”
he raises a brow. “what are they laced with?”
“love and all things happy and awesome,” you say sweetly. “now shut up and open.”
you settle onto his knee, the position so familiar it doesn’t even register as odd anymore. you’re perched sideways, comfortably pressed against him as you hold up a cookie to his mouth like you’ve done a thousand times before with different snacks, different moods, different nights.
he sighs like he’s being tortured, but opens his mouth and lets you push a bite past his lips.
and then he goes still.
you try to hide your smirk. “good, right?”
he chews slowly, then nods once, eyes flicking down to the cookie still in your hand. “fuck,” he mutters. “why are these better than the last ones?”
“because i added cinnamon this time,” you say proudly. “i’m a genius. a visionary. a baker ahead of my time. no need to lay it all on me at once.”
“you’re a menace,” he says, reaching for the container and grabbing one for himself. he takes another bite, then leans his head back with a groan. “jesus christ.”
you beam, satisfied. “mood improved?”
he glances down at you, his arm sliding a little more securely around your waist, holding you in place like it’s just instinct. “a little.”
you twist to face him more fully, still sitting across one of his legs, knees bent and shoulder pressing into his chest. “well, i accept your gratitude. payment accepted in the form of continued affection and possibly letting me pick the movie tonight.”
“you say that like you weren’t going to pick it anyway,” he says, but his voice has gone soft.
you don’t move, just rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. it’s quiet again, in that comfortable, lived-in way. his fingers drift absentmindedly along the hem of your shirt, not even thinking about it, and you feel the shift before it happens.
he sets the cookie down and wraps both arms around you, pulling you fully into his chest.
you blink in surprise as your face smushes into his neck, but your arms slip around his waist anyway, your cheek settling against his skin with a tiny, surprised smile.
this… isn’t unheard of.
but it’s not common either.
not like this.
not this long, not this full-bodied, not this quiet. not this careful.
he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. just breathe in sync, slow and even, held together in the kind of closeness that feels like it means something more than either of you are ready to admit. it doesn’t feel playful. it doesn’t feel casual.
it feels like everything unsaid is pressing in between the space of your bodies.
and still, you don’t pull away.
you stay wrapped around each other, soft and steady in the glow of your little kitchen light. the rest of the world fades out. no frat politics, no mixers, no rules. just your warmth against his chest, the scent of cookies on the air, and his heartbeat pressed right against your cheek.
you smile against him, a little giddy, a little shy, and squeeze your arms around him just a little tighter.
he squeezes back.
"such a softie."
"shut up."
~
friday night, gamma.
the music’s already shaking the walls by the time sukuna and gojo pull up to the house.
the lights are low, the windows are glowing purple, and there’s a line of girls on the front lawn taking pictures against the greek letters like they’re on the fucking red carpet. half of them are laughing too loud, the other half are posing like they’re about to sell flat tummy tea. it’s a mess.
gojo whistles low under his breath. “god damn. they went all out tonight.”
sukuna says nothing, just shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and follows gojo toward the front door, already wishing he’d stayed in.
inside, it’s worse.
the house smells like weed, body spray, and some kind of mango-flavored vodka someone definitely spilled on the carpet. the bass is pounding. the lights are cycling through seizure-inducing colors. and the living room is filled wall to wall with girls in the tiniest outfits he’s ever seen.
crop tops so small they’re practically bras, skirts that could pass for belts, dresses that ride up with every step. legs, boobs, glitter, perfume. like a scene out of a movie, only louder and stickier.
gojo grins, elbowing him in the side. “this is what i’m talking about, man these chicks are drooling.”
“mhm,” sukuna mutters, eyes skimming the crowd without interest.
gojo keeps going, clearly amped. “look at her, jesus. i could write a poem about that ass. might get it tattooed.”
sukuna hums, tuning him out. lets the words wash over him without meaning. he’s good at that now. nodding, smirking, pretending to be the guy they all think he is.
“oh my god,” gojo says again, eyes glued to another girl passing by in a see-through mesh top. “this one’s not even wearing a bra. she’s doing the lord’s work.”
“praise be,” sukuna deadpans.
gojo laughs, already drifting toward the drinks table like a moth to flame, eyes darting everywhere.
sukuna doesn’t follow.
he stands near the door, shoulder against the wall, letting the party swirl around him. girls brush past him on the way to the kitchen, one of them flashing a smile he doesn’t return. he watches two of them grind against each other like they’re auditioning for attention, and someone tugs on his hoodie in passing, trying to get his attention.
he doesn’t even blink.
because all he can think about is how quiet your apartment was last night.
how your laugh sounded when he tried to talk with his mouth full of cookie. how you looked sitting on his knee, eyes crinkling, fingers brushing crumbs from his shirt.
how easy it was.
how real.
and this? this feels like a joke.
he used to love this shit. the noise, the chaos, the attention. he used to thrive in it. let it fill him up, drown out all the parts of himself that didn’t make sense.
but now it just feels loud.
pointless.
empty.
he pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it without thinking.
no texts.
you’re probably curled up on your couch right now with a mug of tea and some documentary about weird animals. maybe wearing one of your oversized sweaters. maybe thinking about him. maybe not.
he sighs, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes for a second.
wishing, more than anything, that he was with you instead.
meanwhile...
your dorm was quiet tonight.
just the low hum of your mini fridge, the soft whir of the fan you’ve wedged into the corner by the window, and the occasional clatter of your own movements as you putter around your tiny kitchen.
you’re barefoot on the tile, hoodie sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your hair pulled back haphazardly. the playlist you always turn on while baking is playing softly, the comfort stuff, the songs you don’t have to think about. your body moves automatically, reaching for ingredients, measuring out flour and sugar like muscle memory.
but your mind’s somewhere else entirely.
you keep thinking about last night. about the way sukuna looked when he walked through your door, sweaty and annoyed and tired, like the world was grating against him. and how he softened when you sat on his lap and fed him cookies. how he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.
that long hug.
you can still feel it.
his arms wrapped around you, your cheek against his chest, the quiet warmth of his body pressed fully into yours like he didn’t want to let go. it wasn’t playful. it wasn’t some joke. it felt like something else. something deeper. something you’re too scared to name.
you missed him the second he left.
you always do.
but tonight, it aches a little more. hell, it aches a hell of a lot.
because you know where he is right now. or, at least, where he’s supposed to be — at that mixer with gojo and the rest of the guys. shoulder to shoulder with every sorority girl on campus. probably surrounded by glitter and perfume and girls in backless dresses.
you try not to picture it.
you try not to imagine him pressed up against someone in a dark corner, hands on her hips, whispering something smooth into her ear. it’s what he used to do, after all. it’s what everyone still thinks he does.
you’ve never asked.
but it’s easier to believe he’s still out there being sukuna, your charming, cocky, slightly feral best friend who fucks around and never gets attached. it’s easier than hoping for something more.
you sigh and lean your hands on the edge of the sink, staring out the window for a moment before pushing off again and turning back to the counter.
if he is out there right now, tangled up with some girl, then so be it. it’s not your business. he’s your friend. he’s always been your friend. and that’s enough.
you shake away the little ache curling up in your chest and reach for the eggs.
he likes custard tarts.
you remember him mentioning it months ago, offhanded, when you were watching some cooking show together and he snorted at a pastry challenge. 'that shit’s easy,' he’d said, and then casually added, 'my grandma used to make those all the time. i could eat like five in one sitting.'
so you’re going to make him some.
you don’t know if he’ll even come by tomorrow, but if he does, it’ll be waiting for him. warm, golden, sweet. something quiet to show him you were thinking about him, even if you won’t say it out loud.
you dust your hands with flour and start rolling out the pastry crust, humming under your breath, praying this suffocating guilt in your chest will soon subside.
back with the man of the hour.
the kitchen is hotter than hell.
bodies packed in tight, music thudding through the walls, the floor sticky with spilled drinks and god-knows-what. it smells like tequila, sweat, and cologne, like every mixer always does. sukuna’s perched at the corner of the counter with a half-empty shot glass in his hand, the burn of whatever cheap liquor they’re using tonight still clinging to his throat.
he’s a few drinks in, not drunk, but warm. loose. not enough to forget, just enough to blur the edges.
“yo,” someone says, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “you still out here slaying or what?
it’s ino, one of the phi sig guys. bleach-blond, grinning like a golden retriever, drunk enough that his words are dragging a little.
sukuna doesn’t answer right away.
he can feel the pause stretching. can feel the weight of it. because he knows exactly where this is going.
“what?” ino says, laughing. “don’t tell me the infamous sukuna went soft on us.”
he’s joking. mostly.
but nearby, sukuna catches gojo’s eyes.
he’s leaning against the wall with a drink in one hand, watching the conversation like a hawk. and when their gazes meet, gojo raises one brow, just slightly. the look is clear.
'just lie to them.'
gojo doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t need to.
because sukuna’s got a reputation. one the frat’s leaned on for years, their golden weapon. their sexed-up, reckless, untouchable president’s right-hand menace. the one who sets the tone at parties, the one who doesn’t hesitate to bang anyone, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t change.
and if word gets out that ryomen sukuna hasn’t laid a hand on anyone in months, that he’s been skipping hookups to hang out with you in your tiny dorm room, baking cookies and trading sleepy smiles? well.
it wouldn’t look good.
not for him. not for the frat. not for the image.
so he swallows the sick twist in his gut and flashes a grin that feels so disgustingly wrong on his face.
“you know how it is,” he says smoothly, rolling his neck like he’s already bored of the conversation. “been busy. but yeah. still getting mine.”
ino laughs and passes him another shot, already leaning in. “anyone good?”
“couple girls from chi o,” sukuna says, shrugging one shoulder. “blonde one — i forget her name. maybe claire? she was loud. pretty sure half the floor heard us.”
ino hollers and claps him on the back, and someone nearby chimes in with a “my fucking guy.”
sukuna downs the shot.
he keeps going.
“hooked up with that junior from zeta last week too. the one with the snake tattoo.”
“mia?” ino gasps.
“yeah,” sukuna half lies, licking his teeth. “she’s got this thing where she likes being choked. like, full hand, no hesitation. freaky as fuck, but she took it like a champ.”
there’s laughter. back slaps. someone throws him another beer.
and sukuna plays along.
he leans into the scumbag act. tells them about how he made her beg. how he didn’t even bother texting her after. throws in some bullshit about how she kept whining for round three and he just left.
and it’s easy, this was how he used to be after all.
his voice is smooth, confident, practiced. he says the words like he’s proud of them. like they don’t taste like ash and piss in his mouth. like they aren’t killing him from the inside out.
because the truth is, he hasn’t touched anyone since he realized he was in love with you.
sure he's fucked those girl before, just not as of late.
no blonde named claire. no snake tattoo. no begging, no choking, no careless sex with strangers who mean nothing.
just you.
just the way you looked at him the other night, eyes wide and sweet while you perched on his knee. just the way you made him feel full with nothing but a bite of cookie and a laugh. just the way your arms wrapped around him without hesitation. like he was someone worth holding onto.
but he can’t say that here.
he can’t be that guy.
so he keeps lying. keeps playing the role. keeps smiling through the noise and the heat and the taste of someone else’s expectations on his tongue.
and all the while, in the back of his mind, he’s wondering what you’re doing right now. if your oven’s still on. if your hands are covered in flour. if you’re thinking about him too.
god, he hopes you are. safe away from this performative monster he's so carefully curated.
later.
things have gone off the rails.
the house is sweltering now, bodies packed in so tight you can barely breathe. music’s still blasting, bass heavy enough to make your ribs shake, lights flickering red and blue and green over swaying heads. sweat slicks the walls, the floors are sticky with god-knows-what, and the air smells like beer, weed, and perfume way too sweet to be expensive.
sukuna’s sunk low into the couch in the middle of the living room, a drink sweating in his hand, head tilted back. his shirt sticks to his skin, his legs are spread, and his eyes are half-lidded, glazed over. he’s a few drinks deep, but not enough to be drunk, just enough to dull the headache that’s been building since he walked in.
choso’s next to him, nursing a blunt, and shiu’s perched on the armrest, scrolling through his phone with dead eyes.
“this party fucking blows,” shiu mutters, not looking up.
“wasn’t it your idea to come?” choso says.
“yeah, and i was wrong. fuck me.”
“everyone’s just trying to fuck each other,” choso says flatly. “like aggressively. it’s like a brothel in here.”
“with worse lighting,” shiu adds.
sukuna doesn’t say anything. just watches the way two girls are sloppily grinding against each other on the floor, their drinks spilling down their arms, mascara already halfway down their cheeks. somewhere across the room, someone’s moaning against the wall like they’re getting railed in public, which, honestly, they probably are.
he’s halfway through zoning out again when it happens.
a blonde drops into his lap like a stone.
he barely registers her until she’s already straddling him, arms looped around his neck, tits pushed up and glittering under the party lights.
“found you,” she purrs, loud in his ear. her voice is syrupy sweet, her lips glossed thick and shiny. she presses a wet kiss to his cheek without waiting for permission, then trails her mouth down to his neck.
his body locks up. 'ew.'
she smells like candy and sweat. her lashes are so fake they look heavy. her nails scrape his shoulder through his shirt like she’s trying to get a grip.
“you’re sukuna, right?” she asks, already moving her hips in his lap. “heard you’re fun.”
he wants to shove her off.
wants to grab her wrists and tell her to get the fuck off him, now. because nothing about this feels good. nothing about this feels right. she’s too close, too loud, too much. and all he can think is 'this isn’t you.'
but then he glances up.
and he sees them.
those same frat guys he took shots with earlier, ino and the rest. watching him from across the room with wide eyes and cocky grins. waiting. expecting. this was what they wanted, wasn’t it? the infamous sukuna he had bragged about not even an hour earlier. the legend. the sex god. they’re watching like they’re about to take notes.
and across the room, posted near the kitchen with a drink in hand, gojo is watching too.
his eyes lock with sukuna’s. one raised brow. jaw tight. a warning in his expression.
'don’t fuck this up. just pretend.' he mouths.
this is his job, after all. the frat’s bad boy, their wild card, the one who never slows down. his reputation isn’t just his anymore — it’s tied to the frat’s image, to the hierarchy, to the ego of every guy in this house who needs him to be that guy.
so sukuna doesn’t shove her off.
he lets her kiss his jaw. lets her whisper something slutty in his ear, lets her press her tits into his chest and grind against him like they’re already alone.
he lets her act like she owns him.
his hands rest loose on her waist. one slides down to her thigh, just for show. not tight. not real. just enough to make it look like he’s into it.
his skin crawls.
he doesn’t smile. doesn’t speak. he just sits there, dead behind the eyes, playing the part.
choso side-eyes him, a brow lifting. shiu’s halfway through another drink, watching the scene with a quiet kind of judgment.
sukuna doesn’t flinch.
but inside, he’s somewhere else entirely.
he’s thinking about you.
your dorm. your stupid cozy couch. your face lighting up when he told you your cookies were perfect. your hands brushing against his. your warmth.
the way you held him like you knew.
and now he’s here.
pretending.
surrounded by noise and bodies and fake gold glitter. kissing strangers in front of an audience, playing the role of someone he hasn’t been in a long time.
and all he wants is to be home.
with you.
the girl’s hands are everywhere.
on his chest, sliding under his shirt. in his hair, tugging hard like it’s supposed to be sexy. her mouth is hot and wet on his neck, and she keeps saying shit in his ear he can’t even hear over the bass rumbling through the floor.
he doesn’t want this.
hasn’t wanted this from the second she crawled into his lap.
but now she’s pulling him up off the couch, dragging him by the hand through the throng of sweaty bodies. she’s laughing, shrieking something about going upstairs, or maybe back to her place, either way, her grip is iron and her intentions are clear. and people are watching.
he can feel the eyes on him.
guys slapping him on the back as he passes, grinning, nodding, giving him looks that say that’s our guy.the same ones who were cheering earlier when she straddled him like a chair in the middle of the party. girls whispering, side-eyes thrown like confetti.
and gojo.
gojo’s standing near the bottom of the stairs now, cup in hand, watching sukuna get dragged toward the front door like some kind of prize.
they lock eyes.
sukuna hesitates for a beat.
gojo steps forward and claps a hand on his arm, grip tight for a second. he leans in, expression unusually serious beneath the usual shine of his grin.
“sorry, man,” he murmurs under the music. “i shouldn’t have made you do all that shit.”
sukuna doesn’t say anything. just nods once, jaw clenched.
“you’re a good soldier,” gojo adds, half-joking, half-sincere. “but you don’t gotta burn yourself out for the frat.”
sukuna’s too tired to respond. the girl’s tugging on his arm again, fingers clawed around his wrist like she thinks he’ll vanish if she lets go.
they step out the front door into the night.
the air outside is colder than it should be, sharp against his sweaty skin. it hits his lungs too fast. makes him dizzy.
she turns to him immediately, mouth already open. “so i live, like, five minutes away. unless you wanna go to yours? my roommate’s out, so—”
her hands are on his chest again. fumbling with the hem of his shirt, nails dragging over his stomach like she’s mapping him out with zero permission. she presses herself into him, mouth seeking his again, clumsy and insistent.
and that’s when it hits.
the disgust.
the wrongness.
the way it makes his skin crawl, makes his stomach twist. not because she’s unattractive, not because she’s done anything “wrong” by frat party standards — but because she’s not you.
and this? this isn’t him.
he jerks away from her touch as she snakes her hand over the bulge in his jeans.
“stop.”
she blinks, confused. tries to laugh it off, like maybe he’s teasing. “what?”
“i said stop,” he snaps, stepping back. “jesus fucking christ.”
her face falls.
“you can’t just—” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head.
“go." he almost yells. "go home,” he says sharply. “alone.”
her jaw drops like she’s about to protest again, but he’s not listening. he turns, already walking, the cold air slicing through his clothes, his breath fogging up in the dark.
he doesn’t look back.
the sounds of the party are muffled now, swallowed up by the night. but they still echo in his head. the music, the laughter, the voices cheering him on like he’s some kind of fucking mascot. the fake moans and the fake smiles and the way it felt to be watched like he owed everyone a show.
he lights a cigarette with shaking hands.
his stomach still feels sick.
and all he can think about, as the taste of cherry lip gloss lingers like poison, is how right it felt to be on your couch. how warm your kitchen was. how soft your hands were when you brushed his hair back from his forehead like he was something worth caring for.
he walks faster.
because if he doesn’t get away from all this now, he’s not sure he ever will.
his footsteps echo off the pavement, sharp in the emptiness, and his lungs burn with every breath. the cigarette is still between his fingers, barely smoked, the ember flickering weakly in the dark.
he can’t stop shaking.
his skin feels wrong. like something’s still crawling on it. like her hands are still there. he rubs his neck with the heel of his palm, hard, like he can wipe it off. the gloss, the heat, the fakeness of it all.
his stomach lurches.
he stops walking and bends forward instinctively, one hand on his knee, the other bracing against the cold brick wall of the nearest building. he spits once onto the sidewalk, tastes bile and tequila and something rotten.
he breathes through his nose.
in, out, in, out.
think of something else.
think of anything else.
but all he can think about is you.
the way you'd light up when you'd spot him on campus, how you'd always gravitate towards him at parties and hang outs. your stupid soft hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hands covered in flour, smiling like he was your favorite part of your day.
and god, all he wanted to was erase his entire past to start a clean, virgin slate with you.
he almost let some stranger girl touch him in a way he wishes only you would. he let her sit on him, kiss him, grab at him, and he didn’t stop it. didn’t stop it until it was nearly too late.
and for what?
some frat reputation?
gojo’s approval?
a bunch of guys who only know his name because of the stories he used to make up?
he could fucking vomit.
he dry heaves once, hard, and his whole body folds in. he grips the edge of a trash bin like it’ll keep him upright, knuckles going white. but nothing comes up. just air and guilt and the way your name sits on his tongue like a bruise.
'you’re not even mine.'
he reminds himself of that again and again. you’re not his. you’ve never kissed. never fucked. never even admitted how you feel.
you’re just friends. best friends, maybe. roommates in a different life. partners in crime when things are light.
but he knows what this is. knows what’s happening to him.
you’ve ruined him.
your gentleness. your kindness. the way you hold his face when you’re teasing him and don’t even realize it. the way you hug him like he’s worth something. like you see him, all of him, and still choose to stay.
and now he’s here. shaking and fucked-up in the street, gagging over the ghost of a girl who doesn’t matter, while you're sitting at home in your dorm when you could of been here with him, that way, he'd never of let another girl get close, he's speaks the night sitting on the porch, with you.
he sinks down onto the curb, elbows braced on his knees, cigarette hanging limp from his fingers. his vision swims, hot and sharp, his head tipping back to stare at the stars he can’t even see through the city haze.
he should’ve stayed with you.
he should’ve just stayed home, with you.
his hands are trembling when he reaches into his pocket. he fishes blindly past his lighter, crumpled receipts, a folded-up flyer someone handed him earlier, until his fingers close around metal.
your dorm keys.
he pulls them out slowly.
they sit in his palm, warm from his body heat. a pink little charm you’d added dangles from the ring, a squishy cartoon animal he never bothered to learn the name of, even though you told him three times. it jiggles as he stares down at it, breath catching in his throat.
he clenches his fist around them.
tight.
like it’ll keep him grounded. like it’ll make you real again.
the night presses in around him. too quiet, too still. but that ache in his chest, the sour twist in his gut, it all starts to blur the second he stands up and starts walking.
~
your apartment smells like vanilla and nutmeg.
you pull the tray from the oven with slow, tired movements, fingers twitching slightly through the worn edges of your oven mitts. you place it carefully on the cooling rack, your shoulders drooping.
they turned out perfect.
golden brown, smooth custard centers with just the right shimmer. they look like something out of a recipe book. the kind of thing you’d proudly serve someone you care about.
someone who promised he’d come over this weekend.
someone who’s probably in a stranger’s bed right now.
you press your lips together and exhale through your nose, eyes fluttering shut.
that ache in your chest still hasn’t gone away. it’s not sharp anymore, not like earlier, when you imagined his hands on someone else, but it’s still there. dull. tight. like a bruise that refuses to fade.
you try to distract yourself. start wiping down the counter. humming softly. pretending.
and then—
bang.
a clatter at the door. a commotion, keys fumbling against the lock. your head snaps up, heart slamming into your ribs.
before you can move, the door bursts open.
a heaving sukuna stumbles inside.
he’s wild-eyed, flushed, sweaty, like he’s run the whole way here. his shirt’s wrinkled, his jacket half-zipped, one sleeve rolled up and the other down. his hair’s a mess. his knuckles are scraped.
he looks terrible.
and he looks right at you.
for one beat, just one, everything stops.
your eyes meet, and it’s like all the oxygen rushes back into the room. the ache in your chest disappears, the weight behind his eyes fades, the tension that was tearing both of you apart evaporates the second you’re locked into each other’s gaze.
you smile first. a smile he so dearly loved to see.
small. instinctive. like it slips out before you can stop it.
and that’s all it takes.
sukuna moves fast, like something in him finally gives out, and suddenly he’s in front of you, arms wrapping around your body like he needs you to breathe. his chest crashes into yours, hard, and his arms hook tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
your hands flutter up, half-startled, and you steady yourself against his shoulders.
he’s holding you like he’s drowning.
“jesus,” you laugh softly, trying to ease the weight, “what, some girl give you blue balls or something—”
you don’t finish the sentence.
because his grip tightens.
his arms squeeze harder, fingers fisting into the back of your hoodie like he’s trying to climb inside of you.
his face buries into your neck. and then you hear it.
a sniffle.
not a dramatic one, not obvious, not loud, but small and choked off, like he’s trying not to let it out at all.
your breath catches.
his body trembles once, a subtle shiver that passes through him like a quake, and suddenly your joke feels cruel, your smile falters, and your heart lodges somewhere in your throat.
your voice drops, softer than you’ve ever used with him.
“ryo…”
you pull back just enough to see his face.
his eyes are glassy. rimmed red. lashes damp like he’s been holding it in for a while. and when he blinks, slow and heavy, a single tear finally falls, trailing down the sharp angle of his cheek.
your heart cracks clean in two.
like your body just knows, like it feels his pain before you can even register it, your own eyes burn immediately. you try to hold it in, but it stings anyway. wells up fast, like your chest doesn’t know how to hold all the ache that’s suddenly there.
he sees it.
his lips twitch, and he forces out a quiet, watery chuckle. “of course you're that kinda person” he murmurs, voice thick. “the type to cry when someone else cries. like it’s a reflex or something.”
you swallow around the lump in your throat. “i've only done it for you.”
that makes him go still.
your hand lifts to his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye, and your voice trembles with the weight of it all. “because i care about you, ryo. so much. more than i can even explain.”
his breath stutters.
and for a second, he doesn’t say anything.
he just looks at you, like you’re something he’s been waiting for his whole life. and then he smiles, soft and small and cracked open, and leans forward until his forehead is pressed to yours again.
you close your eyes.
you fall into each other like instinct.
your arms wrap around his neck again, and his circle your waist. tighter this time. not desperate. just sure.
you still don’t know why he’s crying.
he hasn’t told you anything. hasn’t explained the bloodshot eyes or the tremble in his hands or the way he stumbled through your door like you were home.
but none of that matters.
because he’s sad.
and that makes you sad.
so you hold him. and he holds you back.
"y/n. i love you."
you freeze.
like your whole body forgets how to move.
his voice is quiet, broken at the edges, low and raw like it got scraped out of his chest just for you. you feel it before you even fully process it. like the words ripple through your bloodstream faster than they hit your ears.
you pull back just slightly, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in your throat.
“h-huh…?”
his gaze is already on you. steady. not flinching. his brows are pinched like he’s terrified, like he’s bracing for the worst, but his hands never leave you. they stay right where they’ve been, one at the small of your back, the other cradling your side like he’s holding something fragile.
“i love you,” he says again, firmer this time. “i think i’ve loved you since the first time you told me about some weird show you liked and forgot to breathe because you were talking too fast. i didn’t know it then, but—fuck, y/n. it’s you. it’s always been you.”
your eyes sting.
you’re not sure if you’re breathing.
his thumb rubs absent circles at your hip. his voice is shaking.
“i haven’t touched anyone since i figured it out. haven’t even looked at anyone like that. i tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. i told myself i could just be around you like normal and it’d pass. but it didn’t. it just got worse. everything felt worse without you.”
you press your lips together, hard.
your chest is aching so sweetly it almost feels like pain.
“you don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly, eyes flicking over your face. “i know this is a lot. i just—i couldn’t keep lying. not after tonight.”
you open your mouth, then close it again.
you’re not even sure what expression’s on your face, shock? relief? some impossible mixture of everything you’ve ever felt for him suddenly rising to the surface all at once.
but eventually, finally, your voice comes out.
quiet.
“say it again.”
his brows lift.
you lean in closer, eyes shining. “please. just say it one more time.”
he swallows.
and then he breathes it like a vow.
“i love you.”
you surge forward, arms around his neck, and kiss him like it’s the only thing you’ve been trying not to do for months.
and this time, he doesn’t tremble.
he melts.
like he’s been waiting his whole life just for this.
your lips part from his just enough to breathe.
his eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way your fingers feel curled into the back of his neck. and you watch him for a second — the way his lashes tremble, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s never been kissed before.
and then you say it.
soft.
barely more than a whisper.
“i love you too.”
his eyes open slow.
like he needs to see your face to make sure it’s real.
and when he does, when he sees the truth of it in your eyes, your smile, the way your hand lingers over his heart like it belongs there, he laughs.
it’s small at first. breathless. disbelieving.
then you start laughing too.
and it bubbles out of both of you, giddy and bright, like it’s been waiting there under the surface all this time, the kind of laughter that spills into kisses, that makes your foreheads knock together, that leaves you smiling so wide your cheeks ache.
you’re both a little teary still. a little overwhelmed.
but it doesn’t matter.
because when he kisses you again, deeper this time, fuller, with both hands cupping your face like he’s never going to let you go, it’s not heavy. it’s not hard. it’s not desperate.
it’s just good.
it’s just right.
like the floodgates have finally opened, and everything you’ve both been holding back comes pouring out in warmth and wonder and wonder and wonder.
you’re still holding the edges of each other when he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.
“you’re it for me.”
and you smile.
because he’s it for you too.
you’re both still smiling, flushed and warm and tangled up in each other, when he suddenly sniffs the air.
his nose scrunches. he blinks. then his head slowly turns toward the counter behind you.
“…wait.”
you already know what’s coming.
he sniffs again, exaggerated and dramatic, eyebrows lifting higher with every inhale. “is that—?” he gasps, stepping around you to look.
“your favourite?” you finish, barely holding back your grin.
his eyes go wide. cartoonishly wide.
“you made them?”
you nod, biting your bottom lip, and gesture toward the cooling tray like you’re unveiling the secret ingredient in a baking show. “fresh from the oven. made them for you, actually. figured you might come by after—”
you don’t even finish the sentence before he lets out the softest noise, like a choked gasp of joy, (very uncharacteristically cute for him.) and practically tackles you in a hug.
“you’re so cute,” he says, spinning you around like it’s instinct, like you’re weightless. you squeal, laughing into his shoulder, clinging to him as he twirls you once in a giddy circle. “you made me custard tarts? i could eat you up right here, i swear to god.”
“ahh i see, so you're gonna eat me and the tarts? someone's getting greedy.”
“absolutely.”
you laugh breathlessly, hands braced against his chest as he sets you back down. “god you perv, did you have to ruin it?”
“sorry, sorry,” he mutters, grinning like an idiot.
he leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet, then cups your cheeks like you’re something precious and kisses you again, deeper, like he can’t help it, like you’re his favorite dessert.
“always wanted to thank you like this,” he murmurs against your lips. “for all the stuff you do for me. the baking, the hugs, the late-night pep talks. all of it. i just never had the guts.”
you giggle, your hands sliding up his arms as you melt into him again.
and as he dips you backward like he’s about to marry you right there in your tiny kitchen, you decide the tarts can wait just a little longer.
...Well, Husband!Sukuna is actually being scolded by his wife, and he's taking it like a little bitch champ
═══════════════════════════
“Please, watch your step, my lady,” Uraume warned, taking the lead a few paces in front of you to guide you through the chaotic scene your husband had made of Shibuya. It was quite impressive, you had to admit, but you weren’t about to praise him for his mess–you’ve seen better, and you’ll make sure to let him know that as soon as you’re done giving him a piece of your mind.
They paused a few steps in front of you, waiting for you to catch up to offer you their hand and help you over the smoldering rubble. You paused when, above your head, you heard Sukuna’s familiar maniacal laughter as he toyed around with a curse, tossing the poor thing all over the city without any real effort or care for the civilians among you.
“Fucking manchild,” you sneered under your breath, following Uraume’s lead through the burning mess. In the distance, you watched a plane fall from the sky, crashing into a fiery pit of rubble before exploding. “His gluttonous need for mayhem disgusts me.”
Uraume chuckled, “I believe there was a time when you found that to be a charming attribute of his, my lady. And if I remember correctly, you used to eagerly partake in the chaos as well.”
“Don’t mistake my words, Uraume. I only meant that this madness isn’t something to indulge in alone–he’s keeping this all to himself.”
They hummed over your explanation with a small smile. “I see. You’re upset that you’ve been left out.”
“Precisely,” you hissed, taking their hand again when it was offered to you. “He should have waited for me.”
“To be fair, Sukuna-sama wasn’t aware that we’d be attending. Otherwise, I’m almost certain he would have waited for you.” You didn’t believe that for a single second. “This way, my lady. I believe their fight is nearing its end.”
When you finally set your eyes on your husband again, he was watching over the burning corpse of the curse he’d been fighting. At your side, Uraume dropped to their knee on the charred sphere you were standing on. In another life, one that was set a thousand years ago, you might’ve knelt before your king, too.
However, this was a different era, and you’d had a thousand years to stew in your anger and contempt after being neglected and abandoned by your husband. To say you were livid was an understatement; therefore, the only one who would be doing the kneeling between you and Sukuna was going to be Sukuna kneeling for you.
“Who are you?” he dared to ask, not even turning to look at you or Uraume.
“It’s nice to see you again, Sukuna-sama.”
You rolled your eyes at the pleasantries that always dripped off Uraume’s tongue when they addressed your husband–as if he deserved it.
“I’ll have to disagree with you, Uraume,” you gritted out, finally earning the attention of the insufferable man you bound yourself to all those years ago. “I feel rather nauseous upon our meeting.”
He glanced at you over his shoulder, red eyes, mirthless and unamused, narrowed in your direction as he tried to fit the familiar pieces together. Then, as if the realization struck him at once, they ever so slightly widened in surprise, then filled with just a touch of fear.
Good.
“You spineless coward.” His throat bobbed as he gulped, watching as you paced forward, paying no mind to the singed ruins burning the hem of your kimono. “You disgusting, petulant, monstrous, little brat–do you have any idea how long you’ve left me alone?! To deal with the consequences of your actions that you left behind without a moment’s notice?!”
He grabbed your wrist to stop you from stabbing your finger into his chest. “You’re angry-”
“Yes! I am angry! You did not tell me you were abandoning me-!”
“I did not abandon you-”
“Do not play dumb with me!” Your hand surged up to grab onto his face, fingers digging into his cheeks to pull him down to your level. So easily, he could have pried you away from him, yet he didn’t. Instead, he only rolled his eyes and waited for you to finish. “You said you were going away for a while.”
“And that was true. It has been a while, yes?”
“I did not think you meant a thousand years!”
“Your mistake then.”
You were about to grind your teeth down into little nubs with how tightly you were clenching your jaw. A sneering hiss passed your lips, and you harshly dragged your hand away from his face.
“This boy that you’re inhabiting–your vessel-”
“Yuji-”
“I do not care for the brat’s name!” Sukuna flinched at your tone. “Does he feel pain when you are fronting in his body?”
“No.”
“Good.”
With his answer, you didn’t hesitate to back hand him across the face, putting all your rage into the one swing. He grunted with the impact to his cheek, but took the attack as he should–wordlessly and without punishing you back.
The space around you went quiet, only filled by the crackling sound of embers and distant screams of anguish as you dragged your hand back, shaking out the tingles quickly before holding it out to him, which he begrudgingly took to heal it for you.
“That has quelled the worst of the anger.”
He only grunted in response to that, tracing his thumb over the back of your hand until it didn’t ache anymore.
“There.” When he let go of your hand, you didn’t pull it back. You kept it held out in front of him until he groaned and grabbed it, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand before lowering it to your side in a soft, delicate motion. “Good?”
“Adequate,” you corrected him, crossing your arms and sliding your hands into the sleeves of your kimono. “With that out of the way, I will admit that I’ve missed you.”
He exhaled a faint sigh of relief, the smallest smile ticking up on the corners of his mouth before disappearing. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“Have you really?”
“Indeed. Want me to prove it to you?”
“No need.” Your nose curled at his insinuation, eyes glaring over his new body. “I’ll take your word for it. I’ve no interest in lying with someone so young and who lacks the proper number of appendages. You’re missing two of your arms.”
He chuckled, “Among other appendages, but yes, I’m aware.”
You grabbed the uniform he was wearing, bunching it in your fist to push it up to his chest, revealing his boringly bare torso, no belly mouth in sight. “And the best part about you is also missing. How tragic…”
“My apologies.”
With a scoff, you released the uniform top, returning your hands to your sleeves. “When will this affair be over? And I mean completely over. I want my husband back, and I want him in my husband’s body.”
“Hard to say. I have a few more things I’d like to do.”
“Make it quick then. I want to spend the New Year together-”
“It’s not that simple-” At his interjection, you raised your brows, making him fall silent before he sighed, “I’ll make it quick.”
“That's the way.” You took a small step toward him, closing the gap between you. “Lean down.”
When he did, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, which made him grumble, “That’s it?”
“It’s all you deserve.”
You gave his chest a pat before turning on your heel, only to be caught by your wrist and pulled back against him. His arms circled around your waist as his face pressed into the crook of your neck. Sukuna inhaled deeply and released it with a sated groan, hand dragging down your hips to palm your asscheek.
“You’re not really leaving already, are you?” He pressed a kiss to your neck, just below your ear. “You should stay. I’ll fight you next. It'll be the most fun we've both had since I left.”
“No, thanks.” You let him place only one more kiss to your skin before pushing away. “Don’t make me wait too long, Sukuna. I’d hate to have to find someone else to take care of me.”
He snorted, “Like who? No one else can handle you.”
You shrugged innocently. “I hear Satoru Gojo’s in Shibuya. Sealed up tight in the prison realm. Maybe I’ll just take it for myself and free him. Maybe then I’d renounce my title as your queen and devote myself to fighting for his cause. Offer myself up as his wife, too–I’m sure he’d appreciate a step up in the competition, don’t you?”
You could feel his anger wafting off of him in waves, hitting you in the back of the neck as you grinned.
“I’ll kill you both.”
“Hurry up while you still have a wife waiting for you.” You hid your snickering behind your hand when you heard his irritated grumbling. “Let’s go, Uraume. I need a new kimono before you take me home.”
sukuna’s sprawled out on your shared bed, two arms above his head, one across his stomach, and another lying idly on your thigh. his hair is messy, strands all over the place, and a few somehow create bangs over his forehead. his stomach mouth is open, softly snoring while showing off the large fangs.
and although he looks so comfortable, and the moonlight softly shines through the curtains of your quarters, you take a minute to leave. softly, you take his large hand off your thigh, placing it close to where you slept instead.
after you’ve quietly retreated to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, sukuna almost immediately wakes up from the loss of your touch.
he softly grumbles when he doesn’t feel your body warmth, then he grabs at what he wants to be you, but is instead met with sheets.
a huff escapes him, and he turns onto his side with a groan, half sitting up and using a hand to prop himself up.
“wife..” he calls out, mumbling with his natural rough voice, a frown appearing on his face.
and almost as if you can sense how he already misses you dearly, not knowing how long you’ve been gone, you slowly creak the door open, walking in with a glass of water. as you set it on the nightstand, your heart aches as sukuna blearily stares up at you with half-lidded eyes. he slowly blinks up at you like a cat, and his hair sticks up in many different directions.
some drool escapes the corner of his mouth, and you smile. he probably doesn’t even notice.
finally, you climb into bed again, softly mumbling, “i know, i’m here,” with a smile as he already begins reaching towards you to pull you closer.
your hand finds his chest, and you rub comforting circles on his tattoos as you leave a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. before you can pull away, he softly nudges your head with his, letting out a soft sigh as his hand finds your back.
but you reach up, hand finding his hair as you play with it. he pushes his head into your hand, asking for more touch.
“you have bed head hair,” you whisper as his eyes nearly close.
but he murmurs, shaking his head with a pout, “i do not,” he lets out a dramatic huff, glaring at you with all four eyes.
“whatever you say, honey,” you mumble as you look down at him, hand still running through his hair.
and within seconds, he’s asleep as quickly as he woke up. this time, he’s lulled to sleep by your touch. he’s right where he wants to be, falling asleep every night in the arms of his wife.
ib this art by sukunaglazer23 on twt he’s so adorable oml
wc: 17k || art creds: @/winterrbluess @/su2kuna || 18+
frat!sukuna x shy!nerd!reader
A/N lowk this fic is much more toned down compared to what i usually post but fuck it we ball it's cute
summary ! sukuna doesn't give a shit about chemistry, that is until the big red 8% on his last test threatens to get him kicked out of his frat. desperate, he turns to the only person who can save him: you, the adorable, shy girl who aces every quiz. you agree to help, but only if he helps you get the attention of your hallway crush, his best friend, toji. what starts as a deal between you slowly turns into a spiral of love and jealousy. (18+, fluff, slight toji x reader (?), no angst for once omg go me)
the big red number stares back at him from the top of the paper like a brand burned into his pride. 8%.
sukuna exhales through his nose, the sound rough, annoyed. the paper crumples in his hand before he tosses it onto the desk. he leans back in his chair, the metal legs creaking under his weight as his jaw works.
normally, he wouldn’t give a damn about a grade. it’s not like chemistry was ever something he cared about. but this time, it’s different. one more fail and he’s out. the frat has rules, grades too low and you’re done. and he knows exactly what’ll happen if that happens.
tojis smug laugh. satoru’s endless teasing. the guys calling him “brain-dead” for weeks. no more parties. no more sorority hoes. no more lazy afternoons drinking on the porch with his friends.
he runs a hand down his face, dragging his fingers over the faint scar under his eye and the sharp tatted lines on his cut face. he can’t let that happen.
at the front of the room, their professor is rambling about averages and assessment weightings, something about the next major project. sukuna tunes back in when he hears the words “sixty percent” and “partner work.” that catches his attention.
the next gruelling assessment is a two-month long research investigation worth sixty percent of their final grade.
he was on the verge of strangling himself to death or jumping out of the top story window when he realised.
that’s it.
that’s his way out. he just needs a smart partner who can carry his hopeless ass.
sukuna’s eyes sweep across the room, scanning for anyone who looks like they know what the hell they’re doing. most of the people he usually talks to in class are as useless as he is, too busy flirting or sleeping through lectures.
but then his gaze catches on someone sitting right up the front.
you.
the quiet girl with the tidy notes and the neat handwriting, the one who always answers when the professor asks a question no one else dares to.
you’re sitting there now, head slightly tilted as you jot something down, your pen gliding across the page with that easy confidence of someone who actually understands this shit.
you’ve always sat alone, tucked near the window. you never talk during lectures unless you have to, and even then your voice is small, hesitant. you wear oversized sweaters, keep your hair pinned up, and avoid eye contact with anyone who looks remotely like they belong to his world.
still, he’s noticed you before. everyone has. it’s hard not to. you’re the kind of girl that seems untouchable, not because you’re trying to be, but because you’re so far removed from everything he knows. soft, focused, real sweet.
and right now, you look like salvation.
he pushes up from his seat, ignoring the curious glances from a few classmates as he moves down the aisle. his tall frame blocks the light for a second when he stops beside your desk. you glance up, startled, your pen pausing mid-sentence.
"yo, my names sukuna. and you?"
"uh, hi? it's y/n." he smirks at your shy response, but continues.
“you’re like, a chem genius, right?” his tone is low, rough with disinterest, though his eyes linger on you a little too long.
you blink up at him, hesitant. “oh, um… i guess? why?”
“i need a partner, like, real bad,” he says, dropping the failed exam onto your desk with a dull slap. the red ink almost glows. “i'm gonna be honest, i completely fucked myself with this last exam. i can’t afford to fail again.”
you stare at the paper, then at him. up close, he’s intimidating. messy pink hair, dark eyes sharp and unreadable, tattoos trailing up his arms, his face, and peeking out from under his shirt collar.
he looks nothing like someone who’d ever ask for help, especially from you, and the fact that he’s doing it now makes your mind reel.
“i—look, don't take this the wrong way, but... theres a lot of people in this class,” you manage softly. “why pick me?”
he shrugs, leaning one hand on the desk beside your notes. “because you actually know what you’re doing. and i’m not looking to get stuck with some idiot who’ll drag me down, i'm already so fucking cooked."
you hesitate, glancing away. you’ve never really talked to him before. actually, you’ve barely even noticed him beyond the times you’ve seen him walking across campus with toji. that’s usually when your stomach does that stupid fluttering thing. watching toji laugh, his arm slung lazily around sukuna’s shoulders, both of them looking like they own the place.
it’s strange seeing one of them standing here now, asking you for help.
you fidget with your pen. “that's fine, sure. but… if we’re partners, wed have to split the workload.”
"yeah,” he says. “i can pull my weight, don't stress it, sweetheart. mostly just need someone to keep me from bombing it.”
it’s almost funny. he’s trying to sound casual, but something about the way he’s watching you feels uncharacteristically careful. like he’s actually waiting for your answer rather than being the overbearing dick he usually is.
maybe it’s because you’re cute. or maybe it’s because he knows you hold his fate in your small, nervous hands.
you chew your lip for a moment, then nod. “yeah, okay. i’ll help you out.”
his mouth tilts in a grin that’s half smug, half genuine relief. “good. 'preciate it, babe.”
you look down instantly, pretending to organize your papers so he doesn’t see the way your face warms. you weren't used to such casual name calling.
he drags a chair over from the next row and drops into it beside you, leaning back like he’s been sitting there all semester.
the professor’s voice fades into the background again as you stare straight ahead, trying to focus on anything but the fact that sukuna ryomen, the most notorious guy in beta tau, is now your project partner.
a few minutes pass in silence. the lecture drags on, your notes filling another page. but your mind’s racing the whole time. sukuna, meanwhile, can’t stop sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.
he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. and he definitely hadn’t expected to find himself curious about you. you’re so… different. not the kind of girl who shows up to parties. not someone who flirts back when he smirks at her. just quiet and sweet, head buried in your work, the type that shouldn’t even be in his orbit.
and yet here you are.
when the professor dismisses the class, people start packing up. you hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to him.
“hey… sukuna?”
he hums, eyes flicking toward you lazily. “yeah?”
you look nervous, the words almost tripping over themselves before they leave your mouth. cute. “i’ll help you pass. but… can you help me out with something too?”
his brow arches. “hmm. depends what it is.”
you take a quiet breath. “it’s about your friend. uh— toji.”
that gets his attention. his posture stiffens a little. “what about him?”
you look down at your notebook, like it’s safer than looking at him. “i just… i think he’s really attractive. and he looks nice. i know it’s kind of stupid but i was wondering if maybe... you could help me get him to notice me.”
for a second, sukuna just stares at you.
out of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t it.
you, the shy little thing sitting up front, blushing and tripping over her own words, want toji fushiguro. one of the biggest assholes on campus. his best friend, sure, but a guy who barely remembers girls’ names after he sleeps with them.
he leans back slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “you’re serious?”
you nod, eyes still fixed on your notebook.
he studies you for a long moment. you’re fidgeting again, twisting your pen between your fingers, your voice so soft he almost misses it. “you don’t have to if it’s weird, i just thought… you two are close, so maybe…”
sukuna exhales through his nose. part of him wants to tell you it’s a bad idea. that toji doesn’t deserve someone like you. that you’d get hurt trying to chase a guy like that.
but he doesn’t.
instead, he tilts his head and says, “yeah, fine. i’ll help you out.”
your head snaps up, eyes wide. “huh— really?”
“yeah. but only because you’re saving my ass with this project,” he says, smirking a little. “guess we’ll call it even.”
you smile—small, bright, genuine—and something tightens in his chest. you're so cute.
“thank you,” you say quietly.
he grins again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “don’t mention it, honey.”
and as you pack up your notes, he watches you go, already trying to ignore the strange feeling crawling up the back of his neck.
he tells himself it’s just a deal. a trade. nothing more.
but as you disappear out the door, he can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gotten himself into more trouble than he realizes.
~
music blasts through the frat, heavy bass shaking the walls, bodies moving in rhythm across the living room floor. someone’s yelling over the noise, someone else is laughing too loud.
the air smells like bad beer, smoke, and sweat, the classic friday night cocktail that means beta tau is alive and wild again.
sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, red solo cup in hand, watching a game of beer pong play out in front of him. the noise is deafening, but it’s a familiar kind of chaos. toji’s across the table, grin sharp as he sinks another ping-pong ball into the last cup.
“hell yeah,” toji shouts, hands raised. “that’s another win for me, baby!”
someone hands him another drink, and he downs it in one go, slamming the cup down as the room cheers. toji fushiguro lives for this kind of night—beer, bets, and easy company. sukuna’s used to it, the routine almost comforting.
he joins the next round, barely losing after a stupid bounce, then lets himself collapse onto the sagging couch beside toji. the music’s pounding through the walls, but the corner they’re in feels quieter, almost like the noise fades around them.
toji stretches out, arm slung over the back of the couch, shirt sticking to his skin. “you’re slipping, man,” he says, smirking at sukuna. “used to be able to hold your own in beer pong.”
“fuck up,” sukuna mutters, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. “that last shot was rigged.”
“rigged?” toji laughs, deep and unrestrained. “you’re just rusty.”
sukuna grunts, tossing his empty cup onto the coffee table. his head’s buzzing—not from the alcohol, just from thoughts he can’t quite shake.
the image of you, the way you looked earlier in class, keeps floating up uninvited. you sitting at the front of the room, your careful handwriting, the little way you’d fidget with your pen when you were nervous.
he doesn’t even realize he’s been quiet until toji elbows him. “yo, what’s got you zoning out?”
sukuna runs his tongue over his teeth, deciding. screw it. “you ever heard of someone named y/n?”
toji raises a brow, blinking like he didn’t catch that over the noise. “who?”
“y/n,” sukuna repeats.
toji shakes his head, lips quirking. “nah. that some new chick you’re banging?”
sukuna sputters, choking on air. “what? no. i’m not—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. great. smooth start.
toji’s smirk widens. “come on, man. don’t get shy on me. you’re stuttering like some freshman.”
“shut up,” sukuna mutters, glaring at him. “it’s not like that.”
“then what’s it like?”
he hesitates, watching the light flicker off the beer bottles on the table. there’s no way to explain it without sounding weird. he’s not even sure why he’s bringing you up at all, except that he made a promise, and now he’s gotta start somewhere.
“she’s just… in my chem class,” he finally says. “smart as hell. the kind that actually knows what she’s doing, y’know?”
toji snorts. “so, a nerd.”
“yeah,” sukuna says, ignoring the way toji says it like it’s an insult. “but, like… cute. shy, quiet, nice, i guess.”
toji’s grin widens. “bro. you’re seriously telling me about a crush right now? what the hell happened to you?”
“it’s not a crush,” sukuna says quickly, though his voice comes out sharper than he means. “she’s just—” he stops, running a hand through his hair. “she’s helping me with chem, okay? and i told her i’d help her with something too.”
“what, she want free alcs?” toji laughs.
“no.” sukuna exhales through his nose. “she wants you.”
that earns him a pause. toji tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide if he misheard. “me?”
“yeah.”
“as in… she wants to, what, date me?”
“basically.”
toji’s silent for a moment, then he breaks into a bark of laughter so loud it turns a few heads. “you’re kidding, right? some shy nerdy girl wants me?” he grins, tapping his chest. “guess she’s got good taste.”
sukuna grits his teeth. “don’t be an ass about it.”
“what? i’m not being an ass,” toji says, still smirking. “just saying, that’s not really my type, man. i like girls who can actually keep up, y’know?”
“yeah, i know,” sukuna mutters. “that’s kinda the problem.”
“problem?”
sukuna leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “look, she’s… she’s sweet. like, actually sweet. the kind of girl that probably still says ‘sorry’ even when someone bumps into her first. you’d break her in half.”
toji shrugs, unbothered. “then maybe she shouldn’t be into me.”
“she doesn’t even know you,” sukuna says, frustration creeping into his tone. “she just saw you around. thinks you’re… i don’t know. hot and nice.”
“ha,” toji barks out a laugh, finishing his drink. “then she’s definitely got the wrong idea.”
sukuna sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. this was going nowhere.
he tries again, his tone careful. “i just figured maybe you could give her a chance. she’s not like the other girls you mess with. she’s…” he hesitates, searching for the right word. “different. the kind you’d actually like if you gave her five minutes.”
toji side-eyes him, clearly amused. “you trying to sell me a girlfriend or something? what’s in it for you?”
sukuna’s jaw tightens. “nothing. i told her i’d help her out, that’s all.”
toji grins, eyes glinting. “you sure about that? you sound kinda like you wanna keep her for yourself.”
sukuna’s silent for a beat, his pulse ticking faster than it should. “i don’t.”
“right. and i’m the pope.” toji laughs, leaning back. “are you high? tellin’ me about how cute and shy she is… just fuck her and move on, bro. no need for all this emotional shit.”
sukuna drags a hand down his face, groaning. “i wish i was fucking high. jesus, you’re impossible.”
the music gets louder again, another chant rising from the kitchen as someone calls for shots. toji stands, stretching, grinning down at him. “come on, man. stop thinking so hard. let’s go get wasted.”
sukuna waves him off. “nah, i’m good. go ahead.”
toji shrugs and disappears into the crowd. sukuna sinks further into the couch, head tipping back, letting the noise drown out the frustration burning in his chest.
this was going to be a nightmare.
.
the next morning, the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall feel like punishment. the air smells like stale coffee and paper, and the chatter around the room grates on his nerves. sukuna slouches into his seat, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion clinging to him.
you’re already there, of course. neat stack of papers beside your laptop, pen in hand, posture perfect. you glance up as he approaches, offering a small smile.
“morning,” you say softly.
“hey,” he mutters, sliding into the seat next to you.
the teacher doesn’t waste time, telling everyone to start working on their projects. pairs scatter across the room, some staying behind, others leaving for the library. you glance at sukuna, uncertain.
“should we…?”
“yeah, library,” he says before you can finish. “less noise.”
you nod quickly, tucking your notes under your arm as you follow him out.
the walk’s quiet. you keep close but not too close, fingers gripping the strap of your bag. sukuna glances at you once or twice as you walk, the sunlight catching the edge of your hair. there’s something weirdly calming about you, like your presence forces the chaos in his head to settle for a bit.
when you reach the campus library, you pick a small table near the back, away from the groups of whispering students. the morning light filters through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air. it’s quiet enough that every turn of a page feels loud.
you sit across from him, pulling your laptop from your bag. “um, before we start, maybe we should exchange contact info?”
he nods, pulling out his phone. “yeah. what's ya' number?”
you rattle it off, and he types it in. his phone pings a second later when you text him, and he adds your contact with a lazy swipe. then you both exchange social media.
you open your instagram to show him, but he’s already found it. your account’s small—cozy, soft colors, pictures of coffee cups, notes, and the occasional selfie that looks like you were trying not to take one.
then you look at his. thousands of followers, stories from parties, shirtless gym photos, snapshots of him and toji grinning like idiots with red cups in hand.
you blink, then smile politely. “ours are… really different.”
he huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. just a little.”
he doesn’t tell you that he finds it kind of adorable, how small and peaceful your corner of the internet looks compared to his chaos.
you both settle in to start discussing the project, papers spread between you. you talk about ideas, your voice growing steadier as you get into the topic. you explain concepts easily, your hands moving as you describe how you could structure the research, how to divide the work.
he listens. or tries to. mostly, he’s just watching the way you light up when you talk about something you love.
after a while, you pause, glancing at him with a small, hopeful look. “did you… talk to toji?”
he freezes for a fraction of a second, mind flashing back to last night—the laughter, the teasing, the absolute disaster of that conversation.
“yeah,” he says after a moment, forcing a smile. “i did.”
your eyes widen, curious. “what’d he say?”
he hesitates. you’re looking at him so earnestly, waiting for an answer, and he can’t bring himself to tell you that toji laughed it off, that he’d said something crude about just sleeping with you and moving on.
so he lies.
“he seemed interested,” sukuna says smoothly. “asked who you were. said you sounded cute.”
you go still for a moment, then your cheeks flush, and you duck your head. “really?”
“yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “told him you were smart, nice. he said that’s rare.”
your shy smile makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t understand.
“that’s… really nice of you, sukuna,” you say softly. “thanks.”
he shrugs, forcing a grin. “told you i’d help.”
but as you turn back to your notes, still smiling faintly to yourself, he can’t look away. he doesn’t know what’s worse—the way lying to you actually hurts his heart, or the way part of him’s starting to wish that toji never finds out who you are.
because the thought of you smiling like that at anyone else makes his stomach twist.
~
the frat house is quieter than usual when sukuna pushes the door open.
no bass pounding through the walls, no laughter echoing down the hallway, no beer pong table clattering in the kitchen. just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant muffled sound of someone’s tv from another room.
it’s strange. unsettling, almost. he’s gotten used to the constant noise, the never-ending buzz of people that filled the house from dusk till dawn.
he kicks off his shoes at the door, shoulders rolling back as he heads for the stairs. his head still feels heavy from the long day, the faint scent of your shampoo stuck in his memory.
it’s weird—he’s been around a thousand girls, maybe more. girls who practically threw themselves at him, who laughed too loud at his jokes and leaned in too close.
but somehow, you—sitting across from him with that shy smile and your soft voice explaining inter molecular relationship—manage to stick in his head longer than any of them ever have.
his room’s dark when he steps inside, save for the light bleeding in from the street through the blinds. he tosses his keys onto the desk and falls back onto his bed, exhaling. the ceiling stares back blankly.
he doesn’t even mean to grab his phone, but his hand moves before he can think. he unlocks it, thumb hovering over instagram.
just checking something, he tells himself.
his fingers type your username into the search bar without hesitation.
your profile opens instantly.
the same cozy layout he remembered. a few new story highlights. your bio—something simple, maybe a quote or a flower emoji. his thumb scrolls down slowly, eyes following the grid of neatly arranged photos. you, a few landscapes, coffee cups, snippets of sunlight through your window, a cat that might not even be yours.
he stops when he sees a picture from about a month ago.
you’re holding a tiny puppy in your arms, your face caught mid-laugh, like someone had said something funny right before snapping the picture. the puppy’s paw rests against your chest, nose tucked near your chin. in your other hand, you’re holding a paper cup of coffee, a little swirl of foam peeking through the lid.
he stares at it for longer than he should.
it’s just a photo, nothing special, but something about it hits him hard . the little details—the way your fingers curl gently under the puppy’s paw, the sunlight catching on the curve of your cheek, the way your smile looks completely unposed.
he catches himself wondering stupid things.
was that your dog? probably not. maybe a friend’s. or some random one you met at a cafe.
was the coffee yours? it looks like something you’d order, something simple. maybe vanilla, maybe something with caramel.
where was that taken? some small corner cafe? a weekend morning somewhere quiet?
he doesn’t know. and that bothers him more than it should.
his thumb hovers over the photo for a second before he double-taps it. the little red heart fills in on the corner of the screen.
great. now you’re going to see that he liked a post from a month ago. real smooth.
he tosses his phone onto the bed beside him, covering his face with his hands.
“what the fuck am i doing,” he mutters.
he’s never been that guy. the one who scrolls through a girl’s profile like he’s studying for an exam. the one who cares enough to wonder what her favorite coffee order is, or if she likes dogs or cats more. he doesn’t ask those questions. he doesn’t want to ask those questions.
but he can’t stop himself.
he scrolls again, back up to your most recent post—another candid shot, you’re wearing one of those oversized sweaters you always seem to wear to class, sleeves pulled over your wrists.
you look peaceful. and sweet. and so painfully far from the world he lives in.
his throat tightens unexpectedly, he looks deeper, really looks at you.
you’re really fucking pretty.
he’d always known that. he’d noticed, sure—he’s not blind. the first day you’d agreed to work with him, he’d thought you were cute. adorable, even. but now, staring at your pictures, seeing the small glimpses of your life beyond those chemistry notes and shy smiles, he realizes it’s more than that.
you’re beautiful.
and that realization sits heavy in his chest, thick and uncomfortable.
because he knows exactly where this is supposed to go.
he still owes you. he still promised you something.
toji.
the thought of his friend’s name makes him exhale hard through his nose.
he can already picture it—if he brings you up again, toji will laugh the same way he always does. say something crude. maybe shrug and agree to meet you, just for the hell of it. and maybe you’d smile that soft, nervous smile at him, and maybe you’d fall for him harder than you already have.
and that image—that thought—makes sukuna’s jaw clench.
he shakes his head, forcing the phone screen off.
“get a grip,” he mutters, rolling onto his side.
but it’s no use. even as he closes his eyes, the image of you laughing with that puppy burns into the back of his mind.
~
two weeks pass withf lectures and late-night text exchanges about project deadlines.
you’ve met up three times since that first day at the library. each time, sukuna’s noticed small things—how you seem to relax around him more, how you’ve started teasing him lightly when he messes up an equation, how your laugh sounds quiet but genuine when he actually manages to make you smile.
and now, on the fourth meeting, he finds himself heading to the library again, trying to ignore the way his stomach feels weirdly tight.
you’re already there when he walks in.
same table. same corner near the back.
but this time, something’s different.
you’re standing by your seat, waving slightly when you see him. and in your hands, you’re holding two cups of coffee.
“hey,” you say, your voice bright and clear in a way that makes him pause.
he blinks, momentarily thrown off by how cheerful you sound. “hey,” he replies, trying to sound as casual as usual.
you hold out one of the cups toward him. “i, um, got this for you. black coffee, right?”
for a second, he just stares.
it’s stupid. it’s a coffee cup. but his mind stutters anyway.
“yeah,” he says, voice quieter than he means it to be. “yeah, that’s right.”
“i wasn’t sure how you take it,” you admit with a small laugh. “you seem like the kind of person who drinks it straight. no sugar, no milk.”
he huffs out a small laugh, taking the cup from you. “you got that right.”
“lucky guess.”
you sit down, cheeks faintly pink. he watches you for a second longer than necessary before clearing his throat and dropping into the chair across from you.
“thanks,” he says finally, lifting the cup slightly. “for the coffee.”
you smile, soft and genuine. “you’ve been helping me a lot with this, so i thought it was the least i could do.”
he wants to tell you that you’ve got it backwards—that you’re the one keeping him afloat, not the other way around—but he bites his tongue.
instead, he takes a sip, the bitter taste grounding him.
“you didn’t have to, y'know.”
“i wanted to,” you say, eyes flicking down to your notes.
and for a brief second, he feels his pulse skip.
you wanted to.
he tries to shake the feeling, pulling out his own notes. “alright, so. what’s the plan for today?”
you talk about the experiment data, what needs to be written up, the references you still have to gather. he listens, but part of him’s distracted.
it’s the way you’re talking now—louder, lighter. you’re not tripping over your words anymore. you’re not afraid to meet his eyes. the shy girl who could barely look at him two weeks ago is now smiling at him between sentences.
and fuck if that doesn’t make something twist in his chest.
as the minutes pass, the project talk starts to blur into something else. he’s the one who changes the subject first.
“so,” he says, leaning back slightly. “what’s with you and coffee? every time i see you, you’ve got one.”
you look up from your laptop, blinking. “i just like it, i guess. i go to this little place near campus almost every morning before class.”
“the one with the green sign?”
“yeah, that one.”
“figured.”
you laugh quietly. “you go there too?”
“sometimes,” he says. “after workouts. they’ve got good espresso.”
you tilt your head. “you work out every morning?”
“almost,” he says, smirking faintly. “gotta keep my sexy frat guy aura in tact.”
“oh, right,” you tease, eyes glinting a little. “wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”
he blinks, caught off guard. “fans?”
“your instagram,” you say, trying not to laugh. “you’ve got, like, a thousand girls following you. i saw.”
he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “don’t remind me.”
“why?”
“because half of them don’t even go to this school,” he says, grinning a little. “they just… show up.”
you laugh, the sound soft but real, and he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.
after that, the conversation drifts. you talk about random things—your classes, your favorite kind of music, the dog from your photo (“that’s my friend’s puppy,” you explain. “he’s named mochi.”).
sukuna finds himself asking questions, more than he’s ever asked anyone before. not just because he wants to fill the silence, but because he genuinely wants to know.
you tell him about your hobbies, your part-time job at the campus bookstore, how you’re saving up for a trip after graduation.
he listens. really listens.
and for every small thing you share, he feels himself drawn in deeper.
when the session finally ends, the clock showing that two hours have slipped by without either of you noticing, you start packing up your things.
“same time next week?” you ask, glancing up.
“yeah,” he says. “same spot.”
you smile again, that soft, shy one that makes his chest ache.
and as you wave goodbye and walk out of the library, sukuna stays seated for a moment, staring at the empty chair across from him.
he should be thinking about the project. about grades. about keeping his promise to you.
but all he can think about is how the smell of coffee still lingers faintly on his fingers—and how, somehow, that’s become his favorite part of the day.
~
the frat house always feels heavy on monday mornings. air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, half-empty red cups scattered on tables like small grave markers from the weekend before. sukuna drags himself through the hallway, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower.
toji’s already waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. he looks up when sukuna walks in, flashing that familiar cocky grin.
“yo, you down to hit the gym?”
sukuna doesn’t even hesitate. “for sure.”
mondays are brutal, but skipping a session isn’t an option. not when you’ve got someone like toji keeping score. they finish off their drinks, grab their bags, and head out.
the campus is still quiet. early morning sun stretches across the pavement, birds chirping somewhere above. their sneakers hit the concrete in sync.
“bro, did you see the game last night?” toji asks, tossing a smirk his way.
“yeah,” sukuna mutters. “you owe me twenty.”
toji groans. “bullshit. that last call was garbage.”
“still counts.”
they go back and forth for a while—typical talk. girls, workouts, who pulled who at the last party. toji’s loud, animated, the kind of guy who fills silence with his own voice. sukuna listens, laughs when he should, but half his mind’s somewhere else.
they’re cutting across the main quad when he spots you.
you’re walking toward one of the lecture halls, tote bag slung over your shoulder, hair catching the light in a way that makes his breath hitch.
you’re wearing something simple—a cute shirt and nice jeans, your hands wrapped around a coffee cup—but somehow it makes you stand out more than anyone else on the path.
you don’t see him, too focused on your phone, but his chest tightens anyway.
for a second, it’s like the rest of the campus fades away.
then he remembers who’s walking beside him.
toji’s still talking about some girl he hooked up with over the weekend, words fading into the background as sukuna’s jaw tightens. he forces his eyes away, tells himself to stop being weird. this is stupid. you’re just his lab partner.
except he’s not supposed to be thinking about how good you look in the morning light. he’s supposed to be thinking about the deal.
the one with toji.
his throat feels dry as he forces himself to speak.
“hey,” he says suddenly. “you remember that girl i was talking about the other night?”
toji glances over, raising a brow. “the chem one?”
“yeah. that’s her.”
he nods toward you before he can second-guess it.
toji slows immediately, his attention shifting in your direction. you’re still walking across the path, the sunlight brushing over your face as you look up for a moment, squinting.
sukuna watches as toji literally stops in his tracks.
“no way,” toji says, eyes widening. “that’s her?”
“yeah,” sukuna mutters.
“holy shit.” toji’s grin spreads, sharp and impressed. “you didn’t tell me she was that cute.”
sukuna doesn’t respond. he just keeps walking, pretending to be unfazed, but every word toji says feels like it’s digging deeper under his skin.
“seriously, bro,” toji continues, still staring after you even as you disappear into the building. “you made her sound like some dorky little nerd. i was picturing ugly glasses, messy bun, the whole thing. but she’s—damn. she’s adorable.”
sukuna’s stomach twists. he forces a smirk, because that’s what’s expected. “yeah, she’s not bad.”
“not bad?” toji laughs, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me, man?”
“nah,” sukuna says quickly. “just didn’t think you’d be into that type.”
“what type?”
“the smart, quiet type,” he says, voice flat. “thought you liked girls who could ‘keep up,’ remember?”
toji scoffs. “yeah, well, she’s too cute to pass up. shit, you should let me tag along next time you’re studying with her. see what she’s like up close.”
sukuna forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “yeah, sure. whatever.”
inside, he’s cringing so hard he feels sick.
they head into the gym, the sound of clanging weights filling the space. he tries to focus—on the burn in his muscles, the rhythm of his breathing—but his thoughts won’t shut up. toji’s words keep echoing. she’s adorable. she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me?
this was what he was supposed to do. this was the plan. introduce you to toji, let things fall into place, make good on his end of the deal.
so why does it feel so wrong?
~
the next study session comes faster than he expects.
the day’s overcast, the library quiet except for the soft hush of the air conditioning. you’re already there when he walks in, sitting in your usual spot by the window, books neatly stacked, pen tapping absently against your notebook.
you look up when you hear his voice.
“hey,” he says, slipping through the aisles toward you.
your face brightens instantly, that small, warm smile tugging at your lips.
“hi,” you say, already starting to greet him—
then your voice falters.
because right behind him, towering and broad-shouldered, is toji.
your words die halfway out of your throat, eyes going wide. he’s impossible to ignore—dark hair, sharp grin, that easy confidence that radiates from him like static.
sukuna can see the exact moment you freeze. your fingers grip your pen a little too tightly, your posture going stiff.
“this is toji,” sukuna says, trying to sound casual. “he wanted to tag along today.”
“hey,” toji says smoothly, pulling up a chair without asking. “nice to meet you, y/n.”
you nod, cheeks pink. “h-hi.”
it’s awkward from the start. painfully so.
sukuna tries to start things off, opening his notebook and asking about the data you collected last week, but toji’s already jumping in with his own questions—none of them relevant.
“so,” toji leans forward, elbows on the table. “you’re really good at this chem stuff, huh? always been a little nerd?”
you laugh nervously, eyes flicking between the two of them. “i… guess so?”
“yeah, i could never,” he says, shaking his head. “i barely passed last year. too many parties, you know how it is.”
you nod politely, but the look on your face says it all—you have no idea what to say.
sukuna clenches his jaw.
toji keeps going, oblivious. he talks about the last frat party, about the time he benched two hundred in front of half the football team, about some girl who texted him last night. you just sit there, smiling faintly, giving small nods and quiet hums of agreement.
it’s brutal.
every word toji says feels like a slow car crash sukuna can’t stop. he knows he should’ve expected this—this was always how toji was—but now that it’s happening in front of you, he can’t stand it.
you’re sitting there, trying so hard to be polite, cheeks flushed, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve. and for the first time, sukuna hates how loud the other guy is. hates how he’s filling the space that’s always felt quiet and easy with you.
after what feels like forever, toji’s phone buzzes. he glances down, reads the message, and stands up.
“gotta head out,” he says, smirking. “good luck with your project, sweetheart. maybe i’ll swing by next time, yeah?”
before you can respond, he gives you a wink.
you freeze again, murmuring something that barely sounds like a goodbye.
he leaves, whistling under his breath, completely unaware of how painfully awkward that was.
the second he’s out of sight, sukuna exhales hard and runs a hand through his hair.
“fuck,” he mutters. “sorry about that.”
your eyes widen a little. “oh, um, it’s fine.”
“no, seriously,” he says, glancing at you. “i should’ve told you i was bringing him.”
you hesitate, then smile, shy but real. “it’s okay. i was just… nervous, i guess.”
he tilts his head. “why?”
you look down at your notes. “he’s just… kind of intense. i didn’t expect that.”
“yeah,” he says quietly. “he’s like that.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward, though. it’s calm. steady.
you’re visibly more relaxed now, shoulders no longer so tight, your voice softer when you start talking again. sukuna listens, his chest loosening with every word.
you don’t mention toji again.
and he doesn’t either.
for the rest of the session, it’s just the two of you again—back to the easy rhythm he didn’t realize he’d missed until it was gone. you explain a reaction mechanism, he teases you about your handwriting, you roll your eyes and laugh.
when it’s time to leave, you pack up your things slowly, almost like you don’t want the moment to end.
“see you next week?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says, smiling faintly. “next week.”
you give a small wave, and as you walk out, sukuna watches you disappear between the shelves, that same quiet warmth settling in his chest.
he should feel relieved—he did what he was supposed to. he introduced you to toji. he followed through.
but instead, he just feels like he’s made a mistake.
because the whole walk back to the frat, the only thing running through his head isn’t how toji couldn’t shut up or how awkward the whole thing was.
it’s how your voice had softened when you told him it was fine. how your eyes met his, even for a second, and he felt that stupid little spark again.
he doesn’t know what to call it. doesn’t want to.
but deep down, he knows one thing for sure.
the next time you two meet, he’s showing up alone, keeping you to himself.
~
music pounds through sukuna's chest, pulsing out of the open doors of the sorority like a heartbeat on overdrive. laughter spills down the steps, mixed with the sharp scent of alcohol and perfume and that sticky-sweet haze that always clings to these kinds of parties.
banners hang crooked above the door, fairy lights tangled like spiderwebs. the sorority girls really went all out.
it’s a mixer. one of those invite-only things, where every girl in greek row tries to get noticed by the “right” house. and sukuna’s frat—their house—was always the right one. full of grade A hotties like sukuna and toji and successful athletes like gojo and geto.
he spots toji near the entrance, already in his element. white t-shirt, chain glinting at his throat, grin carved sharp enough to cut through the noise. every few seconds, someone calls his name. girls from different sororities, guys from the rugby team, even one of the organizers waving him over.
toji was built for this. sukuna knew it. hell, everyone did.
“about time, man,” toji says when sukuna steps up beside him. “thought you’d bailed.”
“nah,” sukuna mutters. “just took my time.”
“yeah, well, tonight’s supposed to be wild. let’s make the most of it.”
they shoulder their way through the crowd, music pounding overhead, the smell of beer and sweat and too much perfume thick in the air. sticking together like usual.
a few girls call out sukuna’s name as they pass, and he just flashes that lazy grin he’s perfected—the one that says he’s not interested, but he might be later.
it’s all automatic now. the smirk, the eye contact, the way his shoulders roll when he laughs. it’s all muscle memory.
but tonight, something feels off.
maybe it’s the way every laugh sounds fake. maybe it’s the way the lights flash too bright, painting everyone in the same plastic color.
maybe it’s because all he can think about is you.
they end up in the kitchen, where the music’s still loud but not deafening. beer pong’s already set up on the long dining table, cups half-filled, ping-pong balls scattered across the sticky surface.
toji grabs a ball and grins. “let’s go. loser does a shot.”
sukuna smirks, rolling up his sleeves. “you’re on.”
they start playing, drawing a small crowd of girls who cheer and giggle at every throw. toji’s competitive as always, talking shit between shots, while sukuna plays quiet and steady. the rhythm feels familiar—the weight of the ball, the sound of it hitting the cup, the way everyone leans in to watch.
after two rounds, they’re tied. toji wins one, sukuna the other. the girls watching don’t seem to care who’s winning—they’re too focused on the way the two of them look, the easy confidence that comes with knowing the room revolves around them.
and then they descend.
a blonde slides up beside toji, pressing herself against his arm. another girl, brunette this time, drapes herself over sukuna, laughter dripping from her lips like honey.
“you guys are, like, scary good at this,” she says, voice high and flirty.
“practice,” sukuna says automatically. his smirk looks real enough. it always does.
her nails trace the edge of his sleeve, and she leans closer. “bet you’re real good at other things too.”
normally, this is the part where he’d lean in, let the moment pull him under. he knows how this goes—shots, dancing, slipping upstairs when the music gets too loud. normally he'd do anything for a quick fuck.
but tonight, it doesn’t land.
he looks down at her, at the perfect makeup and glitter around her eyes, and all he can think is how different she is from you.
how you’d never lean on someone like this. how you’d never grab at someone you just met. how when you talked, you actually meant what you said.
his jaw tightens.
toji’s already got two girls around him, laughing loudly, drink in one hand, the other at someone’s waist. he looks like he’s having the time of his life. and for the first time, sukuna feels nothing but exhaustion watching it.
the brunette keeps talking—something about the psych department, something about a pool party next weekend—but her words fade into static.
god, he can’t stop thinking about you.
he pictures your small smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. the way your voice lifts just slightly when you talk about something you love. the way your eyes meet his only for a second before darting away again.
then he thinks about how you’d react if you saw this.
if you saw toji right now—grinning, drunk, hands everywhere.
you’d look crushed. maybe not outwardly, but he knows you’d feel it. he can see that tiny flicker of hurt in his head, your lips pressing together, pretending not to care.
and for some reason, that thought hits him like a punch.
you’d be heartbroken over a guy like toji. and he hates that. hates it enough that his fake smirk starts to slip.
because toji’s the one you wanted. and toji’s right there, laughing with some random girl like you never even existed.
it makes his stomach twist.
the brunette leans in closer, her perfume cloying and too strong. she presses her lips against his neck, and something cold floods through him instead of the usual heat.
he stiffens.
she pulls back, confused, maybe even offended, but he just steps away, shaking his head.
“you good?” she asks, pouting a little.
“yeah,” he mutters. “just—need a smoke.”
he grabs a beer from the counter and makes his way outside.
the air’s cooler out here, cleaner. it hits his lungs in a way that almost feels like relief. he digs into his pocket, finds his pack, and lights up. the first drag burns his throat, grounding him a little. he thinks back to the time you'd seen a flash of the packet in his pocket, the look of concern plastering your cute face.
"you smoke cigarettes? y'know that pretty bad for you, sukuna..."
he sighs and takes another drag, he knew you were right, hell, he even cut down after that little statement.
inside, the party’s still raging. someone shouts, laughter echoing off the walls. he hears toji’s voice above the rest, loud and easy and so damn sure of himself.
sukuna exhales a long stream of smoke and stares out at the street.
why’s he even thinking about you like this?
you're just a girl. just a project partner. you needed his help, he needed yours. that’s all it was supposed to be.
but then he remembers how you'd smiled when he showed up on time for once, how you’d brought him that stupid cup of coffee just because you thought he’d like it. how careful you’d been, shy but trying.
and now he’s here, surrounded by everything he used to want, feeling nothing but restless.
he thinks about the library tomorrow morning.
you’d be there early. you always are. waiting at the same table, your notebook open, your pen tapping as you concentrate. you’d look up when he walks in, offer that small, quiet smile like you’re genuinely happy to see him.
the thought of showing up hungover makes his stomach knot.
he can’t let you see him like that. not reeking of beer, not bleary-eyed and half-dead from a night he didn’t even enjoy.
he flicks the ash off his cigarette, curses under his breath.
“what the fuck am i doing?”
he looks back toward the house. the windows are glowing with golden light, silhouettes moving inside. laughter spills out again, shrill and wild.
that used to feel like home.
now it just feels loud.
he takes another drag, the ember lighting up in the dark.
this isn’t him. at least, it’s not the version of him you’ve seen. the one who actually listens, who tries, who stays sober enough to remember what you said about catalysts and reactions. the one you’ve somehow turned him into without even knowing.
he huffs out a quiet laugh, bitter and low.
you’d probably never believe it if someone told you sukuna ryomen left a mixer early because of a girl.
but here he is.
he stubs out the cigarette, tosses the butt into the gutter, and pulls his jacket tighter around him.
he steps back inside just long enough to find toji at the beer pong table, a girl perched on his lap now, and rolls his eyes.
“yo,” toji calls over. “where the hell’d you go?”
“m' heading out,” sukuna says. “got shit to do tomorrow.”
toji raises a brow. “it’s friday, man.”
“yeah. i know.”
“whatever,” toji laughs. “your loss.”
sukuna just shrugs, already turning toward the door.
the music fades behind him as he walks out again. the night air hits him, cool against his skin. campus is mostly empty now, streetlights flickering.
he lights another cigarette as he walks, the smoke curling up into the cold.
his mind won’t stop racing.
he thinks about you again, about how small you look sitting behind your laptop, about the way you focus so hard you don’t notice him staring sometimes. about how quiet the world feels when it’s just the two of you in that corner of the library.
you’d laugh if you saw him now. the guy everyone calls a monster, walking home early from a party just because he wants to look sober in front of some shy chemistry nerd.
but it’s not just that anymore.
he doesn’t want to look sober. he wants to look good for you.
he wants you to think he’s better than this. better than what everyone thinks he's like.
he blows out smoke and watches it fade into the dark.
when he gets back to the frat, the house is nearly empty—most of the guys are still at the mixer. it’s quiet for once. he climbs the stairs, every step heavy, and stops at his door.
he stares at the handle for a second before going in.
the room smells like cologne and laundry detergent. his desk’s still a mess, papers and dumbbells scattered everywhere. he drops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
he should sleep. he should forget tonight.
but all he can see is you.
your smile. your voice. your eyes when they meet his and flick away just a second too fast.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
he ashes the cigarette in the tray, lets his head fall back, and closes his eyes.
the thought of you lingers like smoke in his lungs. intoxicating, slow, impossible to shake.
and for the first time in a long time, the idea of tomorrow doesn’t feel like just another day. it feels like something he’s waiting for.
~
the sun crawls through the blinds too early for a saturday.
pale light drags itself across the room, landing on the mess of clothes and empty bottles scattered over the frat floor. everyone’s still passed out.
bodies everywhere. some sprawled across couches, others snoring in corners, heads tipped back with half-empty beer cans slipping from their hands.
but not sukuna.
he’s awake.
he’s the only one who doesn’t feel like he got hit by a truck. no pounding head, no sour stomach. just the faint trace of smoke on his tongue and the quiet buzz in his chest that’s been there since last night.
he sits up, rakes a hand through his hair, and exhales. the air smells like sweat and cheap vodka. he looks around at the disaster that was his frat house—sticky floors, someone’s shoe on the counter, a guy in nothing but boxers drooling into the carpet—and shakes his head.
he’s not sticking around for the aftermath.
there’s something about this morning, something clean, light, strange. he grabs his hoodie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and checks his phone. too early for most people. not too early for you.
he smiles a little at that.
when he walks into the hallway, a few guys groan from the couch.
“yo,” one of them croaks. “where the hell are you going? it’s like… eight?”
“got plans,” sukuna says, slipping on his sneakers.
“plans?” another mumbles, half-asleep. “with who?”
“no one,” sukuna says quickly. “don’t worry about it.”
he’s already halfway out the door before they can start asking more questions. the last thing he needs is toji—or anyone, really—catching wind of this and deciding to tag along like last time.
the air outside hits him cold and fresh. campus is quiet, only the occasional sound of birds or a bike rolling past. everything’s washed in soft gold light, the kind that makes the world look cleaner than it really is.
he starts walking.
there’s a bounce in his step that he tries to ignore. it feels stupid to feel this way. giddy. like he’s got something worth looking forward to. he tells himself it’s just because he didn’t drink last night. he’s clear-headed. alert. that’s all.
but he knows it’s a lie.
the café comes into view just down the block. it’s the one you always go to—the one with the green sign. he remembers the first time he saw you there, hunched over your laptop with a coffee that had already gone cold, scribbling in your notebook like the world might end if you looked up.
the memory makes his chest feel weird.
he pushes open the door, the little bell chiming. the barista greets him with a sleepy smile. he glances over the glass case, scanning the pastries. croissants, muffins, a few danishes. then he spots the one he remembers you ordering once—flaky and soft, sugar dusted over the top.
“one of those,” he says, pointing.
the barista wraps it up neatly in paper. sukuna hands over the cash, then hesitates when she asks if he wants a drink.
he almost says yes. almost orders a sweet coffee for you.
but then he remembers.
you’ll already have one right now, you always do.
“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “js' the pastry.”
he walks out with the small paper bag in hand, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
he feels ridiculous. it’s a fucking pastry. but somehow it feels like more than that. like he’s carrying a confession.
when the library comes into view, he spots you right away.
you’re there, in your usual spot. that back table near the window, the one you’ve claimed without ever really saying so. your coffee’s beside your laptop, steam curling up faintly. you’re biting your lip, eyes narrowed in concentration as you read through something.
and god, you’re cute.
it slaps him all over again.
the way your hair falls forward, the soft sweater you’re wearing, the tiny crease between your brows. you’re not trying to be anything. you’re just there, focused, quiet, real.
he stands there for a second, just watching.
then he remembers himself and walks over.
“g'morning,” he says.
you look up, startled, then your whole face softens when you see him. “oh—hi! you’re early.”
“yeah,” he says, dropping his bag into the chair across from you. “didn't wanna sleep in today.”
you laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “fair.”
he pulls the paper bag from his hoodie pocket and slides it across the table.
he holds it out to you. “for you. figured you might want breakfast.”
you blink, startled. “wait, really?”
“yeah. it’s from that cafe you like.”
your mouth falls open slightly, and your cheeks go pink in that way he’s starting to adore. “you... remembered that?”
“guess so.”
you take the bag from him carefully, like it’s something fragile. when you peek inside and see what it is, your expression softens even more.
“oh my god,” you whisper, smiling so hard your eyes crinkle at the corners. “this is my favorite one.”
he watches, almost helpless, as you keep talking, thanking him over and over. your voice stumbles with embarrassment, your fingers fidget with the bag, and the more flustered you get, the more something warm spreads through his chest.
“you didn’t have to—really, that’s so sweet of you.”
“it’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is rougher than he means it to be. “just figured you might be hungry.”
you look down, still smiling. “thank you.”
and it hits him, how long it’s been since a girl said that to him and meant it.
you break the silence first, switching to the assignment, pulling up your notes and explaining something about the next section. he nods along, but he’s not really listening. he’s watching the way you push your hair behind your ear, the way your brows furrow when you focus.
he forces himself to pay attention. still, the moment feels easy.
you talk for a while about the project, comparing notes, trading small jokes. he feels himself relax into the rhythm of it, like it’s become a routine.
and then, without warning, you bring up toji.
you clear your throat first, eyes flicking down to your notes. “so, um... toji.”
he stills, one brow lifting, you were finally gonna talk about him since that awful run in last time. “hmm?”
“he’s… very…” you trail off, searching for the word. “loud.”
he snorts. “that’s one way to put it.”
“and, um, big. like—physically. and personality-wise. very… confident.”
he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah. sorry about that. he’s… a lot. again, i didn’t mean to unleash him on you like that.” he was apologising again, so out of character for him but he couldn't help it. not with you.
“no, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “he’s just… different than i expected.”
“different how?”
you hesitate, chewing your lip. “i guess i thought he’d be more like you.”
the words hang between you for a second. his pulse stutters.
“like me, huh?” he says, teasing, leaning back in his chair, spread wide as he looks you up and down. “what’s that supposed to mean, hm?”
you go red instantly, trying to drag your eyes away from his man spread legs. “i just meant—you’re, um, thoughtful. more focused. not overbearing, you're nice...”
he grins. "nice, huh?"
you hide your mouth behind your hand and look off to the side. "nicer than toji, yeah."
he laughs, "that's not a very high bar to clear."
you giggled in response, letting him continue.
“so you like my type better?”
“that’s not what i said,” you mumble, covering your face with your hand again.
“didn’t have to.”
you peek at him through your fingers, and he has to bite back a laugh. your cheeks are so pink it hurts to look at you.
“you’re bullying me,” you say, your voice small.
“maybe.”
you shake your head, still smiling, and reach for your coffee. he watches the way you hold it, the delicate tilt of your wrist, the little sigh you make after a sip.
then, quieter, he asks, “so… you still interested in him? toji, i mean.”
you freeze.
“i—uh.” your voice falters. “i guess so? i... i don’t know.”
“you don’t sound sure.”
“he’s just—not what i thought he’d be. i thought he’d be a little calmer.”
“he’s not really the type to surprise you in a good way,” sukuna says.
you smile faintly, eyes on your cup. “yeah. maybe not.”
the way you say it, soft, thoughtful, uncertain, it makes his chest ache.
you’re too sweet for this. too genuine. you deserve someone who actually listens, who doesn’t treat you like background noise. and for some reason, he hates that the person you’re hung up on is his best friend.
he sighs, rubbing his jaw.
you look up, curious. “what’s wrong?”
“nothing,” he says, forcing a smile. “just tired.”
you nod, and the two of you fall back into quiet work. it’s peaceful again, the only sounds the soft click of your keyboard and the scratching of his pen. time blurs.
when you finally close your laptop, stretching your arms, he realizes two hours have passed.
“we got a lot done,” you say, smiling.
“yeah,” he says, though he can’t remember a thing you just studied.
you start packing your things, tucking the empty pastry bag into your bag. before you can leave, you hesitate. then, shyly, you step closer and wrap one arm around him in a little side hug.
“thank you,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “for breakfast. and for helping me.”
for a second, he forgets how to breathe.
you smell like coffee and sugar and something faintly floral. your hand rests briefly against his side, and he swears every nerve in his body lights up.
then you pull away, smiling up at him, oblivious to the chaos you’ve just caused.
“see you tomorrow?”
“yeah!” he says quickly, way too excited. “d-definitely.”
you wave and head out, the door swinging shut behind you.
he stands there for a full minute, still staring at the spot you’d been standing, until he realizes his hands are clenched and his pulse is hammering.
he grabs his bag, mutters something under his breath, and heads outside.
the moment he’s in the open air again, he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
the breeze does nothing to cool the heat crawling under his skin.
he walks fast, head down, eyes on the pavement.
every step feels heavy with restraint.
because all he can think about is how soft you felt, how small your hand was against him, how much he wanted to pull you in, bury his face in your neck, keep you there for hours.
he curses under his breath, tugging his hoodie lower, hoping it hides the problem growing in his jeans.
“get it together,” he mutters.
he tries to think about anything else—the assignment, the game tomorrow, the half-finished paper on his desk—but his mind keeps circling back to you. your laugh. your blush. your hug.
by the time he reaches the frat, his heartbeat’s finally starting to slow, but the feeling stays. that dizzy mix of guilt and want.
he steps inside quietly, the house still a mess of half-dead hangovers, and slips upstairs to his room.
the first thing he does is sit on his bed, elbows on his knees, and let out a long, shaky exhale.
he’s in trouble.
he knows it.
because he can’t stop smiling.
~
the gym in the frat house isn’t much. it’s a dim room tucked behind the kitchen, with cracked mirrors and rusted weights, the air always heavy with the stale scent of sweat and cheap deodorant.
the guys call it a “home gym,” but it’s really just a collection of mismatched dumbbells, an old bench press, and a speaker that always buzzes when the bass hits too hard. its nothing like the fancy campus one him and toji visit, still, it works for sukuna.
he’s halfway through a set, sweat sliding down the back of his neck, when his thoughts start slipping away from the burn in his muscles and land right where they always seem to go lately.
he tries to ignore it, focusing on the motion, the rhythm, the push and pull of the bar in his hands.
but the harder he tries not to think about you, the more vivid you become. your voice, soft but steady, your shy little smiles whenever he cracks a joke, the way you always tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to blush.
it’s infuriating, how easily you creep into his head.
he exhales sharply, finishing the set with a grunt, letting the bar clang down harder than he means to. it rattles against the frame, echoing in the small room.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sitting up and grabbing the towel draped over his shoulders.
he wipes his face, breathing hard, his reflection in the mirror smudged with fingerprints and dust. he looks exhausted, not just from the workout but from everything sitting in his head.
you and toji.
you and that stupid, innocent crush you’d confessed to him like it was nothing.
he leans forward, elbows on his knees, towel hanging loosely around his neck. he can’t keep fucking around pretending like this is going to work anymore.
he can’t sit through another study session with you knowing that toji knows you're into him.
toji doesn’t even remember half the girls he flirts with, so why should he get to occupy that sweet spot in your brain.
that thought alone makes his blood boil.
you’re too good for that. too damn good.
he picks up the dumbbell again, trying to lift through the frustration, but his mind keeps racing. toji’s face flashes in his mind—the obnoxiousness, his interest in you only after finding out what you looked like.
the memory makes his jaw clench.
toji doesn’t deserve to know you exist, let alone be someone you lose sleep over.
his grip tightens around the handle. he lifts again, but it feels pointless now, his muscles burning for a different reason entirely.
finally, he slams the weight down and stands up, chest heaving.
he’s done.
done thinking he can stomach this, done keeping that deal, done lying to himself.
without even thinking about it, he walks out of the gym, towel still slung over his shoulder. his feet move on instinct, carrying him through the hall, up the grand stairs, straight to toji’s room.
the door’s half-shut, light spilling from the gap, and he doesn’t bother knocking. he pushes it open, the wood hitting the wall with a dull thud.
toji’s sprawled across his bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone. there’s a protein shake on the desk, a game controller tangled in the sheets. he looks up lazily when sukuna appears.
“yo,” he says, grinning. “you look pissed. what, satoru stealing your shirts n' shit again?”
sukuna doesn’t answer. he stands there for half a second, jaw tight, and then the words just fall out before he can stop them.
“y/n has a boyfriend,” he blurts. “so you can forget the whole crush on you thing.”
toji blinks, confused. “uhm?”
“what,” sukuna says, crossing his arms. “shes got a guy.”
toji sits up slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “who’s y/n again?”
the silence that follows is deafening.
sukuna stares at him, the vein in his temple twitching.
“are you actually deadass right now?”
toji shrugs. “bro, i talk to a lot of girls, you gotta be more specific.”
that’s it.
sukuna drags a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds halfway between a growl and a groan. he doesn’t even bother explaining. it’s not worth it.
“don't worry, man,” he snaps, spinning on his heel.
he slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
by the time he gets back to his room, his chest is tight, the frustration boiling over into something heavier. he paces once, twice, then finally drops onto his bed, letting his head fall back against the wall.
“who’s y/n again?”
the words echo in his mind like a bad joke.
he can’t believe it. he can’t believe he ever thought this was a good idea, trying to set you up with that idiot.
it’s not even about the deal anymore. it’s about you.
because now he knows what it feels like to be around you, to hear you laugh, to see the way your eyes light up when he remembers the smallest things. he knows what it feels like to walk beside you through campus at night, the air cool and soft, your voice quiet but steady.
he likes you.
really, really likes you.
and it’s not just because you’re pretty, though god, you are. it’s because you’re kind. because you make him feel human again, in a way that nothing else ever does. because you talk to him like he’s worth something more than the reputation that follows him.
he doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s there now, and it’s not going away.
.
the weeks that follow move in a blur. the two of you keep meeting for study sessions, but they’ve shifted. so subtly that neither of you seems to notice.
you’re more relaxed now. you smile more, laugh easier. you’ve started showing up with little things for him too. chocolates, protein bars, a can of cold brew. every time, he teases you about it, but inside, he’s having a spaz out.
and every time he brings you something in return, you light up like he’s handed you the world.
you’ve started talking about more than the project. now, it’s everything. random things. favorite youtuber, weird scandals, childhood fuck ups, "yeah, i used to be one of those devious lick kids in middle school, me and gojo stole an entire sink".
sometimes, you talk so much you forget the assignment altogether, and he never stops you.
he lives for these moments.
sometimes, when you’re sitting side by side at the library, your knees brush under the table. it’s barely a touch, accidental every time, but it makes his pulse stutter.
you’ve started giving him hugs too, real ones. not just quick, polite ones, actual, full-bodied hugs that make him want to forget how to breathe. all he wants to do is bundle you up and take you back home, lock you away where no one could possibly taint that beautiful smile.
he pretends to be chill and nonchalant, but inside, he’s crashing out so hard.
one afternoon, it’s raining outside, and you show up in a damp tank top, hair slightly damp. he nearly forgets how to speak. you hand him a hot chocolate and giggle when he stares at it like he’s never seen one before.
“it’s not that weird,” you say, smiling. “i thought you might want something warm and sweet for this type of weather.”
he looks at you for a long moment trying not to stare at your see through chest, then takes the cup. “thanks,” he murmurs, and it sounds like something heavier than gratitude.
you shrug, shy but pleased, then sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
when the session ends that day, he walks you home like he always does. it’s become a quiet habit between you. no one suggested it, but neither of you questions it either. you live just off campus, in a small apartment with ivy creeping up the walls, and every time you reach your door, you both hesitate.
he wants to ask if he can come inside, just once.
you always look like you might invite him, too.
but neither of you ever says it.
instead, you smile, soft and warm, and tell him goodnight. he always watches until you disappear inside, until the light flicks on and frank ocean starts softly pouring from the window.
and every time, he walks back to the frat with that same ache in his chest, the one that’s half longing and half fear.
he knows he’s in wayyy too deep.
but he can't stop.
you’ve started coming out of your shell in little bursts. you tease him now, gently. you call him out when he’s being lazy, roll your eyes when he tries to act too chill. and he eats it the fuck up. every second of it.
you’re different with him now. freer. you trust him.
and that makes everything both better and worse.
because every time you look at him with that open, honest expression, he has to remind himself of the lie he built this on—the deal, the fake promise to get you closer to toji.
it barely comes up anymore. sometimes you mention toji in passing, usually as a joke, and you both laugh it off. it’s like neither of you really care about it anymore.
and maybe that’s the truth. maybe it stopped mattering the moment you started looking at him like that.
one evening, when the sun’s setting, you’re sitting across from him at the library, talking about nothing in particular. you’re smiling, head tilted, your voice soft. and he catches himself staring, not hearing a single word.
you stop mid-sentence, blinking. “what?”
he shakes his head quickly. “nothing.”
“you’re staring,” you say, cheeks pink.
“you’re imagining things, honey."
you laugh, hiding your face in your hands.
he smiles too, but there’s something behind it—something he doesn’t let you see.
because in that moment, it hits him all over again, stronger than before.
he’s seriously can't do this shit any longer.
he doesn’t want to help you get to toji anymore.
he doesn’t want to stand by while you talk about someone else, even in passing.
he wants you. all of you.
the quiet smiles, the shy blushes, the little quirks he’s learned by heart.
he wants to be the one who gets to see every part of you—every version of that soft, sweet girl who’s been slowly unraveling in front of him.
and he knows, deep down, that if he ever let himself say it out loud, he’d never be able to take it back.
so he keeps it buried, just for now, as he walks you home again that night. the streetlights stretch long shadows across the pavement, and your arm brushes his once, twice, and each time, he swears of he doesn't concentrate he'll trip over his jordans.
when you reach your door, you turn to him with that same bright smile, the one that always knocks the air from his lungs.
“thanks again,” you say softly.
he nods. “anytime.”
you linger for a second, like you want to say something more, then wave goodnight and disappear inside.
he stands there for a long moment, staring at the door, listening to the faint hum of music from your apartment.
then, finally, he exhales, a small, helpless laugh slipping out.
he’s ruined. completely.
and for once in his life, he doesn’t even mind.
~
the classroom is thick with the sound of quiet chatter, chairs scraping against tile, pens clicking as people jot down reminders before leaving. the fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting everything in a washed-out glow that makes it feel like time’s been stretched too thin. the chemistry teacher’s voice cuts through it all, cheerful but distant.
“alright, everyone—just a quick reminder that your paired assignment is due at the end of this week. make sure you’ve got everything finalized. i’ll be checking submissions on friday.”
the words hang in the air like a quiet ending bell.
you look up from your notes at the same time sukuna does, and for a moment, your eyes meet across the shared lab table. he’s already watching you, elbows resting on the counter, twirling his pen between his fingers.
he gives you this crooked half-smile—something between fond and nervous—and you return it, though yours falters just a little at the edges.
it hits both of you at once. this thing between you, this rhythm you’ve fallen into, the study sessions, the walks home, the quiet coffees before class? it’s been built around this assignment. and when the assignment ends, what happens then?
he taps his pen against his notebook, looking away first. “guess we’re almost done, huh?”
you try to sound light. “yeah… crazy how fast it went.”
but it doesn’t feel fast. it feels full. it feels like a lifetime compressed into a few short weeks, every minute threaded with something unspoken.
he hums in agreement, glancing at you again. “we should probably go over everything one more time. make sure it’s perfect.”
you nod, pretending to check the notes in front of you. “mhm, library after class?”
“yeah,” he says. “one last session.”
one last. the words make your stomach twist.
.
sukuna drops his bag on the chair across from you, stretching his arms as he sits down. his hair’s a little messy from the wind, and he smells faintly of the sexy cologne he always wears, something clean and manly that clings to his skin.
you open your laptop, trying to focus on the document in front of you. it’s almost done—just small edits, formatting, double-checking citations—but the words keep blurring. you can feel his presence across the table, solid and steady, and it’s impossible to think about chemistry when he’s right there.
he’s quieter than usual too. his knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm, and every now and then you catch him glancing up, like he’s about to say something but decides against it.
the silence stretches between you, thick and loaded. you can’t stand it anymore.
“so…” you start, voice softer than you mean it to be.
he looks up instantly, like he’s been waiting for you to speak. “yeah?”
you open your mouth, close it again, glance at your hands. “never mind. it’s nothing.”
he frowns slightly. “come on. what is it?”
you shake your head, forcing a small smile. “seriously, it’s nothing. just focus.”
he watches you for a second longer, then sighs and leans back, crossing his arms. “fine. but you’re acting weird.”
you let out a soft laugh that sounds too nervous. “i could say the same about you.”
that gets a real smile out of him, crooked and teasing, but it fades quickly.
you both go quiet again, typing half-heartedly, neither of you really working. the tension builds, unspoken and unbearable.
you can feel the words sitting on your tongue, begging to be let out. you want to tell him everything. how the crush on toji fizzled out weeks ago, how stupid it feels now, how you can’t stop thinking about him instead. how every time he looks at you, your whole chest feels like it’s about to give out.
you glance up. he’s staring at his screen, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. and somehow, you can tell he’s holding something back too.
finally, you both move at the same time.
“i have to tell you something,” you say, right as he says, “there’s something i should tell you.”
you both stop, eyes locking.
you laugh softly. “you first.”
he shakes his head. “nuh uh, you first.”
“no way,” you say, smiling now despite the nerves. “you looked like you were about to explode. go ahead.”
“ladies first,” he shoots back, that teasing lilt returning to his voice, though his eyes are still serious.
you roll your eyes, but your heart’s hammering. “fine,” you breathe.
he leans forward, forearms on the table, watching you carefully.
you swallow, your fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve. “okay. so, um… this is kind of embarrassing, but—”
you stop, take a breath, try again. “it's about toji.”
his expression flickers for a second, something unreadable crossing his face. “yeah,” he says slowly. “what about him?”
you toy with a pen to keep your hands busy. “i don’t really… feel that way anymore. about him.”
his brow lifts just slightly, his voice careful. “ts' that so?”
you nod, cheeks warm. “yeah. i mean, it was kind of silly, wasn’t it? i barely knew him. i think i just liked the idea of him. and then when you brought him to that one session, i realised he’s… kinda clapped, nothing like what i imagined.”
he lets out a small sound, something close to a laugh, but it’s quiet, almost nervous. “yeah, that sounds like him.”
you smile faintly, tracing a finger along the edge of your notebook. “the truth is, i think i was just projecting. when we started hanging out, i didn’t know you that well, and i guess i thought maybe toji was like you. you know? confident, funny, easy to talk to.” you pause, your gaze flicking up to his. “but he’s not you. not even remotely close.”
his breath catches slightly, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak.
“i don’t know,” you go on, voice softer now, almost trembling. “i kept thinking i wanted someone like toji, but… the whole time, i was really just wishing he’d be more like you, sukuna.”
you meet his eyes fully now, and the world seems to narrow around you both. “and then i realised maybe i don’t want someone like you. maybe i just, you know, want you.”
the silence that follows feels endless.
he’s staring at you, completely still. you can see the realization hit him. the tension in his shoulders easing, his expression softening in disbelief and relief all at once.
you bite your lip, instantly flustered. “that sounded so stupid, didn’t it?”
he shakes his head quickly. “no. no, not at all.”
he leans back in his chair, letting out a long, shaky exhale. it’s the biggest breath of relief you’ve ever seen someone take. he runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, a sound that’s half disbelieving, half overwhelmed.
“holy shit,” he murmurs, still smiling. “you have no idea how good it is to hear that.”
you blink. “uhm, what?”
he laughs again, softer this time, his hand still pressed to the back of his neck. “that’s what i was gonna tell you. i’ve been losing my fucking mind these past few weeks because i’ve been trying so hard not to say it.”
you stare at him, your heart pounding. “say what?”
he meets your gaze again, eyes warm and honest. “that i like you. like, really like you. i’ve had this massive crush on you for a while now, and it’s been killing me trying to act normal.”
you can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, part disbelief, part giddy joy. “you’re deadass?”
he nods. “one hundred percent.”
“but… the deal,” you say quietly. “you were supposed to help me with toji.”
“yeah, about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “i kinda… just didn’t.”
you tilt your head. “uhhm, what?”
he laughs again, nervously this time. “i told him you had a boyfriend.”
your eyes widen. “you did?"
he winces. “yeah. i told him that weeks ago. i just... i couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t keep pretending i was helping you get with him when all i wanted was to keep you all to myself.”
you blink once, twice, then cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “you told him i had a boyfriend?”
“yep.” he grins now, a little cocky, a little embarrassed. “guess that’s me sabotaging the deal.”
you drop your hand, still smiling. “that’s so stupid.”
“i know.”
“but…” you pause, your smile turning softer. “it’s kind of sweet.”
he leans forward again, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you’re not mad?”
“mad?” you repeat, shaking your head. “no. that’s… exactly what i wanted, actually.”
he blinks. “really?”
you nod, heart in your throat. “yeah. i didn’t want you helping me with toji. not anymore. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”
he stares at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “so what now?”
you smile. “i don’t know. maybe we just… stop pretending.”
he exhales, leaning back with a grin that could light up the whole room. “i can do that.”
for a moment, neither of you says anything. you just sit there, the quiet hum of the library around you, the sun slipping lower through the windows, painting his skin in gold.
finally, he breaks the silence, voice low. “for the record, i was terrified you were about to tell me you had a new man for real.”
you laugh softly. “no chance.”
“good,” he says, and the way he looks at you—soft, sure, a little possessive—makes your pulse race.
you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re both leaning across the table, closer than you’ve ever been. the distance between you shrinks until you can feel his breath on your lips, his hand brushing lightly against yours.
neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.
the moment stretches, slow and sweet, full of everything you’ve both been holding back.
~
the second you get back to your apartment, your face ignites with the kind of fire only a really nice fireplace could match, the ones in those fancy houses you see on the block.
the guy you'd been crushing on for a total of four weeks now had just told you he felt the same. and ever more, he'd been so obsessed he'd told your ex-crush you'd had a boyfriend in hopes of bagging you himself.
for a girl not used to being in the spotlight, having such a loud, well known frat guy like ryomen sukuna become vulnerable, just for you? it was like the world came crashing and burning down at your feet. he made your stomach swim with love and passion, a feeling you'd only ever gotten from receiving higher grades than everyone else, a feeling so much better than finding a new delicious pastry you couldn't help but order again.
ryomen sukuna was it. he was the kinda guy you'd been dreaming of ever since you'd started college. he was the perfect man, and he was as into you as you were him.
you settled into your living room with an adorably large smile painted on your lips, the sensation of fulfilment taking over your ever thought as you dreamt of what was to happen next.
~
the week after the submission crawls by. you think about both sukuna and the possible grade you'll both get every day. every time you pass the lab, every time you open your laptop, every time you catch sight of sukuna across the courtyard, leaning against the wall with his friends.
you can tell he’s thinking about it too. the way he catches your eye during class and offers a small, crooked smile says everything. neither of you can really stop wondering what the final mark will be, as well as what life has in store for the both of you.
friday finally rolls around, the classroom feels weird. students trickle in with tired faces and restless energy, everyone buzzing quietly with the same anticipation. the teacher walks in, holding a stack of papers in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.
she sets everything down at the front desk, claps her hands together, and gives a small, approving smile.
“alright, everyone,” she says, her tone almost teasing. “i’ve marked your projects. you’ll get the official grades through the online portal, but since i know you’re all impatient—” her gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on you and sukuna, “—i’ll let you know this much: some of you really impressed me.”
a ripple of chatter runs through the class. sukuna shoots you a look from across the room, eyebrows raised. you smile nervously and shrug.
after class, the two of you linger by the doorway, waiting for the crowd to clear out. you’re clutching your phone, refreshing the student portal again and again even though the grades still aren’t visible. sukuna leans close, peering at your screen.
“nothing yet?” he asks.
“no,” you sigh. “probably another hour.”
he tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “want to check it together later? at that little cafe with the green sign?”
you blink. “awe, my favourite. sure!”
“of course,” he says, smirking lightly. “how good am i remembering your favourite things n' shit.”
you laugh, cheeks warming. “what a man. how about we meet there at five?”
“five it is.” he gives a small wave as he heads down the hall. “see you then, partner.”
the cafe smells like roasted coffee beans and sugar, the air humming with quiet conversation and the clinking of ceramic cups. it’s early evening, and the place is wrapped in that warm, lazy glow that makes everything feel softer. the green sign outside flickers faintly through the window, the letters worn from years of weather and sunlight.
you spot him immediately—sitting near the counter, wearing a black hoodie and tapping his thumb against his phone screen. his hair’s pulled back, a few loose strands falling into his eyes. he looks up the moment the door chimes, and that grin spreads across his face like it’s second nature.
“hey,” he says as you approach.
“hey,” you echo, sliding into the seat across from him.
he gestures toward the counter. “i already ordered for us. black coffee for me, that thing you like for you, and—” he grins, “—a pastry, because apparently you can’t sit in this place without one.”
you laugh softly, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters. “you know me too well, we needa' hang out less.”
“noo,” he says, leaning back. “i'm just an observer.”
the drinks come quickly, steam curling from the cups. you take yours with both hands, staring at the little swirl of foam, trying to calm your nerves. sukuna pulls out his phone again, refreshes the student portal, and freezes.
his eyes widen. “holy shit,” he mutters.
you look up sharply. “what?”
he turns the screen toward you. there it is—your names side by side, and next to them, the number that makes your breath catch.
98%.
you stare at it for a second, then look at him, and the two of you just burst out laughing.
“oh my-” you say, grinning from ear to ear. “ninety-eight?”
he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “holy shit- holy shit can’t believe it,” he says, half-laughing, half-sighing in disbelief. “i actually passed. i can stay in the frat. holy shit.”
you laugh again, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “i told you you’d do fine!”
he stands up suddenly, still laughing, and before you can react he pulls you into his arms. it’s a full, tight hug—so warm, so big. his chest rumbles with laughter, and you can feel how much this means to him, how much the stress and pressure have finally melted away.
“thank you,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low, almost breathless. “thank you so much for helping me. i would’ve completely fucking tanked without you.”
you laugh against his shoulder, feeling your own face heat up. “you’re welcome,” you mumble, your words muffled by his hoodie. “you did so good, really.”
when he finally lets go, you can still feel the warmth lingering where he’d held you. he looks just as flustered, rubbing the back of his neck as he sits back down.
“sorry,” he says, half-smiling. “got a little carried away.”
“it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “it was… nice.”
his grin widens at that.
you both take a moment to calm down, sipping your drinks in the cozy corner. the sound of the coffee machine hums faintly in the background, and sunlight filters through the leaves outside, dappled across the table. it feels like the whole world’s slowed down just for the two of you.
“so,” he says eventually, voice softer now, “ninety-eight percent. that's so peak."
“yeah, we did that,” you reply, smiling. “you’ll probably get a compliment from the teacher next class.”
“you too,” he says. “you carried me, you're actually so clutch.”
“you helped too,” you insist. “you actually tried, sukuna. that’s what mattered.”
he chuckles, shaking his head. “yeah, but even if i hadn’t passed…” he pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “i don’t think i’d be too upset.”
you tilt your head, smiling faintly. “no?”
“nah.” he leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “because i got to spend all that time with you. and honestly? that made it worth it.”
your chest tightens, a flutter rising under your ribs. you look down quickly, pretending to focus on your coffee. “you’re just saying that.”
“i’m not,” he says firmly. “you made studying actually fun. no one’s ever done that shit before.”
you look up again, and his expression is so genuine, so open, that you forget how to breathe for a second.
“well,” you say softly, “i liked spending time with you too.”
your cups sit forgotten on the table, the croissant half-eaten, and all you can hear is the chatter of other uni kids and the soft clatter of dishes.
you stare into his eyes, and there’s a question there—unspoken but clear.
he smiles, almost shyly, a rare thing for him. “so… what now?”
you shrug lightly, but your smile mirrors his. “i don’t know. i guess we don’t have to stop hanging out just because the project’s done.”
his grin grows wider, and you can see the faintest pink dusting his ears. “good,” he says. “because i was kinda hoping you’d say that.”
he hesitates for a moment, then sits up a little straighter, as if gathering courage.
“actually,” he says, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his cup, “there’s something i wanted to ask.”
you tilt your head. “hmm? and what’s that?”
he exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “i know this is probably cheesy as hell, but… i’d really like to take you out. like, properly. dinner, movie, whatever you want. an actual date.”
the words sink in, soft and certain. you blink, surprised but instantly smiling, your cheeks growing hot.
“you mean… like, a date date?” you ask, teasing just a little.
he laughs under his breath. “yeah. a date date.”
you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “i’d love that.”
his expression softens into something that almost makes your heart ache. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
for a moment, you just sit there, both grinning like idiots. it feels unreal, like something out of a quiet, sunlit dream.
he leans back in his chair, relief washing over him in waves. “good,” he says. “i was worried you’d say no.”
you shake your head, still smiling. “never.”
the light outside shifts slowly, spilling gold through the window, painting his skin in soft warmth. he looks at you like he’s memorizing the moment—the coffee, the laughter, the way you keep tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
and as he sits across from you, grinning like he can’t quite believe his luck, you know that whatever comes next, it’s going to be something worth waiting for.
~
months slide by, slow but certain. what once was a study partnership built on awkward exchanges and quiet glances has become something sooo much more. somewhere between library stops, coffee stops, and tight hugs, it shifted. you shifted. sukuna shifted. the line between school and romance blurred until it disappeared completely.
now, you’re his. officially, undeniably, completely his. and he’s yours.
the first time sukuna brings you to the frat house as his girlfriend, it feels like stepping into a completely different world. the place is loud, music spilling from bluetooth speakers, guys shouting from the kitchen about who’s out of beer, the smell of cheap cologne and pizza hanging in the air.
you pause in the doorway, clutching sukuna’s hand like it’s an anchor. he glances down at you with that little smirk that never fails to make your heart stutter.
“don’t stress it baby,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath grazes your ear. “they’ll love you.”
and they do.
weather or not that's because he threatened to beat them unconscious if they made you feel uncomfortable before you came over is irrelevant.
satoru’s the first to notice you, perched on the couch with a controller in hand. he looks up mid-game, grins wide, and immediately calls out, “holy shit, sukuna actually brought a girl here voluntarily?”
“shut up,” sukuna grumbles, tightening his grip on your hand. “this one’s permanent.”
that earns a chorus of oohs and whistles from the guys nearby. your face burns, but when you glance up at sukuna, he’s smiling—not his usual cocky grin, but something softer. proud.
“hey,” you mumble under your breath, “it smells so bad in here, ryo.”
he chuckles quietly. “you’ll get used to it.”
before you can even respond, toji appears from the kitchen, a beer in hand and a knowing grin on his face. “well, if it isn’t the little chem genius.”
you blink. “you… remember me?”
“of course,” toji laughs, setting his drink down and stretching out a hand. “heard you saved this idiot’s academic career.”
“hey,” sukuna cuts in, rolling his eyes. “i wasn’t that bad.”
“you had an eight percent, bro.”
the whole room bursts into laughter. sukuna just grumbles and flips toji off while you try not to giggle too loudly. it’s strange, seeing them all like this. so loud, so chaotic, so different from the quiet rhythm you’re used to, but somehow, it feels okay. you feel okay.
by the end of the night, you’re sitting between sukuna’s legs on the couch, his arms draped loosely around your waist, your back against his chest. someone puts on an old movie in the background, and the chatter slowly fades into easy quiet. for the first time, the frat doesn’t feel intimidating. it feels warm. welcoming.
satoru catches your eye from across the room, giving a thumbs up before mouthing, she’s a keeper. sukuna just smirks.
later that night, when everyone else has gone to bed and the house has fallen quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards, sukuna presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“told you they’d love you,” he whispers.
“yeah, you were right,” you murmur, smiling softly. “they’re so nice.”
“you’re even nicer,” he says, his voice barely audible. “that’s why they love ya'.”
and you can hear the truth in his tone. you know he means it.
after that, everything starts to fall into blissful routine. you help him study, drilling formulas and reactions into his head late into the night. he’s surprisingly good at it now, his grades climbing steadily—proof that maybe he was capable all along, he just needed someone to push him in the right direction.
and in return, he helps you come out of your shell.
he brings you to tiny cafes you’ve never been to before, teaches you how to play pool (terribly, but he doesn’t care), and pulls you into spontaneous late-night walks through campus when the air is cool and the stars are bright.
sometimes, you end up sitting on the hood of his car, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your fingers tangled with his as he talks about everything and nothing.
he tells you things he’s never told anyone else—about his parents, about the pressure to be someone bigger, stronger, louder. about how he never really cared about anything before he met you.
“you made me start giving a shit,” he says one night, his voice low as he traces lazy circles against your palm. “about school, about the future. about being a better guy.”
you glance up at him, smiling faintly. “you're the bestest guy, kuna.”
he looks at you for a long time, his chest squeezing with the urge to squish you until you pop. then, with a soft exhale, he leans down and kisses you. gentle, slow, like the world could end and he’d still be happy just holding you against his muscular chest.
word gets around campus fast. whispers follow you sometimes. half disbelief, half awe. people don’t really understand how you ended up with him. the shy, quiet girl who sits at the front of every lecture, always polite, always prepared… dating one of the loudest, most notorious frat boys on campus.
but the thing is, neither of you care.
you’ve seen the way people look at you two when you walk hand in hand across campus, his tall frame towering beside yours. you’ve heard the murmurs—'how long do you think it’ll last, she’s too good for him, he’ll get bored'. but then he catches your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and all of it melts away.
"don't listen to those clowns."
because you know him now. the real him.
the boy who wakes up early to get your favorite pastry from the cafe before class. the one who drapes his hoodie over your shoulders when it’s too crisp. the one who never forgets to text you goodnight, even when he’s exhausted.
the one who stopped showing up to most frat partys because, as he put it, “none of it’s fun without you anyway.”
you see it in the way he’s changed. not because you asked him to, but because he wants to.
he doesn’t flirt with girls anymore. he doesn’t even seem to notice when they do. his focus is all on you. your laughter, your voice, your little quirks that no one else ever bothered to notice.
and it’s not just the big things that show it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the road closest to the cars. the way he remembers all your orders without ever asking. the way he’ll pull you closer when you’re out together, even if it’s just to rest his big hand on your hip.
he doesn’t talk about feelings much, not directly. but in every gesture, every glance, it’s there.
you’re his world now, and everyone can see it.
his room at the frat house has changed, too. gone are the stacks of solo cups and random gym gear scattered across the floor. in their place are little pieces of you—a throw blanket you brought one day, a mug you left on his desk, your notebook tucked on the shelf next to his textbooks.
he keeps a photo of the two of you pinned on his bulletin board. it’s a candid, one of those moments you didn’t even know he was taking. a shot of you sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing his hoodie, laughing with a half-eaten cookie in your hand. he swears it’s his favorite picture in the world.
“you look so fucking cute, and happy,” he tells you when you catch him staring at it one night.
“i am happy,” you reply softly.
“better be,” he says. “that’s all i ever want for you, y/n.”
some nights, he stays over at your apartment instead of the frat. he always claims it’s because it’s quieter, easier to focus on studying. but you both know it’s just because he sleeps better when you’re beside him.
you cook together sometimes, though “cook” might be a really shitty out of touch excuse for the disaster you two create. he burns half the things he touches, laughs through every fuck up, and still insists on taste-testing everything like he’s on master chef. you can’t stay mad when he grins at you with flour on his cheek, his dimples showing as he holds up a misshapen cookie.
“hey, we’re improvin',” he says.
“barely,” you reply, giggling.
he just leans down, presses a quick kiss to your nose, and murmurs, “yeah, but you’re still here, so i must be doing somethin' right.”
there are still parties, of course—he’s still in the frat, and sometimes showing up is expected. but it’s much different. when he does go, he stays by your side the whole night, a protective hand on your back or wrapped around your waist.
he barely drinks anymore, claiming he doesn’t need to. when people flirt or make comments, he just laughs them off and pulls you a little closer.
and when it gets late, when the music’s too loud and the air too heavy with alcohol and perfume, he’ll lean down and whisper, “wanna get out of here?”
you always nod. and the two of you slip away, walking through quiet streets until you reach your place, where everything feels calm again.
people still whisper, still wonder how it works. how a shy, soft-spoken girl could tame someone like ryomen sukuna. but you know the truth.
you didn’t tame him, you just saw him. really saw him. beneath the tattoos, the reputation, the arrogance. you saw the boy who just needed someone to care, and he saw the girl who needed someone to make her feel brave.
and together, you found something that feels a lot like forever.
months pass, the seasons shifting from late autumn to the first chill of winter. the air turns crisp, the sky pale and bright. the two of you walk through campus hand in hand, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.
“remember when we first started that project?” you ask one day, laughing softly. “you barely knew what a periodic table was.”
“hey,” he says, pretending to be offended. “i knew what it was. i just didn’t give a shit.”
“hmm, and now you’re pulling straight a’s.”
he grins. “guess i had a real good tutor. she's real sexy, too..”
you bump his shoulder lightly. “awe i bet she'd be real flattered to hear that.”
he stops walking for a moment, looking down at you with that same warm, unguarded look that still makes your stomach flip.
“you know something?” he says quietly.
“hmm?”
“i still think that fuckass project was the best thing that's ever happened to lil' ol' me.”
you smile, reaching up to fix the collar of his jacket. “yeah?”
“hell yeah,” he murmurs, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. “because it led me to you.”
the world fades for a moment, the cold, the noise, the people around you, and it’s just him. just you.
when he kisses you, it’s slow, steady, full of all the fuzzy romantic fire that’s been culminating between you since the day he walked up to your desk with a failed test and a hidden nervous smile.
you remember that moment so clearly now, and you can’t help but think how far you’ve both come. from shy glances and awkward silences to this. a love that feels like home.
and as his hand tightens around yours, you realize something simple, something certain.
you’ve both found exactly where you’re meant to be, with each other.
soft sukuna is my fav icl
anyways tysm for 6k im gonna cry im gonna miss you all on your mouths 🥹💞
SUKUNA is humiliated. Absolutely disgraced, no better than a fool. There is no King here, replaced by a moron with his heart in your scheming hands.
Or more accurately, his ear in between your pinching fingers.
"I swear, absolutely nothing gets through that thick skull of yours!" You screech, dragging your husband by the ear towards the backyard where Uraume was no doubt doing the laundry.
"Unhand me you wretch-" He began, only to hiss when you twisted his ear till it was red. Your head turns to look at him, a deceptively calm poker face as you glare. "What did you call me?"
The passing servants scuttle away with their head down, not daring to look upon the fearsome king of curses be dragged around and scolded like a child, lest they become dinner later.
"Nothing, my love," He grumbles through gritted teeth, entire face starting to go red from embarrassment and the sharp pain in his ear.
You untwist his ear (but your grip stays like iron), a pleasant smile on your face. "Thats what I thought."
You continue to drag him across the hall, smiling at every passing maid as if you didn't have an eight feet tall demon trailing at your heels. There were no guards, for your husband was the security itself.
"It is not my fault that the fool bleeds red," he reasons.
"Yet you are the reason they bled!" You bite back. "Fine, I'm sure Uraume is used to your stained kimono's, but mine? MINE??" His ear twists and he hunches forward even more, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he forces himself up as to not crush you. You ignore his struggle, angrily stomping across the large estate.
"I wasn't aware that your silks had arrived and were passing by,"
"They were white silks!" You cut him off, something no other mortal could do without facing his wrath. But for you? He shuts the fuck up. "Foreign white silks! Now all stained because of your temper," a servant opens the door to the garden, you pause to thank them before continuing to drag Sukuna out. "-and your ignorance! A fool! I married a fool." You complain.
Uraume's attention easily slips away from scrubbing, their eyes widening in horrification before back to silent acceptance.
You throw your husband forward, and he stands in front of his laboring right hand, rubbing his left ear.
"Go on. Apologize." You tut.
Uraume and Sukuna's eyes widen as they realize what you were forcing your husband to do this time around.
"I will not, for I have done no wrong."
"My lady, there is no need for such apologies-"
You shush Uraume, giving them a pat on the head. "No, Uraume, this buffoon," You glare at Sukuna, who can do nothing but look away guiltily, kicking at the dirt under his feet. "Must apologize for adding onto your already heavy workload."
Sukuna immediately retaliates, chest puffing up. "I will do no such thing-"
"Sukuna Ryomen." You raise your hand, wedding band flashing dangerously in the light.
Sukuna gulps, Uraume takes a few steps back.
"Do you see this ring?"
He nods, forced to measly prey in the lions den. The lion being you.
"It will end up on the floor, as you will too, if you do not apologize to Uraume right this second." Uraume wants nothing but to sink into the floor, maybe interrupt you and insist they don't need the apology. The thought crosses their mind before they throw it out, it wouldn't do them any good. It would only fuel your anger.
"Go on." You tap your foot.
Sukuna should've killed you when he met you. Should've thrown away the seed of love you had planted in his cold, bloody heart. Unfortunately for him, he didnt. And now, the only thing he can think of when he thinks of love is you.
He swallows this pride. As he does whenever it came to you. Loyal like a dog to its sheep.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't look at me." You step aside, forcing him to look Uraume dead in the eye.
He grits his teeth. "I'm... sorry."
"Fantastic!" You clap, overjoyed at your husbands compliance. "Now that wasn't so hard wasn't it?"
Sukuna is utterly humiliated and so unfortunately in love.
⊱⋆⊰ synopsis you erase memories for a living. he's the one your heart can't seem to forget.
⊱⋆⊰ contents canon universe—curses, angst, past relationship (gojo and reader used to sleep with each other), is this cheating?, fluff, a little bit of smut, here's how gojo can still win, happy ending. art by howtodriveacar on x. dividers by viviansturns and hyuneskkami | 8.1k words.
⊱⋆⊰ a/n this has been rotting away in my drafts for so long and gojo brainrot has ultimately hit me. enjoy!
⊱⋆⊰ ao3 link
The scent of stale coffee wafts into your nostrils as you stare bleakly at the coffee pot in the Jujutsu Technical High staff lounge, brown liquid dripping steadily. Slowly.
It’s barely 7:00 A.M. and yet it feels like you’ve been awake for days. Shadows bruise the skin beneath your eyes, your limbs move sluggishly, a yawn caught in your throat as you grab a paper cup. Your jaw aches from clenching it for too long, your weariness having no legs to stand on.
Like most missions, when you aren’t smacking a chalkboard and handing out practice sheets in a classroom, you wipe away blood. Erase witnesses. Tidy up the messes people shouldn’t remember.
Lately, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been doing that with your own heart.
Your phone buzzes again, screen flashing with another message. You don’t have to check to know who it is. With a worn-out sigh, you flip it to silent and set it face down on the counter. You don’t have the energy for his questions—or his anger. The endless berating comments.
The coffee maker spits out a few last pitters and pats before falling still. You pour the last of it into your cup, black and bitter, and take it raw. The scalding liquid chars your tongue and burns down your throat, but you welcome the sting. You drain the cup in one go, crush it in your hand, and toss it in the bin.
Your gaze lingers on the diamond band circling your finger—clean, sharp, too bright for this hour. You slide it off before you can change your mind and shove it deep into your pocket. In its wake, a red bruise coils around your ring finger.
Your finger twitches as you exit the staff lounge, restlessness spiraling through your form and making your legs move.
Outside, the air bites soft and cold. Not quite winter yet, but close—the kind of chill that smells like frost and early morning dew. Your breath ghosts white in the air as you descend the steps before disappearing in moments, as if it was never really there. Shuffling down the stairs and past the bright red torii gates at the entrance, you spot Ijichi’s car. He’s waiting on the curb.
And against the black vehicle, leaning with all of his lanky and casual composure, is Gojo Satoru.
Exactly when and where he said he’d be in his lazy, lowercase email the night before—punctual, for once, which is somehow worse. He’s got an arm slung around Ijichi’s shoulder, the other holding a milkshake loaded with enough sugar to kill a man. He’s teasing the poor brunette, ruffling his hair until his glasses slip down his nose, grinning wide and blinding like always.
He hasn’t looked at you yet. Or maybe he has. With him, it’s hard to tell where attention ends and awareness begins. Those Six Eyes veiled by his blindfold are all-seeing, so it’d be foolish to think he hasn’t made notice of your presence.
You force your feet forward, pulse a little too loud in your ears, clearing your throat to tug their attention towards you.
Flushed cheeks bled pink land on you, Ijichi straightening out and bowing deeply before you. You hold back a giggle at the sight, grinning amicably to your junior. “Hi, Ijichi.”
He greets you, head still lowered and hands ram-rod like an arrow at his sides. He’d always been more than kind to you, offering you a hand when you needed it and going out of his way to motivate you through your school days. “It’s lovely to see you joining us today.”
You nod. “That is very kind of you, but we’re all adults here. Let’s keep it casual?” He does this each time without fault, not feeling comfortable addressing you informally until given the green light.
“What? You’re not gonna greet me?”
Your heart leaps into your throat at the sound of his thundering voice that manages to wreck your world. You drag your gaze over to Gojo, muscles tensing up as you bow your head gently. “Good morning, Gojo-san. Long time no see.” It takes every bit of your composure to keep your tone steady, hoping you aren’t giving away your innermost turmoils.
He squints, that shit-eating grin still tugging at the corners of his lips like he just can’t help himself. “Oh, come on. I see you everyday. Let’s not act like we’re strangers.”
Your eye twitches. It’s true, you pass by each other in the hallways or staff meetings quite frequently, but you find yourself occupied quickly to avoid a conversation. You’ve seen him naked, for God's sake.You pray to a higher power that he doesn’t stop you for small talk where you stutter over every word, completely caught off guard and making a fool out of yourself. “My apologies, that is true.”
His gaze narrows through his blindfold, taking a deliberate sip from his diabetes-inducing drink and watching you continuously avert matching his eyeline no matter what. The silence lingers on, awkward and stifling, your heart slamming against its ribcage no matter how much you wish it’d come to a slow.
Ijichi’s eyes dart between the two of you, reading the suffocating tension, before he rounds his sleek sedan and slides into the driver's seat. Gojo opens his mouth to say something else, but you slide past him and tug the door to the passenger seat open, needing some sort of out from this conversation and him, but he stops you with a hand curling over the bevel of the door propped open.
He smells faintly of vanilla and antiseptic. You’ve never known how someone can be chaos and comfort in the same breath.
You glance up at him, heart tumbling around in your chest, not finding any words to hit him with.
“There’s plenty of space in the backseat,” he offers, jutting his chin behind him and grinning.
You feel sick, the coffee you downed bubbling hot and acidic in your gut. Yokohama is a steady 40 minute commute from Tokyo, and you don’t think you can handle the brush of his thigh against yours, or his shoulder nudging you every few minutes. Gojo certainly knows how to fill a space, and you’re not quite sure you have any room to give him right now.
With as much professionalism you can conjure up, you shake your head. “I’d like to man the radio.”
Gojo always takes aux, blasting his citypop or jazz and drumming his fingers on Ijichi’s seat until the guy wants to wring his neck out. But, for some reason, he yields. Maybe he’s allowing you some kind of dignity to spare.
He releases the passenger seat and holds his hands up in mock offense, flashing you those sparkly shiners and maneuvering out of your way. “You got it.”
You slide into your seat, the leather cold even through your bottoms, and tug your seatbelt until it clicks. The door shuts behind you in a muted thud that rolls around in the cavity of your chest.
Gojo’s still outside, taking his time with that ridiculous milkshake, tapping the straw against his bottom lip like he’s thinking about something that isn’t at all the mission.
Ijichi adjusts his mirrors nervously. “Uh, we should get going, Gojo-san.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Gojo rounds the car, and you can see his grin in the reflection of the mirror before he even opens the door. He drops into the backseat, in all his sprawled limbs galore, knees pressing lightly against the back of your seat. “Don’t mind me,” he waves a hand dismissively. “Just getting comfortable.”
“You always do,” you mutter, staring straight ahead.
He hums a low laugh, the kind you used to roll around in until it covered you entirely, now creeping up your spine whether you want it to or not. “Missed my company that much?”
You huff, fingers drumming on the car door to distract you. “Hardly. It’s just quiet without your ego taking up all the space.”
He smacks his hand against his chest, right over his heart. “Oh, you wound me. And here I thought we used to enjoy our little car rides.”
Ijichi’s hands stiffen against the wheel. You feel heat rise on your nape, but keep your gaze fixed on the window. “That was a long time ago.”
“Mm. Two years and eight months, give or take.” His tone is airy like he’s discussing the weather, but the precision cuts through the air and slices at your skin. You’re not quite sure what to make of his words. “I tend to remember people who ghost me.”
You tighten your jaw. “You didn’t exactly make yourself hard to forget.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.”
His laugh echoes softer this time, a wave of goosebumps sent washing over your skin. “You always did hide compliments under irritation. Cute.”
You reach for the knob of the radio, pressing it as static hisses at you.
Gojo leans forward, elbows digging into his knees, chin tilted enough for you to catch that smirk of his in the mirror, “Relax, you’ll wrinkle that pretty brow of yours. We’re on a mission, not a date."
Now, you fumble with the aux cord, somehow dropping your phone between your seat and the center console, which you can’t retrieve without Gojo’s slender fingers.
As he hands you your device back, his fingers brush yours and you feel your skin tingle, immediately pulling away like his touch burned you. “I know what this is,” you bite back, bitterness laced between each syllable meant to scorch him instead.
He chuckles, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. “Don’t tell me your technique transformed into Elsa’s powers.”
You scoff, adjusting in your seat and scrolling through your playlist, queuing songs you’re sure he won’t bully you for listening to. You don’t think your heart can handle any more of his berating. “You wish.”
“It wouldn't matter to me anyway. Looks like you’ve forgotten just about how untouchable I am.”
“You mean your Infinity?” You quip with a chuckle. “Then why’d I just feel your skin on mine?”
The words tumble out of you faster than you expect, not anticipating just how awkward the setting would morph into, swallowing a load of saliva. Your heart slams against your ribcage, wanting the Earth to just swallow you whole thanks to your stupid mouth. Ijichi’s knuckles whiten against the steering wheel as you feel Gojo’s eyes bore into your back, barely able to hold back his unadulterated mirth.
“How’re the second years doing?” Gojo starts after a couple of minutes droned out by the steady hum of the vehicle and whistling wind. His thumbs press into his screen at his farm on HayDay, feeding his chickens and selling his crops. He’s always been a little childlike and unprofessional. That knowledge just comes from years of working alongside him.
Nodding slowly, you fold your fingers in your lap and pick at your cuticles. “They’re good, really good. They learn fast.”
“I saw them sparring on the field the other day. Yuji’s learned a lot in his time here,” Ijichi jumps in, slowing at a red light and sending a sheepish smile in your direction.
In the backseat, taking up enough sound and space, Gojo stretches his lengthy limbs and groans, shoving his phone back into his pocket after finding himself bored. Or possibly more interested in the atmosphere of the car. “I wonder who’s to thank for that,” he comments, the sarcasm swirling in his sleepy tone. You know he hasn’t gotten a lot of sleep, he never does.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing myself,” you mutter, glancing out of your window and watching the treeline zip past.
Gojo smirks, leaning forward until you feel the warm pass of his breath fan your throat. You flinch when he starts talking. “You’ve gotten quite snarky. Who do we have to thank for that?”
And suddenly, you’re all too aware of the thick rock resting in your pocket, weighing you down and begging to adorn your finger. The reason you’ve been sharpened around the edges. To show the world that you’re cuffed, that you’re soon to be a bride. But you don’t do anything, simply turn yourself further away from Gojo’s prodding and grating voice. “So when do we get to the part when you guys explain what it is exactly that we’re doing down in Yokohama?”
After a couple of moments of Ijichi fumbling around in the glove compartment in front of you, Gojo retreats and toys with his blindfold, twisting it between his fingers. The faint sound of fabric brushing against skin grates your nerves more than it should.
“A special grade curse appeared in Kanagawa,” Ijichi explains, sliding the manila folder across the dashboard. “Multiple casualties have been reported. Your priority is civilian evacuation.”
You glance at Gojo. He’s half-listening, half-pretending to count the sprinkles melting in his milkshake. The straw clicks against the rim of the cup. “Is there any indication of what kind of cursed energy we’re dealing with?” You ask, flipping open the file and scanning the grainy photos inside—black scorch marks against concrete, distorted silhouettes frozen mid-motion.
“Reports suggest residual fear energy,” Ijichi answers. “Numerous eyewitnesses mentioned a figure appearing in reflective surfaces before they lost consciousness.”
You hum, thoughtful. “Mirrors, water—classic manifestation type. That’s going to complicate evacuation.”
Gojo leans forward until his chin hovers just beside your shoulder, his voice low and amused. “Sounds fun. Hope you packed your waders.”
You shift away subtly, refusing to look at him. “This isn’t a field trip.”
“Sure feels like one. You, me, and Ijichi-kun here,” he says, patting the former’s shoulder who still looks squeamish, “just like old times.”
Ijichi lets out a nervous chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I would hardly call those missions fun, Gojo-san.”
You close the folder and hand it back to Ijichi. “It’s a populated district. I’ll handle evacuation and memory suppression. If there are any triages set-up, I can aid with any injuries as well. Gojo can—”
“Blow things up,” he finishes, smirking in all his brazen galore. “As usual.”
“—handle the curse,” you correct sharply. “But we keep the radius small this time. No unnecessary destruction.”
He gives a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
You ignore him, watching the trees thin as the car merges onto the expressway. The air between you feels thinner, too—that tension that always builds whenever work gets mentioned. You’ve always been methodical, careful. Wanting to walk into any given situation prepared two times over. Gojo, on the other hand, has never met a plan he couldn’t improvise himself out of. So far, it works in his favor given how his techniques loom tiers over everyone else’s. The untouchable. The Strongest. And, like everyone says, he’s virtually indestructible.
“You know,” he says after a moment, resting his head against the window, “you always take missions too seriously. It’s kind of cute.”
You don’t even bother masking your deep sigh. “I take them seriously because people die, Gojo.”
His smile falters for just a second, so fast you almost miss it, before it resurfaces—lighter but emptier. “People die whether we take them seriously or not.”
That makes you turn, just slightly, enough to see the corner of his mouth lift around his straw. “That’s a grim philosophy.”
“It’s the truth,” he says simply. “Besides, that’s why you’re here, right? To keep them from remembering the ugly parts.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “Someone has to.”
He leans back again, stretching his legs so they brush the seat behind yours, managing to make himself known to all of your senses. “Always cleaning up after me. Some things never change.”
Your pulse jumps at the insinuation, but you don’t rise to it. “This isn’t about you.”
He chuckles under his breath. “You keep saying that.”
Ijichi clears his throat from the driver’s seat. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Local authorities have already evacuated the outer blocks, but there are still civilians trapped near the source point.”
You nod, grateful for the interruption. “I’ll set a perimeter when we arrive. Gojo, you’ll—”
“Play nice,” he finishes, tilting his head with that lazy grin. “Promise.”
You look over your shoulder, meeting him for the briefest second. “You never keep your promises.”
His grin widens, almost wistful. “That’s because you stopped holding me to them.”
You don’t reply after that. The rest of the drive hums with silence—the kind that feels louder than any conversation you could have.
But the quiet makes room for memory.
Suddenly, you’re back in the training fields years ago, long before either of you learned to flinch at each other’s names. You remember the way summer used to taste—sweat, sugar, and adrenaline. A clearing behind the dorms, bleached gold by the sun, the air thick with humidity and the steady drone of cicadas. The rush of warm air that wraps around you like a lasso tethering you to him. You’d been paired with Gojo again, and you’d sworn this time would be different. You’d beat him.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he called, dodging your attacks with lazy precision. “You’re getting predictable.”
You glared, breath catching in your throat, cursed energy crackling at your fingertips. “Predict this, then.”
He smirked. “Gladly.”
Your strike landed square against his chest before he could finish the word, sending him sprawling backward into the grass in a pathetic heap. His Infinity is never activated around you. The look on his face—half surprise, half admiration—was burned into your memory, a pinched grin with sweat beading on his forehead from hours of practice.
“Well,” he said, brushing a smear of dirt from his uniform, “that was rude.”
“You told me to hit you.”
“Not that hard.” He groaned theatrically, one hand over his heart as if he was still recovering from the impact of your hit, a feigned pout causing his lower lip to jut outwards. “You’re supposed to like me.”
You rolled your eyes, fighting a grin. “You make it very difficult.”
He tilted his head up toward you, grin curling, lazy and dangerous. “You like difficult.”
The sun caught the edge of his sunglasses as he said it, and you hated the way your pulse jumped. You offered him a hand anyway, and he took it—warm palm, long fingers, the electric buzz of his cursed energy brushing against yours like static.
“Dinner,” you’d said, voice steadier than you felt as you peered down at him. “You owe me.”
He blinked up at you, then laughed—sharp, boyish, a sound that still echoes somewhere in the softest part of your chest. “Dinner? That’s all?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
He didn’t. He showed up later that night with two convenience store onigiri, a can of cold coffee, and a grin so bright you forgot how to scold him for it. You ended up on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city glow below.
“Not bad, right?” He’d said, bumping your knee with his. “Best view in Tokyo.”
You’d hummed, glancing sideways at him. “And you dragged me up here, why?”
He shrugged. “To prove that I can still surprise you.”
He was leaning close enough for you to see the faint scar on his jaw, close enough for the scent of soap and sugar to make your thoughts scatter.
“You’re impossible,” you murmured.
“Mm. You say that like it’s a bad thing.” His smile softened, then—so rare, so unguarded that it almost hurt to look at. “You know, you make it really hard to keep things simple.”
You’d meant to joke back, to deflect, but something in his tone had rooted you in place. The laughter died on your tongue, replaced by something heavier, unnamed.
Your pinky brushed his, and you wondered if it was your cursed energy or the magic of the night that caused the touch to send sparks dancing up your spine. You glanced up at him, the eyes you were falling so desperately for latched onto you already.
Crow's feet crinkled at the edges as his grin pulled tight, like it hurt, like he couldn’t fight it off of his face. His hand reached out to loop a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling his warmth reverberate through the very sinews you’re made of.
And maybe that’s where it started—right there, between the breath you didn’t take and the one he stole without ever really touching you.
The car jerks slightly as Ijichi hits a bump, snapping you back into the present. The sound of rain against the windshield fills the air again. Gojo is still leaning back, milkshake in hand, pretending to be relaxed.
But you can feel it—the pull of that memory stretching thin between you, like something neither of you ever really managed to cut loose.
You wonder if that’s what he’s thinking about, too.
—
Kanagawa’s narrow streets stretch ahead of you—rows of shuttered stores, glass cracked and shimmering with residual cursed energy. The air hums faintly, low and dissonant, like the echo of a radio tuned just slightly off frequency. It makes your skin buzz uncomfortably, not quite sure exactly what it is you’ll meet out here. But, you’ve never been one to turn down a challenge, at least that’s what you’re telling yourself.
There’s a certain kind of person who can stomach this line of work, an area you and Gojo always seemed to agree on. Something your fiancé opposes you on. The job has to get done, and if you can save even one life with the sacrifice of your own, it’s for the better.
Ijichi parks beside an overturned vending machine, snacks and drinks tumbling onto the cracked concrete, the engine ticking into silence.
You’re the first to step out. The ground crunches under your boots, and a faint metallic taste lingers on your tongue. The cursed energy in the air is dense, thick enough to make your skin crawl.
Gojo dismisses Ijichi as soon as possible, making a jab at how he’ll have his soul sucked out of him if he runs into the curse like child’s play, and Ijichi makes himself scarce.
“Smells like fear,” Gojo says behind you, voice uncharacteristically quiet, though it still sounds like he’s trying to land a joke. He slips his blindfold off to hang around his neck, settling into habit. Those sapphire pools fractured by frost bore into your surroundings. His reserves thrum in the space between your bodies, and you know he’s preparing himself for whatever curse lunges at either of you.
You glance over your shoulder, your breath visible in the morning chill. “Focus, Gojo. We don’t know what kind of manifestations we’re dealing with yet.”
He waves a hand dismissively, that infuriating grin curling at the edges of his lips. “Relax. You’re here to clean up after me, remember?”
You ignore him, drawing your hands together. The faint shimmer of your technique pulses between your fingers—threads of pale light weaving through the air. “I’ll start the perimeter. If any civilians wander too close, I’ll wipe and redirect them.”
He hums, and you see all playfulness wash away for a moment, the edge of something steady cooling his grin. For all his buoyant personality, there still lies the part of him that takes his role seriously. And he’s never been good at fooling you when it comes to that.
You move down the street in a practiced rhythm—hands sliding over cool glass, lips murmuring soft seals, threads of light unspooling from your fingertips as if by magic.
There’s a heavy presence lingering in the vicinity, oppressive and resting heavy on your shoulders. All you can decipher from it is that it wants to hurt people, and it’s going to keep doing it until it can’t.
You both spot the curse rather quickly. Its face morphs and warps into familiar faces, never allowing you to make out its true shape. When it reflects over surfaces, it doesn’t move like water but rather heat over asphalt. The glass bleeds light, and from it crawls something thin and spindly, making your bones rattle. Gojo mutters something about it feeding off of recognition that you barely wrap your head around.
No. You’re here to help people, you can’t psych yourself out. Gojo erases the curse, you erase memories.
Civilians are being shepherded a couple of blocks over away from the chaos—shaken, blinking, mouths working as you erase the sharp edges of what they just saw. It should be clinical, effective. It should be small.
Gojo offsets you the way he always does—long and lazy arcs that keep the worst of the curse away from where you stand. He toys with the air like one conducts an orchestra, grand and enticing, and everything responds in turn. For a while, it feels like old choreography underneath the awkwardness. Picking up the steps where you once left off. You create space, he opens it. You patch memory, he breaks the threat.
Then, something in the reflection of a shop window, a smear of glass and shadow fracturing the surface and rainwater pooling at the frayed edges, shivers wrong. The shadow that erupts does not move like it should. It fragments, multiplying, and the sound that tears from it is more animal than human.
“Clustered reflections.” Gojo whispers, tone low. You’re not quite sure if it’s good or bad but you’re guessing the latter from his slated expression. All amusement is gone now. He moves faster than you expect, a blur of body that makes your skin prickle.
You reach three civilians at once, an elderly man crouched beside a farmers stand and a little girl with her mother, and lay your hands on their temples. Your seals thread in harmony, criss-crossing memories and weaving what once was. They should clear in a breath.
But they don’t. Your energy meets in a resistance, like pushing against glass from the inside. The thread of light snaps back in your face, stinging your fingertips. You gasp, shaking your head to clear the static fuzzing in your vision.
The civilians blink. Disoriented, but not yet wiped, panic still blooming raw in their eyes.
Suddenly, Gojo’s voice cuts through the chaos, firm but not unkind. The sort of tone he reserves for grave instances, or when he’s worried. “What’s wrong?”
You grit your teeth, trying again, but the seals flicker and unravel before they can set. “Something’s interfering. The reflections—.”
He doesn’t wait for you to finish. His hand lifts and slashes swiftly through the air, distortion rippling outward as he expands his Infinity far enough to shield the group. It covers you like a shroud, one that allows you to release a shaky breath. The air thickens, warping light, and your heart clenches at how the world will always bend to him.
You hate how small it makes you feel.
You hate even more that right now, the way he’s looking at you, you’re certain he knows exactly what’s wrong with your technique. Calm. Assessing. Knowing.
“Don’t push it,” he warns, stepping closer. You can smell him in this pocket of space. Vanilla. Anti-septic. Ash. Your world has always burned with him in it. “You’re running on hesitation, not cursed energy.”
You snap through gritted teeth, “I’ve got it.”
He only smiles faintly. Not the mocking kind that he normally dons, no. That kind that stings and prods at you because it’s too understanding. “I know. But you don’t believe that right now.”
Your pulse hammers against your ribs as you gaze up at him. You can hear your fiance's voice all over again, “You don’t have to keep doing this. You’ll just end up getting killed given your weaker technique.”
You cringe at the remembrance. Suddenly, the weight of the ring in your pocket feels heavier than your uniform hanging off of you.
Before you can say anything, the curse shudders and reforms, shrieking through the fractured mirrors lining the street. Gojo moves in a blur, his Infinity collapsing, reforming, expanding again until the reflection cracks. A sound like shattering glass fills the air.
You reach for your technique again, this time pushing through the hesitation, your hands trembling but steady enough to finish the seal. The civilians freeze mid-scream, their memories dissolving into mist. When you look up, the street is empty save for you, Gojo, and the faint smell of ozone.
Rain patters harder now, running in thin trails down the fractured pavement. You kneel to tug your torn sleeve free, but the fabric snags, and something silver glints in the dull streetlight.
Gojo catches it immediately. His head tilts, the faintest, hollow smirk ghosting over his mouth. “Well, that’s new,” he says, voice deceptively light. “Didn’t think silver suited you.”
Your stomach sinks. You tug the ring free, shoving it into your pocket, pretending not to hear him. “Don’t start,” you mutter.
He folds his arms, lazy as ever. “Start what? You disappear for months, dodge every conversation I try to have with you, and then show up wearing that?”
You blink at him through the rain that only seems to come down harder, water stinging your lashes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Me?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You vanish, stop answering messages, pretend I don’t exist in the halls, and now I find out you’re—what? Settling down? With some guy?”
You turn, heat rising in your chest. “You make it sound like a crime.”
“It’s just a surprise,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “Didn’t think you were the domestic type.”
“Because I’m not,” you bite out. “But maybe I got tired of waiting for someone who never wanted anything real.”
That wipes the smirk off his face. For the first time today, he looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s been punched in the gut but refuses to flinch.
“Don’t twist this,” he says quietly. “You knew what it was.”
You shake your head, water clinging to your lashes. “Yeah, I did. That’s why I stopped.”
For a moment, the only sound is rain and the far-off hum of Tokyo traffic.
He exhales, long and slow, then drags a hand through his wet hair. His Infinity is down. “So that’s it? You trade curses for comfort? Slide anything remotely dangerous to the next willing sorcerer? Pretend this part of your life doesn’t exist because it’s easier?”
You flinch at the accuracy of it, at how he can still read you like a book you swore you’d burned.
“At least he wants a life with me,” you whisper.
Gojo’s expression softens, but the words that follow land sharp. “Yeah? Then why do you still look like you’re running?”
You meet his gaze for a heartbeat—blue and bright even through the rain—and then you look away. Because you don’t have an answer.
The street is eerily still once the cursed energy fades, rain softening into a steady drizzle that blurs the edges of the world. You steady your breathing, staring at the fractured reflections in the glass until they stop trembling.
Behind you, Gojo exhales—a long, quiet sound that cuts through the hum of the storm. “You know,” he says, voice lighter than it should be, “if it’s who I think it is… really? Him?”
You blink, thrown. “What?”
He plants his hands on his waist, turning so that you can catch a glimmer of blue in the streetlight—devastating, sharp. “Your fiancé,” he says. “The Kyoto guy. The one who thought cursed spirits were just a rumor until one screamed in his face.”
You can’t help it so you laugh, a wet, broken sound. “He didn’t scream.”
Gojo tilts his head, lips quirking. “Oh, he definitely screamed. You just didn’t want to hear it.”
The sound of your laughter hangs in the rain for a moment before it dissolves. Then you whisper, “Maybe I wanted something safe. Someone who wouldn’t make me feel like I was always standing too close to the sun.”
Gojo’s smile doesn’t falter, but something in his eyes does. He takes a step closer, the space between you thinning until you can feel the warmth of him even through the rain. You hate that a part of you longs to reach for it, something shameful coiling in the pit of your stomach. “You call that safety?” he murmurs. “I call it suffocating.”
You shake your head. “You don’t get it. He wanted me to stop before I—”
“Before you burned out?” Gojo’s voice softens, something raw slipping through. “You’ve been setting yourself on fire for everyone else since the day I met you. Maybe that’s why I never tried to stop you.”
Your breath catches. “Because you didn’t care if I got hurt?”
He looks at you then—really looks. And for once, there’s no grin, no arrogance, just a man who’s tired of pretending he’s untouchable. “Because I knew you’d rather die saving someone than live pretending you don’t care,” he says quietly. “And because I never wanted to be the reason you stopped being who you are.”
The rain keeps falling, lightly tapping against his blindfold. It’s so achingly gentle you almost forget how cruel the world can be.
You swallow hard. “You sound like you know what that feels like.”
He laughs under his breath. Low, bitter. “Maybe I do.”
Silence stretches between you, full of everything you never said.
Then, his gaze drifts to your hand—the torn seam of your sleeve, the ring glinting faintly in the low light. He doesn’t touch it, but his jaw tightens. “You really gonna marry him?”
You hesitate, the word yes dying in your throat. You know your fiancé will never understand this life you have away from normal people, but a part of you has been stuffing it down in your chest, ignoring the pounding in your gut that begged for attention.
Gojo chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, sure. If you like safe. If you like someone who’ll never understand why you glow like that when a fight starts.”
Your heart twists. “You think I’m glowing right now?”
“I always think you’re glowing.”
You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until he steps back, the space between you opening again, cold and sharp. The warmth is now too far out of your reach, and you’re wondering if you should claw for it. He puts his blindfold on like closing a curtain.
“Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s go home.”
You don’t move. You just look at him—tall, too tall, his grin trying to make light of what’s already slipped between you—and for the first time, you see the truth sitting quietly in his posture:
Gojo Satoru never stopped loving you.
He just learned to live like he didn’t.
And suddenly, you understand what you have to do.
—
It’s been a couple of weeks since the mission. Nights aren’t as restless, life bounces back beneath your eyes and you carry yourself with a bit more conviction. Work is still as gruelling as ever with the missions you’re taking on and the second years that never seem to stop bickering.
Nobara managed to hammer a nail through Yuji’s foot and he’s receiving care back with Shoko. You feel yourself grinning at the little things, your shoulders no longer tucked up to the sky and holding burdened.
You pace down the halls of Jujutsu High, some sort of a magnetic pull tugging at your chest and beckoning you towards him. Your fingers toy with the edges of the manila folder in your hands clasped behind your back.
Standing before his office, you feel his presence past the sliding doors. The cursed energy you could never mistake steadily buzzing. You can hear gentle scribbles of ink, knowing he’s sorting through the thick stacks of paperwork that never quite seem to end for him. You know he hates it, but he never complains.
Your knuckles rap at the door, earning a quiet hum. You know he knows you’re here.
You pull the door open, stepping inside and shutting it behind you.
Gojo leans back in his chair, donned in the same uniform he’s always got on. He stands up, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaning against his desk with an air of composure. But, what most wouldn’t detect, is the gentle tiredness he’s carrying himself with. Worse than usual, and you can see it wearing away at him.
“So what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?” He quips, cocking his head thoughtfully.
You take a few steps towards him, and slide the report onto his desk behind him. “Thought I’d finally fill this out and hand it off to you.”
He grins at the incident report from your mission together, the fond memories flooding his brain. “You know, I thought I’d have to track you down and get you to work on that.”
You shrug, clasping your hands in front of you, barely able to hold your genuine smile as your heart soars. “Just a few things I had to take care of before I could do that.”
His smile falters for a moment, gaze dropping down to your hands and all blood drains from his face. There’s a beat of silence, and though you feel like you’re on cloud nine, you’re quite sure this can go one of two ways.
He swallows thickly, before matching your gaze again, pointing at your hands. “I might be crazy, but I think you’re creating a bad habit.”
The laugh that tumbles from you is light, airy. Enough to make Gojo draw in a sharp breath. You bring your hand up to our face and wiggle your fingers. “I broke it off, Satoru.”
Satoru.
Sa. To. Ru.
Three little syllables that make his world tilt on its axis.
“You ended it,” he says, the statement that leaves him knocking the wind from his lungs.
You nod, biting back a smile. “I did. I guess we didn’t see eye to eye on things.”
For a moment, Gojo doesn’t breathe. He’s not quite sure if he’s alive, if he’s conscious. He just gawks at you like if he blinks he might wake up from this dream. Then, he laughs, soft and broken. “So you’re just telling me like this is nothing?”
You shrug, eyes steady on the fabric weaved around his head. “What do you want me to say?”
Gojo steps closer, too close, until the edge of his Infinity hums around you, skin shuddering at the brushing contact. Your blood charges with something pathetically alive. “Say it again,” he whispers, the air between the two of you charged with something electric. “Say you’re not his anymore.”
You swallow, eyes darting between his swirling with a desperate want. “I’m not.”
Something inside of him shatters so quietly you almost don’t hear. His Infinity flickers once before collapsing entirely, leaving nothing between your skin and his except everything you’ve been running from.
His hands find your cheeks before you can react, and he’s kissing you. The kind of kiss that tastes like years of longing and restraint untangling.
You taste him.
Vanilla. Antiseptic. Ash.
You’re finally burning with him. You’ve made it too close to the sun.
Your fingers curl around the sides of his uniform, tugging him closer, deepening the kiss you’d been waiting too long for. You’re pressed up on your tiptoes, something longing clawing up and out of your throat as you whimper against his lips.
His hand splays over the back of your head, cradling you like he used to when you were young and stupid. Maybe you’re both still a little stupid.
His tongue dances against yours in a waltz, a choreography you’d had chalked up to second nature years ago. You slot right back into place like a coin in a toy machine with him as he bends forward, chasing your lips even when you nibble at his lower lip.
After a few moments, where he sucks the air from your lungs and claims it as his own, he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. Your breath trembles, hands fisting the fabric of his top like if you let go, this might be the last time you get to feel him.
And of course, Gojo Satoru notices the fear that clings to you. “Baby, I’ve been yours since the day we were assigned to a mission together and you nearly got me killed.”
You giggle through your blurry vision and blinking back tears, arms ribboning around his waist and pressing your ear against where his heartbeats thrums. He’s nervous.
“I’ll be damned if I ever lose you again,” he whispers, chin resting atop your head as he holds you against him steady. “I’ve always loved you and it won’t stop until my heartbeat does.”
You want to tell him, too. But the words stick like honey coating your throat. Love like this doesn’t need saying. It’s written all over the way you’re still standing, not quite letting go.
The room is quiet again. The only sound is the faint hum of the air conditioner and the shallow, uneven rhythm of your breathing.
Gojo doesn’t move right away. His chin is still tucked against your head, his hand still warm against your back like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll vanish into the space between blinks.
You can smell him—vanilla, fabric softener, that faint sterile scent of the medical ward he never quite shakes. Something undeniably him.
It’s dizzying. Familiar. Unforgiving.
When you finally step back, the air between you feels stretched thin.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper, though your voice trembles like you don’t believe it yourself.
Gojo’s smile ghosts across his lips—smaller than you’ve ever seen it, without the arrogance or the shine. “Probably not,” he murmurs. “But I’m not sorry.”
You want to be angry at him for saying it so easily. For making everything sound like it’s not complicated when it is—when you’ve spent years trying to bury what he just dug up with one touch. One dizzying kiss.
But the truth is, you’re not sorry either. You just don’t know how to say that without undoing yourself.
So you look down. His blindfold has slipped to his neck, and for the first time in a long while, you see his eyes clearly—ice blue and impossibly kind, like the whole world could freeze and he’d still only be looking at you.
“I broke things off because he didn’t want me to do this,” you say softly, weakly gesturing to your surroundings. “Didn’t want me to keep fighting. Said it wasn’t worth it. Said I wasn’t worth it if I kept risking myself.”
Gojo’s head tilts, expression unreadable. “And you believed him?”
“I wanted to,” you admit. “I wanted to believe there was something safer than this.”
He exhales through his nose, a faint huff that sounds almost like a laugh. “There’s nothing safe about being alive,” he says. “You of all people should know that.” A beat. “But you make it mean something. That’s the part he’ll never get.”
You close your eyes, trying not to let that crack you open. “You don’t make this easy, you know.”
“I wasn’t designed to be easy,” he says, grinning faintly—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “But I was made to find you in a crowd. Every damn time.”
That makes you look up. He’s watching you again, really watching, not as your colleague, not as your ex, but as the one person who’s seen you through every fracture and still stayed.
Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to. “What now?”
Gojo blinks, gaze flickering over your features—like he’s nervous he might say something that’ll scare you off. He swallows, and for once, doesn’t have an answer ready.
“Now,” he says after a long pause, inhaling a rush of air to fill his lungs, “you go back to work. I’ll handle the report.”
You almost laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says quietly. Then he steps forward, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering there a moment too long and sending your heart to lodge in your throat. Those beautiful blue eyes dart between your own and you can’t seem to look away. “But if I say anything else, I might not stop.”
It’s not a promise. It’s not even a confession. It’s a warning—one you both ignore.
—
Your mornings start with the scent of sugar seeping into your brain, and end with the world crumbling in fiery passion.
It’s been days since you’ve last seen the inside of your apartment, Gojo pressing you into his mattress with his tongue down your throat as he slips into your warmth.
You respond to his every touch—the way his calloused fingertips squeeze your pebbled nipples, his tongue tracing the hollow of your lips and committing it to memory, the feel of his cock sheathing you and making space for himself.
He carves you from the inside, prominent veins underscoring his shaft dragging against your walls and sending flutters in your gut as he watches you through fringed, pale lashes. Your eyes roll into your skull in bliss, fingers intertwined with his as he pins you in place and lets you feel everything.
He finds himself basking in the way you call out for him when he’s holding you against him, tears pricking at your waterlines as he teeters you on the same precarious edge you’re rested on.
He takes you to higher grounds, dragging his hands against every inch of skin and marking you with his fond love. You let him carry you, fingers toying with your sensitive bud, pressing down on your tongue, making you taste yourself.
Gojo Satoru never stops kissing you. Not when you’re half-asleep and groggy with morning breath, not when he’s dragging lazy circles into your skin and murmuring nonsense between each press of his lips, not when you’re slipping out of his bed before sunrise to beat the Tokyo traffic.
He finds you everywhere—against doorframes, in empty hallways, under the pale light of vending machines when you’re dehydrated and he’s got a few coins to spare. At work, he’s shameless. He’ll tug you into the corner of a classroom just to brush his mouth against yours, blindfold pushed up, grin wolfish as your students pretend not to see. You swat at him, cheeks hot, but he only laughs and tells them, “Your sensei’s just that kissable.”
Even after he’s handed you the keys to his apartment and slid a spare to his office into your palm, you still like to keep him guessing. You like watching the momentary flicker of uncertainty when you take a little too long to answer his texts, or when you smile too kindly at the barista. It’s cruel, maybe, but you tell yourself he deserves just a bit of unease—a taste of the waiting you endured.
He never complains. He only hums against your neck, wraps an arm around your waist, and licks a slow, possessive stripe up your cheek for everyone to see.
And in those seconds, your heart thunders with something terrifyingly alive.
Because deep down, you already know how this story goes.
You’ll move in with him fully, even though half your clothes are already invading his closet. He’ll clear a drawer, a shelf, an entire life’s worth of space for you.
Eventually, you’ll give in to his hundredth—no, his millionth—ask to be his girlfriend. One day, you’ll watch the smug victory glimmer in his eyes when he fastens something bright and expensive around your finger, heavier than the ring you used to wear. Because he wants to settle down with you but you’re not quite ready to send out wedding invitations for a second time this year.
You’ll start taking missions together again. You’ll still argue in the car about strategy and playlist choices. He’ll still tease you until you’re fuming and smiling in the same breath. But when it counts, when the world’s falling apart in some cursed blur of chaos and screams, he’ll look at you with that same unwavering certainty, like there’s no universe in which he lets you die.
You know you’ll get hurt sometimes. You know he will too.
But at least you’re living the way you were meant to—not hiding behind someone else’s idea of safety, but fighting beside the one person who’s always understood why you couldn’t stop.
And every night after, when the missions end and the air smells like smoke and rain, Gojo will still find a way to kiss you—low, tender, greedy—like he’s thanking the universe for not taking you from him again.
a/n: this has been in my drafts for MONTHS on end and i'm happy i finally got around to piecing it together. let me know what you thought! comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3.
You’re lying in bed, just waking up from an afternoon nap.
“Hmm… I was thinking” you murmur, the tip of your index finger lightly brushing his nose. “Do you prefer Ryo or Kuna?”
He cracks open one ruby eye, staring at you for a few seconds, silent, like he can’t quite believe you’re actually asking.
“Like…” you continue, testing the sound. “‘Ryo’ is nice. ‘Ryo!’... It’s kinda cool. But isn’t ‘Kuna’ cuter? Like ‘Kuna~’”
You giggle at the way you said it, and he can’t help but laugh along.
His hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer until the top of your head rests under his chin. You pull back slightly to look at him. “So… which one do you like better?”
“Either” he says, closing his eyes again. “As long as you don’t use them in front of anyone.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And what if I do?”
“I’ll pretend it’s not me.”
You laugh, half incredulous, half amused. “I’ll be poking you so everyone knows who owns these silly nicknames.”
A sly smile spreads across his face. “Then I’ll just pretend I don’t know you.”
“Hey, you’re mean!” You give him a playful tap on the chest.
A low, mischievous laugh rumbles from him. “Me? Yeah… I’m the worst.” His grip on your waist tightens as he leans in, leaving a gentle bite on your soft cheek.
❥ masterlist
ABOUT ME
hi guys, I'm Bechamel and originally i don't speak english (but im learning) so if there is any word that doesn't make sense, you can let me know (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡
toji and letter j from the fluff list hehe phankuuuu <333333
9k celebration rules
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
cw: toxic if u squint (or if you look plainly to be honest)
toji and jealousy go hand in hand, there’s no point in trying to separate the two.
he knows he’s in the wrong, knows he should probably do something about how quick he is to pick a fight with other guys, but he just can’t. he loves you too much to not let himself react. how could he ever share?
he can’t help the way his nails dig into his palms, nearly drawing blood at that buttery tone the grocery store cashier is using with you. how his foot taps against the wheel of the carriage, anger bubbling so high up in his chest it almost burns.
toji thinks he’s got a pretty good grip on how guys think. and if the way this man’s eyes keep flitting towards your chest tell him anything, it’s that he needs to act fast.
“can you just fucking ring us up?” he barks, throwing his hands up in exasperation. was no one else seeing this? for christs sake.
“toji.” you warn, intertwining your hand with his for good measure. if you hadn’t busied his hand with something else he probably would have cracked the carriage handle in half, oblivious to just how strong he is.
he presses a kiss to the crown of your head once you leave the store, grocery bags bundled into one hand while the other pets over your head apologetically.
“i saw it too, don’t worry.” you confess, mentally shuddering at the way the cashier had looked at you so wantonly.
“so i’m not crazy.” he grumbles, wiping a hand over his face in relief
“mmm, no you definitely are.” you tease, dodging the swat he sends your way.
satoru confessing to his crush (you, ofc!) (◡̀_◡́)ᕤ
you’re leaning against the railing of the courtyard, sunlight catching your face in this perfect, careless way that makes satoru’s stomach flip. he’s supposed to be focused on the mission briefing, but somehow, all he can do is watch you.
all he can do is watch you—the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
or rather,
watching you laugh at whatever dumb thing suguru has just told you.
satoru’s grip on the railing tightens. his jaw ticks. ‘okay, calm. it’s just suguru.’ he thinks. suguru is his best friend. there’s no need to get mad over what’s happening, especially because suguru was one of your friends too.
but the way you toss your head back and nudge suguru’s shoulder really doesn’t help satoru calm down.
what are you two even laughing about? suguru isn’t even that funny, satoru would know. he never laughs at anything suguru says.
‘it’s not fair. not fair at all.’ he thinks. he should be the one making you laugh so hard you almost piss yourself.
satoru wants to stomp over there, grab your hand, maybe poke suguru in the chest—okay, definitely poke suguru in the chest—because he knows that motherfucker is just doing this to get under his skin.
you glance over your shoulder then, catching satoru staring and the corners of your mouth twitch in that way that makes him clench his fists without realizing it.
he’s not subtle, not even a little and he hates that you noticed him staring. he probably looks ridiculous right now. his eyes narrowed and his lips twitching like he’s suppressing the urge to scream.
“what?” he hears you say as you start walking toward him. your brow quirks slightly and he swears he’s about to faint.
‘for fuck’s sake, get yourself together.’ he murmurs to himself.
“nothing,” he says, trying to act like you laughing with his evil best friend isn’t making him want to strangle suguru. he crosses his arms, trying to look casual, but he’s failing miserably. “just… admiring how… uh, funny suguru must be for you to laugh like that.”
you toss your hair over your shoulder, shaking your head and smirking a little. “what? you jealous?”
“me? jealous? ha! no way.” satoru blurts out, his face heating before he can stop himself. “why would i be? i have no reason at all—you don’t like suguru, do you?”
you are blinking at him.
oh no. no no no.
fuck, now you’re probably thinking he’s such a pathetic loser and satoru’s heart is doing that ridiculous jumpy thing where he’s equal parts terrified and wants to crawl into a hole and never come out again.
“not even a little? oh man, that’s a shame,” you say then, clearly teasing him. and he knows it—and it’s driving him insane. “and no, satoru, i don’t like suguru. he’s just a good friend, that’s all.”
“h-huh? oh, okay… cool,” he mutters, voice more awkward than it should be.
god, he’s terrible at hiding his feelings when you’re involved.
you step slightly closer, brushing your hand lightly against his arm. “you’re so stupid,” you murmur, letting your fingers linger for just a moment.
“me? stupid?” he says, stepping closer, tone mock-offended. “you’re the one laughing at everything suguru says like he’s the funniest person alive. i mean… look at you! you guys are the stupid ones!”
you reach out, lightly poking his chest and satoru almost loses it.
“satoru,” you whisper, your voice so soft it almost draws him in. “we were talking about you.”
he swears he almost felt his heart drop straight to his ass. “what?”
“yeah,” you say. “suguru was just telling me about how nanami almost slapped you in the face this morning.”
satoru freezes. his face burns instantly. “he told you that?”
he has to kill suguru.
you nod, leaning against the railing with one hand on your hip as you laugh. “he said nanami almost made your glasses fly off your face,” you say between giggles. “said you looked like you were fighting for your life.”
“what? that’s not true! i ducked before he could slap me and my infinity was on!” satoru protests, throwing his hands up. “and i don’t even understand why he wanted to slap me! nanami doesn’t even like mochi!”
you’re practically wheezing now, clutching your stomach, shaking your head, tears threatening to spill and somehow—for satoru—it makes everything both worse and better at the same time.
he knows you’re laughing at him, but god, it’s the prettiest sound in the world.
“oh my god, you’re such a maroon,” you say, still laughing. “nanami clearly hates you.”
“you keep saying that like it’s a bad thing,” he mutters, stepping closer, his grin crooked and his heart completely out of control. “and he doesn’t hate me. he loves me deep down. he just wants to act tough.”
“whatever you say,” you reply, trying to wipe the tears from your eyes. “and it kinda is, but it’s okay. you make it so easy to laugh at you.”
he puts a hand over his heart, pretending to look offended. “wow. harsh. and here i was, about to confess my undying love for y-”
he stops mid-sentence.
what the fuck was he about to say?
he must be stupid. really, really stupid.
you blink, surprised—but your lips twitch in a tiny, incredulous smile. “undying love? for how?”
“i- for- nanami! i love nanami! yes!” he blurts out, cheeks burning bright red. “i… i mean, it’s not like i want him or anything, he’s not… i don’t know!” he groans, covering his face for a second, embarrassed, before realizing he’s already said too much.
you stare at him for a second, processing the mess of words.
“…you love nanami?” you repeat slowly, eyes narrowing like you’re not sure whether to laugh or be concerned.
satoru’s brain is short-circuiting. “yeah! totally! nanami’s my—uh—my everything.” he forces out a laugh that’s way too loud. . .
and fake.
“the way he looks at me when i annoy him? man, it makes my heart pound in my chest.”
he feels humiliated. never felt more stupid in his entire life.
“so you’re..gay?” you ask, catching your breath.
“what?! no!”
“but you just said you like nanam—”
“i panicked!” he protests, waving his hands around dramatically. “i’m so stupid, i’m sorry. i… i panicked. i don’t love nanami, not at all.”
“oh.”
“yeah.”
“you’re really an idiot, satoru,” you murmur, leaning in just a little to make your point. “you know that, right?”
but when he looks at you again, he notices you’re still looking at him with a small smile playing on your lips. that’s… a good thing, right?
..right..?
“yeah, but i’m your idiot,” he says without thinking.
your expression falters for half a second, eyes flicking up to meet his. there’s a tiny pause—just long enough to make his breath catch and his heart kick against his ribs.
then you smirk. “oh? i thought you were nanami’s idiot.”
he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “please don’t use my own stupidity against me.”
“no promises.” you grin, clearly enjoying every second of his suffering. “so you like me, huh… about time you said something.”
“yeah, i like you, fuck, i’ve liked you for—wait—what do you mean about time?!”
you cross your arms casually. “oh come on, satoru. you think i didn’t notice? the staring, the weird excuses to stand next to me, the dramatic sighs every time suguru or any other guy talks to me—”
“those weren’t dramatic sighs,” he cuts in immediately, his voice a little too loud.
“uh-huh,” you say, clearly not buying it. “you’re literally the most obvious person alive.”
“obvious? me? no way,” he gasps, clutching his chest. “you just read too much into things.”
“so… you don’t like me, then?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
he narrows his eyes, stepping closer until you have to lift your head to meet his gaze. “you’re evil,” he murmurs, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.
“you like me,” you shoot back.
he laughs under his breath and god, he really does. you drive him crazy. “yeah, i guess i do,” he says softly, surprising even himself.
you blink at him, caught off guard for just a moment, then that same little expression of disbelief lingers on your face. “so, what now, lover boy?”
“now?” satoru tilts his head, pretending to think. “now i ask if you’re gonna keep making fun of me or if you’re finally gonna admit you like me too.”
“hmm,” you hum, dragging it out just to torture him. “depends. are you gonna keep being jealous every time i talk to someone?”
“absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “that’s just who i am as a person.”
“fine,” you say. “then i guess i like you too, idiot.”
satoru’s grin could light up the entire courtyard. “see? i knew it.”
you roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the slight tug at your lips. as you turn to walk away, he follows—of course he does—hands in his pockets, humming like he just won the lottery.
“you know,” he says, walking beside you, “if nanami ever asks, we can tell him he brought us together.”
“satoru, shut up.”
and yeah, maybe he’s stupid, but right now, he’s the happiest stupid man alive.
husband!sukuna wakes up in the middle of the night cause he feels your side of the bed empty. (◞‸◟)
the night was still, thick with that kind of silence that makes every small sound feel too loud. the door slid open with a soft hiss and the chill crept into the room. sukuna stirred. at first, he didn’t open his eyes — just reached out lazily across the bed, fingers brushing against nothing but cool silk.
his eyes cracked open.
empty space.
he sat up, a faint scowl pulling at his mouth. “tch,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough from sleep. the moonlight cut pale lines across his bare chest as he stood up, pulling on the first robe he could find.
you weren’t supposed to wander at night — not without a word and certainly not without him.
the estate was quiet, servants long asleep, the night air heavy with the scent of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. his bare feet made almost no sound on the wooden floors as he stepped out into the garden, guided by a faint glow at the far edge — soft, silvery and almost magical.
and there you were.
kneeling among the tall grass, your white robes pooled around you, brushing against the damp earth. the moonflowers had opened, their petals glowing faintly, breathing light into the dark. your hands hovered just above the petals, like you were afraid to disturb their delicate glow. you looked like you belonged there — small, quiet and completely absorbed by them.
sukuna stopped a few steps away, all four of his arms folding over his chest. for a moment, he just watched you. his irritation melted into something heavier.
how beautiful you were, he thought.
“you’ll ruin your robes out here, woman,” he said finally, voice low and refined but still rough around the edges.
you startled, looking over your shoulder. “you scared me,” you whispered, a little breathless.
“you scared me first,” he said, stepping closer. “i woke to find your side cold.”
“i didn’t mean to wake you up,” you admitted softly, your fingers brushing over a glowing moonflower. “i apologize.”
“it doesn’t matter,” he said immediately, crouching down beside you, his gaze soft, catching the light smile on your face. “i cannot sleep without you by my side regardless.”
you blinked, slightly embarrassed and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “i just… wanted to see them,” you murmured. “they only bloom once a month. i couldn’t stay away.”
he reached out, brushing a finger along your cheek, tilting your face gently to look at him. “you are reckless, you know that?” he said, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “it is endearing, in a maddening sort of way.”
“maddening?” you asked, then let out a low laugh, almost lost in the night air.
“yes,” he said, leaning closer. “your stubborn little heart, wandering where you ought not… it is maddening.”
he pressed his lips to yours then, tasting the quiet of the night and the faint scent of moonflowers on your skin. your hands rose instinctively, resting on his chest, feeling the warmth beneath the silk of his robe. the world narrowed to just the two of you, the flowers glowing faintly around you like witnesses to something fragile and sacred.
he pulled back just a little, resting his forehead against yours, his voice held a tender edge. “come. before you catch a cold.”
you looked at him, heart racing. before you could protest, he scooped you up in his arms — two under your knees, the others supporting your back and shoulders — “i would not have you shivering through the night,” he said, carrying you effortlessly through the grass, your robes brushing against dew-soaked stems.
“i’m warm,” you whispered, but your voice was filled with laughter and awe. “i’m fine.”
“stop talking nonsense, woman,” he said, shaking his head, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “i will not leave you to chance. you are my queen.”
as he walked back toward the sleeping palace, you rested your head against his shoulder, letting yourself relax completely in his arms. the faint glow of moonflowers faded behind you, but the warmth of the moment lingered, a secret between the two of you.
“next time,” he murmured, voice low near your ear, “wake me.”
you smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “you will come?” you echoed.
you were curled up on the bed, shivering under layers of blankets, your nose all red and your voice hoarse from sneezing. the fire crackled weakly in the corner of the room, but it didn’t seem enough to keep you warm.
sukuna was sitting on a chair beside the bed, a pair of arms crossed—and the other two resting on his knees, fingers tapping lightly—he was watching you.
or better,
he was actually scowling down at you, his crimson eyes boring into you like he could feel every ache and shiver in your body.
“truly, i do not comprehend how one can be so fragile,” he muttered, shifting forward slightly so his upper arms hovered closer to your sides, “i told you, woman, not to walk in the gardens in the middle of the night, yet here you lie, shivering like some helpless child. do you take no heed of my words?”
“i… i just caught a cold,” you croaked, trying to smile despite the ache in your head. “i’ll be fine. i’m not that fragile.”
“you’ll be fine, indeed. but this shall not stand.” he moved closer, two hands tugging blankets snugly around you while the other two cupped a steaming bowl of some thick, herbal concoction that had been sitting on the bedside table. the scent was so strong it almost made you want to throw up.
“drink this. it shall restore what you have foolishly allowed to slip away.”
“you’re… so bossy,” you muttered, attempting to sit up, but he pressed a hand to your shoulder with firm authority, gently pushing you back against the headboard.
“i am your king,” he said, commanding, rising from the chair and kneeling at your side of the bed like a careful guardian, “and you will obey.”
you tried not to giggle at the formal way he spoke, like some grumpy prince of old, but it was impossible. his frown deepened as you snuggled into the blankets again, hiding your face from him.
“okay, my lord,” you whispered, unable to stop a small smile from forming.
sukuna grunted, as if satisfied. one of his upper arms brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, another gently pressed against your back to keep you warm. you felt the tenderness in his gestures.
“do not speak unless necessary. you must rest.”
you stayed silent, letting him fuss. he propped up your pillows, held the bowl to your lips, guiding it carefully so you could sip despite your protest.
“it tastes terrible,” you muttered, wrinkling your nose.
“yes, i’m aware. it is beneficial, therefore you shall drink. whether it pleases you is irrelevant.”
‘cute,’ you thought.
hours passed. you dozed intermittently and each time you stirred, sukuna was there, brushing stray hairs from your face or subtly shifting your position so you wouldn’t shiver. at one point, you shivered so violently he scooped you up from behind and settled you into his lap, holding you tightly against his chest, tucking your legs around him so no part of you could get cold.
“you are foolish,” he muttered, pressing his cheek to the top of your head. “i have endured a thousand years of battle and bloodshed and yet here i am, undone by a woman who cannot stay warm.”
you laughed softly, snuggling closer. “you really are dramatic.”
“i am dramatic only because it concerns you,” he added, shifting slightly to wrap an extra blanket around both of you and pressing a hand along your arm, caressing you, “now, rest. do not force yourself to rise.”
you blinked up at him, smirking. “you’re so warm.”
“do not make me repeat myself, woman.” his frown deepened and he leaned closer, adjusting your position so your head rested comfortably on his chest, his gaze softening as he watched you. “i told you to rest. now close your running mouth and sleep. i shall still be here when you wake,” he murmured, gently playing with your hair.
there was no malice—only love tangled with his innate grumpiness.
you leaned against him, finally letting yourself relax completely and for a long while, the only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fire and sukuna’s low, protective hums as he held you close.
you had never felt more healthy in your entire life.
Toji’s sitting on the couch, your baby girl nestled in his big arms, her bottle long gone on the coffee table, and her tiny belly full. She’s got her pacifier tucked in her mouth, eyes half-closed in that dreamy, milk-drunk daze, all warm and peaceful against his warm chest—until her dad gets bored.
With the subtle mischief of an older man who definitely should know better, Toji tugs the pacifier halfway out, watching it droop from her lips, hanging by the softest stretch of skin. Her little eyes flutter open, confused, blinking up at him like What happened?—and that’s when he shoves it back in with a smug little grin, proud of himself like he just pulled off the greatest heist.
Again. And again.
And again.
Each time your baby girl’s eyes flutter open in sleepy confusion, only for Toji to stuff the pacifier right back in with that same dumb grin, like he’s conducting some low-stakes science experiment.
You catch him red-handed from across the room. “Toji!”
He glances up slowly, like you just startled him mid-sermon, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. “What?”
You give him the look. “She’s trying to sleep! Stop messing with her!”
He snorts, bouncing her gently on his arm like that somehow justifies the crime, the pacifier once again dangling halfway out of her mouth. “She likes it, look—she’s making faces,” he says, grinning down at her like they’re in on some secret joke.
“She’s making faces because you keep taking it out!” you hiss, storming over with that mom-glare locked and loaded. “You’re gonna make her cry, old man”.
But Toji just chuckles, smug and unrepentant, pressing the pacifier back into her mouth with one big finger like he knows best. Then he leans down and kisses her soft little forehead, his voice all sweet and gentle. “C’mon, sweetheart, I’m just teasing my baby girl”.
“Your baby girl is two seconds away from wailing,” you mutter, arms crossed tight over your chest as you stare him down.
Toji just smirks up at you, completely unbothered, that shit-eating grin plastered across his face like he’s proud of the chaos he’s causing. The baby gives a tiny, warning whimper—soft and pitiful and he just nods like it proves his point.
“See? She’s got your temper,” he says, satisfied as ever, like he hasn’t been poking the bear for five straight minutes.
You smack his shoulder, not hard, but enough to make your point. “Toji!”
“Alright, alright,” he laughs, finally giving in, though the grin never leaves his face. He steadies the pacifier with one hand and starts rocking her gently back and forth with the other, his voice softening. “You’re both scary when you’re mad”.
Like magic, she settles—her tiny brows relaxing, that whimper fading into a soft breath as her little hand finds his finger and grips it tight. The pacifier stays put this time, and she sucks contentedly, eyelids drooping once again. Toji just watches her, that teasing grin giving way to something quieter, and warmer. More fondly.
You just sigh, rolling your eyes, the corners of your mouth tugging up despite your best efforts. “You’re so stupid,” you mumble, shaking your head.
Toji only winks at you, cocky as ever, still cradling your daughter like he didn’t spend the last ten minutes ruining your poor baby’s sleep. “Yeah,” he says, smirking. “But you married me anyway”.
