ೀ ㅤ۫ ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ ㅤ ♡ ㅤ. if you wanna come, give my brother some!
synopsis: the one where you’re dying to go to a frat party. you don’t want to go alone, and your best friend itadori promises to take you on one condition: you talk to his older brother. just talk, nothing crazy. of course, you never do anything half-assed.
part 2 is here! part 3 is here!
content: MDNI. frat!choso kamo x reader, top reader x sub choso, college au, modern au, drinking, edible usage, vaping, alcohol, hookup, mutual attraction, explicit smut, slight age gap (college, reader is a freshman and choso is a senior), oral sex (f and m receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, creampie, dry humping, choso cums too soon, reader tops, teasing, crack humor, overwatch references (i have an addiction)
wc: 4.6k
a/n: art by thatsallitchief! y'all when i tell you i had so much work to do after spring break but mama got it done and is feeding y'all. except i feel like this one wound up being kind of rushed... also can you tell i've never been to a frat. they lowkey scare me which is why i would want my close personal bestie yuji itadori to accompany me to one!! anyways. i wrote most of this while half asleep soooooo sorry if there's any mistakes i missed while proofreading <333 i feel like i treat a/ns like diary entries lmfao
“pleaaaasee, itadori,” you pouted and rested your head on his shoulder, giving him puppy eyes. “please? kappa is throwing a huge one this weekend.”
itadori, who had his laptop open to his lecture notes but was really buried in his instagram reels, waved a hand. “kappa sucks anyways. weird ass frat.”
you raised a brow. “and you would know? you never go to frats, you spent every friday night playing fortnite or whatever…” you retorted, crossing your arms and slouching back in your chair. itadori scoffed in response. “modern warfare. and for your information, not every friday! sometimes i go to sig tau.”
“sig tau?”
“yeah. my older brother is a member.”
you shot up in your seat. “you have an older brother?” your jaw dropped, and itadori finally looked up from his phone. “yeah. look, dude. tung tung sahur.” he grinned, showing you his phone. you didn’t pay any attention to the brainrot he was showing you, more focused on the pressing matter at hand.
“itadori. you have an older brother who’s in a frat and you haven’t taken me yet?”
he shrugged. “i didn’t think you’d wanna go. buuuut i guess i can bring you with this weekend… on one condition.”
“anything.”
itadori grinned like how he did when he was about to steal one of your ramen cups. “talk to my brother.”
your raised brow and your smile dropped. a set up? “hell no.”
“please? i think you’ll really like him. he’s on the rugby team, he’s really tall—“
“nope. i told you, after that situationship from welcome week, men are off limits for me,” you held up a hand, shaking your head. itadori scoffed. “i wouldn’t really call fushiguro a situationship, more like a deluluship—“
“regardless! men are a no-no.”
itadori gave you a knowing look. “okay then. no frat. you can go to kappa on your own.”
you frowned at the thought of sticky floors, cheap alcohol, and being by yourself with no other friends. kugisaki and maki had no interest in coming with you to a frat. “… fine. what’s his instagram?” you gave in with a sigh.
itadori’s thumbs flew across his screen before he pulled up the page: a blank. user chosokamo. not even a profile picture.
“wow. he’s handsome,” you muttered sarcastically.
“he’s shy.”
“a shy frat guy on the rugby team? i don’t buy it.”
“you’ll see,” itadori grinned. “he’s nice. really, he’s quiet, but he’s a sweet guy. you’ll love him.”
“do i have to sleep with him or something?”
“i doubt you’ll get that far.”
you weren’t one to turn down a challenge. come friday night, you’d stalked down all of choso’s profiles. instagram, twitter, snapchat (practically nonexistent snap score), tiktok, spotify, linkedin, battle.net account. reposts of cat videos, playlists with rap and 2000s emo rock music for workouts, worked at a… plant nursery as a part time job? majored in biology with a focus in hematology. mained mizuki in overwatch.
you looked yourself over in the mirror while itadori waited outside. micro shorts, a cute halter top, some layered jewelry, shitty sneakers (in case of spills), and dolly makeup. good enough.
“come onnnnn slut!” itadori groaned outside your door. you swung it open and glared at him. “give me the goods.”
itadori rolled his eyes and slammed a red, sugarcoated gummy and pink vape in your hand. “can’t believe i’m your plug and your ride to a frat. for free.”
you scoffed, chewing the gummy. “hey, i gave you answers to the midterm, didn’t i? consider this payment. also, strawberry cloud dream?” you raised a brow at the pink device.
“it matches my hair!”
the sigma tau house was three blocks from campus and you could hear it before you saw it. it was brick and not exactly a small house, led lights in each window. red cups littered the lawn and a few guys out front were doing something that looked like it had started as a drinking game but had wound up being something entirely different.
you took a long drag of the strawberry cloud and ghosted it before braving a step inside. sticky floors, bass that vibrated your inner ear, faces you couldn’t really make out due to the low lighting.
you hadn’t even realized itadori left your side when he came back to you bearing gifts: a red solo cup. “sprite and svedka,” he grinned proudly.
you took a hesitant sip and grimaced. “holy shit. dude, this is svedka and like… a splash of sprite.”
itadori laughed and slung his arm around your shoulder. “welcome to your first frat party. okay, so, choso is in the kitchen—“
“the kitchen?”
“yeah, he doesn’t like the main room. actually, he doesn’t like coming out of his room…”
your brow furrowed. this guy didn’t sound like he belonged to a frat. then again, he studied blood. you let yuji lead you to the kitchen, shuffling past a girl who was throwing up into the trash can and right towards—
holy shit.
definitely over six feet worth of pure muscle, not too bulked but just beefy enough, eye bags, a scar on his nose bridge? no matter. dark hair that reached just below his ears, a wearing a band top and jeans. the hand holding his phone was both veiny and boney, his knuckles highlights with ridges of veins that ran down to his forearms. definitely your type. fushiguro who?
“yo, bro!” itadori smiled and waved, guiding you towards him. the man looked up, glanced at you, then looked back to his brother. “hey, yuji.”
you stood awkwardly at itadori’s side, mouth watering as you watched his older brother converse with him. his jaw was nice and defined, his lips pouted just the slightest bit…
“so this is my friend…” he finally introduced you. “the girl from my freshman year seminar i told you about? and this is my brother choso kamo, he’s a senior… right! so, um, i’m gonna go grab another drink—“
“wait, itadori!” you hissed, but he was gone in a flash. you whipped back to face his older brother, laughing nervously. “hi…”
“… hi.”
you stood in awkward silence for a moment. “so… kamo? not itadori?” you blurted out the ice breaker, and immediately regretted it. who asked a stranger about the specifics of their last name? was it the alcohol, or your nerves, or both?
“it’s… a long story…” choso looked away.
“right…” you dropped your gaze to the ground, then back up at him. you weren’t giving up. “so… itadori tells me you study biology? hematology?” a lie, obviously you’d figured out from stalking his linkedin. choso blinked up at you. “… yeah. he told you that?”
you nodded and lied through your teeth. “yeah. pretty… specific. why blood?”
choso shrugged and took a sip of whatever was in his cup. “my family has a history of blood disorders…” he murmured. “i wanted to understand it, so… i studied it.”
“oh,” you nodded slowly. it wasn’t the answer you’d expected. to be honest, you didn’t know what to expect with this guy. his head tilted up and you could make out the faintest tint of pink of his ears. “sorry. not good party conversation, huh?”
you shrugged. “i wouldn’t know. this is my first frat.”
his eyes widened. “your first— and you’re talking with me?” he scoffed. “you should go out and have fun with yuji.”
“i like talking with you,” you blurted out thanks to the 99% svedka drink in your cup. you realized how stupid you'd sounded. maybe three sentences exchanged with this guy and you liked talking with him?
he swallowed thickly. “you do…?” he mumbled, then straightened up when you nodded. “… what do you study?”
you could’ve easily ended the conversation fifteen, twenty minutes ago. once you got to the forty minute mark and had flown through three different topics of conversation with choso, you’d forgotten about your deal with itadori.
“so… mizuki?” you tilted your head. choso was smiling just the slightest bit by now. “yeah. used to main reinhardt, but his shield got nerfed.”
“so you abandoned him for support?” you laughed softly. “hey, at least you could be my d.va’s pocket healer now.”
choso raised a brow. “you play d.va? not surprised.”
you scoffed. “what’s that supposed to mean?” choso shrugged, not answering the question. “you play other video games?” he asked. you shrugged. “usually cod or fortnite with itadori. you?”
“… league of legends. on occasion.”
“ew.”
“hey!”
you busted out laughing, holding his arm for balance. you were about to make another snarky comment about his taste in video games when a head of pink hair swayed up to you guys.
“heyyyy guyssss…” he laughed and threw his arms around the both of you, effectively squishing you against choso’s firm chest. “having fun? need refills? you want—“
“yuji. go away,” choso playfully shoved his brother, earning a wide grin from your friend. “right right, of course, if you guys need anything… more drinks, condoms—“
“yuji!”
you laughed and rested your hand on choso’s chest, not having moved from where you’d been pressed against him. he tilted his head down to look at you. “sorry about him.”
“don’t apologize for him,” you smiled. “he’s an idiot, but i'm getting used to it.”
“yeah? how’s that going?” choso smirked, earning another small laugh from you. “not well.”
choso hummed. “try living with him for 19 years.”
“huh?” you tilted your head. the music had been turned up impossibly louder. choso leaned in and spoke a little louder in your ear. “i said, try living with him for 19 years.”
you laughed softly, the alcohol making you bubbly and flirty. “it’s loud in here.”
“it is,” he agreed, setting his cup down. “you wanna go up to my room?” he blurted out, then stilled. “i mean… just ‘cause it’s quieter. and i have my xbox so we can play games. not ‘cause… i mean— unless you’d—“
you suddenly felt sobered up. this had just been a stupid challenge, you remembered, but now it was real. “choso,” you cut him off, then nodded with a small smile. “lead the way.”
on your way up the stairs, led by choso holding your hand. you glanced down at the party to find itadori’s jaw dropped as he stared up at you, then he gave you a thumbs up and a big smile. you pretended you didn’t see him.
choso’s hand immediately left yours as soon as you were in his room. assuming he was undressing or tidying up his bed or something, you looked around his room. my chemical romance and deftones posters, textbooks, a bonsai tree.
then you heard the xbox turning on. you whipped around to find him sitting in his beanbag, thumbing the controller and looking up at you expectantly.
oh my god. he was actually serious about playing video games.
you glanced at him, then the tv. “you’re… serious?”
he furrowed his brow. “why wouldn’t i be?”
you pushed aside the ache between your thighs and settled next to him in his beanbag, noticing how he tensed up a little. you took the second controller and resigned yourself to the fact that instead of getting laid tonight, you’d be queuing up in ranked.
you were terrible at overwatch on console. you were used to pc and were still getting used to the controls. “you just walked into the enemy team,” choso muttered.
“excuse me. i’m tanking.”
“your kd is tanking, you mean.”
you frowned. “i’m used to pc, okay?”
“here,” he actually smiled, scooting closer behind you, wrapping his arms around yours and placing his hands over yours. “okay, left stick moves,” he mumbled in your ear. “right stick is for camera. this button shoots. this one’s your ult. you good?”
you glanced up at him, your faces inches away from each other. “yeah…” you murmured, looking back to the screen and playing better now that you knew the controls. “like this?”
“yeah, just like that… good.”
your thighs squeezed together, and you blushed as you realized he was close enough to probably feel it. you glanced back up at him, hearing your character die on the screen as you lost focus. choso didn’t comment, only staring down at you. he was close, close enough that you could make out the little scar on the bridge of his nose, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips had parted just a bit.
without thinking, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. both controllers clattered to the floor.
choso was quick and eager, returning the kiss and grabbing your waist. his tongue slipped into your mouth, rubbing against yours as he grunted with effort. you felt his cock straining against his jeans as he almost rutted against your thigh.
he caught himself, though, and pulled away panting softly, his lips glossed with your saliva. “s-sorry, that was—“
you shut him up with another kiss, pulling him close and swinging your leg over so you were straddling his lap. he groaned and pulled you closer, grinding up into you. you rolled your hips in response, and a high pitched noise bubbled up from his throat.
you pulled away to find him beet red with wide eyes. “that wasn’t—“
“you whimpered.”
his face scrunched up a bit. "what? no, i didn't-"
his protest was cut off as you rolled your hips again, an undeniable, broken, high pitched noise spilled from his lips. his fingers dug into your waist, trying to hold you still as he looked away, his cheeks flushed.
"oh my god," you half breathed out, half laughed out. "you're serious."
"stop." his voice held no conviction, his body betraying him as you felt his hips bucking up and rubbing up against you just the slightest bit.
you smirked and lifted your hips, pulling off of him. "fine," you murmured, and he immediately got the look of a kicked puppy, instinctively reaching for your waist again. "wait, no, don't-"
he paused as you got on your knees in front of him, running a hand through your hair to push it back. "... oh," he murmured, his hand sifting into your hair as you undid his jeans. his breath audibly hitched when you pulled his boxers down, his cock slapping up against his abs. he was already throbbing in your hand and beading pre, which you thumbed and smeared over his flared head.
“fuck…” he groaned, spreading his legs further apart. you looked up at him through your lashes. “sensitive?” you teased, and he only managed a nod in response.
you hummed and gently pumped him, barely even that. deciding to tease, you basically ghosted your fingers over his length, then leaned in and pressed a little wet kiss to his leaking tip.
“mm-hm!” his hips bucked up and a whine bubbled up from his chest. his tip prodded at your lips, and you took the opportunity to close your lips around him and sink your head down just a few inches. he was already a whining mess, tugging at your hair as his thighs tensed.
“fuck—“ he groaned after not even a minute. “wait, wait, wait— ‘m not gonna—“
you pulled off of him, lips still connected to his cock by a string of saliva. “don’t tell me you’re already close,” you raised a brow.
he huffed a small, nervous laugh. “i… think i am…” and judging by how he looked, he wasn’t lying. dark hair sticking with sweat to his forehead just a bit, his chest rising and falling as he panted, his flushed skin, face and ears tinted pink.
“that fast?” a shit-eating grin tugged at your lips.
he groaned and let his head fall back, scrubbing his free hand down his face. “you were just…!” he protested, gesturing vaguely to his lap, then you.
you hummed. “fair.” you moved to take him back into your mouth, but a tug on your hair stopped you. frowning, you protested. “what…?”
his chest was still heavy with his panting, his hips twitching up into the air. “just— i won’t last if you keep—“
“so?” you shrugged, dropping your gaze back to where your hand was wrapped around him. you stuck out your tongue and let a glob of spit spill to his tip, then smeared it along his slit. “i know i was teasing you, but i don’t care. really.”
he groaned and tugged at your hair again, then reached down and pulled you up by your arms, making you squeak in surprise. “choso—!”
“not like this…” he grunted, hoisting you up effortlessly, holding your legs around his waist as he stood. “wanna make you feel good first…” he mumbled shyly into your neck, setting you down on the bed and kissing down your body. his lips left a wet, cool trail on your skin, goosebumps following.
your stomach did a flip. itadori was right… he really was sweet. your expression softened. “you don’t have to—“
“i want to,” he mumbled against your inner thigh, his lips suckling gently at the skin there. he hesitated, pulling just an inch away and gazing up at you like he was already drunk on you. “… is that okay?”
your heart flopped around in your chest. “yeah…” you sighed out softly. he nodded and carefully undid the button and zipper of your jeans, pulling them down with your panties.
“holy shit…” he mumbled aloud, probably meaning to keep that in his head. he reached up hesitantly and gently spread your drooling folds with his fingers. he glanced back up at you with wider puppy eyes, quietly asking for permission.
you nodded, fingers threading into his dark locks. “go ahead.”
he didn’t waste a second, pressing a wet kiss to your clit before suckling the bud between his lips.
“fuck—!” your knees jerked up along with your hips. "oh my god, where the fuck did you-?"
"mmph," he grunted against your cunt. "'m not a virgin, y'know,"
your cheeks flushed. "yeah, i knew that..." you grumbled, even though up until about five seconds ago you'd figured he hadn't felt the touch of a woman before. he huffed against you and picked up his pace as if he now had something to prove, his tongue delving between your folds and slurping up every drop of your slick. his thumb came to rub quick little circles into your swollen bud, leaving you fisting at his hair.
"choso- holy shit-"
"mmf..." he grunted, his hips jerking against the mattress. he kept humming and grunting in both the effort of eating you out and the pleasure from grinding against his bed, the vibrations shooting through you and making your back arch.
he definitely knew what he was doing, at least with you. every time your hips jerked up or your thighs twitched or you tugged at his hair, he chased it, learning you in real time. his hand slid up your stomach, grabbing a fistful of your top to ground himself. he was practically humping the mattress, desperate for friction to soothe his throbbing cock.
you were too lost in your own cloud of pleasure to even notice it. one hand fisted at his hair, keeping his face buried in your pussy, the other fisted at the sheets. "f-fuck, cho- 'm close..."
he groaned and grabbed your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to his face. "c'mon." you could barely make out what he said, his voice was so muffled. he sucked harshly on your clit, then brought his hand to plunge two deft fingers into your hole, bullying your g-spot. "c'mon, give it t'me... please..."
you came with a whine of his name, your back arching and obscene squelching noises coming from where choso’s tongue met your sticky walls. he groaned loudly, his jaw going slack for a moment, and the moment the mattress stopped squeaking was when you realized it had been making noise at all.
he shuddered a bit, pulling away from you with glossy lips, your cum dripping down his chin. your hazy gaze raked down his body as he sat up, finding a dark patch in his boxers.
you couldn’t help the laugh you exhaled. “did you seriously cum in your pants from eating me out?”
choso was beet red again, red crawling up his neck. “shut up.”
biting your lip, you smiled and crawled forward, slowly and deliberately, like a jaguar stalking her prey. choso gulped visibly, almost shrinking back a little, but his body froze up in fear... or excitement. or both.
"you couldn't even wait..." you smirked, tilting his chin up once you were on top of him. your fingers ghosted down his shirt, feeling his abs, dipping below his waistband.
choso let out a shaky breath, bringing his hands to hover over your waist, as if he wanted to grab on but he wasn't sure if he was allowed to. "i- i tried..." he murmured, the tips of his ears blushing pink.
your smirk widened. "didn't seem like it."
he swallowed hard at that, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. your fingers teased right at his trail, waiting until he was bucking up into you to pull his waistband down. he was still rock hard and throbbing, sticky cum dripping down the veins of his cock.
you bit your lip and smiled, your eyes lighting up at the sight of him like you'd just won the lottery. "mmh..." you moved your hips to hover over him, and he finally grabbed onto the swell of your hips.
"wait-" he stammered out. "... protection? i have condoms-"
"fuck that, 'm on the pill," you muttered, tossing your hair back and moving to sink down on him.
"are you s- ohhhhmygod..." he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut and his brow knitting as you enveloped him with a sweet squelchh! the stretch dragged a little whine out of you, and you bit your lip to hold it back. you bottomed out, ass flush to his thighs, and took a moment to stare at him. panting, flushed, brow seemingly permanently knotted upwards.
"choso."
"one second."
"are you seriously trying to not cum already?"
he whined and let his head fall back to the mattress, already humiliated from cumming in his pants, and now you were just being cruel. "just- give me a second, okay? jesus..." he panted.
you gave him a second, waiting patiently. then two, three, four, five...
you rolled your hips, and his hands flew to your waist. "fuuuuckk...!" he rasped, lifting his head to glare up at you, only to find you with a shit eating grin. "theerre he is..." you purred, rolling your hips again.
"please-" he whined into the back of his hand after throwing it over his face. "please, i just need a minute, 'm not gonna-"
"choso," you pulled his hand away, staring down at him. your free hand smoothed over his chest, feeling his heart banging against his ribcage. "look at me. you're doing so good..."
the sound that left him was sharp, broken, and obviously he hadn't meant to let it slip out. something like a whimper crossed with a groan and maybe even a little sob. his hips bucked up into you, your hole squelching softly. "don't say that..." he murmured, his face hot.
"takin' me so well, stretchin' me out..." you purred, just to see his reaction. it was gold, of course, another whine spilling past his lips. his fingers dug into the fat of your hips, not stopping you, just holding on for dear life. "you're doing that on purpose," he accused breathlessly.
"obviously."
you took his hands from your hips and brought them up to the curve below your breast, letting him hold you where he could feel your heartbeat. then, bracing your own hands on his chest, you leaned forward a bit, glancing down at where his cock disappeared between your drenched folds. little bubbles of pre foamed at where he did.
you dragged your hips up, then sunk down-
"fuck-" choso's breath hitched, and his bit his lip to keep from being loud. his jaw clenched, his eyes were shut tight like if he didn't look at you, maybe, just maybe, he could keep himself from cumming right now.
"you can be loud, cho. no one's gonna hear you over the party downstairs."
he swallowed thickly and nodded. "right, right..."
"and open your eyes. wan' you to watch me ride your cock."
he twitched inside you, and he huffed. "can you not-"
you rose and dropped your hips to shut him up, and a broken whine interrupted whatever complaint he had. and you didn't stop there, speeding up and bouncing on him without any pauses.
"shit, shit, oh my- fuuckk-" it dragged out of him. long and dissolving. his head pressed back into the pillow, his hands flexing against your waist. "okay. okay, okay, okay-"
your hands moved from his chest up to his hair, fisting his soft locks in both hands like handlebars. he whined and hugged you to his chest, burying his face in your neck.
"cho-"
"don't stop, please..." he almost cried into your neck. "please don't stop, feels s-s'good, 'm... fuuck, 'm not gonna last..." he dragged his words out with soft whines.
you felt it building in your stomach too. it was impossible to ignore at this point, the way his cock was rubbing up on your gummy spot and smearing globs of his precum over it.
"yeah?" you managed to pant out, dipping your head down to gently nip at his earlobe. "you gonna fill me up? hm?"
"hngh- fuck-"
you sped up, sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin as he began to buck up desperately into you.
"hm? can't hear you, cho. i asked if you're gonna cum inside me," you panted. choso was panting heavily, his gaze trained on where your pussy lips stretched and drooled around his cock, bouncing up and down.
squelch!
squelchh!
squelchhh!
he finally slammed his hips up into you, his head thrown back as a strained cry spilled from his raw lips. "h-hngh- 'm cumming- cumming-!!"
his cock throbbed and twitched against your velvet walls, spurting and sticking his seed to your walls. "oh my god..." he panted, hips hips rutting up in aftershock, mushroomy tip smearing his sticky white allllll around your walls till he was leaking out of you.
you followed close behind, your fingers twisting in his hair, back arching and head tilting back. your poor hole quivered around him, squeezing his swollen cock in quick pulses. you glanced back in the mirror to find sticky patches of white dripping down your inner thighs, and your jaw dropped.
you looked back down at him underneath you: totally fucked out, half lidded eyes, chewed and raw lips parted, drool slicking down from the corners of his mouth. "that was..." he rasped, then closed his eyes.
"yeah..." you exhaled a small laugh, still catching your breath. you pulled off of him with a lewd drag, then plopped down beside him. his hand subconsciously came up to your hair, sifting into your locks, and you wondered if he was even awake at this point.
careful not to wake him up, you reached across him to the nightstand for his phone, hovering it over his face for the face ID. you scrolled to his messages to add your number, then furrowed your brow as you saw his group chat being blown up.
SIGMA TAU BROTHERHOOD 🔥💪🍻
todo aoi: CHOSO GETTING CHEEKS TN YO
todo aoi: I SAW HIM TAKE A GIRL UPSTAIRS
itadori yuji: i set it up hb of the year over here
naoya zenin: kamo actually pulled? no way LMFAOOOOO
kinji hakari: STOP CALLIN MY PHONE SHE GETTIN FUCKED TN😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹
naoya zenin: yo this mf got negative aura how did this happen
todo aoi: CHOSO BROTHER I'M SO PROUD
naoya zenin: i'm serious bro wtf
you snorted and tossed his phone to the side, burrowing your face into choso's neck and snuggling into him. the party thumped on downstairs. for once, though you'd hate to admit it out loud, you could say itadori was right. you were glad you didn't go to kappa.
The school bell of UA cuts through the hallway chatter like a hot knife through butter. The jarring signal turning excited conversation into nervous goodbyes as students take their separate ways to home room. Excusing yourself through the cluster of friend groups you pick up your pace to your new classroom. Navigating halls, memorizing door signs and scanning faces for any familiar features of friends from middle school till you eventually find your class. Classroom 1-A.
You take a deep breath, inhaling a bit of your sweet perfume that you purposely sprayed extra of while smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in your uniform skirt. You walk inside with a nervous anticipation and high hopes for the next 3 years of your journey to be a hero. Looking around the large unfamiliar classroom, you scan the faces of your new classmates.
One boy with white and red hair and heterochromia eyes sitting in the middle row, another boy with navy blue hair and glasses sitting in the front row. But as you scan your gaze catches on a certain spiky ash-blonde haired boy in the last row, 3rd seat from the front with a bothered scowl on his face and his chin propped against his hand. Crimson eyes staring out the window tracking a butterfly like its wings flapping personally offended him, eyebrows furrowed and lips slightly pressed together.
Your steps falter once, twice, before coming to a halt.
Who…is that?
You feel your heart rate increase, hands getting clammy at your sides and cheeks now dusted with pink blush. Your body feels too warm in the cold classroom, and you immediately blame it on the sun pouring in from the windows rather than the boy a few feet in front of you. His pale skin looks almost golden from the rays of sunshine painting his features, the sharp lines of his jaw looking drawn from the shadows the light casted. Adams'apple bobbling in his throat when he swallows and a sharp nose that exhaled sharply in annoyance when a student walked to close past his desk.
“Hey! Are you calling this seat?” A seemingly excited male voice snaps you out of your trance, your head turning to the side to see a red spiky haired boy with a big toothy grin and a pink haired girl standing next to him. It takes you a second to process his question, when it registers your cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink, realizing you were just staring at him like a deer in headlights.
“Oh, no go ahead. Sorry I was totally in your way.” You chuckle nervously and take a step back to let them pass, smiling apologetically.
The male laughs, “Nah no worries! Thanks!” He stands off to the side to let the girl go first, she smiles brightly at you in passing and takes the last seat in the row before he takes the one in front of her. You internally scold yourself before following, sitting down at the desk in front of him.
“I’m Eijiro Kirishima!”
Kirishima says happily with a hand on his chest like a proud soldier.
“And I’m Mina Ashido!”
Mina says excitedly, both of them looking at you like a new found best friend.
You smile at them both, committing the names to memory. “It's nice meeting you guys.” You say as casually as you can, feeling your nerves start to settle now that the initial one-sided embarrassment has subsided. As the minutes pass more students start shuffling in, you continue making casual conversation with the two, asking about what middle schools they went to, quirks, hero dreams, etc.
Eventually your teacher, Mr. Aizawa walks in, he starts going over the syllabus and expectations for the year. By the end of the first period, you kind of settled into a comfortable friend group with Kirishima and Mina. Later going on to meeting more classmates who became part of your circle were Denki, Sero, Jiro, and Yaoyorozu. The best part? That spiky blonde was roped into being part of this group, Katsuki Bakugo.
A third-year and member of the schools Big 3, Mirio Togata was giving your entire class a tour of the school grounds. As you all walk to the dorms, you're chatting excitedly with Mina.
“UA puts 5 star hotels to shame.” You state starstruck, looking up at the massive dorm building as the class walks on the trail to reach its entrance. The tall glass building reflects the afternoon sun, painting the campus in gorgeous shades of orange. Flowers along the trail dance in the breeze and clouds rolling idly by overheard create shapes that vaguely resemble animals.
“No kidding! Looks like something out of a movie!” Mina chuckles next to you as she follows your gaze upwards to the building.
Behind you two, Kirishima throws his arm over Bakugou's shoulders, excitedly looking up at the dorm building. “Yeah! Baku-bro, isn't this place insane?” Bakugou groans, shaking off Kirishima's arm from his shoulders with excessive force before shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.“Tch. It’s just a damn building, not the Tokyo Tower.” His voice was gruff and annoyed, displeased with what seemed like everything.
Kirishima takes no offense from Bakugou's tone or action, he just laughs it off and puts his hands in his pockets. “Oh come on man! Lighten up!”
Bakugou's left eye twitches, “Shut up shittyhair! Only thing I'm lighting is your ass on fire!” He snaps back, Mina laughs. You chuckle alongside her, both of you turning back to see Kirishima laughing like it was the funniest joke in the world and not an outright threat while Bakugou mutters under his breath about ‘extras and their odd fixations with buildings’.
Your eyebrows furrow slightly as your brain starts catching up with his seemingly always annoyed and angry attitude.You shake your head slightly, filing away the observations before turning to face forward as the class reaches the dorm building.
As the tour continues, you start noticing more of his bad attitude and quick to anger temper towards everything. Small details of how he doesn't keep the door from shutting on the person walking behind him, interrupting Mirio as he speaks usually to comment that he's taking too long on his explanation, and the way he huffs dramatically whenever the group stops for more than thirty seconds.
At one point Mirio pauses to answer a question from one of your classmates, Bakugou clicks his tongue.
"Oi, lets get a damn move on!" He barks out with his hands clenching into fist in his pockets.
Mirio laughs. "Patience, young Bakugou! In due time!"
"Tch." He rolls his eyes so hard you're surprised they don't get stuck in the back of his head.
Of all the people in class to have a crush on, you somehow managed to pick the human embodiment of a grenade. A very attractive grenade. A grenade that looked perpetually one inconvenience away from committing a felony.
Time Skip - 6 months.
Six months had passed since the first day you stepped into Class 1-A. Unfortunately, your crush hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had gotten worse. Which was impressive considering the object of your affection seemed personally offended by the concept of human interaction.
The rest of your friend group had long since figured out how to handle Bakugou. Mina argued with him like it was a competitive sport. Denki constantly annoyed him for his own entertainment. Kirishima treated every threat as a friendly greeting. Even Jiro occasionally rolled her eyes and told him to shut up.
Bakugou never changed. He was still impatient. Still blunt. Still somehow capable of sounding irritated while having a rare, casual conversation. Yet everyone else carried on as usual around him.
Everyone except you. It wasn't intentional. But somewhere along the way you started paying attention to every reaction he had. Whether his expression darkened when someone interrupted him. Whether his eye twitched when Denki got too loud. Whether he looked annoyed by a topic of conversation.
You found yourself adjusting for him without even realizing it. Talking a little quieter. Thinking twice before making a joke. Checking his mood before saying something ridiculous. The worst part? You were naturally a ridiculous person. So whenever Bakugou wasn't around, you felt like yourself. Loud laughter. Terrible jokes. Dramatic storytelling. The whole nine-yards.
Then Bakugou would walk into the room and you'd immediately become aware of yourself again. You hated it. Especially because nobody else seemed affected, only you. As if your stupid crush had somehow rewired your brain.
Tonight was supposed to be a break from all that. After surviving a brutal week of classes and training, your friend group had decided to spend Friday night at an arcade.
The place was packed. Bright lights flashed from every direction while overlapping game music created a wall of noise loud enough to drown out everything. The smell of pizza and slushies drifted in the air like a taunt while Mina destroyed everyone at a dance game. Denki had somehow lost three consecutive rounds of basketball against Jiro and Sero was laughing so hard he nearly fell over. You spent the first hour bouncing between games and collecting enough tickets to buy nothing useful. For once, you weren't thinking about school, training, internships, or Bakugou.
Then everyone migrated toward a racing simulator. Immediately, chaos broke out over who got to play first. Unfortunately, there weren't enough seats for everyone. Which meant some people had to wait, and through a cruel twist of fate, you ended up being one of them. Alongside Bakugou.
Fantastic.
Sighing imperceptibly, you stood beside one of the machines while Kirishima waited nearby, enthusiastically commentating on the race currently happening on-screen.
"You're taking that corner too wide!" He shouted.
"I know!" Denki yelled back.
"No, you clearly don't!"
"You sound like Bakugou!"
"Don't compare me to him!"
Bakugou’s left eye twitched, “The hell does that mean you idiot!"
Kirishima laughed. Then his attention shifted toward the concession stand across the arcade.
"Oh, hold on. I'm grabbing a drink."
Without waiting for a response, he ran off towards the stand, counting tickets in his hands calculating how many he’ll need with his signature toothy grin.
The noise of the arcade seemed louder now, or maybe you were just more aware of it. You shifted your weight awkwardly, squaring your shoulders and standing a bit straighter against the wall before pulling out your phone and checking your notifications. There was nothing there, but you stared anyway. A habit you'd developed months ago because willing a notification to come through was easier than trying to figure out what to say to Bakugou.
Not that he looked interested in conversation anyway. He was standing beside you with his hands shoved into his pockets, eyes fixed on the racing game probably thinking how much better he'd be doing at it. His expression looked exactly the same as it always did, annoyed, like he'd rather be anywhere else.
A minute passed. Then another. You refreshed the same page on your phone for the third time. He glanced over at you, eyebrows furrowed. When it looked like he'd blow a fuse if he saw you checked your phone again Kirishima returned with a huge slushie. Your shoulders sagged in quiet relief and you pocketed your phone.
Thank god…
Minutes later, you ended up challenging Kirishima to a round of air hockey. Which turned out to be a mistake. A horrible mistake. Because somehow the game had escalated from a friendly match into a full-blown championship event.
"THAT DIDN'T COUNT!" You shouted, nearly climbing over the table after the puck bounced into your goal.
"It absolutely counted!" Kirishima yelled back, laughing so hard he could barely hold the striker.
"It ricocheted!"
"That's literally part of the game!"
Your entire friend group ended up around the air hockey table, all giggling and observing your antics. You didn't even notice until Mina nearly doubled over laughing. "Oh my god, you two are ridiculous."
"Tell him he cheated!" You demanded with a pout.
"He didn't cheat." She says cheerfully, breathless from laughing.
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest, muttering to yourself. "Betrayal."
Across the arcade, Bakugou had been watching. For a moment, his eyes lingered. Watching you animatedly argue with Kirishima. Watching your exaggerated hand gestures. The loud laughter. The ridiculous dramatics. The complete lack of self-consciousness. Then he looked away with a scoff before thinking to himself,
Since when was this woman so damn loud?
Eventually you all used your tickets to buy useless plastic trinkets and candies. Mina bought a cherry lollipop, Denki, a slap bracelet he used mostly on Jiro instead of his own wrist. Kirishima won a teddy bear he ended up gifting to Mina, and you bought the first thing that caught your eye and made you smile.
As the night wound down and the arcade was closer to closing, you all decided to start heading back to the dorms. Everyone walked in pairs down the narrow sidewalk, all having separate conversations with their partner. Jiro and Yaoyorozu led the group talking about an upcoming test, Kirishima and Mina behind them naming the teddy bear with Denki and Sero right on their heels suggesting outrageous names. That left you and Bakugo walking side by side, the only two silent.
You weren’t exactly uncomfortable, just distracted by the teasing going on in front of you. Chuckling and shaking your head, occasionally giving your two scents on the names Denki and Sero were spewing. You walked casually, almost forgetting the grenade beside you. Almost.
The conversation in front of you became more of the four, so you took it as your sign to respectfully resign yourself. Now becoming more aware of the situation you’re in, you walked with your shoulders slightly more squared, your eyes gazing over the view of city buildings and closed up shops. Anything but the walking firecracker next to you, with his hands in his pockets and a slightly more relaxed scowl on his face.
After three more minutes of silent walking, your fingers started fidgeting with the hem on your shirt, teeth biting the inside of your cheek unconsciously.
Does he find this awkward? Does he wish he were with anyone else?
No, you know what? Screw it.
Before you could overthink it you cleared your throat, “Hey so, did you have a good time?” Your voice came out shakier than intended, your nervousness painfully obvious. You cursed yourself internally for it.
Bakugou side eyed you, crimson eyes narrowing as he reads between the lines of your tone. “Yeah, good enough of a time possible with you idiots.” His voice was gruff, annoyed as ever.
A quiet chuckle slipped out before you could stop it, his jaw ticked imperceptibly. You tried to think of something to say, your eyebrows furrowing once more in thought.
Bakugo walks alongside you with the long growing silence, except for the sound of the gears turning in your head. He keeps noticing the way you bite the inside of your cheek while you think of what to say, how your lips part slightly and then shut just as fast as you deem whatever you were about to say unworthy. His scowl deepens, jaw ticking and hands digging deeper into his pockets as if physically restraining himself from opening your jaw and making you speak.
“Just spit it out already, idiot. You’re pissing me off.” He breaks the silence with a borderline commanding tone, sharp crimson eyes locking onto yours.
You snap from your thoughts, looking at him wide eyed with slightly parted lips. Your mouth moves a couple times, your brain still trying to process the request.
“What?” You ask just to buy time and think of a proper sentence to say in the mess that is your thoughts.
“You deaf or something?” He snaps back, the last of his thin patience wavering into nothing. “Just say what you're thinking, is that so hard?” His voice is practically a growl.
You blink once, twice, trying to figure out why you're not more intimidated than you should be but more intrigued. You licked your lips and cleared your throat before speaking,
“The girls were talking about suggesting to watch a movie later in the common room. What kind of movie would you suggest?” Your voice came out quiet, but steadier than before.
See? Progress.
“Tch. Seriously? That's what took you so goddamn long?” He says gruffly, annoyed with how much of a big deal you were making about something so seemingly simple.
Nevermind.
A pause.
“Rom-com.” He replies slightly less annoyed from before now that you finally spit out your question. “Anything in that genre.” He continues, turning his head to face forward again casually like he didn't just short circuit your brain.
“Rom-com?” You say almost immediately, your tone higher pitched in disbelief and eyes widening slightly in surprise. “You…Katsuki Bakugou…like rom-coms?”
His expression twists in defenses.“Tch. Is that a goddamn problem nerd?” He barks back, causing you to laugh a full belly laugh. Denki and Sero look back at you sharing a surprised glances and a chuckle before turning back to face forward. Bakugou scowls impossibly further, a low growl from the depth of his throat bubbling up.
“Stop laughing idiot!” He whirls on you while yelling out, hands clenching into fist in his pockets and teeth grinding together. You only laughed harder, clutching your stomach as you felt muscles tense.
Your laughter filling the once awkward silence was like sunshine finally peeking out from behind rain clouds, invading his head and heart without warning. An unfamiliar sense of warmth blossoms in his chest. Before he could process it, his face muscles relaxed. Observing the way your eyes crinkled and your smile lines framed your soft lips. Cheeks turning a soft red from the laughter and your sweet perfume getting carried by the night breeze into his lungs. He inhaled like it was the first time he'd ever smelled it, and maybe in a sense it was. Before this moment, you were just another friend from the group, but now he’s really noticing you.
In your fit of laughter, Bakugou steps slow just barely to better match yours. He himself didn’t even notice his feet quietly adjusting to you, if he did he probably would've scowled and walked faster out of anger at himself for making an accommodation for anyone. His head dropped down slightly towards the sidewalk while his tongue pushed on the inside of his cheek to suppress a rare smile threatening to show. He should've been upset at you for laughing at him, and part of him was. But a small, unfamiliar part of him wanted nothing more than to keep being the reason you were laughing.
“I'm sorry-” You gasp out between laughs, completely unaware of the internal shift he just faced.
Your voice cutting him from his thoughts and making his face form right back into his default scowl, his head snapping up to face you again.
“Like hell you are!” He barks out with less heat than before, taking a hand out of his pocket to point an accusing finger at you. “ I'll make you damn sorry if you don't stop laughing!” Even as the threat spilled from his lips, it carried less weight than usual.
You wipe a stray tear from under your eye as your laughter dies down, not from his threat but because you simply needed air. “Okay, there is absolutely no way you like rom-coms.” You say with exaggerated hand movements and a bright amused smile.
He huffs and shoves his hand back in his pocket, facing forward and refusing to look at you. “Believe what you want idiot.” he mutters.
“No no no, let's talk about this,” you say chuckling before continuing, “which one made you realize you liked em? Oh let me guess, How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days?”
He rolls his eyes hard, “Please, that cheesy ass movie? Hell no. When Harry Met Sally, easy.” He states like it's the most obvious pick in the world. His scowl lightens just slightly as scenes from his favorite movie replay in his head.
You smiled a little brighter, “A classic. Didn't know you of all people would enjoy a friends to lovers trope.” You say surprised but happy to be getting to know more about him.
After all, this is basically the first real conversation you guys have had. The real cherry on top was that no one else knows about this side of him. You couldn't help but get your hopes up, your harmless crush on him suddenly becoming a small burning flame in your chest. Was this a new beginning for you guys? A first step towards a level above whatever friendship you guys had before?
He shrugs, still with his hands in his pockets. “Better than all that fake horror movie shit. What kind of moron trips while being chased?” He scoffs annoyed, rolling his eyes like he’s mentally replaying every time a protagonist has fallen while running away from the killer in a film.
You laugh, also visualizing it. “Hey no debate here. I love horror movies but they really do get annoying after coming up with a million ways to evade every situation the main character gets put in.”
He looks at you with a borderline shocked expression, surprised someone actually had the same opinion as him on this before the look disappears just as fast as it came. “At least someone gets it.” He mumbles almost amused.
You smile and chuckle, your head tilting slightly as you look at him walking next to you under the moonlight. Ash-blonde hair ruffling in the breeze that smelled faintly of fresh cut grass. Streetlights overhead casting shadows down his sharp nose and jawline while his eyebrows released some of the permanent tension that lived there.
You couldn't help but realize how light you felt in this moment with him. The chatter from the group up ahead had disappeared from your notice, your focus solely on the fact that Katsuki Bakugou was holding a conversation with you. He hadn’t told you to shut up, yet. Or speed walk away with a click of his tongue.
So, you took this as your invitation to keep talking. For the rest of the ten minute walk back to campus, you’re rambling animatedly about your favorite rom-coms, comedy and action movies. Your arms wave around enthusiastically as your lips move a million miles a minute about every topic. Bakugou gives his two-cents on every topic but not enough for it to be considered a two way conversation. A “Tch. That movie? Seriously? What are you? Five?” When explaining your favorite rom-com or “That’s the worst acting I’ve ever seen from so-called professionals. Why would anyone waste an hour and thirty minutes of their day for THAT movie.” While explaining your favorite action movie. You laughed it off and kept talking considering all the complaining he’s doing is because he’s sat down and watched them himself at some point. Only when the view of the towering glass UA dorm building came into view did he say,
“You’re a damn chatter box huh?” With an amused chuckle to himself, still looking forward with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and walking with that easy confidence he permanently carried. He didn’t say it to offend you or even judge you. To him it was merely an observation he decided to state out loud, not expecting to have caused any harm with his silly seeming comment.
However, whatever words you had on your tongue died right there, your mouth clamping shut and heart sinking in your chest with embarrassment.
Holy shit, I really did just chew his ear off. Damn it, the one conversation I had with him I absolutely blew it.
You rub the side of your arm while chewing on the inside of your right cheek, self criticizing every word you said up to this point. Bakugou immediately notices when you're silent, how could he not? Just two seconds ago your mouth was partially open about to say something but now you're suddenly as silent as a mouse. Just before Bakugou seemingly was about to speak,
“Hey! You guys down for a movie night?” Jiro suggests from her spot at the front. Everyone immediately agrees with excited “yes!” and “duh!” mostly from Mina, Denki, and Kirishima.
Oh fun. A movie night. Could this get any worse?
You think to yourself as you walk inside the dorm building, everyone saying quick goodbyes before disappearing into their rooms to change into comfy clothes.
The sound of the bathroom extractor and running faucet water echo off your room walls. You stand in front of your bathroom sink, hoodie and sweats pants on, hair up in a messy bun and makeup off. The warm water runs over your hands as you wash away the soap and mortification from that interaction with Bakugo. Your gaze moves to the reflection of your face in the mirror, scanning over your disappointed features as you visualize the clown makeup over your features. Yeah, that level of mortification.
Absolute idiot. Just had to keep talking huh?
You take a deep breath and turn off the running water, the faucet creaking and the water flow turning into a steady drip of single droplets till it eventually ceases. Pushing off the sink counter with a huff, you mentally prepare yourself to walk out of your safe space and into the warzone.
When you arrive, the entire group is already in the low-lit common area. Everyone standing around the kitchen island talking and laughing excitedly while Momo hands out snacks from the pantry. The smell of buttery popcorn cooking and the sound of cornels popping on the stove fill the room. A smile paints your lips at the sight of everyone having a good time, Kirishima already fist deep in his favorite chips, Mina with sour airhead strips laughing loudly with Sero, Denki with goldfish and sour candy standing next to Jiro like a lost puppy with a smile, and Jiro with a pack of M&M talking with Momo at the pantry.
Everyone is having a great time with each other, besides Bakugou.
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you scan the area, finding him away from the group and already sitting on the leather brown couch, staring at you as you walk further into the space. He occupies the left corner of the couch, man-spreading with his left arm draped across the back of the cushions and head turned to see you. The black slim TV remote with multi-colored buttons lays on his lap, hand loosely around it as the screen loads up to show the movies category on Netflix.
Your heart does an embarrassing leap in your chest as your steps unconsciously slow down, the sight of him like a king on his throne making your cheeks flush. Crimson eyes study your features like he’ll have a quiz on them, blonde eyebrows pulled together making his relaxed features seem tense.
You swallow the lump forming in your throat and quickly look away from him like you were caught committing a crime. Your nerves start to make your hands clammy under your hoodie sleeves, a cold sweat deciding to break out on the back of your neck causing hairs to stick uncomfortably to the damp skin.
Kirishima is the first to notice you walking further into the room, with a toothy grin and an excited glint in his eyes he announces your presence to the group. “There you are! We were waiting for you!” He says, causing heads to turn and smiles to be pointed your way. Everyone is painfully oblivious to the thickening tension between you and Bakugous whose eyes you can feel burning a hole through the back of your skull.
You smile and start making conversation while grabbing a bowl and helping Jiro to put in the popcorn. Conversation is easy as always, echos of laughter bringing a warmth back to your chest and settling your nerves. You're being your usual loud and stupid self, making terrible jokes that cause the group to laugh at you rather than with you. Not that you mind, their joy is so infectious you forget to care.
Periodically, your eyes flick to where Bakugou resides. His watching gaze and annoyed expression makes your heart race all over again, like the last 15 minutes of laughter and smiles did nothing to ease your mind. You look away and shake off the anxiety as best as you can, focusing on the smiling faces in front of you rather than the cold, calculating gaze behind them.
Soon enough people start to take their spots on the couch, Mina on the opposite corner of the couch, Denki in the middle with Jiro on his right and Sero on his left, and Momo sitting on a nearby arm chair nursing a cup of tea. You and Kirishima stay standing a little longer as he grabs a soda from the fridge, laughing hard from a ridiculous joke you made and he added onto.
Bakugou rolls his eyes at the sight of you and Kirishima, sighing loudly to grab your attention. “Oi! Any day now nerds!” He complains with a grumble, but his impatient tone suggests an underlying reasoning for wanting you guys to sit down. Jealousy? No, definelty not..
You and Kirishima share a glance before giggling like kids and walking to the couch, whispering about ‘firecrackers and their attitudes’ which only made Bakugo click his tongue and track his red haired best friend beside you with a glare.
Kirishima being the gentleman he is, stands off to the side to let you pick where you want to sit first with an encouraging smile and tilt of his head. You look over the options and your smile fades slowly. Left side with a scowling Bakugou whose gaze is now locked on you, or Mina on the right laughing at something Denki said.
“You’re a damn chatter box huh?”
His words echo fresh in your mind, the feeling of your heart sinking in your chest and your spirits crumbling for the hope of…well, anything, still stinging. The embarrassment hasn't faded despite the time that passed and your heart still feels heavy with disappointment. You guys were having a great conversation, at least you thought. Now, looking back, it just feels one sided. Like the conversation was a chore or rather a courtesy since he got stuck next to you.
Kirishima waits patiently behind you with that permanent smile in his expression, popping open his soda with a click and fizz. You blink back the thoughts and with your eyes downcast, you take a seat next to Mina.
Bakugou watches you sit down, tracking your form as you curl into the cushions and glance at him. For a brief second, you could have sworn disappointment flashed in his gaze. His lips pulled into the faintest of frowns, his eyebrows pulling downward in slight confusion before it quickly disappears and is masked by a scowl. He tears his eyes from you and focuses on the TV, adjusting his hips on the couch and resting his elbow on the armrest before putting his cheek against his fist.
You frown slightly and do the same as Kirishima walks in front of you to sit next to Bakugou, turning your attention to focus on the TV with a small sigh. When you look, really look at the movie queued on the screen, your heart plummets down to your stomach.
A newly released rom-com sits patiently on screen, the trailer starting with slow romantic jazz and a montage of the movie over the “Watch” button.
Your eyes snap to his again, regret settling like a hundred pound weight on your chest. The music from the movie turns to static in your ears over the sound of your pounding heart. The chatter of the group dulls into a faint buzz and the smell of the various assortment of snacks meddle together into something sour in your nose. Bakugo's gaze stays forward, that same unreadable but annoyed scowl, Kirishima next to him offers snacks that he refuses with a click of his tongue.
The fabric of your oversized hoodie felt too tight on your frame, the lights overhead felt more like spotlights, all pointing at you for making the wrong choice.
He planned a rom-com.
You realize then that Bakugo had purposely sat down earlier than everyone else, claimed a spot on the couch with the remote in hand, and picked a movie from the conversations you guys had…for you. Maybe he had planned something to say when you sat next to him, something only the two of you would’ve understood. Maybe it could’ve turned into an inside joke, maybe you could’ve joked over the acting or talked about the cliches. Maybe, he had wanted you to sit next to him. Now, you’ll never get to know.
Your thoughts get cut off from the common room lights getting shut off by Momo in the corner of the room. The movie starts to play as the calm music and scenic city play over the TV. You lay back into the cushions trying to mold yourself into the leather, hoping you could just disappear for the next hour and thirty minutes of this rom-com.
The rom- com passes in a blur of tension and romantic music, none of which you bother to try to pay attention to. Your thoughts were too loud to pay attention to the scenes in front of you, your heart too fast to relax and enjoy much of anything, and your eyes would glance at a bothered Bakugo every ten minutes trying to read his thoughts from his face. Which was proven a futile effort after the seventeenth time.
He didn’t move or speak much during the movie, he would occasionally yawn loudly or adjust his position on the couch. Arms behind his head against the couch and legs manspreading enough to be comfortable and inconvenience Kirishima next to him. Unbeknownst to you, after every glance you snuck at him, he snuck one back. When he watched your face turn forward in his peripheral vision, he’d side eye you just enough to see that small frown on your lips and sagging shoulders under your hoodie. His eyes would narrow imperceptibly and lips pull into a tight line before looking back to the TV, not really watching the movie either.
Eventually, the names of directors and producers rolled over the closing montage. Jiro grabs the remote and shuts off the TV, plummeting the room into darkness aside from the single lamp in the corner still on. Despite the exhaustion settling in your bones you don't move, not wanting to be rude and leave when everyone is still seated. The group was tired enough to be yawning but still wound up from all the sugary snacks and drinks, so after no debate you all stayed seated on the couch. Mina the first to stretch and everyone following after her with groans and exaggerated noises.
“Man, I am stuffed.” Mina says before flopping back against the cushions. Denki laughs and does the same after stretching, resting his head against Jiro's shoulder. “Well you did eat most of the popcorn.” Kirishima and Momo laugh next.
You chuckle and rest your head against the couch cushions, instinctively turning your face to the side and meeting Bakgo’s waiting gaze. Butterflies flap their wings in your stomach, warmth creeping up your neck threatening to turn into a blush on your cheeks. Your expression is tired and apologetic, trying to telepathically apologize with your half lidded eyes and small frown.
Bakugo's expression remains unreadable, but he isn't scowling. Crimson eyes roaming over your every feature seemingly lost in thought. The chatter of friends talking, the AC blowing overheard, the smell of sugar from candy, it all fades into the background underneath the way he’s looking at you. Like you're the only woman in the room worth looking at.
He can tell that your shoulders are sagging more than before, your eyes barely able to stay open and your posture melting further into the cushions with every passing second. After two more seconds he comes to a silent conclusion and rises from his spot on the couch, shoving his hands in his sweatpant pockets and leaving without a word.
Kirishima is the first to notice his sudden departure, “Yo, Bakubro! You out?” He calls out while taking the now available space on the couch. Bakugo turns his face enough just to side eye him, "What it look like Shitty-Hair? Obviously.” He grumbles and continues walking down the dark hallway. Kirishima laughs and waves him off with an enthusiastic “Goodnight!” You watch his form grow distant down the dark hallway, long strides eating up the distance between him and his room.
You look away when his silhouette is out of sight, waiting approximately two minutes before getting up from your spot with a yawn, excusing yourself with a tired smile and mumbling “good night” to everyone. You walk slowly to your dorm room, stumbling over your dragging feet and keeping close to the wall. You reach your room and fumble with the doorknob before pushing it open and disappearing inside, unaware of Bakugo standing just two doors down in the darkness.
The next day, it was a beautiful Saturday morning. Birds chirping a song outside your window as leaves float down from trees and rays of sunshine pour in through your curtains to color the wooden floorboards in shades of yellow. Your room was colder than usual, AC from the building paired with your ceiling fan making your spot under your comforter a cocoon of warmth. Just as you switch positions and melt into your matress your 8 am alarm blares from your phone, cutting through the quiet atmosphere with the persistent ringing.
You groan and shut off your alarm, deciding to throw off your blankets and get up. You're already awake so might as well make the most of it. After doing your usual morning routine your stomach announces its hunger with a loud grumble, “Yeah yeah I heard you.” You mumble to your stomach before throwing on your favorite hoodie and pj pants, walking out of your room towards the common room kitchen. Yawning and tripping over your slippers you manage to make it to the kitchen, stopping at the threshold when you see Bakugo already there in his usual black tanktop and sweats combo with a white towel around his neck.
His back is facing you as he throws in mangos, pineapples, bananas, protein powder, coconut water, and ice into a blender. Twisting the lid onto the blender cup with forearms flexing, locking the cup into the machine and- his motions come to a halt, head turning over his shoulders to look at you.
You both stare at each other for five seconds, heavy silence stretching out between you two before you look around the empty kitchen with a sheepish expression. With a nervous giggle, “Good morning.” You say with a voice crack, coughing after and smacking your chest.
Nice one. Real smooth.
Bakugo almost smiles, if you classify his lip barely twitching upwards a smile. “Morning.” He says with a gruff tone before turning back to his smoothie, hiding the amused expression growing on his features.
You walk further into the kitchen and head to the cabinet where the bowls reside, grabbing your favorite bowl with a chip on the rim and listening as the smoothie blends together. After two minutes of loud whirring the blender shuts off, he unlocks the cup and opens the lid, throwing in a metal straw and turning to face you. One hand holding the cup to his lips and the other braced against the counter where his lower back rests against.
Silence falls over the space between you, unspoken words from last night creating a blanket of tension. You close the cabinet and set down the bowl on the counter, walking to the fridge and grabbing the milk carton.
After a couple seconds of internal encouragement you clear your throat, “What uh, are you doing up so early?” You ask while shutting the fridge door and setting the milk cartoon down next to your bowl. His eyebrows furrow and he takes the straw out of his mouth, licking his lips before saying, “Training. Obviously.”
You mentally smack your palm over your face, cursing yourself for being so stupid. Bakugo always trains in the mornings, even on weekends. You know this because he never lets anyone forget how ahead he is and how lazy they are, claiming "villains don't take weekends off, why should heroes?”
“Right, yeah of course.” You say with an embarrassed chuckle, turning away and soundlessly mouthing curse words at yourself as you grab a spoon from the drawer. He tracks your movements while sipping his smoothie again, already knowing what you’re going to grab. You work on autopilot to grab your favorite cereal from the cabinet, walking back to your spot with everything lined up and waiting.
Seriously? You just had to ask what he was doing huh? Damn idiot. Couldn't have asked anything else? I mean cmon, we know he trains every morning. He's been training since birth. Why not ask about his smoothie? Or his-
“You’re seriously going to eat that?” Bakugo’s annoyed voice cuts through your thoughts and silence in the room.
You look over to him, eyes blinking at him trying to figure out if you just imagined his voice. “What?”
He rolls his eyes before repeating, “The cereal. You're seriously going to eat that?”
Your eyebrows furrow in defense, “What's wrong with cereal?” You say holding the box between your hands to your chest like you would a baby.
“Tch. It's straight sugar and processed chemicals. You expect to be a top hero with that in your diet?” He says back like the box kicked his puppy and burned his house to the ground.
You roll your eyes and set down the box, one hand on your hip and the other braced against the counter. “It’s Saturday. Calories don’t count on the weekends.” You say with a bit of sass, Bakugo stares at you like you've grown two heads. Eye twitching in disbelief at the nonsense just left your mouth. Before he could tell you how ridiculous that is you put a hand up to silence him, “No judging my breakfast TNT, unless you plan on making me some I don't want to hear it.” You say turning to face the counter and ripping open the box.
Bakugo scowls, slamming down his half finished smoothie and snatching the box from your hands just before you could pour it. You whirl on him with your mouth open to protest but are met with his face inches from yours, close enough to see every individual eye lash and smell his natural scent of salted caramel and sweat. “Don’t give me that attitude.” He growls lowly, smacking the box down on the counter away from you without breaking eye contact. “You’re not eating this junk, you hear me?”
You blink up at him, butterflies swarming in your stomach and air becoming thinner in your lungs. The kitchen around you fades to nothing, his towering frame blocking out any other sight. Time slowed down just for you, giving the chance for tension to grow with every second of eyecontact. Somewhere down the hall a classmate coughs, the smoke director chirps and the condensation on his smoothie cup glides down the plastic.
Before you could even think to react he backs up, walking over to the stove and grabbing a frying pan that was set on top of low heat. Your expression quickly twists into confusion as he sets down the frying pan in front of you before grabbing a clean plastic fork he found on the counter and throws it carelessly next to the pan. He snatches his smoothie from the counter and shoves his free hand into his pocket, “Eat it.” He grumbles and rounds the counter, sitting on the barstool in front of you.
You look away from him to the pan. Inside is a small portion of seasoned scrambled eggs, sausage links, bacon, and potatoes. It wasn’t much, most likely the remnants of his own breakfast but it was more than enough to hold you off till lunch.
When did he make this? Was it on the stove the entire time?
While you try to figure out how you missed this, an audible slurp from him across the counterechoes in the kitchen. “Oi. You gonna eat it with your eyes or sum?” He mumbles around the straw in his mouth while giving you an almost amused look.
You blink out of your daze and pick up the plastic fork, mumbling something incoherent before stabbing a piece of egg and sausage before putting it in your mouth. When the taste registers you look at him as you chew, the fluffy eggs with just the right amount of pepper and sausage link that falls apart in your mouth are damn near perfect.
At your staring he asks,“What?” With a grumble as you swallow. “You made this?” You ask, still completely shocked at how delicious that small bite was. “Tch. Yeah, so what?” He responds before finishing off his smoothie and carelessly throwing the empty cup into the sink. The clatter of plastic against metal reverberated in the kitchen before settling, "It's really good.” You say already stabbing more onto your fork. He huffs from the praise, a grin threatening to form on his lips. “Obviously. Did you think it'd be bad?”
“I thought it'd be poisoned." You respond quickly around the mouth full of potatoes. Bakugo's tongue pushed on the inside of his cheek and exhaled sharply from his nose, hiding his amused smile and chuckle. “Shut up and eat the damn food woman.” He grumbles and watches you scarf down the next bite.
He watches you finish the portion of food, arms crossed on the counter and veiny hands on his biceps. With a satisfied hum you set down the dirty dishes into the sink, starting the water and lathering soap onto the blue scrub. After a couple minutes of the only sound in the room being running water, scrub working over dirty dishes and the occasional chirp of the smoke detector, Bakugo speaks up. “Don’t think we aren’t going to talk about last night.” His voice gruff but calmer than you’ve ever heard it.
Your heart plummets thirty stories down, a cold chill running down your body. You glance up at him and then back to the dishes, “um, what about last night?”
He huffs, “Don’t give me that. You know what happened.” His words hang in the air like an invisible force, guilt settling in your chest once more. “Why’d you do it?” He asks, looking away from you to the distant wall.
You stop scrubbing the pan in your hand, looking up at him and taking a couple seconds to collect your thoughts. “I thought you didn’t want me to sit next to you is all.” You say softly, guilt evident in your tone.
His jaw ticks, “Why?” The question leaves him immediately, eyes looking back to you now. You look down to the pan, chewing on the inside of your cheek from nerves. “You said I was a chatterbox, so I assumed I was bothering you. Thought you’d want some space.” You explain yourself in a low tone, shoulders sagging and waiting for him to storm off.
The kitchen goes silent aside from the background noise, multiple seconds pass before turning into a minute. “That’s not what I meant.” Bakugo says with less patience than before. “It was just an observation, it was never meant to insult you damn it.” He continues with his hands clutching his biceps, anger mostly directed at himself in every line on his face.
You blink down at the pan once, twice, before finally looking at him. “You don’t hate me?” You ask before you could even process the thought. “Tch. Don’t be an idiot.” He grumbles before continuing, “I don’t hate you.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, shoulders sagging in relief and heart rate starting to steady. “That’s reassuring.” You say with a chuckle, smiling at him and putting the soapy pan under the running water.
He huffs, but it’s half hearted. His shoulders lose tension imperceptibly, but you notice. You notice that his eyebrows aren’t furrowed, his eyes aren’t crinkled with their usual judgement, and his jaw isn’t clenched. You smile a little brighter, “Thank you, for talking about it. The last thing I wanted was for us to be awkward around each other.”
Bakugo studies the curve of your lips, the shape of your Cupid's bow and the color staining your cheeks. The way your eyes crinkled with happiness and smile lines that framed soft pink lips. For a split second, he felt like he’d never seen something so beautiful. He looks away when he catches himself staring with a grumble, “Shut up. Don't make it weird.”
You chuckle and continue washing dishes, feeling lighter and hopeful. For the next ten minutes Bakugo sits there as you clean, you ask him about his training and talk with him over his detailed schedule. Making jokes about being Type A and him yelling at you, making you laugh harder.
Over the next few months you and Bakugo grew closer. When you’d start conversations with him he’d give real responses rather than the short answers like he used too. He’d let you stand closer to him without complaint in crowded areas. He’d show trust by gravitating towards you when he wanted to stay quiet, letting you be loud for the both of you.
Slowly, you noticed things…progressing. He started inviting you to train with him in the mornings- okay, sure it was more of a suggestion with a time and a meeting spot but he didn’t look surprised when you showed up. He sat closer to you at lunch while you rambled on about Aizawa’s lecture an hour prior, glaring at you when he noticed your half eaten food getting cold on your tray. “Oi, talk later.” He’d say annoyed and push your tray further in front of you before going back to his own meal muttering about being ‘a damn babysitter.’ On weekend mornings he’d throw a towel over the blender so his morning smoothie wouldn’t wake you up from your sleeping state down the hall. Later when you'd stumble half awake to the kitchen, the smell of breakfast would greet you almost instantly. There sat Bakugo on his usual barstool with a plate of freshly cooked breakfast and a protein smoothie. But, in the pan was just enough to consider an extra serving for you. Not that he'd ever admit it, but he did make extra for you so you wouldn't eat that god awful cereal.
He initiated conversation with you while walking to class with an annoyed comment on the changing weather and other days sat in silence on the common room couch after a long day. Knees barely touching as he pretends to scroll through his phone and you read a book under a mountain of blankets. He took your health more seriously than you did, constantly commenting on the snacks you ate before throwing you one of his protein bars after snatching your bag of chips from your hands. “Keep eating like shit, I’m not dragging your ass when you need help in the field.” He’d comment when you protest, and immediately look away from your pouting expression. “Don’t look at me like that dumbass.” He’d grumble and walk away, leaving you with the protein bar and a belly full of butterflies. His expression started softening when he saw you, eyebrows relaxing and eyes uncrinckling. Standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder with you, letting his presence be enough to fill the silence. When a nickname you’d been dying to call him slipped out during conversation, you both froze, but he just looked away and said, “Keep talking idiot, don’t make it weird.” Was it outright permission? Not exactly, but it might as well have been.
Now it was the middle of fall, autumn colored leaves scattered on sidewalks and a cool breeze that smelled faintly of pine cones and rain drifted through the streets. It was your first day at your internship at Hawk’s agency. Bakugo was at Endeavors just down the street in his winter hero costume because, of course, even the breeze made him cold.
You spent your first day at Hawks side as he explains how everything runs and what your training schedule will look like. Red wings flaring out to stretch every few minutes as you walk down hallway after hallway. “My office is here, where I unfortunately do mountains of paperwork in one sitting till 3 am.” He said in a sarcastically cheerful tone with a look of repulsion at the glass office, earning him a laugh from you. He’d grin and continue with the tour of the facility, treating you like a celebrity on the red carpet escorting you around like a personal body guard. By the end of your first day it was clear you and Hawks were going to be good friends, your personalities meshed perfectly and respect went both ways, not just for recognition as a Pro Hero to an upcoming Hero, but for the undeniable fact that any room you walked into you could bring light.
As expected, you both became the best of friends. The internship quickly became more of a play date. Training was spent laughing between drills and combo attacks, patrol was spent talking endlessly about funny arrest stories from Hawks and Aizawa lectures from you, while paperwork was dreaded on in his office over boxes of takeout.
Every night like clockwork at 8 pm you’d call Bakugo for thirty minutes and go over your day. Telling him about every stupid joke during patrol and funny arrest stories. He would listen to you talk about Hawks like an old friend you'd known for years rather than a Pro Hero you met days ago with an annoyed scowl and clicks of his tongue. “You and featherbrain seem chipper.” He commented with a bothered tone, scowling at his wall mentally picturing Hawks face. You’d laugh it off and continue rambling. He could tell how happy you were at your agency and it made him jealous that ‘birdbrain’ was the cause. Despite him not wanting to admit it, you could hear it when he’d sigh or yawn loudly mid story, scoffing at the mention of Hawks every chance he got.
On the last day of the internship, Hawks invited every Pro Hero and their internship students to a night out. A reserved rooftop lounge in the heart of downtown for the night to celebrate the upcoming end of the internships.
You spent two hours getting ready for tonight. Your favorite getting ready playlist blasting from your phone speaker. Everything-shower was accomplished, lotion and perfume on, hair dolled up to your perfection, make-up flawless with no caking, and the dress you're wearing accentuates every dip and curve on your body. To say the least, you look stunning.
As you were slipping your kitten heels on, your phone rang from its spot on your nightstand. You walk over and smile at the familiar contact lighting up your screen. You pick up the phone and put it on speaker. “Hey Suki, what's up?” You say cheerfully and slip your heels on. A huff at the nickname can be heard from the other side and some rustling, “You’re going to that stupid party tonight right?” His gruff voice answers as a form of greeting. You chuckle, shaking your head and getting the first heel on. “Yeah I'm going. You?” He groans on the other end, “Yeah.” He says with an annoyed exhale. You can already picture his expression, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose with his phone to his ear. You smile to yourself and slip on the other heel. “I’ll see you there then.” You say excitedly before grabbing your phone from the charger. He sighs before mumbling, “Yeah whatever.” Hanging up right after. You chuckle to yourself and head out the door.
When you get to the party your jaw threatens to drop. The night sky was glittering with stars, a full moon illuminating the space along with several blue, purple, and red lights. Night traffic below sounded miles away, cars honking and faint shouting audible in the distance.
The rooftop was covered in strung up fairy lights, plush couches with coffee tables in front of each, standing tables without chairs along the railings and decorative plants in many corners. The back held the bar where a bartender shook a drink for Present Mic with two hands, the dance floor was just in front of it with two massive speakers hidden near the bar.
The entire class 1-A was already there mingling around the rooftop, Jiro next to Denki as he spoke to Sero with a bright smile. Ochaco with Tsuyu on one of the couches nearest the entrance, and Tenya with Momo at one of the standing tables likely talking about class related topics. But, as always, your eye caught on Bakugo.
He was wearing a black button up long sleeve, black belt with a grenade buckle and black pants. Ash-blonde hair spiky and rustling in the autumn breeze and crimson eyes assessing every passing hero as if sizing them up for a fight. Which, to be honest, he probably is doing.
Sensing someone watching him, his gaze lands on you, eyes roaming slowly from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet. His eyes widen ever so slightly, throat suddenly going dry and hands sweatier than usual in his pockets.
You walk over to where he stands next to Mina and Kirishima with a smile, Mina immediately greeting you with a tight hug and a squeal. “There you are! You look gorgeous!” You laugh and hug her back, “Says you!” Kirishima whistles playfully with an ear to ear grin. “Looking fancy!” He says with a lighthearted tone, giving you a side hug in the process. You look over to Katsuki next, “Long time no see huh?” You say with a warm smile. He gives you another up-down look before muttering, “Clearly.” Mostly to himself. You chuckle and smooth out your dress, “Forgot what I looked like or something?” He huffs, which you’ve come to realize is his form of a chuckle, and looks away to the distant bar. “Tch. Don’t be ridiculous.” He grumbles and clenches his jaw.
Your eyebrows furrow as you study his demeanor, he seemed…nervous. But why? Mina and Kirishima share a knowing glance before smiling to themselves, clearly knowing something you don't.
The rest of the evening passed easier than expected. Music drifted through the rooftop lounge while heroes laughed over drinks and internship students swapped stories from the past week.
Hawks, naturally, was everywhere.
He pulled you into conversations, introduced you to heroes you hadn’t met yet, somehow convinced Present Mic to tell the story of the time he’d accidentally blown out every microphone in a three-block radius, and convinced you to dance the Macerena with him. You laughed until your stomach hurt, smiling so bright your cheeks hurt from the strain.
And every single time…Katsuki noticed. He stood off to the side by the railing watching you trip over your heels on the dance floor. He noticed the way Hawks could make you laugh within seconds. The way you lightly shoved his shoulder after another joke. The way Hawks leaned down to hear you over the music with his smug grin and sharp eyes.
Katsuki hated every second of it. But why? He scowled to himself and came to a silent conclusion. By the time the party started winding down, he’d had enough.
He found you standing near the railing overlooking the city, taking in the cool autumn breeze as you recharge your social battery after the night you've had. You took in deep breaths and looked down to cars stopping at traffic lights and citizens closing up shops for the night.
“Oi.” A familiar gruff voice cut through the peace.
You startled and turned to face Katsuki, putting a hand over your chest as you exhaled with a chuckle. “Oh—hey, Suki-”
“Come here.” Without waiting, he stepped forward and grabbed your wrist between his thumb and pointer finger, walking you both toward the quieter end of the rooftop.
You stumbled but caught your footing, “Kat what the hell?” He huffs and turns his head over his shoulder to glare at you. “I should be asking that."He snaps back before facing forward again, the corner between the bar and railing slowly coming into view. You physically lean back like his words put a wall between you. “What are you so mad about?” You say back, annoyed at his attitude. He responds with, “Tch.” And pulls you faster.
When you're finally away from prying eyes and listening ears he whirls on you, pinning you against the wall with his hands on either side of your head. “Just what the hell do you think you're doing?” His tone is accusing, crimson eyes narrowed in frustration and nostrils flaring. You blink a couple times, completely taken aback.“Wha-”
“The past week has been Hawks this Hawks that. So just what's going on?” Your expression twists into confusion and offense. “Nothings going on Katsuki-”
“Like hell there isn't. You think I don't know that smile? That laugh?” He says sharply before continuing. “I know you. I know you forget to zip your backpack after class. I know that regardless how tired you are you won't leave the room first out of respect. I know you forget your water bottle after a long training session. I know how you prefer drinking energy drinks over coffee. I know you hum your favorite song when you think no one can hear. I know you damn it.” He says all in one breath, panting after but never breaking eye contact.
You forgot how to breathe, eyes wide and heart racing. The city below, the music still playing over the speaker, the clinking of cups, it all fades to nothing. You stare up at him like you're seeing him for the first time, bringing your hands up to cup his face. He doesn't flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn't even breathe. “Say something damn it.” His voice breaks. His cheek turning in your palm as if chasing comfort.
You brush your thumb back and forth on his cheek, a smile pulling your lips. “Ask me, Katsuki.” You whisper, tilting your head to the side. “Please.”
He stares at you for a minute, memorizing this moment with you like he won't get another. “Be my woman.” He says softly, softer than you'd ever heard before. “Be the voice I hear every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep. Be the woman I work everyday to deserve.”
You laugh breathlessly, not because anything is funny, but because the grenade you’ve had a crush on for months is asking you to be his. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in the crock of his neck, inhaling his caramel sweet scent and feeling his warmth seep into your bones. “Yes. A million times yes.” You murmur into his skin.
His arms wrap around your waist like an iron band, pulling you flush against his chest with no intention of letting go. Not tonight, not ever. He laughs breathlessly with his chin resting on the top of your head, shoulders sagging in relief and lips twisted into a smile.
Seconds later you feel his hand leave your waist and cradle the back of your neck, pulling you gently away from where your face was and leaning you back enough to look at you. “You’re mine, you understand?” He asks and doesn’t wait for a response before dipping his head down and pressing a firm kiss to your lips. “All damn mine.” He murmurs against your lips before kissing you again.
The kiss was a mixture of passion and devotion, like your lips moving against his was unraveling him in ways he never thought possible. He spelled promises with every motion, swore oaths of loyalty with every groan. Because, when Katsuki met you, he knew you’d be his everything.
Satoru Gojo is fucking gorgeous, which is so deeply unfair that you’re still kind of processing it as he pays for your movie ticket with trembling fingers. His white hair is slightly tousled, soft against his ears, and his glasses are tilted just a bit on the bridge of his nose. He keeps pushing them up like he’s stalling, trying not to meet your eyes too long because every time he does, he gets flustered. His face goes pink and he laughs too loud. You bite your lip every time he does that.
You’re no better. Your hands are clammy inside the sleeves of your hoodie, because you thought this was going to be a safe little date. Nerdy. Harmless. You met at a fucking Doraemon expo for god’s sake, where he gave you a Doraemon-shaped candy and then looked like he wanted to die from shyness.
And now you’re sitting in a too-dark movie theatre with his knee brushing yours.
You think you’re gonna die too. Because there’s heat pooling between your legs, and you're pretty sure you’ve soaked through your panties, and this was supposed to be your first normal date. Not a panty-ruining, thigh-clenching disaster where you keep imagining his stupid hot fingers pulling your hoodie up and touching you like you're not both trembling virgins about to combust from one misplaced touch.
Satoru’s voice cracks in the dark.
“You, uh— are you okay?”
You look at him, wide-eyed. “What? Yeah. I’m fine.”
He fidgets. “You’re breathing kinda fast.”
You are. Shit.
“I’m just…” you squirm, thighs pressed tight together. “The seats are uncomfortable.”
He makes a strangled little laugh, eyes darting to the screen and then back to your mouth. You don’t know who moves first, but a second later, your hands are brushing in the popcorn bag and boom— your bodies are pressed together like magnets.
The movie is completely forgotten. You’re both leaning toward each other, breathing the same hot air, and it’s dizzying how close he is. His scent is soft and clean, like soap and sugar and some light cologne that makes your thighs ache. Your lips almost brush before he pulls back, cheeks pink.
“I-I gotta pee,” he blurts. Then winces. “Fuck. Not like— fuck, I didn’t mean it like—”
You stare at him, lips parted.
“…Me too,” you whisper. “Bathroom. I mean.”
So of course, of course, ten minutes later, you’re both in the tiny single-stall bathroom behind the snack bar, the door locked, and you’re pressed against the wall with Satoru’s hands hovering an inch from your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you.
You’re panting.
So is he.
And there’s the faintest bulge pressing against his pants.
“You’re hard,” you whisper, stunned.
Satoru turns bright red. “I didn’t mean to be! I swear I wasn’t thinking anything— well I was thinking but not like— well yes like that but I didn’t expect you to—”
“I’m wet.”
That shuts him up.
He blinks. “Wha— You, wait really?”
You nod furiously. “Soaked. I thought I was dying. You’re, l-like— you’re so hot and tall and your hands are big and I thought—”
He sways toward you like he’s being pulled by gravity.
“You think I’m hot?” he breathes, shocked.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “You’re like—the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”
“…But I’m a virgin.”
You blink. “You’re a virgin?”
He freezes. “You didn’t know?”
You shake your head. “You’re too confident. And tall. And your voice, like— you talk like you’ve seen shit.”
“I haven’t! I’ve literally never seen anything. I still sleep with a body pillow.”
“Oh my god.”
You both start laughing, but it’s too breathy, too nervous. You’re looking at his lips again.
“I thought you weren’t a virgin,” he admits, voice low now, almost in awe. “You look like— like—”
He waves helplessly at your body. “You’re so pretty. So hot. You look like you’d ruin me.”
“I’ve never even kissed anyone,” you whisper.
“Me either,” he says.
There’s a beat of silent realization.
Then— tentatively— his hands touch your waist. He’s shaking.
“Can I…”
You nod. “Yeah. Please.”
The kiss is terrible. Teeth clashing, noses bumping, your mouths slipping messily before you both pull away with startled laughter. But his face is flushed, and his eyes are glassy, and your thighs are pressed tight together because the way he’s looking at you is not innocent anymore.
“We’re so bad at this,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna die,” he mumbles, forehead pressed to yours.
“I’m so wet I think my panties are ruined,” you say, like a confession.
He groans. “That’s so hot, please don’t say things like that unless you want me to cum in my pants.”
You both snort, but neither of you moves away.
“Can I… touch you?” he whispers, barely audible.
Your eyes widen, breath catching.
“…Yes. But I don’t— I don’t really know how.”
“Me either,” he whispers. “Let’s be awkward together.”
You reach for his belt, and he lifts your hoodie just enough to see the swell of your tits in your bra. And then you both freeze, panting, staring— because holy fuck this is actually happening.
Two very horny, very confused virgins. In a bathroom. At the movies.
Grinding desperately like you’re learning each other’s bodies in braille.
His hands find your hips, pulling you closer. Your fingers tremble at his zipper. And you swear— you swear— when your pussy brushes against his bulge through your panties and tights, he nearly whimpers.
You're both gonna combust.
You’re still half-laughing, half-gasping into his neck, your panties damp and sticking to you like sin, and Satoru’s hard dick is pressed against your inner thigh through his jeans like it hurts. He keeps doing these little shaky inhales, fingers digging into your hoodie at the waist like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll float off the planet.
His glasses are fogged. His cheeks are pink. And when you drag your nose along his jaw just to feel him shiver, he makes the softest noise you’ve ever heard. A tiny, broken sigh— like the kind of sound you might make when someone pets your hair just right.
You feel like you’re on fire.
“You’re really… hard,” you whisper, a little dreamy, dragging your hand down the front of his jeans like you’re curious more than anything else. Because you are. You can feel the length of him, thick and hot under the denim, twitching at just the barest touch of your fingers. “Like… all the way.”
“I know,” he whines, quietly. “It’s been like that since the popcorn scene.”
You giggle. “We didn’t have a popcorn scene.”
“You were licking butter off your fingers.”
“…Oh. Yeah okay, fair.”
You’re still staring at the bulge in his jeans. It’s insane. It’s… kind of intimidating, honestly. But you’re so curious, and he looks like he might actually die from the idea of you wanting to see him like this.
“Can I see it?” you whisper.
His breath catches. His whole body freezes.
“You— my… dick?”
You nod shyly, face burning. “Just once. I just— I wanna know what it looks like.”
He stares at you like you’re a mythical creature. “You really want to see it?”
“…Yeah.”
His fingers are shaking as he fumbles with his zipper.
You don’t look away— not even when he shoves his boxers down and his cock bounces free, flushed and heavy and dripping. You make a noise, something halfway between shock and awe, because holy shit he’s big. Not just big— long, curved a little toward his stomach, thick enough that your mouth goes dry. The tip is glossy and wet, a pretty pink color— a clear bead clinging to the slit like he’s leaking from just grinding on you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, stunned.
Satoru makes a noise that’s not human. “D-don’t look at it like that.”
“I can’t help it,” you breathe. “It’s pretty.”
His brain shuts down.
“Pretty?” he croaks.
You nod dumbly, staring. “It’s like… glossy. And pink. And it’s twitching.”
He groans. “Don’t say twitching—”
“But it is! It’s like it’s waving at me or something. It looks so needy.”
He grabs the wall behind your head like he might collapse.
“You’re so cute,” you whisper. “You’re really hard just from kissing me.”
“You’re soaking,” he counters, voice hoarse. “You’ve been wet for an hour.”
You whimper a little. “I didn’t even know I could get this wet.”
Satoru groans again and cups himself like it’ll stop him from cumming just from talking to you.
You reach out— slowly— and wrap your fingers around the base.
He jolts, hips stuttering forward into your hand like it’s instinct. His eyes flutter shut and his whole body shudders, like he’s never felt anything like this.
“…You’re so warm,” you whisper. “And thick.”
“I’m gonna cum,” he blurts.
You pause. “Wait, already?”
“I told you,” he gasps, pressing his face into your neck. “It’s your voice— fuck, the way you’re touching me—”
You slide your hand up and watch his cock twitch, leaking over your fingers.
He sobs a little. “Angel, please—”
That makes you freeze.
“…Angel?”
He peeks up at you, embarrassed. “It slipped out.”
You bite your lip, then smile, stroking him again. “I like it.”
“You’re so soft,” he moans. “And your hand’s so small, it doesn’t even fit—”
You squeeze a little tighter. He gasps.
“Tell me when,” you whisper, eyes wide. “I don’t wanna waste it. You’ve been hard for so long.”
“‘When’?” he pants.
“Yeah,” you say, breath catching. “I want to see what your cum looks like too.”
He shatters.
Just like that— hot, thick ropes spill out across your fingers, your hoodie, his shirt. You watch with wide, fascinated eyes as his whole body curls toward yours, hips stuttering, voice cracked and pleading into your shoulder. His cock throbs in your hand like it’s losing its mind. He sounds so helpless, so high and soft when he whimpers your name.
You stare at the mess.
“…Whoa.”
He’s panting against your cheek, totally limp. “That was so embarrassing.”
“It was awesome,” you breathe. “I made you cum.”
“I exploded in ten seconds.”
You stroke his hair. “I think you’re perfect.”
He melts a little into your chest.
“…You wanna see me next?” you whisper.
His head jerks up like a prairie dog.
Satoru’s still shaking.
You can feel it— his breath hot and unsteady on your neck, his heartbeat punching against your ribs where your bodies press together. Satoru Gojo just came all over your hand like some desperate teenager, having a wet dream, and you’re still standing in a movie theater bathroom, soaked to the skin and so turned on it’s getting hard to breathe.
His cum is sticky on your fingers. Warm, it smells faintly like salt and sugar, and he’s still leaning against you like he’s not sure how to stand on his own.
And then—
Your voice, soft and daring, nearly a whisper:
“…You wanna see me next?”
Satoru blinks. Eyes blown wide. Mouth parted, in disbelief.
“…Are you serious?”
You nod.
He looks stunned. “Like… your pussy?”
Your whole face burns.
“Y-yeah,” you stammer, suddenly nervous. “If you want. I mean— I know it’s— kind of a lot, and maybe messy, but I just… I’ve never… shown anyone." You're looking down at the floor before you finish the rest of that sentence... then your eyes are darting back up to his face, blue eyes stargazed in disbelief. “And I want you to see.”
He’s speechless, Satoru is utterly speechless.
You fidget, heart thudding, tugging your hoodie down like it can hide the way your thighs are trembling, how wet you still are under your panties.
“I just thought… since I saw yours…”
His hand flies up, quick. Cupping your face, both of you look into each other's eyes.
“I want to,” he blurts. “I want to so bad I think I’m gonna die.”
You smile, shy and giddy. “Okay. Then… can you take my panties off?”
He gasps.
Like, actually gasps. Clutches his chest. Staggers backward like you hit him with a spell.
“Say that again,” he whispers.
You reach under your hoodie, slowly rolling your leggings down to your thighs, revealing just a sliver of your pale pink cotton panties, soaked straight through. There’s a wet patch over your pussy— obvious, shiny, and dark.
“Take them off,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Please?”
He looks like he might cry.
“Oh my god,” he chokes. “You’re so wet you soaked through. That’s from me? From just— grinding on me?”
You nod, cheeks flushed. “You made me so wet I couldn’t focus on the movie.”
His hands are on your thighs now, huge and hot, trembling a little as he sinks to his knees in front of you like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. His glasses slide down his nose. He pushes them up, eyes fixed on your panties like they’re the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispers, “but I wanna learn so bad.”
You’re breathing so fast your legs are shaking.
His fingers slide under the sides of your panties. He hesitates.
“Ready?” he asks, voice so soft.
You nod, in eager anticipation, like when you know you're about to rip a band-aid off. But... in this case, it's your soaked sticky ruined panties.
And he pulls them down.
Slow, slow, slow
The cotton clings to your cunt, like they're almost glued to you, but he gets them off with a firmer tug.
Your cunt glosses in the light.
Dripping. Swollen. Slick as fuck and twitching under his gaze. You clench a little just from the air, the tension, the way he’s looking at you like he just saw an angel squirt holy water.
He moans. Moans.
“You’re so pretty,” he breathes. “Holy shit, you’re soaked. I didn’t know it could do that.”
You giggle nervously. “It doesn’t usually. I think it’s a you thing.”
He gulps, audibly.
His eyes don’t leave your pussy, even as he leans forward, nose almost brushing your thigh.
“Can I… touch you?”
You feel your knees threaten to buckle.
“Yes.” You say with too much enthusiasm than you meant.
His fingers twitch. “I don’t know how.”
You grab his wrist and guide it...
His middle finger barely grazes your folds and you gasp, clenching, hips jumping forward.
“Oh fuck,” he moans. “That was barely anything. You’re shaking.”
“You touched my clit,” you pant. “It’s sensitive.”
His eyes sparkle.
“Oh my god. I love that you know what it’s called.”
You’re breathless, laughing a little. “I’ve read fanfiction. Have you not?”
“I have, but in those they just say ‘your little pearl’ and shit.”
You groan. “That’s not even close.”
He’s looking again, hand hovering like he’s terrified to mess it up.
“Okay, so… this is your clit,” he murmurs, grazing it again, watching how your whole body twitches. “It’s so tiny. But you sound like I electrocuted you when I touched it.”
You whimper, cause he's teasing... He's curious as well and doesn't fucking know how much him petting your clit actually affects you.
“You like that?” he whispers, a bit entranced. Crystalline blue eyes focusing on the sticky strands of your slick connected to his fingertips as they stretch when he rubs and pulls them off your glued pussylips.
“Y-yeah.”
He touches again, a little firmer... slower, really working your clit, the soft squelches audible, he really wants to taste it, the creamy thing webbing his fingers, the thought pounding in his head.. Would you be grossed out if he just shoved his fingers in his mouth right now and got a taste of that sappy cream?
You whimper louder, snapping his attention back from his lewd thoughts.
His voice is shaking. “Can you c-cum like this? Just from me touching you?”
You nod furiously. “If you keep going, Fuck. Please keep going.”
His thumb brushes you now, a bit more confidently.
“You’re dripping,” he mumbles. “It’s getting on my wrist, angel”
Your thighs snap shut, embarrassed.
But you’re so close and he’s still rubbing in slow, shaky circles and whispering your name and watching you like he’s studying for a test he’s gonna fail with honors. Your clit feels like it’s throbbing. You can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop whining.
And then—
“Cum for me,” he whispers, awed. “Please, please pretty girl, I wanna see.”
That makes your cunt clench, his voice the thing that makes you break instantly.
You clam up around nothing, crying out as your pussy gushes over his hand, wet and twitchy, making a fucking mess on his hoodie sleeve. Your knees give out. He catches you instantly, still on his knees, arms full of shaking, panting girl.
You’re sobbing in relief, thighs sticky, pussy still fluttering, and his hands are holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“You’re so amazing,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I made you cum.”
You whimper. “You’re so good. I didn’t think it would feel like that.”
He kisses your thigh.
Then your stomach, and makes his way up and then your lips, just to feel you.
Soft and careful, with utmost devotion and care.
And you melt against him, fucked out and flushed, pressed to his chest.
“…We should do this again,” he mumbles.
“Next time,” you pant, smiling, “I wanna see if you can make me squirt.”
He chokes, on what little air he's breathing.
But you’re still trembling.
Your panties are hanging off one ankle, his cum is drying on your sleeve, and your pussy is throbbing— still fluttering every now and then like your body can’t believe you actually came. You’re slumped against Satoru’s chest, half-limp, while he rubs soft little circles on your lower back like he’s trying to soothe an overstimulated kitten.
Time is passing and neither of you has said anything in the last full minute.
Except him whispering “holy fuck” under his breath every ten seconds like a mantra.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he finally says, voice all hushed reverence. “You came.”
You nod, agreeing lazily. Dazed, and still reeling in the high. “Like… a lot.”
“You squirted.”
“I did not.”
“There was liquid. Splash zone level.”
You slap his chest, giggling, but your thighs twitch. You’re so sensitive you could cry, your clit aches in that perfect, pulsing way that means it wants no more and yet… you’re still soaking wet.
And you feel it. That ache deeper inside you now. Heavy and throbbing. Unused.
Unsatisfied.
You shift against him, face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt, and whisper:
“…Satoru?”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to put your fingers in me.”
You feel him freeze. Every muscle goes stiff. His hands still on your back. You feel his dick— hard again— press against your thigh like it heard you first.
“Wha— what.”
You look up at him, breath shaky. “You made me cum from the outside. But I’ve never been touched inside.”
His ears go red.
“I— I don’t wanna hurt you—”
“You won’t.” You take his wrist, place his hand gently against your mound. “I trust you.”
He swallows hard. You begin to guide his fingers between your thighs again, letting him feel how wet you still are. You gasp a little just from the contact— still sensitive, still twitchy.
His voice comes out hoarse. “You’re soaked.”
“Just go slow,” you whisper. “I wanna know what it feels like.”
He moves down again and actually takes his jacket off and spreads it over the tiles beneath you. He's kneeling like it’s instinct now, reverent and worshipful. Like he belongs on the floor for you. He kisses your inner thigh once, sweet and shaky, then stares between your legs like he’s seeing magic.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.
You nod, open for him by parting your thighs, trembling ever so slightly.
His fingers sliding along your sappy folds, middle finger inching closer to your hole's opening, more slick gathers and pools as it tries to worm its way in.
You gasp at the feeling.. a bit in fear and uncertainty, but he's so gentle, holding you tighter against him.
His finger begins to push in, your tiny hole fighting him, the intrusion. It's nothing like you've ever felt.
Satoru’s breathing stops entirely.
“You’re tight,” he whispers, stunned. “You’re— fuck, you’re so warm, I can feel your pulse.”
You whimper. “Go slow. Just the tip.”
He pushes a little, and you clench involuntarily, sucking him in just a bit.
He moans. Actually moans. Like you’re the one touching him.
“Angel, you’re gripping me.”
You bury your face in your sleeve, whining. “It’s not fair. Your fingers are big.”
He curls his finger just slightly— experimenting— and your entire body jolts.
“Oh— oh fuck!” you cry out.
His eyes go wide. “Was that— was that good?”
“D-do it again,” you pant.
He does. Gentler, carefully pressing just right, and your walls flutter around him so tightly it’s like your body doesn’t know how to handle it.
“You’re so wet,” he mumbles. “You’re sucking me in.”
You grab his wrist. “Try two.”
He stares. “Are you sure?”
“Please, Satoru.”
You’re breathless, begging.
He shivers like it physically affects him.
He slides another finger in— and your pussy stretches around him, tighter than he expected. Your mouth drops open. Your thighs twitch.
“Oh my god,” you gasp.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me— I can’t move,” he moans.
You rock your hips, helping him, whining through your teeth.
It’s deep. It’s thick. He curls again— and you sob, eyes fluttering back.
“There— oh my god there, right there—”
His fingers are hooked now, rubbing that spongey spot deep inside that makes your eyes cross. His thumb finds your clit on instinct, and suddenly you’re wailing, your whole body shaking, your pussy clenching so hard around his fingers he can barely move.
You cum again, messier and needy. Your velvet walls constricting his fingers in waves.
And he watches, awed, wrecked. His other hand supporting you as your thighs tremble uncontrollably.
He doesn’t even pull out.
He just whispers, “You’re so beautiful when you cum.”
And you start crying.
Happy tears. Dumb overwhelmed tears. Because no one’s ever touched you like this, seen you like this, loved your body with nothing but his hands and awe.
He kisses your forehead.
You sniffle. “I want you inside me someday.”
He nods. “Me too.”
“…But I might have to train for it.”
He laughs, breathless. “Me too. My heart can’t take this.”
You null away on his chest for a minute. Exhausted by everything your body's endured tonight, your panties still on the floor, his arms still secured tight around you and he press soft kisses to the top of your head.
Eventually when he slowly eases his fingers out of you, you're relaxed, no longer holding them hostage, it slides out with a flurry of slick gushing out, all what's been welling up and stuffed inside your cunt for the entire time.
He rubs it up and down your pussylips then into your clit one last time before he's bringing his fingers to his lips, and moaning as your flavour hits his tongue. Finally, getting a taste of you and he couldn't be more pleased at the tangy-sweetness of it.
Satoru licks his fingers clean, savouring it and after he's the one reaching for your panties, tugging them back up along with your leggings as he tells you softly to, "Raise your hips for me please, angel. Good girl, just like that." You do, and he secures them back in place, cunt still pulsing. Fresh slick soaking your panties again.
Satoru stands first, all long limbs and easy grace and he reaches down for you next. His hands are warm as he pulls you up from the bathroom floor. His jacket lies there still, a dark wet patch blooming where your cunt had soaked through.
Heat floods your cheeks, you're quick to mumble an apology, eyes glassy with leftover pleasure and sudden shyness.
He just chuckles softly. Bends to snatch the jacket up like it’s nothing. He balls it in one hand and tucks it under his arm.
“Shh, angel. It’s fine.”
He cups your face, thumbs brushing your flushed skin. Then he kisses you slow and deep, tasting like sin and sweetness. “One wash and it’ll be brand new. Don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t tell you he plans to keep it exactly like this. A filthy little souvenir, from tonight.
His fingers lace with yours as he leads you out of the stall. The movie is long forgotten. He keeps you tucked close against his side the whole way through the emptying theater. The night air hits cool when you step outside.
In the car he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. Possessive and gentle.
Later that night you lie in bed, sheets tangled around your legs. Your phone glows in the dark. Heart hammering, you type the silly questions anyway.
you 🩷
so… are we...
dating?
omg omg
am i your girlfriend now?!
His reply comes instantly.
toru 🩵
i knew we were soulmates when you asked to see my dick
aaaand called it "pretty"
ilysm angel omg
You giggle into your pillow, face burning. Your chest feels too full. Tonight was crazy. Wild and messy and perfect.
But now one, no two orgasms later and Satoru Gojo is yours. Officially. The nerd from the Doraemon expo.
You fall asleep smiling stupidly into your pillow, already wondering when you’ll feel his hands on you again.
Synopsis. A bad boy? Check. Your parents hate him? Check. Considers you the cute lil’ good luck charm for his high-speed street races? Check. But you’ll be riding more than just Choso’s car…
Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, racer!Choso, street racing AU, Choso with tattoos and piercings, talks of F1, small towns, gossip, slight good girl x bad boy, he’s so down bad, pússydrúnk Choso, oraI (fem rec.), he goes FÉRAL, spítting, fíngering, cúmming in his pants, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, making it fit, headIocks, manhandIing, Prince AIbert’s piercing, running from it, matíng presses, rough s, body worship, DÚMBlFICATION, creampíes, overstím, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 10.6k
A/N. I refuse to watch the F1 movie so this is the closest thing-
“Look at him-”
You sigh, “I know, he’s…”
“-bad news.”
“-hot.”
It was inevitable that you and your group of friends would look at each other with odd expressions at the clash. You always did whenever it came to him.
Choso Kamo - the star of your cozy lil’ town’s latest gossip.
You’d heard (well, it was impossible not to hear) that he’d just recently moved from the big city for an exchange program at your local university. Why anyone would willingly travel to some ramshackle town to be gawked at, you couldn’t understand.
“I’m just saying—” You’re grumbling, gaze flicking across the green campus to where Choso was seated underneath a lone tree, face bent into a book.
Your stare lingers on the twinkle of his ear piercings in the sun, “-he doesn’t seem that bad.” The dark, dark line tattoos crawling down the side of his neck. “Who knows? He seems almost…nice-”
Just then, he’s turning his head - precisely to meet your eyes.
Oh.
You can feel your breath hitch- and something at the pit of your stomach twists in a sudden lurch before you’re turning away in an instant. The glint of his deep eyes too stark, the intensity in them too burning.
“She’s right.” Shoko’s the first to pipe up from your right, tapping her manicured nails on the top of your campus bench. “I won’t deny that everyone’s being a lil’ hard on the guy just because he has a few tattoos and piercings.”
“And he’s a city big-shot with an annoyingly loud car.”
“And he’s a city big-shot with an annoyingly loud car.”
Utahime shudders, seated right in front of you so she has to turn at the feeling of Choso’s stare - who immediately looks away. “Well- fine. But it’s also the way he looks at…”
Your little group leans closer as she trails off, seemingly lost in thought.
Before nodding to herself in affirmation and narrowing her chocolate eyes- “-at you.” Unabashedly, she’s jabbing her index your way, as you sputter in protest, “No no, I’m serious! It’s like he- he wants to eat you or something, my dear.”
Shoko smirks, “Kinky.”
“Shoko.” You’re groaning, flipping back through your textbook to distract yourself, if anything. “Don’t let my parents hear you, Uta. They’ve warned me every single day since he’s stepped foot here to steer clear of him.”
Which wasn’t quite effective when you shared half your classes with the very man that haunted every nook and cranny of your town - and the minds of the people living in it.
And especially not when you couldn’t help but notice him during said lectures; tall, quiet, always seated at the very last row with his head in some car magazine, fingers twiddling with the chunky metal rings on his long fingers.
Not that you’re looking at him that closely, that is.
You find your thighs involuntarily pressing together as you’re hastily darting your eyes to Choso once more, taking in the subtle curve of his pierced lips. The slooow flutter of his long, chestnut bangs in the breeze- “Y’know they told me just this morning to never so much as let him look at me? Apparently some neighbor of a neighbor of a neighbor saw him driving late at night and assumed he was involved in everything shady possible.”
“Understandable.”
“Still dealing with the ol’ folks, huh?” Shoko grins as you wince, a reminder of the parents that absolutely refused to let you hold your own in one of the university dorms.
Not quite out-of-the-ordinary for such a small community, but you still did feel a twinge of envy whenever Shoko and Utahime happened to mention something about them being roommates.
“You should just move in with us, y’know- fuck whatever the lease lady says, we have more than enough room.”
“Ah, one day.” Clearing your throat, you’re standing up- “Anyways, I should really get going before I miss my lab time.”
“Aw, Yaga keeping you late for another project?” Your friend muses as Utahime grabs onto your skirt with a protesting whine, trying to tug you back down onto your seat with all her might. And it’s a small chaos that erupts in a few surrounding giggles, a stray eyeroll or two - and for a certain dark-haired man to spy up from his motor book.
Heady eyes locked on the scene, his gaze seeping right through your body. Choso tilts his head with a glimmer of interest that leaves your mouth dry no matter how many times you swallow.
Oh, he looked just devilish.
You struggle to keep your voice even, “Yeah. Lab project.” And before you make your escape, you’re stealing one last glimpse at him- “No need to wait up, I’ll find my own way home.”
.
.
.
You were definitely, absolutely not finding your own way home.
And it was all your fault of staying way too late behind class hours, glued to one of your most important finals projects.
“Dammit. Dammit.” You’re whispering to yourself as you check the time flashing on your phone - just a little past 10PM, you’d already missed the last local bus.
The university was so empty that you could hear your own heartbeat thumping in your eardrums, in rapid unison with your footsteps. Leading up to the campus parking lot, a quick check showed you only a few stragglers that you didn’t know.
With a sigh, you make sure to stand underneath where a streetlight was overspilling its glow, weighing your options in the dim atmosphere.
You could call Utahime for a ride - or maybe your parents? But as much as you loved them, the multiple earfuls you’d get on ‘responsible time management’ was enough to have you closing out of your Phone app.
Maybe you could (affectionately) blackmail Shoko into borrowing Utahime’s car? No, the one time you two decided that was a good idea, the other girl had given you both a lashing that had you bowing at her feet for weeks.
Swearing underneath your breath, you’re opening up the Uber app and making appalled note of the prices. Ah, perhaps you were just meant to sleep here tonight. “I’d rather beg for a ride from Yaga-”
And then you hear it.
You’re sure that anyone within a five-mile radius hears it, in fact- that low, infamous vrrrr— that made the ground beneath you quake ever-so-slightly. It was the very noise that roared past your quaint neighborhood streets at night, the very noise that your parents made sure to complain about every morning after.
And there was only one man who would drive such a behemoth.
Choso’s midnight black Ford Mustang glistens as he’s lazily pulling up to the flickering streetlight, taking up nearly the entire pavement. Too fast, too be lost, too slow to be heading for anywhere but you were - you can only gape as his tinted windows pull down almost silently.
Almost smugly.
The first thing you’re spying is the glimpse of a pale, beefy forearm gripping onto a leather-clad steering wheel. Tattooed and toned.
And then it’s him - Choso Kamo, in all his glory.
“Need a ride?”
You’re blinking, voice never quite reaching your throat- “Wh-what?”
The first sound of your pretty, pretty tone and his hand tightens on the wheel - as if he’d just been zapped by volts of electricity.
He chuckles softly like he’d expected this, stray arm coming to scratch nervously at the back of his neck. And you don’t know whether you’d simply been standing out in the cold long enough to muddle your mind, but you swear that Choso’s ears tint a bright red. “I uh- I wouldn’t mind dropping you off home…or wherever it is you need to go?”
Expectantly, he’s searching his molten eyes up for an answer. But the longer Choso stares, the longer your silence stretches - and the darker the tips of his ears flush.
“If- that is, if you don’t have another ride coming for you of course.” He’s peering his irises around, as if expecting one of your friends to pop out from the bushes any second now. Words running a mile a minute. “Sorry for assuming, I just saw you here alone and- oh, p-promise it wasn’t anything creepy I just notice y- fuck, I messed this up.”
And his shy smile withers, replaced by the anxious twiddle of his silver snakebites. Hand reaching for the gear shift now- “I should just-”
“No, wait!”
You’re calling out before you can stop yourself, and it’s like Choso’s body listens to your words before his brain does. Because he’s halting in his tracks with a comical yelp, enough so that you have to stifle a smile.
“I uh…I don’t have a ride, actually.” You’re telling him, with a deep breath.
And it’s only with a final glance ‘round your surroundings that you’re confirming Yaga really wasn’t here and you really couldn’t bother him instead.
Looking down at Choso and oh- he’s staring up at you with stars in his eyes. Curved grin urging you to speak- “If it’s ah- not too much trouble, I would really appreciate a ride back home.”
“Yes- yes, of course.”
And as if he’d not just been two seconds away from speeding down the pathway in embarrassment, he instantly lunges out from the driver’s seat. Speeding to the other side of the car and holding the passenger’s wiiide open for you.
You’re slightly taken aback by the manners, by the innocent smile that suggested he’d never even thought of anything less. “Oh!” Making sure you’re safely buckled before gently shutting the door, “Thank you?”
“Any time.”
You can’t lie to yourself and say that you’d never imagined what the interior of Choso Kamo’s notoriously intimidating car might look like. Feel like.
You just never imagined it to be as close to heaven as you could get - all luxurious woven seats and a touchscreen polished enough to mirror your awed face.
You’re running your hand down the side of the car as you give directions to your home, your family would never even let you get close to a ‘deathtrap’ like this. And as Choso starts driving, you can’t help but breathe in that slightly bittersweet lavender scent of him, clinging onto the interior.
“This…this is-” You’re grappling for the words as he’s shooting a kind smile your way, “So all those car magazines aren’t just for fun, huh?”
Choso’s lips twitch, “You noticed. Yeah- a 2025 Ford Mustang Dark Horse.” Tapping the wheel reverently, “My pride and joy.”
“I can tell.” As he looks at you curiously, “My family, we ah- we can hear you driving down the street sometimes, it’s incredible.”
Snickering, “Bet the neighborhood hates me then. With good reason, this thing goes from 0 to 60 in four seconds. 500 horsepower-”
Then there’s a look he shares your way - something the complete opposite of the nervous, stuttering boy he’d been earlier. Perhaps closer to all the whispers that shrouded him instead- “-without modifications, that is.”
And you didn’t doubt that he’d made many.
“So how fast can you really go?” You’re asking with a quirked brow, slightly leaned over the console to take in all the numerous meters on his side of the seat.
The heat of your proximity makes Choso bite back a gasp- “Trying to find out?”
There’s something in his words - his tone.
“What if I am?”
“I-I’d advise you against it.” He’s answering easily, the thickness of his thumb toying with the gear shift in dizzying circles. “Don’t you know what everyone in this town says about me?”
“They say a lot of things-”
“The loudest being that you should stay away.” Long, dark locks fall over his features as he nods, pulling to a stop at a barren red light. Darkness inking beyond his headlights, as if the only living beings on Earth right now were you, him–
“You know, I don’t care what they say if I don’t truly know you.”
“Let’s- let’s just drive slow, get you home safe and you can forget about m-”
VRRRR—!
And the assholes that had pulled up to the side of Choso’s car.
Gesturing him to lower his window, the boisterous voices from the neighboring vehicle hit you instantly. “Oi- nice car!” And before Choso can seemingly thank them, they’re revving up the engine of their own. “Would hate to embarrass ya in front of your girl, though.”
“She’s not my-”
“Why doesn’t she come with us?” One of their troupe of men lean out of the window, “We can show her a real fast car.”
You grimace, taking a glance at the still-red light. “Ew.”
“Oi-”
Your savior turns up the engine of his Mustang, cutting off the other man cleanly - and just a peek his way shows you his darkened eyes. Eyes hooded, face bathed in red from the traffic stop. Tone hard enough that you’re wondering whether this was the same man from just a few minutes ago. “Those are fighting words.”
Orange now.
A sleazy cackle rings out, “That so?”
“You’re asking me?”
“No, I’m asking your gir-”
Green.
You’re instantly sunken deeply into the cushion of your seat as Choso speeds off- tailed closely by the Mercedes of your unwelcome guest. So fast that your surroundings are a blur, so hard that you can barely even move your mouth-
“A- a race?” You’re managing out.
“And we’re gonna win.”
Speeding; and you have a slight feeling that Choso was barely even trying as he’s looking over at the rearview mirror to watch the flashing headlights of his opponents.
Muttering underneath his breath, he shifts his gear with a clack to burst in speed- “Fucking imbeciles.” And if you thought his car was loud before, then you weren’t ready for him to smash the Sports Mode on his touchscreen and make the engine keen deafeningly.
“Hold on tight, my girl.”
Clack!
“Shit, a fucking Mercedes, huh?”
Clack!
Clack!
Another gear shift, and you’re seeing the trees of the landscape mix into one great splash of mere green. Choso flicks his eyes over in the side mirror only once- before the entire car swerves to the right to block off the Mercedes. “Fucking imbeciles.”
“Ch-Choso.” You’re gasping out, holding onto your seatbelt for dear life. Fuck- you think you’re seeing the line on his speedometer jerk upright as he steps harder on the gas pedal.
“Yeees–?”
Your finger trembles - whether from fear or adrenaline, you have no idea - when you’re reaching it somewhere past the windshield. Eyes nearly bulging out of your skull once you take in the familiar road, “There’s a bend coming around. Hard.”
“Perfect.”
Clack!
You’re hitting the large dip in the road before you know it- thrown in so hard against the left side of the Ford Mustang that you claw onto Choso’s arm. Reached right over the console to grab onto his flexed biceps, “Heh.” He looks down at you through lowered lashes for a second, “Told you to hold on tight.”
Gaping speechlessly, you dig your nails against his pale skin and watch as he bites down on his lower lip.
Fingers tilting down the rearview mirror, “And now, for those bastards.”
Bracing yourself, you manage to garner up enough strength in your body to raise your front off of him - only mildly mortified about being thrown around like a ragdoll by his driving. Taking a quick glance behind, “Oh, they slowed down for the bend.”
“Mhm, told you we’d win.” Choso grins, easily flicking off the Sports Mode for an easier regular one. You’re cruising smoothly down the velvety road, Mercedes long out of sight and out of mind. “You’re like my good luck charm- that means I better get you home safe n’ sound now..”
And that’s exactly what he does.
No more races, no more assholes on supercars - you’re turning into the suburban street of your tidy neighborhood without another hitch.
Well, if you don’t count the rumbling engine that was sure to disturb all the neighbors, that is.
But strangely enough, you can’t seem to bring yourself to care as much as you should. Not even when he’s slowing down by the familiar driveway to your house, not even as you watch the lights inside flick on at the noise.
Dwindling into a low purr by the time that Choso stops- “A-about before- I am so sorry about that, I don’t know why I let them get to me and-” He’s running a hand down his pretty features, “-and I promised myself I’d be good for you but-”
“Are you kidding me?” You breathe.
“I’m sorry.”
“That was-” He winces, waiting for your outburst. “-amazing?”
Choso’s fawny eyes widen, “What?”
“That was the most alive I’ve felt in ages.” You’re starting, “I mean- sure, I wanted to throw up a little but I promise once the nausea stopped it was really fun. And did you see the look on their faces- pffft, those assholes deserved it. Fucking- Mercedes.” Against all judgment, you’re gripping onto his broad shoulders just to shake with emphasis. “I didn’t even know you could drive like that- have you ever considered real racing? Fuck, I wonder if you could go even faster with this beauty.”
Now it was his turn to be awestruck. Soundless. And suddenly you’re understanding just how self-conscious he must’ve been back at the campus.
“Hello?”
“…”
“I mean…oh, what am I even saying.” You couldn’t grab your bag fast enough, hastily opening the door. “Thank you for the ride!”
You make three steps to your front porch - exactly three for Choso to snap out of his little reverie and chase right after you.
Long legs striding up, one of his matching exactly two or more of yours- a large hand catching your wrist, soft breath striking your face once he pulls you back. “Wait.”
Pants desperate, voice pleading.
You’re staring up at him so close that you could count each of his glinting metal piercings - those two sensual snakebites on his lower lip, one on his left eyebrow, several dangling upon both ears. And you swear you see one wink out from the tip of his pink tongue as he’s opening and closing his mouth.
“Do you-”
“I hope-”
You both speak at the same time, huffing out in slight amusement. You gesture for him to go, and he insists, “Ladies first.”
“Fine.” You’re letting him have his way, and the defeat is not nearly as bitter as how sweet it was watching Choso beam down at you from his height. “I just ah- hoped I didn’t weird you out or anyth-”
“Never.”
He says it so seriously that you almost find yourself taking a step back- almost, because he still had his warm fingers curled softly around your wrist. As if he’d noticed your flighty demeanor, Choso drags you a few steps back with him, leaning against the side of his supercar. “Actually- would you like to go to a…thing-”
“A thing?”
“A place-”
“A shady place?”
“Yes-” Seeing the look in your gaze, “-but no! It’s just a race- a big one.” And fuck- he was finding it difficult to hold the line of your sight, ears scorching redder and redder every second you bored up at him. “And I want you there- if you would like to come, as my…” Choso winces, like he was despising each word spilling from his mouth. “-good luck…charm.”
You grin, “Is that a date?”
He squeaks- “If- if you want it to be.”
“Hmm.” Pretending to think for a second, you’re only deciding to let Choso off the hook after you watch as he genuinely, physically sweats a trickle of perspiration down his temple waiting for your answer. “It’ll be a date-” He gasps. “-if - and only if - you win first place.”
The grin you’re gifted with is devastating - and Choso Kamo doesn’t stutter a single syllable as he quirks a brow. As he leans in. As he bends down just enough that his deep, drawling words tickle your ear, “Oh, you’re gonna watch me win, baby.”
Oh.
And you’re still thinking of them even as you manage to waddle your feet back up to your house after exchanging numbers. Predictably, being met with a lecture from your parents and yet not registering a single word.
That is, not until-
“-and wasn’t it that boy?”
Snapping up at their disapproving tone, “Who? That was Choso, he gave me a ride when there was no one else on-”
“You should stay away, you know what they say.” Wagging a finger reproachfully, “How many times have we told you to stay away from brutes like that? And you just had to go and get fondled by the exact same one the entire town’s been talking about- and don’t lie to me, we saw you through the window.”
“Then you’d have seen that we were doing nothing.” You’re gripping onto your bag hard enough to tear, heart thumping with anger where it was once excitement.
“That was not ‘nothing’, girl. I thought we raised you better than that.”
“But-”
“All the loud cars and the tattoos. Mark my word he’ll end up-”
Mumbling, “He was actually really sweet…”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ll ruin your life.”
“I barely have one.”
With a long-weary sigh, you block out the rest of the screeching to head for your bedroom - the same ol’ innocent bedroom you’d had since you were a child. Throwing yourself over your bed, you scroll through the listings of studios in your university area, as you often did.
Except this time, you dare to bookmark one. Just one.
.
.
.
It was hard not to know when Choso Kamo stared.
Because Choso never stared, he never tore his eyes away from the glossy pages of his motorsports magazine, even during lectures. And you always did wonder how he managed to top the scores of each exam despite that.
Except for now.
Right now, you’re feeling the burning sensation of two dark peripherals on the back of your head - immediately making you swivel your own gaze behind you.
Lo and behold, there he was - pen tapping on the side of his plush, rosy lips, brows furrowed as if you were the toughest of calculations he just couldn’t figure out. But the moment your pupils meet his, Choso only grins.
Mouthing, ‘Tonight.’
Your veins bubble when you notice more than one pair of eyes from the lecture hall on the two of you, and the implication of something happening ‘tonight’ wasn’t lost on your little audience.
But you nod anyway, a reminder of what the two of you had been texting back n’ forth for days now. ‘Tonight.’
“What’s happening tonight and why are you eye-fucking Choso Kamo?” Shoko’s whisper infiltrates your little bubble - and many other nearby bubbles, if the way that a few students titter was anything to go by.
“Shoko.” You elbow her side.
“No no, I want to know too.” Utahime pipes up, “Have you learned nothing from the two-bit bad boys in those shitty Netflix movies we watch?”
“He’s not just a two-bit bad boy, he also has a car.” Shoko’s adding on, “And I heard my neighbor’s friend’s aunt’s cousin say that he’s an F1 hopeful-”
The other gasps, “Is it the athlete’s salary tempting you, my dear? Y’know, I’m old money-”
Groaning, “It’s not like that.”
Shoko’s glancing between the two of you - Choso back at his books now that there wasn’t anything more worthy of his attention. You were looking away, after all. She balances a pen on her upper lip in thought, “When did that even happen, though?”
After a few seconds of trying to hide in your hands wasn’t working - in fact, it only made Professor Gakuganji throw more and more increasingly disgruntled glares your way - you sigh. “Well…you two remember last week when I stayed late at the labs? And I said someone was kind enough to give me a lift?” At two matching nods, “It was…”
“Him.”
“Him.” Utahime shakes you by your shoulders, “He didn’t do anything weird, did he, my dear? Oh, do I need to kill-”
“Not at all—” You wave them off, deciding to tell them about the impromptu race later today - preferably at an open space where it would be more acceptable for Utahime to scream bloody murder. “He was actually sweet and…”
Utahime and Shoko gawk at you with wide eyes, and the shorter-haired of the two speaks. “…and?”
“And a bit…cute.”
The pen clatters to down, down, down to the floor.
Already interrupting the class enough, you decide to simply rip the bandage off in one go- “And we may or may not have planned a date for tonight.”
It turns out that you’d very unfortunately overestimated Utahime’s ability to control her scream in a closed educational environment.
.
.
.
It was electric.
You felt electric.
Choso leans over his seat to indulge in your personal space, and you’re sure you’d be melting if it wasn’t for the way that both your eyes were locked on one noisy opponent - that Mercedes.
Engine revving right beside the Ford Mustang, sour faces peeking through the window with a thirst for revenge - who’d have thought that your lil’ enemy from the street competition would wind up being your opponents in an actual street race?
Honestly, tonight you’d let Choso drive you deep into a dingy corner of the town you didn’t even know existed in all your years living here.
You doubted that anyone knew of this secretive scene.
Filled to the brim with as many supercars as your lonely roads could hold- hell, Choso had told you that some participants drove from multiple cities away solely for these races. They were lining every inch of tarmac like glitzy streetlights made to overpower, the type to have given half your town an aneurysm just to think about.
“It’s why I ended up here for my exchange program, y’know?” He was whispering in your ear, voice low in a way it was just for you. “The racing, the cars, the practice. I wanted it all before I went big.”
Dark eyes flickering briefly to you, “Didn’t think I’d find something else worth winning, too.”
Your breath hitched, you didn’t know what else to say to that. And Choso didn’t elaborate- instead informing you on the make and model of the cars that would be going up against him this time.
And the roaring cheers grow deafening by the time a woman in a glittering outfit waltzes over to the middle of the track, a handkerchief held carefully in hand. Her cheery voice chimes out. “Alriiight, I want a nice, clean race around town- not. You know the drill- all racers on go by the time the cloth drops. Ready—?”
Teasing the little fabric around, you can pick out a few stray shouts surrounding the car- “Choso? That’s Choso Kamo? No way he seriously brought his gal- the man doesn’t even know how to smile-”
“They say it’s his last official race before he goes pro- better show off then, eh?”
“Move move I can’t see- Oh my god it’s really him, shit, he has a girl, too. You think they’ll win?”
As you’re nervously toying with your fingers, you jolt at the sudden feeling of ice-cold rings sliding around your throat. One hand of Choso’s on the wheel, the other putting slight pressure on your neck to make you gasp. “Don’t you worry, baby. We’re gonna win this.”
“Set—!”
“Because of the date?” You watch from the corner of your eye as she’s waving the handkerchief ‘round like a chequered flag, raising it up, up, up—
“Because I have my lucky charm with me.”
“Go–!”
.
.
.
“Oh sh-shit.” A shrill whimper tears out from your throat the very second that Choso’s slimy tongue hits your inner thighs.
He’s just so long - so dexterous that the pinkish tip of him curls inwardly along your sodden panties. Lavishing the swollen folds of your pussy with a few kittenish licks, you feel yourself buck in need at the slight graze of his tongue piercing. “Fuuuck, Choso, you’re not even gonna take my p-panties off?”
“Haaa—” His scalding hot breath gusts out in a sticky pant, and you can only watch as his lips purse to spit straight down your slippery slit.
A fat glob of saliva that he’s smearing with the front end of his thumb, snickering. “No.”
And then Choso’s pursuing the quivering lips of your pussy like he’s a man starved - ravenous. Fuck, you didn’t even know how you got here.
It was a given that he would win that street race, coming in first among all the cars with an almost ridiculous lead. But it was only when Choso had kept driving - not even stopping to collect his cash prize - that you’d started to question what he had in mind…
And there you were- sprawled out across the back of his Ford Mustang and smearing the expensive seats with your sheeny slick.
He’d driven you to the edge of some romantic viewpoint, a place to watch the twinkling stars above - but right now, Choso was drinking in a much better view.
“Oh-” The edge of his sharp jawline strikes your cunt, “Oh.” And no matter how close he was, he wanted more - he needed to see your pretty pussy all up close n’ personal.
Using the knobbly edge of his thumb to pull your folds apart with a sluuuurp, Choso’s mouth just waters seeing you drip ‘round your stringy panties. “Congratulations to me.” He’s drawling, syllables shaky. “She’s better than any grand prize, my baby.”
“You’re just so filthy—” You’re whining, hips rutting off of the cushioned seats while he’s making out with your pussy through your panties.
Slap after slap of his mouth plastering to every inch of your hot core.
It’s as if he was just trying to make you even messier, with each side of those rosy pink lips drooling against your pussy. “Mmm, tell me something I don’t already know, baby.”
Slickly rovering his tongue up n’ down the line of your slit- you feel Choso hone his wet muscle until he’s aligned precisely towards your sloppy hole. Pushin’ against the barrier of your underwear like he’s attempting to thrust his way in, “Stop teasing me, Choso–”
“Teasing? Who’s teasing?”
Another push of his tongue against the cloth of your drenched panties and you shriek, just barely feeling the pressure of his mouth drag against where you really needed him the most. “Then eat me out properly-”
Mockingly confused, your pupils sprint all the way to the back of your throat as you’re feeling him murmur straight into your cunt. “M’not teasing, I just can’t see-”
“S-see?”
Looking down so fast that your chin knocks against your chest, in the dim street lighting you can make out the long mess of Choso’s hair. The way his unruly bangs were gluing to his forehead, half-obscuring his darkened gaze.
“Mmm, m’just doing what I can—” He playfully hums, so close that he was practically nose-deep n’ yet still refusing to make out with your pussy past your panties. “Oh, if only I had my pretty girl to pull my- oh, fuck.”
Choso doesn’t get to finish his damn sentence before you’re giving him exactly what he asked for.
“Is this enough?”
Your trembly hands plunged into his clammy scalp, tugging on his silky hair- enough for you to admire his pretty, flushed face. All twisted into a mean smirk, “O-oh, now I can see.” There’s something unsteady in his words, as if he was on the very verge of shattering. “Now just tell me where you want m-mmpf-”
Then you’re shoving his face between your legs and Choso moans.
Mouth slacked all the way ajar- lengthy tongue coming out to simply flick aside your ruined panties. “F-fuck.” Choso’s wastin’ absolutely no time prodding at your clenched hole and squeeze-squeeze-squeezing inside. “Lemme see her. Lemme taste her- my pretty baby.”
Rutting the front of his hips into the backseat, he clings two large hands upon each side of your hips to haul your pussy deeper against his mouth.
Primal tongue slobbering everywhere, he’s gluing his textured tastebuds to the roof of your entrance and watches as you squirm oh-so-cutely. Pushing n’ pushing until he feels the first pressure of resistance from your cunt, “Ngh- Choso, dunno if it’ll- fit-”
“But you’re a goood girl- aren’t ya, baby?” Reeling back with a dewy plop! to prod his tongue into each of your nooks. “So aren’t ya gonna take my tongue like hah- a good girl?”
Your hand claws to clamp your mouth shut as you feel him stick his mouth against your entrance and start to bully inside once more. “I- I don’t-”
“Ah ah, none of that.” Only to have one set of his slender fingers tug down your shaky hand, hearing your pretty whines like his favorite song.
Fuck, Choso can only let you buck wildly once he’s rubbin’ his tongue piercing along your clit. “You’re gonna be loud-” His tongue was just unfairly flexible, twisting around until the metallic orb near the middle hits down your nub with a splat! “Yeah- exactly like that, pretty baby.” He could barely even speak through each pressurized push, “Gonna let this, mmm, entiiiire fuckin’ town hear. And then-”
And then he’s throwing your boneless limbs over his broad shoulders, ankles locking on instinct ‘round the back of Choso’s neck.
It’s the change in angle that has you gasping, holding onto the cushions surrounding you for dear life when that only makes his mouth roam deeper- “-th-then you’re gonna fucking take all of my- ngh- tongue.”
Muffled, each syllable leaves your pussy all raw n’ sensitive.
Splashing out oodles of syrupy sweet sap each time the tip of Choso’s taste buds scrape the inside of your cunt. Stretchin’ out your poor hole to the maximum until you’re mewling at the sting.
Constricting widely, he’s shovelling your walls apart until you’re memorizing the exact feeling of his tongue. Pump after pump.
He wasn’t just hungry - it’s like he hadn’t eaten for eons with the way that Choso was grinding and grinding his face between your face. Each gyration of his tongue rendering you speechless, licking all over your sweetest spots until not an inch was left undiscovered by him.
You feel the glossy points of his snakebites stick against the base of your outer pussy and gasp.
“And then my cock next.”
“Oh- oh my god- ngh-” You babble away- was it possible to bottom out on a tongue? Because the curvy tip of his tongue was reaching all the way near your g-spot and you couldn’t help but sob.
Hands trekking down on instant to-
SMACK!
Your fingers twitch where Choso had swatted your hand away, crushing it within one of his. “But Choso-”
“And who said you could play with my prize?” He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowed in a way that looked almost dangerous. Plump lips twitching with a sleazy grin, “S’my pussy, baby.”
Before you know it, he’s guiding your guilty hand down to meet his maw. Slick-sheened fingertips finding their way just between his lips- oh, he was greedy for your sweet, sweet juices. He wasn’t about to let you have a single drop.
Sucklin’ on them like his favorite flavored lolly, Choso stares right into your eyes once he replaces what you wanted with his own fingers.
A drive-roughened index smearing open the edges of your pussy, “D’you know that?”
You’re shuttering your eyes in need, “Oh my god your fingers-”
Pressing just inside your hole, “Do you know that?” You can only let out a few more mindless wails in response, and he’s slipping a second finger against the roof of your core. “Need you to answer me if you want-”
“Yes- yes.” You claw against his strong wrist so hard that you’re leaving marks. Doing anything - everything to get him to go deeper, to sloppily fill you up from the inside with his fingertips. “Oh…mmm, please, Choso.”
“And don’t you forget it.” You’re being treated like a lil’ plaything - one thumb flicking your clit, two more scouring inside your glossy walls. “I’m taking my prize tonight.”
There’s a lecherous, resounding plop! as he manages to fully sink in the two prolonged fingers all the way till his knuckles hit the slope of your pussy. The curvaceous edge of Choso’s index easily mazing past to locate your throbbing g-spot, “Oh fuck- so deep- ngh, so…”
Only letting off once your own fingerpads are licked all clean of your slick, he hastily pushes his face back into your treacly cunt. “That’s it, thaaaat’s it. Fuck up into m-me- into my face.”
And he had you have you on his flushed face - Choso needed you on his face.
Right then and right now, it’s like he’s fighting against himself for a mere piece of your pussy. Like the sweetest dessert in the world, he laps up every slimy ounce of leaky slick- wide tongue draaagging in circles ‘round and ‘round your sensitive hole.
One that was being absolutely pummelled by his fingers, he’s filling up every slick orifice with the curve of his digits. Hooking them so they thrash right against your g-spot-
“This is how ya do it.” You swear you watch as the mountains of Choso’s knuckles turn red with the slamming impact of his pumps, “Look at her- mm, just look. Now this is a winning celebration, huh?”
“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck-” Your pupils are speeding in stupid circles within the whites of your eyes, hands twitching on his brown locks. The metal of his snakebites snag against the sensitive part of your folds and your legs shake, “It just feels too good- hck!”
Dragging down his handsome face harder against your pussy- and the manhandling force makes him rut. Crushing the rock-hard outline of his bulge against the carseat, “Too good, huh?”
And then the unthinkable happens - Choso dares to pull his long, hammering fingers out of your pussy.
Instantly latching his pearly white canines onto your clit to bite so you can’t get out a single complaint- he’s forcing you to be patient as he reaches for something in the back pocket of his trousers. “Don’t you move now.” As you’re starting to push away from his shoulders at the sheer fucking stimulation making you see stars. “Don’t you fucking move.”
He’s serious about not letting you escape- one hand reaching behind his sweaty head. He grips both your ankles in one hand and locks them together, pinning them firmly together, dragging you to him.
“Excuse me for this, baby, I can’t take my hah- reward otherwise.”
In a split-second, his fingers are back to bullying between your puffy pussylips- but they weren’t the only thing pryin’ apart your bubblegum walls.
Oh.
With a gasp, you’re lurching your dazed head up as much as possible - watching in real time when Choso’s now-ringed fingers disappear between your folds.
Chunky, cold metal rings scraping your innards carnally, you feel him press a particularly textured one against the area of your nerves and see white- “Oh- oh my god, mmm—” Reaching for the very back of your core, he’s scissoring your cunt open to reach for your g-spot with a dull thud!
Pushing into each softened spot.
Your throat’s clogging with saliva again and again as he’s thrusting in n’ out, in n’ out, in and- “I don’t think I’ll last.”
Fuck, that makes him push his raging erection against the cushion and groan.
“Then cum on my face.” Choso states simply, pressing a sweet lil’ kiss on your clit. Your quivering entrance splatters out a few speckles of glittery slick that latch onto his chin, “Cum on my mouth.”
Sticking his long tongue out, you can see the dot of his piercing glimmer in the dim lighting. Rovering down to swirl on your clit, he’s driving you wild with precise, prodding rolls right over your overstimulated nub.
It was a dual stimulation - and you should’ve guessed from all the expert driving, but he was damn near taking you to heaven with all the multi-tasking.
Clawing at your every gooey spot, the splotchy stains of your sap cling onto his lips like a gleaming medal. Every swirl of his greedy tongue on your clit making your back arch so cutely into his touch.
The flesh of Choso’s bottom lip teasingly juts out to tickle his snakebites along your slope, “Cum alllll over my tongue, baby.”
At this point you don’t know what to ogle - the vicious lashings of his mouth, or the way he just looked so pretty doing it.
Stray strands of his bangs falling over his forehead, ears burnt rouge, biceps flexing as he fights off the thrashing of your legs to keep you in one place.
“Oh- oh, fuck-”
“Yeah-” Your eardrums flood with the rickety sound of friction on his decadent carseat, and only then do you realize that Choso was humping it. Fucking you with his mouth the way he wished he could with his swollen cock right now. “Yeah yeah yeah- exactly.”
Honey-brown eyes locked right into the target of your own as he bucks n’ bucks his face deeper into your sloppy pussy. Wrist aching, mouth panting, but he couldn’t fucking stop.
You’re feeling him directly smash in a repeated one-two against your g-spot and choke- “I-I think m’gonna…” Trailing off, each n’ every word slurs together into one long call-out of his name. Thighs twitching as if you were electrocuted, “Oh, mmm- m’cumming, Cho-”
The only thing you can manage through your wobbly lips before throwing your head back and cumming.
Rushing into your orgasm so hard that it makes your ears pop! “I…I can’t believe I- fuck!” Your lashes flutter at the way he kept his probin’ fingers jackhammering through your high, blinking back tears. “Y-you’re only making it even ngh- better.”
Plap! Plap! Plap! The rugged joints of his knuckles nearly rub raw at the impact against your pussy’s slope, scouring against your poor battered g-spot.
Your hands were on his ready head, holding on to grind on those pretty features in sloppy drags. Zaps of your pleasure bursting at the feeling of his piercings on your flesh, “You really are filthy.”
And Choso was more than happy to have his mouth be used, have the tip of his nose be ridden.
“That’s it-” Eyes twinkling watching your cute lil’ hole spray him with flecks of slick, each peak of your high making you clamp down.
He’s slithering his tongue just vertically down your treacly cunt to try n’ bully it greedily inside. Swabbing with the metal of his tongue piercing, and you think you see white. Head throwing back at the sheerly raw stretchhh—
Yearning to feel the way your goopy innards squeezed ‘round his muscle once more, “Tha’s it- oh, baby, clench like that and m’gonna cu- fuck.”
Too late.
Too late; Choso was already feeling your snug, dripping insides melt around his tastebuds and he was already creaming his pants. A dark, dark stain forming where his leaky orifice kept wadding out seed- the man takes a glance down and tuts.
“S’all your fucking fault, y’know?”
“M-mine?” And by now your wave of euphoria was nothing but a few tingles here and there- so Choso’s lifting himself out from between your trembly legs. Albeit with a sloppy last French kiss on your sopping pussy. Two.
Three.
Four- fuck, you had to be the one to wrench Choso away by the base of his perspired bangs. Leaving a few jet-black stains of his eyeliner smeared between your legs.
Forcing him to stop pussydrunkenly chasing the taste of your cunt, “Yes, fucking look at me.” He sounds gone. “M’addicted and it’s all y-your fault, baby.”
And he was dripping wet from his twitchy girth, so much so that his trousers stick to the upper half of his thighs like a second skin. Choso’s peeling his ruined pants and boxers off and oh-
“Fuck.” You’re gasping, in a daze. Eyes never leaving the hot, pinkish length that he’d just freed, “You’re so…”
Big.
Huge.
Staggering.
Damn near nine or ten inches, and so pretty, too.
The cutest lil’ shade of pink on his globular tip, glistening with cum n’ covered with a few sparse veins that led to his happy trail. More than rock-hard, it looked painful. And was that- oh, fuck.
He had a fucking Prince Albert’s piercing - right there, dotted on the line of his sensitive slit. Choso slaps down his heavy cock between your legs and watches as you squirm at the feeling of him slipping n’ sliding between your folds.
From your distance leaned against the end of the backseat, you’re measuring him up. Eyeing the girth of him, fuck, he was fat enough that your legs squeeze-
“Now now-” Hastily, he unsticks your clammy thighs and flips you over onto your front. Leaning his weight down on your back to keep your restless body pinned, “-none of that.” Tonality breathy, octaves higher. “None of that none of that- oh, you’re not getting off easy tonight, pretty baby.”
Somewhere along the line of you ogling his impressive length, Choso had taken off his rugged band t-shirt. And fuck- you didn’t know which view was better.
Because he was naturally ripped - all lean abs and pecs that jiggled once he’s leaning down. Your mouth waters when you take in the piercings going through his rosy nipples, the draconic tattoos going down his neck.
You’re craning your head, now on all fours. “I-I could’ve guessed.” Sheepishly, as he’s aligning his thick, throbbing cockhead against your entrance.
Choso pulls back on your tattered panties with a snap! “We’re gonna give this entire town something to hah- talk about.”
And that’s exactly what he does.
Because the moment you feel his reddish crown bulge between your folds- you almost bawl. The utter primal stretch so much that he’s clawing onto your hips to keep you still.
“Come on.” Choso spits into your open mouth, one of his free hands pressing up on your tummy - hard - just to feel that sensation of his large outline spearing through your walls. “Come on come on-”
“Fuck- fuck, Choso, you’re in s-so deep-”
“Here’s the finish line.” You hear him titter from above you, index paintin’ an invisible line somewhere about halfway down your stomach. Right where his target of your womb was.
And before you can get out a single word, he rears his hips closer and makes you see stars. Closer. Deeper. The curvy weight of his tip bullies between your first ring of muscle, so thick that you can barely even clench. “First, m’here-”
You gasp, “Wh-what-”
“The- the starting line-” He’s hissing out, deliciously rutting a meager inch back n’ forth just to make you feel the way your entrance was gaped to the max. “Now I’m…”
With a hand pressed down to feel your cute tummy bulge, Choso’s fat cock slips further down your walls. Easing in after such a raw, primal squeeelch-
“-here.”
“Oh- my god- I can’t believe-” You whimper, nails clawing at the faux leather for all he was putting you through. Just a few more solid inches, a few more visceral bucks of his hips and you’re babbling stupidly. “Are you ngh- are you there yet? Are you even halfway?”
“Mmm, not quite.” Choso twists out a grin.
Free hand snaking between your legs to lap up a few ounces of your sappy slick, mixing with his cum from before. It’s such a filthy concoction, and it’s exactly what’s being used to draw a line right over your tummy.
“M’here and then-” Another rut, another line - higher upwards this time. The fat, aching length of his cock was slickly mazing between your walls and making your head spin. Tapping that lil’ spot with his pointer, “…h-here.”
Until you could feel every pulse, every vein.
Choso Kamo didn’t even have to try to fill your poor channel up, his vein-decorated shaft poking into every tiny crevice and cranny. Until you felt like you were being molded to his very size.
“And- and then-” Even he wasn’t immune to the completely carnal feeling- your cunt was just too hot, too soft. He’s pokin’ his pointed tip into one of your tender spots and throwing his head back at the way it makes your glossy walls tighten. “-finally-” Rutting. Half-thrusts. “-here.”
Hitting your cervix dead-on, right with his pierced part.
“H-heh…the grand prize.”
Shit, all this effort putting up a cool front and that very first thrust shatters Choso.
It makes him gasp, it makes him stutter- groaning out your name in a gravelly tone like a mantra.
“Fuck- the…grand- oh.” He’s babbling away his own joke, planting yet another thorough slam all the way to the back of your pussy. Hard enough that the vehicle quakes.
Strawberry-pink tip swelling up just a bit more at the impact. Sheathed until those curly dark hairs at his base, and Choso chuckles like he’d just stumbled across an epiphany. “Your cervix- I hit it- got s-second place, too.”
Second place…?
You blearily blink your eyes, saliva flooding at the pure stretch. “Are you-”
Pap–!
“And third-” In a sultry split-second, you’re being pulled back by one of Choso’s beefy biceps - in a fucking headlock. His pierced lips kissing the side of your face, “Got third, too, baby- are you p-proud of me?”
Your hands fist in his silken hair- “Yes- Yes yes yes- ngh, it just feels too good, Cho.”
There’s a sudden slurp, and suddenly the two of you are snapping your heads back down to watch how your stimulated pussy grows even wetter. Spraying out syrupy slick with each of his furious pumps, every slam leaves his meaty thighs stuck to the backs of yours like adhesive.
A roughened thumb slithers down to spread your pussylips. “O-oh.” Just so that he can watch his achingly hard cock disappear from your winking hole. Studded piercing dipping in and out in and out in and out- “We’re gonna break this damn car, baby— Just like this hah- pretty pussy is breaking me.”
Headlock tightening, backseats creaking. “Ch-Cho, are you-” Another smash against the spongy layer of your cervix and he swears.
You’re peering into the tinted window of his Mustang and seeing the full effect of your sweet, candied pussy on him.
Head hunched, back muscles tense.
It’s like he was breaking - bit by bit with every swab of his cocktip against your deepest innards. The rounded globe of his orifice probes into the door to your womb and you find yourself drooling. “Choso, are you even ngh- okay?”
Choso’s long lashes bat, eyeliner smudging ‘round sexily, “No. Fuck.” Sizzling tastebuds lolling out to lick the salted tears streaming down your face. “Fuck- fuck, how could I ever be okay?”
You’re feeling his abs plaster against your spine, usin’ the weight to angle his roaming length even deeper. “A pussy as sweet as you- ohhhh.” Grunts departing into your ear following each rut after rut- “M’n-never going to be okay.”
Choso’s puffy veins drag against your g-spot and you whine. “H-harder.”
“Harder?” Something that sounds like a pussydrunk giggle escapes him, eyes wide. Feral. “Can you even handle harder, my girl?”
Huffing, the first thing you’re thinking to respond with is a sloppy nod. Your neck is barely even capable of keeping your heavy head upright by now, “Faster, too.”
Oh.
Oh.
You were fucked.
Because when you said ‘fast’, you didn’t think that he would act this rapidly. Taking barely a second - no, a nanosecond - to plunge his angrily hard dick out n’ flip your limp body over.
From the filthiest doggy position to having your legs ‘round his slender waist, his cock ebbing deep inside once more. The new angle easily lets his weepy girth map your walls, mazin’ inside like a searchlight.
Reaching your aching g-spot easily- “Hold on tight, my girl.”
And then he’s fucking your dizzy brain thoughtless.
Until the firm, steady frame of his supercar was shaking from side-to-side.
Plump, raging cock stuffin’ right between your folds to poke against the top of your cervix. Again and again. Thump after thump.
His piercing is so cold that it makes you shiver. And Choso takes extra care to make sure that his winding veins find a way to precisely scrape your most treasured spots.
One hand holding onto the right side of your face, gently brushing against the top of your cheekbone. “It feels so hah- good, oh.” The other toying with your pretty lil’ clit, “So good it’s driving me- fuck, crazy.”
Drawing out the cutest hearts with his thumb on your nub, Choso was just so gone that you swear his pupils were starting to turn heart-shaped, too.
Especially once he catches two of your hands snaking down the sweaty line of his chest- stopping right where the curve of his pecs were. Without a second thought, you’re fingering the sensitive area of his nipple piercings.
Choso arches, he shivers. “Heh, you’re fucking dangerous, baby.” Drilling cock overspilling your insides with a few sticky wads of precum as you tug on one of them.
You whine when he’s withdrawing the loving hand from your cheek to swab the cavern of your mouth. “That’s what they said about- ngh- you.”
“Mmm—” He lolls his head pussydrunkenly, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You’re sure that Choso’s leaving a few bites and smears of eyeliner for you to worry about later. Each word punctured with a thrash of his rotund tip, “Well, they don’t know me yet.”
“A-and I do?”
“Well…” And that makes the sinful man grin.
It makes him unload the hand from your ajar maw - removing it with a few stringy ribbons of spit. And it’s exactly that moisture that Choso’s using to write out your damn name on his left pec, right above his heart.
“You-” Your voice clogs up in your throat- because he wasn’t done. Far from it.
Because soon enough, the ringed fingerpads simply teasin’ your clit start to repeat in a pattern. A swoopy few movements that you’re realizing is his name.
C-H-O-S-O-K-A-M-O
Yours on his heart, his on your cunt.
Spelled out expertly on the buttony top of your clit, you’re seeing stars after each quick movement. The sharp turns n’ swoops of his name being branded onto you was almost too much to handle.
Which was exactly what he was looking for- and the tips of Choso’s plush lips twitch at the sight of you slowly edging towards your high. “Yeahhh, you fuckin’ do. Know me better than hah- anyone else here, my pretty baby.”
Throat breaking out in a sob, “I-I’m so close-” Pulling on his hair, thrashing up your hips. “Not gonna hngh- last too long, Cho—”
“Oh, yeah? Say my name like that- say my name.”
But you can’t say anything, really - because in a singular, fluid motion, Choso has your legs perched on his flexing shoulders. Your capped knees pressing down until they hit your tits- the realization smites you and you gasp.
“A-a mating press?”
“Whaaaat–?” Drawling out through a drunken hiccup, he gifts you three strikes with his Prince Albert’s on your g-spot. Thud-thud-thud. “Wanna see your gorgeous fuckin’ ngh- face when you’re cumming on my cock.”
This angle was perfect for glissading a line of pre straight across your g-spot, unstopping until he’s hitting the back of your cervix with a rattling thud. Speeding his sloppy tempo up until the smacks of skin-on-skin were downright deafening.
Ears ringing with the sappy squelches reeled out of you after every second of his rough cadence. With the way the car was shifting- “You’re just so- so filthy.”
“Mmm, only for you, baby.” Comes out the ragged response, something near the tailend of his sentence cracking. And so is his restraint. His sanity. “A-Always for you, baby.”
He’s driving into you as if he was crazed; toned pelvis of his stinging red, temple trickling with sweat, the fat circumference of his crownhead was leaving absolutely no spot unturned. Thumb nearly a blur on your clit, it makes you arch to have him rewriting his name over n’ over n’ over.
Choso’s simply ruining you from the inside out, and you can feel your body twitching already in response.
Pants hoarse- gone. He finishes off yet another signature twist of your clit - C-H-O-S-O. “Anything for you, baby.”
And then you don’t know who’s first - it’s simply crashing into both of you at once.
A long, blissful wave of euphoria that leaves your vision all white n’ delirious. You’re just so full- being stuffed to the very brim of your dripping wet pussy with his cum. Creamy white ropes that glue to the start of your womb n’ end up being stirred about by his length.
The only thing you can even think to do is wrap your arms ‘round Choso’s neck and give him a lingering kiss.
Mind spinning, stomach twisting - it’s probably the hardest orgasm of your life.
Feeling him moan into your mouth through each clench of your high, “Better than I’ve ever fucking- ngh, imagined.”
Oh, it was just too cute to have him confessing like this as he’s fucking you through his high.
Pushing each knot of sinful cum even deeper- “You’re better than a ngh- dream.” It makes him sensitively whimper to feel you clamping down at his words. Webs of ivory syrup sploshing through your channel like a second skin. “You might just be- oh, my dream, my girl.”
There’s just so much of it.
So much that’s spilling out. Coating his bulky base in a slathered ring of white, neither you nor him can even think to care about the stained material of the seats.
Only plowing probe after probe of his blushin’ tip to probe into your favorite spots, Choso leaves your toes curling at the pleasure of having him draaaaag out your high with his veiny cock.
And it takes you a few seconds to register his whiny words- “You- you really mean that?”
“Y-yeah…” He’s breathing out, in awe. Flinching when your fingers start to caress the crimson tips of Choso’s ears, “Meant every fucking word.”
“And I do, too.” At his slightly puzzled expression, you’re chuckling. “Remember the first time we met? I told you I don’t care about hck! anything this lil’ town says.” It’s almost too intimate having you brush away his bangs from his gawking eyes, but you couldn’t think of anything more fitting. “N’ I still don’t give a single fuck what they have to say-”
“O-oh.”
Choso ends up cumming again - simply from hearing those words fall from your beautiful mouth.
Except, this time, it’s dry. Just a single pearly bead of sap bein’ withered out, he juts the throbbing crown of his cock up against the roof of your cunt.
Knees planting deeper upon either side of your hips to give you a thorough slide of his exhausted, pierced cock. He’s cumming out near sparks by the time he spits out- “Your- your parents are gonna kill me.”
“My parents are gonna kill me.”
“N-next time-”
You knew he’d just bared his feelings out for you, but you can’t help but feel your heart flutter at the mention of a ‘next time.’ “-m’fucking you in your bedroom, my girl-” The raspy tone of Choso’s breath makes you shiver, up close n’ personal. “-while your parents are home.”
.
.
.
“Did you hear- they say that Choso Kamo races F1 and he’s-”
“Forget the racing! Did you hear he’d apparently taken her out- yeah, her, after that race last night and…well, I hear there were numerous noise complaints at that cliffside viewpoint.”
“Oh, my aunt’s her neighbor and she said the house was in chaos the entire night after she came back. Couldn’t even walk apparently.”
“He was that good?”
“Good enough that she packed her bags and moved into a place of her own, apparently.”
.
.
.
“Aaaaand Verstappen holds the lead but Kamo’s close behind—” You never did get tired of the revving thunder of the cars, the booming voice of the Formula 1 commentator fighting to be heard above them.
You’re leaning against the wall of the VIP box with Utahime and Shoko - meant only for family and friends, stomach churning as it always did whenever it came to the last lap of Choso’s races.
“Oh- oh! You can see Kamo weaving behind, ohhh it’s a tight one, ladies, gentlemen, and every folk in-between.”
It was honestly still surreal to be here, of all places, after everything.
After how many told you that he’d break your heart, and here he was holding it with him through each lap like he’d fall apart without it.
As the distance closes - all power, pressure, and speed - you’re yelling his name at the top of your lungs despite the fact that he won’t hear. “Come on— Cho–!” Waving about the flag with his number and color as all his tens of thousands of fans did. “Not too long for the finish line–!”
The announcer bellows, “Ah, you’ve got Kamo’s girlfriend, one of our most beloved F1 WAGs, yelling as the finish line draws nearer- so close! So close! Will he make it?” As that chequered flag raises, his familiar car speeds. “Push now, boy!”
His engine roars - and so does the crowd, split-seconds later.
“And in the final corner, it’s Choso Kamo who seizes the chequered flag—! He wins the Italian Grand Prix! What a drive! What. A. Drive.”
Choso doesn’t give a single shit about the few victory laps, he doesn’t even wait for a final discussion with his pit team.
Zooming right past the finish line and further along the main straight. Right where it was most visible to you from your seat, he’s immediately punching on the gas pedal and swerving the absolute monster of his racecar.
Right then and there on the tracks.
Right into the shape of a…heart?
You’re giggling behind your hands as the commentator cackles– “A celebration for his eighth win this season, Kamo shows off his title- and his love!”
Surrounding you, you can hear the crows coo and cheer, you can already taste the fizzy champagne being popped. And in nearly no time, your boyfriend has pulled his car up to the parc fermé - running right through the outline of a heart he’d drawn in celebration.
Running right up the stands to you-
But not into your arms.
No, not at all.
Instead, Choso Kamo drops to one knee right before you.
The audience loses it- and you hear the booming loudspeakers squeak. “Wait- wait’s what’s happening in the VIP box?! Choso Kamo- it can’t be-”
And Utahime, without a single word, digs inside her purse and throws a small, velvety ring box over within the blink of an eye. One that Choso catches with ease. And oh, he just looked so pretty.
The same boy you met all those years ago - lengthy hair mussed up from his helmet, rosy lips quivering, face flushed.
“Is everyone in the pits watching? Is everyone at home watching? This is absolutely sensational! Choso Kamo has just seized the moment to propose to his long-time girlfriend, an incredible celebration of love we’re seeing here on the tracks today.”
So in love.
Choso whispers, “It would be a dream…if you would marry me, my girl?”
Tear-filled, you can only nod.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and every folk in-between — we have a winner—!”
A/N. The things I would do for him cannot even be spoken into existence.
after duo queuing with user "cursedguy07", the both of you develop an online infatuation with each other. One night, they reveal their name as "Ryomen", which coincidentally lines up with the hot guy at your campus, Ryomen Sukuna. As he urges to meet you in real life, you start to contemplate if Sukuna is truly as accepting as he seems online.
PART 2 !! part 1
cw : fluff then angst / first times
wc : 15k
Back against your door like you’re in Scream, toothbrush in your mouth and foam running down your jaw comically, one might describe you as a properly horrified individual.
Cursedguy07, no — Sukuna is at your fucking doorstep!
He found out! He found out!
While you’re in lame pajamas and wet hair and toothbrush in your mouth like an awfully cliche wattpad story!
I am NOT getting sold to One Direction!
Your phone keeps pinging with text messages, and it’s all you can muster with your cowardice to check them.
cursedguy07 : that came out wrong
cursedguy07 : i’m not confronting you by any means
cursedguy07 : i’m just excited to see you
cursedguy07 : i can go if you really don’t want to see me
Holding onto your toothbrush like a klutz, you hastily text Nobara about it ASAP, ignoring his message. Time is quite literally a ticking time bomb right now and it’s outside your door less than a feet away.
You : WTF GIRL HES FUCKING HERE AT MY DOOR
Nobara : who?
You : SUKUNA
Nobara : ok? we already established that he found out who you are
Nobara : it was inevitable like
Nobara : literally just open the door damn
You : no im scared im gonna ask him to go
Expecting moral support from Nobara in your dire situation, you presume she might come over and help distract Sukuna away so you can get ready in a better outfit and face him.
But her next text makes you freeze.
Nobara : girl can i be honest?
You : yes..?
Nobara : i love you but you’re legit a fucking coward sometimes
You : what
Nobara : r u actually gonna let ur insecurities rule over your life
Nobara : like this fucking dude alr knows who u r and CAME OVER to see u
Nobara : and u want to turn him away because what?
Nobara : u’re underdressed? ugly? out of his league?
Nobara : u love to fucking self sabotage and ur neurotic AF
A message pings above Nobara’s chat.
cursedguy07 : im just gonna go back to my dorm for now
Nobara : ur so insecure to the point where its pathological and holding you back from many open doors and opportunities simply because you have a parasitic rot inside you that’s planted by YOU
Oh.
cursedguy07 : didn’t mean to scare u
Nobara : u’re turning away a guy that alr likes u just to prove yourself and everyone who ever doubted you right
Your chest feels tight. Making your best friend angry was way more suffocating than getting hounded by the door.
You : have u ever doubted me?
Nobara : if you don’t open that goddamn door for him, then it might be the first time i ever doubted you.
Riding on Nobara’s trust and your romantic endeavours on the line, you gurgle your mouth clean and burst out your dorm door, catching Sukuna just in time as he walks down the corridor with his duffel bag over his shoulder. The ‘07’ on the back of his jersey seems to mock you.
“Su-SUKUNA!” You call out with all your might.
He turns around in alarm, watching you with wide eyes filled with confusion.
“Uh, yes?” He blinks a few times, unsure what to say. His chest is also heaving in time with yours, likely also nervous about meeting face to face for the first time ever, but in a rather ridiculous situation.
Waving your hand to gesture at him to come closer, you stand there like a malfunctioning scarecrow, shifting your foot to lean your weight on every 2 seconds out of nerves. Once he gets closer, you truly see him as him. Not the tenacious man on the rugby field, not the reserved guy every morning at the lift, and certainly not the teasing boy you text online.
Infront of you is Sukuna, the real thing in his flesh. Lips pursed with subtle tension, pierced brow twitching with almost unnoticable anxiety, and a faded flush on his cheeks. The sweat from his match is still there, and when it glides all the way down his throat, his adam apple swallows.
He’s just a guy. You’re just a girl.
“Hi. Hey.” You try not to imagine yourself as Eugene from that one scene in Tangled where he smiles all crooked and suave to seduce Rapunzel.
“Hi.” Sukuna’s voice comes out gentler than you’d expected, you both are now two scarecrows. He adjusts his duffel bag and you sniffle. You both are now two malfunctioning scarecrows.
“Soo…” Your hands comes up to your hips, “I guess this is…me. Yeah. Hello.” You tell him your name in a ‘poised’ greeting, smiling hard with all 32 teeth of yours in hope to exude 100% of friendliness of a flight attendant. I’m silly. He drags his eyes on you from head to toe. I’m silly.
To your utter surprise, Sukuna looks away with a soft chuckle, eyes crinkling with embarassment himself, before scratching the tattoo on his nose bridge for a second.
“You uh, got some—” Awkwardly, he points at your face, nodding at the corner of your lips, “Cream? Paste? Something foamy—”
“Oh! Shit, it was toothpaste. I’m stupid sorry.” You wipe, blushing.
“I didn’t say you’re stupid.” His hands raise in a placating gesture.
“No- yeah I know, I mean—” You cover your mouth, closing your eyes, before you blurt out, “Do you wanna come in my dorm?”
Sukuna’s brows raises high up till his forehead creases three. He looks to where your dorm is at.
“Sure, I gotta shower first,” His hands gesture down his fully body, sweatsoaked with a muddy jersey, “I kinda smell.”
Your mouth forms a dramatic ‘O’ shape.
“Oh you can shower at my dorm! I have like shampoo, and I got like towels too! Whole package!”
Sukuna finally grins at your eager offer, the previous nervousness in him fading. He cocks his head to the side with mischief.
“Woah, sweetheart. You’re inviting me to shower together? Moving bit fast aren’t we?”
Hearing him call you that term of endearment verbally feels terrifying, in the best way ever. Before you could even gather yourself to respond in a ladylike manner without getting tongue-tied, he’s already pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the lift, muttering that he’ll return after. You only realize that your offer was useless anyways, since you didn’t have any clothes that would fit him.
Sprinting back to your room, you slam your door shut and start ‘Operation : Clean My Fucking Room’ before your romantic interest gets turned off by the amount of books and video game covers scattered like tomato seeds on fertile soil under your bed. Mouthing ‘oh my god’ every second as you shove all your things into one corner and pretending that you’ve always been Ms Clean Girl. Turn away all your plushies to face the wall so they don’t start a bonfire and make a joke out of you later when you are sure to become a bumbling mess infront of Sukuna again.
Patting down your bed, you quickly text Nobara again to update her.
You : I MET HIM!!!
Nobara : my god girl good for you
You : thank u for believing in me…i love u…besto friendo…
Nobara : bye u sound like Todo
Nobara : for a second i was worried u’d actually bail on him
Nobara : so what u gonna do now?
Nobara : wear protection girl
You : STOP IT WE NOT GNA DO THAT SO FAST
Nobara : im just sayin
Face red with the idea that Sukuna being alone in your dorm room with you, you start to regret not owning any pieces of sexy lace lingerie. Damn it, if you really do ‘the do’ with him, are you really going to still be in your tame sports bra? But then again he must know you’re not experienced with the birds and bees, so you get a pass, right? Or will he find your lack of effort unappetizing? Eugh…
You : m scared im gna say smtg dumb
Nobara : im pretty sure the guy has the hots for u bc of that atp
Nobara : like ur his fetish and this is ur niche
You : i hv no idea what ur talking abt…
Nobara : hes an athletic guy at the prime age of his sexuality and u’re a virgin
Nobara : just wear protection pls
You : not that fast omg stop
Ah! I’ll make him tea!
Running to your small kitchen counter, you get out some tea leaves from the cupboard, throw it into a teapot and let it simmer in hot water. The sizzling sound soothes the tension in you.
“Can I come in?”
The muffled sound of Sukuna’s voice comes from beyond the door, and you rush to open it like a butler on the clock. Jesus, you must look eager.
He emerges from your door. As if a cloth hanger, the loose white tee on him hangs perfectly, tight at the shoulders and straight down his torso. Not too tight, not too loose. It seems he values comfort more than showing off his guns. Not that you’re looking at his biceps. You’re not that shallow. Um. He’s also just wearing his rugby shorts. You point at your bed and he sits down slowly like a first time customer at a bar.
He’s really large in scale, you think. He’s like Godzilla invading into your safe haven. You shake your head away at the funny thought.
Handing him the cup of tea, he gracefully accepts it and grabs the cup with one hand. You warn him about the heat, but it seems that he doesn’t feel it at all. Sukuna takes a sip while you plop down next to him on the edge of your bed, looking down at your feet, and then his, which are almost twice the size of your foot, his complexion is slightly tanner as well. It’s a mystery that he doesn’t have any ingrown toenails considering the sports he plays.
“You have neat toenails.” Your state, pointing at his feet.
“You think?” Sukuna looks down at his own feet, wiggling his toes a bit to make you giggle, then he playfully places his foot ontop of yours. You stack yours on his. Then he does it again. Then you do it too. Then you’re both playing footsie in the goofiest manner possible until he puts away his cup of tea on your nightstand to win your immature game. Eventually he grows unaware of his strength and step harder, making you squeak like a mouse and lose your balance, grabbing onto his side. You reflextively apologize but Sukuna grabs onto your arms tighter.
“Nah it’s ok. Come, come here.” He pulls you in closer to his side, then you find yourself lightheaded with the aroma of his flowery shampoo and the residue smell of shaving cream. Perhaps he shaved his jaw while he was showering earlier. Perhaps he also cleaned himself up nicely to look composed to hide the twinge of boyish nervousness in him. Thigh to thigh, his hand lands on your waist. It’s warm…
“Is this your first time in a girl’s room?” You ask shyly, trying to distract yourself from staring at the thigh tattoo peeking out of his shorts.
“Uh, no.”
His answer slightly sinks your enthusiasm, your chest swelling with something indescribable.
“Second time?”
“Uhhhh…no.”
“Oh ok.” Sticky hands rubbing together in an attempt at covering up your disappointment that you’re both not experiencing the same kind of ludicrous ‘first time adolescent romance’ at 24 years old, you shut up. Looking out the window at the city, you wish Nobara would break into the glass and tell you what to do or say in Sukuna’s presence. Words are so much harder than just typing.
“Jealous?”
“Kind of…”
A beat of silence.
“Do you think I’m a promiscuous man-whore now?”
“What?! I didn’t even say that! I was just curious!” Quick to defend yourself, you look upwards at Sukuna, only to find him smiling with eyes full of mirth.
“I’m joking,” He pokes his tongue in his inner cheek before rubbing his hand up and down your waist in a rhythmic pattern, “Am I the first guy in your room?”
“Yes…If you put it that way it sounds so stupid…”
“It’s not stupid, you need to stop using that word to describe yourself.” He chides. “I’m glad only I claimed your space.”
“Wow, so territorial.”
“Yeah I’m a primitive animal. Rawr.” He dryly speaks in amusement, watching your form shake with your laughter.
“I just,” Your fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt, “I thought we were like, nervous together. Like it’s not just me freaking out about you know, being with each other? For the first time? ‘Cursed guy o seven’?’”
“Well, ‘Sleepy girl o four’,” He laughs, “It’s not my first time holding a girl, yes, but definitely my first time being serious about someone. Nerves.”
Sukuna lowers his head down after that, starting to sniff your hair, then inhaling the scent of your skin at your neck despite you shrinking slightly away. You wonder if you smell sexy and arousing, but you know it’s just the residue smell of laundry detergent. Sometimes your own hyper-awareness makes you internally laugh. You once tried to convince Novara that everyone had their own ‘sitcom audience laugh.mp3’ in their own heads, but she said only you possess this superpower.
“Do you wanna go on a date with me-”
“Yes.”
The speed of your reply renders both of you frozen and speechless.
“-next Sunday?” Sukuna’s smile slowly forms with a teasing quirk of his brow, watching the embarrassment register on your face until you have to look away.
“Woah. No playing hard to get at all.”
“Shaddap.”
“Not even a pause.”
“Stop.”
“You’re braver online.”
“Ok well you too.”
“You’re right,” He blows some air on your nape, “I am holding back right now.” He whispers into your ear, and you assume its his lips touching the shell of it because you don’t have the balls to turn your head. Well you really don’t have balls, anyways.
Sukuna pulls away with a pat on the top of your hair, vanishing your anxieties. He pulls you up your bed and twirls you once, before pulling right into his chest for a hug, with a small “oof” from you.
His hands press on your shoulder blades and your shoulder, while you hesitantly hug him back, almost encircling the entire circumference of his waist. It feels like hugging a tree trunk. Your hands rub his lower back too, but you feel like his backscratcher if you’re being honest. Koala backscratcher. You giggle against his pecs.
“Ok, it’s late. I have to go before my head starts to jumble into a mess and I think about doing lewd things to you.” He rubs your head again.
“Whot?” Darting your eyes up sheepishly, your nose and your lips are still pressed against his chest. From the low angle you’re peering at, Sukuna looks troubled with dilemma.
“Don’t act like you weren’t quite literally seducing me this entire time.”
What?
You’re dressed in boring pajamas, long pants, plain long sleeve tee. Didn’t he say it’s not his first time holding a girl? Is Ryomen Sukuna reacting to the skin of your nape as if a victorian man seeing a bare ankle?
His heartbeat is kind of erratic too.
“You act as if im wearing a bikini…”
“It’s not about the clothes.”
Oh.
This was probably what Nobara was referring to. That you’re a niche fetish and Sukuna is the sole enjoyer. You could wear a trash bag and he’d think you’re propositioning him to do something naughty. If you one day turned into a USB cord, he might be the only buyer in the market. Something something when there’s demand there’s a market. Will you still like me if I was a worm? Sukuna might buy a terrarium and feed you maple leaves everyday for your steady growth.
“Are you getting horny over my lame outfit?” You joke, but the banter never continues, instead he frowns. You’re afraid you said something wrong that ruined the mood.
“Stop saying deprecating things about yourself.” His brow furrow tighter. “I don’t like the way you talk about the person I like.”
Oh…
He likes me…
You blush like a babbling school girl and he kindly spares you.
“Got that in your head?” He gruffly commands more of a statement than a question.
You nod, and Sukuna runs his thick fingers through your hair, helping you detangle when it gets stuck at the ends. He’s quite gentle, or maybe you’re romanticizing him too much and finding every little thing he does charming and especially caring.
“Hm.” He mumbles.
“Hm.” You agree.
Understanding the cue, both of you let go of each other with a wistful expression. Sukuna rubs your head one last time before smiling at you and leaving out your dorm.
The silhoulette of him walking away makes you feel distant, not just in a physical way.
“Su-Sukuna!”
He turns his head once to look back at you by your door.
“See you!” You wave with the full swing of your arm.
He grins a little cheeky before he responds.
“S-see ya, sweetheart.”
He goes into the lift.
Wait. Did he just mock me? Asshole.
— —
He woke up in the morning and got out of bed with a boosted spring in his step.
As Gojo would say, Sukuna looked “geeked as hell” when he came to practice. Pat every rookie on the back, encouraging thumbs up to a junior when he messed up his pass, and didn’t get mad when someone’s elbow cracked right into his nose. Sukuna looked crazy happy to have a nosebleed. Gojo gossiped to the others that he might have his food laced with steroids before this.
“Bruh, are you good?” Gojo pokes Sukuna cautiously in the shoulder while he eats, it’s the same as interrupting a bear during his feast.
Sukuna doesn’t get mad, however. Instead, he smiles with his cheeks full of rice, nodding his head like some automatic machine. Gojo recoils in disgusted shock. Sukuna being giddy? Talk about the element of surprise.
“Water probably clogged up his brain, fuck knows.” Toji’s finger swirls at his temple as a gesture to call Sukuna a crazed individual, which is then rewarded with two painted middle fingers from Sukuna.
“I got a hot date next Sunday, loser.” Sukuna emphasizes the ‘hot’ with his lips, nonchalant about the way Gojo and Toji both cringe at him talking with his mouthful. He manuveurs and turns his middle fingers towards Gojo too. Double combo. Gojo flips him off in return, but since he doesn’t have cool black painted nails, Sukuna deems it an ineffective rebuttal. Brutality.
“So you finally bagged that sleepy girl three or whatever.”
“Ahem. We go by our real names now. ‘Cuz we real together and all.” Sukuna corrects Toji with a high and mighty tone, shading Toji about his slow progression with his own relationship.
“Man fuck you.” Another show of middle fingers.
“I’d gladly fuck a handsome dude like myself, thank you.” Sukuna mock bows with a hand at his chest with a funny accent, and everyone at the table gags in response.
“I don’t like it when you’re happy.” Toji grumbles.
Sukuna’s hand raises up to perform threaterics, painting an obscene picture of him with his slow, romantic words.
“I’d do myself raw, with no depressing barrier of a condom between our pulsing bodies. Flesh against flesh. Make sweet, exhilarating love—”
The entire table boos and groans.
“As Man’yoshu would say, ‘Thick and fast stream my thoughts of you. Like the layers Of endlessly falling snow upon the cedars. Come to me at night, my man!’”
“Eugh! Get this fucker out my face, yuck!”
The men scattered away like flies after lunch, desperate to get away from a suddenly optimistic Sukuna. He has a habit of quoting poems and cite papers that he has read in the past for his weird sense of humour. Sukuna chuckles to himself, throwing away his apple juice carton and heads back to his dorm.
Heading up to his dorm feels different now. An impulsive thought always in the back of his mind to press “2” on the lift buttons and barge into your dorm to see you. But he’s busy. You’re busy. The knowledge that you’re so close yet so far gets him antsy. Proximity is torture just as much as convenience.
Getting cozy after showering, he crashes himself on his bed, clipboard in hand.
Ryo : hey
You : hai!
You : how was practice i just woek up
Ryo : i can tell
You : rude
Ryo : is there anywhere u wna go for our date?
Ryo : or i plan it like a surprise
Ryo : also do u wna game tonight👍
Sukuna whistles to himself while waiting for your reply, putting on his reading glasses to start his engineering homework. He sharpens his pencil with a 18mm cutter and tests it out on the thin graph paper. The angle’s right. So he starts sketching.
The thing about sketching for Sukuna is that he needs the angle. He doesn’t need focus, doesn’t need attention, just the angle. That’s the key to his technique of drawing precise and fast sketches. Ever since the second semester of his first year of his architectural engineering degree, he realizes that using a sharpener was making him inconsistent. The blade sharpens the pencil inside the small tool, and he can’t control the angle of it. He tried to explain this concept to his classmates, but they all looked at him crazy.
In simple terms, its when your write with your pencil for an extensive amount of time, it will smooth out to a certain angle where your handwriting is perfect. That’s the sweet spot.
Manually using a cutter to shave the pencil down at one side would grantee him a good start. After his sketch, he scans for mistakes, and transfers it to Autocad. It’s easier this way, since he doesn’t have to stare into his laptop for too long. Strains his eyes.
You : yes i wna game!
You : can u download overcook 2
Ryo : my blood pressure might spike
You : do u mind if i scold u
You : im rly competitive at overcook
Ryo : i might get hard
“She’s gonna say I’m a pervert.” Sukuna smirks to himself, biting the tip of his pencil absentmindedly.
You : pervert
“Hah.” Grinning like he won bingo, he logs onto his Steam account and downloads Overcook 2.
You : also i think we should shop-hop for our date
Ryo : what?
You : like cafe hopping but like just different shops
You : like ok first we go eat soba then we go game store
Ryo : damn
You : then we go dessert and museum
Ryo : damn
You : then we go escape room then we go movie
Ryo : jesus fuck
Ryo : all that in under 8 hours? (assuming our date will start iat 12pm and end at night)
You : YESSSAAA! >0<
Ryo : sweetheart you either have insane time management or we’re gonna be speedrunning everything
Ryo : will u even have fun if you don’t savor every event
You : but the fun is with u!
Sukuna clicks his tongue and rubs the sore spot on the left side of his chest. That fuzzy feeling tickling his neck everytime he rereads your text. He’s been infected with Girlfriend-19.
Ryo : ok how abt this
Ryo : u let me plan it so it’s more manageable
Ryo : js tell me what u wna eat first
You : i want zaru soba
Ryo : done
You : banana ice cream boat
Ryo : done
“Well. Time to get my homework done.” Putting aside his engineering assignment, Sukuna goes into serious mode to search up small streets in Kyoto he could bring you to visit. Sure, he could simply bring you to the bigger streets, but those are usually filled with tourist and heavy traffic. It’s more romantic and peaceful to go to hole-in-the-wall places without all that excessive chatter. Just the two of us. And food. Man I’m starving. Wait.
He unlocks his phone one last time with a wry smirk.
Ryo : wow, so much food. im starving
You : Ikr...drools..
Ryo : i hope ur on the menu too
“She’s either gonna say ‘gross’ or ‘pervert.” He snorts.
You : i wanna eat u too
You : hehe
You : ur rly big so theres alot to chew
He didn’t see that coming.
Ryo : ur trying to provoke me.
You : is it working? 👀👀👀👀👀
This girl…
He rolls his eyes with amusement. He had to step up his game.
Ryo : ur all big talk online, but when i was there you couldn’t even look me in the eye
Ryo : can dish cant serve
You : ok wellYou : to tell u the truth
You : i wanted to bite ur bicep when u were here ystd…
You : i thought abt it but i was too shy ok u win
Sukuna almost chokes on his saliva, but his dignity remains. An imagery of you, flushed red and biting down on the meat on his arm flashes across his eyes, and he shivers.
“I better take a nap.” Adjusting his shorts, Sukuna plugs his phone on the charger and decides to sleep it off. He has to be on good behaviour for the game later tonight, but he’s sure when you get all nitpicky and angry with him, his mind is going into the gutter again.
— —
“I think you should layer that t shirt over the long sleeve one.”
Nobara chews on her chips over facetime, pointing her fingers at your outfit. You give 360 spins to her every outfit you change out of, clothes overflowing your bed and your floor scattered with shoes and socks to match.
Who knew picking an outfit for a date was going to be so hard? A dress was too unpractical for the activities Sukuna might have planned, but pants might be a little too casual. But maybe it doesn’t matter?
“If I were you, I’d go with that black flared jeans and that layered shirt. Do black on that navy blue.”
You listen to Nobara and dress up as she says, throwing your clothes all over the place. You turn left, then turn right.
“Nah.” You reject it.
“Yeah fuck that actually.” She agrees.
“You know what,” You speak, determination seeping into you tone, “I think I know what to wear.”
Diving deep into your closet, you find your old luggage bag, sneezing twice as the dust is the first thing to greet you. This was the luggage your mother has kindly packed for you before you came to Kyoto to study. There was thicker jackets and other not-so-casual outfits that you left behind inside it. Going through the layers, you found what you were looking for. Giving a few generous pats and spraying it down with fabric refreshners, you wear it and give it a twirl for Nobara to judge.
“That looks beautiful on you! This one this one!” Excitedly pointing at the screen, Nobara’s short hair sways a little with her, it’s a little funny. Her oily fingers dirty the her phone screen, so she bids goodbye with hope for a successful date. Her use of the word ‘successful’ reminds you of those mini games you used to play when you were younger, a school girl lasering her eyes at men on campus to win them over with seduction. Pssh. We used to play anything.
A careful knock on the door seizes your attention, grabbing your brown leather bag and stuffing it full with necesscities. What if you sneeze with snot? Tissue. What if your lips get dry? Vaseline. What if you run out small change? Some coins. What if—
“Hey, you ready?”
“Yep! Yep!” You hurry to open the door.
The sight that greets you at the door makes your lips part involuntarily. Sukuna mirrors your reaction, longingly savouring your appearance from head to toe, lingering his eyes at the flowers embroidery on your burgundy sleeve shirt, down to the flowery vines on the ruffles on your white long skirt down to your ankle. Paired with black leather boots.
Sukuna is dressed rather boldly in contrast. A white tank top with his dogtag necklace, a vintage leather jacket hanging on his shoulders. It’s miu miu. Okay, fancy money. Accomodating to the style and his muscular thighs, he doesn’t go for a classic skinny jeans, but a black cargo pants, paired with black boots as well. We match shoes! His pink hair is slightly combed back and less unkempt as usual, but you can tell the strands at the front is fighting for their life to go back to their unruly ways.
A small red nick on the underside of his jaw makes you smile to yourself. He shaved again just to look clean.
A bonquet of artificial flowers appear behind him as he reveals it rather slowly, a charming but sly smirk on his face. You once mentioned on text offhandedly that you were allergic to pollen. He remembers… It’s not just any flower as well. It’s Forget-Me-Nots. The blue hues of the flower complements your outfit.
“I don’t even know what to say. I think you camouflage right between these flowers I brought. You’re my little doll.” Sukuna stands there unmoving as he murmurs more to himself than to you, unable to peel his eyes away from the embroidery and the meek look on your face. He doesn’t stop even when you seem to hint at him to make room for you to walk out.
“You really think I look like a doll?” You grab ahold of the flowers, placing them neatly on your desk. You’ll arrange them later when you come back from your date. Maybe you’ll buy a nice little vase.
“You are a doll. Like those tiny Kokeshi dolls.” He holds your door for you, you lock your door and slip your key into your bag. “My mother used to collect a bunch of them,” He stares you down one last time, “Guess I see the appeal now.”
Puffing your cheeks to suppress a smile, you follow Sukuna to the carpark of your dorm building. You only been to the basement once since you didn’t have a car. Nobara has a scooter, and you both came down to the basement that summer. She then drove right into a parking ticket barrier. The rest is history.
Sukuna’s Toyota comes into view.
“Sorry. No dashing race car.” Less of an apology but rather a tease thrown at you.
“Well, I do have a dashing hot ride.” You finger point at him like a clown, and he scoffs before opening the door for you, climbing into the driver seat himself after.
“Touché, m’lady,” He mimics a mob boss in a soap opera, rubbing his hand over his chin in contemplation, “You wish for a dashing hot ride?” His hand comes up to obscure the side of his mouth in a secretive whisper, leaning over the centre console and closing the distance until he’s right by your ear, “It’s gonna be on my lap.” He pops the p.
“Yeeerrrr!”
“And you’d gotta brace for turbulence because you’ll bounce—”
“Ewww!'“
Turning on the engine of his car, Sukuna reverses out the parking lot, boisterously laughing like he’s been holding it in for a millenia. He predicts every single out of your attack combos, instinctively dodging your slaps on his arm, ending up grabbing your wrists to stop you before he crashes the car.
Along the highway, he turned up the radio, but then fusses about the horrible music and allows you to bluetooth connect your shared playlist you both created months ago when you were still strictly online. The playlist was a whole mess anyways. From the most depressing mitski song to the most outrageously loud hyperpop music, and a sprinkle of classical choir to metal music, guess you both were just enjoyers of anything, really.
Even if you were singing off-key, the both of you continued to terrorize the other drivers in the highway, especially since Sukuna had his side of the window open, knocking his knuckles against his car door with the beat of the melody. You actually anticipated him to be a rather tempered and uncouth driver with a potty mouth, but he mostly just whispers ‘the fuck?’ under his breath everytime a car cuts his line.
“There we go. Come on, let’s go.” Parking his car on the side of the road, Sukuna waits for you to gather yourself and hop out of his car. The part of town he brought you to is a more rural side of town, which is great. He did his homework. Cheaper food, and more to explore. No tourists to take up the queue and seats at the restaurant since their menus are only in japanese. The parking is also free since there’s less traffic.
Walking side by side, he pushes you gently to the safer side of the pedestrian path, away from the cars. It’s these little gestures that make you feel dizzy around him. So quaint. He already looks so handsome today, and these gentlemanly actions were making you wanting to chew off a piece of his face from a place of violent affection. A mother holding her child passes by you, and you grow aware of Sukuna’s hand dangling out of the sleeves of his jacket. It always comes so naturally to you to hold your family or your friend’s hands, but it feels like an impossible challenge to try to hold onto his hand. Is it too fast?
The thought disppears when he pulls you into a local restaurant.
“Zaru soba!” You chirp at the menu.
“Yup. Go on and praise me.” His arrogant grin wipes away your cheery beam.
Lunch passes by fast. You learn that Sukuna is quite good at conversation. He’s knowledgable about little trivias regarding the town or the food you’re enjoying. He’s like a walking encyclopedia and a poet. Apparently his head is always just running. Everything reminds him of something he’s seen or read about in the past. Whether or not it’s a Carl Jung theory or a psychoanalysis of a character from a thriller book he read. Sukuna has this innate ability to just accurately pinpoint and relate one thing to another. It’s amazing. He’s amazing.
He brings you to visit a green house after dessert. It makes you come to realize how he can handle heavy workload from engineering and also be a co-captain to his rugby team, and then his 20 other hobbies. He’s green-fingered, good cook, well rounded in his academic subjects and adapt to environments fast. Zoning out as he complains about the near extinction of the endangered Rafflesia, you conclude it. The world can’t seem to contain Sukuna. The amount of drive, ambition, and the self-indugent way he lives his life, proves himself a bigger person than he comes off from his physicality. The world is his oyster, and it keeps instantiating ideas for his thirst for knowledge.
What is he doing with you? You don’t know. You think you’re blessed with being with a really smart guy. With really high expectations for himself. With a really mysterious and secretive private life he shares with no one but you.
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
The words tumble out of your quivering lips before you can stop yourself, overwhelmed by this strong need to be connected to him. You were initially going to wait for him to ask you first, but you figured you can’t wait.
“My pleasure.”
Surely you’ve become a temporary schizophrenic when sparkly glitter and flowers start to appear behind Sukuna as he smiles like a cheshire cat at you, canines poking out to say hello. You just want to kiss all over the tattoos on his face. You just want to kiss his face. You just want to kiss him.
And how dare he look so adorable eating the banana boat ice cream. How dare he look so cocky when you feed him a spoon of chocolate ice cream. How dare he fuss over the percentage of cocoa in the chocolate.
“I got the bill. Winning tournaments pay me a good amount.” He winks nonchalantly.
How dare he pay for every meal even though you insisted to split.
The rest of the date is so nauseatingly wonderful that you feel like you just got off a rollercoaster. In the car, he assertively slapped his hand over yours on your lap and held it the entire way back to your dorm building. No novelty, no grand gesture. Simply held your hand like it was the most mundane thing in the world, like it was bound to happen. Then you thought, Wow. This might be my guy.
“Guess this is it.”
Reaching your door step, you still cling onto his hand, swinging it side to side like a whining child. You’re not sure where to start, to voice out how happy he made you today. Stepping on his boots, you make him wait for you to speak.
“Do…do you want to stay the night…” Your fingers lace over his rough ones, and his index finger points upwards.
“Look up.”
You listen and his chin rests snugly on the top of your head, his dogtags tickle the hollow of your throat as it dangles.
“I didn’t buy any condoms.” He whispers.
“O-oh.”
Sukuna chuckles softly, not needing to look down to know you have your face buried into your palms, hiding into his jacket.
“I didn’t say anything about sex…” You lightly pull on his jacket.
“Uh, you don’t just say ‘d-do you want to stay the n-n-night’ after a date if you don’t want to do something.” He playfully mocks you, an ‘oof’ noise leaving him when u smack his chest.
“I thought guys always had condoms on the go…”
“I haven’t had sex in months.”
“Why?”
“‘Cuz I was busy talking to a certain sleepy girl zero four?” He coos in a manner to feign innocence.
You lift your head up in surprise. He’s been celibate ever since? That was like…approximately 5 months ago. Probably. You don’t have good memory on when you started talking online, only around June did you only cross into flirty grounds.
“I thought you were sexually active?”
“Okay now,” Sukuna lets you go and raises his hands up to your face, “I’m not sleeping with every woman in the world, alright?”
“Then?”
“I, well,” He scratches his nose, unsure how to explain without potentially upsetting you, “I used to have two flings, that’s all. One in high school and another during the early years of college. 17 and 21. I’m 26 now, alright?”
“17? That’s so early…” You gasp. When you were 17, you were still reading romance books online. It was also around that time when your friend introduced you to porn. To think that Sukuna was already having sex by that time… He must have given his virginity to someone else…
“Was your first time with a girl you like?” You pry.
He hesitates, “I would say no, not really. We were both 17 and curious. It was more of an impulsive decision on both our parts.”
“What about the second time? Like a time when you seriously enjoyed having sex? Did you kiss her?” You pry even further, voice cracking.
“I don’t think you should hear about this right now.”
“So did you like her or not?” Your voice cracks even higher.
“Okay, let’s just— come on-” Sukuna can sense that you’re about to cry, and moves quick on his feet to usher you into your dorm, pulling off his jacket and hanging it. He pulls you by your pinky finger to your bed, but you refuse to sit down with ‘outside clothes’. Heading to your bathroom to wash up, Sukuna takes the chance to sheds off his cargo pants, leaving himself in his black boxers to sit on your bed. He knows it’s really forward to strip himself down to his underwear right after a first date, but he can’t return to his dorm room to shower, at least not right now.
— —
He slaps his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing while waiting for you, feeling goosebumps prick his skin. You have a lot of plushies, and the laptop that you use to call him late at night was charging on your desk, with some figurines. He’s trying to think of something to make you feel better about his past flings, but his mind is eerily empty now. Sukuna can’t think of anything else other than holding you.
Emerging out from your shower, he admires your vulnerable form. Hair damp at the ends, tshirt collar soaked with droplets of water, comfy shorts hugging your thighs. A furious blush paints your face upon noticing he’s only in his boxers and white tank, tripping over yourself to sit next to him. Without much warning, he pulls you up to lap instead, folding his burly arms over your lower back. Then you’re straddling him and fisting the fabric of his tank top.
“The past is in the past, and it’s doesn’t define anything about me or my feelings as of now.” He speaks carefully, watching your reaction, “If I didn’t want to be here with you in your room, I wouldn’t be here in your room, simple as that.”
“I mean, what if you were in a situation where you couldn’t be with someone—”
“I have never been put in situation where I was forced to do something I did not want to.” He sternly interrupts you, and it stops your endless streams of questions from a place of insecurity.
“Look,” He adjusts you in his lap, pulling you closer, “I do what I want, when I want. I see who I want, when I want. If I don’t want to do something, nobody, and I repeat, absolutely nobody can make me do it.”
You nod, and his finger pulls on your lower lip so you stop pouting.
“What do you wanna do now?” He asks, pinching your hip between his thumb and index finger.
“I would really like to kiss you.” You murmur.
“Then kiss me you shall.” He smirks.
You lean in closer, until your nose tips touch, and nuzzle against his. Sukuna’s eyes droops down until it’s half lidded, lips parting slightly, waiting for you to make a move. Your eyes flicker to his, and he follows. Just when you’re about to bless him with the taste of your lips, you pull away with a scrunch on your nose, leaving him confused.
“Sorry I- I forgot.” You shut your eyes tight, trying to remember what you watched.
“Forgot?” He licks his lips, staring at your lips, then up to your eyes back and forth.
“I’m suppose to like, caress you first to stimulate you.”
Sukuna blinks at you before some electric signal connects in his brain and he instantly grasps something. No.
“Don’t tell me you watched a tutorial on how to kiss.”
He watch your eyes go wide, before looking away at the wall, then nodding like a baby caught with a hand down the cookie jar. You seriously watched some Youtube video on how to kiss and tried to apply it on him like a math equation. Sukuna desperately wants to laugh, but he hates that he finds it cute that you deliberately went out of your way to prepare yourself. Just who is the one taking the lead here? He suppose he could take the lead, but the obnoxious part of him wants to watch you struggle.
“Well, go ahead and apply it. I’m waiting.” He taunts you, feeling a little restless. His boxers are gradually getting too tight and too warm for his own good, and if you don’t make a move soon he might mentally combust and feel a ravenous beast take over him with primitive instinct. Then he’d have to excuse himself back to his dorm because he doesn’t have a condom and he’s surely not to put you at risk of whatever you both might do in the heat of the moment.
He waits til you caress his jaw, scratching your nails on his Adam’s Apple til it bobs. You’re feeling him up like you’re trying to film an ASMR video. You touch his collarbone and the tattoo on his shoulder, running your hands up his nape and ghost your fingers over the shell of his ear. Okay, you got moves. It’s definitely getting him hard.
Impatient, Sukuna brings your hand towards his chin, pushing your thumb on his chin. Up and higher, and it presses down on his lower lip. He grins all crooked and evil before pushing your thumb in his mouth.
You gasp with a stutter and he grabs your wrist, pushing your thumb deeper into his mouth until the pad of your thumb presses down on the bumps and ridges of his wisdom teeth. He closes his eyes and start to suck on your thumb, watching you through his blurry vision, watching you get hazy and entranced by him laving on your thumb.
What are you imagining? Him sucking on your tongue the same way? Your breast? Your…
He pulls out your thumb with a wet pop, let his drool trickle down your wrist. By your expression, he can tell you’re going to say it’s nasty or dirty. But then you keep quiet, and proceed to lick it up from your wrist.
“Jesus fuck,” It’s his turn to gasp, his hands moving to cup your jaw and pulling you in. Your lips meet with a knock of teeth, getting your head tilted by Sukuna’s grip. His nose lines up perfectly with yours, nose tip pressing into your cheek just the same on yours on his. Every time you pull away too fast or falter in the kiss, his hand on your throat squeezes once, and you moan quietly into his mouth to make him stop. He thinks you’re smart for picking up on his cues, but he also just likes to Pavlov you into thinking you have to make a sweet sound for him in response to a squeeze. Good girl. Now it’s his little party trick.
You kiss pretty sloppy, he thinks. It’s also really hot, because this is the best you can do from your inexperience. This is your first kiss, and you’re fondling with his tongue and biting at his lip and mushing your mouths together like mixing cake batter. You’re giving your all, so he has to give his all too. Give and take, give and take. You give him one swirl of your tongue and he sucks a purple bruise on your neck. You give him one choked whimper and he grinds up your crotch twice.
In the mist of the heated make-out his head starts to really spin. Conjuring up a thousand different position he can put you in, and one thing that he can put in your mouth. His hands reflexively squeeze your thighs once to regain the last ounce of self control he has. Sukuna tries to think about math. About engineering. About the shitty meal he had yesterday. Then your legs clench together helplessly and he yanks you off his mouth before he eats you alive.
“I..” Sukuna pants, watching the saliva string that connects your lips break apart, “I have my rugby final tomorrow. I can’t afford to exhaust myself the night before.” His chest heaves up and down, swallowing at the dazed and drowsy look on your face, before pulling you to his chest so you can lay down. His back leans on your headboard and he sighs.
That was so fucking close.
The both of you stay silent for a while, and he can only give a dry laugh when you burrow yourself into his chest because you start to gain awareness of what you’ve done. Your first kiss. He has to palm his boxers so the traitor in his pants doesn’t jump out to scare you.
“Sukuna.”
“Yeah?”
“That was really nice.”
“Oh yeah. It was.”
“All the best for your match tomorrow.”
“You bet.”
“Is rugby really important to you?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re really good at rugby and you’re really cool on the field.”
“Thank you sweetheart. I think you illustrate beautiful designs for your class as well.”
“Thank you…I don’t know how you manage to juggle rugby and engineering.”
“It’s not that hard. I make time for things I want to do.”
“Why engineering though? It’s so different from rugby.”
“I make time for things I want to do.”
“But like why?”
Oh, so it’s going there now. Right. The part that Sukuna dreads the most.
“It’s complicated.” He simply states. You get up from his chest and look at him all pitiful like a cat that’s about to ask a curious question that will kill you and you will start to resent him for it. He braces himself for the inevitable.
“Complicated how?”
Here we go.
“Familial expectations.”
What kind of expectations?
“What kind of expectations?”
It’s exactly the way he predicts it to go, except ten times more difficult to process when it’s with the person that he has grown fond of. There’s not really a roundabout way to put someone down slowly. Sukuna wished he could cradle you in his arms and lay you down a patch of lilies and put you to sleep, so you would stop running your mouth about this matter with his past.
“How about we talk about something else? I can tell you really interesting facts about the architectural structure of Amsterdam buildings.” He bargains gently.
“But I’m soooo curious about my boyfrienddd…” You whine sweetly, ignorant to the strained tension in his neck.
“And I’m really tired and I want to sleep.” He fakes a yawn. You don’t slip past it this time.
“Come onnn, you don’t sleep this early. We used to game all the time past midnight. You’re avoiding the question.” Your hands are now clutching his shoulders and Sukuna fears he might peel them away so he could leave. Not you, but the question.
He exhales once out of his mouth.
“Once again, my past does not define who I am and the choices I make in the present. It doesn’t matter, and you don’t need to know about it. It’s not pleasant to hear.”
“You think I can’t handle it?” Your voice grows tense.
“It’s not a matter of if you can, or cannot. It’s just,” He looks at you, really looks you, “It’s none of your business and not something you need to concern yourself with.”
He watch the stubborn frown grow on your face, then it morphs into something offensive and insulting.
“You said familial expectations. I thought you said no one could ever force you to do anything you don’t want to.”
Now it completely blows over.
“You know nothing about the context regarding the circumstances I have willingly subjected myself into. So, no, nobody has forced me to do anything, but I have things that I expect myself to complete that does not concern our future together. I suggest you drop this topic.”
“Why are you suddenly speaking this way? Don’t you trust me? Being together is about sharing happiness and shouldering burdens!” You argue back as Sukuna gets up and dresses himself, pinching his nose bridge to tune you out. Unfortunately he has honed senses.
“So now you’re the master at togetherness and dating?” He barks back cold and cruel, while you stand up on your bed to get on his eye level so he does not have an automatic advantage in the argument when it comes to height.
“You’re being mean.”
“This is who I am.”
“That’s not what I said,” You clench your fist, “You’re intentionally being mean. You don’t want to share things about yourself because you’re being a coward right now.”
Sukuna scoffs so loud you think you’ll remember it for the rest of your week.
“Firstly,” He starts, looking into your red-rimmed eyes, and he knows there’s no going back now, “There is absolutely nothing you can do to ‘shoulder’ my burdens or whatever hardship that you think I’m going through. Because I’m not. Secondly, I do not wallow in self pity nor do I struggle with insecurity.” And that’s hinting about you. “Lastly, our relationship has not progressed to a stage where I am obliged to share personal information with you.”
Your face goes blanch.
“So I’m expendable?”
He rubs his face and grabs his jacket from the hanger.
To make matters worse, Sukuna does not slam your door when he leaves. He closes it quietly, and there’s no sound of his boots stomping down the hallway.
—- —
“Ok I guess it’s really fuck him this time.”
“Nobara! Stop, I can’t. I can’t.” Getting tears and snot all over her shirt, you wail and cry like a baby in Nobara’s room as she does her homework. It’s been a week since you’ve spoken to Sukuna, and the dam of tears that you held in since the fight has finally broke down and overflow. The urge to throw up is strong.
“I’m sorry for you girl, I really am, but it really might be over. I mean, that fucker even bashed you about your insecurities. It’s karma he lost his final game.” Nobara pets your head and rubs your back while you hiccup, shaking your head.
“Stop, I’m not happy he lost the game. Nothing to do with it at all. I just- I just don’t understand why he would rather not speak to me anymore than talk about his family or his past. All I asked was ‘why engineering’…” You cry harder, replaying the entire fight in your head again and again and again. He didn’t even say anything about the loss of his game too.
“Men kind of just switch up like that. It’s easier for him to buy you flowers than apologize, I suppose.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Hey, no. The time you have spent with him was valid and it was sweet. Doesn’t erase the affection you both shared during the date. What matters now is how you navigate the fight, or, how you move on from this.” Nobara soothes you until you stop sniffling into tissue papers that are taking up half of her desk, sighing as she finishes her drawing.
“What do you think about the lace design?” She shows you her sketch, and you rub away the tears in your eyes to squint at it.
“Think the cutting could be different.” Your voice stabilizes.
“Hm. I think so too.” She agrees.
The rest of your week passes by relatively slow. Usually you’d throw a tantrum over how fast time seems to move and how deadlines are always creeping up on you, but this time, your assignments are all handed in early, and you have nothing to do. Right. That’s because you used to fill your free time with Nobara, assignments, and playing video games with Cursedguy07. Now that the slot is empty, you have half of the day to yourself.
You figured you could just hop on the game and play it by yourself like you always have before Sukuna came into your life, but getting on the game was reminding you of him, then the date, then the fight, then it snowballs into you getting heartbroken again. You really, really, need to participate in three new hobbies to distract yourself and move on.
It’s immature to think that Sukuna has broken up with you over your first ever fight after dating for less than a month, however, it’s so bleak. Sure, he didn’t outright say ‘we’re over!’, but it sure feels like it. Sukuna is not the type to hold back when something does not benefit him, so he would have definitely voiced out a his want for a break up if he did truly desired it. But he didn’t. Yet there’s no messages at all.
For the sake of your pride, you obviously did not reach back out to him first. It’s not your fault anyways. Right…? Who knows at this point? He didn’t deny you were expendable, didn’t reassure you that you were crucial in his life. What’s the point?
So, you try.
Pottery class on Saturdays. Brilliant. Fun. Get your hands all wet with clay and shaping silhouette of little critters and lopsided teacups. Making a doll that looks like Nobara and she smudges clay on your cheek to make you squirm and giggle. A couple walks in with the boy planting a loving kiss to his sweetheart’s hair and your tears start to mix in with the clay, turning your body to face the blank popcorn wall.
Volleyball Fridays. Wooo, fun! Smacking the ball as hard as you can with misdirected anger and releasing tension. Great. Works you out in a sweat. Then you pan your head over and see a certain pink-haired rugby player scolding a junior and you have to pretend you’re blind and you’re not imagining yourself in place of that junior getting verbally abused by him.
Self love Sundays. You take long baths, scrub out all that grime from your skin and let the bubbles in the water engulf you. Dry yourself with a towel and wear a robe to sleep. The warmth of your bed lacks a heartbeat and heavy breathing, so you end up sleeping at 6 in the morning and wake at 8.
How?
How?
HOW?
“How the fuck did people ever move on without blowing their shit clean offffmfnghh!!!!”
“Girl don’t fucking yell in my ear!” Nobara silences you by cupping your mouth with her hand, ignoring your protests.
“I lichrally feel liek im goingfawking crazyyyy!” You shove yourself into her pillowcase.
“Stop rolling in my bed oh my god. Woah! Hey! Don’t get your spit on my pillow!”
“He called me his sweetheart and said it was his pleasure to be my boyfriend!! I’m expendable!”
“Girl please stop I beg you. You’re messing up my sheets!”
“He even sucked on my thumbbbbb arrghhghhhh!!”
“EW!”
“Should I text him first? Should I? Should I?!”
“Stop it! You madwoman! Don’t text him and give me your fucking phone! I’m confiscating it! Mine now! Mine!”
— —
“If you fumble this pass one more time, I think you need to man up and quit this fucking team, and quit sports altogether,” He snarls right into the poor rookie’s face, “Your technique is sloppy, you run as if you have asthma. Nothing you do is commendable, and you do nothing to contribute to the success of the team.”
“You’re actually being a fucking cunt right now,” Toji pulls Sukuna away by his shoulders, giving a chance for the younger boy to escape his wrath, “That loss was a group problem, not just on one guy. You know this, Sukuna.”
“You wanna run the replay back?” A painted finger jabs straight into Toji’s chest, making him grunt and back away one step.
“We ran that tape 4 fucking times already. Don’t act like you’re hot shit. What’s gotten into you? Stick up your ass? Broke up with your girl—'“
“We did not fucking break up. Don’t talk to me Toji. Piss me the fuck off,” Sukuna shoves at him, and Toji shoves back twice as hard, “Me and her are fine, thank you for your concern.”
He starts to walk off the field, and Toji follows.
“Oh really? I haven’t seen you smiling like a fucking idiot on your phone for like, what,” Toji counts his fingers with full ridicule, “2 weeks, minimum. Matter of fact, you don’t even reply to my messages too.”
“I still came to practice didn’t I? What? So sensitive about me not replying to your text, huh, Toji? What, am I your girlfriend?” Sukuna jeers at Toji sarcastically, arms wide open with his back towards him, Toji scowls.
“So you and your girl did argue!” Toji shouts.
Sukuna flips him off, not looking back.
“Fuck, I always wanted a reason to beat the fuck out of you!” Toji smacks his hand right across the back of Sukuna’s head. The impact makes a loud crack.
Everyone including Gojo approaches the commotion, until Sukuna ominously turns around slowly, and everyone decides minding their business.
Why does everybody love to stick their nose into his fucking business?
Sukuna took the stairs back to his dorm with a nosebleed and a pounding headache. He’s been taking the stairs these two weeks. No reason. He’s just pumping his thighs up and getting more work in his joints. He removes his kneepad and his socks, throwing them into his laundry bin. Frustratedly pulling off his sweaty jersey, he throws it on the bathroom floor before taking a shower.
Under the cold spray of water, Sukuna reaches for his body wash. He’s giving you space. He’s under the assumption that you’re an insecure 24 year old teenage girl and you need space to get mad and upset with him before he’s allowed to be within 10 feet of your proximity. So why is he also feeling irked even though he was the one to shut down the conversation? Sukuna knows. He does not like the answer to his own question.
Pressing down on his nosebleed hard, Sukuna groans long and low into the lull of his bathroom. He had implied that you were expendable and you’re nosey about your own boyfriend. Which he still thinks he stands by his statement, just not the expendable part. How is he suppose to articulate that he wants you around without you trying to get under his skin but he still really likes you and it hasn’t changed?
He squirts some shampoo onto his calloused fingers, wincing when the soap seeps into a cut in his fingernail. Isn’t the point of keeping a girlfriend, to make her happy? Happy wife, happy life? Why can’t you see he’s just trying to keep you away from all the unhappy filth? Is it necessary to tell you about…
Sukuna feels as if he’s back in his 17 year old mindset again. Haughty. One track mind. Fight anyone who doesn’t agree with him. Physically, academically, and athletically. There wasn’t anything in his life that proved to be any speck of an obstacle, other than his mother. He thinks about his mother, he starts to lose his sense of sanity. Video games soothe him, math relaxes him, doing physical activities boosts his dopamine reactors and makes him go into some kind of overdrive. High.
Slipping on his boxers and sweatpants, he looks around his room in search for his glasses, tidying up the stack of papers on his desk. Scratching the back of his neck, he decides to finish his homework, and his own extra side tasks he assigned himself.
The first shave of his pencil and the lead breaks off.
“So I’m expendable?”
He blows air out his nose and shaves it again until he gets it right, then he lands his pencil right on the paper. Clean cut strokes, it’s accurate…crooked form. Erase. Label the length, some tips to take note of…the pencil’s not right. Erase.
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
No, no, no. It’s not the pencil’s problem. It’s his mindset. Clear your mind. Clear your mind.
“I would really like to kiss you.”
Fuck!
Sukuna stretches his arm across the vast horizon of his table to reach for his phone. To his horror, you had sent him three messages, then take it back afterwards.
You : *unsent a message*
You : *unsent a message*
You : *unsent a message*
Toji was right. Going on Do Not Disturb was a terrible idea.
His thumb anxiously taps on the side of his phone. For someone who was so literate, the words were flying away from him.
Ryo : hey
Too casual. Backspace.
Ryo : look im really sorry
Too flippant. Backspace.
Ryo : i miss you.
Too sleazy. Backspace.
“I’m turning imbecilic.” He announces to no one.
Ryo : hey, what did you send?
Ryo : i left my phone in my dorm while i was at the field
There.
Ryo : i missed you
Backspace.
“…More than I can say.” He bites his lip.
Ryo : more than i can say.
Backspace.
A good 5 minutes pass, and you finally reply. It’s probably Nobara’s advice to you to leave him hanging for a good while before texting back. He smiles to himself wryly imagining you sitting like a gargoyle, gawking at your phone to see if 5 minutes has passed yet or not.
You : i sent to the wrong number.
Ryo : cmon, don’t lie. just tell me what you sent.
Ryo : i care about what you think
Ryo : you can take your sweet time replying me, i can wait.
Sukuna assumes you’re going to leave him on the edge of his seat again, but this time you respond instantly.
You : i sent you a picture of your jersey at my place if you want to take it back
You : also sent you a picture of me at a bar
His eye twitches.
Ryo : you can keep my jersey
Ryo : im not taking it back, do not throw it away
Ryo : what are u doing at a bar? u don’t drink.
You : i was js
You : idk
Ryo : if you’re trying to make me jealous, it’s very immature
Ryo : but it’s working and im worried
Ryo : where r u
A chill over his body urges him to put on a shirt and grab his car keys and scour the entire Kyoto city for you, recklessly folding his papers away and slotting his glasses back into the casing.
Ryo : sweetheart this is not funny at all where are you
Ryo : is nobara at least there with you?
Ryo : did u consume any alcohol?
Ryo : can u describe the place? do you know the name of the place?
A notification from you regains his attention.
You : m back already
You : i js went to the bar to have fries and matcha
Sukuna covers his eyes with his arm, tilting his head up towards the ceiling with a loud relieved sigh.
“I think I just grew seven strands of white hair.”
A painful reminder on why exactly he likes you, really. Sometimes the things you say just throw him so off guard, Sukuna is not sure if he should laugh or get mad.
Ryo : can i come over?
You : nop
Ryo : can u come over?
You : y
Why are you texting like that? A vein pops on his forehead.
Ryo : why are u texting like this
You : like wat
Ryo : like you cannot be bothered to reply me
You : im js
His patience frays, feeling like clouds of smoke is about to puff out from his ears.
You : im trying to stay mad and upset at you but i cant and i dont want to reply you but i cant because i really miss u and its really pathetic to miss u so much when u were so mean to me
Oh, I see.
There are three bulletpoints of human behaviour that Sukuna relinquishes control to when it comes down to it. One, all the irreversible decisions that he makes, he will never to be regrettable about them. Two, the insatiable greed to never feel fulfilled with what he currently has. Three, the irresistible and fragile thing called ‘human connection’.
Ryo : i miss you more than words can convey
At any point of his life, he will find himself at cross roads with one of the three. Even if he hates it, he enjoys silly conversations between his teammates. Even if he had an endless appetite for knowledge, he never found the need to quench his thirst.
You : u dont soubnd liek u miss me
He would reverse all that arrogance he displayed when he was at your place that night.
Ryo : leave your door unlocked
You : i dont want
Ryo : i’ll tell you everything
Ryo : please
You : ok i will i guess. not bc u said plz but bc u said u’ll tell me
He grabs a thick file at the bottom of all his papers in his shelf.
You : actually can u say please again
— —
“Please open the door.” A deep voice knocks at your door despite it already being unlocked.
Smoothing down your tank top and your shorts, you pose into your mirror to try to look angry but seductive at the same time. Nobara said you should dress the way Padme did when she went to reject Anakin. So you went for a tank top that reveals your cleavage and tight shorts. Sukuna has to die one way or another.
He invites himself in while holding a blue file, and looks you up and down. No reaction. Eughhhh whatever.
Placing down the folder on the floor, like a Samurai getting ready for retribution, Sukuna kneels down on the floor with both hands on his thighs. Stunned and unprepared for his sudden grand gesture, you follow suit and sit crossed-legged on the floor. Sukuna follows you and sits crossed-legged too, so you don’t know what the fuck that was about. He’s strange in his ways too. Maybe he was just trying to get comfortable.
He clears his throat as if a speech by the president is about to happen and you’re all ears like the subservient follower you are.
“Firstly, I want to clarify that I meant what I said that night—”
“Excuse me?!” You blurt out.
“—As it would be in-genuine of me to say I didn’t mean what I said. I now regret my words, and I want to take it back.”
“Oh.” You shrink back.
“You were right. You’re my girlfriend, and there are certain aspects and history of me that you deserve to know, and have the right to know. I’m aware that I’m closed off, private, and quite autonomous.”
So formal…
“What I’m trying to say is,” Sukuna licks his lips once, and it’s the first time speaking came so arduous to him, “I cannot be without you and I’m willing to take the risk if that’s what it takes.” it comes out strong yet tortured.
You feel like a gust of wind just tore through your window and blew right into your face until it contorts into an indistinguishable expression. Sukuna apologizing and confessing his feelings so bluntly was causing you shell shock.
He looks up at you through his lashes and he genuinely looks like a dog breed you cannot recall the name of.
“I’m waiting.”
“O-oh! Right right! Uhh..” Put on the spot, you scratch your elbow. It trips you out when he’s so formal. Now he’s waiting for you to reply as if you’re both in a turned-base game and its your turn to strike.
“Do you want me to comfort you first or you listen to me run you down on my engineering career path?”
“Uhm..uhm, the latter please.” It’s like you’re ordering coffee.
Sukuna reaches for the folder, taking out some yellowed and old papers, and then turn them towards you, laying them one by one on the floor. It’s a scrawl of sketches, engineering stuff that you can’t understand, but you can tell they’re not finished. Some of the pen ink are smeared, some are fresh with his own handwriting. There’s another handwriting you don’t recognize.
“I took up architectural engineering because I enjoy architecture. That’s the minor factor. Major factor would be,” He rubs his nose, “Trying to complete my mother’s passion project.”
You look down once again to skim the papers. Indeed. The papers has his mother’s name on a few pages, albeit the faded ink.
“Sorry if it’s offensive, but I don’t get it. Why did you not want to tell me this? This seems completely, like, normal.” You chew on your words.
“Because I didn’t want to let you know that I was steering my path into life with someone else’s ambition as my goal. Going pro in rugby is what I truly plan to do after that.”
So it’s his pride.
“But I would understand though, like, it’s your mother?” Your brows furrow harder.
Sukuna’s mouth open and closes, breathing in and breathing out. He drums his fingers on the ground for a second.
“My mother had contributed to shape who I am today, despite my insistence that I am my own being. In a way, I chose to be blindsided about the after effects of her upbringing on me. But the choices I made are mine.” He rubs his nose.
“Um…Can you hold me while you talk? I want to feel close to you…” You meekly request, and he nods, gripping your arm and pulling you towards him, then grabbing your hips to sit you down on his lap, back against his chest. Feeling the familiar thrum of his heartbeat, you fidget with his fingers on your lap.
“Her papers and design are quite a challenge.” He holds up the paper towards you, letting your fingers run across it. The way he’s holding you resembles a mother reading a picture book to her child. You snort and he asks you whats so funny, you zip it.
“How was your mother like as a person?” You peer up at him.
“The only word that could encapsulate her is…self-sacrificial.”
“Can you stop talking in this really solemn way…I’m a bit scared I’m not going to lie.”
He blinks at you for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders and holding you closer until your hair tickles his chin.
“In simple terms, I hate her.”
“That escalated fast.”
“Yeah. But not hatred in the classic way.” He sniffles from the air conditioner, “My mother used to be very volatile. Everyday when I got back home school, I can never predict if she was going to throw a vase at me or tend to my wounds from the previous day.”
You hug his arm tight.
“I didn’t know what to do. I fought people at school for badmouthing her, even though I would wish for her demise behind her back.” The grip Sukuna has on his papers start to crinkle them, so you swiftly take it away and place it back down on the floor.
This is really cliche.
“I’m sorry-”
“Don’t pity me,” He’s quick to cut you off, “It wasn’t her fault. She had postpartum depression.”
“Oh.”
“She was an aspiring engineering before she got pregnant. I can’t tell you the details on how and why she got pregnant with me, since I’m murky about them as well, but I can tell you she was fucking brilliant.” There’s a huge pride in his tone, almost as if he’s astonished.
No.
“I hate that she gave up engineering when she’s so good at what she does. This project—” You cover Sukuna’s mouth with your hand, and his eyes grow wide.
This isn’t what I wanted.
“I don’t want to know more. I respect your decision.” Your red nose and pouting lips tells him all that he needs to know, and he nods. You help him pack up all the papers and files and place them neatly into the folder again.
You turn around and loop your arms around his corded neck, noticing he didn’t wear his dogtag before he came. He really did only have a single mind to come to you after your text. His warm hands rubs circles on your back, making you feel drowsy and pampered. He plants a kiss on your shoulder and you return him a kiss on his ear.
“I guess I would hate it if you found out about this and think I’m some broken guy need fixing. I’m 26 and holding up well.” He whispers into the crook of your neck, trying to refamiliarize himself with the scent of your skin.
“I don’t think that way at all. I just wanted to know more about you. Because we’re like, you know, together…” You smile shyly against his skin.
“Hm.”
“Hm.”
“Haih.”
“Hehe.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Boyfie.”
“Wow we’re cringe as fuck.”
“We don’t have to tell people.”
“True.”
“Ya.”
“…”
“…”
“This is really inappropriate and horrible timing but I have an insane urge to fuck you right now.”
You pull away immediately with apple-coloured cheeks. Right after such a heavy conversation?!
“W-whot?! Really?! Why?!”
“Probably because we had like a breakthrough in our relationship? Something of the sort.” He shakes his shoulder, scratching the back of his neck, eyes a little dark, “Also your boobs were sitting really nicely the entire time we were talking and I’m going haywire.”
Your cheeks redden even more if its possible.
“S-so you brought a condom before apologizing to me?!”
“Obviously not,” He rolls his eyes, “We don’t need to have penetrative sex the first time. Unless you don’t want to do anything at all, then we can just sleep.”
“I want to have sex!” You raise your hand immediately as if you were being called on in class for popcorn reading, and Sukuna chuckles while holding his stomach, then holding you up by your waist and crash the both of you into your bed.
Sukuna immediately press his entire weight on you, smothering you with a kiss. It feels so natural to kiss now. Your hands snake into his undercut, then his pink hair, pulling onto it when his tongue goes too far down the cavern of your mouth and it feels like he’s taking oxygen from you. He breaks the kiss, licking his way down your jaw, then into your cleavage and you pull the collar of your tank top down until the cotton string makes a snappy sound.
Staring at your boobs, he parts his lips, wider, then sticks his tongue out a little, but then he stops.
“Do- do you like what you see…?” You try to be seductive, but the question sounded like you were expecting a bad grade.
“I fucking love what I see.” He grabs a handful of your boob and you feel shy when it slightly flows out in between his fingers. You whine and pull at his hair to get him to do something. As if he can’t be more of a tease, he blows cold air onto your nipples until it hardens and he stifles his laughter when you yank his hair harder.
His mouth finally latches onto your boob, and it feels like heaven on earth. Who knew having your nipples sucked felt this good?! You should make him do this more often as punishment when he makes you mad. But with the way he’s swirling, sucking, biting at your nipple, he would think it’s more of a reward.
You’re already quivering, whimpering with your head leaned back on your pillow, and the man still had the gall to press his freehand down between your legs. His thumb absentmindedly rubs over your clothed crotch until he finds the spot that makes you cry outloud and threaten to pull his hair out from the roots.
“S-sukuna please-”
“Feels really good, right? Getting your pussy rubbed so hard and your nipples sucked.” His mouth trails down to your belly button, giving it a kiss, before pulling down your shorts to reveal your cotton panties. You try to cover yourself up with your hands but he simply swats them away.
“I told you on call, you weren’t playing with your clit hard enough.” Two fingers tight together, he presses down on your clothed clit like a critical button. It makes you whine and kick your legs and he has to hold your legs down with a lovingly cocky smile on his face. “When I do it,” he watches a wet spot grow in the center of your underwear, rubbing fast circles on your clit, “You’d cum pretty fast.”
You do cum, and it’s fast and violent and you can’t remember if you bit down on your lip or Sukuna’s thumb. The cold pleasure electrocutes through your body and seemingly transfers to Sukuna as well. He wished he could say he ripped off his shirt in this really masculine and sexy manner, but he was in too much of a blur to get on top of you that his shirt almost yanked him down the bed due to his brute strength.
Your hands run down his bulky torso, the tattoos on his chest and shoulder.
“Do you like what you see?” He repeats after you, and you giggle at him turning his body to flex, showing off his back tattoo.
“I fucking love what I seeeeeee.” You repeat after him and pinch his pecs, and he groans from the pain-pleasure.
“You minx.” He smiles down at you with closed blissful eyes, thumb pushing into the waistband of his pants and boxers.
You lean back a little and he laughs.
“My dick is not Jack-In-The-Box, don’t worry. It’s not gonna jump out at you.” He shimmies out his boxers, “I am pretty fucking horny though. so it is really erect right now.”
Now, between your legs, there is a penis. To you, a penis is like a limited edition object you only see in porn. You’re no penis connoisseur, and you barely know your biology. Sukuna’s penis, no, cock, looks nothing like the ones in porn. He’s watching your reaction. You don’t know what to say.
“Uh, should I put it away or…?'“
“It…it looks like a really big worm.”
“Noted with thanks…?”
“And it’s like..thick. Like cactus…”
“You failed Biology, didn’t you?”
Sukuna has no idea why he got even harder and leaked more precum when you came closer to measure the length of his cock with your palm. How is he even hard after your absurd descriptions of his manhood, he has no idea. It’s really weird what a girlfriend can do to a man’s sexual libido.
“Is this 4 inches?” Your question was so genuine it made him cough.
“Are you trying to drive me fucking nuts? Because I can let you test out how ‘4 inches’ feel down your throat.” Sukuna dryly states, a hungry look on his face. He lightly taps the tip of his cock on your lips.
“What if I throw up on it?” You poke the tip and it jumps.
“Shit. If it happens, it happens. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” Sukuna bites his lower lip.
You quickly shake your head, not prepared for that to go into your mouth. The pitiful look on your face gets him going really bad, he has to bite on his fists to not bust on the spot.
“For the record,” Sukuna pushes you down on the bed again, crawling above you, “That’s not just 4 inches, but it doesn’t matter since I won’t put it in for now.”
“What are you gonna do then?” You whisper, thighs squeezing together, feeling an uncomfortable wetness between your legs.
He kisses your forehead.
“Hump.” He speaks hotly into your face and pops the P.
Before you can even process how hot Sukuna looked, he grabs the fat of your thigh and slot you right between his own, angling it properly. Lowering himself down, you gasp when his cock presses against your underwear. Penises are warm. Hooking his finger into the side of your underwear, he pushes his cock in between the fabric, and you mewl. Directly into his ear, nail digging into his shoulder.
It’s so warm. It’s so hot. It’s so hot!
“Is- Is your precum mixing with my cum in my panties!” You blurt out and Sukuna grits his teeth, wondering if you’re saying all these things to test how thick the last rope of his self control it. You really meant it when you said you never had a guy in your room.
“I’m trying not to fuck you silly since we don’t have a condom, so kindly stop saying things that makes me want to shove it inside you, thank you very much.” He grits.
You think about it.
Really hard. Really really hard. Sukuna would take care of you. He promised. He wouldn’t do anything to make you feel unsafe. So it’s fine.
“Sukuna, come closer.” You pull him down until you’re chest to chest.
“What now?” His voice is strained.
“Honestly…I trust you..It’s ok with me if you want to go rougher a bit. If anything happens, you’ll buy me a Plan B, right?”
His eye twitches.
Sukuna says nothing and pulls your thighs up higher and wider, hooking them over his elbows.
“Wah-?!” You cry out when he suddenly bites down on your shoulder and start to move. Except he’s not thrusting with a building momentum, he went full throttle from the start! Your hands cling onto his back, feeling like you’re going to pass out from the heat inside your underwear. His cock is pushing against the fabric with every rut, and it’s getting completely soaked and sticky.
“F-fuck-” It feels so intense that you have to bite his shoulder to keep quiet when you cum the second time. Going into overstimulation, you sob and drool all over his shoulder, the ceiling on top of you is blurry and splitting into four from how fast Sukuna is rutting. He was serious about being celibate!
One harsh pull of his hair makes him release your shoulder to face you. You think you’re going to cum a third time from the look on his face. Sukuna’s hair is sticking up everywhere, and he’s drooling, his eyes are barely open. Completely lost in the pleasure and about to cum so hard. He drops his forehead right down at yours and moans right into your face. The volume catches you so off guard that you clamp your hand over his mouth.
His eyes roll back, hips stuttering with his thrusts. Pulling off your hand, he intertwines it with his own and pushes it down together at your lower stomach, where his cock is peeking out the hem of your panties and rubbing over your clit. There’s a sudden pressure on your stomach, and it feels like you’re going to pee. It feels like something is going to explode, so you whine as loud as you can to stop it.
“I-I feel like m gonna pee!”
“Its squirt."
He press down harder and you scream.
“You feel that pressure? It’s gonna feel so fu-fucking good. You’ll cum so hard, so hard. Trust me. Trust me. F-fuck-” His grip on your hand binds tighter until you feel your wrist bones about to snap, or a violent your orgasm is about to snap. Sukuna thrusts once, twice, and the last final time into your underwear and you both cum at the same time. His semen shoot into your underwear, and your fluids spray out in small squirts."
“There we go- Haha, fuck- You just squirted, wasn’t that nice?” Panting heavily, he rubs your stomach in circles, trying to get you down from the high. You look properly embarrassed, rambling about thinking you peed on him. Is it gross that he wouldn’t mind? Irregardless, squirt has some pee in it.
“Stop, I’m so embarrassed, I’m so embarrassed.” Turning your face away, you whimper. Amused, Sukuna turns your head back to kiss your nose, you nuzzle his face to silently beg for more affection. He gives in and lies beside you, encircling his arms around you and pulling you towards his chest. You do the same and hug his neck. You really like hugging his neck. Or you just really like your boyfriend so you like hugging the place closest to his handsome face.
“I like you so mach. Very mach.” You bite his cheek and he goes ow with a flat tone.
“I like you very much as well.” He dazily grins like cupid had shot him right in the heart.
“…”
“…”
“You know, it’s really impressive that you squirted so quickly.”
“Stop!”
“I’m serious. This is an achievement for the both of us.”
“…Should I tell Nobara about it?”
“Uh, I’d prefer you not to share our bedroom endeavours.”
“But this is so exciting! My first sex! I want to have sex with you everyday!”
“You’re sure getting ahead of yourself.”
“Don’t you want to?”
“I do. It’s just normal to feel thrilled and addicted when you first start.”
“So I’ll get bored of it eventually?”
“I’m 26 and you’re 24. The only time we will stop having crazy hot sex is when we’re dead.”
“I want to keep having hot sex.”
“Orders received.”
“If one day we split-”
“We will stay together and have crazy hot sex everyday.”
“Can I try flavoured condoms?”
“They’re not edible, but also they’re rather ineffective. Smells the same as rubber.”
“Do you have any kinks?”
“Anything involving you, sure.”
“Can you spank me next time?”
“I could spank you right now.”
You giggle and resist Sukuna’s attempt to grab your butt under your fluffy blanket. He laughs and tickles your stomach until you fall off your bed in a thud and he checks if you’re okay. You pretend your hurt your hipbone and does a pouty face, he falls right for the bait and demands to see the bruise. He leans over the edge of the bed and you catch him by surprise, pulling his neck down until he tumbles onto the floor.
“Put you over my knee I shall!”
“Woah, your dick shrunk!”
“It’s soft, stupid girl!”
“So it’s 4 inch right now?”
“I’m gonna get you, I’m really gonna get you.”
Amidst the chaos, your phone buzzes on the table.
Nobara : girl don’t open the door for him when he comes later, ok?
Nobara : i have a bad feeling about this
Nobara : I JUST HEARD A MOAN FROM OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR?
Nobara : DID YOU WEAR PROTECTION?
Nobara : GIRL?
a/n : end! thank u for reading! i pumped this out in two days, phew.
Word count: 14,605 (more dialogue than typical for me)
Tags/warnings: Angst to comfort, fluff, my most suggestive/sexual story but no actual smut, mentions of painful/toxic past relationships, discussions of coercion, hypersexual undertones for Sukuna, avoidant attachment undertones for reader, weird passages of time, flawed characters, discussions of drug usage and addiction (side character), unhealthy coping mechanisms, culturally accurate misogyny, retiredteabag's first scary adventure into dialogue-heavy storytelling
When Harry Met Sally AU: (see summary)
Recent College graduates share a contentious car ride from their hometown to the big city where they have been newly employed, during which they argue about whether men and women can ever truly be strictly platonic friends. Years later, they meet again, and in the company of their respective friends, attempt to prove the lifelong question one way or another. Can they move from unwilling to deep friendship without sex becoming an issue between them? And after the pain of their previous relationships, are either of them even fit for love?
The two of you met in late spring.
The car ride from your hometown to the big city stretched ahead of you, the excitement laden with an unwanted obligation. You shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Sukuna's beat-up sedan, already regretting your mutual friend's bright idea to carpool the six-hour journey.
Itadori Sukuna had been sat beside you, having agreed to drive "the first leg of the journey", which ended up as him driving the whole way. His music was loudly playing through the speakers, one hand was draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.
He had that look about him, the kind of casual confidence that you really only ever saw on a man like himself. Though you both were recent alumni of the same university, and by some insane chance actually had a connection through one of your roommates, you had never hung out with his crowd.
Even so, post graduation, you were headed to the same city. So there you were, buckled into his carpeted seats.
His girlfriend had sadly said goodbye with a messy kiss before he hopped in, embarked toward a full-time job, and coincidentally, your boyfriend waited for you in the very same direction.
It was supposed to be convenient, sharing the trip.
The first hour passed in relative silence, punctuated only by occasional comments about traffic or which exit to take, maybe a short story about mutual classmates here and there. Somewhere around the first rest stop, after you'd both stretched your legs and grabbed terrible convenience store coffee, the conversation shifted into something more substantial.
"So," Sukuna said, merging back onto the highway, "how long have you and what's-his-name been together?"
You lean down to untie your shoes and hum, "Kenji. and three years now. We met in Yaga's class, actually, he graduated last year." You sipped your coffee, wincing at the bitterness. "What about you and...?"
"Misa. A little over a year, I guess." He glanced over. "You think you'll marry him?"
The question caught you off guard; Not only did he seriously not seem like the type to marry, but he also did not seem like the type to think about it or care. "Uhh, I don't know. Maybe? We haven't really talked about it."
"Talked about it?" Sukuna's tone suggested what he thought of that. Chuckling, he continued, "I mean, either you know, or you don't, right?."
You didn't like the idea of being stuck in the car with someone you were arguing with, so you just sighed a bit and murmured, "I don't know, I don't think it's that simple."
"It kind of is, though." He switched lanes to pass a slow-moving truck. "Three years... I mean, you either want to spend your life with someone, or you don't. That should be communicated up front."
You turned in your seat to face him properly. "Really? And you know you want to spend the rest of your life with Misa?"
Something flickered across his face, "Hell no." Laughing, he merged back.
You gaped open-mouthed, "Wha- how could you say that!"
He turned a moment to look at you, smiling, you had smacked your hand on the console between you both in shock, the man turning between you and the road before speaking, "Are you kidding? You think she wants to marry me, either?"
You paused, "You are incredibly unromantic."
"You're the one saying, 'oh, I don't know' when I asked." He shrugged, mocking your tone with a casual gesture that seemed to dismiss everything. "Romance is more about finding someone you don't want to strangle after living with them for a year."
You smiled a little despite yourself. "Is that really your bar for marriage? Tolerability?"
"You say that like it's nothing." He glanced at you again, and there was something almost defensive in his expression. "Most people can't even manage that. They get married because "they're in love", or the sex is good, but then six months later, bam, they realize they hate how the other person chews their food or whatever, and suddenly they're divorced."
"So you're planning to just find someone you tolerate well enough? Man, I feel bad for Misa..." You shake your head at his implication and stretch your legs in front of you.
Sukuna shakes his head, "I'm saying love isn't enough. You need more than that." He paused, considering. "You need to at least be somewhat" he adjusts the visor, searching for the word, "...friends, too. They gotta be someone who you want to be with even when they're driving you crazy." He used his hand as an air quote on "friends".
"Does Misa drive you crazy?"
"No." The answer came quickly, a higher tone. "But that's just cause our thing doesn't allow for the crazy to come out, we're not serious like that. Just comfortable."
You settled back into your seat, processing this. "I think I'd like more than comfortable, actually."
"Yeah?" Sukuna's smirk returned. "Good luck with that. Let me know how it works out for you in twenty years when you're still chasing some perfect fairy tale instead of building a real life with someone."
The comment stung more than it should have. Who was he to say something so harsh to someone he had just met? How come he was so abrasive? You couldn't tell why he wouldn't just concede. "At least I'll know I didn't settle."
"Settling." Sukuna shook his head. "That's what people say when they're holding out for something that doesn't exist. Every relationship is settling in some way. You think there's some perfect person out there who matches everything you want? That's a fantasy."
"I think there's someone out there who makes you want to be better. Someone who... I don't know, challenges you and supports you, and makes you become like the best version of yourself." You crossed your arms. "And I don't think that's settling."
He is still for a moment, and you think you've won, until he just flattens his mouth, almost rolling his eyes, "Sounds exhausting, or like counting on a whole lot of luck."
You groan, "It sounds like actually being in love."
The man was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel in a rhythm that suggested irritation. "You know what your problem is?"
"Please, enlighten me."
"You know, your friend told me that you're gonna be a personal assistant. No wonder, cause I bet you overthink everything." You squirm in your seat to face him, and he murmurs something along the lines of "right up your alley".
You turn away, watching the countryside blur past the window. "I would be willing to wait for the person I'm meant to be with."
"Give it a few years. You'll change your mind."
You were done fighting, eventually, he caught your drift, and the conversation shifted, moving into safer territory like your new jobs, mutual friends, and professors you had. But an undercurrent of tension remained.
Somewhere around hour four, Sukuna pointed out something in your line of conversation that would become the cornerstone of your argument. Only at this time, you didn't know how important it would become.
"You have a lot of guy friends, huh?" He asked it casually, but there was something leading in the question.
"I mean... a few. Why?"
"Just wondering." He paused for a long moment, but eventually he said it. "You really think men and women can be friends?"
You rolled your eyes, having heard it all before. Clearly, to you, this man was trying to be annoying, "Oh, please, of course. I have plenty of male friends."
Sukuna snickered, and for some reason, it bothered you more than anything else in this whole discussion. "No, you don't."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm saying, you might think they're your friends, but I guarantee at least half of them want to sleep with you." He said it matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather. You gasp, and he continues, "That or they're closeted," when you were stuck looking for a reply, he added, "That's just how it is."
"That... is so not true."
"It absolutely is." Sukuna merged into the exit lane as signs for a rest area appeared, landing the final blow with certainty. "Men and women can't be friends because the sex part always gets in the way."
"That's ridiculous." You felt heat rising in your face, annoyed by his finality. "Not everything is about sex."
"I didn't say everything was. I just said it gets in the way. Even if neither person acts on it, the thought is there. One person catches feelings, or wonders 'what if', and suddenly the whole friendship thing is compromised."
"So you're saying it's impossible? Under any circumstances?" He nods. "Nuh uh, no. They all know I have a boyfriend, they don't see me like that."
"I'm just saying, I've never seen it work." He pulled into the rest area parking lot, cutting the engine. "One person always wants more. Or they sleep together, and it ruins everything. Or one of them gets into a relationship, and the friendship fades because their partner is uncomfortable. I'm surprised your guy is cool with it." He turned to look at you directly. "Show me one example of a real, lasting friendship between a man and woman where neither person has ever thought about it."
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. Ran through your mental list of male friends, you didn't hang out with a bunch of single guys but you would definitely call them friends.
"Itadori. Literally all of my guy friends."
"Kid," He shakes his head, "that's just not true."
You unbuckle your seatbelt. "First of all, we are the same age; secondly, just because you don't respect women enough to want to talk to them unless you're boning, doesn't mean every man is the same."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, who says I don't respect women?" He unbuckled his seatbelt too, following your lead. "Come on, let's just grab dinner. We've got two more hours of this."
You followed him out of the car, still worked up, not responding to his last words.
"Sure, sure, I can tell by how you treat Misa that you're really quite the feminist." You draw out your words, hoping that the poor girl wasn't in love with this bastard.
Sukuna turned, looking down on you with an arched brow, "Oh? And how do I treat her?"
You scoffed a laugh, "'Oh hell no, I'm not going to marry that!' 'Our relationship doesn't allow for her to bother me', blah blah blah. You're such a womanizer!"
For some reason, Sukuna did not seem upset; in fact, as you spoke, his little grin grew more and more. "Listen, lady, I treat Misa exactly how she likes being treated; you don't think she sees what we've got the same way? She doesn't want something serious with me, and I've got no complaints."
After a few comments about you passing judgment on him, he pushed open the diner door, a bell chiming. At the table you were seated at, you scanned the menu while your road trip buddy went to the bathroom.
You ordered off the 24 hr breakfast and got a cup of caffeinated tea. You massaged your temples, confused as to how your roommate had ended up hanging around a man this insufferable. Smug and cynical and so certain he had life figured out when clearly he was a player and incapable of mature relationships.
When he returned, the waitress was ready for his order. He dropped down in front of you to grab his mug of coffee. After a few awkward moments of not looking at him, he leaned back in the booth.
"Look," he said, less antagonistic. "I'm not trying to piss you off."
"I'm not pissed off?" You said. Clearly, pissed off.
"I'm just saying-" he laughs again, "this idea that men and women can be close, like proper friends, uncomplicated companions... it's... I mean, it's a little naive. That doesn't mean you can't have guy friends. But there's always going to be that thing underneath it." He raises a brow, "I'm tellin' ya to look out."
"That thing?" You ask, ignoring his mocking care for you.
"Attraction. The possibility. The knowledge that you two could be something else if circumstances were different." He gestured with his finger as if pointing between you and some invisible man, took a long drink of his coffee, and sighed, "Even if both people are in relationships, even if neither one would ever act on it, it's there. And that changes things."
You considered this, turning your water bottle in your hands. "So what you're saying is that you've never had a female friend."
He looked up at the ceiling, pretending to think, "No. Not a real one at least." When he saw your unamused face, he continued, "Hey, I know they haven't seen me as a friend either." He put his hands up, as if being ordered to by a cop and took a bite of his hash browns. "I've had plenty of women I was friendly with, but pure friendship? Get out of here." He shook his head. "That's different. That's intimate in a way that crosses lines."
"You..." You paused to think, "Are so full of yourself." He looked up from his heaping fork, a brow raised, "You really think every woman who has called you a friend just wants to sleep with you?"
"Let's be honest here." Sukuna gestured at himself. You scoffed. "Better to acknowledge what it is than pretend it's something else and end up hurting people."
You started to eat quicker, ready to be done with this trip and never see this man again. The last two hours of the drive passed with less conversation. You both retreated to your own thoughts, the weight of the disagreement sitting heavily on your mind.
"You know, Itadori, this is really a shame, cause you were gonna be the only person I knew in the city."
Sukuna shook his head, "Nu uh, aren't I taking you to your man's place right now?"
You rolled your eyes, "My only friend."
He sucked on his cheek, "Ahh, I see...friend."
When he finally pulled up outside your boyfriend's apartment building, you grabbed your bag from the back seat, eager to escape the confines of the car and his frustrating certainty about everything.
"Well," you said, not quite meeting his eyes, "thanks for the ride."
"Yeah." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Enjoy your stay."
You hesitated, hand on the door handle. Some part of you wanted to say something more, to end on a better note. You were here in a new city, with a new scary job, with nobody but your college lover to know you. It was such a shame to leave like this, but the words wouldn't come.
"I hope things end up well with Misa," you finally said. "That it works out the way you both want."
The man's expression softened just a smidge, "Sure, I hope you find what you're looking for too. Even if I think you're chasing a fantasy."
"It's not a fantasy." You sing-songed, turning, you shut the passenger door.
He rolled down the window, "If you say so." His tone wasn't unkind. "Take care of yourself."
You climbed up the stone stairway to your boyfriend's apartment complex buzzer, pulling your bag up after you. As Sukuna drove away, you found yourself annoyed at how the weekend had started. Six hours in a car with someone who seemed determined to be wrong about everything.
You were certain you'd never voluntarily spend time with Itadori Sukuna again.
--
Two years later
Time carved its changes into both your lives in ways neither of you could have anticipated. The occasional argument would occur, but you still loved your boyfriend deeply. And truthfully, arguments were perfectly natural for critical thinkers, and you had always been attracted to a talkative man.
You had actually invited your boyfriend to stay with your family this year, the prospect of your first Christmas together bringing the first set of butterflies you had felt in a while. He had politely declined, though. It was alright, he wanted to be with his parents. You understood, but there was a small tickle of pain when he did not ask you to join them.
That was neither here nor there; now you were on your way back from your hometown, post-Christmas chills in the air.
It was at the gate that you spotted him. Certain your eyes were playing a trick on you. But no, how could you forget the distinctive smirk, the pink hair, and ever broader-shouldered frame? He was unmistakable even in a crowded airport.
Even though you had only known him for six hours of your life.
Sukuna Itadori was stood near the window, looking out at the planes on the tarmac, and for a moment, you considered walking up to him, but decided against it, ultimately pretending you hadn't seen him at all.
But fate seemed determined, and as you approached the gate, he turned and caught sight of you too.
Recognition dawned slowly just as you turned away from his face. Boarding, you shook the idea away, certain he would pretend as well, or, more likely, he wouldn't have recognized you at all.
Once you were seated, a flight attendant asked if you would like a drink. You agreed after the gentleman beside you mentioned how good his tea was. That was something you simply could not pass up.
After ordering, the strange gentleman beside you maintained a steady conversation. Just as you were starting to hope that he wasn't planning on talking the whole flight, you felt a tap on your shoulder.
"Say it isn't so." You heard his foux shock.
And even more to your surprise, he remembered your name. Of course, you remembered Sukuna; how could you not with such a good memory... but why would he remember you?
You stutter, "Hey, wow, it's been a while..." You nod, looking back at the man to your right.
"Oh," The stranger grinned, "do you two know each other?"
"We're actually childhood friends," Sukuna interjected, grinning, and the man seemed elated at the idea.
"Oh... we're definitely not." You sigh, sliding a hand down your face.
The man did not seem to hear, "Would you like to take my seat? Catch up?"
"You're too kind." Sukuna beamed coming in to take the man's seat at your side.
He whispered your name, "Well, well, well, how have you been?"
"Itadori. Good. Busy." You set down your tea. "You?"
"Same. Work's been hectic." You paused, then there was a brief exchange of 'how were the holidays', and 'what are you doing now?' before he eventually stumbled upon it. "So, how are you and your guy? I'm sure you have a partner."
"Yeah, we're good. I'm actually on my way to seeing him now." You left out the part where Kenji worked long nights and recently never made time for serious conversation that didn't involve him raising his voice, but Sukuna didn't need to know about that.
"And you?" You asked in turn, he looked at you with a wry smile, as if waiting for you to explain, you couldn't remember the name of the woman he had been messing around with before, so you just asked, "Are you seeing anyone?"
"You could say that." You leaned back, and he spread his legs wide, "We're engaged and all.", wiggling the ring in your area of vision.
"Oh! Congratulations." You paused, trying to avoid saying "wow, you?". Something uncomfortable twisted in your chest. How was it that he was getting married? "I'm happy for you." And somehow, you meant it.
"Yeah." He looked down at his hands, and you noticed he was more considerate of his volume now. "It's been good. Different than I expected, but good."
The intercom dinged to let you know you could unbuckle your seats.
"So, tell me more, how are things with you and the lucky guy? You must be glad to be on your way home."
You didn't want to really talk about it, for some reason, you were feeling a bit jealous about his upcoming marriage, so you tilted your head, "Yeah, you could say that." You laughed, but there was no humor in it.
You had some difficulty keeping your eyes trained on his; he had acquired several new tattoos over the years that kept drawing your attention, but you didn't want him to think you were checking him out or anything. After some mildly awkward catch-up about work and hobbies, Sukuna hummed, "So," and after a short silence, "Executive assistant. I guess you made your little Type A dreams come true."
You roll your eyes, "I did." You felt a small surge of pride despite knowing he was teasing you.
"That's great. Really." He seemed genuine. "I remember you talking about that. In the car."
You bring your eyebrows together, "You remember that?"
"Oh, I can remember most of that drive." He accepted a tomato juice from a passing cart, making a face at the taste. "You were funny."
"I was?"
"Sure you were." He turned to look at you properly.
And you spent a horrible length of time trying to remember when you had last been complimented so easily like that.
--
Late the next spring
It would be almost another full year before you saw Sukuna again, and just like before, you wouldn't be looking for him. You had thought when you last spoke that the New Year would be filled with good fortune, but as it would turn out, your lives would take many turbulent shifts in the time it took for the winter to come back around.
You were walking into your neighborhood's bookstore on a rainy and windy Saturday afternoon. You were looking for a birthday gift for a colleague, something thoughtful but not too personal, and the small independent bookshop near your new apartment seemed like an easy place to browse.
You were in the romance section when you heard his voice.
"You've got to be kidding me."
You turned to find a certain salmon haired man standing at the end of the aisle, holding a couple books, the top one appeared to be on sports training. He looked as surprised as you felt.
You squinted, trying to find some words before landing on, "Is this going to become an annual thing?"
"That can't be right. I can hardly remember the last time I saw you." He moved closer, glancing at the book in your hands. "'Cowboy needs a little lovin' '?"
"It's not for me." You shudder, showing him the cover of the half-naked model. "It's for a colleague, I'm sure she'll love it."
"...I believe you," he said with an unconvincing tone, "sure you don't want a copy for yourself, though?"
"Oh, yeah," You look down at the cover, "just my type." You rolled your eyes and set the book down, fond of his smile that didn't mock. "How've you been?"
He looked around the shop before answering, "Busy." You traced a finger across the casing you were leaning against.
"Just busy? I haven't seen you in over a year, the flight back, right?" You knew you were right, but asked anyway. Cringing when you think back on that time, how you waited for your now ex to come and pick you up, eventually realizing too slowly that he had forgotten, and you would need to figure it out yourself. How he hadn't told you he had "stayed home" for New Year's, and how you had tried to make it work for months after that.
"That's right..." The man's expression shifted, became something more guarded. "Ehhh...a lot's happened since then."
Something in his tone made you pause. "Yeah, same. How are you? You had your wedding, right?"
"No, yeah, I definitely did." You scrunch up your face at his cadence; he doesn't seem happy about it. He knocks his knuckles against a bookcase. You were just starting to get the uncomfortable notion that an early divorce was in his voice when he proceeded.
He looked around again, like someone might hear, like the weight of something was pressing on him.
"My wife, well, she and I aren't together anymore." He said it bluntly, shaking the thoughts out of his head.
Well, that had not at all been what you had expected. "Sukuna, I'm so sorry. That must be hard."
"Sukuna...." He wrapped both hands around his coffee cup, staring down at it. "That's a first, you've only ever called me by my last name."
You didn't know if that was true but it didn't feel like the time to ask, "I don't know what to say."
"Nobody does." He finally looked up, sighing, and you could see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "People want to help, but there's nothing I can do without airing out her business, and I'm not really interested in doing all that.
You looked down at your shoes, not even pretending to know what he meant. "I'm sorry." They're the only words you can get out. You were hurting too, as much as you wanted to pretend you weren't, but you knew this must be different. Kenji hadn't even proposed... not really at least.
"I kinda wish none of it had happened, almost felt like a waste of both of our time."
You shake your head. "It doesn't have to be a waste. This stuff isn't linear. You can be sad about losing someone even if the relationship wasn't working."
"Yeah, that's what people say." He pulled his hand back, running it through his hair. "Her family hates me. They think I changed her for the worse and left her because of it."
You don't understand, so you can't exactly console him. You just mutter, "They probably would've sided with her regardless."
"Yeah, that's true, logically, I know that." He took a shaky breath. "But I feel like I let them down, not sticking it out."
You sat in silence for a moment. This bookstore trip had not at all gone according to plan. The café hummed with other conversations, other people living their normal lives, while the both of you silently seemed to mourn people who weren't even dead.
It suddenly hit you, like it randomly will, that feeling that everyone is living their own lives, and even though you live in the same city, you never really know what anyone is going through.
"Are you seeing anyone?" You asked carefully. "A therapist, I mean."
He chuckles,"Yeah, actually, pretty much once a week. Apparently I'm supposed to sign up for some Nar-Anon family group."
You pause, a little bit more of his story coming out, "For what it's worth, I'm sure you're handling this better than you think you are."
He tilted his head, and a smirk came across his face, and for a moment, he looked exactly like he had when you first met him, "I'm standing in a bookstore unloading on someone I barely know, but thanks." He ties your name to the end of his sentence, and it feels like a sweet reminder that you both weren't technically strangers.
"We spent six hours in a car together arguing about the nature of love." You returned his smile. "I think that counts for something."
Sukuna appeared to consider this. "You know, you're probably the only person I've talked to who doesn't speak to me like I'm about to freak out any given moment."
"Do you...want people to look at you like that?"
"God, no." He took a loud sip of his coffee and grimaced. "This is terrible. Why do bookstores always have the worst coffee?"
You can see he is ready for a change of subject, "It's part of the aesthetic."
"Pretentious literature requires pretentious bitter coffee?"
"Something like that." You smile.
The two of you went on to talk for another hour, the conversation flowing easier than it had any right to. Sukuna told you about moving out of the apartment he'd shared with Emi, the woman who was now his ex-wife, about his work, and trying to find some kind of normalcy. You told him about your recent promotion, about the project you were heading up that was consuming all your time, but you did not mention Kenji, and thankfully, he did not ask.
When you finally left the bookstore, rain still falling softly outside, Sukuna actually walked you to your car.
"Thanks," he said, hands shoved in his pockets. "For listening. These types of conversations are always weird."
You squint up at him, never having anticipated him of all people finding a strange conversation uncomfortable, "Hey, not at all." And you meant it. "I'm serious, Sukuna, if you wanna catch up or want someone to talk to, call me."
"Yeah?" He looked almost vulnerable, something you'd never seen from him before. "You want to give me your number?" He makes a weird face at you, "That's not going to complicate things?"
You paused and rolled your eyes, pulling out your phone. "I think we're way past worrying about complications."
And the smile he gave you felt perfectly natural. After you'd exchanged numbers, Sukuna hesitated before turning to leave.
"Hey," he said, "that thing I said in the car. About men and women not being able to be friends."
"Yeah?"
He shrugged, "I'm pretty sure I was wrong about that."
There was something very mature about admitting when you're wrong, and as you watched him walk away, disappearing into the rain, you felt with strange certainty that something had shifted between you. Maybe he had come back into your life for such a time as this, and you into his, after all that had passed, to be a friend.
--
That Summer
It started with text messages. Simple things at first, Sukuna sending you a photo of truly terrible coffee with the message "Even worse and somehow $7". You would respond with pictures of your latest project and "entirely optional purchase btw", asking his opinion on design elements you knew he wouldn't understand but somehow always had thoughts about anyway.
Then came the phone calls. Late-night conversations were surprisingly easy with someone who held such strong opinions so weakly. When neither of you could sleep (which, unspoken of but very present, your loneliness appreciated), the two of you would always have something to go on about. Sukuna told you about his experience with group therapy, about this slow process of untangling the pain and guilt of loving someone you didn't want to. And you told him about the disastrous rejections you had made to the poor men who asked you out.
And slowly, you opened up a little about how you and Kenji had ended.
For some reason, you liked to pretend it was some other guy who had torn you up so humiliatingly. You didn't lie exactly; you just never said Kenji's name. And besides, Sukuna didn't ask for details; he knew if you wanted to, you would share.
The thing was, you had been with Kenji for so long, it felt embarrassing for Sukuna of all people to hear about the specifics. The shame you felt, some of it valid, some of it overkill, drove you to extreme individuality, or maybe independence.
"So what was wrong with this one?" He asked during one of these calls, his voice rough with after-work exhaustion, but still actively engaged in the most recent guy you turned down.
"Nothing, really. He was nice. Successful. Good-looking." You sighed, curled up on your couch with tea and a bowl of pasta. "There was just no spark, you know? No connection."
"Hey, maybe you're being too picky." You heard something in a pan sizzling on his line.
"Sorry, not really interested on taking love advice from you."
"Ouch." But he was laughing. You had both become comfortable enough to joke around with one another. "Fair point." He must have turned on the sink to douse the pan and after a pause, he asked, "So what are you looking for then?"
"I don't know. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone I can talk to naturally." You paused.
"That is a tall order." He chuckled.
"Is it though? Shouldn't that be...like the bare minimum?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Of course it is, actually, I would say that should be pretty standard."
--
A month after the bookstore, the two of you had dinner. It happened after a conversation about the new place that opened up nearby, and it had been such a fun change of pace in your mutually boring lives that you decided there would have to be another. And after that, the dinners became almost a weekly tradition, usually it was a hole-in-the-wall place that Sukuna found with incredible food and questionable ambiance.
"How do you even find these places? I've lived here for over three years now and never heard of it." You asked, looking around at a ramen shop that seemed to consist entirely of a counter with eight seats.
"It's a gift." Sukuna slurped his noodles. "Also, I'm a cheap bastard and this place is perfect."
You chuckle because he was cheap, "You're not cheap. You're frugal." What a lie.
"That's what cheap people say to feel better about themselves."
"True." You hum, only after having kicked his shin under the counter, and he grinned.
It was a nice change of pace, these dinners, and somehow, after weeks and weeks, the two of you still had things to talk about.
It was during one of these dinners that Sukuna brought up your ex.
"So," he said, pushing into a steak, one of your fancier picks, "Whatever happened with the guy you were with during our lovely introduction?"
"What?" You looked up from your pasta. "I told you. We broke up, you know that."
"Yeah, but why?" He waves his fork around, "I've told you everything, can't you spill about this? I mean, the two of you were together three years. That's not nothing."
You considered how much you even wanted to share, you hadn't told hardly anybody, hell, even your family knew not to mention his name. You never made it a rule or anything, but nobody dares. Most days, you tried to just avoid anything that would make you think of him and how pathetic it all made you feel.
But Sukuna had proved to be someone easy to speak with, and quite objective, no matter your feelings, and besides, maybe it was time you were able to talk about it. You took a bite of your food, as casually as you could, admitting, "We were together over six years...actually."
Sukuna squinted, a confused expression, "No...hold on, how can that be?"
"Uhhh, it can be because that's how long we were dating, duh." You reach for your glass of water, and for some reason, your heart was beating rather fast.
"But that would mean you were together... like... recently?" He shook his head at you, as if you didn't understand your own life's timeline.
"I wouldn't exactly call it all that recent." You clinked your fork into the bottom of the dish, skewering more pasta.
"Hold on. You were together for six years?" He seems shocked, only not realizing you were telling the truth.
"Yes." You exasperate, rolling your eyes at his expression.
"You were with that one guy all this time... like... when you were telling me about that breakup... it was with him all along? College boy?"
You blink up at him.
He straightened up, "I mean... damn you dodged a bullet." It was a nice way for him to put it.
"Eventually, I guess."
Sukuna's hand found the counter after he set his own fork down; all too invested now, he seemed quite serious. "Jesus, girl, you were with him for over six years?"
"Thank you, Sukuna, for repeating it." You grin before pulling away, tucking any other explanation into the back of your brain. "What about you? Any relationships between Emi and now?"
He rolls his eyes because he knows you know the answer, "God, no." Horrified by the thought, he groans, "I'm a mess, you know that. I'm not bringing that into a relationship."
You sigh, "You are not a mess."
He calls your name, teasing, "I'm in therapy with Narcotics Anonymous, where even I feel unwelcome because I decided to leave when things got tough."
"That's a pretty extreme glossing over of your story." You flagged down the server for the check. "But you're a functional mess. That counts for something."
"I'll definitely be putting that on my dating profile. 'Functional mess seeks patient woman with low standards.'"
"You'd get more responses than you think."
Walking back to your cars afterward, Sukuna brought up something that had clearly been on his mind.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you thinking of seeing anyone right now?"
"What? No, why?"
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "Just wondering if I'm monopolizing your time. If you need to cut back on these dinners to make space for someone. I mean... I wanna encourage you to do that."
"Sukuna, if I had someone I was serious about, I wouldn't be calling you all the time, and we wouldn't be having these dinners anyway; you're not 'taking up' my time."
He's still for a moment, thinking, "Okay. Good." He paused by his car. "Because this... hanging out with you. It's like, a fun part of my week. It'd be a shame to not have someone to complain to."
"You can always count on being able to complain with me." You bumped your shoulder against his. "That is what real friends are for."
"Yeah." But something in his expression was uncertain as he chuckled to himself.
--
That Fall
The restaurant was nicer than your usual spots, a sleek place in the city with low lighting and expensive-looking cocktails. You'd suggested it for several weekends now, having wanted to try it after hearing your friend rave about the food after her disastrous date there.
Sukuna had agreed without complaint, even though you knew it was more than he was usually willing to spend on himself.
"This place is fancy," he said, looking around with amusement. "Are we celebrating something?"
"Do we need a reason?"
"I guess not." He picked up the menu, "Though my wallet might have some complaints."
"My treat."
He dropped the menu right back on the table, "Absolutely not."
"Kuna-"
"Girl, it's not happening." He was clearly not amused. "If you want to go to expensive places, that's fine. But don't go offering to pay my share."
You knew better than to argue when he got that look. "You may be a big shot EA, but even I can afford a few expensive meals once and awhile." He teased. You knew he made more than you did.
The food, when it came, was just as good as you'd hoped. You shared plates, wanting to try his order too, and you talked about everything on your mind, and also nothing at the same time. The easy comfort of your friendship wrapped around you like a comfy sweater.
It was somewhere between the main course and dessert that the conversation shifted.
"Anyway," Sukuna said, swirling the drink in his glass. "I went out again last week."
"You always make that sound so ominous." You knew about him and his coworker, Toji's antics.
"It wasn't really a date." He shrugged, as if you needed the clarification..
You felt something in your chest, quick and unexpected. "And how did that go?"
"Fine. She was nice." He took a drink. "We slept together, and she got mad when I was less than keen on spending the night." He seemed so matter-of-fact about it all, but you saw how he almost shuddered when setting his drink down.
This wasn't weird, you told yourself; the two of you had talked about his one-night stands before. "That's... to be expected, I think." You raise a judgmental eyebrow at him. Not knowing what else to say, you ask, "Did you at least have a good time? Any plans to go see her again?"
You knew there weren't.
"I don't know if it was good or bad. It just was." He ran his finger along the condensation of his glass, and there was something almost clinical in his tone. "I'm not gonna call."
You blinked. "Of course not."
He rolled his eyes, finally smirking again, "It's not how it sounds." Sukuna ran a hand through his hair. "It's just easier this way. There aren't expectations or complications. It's more like...just physical..." He pauses when he sees your face and quickly adds, "for now."
"That doesn't sound healthy." You murmur. This was a topic the two of you had touched on. Sukuna seemed averse to a relationship, but never said no to a woman who hit him up at a bar.
"Says who? You know I'm upfront about it all. I tell them I'm not looking for anything serious. If they're okay with that, what's the harm?"
You didn't want to say that you were starting to think he used sex as a way to avoid actual intimacy in such a nice restaurant with such nice service when the conversation was so light, so you just rolled your eyes.
"Aren't we both just enjoying being single without the pressure of a relationship?" His tone had a question to it now.
You weren't judging him... or are you? You don't know, but you shrug, not believing him when you say, "Yeah, I guess we're both just casual for now."
But he laughs at you. "No, no, you're not fine with casual. You're still worried about getting hurt again."
The ease of his saying it shouldn't have surprised you, but even now, his bluntness caught you off guard, it helps you know where your tone comes from when you say, "Wow, okay. Are you my therapist now?"
"I'm your friend." Sukuna leans back in his chair, something hard in his expression. "Let me ask you something. When's the last time you had sex?"
You felt heat rise in your face. You had talked about pretty much everything with Sukuna, but for some reason, this topic always left you feeling a bit scandalized. "That's none of your business."
"Exactly. So maybe don't judge my choices when you're clearly not making any of your own."
"And what does that mean?"
He leaned forward. "You spend all your time working or hanging out with friends. You always avoid actually putting yourself out there. I'm constantly hearing from you or your girls about the latest boy you rejected. I'm just saying, don't judge me as if you're perfect yourself."
The words hit harder than they should have, or maybe you just didn't understand why you cared, "I'm not avoiding anything. I just haven't met the right person."
"Or you're scared. Just like you're accusing me of being."
You both fell silent, the tension thick between you. Around you, other diners laughed and talked, oblivious to the argument playing out at your table.
"Look," He finally said, his voice softer, he rolls his eyes, "whatever, that was probably out of line."
"No, you're right." You agreed, although you wished he hadn't said it, you would settle for him admitting his own flaws. You pushed food around your plate. "Every time I think about dating seriously, I remember how stupid I was with Kenji. I don't feel like doing it again, and besides, I just haven't been able to catch feelings."
"Great. So we're both fucked up."
You think about denying it, but you had wondered the same thing for a while now, "Apparently." You managed, "Great friendship we've got going on here. Two emotionally stunted people enabling each other."
At least the two of you were honest. Sukuna grunts,"No way am I enabling you, I'm counting on you getting over this weird phase you're in and falling in love."
"Good luck." You meet his eyes.
Sukuna didn't seem to have an answer for that.
The rest of dinner passed with forced lightness, both of you trying to recapture the easy comfort from earlier and not quite managing it. When the check came, Sukuna grabbed it before you could, ignoring your protest. He probably felt bad for taking things too far.
Outside the restaurant, you stood on the sidewalk, neither of you quite ready to leave but not sure what to say.
"I'm sorry," you finally offered. "I don't want you feeling like I'm judging your dating life."
"No, you were right, I don't know why I am this way." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Maybe I'm just a mean fuck, I don't know. But if I trust anyone to tell me, it's you."
"Maybe you just have to be aware of it so you can grow from here."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I have a smart friend who gives terrible advice but occasionally stumbles onto something profound."
Sukuna's laugh was genuine this time. "I'm pretty sure that's an insult, not a compliment, but okay."
"It's both."
You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. It was weird. You two never did this, and he stiffened when your hands found his back. For some reason, you just felt like it was the right thing to do. Neither of you had been particularly emotional tonight, but something seemed to have changed in between the words neither of you had said. After a second or so, he returned the gesture, and his weight felt almost unrealistically gentle for his size.
"We're going to be okay," you said into his chest. "Both of us."
It was out of nowhere, he didn't seem to have expected it, but he also didn't seem to mind, "Yeah." His arm tightened around you. "Of course we will."
But neither of you sounded entirely convinced.
--
That Winter
Sukuna sat across from Toji in their usual bar, nursing a beer and only half-listening to his friend's story about some disaster at work. His mind kept drifting to you. That afternoon, you had texted him about finding a new spot with coffee that was "aggressively mediocre." It reminded him of when you two started getting close.
"Are you even listening?" Toji asked, waving a hand in front of his face.
"Yeah, sorry. Our boss is an idiot, the job is impossible, the usual." Sukuna took a drink. "What were you saying?"
"I was asking about your girlfriend."
Sukuna pauses, beer in hand, squinting. "...I don't have a girlfriend."
"Right, the woman you spend every waking moment with but aren't dating." Toji rolled his eyes. "Whatever you want to call her."
"She's my friend."
"Uh-huh." Toji's tone was deeply skeptical. "And this is... what, a booty call you text constantly, have dinner with multiple times a week, and apparently think about enough that you can't focus on my very important story."
"It's definitely not like that with her."
"Then what's it like?"
Sukuna considered how to explain it. "She's... I've just known her for a while, we just talk. About anything. Like I'm talking to you, but..."
"But she's a woman."
"That's not what I meant."
"But it's true, isn't it?" Toji leaned forward. "Look, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with having female friends. But the way you talk about her... man, that's not friendship. That's something else."
"No, seriously, we're just friends."
"Okay, fine. Let me ask you this." Toji finished his beer, signaling for another. "If she called you right now and said she met someone, that she's in a serious relationship... how would you feel?"
The thought made some surprising feelings twist in his gut. "I'd be happy for her."
"Bull. Shit."
"Nah, you don't get it, I would-"
"You'd be devastated. Don't lie to me." Toji accepted his new beer from the bartender with a grin. "I've known you for years. I can tell when you're full of shit."
Sukuna was quiet, turning his own beer in his hands. "It doesn't matter how I'd feel. I'd be happy for her to find someone good after all this time."
Toji pauses, "And you don't suppose you could be that person?"
"I know I couldn't." Sukuna's voice was suddenly firm. "Toji, I was married, you know that, I'm divorced in my 20's. I'm fucking around with random women all the time. You really think I'm in a position to offer anyone a real relationship?"
Toji rolls his eyes, "Ah, not this shit again, you know, I think you'd be ready if you just let yourself be."
"You, Toji, really are not one to talk."
--
Spring, the next year
"What exactly is it that you do with these women? You just get up out of bed and leave?"
You're sitting across from him at the burger place that reminds you both of your old college town. Sukuna is adding ketchup to his bun as he shrugs, "Sure."
"Well, explain to me how you do it." The man raises his brow as if your request made no sense. You continue, "What do you say?"
"I say I've got an early meeting or an early haircut, an early tattoo appointment, who cares-"
You stop him, "You don't take meetings. You said the one thing you like about your job is that you never have to sit through meetings."
He puts a finger up, taking an egregious bite, "They don't know that, they've just met me."
You just stare at him with your mouth agape. Sukuna begins to grin. "That's disgusting." You shake your head and dip a fry into your shake. You always regret doing it; it's never as good as you hope it will be, never as good as it once was.
"I know, I feel terrible." He shows no remorse at all.
"You know, I am so glad nobody I cared about ever got involved with you. They just would have ended up being some other woman you got up out of bed and left at 3 o'clock in the morning to the excuse of..." You fish around for something, "...needing to mow the grass- mind you, you don't even have a lawnmower- not that they would know that."
Sukuna chuckles, stealing one of your fries, "Why are you getting upset? This has nothing to do with you."
"Yes, it does." You say matter-of-factly, setting your smash-burger down. "You are an affront to all women you come across, and I, believe it or not, am a woman."
The man before you sighs, "Hey, I don't feel great about this, but I don't hear anyone complaining."
You scoff, "Of course not, you're out the door too fast."
He turns as if to look agast at the other customers, a silent audience who weren't listening, then he looks back at you, pauses strangely,
"...I think they have an okay time."
You meet those eyes, his ego always has this way of bugging you, "And how would you even know that?"
"What 'dya mean, how do I know? I know."
"What?...because they..." You flounce about for the word, shaking your hand about, but childishly, you can't bring yourself to say it.
Sukuna shakes his head, seemingly amused, "Yes, because they..." and he waves his hand around, mocking your own unconscious movement.
He's actually starting to bother you now, "And how do you know that they're really-" You waggle your hand again, and Sukuna stops you by grabbing it in his fist, laughing now.
"What are you saying? That they fake their orgasms?"
You yank your hand away, and a crawling feeling shivers over your neck. You lean back in your seat to look at him. You shrug. "It's possible." You don't say what you're thinking, which is (based on your own experience) that it's more likely than not.
Sukuna chuckles and hits the table this time with his palm when he tries to choke his laugh; it catches the attention of those at other booths. "Get out of here." He cackles.
"Why?" You bend your face to try and catch his eye as he goes in for a big bite, "Most women, if not all, have... absolutely done it."
"Well, they haven't faked it with me." Sukuna's voice has finality in it, like he wants this conversation to be done with now, but his behavior is actually bothering you now.
"How. Do. You. Know."
Sukuna grabs a napkin and wipes his fingers, holding your gaze for a long moment before simply, "Because I know."
You're now officially too annoyed to actually carry on, so you just huff, deciding to let it go. But, like he usually does when you give up on things like this, he just refuses to let you. "What? You don't think that I could tell the difference?"
You shake your head, wiping down the table a bit unnecessarily before mouthing a silent, "no".
"Get out of here." He just shrugs, like it doesn't bother him.
You're not sure if it's because he doesn't care about all those poor women he takes to his bed, or if he really just has that enormous of an ego.
--
Almost Winter
"Absolutely not."
"Come on, hear me out." You passed Sukuna the bread basket across the table at your usual place. It had finally become the case that you were sick and tired of hearing about his late-night escapades, and it just so happened that your co-worker, Fushiguro, was into his type.
Large, a bit broodish, and good for a chat. "She's perfect for you. She's also a physical therapist, so she's into fitness like you are. She's funny, she's stable, she's-"
"Not interested." Sukuna hummed taking a piece of bread just to have something to do with his hands. "I don't need you setting me up."
"Why not? You need to date someone seriously. This fuck boy stuff really isn't doing you any favors. Trust me, she'll like your tattoos too."
"Yeah, sure she will. You know what would help me?" He leans back in his seat, "You getting laid."
You nearly choked on your water. "Excuse me?"
"I'm serious. When's the last time you even went on a date? Like, an actual date, not drinks with coworkers that you pretend isn't networking."
"I literally do date, and what exactly does that have to do with my friend?"
"Name one guy you've seen in the last eight months."
You opened your mouth, then closed it. A while ago, you actually had tried to go out with a guy. The prospect of...liking someone, it had gnawed at you so painfully leading up to your evening that you almost backed out. Later that night, you were overcome with this frantic anxiety when he had reached out to hold your hand, something so small and simple. You hadn't been able to bring yourself to do it. Everything had been fine, but any emotional closeness he tried to bring seemed to trigger an ever stronger need for distance.
You never talked about it with Sukuna, which was weird because these days you told each other everything.
As of late, it became clearer and clearer that you were convincing yourself something was just wrong with every potential relationship that came along, you would go out of your way to find flaws in order to not grow attached. Every time, even with friendships that grew closer, when things began to get too serious, it's like you needed space. Your independence felt much safer than any vulnerability, and receiving affection -- to you-- was more vulnerable than giving it.
You had left early from that date, stricken with shame, and deciding never to talk about whatever this problem you had was, "That is so not the point. I can see you deflecting." You reply to the man across from you.
"That's exactly the point." Sukuna leaned back, arms crossed. "Don't tell me to go out with your girlfriend, you'll only be mad at me about how it ends up."
"Ew." You didn't want to think about what he meant by that.
He licks his fork, "I'll gladly take her out once you finally loosen up with some guy."
"Don't drag me into this." You sigh. Knowing that you would never allow yourself to be in a position to beg for fondness ever again. Maybe you were just frightened of abandonment, but something in you had changed with the humiliation of Kenji. Now, you were safe to never need another man again, and the idea of it had a confession coming out.
"You know," You grin strangely, "you were right all those years ago. I used to have a problem with chasing a fantasy, but I don't think I'm really interested in a relationship anymore."
Sukuna stops whatever he was doing. He squints for a moment, his brows coming together in a way you rarely ever see. There is a long pause before he says, "I didn't want to be right about that."
"Sure you did."
His mouth slightly quirks. "Okay, maybe a little, but not really."
You tap your foot, remembering how sweet Fushiguro (your coworker) had begged to meet your "beefy tattooed friend". You pulled out your phone. "How's this: I'll let you set me up if you let me set you up,"
Sukuna's eyes jump up from his plate. You quickly add, "and you have to take it seriously."
"That's a terrible idea."
"Scared?"
His eyes narrow. "Of what?"
"Of putting yourself out there. Of actually letting yourself like her instead of running away the morning after."
He squints at you, his jaw tightened, a little smile, a little ego, but after a long moment, he nods. "Fine. One date. But I get to pick the guy for you."
"Of course, you know I've already picked your date."
"Deal."
You shook hands across the table, both of you trying to ignore the fact that the gesture felt more like a challenge than an agreement.
Three weeks later, you found yourself sitting across from Toji Zenin, a guy Sukuna knew from work (and had told you all about). He was handsome in a conventional way. He had nice dark hair.
You liked dark hair. He also had a flirty smile and big hands; you should like him. He would have been a good catch, but as hard as you tried that night, you just couldn't seem to be at ease.
"So, Sukuna tells me you're into fitness too," you said, cutting your steak with precise movements.
"Mm-hmm." He pushed himself forward, chewing quickly before speaking, "Tell me a bit about what you do."
You launched into a detailed explanation of your latest team development project, and he nodded at appropriate moments while your mind drifted, explaining what an Executive Assistant even does. You wondered how Kuna's date was going. Fushiguro was a coworker, but also a friend. She was smart, funny, and also quite beautiful.
A part of you was distracted thinking about whether they would sleep together. If he would bring her to his place, if he had cleaned, how he would do it, if tomorrow she would tell you about how mean he had been, or maybe if she would say...something else...
The thought of it made you feel a bit weird. You hoped he didn't mess it up with her.
"Don't you think?" Toji asked, and you realized you'd completely lost the thread of conversation.
"Sorry, what?"
"I said, the future of sports betting is pretty unsustainable in comparison to regular gambling, don't you think?"
"Oh. Yeah, for sure." You took a drink of your wine and tried to focus. How on earth had you landed on sports betting? "I've actually heard about the analytics of it...I'm pretty sure that stuff is more and more like slot machines..." Your words were getting quieter; you didn't really care to talk about this stuff, but then again, you wouldn't mind talking about it with Sukuna.
Maybe it was exactly what you had feared, maybe you just didn't like the fact that you were on a date. Maybe you were wrong when you thought you were over all this stuff. Maybe none of this would ever be enough for you.
Suddenly, you were feeling a bit upset, but it wasn't an angry feeling; it was much worse than that.
You blink hard, remembering how Kenji had looked at you when you said you wanted to be married. It had been after months of arguments; he was hardly home, he was always irritable, you never asked anything of him because it was too burdensome, you knew it.
He had said some variant of, "Fine, we will." He had sounded annoyed, and he had seemed to think it would make you happy.
You had felt like it should have been. But it hadn't.
This love thing just didn't work for you, you know that now. You had learned a long time ago that shutting down is the best response to any of these strong emotions, especially when you know they are coming out of nowhere. You know how to rely on yourself; you no longer wanted any kind of emotional support.
And now you feel silly.
"Well, the key is finding the right people, people who have like... mules, you know, that's where the long-term value is." He smirked up from his plate. Poor Toji, he hadn't done anything wrong, but you felt you needed to go now, slink off and apologize about whatever came to mind.
You nodded, letting him talk, though.
When the dinner came to its end, the two of you had officially slipped back to "polite conversation", and as you drifted nearer and nearer to the exit, you said some variant of, "I'll call you."
He smiled noncommittally, and you had a feeling he was aware you would not call.
--
Inside your apartment, you immediately texted Sukuna.
That was terrible, how could you do this to me.
He hadn't done anything wrong; you just wanted to tell him how you were feeling, and even though you knew you couldn't get into the details of why it would never work, you wanted to open the possibility for your next conversation. After a moment, you add,
How was yours?
And then,
Be nice to her
His response came quickly after, surprising you:
I'm always nice.
Followed by,
Ehh, leaving now. She's sweet, but not really for me.
You're so lucky I'm not banging her.
You sigh,
Please do not. Not if you're telling me she's not your type.
He "thumbs-up"ed your message, and instead of replying directly he offered,
Want to come over? I have beer.
You consider it. Something inside of you wanted to hear about his date. About what they talked about, what he had said to her, why he didn't think she was 'for him.'
Be there in 20.
When you arrived, he was already on his second beer, you curled up on your couch in the comfortable clothes you had quickly changed into.
"So, Toji was that bad, huh?" He asked, dropping down beside you, handing you a sweet cider.
You consider joking, but you can't seem to find it within yourself, "Not actually, no." You hold back on saying 'I wish it had worked', because it's not as if you had tried, "You forgot to mention he's a gambling addict."
Sukuna chuckles, "He's not."
"Could've fooled me." He chuckles again. "How was Fushiguro?"
"Beautiful." He rolled his shoulders back on the cushions, spreading his thighs out. If he still had shoes on, you envision him knocking them off and lounging like a jungle cat, "she laughed at my jokes." Sukuna shrugged, and you turned to face him. "Felt nothing."
You pause, "Nothing?"
"Nothing." He leaned his head back against the couch. "We had dinner, we talked, she's cool. And the whole time I just kept thinking..."
"What?"
He turned to look at you. "I kept thinking I'd rather be here." The silence almost killed you. What did he mean by that?
"Home." He clarifies.
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning neither of you seemed ready to examine. But then his words were flowing out, "I didn't really... want to sleep with her."
That drew you up short, surprised you, "Really? I mean... You didn't anyway..."
"Yeah, I didn't." He pursed his mouth, adding, "It was weird to not have that expectation. I knew you wouldn't want me to. But it was nice all the same."
You didn't know what it was that he was saying exactly, "It's not that I 'didn't want you to', I just didn't want you hurting her."
"Right." He takes a gulp.
"There's no expectation to sleep with the women you're around, you know that, right?" It seems too obvious to you, but he scrunches up his face.
"I don't know, I'm kinda a slut, you say it yourself." And you do, but you wouldn't say it right now, not when you're being honest with one another. "I don't really know why I go out and do that shit."
"I mean..." You look out the window, because he wasn't meeting your eyes anymore, "I guess because it feels good?"
He shrugs, "I guess."
The truth was, Sukuna felt he had very little control over his own choices; he was a promiscuous guy, he had been in college, and he had been when he met his ex-wife. But when he was in a real relationship, he was loyal.
He hadn't even minded the fact that she would only show her affection with sex when they were together. He had loved her, he had loved being with her, had loved making love to her...maybe not so much in the end.
But he had loved when she loved him, though. No matter what.
"Well," you finally said, trying to keep your tone light, "at least we tried."
"Yeah." He had a lot of breath in his voice, his eyes were looking somewhere far away. "At least we tried."
People always talk about how those who fall into addiction do so to cope with a poor family life, or maybe a toxic relationship, a dissatisfaction with their current predicament, but that hadn't been the case for Emi. Maybe she had tried them for fun, maybe it was boredom, he could never really be sure; everything had fallen apart so fast.
It didn't take long before it bled into their relationship, taking its toll on her, making her... different. Everything about the two of them had always been passion, from start to finish. They had gotten married young, fallen so quickly into each other, but eventually the nights they shared had Sukuna feeling like there was this... well of affection he could no longer draw from anymore.
All too quickly, she only ever seemed to maw at his body like a hungry animal. Maybe it used to be fun, but he couldn't seem to remember that time.
He would stumble onto eggshells at first, but eventually, he had learned not to turn her down. One night, she had come home, her touch had been so slow and heavy, it didn't feel like her anymore. And when he placed his palms against her cheeks and kissed her so intently, whispering a questioning, "maybe not tonight?", she had just burst into tears.
And he just couldn't understand.
She was hurting so terribly, and it wasn't him, it wasn't her family; it wasn't even her job that she was getting closer and closer to losing, it wasn't anything at all, but to her, it felt like everything was caving in.
That night, he hadn't wanted to, but she made him.
He must not love her anymore. That's what she had wailed to him that night. She wept, but it wasn't true. He would do anything for her. Anything to make her know. And so he did it, to prove it to her.
It wasn't so bad. He had been much stronger than she was; she couldn't have forced him to do anything even if she tried.
The women at the bars couldn't force him into anything either,
Still, somehow, he felt this tight lack of control in his chest; he didn't like being this way. Sometimes he enjoyed it, sure, he liked pleasuring women, that had always been true.
But when he had been with her, he knew now that was when he started to crave it as if it were love itself.
To her, it had been just that.
It had been all the love she could give, and thus, all the love he received.
And that night, quietly drinking with you curled up on his sofa, Sukuna decided what he really wanted was to stop, even if it took some time.
--
Some time later, New Year's Eve
The party was everything you usually hated: crowded, loud, full of people you barely knew, making forced conversation while waiting for midnight. But Fushiguro had insisted, and you were trying out this exposure therapy thing, and besides, you'd also completely run out of excuses to stay home alone.
You were watching her across the room, mutual friends and strangers around, but in the moment, you're focused on how she's dancing with Kuna's friend, Toji. They looked so good together. It was funny how it happened. You and Sukuna's best friends might genuinely be perfect for one another.
You couldn't deny you were a little jealous.
It comes and goes in waves. You love your independence, but sometimes you're lonely, you refuse to rely on someone, but there's still this hole in your heart that wants something, something you refuse to give it.
You had been propositioned the night before, inviting you to a different party, but you had said no.
Recently, you started to wonder more and more about what your problem was. Even now, you were contemplating a graceful exit when you spotted Kuna across the room.
He was alone, holding a drink and looking about as comfortable as you wish you felt. When your eyes met, his expression shifted, his eyebrows raised, and he wiggled a finger in a "get over here" kind of way.
"Fancy seeing you here," you said, working your way through the crowd to his side.
"You weren't just about to leave, were you?" He handed you his cup without being asked, and you took a grateful sip, giving him a nod. "Say it isn't so. Let's get out of here?"
"God, yes."
You didn't discuss where you were going, just let him walk you through the quiet streets until you began to come upon a familiar park you both had visited these past couple of summers. It was empty at this hour, the playground equipment casting strange shadows in the streetlight.
You couldn't deny it. You and Sukuna were getting older.
You always felt like this during the new year, this panicky feeling you couldn't ever give a name.
Thank God, Sukuna was here with you.
The desires you kept hidden sometimes peaked their head up, but it was comforting to remember that you had him. You had each other.
The two of you walked around for a bit, and the outside air started to leave a chill on the back of your neck. Eventually, you came upon the swingset and took a seat.
Sukuna brought up New Year's resolutions, and you just chuckled.
Maybe the stress from the holidays was getting to you, maybe you had taken a few too many sips from his cup, but you said what you had been wanting to say for a while now. Honesty was always easier with him; you found it more helpful, too, with this new maturity he had developed.
"I just wish I wasn't like this... but I feel like I can never change."
Anytime you teetered on the edge of bringing it up, your friends would talk about how it wasn't a big deal, that you were just self-sufficient, but Sukuna didn't say anything. Not for a long while.
"Remember that conversation we had?" Sukuna asked as you both sat on the swings, the metal chains creaking gently. "In the car. About whether men and women could be friends."
You look over at him, his feet were firmly placed on the mulch, you stop the slow kicking of your legs, "Hard to forget. You were pretty adamant."
"I was wrong." He kicked at the wood chips beneath his feet.
"Am I getting deja vu or have you said that to me before?"
"I'm trying to say people can change, you know?" He pauses, looking at you seriously.
You felt so glad you could have someone like him. He just...understood you, he would listen without making you feel crazy,
"You think so?"
"I do...at least... I'm trying...you know that.." He sighs, and you turn back to look at him.
You know it's true. You've seen it. You pointed it out after Toji and Fushijuro got together because Sukuna doesn't go out to drink anymore, he doesn't bring girls home, or at least, he doesn't tell you about it.
And there was something so raw in his expressions recently. He spoke with less certainty these days, but somehow that made him seem more level-headed.
He threw his hands out of his pockets, admiring the winter air, "You know I can't imagine my life without you in it." You scratch the back of your neck, looking away.
That was sudden. What was he saying?
He didn't stop, "Talking to you is the best part of my day. Don't act like I haven't told you that before. When something happens, good or bad, you're the person I want to tell."
You pulled back from him mentally, unsure of how to respond, "Kuna..." You stand up and slowly pace away, requiring the comfort that it brought.
"And I know we said friends. You're my best friend."
You stop, how had you not expected this? You start to feel sick to your stomach, because deep down, you had always known this was coming; you had been teetering on the edge of it for forever, and somewhere deep inside you, you had hoped it could stay that way. Tucked away and safe. A dark fantasy you never shared even with yourself. Something, that in your moments where you were the most honest with yourself, you allowed yourself to find romantic.
"...I... you know I feel the same-"
"No, listen," He shakes his head like he's in pain. You stop pacing and face him. He's looking down at his shoes, hands in his lap, "Toji asked me something a while back, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."
You watch as he leans his head against the swing's chain, staring, waiting for you to ask, so you do, "What did he say?"
"He asked how I'd feel if you met someone. If you got into a serious relationship." His hands tightened on the swing chains. "And the truth is, I genuinely think that it would kill me." He sounds like someone is choking him. He doesn't have enough air, even though he's heaving.
Sukuna purses his lips, shaking his head, "The thought of you with someone, it makes me want to....I don't even know." He sighs your name because you are starting to cover the sides of your head with your hands. "I want you to know you can be loved... like that. I want to see you safe and comfortable with someone, I want... I want to show you."
You couldn't breathe either. Exhaling, you dig your nails into your palm. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I'm tired of this weird thing we have going on. And because I want to tell you the truth? And because... I want to show you it can be good. That it doesn't have to be scary. I'm..." He shakes his head again, finally getting off the swing, running a hand over his mouth, "I'm saying it because I'm tired of lying to everyone. You know it. You have to." He's shaking his head, like he expects you to finish his sentence, "I'm in love with you."
Sukuna throws his hands up, a "what now" type of gesture, and then there is just the moon and stars in the space between you. Little puffs of warm air that are clouding the chilly night. He keeps going, maybe because you haven't said anything yet, and he needs to fill the space.
Maybe it's because you're hurting him just like you hurt everyone else who gets close. "...and I know that's probably the worst thing I could tell you because it ruins everything, doesn't it? but I can't-"
You take a step back, shakily breathing.
You're not some wounded animal, but he's looking at you like you might dash, a scared little deer.
"I really don't think it would have to be that different. We can be honest with each other, can't we? Haven't we been? I swear I'll do whatever you want, I'll be whatever you need. You know you can trust me....you know that."
In some deep recesses of your mind, you wonder if you would have ever allowed yourself to envision this happening. It doesn't feel real. Of course, you think, how had you not seen this coming?
It's scary, your hands are shaking, and every part of you is telling you to haul ass and get away from here, to text the next morning that the two of you were drunk, knowing he was dead sober, maybe pretend this never happened, to forget, or maybe, to never allow closeness with Sukuna again.
But louder than any fear, there's a crashing wave of realization that you cannot let that happen. With your wobbly feet, you tiptoe nearer, reaching for his hand.
He had been waving it around just a moment ago. You don't know why you do it, you just feel as though you should.
You and Sukuna rarely touched. It just wasn't really your thing, and he didn't mind. But right now, in this moment, it felt like the most correct response.
You stood up as straight as you could and closed the distance between you both and pulled him by his back into your arms. If you hadn't, maybe you might have actually sprinted. For a second, he froze, shocked, and then his arms came around you in turn, pulling you closer, almost painfully so.
He was trembling. How strange.
His grip was relentless on your body, cradling you so close that you wouldn't have been able to escape, unless you asked.
He felt like he must be breaking you; he knew how you got, how you just...couldn't let someone in, not if it meant love. So when you finally broke apart, he took the moment to rest his forehead against yours.
"I'm so sorry. I wish I wasn't, but I'm in love with you, and I need you to believe me,"
"I just..." And you're doing it all wrong; the words aren't coming. You love him, too. Of course you do, how could you not? He's the safest place you have. He's so worried, you're sure, that in telling you his feelings, he's ruining your safety, but as he holds you there, you realize he hadn't. Not really.
He cannot see your face, you look down, forehead no longer on his, tuck yourself into his chest, and hiccup some air. "You know I..."
And he's nodding, and his shaking hasn't stopped, so you try to speed it up. "No! No, I'm saying.... that I... oh, Kuna, how could I not love you?"
And you've crumpled to your knees now, but he's falling after you, as if he hadn't heard the words. Holding your shoulders, you gasp, "You know I'm horrible at this, I'm so bad, I could never be what you deserve-"
His grip tightens, he's frantically shaking his head, but he doesn't interrupt, "Damnit, Sukuna, of course I love you too."
And right there in the empty park, at quarter till midnight on New Year's Day, you feel a weight unlike anything you've ever felt come off your shoulders as Sukuna drapes his own over yours.
It hadn't been easy; the sickness did not depart, but at least you weren't hiding anywhere but his chest anymore.
The two of you sat there too long to tell, a stupid laugh or a mildly agonized whimper joining the quiet.
After a while, you pulled back a bit wetly just enough to see his face properly. "What do we even do now?"
"Well," Sukuna said, and he was being very soft, very genuine, wiping a stray tear off your cheek, "it's almost midnight. We could kiss at the stroke of the new year like everyone else at every other party."
And the idea of Itadori Sukuna offering you a kiss was genuinely so bizarre that you covered your warming face in your hands. You let your weight rest against his, and he takes it on completely, without complaint. In fact, for him, it's a great pleasure. You mutter into his coat, "We're not at the party."
"No...we're not."
In the distance, you could hear fireworks starting early, people too impatient to wait for midnight. It appeared Sukuna was too; his hands framed your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones.
But now it was just his cheek that had a tear.
"I'm not good at this," he said quietly. "It hurts to want you this badly."
"I know." And although it was different, you really did.
"I'm going to fuck it up, almost certainly."
"Almost certainly." You covered his hands with yours, for the first time, allowing an inkling of hope to bubble to the surface. "You know I will too."
Will. What a definitive word. So committed, but you know you meant it.
"We're going to be fine. We have been all this time."
He nods, and quietly, he feels like this might be a dream. "We have." He seems like he's testing out new words, trying them out on his tongue. "I want to make this official. I want you to know you can trust me with this. I want to be good for you."
You're shaking your head, and all you can utter is, "So long as it's you and me."
Perhaps it had been so frightening because the idea of losing him was so much worse, but it was Sukuna. You could trust him to hold this tender part of you. You knew he would take care of it.
When midnight came, you were still in that park. He had dragged you to your feet, and as if you were still teenagers, with an expression of anxiety and excitement, a gentle nod his way, he quickly bent himself to meet you, and a quick and over-too-soon peck was placed ever so softly on your lips.
You were so inexperienced, so repressed, the feel of him caused another swell of panic to crest, that perhaps it wouldn't work. And how terrible that would be. But then he was covering his face. A stupid grin barely hidden, and his presence alone soothed you once more.
Both of you were near laughter at the absurdity of it all. All these years of friendship, of circling around what you both felt, of pretending that what you had was simple when it had never been simple at all.
You wrapped your arms around him again, if nothing else but to feel his heat. Now that the seal was broken, it was easier to allow yourself this closeness. "You know," you said eventually, wrapped in the man's jacket as you both saw fireworks bloom far away. You're chuckling strangely, "What was that you said about men and women not being able to be friends?"
"Huh?" He's a bit dazed, "I took those words back."
"I think I recall you saying all those years ago," you leaned back, his arm automatically wrapping behind you, "that you would need a lover who is also a friend."
"...Did I say that?"
You're not so sure, "I think...I mean, it's probably for the best that we're so close."
Sukuna smiled, nodding. He grasped the back of your hand up to his face to press a kiss there. "Probably...When did you get so wise?"
You whisper, "I have a very smart friend who gives terrible advice but occasionally stumbles onto something profound."
His tone was teasing now. "I thought I got promoted."
You furrow your brows until, "Ahhh, wow....Boyfriend?"
"Almost sounds too plain," He pulled you closer.
You agreed, it sounded way too casual, you shake your head, smirking, the ease of conversation returning, almost as if nothing had changed al all, "Sukuna Itadori, are you proposing to me in a park at twelve-thirty on New Year's Day?"
He hadn't been, he was going to spin something about how perhaps friends were always more romantic than lovers, but he's grinning now, "Would you say yes if I were?"
You turned to look at him properly, at this man who had gone from an irritating stranger to your best friend to the person you couldn't imagine living without.
You hadn't expected his response, and you flounder a bit before just choking, "Ask me again in a couple of years."
His spine straightens up promptly, "Years?" Your eyes did not sway and he runs a hand through his hair, "Fine. Deal, I'll wait." He kissed your hand again. "Clearly, you know I'm good at that. But I'll have you know I'm never letting you forget you said yes."
As the two of you stand, walking back in the direction you came, you think about all that had transpired this night. Leaning against him, you smile, "Oh, I'm counting on it."
Around you, the city celebrated the new year, full of noise and light and promise. But in that quiet moment, just the two of you, it felt like the only thing that mattered was right here. The secret hope you'd both been searching for, the one that had been obvious all along if you'd just been brave enough to see it.
He had been with you this whole time. Sometimes love was friendship itself, and sometimes, the most important thing was recognizing when that couldn't be enough anymore, and having the courage to reach for something more.
They say when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
For Sukuna and you, that had started far before romance had joined the equation.
Only now, whatever the answer to the age-old question, you and Sukuna sadly never solved it.
sukuna couldn't get you out of his mind the whole weekend after the party— how you acted so disinterested in him before and then had the audacity to kiss him still baffled him. not that he was complaining— the way you pulled him into the kiss is replaying in his mind on loop. those seven minutes weren't enough to feed the hunger you've awakened in him.
these three nights were a different kind of hell. his mind refuses to shut up— flashing images of your kiss-bitten lips— the feeling of those same lips against his— your hands on his neck— your fingers trailing and tugging on his hair— all he could think about was you, you, you.
sukuna isn't a man who gets sentimental over a person. he's not someone who yearns for one's presence and he's definitely not a person who wishes something from a specific person when there are many others who can fill that same position— like the kiss you've shared. a single make-out session that he could probably get from every girl on campus is messing with his head— why can't he get you out of his mind? is it because you caught him by surprise? it wasn't the first time that the girl made the first move on him— he wasn't short on women who throw themselves at him. but that was the first time he didn't expect it. that must be it. he’s simply still under shock. no way you managed to crawl into his heart or whatever with a single initiated kiss.
that conclusion bites him in the ass almost instantly when he spots you across campus— his eyes are drawn to your figure before his mind can even comprehend that it's indeed you. well this certainly is a nice way to start his monday morning. it’s like in those cheesy romance movies— every other noise seems to be drawn out by his brain as he watches you. it’s almost like you're walking in slow motion. the sunlight hits your face, illuminating you, wrapping you in a gold hue. even though you linger in the back of his mind, your features are blurred and in need of a refreshment. he can’t help but wonder what part of you he might have forgotten or missed. the soft wind blows through your hair— he can't tear his eyes away.
“yo”, he hears toji from beside him, “you good?”
sukuna looks at him for a second and just grunts as an answer— already searching for you again. the single heartbeat he spent looking elsewhere felt wrong— he catches you just as you enter your department building.
you slip inside, leaving his line of sight, and sukuna feels something in him drop— sharp and quiet. as if you've purposefully left him behind, wanting. as if he's been denied something he didn't remember asking for.
his jaw clenches.
he tears his eyes away from the empty space a moment too late.
letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding, sukuna starts walking toward his class, leaving toji behind without a goodbye.
unaware that you've been already spotted by the man of your nightmares— and your dreams— you're still walking through the halls with a grip on your bag too tight and an expression that could scare away anyone except the man it's supposed to scare off.
your jaw is tightly clenched— afraid that a single vocal exhale could uncover the lie that didn't even come from you.
your weekend wasn't any better. you feel like you're on the walk of shame and every single one of your fantasies is being projected on a wall you cannot see. every peek that someone throws your way feels like they know you went up to sukuna and kissed him— then went home and thought about him day and night with your hands between your thighs— and that you're now actively hiding from him because he still thinks you're mute.
oh god. they're all looking at you with disgusted faces. some people are whispering amongst themselves. is it about you? do they know? are they making fun of you?
everyone knows you're not mute and they will tell sukuna and he’ll kill you for lying to him and having the audacity to hump him—
no. you can survive this.
sukuna has probably already forgotten about that whole ordeal— right? there's no way that he'd even rethink those seven minutes— yeah. even if you'll probably get off on that memory for a little longer than you'd like to admit— he won't spare you a glance when you walk past him.
you've heard about him. who hasn’t? his reputation isn't built on lies and mere gossip— it's built on warnings. built on the fact that he doesn't hesitate in putting people in their place, which is underneath his feet.
never the same girl twice— never staying longer than a night. sweet talking till he gets what he wants— never talking again after that. girls who chase him for a single night— girls who are probably better than you— experienced, outgoing, able to hold a conversation— girls who might have a chance. those seven minutes were your only chance at feeling him against your lips and you grasped that chance— you shouldn't get your hopes up for something more.
that doesn't mean you'll stop avoiding him though—
.
the following days, sukuna finds himself subconsciously taking the long route to class— or to the library— anywhere that just happens to pass through your department building. more often than he’d ever care to admit.
he tells himself it’s nothing.
it’s not intentional.
he was just in need of... a change in scenery.
just a different route. different hallways. different noise. different people.
but somehow his feet keep making the same turn, slowing near the same entrance he saw you last, lingering a second too long. his eyes drift before he can stop them, scanning without meaning to— at least, that’s what he insists.
he isn’t looking for you.
he’s just… observant.
ever since the night in that damn closet, something feels slightly unresolved— and sukuna tells himself that he doesn’t like unfinished business.
it’s coincidence that his chest tightens for half a second whenever he thinks he might see you rounding the corner.
so when he finally catches a glimpse of you through the thick crowd of people, he ignores the frantic beating of his heart, and he tells himself he only looked for a second longer to confirm that the disruption you have caused is insignificant. that whatever unfinished business he thought about has finally settled.
but it hasn’t.
and it’s irritating that he wants more than a glimpse of you.
.
your streak of avoiding sukuna is broken by shoko who begged you to join her in the library. you were already comfortable in your dorm and celebrating another victory of managing to stay out of sukunas way. at least you caught on the moral of the day, never celebrate too early.
nearing the library, you were met with the devastating realization that this is the worst possible time of walking around campus, which was swarmed with people. a mix of tired individuals heading home while others are rushing to their evening classes. people were streaming by in both directions. is it too late to turn around? you really don't want to risk running into sukuna— but turning around now would be too embarrassing. you can't stop and act like someone is calling so you can “correct” your route either because that would attract unnecessary attention toward you—
whatever. you try convincing yourself that you're overreacting. what are the chances that you'll run into him? you've survived a whole week! there's no way you'll lose now. just— go along, deep breaths. It's okay.
it was indeed not okay and you had every right to overreact because the next group that turned the corner had you contemplating your friendship with shoko. why the actual fuck did she say you were fucking mute back then— why the fuck did you not only fucking agree on going to that fucking party but also fucking agree on playing that fucking game— and why the fuck did you agree on fucking meeting her at the fucking library—
you didn't have the chance to overuse the word fuck anymore because— while your brain was running overtime with your monolog you were also doing your best at looking anywhere but into sukunas direction— your monolog was interrupted by the excessive amount of laughter from the group which your ears somehow managed to pick up over everything else. and although you had already convinced yourself that the colors and ridges of your shoes were the most fascinating sight of today, your head still perked up and turned to the direction of laughter.
locking eyes with sukuna crumbled your conviction about your footwear since there couldn't be a more fascinating sight than his lickable face. no wonder you humped him like a bitch in heat because let's be real. who wouldn't? you would probably do it again. ugh, how you wished to be your past self right now. kissing his sweet lips again— hearing his orgasm-worth grunts again— feeling his muscular body against yours— his soft hair grazing through your fingers—
your fantasies shatter as sukuna throws you a smirk and joins in the laughter.
you take it back. fuck your past self. why the fuck would you hump him? scratch that, why did you go to that fucking party anyway—
is the laughter about you?
your head snaps back to the ground and you pick up your pace.
are they making fun of you?
you shove your hands into your pockets as the slight air of passing by sukuna hits your face.
you try exhaling once they’re behind you, but you're worried it might be too vocal and he'll hear you.
the sounds of their snickering doesn't leave your ears, even long after you passed by and they were out of earshot.
meanwhile, as sukuna locked eyes with you, it was just as unexpected. it happened when he wasn't actively searching for you in the crowd for once.
he had just left the library with gojo in tow, meeting toji and suguru at the exit. gojo nagged them to hang out and despite sukunas need of some revising for his upcoming exams he was reluctant to agree, sick of gojos never-ending whining. who is he kidding? the revising could wait, his mental well-being— which is in need of a break from socializing, on top of desperately needing a break from gojo— cannot. what does he have to do for one second of peace and quiet? why does he want to hang out anyway? it’s friday for fucks sake! they’ll see each other tonight at some party anyway!
he joins the group with a scowl that confirms he'd rather be anywhere but here. they’re already too loud. gojo jumps into conversation the second he meets eyes with the two other men and sukuna can feel his brain cells evaporating. sugurus laughing like a donkey at gojos unfunny jokes and sukuna prepares himself for his already present headache to intensify.
the men start walking, talking and laughing about who-knows-what since sukuna has already tuned them out.
during sukunas inner calculations of how many brain cells he’ll have left by the end of the day, he feels his heart drop and immediately loses his train of thought— because he just met eyes with you.
his mind needed a couple seconds to catch up and actually accept that he’s seeing you right now. despite never actually peeling his eyes off you, it felt as if he not only needed a second look but also a triple check that he's not hallucinating in the moment. he was forcing his mind to tune out gojos shrieking seconds ago and now he finds himself hearing nothing but his hastening heartbeat and seeing nothing but your face that he was longing to be close to again. you’re only passing by each other, but sukuna doesn't know when he'll be in close proximity to you again. he could reach out right now and feel your soft skin once more.
he's not only seeing you but you're looking right back at him. the shock he felt was quickly mixed with delight. he doesn’t realize that the delight came mainly by you being there— instead he reasons with himself that he's happy because you're noticing him as well for once.
while everyone orbits around sukuna and notices him from multiple blocks away— even with his excessive amount of looking around for you he never got the chance to lock eyes with you. why does he find himself desperate for your acknowledgement? why is he trying to figure out why you have that look of arrogance on your face? not an ounce of fear— not an ounce of adoration either. for you, he's just another face among the crowd, for him— you're the face he searches for in the crowd.
he tells himself it's a normal reaction. it's reasonable why he's interested. he’s simply confused why you're looking at him with indifference. of course there are enough people out there who avoid sukuna, try to stay out of his way. looks of disgust or envy toward him isn't anything new. people that stay out of his way still acknowledge him. they know who he is. they stay out of his way because they want to stay out of trouble. they’re scared, nervous. but you— you simply don't care. it’s simply that fuck ass obnoxious but pretty face of yours that he cannot seem to shake off. such a shame too, pretty face that just seems to piss him off for no significant reason.
pretty face that pisses him off yet he can’t stop starring.
pisses him off yet he won’t admit how many times he swept his eyes across the hallways. so yeah— enough times that this encounter was certainly unexpected for him.
however, the constant, lingering anticipation of setting his eyes on you again— paired with the subconscious scanning of his surroundings— makes him wonder if it truly was unexpected, or if your appearance itself made his breath hitch.
fuck, he’s starring. you probably think he's a weirdo—
sukuna forces himself to look away and quickly starts laughing with the other men, despite having no idea what they're laughing about, hoping you don't think he’s creepy. he can’t have you avoid him on top of dismissing him. he wants you to acknowledge him— to feel his presence just as much as he searches for yours.
his head still turns slightly when you're getting closer. his nose tries picking up on your perfume— begging for a whiff of your scent. the scent that he has memorized yet cant remember. he has to hold himself back from reaching out. he feels a sudden cold settling over him and needs your skin to warm him up. he wants to call out to you. stop you. make you look at him. yet he realizes that he still doesn't know your name.
despite his efforts of holding back, sukuna is oblivious to his hand closest to you extending and his fingers slightly stretching out— right as you're brushing by and sending a flicker of wind across his skin.
.
another friday night, another party. though sukuna cannot seem to enjoy himself.
the party feels louder than usual. the stench of cheap cologne and weed seems to be stronger than typically. the lights are causing an ache behind his eyes and whoever gave him this drink can prepare themselves for a taste of his fist because it tastes like shit. warm— too sweet— and it does not fulfill it’s purpose because he does not feel the effect that usually makes him enjoy these parties— enjoy socializing— enjoy the music— the scenery— the surrounding people who are desperate for his approval.
it's been exactly a week since he last tasted your lips.
he keeps scanning the crowd subconsciously— hoping for another glimpse of you— even though part of him knows he won't be seeing you tonight.
he's been desperate to blow off some steam— and yet the only way he seems to tolerate the attempts of conversations from girls is when they resemble you— when he can imagine them to be you. but as creative as his brain has been lately— no one fills the longing of actually having you in front of him again.
wait.
he does not long for having you in front of him again.
damn. these tasteless ass drinks are really messing with his brain.
and this girl sitting beside him on the couch can't take the damn hint. she’s almost clawing her way onto his lap while having a one-sided conversation. she could be talking to a brick wall and have the same outcome. sukuna doesn't spare her a single answer. in fact, he doesn't even know what she's talking about— or who she even is. she’s moving closer with every passing second and sukuna doesn't have space to back away anymore. he wants to tell her to piss off but doesn't bother to. it's easier to ignore her than find the energy to stand up and walk away.
she’s getting closer by the second. her sticky fingers are touching him, feeling him up. her skin feels wrong against his own and he feels himself internally recoiling. her touch is making his skin crawl and the lingering feeling it leaves behind on his skin feels revolting.
her perfume is way too strong and overwhelming him more than he already is— suffocating him— but if he concentrates hard enough, closing his eyes, he can make out the top notes of yours. the scent of you that he barely remembers. it’s hidden within, a faint whisper against his senses. a dull memory that manages to soothe him. a trace of you he wants to follow.
her high-pitched laugh pierces through his imagination— stabbing his ears and tearing through the short-lived dream he had found himself in.
what is she even squealing about?
he couldn’t care less.
she ripped through the one thing that made him tolerate her longer than he should. her perfume is overpowering his senses again. the lights are too strong. the music is too loud.
he needs air.
her cries of desperation are nothing more than background noise— swallowed by the chaos around him— as he flees away. he maneuvers his way through the crowd— which parts itself for him— shoving away anyone who had the misfortune of not sensing his presence in time.
he immediately fills his lungs with fresh air once he steps outside. his ears ring— trying to get used to the now quieter environment, with only dull sounds of the havoc inside— as he sits on the concrete step.
sukuna is sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands— thumbs slowly rubbing into his temples— trying to relieve the headache that has grown throughout the night.
lost in the moment, he doesn't detect the presence behind him lurking closer till they're sat beside him.
“you’re quiet today”, he remarks.
sukuna peeks through his fingers and shifts his gaze to the person, briefly scanning his features and recognizing toji.
he grunts in response, not finding the energy to actually say something.
“you good?”, toji questions.
“yeah”, sukuna replies, “s’just…”, he trails off for a moment, his attention drifting to the lawn in front of him, “too loud.”
toji scoffs at that, “loud? dude, you're the source of that normally.”
sukuna doesn't reply to that. no— he can’t reply to that. what is he supposed to say? he questions as well why he can't find comfort in a place he usually strives in. in a place where he's supposed to strive in— where it's expected from him.
it’s silent for a beat, both men staring into the lawn. the breeze of the night slightly making their skin prickle.
“you’ve been off for a while”, toji interrupts the silence.
sukuna doesn't respond again.
“is it that girl?”, toji aks.
sukuna turns his way at that, his raised eyebrow seeking toji to elaborate.
“from the closet”, toji continues, “i’ve seen you eyeing her on campus.”
is it you? the girl whose name he doesn't even know yet?
“you should just talk to her if she got you daydreaming and shit”, toji advises with a grin.
“shut up”, sukuna groans in response and nudges his shoulder.
toji chuckles, “you didn't deny it.”
“fuck off”, sukuna grunts, avoiding tojis gaze as he feels heat crawling up his neck.
.
you feel a lot more composed than last week.
well, a part from that one time you almost lost your footing and nearly ate the concrete of the pavement when you saw sukuna on the way to the library. but you calmed down— you think. they were already laughing when they rounded the corner so there's no way the cause was actually you— at least that's what you've been telling yourself.
you stroll your way through campus— mentally preparing yourself for another week after the short-lived weekend— trying to enjoy the morning, though you can't help but wish that you could've slept in and skip the morning altogether.
you haven't been keeping track of when your last encounter with sukuna was. which is a little surprising since that's all you're stressing yourself about— seeing him again. you haven't seen him around campus after the library incident and you don't plan on doing so. your guard is still up, but your shoulders aren't as tense anymore— your hands can rest after clenching them for too long— and the people around you can relax because your expression resembles a human being again.
you stop in front of the class shoko is currently in— planning on having a quick bite with her on your shared break. she texted you a few minutes ago that her lecture is nearing its end.
as you wait for her, you can't help but let out a low, relieved sigh. it feels like you can finally breathe again.
you've finally accepted that the dream you clung to all week— that there would be more after that kiss with sukuna— was never meant to come true.
it’s funny really. while you were doing everything in your power to avoid him— and succeeding at that— you’ve been secretly wishing that it meant more to him. the way it did to you. you hoped that he couldn’t forget that night. hoped he was replaying it in his head the same way you were.
just because you were hoping for more doesn't mean you'll initiate anything ever again though…
or stop avoiding him…
just the thought of seeing him again gives you goosebumps.
what if he'd point at you and laugh… and then everybody in proximity joins and you'd be forced to flee the building because everybody is pointing and laughing…
maybe you should start searching for an apartment? preferably somewhere far away where you can start a new life with a new identity.
no. don’t be dramatic. It's not that deep.
he probably forgot about it already.
even if you'd fail at avoiding him he'd probably not even recognize you! that single eye contact from last week doesn't mean he recognized you! or remembered you shamelessly throwing yourself at him!
who even are you? just another body amongst all the others. no one special. no one remarkable. and definitely not someone worth remembering.
“hey.”
so about that apartment— and starting a new life— and the new identity—
were you going crazy at last?
there's no way you just heard sukunas voice.
and it's even more impossible that it was directed at you.
you didn't sense the sudden shift in the atmosphere because you were already stressed as it is.
he's right behind you, isn't he?
you slowly turn around— trying to appear normal and unaffected. fuck it’s getting hot. and youre not even fully turned around yet! are you sweating? are you red?
meeting eyes with sukuna felt like looking at your own death— horrifying and inevitable. but somehow also irresistible.
every instinct screams at you to look away. his ruby-colored eyes are sharp enough to wound, but alluring— making the thought of bleeding out sound peaceful.
his gaze roots you into place, daring you to move a single muscle. is he here to cuss you out? to tell you he has been sick ever since that night because what you did was absolutely disgusting?
no. he doesnt look disgusted. he doesnt look delighted to be here yet you can't help but feel like his eyes are somewhat— gentle?
wait. he greeted you.
you were just about to open your mouth— already begging your voice not to crack— when you remembered that you're supposed to be mute.
what now? just— smile.
you try smiling at him. are you smiling too much? you're beaming aren't you. okay— just tone it down a little. smile just enough to be polite— to greet him back— not to seem like you're desperate for his presence.
sukuna feels his hands sweating at the absolute unamused look you're giving him. is he that weird for greeting you? you look like you've never seen him before. so is he the only one that cannot get that damn kiss out of his head? he doesn't even know what made him approach you. you were just standing there and his legs moved before he could decide— let alone ask himself if he should come up to you. now that he's in front of you, after days of wanting to be here, he has no idea what to say. maybe ask you what your fucking name is? he’s out here pissed off whenever you cross his mind— so basically like, all the damn time— yet he doesn’t even know your fucking name.
he’s not a fucking virgin. he can flirt with women. he can have a conversation with women. even if he has no idea what to say he could come up with something on the spot to swoon them— but that look you're giving him? still arrogant, still dismissing him, still looking like he's not worth a second of your day. fuck. what can he say in order for you to actually want to give him your time of the day?
did you do something wrong? are you smiling too much? are you standing weird? is something on your face? why the fuck is sukuna just standing there. you can't help but admire his figure. you want to feel him against you again. you want to bite his mouth watering biceps. is it snowing outside? because why else would he not wear his tight fitting, slutty shirts? shit, you're starring.
sukuna watches you eye him from head to toe and this might be the first time he feels an ounce of insecurity. he should’ve worn something tighter so he could’ve shown off how strong he is. flexing his arms and puffing out his chest should work for now.
wait. why is he trying to show off? he knows he's attractive and there's no way you think otherwise. even if he’s not your type, you’ll have to admit that he’s hot as fuck. shit. forget his fucking appearence he must look like a fucking moron just standing here after saying hey and nothing else—
your eyes flick back to his. why isn't he saying anything? was the greeting even aimed at you? fuck, did he mean someone behind you and you turned around like a dumbass—
sukuna feels his chest tighten when you turn around. are you really gonna walk away before he got the chance to ask for your name? his words are stuck in his throat and the door you're standing at opens right as he is about to stammer his question out. the creak of the door tenses his shoulders up and the stream of people leaving the lecture hall makes his ears ring. you give him one last look over your shoulder after spotting shoko, already walking toward her direction and dismissing him once again. you’re not even two steps away when you turn your attention away from him and toward your friend. the hands he was about to reach out for you with clenches on his sides. did he manage to catch your attention in the first place? or was he just an inconvenience— a fly you couldn't shake off?
sukuna exhales— his signature scowl back in place— stepping away before others think he's running after you— or worse— before he feeds your ego by resembling a fan who’s begging for an autograph. the ryomen sukuna trying to stop a chick from walking away from him— disregarding him completely— for her name? he scoffs at himself. right. its not like he was interested in you or anything. he was just… trying to put a name on a minor inconvenience that managed to develop into a major nuisance because… because… why is he so fucking pissed off? lack of knowledge. that’s it. who wouldnt be annoyed at someone— more than they’re worth being annoyed about— when they have no fucking idea who that person is?
shoko thinks she might've forgotten her pants in the lecture hall by the look on your face as you're approaching her. your eyes look like they're about to pop out and bounce around the hallway. after a quick scan of her legs, she silently questions what happened by lifting one eyebrow. an equally distraught face appears on her once she registers who's merely six inches behind you.
you speed walk toward her and grip her arm once she's in reach, turning her around immediately and pushing her forward.
“did he see you?”, shoko asks impatiently.
you don’t answer. terrified that sukuna might still be in earshot to hear you. after rounding three corners, shoko stops you from walking any further. she holds both your arms, hard, leaning into your face and asks you again, “did he see you?”
“worse”, you whisper.
“the fuck do you mean worse—”
“he said hey.”
a moment of silence passes.
shoko stands upright again. her grip on your arms loosens a bit, “are you sure you didn't imagine that—”
“yes i’m sure— the fuck!—”, you stop yourself from shouting, exhaling and looking around again. “yes”, you repeat yourself, “i’m sure.”
“huh”, shoko releases your arms completely. she furrows her eyebrows, tongue pressed into her cheek, deep in thought. shoko briefly leaves reality to have a conversation with her two brain cells. the lightbulb lights up and once her eyes focus on you again, she smirks.
“what are you grinning about?”, you have to hold yourself back from wiping that smile off her face because she's the whole reason this happened!
“he wants you so bad”, shoko drawled.
“that’s your conclusion after zoning out for ten minutes?— hey!”, she skips away before you can give her a piece of your mind, or well, piece of your fist against her face.
.
at this point, you're used to holding your tongue and examining every location you step into for pink hair. you’ve lost sense of time a long time ago and accepted that this is your new reality. the anxiety in your stomach is still present, but it's not moving all over your body anymore. it’s there, turning and stirring with every corner you turn. though it has become something you're accustomed to. your last crossing with sukuna has calmed your nerves. even if you're not sure what his deal was, it felt as if he's not as repulsed by you as you thought he'd be. you’re back at square one, avoiding him because you're supposed to be mute and not because you threw yourself at him. since he doesn't seem to be fazed by the latter, staying out of his way shouldn't be a problem, no?
wrong.
you really have to stop waiting for shoko and let her wait for you for once, because waiting by her lecture hall is not an option any more.
sukuna isn't someone who second-thinks his actions. most of his actions are either done deliberately— thought through and done with reason, so there's no reason to second-guess those— or he does them without thinking, because they're not worth pondering about. everything he does lands where he wants it to or he simply doesn't care where it does. as a result, he doesn't feel shame or guilt. he doesn’t lay in his bed, late at night, tired as fuck but unable to sleep because his brain is replaying his mistakes. well except… every night since your last interaction.
can he even call it an interaction when his throat was clogged with words he couldn't express? sukuna doesn't remember the last time he was just as embarrassed. he had his perks when no one had the guts to humiliate him. except his own conscience, that is.
he has to learn to control his legs, since they seem to wander before he decided to do so. because even though he can't blink without seeing your ice-cold gaze, he finds himself in front of you again. but this time, he's set on winning.
“hey”, sukuna calls out to you, copying your stance in front of you by leaning against the same wall. you notice him— the focus on your phone in your hands gone— momentarily staring at his shoes before your eyes slowly move their way up his body.
sukuna relished in being called a womanizer, but in front of you he might as well be a virgin, fearing— knowing that he'll stutter and fall over his words once he opens his mouth.
the moment you see a shadow creeping in front of you from your peripheral vision, you're on high alert. a heavy weight settles over you— pressing against your lungs— yet you opt to ignore it till the shadow announces its presence. sadly it doesn't get better, because even though your nerves were screaming at you, warning you that it's most likely the one person you don't want it to be, he opens his mouth. same hey from last time. you take your time in looking up, maybe he'll disappear before you meet his gaze, but no. he's still here. sukuna. again. in front of you. leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, biceps flexing so deliciously that you have to strain your eyes not to linger on them for too long. his scarlet eyes are already fixated on you, yet to your surprise, he’s wearing a cocky smirk this time.
sukuna will win your heart this time. not that he needs it. or wants it. you’re just as unamused as last time. maybe even more, he can't read you. but that doesn't matter, soon your heart will be on your sleeve and he'll see the adoration you have for him twinkle in your eyes.
you can't hold eye contact for the life of you. and it's especially hard when the person the pair of eyes belongs to has so many other qualities that you can stare at.
your eyes betray you by starting to trail the tattoos that decorate his handsome face. starting from his forehead, pausing momentarily at the glinting of his eyebrow piercing, they continue their path along his cheekbones, down to his chin. your number one regret in life will probably be that you never got the chance to trail his tattoos with your tongue. ending the journey at his chin, your eyes find a new point of focus. his lips. his lips which look so undeniable soft that you’d kill to taste them right now.
“we’ve been bumpin’ into each other a lot”, he smirked, concealing his nervousness. who starts a fucking conversation like that? you don't seem to recognize him, why did he say out loud that he noticed you? he's trying to be nonchalant, fighting his legs to not lose his footing by leaning against this wall. why is the ground so slippery? his toes try clawing at the floor to hold himself upright. he feels himself slowly sliding further away from the wall, soon he'll be eye level with you—
oh?
sukunas smirk grows. you're practically gaping at his mouth. so he's not alone in wanting to relive that kiss? he stands upright, abandoning the wall, edging closer to you without making it too obvious. his nostrils flare, hit by the faint scent of your perfume. your gaze stays fixated on his lips, which he wets instinctively. pumped with new-found confidence, sukuna continues talking, “so, what's your name?”
you were so captivated by the movement of his mouth, the brief appearance of his tongue, that you didn’t realize that you’re probably drooling, but also the fact that sukunas been talking and you haven’t heard a single word. you freeze. did he notice? he did, didn’t he? he probably thinks you're a creep. who stares at someone's mouth for so long? what should you do? maybe if you stare longer it’ll look like you zoned out? yeah, if you flick your eyes up too quick it’ll seem like you’re caught. just look a little longer and then you can slowly move your eyes back to his—
his composure falters when he notices the furrow in your brows and the evident concentration on your face. does he have something in his teeth? why are you so focused on his lips?—
oh.
the realization hits him like a train.
are you reading his lips? trying to decipher what he's saying?
his thought-process is interrupted by a slap on his shoulder, accompanied with a too cheerful and familiar voice. “what’s up, my man”, gojo practically shouts in his ears and drapes his arm over sukunas shoulder. sukunas instant reply is shoving him off, harsher than usual with the current situation. his attention slips away from you and directs itself to the other man for a moment. big mistake. “fuck off”, he growls. gojo is oblivious to the frustration raging through sukunas veins. he stares at gojo with narrowed eyes, his snarl exposing his sharp canines, but gojo still lingers with an unfazed stance. sukunas hate for the man grows with his seemingly impeccable timing. does he have to ruin the fucking moment? and right when he finally stood in front of you!—
sukuna turns to you again but is only met with the emptiness of the spot where you stood mere seconds ago.
you fled the scene once gojo made his appearance. you were unsure if you were supposed to wait for sukuna, so you decided that waiting there awkwardly— risking that sukuna may forget your presence entirely or find it amusing that you’re waiting for him— sounded scarier than bolting. so bolting you did.
.
later that day— as sukuna is laying on his bed, head resting on one arm, phone forgotten on his desk— he recounts the details of your encounter. while he's trying not to cringe at another failure of charming you, he starts to rummage through his memory to find more reasons to add to the possibility of you being deaf.
of course, there's the fact of you presumably reading his lips today. and also— you never reacted when he called out to you. today— you didn't immediately look up when he greeted you— you looked up once you saw his feet and worked your way up from there—
before that too— it took you forever to turn around, he was already preparing himself to repeat himself— is that why you walked away? you didn't hear him say ‘hey’ after all and his stupid ass didn't open his mouth again once you had set your eyes on him— how were you supposed to know he was trying to talk to you and not just standing around?
“so that's why shoko was typing on her phone for her…”, he mutters to himself, the seemingly unimportant memory of the party fully confirming his hypothesis.
your immovable expression of boredom makes way more sense now. your expression didn't waver after he growled at you for running into him— which makes sense since you didn't detect the threat in his voice. you were unamused when he approached you in the hallway because who wouldn't be? he'd probably be annoyed too if someone came up to him and tried communicating in a language he didn't understand—
connecting one point that spoke in your defence to the other made sukuna completely dismiss the possibility of you simply having no desire to be face to face with him.
“fuck it”, he sighs out as he stands up to grab his phone.
.
fuck shoko. sukunas second attempt at— cursing you out, probably?— yesterday made you unable to get a single wink of sleep last night. you’ll never wait for her again.
“ughhh—”, shoko drags out as you're locking your dorm room, “pleaseee wait for me before lunch—”
“I already told you no”, you pocket your keys.
“but todays different!”, she joins your strides as you start walking toward the elevator. “I share the course with satoru, you know how he is—”, she presses the button, “he’ll take me walking out alone as an invite to join me. I really, really—”, she takes the elevators chime as her cue to inhale deeply, “reallyyy.. can't handle his rambling today.”
“oh come on”, you step into the elevator, “he has his own friends im sure he’ll spare you—”
“NO”, she punches the elevator button aggressively, just as you were about to, making you flinch away, “I can't risk it pleasee— my social battery can't handle him today—”
“your social battery seems fully charged to me…”
“i’ll be quick!”, she holds your arms, “i promise i’ll sprint out the hall—”
how long can you deny those puppy eyes? you sigh out, “shoko. babe. i love you but for the sake of my blood pressure, I cannot see sukuna again.”
“you won't", she whispers without a shadow of doubt, “i’ll leave that hall so fast he won't have the chance to gang up on you again.”
“shoko—”
the elevator door opens but shokos still holding you in place.
“i’ll do the dishes for a week.”
you don’t budge.
“two weeks.”
her arms fall as you start walking out of the elevator.
“fine!”, she slightly jogs to catch up to you, “a month.”
“...deal”, you begrudgingly give in.
“bitch..”
“what was that? not waiting for you sounds awfully good right now..”
“nothing!”
"that's what I thought.”
there's a short-lived silence between you as you both leave the dormitory.
“i hope sukuna comes up to you again—”
you wince in sudden panic, your head turning her way, "don't say that!”
"i'm joking!"
.
it feels like escaping a month of dishes is not worth the anxiety you feel as you're waiting for shoko. again.
you close your eyes, focusing on taking deep breaths in hope of slowing down your racing heart. the thumping quietens down slowly as you try to compose yourself.
what are the chances of sukuna seeking you out a third time? ‘can’t be that high’, you think to yourself, even as you feel a familiar tension settling between your shoulder blades.
you open your eyes.
greeted by a scrumptious pair of pecs confirms that the chances are indeed that high.
a broad, muscular torso fills your vision. your eyes immediately register the dark ink on his wrists.
is there even a point in looking up? you can't just pass down on the chance to directly look at his ravishing face though. even if you by absolutely no means wanted this to happen. of course.
looking up at the towering 6’3 wall of muscle, the part of you which isn’t currently cursing out shoko, wonders if this is the outcome of a good deed or if you were some kind of evil queen in your last life.
sucking up knowledge was never a problem for sukuna. learning new things and using them to his advantage was always a skill he was proud of. he rarely had problems with his studies. he wasn’t a genius by any means— yet he quickly understood what was needed, even if it was a night before a life-altering exam.
so why is he— even after memorizing and practicing for way longer than he needed— nervous about forgetting everything and fucking up once you gaze back into his eyes?
you watch his adams apple bop. what the actual fuck does he want from you? did he find out that you're not mute and is here to give a piece of his mind?
sukuna watches you slightly tilt your head in question. ‘cute’, he can't help but slightly smirk at the sight. now that he's sure he's got your attention—
‘third times the charm’, sukuna thinks to himself. he raises both of his hands, palms facing upward, and starts gently shaking them side to side simultaneously.
‘what’
then he pushes his dominant hand, palm facing you, toward you.
‘your’
he extends his index and middle finger on both hands, keeping them pressed together. and by tapping one pair on the other—
‘name’
— he completes his question.
you’re left utterly confused and speechless by sukunas movements. why is he throwing up gang signs? and what the fuck are you supposed to do? is he doing some kind of ritual? you did hear of some rumors that he used to be some four-armed two-faced demon-king—
did he fuck it up? he can feel sweat building up on his body as a torturous heat settles upon his insides. you're just staring at him—
oh he's stupid. how the fuck are you supposed to answer— that’s the only thing he can sign, for now, he won’t understand if you sign back—
a shout of your name interrupts you both.
you immediately snap your head toward a frantic shoko, who's currently running in your direction.
sukuna copies you, somewhat mad at whoever decided to steal your attention from him once again— only to see the same reason. shoko. fuck her— though he has to appreciate her this time because he finally learned your name.
are you supposed to hate or love shoko? “hey sukuna”, she throws a nervous laugh his way, “have to steal my friend here from you”, she could start a rap career with the speed she's talking with right now, “bye.”
you're dragged away in one swift, blurring motion. sukuna is once more left wondering if the last five minutes really happened.
he silently breathes your name out to himself. it feels right on his tongue, like a poem he had memorized in a past life, begging to be vocalized again.
.
you shouldn't feel so comfortable— sitting in a public library, having an active conversation with shoko— while a certain salmon-haired hottie could walk past any moment and recognize you. yet you cannot help yourself, finding the topic way too amusing, even if said topic was about the key factor of your fight-or-flight response working overtime.
“i swear to god she started throwing a temper tantrum on the middle of the fucking dance floor”
“you have to be exaggerating”, you remark between laughs, “stomping around and whining?”
“the whole thing! i’m pretty sure she shed some tears! and for what?— because sukuna wouldn't dance with her?”
“i did not expect yorozu to be this obsessed over him”
“you don't even know half of it”, shoko said in a harsh whisper, trying to respect the rules of the library, “i heard she's been running after him since high school.”
“since highschool?!”, you gasped, amused.
“some say she only applied here because of him”
“from what I heard from you, I wouldn't be surprised if that's true”, you mused.
“real”, she puffs out, “poor guy. if i didnt know better i’d even go as far and say he looks terrified when she’s in the same room”
“I cannot imagine him looking terrified”, you try envisaging it for a second, “terrifying? definitely.”
“pfft— you're giving him too much credit.”
“you know damn well—”
“anyway get this”, she leans closer to you, “the reason yorozu threw herself at him— ignoring the fact that she always does…”, she veered off briefly, “was because sukuna apparently pushed some girl off the couch at a party and yorozu swore up and down that he did it because he's in love with her”
“no fucking way”, you comment, blinking in disbelief.
“yes fucking way!”
a shiver suddenly drips down your back. the abrupt drop in temperature forms a rope of unease in your stomach.
“I honestly wish I could be as delusional as her—”
“hey”, you interrupt shoko, “it’s cold as fuck”
“not really, no”, she shrugs.
you blame some open window on the sudden drop in temperature, not recognizing the piercing presence a mere bookshelf away.
₍^. .^₎Ⳋ [ a/n ] BRO I FUCKING REALIZED THAT HERES NO SPACING BETWEEN SCENES LIKE THERES SUPPOSED TO BE I HAD TO REEDIT IT and there isnt spacing in chapter 1 either... IM GONNA CRY... whats your fav curse word? probably fuck.... yall hate to break it to you but chapter 3 will probably take a while.. i have exams coming up and tbh the only reason i managed to update so fast is because i only had to write the last two scenes, since i originally planned on publishing the whole story at once and had half of it written already. sorry in advance for the wait (｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)
ANYWAY HOPE YOU LIKED THE CHAPTER !! tysm for all the likes, comments and reblogs ilysm (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
dont be shy to leave more (｡>\\<)
[ taglist ] @vvkitty @sailormarsinanotherlife @sukusdoll @catkuna @sugar333angel @l1v1ngzomb1e @gqiulia @chiunpy @nansoii @itaqori @moonsquid49 @soupywuppy @bathingape00 @ehlaaa @p3talswayingindesun @inlovewsukuna @crystallineterrorlibrarian @babyskald24 @riimyn @belov3d-blak3 @minasuniverse @bakedpotato12 @underratedmage @hanootnoot @piercddprincess @rockssweetsmell im not sure if the tagging worked for everyone since some didnt show up when i searched the user i have no idea how tumblr works sorry guys if it didnt work
SYNOPSIS: An Olympic figure skater is forced to share an apartment with a tattoo artist who wants nothing to do with her—and somehow, they start to fit. What begins as a temporary arrangement turns into quiet routines, sharp tension, and something neither of them is ready to lose.
WORD COUNT: 17.6k
The smoke didn’t roar. It crept.
It slid through the vents of your luxury high-rise like an unwelcome rumor, carrying the sharp, chemical bite of burnt plastic and insulation. By the time the alarms finally screamed, you were already awake. Years of 5 a.m. training had rewired your body to sense disaster before it fully arrived.
Your manager, Haru, burst into your apartment less than two minutes later, hair sticking up on one side, tie askew. “Fire in the mechanical room. Grab your skates and documents. Everything else can burn.”
You moved on autopilot. Competition skates first always. Passport, training logs, sponsor contracts, the small bag of skincare you couldn’t live without. The rest of your elegant, perfectly styled life could wait. Within four minutes you were in the lobby with the other residents: some in silk robes, others clutching designer handbags like shields. Camera flashes already flickered beyond the emergency tape outside. Someone had leaked your name.
No one was hurt. The fire was small, contained. But the smoke damage was ruthless. Your apartment. With those cream walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tokyo’s glittering skyline, the minimalist luxury you’d earned after two Olympic cycles was now off-limits for months. Renovations, they said. Air quality testing. Legal bullshit.
You stood on the sidewalk at 2:17 a.m. in leggings, an oversized team Japan hoodie, and a black mask, watching the controlled chaos. Your body ached from evening practice. Your mind was already spiraling toward the upcoming Grand Prix series. This was the last thing you needed.
Haru paced nearby, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes… private, secure, no media presence. She can’t be photographed coming and going from a hotel every day.” A pause. “Above a tattoo shop? Are you serious?” Another pause. “Fine. We’ll take it. Send the address.”
He hung up and gave you the look you hated most. The one that said this is damage control. “Temporary housing is sorted. It’s… unconventional. But the landlord owed a favor. Second-floor apartment above a tattoo studio in a quiet neighborhood. Two bedrooms. You’ll have your own space. The guy who lives there is apparently reliable enough.”
You were too exhausted to argue. “As long as its quiet and no one knows I’m there.”
The cab ride was silent. Tokyo blurred past, neon signs bleeding into wet streets from an earlier drizzle. You kept your hood up and mask on, staring at your reflection in the window. Elegant on the ice. Hollow off it. You barely recognized the woman looking back.
The building was narrower than you expected, tucked between a late-night ramen stall (still steaming) and a closed flower shop. The ground floor windows were blacked out, dominated by a blood-red neon sign that read MALEVOLENT in sharp, aggressive strokes. A metal staircase ran up the side of the building to the second floor.
You dragged your suitcase up alone. Each clack of the wheels felt deafening in the quiet alley. Haru had promised to handle the rest of your things tomorrow. Right now, you just wanted a bed and silence.
The door opened before your knuckles could touch it.
Ryomen Sukuna stood there like the building had grown him out of its bones.
Tall. Broad. Shirtless beneath an open black button-down that hung loose on his shoulders, revealing a canvas of black ink: snarling beasts, tribal patterns, sharp lines that crawled across his chest, down his arms, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. His hair was a messy pinkish-red, sticking up like he’d run his hands through it after waking. His crimson eyes narrowed, unimpressed which locked onto you immediately.
“You’re the skater,” he stated, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged over gravel and left there.
You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle. “And you’re… my temporary landlord?”
“Something like that.” He stepped aside with obvious reluctance, arms crossing over his chest. The motion made the ink on his forearms shift. “Ground rules. Shoes off at the door. Don’t touch my equipment. Don’t blast that classical skating music at full volume. Thermostat stays where I fucking set it. You’re gone most of the day, right?”
You wheeled the suitcase inside. “Training starts early. I’ll be out of your hair.”
The apartment hit you all at once.
It was sparse in a way that felt deliberate. A large black leather couch faced a massive TV. Sketchbooks and loose sheets of tattoo designs covered the low table. One expensive-looking coffee maker gleamed on the kitchen counter like the only luxury item allowed. A single plate, one bowl, and one pair of chopsticks sat drying on the rack. A motorcycle helmet rested on the entry shelf like a silent threat. The place smelled of antiseptic, strong coffee, and something woodsy.
Sukuna closed the door behind you with a solid click. Not a slam, but the sound still carried weight.
“Bedroom on the left is yours. Mine’s on the right. Bathroom’s shared, don’t leave your glitter shit everywhere.” He eyed you again, slower this time. Something flickered behind the irritation. Maybe mild surprise at how small and drained you looked under the harsh hallway light. Dark circles. Tense shoulders. The kind of exhaustion that sponsors paid you to hide.
You tried for politeness. Media training kicked in automatically. “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice. I really appreciate it. I’ll keep to myself.”
Sukuna snorted softly. “You’d better.” He scratched the back of his neck, tattoos rippling. “Fridge has beer and curry. Don’t touch the good coffee beans.”
His bedroom door shut a moment later.
You stood in the quiet for a long beat, then exhaled. This man lives like a criminal raccoon, you thought, staring at that single lonely plate again.
Still, the guest room was clean. The bed looked soft. And for the first time in what felt like years, no one was waiting for a statement, a smile, or a perfect triple Axel.
You collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed, mask still on.
Through the thin wall, you heard the low murmur of a TV, something about tattoo history, before it clicked off. Then silence.
Sleep took you fast, heavy and dreamless.
For the first time in months, you didn’t set an alarm.
You woke up convinced you had fallen asleep inside a meat locker.
The air was frigid. Your breath puffed visibly in the pale morning light filtering through the blinds. The guest room’s thin blanket felt like tissue paper. You checked your phone, it was 4:58 a.m., you let out a groan. Training started in less than an hour, but first you needed to regain feeling in your toes.
Padding into the hallway in thick socks and an oversized hoodie, you found the thermostat glowing mockingly at 16°C. You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers pushed the temperature up to 22°C with quiet defiance.
Sweet, blessed warmth began to hum through the vents minutes later while you brushed your teeth. Victory tasted like mint toothpaste.
Then the front door slammed.
You froze mid-brush. Heavy footsteps. The sound of keys hitting the entry table. Sukuna had apparently just gotten home from whatever nocturnal tattoo-artist activities he engaged in. You heard him pause in the hallway. A low, dangerous grunt. Then the unmistakable click of the thermostat being forcibly returned to 16°C.
You marched out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in your mouth, and stared at his broad back. He was shirtless again. His black sweatpants riding low, fresh ink on his shoulder looking irritated and shiny, probably from a new piece he’d been working on.
“Cold-blooded?” you asked around the toothbrush.
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder. Crimson eyes dragged over your messy bed-head and fuzzy socks with zero amusement. “I run hot. You run cold. Natural selection says I win.”
You walked past him, reached up, and turned it back to 21°C. Compromise. Your arm brushed his side. The warm skin, hard muscle, the faint scent of antiseptic soap and cedar. He didn’t move away.
“Touch it again,” he said slowly, voice low and rough with exhaustion, “and I’ll hide the entire unit. Good luck finding it, princess.”
You met his gaze. “I have four Olympic cycles of discipline and spite. Try me.”
Something almost like amusement flickered across his face before it disappeared behind the usual scowl. He snorted and headed toward his room. “Whatever. Just don’t crank it so high the walls sweat.”
You finished getting ready in record time, layering up for the cold rink. When you emerged again, Sukuna was in the kitchen pouring pitch-black coffee into a mug that read “Die Mad About It” in chipped white letters. He didn’t offer you any. You didn’t ask.
As you laced up your sneakers by the door, he spoke without turning around.
“There’s a spare key on the counter. Don’t lose it. I’m not waking up at 3 a.m. to let your glittery ass in again.”
You pocketed the key. “Noted. Thanks.”
He made a noncommittal sound.
The rest of your day was the usual blur: ice, sweat, repetition, coach’s critiques, sponsor calls during breaks, forced smiles for the rink’s social media team. By the time you returned to the apartment at 6:15 p.m., your body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry.
The place smelled unexpectedly good. Faint smell of garlic and soy, something fried. Sukuna was at the stove, back to you once again, stirring a pan with precise flicks of his wrist. Still no shirt. You were starting to wonder if he owned any.
You set your bag down quietly. “Didn’t know you cooked.”
“I don’t cook for guests,” he replied flatly. “I cook because I’m hungry. Made extra by accident. Eat or don’t. I don’t care.”
A plate slid across the counter toward you: rice, perfectly seared chicken, stir-fried vegetables, and a fried egg with a runny yolk. Simple. Arrogantly good-looking. Exactly one set of chopsticks beside it.
You stared at the plate, then at the single plate still drying from earlier on the rack.
“You only own one plate,” you observed.
“Two now,” he corrected. “Bought a spare when I heard I was getting a roommate. Don’t get used to it.”
You sat on the stool and took a bite. It was unfairly delicious. Warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the thermostat.
Sukuna leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that unnerving silent intensity. He noticed everything. The way you winced when you shifted your weight, the exhaustion etched under your eyes, how quickly you were devouring the food like you’d forgotten to eat all day.
“Rough practice?” he asked. Not kindly. Just… observing.
“Triple Axel still isn’t clean,” you muttered between bites. “Coach wants it perfect by next week.”
Sukuna grunted. “You people just spin in circles and hope judges like the way you land. Sounds stupid.”
You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” A smug smirk tugged at his mouth. “Aggressive ice dancing for points. At least in my line of work, people choose the pain.”
You set your chopsticks down, staring at him in disbelief. The sheer audacity. “I’d like to see you land a quad jump after doing it for twelve hours straight.”
“I’d like to see you sit still for six hours while someone lets me stab them with needles,” he shot back, but there was no real heat in it. More like dry entertainment.
You ate the rest of the meal in charged silence, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. When you finished, you washed your plate and set it to dry next to his singular original one.
Sukuna watched the entire process without comment.
Later that night, after you’d showered and done your extensive skincare routine (products inevitably spreading across the bathroom counter), you stretched in the narrow hallway at 11:30 p.m. Legs extended in a split against the wall, breathing through the deep pull in your hamstrings.
You didn’t hear Sukuna approach until his voice cut through the quiet.
“You’re going to wear a hole in my floor doing that at midnight.”
You glanced up. He was leaning in his doorway, fresh from a shower, towel slung low around his hips, hair damp. More ink on display than usual.
“Flexibility is part of the job,” you replied, switching sides.
He made a low sound. “Try doing it somewhere I don’t have to step over you.”
But he didn’t move. He just watched for another few seconds, then retreated into his room without another word.
You lowered into the stretch further, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
This was going to be a long few months.
The single plate situation was becoming a problem.
By day four of your stay, the lone original plate had been joined by its temporary sibling, but the kitchen still operated like a minimalist war zone. Every time you cooked (or attempted to), Sukuna would hover nearby with crossed arms, watching you use “his” counter space like you were committing a minor felony.
This morning was no exception.
You had woken up at 4:45 a.m. again, your body clock was unforgiving. Now decided to make a proper breakfast before heading to the rink. Rice, miso soup from a packet, grilled salmon, and some quick tamagoyaki. The smells filled the small apartment, warm and savory. You were humming softly to yourself, still half-asleep, when Sukuna emerged from his room like a disgruntled bear.
He stopped in the doorway, hair messy, wearing only black sweatpants. His eyes narrowed at the two plates on the counter.
“You’re using both plates,” he observed.
“One for you, one for me,” you replied without turning around. “Consider it rent payment.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“You do today.” You slid a plate toward the end of the counter where he usually leaned. “Eat before you go back to sleep or whatever nocturnal creatures do.”
Sukuna stared at the plate for a long second. Then, with a dramatic sigh that could have won awards, he sat down and picked up the chopsticks. He ate in silence, but you caught him taking seconds on the tamagoyaki when he thought you weren’t looking.
Progress. Sort of.
Later that evening, after another brutal practice where your coach had made you repeat the same combination until your vision blurred, you returned to find Sukuna gone. A note that was scrawled in aggressive handwriting on a scrap of flash paper was stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a skull.
Out late. Don’t wait up. And stop buying those stupid expensive face waters. Bathroom looks like a cosmetics store exploded.
You smiled despite yourself. Your skincare had indeed begun its slow, inevitable colonization of the shared bathroom shelf. Serums, creams, patches, and sheet masks lined up like tiny disciplined soldiers. Sukuna’s single bar of soap looked lonely and judgmental beside them.
You took a long shower, letting the hot water ease the screaming muscles in your back and legs. When you came out in soft shorts and a tank top, hair damp, you found Sukuna already home. He was sprawled on the couch, sketching in one of his large books, the TV playing a muted tattoo documentary in the background. A fresh wrap covered part of his left forearm. His new work, probably.
He glanced up. His eyes flicked over your bare legs for half a second before returning to his sketch.
“Practice go to shit?” he asked.
“How could you tell?”
“You have that kicked-puppy look again.”
You flopped onto the opposite end of the couch with a groan, stretching your sore legs across the cushions. Your foot accidentally brushed his thigh. He didn’t move it away.
“It was fine,” you lied. “Just… pressure. Nationals are coming up fast. Sponsors want new content. Media wants interviews. Everyone wants perfection.”
Sukuna flipped a page in his sketchbook. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” You hesitated, then added quietly, “Sometimes I miss when it was just fun. Before it became… this.”
He didn’t respond right away. The scratch of his pencil filled the silence. Eventually he muttered, “Then stop letting other people decide what it means.”
You turned your head to look at him. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have cameras following you everywhere.”
“Neither do you, technically. Yet here you are, hiding in my apartment like a fugitive.”
You laughed softly. It felt strange, it was genuine and tiring, but real.
The next afternoon, the universe decided to test the fragile peace you’d built.
Your manager texted that basic groceries were needed because “you can’t live on takeout and protein bars forever.” Sukuna happened to be heading out for supplies for the shop when you mentioned it.
“We’re going to the same supermarket,” he said gruffly. “Just get in the damn sidecar.”
You blinked. “You have a sidecar?”
“Temporary. Friend’s bike.”
Ten minutes later you were clinging to the sidecar of Sukuna’s motorcycle, helmet slightly too big, oversized hoodie and mask on as camouflage. The wind whipped past as he navigated Tokyo streets with practiced ease. For once, you weren’t thinking about jumps or scores. Just the rumble of the engine and the strange, unexpected freedom.
At the supermarket, the domesticity felt absurd.
Sukuna grabbed meat and beer like a man on a mission. You loaded the basket with vegetables, rice, your fancy oat milk, and an embarrassing amount of skincare-adjacent snacks. An old lady stared at Sukuna’s tattoos, then at you, then back at him. You could practically see the gossip forming in her head.
You bickered in the aisle over pasta sauce.
“You’re buying that weak shit?” Sukuna scoffed, holding up your chosen jar. “This one has actual flavor.”
“It’s not weak, it’s balanced,” you argued, reaching for it.
He held it higher, smirking when you had to jump slightly to try and grab it. “Short.”
“I’m graceful, not tall.”
A teenager nearby snapped a quick photo. You didn’t notice. Sukuna did, but said nothing.
Back at the apartment, you unpacked together in surprisingly comfortable silence. He even let you use both plates again without complaint.
That night, while you stretched in the hallway again, Sukuna paused on his way to the bathroom.
“You know there are photos of us online already,” he said casually.
You nearly pulled a muscle. “What?”
“Some kid at the store. Internet’s calling it a ‘mysterious tattooed boyfriend’ situation.” He shrugged, clearly amused. “They’ll get bored in a week.”
You groaned, pressing your forehead to your knee. “My manager is going to kill me.”
“Or he’ll use it for publicity. Either way, not my problem.” Sukuna’s voice dropped slightly. “You really hate it that much? Being seen with someone like me?”
You looked up at him, surprised by the question. “No. I just… hate the lies they’ll make up. The scrutiny.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then stop reading that shit.”
Easy for him to say. But as he disappeared into the bathroom, you realized something unsettling.
You hadn’t felt this relaxed in someone else’s space in years.
The thermostat war had evolved from childish bickering into something almost ritualistic.
Every morning you crept out of bed before dawn and nudged it up to 21°C. Every evening when Sukuna returned from the shop. Usually smelling of ink, antiseptic, and the faint metallic tang of his motorcycle, he would walk straight to it and knock it back down to 17°C without a word. Neither of you acknowledged the game out loud anymore. It had become a silent conversation: I exist here. So do I.
Tonight, you returned from the rink later than usual. Practice had run long because your coach wanted to perfect a new step sequence for the upcoming competition. Your shoulders burned. Your ankles felt swollen. The cold from the ice had seeped so deep into your bones that even the apartment’s naturally frigid temperature felt almost welcoming.
You pushed the door open at 10:42 p.m. and paused.
Sukuna was on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest. He wasn’t sketching for once. Instead, he was watching something on his phone with the volume low. It was the highlights from your last Grand Prix performance, it looked like. The commentator’s voice faintly praised your “elegance under pressure.”
He didn’t look up as you entered. “You fell on the triple Lutz in the short program.”
You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Thought figure skating was supposed to be graceful. Looked like you were fighting the ice.”
You dropped your bag and shot him a glare. “We are fighting the ice. That’s the entire point, you caveman.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitched. The closest he ever got to a real smile. “Caveman with better taste in entertainment. At least when I stab people they sit still.”
You huffed a tired laugh and headed for the kitchen. True to the new, unspoken routine, there was a plate waiting. Chicken katsu this time, reheated but still crispy, with shredded cabbage and a generous drizzle of sauce. One plate. Yours.
You glanced toward the couch. “You ate already?”
“Hours ago.”
“Liar. You waited.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but didn’t deny it.
You ate standing at the counter, too exhausted to sit properly. Sukuna eventually wandered over, leaning against the opposite side with a fresh mug of coffee. His third of the night, probably. He watched you eat in that quiet, observant way of his. Not staring. Just… noticing.
“You’re favoring your right leg,” he said after a minute.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something.” His crimson eyes narrowed. “You landed weird on that last jump. I saw the clip.”
You paused mid-bite. “You watched my old competitions?”
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Curiosity. You’re living in my apartment. Might as well know what kind of lunatic I let in.”
The words were classic Sukuna but the fact that he’d looked up footage at all felt heavier than it should. You finished the meal in silence, washed the plate, and set it beside his original one. Two plates now lived permanently on the drying rack. A small, ridiculous victory.
Later, after your shower and the inevitable spread of moisturizers across the bathroom counter, you found yourself unable to sleep. The pressure was building again. Nationals were three weeks away. Sponsors had been calling. Social media was already dissecting your every practice video. You slipped into the hallway at 1:15 a.m. in soft shorts and a tank top, pressing your back against the wall and sliding into a deep stretch.
The floor creaked.
Sukuna’s door opened. He stepped out in nothing but black sweatpants, hair messy from whatever half-sleep he’d managed. A fresh tattoo wrap peeked out from his side, he’d been adding to the piece on his ribs again.
“You’re going to wear grooves in my hallway,” he grumbled.
“Helps with the soreness.” You switched legs, breathing through the pull. “Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t. You’re making too much noise existing.”
You expected him to retreat. Instead, he leaned against the wall opposite you, arms crossed over his broad, inked chest. The silence stretched, comfortable in its awkwardness.
After a few minutes, you asked quietly, “Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“People coming in, wanting something permanent on their skin. Wanting you to make them look cool or meaningful or whatever.”
Sukuna was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Sometimes,” he finally said. “But they choose it. They sit through the pain. No one’s forcing them. That’s more honest than most shit in life.”
You lowered yourself further into the stretch. “On the ice… it feels like everyone’s forcing it. The judges. The audience. The sponsors. Even when I win, it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”
He studied you. Really studied you, the exhaustion you couldn’t hide, the way your shoulders curled inward when you talked about skating lately.
“Then stop skating for them,” he said simply.
You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s not that easy.”
“Never said it was easy. Said it was honest.”
The words landed heavier than you expected. You finished your stretch and sat on the floor, knees drawn up. Sukuna didn’t move. For once, the apartment didn’t feel too cold.
Eventually he pushed off the wall. “Come on. Couch. I’ll put something mindless on.”
You followed him without argument. He dropped onto one end of the leather sofa. You took the other, curling your legs beneath you. He flicked on a random action movie. Something loud and stupid with explosions, and turned the volume low.
Halfway through, without looking at you, Sukuna grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over your legs.
“Don’t read into it,” he muttered. “You’re just blocking the screen.”
You smiled into the blanket, small and hidden. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You fell asleep there sometime after 3 a.m., the low rumble of movie gunfire mixing with Sukuna’s steady breathing on the other end of the couch. When you woke briefly at dawn, the blanket was tucked more carefully around you, and Sukuna was gone. Probably retreated to his own bed.
But the thermostat had been left at 20°C.
A truce, maybe.
Or the start of something neither of you wanted to name yet.
The rumor mill had officially spun out of control.
Your phone buzzed incessantly on the kitchen counter while you attempted to eat breakfast. Headlines ranged from “Mystery Tattooed Man Spotted with Olympic Figure Skater: Secret Romance?” to “From Ice Princess to Bad Boy’s Girl? What We Know.” One particularly creative tabloid claimed you’d been seen arguing passionately outside a convenience store over “sauce preferences” which was annoyingly accurate.
Sukuna leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee, reading over your shoulder with zero shame. A smirk tugged at his lips.
“Passionate sauce debate,” he read aloud. “They’re not wrong.”
You groaned, locking your phone. “Haru wants me to ‘lay low’ and ‘avoid public appearances with unknown men.’ Too late for that.”
“Not my problem,” Sukuna said, but there was a glint of amusement in his crimson eyes. “Though if they’re going to call me your boyfriend, I should at least get some perks.”
You nearly choked on your rice. “Perks?”
“Free labor. You can clean the bathroom since your army of bottles conquered it.”
You threw a piece of cucumber at him. He caught it mid-air and ate it without breaking eye contact. The casual domesticity of the moment hit you harder than expected.
Later that afternoon, after a particularly brutal practice where your coach had torn apart your program components, you found yourself walking toward MALEVOLENT instead of straight back to the apartment. Your legs carried you there almost on autopilot. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the early evening light. You hesitated outside for a full minute before pushing the door open.
The shop was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it.
Heavy metal played at a respectable volume. Black walls covered in framed tattoo flash and photography. Three stations were occupied. A heavily pierced woman at the front desk looked up and her eyes widened.
“Oh shit,” she muttered.
The entire shop went still as every artist and client turned to stare.
Sukuna was at the back station, gloved hands working on a large back piece. He glanced up, irritation flashing across his face until he registered it was you. Then the irritation shifted into something closer to resigned surprise.
“The hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice carrying across the shop.
“I… needed to walk. Ended up here.” You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious in your post-practice hoodie and leggings. “Is that okay?”
The pierced woman at the desk whispered loudly, “That’s the figure skater. The Olympic one.”
One of the other artists, a tall guy with a bleached mohawk, dropped his stencil. “No fucking way.”
Sukuna peeled off one glove with his teeth. “All of you, back to work before I kick you out on your asses.” The shop slowly, reluctantly, resumed movement, but the energy had completely changed.
He jerked his head toward a stool near his station. “Sit. Don’t touch anything sterile.”
You sat. The client on his table was a tough-looking man in his thirties who twisted his head to look at you. “Wait, you’re that skater girl? The one who does the spins?”
Sukuna pressed the tattoo machine back to skin with perhaps more pressure than necessary. “Focus on your breathing, not her.”
You watched him work in silence for a while. His hands were steady, precise, almost gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with his personality. The concentration on his face was intense. Every so often he’d glance at you, checking that you were still there.
After twenty minutes, the client took a break. Sukuna wiped down the area and turned fully to you.
“You look like shit,” he said bluntly. “Bad practice?”
“Coach says my edges are lazy. Timing’s off on the combo.” You rubbed your temple. “Everyone’s expecting gold again. No pressure.”
Sukuna made a low sound. One of the other artists walked past carrying supplies and did an obvious double-take at the two of you talking so casually.
Sukuna noticed. “Problem?” he growled.
The artist scurried away.
You smiled faintly. “Your staff looks terrified that you’re being… almost civil.”
“They’ll get over it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. The movement pulled his black t-shirt up, revealing a strip of inked skin at his waist. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
He stood, stripping off the rest of his gloves. “I’m taking thirty. Uraume, watch my station.”
The pierced woman at the front nodded, looking equal parts shocked and delighted.
Ten minutes later you were sitting on the curb outside the shop sharing a bag of takoyaki from the stall down the street. Sukuna ate like he was annoyed at the food for existing, but he kept offering you the best pieces.
“Those idiots in there are going to talk about this for weeks,” he muttered.
“Sorry for ruining your scary reputation.”
“You didn’t ruin it. You’re just… unexpected.” He glanced sideways at you. “Most people who look like you don’t walk into places like this.”
“Places like this?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“Real ones.” He wiped sauce from his thumb with a napkin. “Not the polished bullshit you’re usually stuck in.”
The words settled warmly in your chest. You bumped your shoulder against his arm, just a small, deliberate touch. He didn’t pull away.
When you returned to the apartment that night, the atmosphere felt different. Charged in a quiet way. Sukuna disappeared into his room for a while, then emerged while you were stretching again in the hallway.
He stopped in front of you, crouching suddenly. Before you could ask what he was doing, his hands were on your skate boot, the one you’d left by the door. He examined the laces with a critical eye.
“You tie these like a child,” he grunted. “No wonder your ankles are fucked.”
“I do not—”
He ignored you and began re-lacing with quick, efficient movements, double-looping in places you never thought to. His tattooed fingers looked strangely elegant against the white laces. When he finished, he gave the boot a firm tug and stood up.
“Better tension. Try it tomorrow.”
You stared at him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make it weird.” He headed toward the kitchen. “I’m making curry. You’re eating. No arguments.”
You smiled behind his back, pressing your forehead to your knee to hide it.
Later, as you both stood at the counter eating steaming plates of curry (still only two plates total), Sukuna spoke without looking at you.
“Next time you feel like the rink is going to eat you alive… just come to the shop. Sit in the corner. I won’t bother you.”
You looked up, surprised. He kept his eyes on his food, ears just slightly redder than usual.
“Okay,” you said softly. “I might take you up on that.”
The thermostat remained at a peaceful 19.5°C that night.
Neither of you commented on it.
The apartment was dark when you got home, except for the single lamp in the living room.
It was past midnight. Practice had bled into extra sessions again. Your coach pushing for cleaner landings on the new quad attempt, the federation wanting footage for promotional material, and your own head refusing to let you stop. Your body felt like it had been through a meat grinder. Every muscle screamed. Your right ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent warning that you chose to ignore.
You closed the door as quietly as possible, expecting Sukuna to be asleep or still at the shop. Instead, he was on the couch, one arm slung behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the TV. Some old yakuza movie played on low volume, subtitles flickering across the screen. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table next to an open sketchbook.
He didn’t greet you. Just flicked his gaze over.
“You look like death warmed over,” he said flatly.
“Feel like it too.” You dropped your bag by the door and kicked off your shoes with a wince. “Don’t start.”
Sukuna watched you limp toward the kitchen. You opened the fridge out of habit more than hunger, staring blankly at the contents. The thought of cooking anything felt impossible. Even standing felt optional.
A heavy sigh came from the couch. Then the sound of him getting up.
“Sit,” he ordered, brushing past you. His shoulder bumped yours deliberately. The contact wasn’t hard, it was just enough to steer you toward the couch. “I’ll heat something up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up.”
You collapsed onto the leather with a groan, the cool material heavenly against your overheated skin. The TV flickered with dramatic sword fights while Sukuna moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. Within ten minutes, the smell of reheated chahan and miso reached you. He set a bowl and plate on the low table in front of you. Still the same two plates that now felt like an established fact of life.
“Eat,” he said, dropping back onto his end of the couch. “Or don’t. But if you pass out from starvation I’m not dragging your ass to the hospital.”
You picked up the chopsticks. The food was simple, salty, and perfect. Warmth spread through your chest with every bite. Sukuna pretended to watch the movie, but you caught him glancing sideways every few minutes, tracking the way you favored your right side or how slowly you lifted the spoon for the miso.
When you finished, you set the dishes aside and leaned back, intending to rest your eyes for just a moment before dragging yourself to bed. The exhaustion crashed over you like a wave.
You were out cold in under five minutes.
Sukuna noticed immediately when your breathing evened out. Your head had tipped sideways against the armrest, lips slightly parted, one hand still loosely gripping the edge of the blanket that had been tossed over the back of the couch.
He sat there for a long minute, arms crossed, staring at the TV without seeing it.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t even make it to your own room.”
But he got up anyway. Moved quietly for someone his size. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking it around your legs with careful, almost irritated movements. His tattooed fingers lingered for half a second on the edge near your ankle, where a fresh bruise was already blooming from an imperfect landing.
He noticed the way your brow was still furrowed even in sleep. The faint lines of tension that never fully left your face anymore.
Sukuna stood over you for another moment, jaw tight. Then he grabbed his sketchbook and moved to the armchair instead of his room, turning the TV volume even lower. The movie played on as background noise while his pencil scratched across paper. Quick, rough lines that slowly began to take the shape of a figure mid-spin, blades carving ice, hair whipping with motion.
He didn’t know why he was drawing it. He told himself it was just practice. New subject matter. Nothing more.
You woke up sometime around 3:30 a.m., disoriented and warm. The blanket was tucked tightly around you. A different movie was playing now, something quieter. Sukuna was still in the armchair, head tipped back, eyes closed, and sketchbook resting on his chest.
You watched him for a moment in the low light. The harsh lines of his tattoos looked softer in the lamplight. His usual scowl was absent in sleep, making him look strangely younger.
You carefully got up, folding the blanket and draping it over him instead. He stirred but didn’t wake. You padded to the bathroom, did your nighttime routine on autopilot, then hesitated at the hallway.
On impulse, you turned back, grabbed a spare throw from the closet, and laid it over his lap.
When you finally crawled into your own bed, the apartment felt less like borrowed space and more like something dangerously close to home.
The next morning, neither of you mentioned the blanket situation.
You woke to the thermostat set at a luxurious 20.5°C and the smell of coffee. Sukuna was already up, pouring a second mug as you entered the kitchen in your practice clothes.
He slid the mug toward you without a word. It was exactly how you’d started drinking it since moving in.
You took it. “Thanks.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he grunted, but his ears were faintly red again.
You hid your smile behind the mug.
Later that evening, after another long practice, you returned to find a new addition on the counter: a small tube of bruise balm and a note in Sukuna’s aggressive handwriting.
For the ankle, dumbass. Use it before you ruin your season.
You laughed quietly in the empty apartment, pressing the tube to your chest like it was something precious.
The rumors online were getting worse. Paparazzi photos from the supermarket run had multiplied. Comment sections were a mess of speculation. Your manager had texted three times demanding damage control.
But for the first time in years, when you looked around the sparse apartment with its two plates, single motorcycle helmet, and growing invasion of your skincare products, the pressure felt just a little further away.
The rumors had escalated from “mysterious boyfriend” to full-blown conspiracy theories.
Your manager sent you a collage of screenshots that morning: blurry photos of you and Sukuna at the supermarket, another of you climbing off his motorcycle (sidecar), and one particularly bad angle where he appeared to be looming over you outside the tattoo shop. The internet had decided you were either secretly engaged, pregnant with a “tattooed bad boy’s love child,” or involved in some underground yakuza skating scandal.
You showed Sukuna the messages over breakfast. He was eating actual breakfast now. It was another small surrender to your influence. Just chewing on rice and grilled fish while scrolling through the photos with a bored expression.
“Idiots,” he grunted. “If I was fucking you, they’d know. I don’t do subtle.”
You nearly dropped your chopsticks. Heat flooded your face. “Sukuna.”
“What? It’s true.” He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax, princess. Let them spin their little stories. Keeps them busy.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Haru wants me to issue a statement saying you’re just a ‘friend from the neighborhood.’”
“Tell him to fuck off.” Sukuna pushed his empty plate toward you. The ritual was established now: whoever cooked, the other washed. “Or better yet, tell them I’m your bodyguard. That’ll shut them up for five minutes.”
You ended up doing neither. The rumors continued to simmer.
That evening, the apartment became a battlefield over something far more serious than paparazzi: pasta sauce.
You had claimed kitchen rights after practice, determined to make something that didn’t come from Sukuna’s limited “protein and rice” repertoire. The pot simmered on the stove, filling the space with garlic, tomatoes, and herbs. You stirred with satisfaction, humming under your breath.
Sukuna appeared like a summoned demon, fresh from the shower, towel around his neck, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders.
“What the hell is that weak-ass smell?” He peered into the pot like it had personally offended him. “Where’s the heat? The flavor?”
“It’s balanced,” you defended, adding a pinch of sugar. “Not everything needs to taste like it was marinated in regret and chili oil.”
He reached past you, grabbed the red pepper flakes, and dumped a generous amount in before you could stop him.
“Hey!”
“Now it’s worth eating.” He tasted a spoonful straight from the ladle, ignoring your glare. “There. Actual food.”
You snatched the ladle back. “You ruin everything.”
“You cook like a sponsor-approved robot. Needs soul.” His crimson eyes gleamed with smug challenge. “Admit it tastes better now.”
You tasted it. It did. You refused to admit it out loud.
Dinner was eaten on the couch that night. Your plates balanced on knees, a new comfort level neither of you commented on. Sukuna had put on one of your old competition videos “for research,” he claimed. Every time you landed a jump cleanly, he made a low, unimpressed sound.
“Too safe,” he critiqued during a spin sequence. “You’re holding back on the last combination. I can see it in your shoulders.”
You paused mid-bite. “You don’t know anything about skating.”
“I know body language. You’re tense as fuck. Scared of falling in front of cameras instead of just skating.”
The observation hit too close. You set your plate down. “It’s not that simple. One mistake can cost everything. Sponsorships, national team standing, my entire future—”
“Sounds like shit,” he interrupted. “You’re out there performing for vultures. No wonder you come home looking dead.”
You didn’t have a response. The silence stretched, broken only by the commentators praising your “elegance” on screen.
Sukuna eventually changed the subject by nudging your foot with his. “Eat. You skipped lunch again. I checked your bag.”
“You went through my bag?”
“Looking for the good coffee you keep stealing.” He didn’t even sound apologetic. “Found three protein bars and nothing else. Idiot.”
You ate. The sauce was better with the extra spice.
Later, while you were doing your post-practice stretches in the living room (the hallway had become too small for both of you now), Sukuna sat at the coffee table sketching. The scratch of pencil on paper mixed with your steady breathing. It was strangely soothing.
After a particularly deep hip flexor stretch, you hissed in pain.
Sukuna’s pencil stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Groin pull from that fall last week. Its fine.”
“It’s not fine.” He set the sketchbook aside and moved behind you without asking. His hands pressed against your lower back and hip. “Here?”
You nodded, breath catching at the contact. His fingers dug in with precise pressure, working the tight muscle. Not quite a massage, more like clinical assessment. Still, the heat of his palms soaked through your thin tank top.
“Better form next time,” he muttered. “You twist too much on the landing.”
“You watched the practice footage?”
“Shop was slow. Had time to kill.”
He kept working the knot until the sharp pain eased into a dull ache. Neither of you spoke for a while. When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered a second longer than necessary on your waist.
“Don’t push it tomorrow,” he said gruffly, returning to his sketch. “Or I’ll drag you back from the rink myself.”
You turned to look at him. “Why do you care?”
Sukuna didn’t meet your eyes. “Because if you break yourself, I’ll have to deal with your moping around my apartment. Annoying.”
But the thermostat stayed at 20°C again that night.
And when you woke up briefly at 4 a.m. for water, you found a new tube of muscle balm on the counter next to your skincare bottles, with another note in his sharp handwriting:
Use it, or I’ll do it for you. Don’t test me.
You smiled in the dark kitchen, pressing the tube to your chest the same way you had with the bruise balm days earlier.
The single plate had become two. The thermostat had found compromise. And slowly, painfully, so had the two of you.
The pressure was starting to crack you open.
Nationals were two weeks away. Your coach had added extra ice time. Sponsors wanted exclusive interviews. Your social media handler begged for more “relatable” training content. Every jump felt heavier. Every spin carried the weight of expectations. You were smiling for cameras at the rink and coming home hollowed out.
Sukuna noticed.
He always noticed.
Tonight you returned after 11 p.m. again. The apartment smelled like garlic and sesame oil, Sukuna had cooked. Again. Two plates waited on the counter, covered with upside-down bowls to keep them warm. You ate standing up, barely tasting the stir-fry, your mind still looping through the same flawed combination jump.
When you finished, you didn’t head to the shower like usual. Instead, you drifted toward the small balcony off the living room, sliding the glass door open. The night air was crisp, carrying distant city noise and the faint smell of rain on concrete.
You leaned on the railing, arms wrapped around yourself. The city lights blurred.
The door slid open behind you a few minutes later. Sukuna stepped out, two cigarettes in hand. He didn’t ask if you wanted one, just offered. You rarely smoked, but tonight you took it.
He lit yours first, then his own. The flame illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the black ink crawling up his neck. For a while, you both just smoked in silence, shoulders almost touching.
“You’re getting worse,” he said eventually. No sugarcoating. Just a fact.
You exhaled smoke toward the sky. “Thanks.”
“Not insulting you. Observing.” He tapped ash over the railing. “You come back later every night. Eat like a ghost. Stretch like you’re punishing yourself. That shit on the ice isn’t sustainable.”
You laughed bitterly. “Welcome to elite sport. This is what winning looks like behind the clips.”
Sukuna leaned his forearms on the railing beside you. His presence was solid and warm against the cool night. “I watched more of your old stuff today. You used to skate like you enjoyed it. Now you look like you’re at war.”
The words landed hard. You took another drag, the smoke burning your throat in a way that felt grounding.
“I don’t know how to do it any other way anymore,” you admitted quietly. “It stopped being fun years ago. Now it’s just… proving I’m still worth something. To the federation. To the fans. To myself.”
Sukuna was quiet for a long beat. The cherry of his cigarette glowed.
“People who need you to prove shit constantly aren’t worth the effort,” he said. His voice was low, rough. “They’ll just move on to the next pretty face who spins good when you inevitably burn out.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Is that your idea of comfort?”
“It’s honesty.” He met your gaze, crimson eyes steady. “I don’t do the fake cheer shit. You want pretty lies, go talk to your manager.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I think I prefer the asshole version.”
“Good. Because that’s all I got.”
You finished your cigarette and flicked it into the small ashtray he kept out here. Neither of you moved to go back inside. The city hummed below. For once, the silence between you felt full instead of empty.
After a while, you asked, “Do you ever get lonely up here? Before I showed up, I mean.”
Sukuna snorted. “Lonely? I like the quiet. No one bothering me. No expectations.” He paused, staring out at the skyline. “Didn’t realize how fucking loud quiet could get until you moved in, though.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Loud?”
“You talk to yourself when you stretch. Leave your hair ties everywhere. Make the whole place smell like fancy cream and whatever the hell that face mist is.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Ruined my perfectly good solitude.”
The words were complaining, but the tone wasn’t. There was something almost soft underneath the sarcasm.
You bumped your shoulder against his arm. “Sorry for existing so loudly.”
“Don’t be.” He didn’t move away from the contact. “It’s not the worst thing.”
The balcony light caught the edge of his smirk as he lit another cigarette, offering you the pack again. You declined this time, content to just stand there beside him.
Later, back inside, you ended up on the couch again. Sukuna put on another mindless action movie. You lasted twenty minutes before your head dropped onto the armrest. This time, when you woke up hours later, the blanket was tucked around you properly, and Sukuna had fallen asleep sitting up, one hand resting near your ankle like he’d been checking on the old bruise in his sleep.
You studied his face in the blue glow of the TV. The permanent scowl had smoothed out. The tattoos that usually made him look intimidating now just looked like art on someone who pretended he didn’t care about anything.
You carefully adjusted the blanket over both of you and closed your eyes again.
The next morning, you woke up alone on the couch. A fresh mug of coffee waited on the table with a note:
Rink better not eat you alive today.
There’s leftover stir-fry. Eat it.
— S
You smiled into your coffee, the warmth spreading deeper than usual.
The rumors online had shifted from scandal to something almost affectionate “Ice Princess and Tattoo Beast” was trending with fan edits. Your manager was losing his mind. You didn’t care as much as you should have.
Because when you left for practice that morning, Sukuna’s spare key felt heavier in your pocket. Like it belonged there.
And when you came back that night fully exhausted, but slightly less hollow. The thermostat was still at 20°C, the lights were on, and the apartment no longer felt temporary.
The apartment no longer felt like a temporary refuge. It felt like a heartbeat.
You noticed it gradually. Hiw your skincare army had permanently claimed two full shelves in the bathroom, how Sukuna’s second plate now lived in the cupboard instead of on the drying rack, how his sketchbooks had started migrating into the living room alongside your training notebooks. The thermostat had settled into an uneasy truce at 19.5°C. Small victories everywhere.
But tonight, the pressure finally snapped.
You came home at 1:07 a.m. after yet another overtime session at the rink. Your eyes were red. Your right ankle was taped so tightly it hurt to flex. Nationals were ten days away, and your program still had one stubborn combination that refused to cooperate. Coach had screamed. Sponsors had called. You’d smiled through all of it until you couldn’t anymore.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Sukuna was already there.
He’d clearly been waiting. The TV was off. A fresh pot of curry sat warming on the stove. He leaned against the kitchen counter in a black tank top, arms crossed, crimson eyes sharp.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said. Not angry. Just… tight.
You dropped your bag. “Phone died on the ice. Sorry.”
He studied you for three long seconds, then pushed off the counter. “Sit.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sit the fuck down before you fall down.”
You sank onto the couch. Sukuna disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of curry and a cold beer. He set both in front of you, then crouched to examine your taped ankle without asking permission. His large, warm hands carefully unwrapped the tape, thumbs pressing lightly along the bone.
“Swollen,” he muttered. “You’re pushing too hard.”
“It's Nationals,” you whispered. Your voice cracked on the word. “If I don’t medal, they’ll start talking about retirement. About how I peaked too early. About how the new girls are younger, fresher—”
Sukuna’s hands stilled. He looked up at you from his crouched position, expression unreadable.
“Then let them talk.”
You laughed, wet and bitter. “Easy for you to say. You don’t live under a microscope.”
“No. I chose not to.” He finished re-wrapping your ankle with the bruise balm, movements surprisingly gentle for someone so blunt. When he finished, he didn’t stand up right away. Instead, he stayed there, one hand resting on your calf. “You keep letting them decide what your worth is. That’s why you come home looking like this.”
The words hit deep. You stared at him, throat tight.
Sukuna stood slowly. Instead of moving away, he dropped onto the couch right beside you, closer than usual. His thigh pressed against yours. He reached over and tugged you sideways until your head rested against his shoulder.
You froze.
“Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled, voice low. “Just… stay there. Eat your damn curry.”
You stayed.
The warmth of his body seeped through your hoodie. He smelled like ink, soap, and the faint trace of cigarettes from the balcony. You ate slowly while he flipped through channels, eventually landing on a silent nature documentary. His arm eventually settled along the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in absent, almost reluctant strokes.
When you finished eating, you didn’t move. Neither did he.
After a long stretch of quiet, you spoke into his chest.
“I don’t know how to exist without the pressure anymore. Skating used to be mine. Now it feels like it belongs to everyone else.”
Sukuna’s hand moved to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into the tight muscles there. “Then take it back. Even if it’s messy. Even if you fall on your ass in front of the whole country.” His voice dropped. “At least it’ll be honest.”
You tilted your head to look up at him. Your faces were dangerously close. You could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they flicked down to your mouth for half a second.
The air thickened.
For one suspended moment, neither of you breathed. His fingers tightened slightly on your neck. You leaned in a fraction.
Then Sukuna pulled back first, jaw clenched.
“Shower,” he ordered, voice rougher than usual. “You smell like ice and regret. I’ll clean up.”
You retreated to the bathroom on unsteady legs, heart hammering. When you came out twenty minutes later in soft shorts and one of his oversized black shirts (you’d stolen it weeks ago and he’d never asked for it back), Sukuna was on the balcony.
You joined him.
He handed you a cigarette without looking at you. You took it. The city lights stretched below like scattered stars.
“I hate that I need this,” you admitted after a while. “The validation. The scores. All of it.”
Sukuna exhaled smoke. “Everyone needs something. At least you’re starting to admit it.” He glanced sideways. “You staying here… it stopped feeling like a favor a while ago.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Yeah?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted closer until your arms brushed. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything neither of you was ready to say yet.
When you finally went inside, Sukuna didn’t retreat to his room. He pulled you back onto the couch, blanket over both of you, and let you curl against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Sleep,” he muttered into your hair. “I’ve got you tonight.”
You fell asleep to the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his breathing, his arm locked around your waist like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
The next morning, you woke up tangled together. Sukuna was already awake, staring at the ceiling, but he hadn’t moved. His fingers traced idle patterns on your hip.
Neither of you spoke about it.
But when you left for practice later, he grabbed your wrist at the door, pressed a protein bar into your hand, and said. “Come home before midnight tonight. Or I’m coming to get you.”
You smiled the entire way to the rink.
The walls were cracking faster now. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of what was on the other side.
The spiral had been building for days.
Nationals were eight days away. Every practice felt like walking a tightrope over broken glass. Your coach was relentless. The federation wanted media sessions. Online comments dissected every wobble in your practice clips. You smiled through it all during the day, then came home and quietly fell apart in small ways. Sometimes forgetting to eat, stretching until your muscles screamed, staring at competition footage until your eyes burned.
Sukuna watched it happen in real time.
He didn’t push. He simply made sure there was food waiting, left balm on the counter, and waited up later each night. But tonight, something felt different.
You had left for “one last short session” at 8 p.m. You told him you’d be back by 10:30.
It was now 1:17 a.m. and you still weren’t home.
Sukuna paced the apartment like a caged animal. He’d texted you four times:
Sukuna: Answer.
You dead?
If you’re bleeding on the ice I’m not paying your medical bills.
Come home.
No replies. Your phone was probably on silent in your bag.
He grabbed his motorcycle keys, jaw tight. “Fuck this.”
The rink was nearly deserted when he arrived. Only emergency lights and a few security lamps were on. He slipped inside through a side entrance that a tired cleaner had left propped open. The cold hit him immediately. It was sharp, biting, and nothing like the controlled chill of the apartment.
And there you were.
Alone in the center of the massive ice, under a single spotlight that made the surface glow like fractured glass. You were skating the same combination over and over. Triple Axel into a quad attempt. Fall. Get up. Loop. Fall harder. Get up slower. Your form was deteriorating with every repetition. Your shoulders tense, landings sloppy, exhaustion carved into every line of your body.
Sukuna stayed in the shadows near the boards. He didn’t call out. He just watched.
You tried again. The jump was ugly this time. You crashed hard onto the ice, skidding several feet. For a moment you stayed down, chest heaving. Then you slammed a gloved fist against the ice once before forcing yourself up. Your hands came up to cover your face. Your shoulders shook.
Not from the cold.
Sukuna’s chest tightened painfully. He took one step forward then stopped.
He knew you.
If he walked out there right now, you’d shove the vulnerability down immediately. You’d smile that polished media smile and tell him you were fine. He didn’t want that version of you.
So he stayed hidden. Watched you breathe through it. Watched you wipe your face, reset your shoulders, and skate to the center again like the ice owed you something.
After another brutal fall, you finally skated to the exit boards. You sat on the bench, head bowed, medal dreams and public expectations crushing you under their weight.
Sukuna slipped out the same way he came in.
When you finally dragged yourself through the apartment door at 2:41 a.m., you expected darkness and silence.
Instead, the lights were on low. Takeout bags from your favorite late-night spot sat on the kitchen counter, still warm. Two plates. Two sets of chopsticks. A note in Sukuna’s aggressive scrawl was propped against one bag:
Eat before you collapse, idiot. Food’s still warm. Don’t make me come find you next time.
You stared at the note for a long time. Your throat closed up.
He’d gone looking for you. He’d seen… something. And instead of confronting you, instead of demanding answers or forcing comfort, he’d done this. Given you space and food and quiet proof that he was paying attention.
You sat at the counter and ate slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the ramen. Not from sadness exactly, just overwhelming relief that someone saw the ugly parts and didn’t flinch or try to fix them with pretty words.
Sukuna’s bedroom door was cracked open. You could see the faint glow of his lamp.
You finished eating, washed both plates, and padded softly to his doorway. He was sitting up in bed, shirtless, sketching. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders tensed like he knew you were there.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
He grunted. “Told you to eat.”
You lingered. “You went to the rink.”
A pause. The pencil stopped moving.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t come out.”
“No.”
You stepped inside his room for the first time. “Why?”
Sukuna finally looked at you. His crimson eyes were darker than usual. “Because you hate being seen like that. Figured you’d rather I didn’t watch you break.” He set the sketchbook aside. “But I’m not letting you do it alone anymore.”
The simple honesty cracked something deep inside your chest.
You crossed the room and climbed onto his bed without asking. Sukuna exhaled sharply but opened his arm. You curled against his side, face pressed to his warm, inked chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
“I know.” His hand slid into your hair, fingers gentle despite their roughness. “But you’re not performing for me. You get that, right?”
You nodded against him.
He held you tighter. No grand speeches. No promises. Just the solid weight of him and the quiet knowledge that he was there.
For the first time in years, the pressure felt bearable.
The morning after the rink incident, everything felt slightly shifted.
You woke up in Sukuna’s bed.
Not tangled in some dramatic, passionate way. You were just curled against his side, his heavy arm draped over your waist like it belonged there. He was already awake, staring at the ceiling with one hand behind his head. When you stirred, he didn’t pull away. He simply tightened his grip for half a second before letting go.
“Morning,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and leftover emotion.
“You drool,” was his reply. Classic Sukuna.
You laughed softly and hid your face against his chest. The tattoos there were warm under your cheek. He let you stay like that for a few quiet minutes before finally sitting up.
“Get up. You’re not skipping practice today, but you’re eating first. No arguments.”
He made breakfast while you showered. On the menu was rice, eggs, and vegetables, again. When you emerged, he was plating food with the same focused intensity he used for tattoos. You ate together at the counter in comfortable silence. No pressure talk. No rehashing last night. Just the two of you and the quiet understanding that something had changed.
That night, after a more manageable practice, you found yourself on the balcony with him again. The city glittered below. Sukuna smoked while you leaned against the railing beside him, stealing occasional drags from his cigarette.
Your eyes kept drifting to the ink covering his arms and chest. The designs were intricate. Filled with demons, sharp florals, abstract patterns that looked like they told stories.
“Can I ask about them?” you said quietly.
Sukuna glanced down at his own skin like he’d forgotten it was there. “Most people don’t get to ask twice.”
“I’m not most people.”
He exhaled smoke through his nose, then gave a small shrug. “Fine. Ask.”
You reached out slowly, tracing a finger along a snarling face on his forearm. His skin was warm. The muscle underneath twitched at your touch but he didn’t pull away.
“What does this one mean?”
Sukuna watched your finger move. “Strength through pain. Got it after my old man died. Bastard used to say I’d never amount to shit. Proved him wrong with every needle.”
You moved to another piece. Now a intricate wave pattern flowing into sharp teeth. “And this?”
“Control.” His voice dropped lower. “Everything in life is temporary except what you choose to keep forever. Ink stays. People don’t.”
The words hung between you. You looked up at him.
“Is that why you live like this?” you asked. “One plate. Minimal shit. No attachments?”
Sukuna smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Smart girl.” He took another drag. “What about you? All that spinning and glitter on ice. Temporary as fuck. One bad landing and it’s gone.”
You nodded slowly. “Exactly. Everything I do gets judged in seconds. Forgotten in months. Your work… it stays on people. Becomes part of them.”
He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face in the dim balcony light.
“You want one?” he asked suddenly.
Your eyes widened. “A tattoo?”
“Not now. But someday. If you stay long enough.” The last part came out almost too casual. Like he hadn’t meant to say it.
Your heart stuttered. “You’d tattoo me?”
“Only if you’re sure.” He flicked ash away. “I don’t do half-assed work. Especially not on you.”
The implication made heat bloom in your chest. You stepped closer, until you were nearly chest to chest. Sukuna didn’t retreat. Instead, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“You’re dangerous,” he muttered. “Coming in here, messing up my routine. Making me give a shit.”
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want this to be temporary anymore.”
The air thickened. Sukuna’s hand lingered on your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. His crimson eyes darkened as they dropped to your mouth. You rose onto your toes slightly.
This time, he didn’t pull away.
The kiss was slow at first, almost testing the waters between you two. His lips were surprisingly soft against the roughness of his personality. Then it deepened. He pulled you flush against him, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist with clear possession. You tasted smoke and something uniquely him. The kiss wasn’t sweet or gentle. It was hungry, restrained, years of tension finally breaking.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.
“Don’t expect me to say flowery shit,” he rasped. “But you’re not leaving when the renovations finish. That’s not happening.”
You smiled, a little dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
He kissed you again but shorter this time, no less intense. When he pulled back, that familiar smug smirk was back.
“Bed. Now. Before I drag you there.”
You laughed as he guided you inside, his hand firm on your lower back. For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like something you had to fight for alone.
That night you slept in his bed again, properly this time. No walls. No pretending. Just Sukuna’s steady heartbeat and the quiet certainty that this apartment had stopped being temporary a long time ago.
The shift was quiet, but undeniable.
By the next evening, the apartment had stopped pretending to be two separate lives sharing a space. It was one life now, the space completely messy, stubborn, and intertwined.
You woke up in Sukuna’s bed again, this time with his face buried against the back of your neck and one heavy, tattooed arm locked around your waist like he was daring the world to try and pull you away. His breathing was slow and warm against your skin. You stayed still for a long time, just feeling the solid weight of him.
When you finally tried to slip out for morning practice, he tightened his grip.
“Five more minutes,” he growled, voice rough with sleep.
“You’ll fall back asleep.”
“Don’t care.”
You laughed softly and stayed. When you finally left forty minutes later, Sukuna was in the kitchen making you a protein-packed onigiri to take with you. He pressed it into your hands at the door, then caught your chin and kissed you..
“Come back before you’re dead on your feet,” he muttered against your lips.
“Yes, sir.”
He smacked your ass as you left, smirking at your startled squeak.
That night you returned earlier than usual. The moment the door opened, Sukuna was on you.
He pulled you inside by the front of your hoodie and kissed you like he’d been thinking about it all day. Hard. Hungry. One hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to press against your lower back. You melted into it immediately, skating bag dropping forgotten to the floor.
“Missed you,” you breathed between kisses.
“Shut up,” he replied, but the way he walked you backward toward the couch said otherwise.
You ended up straddling his lap on the leather, hands exploring the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. Sukuna’s mouth moved to your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw that made you shiver.
“Been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted, voice low. “Mark you up so those gossiping idiots know exactly who you’re coming home to.”
You pulled back slightly, flushed. “Jealous?”
“Possessive.” His hands gripped your hips tighter. “Different thing.”
The makeout session was heated but didn’t go further. Sukuna seemed content to just touch and taste, learning every small sound you made. When you finally broke apart, lips swollen, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Food first,” he said gruffly. “Then you’re telling me how practice went.”
You ate together on the couch. With your legs thrown over his lap while he fed you bites of grilled mackerel between his own. Domestic. Easy. Terrifying in how right it felt.
After dinner, you showed him the new step sequence you were working on. You demonstrated in socks on the living room floor while he watched with sharp, focused eyes.
“You’re still hesitating on the entry,” he observed. “Too much thinking. Stop trying to be perfect.”
You groaned. “Easy for you to say.”
Sukuna stood up, towering over you. He tilted your chin up. “When you skate for me, I don’t give a shit about perfect. I want to see you out there. The one who talks to herself during stretches and steals my shirts.”
Your heart clenched.
Later that night, after showers and skincare. Sukuna now had his own small shelf you’d forcibly assigned him, you ended up in bed again. This time clothes came off slowly. Sukuna mapped every bruise and sore muscle with his mouth and hands, muttering curses at how hard you pushed yourself. You traced every line of ink on his body like you were memorizing a map.
He didn’t let it go all the way. Not yet.
“Not while you’re this exhausted,” he said, pulling you against his chest despite your protest. “When I fuck you, I want you present. Not half-dead from the rink.”
You fell asleep with his fingers stroking through your hair and his heartbeat steady under your ear.
The next few days followed the same rhythm, growing more intimate each time.
Sukuna started coming to watch you practice occasionally. Sitting in the back rows with a cap pulled low, arms crossed, looking entirely out of place among the pastel athletic wear and screaming parents. He never cheered. He just watched. And every time you landed a clean jump, his smirk was pure satisfaction.
One afternoon he surprised you by showing up at the rink with hot tea and your favorite snacks during a break. The other skaters stared openly. Your coach raised an eyebrow but said nothing when Sukuna leveled him with a flat, terrifying stare.
At home, the teasing had turned filthier. He’d corner you in the kitchen, press you against the counter, and kiss you stupid before walking away like nothing happened. You retaliated by wearing his shirts and nothing else after showers.
The rumors online had evolved into something almost affectionate. Fan accounts shipped “Ink & Ice” hard. Your manager had given up trying to control it and was now asking if you wanted to lean into it for publicity.
You told Sukuna while curled against him on the balcony one night.
He laughed lowly. “Let them. As long as they know you’re mine.”
Yours. The word settled deep in your bones.
Nationals were five days away now. The fear was still there, but it felt smaller with Sukuna’s solid presence beside you every night. He had become necessary. Essential. The person you came home to, not just the place.
One night, as you lay tangled together in bed, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back to my old apartment when it’s ready.”
Sukuna’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because I wasn’t letting you.”
He kissed the top of your head, and for the first time in your entire career, you fell asleep thinking less about gold medals and more about the man holding you like you were something worth keeping.
The text from your manager came during breakfast on a rare day off.
Haru: Renovations finished early. Your apartment is ready next week. We can move you back this weekend if you want. Less stress before Nationals.
You stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. The luxurious high-rise with its perfect view, soundproof walls, and zero tattooed roommates suddenly felt like a cage you’d already escaped.
Sukuna noticed immediately. He always did.
“Bad news?” he asked, setting a fresh coffee beside your plate. He was shirtless again, sweatpants low on his hips, fresh hickeys from last night blooming faintly on his collarbone.
You showed him the text.
His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened. He read it once, then turned back to the stove like it didn’t matter.
“So you’re leaving,” he said flatly.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was low, edged. “It’s your fancy place. Of course you’re going back.”
The warmth that had been building between you for days suddenly felt brittle. Sukuna shut the stove off with more force than necessary and disappeared into his room without another word. The door didn’t slam, but it closed with heavy finality.
You gave him space. You knew how he operated when emotions got too real, he retreated behind sarcasm and distance like armor.
By evening the tension was unbearable.
You found him on the balcony smoking, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. You stepped out and closed the door behind you.
“Sukuna.”
“Don’t,” he cut you off. “You don’t owe me anything. This was always temporary. I knew that.”
The words stung. You moved closer anyway. “It stopped feeling temporary months ago. You know that too.”
He laughed, bitter and rough. “Yeah? Then why the fuck are you even considering going back?”
“Because it’s easier,” you admitted. “My apartment is closer to the main rink. Better security. No paparazzi camping outside a tattoo shop. My manager thinks—”
“I don’t give a shit what your manager thinks.” Sukuna finally looked at you, crimson eyes burning. “I care what you want. But you’re already pulling away. I can feel it.”
You stepped into his space and grabbed his face with both hands. “I’m not pulling away. I’m scared. Nationals are in four days. Everything is too much right now.”
He stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. His hands came up to grip your wrists, not pulling you away, just holding.
“You’re not sleeping in my bed for three months and then walking out like it was nothing,” he said, voice low and rough. “I don’t do that half-in, half-out shit.”
“I don’t want half-in either.”
Sukuna searched your face, then leaned down and kissed you hard. It was possessive, almost punishing, like he was trying to brand the memory of him into you. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading through his pink hair.
When you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.
“Stay,” he said. Not a plea. A demand wrapped in vulnerability he’d never show anyone else. “Not because of the apartment. Because of me.”
Your chest ached. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your bare waist. The balcony air was cool, but his skin was burning. You ended up inside quickly, clothes disappearing between heated kisses and stumbling steps toward his bedroom—your bedroom now.
This time Sukuna didn’t hold back.
He took you apart with the same focused intensity he used for his art. Learning every sound, every shiver, every place that made you gasp his name. There was nothing gentle about it, but it wasn’t just lust either. Every touch felt like a claim. Every mark he left was a promise.
Afterward, you lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless. Sukuna’s fingers traced slow circles on your back while you rested your head on his chest.
“I’m telling Haru I’m staying,” you whispered.
“Good.” His arm tightened around you. “Because if you tried to leave, I would’ve dragged your shit back up the stairs myself.”
You laughed softly against his skin. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” He kissed the top of your head. “Now sleep. You’ve got Nationals soon, and I’m not letting you burn yourself out the night before.”
For the first time in weeks, you fell asleep without the weight of your old apartment hanging over you.
But Sukuna stayed awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling with a rare flicker of unease in his eyes. He’d never needed anyone before. Now the thought of you choosing to stay, even after saying it out loud had terrified him more than he wanted to admit.
Nationals arrived like a storm.
The arena was packed. With bright lights, a roaring crowd, and cameras everywhere. You were back in your element: elegant, composed, media-trained smile firmly in place during warm-ups. But underneath, your nerves were razor-sharp.
Sukuna had driven you there on his motorcycle that morning. He hadn’t said much, just handed you your skates at the door and kissed you hard enough to leave you breathless.
“Skate like you fucking mean it,” he’d growled against your lips. “Not for them. For you.”
You’d nodded, heart pounding harder than it had in years.
Now, as you waited in the kiss-and-cry area after your short program, your leg bounced uncontrollably. You’d landed everything cleanly, but the quad had been slightly under-rotated. The scores were about to come up.
Sukuna was somewhere in the stands. He’d refused the VIP seat your manager offered, choosing instead to sit in a shadowed upper section where he could watch without being mobbed. You knew he was there. You could feel it.
The scores flashed.
First place. Narrow lead.
The crowd erupted. You bowed politely, waved, and slipped backstage the moment the cameras turned away. The smile dropped instantly.
You found an empty hallway, a medal from the short program still hanging around your neck, and leaned against the cool wall. The pressure was crushing. One more program tomorrow. One mistake and everything would crumble.
Footsteps echoed.
You looked up. Sukuna was walking toward you, hands in his pockets, black jacket and cap doing little to hide how out of place he looked among the sequined costumes and corporate suits.
Your manager had given him a pass “as security.” Bullshit excuse, but it worked.
“You came backstage,” you whispered.
“Told you I wasn’t letting you do this alone.” He stopped in front of you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”
“No,” you admitted. “I’m winning and it still feels like I’m drowning.”
Sukuna pulled you into his chest without hesitation. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head. The familiar scent of him grounded you instantly.
“Most people are fucking stupid,” he said quietly. “They don’t see how hard you work. They just want perfection so they can feel something for five minutes. Don’t let them live in your head.”
You laughed wetly against his shirt. “Since when are you good at pep talks?”
“I’m not. I’m just telling you the truth.” He tilted your chin up and kissed you. The kiss was slow, deep, and completely uncaring if anyone saw. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Tomorrow, skate like you’re alone on the ice at 2 a.m. Like no one’s watching. That’s when you’re actually good.”
You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “Stay with me tonight? At the hotel?”
“Already told the shop I’m not coming in tomorrow.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of interviews and sponsor obligations. Sukuna waited for you like a shadow. From the back, he was quiet, intimidating, and fiercely protective. When one pushy reporter tried to ask about “the mystery man in your life,” Sukuna simply stepped into frame, stared the man down, and the questions stopped immediately.
Back at the hotel, the tension finally broke.
The moment the door closed, Sukuna had you against it. Clothes came off in a heated rush. This time there was no restraint. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. His mouth and hands were everywhere.
He fucked you like he was afraid you might disappear in the morning. Deep, slow, then rough when you begged for more. You came apart under him twice before he finally let himself go, groaning your name against your neck as he finished.
Afterward, he held you close, your back to his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your stomach.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he murmured into your hair, “you’re still coming home with me. Got it?”
“Got it,” you whispered, intertwining your fingers with his.
For the first time before a major competition, you slept deeply wrapped in tattooed arms and the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat.
The free skate felt like walking into battle wearing silk.
The arena was louder than the day before. Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Your name echoed through the speakers as you glided to center ice. You searched the stands once, just once, and found him. Sukuna. Arms crossed, leaning forward, crimson eyes locked on you like nothing else in the world existed.
You took a breath. Skate like you’re alone at 2 a.m.
The music started.
You poured everything into it. All the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet love you’d found in a sparse apartment above a tattoo shop. Every jump was fought for. Every spin carried emotion instead of just technical perfection. You fell on the quad attempt, hard, but got up faster than you ever had before. The crowd gasped, then roared when you landed the next combination cleanly.
When the final pose ended, the arena erupted.
You bowed, chest heaving, tears already stinging your eyes. The scores came up faster than expected.
Gold.
You won Nationals by a narrow margin.
The crowd chanted your name. Your coach hugged you. Sponsors swarmed. Cameras flashed relentlessly. For three full minutes, it felt like victory.
Then the backlash started.
While you were still in the kiss-and-cry, the online comments flooded in live:
“She fell. That shouldn’t have been gold.”
“Underscored the younger girls again.”
“Overrated. Time to retire.”
“Bet the judges only gave it to her because of the pity narrative.”
By the time you escaped backstage, the medal around your neck felt like lead.
You slipped away from the celebration area into the quiet service corridors, still in full costume, skates dangling from your hand. The gold medal clinked against your chest with every step. You found a dimly lit spot near some stacked equipment crates and sat down hard on the floor.
The numbness hit.
You’d won. And it still felt hollow.
Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
Sukuna crouched in front of you, elbows on his knees. He studied your face in silence for a long moment.
“They’re already tearing you apart online, aren’t they?” he asked.
You nodded, laughing weakly. “I won gold and they’re acting like I stole it.”
Sukuna reached out and flicked the medal with one finger. “Most people are stupid,” he said, echoing his words from before. “They weren’t on that ice with you. They didn’t see what I saw.”
“What did you see?” you whispered.
“You.” His voice was low, intense. “Fighting. Getting up. Still fucking beautiful even when you fell. That’s not the version they want. They want a doll that never makes mistakes.”
You felt the tears spill over. Sukuna wiped them away with his thumb, surprisingly gentle.
“Come on,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “We’re leaving.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He grabbed your team jacket from a nearby chair, draped it over your shoulders, and led you out through a side exit used by staff. No cameras. No reporters. Just cold night air and the distant roar of the crowd still celebrating inside.
His motorcycle waited in the back lot.
You climbed on behind him in your competition dress and jacket, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Sukuna revved the engine once, then took off into the city streets. The wind whipped past, cold and freeing. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and breathed.
He drove you up to the quiet overlook above the city. The same spot you’d imagined in quieter moments. The lights of Tokyo spread out below like a sea of stars.
Sukuna killed the engine and helped you off. He pulled you against his chest immediately, arms locked around you.
“Winning doesn’t feel how I thought it would,” you admitted against his jacket.
“That’s because you keep letting strangers decide what it means,” he replied. “Fuck their scores. Fuck their comments. You skated like you tonight. That’s the only version that matters to me.”
You looked up at him. The city lights reflected in his eyes. The tension, the adrenaline, the overwhelming emotion of the day, it all crested at once.
You kissed him first.
Sukuna met you halfway, hands sliding into your hair, tilting your head back as the kiss turned deep and desperate. There was nothing restrained about it this time. Months of slow burn, tension, and need poured out between you under the night sky.
When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.
“I’m keeping you,” he said roughly. “Not just until spring. Not until your lease is up. I’m fucking keeping you.”
You smiled, tears mixing with the cold wind on your cheeks. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you again, slower this time. A promise sealed in the quiet above the noisy city.
The gold medal rested between you, warm from your body heat.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like a burden.
The city lights blurred into streaks of neon as Sukuna drove you home. You pressed yourself tighter against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, the gold medal still resting cold against your chest beneath the team jacket. Every turn of the motorcycle sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline and heat through your body. The competition was over. The performance, the fall, the win, the backlash, none of it mattered right now. All that existed was the solid warmth of Sukuna’s body between your thighs and the promise of what waited the second you crossed the threshold of the apartment.
He parked roughly in the narrow alley beside the shop. The moment your feet touched the ground, he grabbed you.
Sukuna pushed you up against the metal staircase railing, mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed possessively. Sliding under your jacket, gripping your waist, then lower to squeeze your ass as he lifted one of your legs around his hip.
“Fuck, I’ve been hard since you took the ice,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. “Watching you fight like that… all grace and fire. Wanted to drag you off the rink and fuck you right there.”
You moaned into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Then stop talking and do it.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
The climb up the stairs was clumsy, hands groping, mouths barely separating. The second the apartment door slammed shut behind you, Sukuna had you pinned against the wall. He peeled the team jacket off your shoulders and yanked the competition dress down your body in one rough motion, leaving it pooled around your ankles. You kicked it aside while working on his belt.
Clothes scattered across the floor. Sukuna lifted you again, carrying you to the couch and dropping you onto the leather. He followed immediately, settling between your spread thighs.
He didn’t tease for long.
His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark, claiming mark just below your jaw while two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning. You were already dripping.
“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned, curling his fingers deep. “This pussy been aching for me all day?”
“Yes— God, Sukuna—”
He pumped his fingers faster, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. His mouth moved lower, sucking hard on one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing sensitive skin. When your thighs started trembling, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking broad stripes through your folds before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking.
You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the couch, fingers twisted tight in his pink hair. Sukuna didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking you clean until you were shaking.
Then he flipped you over.
He pressed your chest down against the couch, ass up, and pushed into you in one deep, relentless thrust. The stretch burned so good you moaned loudly into the cushion.
“Fuck— so tight,” Sukuna hissed, gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Taking me so well. Like you were made for this.”
He set a punishing rhythm immediately. With deep, powerful strokes that made the couch shift beneath you. The gold medal swung wildly between your breasts with every thrust. One of his hands slid up your spine and wrapped loosely around your throat, pulling you back against his chest without slowing down.
“You’re mine,” he snarled in your ear, voice wrecked. “Not the ice. Not the federation. Not the fucking fans. This body, this pussy, every moan, all mine.”
You came again hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out. Sukuna followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside you.
For a moment, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint creak of the couch.
Sukuna pulled out slowly, watching his release drip down your thighs with dark satisfaction. Then he gathered you into his arms, cradling you against his chest on the couch.
“You still with me?” he asked, voice surprisingly soft as he brushed damp hair from your forehead.
You nodded, smiling dazedly. “Yeah. That was… intense.”
He kissed your temple. “You earned it. Gold looks good on you, by the way.” His fingers traced the medal still hanging between your breasts. “But it looks better when it’s the only thing you’re wearing.”
You laughed breathlessly and kissed him again but slower this time, savoring the taste of yourself on his tongue.
The shower was supposed to be practical.
It wasn’t.
Hot water cascaded over both of you as Sukuna pressed you against the tiled wall. He lifted one of your legs over his hip and slid back inside you with a smooth thrust, groaning at how easily you took him now.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, nipping at your collarbone. “Can’t get enough?”
“No,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he rolled his hips deep and slow. “Never enough.”
He fucked you like that under the spray. His deep, grinding strokes that hit every perfect spot. Steam filled the small bathroom. Your moans echoed off the tiles. When you came again, trembling in his arms, Sukuna held you through it, then spilled inside you once more with your name on his lips.
You barely made it to the bed afterward.
Sukuna laid you down gently this time. The frantic need had eased into something deeper, more intimate. He crawled over you, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. The fading bruises on your hips from training, the new marks he’d left tonight, the sensitive spots along your ribs that made you shiver.
When he finally pushed back inside you, it was slow and deliberate. He intertwined your fingers above your head, eyes locked on yours as he moved.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
You did. The intensity in his crimson gaze made your chest ache with something far bigger than lust.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, thrusting deep and staying there for a moment. “You’re staying. This apartment. This bed. With me. No more temporary bullshit.”
“I’m staying,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “I’m yours, Sukuna.”
Something raw and vulnerable flashed across his face. He kissed you deeply as he picked up the pace again, hips rolling in a devastating rhythm that had you gasping into his mouth. This orgasm built slowly, then crashed over you like a wave. Sukuna followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he came with a low, broken groan.
You stayed connected for a long time afterward, trading lazy kisses and soft touches.
Eventually Sukuna rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, your head resting over his heart. His fingers stroked slowly up and down your spine.
“You did good today,” he said quietly. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up. That’s the part I’m proud of.”
Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time they were warm. You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over a snarling tattoo.
“I couldn’t have done it without you waiting for me,” you admitted.
Sukuna’s arm tightened around you. “Then it’s a good thing you’re never doing anything without me again.”
The gold medal lay forgotten on the nightstand. The only thing that mattered was the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek and the quiet certainty that you had finally found where you belonged.
The morning after Nationals arrived gently, sunlight filtering softly through the apartment curtains.
You woke slowly, wrapped securely in Sukuna’s arms. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, one heavy, tattooed arm draped across your waist, holding you close even in sleep. The gold medal sat quietly on the nightstand, catching the light whenever it shifted. Your body ached from the competition and the intensity of the night before, but it was a satisfying kind of tired.
Sukuna stirred when you shifted slightly, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy grunt. His lips brushed the top of your head.
“Too early,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t move.”
You smiled and relaxed against him, letting the warmth of his body soothe your sore muscles. For once, there was no alarm, no rush to the rink, no obligations waiting. Your coach had given you two full days to recover, and you intended to use every minute of it.
After nearly forty minutes of quiet cuddling. Sukuna’s fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back, he finally sighed and rolled out of bed.
“Stay,” he ordered, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants. “I’ll make breakfast.”
You watched him leave the room, admiring the way his tattoos shifted across his broad back with every movement. A few minutes later, the comforting smells of rice, miso soup, and grilled salmon drifted through the apartment. You slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen wearing one of his oversized black shirts that reached mid-thigh.
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes softening at the sight of you. “You look good in my clothes.”
You hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs. “I basically live in them now.”
He stepped between your knees, hands resting on your thighs as he leaned in to kiss you. When he pulled back, there was a rare softness in his expression.
Breakfast was simple but made with care. Sukuna fed you bites of salmon between his own, the two of you sharing comfortable silence broken only by occasional teasing remarks. The domesticity of it all still felt new and precious.
After eating, you migrated to the couch together. You curled against his side, legs tangled with his, while Sukuna picked up one of his sketchbooks. His free hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absentmindedly as he drew.
“So,” he said after a while, not looking up from the page. “You really told Haru you’re staying?”
“I did. He’s handling the sublet paperwork for the old apartment.” You traced a finger along a bold tattoo on his forearm. “I don’t want to go back there. This feels right.”
Sukuna’s hand paused on your thigh. He set the sketchbook aside and turned to look at you fully, his gaze intense.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I wasn’t going to make it easy for you to leave.”
You shifted to straddle his lap, cupping his face in both hands. “I’m not leaving. This apartment… you… this is home now.”
Something raw flickered across his face. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a deep kiss not rushed or demanding, but full of quiet emotion. When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.
“You ruined living alone for me,” he admitted, voice low. “Can’t imagine coming back to an empty place anymore.”
Your heart swelled. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to.”
The rest of the day unfolded in peaceful domesticity.
You spent the afternoon properly unpacking the last of your belongings. Sukuna watched from the doorway as you arranged your skincare products across the bathroom shelves and hung your clothes beside his in the closet. Without saying anything, he cleared out an entire drawer for you and even made space on the coffee table for your training notebooks.
Later, you dragged him out to the balcony. The air was cool and fresh. Sukuna lit a cigarette while you leaned back against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. The city hummed quietly below.
“Everyone’s still losing their minds online,” you told him, showing him a few headlines on your phone. The “Ink & Ice” ship had only grown stronger since last night.
Sukuna snorted, smoke curling from his lips. “Let them talk. As long as they know you’re off-limits.”
You turned in his arms to face him. “Very off-limits.”
He smirked and kissed you against the railing slow and steady, one hand cradling the back of your head. When he pulled away, his expression was softer than usual.
That evening, you cooked together for the first time in a while. Sukuna stood behind you at the stove, arms around your waist, occasionally stealing tastes from the spoon while offering (mostly critical) commentary. The kitchen filled with laughter and the clatter of now three plates being used.
After dinner, you ended up back on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket while a random movie played on low volume. Sukuna’s fingers ran gently through your hair as you rested against his chest.
“I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up after that fall. That’s the shit that matters.”
Tears pricked at your eyes. You hugged him tighter. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you waiting for me at home.”
Sukuna’s arms tightened around you. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me now.”
You fell asleep that night in his bed, curled against his side with his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The apartment felt fuller than it ever had. Your things mixed with his, two toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, your skates resting near his motorcycle helmet by the door.
No more temporary arrangement.
No more hesitation.
Just the two of you, choosing each other every single day.
Spring had finally arrived in Tokyo.
Cherry blossoms drifted lazily past the apartment windows, and the air felt lighter somehow. The renovations on your old luxury apartment had been completed for weeks now, but the keys to that place still sat untouched in a drawer. This apartment, the one above the tattoo shop with its creaky floors, single original plate (now joined by many), and thermostat that still sparked occasional minor wars had become home.
You stood in the kitchen late one afternoon, chopping vegetables while Sukuna leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed, “supervising.”
“You’re cutting those too big,” he criticized, reaching over to adjust your grip on the knife. “They’ll cook unevenly.”
You bumped him with your hip. “Says the man who used to eat plain rice and protein straight from the container.”
“I had standards. Low ones.” He smirked when you glared at him. “Now move. I’ll finish this before you ruin dinner.”
You refused to move. The two of you ended up cooking side by side, shoulders brushing, exchanging sarcastic commentary the entire time. Sukuna still refused to admit your seasoning was better, and you still refused to admit his knife skills were superior. The argument was comfortable now. Familiar, almost affectionate.
After dinner, you migrated to the living room as usual.
You stretched on the floor in your usual spot while Sukuna sat on the couch, sketchbook balanced on one knee. The scratch of his pencil was a soothing background noise. Every so often he’d glance up, watching the way you moved through your post-training stretches with quiet focus.
“You’re favoring your left side again,” he noted.
“It’s nothing. Just tight from practice.”
He grunted but set his sketchbook down anyway. A moment later, his warm hands were on your hip and lower back, pressing into the muscle with careful, practiced pressure. Not quite a massage, Sukuna would never call it that but close enough.
“Better?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Much. Thank you.”
He didn’t reply, just gave your hip one last squeeze before returning to his drawing.
You eventually gave up stretching and curled up on the couch instead, head resting on his thigh. Sukuna’s free hand immediately dropped to play with your hair, fingers combing through the strands as he continued sketching.
The apartment had changed so much.
Your skincare collection had officially taken over the entire bathroom counter and one full shelf. A second helmet that was smaller, sleeker, and yours now sat on the entryway table beside his. Your competition skates lived permanently by the door next to his motorcycle helmet, a sight that still made you smile every time you came home. Shared keys hung on a new hook he’d installed without comment.
Sukuna eventually set his pencil down and looked at you.
“You still happy here?” he asked, voice low. The question was casual, but you heard the weight behind it.
You turned your head to look up at him. “I’m happier here than I’ve been in years. This place… you… it feels real. No cameras. No pretending to be perfect. Just us.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded once.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because you’re stuck with me.”
You laughed softly. “I like being stuck with you.”
Sukuna’s hand continued stroking through your hair as you drifted closer to sleep. The TV played some random documentary on low volume. Outside, the city hummed its usual rhythm, but inside these walls, everything felt peaceful.
Later that night, you woke briefly when Sukuna carried you to bed. He tucked you in carefully, then slid in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist like it always did, possessive even in sleep.
In the quiet darkness, he spoke against your hair.
“Never thought I’d want someone in my space this much,” he murmured. “You changed that. Ruined me for peace and quiet.”
You smiled, intertwining your fingers with his. “You ruined me for being alone.”
He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. No flowery declarations. No dramatic promises. Just Sukuna. Honest, rough around the edges, and entirely yours.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Sukuna moving around the kitchen. When you wandered out, still sleepy and wrapped in his shirt, he slid a mug toward you without a word.
Two plates waited on the counter.
Two helmets by the door.
Two lives that had quietly become one.
And as you stood there drinking coffee while Sukuna argued with you about whether the thermostat should be at 19°C or 21°C, you realized this was it.
why can’t we just be stable lile i love you so fucking nuch why can’t you just love me like i love you i know it’s hard to talk to people when you’re struggling but I want to help you
i was so happy when he came back to me and then he told me he loved me again and thay only lasted a day and a half before he left me again (left?? idk) he doesn’t really leave it’s just like he ignores everyone
