chosoxreader!: 01: I'll try Anything Once - The Strokes
satoruxf!readerxtoji: 0.5 Oxytocin- Billie Eilish
The Red Star Shop Tattoo AU
Sukuna x reader; grumpy x sunshine; alternative tattoo universe where everyone is a tattoo artist.
It all starts when Sukuna finds you crying on a Saturday and realizes he actually has feelings (tragic). This spirals into him becoming a "human cat bed" for Twinkles and a permanent roommate for you.
The shop becomes a daycare, until it isn't.
A group of the city's most dangerous men are tamed by one girl, a tiny white cat named Twinkles (the actual boss), and the sheer power of shared sushi on a rooftop. They are a beautiful, functional disaster, and for the first time, home isn't something you tolerate—it's something you built
sneak peek: Five weeks ago, the air in the Red Star breakroom was thick with a silence Yuji couldn't break. Haunted by the fear that he was "borrowing someone else’s dream," Yuji nearly let his fire go out—until a conversation about the shop’s history changed everything. To teach Yuji that fear is the only thing capable of ruining "fire," Sukuna did the unthinkable: he opened the vault.
He didn't just give Yuji a pep talk; he shared a cautionary tale of a connection that almost was, a "what if" involving Bubbles and Choso that was buried under years of silence. "Regret digs in," he warned, effectively pushing Yuji toward his own truth with Megumi. It was a moment of rare, raw honesty from the man who usually occupies the shop like gravity, proving that he cares more about his brother’s happiness than a tattoo machine.
Fast forward to the present: the shop is dark, the "security fanfare" is silenced, and the air is thick with the scent of fresh sushi and a best friend's expensive perfume. Your birthday erupts into a golden-hour sanctuary of retroactive childhood gifts, numbered envelopes, and a luxury jacket that Gojo definitely shouldn't have bought. But the real detonation happens on the back staircase. Away from the noise, Sukuna finally stops running. In a private, breathless moment, he offers a key to a new workspace and a ring with a hidden star—a vow made in the shadows before stepping into the light of the rooftop, where the "found family" is waiting to celebrate the start of the first Red Star marriage.
The Career Pivot: Yuji has officially retired the tattoo machine for the piercing needle. Sukuna’s reaction? Not a "Godzilla" meltdown, but a "proud big brother" anchor-hug.
The Secret Lesson: Sukuna used the "unfinished chemistry" of the past as a textbook example of why fear is a liar. He admitted that letting things go unsaid haunted everyone involved, effectively giving Yuji the green light to live his own life.
The Birthday Haul: * Yuji: F1 scale model & race tickets. (Status: Racing besties for life).
Megumi: 18 retroactive Mother’s Day cards. (Status: Entire shop is crying).
The Dads of Speed: A minimalist bracelet from Suguru and a "catastrophically expensive" jacket from Gojo.
The Bestie: A custom sketchbook for "art, not clients."
The Private Proposal: It happened on the stairs. No cameras, no Gojo commentary. Just a white gold ring, a studio key, and Sukuna admitting he’s loved her "long before he said it out loud."
The Rooftop Reveal: Yuji nearly detonated, Megumi negotiated "inheritance priority," and Toji's "Chaos Consultant" status remains peak.
Current Shop Mood: 100% Love, 0% Grout-scrubbing regrets, and the realization that while they are family, Bubbles is officially "Home."
The smell of antiseptic and clove oil hung thick in the breakroom, layered with something warmer — stale coffee, clean metal, the faint imprint of everyone who had breathed in this space before. It was quiet in that late‑afternoon way Red Star only ever managed when the universe felt merciful.
Bubbles sat at the small table, sketchbook open, pencil moving without her really looking at the page. Petals bloomed under her hand — loose, instinctive lines — but her attention kept drifting, caught like a snagged thread on Yuji.
For three weeks now, his tattoo machine hadn’t moved.
It stayed tucked in its case beneath his station, needles still boxed, immaculate. Instead, he’d been orbiting everything around tattooing — sterilization cycles, jewelry gauges, the anatomy posters he’d pinned to the wall near his locker. Ears. Nostrils. Cartilage cross‑sections annotated in his neat handwriting.
Right now, he was methodically organizing a tray of titanium studs, sliding each one into place with excessive care.
“Yuji,” Bubbles said softly, not looking up. She kept her tone gentle on purpose, like placing something fragile down between them. “The dragon you were working on? The one where you finally nailed the leg anatomy?”
His shoulders stiffened instantly.
“You haven’t touched it in days.”
There was a beat — a breath held one second too long — before he answered.
“Yeah.” He didn’t turn around. “Just… taking a break, Bubbles. My hands felt a little shaky.”
The pencil stopped.
She set it down slowly, because she knew. Yuji’s hands didn’t shake. He could pull razor‑thin lines while joking mid‑sentence. He could tattoo through exhaustion, through adrenaline, through noise and chaos.
So this wasn’t about his hands.
She stood and crossed the room, footsteps quiet against the tile. “Is it that you don’t want to finish the dragon,” she asked, voice still calm, “or that you don’t want to hold the machine?”
Yuji exhaled like something inside him finally gave way.
His shoulders slumped. He turned to face her, and the sight of him like that — smaller, uncertain, eyes stripped of their usual brightness — tugged at something fierce and protective in her chest.
“I think…” He swallowed. “I think I don’t like it that much.”
The words came out halting, like he was afraid they might explode if he said them too fast.
“The tattooing, I mean. Every time I pick up the machine, it feels… heavy. Not physically.” He shook his head, frustrated. “Just—like I’m borrowing someone else’s dream.”
His gaze slid past her, toward the main floor, where Megumi stood hunched over a stencil, face folded into that deep, instinctive focus.
“Megumi’s better anyway,” Yuji said quietly. “He’s got that tunnel vision. He was born for the ink.” A small, rueful smile flickered. “Me? I like the precision of piercing. I like how fast it is. How exact. One second and—boom—their reflection changes. They smile. They stand straighter.”
Then his voice wavered.
“But if I stop tattooing…” His eyes darted toward the door, toward the space Sukuna usually occupied like gravity itself. “Kuna’s gonna be furious, isn’t he? He thinks I’m gonna be the next big thing here. I don’t wanna disappoint him. I don’t wanna be… a quitter.”
Bubbles didn’t answer right away.
She stepped closer and placed her hand on his arm — solid, warm, grounding. His muscles twitched under her touch like he hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until that moment.
“Yuji,” she said gently. “Listen to me.”
She waited until he looked at her. Fully. No dodging.
“Practice makes someone a master, sure. But only if they actually want to practice.” Her thumb rubbed an unconscious circle into his sleeve. “And you need to stop measuring your path against Megumi’s. You aren’t him. And he isn’t you.”
She leaned in, lowering her voice into something steady and sure. “Piercing is art. Just as much as tattooing. This shop isn’t about cloning Sukuna or producing replicas. It’s about people doing what they love well.”
Her expression softened further. “And Suki?” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “That man is already so proud of you it’s almost annoying. He doesn’t want a miniature version of himself. He wants you happy.”
Yuji’s eyes burned. He nodded quickly, like if he slowed down he might crack.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Later that evening, after the “Closed” sign had been flipped and the shop settled into its nighttime hush, Sukuna was cleaning his station. Long, methodical strokes. Ink wiped away. Tools aligned just so.
Yuji hovered near the edge of the light, hands buried in his hoodie pockets.
“Hey, Kuna?”
Sukuna didn’t look up. “If you’re here to ask for more money for those fancy piercing clamps, the answer is maybe.”
Yuji laughed weakly — then took a breath.
“No, it’s not that. I just… I don’t want to tattoo anymore.” The words came quicker now, carried by momentum. “I wanna focus on piercing. I was scared to tell you. I thought you’d be mad that I’m not following in your footsteps.”
The rag stilled.
Sukuna turned slowly, his towering presence casting a long shadow — but his expression wasn’t sharp.
It was soft.
He stepped forward and, without a word, pulled Yuji into a one‑armed hug — heavy, grounding, solid. He ruffled Yuji’s hair with his free hand, grip firm like an anchor.
“I’m proud of you,” Sukuna said quietly. “Whatever you do. I’m your brother. Did you really think I’d care more about a tattoo machine than about what you want?”
Yuji hugged him back hard.
When they separated, Sukuna squinted at him and smirked. “Alright. Wipe your face. Wanna hear a secret?”
Yuji sniffled, instantly alert. “Yes.”
“What do you think about Bubbles becoming your real aunty? Legally?”
Yuji froze — then beamed.
“It would be dumb of you not to,” he said, laughing through it. “She’s your everything.”
Sukuna’s ears pinked. “Yeah, yeah. I’m working on it.”
He pulled out a crumpled sketch — the ring — and slid it across the workstation.
“I need help,” he muttered. “It needs to be perfect.”
Yuji leaned in instantly, energy sparking back to life — pencil in hand, purpose restored, and Sukuna watched him with pride.
After a while Yuji’s pencil slowed, not because he was out of ideas—but because something heavy had finally settled in his chest.
He stared down at the tracing paper on the workstation. The ring. The clean, strong band Sukuna had sketched, now shaped by his own hands—softened, balanced, given a hidden star only the wearer would ever see.
This wasn’t just metal.
This was Bubbles. This was Sukuna’s future. Something private. Sacred.
He swallowed.
“…Kuna?”
Sukuna, leaning against the counter with his arms folded, glanced over. “You breakin’ up with the pencil or you got something to say?”
Yuji didn’t smile this time. “You didn’t have to give this to me,” he said quietly. “The ring. You didn’t have to let me touch it.”
Sukuna stilled.
Yuji lifted his gaze, eyes open and a little raw. “This is important. This is her. You trusted me with something sacred.”
The word hung there.
Sacred.
Sukuna exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he gave a short, dismissive shrug—like he hadn’t just done something enormous.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
Yuji blinked.
“You’re my brother,” Sukuna added. “If I can’t trust you with something that matters, then I’ve already failed.”
Yuji’s throat tightened, emotion hitting him sideways.
And maybe because his chest was already open—maybe because Sukuna had just proven he was safe, the truth slipped out.
“…I like Megs.”
The shop which was already quiet seemed to go even more quiet around them.
Yuji rushed onward before fear could claw the words back. “Like—not just as a friend. Like like. And that’s the thing that’s messing with me, Suki, because I thought I was straight. My whole life. And now the only guy I’ve ever liked is Megumi Fushiguro.”
His laugh came out thin. Nervous.
“I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what it means. What if I’m wrong? What if I say something and ruin everything? This place—him—you—I don’t wanna lose this.”
Sukuna didn’t interrupt.
When Yuji finally ran out of breath, Sukuna stepped closer—not looming, not intimidating. Just solid. Grounded.
“Kiddo,” he said calmly. “Love is love. Don’t matter who it points at.”
Yuji looked up.
“It doesn’t get weaker because it surprised you,” Sukuna continued. “Doesn’t get invalid just because it doesn’t fit the picture you had in your head.”
He scoffed softly. “And no one in this shop is gonna judge you. Not a single damn one.”
Yuji hesitated. “…Even him?”
Sukuna snorted.
“He only laughs with you, kiddo.”
Yuji froze.
“You don’t see it because you’re too close,” Sukuna went on. “But I’ve watched that kid since he showed up all sharp edges and silence. And you?” He shook his head. “You’re the only one who ever pulled that sound out of him.”
A brief pause—then:
“Hell, when you were like thirteen, fifteen maybe ? you did matching tattoos,” Sukuna added flatly. “Who the hell does that if it’s not love?”
Yuji’s ears went red.
Sukuna stared at the ring sketch, jaw tightening just a little.
“…I know it might be weird what I’m gonna say,” he admitted. “But think about Bubbles and Choso.”
Yuji swallowed. “You were mad when I said they could’ve been fire.”
“I was,” Sukuna said. “And you were right.”
His voice grew quieter. More honest.
“And even though Choso would never say it out loud—I know letting her go haunted him for a long time.” A breath. “It haunted Bubbles too. Years. We all saw it. We just didn’t talk about it.”
He looked back at Yuji, eyes sharp and serious.
“Learn from that, kiddo. Don’t let fear scare you into burying something real. Because regret like that? It digs in. It doesn’t leave.”
A beat.
“Everything went right in the end,” Sukuna continued. “I’m with her. Choso loves Toji. And Toji?” A dangerous curl of pride touched his mouth. “That man would burn the world for Choso. Same way I’d burn it for Bubbles.”
He reached out and placed his hand on the back of Yuji’s head—firm. Protective. Unmistakably big‑brother.
“But don’t wait for ‘the end’ to do the living,” Sukuna said. “Don’t let fear frighten you, kiddo. Live your life.”
A pause.
“Even when you’re about to shit yourself in the pants because you’re scared.”
Yuji laughed—a real one this time, breath hitching.
“…You’re kind of terrible at emotional speeches.”
“Yeah,” Sukuna said gruffly. “But I’m right.”
He nodded toward the sketch.
“Now finish the ring. Jeweler’s coming tomorrow.”
Yuji picked up the pencil again.
His hands were steady.
And for the first time since realizing everything, he wasn’t afraid of it anymore.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Back to the present:
The key slid into the lock with a soft metallic sigh, the kind that seemed to echo deeper than the small front door of Red Star Tattoos should ever allow. Your best friend stood just behind you, barely containing her laughter, glitter on her cheek catching the last sweep of daylight like a star announcing itself.
“Okay,” she whispered dramatically, “if anyone jumps out wearing a tutu, I’m suing.”
You nudged her with your elbow, suppressing the grin already forming. “Please. They wouldn’t survive the attempt.”
You pushed the door open.
For a breath — a single, suspended moment — the shop was dark.
Still.
Quiet.
And then it erupted.
“SURPRISE!!!”
Lights flared warm and golden, cascading across the walls in shimmering patterns. Yuji popped up from behind the desk holding a pair of tiny, checkered flags, nearly smacking himself in the face with enthusiasm. Gojo fired a confetti cannon toward the ceiling, absolutely ruining the air filter. Suguru winced. Choso flinched. Twinkles leapt onto a flash sheet display in protest.
Your best friend clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with delighted horror. “They DID it. They ACTUALLY did it.”
But your attention shifted instantly — and inevitably — to the man standing at the centre of it all.
Sukuna.
Arms crossed, tattoos glinting under the fairy lights, expression equal parts smug and unbearably soft. He didn’t shout. Didn’t grin. Didn’t add to the chaos.
He simply looked at you.
Like he always did.
Like you were the only person in the room.
Your breath caught.
Yuji rushed forward first, practically vibrating.
“Happy birthday!! Here— here— open mine first—I’ve been dying all week—please—open—open—OPEN—!”
The gift he shoved into your hands was wrapped in shiny checkered paper and far too much tape. You tore it open, and the second you saw it you gasped.
A scale model of your favourite driver’s Formula One car — exact down to the tiniest sponsor decal. Painted perfectly. Display-ready.
And under the foam?
Two glossy race tickets.
One with your name.
One with his.
Yuji shuffled nervously. “I—I wasn’t sure if you’d like it but I remember you said you always wanted to go to a race and— I mean— I'd love to go but not alone and— and you’re like—my racing friend and—”
You threw your arms around him before he could implode.
“I love it,” you whispered.
Yuji melted into you like a puppy who’d been waiting all day for affection.
Megumi approached next, expression carefully neutral but ears unmistakably pink. He thrust a neatly wrapped bundle into your arms.
“This is… yours,” he muttered.
You unfolded the fabric tie.
Inside were eighteen Mother’s Day cards. Hand-selected. With drawings inside, different flowers, the ones you loved. Each paired with tiny gifts — a playlist link, a small candle, a hand-painted pebble, a tiny notebook labelled For Your Thoughts.
Your vision blurred.
Megumi looked away. “You said once you never got those. So. Now you do. Every year.”
You hugged him too — and he allowed it with a sigh that wasn’t annoyed so much as… softened.
Choso stepped forward silently, holding a small wooden box.
“For you,” he murmured.
You opened it to find a delicate moon shaped hair clip —metallic with tiny opals—with a tiny silver star in the centre. The kind of thing someone makes with intention, with hours of quiet effort.
You touched his hand gently. “It’s beautiful.”
“You always stare at the moon when stressed, so maybe you should always have it with you ”He added softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Toji sauntered forward next, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a neatly wrapped book with a burgundy ribbon.
“You wouldn’t shut up about this,” he said. “So I got it.”
You peeled the paper away and gasped.
The out-of-print linguistics book you had searched for months. Impossibly rare. Impossibly expensive.
Your best friend whispered, “I’m marrying HIM if you don’t.”
Toji smirked. “Get in line, princess.”
Suguru approached next, handing you a sleek black box with surprising gentleness.
Inside was a minimalist, handcrafted silver bracelet, embedded with a thin strip of mother-of-pearl that shimmered faintly under the lights.
“For every day,” he said softly. “For the days you forget you deserve beautiful things.”
You blinked rapidly, overwhelmed.
Then Gojo barrelled in.
“I GOT YOU A GIFT TOO!” he announced, shoving a tiny paper bag at you.
Inside was…
A rubber chicken.
Wearing sunglasses.
You stared.
Your best friend choked on air.
Suguru closed his eyes.
Megumi walked away.
Gojo puffed out his chest. “I THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY.”
“It is,” you said, blessing him with the kindness Suguru clearly no longer possessed.
But then Gojo shoved a second bag at you — this one heavy.
“Your real present,” he added proudly.
Inside was a designer leather jacket — the jacket — the one you had touched reverently through a store window but refused to buy because the price tag made you physically ill.
You nearly dropped it.
“Gojo,” you breathed. “This is—”
“I know,” he said, suddenly quiet in a way only rare moments allowed. “You deserve cool things.”
Then — finally — Sukuna stepped forward.
The crowd parted for him instinctively.
Your best friend clutched her shopping bag like she was witnessing a season finale.
He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a slim rectangular box. He placed it into your hands, holding them for a moment before letting go.
“Open it,” he murmured.
Inside was a simple metal key on a chain. A star-shaped cutout in the head. Weighted. Cold.
You looked up, breath trembling.
“A studio,” he said quietly. “A block away. Your space. Your walls. Your light. Your rules.” His throat bobbed. “A place where you can breathe without the noise. Without… us. If you need it.”
You nearly collapsed into him.
Your chest ached so fully it felt like your ribs were expanding.
Your best friend sniffed loudly. “He’s going to RUIN me emotionally.”
Yuji nodded. “Same sis.”
Gojo sobbed into Suguru’s shirt.
Sukuna touched your cheek with the back of his hand; eyes locked onto yours with something fierce and unguarded.
“Now,” he said, voice low, “come with me.”
He guided you up the back staircase, the noise of your found family fading behind you. Halfway up, he stopped — just under the first string of rooftop lights spilling warm gold down the stairwell.
He turned you gently to face him.
“One more,” he whispered.
Your breath caught.
He reached into his pocket again — slower this time. Deliberate.
When he opened his hand, the tiny velvet box there made your heart lurch up into your throat.
“Sukuna…” you breathed.
He looked at you — the man who once ran from feelings now standing utterly still in them — and exhaled.
“You live with me,” he whispered. “You love me. I love you. I’ve loved you long before I ever said it out loud.” He stepped closer. “And I want every morning with you. Every night. Every stupid fight. Every quiet moment. Every future we haven’t even dreamed yet.”
His voice dropped to a trembling hush.
“I want everything with you.”
He opened the box.
A ring glimmered inside — white gold, inlaid with crimson, a tiny, engraved star inside the band. His star. Your star.
He dropped to one knee — slow, steady, certain.
“Marry me,” he said. “Please.”
Your answer came out as a gasp, a laugh, a sob, a breath —
“Yes.”
His hands shook when he slid the ring onto your finger.
Your hands shook when you framed his face and pulled him into a kiss that felt like a vow, soft and warm and trembling with joy.
When you finally separated, foreheads touching, breath mingled, he whispered—
“Let’s go celebrate, fiancée.”
You smiled through tears.
“Lead the way.”
And together, hand in hand, ring warm on your finger, heart full to the brim, you followed the man you loved onto the rooftop where your whole chaotic, beautiful family waited.
The rooftop door swung open, pushed gently by Sukuna’s hand, and the soft night air welcomed you with a warmth that felt almost tender. The world above Red Star Tattoos glowed like a sanctuary suspended over the city. String lights draped from pole to pole like constellations pulled close enough to touch. Lanterns swayed in the faint breeze, casting rippling circles of gold across the blankets laid out in overlapping layers.
You stepped out first, breath catching in your throat. The rooftop had been transformed. The long, low table at the centre overflowed with sushi—plated beautifully, lovingly, carefully—as if every piece had been arranged by someone who knew exactly what you liked. Bowls of soy sauce, ginger, and wasabi dotted the edges, and a cooler sat nearby filled with your favourite drinks.
The moment your foot touched the rug-lined floor, an eruption of sound hit you.
“There they are! The lovebirds!”
Gojo, already halfway into a celebratory bow, nearly toppled off a cushion when Suguru yanked the back of his shirt to keep him from faceplanting.
Yuji jumped up so fast he knocked over a lantern. “Oh my god—YOU’RE WEARING THE RING—YOU’RE ENGAGED—MEGUMI SHE SAID YES—SHE SAID YES—”
Megumi, who had been quietly arranging chopsticks, sat back with a sigh that did nothing to hide the way his lips curved upward. “Yes, Yuji. I told you she would.”
Your best friend shrieked from the far corner, launching herself toward you as if she had been physically restraining her excitement. “YOU DIDN'T TELL ME — YOU DIDN’T TEXT — YOU LEFT ME DOWN THERE WITH GOJO — YOU MONSTER!”
You laughed as she crushed you into a hug, squeezing you hard enough to make your ribs protest. “I didn’t have time—he asked and—”
“And you said yes,” she finished breathlessly, pulling back to search your face. “You said yes. Oh my god, you’re glowing, and I’m going to faint.”
Sukuna snorted softly behind you, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Calm down.”
“NO,” she said, pointing at him accusingly. “You took my best friend and turned her into a protagonist. I’m emotional.”
Toji, leaning against the edge of the rooftop wall with a beer in hand, lifted his chin at Sukuna with a smirk. “Didn’t think you had the balls.”
“Shut up,” Sukuna muttered—and Toji’s smirk only widened.
Choso approached next, arms crossed, eyes softer than his expression allowed. Twinkles trotted behind him, her little collar bell tinkling. The cat marched straight to you, climbed delicately onto your lap as if sensing celebration, and meowed her approval.
Choso nodded. “She accepts the engagement.”
Sukuna rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite there—not tonight, not when the air felt so full you could barely breathe around it.
You were guided—herded, truly—toward the centre of the rooftop and lowered onto a pile of blankets. The group formed a half-circle around you and Sukuna, like the most chaotic, mismatched council ever assembled.
Yuji took charge first. “Okay! Okay—everyone quiet—this is important—WE NEED A SPEECH.”
Megumi groaned. “We do not need a speech.”
Gojo stood on a pillow. “YES, WE DO! For the newly engaged!”
Suguru tugged him back down. “Sit.”
You laughed, cheeks warm, leaning lightly into Sukuna’s side. His hand found yours without him even looking; your fingers threaded naturally, like they had always known. He brushed the back of your knuckles with his thumb—barely noticeable to anyone else, but enough to make your heart slow and soften.
Yuji shoved a maki roll into his mouth and spoke around it. “I just want to say—I’m so happy for you both—and also very excited for the race—BUT MOSTLY HAPPY FOR YOU—”
Megumi clicked his tongue. “Stop yelling.”
“I’M EMOTIONAL!”
Gojo raised his glass dramatically. “To love! To chaos! To the first Red Star marriage—”
Toji cut in, “Second.”
Gojo blinked. “Wait—who—”
Suguru tapped his finger against Gojo’s ring. “Satoru.”
Gojo gasped. “OH YEAH. Hi husband.”
Suguru sighed fondly.
Your best friend clapped her hands. “Okay, MY TURN: I want to give a toast. A proper toast.”
Everyone quieted, surprisingly.
She looked at you—not at your ring, not at Sukuna—but at you.
“You’ve grown into yourself in ways that make me so proud I can’t breathe sometimes. And you found someone who sees all of you—your kindness, your stubbornness, your fire—and he doesn’t run. He stays. He matches it. That’s rare. I’m so happy for you both.”
Your vision blurred.
You squeezed her hand.
She squeezed back.
Sukuna cleared his throat, low and quiet, drawing your attention to him. “You sure you want all this noise?” he murmured in your ear.
You bumped your shoulder into his. “I live with you. Noise is inevitable.”
He fought a smile. Lost.
Sushi was passed around. Drinks poured. Gojo tried to steal your jacket for a photo shoot. Yuji asked if he could be the “flower boy” at the wedding and then cried when everyone said yes. Megumi pretended not to care but asked if Twinkles could wear a bowtie for the ceremony. Toji shook his head at your future but muttered congratulations when no one was listening. Suguru toasted you quietly with a soft, warm smile.
And through it all?
Sukuna stayed close.
Hand on your back, fingers brushing your knee, and knuckles trailing your ring every chance he had.
The city hummed below the rooftop, muted, distant. Lantern light danced over everyone’s faces, turning the scene into something out of memory before it even finished happening.
After a while, when the noise softened into a warm, contented murmur, Sukuna leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“Come here,” he said—soft, private.
He guided you toward the rooftop’s edge, where the string lights hung lower, casting the faintest halo over the two of you. The others stayed behind, giving you space without needing to be told.
Sukuna turned you toward him, hands sliding up your arms, his thumbs brushing the faint shimmer of glitter on your shoulders.
“You, okay?” he murmured.
You nodded, breath catching. “More than okay.”
He exhaled, forehead touching yours. “Good. Because I meant every word.”
You smiled. “I know.”
He lifted your hand, kissed the ring gently, then your palm, then your temple.
In the distance, Yuji whooped loudly at something Gojo had done, but their laughter sounded miles away.
Sukuna’s voice dropped to that low register he only used when the world shrank to just the two of you.
“They’re our family now,” he whispered. “But you… you’re my home.”
He kissed you, slow, lingering, with the quiet certainty of a man who had chosen this moment, this life, this love with intention.
The rooftop glowed.
Your ring glimmered.
And the night wrapped around you both like a vow.
sneak peek: Golden hour at Red Star Tattoos usually feels like a countdown to chaos, but today, the amber light spills through the windows like warm honey, softening the jagged edges of the studio. In a rare, breathless moment of quiet, the "veil" between mentor and apprentice finally dissolves. Behind the counter, amidst the mundane task of color-coding appointments, a slip of the tongue changes the shop's DNA forever. It’s a quiet, offhand comment—easier than breathing, but heavy enough to make Sukuna stop mid-breath and Gojo wheep in shock.
Your birthday arrives with a suspiciously smug Suguru and a best friend who doubles as a literal icon. Between Yuji flatlining at a celebrity sighting and a velvet-wrapped gift that reminds you why you started drawing in the first place, the shop becomes a fortress of sentiment. As the day turns to dusk and the "Girls' Day" ends with glitter on your cheeks and secrets shared over mimosas, you return to a dark shop where the muffled sound of a frantic Gojo and a territorial Sukuna suggests the night is only just beginning.
The "Mom" Incident: When someone dropped the M-word. The shop air flinched. Toji has declared this the "Season Finale."
The Birthday Blitz: A certain actress is officially the shop's "Chaos Consultant." She "vetted" Sukuna’s character development and found it... satisfactory.
The Heirloom Project: You presented thirteen years of retroactive love. From dinosaurs to star books, the "inheritance priority" has been negotiated and (mostly) approved.
The Car Chaos: Yuji is a "Ten-and-Two" driver; Sukuna is a "Dashboard-Clutcher." Gojo and Suguru are still arguing over who is the superior passenger.
Casualties: Gojo’s coffee (detonated on the floor), Sukuna’s cool exterior, and any lingering doubt that this shop is actually a home.
Current Shop Mood: Huddling in the dark, whispering frantically, and waiting for the birthday girl to turn the key.
Golden hour spills through the windows of Red Star like warm honey, lazy and golden and soft in all the places the shop is usually sharp. It settles on the chairs, paints long ribbons across the floor, and catches the dust motes drifting slow and aimless in the quietest air the studio has had all week.
For once, no machines buzz. No chaos thumps around. No Gojo is yelling something unhinged.
It feels like the shop took a breath.
A long exhale.
A “just for a second, let’s be gentle” kind of moment.
You’re behind the counter, reorganizing appointment cards—because if the universe insists on being feral, your calendar will at least behave. Colour coding, cross‑checking, nudging things into their right places. It’s your calm.
Megumi stands beside you, close enough that your arms brush every time he adjusts the tablet. His face is lit warm by the amber glow, his brows drawn together in that serious little knot he wears like armour. He looks thirteen and ancient all at once.
You lean in, your perfume catching on the air between you and him.
“Shift Mrs. Herrera ten minutes later,” you murmur, tapping the tablet. “She spirals when she talks. It’ll push us back otherwise.”
Megumi nods slowly absorbing it like it matters, because to him, your logic always has.
“Okay.”
You reach out automatically and brush an invisible bit of lint from his sleeve. You don’t even think about doing it. You’ve done it a thousand times. And Megumi’s shoulders… drop. Just a little. A soft, barely-there melt of tension.
And then he says it.
Quiet, offhand, easy as breathing.
“Thanks, Mom.”
You go still.
The shop goes silent
—as if the air itself flinched.
Choso freezes mid‑wipe, cloth stuck on steel like his brain blue‑screened.
Toji lowers his rag veeery slowly, eyes widening in delighted oh? new plotline?
Suguru pauses mid‑invoice, staring at you like he’s witnessing spiritual rebirth.
Yuji’s jaw drops open, the blink-blink-blink of someone who just watched his sibling walk into traffic emotionally.
And Sukuna—Red Star’s walking thunderstorm—stops breathing. His gaze snaps to you, then to Megumi, and his expression folds into something soft and sharp and fragile all at once.
You’re frozen with your fingers still hovering near Megumi’s arm.
Your heart hits your ribs once hard.
Megumi doesn’t even notice he said it at first. He’s still scrolling the calendar like the floor didn’t just open under everyone. Then his spine suddenly straightens, like someone yanked an invisible wire. colour sweeps up his neck to his ears so quickly it’s a miracle he doesn’t combust.
You whisper, barely there:
“…What did you just say?”
He inhales. Slow. Shaky.
“I meant Bubbles.”
He absolutely did not. Everyone knows it.
Yuji’s voice cracks:
“You called her mom.”
Toji leans toward Choso, whispering, “Season finale just dropped.”
Choso doesn’t answer. He’s studying you with a quiet, protective awareness.
Sukuna finally speaks—quiet, almost gentle:
“Gumi.”
Not a warning.
Not a correction.
A question.
Megumi finally looks at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes is devastating.
“You make sure we eat. And you keep the schedule. And you fix things before they break. And you… you make it feel stable.” His voice thins. “So it wasn’t… random.”
Sukuna looks at you with a pride so warm it could bruise. His chest rises slowly, like he’s holding a feeling too big to swallow.
You step closer.
“You know I’m not your mother.”
“I know.” Megumi says it instantly. Steadily. “But it still feels like that.”
And then—
the bell.
The obnoxious bell Satoru Gojo insisted on installing “to add flare.”
He walks in, sunglasses sliding down his nose like they’re exhausted.
“What’d I miss?” he chirps.
Yuji points at Megumi like he’s identifying a suspect. “He called Bubbles Mom.”
Gojo drops his coffee so hard it detonates on the floor. He doesn’t even flinch. He stares at Megumi like he just told him he got accepted into Hogwarts.
And then, with trembling voice:
“If she’s the mom… then what am I?”
Megumi doesn’t hesitate.
“Dad.”
Suguru’s eyes widen. Gojo’s soul leaves his body and returns instantly. He breaks into a sob so violent it would break lesser men. He crushes Megumi into a hug that might violate safety codes.
Megumi… lets him. Actually hugs him back, awkward and stiff and earnest.
Suguru steps in behind them like a quiet anchor, hand on both their backs, steady, grounding.
You press your hand over your mouth, eyes burning.
Sukuna steps close, arm brushing yours, voice low:
“You, okay?”
You nod. You’re more than okay. You’re undone in a good way.
Gojo pulls back, sniffling like a broken kettle.
“So we’re co‑parents?”
“No,” Megumi deadpans, wiping at his face.
The shop explodes in relieved laughter.
He straightens his jacket, composure sliding back into place.
“If a single client hears about this, I’m deleting the entire booking system.”
He squints between you and Sukuna and says with perfect teenage seriousness:
“So… does this mean I get inheritance priority?”
The shop implodes.
Gojo clutches his chest like a Victorian widow.
Suguru sighs.
Yuji screams, “YES, PRIORITY!”
Even Sukuna wheezes a laugh he tries to hide.
Something warm and permanent roots itself in the middle of Red Star that day.
A family made by choice.
A home made by sticking around.
That evening, long after close, you arrive with a bright blue gift bag and a heavy box. The adults linger like constellations around the shop—Toji on the couch, Choso wiping tools, Sukuna leaning against the desk. The boys sit at the table arguing about something that doesn’t matter.
You place the snow globe in front of Megumi.
It’s a Boy glitters inside it.
He stares.
Gojo gasps like a Victorian grandmother fainting.
“I wasn’t there when you started,” you say softly. “So I’m showing up now.”
Megumi opens the box.
Thirteen envelopes.
Numbered 1 to 13.
He opens them one by one.
1: a tiny dinosaur & a note: I would’ve held you even if you hated it.
4: crayons & I would’ve taped every drawing to the wall.
7: a star book & you find the sky when the ground feels small.
10: a black bracelet & you don’t have to be hard to survive.
13: you’re allowed to grow slow. You don’t owe anyone speed.
He doesn’t cry.
But his fingers curl tight around the paper.
“You didn’t miss them,” he says quietly. “You’re here now.”
Sukuna squeezes your hand hard.
Gojo lunges into a hug, Suguru and Yuji pile on, Megumi suffocates, and Choso stands off to the side—smiling in that imperceptible way he does when something hits him too real.
Megumi finally emerges from the dogpile. “…Do I get back allowance payment for the first thirteen years too?”
Laughter explodes again.
Yuji pipes up, “Since you dated BOTH my brothers—should I get birthday letters too?”
You flick his forehead. “You get me now.”
Yuji whispers, “Can I still get the dinosaur?”
You hand him a dinosaur.
He squeals.
Celebration turns chaotic in the most Red Star way when you toss your brand-new car keys like a game show host.
Yuji nearly passes out.
Megumi does the silent, wide‑eye inhale.
Sukuna looks like he aged three years on the spot.
Yuji drives first.
Ten-and-two.
Blinker on for eight seconds before every turn.
Sukuna white-knuckles the dashboard.
Gojo and Suguru argue in the back about who’s the “safer passenger.”
Yuji says, “Grandpa, please shut up.”
Megumi’s turn.
Grace.
Control.
Perfect handling.
He returns the keys like an adult being professional.
“It’s a good car,” he murmurs.
Translation: thank you.
Sukuna crawls out like a man surviving trauma, then wraps his arm around your waist, pressing his nose to your temple with a quiet pride he doesn’t name.
The boys laugh under the amber streetlights, the car hums warm, the shop glows behind you.
And for the first time, the space between all of you feels like it clicked into place.
A family born not from blood, but from choosing one another.
Your birthday morning at Red Star Tattoos began with a strange kind of hush, the kind that didn’t belong in a shop where too many men breathed too loudly to ever allow silence. Suguru was the first sign that something was off: he was making tea with a suspiciously smug look on his face. Choso was already there too, reorganizing your pigment drawer like he needed a task to avoid giving something away.
Even Twinkles looked expectant, perched on the counter like a tiny white gargoyle.
And Sukuna? He was absolutely pretending he wasn’t up to something.
He leaned against your station with his arms crossed, hood down, tattoos stark under the warm morning light. He didn’t greet you with the usual gruff “morning.” Instead, his eyes flickered over you in a way that almost — almost — looked shy before he muttered:
“…Birthday girl,” like he wasn’t sure if the words were legal.
You stepped closer, smiling. “Why does it feel like everyone’s staring at me?”
“Because they’re nosy,” Sukuna snapped too fast.
Suguru hummed.
Choso’s eyebrow arched, betraying him.
Twinkles blinked.
Even the plants seemed to lean in.
Before you could interrogate any of them, the front door chimed — the normal chime, not the horrifying fanfare Sukuna insisted was “necessary for security.”
You turned.
And froze.
There she was.
Your best friend.
The actress Yuji worshipped like she was a rare celestial event.
The woman who had become entirely yours in two chapters of shared chaos, and definitely more texts messages that should be allowed by our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.
She walked in wearing her oversized sunglasses, a long coat, messy hair in a perfect bun, holding a pastry box and a grin sharp enough to split the floor.
“Happy birthday, baby,” she sang, already dropping everything to wrap you in her arms.
You melted into her. Of course you did.
“I missed you,” you breathed against her shoulder.
“I missed you more,” she whispered back. “Now let me see my girl.”
You pulled apart just enough to look at her, and she cupped your cheeks like you were made of delicate ceramic. “God, you’re glowing. Is he feeding you vitamins or finally giving you real orgas—”
Sukuna choked on absolutely nothing across the room.
Suguru closed his eyes like he needed prayer.
Choso stopped breathing.
Twinkles pawed at the air.
You slapped her arm. “STOP.”
She smirked, tossing her sunglasses on your counter. “Then I need details later.”
But before you could reply, there was a loud thump behind her.
Yuji had fainted.
Fully collapsed on the shop floor.
“Oh my god — SHE’S REAL,” he gasped from the ground like he had been reborn.
“Hello, Yuji,” she said with a soft giggle, kneeling to help him up. “I heard you liked my movies.”
“LIKE?” Yuji squeaked, voice cracking. “I—I have a shrine— I mean— posters— I mean—”
He hid behind his hands, kicking his legs in embarrassment.
Your best friend looked up at you with a wicked grin.
“My impact is insane.”
Gojo sprinted from the back like a cartoon character.
“HELLO STARLIGHT. HELLO RADIANCE. HELLO BEAUTY—”
Suguru’s hand shot out to grip Gojo’s hood mid‑monologue.
“No.”
Just that.
Gojo whimpered.
Your best friend blew Suguru a kiss. “Still my favourite.”
Gojo gasped. “TRAITOR.”
As she stood, Sukuna approached — slow, guarded, assessing her like she was a tattoo stencil he wasn’t sure he approved of.
“Sukuna,” she said, folding her arms. “The one who stole her heart.”
Sukuna’s jaw flexed. “…I didn’t steal anything.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice with an amused tilt of her head. “So you earned it?”
He cleared his throat, looking away. “Yeah.”
She smiled at him — a real smile, warm enough to make even Sukuna falter for a beat.
“Good. Keep doing that.”
Yuji, starstruck, clutched your arm like you were his emotional support human. “Bubbles… Bubbles… she talked to him. She TALKED to him.”
From the counter, Choso murmured, “Yuji, breathe.”
Your best friend snapped her fingers suddenly.
“Oh! Before I forget — your gift.”
She grabbed the pastry box, popped it open, and you saw it wasn’t pastries at all. Inside was something wrapped in velvet, soft and heavy. You lifted it, breath hitching when the fabric fell away.
A sketchbook.
Not just any sketchbook.
A custom‑made one: Leather‑bound, your shop’s star motif embossed subtly across the cover.
Weighted pages perfect for ink and watercolour.
A small brass plaque on the inside that read:
“For the artist who tattoos kindness into everyone else — remember to save some for yourself.”
Your throat tightened faster than you could stop it.
“Oh…”
Your voice cracked.
It cracked.
She pulled you into a hug before you could wipe the tears.
“You never draw for yourself anymore,” she whispered. “This one is only for you. No clients. No commissions. No deadlines. Just you.”
Sukuna watched you like the universe had tilted.
Choso looked away politely.
Yuji sniffled like this was a cinematic masterpiece.
Gojo wept openly into Suguru’s sleeve.
Suguru looked at the ceiling and muttered, “She’s going to make all of us cry, isn’t she…”
Your best friend wiped your cheek.
“You deserve beautiful things. And to make beautiful things just for fun again.”
You hugged her tighter.
Sukuna moved then — slow, deliberate — sliding his hand to your waist.
“…She’s right,” he murmured.
Your best friend winked. “Look at him. My god, the character development.”
Yuji loudly agreed. “THE ARC. THE ARC IS ARCING.”
Sukuna growled.
Yuji hid behind Megumi.
Then your best friend clapped her hands.
“Alright! Chaos break—birthday girl’s coming with me. I want the full tour and then I’m stealing her for girl’s day part two.”
Everyone protested.
Sukuna glared.
Yuji begged to come.
Gojo offered to carry your purse.
Choso simply whispered “…be safe.”
Your best friend linked her arm with yours, triumphant.
“You boys babysit each other. I’m stealing her.”
Sukuna leaned down, whispering at your ear before you left:
“Come back for dinner.”
A quiet promise.
“And bring that sketchbook. I wanna see you use it.”
Your best friend grabbed your hand dramatically.
“You heard your man, babe. Let’s go.”
You left the shop laughing, your gift under your arm, Sukuna’s stare burning into your back in that soft, proud way he only ever used with you.
Behind you, chaos erupted:
Yuji screaming,
Gojo fainting,
Suguru sighing,
Choso locking a drawer like he needed a break,
Twinkles meowing like a tiny alarm.
And you?
You walked into the sunlight with your best friend at your side, your heart full, your hands full, and for once, your soul feeling exactly the right amount of held.
The door of the shop shut behind you with a soft click, the familiar chime fading into the hum of the city as you and your best friend stepped onto the sidewalk. The air outside felt different than inside the shop — less charged, less full of testosterone and territorial grumbling. It softened around you like it knew you needed space. The street glittered with late afternoon light, puddles reflecting the soft gold that made every building seem gentler than it was.
Your best friend exhaled dramatically, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “God, it’s good to see you outside of that den of feral men. I swear, that place is like therapy for me and I’m not the one who works there.”
You laughed and nudged her with your hip. “You weren’t even inside for fifteen minutes.”
“That’s all it takes,” she announced, looping her arm with yours. “Choso gave me his quiet stare approval, Gojo tried to flirt with me and failed, Suguru rescued me from said flirting, Megumi bowed like I’m nobility, Yuji nearly passed out from excitement, and Sukuna…” She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Sukuna stared at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this mortal plane.”
You felt yourself warm at the thought, rolling your eyes even as you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your mouth. “Please don’t start.”
“Oh I will,” she said, tugging you toward the first store she saw. “I live for this romance arc. I breathe it. I will cry at the wedding.”
“There is no—”
“Save it,” she said. “I saw the way he reached for you and then pretended he didn’t. It’s giving long-term, it’s giving domestic, it’s giving ‘I said I love you in the dark and meant it.’”
Your steps faltered. Just a fraction.
She caught it.
She always caught it.
“…He did say it. A while ago.”
Her gasp was so loud it startled a passing dog walker. “AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?!”
“It just happened,” you murmured, but the words pulled something soft and shimmering from inside you. “He said it like it was something he’d been holding behind his teeth for years.”
Your best friend stopped in her tracks. Her expressive face shifted into something tender, something full of pride and awe and that fierce kind of love only the oldest friends ever carry. She grabbed both your hands, squeezed them.
“I’m so happy for you.”
The rest of the day unfolded like a gentle cascade — store to store, laughter to laughter, a blur of light-hearted chaos held together by the warm thread between you two. You tried on sunglasses that belonged on red carpets, she tried on boots heavy enough to hurt someone. You held dresses up to each other’s bodies, twirled in mirrors, posed ridiculously until you were both breathless with laughter.
In a small perfume shop, she sprayed your wrist with a warm scent of cedar and vanilla. “This one,” she said confidently. “This smells like someone who is loved.”
You didn’t argue.
In a boutique full of handmade jewellery, she bought you matching rings — hers gold, yours silver— and she slid yours onto your finger with a ceremonious flourish. “For protection,” she teased. “From dumb boys.”
“Like the ones we work with?”
“Especially them.”
You ate pastries on a bench, icing on your fingertips, sun dipping low behind the buildings. She leaned into you, shoulder to shoulder, the way she used to when life was faster, harder, when you both were trying to figure out how to breathe through the pressure of becoming adults.
“You’re different,” she said quietly. “Not in a scary way. In a… settled way. Like someone finally built you a place to exhale.”
You didn’t need to ask who she meant.
You let her do your makeup, glitter dusting your cheeks, the kind that would absolutely leave a trail of chaos behind you. She gasped, holding up her phone to show you your reflection.
“You look ethereal,” she whispered reverently. “You look like someone who has a man at home who loves her stupid.”
Your cheeks warmed again. “We live together,” you said softly.
Her mouth opened dramatically. “WHAT.”
You tried not to smile. Failed miserably. “It kind of just… happened. One night at a time. One toothbrush. One hoodie. And then suddenly he was carrying my bookshelf up three flights of stairs.”
She fanned herself. “Jesus Christ, that is foreplay.”
“Stop.”
“Never.”
It was nearing dusk when you finally turned back toward Red Star Tattoos — bags in your arms, glitter on your skin, perfume clinging to your wrist, and the feeling that your heart had stretched into something fuller, brighter.
Your best friend swung your hands dramatically as you walked down the block. “Okay, I know you said the guys wanted you back before dark, but why do I feel like something’s brewing? Yuji kept texting me emojis I can’t interpret.”
You didn’t answer — because as you approached, you noticed something strange.
The shop lights were off.
The blinds pulled down.
And behind the door, you heard the muffled thud of feet. A frantic whisper. Something clattering. Gojo’s unmistakable “OW SUKUNA STOP HITTING ME.”
You and your best friend exchanged a slow, dawning grin.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Something is absolutely happening.”
You pressed your key into the lock.
Before you could turn it, the whispering inside grew louder. Rustling. Someone swearing. Someone else shushing. A frantic scurry like an army trying to take strategic positions.
Your best friend leaned in close, eyes sparkling.
“Ready?”
You inhaled deeply, heart already fluttering with the warmth of knowing — knowing the people behind that door, knowing the love woven through the chaos, knowing the man who had said I love you in the dark now stood inside trying to arrange something imperfectly perfect for you.
You turned the key.
The latch clicked.
The door creaked open.
And the chapter ended there, on the cusp of light, noise, love, and the unmistakable scent of fresh sushi waiting in the dark.
sneak peek: Yuji’s eighteenth birthday didn't just come with a legal ID; it came with an all-access pass to the Red Star After-Hours, a ritual of clinking glass and unfiltered history. But the night’s real architect was Sukuna, who—driven by a dangerous bout of boredom—decided to drop a lit match into a room soaked in fifteen years of gasoline.
What began as a hundred-dollar bet to "educate" the kids quickly spiraled into a nuclear detonation of shop secrets. The "Junior Team" finally learns the truth about the Balcony Lore: long-buried chemistry between Bubbles and Choso dragged into the fluorescent light, revealing a past of red wine, matching tattoos, and a rain-slicked alleyway goodbye that was "catastrophic but hot."
As the night progresses, Sukuna realizes too late that once the vault is open, you can't control what crawls out. From Toji shamelessly negotiating his way into the "free pass" conversation to Gojo exposing Sukuna's own history of "evaluating" Toji's structural integrity, the night ends in a hilarious regime of Grout Warfare. Yuji and Megumi are officially part of the family now—which mostly means they're scrubbing the bathroom while the man who started it all sits in the wreckage of his own authority.
The Instigator: Sukuna. He explicitly started this misery because he was "bored." He is now the primary victim of his own entertainment.
The Reveal: The "Balcony Lore" is officially public record. Two rounds, one sunrise, and "symbolic" cigarettes. History has been acknowledged, and it is officially "fire."
The "Toji" Factor: Re-classified as a "Chaos Consultant." It was confirmed that Sukuna’s territorial nature might have actually been "drooling" in disguise.
The Sentence: For the crime of being too observant and supporting "alternate timelines," Yuji and Megumi have been martyred to:
The Grout Pits: Six months of scrubbing the bathroom (where Toji’s dreams went to die).
Accounting Purgatory: Reconciling every receipt until summer.
The Regret: Sukuna absolutely regrets being bored. He lit the match, and now he has to live in the bonfire.
Current Shop Mood: Industrial-strength bleach, unresolved tension, and the realization that Sukuna’s "free pass" was never actually revoked.
Yuji’s eighteenth birthday had been two days ago, and for the first time in his life, stepping into Red Star Tattoos after closing time felt like crossing a veil he was never allowed to touch before. The familiar hum of the shop, the warm glow of the lights, the scent of incense curling lazily between the stations — all of it was the same, yet absolutely not the same. Something in the air felt thicker, like the place was holding its breath. Like it knew things were about to get stupid in ways Yuji had only ever heard whispered through half‑closed doors.
Suguru turned the “OPEN” sign around with the solemnity of a priest sealing a temple. Choso flicked the lock twice, slow and ritualistic. You sighed, tying your hair up in that resigned, here‑we‑go way the shop knew too well. And Yuji, for the first time ever, felt the weight of the space shift. It was quieter. Denser. Charged like a wire right before it snaps. He leaned toward Megumi, voice barely above a breath.
“…It feels different already.”
Megumi didn’t look away from the doorway, jaw tense. “Like something bad is about to happen.”
Something bad did happen.
Immediately.
The door shook violently, rattling against the lock like a furious bear. Sukuna straightened from his station with a growl that could have ruptured concrete. “Who the hell—”
Before he could finish, the door jerked under a heavy kick. Then another. You, against all logic and good judgment, unlocked it.
Toji strolled in like a man entering his own kitchen. In each hand, he carried a brown bag that clinked ominously, bottles knocking together like wind chimes from hell.
“I brought supplies,” he said simply.
Yuji gasped like a child on Christmas morning. Megumi’s soul left his body. Gojo burst into ecstatic applause and shouted, “DADDY’S HOME!” just in time for Toji to smack him with one of the bags. Sukuna was already pointing aggressively.
“No hard liquor—”
Toji pulled out a bottle that could strip paint.
Choso leaned toward you. “If someone dies, I’m not doing the paperwork.”
Whatever veneer of adulthood lingered in the room vanished with that announcement. The clinking of bottles seemed to be a starter pistol for absolute regression. Gojo had the music blasting loud enough to shake the flash sheets off the wall. Suguru was desperately attempting to confiscate the unlabelled stuff with both hands while Gojo danced around him like a gremlin. Sukuna tried to maintain composure for all of six seconds before pouring himself a shot, the picture of controlled disaster. Choso sat on a stool sipping whiskey with the calm precision of a man watching a hurricane through bulletproof glass. Yuji could hardly breathe.
“…are they always like this?” he whispered.
Megumi’s eyes were locked on Gojo, who was now using a tattoo chair as a makeshift stage. “Yes,” he whispered back. “We were protected from the truth.”
Gojo slammed a deck of cards onto the table.
“ALRIGHT, MISCREANTS. TRUTH OR TEQUILA!”
You groaned loudly. “No. NO—absolutely not. Last time Sukuna tried to fight God.”
“He started it,” Sukuna muttered.
“He did NOT—”
Yuji, already unscrewing the cider cap, beamed. “Let’s play!”
Megumi sat down slowly, face blank with the resignation of someone walking willingly into the jaws of fate.
The first card went to Toji, because of course it did. He raised an eyebrow and said, “Truth.”
Gojo leaned forward like a lawyer in court. “Do you actually like any of us?”
Toji looked him dead in the eye and took a shot.
The room exploded in laughter, shouting, cackling. Even Choso cracked a real smile. Yuji nearly fell off his chair. Megumi covered his face like the second-hand embarrassment might kill him.
Yuji got brave next — too brave. He drew a card, then turned to Megumi with a shaky grin and the audacity of a young man who had never considered consequences.
“Megumi,” he said. “Truth or tequila.”
“No,” Megumi said instantly.
“You don’t even know what—”
“No.”
Yuji leaned closer, eyes wide, a little dreamy. “Do you think I’m cute?”
Silence. That dangerous, electric kind. Sukuna froze mid-sip, eyes wide. You slapped a hand over your mouth. Toji’s eyebrows shot up. Suguru paused mid-confiscation. Gojo threw himself on the floor. Choso blinked slowly like he was watching a nature documentary.
Megumi stared at Yuji for a long moment that said absolutely everything and absolutely nothing.
Then he reached for the bottle.
And drank.
Yuji’s ears turned the colour of raw salmon. Gojo rolled on the floor screaming, “HE COULDN’T EVEN LIE—THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE—” and Toji pointed dramatically between them.
“One year,” he announced.
“Six months,” Suguru corrected calmly.
“Three,” Choso added.
“Two” you corrected.
“ZERO,” Sukuna barked, slamming the table.
You hadn’t even recovered from that when you pulled a card of your own and made the mistake — the fatal, catastrophic mistake — of saying “Truth.”
Gojo practically lit up like a neon sign.
“Bubbles,” he purred, “did that actress flirt with you at the convention—”
Sukuna immediately growled.
“—and did you like it?”
The shop went silent. You took a slow sip of your drink.
Yuji squealed. Megumi slid off his chair. Suguru nodded like he’d known it for months. Toji lifted his glass in respect. Choso smirked without looking up from his drink — the cruel, knowing kind that meant he knew everything.
Sukuna stared at you, eyes narrow. “Answer.”
You shrugged. “…Maybe.”
He nearly combusted on the spot. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN MAYBE—”
“Relax, skyscraper.”
“I WILL NOT—”
Gojo fanned himself dramatically. “This is better than cable.”
The night melted into a beautiful, stupid blur.
At some point, Gojo passed out face down in Twinkles’ cat bed, a disgrace to both himself and the feline kingdom. Toji fell asleep sitting upright with the bottle still in his fingers, perfectly balanced like a soldier on watch. Suguru dragged Gojo away by one ankle as Choso disinfected every surface in quiet, saintly patience. Sukuna paced the shop ranting loudly about “girls’ days being a threat to national security,” and Yuji and Megumi sat shoulder‑to‑shoulder on the floor, in their own soft universe of sparkling cider and flushed cheeks.
Yuji raised his glass. “This was the best night ever,” he murmured.
Megumi didn’t push him away. He let Yuji lean into him, just slightly, and nodded. “…Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”
Toji, half-asleep, pointed vaguely toward them and mumbled, “Six months.”
Choso shook his head. “Three.”
Suguru sighed. “One year.”
Sukuna shouted, “UNBELIEVABLE.”
You faded into laughter, sipping what had to be your third drink, watching the mess unfold inside the shop you loved more than anything. Sukuna moved toward you, slower now, collapsing the rant mid‑sentence as he joined your side. His hand found your waist almost absentmindedly — more instinct than intention.
Choso finished wiping the last counter. Suguru turned off the overhead lights. Gojo muttered something that sounded like “family photo” in his sleep. Yuji and Megumi huddled close, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear. Twinkles curled up on the couch arm, her new sheriff pendant glinting under the low light.
Yuji lifted his cider one last time, voice warm, eyes bright.
“For Red Star.”
Megumi raised his glass too, quiet and sincere. “For family.”
You smiled — soft, full, unguarded.
“For home.”
And the night, messy and stupid and loud and perfect, spun itself into Red Star history — the very first after‑hours where the kids weren’t kids anymore, where they became part of the beautiful, feral disaster that made the shop what it was.
Red Star Tattoos after closing hours had always felt like a sealed aquarium of bad decisions and fluorescent lighting, the kind of place where time dissolved into cigarette smoke and half-finished bottles, where the neon sign outside buzzed like it was barely holding itself together and everyone inside pretended, they were too. The shutters were halfway down, the music low but pulsing, and the air heavy with disinfectant, ink, and alcohol. It was late enough that no one was posturing anymore. Shoes were off. Sleeves were rolled. Pride was fragile.
Everyone was there.
Gojo had claimed the longest stretch of couch like it was a throne he’d stolen. Suguru sat backwards on a chair, long fingers loosely clasped, observing everything with the calm of a man who already knew how this would end. Toji leaned back in the corner, legs stretched out, glass balanced on his thigh, eyes half-lidded in predatory amusement. Choso stood near the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows, jaw relaxed but eyes alert. You were perched on the metal workspace, one knee bent, glass dangling from your fingers, hair messy from humidity and laughter.
Yuji and Megumi, no longer children and deeply aware of it, occupied the middle of the room like two curious wolves who didn’t yet know they were being lured into something bigger.
And Sukuna, who had been silent for just long enough to grow restless, straightened in his chair with the unmistakable energy of a man about to ruin his own evening.
He rolled his shoulders once, glanced around at the familiar chaos, and said with deceptive calm, “If anyone guesses what happened fifteen years ago, you get a hundred bucks.”
The room shifted.
It wasn’t loud at first. It was the kind of silence that spreads from the spine outward.
You froze mid-sip. Choso’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the edge of the counter. Suguru closed his eyes briefly. Toji’s mouth twitched.
Sukuna leaned back, looking almost bored, as if he hadn’t just dropped a lit match into a room soaked in gasoline.
“They’re adults now,” he added lazily, nodding toward Yuji and Megumi. “They deserve to know.”
You slid off the counter slowly, every muscle alert. “You’re drunk.”
“Yes,” he agreed without hesitation. “And bored.”
Choso exhaled through his nose. “Unnecessary.”
Yuji blinked between you both, eyes wide. “What happened fifteen years ago?”
Megumi didn’t speak yet. He was watching. Calculating.
You and Choso exchanged the briefest glance—panic wrapped in old familiarity.
And then, out of sheer self-preservation, you struck first.
“Yuji,” you said sharply, “you sobbed at a car commercial last week.”
“It was emotional,” he shot back immediately, offended.
Choso folded his arms calmly. “Megumi alphabetizes his spice rack.”
“That’s efficient,” Megumi replied, unbothered.
“You label your socks,” you added.
“That’s hygiene,” he said flatly.
Gojo burst into laughter. Toji grinned. For a fleeting second, it worked.
Sukuna tapped the counter with two fingers. “Deflection is admission.”
Yuji squinted.
And then something shifted in his face.
“Wait,” he said slowly, turning toward Choso. “You have that weird three-eyed smiley tattoo on your ribs.”
Choso went still.
Your stomach dropped.
“And Bubbles has a smiley too,” Yuji continued, momentum building. “On her toe. I saw it at the beach. When Gojo got attacked by that crab.”
“It was a violent crustacean,” Gojo defended dramatically.
Megumi’s eyes sharpened. “Hers has two eyes. His has three.”
Yuji nodded eagerly. “You got them when you were twenty.”
Silence.
“You weren’t together,” Megumi added, voice calm and precise. “But you still got connected tattoos.”
You could feel Sukuna’s gaze burning into the side of your face.
Megumi leaned back slightly, piecing it together aloud. “You ended it before it could start. Because if you’d tried, you would’ve destroyed each other.”
The room felt smaller.
“You both think in extremes,” he continued. “You’d consume each other.”
Yuji’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”
Megumi didn’t hesitate. “They definitely did it.”
The explosion was immediate.
“Megumi!” you snapped.
Choso rubbed a hand down his face.
Sukuna reached into his wallet without breaking eye contact and slapped two hundred-dollar bills onto the counter. “Each.”
Yuji grabbed one with disbelief. Megumi took his with quiet satisfaction.
You inhaled slowly.
Fine.
If Sukuna wanted chaos, you would give him something worse.
You stepped closer to Choso deliberately, your shoulder brushing his arm in a way that was technically innocent and entirely intentional. He glanced down at you, already understanding.
“Since they solved it,” you said sweetly, “we might as well clarify.”
Sukuna straightened. “You don’t have to.”
“Oh,” you replied softly, “but we want to.”
Choso’s mouth curved faintly.
“Round one,” he began calmly.
Yuji made a strangled noise.
“Balcony,” you said. “Red wine in plastic cups. Cigarettes we didn’t know how to hold.”
“You followed me out there.” You said staring into his eyes
“I did not follow you,” he replied evenly.“You looked like you were about to set something on fire.”
“You wanted me to.”
Gojo was fully upright now, miming popcorn.
Choso’s voice lowered slightly. “We talked about art and medicine like they were religions.” His eyes definitely focused on yours.
“You said I looked lonely.”
“You were.”
Your hand drifted to his sleeve, smoothing non-existent wrinkles.
“It wasn’t reckless,” he said.
“It wasintentional.” You continued
“And thorough,” he added lightly.
Sukuna closed his eyes.
“And round two?” Megumi prompted, entirely too invested.
Choso inhaled once.
“The second time,” he said, “was after we agreed we wouldn’t.”
Yuji clutched his hundred dollars like a stress toy.
“We were ‘just friends.’” You whispered
“Terrible at it.” He continued
“Definitely” you said chuckling, while looking at the young boys.
You tilted your head; eyes locked with his.
“You closed the door.” You added
“You turned around.” He murmured
“You asked if I was sure.” You recalled
“I did.” He confirmed
“You kissed me anyway.”
The shop went silent.
“There wasn’t a third round,” you added softly.
Choso nodded once. “The sun came out.”
Megumi murmured, “Symbolism.”
Sukuna looked like he was reconsidering every choice he had made since turning eighteen.
And because spite was a powerful motivator, you turned your attention to the younger two.
“Funny,” you said casually, “friends who memorize each other’s tattoos.”
Yuji choked.
Choso tilted his head. “And connect emotional lore with alarming accuracy.”
Megumi’s composure cracked for half a second.
“You two have a very slow-burn, friends-to-lovers thing happening,” you continued sweetly.
You smiled sweetly and reached up, brushing your fingers lightly over Choso’s collarbone in a gesture so soft it was almost affectionate.
“Expired,” you said gently.
“Unfortunately,” Choso added.
Sukuna dragged a hand down his face.
Toji raised his glass, delighted beyond measure. His literal fantasy was unfolding in real time and he knew it.
Megumi leaned back, deeply satisfied. Gojo mimed shovelling popcorn into his mouth. Yuji stared at his money like it had cost him psychological stability.
You finally slipped your hand into Sukuna’s, grounding him just enough.
“I walked back inside,” you said quietly.
He looked at you, jaw tight. “…You did.”
Across the room, Choso nodded once. History acknowledged. Closed. Still sharp around the edges, but sealed.
Sukuna exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling like it might offer mercy.
“I regret every decision that led to this moment,” he muttered.
And Toji, grinning like a man watching his favourite movie unfold live, lifted his glass.
“Best night this shop’s ever had.”
The laughter had not fully settled when the room slipped into that dangerous, electric lull that only happens after too many truths have been dragged into fluorescent light. Sukuna still looked like a man who had just realized he’d detonated his own house for entertainment. You were still standing too close to Choso. Toji was still glowing with villainous delight. Gojo and Megumi were practically vibrating with spectator energy.
And Yuji—gremlin incarnate, cheeks flushed from alcohol and adrenaline—looked around at the aftermath like he’d just witnessed the greatest reveal of his life.
He stared at you.
Then at Choso.
Then back at you.
He slapped his palm against the counter dramatically.
“That sucks.”
Everyone turned.
Yuji shook his head with theatrical disappointment. “No, because that actually sucks. You two would’ve been fire together.”
The word hung in the air like someone had struck a match.
Sukuna went completely still.
You blinked.
Choso’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes.
Yuji pushed off the counter, fully committed now, gesturing wildly between you both. “Like—come on. Intense art girl and emotionally repressed med student? That’s cinema. That’s slow-burn, mutual destruction, dramatic rain scenes, matching cigarettes—”
“We did not have matching cigarettes,” Choso muttered.
“You absolutely would have,” Yuji insisted.
Gojo wheezed.
Megumi, who had been leaning back in satisfied silence, finally nodded once, calm and deliberate.
“He’s not wrong,” he said.
You turned toward him slowly. “Excuse me?”
Megumi shrugged, maddeningly composed. “The logic checks out. Same emotional depth. Same stubbornness. Same capacity for self-sabotage. If you’d chosen chaos instead of restraint, you would’ve been catastrophic.”
Yuji grinned, delighted to have backup. “Catastrophic but hot.”
Sukuna inhaled sharply.
Toji burst out laughing.
Suguru pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose like a man watching prophecy unfold.
Yuji crossed his arms, nodding firmly at his own conclusion. “I’m just saying. That alley kiss? Balcony? Two rounds and the sun coming out like symbolism? That’s peak romantic lore. And you’re telling me you just—decided not to be legendary?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Choso let out a slow breath, almost amused.
Megumi tilted his head slightly, gaze moving between you both with clinical fascination. “You ended it because you thought you’d ruin each other.”
“Yes,” Choso said simply.
Megumi’s mouth curved faintly. “Which means you probably wouldn’t have.”
That one landed.
Sukuna looked like he was reconsidering fatherhood as a concept.
Yuji leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m just saying, if there’s another universe. They’re terrifying together.”
Gojo clutched his chest dramatically. “Multiverse tragedy. I love it.”
Toji raised his glass in agreement. “I’d watch that.”
Suguru shot him a look. “You already are.”
You felt the heat crawl up your neck despite yourself, and Choso glanced at you—just a flicker of shared what-if before discipline sealed it shut again.
Yuji, entirely unburdened by consequences, grinned wider.
“Honestly?” he added. “Kind of mad we don’t live in that timeline.”
Megumi nodded once more, almost thoughtfully. “It would’ve been loud.”
Sukuna finally stood, slow and deliberate, the chair scraping faintly against the floor.
“You are all,” he said evenly, “exhausting.”
Yuji beamed at him. “Admit it though. They would’ve been insane together.”
Sukuna’s eye twitched.
You, unable to resist, leaned just slightly toward Choso again, your shoulder brushing his arm.
“Insane,” you echoed softly.
Choso glanced down at you, faint smile ghosting his mouth.
“Fire,” he added.
And somewhere between Gojo’s imaginary popcorn, Toji’s delighted smirk, Megumi’s analytical approval, and Yuji’s unfiltered chaos, Sukuna visibly regretted every single decision that had led him to open his mouth that night.
The word fire was still hanging in the air when Sukuna’s restraint finally snapped into something colder, something organized.
He did not yell.
That would have been easier.
Instead, he inhaled once, slow and deliberate, like a man sealing a legal document in his mind, and then he looked directly at Yuji.
“You think it would’ve been fire,” he repeated evenly.
Yuji, who had absolutely no survival instinct when alcohol and drama were involved, nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. Like, devastating but iconic.”
Sukuna shifted his gaze to Megumi. “And you.”
Megumi did not flinch. “Statistically speaking, the compatibility—”
“Stop,” Sukuna said flatly.
Gojo leaned forward on the couch, whispering loudly, “Oh no. He’s calm. This is worse.”
Toji’s grin widened in anticipation. Suguru exhaled, already understanding.
Sukuna rolled his shoulders once and clasped his hands behind his back like a general about to assign battlefield punishment.
“Since you both feel so comfortable rewriting my girlfriend’s romantic history,” he began smoothly, “I’ve decided to reward your insight.”
Yuji blinked. “Reward?”
Megumi narrowed his eyes.
“For the next six months,” Sukuna continued, voice almost pleasant, “you are both in charge of bathroom duty.”
“And” Sukuna added calmly, “cash-out duty. Every closing shift. No exceptions. You will count, log, balance, and reconcile every receipt until you can recite the shop’s weekly revenue in your sleep.”
Yuji stared at him like he’d just been sentenced to war.
Megumi’s jaw tightened slightly. “For six months?”
“You agreed they’d be good together,” Sukuna said mildly. “You’re clearly comfortable with long-term commitments.”
Gojo fell sideways onto the couch, wheezing.
You pressed your lips together to stop yourself from smiling.
Choso crossed his arms, watching with quiet interest.
Yuji recovered first, because of course he did.
“That’s not fair,” he protested. “We were just being honest.”
Gojo pretended to wipe tears from his eyes. “They’re martyrs.”
Suguru shook his head slowly. “You created this.”
Sukuna looked around at the shop—at Toji grinning like a man whose most chaotic fantasy had come true, at Gojo vibrating with popcorn energy, at Megumi sitting there smug even while condemned to grout scrubbing, at Yuji already dramatically planning his martyr arc, at Choso calm and unreadable, at you standing just close enough to feel warm against his side.
The laughter should have settled the room.
It should have ended there—with Sukuna sentencing Yuji and Megumi to six months of grout warfare, with Gojo theatrically applauding the tyranny, with Suguru shaking his head like a disappointed but unsurprised professor.
It should have.
But Toji, who had been basking in what could only be described as the cinematic fulfilment of his best and most specific fantasy, slowly looked toward the hallway that led to the bathroom.
And his smile faded.
Not entirely.
But enough.
He stared at the corridor like a fallen hero watching his kingdom burn.
“Tragic,” he murmured softly.
Suguru, who knew that tone too well, tilted his head. “What is.”
Toji gestured lazily toward you and Choso, still standing just close enough to make Sukuna’s eye twitch.
“My dream,” he said.
The room paused.
Yuji blinked. “What dream.”
Toji sighed, leaning back dramatically. “The threesome.”
Sukuna turned slowly.
“The what.”
Toji waved a dismissive hand, as if this were an administrative detail. “Maybe a foursome. If you were feeling emotionally evolved, because let’s not forget, I named you too pretty boy”
The silence that followed was nuclear.
Gojo made a sound that could only be described as a dolphin choking.
Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose. “You absolute menace.”
Megumi stared at Toji like he was a fascinating psychological study.
Yuji’s jaw dropped open. “You were serious?”
“I am always serious,” Toji replied gravely, which was somehow worse.
You covered your mouth, half-laughing, half-horrified.
Choso’s composure cracked for the first time all night, a quiet disbelieving exhale leaving him.
Sukuna did not blink.
Toji gestured toward you and Choso again. “The chemistry is insane. The emotional repression? Delicious. Add unresolved tension, free pass lore, balcony trauma—”
“Stop,” Sukuna said flatly.
“And if you joined?” Toji continued thoughtfully, looking Sukuna up and down. “That’s generational.”
Yuji made a strangled sound.
Megumi leaned back, whispering under his breath, “This is the worst timeline.”
Suguru finally looked at Toji directly. “You realize,” he said calmly, “that your entire fantasy just got sentenced to bathroom duty.”
Toji’s expression shifted, turning slowly, toward the hallway, towards the bathroom.
The fluorescent light flickered ominously down the corridor.
“You’re telling me,” Toji said quietly, “that the same bathroom Megumi and Yuji are about to scrub for six months…”
“Yes,” Sukuna replied coldly.
“…is the battlefield where my dream died.”
Gojo collapsed onto the couch in hysterics.
Yuji pointed accusingly. “You did this to yourself!”
Megumi, already mentally calculating bleach-to-water ratios, muttered, “This is karmic.”
Toji placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “My vision. Gone.”
Suguru smirked slightly. “You answered ‘Bubbles and Choso’ without hesitation.”
“And I stand by it,” Toji said firmly.
Sukuna stepped forward just enough to make the air shift.
“Stand by it,” he repeated softly, “while my apprentices scrub your fantasy off tile.”
Yuji gasped.
Megumi’s eyes widened slightly.
You couldn’t stop laughing now.
Choso, traitorously calm, added, “Symbolic.”
Toji looked once more toward the bathroom hallway, devastation painted in exaggerated slow motion across his face.
“A holy ground,” he whispered. “Reduced to grout.”
Gojo wiped tears from his eyes. “This is poetic.”
Suguru folded his arms. “You are the architect of your own suffering.”
Toji inhaled slowly, dramatically, then raised his glass in solemn tribute.
“To what could have been.”
Sukuna looked at him without mercy. “Bathroom. Six months.”
“I don’t even work here” Toji reminded him
Yuji groaned loudly. “Why are we catching strays for his delusions?”
Sukuna closed his eyes briefly, as if asking a higher power for patience. When he opened them, they were tired.
“I should never,” he said slowly, “have been bored.” He murmured under his breath.
Toji lifted his glass again, grinning despite his fallen kingdom.
“Best night in Red Star history.”
And somewhere down the hallway, beneath the harsh bathroom lights and the promise of industrial cleaner, the ghost of a threesome—maybe foursome—died heroically on tile that Yuji and Megumi would be scrubbing until summer.
It was four days later when Gojo decided peace had lasted long enough.
The shop was open this time, sunlight bleeding through the front windows, machines buzzing steadily, the smell of antiseptic sharp and clean. Yuji was at the front counter pretending to understand the booking system. Megumi was restocking gloves with surgical precision. Suguru was reviewing designs at the desk. Toji was leaning against the wall doing absolutely nothing productive. Choso was focused on lining work, steady and composed.
You were sitting cross-legged on one of the chairs, sketchbook balanced on your knee, pencil between your teeth.
It felt normal.
Too normal.
Gojo burst through the back door holding iced coffees like a man bringing chaos disguised as caffeine.
“I’ve been thinking,” he announced brightly.
Suguru didn’t even look up. “That’s never good.”
Gojo handed you a drink, then leaned against the counter, grinning in that slow, dangerous way.
“So, no open relationship?” he asked casually.
Dead silence.
Yuji’s head snapped up so fast he nearly sprained something.
Megumi froze mid-box.
Sukuna, who had been leaning against the wall reviewing inventory, turned very slowly.
“Why,” he asked flatly, “are you revisiting this.”
Gojo shrugged. “Just checking in. Growth happens. Perspectives shift. We’re progressive.” he paused "I mean two gay couples, and a hetero one with definitey too much sex tension between Kuna and Toji and let's not talk about Bubbles and Choso"
Toji straightened slightly, interest piqued.
You did not answer immediately.
And that was the problem, because instead of laughing it off, instead of dismissing it with the dramatic flair you usually wielded—
You tilted your head. And you thought.
Sukuna noticed.
Choso noticed.
Suguru noticed.
Megumi noticed immediately.
Toji’s eyes lit up like someone had just struck oil.
Gojo gasped softly. “Oh my god.”
Yuji whispered, horrified and thrilled, “She’s thinking.”
You tapped your pencil against your lip slowly, gaze unfocused for just a second too long.
“I mean,” you began carefully, “hypothetically.”
Sukuna’s eye twitched.
Toji pushed off the wall fully now.
“Hypothetically,” you repeated, still calm, still thoughtful, “it would’ve been a win-win situation.”
The room inhaled as one.
“For who,” Sukuna asked, voice dangerously even.
You glanced toward Toji first.
He looked like a man ascending to heaven.
“Well,” you said lightly, “definitely for him.”
Toji pressed a hand to his chest like he’d just been knighted.
“And,” you added, shrugging faintly, “I wouldn’t have hated it.”
Yuji dropped a stack of appointment cards.
Megumi blinked once.
Gojo slapped the counter. “I KNEW IT.”
Sukuna stared at you.
Choso did not move—but something sharpened in his expression.
Suguru leaned back slowly in his chair.
“To clarify,” Sukuna said, tone razor-thin, “you’re considering it.”
You lifted one shoulder. “Considering isn’t committing.”
Toji was vibrating. “This is the greatest week of my life,” he whispered.
Sukuna shot him a look that could have shattered glass.
“There is no free pass,” he said firmly.
You hummed softly. “It was never officially revoked.”
Yuji made a high-pitched noise of distress, he was enjoying this too much, his hand clutching over Megumi's arm.
Choso’s jaw tightened just slightly.
Sukuna leaned down just enough that only you could fully hear him.
“Are you trying to make me jealous,” he asked quietly.
You tilted your head. “Is it working?”
Behind you, Toji whispered, awestruck, “This is cinema.”
Suguru finally stood, stepping between escalating stupidity and actual disaster.
“Let’s not destroy the shop on a Tuesday,” he said calmly.
Megumi crossed his arms. “For the record, I predicted instability.”
Yuji nodded. “You did.”
Sukuna straightened slowly, gaze never leaving yours.
“You’re not serious,” he said.
You held his stare.
And then, finally, you smiled. “I’m thinking,” you replied.
Toji looked like he might cry.
Gojo clapped like he’d just witnessed a plot twist.
Choso’s expression smoothed back into something controlled, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away.
Suguru shook his head softly.
And Megumi, watching everything with unsettling clarity, murmured something under his breath
The room stilled.
Because everyone knew exactly who you’d glanced at.
And suddenly the “win-win” didn’t feel theoretical anymore.
The silence that followed Megumi’s observation was not loud.
It was surgical.
“She’s not thinking about Toji.”
He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t needed to. The sentence settled into the room with the quiet confidence of someone who had replayed the last thirty seconds in high definition and didn’t miss micro-expressions.
Toji’s grin faltered first.
Not completely, just enough.
Gojo slowly turned his head toward you like a sunflower tracking light.
Suguru didn’t look surprised. He looked tired.
Yuji blinked between you and Choso like a spectator realizing the match had just shifted leagues.
Sukuna did not move.
He didn’t need to.
His gaze was still on you, and now it sharpened, not jealous, not explosive.
Assessing.
You, traitorously calm, pretended to sip your iced coffee.
Megumi met his eyes without hesitation. “You looked at him.”
It wasn’t accusatory.
It was factual.
Toji slowly lowered his raised hands. “…Oh.”
For the first time all week, he looked genuinely robbed.
Yuji whispered, scandalized, “This just got worse.”
Gojo pressed both palms to the counter and leaned forward like a commentator who had just been handed premium content. “Bubbles.”
You inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
“Hypothetically,” you began again, and Sukuna’s eye twitched at the word, “if we’re talking about a win-win…”
Toji straightened reflexively.
“…it’s because there’s unfinished chemistry,” you finished.
The word chemistry did not float.
It dropped.
Choso’s jaw tightened.
Sukuna’s hand flexed at his side.
Suguru closed his eyes briefly.
“To clarify,” Toji said cautiously, “am I included in this chemistry.”
You looked at him.
And smiled gently.
“sort of.”
Toji physically recoiled like he’d been shot.
Gojo slapped the counter so hard Yuji jumped.
“I KNEW IT.”
Yuji was still holding Megumi’s arm. “You called it. You literally called it.”
Megumi shrugged once, but there was something deeply satisfied in the movement.
Sukuna’s voice, when it came, was low.
“Unfinished.”
You met his gaze. “Old things don’t evaporate just because we’re mature about them, besides you still drool each time you look at Toji”
Gojo chuckled.
Choso’s eyes flicked to you, then away.
Toji looked devastated in a way that was almost poetic. “So the win-win was never me.”
Suguru patted his shoulder once, not kindly. “You were a prop.”
“To my own fantasy,” Toji muttered darkly.
Gojo was glowing. “This is better than the open relationship.”
Yuji nodded. “Way messier.”
Sukuna stepped closer now, not aggressively, just enough to occupy the space between you and the rest of the room. “And what exactly,” he asked evenly, “are you considering.”
The shop held its breath.
You didn’t look away. “I’m considering that we ended because we were twenty,” you said softly. “Not because we didn’t feel it.”
Choso’s composure cracked just slightly at that.
“And now?” Sukuna pressed.
You smiled faintly. “Now we’re not twenty.”
Toji made a wounded noise. “This is so much worse for me.”
Megumi nodded. “Agreed.”
Suguru folded his arms. “You see why I didn’t panic the first time.”
Gojo whispered dramatically, “Forbidden sequel.”
Yuji leaned forward. “Is this the multiverse Megumi predicted?”
Megumi corrected calmly, “This is character development.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look angry, he looked calculating.
“And you think,” he said slowly, “that revisiting unfinished chemistry is a win.”
You tilted your head. “I think pretending it doesn’t exist is childish.”
That landed.
Choso exhaled quietly, finally speaking into the tension instead of around it. “We ended for a reason.”
“Yes,” you agreed.
“Not because it was weak,” he continued.
“No,” you said softly.
“To protect it.”
Silence again.
Toji looked between you both like someone watching a door close in slow motion.
“So the open relationship was never about evolution,” he muttered.
“It was about temptation,” Suguru corrected.
Gojo placed a hand over his heart. “I feel like I should be charging tickets.”
Megumi nodded. “Don't give him ideas, Yuji.” he whispered loud enough for only Yuji to hear.
Sukuna studied you for a long moment.
Then, finally, he smiled, not amused, not threatened, just sharp.
“You’re not bored,” he said quietly.
You raised an eyebrow.
“You’re testing,” he continued.
Your lips curved slightly. “And?”
“And,” he replied calmly, stepping just a fraction closer, “if there’s unfinished chemistry in this room, it doesn’t get resolved by committee.”
Toji groaned loudly.
Suguru smirked faintly.
Gojo whispered, “Oh he’s good.”
Choso held Sukuna’s gaze steadily.
No hostility, no apology.
Just acknowledgment.
Megumi leaned toward Yuji and murmured, “This is why they would’ve been catastrophic.”
Yuji nodded solemnly. “Fire.”
Toji dragged a hand down his face in defeat. “My dream orgy just died for this.”
Suguru patted him again. “You were never in it.”
You looked at Sukuna.
He looked at you, and the chaos that had started as a joke now felt deliberate.
Not reckless.
Not nostalgic.
Alive.
Gojo broke the silence first, because of course he did.
“So,” he said brightly, clapping once, “no open relationship. No foursome. No bathroom redemption arc.”
Toji sighed tragically.
Yuji raised a hand. “Can we at least get out of grout duty if this becomes a sequel?”
“No,” Sukuna said immediately.
Megumi nodded. “Fair.”
And under the buzzing lights of Red Star, with history no longer buried but no longer explosive either, the tension didn’t vanish.
It settled, not as chaos, as possibility.
And that was somehow worse.
You know what, you’re absolutely right.
Toji was never not in the fantasy.
The problem wasn’t inclusion, the problem was priority.
The moment Suguru had the audacity to say, “You were never in it,” Toji straightened like someone had just insulted his entire genetic legacy.
“Excuse me?” he said slowly.
The room turned.
He gestured vaguely at himself, then more specifically. “Have you seen me?”
Yuji blinked.
Gojo leaned back with a delighted gasp. “Oh, he’s offended.”
Toji stepped forward, rolling his shoulders like he was about to present evidence in court.
“Let’s not rewrite history,” he continued calmly, which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d yelled. “When I said Bubbles and Choso, I meant Bubbles and Choso.”
He pointed between you and Choso.
“Because the tension? Unreal. The repression? Delicious. The balcony trauma? Michelin star.”
He paused.
“And then,” he added smoothly, “if Sukuna was emotionally secure and feeling generous? That’s a foursome. That’s art.”
Yuji made a choking noise, Megumi stared at the ceiling like he was asking the universe why.
Gojo was clutching imaginary popcorn again.
Sukuna looked at Toji the way one evaluates whether homicide would be worth the paperwork.
You crossed your arms, trying not to smile, Choso, traitorously composed, said nothing.
Toji continued, now fully committed to the bit. “I was absolutely in the fantasy. I just wasn’t the emotional centerpiece.”
Suguru tilted his head. “That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said.”
Toji ignored him.
He looked at you directly now.
“You said win-win.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I did.”
“For me,” he clarified.
“Yes.”
“For you,” he pressed.
You shrugged faintly. “Maybe.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened again.
Toji spread his hands triumphantly. “See?”
Megumi leaned slightly toward Yuji and muttered, “He’s negotiating like it’s a business merger.”
Yuji whispered back, “He’s negotiating like it’s a religion.”
Gojo snapped his fingers suddenly. “Wait. Wait. This is better.”
Everyone groaned preemptively.
Gojo leaned forward, grin widening.
“So it’s not that Toji wasn’t in the fantasy,” he said brightly. “It’s that the fantasy had layers.”
Suguru closed his eyes briefly. “We are not diagramming this.”
“Oh we absolutely are,” Gojo replied. He began counting on his fingers.
“Layer one: Unfinished balcony lore.”
He pointed at you and Choso. “Layer two: Sukuna’s territorial character development arc.”
He pointed at Sukuna, who looked ready to file a restraining order.
“And layer four,” Gojo finished dramatically, “Megumi and Yuji scrubbing the bathroom while contemplating love and consequence.”
Yuji groaned loudly from the hallway.
Megumi muttered, “We’re collateral damage.”
Toji placed a hand over his heart again, but this time less theatrically and more sincerely.
“I was always in it,” he said calmly. “I just understand hierarchy.”
Suguru arched a brow. “And what is your position in this hierarchy.”
Toji smiled lazily. “Chaos consultant.”
That broke you, you laughed, head tipping back, and for half a second the tension loosened.
Sukuna looked at you, then at Toji, then back at you.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said quietly.
“Of course I am,” you replied. “Have you seen him?”
Toji preened shamelessly.
Choso finally exhaled, the faintest smirk appearing despite himself. “He does have range.”
Sukuna stared at him.
“Toji has range?” Sukuna repeated flatly.
“Toji has audacity,” Megumi corrected from the doorway.
“And jawline,” Yuji added weakly.
Suguru shook his head. “This is devolving.”
But Toji, satisfied now that his legacy had been restored, leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.
“I don’t need to be the center,” he said smoothly. “I just need to be invited.”
The room went quiet again, because the worst part? He wasn’t joking.
Gojo gasped softly like he’d just watched a season finale.
Sukuna dragged a hand down his face for what felt like the fifteenth time that week.
“I should never have given any of you autonomy,” he muttered.
Megumi, still holding a bottle of cleaner, looked at Yuji and sighed.
“Bathroom,” he said.
Yuji nodded solemnly. “Bathroom.”
Toji lifted his glass one last time. “To fantasies that evolve.”
Suguru raised his own in reluctant acknowledgment. “To consequences.”
And under the buzzing lights of Red Star Tattoos, Toji’s fantasy was no longer dead.
It was just… pending review.
Toji was still basking in his restored dignity when Gojo, who had been vibrating with the unbearable itch of one more comment, slowly leaned forward like a man about to deliver a TED Talk no one asked for.
“Oh no,” he said softly, eyes gleaming. “You’re all thinking too small.”
Suguru didn’t even sigh this time. “Satoru.”
“No, no,” Gojo insisted, waving him off. “Let’s be honest. If this had spiraled into something complicated—and it would have, because look at you people—Toji wouldn’t have just been ‘chaos consultant.’”
Toji raised a brow, interested.
Gojo pointed at him dramatically. “He would’ve been the hot daddy that fixes the mess.”
The shop froze.
Yuji’s jaw dropped.
Megumi closed his eyes like he was trying to exit his own body.
You choked on your drink.
Choso blinked.
Sukuna stared at Gojo like he was deciding whether murder would disrupt business hours.
Gojo, unstoppable, continued. “Because let’s not forget,” he added sweetly, “when Toji first walked into this store? Sukuna was practically drooling.”
The silence that followed was nuclear.
Toji turned very, very slowly toward Sukuna. “…Was he.”
Yuji made a sound like a kettle about to scream.
Megumi whispered, “This is so much worse than the alley.”
Suguru leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “You brought this on yourself,” he murmured to Sukuna.
Sukuna did not blink.
Gojo clasped his hands together, delighted. “Oh please. The tension was palpable. Sukuna pretending not to stare? Embarrassing.”
“I was assessing,” Sukuna said coldly.
“Toji’s shoulders?” Gojo pressed. “Or his personality?”
Toji grinned lazily now, fully revived. “I did notice the staring.”
“You imagined that,” Sukuna snapped.
“I didn’t,” Toji replied smoothly. “You looked me up and down like you were calculating structural integrity.”
Yuji slapped a hand over his mouth.
Megumi stared at the floor like he was reconsidering his entire upbringing.
You folded your arms, trying, and failing, not to enjoy this.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “You were jealous before I even existed in the equation.”
Sukuna turned to you sharply. “I was not jealous.”
Gojo gasped. “He was territorial.”
“Toji hadn’t even said a word yet,” Suguru added calmly. “And you already looked like you were measuring him for threat level.”
Toji tilted his head, smirk deepening. “Was I a threat?”
Sukuna stepped forward just slightly, energy tightening.
“You’re still talking,” he said evenly.
Gojo clapped once, delighted beyond reason. “See? That. That’s the energy. Toji would’ve been the hot daddy that fixes the mess when you two imploded.”
Yuji, unable to stop himself, whispered, “He does have the vibe.”
Megumi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stop helping.”
Gojo continued mercilessly. “When Bubbles and Choso got too intense. When Sukuna got too possessive. Toji would walk in, roll his sleeves up, fix the drywall, and emotionally regulate everyone.”
Toji nodded thoughtfully. “I do fix drywall.”
Suguru muttered, “This is unhinged.”
You looked between Sukuna and Toji now, eyes sparkling with something dangerously amused.
“So you were drooling?” you asked sweetly.
Sukuna’s jaw tightened. “I was evaluating.”
“His arms?” you pressed.
“To see if he could lift equipment,” Sukuna shot back.
“To see if I could lift you,” Toji added casually.
Yuji made a high-pitched noise and fled toward the bathroom.
Megumi followed slowly, muttering, “Six months. We deserve six months.”
Gojo was nearly in tears. “This is better than any open relationship.”
Choso, who had been silent for too long, finally spoke, voice calm but edged. “He did stare.”
Everyone turned.
Sukuna narrowed his eyes. “You too?”
Choso shrugged faintly. “We all did.”
That landed.
Because it was true.
Toji leaned back, satisfied beyond measure. “See? I’m not the problem. I’m the enhancement.”
Suguru shook his head. “You’re gasoline.”
“Premium,” Toji corrected.
Sukuna looked around the shop—at Gojo glowing with chaos, at Suguru pretending he wasn’t entertained, at Choso maddeningly composed, at you watching him with that knowing smile, at Toji absolutely thriving in the aftermath of being publicly acknowledged as hot and disruptive.
He exhaled slowly. “I hate all of you,” he muttered.
Gojo beamed. “No you don’t.”
Toji raised his glass once more. “To being drooled over.”
Sukuna did not dignify that with a response.
But the faintest flush at the edge of his ears did not go unnoticed. And Gojo, predator of social micro-expressions, saw it immediately.
“Oh,” he whispered triumphantly. “He absolutely did.”
The shop dissolved into chaos again.
And somewhere in the hallway, over the sound of scrubbing tile. Yuji groaned: “Why is our workplace like this.”
sneak peek: Yuji’s eighteenth birthday didn't just come with a legal ID; it came with an all-access pass to the Red Star After-Hours, a ritual of clinking glass and unfiltered history. But the night’s real architect was Sukuna, who—driven by a dangerous bout of boredom—decided to drop a lit match into a room soaked in fifteen years of gasoline.
What began as a hundred-dollar bet to "educate" the kids quickly spiraled into a nuclear detonation of shop secrets. The "Junior Team" finally learns the truth about the Balcony Lore: long-buried chemistry between Bubbles and Choso dragged into the fluorescent light, revealing a past of red wine, matching tattoos, and a rain-slicked alleyway goodbye that was "catastrophic but hot."
As the night progresses, Sukuna realizes too late that once the vault is open, you can't control what crawls out. From Toji shamelessly negotiating his way into the "free pass" conversation to Gojo exposing Sukuna's own history of "evaluating" Toji's structural integrity, the night ends in a hilarious regime of Grout Warfare. Yuji and Megumi are officially part of the family now—which mostly means they're scrubbing the bathroom while the man who started it all sits in the wreckage of his own authority.
The Instigator: Sukuna. He explicitly started this misery because he was "bored." He is now the primary victim of his own entertainment.
The Reveal: The "Balcony Lore" is officially public record. Two rounds, one sunrise, and "symbolic" cigarettes. History has been acknowledged, and it is officially "fire."
The "Toji" Factor: Re-classified as a "Chaos Consultant." It was confirmed that Sukuna’s territorial nature might have actually been "drooling" in disguise.
The Sentence: For the crime of being too observant and supporting "alternate timelines," Yuji and Megumi have been martyred to:
The Grout Pits: Six months of scrubbing the bathroom (where Toji’s dreams went to die).
Accounting Purgatory: Reconciling every receipt until summer.
The Regret: Sukuna absolutely regrets being bored. He lit the match, and now he has to live in the bonfire.
Current Shop Mood: Industrial-strength bleach, unresolved tension, and the realization that Sukuna’s "free pass" was never actually revoked.
Yuji’s eighteenth birthday had been two days ago, and for the first time in his life, stepping into Red Star Tattoos after closing time felt like crossing a veil he was never allowed to touch before. The familiar hum of the shop, the warm glow of the lights, the scent of incense curling lazily between the stations — all of it was the same, yet absolutely not the same. Something in the air felt thicker, like the place was holding its breath. Like it knew things were about to get stupid in ways Yuji had only ever heard whispered through half‑closed doors.
Suguru turned the “OPEN” sign around with the solemnity of a priest sealing a temple. Choso flicked the lock twice, slow and ritualistic. You sighed, tying your hair up in that resigned, here‑we‑go way the shop knew too well. And Yuji, for the first time ever, felt the weight of the space shift. It was quieter. Denser. Charged like a wire right before it snaps. He leaned toward Megumi, voice barely above a breath.
“…It feels different already.”
Megumi didn’t look away from the doorway, jaw tense. “Like something bad is about to happen.”
Something bad did happen.
Immediately.
The door shook violently, rattling against the lock like a furious bear. Sukuna straightened from his station with a growl that could have ruptured concrete. “Who the hell—”
Before he could finish, the door jerked under a heavy kick. Then another. You, against all logic and good judgment, unlocked it.
Toji strolled in like a man entering his own kitchen. In each hand, he carried a brown bag that clinked ominously, bottles knocking together like wind chimes from hell.
“I brought supplies,” he said simply.
Yuji gasped like a child on Christmas morning. Megumi’s soul left his body. Gojo burst into ecstatic applause and shouted, “DADDY’S HOME!” just in time for Toji to smack him with one of the bags. Sukuna was already pointing aggressively.
“No hard liquor—”
Toji pulled out a bottle that could strip paint.
Choso leaned toward you. “If someone dies, I’m not doing the paperwork.”
Whatever veneer of adulthood lingered in the room vanished with that announcement. The clinking of bottles seemed to be a starter pistol for absolute regression. Gojo had the music blasting loud enough to shake the flash sheets off the wall. Suguru was desperately attempting to confiscate the unlabelled stuff with both hands while Gojo danced around him like a gremlin. Sukuna tried to maintain composure for all of six seconds before pouring himself a shot, the picture of controlled disaster. Choso sat on a stool sipping whiskey with the calm precision of a man watching a hurricane through bulletproof glass. Yuji could hardly breathe.
“…are they always like this?” he whispered.
Megumi’s eyes were locked on Gojo, who was now using a tattoo chair as a makeshift stage. “Yes,” he whispered back. “We were protected from the truth.”
Gojo slammed a deck of cards onto the table.
“ALRIGHT, MISCREANTS. TRUTH OR TEQUILA!”
You groaned loudly. “No. NO—absolutely not. Last time Sukuna tried to fight God.”
“He started it,” Sukuna muttered.
“He did NOT—”
Yuji, already unscrewing the cider cap, beamed. “Let’s play!”
Megumi sat down slowly, face blank with the resignation of someone walking willingly into the jaws of fate.
The first card went to Toji, because of course it did. He raised an eyebrow and said, “Truth.”
Gojo leaned forward like a lawyer in court. “Do you actually like any of us?”
Toji looked him dead in the eye and took a shot.
The room exploded in laughter, shouting, cackling. Even Choso cracked a real smile. Yuji nearly fell off his chair. Megumi covered his face like the second-hand embarrassment might kill him.
Yuji got brave next — too brave. He drew a card, then turned to Megumi with a shaky grin and the audacity of a young man who had never considered consequences.
“Megumi,” he said. “Truth or tequila.”
“No,” Megumi said instantly.
“You don’t even know what—”
“No.”
Yuji leaned closer, eyes wide, a little dreamy. “Do you think I’m cute?”
Silence. That dangerous, electric kind. Sukuna froze mid-sip, eyes wide. You slapped a hand over your mouth. Toji’s eyebrows shot up. Suguru paused mid-confiscation. Gojo threw himself on the floor. Choso blinked slowly like he was watching a nature documentary.
Megumi stared at Yuji for a long moment that said absolutely everything and absolutely nothing.
Then he reached for the bottle.
And drank.
Yuji’s ears turned the colour of raw salmon. Gojo rolled on the floor screaming, “HE COULDN’T EVEN LIE—THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE—” and Toji pointed dramatically between them.
“One year,” he announced.
“Six months,” Suguru corrected calmly.
“Three,” Choso added.
“Two” you corrected.
“ZERO,” Sukuna barked, slamming the table.
You hadn’t even recovered from that when you pulled a card of your own and made the mistake — the fatal, catastrophic mistake — of saying “Truth.”
Gojo practically lit up like a neon sign.
“Bubbles,” he purred, “did that actress flirt with you at the convention—”
Sukuna immediately growled.
“—and did you like it?”
The shop went silent. You took a slow sip of your drink.
Yuji squealed. Megumi slid off his chair. Suguru nodded like he’d known it for months. Toji lifted his glass in respect. Choso smirked without looking up from his drink — the cruel, knowing kind that meant he knew everything.
Sukuna stared at you, eyes narrow. “Answer.”
You shrugged. “…Maybe.”
He nearly combusted on the spot. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN MAYBE—”
“Relax, skyscraper.”
“I WILL NOT—”
Gojo fanned himself dramatically. “This is better than cable.”
The night melted into a beautiful, stupid blur.
At some point, Gojo passed out face down in Twinkles’ cat bed, a disgrace to both himself and the feline kingdom. Toji fell asleep sitting upright with the bottle still in his fingers, perfectly balanced like a soldier on watch. Suguru dragged Gojo away by one ankle as Choso disinfected every surface in quiet, saintly patience. Sukuna paced the shop ranting loudly about “girls’ days being a threat to national security,” and Yuji and Megumi sat shoulder‑to‑shoulder on the floor, in their own soft universe of sparkling cider and flushed cheeks.
Yuji raised his glass. “This was the best night ever,” he murmured.
Megumi didn’t push him away. He let Yuji lean into him, just slightly, and nodded. “…Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”
Toji, half-asleep, pointed vaguely toward them and mumbled, “Six months.”
Choso shook his head. “Three.”
Suguru sighed. “One year.”
Sukuna shouted, “UNBELIEVABLE.”
You faded into laughter, sipping what had to be your third drink, watching the mess unfold inside the shop you loved more than anything. Sukuna moved toward you, slower now, collapsing the rant mid‑sentence as he joined your side. His hand found your waist almost absentmindedly — more instinct than intention.
Choso finished wiping the last counter. Suguru turned off the overhead lights. Gojo muttered something that sounded like “family photo” in his sleep. Yuji and Megumi huddled close, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear. Twinkles curled up on the couch arm, her new sheriff pendant glinting under the low light.
Yuji lifted his cider one last time, voice warm, eyes bright.
“For Red Star.”
Megumi raised his glass too, quiet and sincere. “For family.”
You smiled — soft, full, unguarded.
“For home.”
And the night, messy and stupid and loud and perfect, spun itself into Red Star history — the very first after‑hours where the kids weren’t kids anymore, where they became part of the beautiful, feral disaster that made the shop what it was.
Red Star Tattoos after closing hours had always felt like a sealed aquarium of bad decisions and fluorescent lighting, the kind of place where time dissolved into cigarette smoke and half-finished bottles, where the neon sign outside buzzed like it was barely holding itself together and everyone inside pretended, they were too. The shutters were halfway down, the music low but pulsing, and the air heavy with disinfectant, ink, and alcohol. It was late enough that no one was posturing anymore. Shoes were off. Sleeves were rolled. Pride was fragile.
Everyone was there.
Gojo had claimed the longest stretch of couch like it was a throne he’d stolen. Suguru sat backwards on a chair, long fingers loosely clasped, observing everything with the calm of a man who already knew how this would end. Toji leaned back in the corner, legs stretched out, glass balanced on his thigh, eyes half-lidded in predatory amusement. Choso stood near the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows, jaw relaxed but eyes alert. You were perched on the metal workspace, one knee bent, glass dangling from your fingers, hair messy from humidity and laughter.
Yuji and Megumi, no longer children and deeply aware of it, occupied the middle of the room like two curious wolves who didn’t yet know they were being lured into something bigger.
And Sukuna, who had been silent for just long enough to grow restless, straightened in his chair with the unmistakable energy of a man about to ruin his own evening.
He rolled his shoulders once, glanced around at the familiar chaos, and said with deceptive calm, “If anyone guesses what happened fifteen years ago, you get a hundred bucks.”
The room shifted.
It wasn’t loud at first. It was the kind of silence that spreads from the spine outward.
You froze mid-sip. Choso’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the edge of the counter. Suguru closed his eyes briefly. Toji’s mouth twitched.
Sukuna leaned back, looking almost bored, as if he hadn’t just dropped a lit match into a room soaked in gasoline.
“They’re adults now,” he added lazily, nodding toward Yuji and Megumi. “They deserve to know.”
You slid off the counter slowly, every muscle alert. “You’re drunk.”
“Yes,” he agreed without hesitation. “And bored.”
Choso exhaled through his nose. “Unnecessary.”
Yuji blinked between you both, eyes wide. “What happened fifteen years ago?”
Megumi didn’t speak yet. He was watching. Calculating.
You and Choso exchanged the briefest glance—panic wrapped in old familiarity.
And then, out of sheer self-preservation, you struck first.
“Yuji,” you said sharply, “you sobbed at a car commercial last week.”
“It was emotional,” he shot back immediately, offended.
Choso folded his arms calmly. “Megumi alphabetizes his spice rack.”
“That’s efficient,” Megumi replied, unbothered.
“You label your socks,” you added.
“That’s hygiene,” he said flatly.
Gojo burst into laughter. Toji grinned. For a fleeting second, it worked.
Sukuna tapped the counter with two fingers. “Deflection is admission.”
Yuji squinted.
And then something shifted in his face.
“Wait,” he said slowly, turning toward Choso. “You have that weird three-eyed smiley tattoo on your ribs.”
Choso went still.
Your stomach dropped.
“And Bubbles has a smiley too,” Yuji continued, momentum building. “On her toe. I saw it at the beach. When Gojo got attacked by that crab.”
“It was a violent crustacean,” Gojo defended dramatically.
Megumi’s eyes sharpened. “Hers has two eyes. His has three.”
Yuji nodded eagerly. “You got them when you were twenty.”
Silence.
“You weren’t together,” Megumi added, voice calm and precise. “But you still got connected tattoos.”
You could feel Sukuna’s gaze burning into the side of your face.
Megumi leaned back slightly, piecing it together aloud. “You ended it before it could start. Because if you’d tried, you would’ve destroyed each other.”
The room felt smaller.
“You both think in extremes,” he continued. “You’d consume each other.”
Yuji’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”
Megumi didn’t hesitate. “They definitely did it.”
The explosion was immediate.
“Megumi!” you snapped.
Choso rubbed a hand down his face.
Sukuna reached into his wallet without breaking eye contact and slapped two hundred-dollar bills onto the counter. “Each.”
Yuji grabbed one with disbelief. Megumi took his with quiet satisfaction.
You inhaled slowly.
Fine.
If Sukuna wanted chaos, you would give him something worse.
You stepped closer to Choso deliberately, your shoulder brushing his arm in a way that was technically innocent and entirely intentional. He glanced down at you, already understanding.
“Since they solved it,” you said sweetly, “we might as well clarify.”
Sukuna straightened. “You don’t have to.”
“Oh,” you replied softly, “but we want to.”
Choso’s mouth curved faintly.
“Round one,” he began calmly.
Yuji made a strangled noise.
“Balcony,” you said. “Red wine in plastic cups. Cigarettes we didn’t know how to hold.”
“You followed me out there.” You said staring into his eyes
“I did not follow you,” he replied evenly.“You looked like you were about to set something on fire.”
“You wanted me to.”
Gojo was fully upright now, miming popcorn.
Choso’s voice lowered slightly. “We talked about art and medicine like they were religions.” His eyes definitely focused on yours.
“You said I looked lonely.”
“You were.”
Your hand drifted to his sleeve, smoothing non-existent wrinkles.
“It wasn’t reckless,” he said.
“It wasintentional.” You continued
“And thorough,” he added lightly.
Sukuna closed his eyes.
“And round two?” Megumi prompted, entirely too invested.
Choso inhaled once.
“The second time,” he said, “was after we agreed we wouldn’t.”
Yuji clutched his hundred dollars like a stress toy.
“We were ‘just friends.’” You whispered
“Terrible at it.” He continued
“Definitely” you said chuckling, while looking at the young boys.
You tilted your head; eyes locked with his.
“You closed the door.” You added
“You turned around.” He murmured
“You asked if I was sure.” You recalled
“I did.” He confirmed
“You kissed me anyway.”
The shop went silent.
“There wasn’t a third round,” you added softly.
Choso nodded once. “The sun came out.”
Megumi murmured, “Symbolism.”
Sukuna looked like he was reconsidering every choice he had made since turning eighteen.
And because spite was a powerful motivator, you turned your attention to the younger two.
“Funny,” you said casually, “friends who memorize each other’s tattoos.”
Yuji choked.
Choso tilted his head. “And connect emotional lore with alarming accuracy.”
Megumi’s composure cracked for half a second.
“You two have a very slow-burn, friends-to-lovers thing happening,” you continued sweetly.
You smiled sweetly and reached up, brushing your fingers lightly over Choso’s collarbone in a gesture so soft it was almost affectionate.
“Expired,” you said gently.
“Unfortunately,” Choso added.
Sukuna dragged a hand down his face.
Toji raised his glass, delighted beyond measure. His literal fantasy was unfolding in real time and he knew it.
Megumi leaned back, deeply satisfied. Gojo mimed shovelling popcorn into his mouth. Yuji stared at his money like it had cost him psychological stability.
You finally slipped your hand into Sukuna’s, grounding him just enough.
“I walked back inside,” you said quietly.
He looked at you, jaw tight. “…You did.”
Across the room, Choso nodded once. History acknowledged. Closed. Still sharp around the edges, but sealed.
Sukuna exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling like it might offer mercy.
“I regret every decision that led to this moment,” he muttered.
And Toji, grinning like a man watching his favourite movie unfold live, lifted his glass.
“Best night this shop’s ever had.”
The laughter had not fully settled when the room slipped into that dangerous, electric lull that only happens after too many truths have been dragged into fluorescent light. Sukuna still looked like a man who had just realized he’d detonated his own house for entertainment. You were still standing too close to Choso. Toji was still glowing with villainous delight. Gojo and Megumi were practically vibrating with spectator energy.
And Yuji—gremlin incarnate, cheeks flushed from alcohol and adrenaline—looked around at the aftermath like he’d just witnessed the greatest reveal of his life.
He stared at you.
Then at Choso.
Then back at you.
He slapped his palm against the counter dramatically.
“That sucks.”
Everyone turned.
Yuji shook his head with theatrical disappointment. “No, because that actually sucks. You two would’ve been fire together.”
The word hung in the air like someone had struck a match.
Sukuna went completely still.
You blinked.
Choso’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes.
Yuji pushed off the counter, fully committed now, gesturing wildly between you both. “Like—come on. Intense art girl and emotionally repressed med student? That’s cinema. That’s slow-burn, mutual destruction, dramatic rain scenes, matching cigarettes—”
“We did not have matching cigarettes,” Choso muttered.
“You absolutely would have,” Yuji insisted.
Gojo wheezed.
Megumi, who had been leaning back in satisfied silence, finally nodded once, calm and deliberate.
“He’s not wrong,” he said.
You turned toward him slowly. “Excuse me?”
Megumi shrugged, maddeningly composed. “The logic checks out. Same emotional depth. Same stubbornness. Same capacity for self-sabotage. If you’d chosen chaos instead of restraint, you would’ve been catastrophic.”
Yuji grinned, delighted to have backup. “Catastrophic but hot.”
Sukuna inhaled sharply.
Toji burst out laughing.
Suguru pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose like a man watching prophecy unfold.
Yuji crossed his arms, nodding firmly at his own conclusion. “I’m just saying. That alley kiss? Balcony? Two rounds and the sun coming out like symbolism? That’s peak romantic lore. And you’re telling me you just—decided not to be legendary?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Choso let out a slow breath, almost amused.
Megumi tilted his head slightly, gaze moving between you both with clinical fascination. “You ended it because you thought you’d ruin each other.”
“Yes,” Choso said simply.
Megumi’s mouth curved faintly. “Which means you probably wouldn’t have.”
That one landed.
Sukuna looked like he was reconsidering fatherhood as a concept.
Yuji leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m just saying, if there’s another universe. They’re terrifying together.”
Gojo clutched his chest dramatically. “Multiverse tragedy. I love it.”
Toji raised his glass in agreement. “I’d watch that.”
Suguru shot him a look. “You already are.”
You felt the heat crawl up your neck despite yourself, and Choso glanced at you—just a flicker of shared what-if before discipline sealed it shut again.
Yuji, entirely unburdened by consequences, grinned wider.
“Honestly?” he added. “Kind of mad we don’t live in that timeline.”
Megumi nodded once more, almost thoughtfully. “It would’ve been loud.”
Sukuna finally stood, slow and deliberate, the chair scraping faintly against the floor.
“You are all,” he said evenly, “exhausting.”
Yuji beamed at him. “Admit it though. They would’ve been insane together.”
Sukuna’s eye twitched.
You, unable to resist, leaned just slightly toward Choso again, your shoulder brushing his arm.
“Insane,” you echoed softly.
Choso glanced down at you, faint smile ghosting his mouth.
“Fire,” he added.
And somewhere between Gojo’s imaginary popcorn, Toji’s delighted smirk, Megumi’s analytical approval, and Yuji’s unfiltered chaos, Sukuna visibly regretted every single decision that had led him to open his mouth that night.
The word fire was still hanging in the air when Sukuna’s restraint finally snapped into something colder, something organized.
He did not yell.
That would have been easier.
Instead, he inhaled once, slow and deliberate, like a man sealing a legal document in his mind, and then he looked directly at Yuji.
“You think it would’ve been fire,” he repeated evenly.
Yuji, who had absolutely no survival instinct when alcohol and drama were involved, nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. Like, devastating but iconic.”
Sukuna shifted his gaze to Megumi. “And you.”
Megumi did not flinch. “Statistically speaking, the compatibility—”
“Stop,” Sukuna said flatly.
Gojo leaned forward on the couch, whispering loudly, “Oh no. He’s calm. This is worse.”
Toji’s grin widened in anticipation. Suguru exhaled, already understanding.
Sukuna rolled his shoulders once and clasped his hands behind his back like a general about to assign battlefield punishment.
“Since you both feel so comfortable rewriting my girlfriend’s romantic history,” he began smoothly, “I’ve decided to reward your insight.”
Yuji blinked. “Reward?”
Megumi narrowed his eyes.
“For the next six months,” Sukuna continued, voice almost pleasant, “you are both in charge of bathroom duty.”
“And” Sukuna added calmly, “cash-out duty. Every closing shift. No exceptions. You will count, log, balance, and reconcile every receipt until you can recite the shop’s weekly revenue in your sleep.”
Yuji stared at him like he’d just been sentenced to war.
Megumi’s jaw tightened slightly. “For six months?”
“You agreed they’d be good together,” Sukuna said mildly. “You’re clearly comfortable with long-term commitments.”
Gojo fell sideways onto the couch, wheezing.
You pressed your lips together to stop yourself from smiling.
Choso crossed his arms, watching with quiet interest.
Yuji recovered first, because of course he did.
“That’s not fair,” he protested. “We were just being honest.”
Gojo pretended to wipe tears from his eyes. “They’re martyrs.”
Suguru shook his head slowly. “You created this.”
Sukuna looked around at the shop—at Toji grinning like a man whose most chaotic fantasy had come true, at Gojo vibrating with popcorn energy, at Megumi sitting there smug even while condemned to grout scrubbing, at Yuji already dramatically planning his martyr arc, at Choso calm and unreadable, at you standing just close enough to feel warm against his side.
The laughter should have settled the room.
It should have ended there—with Sukuna sentencing Yuji and Megumi to six months of grout warfare, with Gojo theatrically applauding the tyranny, with Suguru shaking his head like a disappointed but unsurprised professor.
It should have.
But Toji, who had been basking in what could only be described as the cinematic fulfilment of his best and most specific fantasy, slowly looked toward the hallway that led to the bathroom.
And his smile faded.
Not entirely.
But enough.
He stared at the corridor like a fallen hero watching his kingdom burn.
“Tragic,” he murmured softly.
Suguru, who knew that tone too well, tilted his head. “What is.”
Toji gestured lazily toward you and Choso, still standing just close enough to make Sukuna’s eye twitch.
“My dream,” he said.
The room paused.
Yuji blinked. “What dream.”
Toji sighed, leaning back dramatically. “The threesome.”
Sukuna turned slowly.
“The what.”
Toji waved a dismissive hand, as if this were an administrative detail. “Maybe a foursome. If you were feeling emotionally evolved, because let’s not forget, I named you too pretty boy”
The silence that followed was nuclear.
Gojo made a sound that could only be described as a dolphin choking.
Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose. “You absolute menace.”
Megumi stared at Toji like he was a fascinating psychological study.
Yuji’s jaw dropped open. “You were serious?”
“I am always serious,” Toji replied gravely, which was somehow worse.
You covered your mouth, half-laughing, half-horrified.
Choso’s composure cracked for the first time all night, a quiet disbelieving exhale leaving him.
Sukuna did not blink.
Toji gestured toward you and Choso again. “The chemistry is insane. The emotional repression? Delicious. Add unresolved tension, free pass lore, balcony trauma—”
“Stop,” Sukuna said flatly.
“And if you joined?” Toji continued thoughtfully, looking Sukuna up and down. “That’s generational.”
Yuji made a strangled sound.
Megumi leaned back, whispering under his breath, “This is the worst timeline.”
Suguru finally looked at Toji directly. “You realize,” he said calmly, “that your entire fantasy just got sentenced to bathroom duty.”
Toji’s expression shifted, turning slowly, toward the hallway, towards the bathroom.
The fluorescent light flickered ominously down the corridor.
“You’re telling me,” Toji said quietly, “that the same bathroom Megumi and Yuji are about to scrub for six months…”
“Yes,” Sukuna replied coldly.
“…is the battlefield where my dream died.”
Gojo collapsed onto the couch in hysterics.
Yuji pointed accusingly. “You did this to yourself!”
Megumi, already mentally calculating bleach-to-water ratios, muttered, “This is karmic.”
Toji placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “My vision. Gone.”
Suguru smirked slightly. “You answered ‘Bubbles and Choso’ without hesitation.”
“And I stand by it,” Toji said firmly.
Sukuna stepped forward just enough to make the air shift.
“Stand by it,” he repeated softly, “while my apprentices scrub your fantasy off tile.”
Yuji gasped.
Megumi’s eyes widened slightly.
You couldn’t stop laughing now.
Choso, traitorously calm, added, “Symbolic.”
Toji looked once more toward the bathroom hallway, devastation painted in exaggerated slow motion across his face.
“A holy ground,” he whispered. “Reduced to grout.”
Gojo wiped tears from his eyes. “This is poetic.”
Suguru folded his arms. “You are the architect of your own suffering.”
Toji inhaled slowly, dramatically, then raised his glass in solemn tribute.
“To what could have been.”
Sukuna looked at him without mercy. “Bathroom. Six months.”
“I don’t even work here” Toji reminded him
Yuji groaned loudly. “Why are we catching strays for his delusions?”
Sukuna closed his eyes briefly, as if asking a higher power for patience. When he opened them, they were tired.
“I should never,” he said slowly, “have been bored.” He murmured under his breath.
Toji lifted his glass again, grinning despite his fallen kingdom.
“Best night in Red Star history.”
And somewhere down the hallway, beneath the harsh bathroom lights and the promise of industrial cleaner, the ghost of a threesome—maybe foursome—died heroically on tile that Yuji and Megumi would be scrubbing until summer.
It was four days later when Gojo decided peace had lasted long enough.
The shop was open this time, sunlight bleeding through the front windows, machines buzzing steadily, the smell of antiseptic sharp and clean. Yuji was at the front counter pretending to understand the booking system. Megumi was restocking gloves with surgical precision. Suguru was reviewing designs at the desk. Toji was leaning against the wall doing absolutely nothing productive. Choso was focused on lining work, steady and composed.
You were sitting cross-legged on one of the chairs, sketchbook balanced on your knee, pencil between your teeth.
It felt normal.
Too normal.
Gojo burst through the back door holding iced coffees like a man bringing chaos disguised as caffeine.
“I’ve been thinking,” he announced brightly.
Suguru didn’t even look up. “That’s never good.”
Gojo handed you a drink, then leaned against the counter, grinning in that slow, dangerous way.
“So, no open relationship?” he asked casually.
Dead silence.
Yuji’s head snapped up so fast he nearly sprained something.
Megumi froze mid-box.
Sukuna, who had been leaning against the wall reviewing inventory, turned very slowly.
“Why,” he asked flatly, “are you revisiting this.”
Gojo shrugged. “Just checking in. Growth happens. Perspectives shift. We’re progressive.” he paused "I mean two gay couples, and a hetero one with definitey too much sex tension between Kuna and Toji and let's not talk about Bubbles and Choso"
Toji straightened slightly, interest piqued.
You did not answer immediately.
And that was the problem, because instead of laughing it off, instead of dismissing it with the dramatic flair you usually wielded—
You tilted your head. And you thought.
Sukuna noticed.
Choso noticed.
Suguru noticed.
Megumi noticed immediately.
Toji’s eyes lit up like someone had just struck oil.
Gojo gasped softly. “Oh my god.”
Yuji whispered, horrified and thrilled, “She’s thinking.”
You tapped your pencil against your lip slowly, gaze unfocused for just a second too long.
“I mean,” you began carefully, “hypothetically.”
Sukuna’s eye twitched.
Toji pushed off the wall fully now.
“Hypothetically,” you repeated, still calm, still thoughtful, “it would’ve been a win-win situation.”
The room inhaled as one.
“For who,” Sukuna asked, voice dangerously even.
You glanced toward Toji first.
He looked like a man ascending to heaven.
“Well,” you said lightly, “definitely for him.”
Toji pressed a hand to his chest like he’d just been knighted.
“And,” you added, shrugging faintly, “I wouldn’t have hated it.”
Yuji dropped a stack of appointment cards.
Megumi blinked once.
Gojo slapped the counter. “I KNEW IT.”
Sukuna stared at you.
Choso did not move—but something sharpened in his expression.
Suguru leaned back slowly in his chair.
“To clarify,” Sukuna said, tone razor-thin, “you’re considering it.”
You lifted one shoulder. “Considering isn’t committing.”
Toji was vibrating. “This is the greatest week of my life,” he whispered.
Sukuna shot him a look that could have shattered glass.
“There is no free pass,” he said firmly.
You hummed softly. “It was never officially revoked.”
Yuji made a high-pitched noise of distress, he was enjoying this too much, his hand clutching over Megumi's arm.
Choso’s jaw tightened just slightly.
Sukuna leaned down just enough that only you could fully hear him.
“Are you trying to make me jealous,” he asked quietly.
You tilted your head. “Is it working?”
Behind you, Toji whispered, awestruck, “This is cinema.”
Suguru finally stood, stepping between escalating stupidity and actual disaster.
“Let’s not destroy the shop on a Tuesday,” he said calmly.
Megumi crossed his arms. “For the record, I predicted instability.”
Yuji nodded. “You did.”
Sukuna straightened slowly, gaze never leaving yours.
“You’re not serious,” he said.
You held his stare.
And then, finally, you smiled. “I’m thinking,” you replied.
Toji looked like he might cry.
Gojo clapped like he’d just witnessed a plot twist.
Choso’s expression smoothed back into something controlled, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away.
Suguru shook his head softly.
And Megumi, watching everything with unsettling clarity, murmured something under his breath
The room stilled.
Because everyone knew exactly who you’d glanced at.
And suddenly the “win-win” didn’t feel theoretical anymore.
The silence that followed Megumi’s observation was not loud.
It was surgical.
“She’s not thinking about Toji.”
He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t needed to. The sentence settled into the room with the quiet confidence of someone who had replayed the last thirty seconds in high definition and didn’t miss micro-expressions.
Toji’s grin faltered first.
Not completely, just enough.
Gojo slowly turned his head toward you like a sunflower tracking light.
Suguru didn’t look surprised. He looked tired.
Yuji blinked between you and Choso like a spectator realizing the match had just shifted leagues.
Sukuna did not move.
He didn’t need to.
His gaze was still on you, and now it sharpened, not jealous, not explosive.
Assessing.
You, traitorously calm, pretended to sip your iced coffee.
Megumi met his eyes without hesitation. “You looked at him.”
It wasn’t accusatory.
It was factual.
Toji slowly lowered his raised hands. “…Oh.”
For the first time all week, he looked genuinely robbed.
Yuji whispered, scandalized, “This just got worse.”
Gojo pressed both palms to the counter and leaned forward like a commentator who had just been handed premium content. “Bubbles.”
You inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
“Hypothetically,” you began again, and Sukuna’s eye twitched at the word, “if we’re talking about a win-win…”
Toji straightened reflexively.
“…it’s because there’s unfinished chemistry,” you finished.
The word chemistry did not float.
It dropped.
Choso’s jaw tightened.
Sukuna’s hand flexed at his side.
Suguru closed his eyes briefly.
“To clarify,” Toji said cautiously, “am I included in this chemistry.”
You looked at him.
And smiled gently.
“sort of.”
Toji physically recoiled like he’d been shot.
Gojo slapped the counter so hard Yuji jumped.
“I KNEW IT.”
Yuji was still holding Megumi’s arm. “You called it. You literally called it.”
Megumi shrugged once, but there was something deeply satisfied in the movement.
Sukuna’s voice, when it came, was low.
“Unfinished.”
You met his gaze. “Old things don’t evaporate just because we’re mature about them, besides you still drool each time you look at Toji”
Gojo chuckled.
Choso’s eyes flicked to you, then away.
Toji looked devastated in a way that was almost poetic. “So the win-win was never me.”
Suguru patted his shoulder once, not kindly. “You were a prop.”
“To my own fantasy,” Toji muttered darkly.
Gojo was glowing. “This is better than the open relationship.”
Yuji nodded. “Way messier.”
Sukuna stepped closer now, not aggressively, just enough to occupy the space between you and the rest of the room. “And what exactly,” he asked evenly, “are you considering.”
The shop held its breath.
You didn’t look away. “I’m considering that we ended because we were twenty,” you said softly. “Not because we didn’t feel it.”
Choso’s composure cracked just slightly at that.
“And now?” Sukuna pressed.
You smiled faintly. “Now we’re not twenty.”
Toji made a wounded noise. “This is so much worse for me.”
Megumi nodded. “Agreed.”
Suguru folded his arms. “You see why I didn’t panic the first time.”
Gojo whispered dramatically, “Forbidden sequel.”
Yuji leaned forward. “Is this the multiverse Megumi predicted?”
Megumi corrected calmly, “This is character development.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look angry, he looked calculating.
“And you think,” he said slowly, “that revisiting unfinished chemistry is a win.”
You tilted your head. “I think pretending it doesn’t exist is childish.”
That landed.
Choso exhaled quietly, finally speaking into the tension instead of around it. “We ended for a reason.”
“Yes,” you agreed.
“Not because it was weak,” he continued.
“No,” you said softly.
“To protect it.”
Silence again.
Toji looked between you both like someone watching a door close in slow motion.
“So the open relationship was never about evolution,” he muttered.
“It was about temptation,” Suguru corrected.
Gojo placed a hand over his heart. “I feel like I should be charging tickets.”
Megumi nodded. “Don't give him ideas, Yuji.” he whispered loud enough for only Yuji to hear.
Sukuna studied you for a long moment.
Then, finally, he smiled, not amused, not threatened, just sharp.
“You’re not bored,” he said quietly.
You raised an eyebrow.
“You’re testing,” he continued.
Your lips curved slightly. “And?”
“And,” he replied calmly, stepping just a fraction closer, “if there’s unfinished chemistry in this room, it doesn’t get resolved by committee.”
Toji groaned loudly.
Suguru smirked faintly.
Gojo whispered, “Oh he’s good.”
Choso held Sukuna’s gaze steadily.
No hostility, no apology.
Just acknowledgment.
Megumi leaned toward Yuji and murmured, “This is why they would’ve been catastrophic.”
Yuji nodded solemnly. “Fire.”
Toji dragged a hand down his face in defeat. “My dream orgy just died for this.”
Suguru patted him again. “You were never in it.”
You looked at Sukuna.
He looked at you, and the chaos that had started as a joke now felt deliberate.
Not reckless.
Not nostalgic.
Alive.
Gojo broke the silence first, because of course he did.
“So,” he said brightly, clapping once, “no open relationship. No foursome. No bathroom redemption arc.”
Toji sighed tragically.
Yuji raised a hand. “Can we at least get out of grout duty if this becomes a sequel?”
“No,” Sukuna said immediately.
Megumi nodded. “Fair.”
And under the buzzing lights of Red Star, with history no longer buried but no longer explosive either, the tension didn’t vanish.
It settled, not as chaos, as possibility.
And that was somehow worse.
You know what, you’re absolutely right.
Toji was never not in the fantasy.
The problem wasn’t inclusion, the problem was priority.
The moment Suguru had the audacity to say, “You were never in it,” Toji straightened like someone had just insulted his entire genetic legacy.
“Excuse me?” he said slowly.
The room turned.
He gestured vaguely at himself, then more specifically. “Have you seen me?”
Yuji blinked.
Gojo leaned back with a delighted gasp. “Oh, he’s offended.”
Toji stepped forward, rolling his shoulders like he was about to present evidence in court.
“Let’s not rewrite history,” he continued calmly, which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d yelled. “When I said Bubbles and Choso, I meant Bubbles and Choso.”
He pointed between you and Choso.
“Because the tension? Unreal. The repression? Delicious. The balcony trauma? Michelin star.”
He paused.
“And then,” he added smoothly, “if Sukuna was emotionally secure and feeling generous? That’s a foursome. That’s art.”
Yuji made a choking noise, Megumi stared at the ceiling like he was asking the universe why.
Gojo was clutching imaginary popcorn again.
Sukuna looked at Toji the way one evaluates whether homicide would be worth the paperwork.
You crossed your arms, trying not to smile, Choso, traitorously composed, said nothing.
Toji continued, now fully committed to the bit. “I was absolutely in the fantasy. I just wasn’t the emotional centerpiece.”
Suguru tilted his head. “That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said.”
Toji ignored him.
He looked at you directly now.
“You said win-win.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I did.”
“For me,” he clarified.
“Yes.”
“For you,” he pressed.
You shrugged faintly. “Maybe.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened again.
Toji spread his hands triumphantly. “See?”
Megumi leaned slightly toward Yuji and muttered, “He’s negotiating like it’s a business merger.”
Yuji whispered back, “He’s negotiating like it’s a religion.”
Gojo snapped his fingers suddenly. “Wait. Wait. This is better.”
Everyone groaned preemptively.
Gojo leaned forward, grin widening.
“So it’s not that Toji wasn’t in the fantasy,” he said brightly. “It’s that the fantasy had layers.”
Suguru closed his eyes briefly. “We are not diagramming this.”
“Oh we absolutely are,” Gojo replied. He began counting on his fingers.
“Layer one: Unfinished balcony lore.”
He pointed at you and Choso. “Layer two: Sukuna’s territorial character development arc.”
He pointed at Sukuna, who looked ready to file a restraining order.
“And layer four,” Gojo finished dramatically, “Megumi and Yuji scrubbing the bathroom while contemplating love and consequence.”
Yuji groaned loudly from the hallway.
Megumi muttered, “We’re collateral damage.”
Toji placed a hand over his heart again, but this time less theatrically and more sincerely.
“I was always in it,” he said calmly. “I just understand hierarchy.”
Suguru arched a brow. “And what is your position in this hierarchy.”
Toji smiled lazily. “Chaos consultant.”
That broke you, you laughed, head tipping back, and for half a second the tension loosened.
Sukuna looked at you, then at Toji, then back at you.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said quietly.
“Of course I am,” you replied. “Have you seen him?”
Toji preened shamelessly.
Choso finally exhaled, the faintest smirk appearing despite himself. “He does have range.”
Sukuna stared at him.
“Toji has range?” Sukuna repeated flatly.
“Toji has audacity,” Megumi corrected from the doorway.
“And jawline,” Yuji added weakly.
Suguru shook his head. “This is devolving.”
But Toji, satisfied now that his legacy had been restored, leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.
“I don’t need to be the center,” he said smoothly. “I just need to be invited.”
The room went quiet again, because the worst part? He wasn’t joking.
Gojo gasped softly like he’d just watched a season finale.
Sukuna dragged a hand down his face for what felt like the fifteenth time that week.
“I should never have given any of you autonomy,” he muttered.
Megumi, still holding a bottle of cleaner, looked at Yuji and sighed.
“Bathroom,” he said.
Yuji nodded solemnly. “Bathroom.”
Toji lifted his glass one last time. “To fantasies that evolve.”
Suguru raised his own in reluctant acknowledgment. “To consequences.”
And under the buzzing lights of Red Star Tattoos, Toji’s fantasy was no longer dead.
It was just… pending review.
Toji was still basking in his restored dignity when Gojo, who had been vibrating with the unbearable itch of one more comment, slowly leaned forward like a man about to deliver a TED Talk no one asked for.
“Oh no,” he said softly, eyes gleaming. “You’re all thinking too small.”
Suguru didn’t even sigh this time. “Satoru.”
“No, no,” Gojo insisted, waving him off. “Let’s be honest. If this had spiraled into something complicated—and it would have, because look at you people—Toji wouldn’t have just been ‘chaos consultant.’”
Toji raised a brow, interested.
Gojo pointed at him dramatically. “He would’ve been the hot daddy that fixes the mess.”
The shop froze.
Yuji’s jaw dropped.
Megumi closed his eyes like he was trying to exit his own body.
You choked on your drink.
Choso blinked.
Sukuna stared at Gojo like he was deciding whether murder would disrupt business hours.
Gojo, unstoppable, continued. “Because let’s not forget,” he added sweetly, “when Toji first walked into this store? Sukuna was practically drooling.”
The silence that followed was nuclear.
Toji turned very, very slowly toward Sukuna. “…Was he.”
Yuji made a sound like a kettle about to scream.
Megumi whispered, “This is so much worse than the alley.”
Suguru leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “You brought this on yourself,” he murmured to Sukuna.
Sukuna did not blink.
Gojo clasped his hands together, delighted. “Oh please. The tension was palpable. Sukuna pretending not to stare? Embarrassing.”
“I was assessing,” Sukuna said coldly.
“Toji’s shoulders?” Gojo pressed. “Or his personality?”
Toji grinned lazily now, fully revived. “I did notice the staring.”
“You imagined that,” Sukuna snapped.
“I didn’t,” Toji replied smoothly. “You looked me up and down like you were calculating structural integrity.”
Yuji slapped a hand over his mouth.
Megumi stared at the floor like he was reconsidering his entire upbringing.
You folded your arms, trying, and failing, not to enjoy this.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “You were jealous before I even existed in the equation.”
Sukuna turned to you sharply. “I was not jealous.”
Gojo gasped. “He was territorial.”
“Toji hadn’t even said a word yet,” Suguru added calmly. “And you already looked like you were measuring him for threat level.”
Toji tilted his head, smirk deepening. “Was I a threat?”
Sukuna stepped forward just slightly, energy tightening.
“You’re still talking,” he said evenly.
Gojo clapped once, delighted beyond reason. “See? That. That’s the energy. Toji would’ve been the hot daddy that fixes the mess when you two imploded.”
Yuji, unable to stop himself, whispered, “He does have the vibe.”
Megumi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stop helping.”
Gojo continued mercilessly. “When Bubbles and Choso got too intense. When Sukuna got too possessive. Toji would walk in, roll his sleeves up, fix the drywall, and emotionally regulate everyone.”
Toji nodded thoughtfully. “I do fix drywall.”
Suguru muttered, “This is unhinged.”
You looked between Sukuna and Toji now, eyes sparkling with something dangerously amused.
“So you were drooling?” you asked sweetly.
Sukuna’s jaw tightened. “I was evaluating.”
“His arms?” you pressed.
“To see if he could lift equipment,” Sukuna shot back.
“To see if I could lift you,” Toji added casually.
Yuji made a high-pitched noise and fled toward the bathroom.
Megumi followed slowly, muttering, “Six months. We deserve six months.”
Gojo was nearly in tears. “This is better than any open relationship.”
Choso, who had been silent for too long, finally spoke, voice calm but edged. “He did stare.”
Everyone turned.
Sukuna narrowed his eyes. “You too?”
Choso shrugged faintly. “We all did.”
That landed.
Because it was true.
Toji leaned back, satisfied beyond measure. “See? I’m not the problem. I’m the enhancement.”
Suguru shook his head. “You’re gasoline.”
“Premium,” Toji corrected.
Sukuna looked around the shop—at Gojo glowing with chaos, at Suguru pretending he wasn’t entertained, at Choso maddeningly composed, at you watching him with that knowing smile, at Toji absolutely thriving in the aftermath of being publicly acknowledged as hot and disruptive.
He exhaled slowly. “I hate all of you,” he muttered.
Gojo beamed. “No you don’t.”
Toji raised his glass once more. “To being drooled over.”
Sukuna did not dignify that with a response.
But the faintest flush at the edge of his ears did not go unnoticed. And Gojo, predator of social micro-expressions, saw it immediately.
“Oh,” he whispered triumphantly. “He absolutely did.”
The shop dissolved into chaos again.
And somewhere in the hallway, over the sound of scrubbing tile. Yuji groaned: “Why is our workplace like this.”
can people make more choso fanfics like PLEASE I NEED MORE I THINK IVE READ ALL OF THEM, like I see such a GOOD DESCRIPTION OF A FANFIC only to find out it’s a gojo x reader fanfic 😪😪😪 no shade to gojo i love him BUT PLZZ MORE LOVE FOR CHOSOOOOO
sneak peek: The "security" alarm at Red Star Tattoos usually signals a regular client, but today it heralded a literal icon. Yuji’s favorite actress walked through the door, and the shop’s collective IQ dropped by fifty points. While Yuji flatlined and Megumi updated his "incident files," the actress set her sights on a different target: you. Between the most flirtatious consultation in history and a territorial Sukuna vibrating with enough heat to melt his own machines, the tension was "Oscars-worthy." But the real twist? A morning-after text led to a luxury-car brunch and a "Girls' Day" that left Sukuna in a "tattooed gargoyle" state of jealousy.
Just as the shop recovered from celebrity fever, Suguru Geto—the pillar of reason—woke up and chose violence. Or rather, he chose comedy. Armed with a devious smirk and a mission to be the "funniest man alive," Suguru spent the day roasting the "Courtship Raccoon" (Sukuna), dismantling Gojo’s ego, and proving that the quietest person in the room is usually the most dangerous when they decide to start telling jokes.
The Celebrity Sighting: Yuji fainted three times. The actress flirted with Bubbles. Sukuna declared "She's taken" with enough force to shake the foundations.
The Bestie Update: Bubbles is officially in the inner circle of the elite. She has new sunglasses and a "Girls Need Girls" pact. Sukuna is currently "vetting" all brunch spots.
The Suguru Glitch: Suguru ascended to "Comedy God" status. He called Sukuna a raccoon and told a customer to dream of him.
Casualties: Sukuna’s ruler (snapped in half for a "joke"), Yuji’s dignity, and Gojo’s ability to "emotionally stabilize."
Current Shop Mood: Fearful of Suguru's next punchline and waiting for the actress to "raise her game."
The calm of Year Nine shattered the second the door’s obnoxious fanfare blared — the one Sukuna insisted on for “security,” but mostly just made everyone jump like startled livestock.
You didn’t even finish cursing it before she walked in.
Yuji’s favourite actress.
Tall. Elegant. Radiant in that expensive‑skincare, gravity‑bending way. The air actually shifted. Yuji took one look at her and immediately flatlined — colour gone, knees buckling, making a sound only dying appliances make.
Megumi caught him by the hoodie with one hand, sighing like he was updating a mental file titled Yuji: Incidents, Vol. 41.
Then Red Star reacted the only way Red Star knows how: badly.
Sukuna paused mid‑line, machine humming, eyes narrowing as he scanned every camera feed like paparazzi ninjas were about to drop from the ceiling. Choso adjusted a piercing like he was prepping surgical tools. Toji leaned on the counter, entertained. Suguru stepped forward with his usual calm like he was corralling emotional toddlers.
And Gojo — instead of screaming, levitating, or instantly flirting — actually stilled. Sunglasses sliding just enough to show one bright blue eye, he gave the actress a slow, knowing nod. No theatrics. Just recognition: two people who lived under too much spotlight meeting in the wild.
She smiled politely.
He winked.
It was…the quietest chaos Gojo had ever produced.
Yuji collapsed again. Documentary slow‑motion. Megumi hauled him back up like a soggy cat.
“Is he… okay?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Suguru said. “That’s his enthusiasm.”
Yuji wheezed like a dying bird.
Megumi hissed, “Stop making that noise.”
Sukuna finally came forward — not impressed, not intimidated, just suspicious in that overprotective‑uncle way of his.
“You alone?” he asked, scanning the street.
She nodded, explaining she just wanted a consultation.
Gojo leaned on the counter like a perfume ad. “We’re selective with our clients.”
Suguru groaned, “Please stop.”
You stepped in before the shop detonated.
“Hi. Welcome to Red Star. Don’t mind them — they’re all just—”
“Oh, I know exactly what I want. Something dainty. Intimate. And… I want her to do it.”
Yuji whispered, “She’s stealing Bubbles,” like a man watching a kidnapping.
Then — with a little tilt of her head —
“Maybe after, you could recommend somewhere to eat? I’d trust your taste.”
Sukuna slammed a hand onto the counter beside you.
“She’s taken.”
The actress raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Officially?”
“Yes,” Sukuna snapped before you could inhale.
She smirked.
“Well. Lucky girl.”
Gojo had to be physically restrained. Choso murmured, “This is going in my diary.” Toji smirked like he was watching season eight of a telenovela.
The consultation became a duel.
She teased. Sukuna bristled. You glowed. Yuji squeaked. Gojo collapsed. Suguru sighed like he aged five years.
At one point she leaned close, fingers brushing your wrist.
“So… do you prefer delicate work? Or something more… intimate?”
You nearly dropped your pencil.
Yuji squeaked like a dolphin.
Sukuna stepped forward so fast the air shifted, bracing one hand on the desk beside you.
“You want delicate?” he growled. “Bubbles is the best you’ll ever get.”
She smirked. “And what about you? Are you delicate?”
Sukuna laughed — low, disbelieving — and leaned in.
“I do delicate. I just don’t do it for everyone.”
Yuji screamed.
Gojo flung himself onto the floor like a fainting aristocrat.
Choso nodded approvingly.
She only smiled wider.
“Oh, I know. I can tell.”
Sukuna actually froze.
Then — recovering — he placed a casual hand on the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder, thumb tracing your skin like a quiet claim.
“Trying?” she echoed.
“No. Trying was years ago.”
He looked at you — soft, solid, confessing without words.
“Now I get what I want.”
Her breath hitched.
The shop collectively lost it.
Yuji needed medical intervention.
Gojo declared it “Oscars-worthy tension.”
Toji said, “He’s warming up.”
Suguru prayed for patience.
Choso observed like a calm, judging cryptid.
And the actress?
She grinned, leaning back.
“Well then,” she purred, “I suppose I’ll have to raise my game.”
Which is exactly when Yuji, after ten minutes of hyperventilating into a pillow, suddenly popped upright like a psychotic jack‑in‑the‑box.
I—I can flirt too!” Yuji blurted, way too loud.
Every head turned.
Megumi sighed, “Oh no.”
Yuji fired actual finger‑guns at the actress.
“Ha! Bet you didn’t expect THIS LEVEL OF RIZZ!”
Sukuna choked. Gojo collapsed laughing.
The actress blinked… then giggled — soft, warm, lethal to Yuji’s brain.
He folded instantly.
“OH GOD SHE LAUGHED—MEGUMI WHAT DO I DO—”
“You embarrassed yourself,” Megumi said.
Panicking, Yuji pointed at everyone in sight.
“HEY! Did you know Sukuna cried at a turtle documentary?!”
The entire shop gasped.
Sukuna spun around like a murder alarm.
“YUJI—”
Yuji hid behind Megumi.
The actress laughed. “You’re adorable.”
“I—I can be cool too,” Yuji whispered.
“No,” Megumi replied.
You laughed, and Yuji puffed up proudly.
Sukuna, red‑eared and furious, pointed at him.
“Sit down before I tattoo ‘LOSER’ on your forehead.”
Yuji obeyed instantly, glowing.
“Worth it,” he whispered. “She called me adorable.”
The actress smiled at you. “You have quite the family.”
“So do you now,” you said.
And Sukuna?
Arms crossed, blush deep, glaring at Yuji — but not moving an inch away from you.
Then Yuji snapped.
“OKAY! STOP EVERYTHING! I’M AN APPRENTICE SO YOU CAN’T FIRE ME!”
Megumi groaned.
Yuji pointed at Sukuna. “You’re my mentor, but the second someone looks at Bubbles you turn into a tattoo Godzilla!”
Then at you. “You’re supposed to be the calm one but you giggle like Gojo seeing a dog!”
Gojo nodded proudly.
Yuji jabbed at Gojo and Suguru. “You two don’t even work! You just stand there being hot and judging us!”
Gojo beamed. Suguru covered his mouth.
Yuji turned to Choso. “You’re the calm adult but you have a belly‑button piercing and weird vibes!”
“That’s fair,” Choso said.
Then Toji. “And YOU—aren’t you supposed to be the sane one?
Toji shrugged. “I’m never the sane adult.”
Finally Yuji faced the actress.
“Ma’am, queen, legend—you’re too cool for this shop. You flirt with Bubbles, terrify Sukuna, and still smile at me like I didn’t shame my ancestors.”
She laughed — warm and real.
Yuji collapsed onto the couch.
“I’m surrounded by emotionally unstable hot adults.”
Megumi patted his shoulder.
“Yep. And you work for them.”
Sukuna swore under his breath.
You hid your smile.
The actress winked at Yuji.
Gojo tried to clap until Suguru stopped him.
And somehow, Yuji Itadori — chaos gremlin, apprentice, disaster incarnate — had roasted every single one of you.
Yuji lay collapsed on the couch like a Victorian maiden who’d lost a duel with her corset, mumbling into his pillow about “unstable hot adults” and “why me specifically.”
Megumi finally sat beside him — not out of mercy, just to stop him from suffocating himself.
Yuji peeked out, red‑faced.
“Megumi… do you think she thought I was cool?”
Megumi stared at him with the dead eyes of someone filing emotional‑damage paperwork.
“No. She thought you were adorable.”
“And then?”
“And then she wondered if you had a medical condition.”
Yuji flopped back like he’d been sniped.
Megumi almost smiled. Almost.
“You looked like a malfunctioning car alarm.”
“HEY—”
“And you made a dolphin noise.”
“MEGU—STOP—”
“Then you pointed at her like you were casting a jujutsu.”
“I WAS TRYING TO BE COOL.”
“You weren’t.”
Yuji groaned and kicked weakly.
The actress glanced over, smiling, and he squeaked before hiding again.
Megumi sipped his water. “She’s not adopting you, Yuji.”
“I never asked her to!”
“You didn’t need to. You bowed.”
“I was being respectful!”
“Twice.”
“That’s CULTURE, Megumi!”
“And then you saluted.”
Yuji threw the pillow. Megumi caught it without blinking.
“I hate it here…” Yuji muttered.
“You love it here,” Megumi said.
“You’re all insane.”
Megumi nodded. “True. But compared to you? We look normal.”
Yuji’s jaw dropped.
“EXCUSE ME—”
Megumi gestured toward Sukuna (guard dog mode), Gojo (sports announcer to himself), and Choso (haunted Victorian ghost).
“You dug a tunnel under the bar, Yuji.”
Yuji opened and closed his mouth, then wilted.
“I wanna go home.”
“No you don’t.”
“…Yeah, I don’t.”
Megumi placed the pillow back into his arms.
“Good boy.”
“I’m not a DOG.”
“You fainted three times,” Megumi said calmly. “You are absolutely a dog.”
“A cool dog?”
Megumi shrugged.
“…A dog.”
Yuji melted into the couch the moment you winked at him.
Megumi nudged him. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Yuji was still clutching his pillow like a wounded puppy when the actress looked over and sent him the tiniest smile.
Yuji lit up instantly.
“She SMILED at me!” he hissed.
“I saw,” Megumi said, jaw tightening.
Yuji shook his arm. “WHAT DO I DO?”
“Sit down before you implode again.”
She smiled at him again.
Yuji froze, glowing.
Megumi’s eyes narrowed by exactly one millimetre.
“She probably thinks I’m cool now,” Yuji whispered.
“You tripped on the way to the couch,” Megumi replied. “And bowed. And saluted.”
“WHY DO YOU KEEP—”
“Because it worked,” Megumi muttered. “She noticed you.”
Yuji gasped. “Megumi… are you proud of me?”
“Stop talking.”
“You ARE!”
“You’re JEALOUS!”
Megumi shoved him into the cushions. “You’re imagining things.”
Yuji cackled. “I finally have ONE thing over you!”
“You fainted three times today,” Megumi said. “I had to catch your corpse.”
“But I caught her attention.”
“Barely.”
Megumi looked away, voice small:
“She could’ve smiled at anyone.”
Yuji elbowed him. “It’s okay, Megu. You’re still my number one.”
Megumi went rigid. “Shut up.”
But his ears stayed pink.
Before he could recover, the actress walked over.
“So,” she said sweetly, “which one of you is jealous?”
Yuji sputtered, but she wasn’t looking at him.
Her eyes were locked on Megumi.
“You,” she said.
Megumi’s entire face went crimson.
She listed every tell — the frown, the breath‑holding, the protective grab, the pink ears — until he looked ready to self‑destruct.
Then she leaned in… and tapped his cheek.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
Yuji HOWLED.
Megumi fled like the shop was on fire.
Even Sukuna cracked a smile.
When they returned, Megumi’s blush was worse.
Yuji stared at him. And stared. And—
“MEGUMI YOU’RE JEALOUS OF ME—”
Both boys started blushing, yelling, and panicking in sync until Toji finally sighed:
“I’ll give them a year before one of them confesses.”
Silence.
Yuji shrieked.
Megumi combusted.
Gojo screamed into his hands.
Sukuna walked away muttering about needing a cigarette.
And The Red Star Tattoo Shop descended into chaos. Again.
The actress leaned toward you with a grin.
“They’re adorable.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Complete emotional dumbasses.
But adorable.
Yuji was still making dying‑whale noises into his pillow.
Megumi was still red enough to be a fire hazard.
And Toji’s prophecy — “I’ll give them a year” — hovered over the shop like a glowing sign.
Everyone was trying to recover when the actress turned back toward the couch.
And smiled — slow, warm, dangerous.
Yuji froze.
Megumi stiffened.
She stopped in front of them.
“Oh boys…”
Yuji sat up like a spooked meerkat.
Megumi spiritually left his body.
“I just wanted to say,” she said sweetly, “watching you two was very entertaining.”
Yuji squeaked.
Megumi groaned.
She pointed at Yuji.
“You are absolutely adorable when you panic.”
Yuji hit a pitch only Twinkles could hear.
Then her gaze slid to Megumi.
“And you are adorable when you’re jealous.”
Megumi choked so hard he had to physically cover his own mouth.
Yuji screamed into the pillow again.
She wasn’t done.
She leaned in and tapped Yuji’s cheek.
Then Megumi’s.
Both boys froze like broken animatronics.
“You two blush so easily,” she teased. “It’s adorable.”
Yuji collapsed sideways.
Megumi covered his face.
Yuji flailed. “MEGU, SHE CALLED US ADORABLE—US—A TEAM—”
“We are NOT a team,” Megumi hissed.
The actress laughed. “You make a cute pair.”
The universe stopped.
Gojo collapsed like a Victorian widow.
Suguru hid a smile.
Choso murmured, “Accurate.”
Toji smirked. “One year.”
Sukuna stared like he was reconsidering their futures.
“M-Megumi,” Yuji whispered. “Are we… a pair?”
Megumi slapped him with the pillow.
“Well,” the actress said brightly, “thank you for the entertainment. You two are the highlight of my day.”
Yuji died again.
Megumi considered fleeing the country.
She winked at them and walked away.
Yuji melted against Megumi’s arm.
“Megu… she thinks we’re cute.”
“STOP TALKING,” Megumi snapped, ears blazing.
Toji whispered to Choso, “Six months.”
Choso: “Three.”
Then—
A strange sound rose from the floor.
A wheeze.
A squeal.
A shriek.
Gojo Satoru sat up like a resurrected demon.
“DID EVERYONE SEE THAT?! THEY BLUSHED! TOGETHER! THE SAME TIME!”
He pointed at Toji. “YOU CAUSED THIS!”
Toji grinned. “Yep.”
Chaos erupted.
Yuji screamed.
Megumi screamed.
Gojo declared it a “ROM-COM ARC.”
Sukuna dragged him away like a misbehaving golden retriever.
The actress was doubled over laughing, tears streaming.
“You two,” she wheezed, “are adorable.”
Then she slid a massive tip onto the counter.
“For the kids’ first date.”
Yuji shrieked.
Megumi almost passed out.
Gojo tried to sprint back into the room to witness it.
Finally, she turned to you — warm, amused, devastating.
“Thank you for the chaos,” she murmured.
“It’s always like this,” you said.
She winked.
A slow, deadly wink. “Call me.”
Yuji screamed.
Sukuna flinched.
Gojo hollered from the back.
Megumi nearly fainted again.
And you were left standing there — heart racing, skin still warm where her wink landed.
When the actress told you to call her, you assumed she meant someday in the vague, dreamy future when stars aligned and your schedules magically matched — not the literal next morning before you’d even unlocked the shop. But there it was: your phone buzzing in the alley behind Red Star, keys dangling from your hand as a message from an unknown number lit your screen.
[Unknown Number]: Girl. I am STILL laughing. Brunch? On me. I refuse to recover alone. ☕✨
You stared at it like you’d just been summoned by a benevolent deity. Honestly? You were weak. And curious. And no universe existed where you would decline brunch with a woman who laughed like champagne bubbles and tipped like she personally discovered wealth.
So you typed the only acceptable answer:
Yes. Obviously yes.
Twenty minutes later, you were sinking into the leather seat of her impossibly sleek luxury car, enveloped in the scent of rich perfume and soft leather. Her sunglasses were so oversized you could see your entire startled reflection in them.
“This,” she announced while you buckled in, “is strictly a girl’s day. No flirting, no chaos, no fainting teenagers or intensely possessive boyfriends. Just food, gossip, and shopping. Deal?”
“Deal,” you managed.
“Good. Also, you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
Your soul briefly left your body. She laughed like she’d rehearsed it with angels.
Brunch was unhinged in the best way. She whisked you into a place with marble tables, gold utensils, and waiters who described the dishes instead of handing you a menu. She ordered enough food to qualify as a diplomatic banquet, insisting you “needed to try everything,” and forced her drink into your hand because “yours looks too responsible.”
You teased her about making Yuji faint (twice). She wheezed so hard the couple behind you physically jumped.
“Oh god,” she gasped, covering her face. “BUBBLES. He made the dolphin noise. I thought I would DIE.”
You snorted into your mimosa.
Between laughs, she leaned in, chin propped on her hand, eyes warm. “Your shop is one of the best things I’ve ever walked into,” she said. “It’s pure chaos. But pure warmth.”
You softened. “It’s a lot. But it’s home.”
“It shows,” she said. Then, with a sly smirk, “Especially in the way your very intense boyfriend looks at you.”
You choked. Violently.
“He’s not— okay he is — but he’s not that intense.”
She arched a perfect eyebrow. “Sweetheart. He glared at me like I was trying to steal his wife.”
Your soul died a little.
“Please bury me.”
She nearly spilled her drink laughing.
After brunch, she dragged you into shops you would’ve never dared enter alone. She bought you sunglasses because you tried them on “just for fun.” She hauled you into a boutique and made you try on dresses “just to see the colours.” You caved. Repeatedly.
She told you about filming, absurd fans, lonely hotel rooms, and how stepping into Red Star felt like stepping into a family. You told her about the boys, about Twinkles’ reign of terror, Sukuna’s violent approach to cooking, Gojo’s banned playlist, Choso’s cryptid energy, Megumi’s weaponized sarcasm, Yuji’s solar-flare optimism.
By the time she drove you back, it felt less like hanging out with a celebrity and more like hanging out with the effortlessly cool older cousin who gives you life advice while contouring your cheekbones.
Her car rolled to a stop right in front of the shop’s big red star decal. She turned off the engine, her smile softening.
“This was really fun,” she said. “I needed… normal. You’re very good at being normal.”
You snorted. “Me? My job? My shop? Normal?”
“Well… you feel normal. In a good way. Like a person, not a headline.”
Something warm tugged behind your ribs.
She tapped your phone. “Text me anytime. Girls need girls. Especially chaotic ones with adorable, blushing apprentices.”
You groaned.
“Please don’t remind me.”
She winked. “Can’t promise that.”
You paused before stepping out of the car. “Thanks. For today.”
Her expression softened even more. “Thank YOU. For letting me in.”
She pulled away, and before she turned the corner, she yelled out her open window:
“Tell Sukuna I behaved!”
“You did NOT!” you yelled back.
She blew you a kiss and vanished into traffic.
Inside the shop, Sukuna was waiting like a tattooed gargoyle carved out of jealousy and worry. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed. Instincts screaming: MY GIRL WAS UNSUPERVISED IN THE WILD.
“…You good?” he asked, voice too casual to be truly casual.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling.
His eyes swept over you: your cheeks, the shopping bag, the new sunglasses peeking from it, the expensive perfume clinging to your clothes. His jaw clenched.
“…I’m never letting you hang out with celebrities alone again.”
You laughed, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him just to shut him up.
Naturally, that’s when Yuji sprinted in yelling,
“MEGUMI SAID WE’RE NOT ALLOWED TO TALK ABOUT THE DATE MONEY ANYMORE—”
And just like that, the universe snapped back into place.
Red Star Tattoos had barely opened its doors, the incense still swirling in lazy golden ribbons and the machines humming with their usual mechanical purr, when the universe tilted. Not dramatically. Not violently. But subtly—like someone quietly turned a dial from “normal” to “oh no.”
Because Suguru Geto, beloved voice of reason, calm centre of the storm, soft‑spoken pillar of elegance… was smiling. Not his usual “yes, Satoru, I love you even though you installed disco lights in the bathroom” smile. Not his “I tolerate all of you because I have achieved inner peace” smile. No, this was a smirk. A devious, sharpened thing that looked like it was planning crimes.
Gojo froze mid‑twirl on his spinny chair, fingers splayed like a startled flamingo.
“Babe. Babe. BABE. Why are you smiling like that? I don’t like it. UNSMILE.”
Suguru took a slow sip of coffee, eyes glinting.
“I’ve made a decision.”
The shop collectively braced.
“Today… I will be funny.”
Silence descended like a curtain.
You looked up from your stencil, uncertain whether to be supportive or to flee.
“Suguru… you are funny.”
“No,” he corrected gently, like explaining math to a toddler. “I am refined. Insightful. Occasionally devastating. But today?”
His smirk deepened with villainous grace.
“Today, I ascend.”
Gojo’s soul left his body. “NO. If you ascend, who will emotionally stabilize me? I can’t raise Megumi alone—he already hates my sunglasses!”
Sukuna dragged a hand over his face.
“If he starts telling dad jokes, I’m walking out.”
Suguru tilted his head thoughtfully.
“What’s wrong, Suki? Afraid I’ll steal your spotlight? It’s okay, not all of us can be naturally intimidating. Some of us have to be charming.”
Choso blinked once. “We should evacuate.”
Even Twinkles chirped, as if in agreement.
And then it began.
Suguru approached your station as gracefully as a man about to ruin someone’s life. He watched you line up ink caps with serene interest before saying, “You know, watching Sukuna flirt with you is like watching a raccoon attempt courtship by offering shiny objects.”
You choked so violently Choso instinctively reached for a water bottle.
Sukuna jerked around. “I—what—NO—”
Suguru held up three metal washers. “He gave you these earlier. Gifts. Offerings. Nest‑building behaviour.”
“They were SPARE PARTS,” Sukuna barked.
Suguru turned to you.
“And how did it make you feel?”
You shrugged helplessly. “…weirdly appreciated?”
Suguru slapped the counter triumphantly. “COURTSHIP RACCOON.”
A glove flew at his head.
But he was far from done.
A nervous walk‑in approached the counter, clutching their pamphlet. “Hi, um, I have a question abou—”
Suguru leaned forward with the ease of a man who knew too much.
“Before we begin, I should warn you: today I’m hilarious. If you laugh, that’s expected. If you swoon, normal. If you faint, Satoru will catch you.”
Gojo immediately tripped over a rolling stool trying to “get into catching position.”
The customer stared at Suguru like he was a high‑ranking cult leader mid‑recruitment.
“For aftercare,” Suguru continued, handing them lotion, “apply twice daily. Don’t pick it. And if you dream of me, that’s also normal.”
They backed out of the shop like it was haunted.
Choso folded his arms. “You need supervision.”
“Impossible,” Suguru replied.
Then came Gojo—terrible news in pastel sunglasses.
He strutted out wearing heart‑shaped lenses so large they looked like props from a children’s play.
“If YOU’RE the funny one today, Suguru, THEN WHAT AM I?”
Suguru didn’t blink. “Beautiful. Like a tragic lighthouse. Guiding ships but blinding everyone around you.”
Sukuna SNORTED.
You wheezed.
Choso covered his mouth.
Gojo froze.
“I… am moved.”
“And” Suguru added with the gentlest cruelty, “this is why the children pretend not to know you in public.”
Gojo gasped dramatically.
“MEGUMI!! YOU LOOKED AWAY ONE TIME AND I NEVER RECOVERED.”
From the hallway came Megumi’s tired voice:
“I WAS ELEVEN.”
Suguru simply took another sip of coffee.
Then, quietly, he said, “Witness greatness,” and walked toward Sukuna’s booth.
“Hey. Can I borrow your ruler?”
Suspicion flickered, but Sukuna handed it over.
Suguru snapped it in half with one clean movement.
The entire shop gasped.
Sukuna stared at the remains in his palm.
“…Why.”
Suguru shrugged with serene peace.
“Did you think it was funny?”
“No.”
“…I did.”
Sukuna inhaled dangerously. “SATORU. HOLD ME BACK.”
“I’ll always hold you back,” Gojo sighed romantically.
“NOT LITERALLY—get OFF—!”
At closing, Suguru gathered everyone like a kindergarten teacher corralling feral animals. You stood beside Sukuna; Twinkles curled sleepily in your arms. Choso crossed his arms. Gojo held confetti with the intensity of a man preparing for a wedding proposal.
Suguru cleared his throat.
“As you know, today I embarked on a noble, dangerous mission—to prove I am the funniest one here.”
“You’re not,” Sukuna muttered.
“You are,” Gojo insisted.
“You definitely are,” you agreed.
Choso nodded. “Objectively.”
Suguru bowed modestly, though his smirk betrayed him.
“I accept your praise. Tomorrow, I return to being emotionally stable and exceptionally attractive.”
Gojo yeeted the confetti into the air.
It exploded DIRECTLY into Suguru’s hair.
Suguru blinked slowly.
Gojo gasped like he’d witnessed divinity. “YOU’RE EVEN HOTTER—”
Suguru sighed with the weight of ten lifetimes.
“Even at my funniest, I cannot escape you, Satoru.”
Gojo beamed. “I love you too.”
And Red Star Tattoos closed for the night knowing one undeniable truth: Suguru Geto, for one catastrophic day, truly believed he was the funniest man alive—and honestly? He kind of was.
A/N: I'm kinda sad tbh, this shit is almost finishing...
sneak peek: Red Star Tattoos has officially devolved into a high-stakes battlefield. It starts with Yuji and Megumi launching a coordinated prank strike—think Sheriff Twinkles in a custom cowboy hat and Sukuna slowly descending into the "nether realm" via a hacked tattoo chair. But the teenagers forgot the golden rule: Never cross the shop matriarch.
Fueled by a two-year-old grudge over some crooked smiley-face tattoos, you turn a rainy night into a literal horror movie. With Suguru on the breakers and Choso on the "ghostly" fishing lines, the boys are pushed to the brink of existential collapse.
However, the laughter stops when the pressure of the shop finally pushes Megumi to a spine-chilling snapping point. When a customer crosses the line, it takes a collective "parental" intervention, a warm bag of food, and a rare, miraculous smile to bring the "King of Curses-in-training" back from the edge.
The Red Star Log:
The Incident: A full-scale prank war involving "Elevator Sukuna" and the unauthorized broadcast of his "cat voice."
The Retribution: The "Smiley Face Grudge" was settled via a shop-wide haunting. Yuji’s soul has left the building.
The Snap: A customer bullied Megumi; the "Dads of Speed" hovered; Sukuna approved of the "doom aura."
Outcome: Megumi is safe, the cat is smug, and the shop is covered in glitter and trauma.
The shop should have sensed the danger the moment Megumi pushed open the door with an expression dangerously close to a smile. Because he did not smile at 10:00 a.m. He barely smiled at 3 p.m. after boba and an hour of Yuji’s pleading. Yet there he stood in the entrance of Red Star Tattoos wearing something that might have been pride or mischief—either way, it was alarming. Yuji hovered behind him, backpack bulging in a way that suggested illegal activity or excessive snacks. His grin was wide and untrustworthy, his energy buzzing like a faulty lightbulb.
You froze mid‑sketch. Suguru paused stirring his tea. Choso stopped mid‑wipe with an alcohol pad. Gojo lifted his sunglasses like binoculars, and Sukuna stepped out of the back room with his brow already twitching like the corner of his eye wanted to abandon his face entirely.
“What,” he said flatly, “are you two planning.”
Yuji gasped with the offended innocence of a toddler caught in a cookie jar. “WHAT? WHY WOULD YOU ASSUME—”
Megumi kicked him in the shin mid‑sentence.
Yuji wheezed. “—assume we’re studying?”
Megumi gave a slow, smug nod as if that made the lie credible.
Sukuna stared at them as though personally betrayed by their DNA. “You two haven’t studied once under my roof.”
The tension snapped—and chaos unfurled.
It began with Twinkles. The small white menace strutted out of her corner with the confidence of a sheriff entering a saloon. But she wasn’t just Twinkles anymore. She wore a tiny sheriff vest, perfectly fitted, with a star badge that gleamed under the shop lights. On her head rested a miniature cowboy hat, tilted at a jaunty angle like she’d just challenged someone to a duel.
Yuji saluted dramatically. “Sheriff Twinkles, ready for patrol!”
Megumi lowered his voice reverently. “She looks powerful.”
Choso blinked, processing the abomination. “When did you sew that.”
Yuji puffed up proudly. “Last night! At 3 a.m.!”
Megumi added under his breath, “I made the hat.”
Sukuna stared at his cat, aghast. “That’s my cat.”
Twinkles strutted to her bed, sat down, and looked around as though she were judging the entire establishment. She knew she looked iconic.
From there, things escalated at terminal velocity.
Gojo emerged from the bathroom humming, blissfully unaware of the fate about to befall him. That’s when Megumi, demon child, pressed a button on his phone.
The tattoo stencil printer—WIFI‑connected, purchased solely because Gojo insisted they needed “techno‑artistic innovation”—whirred to life. A sheet of fresh stencils shot out and slid across the floor.
All of them featured Gojo’s face.
With angel wings.
And sparkles.
“TA‑DA!” Yuji declared, lifting a bottle of green soap like champagne. “The Gojo Special!”
Gojo’s gasp rattled the furniture. “IT’S BEAUTIFUL. PUT IT ON ME RIGHT NOW.”
Suguru dragged him away by the collar before disaster could escalate further. “No. Absolutely not.”
Gojo kicked his legs in protest like a toddler mid‑tantrum. “LET ME LIVE MY DESTINY!”
The shop barely had time to recover before the next catastrophe.
Megumi’s pièce de résistance came disguised as harmless maintenance: he replaced Sukuna’s tattoo chair hydraulics with a hairdressing pump. So when Sukuna sat—ready for a long session—he sank instantly, silently, steadily.
Like an elevator to hell.
He froze halfway down. Yuji snorted so violently he choked. Megumi took three careful steps back, preparing for self‑preservation. Sukuna continued sinking like a ship meeting its fate.
Gojo wheezed, nearly tearing a muscle. “OH MY GOD. HE’S DESCENDING TO THE NETHER REALM.”
Suguru clapped a hand over his own mouth to hide his laughter. Choso stepped behind you like he was seeking shelter.
Sukuna spoke with a murderous calm. “…Fix. It.”
Yuji saluted instantly. “Yes, sir—!”
“Not you,” Sukuna snapped. “You’re banned from tools.”
Megumi raised a hand. “Reasonable.”
But the prank that nearly got someone exiled happened next. Yuji ran to Choso clutching his ear, eyes wide and glossy with fake panic. “BIG BROTHER HELP—I THINK I PIERCED MY CARTILAGE WRONG!”
Choso’s whole soul momentarily departed his body. He grabbed Yuji by the shoulders and shoved him into the chair with surgical authority. Gloves snapped on with lethal precision.
Megumi stepped in, alarm rising. “Choso—wait—”
“No,” Choso said, voice cold as steel. “He’s going to sit still and stop making stupid decisions.”
Yuji’s face blanched. “OH NO I MADE THE PRANK REAL—”
You leaned over to check—and saw the truth. Yuji had glued a fake silver hoop to his ear. With eyelash glue. The good kind. The strong kind.
Choso stared at him with slow horror. Then: “…Yuji. Do you want me to pierce you for real?”
Yuji shrieked with the dramatic fear of a man facing divine judgment. Megumi dragged him away by the hoodie like an overgrown kitten.
But the finale—the moment that plunged the entire shop into existential collapse—came as you were wiping your station. The shop speakers crackled like an old radio tuning through ghost frequencies.
Yuji’s voice, amplified and ominous, echoed: “ATTENTION SHOP PEOPLE. THIS IS A PSA.”
Megumi’s warning was instant. “Yuji, don’t—”
But Yuji had already pressed play.
Sukuna’s voice filled the shop.
Soft. Gentle.
Private.
“Come here, sweetheart. Yes, good girl. Daddy loves you.”
The. Entire. Shop. Stopped. Existing.
Gojo fell to the floor like he’d been shot. Suguru slid down the wall wheezing. Choso slapped both hands over his mouth. You nearly dropped your machine.
Sukuna turned toward the boys like a god of wrath waking from a long nap.
Megumi pointed to Yuji so quickly you heard his wrist crack. “Him.”
Yuji screamed betrayal with operatic range. “MEGUMI?? TRAITOR??”
Sukuna didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t run. Didn’t posture.
He simply said, “Run.”
Yuji bolted out the front door with the speed of divine intervention. Megumi followed so fast he broke physics. Twinkles meowed from her sheriff bed as if cheering for the hunt.
Thirty minutes later, the boys returned. Somehow more wet than when they’d left. Sweaty. Defeated. Emotionally demolished.
Sukuna had already prepared their sentence. They were handed gloves and trash bags. Then he pointed at the list of tasks left on the counter: complete deep‑clean of the entire shop, including Gojo’s glitter drawer (a cursed artifact), and the mysterious stain behind the fridge (no one talked about it).
Megumi gagged. Yuji cried. Choso supervised with the quiet disappointment of a single mother. Suguru patted their heads gently, murmuring, “Boys, actions have consequences.”
Gojo appeared with a feather duster, leaning dangerously close. “YOU MISSED A SPOT—”
Sukuna shoved him back into his booth by the face.
And in the middle of the mess, the noise, the chaos, you caught Sukuna watching the boys. A tiny smile tugged at his mouth before he rolled his eyes and pretended it hadn’t happened.
Family was chaos.
Family was noise.
Family was ridiculous.
But this chaos—this ridiculous, messy, glitter‑covered disaster—\
The storm rolled in so violently it felt personal, hammering the shop windows with the kind of rain that turned the entire city into a grey blur. Red Star Tattoos glowed dimly from the inside, its neon sign outside flickering in a red pulse that washed over the front counter in intermittent lights—like a heartbeat. You sat behind the counter with a cup of tea, letting the reflection of lightning dance in your eyes while a very old, very petty resentment warmed your chest more effectively than the tea ever could. The crooked smiley faces. The crooked smiley faces those two idiots had tattooed on themselves last spring while laughing like possessed goblins. They had traipsed into the shop with the bloody, shaky lines still fresh, proudly holding their arms out toward you like toddlers who’d finger‑painted masterpieces instead of infective disasters. You had screamed, and cried, and threatened to remove their machines from existence. Meanwhile, they grinned and hugged you and fled before Sukuna could grab them by the collar. You never forgot. And tonight, under the blessing of this cinematic horror-movie weather, you would remind them why it was a mistake to cross you.
Yuji and Megumi arrived at the shop half‑soaked, half‑energized, and fully clueless. They burst in laughing at something stupid Gojo had said on the drive over, only to skid to a halt when they realized the shop wasn’t lit. The furniture cast long, eerie shadows across the walls, the machines stood like sleeping beasts, and you sat still as a statue behind the front desk. The boys exchanged a look of immediate suspicion. Megumi’s hand hovered near a light switch, then withdrew as though the air itself warned him not to touch it.
Yuji swallowed hard. “…Bubbles? You, okay? Where’s everyone?” he whispered, suddenly aware of how loud his own breathing sounded in the gloom.
You didn’t answer at first. You let silence drape over the room like a shroud. Only the storm outside dared to speak, rattling the windows with each thunderclap.
Then, slowly, you lifted your head—just enough to catch the boys in the eerie half‑glow of the neon sign—and said in a voice softer than the storm, “I need your help.”
Megumi, who trusted you with his life but not with his sanity, immediately frowned. “With what?” he asked, keeping his distance like a cat deciding whether an offered hand was safe.
You stood, letting your flashlight flicker in your hand like you weren’t entirely sure it would stay on. “There’s something in the back,” you murmured. “After the storm started… the lights began acting up. And I heard something.”
Yuji’s shoulders went rigid. “Something like… like… electrical?” he asked, trying to rationalize before terror took hold.
You blinked slowly. “Voices.”
Both boys inhaled sharply, simultaneously. You didn’t give them time to question. You began walking down the hallway, your small flashlight beam quivering against the walls. Behind you, the front door slammed shut with the force of a guillotine.
Yuji jumped three feet into the air. “WHAT WAS THAT—” “Wind,” you lied without looking back, though you knew perfectly well it had been Sukuna tugging a rope.
The hallway swallowed sound as you walked deeper into the shop’s belly. The air felt colder, as though the storm had seeped through the cracks in the building. Yuji and Megumi followed closely behind, shoulders pressed together despite their attempts at nonchalance. As you reached the piercing room, the overhead lights flickered—timed perfectly by Suguru, who was messing with the breakers like a mischievous god backstage.
You opened the door with a slow creak, revealing the metal trays gleaming dully under a single lamp. Choso’s organization was unmistakably immaculate—but one long piercing needle rested precariously at the table’s edge. Megumi noticed it instantly. Yuji gasped like he’d witnessed a crime scene.
“Choso never leaves tools like that,” Megumi whispered.
You nodded once. “I know,” you said, letting the weight of implication hang in the air.
The lamp above flickered again, then shut off entirely, plunging the room into suffocating darkness.
Yuji whimpered.
Megumi cursed under his breath.
Then came the whisper.
A breath against Megumi’s ear. Soft, low, not yours. “Don’t turn around.”
Megumi froze with such intensity you thought you heard his spine crack. Yuji trembled violently beside him. The light flickered back on, and the room was empty except for the three of you. Megumi’s pupils widened; Yuji was already crying a little.
“This is fine,” you said, voice unnervingly calm. “It means it’s starting.”
Yuji’s voice shot up two octaves. “STARTING? WHAT’S STARTING? WHY WOULD ANYTHING BE STARTING?” You did not answer. You were already walking down the hallway again.
The curtain near the piercing room rustled with unnatural gentleness. Yuji froze on the spot, nearly slipping in the puddle his shoes had created. “Megumi,” he whispered, “Megumi that curtain moved—Megumi hold me—” “No,” Megumi hissed, though his voice wavered. The curtain, aided by Choso pulling a near-invisible fishing line, slid open just an inch. Then two. Then fully. A tall silhouette stood behind it, unmoving, head cocked to the side.
Yuji screamed—a shrill, primal noise so loud even Twinkles hissed in annoyance from her cat tree. Megumi stumbled back into a shelf, knocking over a jar of cotton swabs.
You approached the figure slowly, your face falling into a blank expression that made it all worse. “Don’t worry,” you murmured.
“He’s been here since the storm started. He doesn’t talk. He just wants to know who marked this place with ugly tattoos.” Yuji clutched his own crooked smiley face as if trying to shield it.
“OH MY GOD THIS IS ABOUT THE SMILEYS—” Megumi’s voice cracked, “HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN PLANNING THIS—” Choso, stepping into the light with perfect horror‑movie detachment, stared at them and said, deadpan, “You should’ve drawn them straighter.”
Before the boys could process that emotional blow, the radio crackled to life behind them. Static first.
Then your voice, distorted into something ghostly. “Yuji… Megumi… come find me…”
Yuji spun around. “HOW ARE YOU TALKING ON THE RADIO AND ALSO RIGHT NEXT TO US—” The static deepened, distorting into a high‑pitched, childlike giggle that echoed through the shop. Megumi stared forward with the thousand-yard stare of a man questioning every choice that had led him here. Then, through the static, your warped voice whispered one single word: “Run.”
They didn’t need to be told twice. They sprinted. Full force. Down the hallway, into the main room, just in time for Sukuna to step out of the shadows wearing a cracked porcelain mask, illuminated from below by a flashlight like an urban legend come alive.
Yuji screamed.
Megumi screamed.
Sukuna remained absolutely silent, which only made it worse.
They fled toward the front—where Toji stood behind the desk like a demon bouncer watching them approach their doom. They ricocheted into the wall. Gojo descended from the ceiling in a harness, arms flailing, screaming like a banshee.
Suguru whispered cryptic words from the corner.
Choso dragged a metal tool along the ground like a ghost orthodontist.
Twinkles hissed dramatically, wearing her tiny cowboy hat for additional authority. It was chaos. Beautiful, cinematic, expensive-looking chaos.
You stepped forward, the calm eye of this ridiculous storm, and clapped once.
The sound echoed. Everyone froze. “Alright,” you said softly, “that’s enough.”
One by one, the adults dropped their theatrics—Sukuna pulling off the mask, Gojo wheezing with laughter, Suguru smoothing his shirt, Toji shrugging, Choso resetting his posture.
The boys collapsed on the floor, exhausted, traumatized, drenched in sweat and rain. You crouched in front of them, took their faces in your hands, and smiled sweetly.
“This,” you said, “is for the crooked smiley faces.”
Megumi’s soul left his body.
Yuji sobbed.
You kissed their foreheads gently. “I forgive you now.”
They did not speak to you for the next three hours.
You slept extremely well that night.
Sukuna kissed your neck and whispered, “Never stop terrifying people. It’s hot.”
And the boys learned the most important lesson of their teenage lives:
Red Star Tattoos always vibrated with a very particular kind of madness, but today, the shop hummed with a pressure so intense the air itself felt like it was waiting to explode. The incense burned crookedly, the floorboards groaned in warning, and even Twinkles perched on her shelf like a gargoyle anticipating the apocalypse. Something was off. Terrifyingly off. And everyone, even Sukuna, could feel it.
Megumi was about to turn eighteen and was planted behind the counter with the tense stillness of a coiled trap. Shoulders squared. Ledger open. Pen placed at a ninety-degree angle like the fate of the world depended on perfect alignment. His fathers, Gojo and Suguru, lingered in the doorway pretending not to hover, failing miserably as they exchanged silent parental telepathy that translated loosely to:
“He’s cranky.”
“Don’t approach.”
“Someone is going to die today.”
Yuji noticed too. He had been sweeping the same corner of the shop for nearly ten minutes, glancing at Megumi like one might glance at a volatile magical artifact. “He’s… quiet,” Yuji whispered, voice trembling. “Should we, should I do something?”
“No,” Suguru said with the steady authority of a man who had raised a child with volcanic rage potential. “Let him… settle.”
“Settle?” Gojo scoffed, adjusting his blindfold. “My son doesn’t settle. He broods until someone triggers the doom sequence.”
And oh, the trigger arrived.
The door chime shrieked its hideous “alert jingle”, a sound designed solely by Sukuna to give everyone minor heart conditions, and in walked a man whose haircut alone screamed tax fraud. He approached the counter with the swagger of a man who did not know fear, consequences, or boundaries.
“I wanna see the demon‑king tattoo design,” the man announced, waving his phone under Megumi’s nose with the subtlety of a brick. “The red smiley. The glow-y one.”
Megumi blinked. Slowly. Painfully. “That design,” he said in a tone so flat it could level landscapes, “is staff‑only.”
The man scoffed. “Buddy, everything’s for sale. Don’t make this difficult.”
Suguru exhaled sharply. Gojo’s fingers twitched like he was two seconds from throwing hands. Sukuna’s machine faltered mid-buzz because Megumi’s aura was beginning to burn a visible outline around his head.
“Sir,” Megumi said, each word dipped in quiet murderous restraint, “you need to leave.”
But the man wasn’t smart. No. He pressed on.
“Look, kid…”
Yuji threw his broom so fast it clattered across the floor like a dying robot, leaping into the space between Megumi and The Idiot with the frantic energy of a man saving his own life.
“HIIII SIR!” Yuji practically screamed. “I CAN HELP YOU! ME! LET ME HELP YOU.”
Megumi’s eye twitched.
Yuji grabbed the man by the elbow, smile trembling. “Let’s check the appointment book outside. Outside. Way outside. FAR from the counter.”
He escorted the man toward the door with a panicked shuffle, begging the universe silently to spare all of them.
Behind him, Megumi exhaled in a slow, spine‑chilling hiss.
Gojo slapped a hand over his heart, tears streaming dramatically. “MY BABY BOY USED MY ‘I HATE YOU’ VOICE. Suguru, did you hear that? That was MY tone!”
Suguru rubbed his forehead but even he couldn’t hide his proud smile. “I did. Terrifying. Beautiful. He’s growing up.”
Sukuna, from his booth, paused mid-linework and muttered, “Kid’s finally learning,” in the tone of a grumpy uncle reluctantly admitting admiration. Choso, leaning against the piercing desk and blowing a perfect gum bubble, nodded sagely. “He’s becoming one of us.”
Toji, who didn’t even work there, laughed so hard he nearly fell off the arm of the couch. “That kid’s gonna take over the shop by sixteen.”
Twinkles meowed her agreement.
Yuji returned minutes later, panting, slamming the door shut behind him like he had just prevented the release of a demonic curse.
Megumi didn’t look up. Didn’t say thank you. Didn’t acknowledge the near disaster.
Gojo clasped both hands over his mouth to muffle the sound he made, a mixture between a gasp, a sob, and a proud goose honk. Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, but his eyes softened into warm amber pride. Sukuna hid a smirk. Toji openly cackled. Choso blew another slow, perfectly round gum bubble.
And Yuji, Yuji sagged with relief, then slumped to the floor dramatically.
“Megumi,” he whispered, “I thought I was gonna have to fight that guy.”
“You wouldn’t have won,” Megumi replied, monotone.
“I KNOW,” Yuji wailed.
Yuji slammed the door shut so violently the bell above it gave a strangled little wheeze, as if even the metal had been afraid of Megumi’s wrath. The shop fell into a stunned silence, the kind that clung thick in the air, too dense to breathe, like Red Star itself was exhaling in relief.
Megumi didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge the life Yuji had just saved (the customer’s and possibly his own). He simply straightened the ledger again, aligned the pen with surgical cruelty, and murmured the single most terrifying word a fourteen-year-old had ever uttered:
“Next.”
Yuji sagged against the door like a soldier returning from war.
And that’s the moment you walked in.
The “alert jingle” shrieked overhead, and half the shop visibly flinched, but the moment they saw you, with that warm paper bag of Megumi’s favourite food tucked in your arms, a different kind of tension rolled through the room. Familiar. Comforting. Dangerous.
A hush fell.
Because nothing, not even Sukuna, messed with you when your auntie instincts were activated.
You took one look at Megumi’s rigid shoulders, the twitch at the corner of his eye, the way Gojo was ugly crying into Suguru’s chest like a proud Victorian mother at a piano recital, and you knew:
The child was seconds away from committing a homicide.
You didn’t say a word. You marched straight up to the counter, placed the warm food in front of Megumi with the calm authority of someone who had raised multiple unhinged artists and one cat, and said, quiet but commanding:
“Eat.”
He didn’t move. Not at first. He blinked once, a tiny fracture in his stone façade, and then his eyes dropped to the bag. The scent of his favourite meal rose into the air, softening the tension at the edges.
Gojo draped himself over the counter like a dramatic houseplant and wailed, “MY BABY IS BURNT OUT! HE NEEDS NUTRITION AND POSITIVE REINFORCEMENT AND—”
“To shut up,” Sukuna muttered from his booth.
Toji, of course, laughed so hard he nearly fell off the arm of the couch. “This kid’s running the counter like a damn dictator,” he said proudly. “Good for him.”
Choso, leaning against the piercing desk, blew a gum bubble so perfect it popped like punctuation to the moment.
Twinkles hopped down from her shelf and twined between your ankles, tail flicking with queenly approval.
Megumi finally reached into the bag with careful, slightly shaky fingers, and you saw the faintest loosening of his jaw. A small breath. A tiny return to humanity.
Peace… might’ve lasted a full five seconds.
Then the door chimed again.
This time, everyone spoke in one voice:
“YUJI.”
And Yuji was already in motion — sprinting toward the door like someone had fired a starting pistol, arms flapping, voice cracking as he shouted:
“Hi hello we’re closed for repairs and spiritual maintenance please come back in never thank youuu—”
He shoved the door shut again before the poor stranger even finished inhaling.
Megumi exhaled silently. Bit into his food. Resumed existence.
Gojo began clapping. Loudly. Way too loudly.
“That—” clap “—was—” clap “—PERFECT. Suguru, did you SEE our Yuji’s boundary skills?! He REPELLED a customer. With POISE. With GRACE.”
Suguru nodded, eyes warm in that proud-dad way that could soften steel. “He did very well,” he murmured.
“Exceptionally,” Sukuna grunted, arms crossed, pretending not to care but absolutely thrilled.
Choso blew another bubble in quiet approval.
Toji leaned back, grinning. “These kids are more terrifying than half the criminals I’ve met. He’ll run this shop better than all of you.”
Twinkles meowed, which everyone agreed was confirmation.
Megumi kept eating, silent, composed, but you saw it. The tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth.
Relief. Gratitude. Maybe even comfort.
Yuji returned, panting, leaning against the wall like he’d just prevented an ancient curse from escaping.
“Megumi,” he gasped, bent over, hands on his knees, “I swear, man… one day you’re gonna kill someone with your eyes.”
Megumi took another bite. “If they keep testing me,” he said calmly, “maybe.”
Yuji whimpered.
You rose a brow and turned to the room, voice sharp enough to slice through all their chaos: “No more customers approach this counter today. Anyone who wants to make a scene can talk to me.”
Five grown men — one pierced, one tattooed, one blinded by his own personality, one smoking gum bubbles, and one who didn’t even work there — collectively straightened like guilty schoolchildren.
“Understood,” Suguru said immediately.
“Absolutely,” Gojo added, saluting.
“Sure,” Sukuna grumbled, but didn’t argue.
Toji winked. “I’ll stand guard.”
Choso nodded gravely. “I will protect the peace.”
And Megumi just kept eating, little shoulders lowering inch by inch, safe under the shadow of the only force more dangerous than Sukuna’s wrath: Your auntie fury.
Red Star Tattoos settled once more into its unique brand of fragile, ridiculous harmony.
The kids were safe.
The adults were proud.
The cat was smug.
And you?
You made a silent vow: Anyone who stressed that child again would meet the business end of your disinfectant spray.
The air in Red Star had finally begun to settle into that strange, quivering stillness that always followed a near‑catastrophe. Megumi was still perched behind the counter, eating slowly, measured, the kind of careful bites a wild animal takes after being startled. His shoulders were still high, still taut, but no longer sharp enough to slice.
Suguru stepped forward like a priest approaching an altar. He moved with that serene, deliberate steadiness he always used when Gojo had just caused a structural violation or when Megumi’s fuse had burned dangerously low. He took a ceramic mug from the shelf — the black one with golden cracks, the one Gojo had “accidentally stepped on” during a tantrum — and began preparing tea with the kind of reverence that belonged to arcane rites.
He chose the blend Megumi always unwound to. Something warm. Earthy. Subtle. Something steady enough to calm a storm without smothering it.
“Megumi,” Suguru murmured, the steam rising soft and fragrant between them, “drink this.”
Megumi accepted the mug silently. His fingers curled around the warmth. His shoulders lowered another fraction. He didn’t thank Suguru — he never needed to. His fathers spoke Megumi’s language fluently: quiet gestures, unwavering presence, strategic warm beverages.
Gojo swooned behind Suguru, dramatically clutching the doorframe like an opera widow. “That’s my man,” he whispered, dabbing at his blindfold as if it were tears. “Look at him parenting. Look at the technique. Ten out of ten.”
Suguru elbowed him without looking.
Sukuna, from his booth, pretended none of this mattered. He was cleaning his machine with unnecessary intensity; eyes fixed absolutely anywhere except the counter. But every now and then his gaze flicked toward Megumi — subtle, approving, the vaguely paternal pride of an irritated warlord who would die before admitting he cared.
Twinkles, sensing the shift, hopped onto the counter and curled herself beside Megumi’s arm. She did not offer affection often, but she made exceptions for very specific moments — and very specific people.
Megumi reached out and scratched behind her ear. Absentminded. Routine.
But his shoulders softened again.
That was when Yuji, emboldened by the room’s loosening grip, tip‑toed toward the counter with the care of someone approaching a volatile magical relic.
He leaned further over the counter, gripping the edge. “You really scared the hell out of that guy, you know. Like, actually. I think he peed.”
“Yuji,” Suguru warned.
“Just a little! A respectful amount!”
Megumi’s mouth twitched.
Yuji’s eyes widened. He had found a crack — a hairline fracture in Megumi’s stoic armour — and Yuji Itadori, eternal golden retriever, knew exactly what to do.
He pointed dramatically at the door. “Megumi, dude, when he backed away. I swear he apologized to the sign. Not even to us. TO THE SIGN.”
Gojo slapped his thigh, wheezing. “THE SIGN! I CAN’T—”
Yuji kept going. “Man bowed to the DOORHANDLE. Like it had emotions. I think he tried to tip it.”
Megumi’s lip curled — upward. Barely. But there.
Sukuna froze mid‑wipe.
Choso blew a bubble that popped too loud, startled by the miracle.
Suguru straightened.
Gojo gasped so hard he nearly swallowed his blindfold. “WAIT—WAIT—OH MY GOD—HE’S SMILING—SUGURU HE’S SMILING—CALL THE VATICAN—”
Megumi’s face snapped back into neutrality so fast you almost heard a whiplash crack.
“I’m not,” he muttered.
“You WERE,” Yuji shouted triumphantly, pointing at him with both hands. “I SAW IT. EVERYONE SAW IT. MEGUMI SMILED. WE ARE BLESSED.”
“It was a muscle spasm,” Megumi said flatly.
Gojo and Suguru exchanged a look that said our baby is growing emotionally and we will never recover.
Sukuna smirked in the corner, trying to hide it.
Toji cackled like he’d just won a bet.
Choso nodded solemnly, as though witnessing a sacred rite.
Twinkles purred loudly, absolutely validating the moment.
And you — standing behind Megumi with one hand on his shoulder — felt the entire room warm. He wasn’t just okay. He was held. Supported. Protected. And despite the storm, despite the stress, despite the fact the whole shop was a circus run by dramatic adult disasters…
Megumi smiled.
For real.
And everyone in Red Star — every adult, every friend, every parent — silently vowed to protect that tiny, precious miracle with unholy vengeance.
sneak peek: It started with a treacherous engine and a dramatic death scene in a parking lot. When your car finally betrays you, Toji materializes out of the overcast sky like a "chaos-sensing" omen. What follows isn't just a ride to the shop; it's a deep dive into the shadows of the past. Between pine-scented leather and casual confidence, a conversation about college years and Choso reveals the "glow" you bring to a group of men who are used to being alone.
But the real drama begins at Red Star Tattoos. While Sukuna is busy having a "territorial panther" meltdown over your ride with Toji, Gojo is planning a revelation that will change the shop’s pulse forever. Imagine a golden hour glow, a gift that looks like "sin carved in metal," and a verbal slip-up so catastrophic it creates a new family legacy. Between accidental nicknames and chrome-lettered hoodies, the shop proves one thing: your past doesn't haunt you—it connects you to the most beautiful, loud, and protective idiots you’ve ever met.
The Breakdown: My car is a coward. Toji is a "car-maintenance" therapist who likes to make Sukuna sweat.
The Reveal: Gojo and Suguru (the "Dads of Speed") unveiled the Porsche 911. My dream car exists, and apparently, so does my inability to speak under pressure.
The Fallout: I am now officially the "Speed Baby." There is a hoodie. There is chrome lettering. There is no escape.
Sukuna Update: 10/10 Jealousy turned into 10/10 Softness. He "hates" the shop, but he likes the hoodie.
One sputter, two coughs, and then it just died in the middle of the parking lot like it was auditioning for a dramatic death scene. You stared at the hood, sighed deeply, and said:
“Oh, you’re a coward.”
You didn’t even have time to think before your phone buzzed.
Toji: Sukuna said your car died. I’m five minutes away. Don’t wander off.
You hadn’t asked him.
Toji simply materialized whenever the universe sensed chaos around you.
Five minutes later, the unmistakable growl of his truck filled the lot.
He pulled up beside you, one arm slung over the wheel, sunglasses on like the sky wasn’t completely overcast.
“Get in,” he said. “Before the engine takes you down with it.”
You rolled your eyes, but you got in.
The truck smelled like pine, old leather, and something warm and familiar. Toji drove with one hand, casual confidence dripping from every movement.
“So,” he said, glancing at your dead car in the rearview mirror, “Choso says the belt’s been going out for weeks.”
You groaned. “Yes. He warned me. Twice. Maybe three times.”
Toji snorted.
“You never listen.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly. “Oh, shut up.”
He chuckled — low, amused, warm in a way you rarely saw anyone else coax out of him.
Traffic flowed around you for a while, quiet settling comfortably between you. Then Toji cleared his throat.
“So… college.”
You blinked. “Oh god. What did Choso tell you?”
“That you two used to be… tight,” Toji said, choosing the word carefully. “That you helped him through some stuff. That he… cared about you.”
You felt your chest tighten.
“Yeah. We were. But it wasn’t— you know. Not like that.”
“I know,” Toji said simply. “He wasn’t implying anything.”
You relaxed.
“He said you kept him alive,” Toji added.
Your breath caught.
You stared at your hands, voice softening. “I didn’t do anything special. We were just two lonely people who didn’t fit anywhere else. He needed someone quiet. I needed someone gentle.”
Toji hummed. “That’s something special.”
You didn’t answer.
He kept talking.
“You know what he told me?” Toji continued. “He said you were the first person who didn’t look at him like he was strange.”
Your chest ached.
“Toji—”
“I’m not judging,” he said. “Just… curious. About whom you were back then.”
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
He wasn’t interrogating.
He wasn’t jealous.
He wasn’t prying.
He was just… there.
Interested in where you came from.
Who you were.
How you became the person sitting in his truck.
So you told him.
About how after that night, you and Choso became friends, long nights study sessions, ramen runs during finals week, and about how he’d sit in total silence beside you, and somehow that made you feel less alone.
About how you both carried shadows, and how college was the first place where shadows didn’t feel heavy.
Toji listened.
Really listened, he didn’t interrupt, he didn’t make jokes and he didn’t even said hurtful shit that he probably would have said to anyone else.
He rested one big hand on the steering wheel and let your voice fill the truck like a story he’d waited years to hear.
When you finished, he nodded.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “that tracks.”
“Tracks how?”
“You like damaged people,” Toji said dryly.
You stared at him.
“What?”
He shrugged.
“You liked Choso’s quiet. You liked Sukuna’s fire. You like Gojo’s chaos in a weird, masochistic way. You let me in. Every single one of us came with a past. And instead of backing away…”
He glanced at you, eyes soft.
“You pulled us in.”
Your throat tightened.
“Toji—”
“You got this weird thing,” he said. “A little glow. Makes people want to be better.”
You didn’t know what to say.
So you didn’t.
You just looked ahead, eyes warm.
He let the silence sit a moment.
“I’m glad you were in Choso’s life,” Toji said finally. “I’m glad you’re in mine.”
You swallowed.
“Me too.”
He grinned suddenly, ruining the softness.
“But tell Choso I said you two were weird as hell in college.”
You shoved him.
“OH MY GOD— Toji!”
He laughed — actual laughter — and the truck filled with the rare, warm sound.
When he pulled up to Red Star, Sukuna was waiting at the door with the tension of a man who imagined you kidnapped twice on the ride over.
Toji leaned toward you, voice low.
“One more thing.”
You raised a brow.
“You tell Sukuna I drove you here,” Toji said, smirking, “and that we talked about college?”
“Yes?”
Toji grinned wider.
“You tell him nothing else. Let him sweat.”
You groaned.
“You’re evil.”
“Yep.”
He tapped your head affectionately before you got out.
And inside, Sukuna immediately stalked toward you—
“What did he say? Why were you gone so long? Did he crash something? Did he flirt with you? Did he—”
And Toji, leaning out the window, waved with a smirk that absolutely meant trouble.
You whispered:
“Friends. We’re just friends.”
Sukuna narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t trust him.”
You smiled.
“You don’t trust anyone.”
He huffed.
“Fair.”
And just like that, the shop swallowed you back into its warm, chaotic orbit — found family, old shadows, new light — and you knew…
Your past didn’t haunt you.
It connected you.
To Choso.
To Sukuna.
To the boys.
To Toji.
To Red Star.
The moment Toji’s truck disappeared down the street, Sukuna wrapped his arm around your waist like he was checking you for injuries or perfume contamination.
“What did he say,” Sukuna demanded, eyes narrowing.
“Hi, welcome back to the shop,” you replied sweetly.
He didn’t budge. “What did he say.”
Before you could answer, your phone buzzed.
You glanced down.
A single text from Toji:
Toji: Don’t snitch.
You choked on your own breath, turning your phone face‑down like evidence.
Sukuna immediately noticed. “Who’s that.”
“No one.”
“Bubbles.” His voice dropped. The warning tone. “The hell do you mean ‘no one’.”
You tried to walk past him.
He followed you.
Like a large, tattooed shadow with trust issues.
Your phone buzzed again.
Toji: I’m serious. Don’t tell him what I said. Let him sweat.
Sukuna leaned closer, looming. “Why is your face red.”
“Because I’m annoyed.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Tell me who texted.”
Yuji poked his head from behind his station.
“ WHO IS IT ??”
You and Sukuna both snapped, “NO ONE.”
Megumi peeked around the corner like a suspicious cat. “You looked guilty.”
“I DO NOT LOOK GUILTY.”
Megumi raised a brow. “Uh‑huh.”
Your phone buzzed a third time.
You checked it quickly:
Toji: If he asks, tell him we talked about taxes or car maintenance. Anything boring.
You nearly burst out laughing.
“Who is that,” Sukuna repeated, slower this time.
You couldn’t help it, the smile broke. Just a tiny one.
Sukuna growled.
“Oh my god. It IS that bastard.”
“It’s FINE,” you said, pushing his chest playfully. “We just talked.”
“What about what.”
“Oh my god,” you muttered, “you’re worse than Gojo.”
“I’M NOT JEALOUS,” Sukuna snapped.
You smirked. “You’re jealous.”
Yuji gasped. “SU-KU-NA IS JEALOUS—”
Megumi groaned. “This shop is exhausting.”
Choso, passing by with a tray of sterilized needles, quietly added: “He is jealous.”
Sukuna pointed at him. “SHUT UP.”
Your phone buzzed again.
You checked it discreetly:
Toji: If he explodes, tell him I drove carefully. I didn’t but tell him anyway.
You snorted — exactly loud enough for Sukuna to hear.
“I SWEAR TO GOD—” Sukuna lunged for your phone.
You bolted, laughing, weaving between chairs and machines.
He chased you like a large, angry cat with tattoos.
“You’re hiding something!”
“Because it’s FUNNY!”
“LET ME SEE THE PHONE!”
“NEVER!”
Yuji was screaming.
Megumi was sighing.
Choso stepped neatly out of the way.
Gojo popped out of a cabinet he should NOT have fit in.
“What’s happening,” Gojo asked.
“TOJI TEXTED HER,” Yuji cried.
“AND SHE WON’T SHOW ME,” Sukuna thundered.
Gojo squealed.
“OOOH. THIS IS SPICY.”
Suguru walked out from the back exactly long enough to say,
“I’m leaving,”
and then turned right back around.
You darted to the counter, dramatic and breathless, holding your phone to your chest like contraband.
Sukuna cornered you, bracing a hand beside your head, breathing hard, tattoos tense.
“Tell me.”
“Why,” you teased, “are you scared he said something you won’t like?”
“I’m scared he said something YOU liked.”
Your heart flipped.
He froze like he’d surprised himself.
You softened, brushing a hand across his chest.
“It was nothing. I promise. Just… conversations.”
Sukuna narrowed his eyes.
“Swear?”
You nodded, smiling softly.
“He was just being Toji,” you murmured.
“Annoying. Honest. Weirdly thoughtful. And your friend.”
Sukuna grumbled, but his shoulders dropped.
“…Fine.”
He kissed your cheek — quick, territorial — and stepped back.
Yuji yelled, “CAN WE KNOW WHAT THE TEXT SAID?”
You and Sukuna answered together:
“NO.”
Then your phone buzzed.
You looked at the screen:
Toji: If he kills me, you’re on funeral duty.
You burst out laughing.
Sukuna glared.
“WHAT DID HE SAY NOW—”
“Nothing! Nothing at all!”
Toji drove past the shop at that exact moment, window rolled down, giving Sukuna a smug little two‑finger salute as he passed.
The afternoon inside Red Star Tattoos had settled into that rare, impossible softness — the kind that only happened after the last client left and the shop exhaled in relief. Sandalwood curled lazily from the incense burner on the front counter. The tattoo machines, freshly cleaned and cooling, hummed faintly like content, sleeping beasts. Warm golden sunlight filtered through the streaked windows and draped itself across the floor in uneven rectangles, as if the whole place were dozing in late‑day warmth.
You were wiping down your station, muscles relaxing, breath steadying — for once, everything was calm.
Which, of course, is when the universe decided to strike.
A blur of white hair shot past the back hallway like a particularly unstable comet.
“EVERYONE FRONT AND CENTER!” Gojo shouted, voice pitched several decibels above what the human nervous system is designed to withstand.
Suguru followed him out at a far more civilized pace, wearing the deeply resigned look of someone who had already tried and failed to talk him out of something catastrophic.
Sukuna didn’t look up from his station — he merely growled under his breath like a territorial panther pretending not to be afraid of Gojo’s presence. Choso paused mid‑sterilization with the quiet suspicion of a biologist observing an apex predator doing backflips.
You… you felt the shift immediately. A strange spark. A strange anticipation.
A strange Gojo‑shaped omen of chaos.
He slapped both palms onto the front counter and leaned forward with a grin too wide, too bright, too dangerous.
“It’s time,” Gojo declared. “For history.”
Suguru sighed. “Just… humour him,” he murmured, though his gaze softened when it landed on you, like he was silently saying you’re safe, we promise… mostly.
You stepped forward last — because you’d learned, painfully, beautifully, that Gojo’s bursts of enthusiasm were best approached like a suspicious crate labelled “CAUTION: MAY EXPLODE.”
And then, with all the dramatic timing of a magician revealing the final act, Gojo tossed something onto the counter.
A set of keys. They landed with a metal clink so crisp it cut straight through your spine.
You frowned.
Until Gojo pointed both hands — like an airport marshal directing a private jet — toward the front windows.
“Your chariot awaits,” he whispered, faintly unhinged.
And then you saw it.
You froze.
Parked directly outside the shop, gleaming beneath the golden hour light, was a black Porsche 911 Carrera GTS, all sleek curves and predatory shine, the chrome rims catching sunlight so sharply you almost shielded your eyes. It looked like sin carved in metal. Like wealth condensed into a shape. Like something that absolutely did not belong on your cracked sidewalk but now owned the pavement anyway.
You stood there, absolutely still, your heart stopped beating for a second only to restart too fast, then it decided to implode.
You walked outside in a trance, air thinning around you, hand trembling as you pressed the key fob.
The lights blinked.
The engine purred.
Your soul left your body.
By the time you opened the driver’s door and sank into the leather seat, your breath had broken. Emotion surged up, too raw, too enormous, too overwhelming. You tried to swallow it down, but it spilled anyway, warm and blurring your vision.
You weren’t crying.
You were breaking beautifully apart.
Inside the shop, hell broke loose, exactly on cue.
Suguru leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching you with a warmth so gentle it carved something open in your chest. He looked proud. He looked relieved. He looked like someone who had waited years to witness you receive something good, finally.
Choso tilted his head. “It suits her,” he observed. “Correct ratio of chaos to velocity.”
Yuji screamed something unintelligible from behind the counter.
Megumi muttered “oh my god” into his sleeve.
Gojo spun in a victory circle, yelling, “THIS IS WHAT PEAK EMOTIONAL SUPPORT LOOKS LIKE!”
And Sukuna—
Oh.
Sukuna.
He stood stiff as granite near the window, arms crossed over his black crop top — the one proudly declaring “Twinkle’s Dad” in bold red lettering, because of course this had to be the day he wore that.
He stared at the car.
Then at you.
Then at the car again.
And you watched his expression flicker through at least twelve emotions, most of which were illegal to display in public.
The jealousy hit first — sharp, involuntary, instinctive. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers curled into his biceps. His eye twitched like he was one comment away from committing a light arson.
But then you let out a sound — part laugh, part sob — as your hand stroked the steering wheel like it was made of spun gold.
And everything in Sukuna… changed.
Melted.
Softened.
He exhaled, long and quiet, shoulders dropping, jealousy dissolving into something unbearably gentle.
Because as much as he wanted to be the one to give you everything —
seeing you happy was worth far more than pride.
Even Twinkles hopped onto the hood, circled once, and flopped down like royalty blessing her new chariot.
You wiped your tears, laughed through them, and stepped out shakily.
Sukuna dragged both hands down his face and muttered, through clenched teeth:
“…unbelievable.”
You hid your face in your palms. “I DIDN’T MEAN IT, IT JUST—HAPPENED—”
Yuji screamed, Megumi laughed until he coughed, and Gojo threw his hands to the sky.
“LONG LIVE THE DADS OF SPEED!”
Chaos detonated like fireworks.
Satoru was already halfway to the stencil cabinet.
Suguru was swearing under his breath.
Choso was preparing merchandise.
Megumi pre‑ordered a hoodie.
Yuji was designing a sticker pack.
Gojo was sketching chrome wings and flames.
Suguru was, horrifically, considering a matching tattoo.
And Sukuna —
your giant, tattooed, terrifying, soft‑hearted partner —
slid down the wall, choking on laughter he couldn’t fight.
He looked at you with eyes warm enough to burn, breathless from laughing at your catastrophe, and whispered:
“Best idiot ever.”
And you were still mortified, still glowing and couldn’t even deny it, because in that moment, surrounded by your family, shaking with joy and humiliation and love, it felt like home.
By the time three days passed after the Great Dads of Speed Incident, you had convinced yourself the shop had finally moved on. No one had said the cursed phrase again. No one had yelled it across the street. No one had stencilled it on your station when you weren’t looking. No stickers had appeared. No shirts. No hats.
Yuji hadn’t whispered it.
Megumi hadn’t flinched at random.
Choso hadn’t printed more merch in the dead of night.
And, Gojo had been oddly quiet.
Which absolutely should’ve been your first warning.
But you let your guard down like a fool.
A hopeful, naïve, dangerously trusting fool.
It was a normal morning at Red Star Tattoos. The sun came in soft, like it hadn’t yet learned what kind of men occupied the premises. Sukuna was at his station, wrapping cables with military precision, sipping his green tea like the grumpiest Buddhist monk alive. Choso was sterilizing tools. Suguru was organizing inks by colour saturation (his version of self‑care). Even Twinkles was quiet, perched in her corner like a smug little deity surveying her domain.
And then you heard it.
The footsteps.
Those footsteps.
The too light, too bouncy, too sparkly for physics footsteps.
“No,” Sukuna muttered under his breath, shoulders tensing. “Not today.”
But it was too late.
The front door SLAMMED open with the cinematic force of an entrance written by someone who has never seen a door hinge before.
And there he stood in the doorway.
Satoru Gojo.
God of Chaos.
Terror of Men.
Gleeful destroyer of your dignity.
And he was holding something behind his back.
You felt the chill run down your spine.
“HELLOOOOOOOOOO RED STAR!” he announced, voice shaking the entire building. “GUESS WHAT DAY IT IS!”
“Absolutely not,” Sukuna muttered, already rubbing his temples. “Whatever day you think it is, it’s not that.”
Gojo ignored him with the honed skill of a man who’d been ignoring Sukuna for half a decade.
He marched toward you with purpose. Swagger. Destiny.
And finally—
“Satoru,” you warned, palms up. “If you pull something out of that bag, I swear—”
He SCREECHED a laugh and whipped the item into the air like Simba at Pride Rock.
The shop collectively inhaled.
Because in Gojo’s hands was—
A hoodie.
A black oversized hoodie.
And across the chest, in chrome lettering so reflective it could guide ships at sea, were the words:
SPEED BABY
(in massive, unforgivable font)
You felt your soul leave through your toes.
Sukuna choked.
Like actually choked.
Like he physically had to turn away and slap the table before he keeled over.
Suguru dropped a stack of ink caps.
Choso whispered “oh dear god.”
Twinkles sneezed dramatically, which felt like commentary.
And Gojo?
Gojo was already sprinting toward you, waving the hoodie like a victory flag.
“IT’S FOR YOUUUUUU,” he sang.
“In honour of your new supercar!”
“And your tragic verbal meltdown!”
“And because,” he said, eyes sparkling behind his shades,
“you are our beloved SPEED BABY!”
You covered your face. “Satoru, NO—”
He grabbed your wrists.
He grabbed your soul.
He grabbed your last shred of dignity.
And he put the hoodie on you himself.
Over your head.
Arms through sleeves.
Like you were a toddler.
You stood there, drowning in the softest fleece known to man, chrome letters shining across your chest like the world’s most humiliating badge of honour.
Yuji SCREAMED into the drywall.
Megumi sat down on the floor.
Choso covered his face with his apron.
Suguru was silently shaking.
Sukuna had walked into a corner, forehead pressed to the wall, shoulders trembling.
You whispered, “This is my villain origin story.”
Gojo beamed. “We got it in FOUR SIZES for you! Big comfy, medium comfy, crop‑top comfy, and emergency nap comfy!”
The shop imploded.
Yuji tried to steal one.
Megumi whispered “I want one too” like a sinner seeking forgiveness.
Choso started printing a version that said Speed Sheriff.
Suguru asked if Twinkles could have a matching one.
And Sukuna, oh Sukuna, he finally turned around.
Eyes dark, ears pink, and his jaw clenched in the way that meant love and pain had collided somewhere inside him.
Then, with pure, exhausted sincerity, he said: “…I hate this shop.”
But later, when no one was looking, he tugged lightly on the hoodie’s drawstring,
looked at you wearing his brand‑new embarrassing nickname and muttered so quietly only you heard: “It looks good on you, though.”
You melted.
Gojo screamed again.
Megumi walked into a wall.
Yuji tried to livestream you.
Choso placed a pre‑order for six.
Suguru asked for family photos in matching hoodies.
Twinkles sat on your lap in approval.
And the universe cemented the truth:
You would never live down being the Speed Baby.
Not in this shop.
Not in this lifetime.
Not even in the next.
When Twinkle's did Mitosis and Megumi and Yuji's b-day
The Red Star Tattoo Shop Universe.
word count: 4654 | previous chapter, next chapter
Sneak Peek: The Red Star has survived glass penance and floor-wide floods, but nothing prepared the crew for the Great Hoodie Occupation. When Suguru finds Twinkles nested in Sukuna’s hoodies, Gojo tries to explain it away as "she just multiplied so everyone could have cuddles," but the truth is much more... squirmy. Within hours, the shop transforms from a tattoo parlor into a frantic delivery ward, proving that even the deadliest men in the city can be brought to their knees by six tiny, squeaking bundles.
But the chaos doesn't stop at kittens. It’s the birthday Gojo has waited for his whole life, and the shop is split between a pink supernova and an indigo twilight. Amidst the neon and the nostalgia, the "Junior Team" finally steps into the light. Secrets are handed over in thin black envelopes, a hand-carved mask changes everything, and Sukuna finally says the words that make the rooftop go silent.
It’s a night of official legacies, tear-stained sketchbooks, and the realization that "home" isn't a place—it's the people who refuse to let you walk alone.
The Red Star Log:
Status: Categorical Emotional Meltdown.
The Catalyst: Twinkles expanded the payroll by six. Gojo is sobbing; Choso is "bonding."
The Drama: Yuji and Megumi officially join the family business. There’s a custom apron, a hidden fox silhouette, and a rooftop confession from Sukuna that definitely didn't happen because he’s isn't a "softie" (he totally is).
Note: If you see Sukuna staring at a sketchbook with a suspiciously soft expression, mind your business.
The shop had finally begun to steady itself after the catastrophe everyone now referred to as the Great Glass Penance, a week-long ordeal that left Sukuna one breath away from declaring martial law and Satoru one joke away from being launched through a window. The building felt calmer now, humming with that delicate quiet Red Star Tattoos managed only for a few minutes at a time. It lasted right up until the moment Suguru, pale as parchment, pushed open the back-room door and froze.
There, nested like some smug woodland queen, was Twinkles, very round, very pregnant, and happily burrowed into a fortress of Sukuna’s discarded hoodies.
A silence spread through the shop, sharp and electrified.
Suguru swallowed hard.
Choso blinked.
Gojo exhaled in delight.
And then the panic began.
Suguru looked stricken, one hand lifting toward his mouth like he might genuinely faint. That composed, older-brother steadiness cracked at the edges. He had the presence of a man confronted with something he absolutely did not sign up for. Before anyone could place blame or point fingers, Satoru was suddenly in front of him, arms thrown wide in theatrical defense, as if warding off arrows in a battlefield reenactment.
“Well now,” he said brightly, voice echoing off the metal trays, “let’s not glare at Suguru like he committed a biological crime. This isn’t a mistake—it’s a miracle.” He swept one arm toward Twinkles as though presenting royalty. “Our beloved Sheriff has not merely encountered a friend. No, no. She has clearly mastered the ancient and noble art of self‑replication.”
You stared at him.
He grinned wider.
The others collectively braced for death.
Gojo leaned in toward you, the sunglasses making his expression even more insufferable. “Think about it, Bubbles. The shop is practically overflowing with soul. Obviously, Twinkles has simply tapped into that energy and begun multiplying herself like a spiritual fractal. To keep up with the demand for cuddles, naturally.”
He began a deep, sweeping bow, clearly winding up for a second wave of nonsense—
but you cut him off before he even reached a ninety‑degree angle.
Your arms crossed, your expression hardened into the same blade‑sharp stare you’d perfected during the Six Months of Hell, when even Sukuna backed up three steps if you walked in irritated. Gojo straightened with a nervous little hiccup of laughter.
“So you think it’s mitosis, Satoru.” Your voice was low, steady, terrifying in its calm. “You think the cat is undergoing cellular division? Because she likes the ‘vibe’ of the shop?”
The breath left the room in an instant.
Even the machines stopped humming, as if holding perfectly still to observe the moment before violence.
Everyone expected Sukuna to explode—to cross the room, lift Gojo by the front of his ridiculous shirt, and introduce his skull to the nearest hard surface. Gojo visibly tensed, shoulders rising, bracing for whatever hurricane he’d summoned.
What none of you were prepared for was the sound that split the quiet.
It started as a strangled exhale. Then a gasp. Then—
impossibly—
a loud, unrestrained laugh.
Choso.
The shop’s living temple of silence.
The man whose emotions were so minimal they were measured in micro‑expressions.
Laughing so hard he had to catch the edge of the piercing station to keep himself upright.
His shoulders shook, breath stuttering, eyes squeezed into thin crescents. “Mitosis,” he wheezed, pointing weakly at Gojo as though the word itself was lethal. “The biological hazard of the industry…”
Sukuna stared at his brother like he had betrayed the family bloodline. Gojo stared at Choso like he had witnessed a myth come to life. Suguru looked caught somewhere between concern and amusement. And you—
you couldn’t help it.
You started laughing too.
Twinkles, unimpressed with the entire spectacle, let out a sharp little chirp and rolled onto her side, revealing the dramatic curve of her belly. The hoodies shifted around her like she was a deity receiving offerings.
And then, an hour later, she began to give birth.
The shop rallied with a chaotic tenderness no one had expected. Sukuna crouched nearby, looking like a demon pretending not to panic. Choso moved with his steady, careful hands, making small adjustments and whispering to Twinkles like she was one of his clients. Suguru fetched warm towels with the solemnity of a midwife. Gojo alternated between squealing and sobbing. You knelt beside Twinkles, murmuring encouragements while she blinked up at you, trusting, tired, magnificent.
One by one, six tiny, squirming kittens entered the world—soft, blind, squeaking bundles that somehow looked exactly like the emotional equivalents of everyone in the shop.
The Junior Team, as Gojo immediately called them.
By the time the last one had been cleaned, nestled, and fed, the shop was in full meltdown over ownership rights. Choso declared one kitten spiritually bonded to him. Satoru argued loudly that the most dramatic kitten clearly belonged to him. Suguru insisted the dramatic one actually needed supervision and therefore did not belong to Satoru at all. Yuji and Megumi arrived halfway through the chaos and immediately attempted to smuggle two under their shirts.
In the end, for the sake of peace—and to prevent a full-scale civil war—you enacted a distribution plan.
It was the only way.
Barely.
And even then, Sukuna insisted on vetting every choice like he was assigning apprenticeships for a high‑stakes mafia family.
Twinkles, exhausted, curled around her six new heirs in the nest of stolen hoodies, her eyes half‑closed, smug and serene. The Queen of Red Star Tattoos, having multiplied, rested at last.
And the shop, utterly doomed but indescribably happy, moved into its newest era of chaos.
You know something is different the moment you turn onto the street. Red Star Tattoos never glows softly. It crackles, buzzes, thrums with the sharp neon heartbeat of late nights and furious creativity. But tonight, the light slipping through the windows looks warm and diffused, almost shy — like the shop is blushing under its own skin.
You stop halfway up the steps, hand hovering near the door, and a smile tugs at your lips before you even push it open. Satoru Gojo has been planning this day for months — no, years — if you count how often he’s spoken about it. “Their first teenage birthdays,” he kept saying, like the world might crack open if the day wasn’t perfect.
But knowing Gojo’s intentions and seeing the effort are two different beasts.
You push the door open.
And your breath simply leaves you.
The shop has been transformed into something impossible — something stitched together from two hearts that couldn’t be more different.
To the left, you step into a riot of Yuji’s energy given physical form. The walls glow under the warm blush of pink fist-shaped fairy lights. Paper lanterns bounce gently on invisible drafts; each painted with ridiculous cartoon expressions that make you want to laugh aloud. A massive cardboard cutout of Twinkles — sunglasses, faux biceps, tiny leather jacket — looms proudly near the front counter like a mascot for chaos itself. Garland in neon colours zigzags overhead. Confetti cannons (thankfully not yet triggered) line the window ledge.
It looks like joy exploded and decided to stay awhile.
But the right half of the shop is its mirror image in mood — quiet, elegant, carefully restrained. The colour palette shifts to muted indigo, evergreen, sleek black. Ribbon drapes in soft curves rather than wild loops. Streamers hang in neat, precise lines. A canvas banner stretches across the wall, hand‑painted with a pattern of fox silhouettes rendered in deep shadow tones and clean geometry. Lanterns glow like miniature moons above the space, casting everything in a gentle twilight.
It’s stunning.
Not because it’s grand, but because it’s Megumi. Quiet, composed, richly intentional.
The duality shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t. But it does, seamlessly. Miraculously. Because someone cared enough to balance them.
And you know exactly who.
Gojo stands in the centre of the shop with the pride of a man who may have glued his fingers together multiple times and survived. His sunglasses are perched crookedly on the top of his head, confetti stuck in his hair, and he’s wearing an apron covered in overlapping swatches of paint. He looks like the patron saint of crafty chaos.
His eyes light up when he sees you.
“Look!” he cries, spinning in place as if revealing a freshly renovated mansion. “Do you SEE? Do you see the— THE SYMMETRY? The emotional nuance? The THEMNESS??”
You laugh. You can’t help it. “Satoru… it’s beautiful.”
“It’s PERFECT,” he insists, clutching his chest dramatically. “I am an artist.”
Suguru, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, sighs through a smile. “She said beautiful, not perfect.”
It doesn’t matter — Gojo beams as if you validated his entire soul.
Sukuna stands nearby, trying, failing, to look unimpressed. His arms are crossed, posture rigid, expression a scowl sculpted from habit rather than feeling. But his eyes drift again and again to Megumi’s half of the shop, softening in a way he’d stab anyone for mentioning. Underneath the hoodie, his heart is unmistakably on display.
Choso kneels on the ground securing a final strip of LED lights, his brows drawn in quiet concentration. The lights cast a soft glow over his hands, steady, precise, practiced. He works like someone used to preparing fragile things.
Toji emerges from the back, holding a dark banner he wordlessly hangs higher for Megumi’s side. The moment he’s finished, he slips away again, as if caught in an act of tenderness he expects to be scolded for.
And you? You stand in the doorway, taking in every corner, every intentional detail, every scrap of effort woven into the night.
Your chest warms, a full, settling warmth that feels like standing near a hearth in winter.
Gojo didn’t do this for show.
He didn’t do it for credit.
He didn’t do it to be the loudest voice in the room.
He did it for his boys.
Especially the one who smiles in quiet, fleeting bursts.
And that alone makes the room glow.
The bell above the door jingles, a soft chime that barely heralds the explosion to come.
Yuji bursts into the shop like a supernova. His hair is wind‑tousled, his cheeks flushed from excitement, and he stops just inside the doorway like he’s hit a wall of awe.
He stares.
Breath catching.
Eyes sparkling.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, then louder, “OH MY GOD.”
The pitch of his voice climbs into something only dogs should hear. He rushes forward in an explosion of limbs, shouting half-words and delighted shrieks.
“What— WHAT— did you DO— IS THAT TWINKLES WITH MUSCLES?? DID YOU MAKE THIS?? DID EVERYONE MAKE THIS?? I CAN’T— I CAN’T EVEN—”
He bounces. Actually bounces.
You laugh so hard your knees buckle.
And then Megumi steps inside behind him.
He halts on the threshold, shoulders rising with a quick inhale. His eyes sweep across Yuji’s side first, and his face remains polite, unreadable — the expression he wears when he’s bracing for something overwhelming. But when his gaze shifts right, something changes.
He stops completely. The indigo glow washes over his features, softening his eyes. His posture loosens. His breath releases in the smallest, barest exhale.
He doesn’t smile.
Megumi doesn’t smile easily.
But he looks, genuinely, openly moved.
And then, without theatrics, without hesitation, in the tone of someone speaking a truth they didn’t expect to feel:
“…I like it.” The small ghost of a smile, threatening to appear.
The words are simple.
But they strike the room like a bell.
Gojo deflates in real-time, staggered by emotion, Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose to hide a grin, Choso’s mouth twitches in the faintest, proudest smile, Toji, quietly peering in from the hall, melts almost imperceptibly, Sukuna looks away sharply, jaw tightening, eyes suddenly bright.
And your chest fills with a warmth so wide it almost aches.
Because Megumi said I like it.
And that is no small thing.
The boys settle onto the big couch, Yuji automatically pulling Twinkles into his lap, where she immediately sprawls like a tiny, white emperor. Megumi sits carefully beside them, cautious not to disturb her reign.
Gojo practically vibrates as he drops two elaborately wrapped boxes directly into their laps.
“Okay!” he shouts. “Your benevolent father figure has arrived. PLEASE, bask in my generosity.”
Yuji tears his open with the enthusiasm of a feral raccoon. Inside he finds:
· A pair of fingerless gloves with bright red knuckle pads
· A denim jacket covered in patches referencing all his favourite shows and movies
· A neon‑pink wristband that reads PUNCH WITH LOVE
· A signed poster from one of his favourite stunt actors, the signature shimmering in metallic ink
Yuji screams and immediately launches at Gojo, wrapping him in a hug so powerful he nearly knocks them both over.
Megumi opens his box more carefully, unfolding the paper with slow precision. Inside he discovers:
· A matte-black hoodie embroidered with subtle fox designs along the sleeves
· A hand-bound leather sketchbook with creamy heavyweight paper
· A minimalist titanium ring with a tiny fox silhouette engraved inside the band
· His favourite brand of art pens, the expensive ones he always puts back—reluctantly—on the shelf.
He runs a thumb gently across the ring, then over the hoodie, then the sketchbook.
He looks up at Gojo.“…Thank you, dad” he says quietly.
Gojo makes a strangled, high‑pitched sound and covers his mouth, on the verge of passing out from emotional overload.
Suguru steps forward with his own packages, simpler wrappings, tied carefully with twine.
Yuji opens his to find a tower of meticulously preserved first‑edition manga volumes. His mouth falls open in stunned reverence, as if Suguru has presented him with priceless artifacts.
Megumi opens his to reveal a beautifully bound anthology of traditional ink artwork, filled with painterly techniques, cultural notes, and centuries-old stylistic variations.
He stares at it.
His chin trembles, just once.
And Suguru watches him with the warm, soft smile of someone who loves him exactly as he is.
Choso steps forward holding two structured cases lined with soft fabric.
Yuji’s is crimson, and inside lies a polished training piercing kit, surgical steel tools, practice jewellery, safety inserts, sanitation supplies. Shiny. Perfect. Professional.
“NO WAY,” Yuji gasps, clutching the case like it is sacred. “This is, THIS IS REAL??”
Inside rests a beginner’s tattoo setup, a small, safe machine, a set of ink caps, a black ink set, practice sheets, gloves, and tools. His initials are subtly carved into a metal plate inside the lid.
Megumi stares at it for a long, quiet moment.
When he finally lifts his gaze, he only is able to say: “I’ll take good care of it.”
And Choso nods, a rare, proud softness filling his expression.
Sukuna clears his throat and jerks his head sharply.
“Both of you. My booth. Now.”
Yuji leaps up like he’s being drafted into a secret mission.
Megumi rises calmly, but you can see the curiosity flickering beneath his stoicism.
You watch from across the shop as Sukuna hands Yuji a carefully folded parcel.
Yuji opens it, and bursts instantly into tears.
It’s a custom leather apron stitched in deep crimson thread:
YUJI ITADORI — APPRENTICE ARTIST
Yuji doesn’t even try to hold back. He flings himself at Sukuna, wrapping his arms around him with so much force that you can hear Sukuna grunt.
But he doesn’t push him away.
Then Megumi receives his gift:
A hand‑carved wooden fox mask painted in matte white and deep midnight blues, lined with soft fabric on the inside and sealed meticulously to last years without wear.
Megumi’s breath hitches softly.
“This is… incredible,” he whispers.
Sukuna looks away too quickly. “It’s just wood.”
But the tips of his ears burn red.
The boys settle together again; their gifts spread around them like colourful petals. They compare items, laugh, test buttons, trade comments, and twirl fabrics.
Yuji’s feet kick back and forth in uncontainable joy.
Megumi lets out a rare, genuine laugh — quick, bright, and unguarded.
And then Yuji says it.
Loud.
Clear.
Full of pure, unfiltered feeling.
“We have the BEST FAMILY EVER!”
Every adult in the room freezes.
Megumi, still touching the painted edge of his fox mask, nods softly.
“…Yeah,” he says. “We do.”
Something in the room shifts — warm, powerful, invisible.
Gojo covers his whole face and makes a sound similar to a dying kettle.
Suguru exhales as if steadying his own heart.
Choso lowers his eyes, emotion clenching his jaw.
Toji — arms crossed by the doorframe — looks away with surprising gentleness.
And Sukuna… Sukuna goes utterly still. His gaze softens in a way you’ve never seen before — like the boys have handed him the entire world and asked for nothing in return.
You slip your hand into his.
He squeezes, firm and grounding, as if anchoring himself to the moment.
You wait until every other gift has landed, until the boys have wiped their faces and caught their breath. Then you step forward holding two thin black envelopes.
“Alright,” you say softly. “My turn.”
Yuji snatches his with electric enthusiasm.
Megumi opens his with cautious hands.
Inside are cards — heavy cardstock, embossed with the Red Star seal you designed.
Yuji reads his aloud, voice cracking:
APPRENTICE CERTIFICATION — RED STAR TATTOOS Yuji is officially recognized as a Junior Piercing Artist‑in‑Training under Choso…
His hands begin to shake.
Tears gather at his lashes.
Megumi reads his silently.
APPRENTICE CERTIFICATION — RED STAR TATTOOS Megumi is officially recognized as a Junior Tattoo Artist‑in‑Training under Bubbles…
He lowers the card slowly.
A tremor moves through his chest.
Yuji moves first, launching himself into your arms. Sukuna catches you both from behind as you stumble, muttering something like “watch it,” even as his hand steadies your back.
Megumi hesitates only a moment before stepping closer, resting his head lightly against your shoulder, arms wrapping you in a brief, tight embrace full of gratitude he can’t quite speak aloud.
And from across the room, Choso smiles — open, real, proud.
Night blankets the rooftop in velvet shadow. Lanterns flicker from overhead rails. Blankets spread across the concrete make a makeshift nest. The city hums low below you, a steady, comforting pulse.
Yuji lies on his back, Twinkles sprawled on his chest like a warm loaf of bread.
Megumi sits beside him, knees pulled up, sketchbook resting on them as he draws in soft, deliberate strokes.
Gojo and Suguru share a corner blanket, Gojo gesturing wildly, Suguru steadying every lantern Gojo almost knocks over.
Toji sits beside Choso, quietly sharing food from a container neither will admit to having made.
Sukuna sits close beside you, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, presence warm and grounding.
The boys thank you, in their own ways, soft and earnest.
Sukuna’s hand slides into yours, slow and sure, never letting go.
You sit among them all, lantern-light brushing the edges of their faces, laughter rising and falling like a tide, and realize you have never been happier.
As the night winds down and quiet settles over the rooftop, Megumi remains in place, sketchbook propped open on his knees. The lantern-light illuminates him in soft gold — his expression focused, almost vulnerable, brows slightly drawn, pencil gliding with a rhythm that seems to slow the world around him.
When he finally closes the book, he hesitates for a long moment, then he stands, and walks toward you.
Sukuna straightens beside you, instincts sharp, but he doesn’t intervene.
Megumi stops before you, clutching the sketchbook as if it is both shield and offering.
“This is… dumb,” he mutters. “It’s rough. I didn’t plan it. The proportions are wrong, and—”
“Megumi,” you say gently.
He swallows. Hard.
Then hands you the book.
You open it.
And your breath breaks.
It’s the rooftop from earlier, but not the skyline, not the lanterns.
It’s all of you.
Gojo’s laughter captured mid-motion.
Suguru leaning into him, serene and soft.
Choso resting lightly on Toji’s shoulder.
Yuji asleep, Twinkles curled atop him like a guardian spirit.
And you.
At the centre.
Sukuna’s arm resting around you, your head tipped toward him, your face peaceful in a way you didn’t know someone else could see.
The entire composition orbits you like you are its heart.
“Oh,” you breathe, voice trembling.
Megumi stiffens instantly, misreading your silence. “I know it’s not good enough, I just— I just wanted—”
“Megumi,” you interrupt, firmer now, hand gently brushing the page.
“This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever been given.”
He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then his eyes fill, shimmering, fragile, overwhelming.
“But… you mean that?” he whispers.
“I do,” you say. “I love it. Truly.”
Something in him shatters quietly.
Tears slip down his cheeks, soft, stunned, unstoppable.
He turns away, ashamed, wiping them with the back of his hand. “Sorry. I just— I wanted you to like it.”
You reach forward and rest your hand on his shoulder. “Your feelings,” you whisper, “are not an inconvenience.”
He inhales sharply, like the words hit somewhere deep.
Then, almost without thinking, he steps forward and wraps his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.
The hug is tight.
Desperate.
Honest.
You hold him gently, steady, warm, giving him the space to unravel without fear.
When he pulls back, his breathing is steadier. His eyes clearer.
“It’s yours,” he murmurs. “Please… keep it.”
You clutch the sketchbook to your chest.
“I’ll treasure it.”
Megumi nods — a soft, small nod — and returns to sit beside you, knees brushing yours, closer than before and unwilling to move away.
Sukuna watches him — watches you — with an expression so full, so quietly undone, that the lantern-light seems to soften around him.
The rooftop has settled into a sleepy hum by the time Sukuna stands, brushing the remaining warmth of your hand from his. Yuji is deep in sleep now, curled protectively around Twinkles like she is his personal guardian spirit. Gojo and Suguru are speaking in soft, tired murmurs near a lantern, too wrapped up in one another to notice anything else. Choso and Toji have drifted into a quiet bubble of conversation at the railing, the city lights reflecting off their silhouettes.
Only one person is awake and alert, Megumi.
Still seated beside you, knees tucked up, sketchbook now closed but held securely in both hands like a precious secret.
Sukuna’s voice breaks the stillness.
“Megumi. Come here.”
The command is soft, too soft for Sukuna, and Megumi stiffens at the tone alone. His gaze flickers briefly to you, as if checking whether he’s about to be scolded.
You nod gently.
Megumi rises, quiet as a shadow, and follows Sukuna toward the far edge of the rooftop. The lanterns cast their light behind them, leaving the two standing in a pool of softer darkness near the railing.
You don’t move.
No one does.
Everyone pretends not to watch.
Sukuna stands with his back to the city, arms no longer crossed, posture tense not with anger — but with something far heavier, more fragile.
Megumi waits.
Still, polite, unreadable.
His sketchbook remains in his hands, held like armour.
For a moment, Sukuna says nothing. The wind lifts the edges of his hoodie, pulling at the smoke‑and‑cedar scent that clings to him. Finally, he exhales — a rough sound that seems dragged from someplace old.
“You’re… growing,” he mutters, glancing at him sidelong. “Faster than you should.”
Megumi blinks, taken aback by the admission.
Sukuna isn’t looking at him, not fully. He fixates on some point over Megumi’s shoulder, jaw working slowly.
“When you were thirteen,” he says, “you barely reached my chest. Now look at you.” His voice is low, roughened by something bordering on grief. “Seventeen. Taller. Sharper. Different.”
Megumi shifts, uncomfortable with the attention. “That’s what happens,” he says softly.
“I know.” Sukuna’s voice thickens. “That’s the problem.”
Megumi stills.
Sukuna drags a hand across the back of his neck, the gesture stiff and restless. “You keep doing things I’m not prepared for. Saying things I’m not prepared for.” He pauses, breath catching slightly. “Drawing things I’m not prepared for.”
The sketchbook in Megumi’s hands goes rigid.
Sukuna sighs, a deep, exhausted breath that seems to deflate something in him.
“That drawing,” he says quietly, “was… good. Better than good. It looked like…” His jaw clenches. “Like you see more than you should.”
Megumi swallows. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Sukuna snaps immediately — too fast.
Megumi raises a brow, unimpressed.
Sukuna scowls, looks away again, and tries again slower.
“It was honest,” he says. “And you’re not… bad with honesty.” He huffs, throat tight. “I’m just not used to being in it.”
Megumi’s eyes soften. Just barely.
A long moment stretches between them, the air thick with things neither knows how to say.
Finally, Sukuna turns fully toward him. “I’m proud of you,” he says.
The words are quiet.
Uneven.
And Megumi stares as if he misheard.
Sukuna continues before the boy can speak.
“I’m proud of how you think. How you work. How you’re growing.” His voice lowers, almost a whisper. “Proud of the man you’re becoming.”
Megumi’s breath stutters.
Sukuna steps closer, eyes narrowing not in anger, but intensity.
“You’re good,” he murmurs. “You hear me? Good. Capable. Steady. Better than half the men in this city already, and you’re sixteen today.”
Megumi’s grip on his sketchbook tightens until his knuckles pale.
“And you matter,” Sukuna adds softly. “To all of us. To me.”
For a heartbeat, Megumi is frozen.
His eyes shimmer. He turns his face slightly away, but not fast enough to hide the tear that slips down.
Sukuna sees.
And does not mock.
Does not tease.
Does not recoil.
Instead, he reaches out — slow, uncertain — and rests a broad, warm hand on the back of Megumi’s head, fingers threading briefly through his hair.
It’s not a ruffle.
Not a pat.
Not something careless.
It’s grounding.
Protective.
Necessary.
Megumi inhales sharply, a small, broken sound, and bows his head, shoulders trembling once.
Sukuna’s voice drops to a whisper.
“You’re allowed to need things, Megumi. Allowed to feel things. Doesn’t make you weak. Makes you human. Makes you mine.”
Megumi’s throat bobs.
He blinks hard, wipes his face quickly with one sleeve.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice raw. “For… saying it.”
Sukuna nods once, sharp, controlled, but full of meaning. “Good. Now stop crying before Gojo sees.”
Megumi huffs a small laugh. “He’d probably cry with me.”
Sukuna groans. “Exactly.”
Megumi turns to head back but stops.
“I meant what I drew,” he says softly, as if offering something back. “All of it.”
Sukuna meets his eyes.
And for the first time tonight, something in him softens fully, without deflection, without armour, without the usual jagged edges.
“I know,” he says.
Then, as if catching himself, he clears his throat.
“Come on. Yuji is drooling on the cat.”
Megumi lets out a quiet, genuine laugh — rare and delicate — and together they walk back toward you and the group.
Sukuna lingers behind for half a step, watching Megumi with a pride that glows warm beneath the lantern light.
And when he reaches you, his hand finds yours almost instinctively, fingers curling around your palm with a new kind of certainty.
Because tonight, something shifted.
Something grew.
Something settled into place in the quiet spaces between all of you.
Sneak Peek: The air in the shop had that specific stillness that precedes a catastrophe. It started with a shaky, wobbling smiley face tattooed on a teenage wrist and ended with the most terrifying sentence ever uttered in the shop: Six Months of Hell.
RED STAR STUDIO LOG:
THE CHURU PROTOCOL: If you leave the equipment cabinet open to feed the cat, you own the consequences.
CURRICULUM VITAE: 2,000 pages of sketches is the minimum price for "artistic crimes."
WINDEX WARNING: If the glass becomes "too invisible," the weak shall fall. Literally. Forehead-first.
RULE NUMBER FIVE: Be mean to the kids, and Choso will rearrange your anatomy. (The cat will watch).
"I have never walked into a tattoo shop with such force," the latest 5-star Yelp review reads. Between a businessman ricocheting off the glass and Twinkles launching herself into a "cat-shaped smudge" of betrayal, the Penance Era is officially over.
The windows are dirty, the tattoos are wonky, and the family is a beautiful, dysfunctional disaster. As Choso says while blowing a tragedy-bubble of gum: "In the end, glass is just a mirror that bites back."
The shop had a particular type of calm on days when something catastrophic was about to happen. The kind of stillness that wasn’t soothing at all, more like the air holding its breath, waiting for impact. And you felt it before you even stepped into the main room. A tiny prickle at the back of your neck. A weird hush in the shop. The distinct absence of teenage chatter.
Yuji and Megumi were quiet.
Which was your first sign of doom.
The second sign came when Gojo, Suguru, Choso, Sukuna, and Toji were all in the shop at the same time—an omen so sinister that even Twinkles’ whiskers twitched like she was bracing for disaster.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Where,” you asked slowly, “are my two teenager idiots?” because yes, you had to be specific about the 15- and 16-year-old kids or Gojo would have raised his hand.
No one answered.
Even Gojo blinked with an innocence so suspicious it practically sparkled.
Suguru stiffened like he was mentally preparing emergency medical kits.
Choso stared at the floor like he was mourning his life choices.
And Sukuna’s eye twitched, always the final warning before the universe imploded.
Then the curtain rustled.
Megumi and Yuji stepped out, side by side, wearing the expressions of two boys walking calmly toward their execution. And everything in your body went cold.
Because right there, on the soft, still‑healing skin of their wrists, were two shaky, desperate, wobbling smiley faces. One eye bigger than the other. Lines trembling like the hand that made them belonged to a caffeinated rodent. It looked like the kind of tattoo you got at age thirteen with a safety pin and a dream.
Yuji attempted a smile; the irony not lost on him.
Megumi looked like he’d already accepted death.
And you? You became the most terrifying creature in the building.
“A smiley face?”
Your voice didn’t rise. It dropped. Quiet. Deadly.
“You tattooed yourselves a smiley face.”
Yuji, already drenched in panic‑sweat, stammered, “W‑well, we thought—like—because it’s positive? Like a happy thing? We wanted matching ones because—because—”
Megumi muttered under his breath, “Because we’re stupid.”
“Oh, you think you’re stupid now?” you snapped. “Give it an hour.”
Somewhere behind you, Suguru inhaled so sharply it sounded like a medical emergency.
“There could’ve been bloodborne pathogens—cross‑contamination—did you sterilize anything? Did you even glove up? Touch NOTHING until I bleach this entire building—”
Gojo gasped like he had stumbled upon a crime scene.
“I wasn’t supervising them! They made ART without me!”
Sukuna whirled toward the equipment cabinet with enough rage to shake the floorboards.
“WHO left it unlocked?! WHO was the absolute moron—”
He yanked the door open. Froze.
Because there, sitting with the smugness of divine comedy, was an empty Churu tube.
Twinkles’ favourite.
The realization hit him with full biblical force.
“…oh you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Toji was already doubled over, wheezing so hard he nearly choked.
“You left the cabinet open because you were feeding the cat?”
Sukuna went red. Not angry red. Not flustered red.
No—this was a new shade, a cosmic, cursed red not found on any human skin tone chart.
Choso, who had been silently watching all of this unfold, sighed.
A heavy, bone‑deep sigh of a man witnessing the consequences of someone else’s terrible decisions.
“I’m going for a smoke.”
“You don’t smoke anymore,” Suguru reminded him.
Choso didn’t even turn. “Old habits don’t die that easily.”
The room sank into silence.
And only then, only then, did another horrifying memory slam into your brain with the force of a regretful freight train:
You… had a smiley face tattoo.
On your toe.
From when you were twenty.
And another one you’d given Choso because you were both bored and drunk and stupid.
But absolutely no one in the room needed to know that.
Not right now.
So you squared your shoulders, ignored the betrayal happening beneath your sock, and doubled down on the righteous fury, hoping the universe wouldn’t expose you.
Not yet.
Their sentence was delivered swiftly. Efficiently. Dictatorially.
There was no trial, no appeal, no democracy—just you, standing at the centre of Red Star with the kind of calm that made grown men take an involuntary step back and two freshly tattooed teenagers reconsider every decision that had ever brought them to this moment.
You dropped the stack of thick, spiral‑bound sketchbooks onto the table. They hit like thunder.
“Five sketchbooks each. “The boys flinched, Sukuna, the supposedly responsible adult in the room, crossed his arms but you didn’t miss the way his jaw tightened.
“Two hundred pages per book,” you continued, eyes glinting with the cold fire of someone who had found smiley‑face tattoos on wrists that absolutely should not have had smiley‑face tattoos on them. “Front. And back. Do the math.”
Megumi did. Megumi regretted it.
Yuji looked like he might faint.
You added softly—sweetly, even— “That’s two thousand pages. Each.”
You didn’t even need to turn your head to know Gojo was mouthing, oh, they’re so dead.
“To be clear,” you went on, “the two thousand pages apply not only to you two—”
Your finger swung toward Yuji and Megumi like a blade “but also to the trusted adult who left the cabinet open.”
The shop fell silent.
Sukuna blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“You’re kidding,” he rasped.
You weren’t.
“Cash‑out duty,” you announced, savouring the visible horror blooming behind his eyes. “Three months. Every shift. Every client. Every receipt. Every ‘do you take card?’ conversation. Every twenty‑minute coupon negotiation.”
Gojo’s gasp echoed like an opera note.
Suguru whispered, “This is worse than death.”
Toji took a picture.
Even Twinkles paused mid‑grooming, as if spiritually acknowledging the severity of the punishment.
“And the kids,” you continued, voice returning to its glacial clarity, “since they felt confident enough to tattoo themselves, will now be responsible for scrubbing the bathroom. Daily. Thoroughly. Tiles, floor, walls, grout lines. I want it to look like a hospital and smell like the inside of a mint.”
Yuji whimpered.
Megumi whispered a new prayer—shorter, more desperate.
And only when they were sufficiently pale did you deliver the final blow.
“AND” you declared, “you two will tattoo every adult in this shop. Since you wanted to ‘express yourselves,’ you’re going to learn what it feels like to live with your artistic crimes.”
Yuji nearly slid to the floor.
Gojo’s hand shot up, unreasonably enthusiastic.
“Can mine be on my ankle? I want it to peek out of my socks like a tiny emotionally confused friend.”
“No,” Sukuna barked, already spiralling from the cash‑out sentence. “It goes wherever they shake the most.”
Yuji’s arms trembled. His soul left his body.
Megumi exhaled like a widowed soldier.
Choso, who had been silently judged by everyone as the softest, most merciful member of the group, simply shrugged with the weary gravitas of someone who had accepted that chaos was his eternal companion.
“I think it builds character,” he said.
Yuji choked on air.
Megumi stared at the floor.
Sukuna glared at Choso for not even attempting to save him.
Toji zoomed in on all three of them like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.
But it was only when you pulled out the last requirement that Sukuna’s soul truly tried to escape his body, because he was doomed too, the whole 2000 pages sketchbook thing, yes, he should be doing that too.
And so began the Six Months of Hell, though “hell” was almost too gentle a word for what Yuji and Megumi endured. Red Star Tattoos ran like a small, colourful dictatorship during that period, every adult ruling their little domain with absolute authority while the two teenagers trembled through their lessons like war recruits in a bootcamp run by deranged artists.
Choso, who had never asked for this job nor wanted it, was the unfortunate soul assigned to teach anatomy. Not the fun, artistic kind—they got the medical one, the grim little tour of layers of skin, the epidermis and dermis, capillary bleed‑outs, nerve clusters, and why “stabbing your friend with a needle because it looked easy on TikTok” was not an acceptable technique. He taught with the bone‑dry tone of a man who had been dragged from his peaceful life into a lecture hall he never applied to. His voice had the cadence of a disgruntled adjunct professor: resigned, annoyed, and faintly threatening.
He pointed at diagrams like they had personally insulted him.
“This,” he’d say, tapping the paper hard enough to wrinkle it, “is the dermal layer. You went too shallow. If you go deeper, you risk scarring. Any questions?”
And Yuji, desperate, hopeful, sweating, would ask, “Can we take a break?”
“No,” Choso replied every time, already reaching for a more detailed chart.
Megumi, halfway through his ninth chapter of notes, whispered, “I think I’m aging.”
Suguru, meanwhile, took sanitation and cross‑contamination as seriously as a surgeon preparing for the apocalypse. He made them glove up, un‑glove, re‑glove, properly dispose of sharps, recite sterilization protocols, and identify every surface that could carry pathogens. By week three, Megumi had become hyper‑aware of doorknobs. By week four, Yuji sprayed disinfectant so aggressively that Gojo had to open all the windows. Suguru followed them around with a clipboard like an exhausted school administrator.
“What do we do before any tattoo session?”
“Wash hands,” the boys droned.
“And after?”
“Wash hands.”
“And during?”
“Wash hands.”
“And if you accidentally touch your face?”
Megumi raised his hand weakly. “Is fainting allowed?”
“No.”
Gojo, delighted by the drama, took over linework like a flamboyant art teacher who had been waiting his whole life for apprentices. He was the most enthusiastic of all the instructors, swooping in to “guide” their hands—which mainly meant invading their personal space and performing monologues.
“Feel the stroke,” he’d sigh, guiding Yuji’s trembling wrist like they were in a ballroom dance. “Be the line. Become one with the line.”
Megumi muttered under his breath, “I want to become one with the ground and disappear.”
“Louder, sweetheart!” Gojo chirped, spinning the pen in his fingers like a baton.
Yuji, cheeks puffed, tried to steady his strokes while Gojo added, “Pretend the line is your soulmate.”
“Why would you say that?” Megumi hissed.
“Because drama makes the art flow!”
Sukuna, in contrast, approached symmetry like a general preparing soldiers for battle. He made the boys draw circles, ovals, mandalas, grids—over and over—until Yuji started seeing geometric shapes in his sleep. Megumi’s hands shook so badly that Sukuna growled at him like a drill sergeant.
“You call that a circle?” he barked.
Megumi stared at the paper. “I call it a cry for help.”
“Do it again.”
“Please.”
“AGAIN.”
If anything, Sukuna was harder on himself. Every time he demonstrated, he snarled at the paper as though it had offended him. When Yuji whispered, “He’s scary,” Sukuna snapped without looking up, “I heard that.”
“Let’s continue with the last category,” you said, reaching for the dreaded binder. “Colour theory.” And then there was you.
Colour theory started calmly. Gently even. You laid out your pigment wheels, your swatches, your sample blends. You explained undertones, complementary palettes, temperature shifts. But then Sukuna caught sight of the colour wheel.
Sukuna went still.
Then—silently, slowly, in pure instinctive horror—
he took a single step back.
“No,” he said.
“Yes,” you said, placing the colour wheel in front of him.
He looked at it like it was an eldritch curse.
“These hues,” you said, tapping the bright swatches, “are the foundation of—”
“They’re WRONG,” he snapped, voice cracking like a teenager’s. “That one—” he jabbed at red “—is mocking me. And THAT one”—orange—“is up to something. I can feel it. I hate all of them.”
“You can’t hate colours,” you said, but your smile was predatory.
“I JUST DID.”
Yuji leaned toward Megumi. “Is this part of our punishment?”
Megumi whispered back, “I think this is hell.”
Suguru had to sit down.
Gojo was wiping tears from his eyes, cackling. “My King is afraid of yellow—this is BEAUTIFUL.”
Toji added cheerfully, “If he cries, I’m recording.”
And Sukuna—the man who had faced furious clients, angry apprentices, and Toji laughing at him without flinching—now stood unarmed before the most dangerous enemy he had ever encountered:
The colour wheel.
Meanwhile, Yuji and Megumi faced their own nightmares:
Bathroom tiles.
Broken dignity.
And two thousand pages of suffering.
All while Sukuna counted receipts, handed out change, and suffered through colour theory like a man cursed by ancient gods.
The meltdown was immediate.
“It’s just hues,” you said.
“They’re WRONG,” he said, staring at yellow like it was plotting his assassination.
“Sukuna, you can’t say red is wrong.”
“I CAN and I DID.”
“It’s literally a primary colour.”
“It’s suspicious.”
“It’s red.”
“Exactly.”
Yuji tried to whisper to Megumi, “Is he okay?”
“No,” Sukuna answered, even though no one had addressed him.
Toji, somehow, got dragged in completely by accident. He walked in one afternoon to drop off Choso’s lunch, took one look at Yuji holding a machine upside‑down, and sighed like a man confronted with a moral duty he didn’t want.
“Give me that,” he said, taking the machine.
And from that moment on, he became the unofficial handyman tutor, teaching them how to fix bent armature bars, re‑align springs, clean out ink residues, and repair everything Gojo “accidentally enhanced” by touching it.
Yuji adored him.
Megumi respected him.
Sukuna hated how much they listened to him.
Toji just liked watching Gojo cry every time he got scolded for breaking something.
Even though it seemed like the Six months of hell had begun, it actually hasn't, because all that, was the long-term sentence, and right now, the shop was in the middle of the "Immediate Impact" phase. Yuji and Megumi stood by the main table, their fingers stained with graphite and their souls withered after being forced to draw exactly twenty pages of perfectly parallel lines and gradient shading blocks under Sukuna’s predatory gaze.
You stepped into the centre of the room, tapping a freshly sterilized tattoo machine against the palm of your hand. The clack-clack-clack was the only sound in the building.
"Alright," you said, your voice dropping into that terrifyingly smooth register that signalled a total lack of mercy. "Since you’re all warmed up after those lines... let’s move on to the real-world application of your choices. Since you felt bold enough to mark yourselves, you’re going to mark the rest of us."
Megumi’s soul visibly exited his body. Yuji’s bottom lip trembled so hard it looked like it was trying to escape his face.
"Wait," Yuji squeaked. "You mean... now? On purpose?"
"Right now," you confirmed. "Line up, boys. It’s time for the Red Star Initiation."
The shop was staged like a chaotic execution. You pointed to the hydraulic chairs. "Megumi, you’re on Suguru. Yuji... you’re on Sukuna."
"I'm going to die," Megumi whispered. "I'll meet you on the other side," Yuji whimpered back.
The meltdown was instantaneous. As the boys prepped their stations with hands that shook like they were holding live wires, the adults took their places.
Suguru sat in his chair with the stoic dignity of a man facing a firing squad. He looked at Megumi, who was fumbling with a needle cartridge, and sighed. "Megumi, if you don't steady your hand, you're going to hit a nerve. And if you hit a nerve, I am going to reflexively kick you into the next zip code."
"That's not helping!" Megumi hissed, his face a ghostly shade of parchment. His hand was trembling so violently that the ink cup on his tray was dancing. Suguru finally reached out, sighing deeply, and used two fingers to pin the ink cup to the tray so the boy wouldn't splash black pigment across the floor.
Across from them, Yuji was currently staring at Sukuna’s bared forearm. Sukuna looked like he was vibrating with a rage that transcended physical form.
"If this line is crooked, brat," Sukuna rumbled, his voice low and tectonic, "I will make you hand-clean every needle in this shop with a toothbrush."
Yuji burst into silent tears. No sobbing, just a steady, stream of liquid terror running down his cheeks as he lowered the machine. "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!"
While the boys were suffering, Gojo was having the best day of his entire life. He had his phone out, circling the stations like a vulture with a high-definition camera.
"And here we see the rare Caffeinated Rodent Technique!" Gojo chirped, zooming in on Megumi’s vibrating wrist. "Look at that wobble! Is it a circle? Is it a potato? It’s a mystery!"
"Satoru, move or I'll kill you," Suguru groaned as Megumi accidentally buzzed the machine against his skin before he was ready.
Toji was leaning against the wall, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, cackling with a deep, chesty wheeze every time Yuji let out a terrified squeak. "Look at them! They look like they're trying to defuse a bomb with a fork! This is peak entertainment."
Choso, meanwhile, had entered a state of spiritual transcendence. Every time the needle hit skin and the boys let out a fresh gasp of panic, he would nod sagely. "Yes. The weight of responsibility. The permanence of the error. This... this is my Roman Empire."
Then, it was your turn.
You sat perfectly still in the centre chair, arms crossed, staring them down. You didn't move. You didn't blink. You just watched them sweat. You watched the beads of perspiration roll off Yuji’s forehead and nearly land on the sterile field.
"Don't. Drop. Sweat. On. My. Arm," you said.
Yuji choked on his own breath. Megumi looked like he was about to pass out. They worked in a fever dream of adrenaline and regret, their hands guided by pure, unadulterated fear.
When the machines finally stopped buzzing, the silence that followed was heavy.
Every single adult in the room looked down at their skin. There, in varying degrees of "wonky," sat a series of terrible, shaky, ridiculous little smiley faces. One had a lazy eye. One had a mouth that looked like a jagged lightning bolt. Sukuna’s looked like it was actively screaming.
But as the bandages went on, the energy in Red Star shifted.
The fury didn't disappear, not with Sukuna looking at his arm like he wanted to amputate it—but something else settled in. A bond. A ridiculous, ink-stained pact.
You looked at the boys, who were currently hugging each other and vibrating in the corner.
"Good," you said, standing up and smoothing your shirt. "That’s the first hour down. You have five months and twenty-nine days left. Get to the bathroom. Those tiles aren't going to scrub themselves."
As they scrambled for the bleach, Toji took a final photo of the "Smiley Crew."
"I'm putting this on the shop's front window," he decided.
"If you do," Sukuna growled, "I will burn this building down."
"It builds character!" Gojo shouted, already editing the video for TikTok.
The final day of the "Six Months of Hell" should have been a victory lap. The sketchbooks were filled, the bathroom grout was white enough to blind a man, and Yuji and Megumi no longer looked like boys—they looked like war-hardened veterans of the Great Ink Crusade. They stood by their stations, spines straight, waiting for their final inspection like soldiers awaiting a medal of honour.
But Red Star was never destined for a quiet ending.
But you were mean, and choso was done.
The air shifted when he, usually the most stoic and brooding presence in the room, stepped forward with a strange, sacrificial glint in his eyes, and without a word, he reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it, revealing a patch of skin on his ribs that had remained a strictly guarded secret for over a decade.
There, in all its faded, wobbly, hallucinogenic glory, was a three-eyed smiley face.
It looked like a cosmic entity that had given up on life.
The lines were blown out, the shading was non-existent, and the third eye sat squarely in the middle of the forehead like a judgmental blueberry.
The shop went silent. A silence so heavy it felt like the building was sinking into the earth.
"What," you whispered, your voice trembling with a prehistoric type of dread, "is that?" but you knew perfectly what it was.
Choso didn't even blink. He stared at the wall with the deadpan gravity of a man announcing a funeral. "Rule Number Five," he stated. "If you are mean to the kids, I will personally rearrange your anatomy. And the cat will watch."
"There is no Rule Number Five!" you shrieked, knowing that you were lying, but the damage was done. Your brain was already screaming, projecting the memory of a house party almost ten years ago, too much cheap tequila, a borrowed machine that smelled like ozone, and Choso’s ill-advised dare.
The kids erupted. Megumi covered his mouth to hide a hysterical wheeze, but Yuji—bless his unfiltered, chaotic soul—stepped forward. He looked at the three-eyed monstrosity on Choso’s ribs. Then he looked at you. Then he looked at the tiny, faded, two-eyed version peeking out from beneath your own sock.
His eyes went wide. The gears in his head turned with a visible, audible clunk.
"Wait!" Yuji shouted, pointing a finger between you and Choso with the frantic energy of a conspiracy theorist who finally found the truth. "Three eyes... like... that party! Choso, didn't you say you and Bubbles once—"
The atmosphere in the shop didn't just drop; it curdled. The topic of you and Choso was a legendary trigger for everyone in the room. Sukuna’s face went from 'irritated' to 'apocalyptic' in 0.2 seconds. He didn't even let Yuji finish the sentence.
"Windows," Sukuna barked, his voice sounding like a mountain range collapsing. "Six months. Every day. Inside and out. Enjoy."
Yuji’s jaw dropped. "But I made a connection! It’s deductive reasoning!"
"It’s a death sentence," Megumi whispered, backing away from the blast zone.
Gojo, sensing the absolute peak of the drama, immediately ran to the front of the shop. He pressed his face, and his tongue, flat against the glass door, leaving a massive, glistening streak of saliva. "I'm helping!" he muffled through the glass. "For moral support! Look, Yuji! A smudge! Clean it! Clean your mentor’s love for the craft!"
"Great!" you yelled, snatching a bleach-soaked rag and hurling it with professional accuracy at Gojo’s head. "Now you're helping him! Six months for the sun glassed idiot, too!"
Gojo’s muffled scream of "Artistic betrayal!" echoed all the way down the street, but you weren't finished. You whirled on Choso, who was still standing there with his shirt up like a martyr.
"And you! That three-eyed cosmic entity just earned you six months of cash-out duty. That was a secret, you absolute traitor!"
Choso just nodded, slowly pulling his shirt down. "Worth it. Look at them."
And you did.
Despite the shouting, despite the window-cleaning sentences and the threat of Choso's anatomy-rearranging rules, something miraculous happened. Yuji and Megumi didn't look scared anymore. They looked... ready.
"Actually," Megumi said, stepping forward with a confidence that hadn't been there six months ago. "We can fix it."
You froze. "Fix what?"
"All of it," Megumi continued, gesturing to the "terrible" smiley faces the boys had given the crew on day one, and even pointing toward the hidden tattoos you and Choso carried. "We’ve spent six months drawing circles. We’ve spent six months studying skin. We want to do a cover-up. A real one."
The shop went quiet again, but this time it was different. It was the quiet of a professional studio.
They worked in tandem. No more trembling hands. No more tears. Megumi’s lines were surgical; Yuji’s saturation was flawless. They took those wonky, ridiculous smiley faces and transformed them. They didn't erase the past; they elevated it. Using a mix of deep reds, stellar blacks, and a gold that even Sukuna couldn't find a reason to hate, they turned the "mistakes" into the official Red Star Smiley.
It was a masterpiece of brotherhood. A cosmic, red-star-crowned grin that looked fierce, professional, and undeniably them.
When they finished your cover-up, you looked down at your arm. The shaky lines of the past were gone, replaced by a piece of art so vibrant it practically hummed. You looked at the two "idiots" you had spent half a year torturing. They were covered in ink, smelling of antiseptic, and absolutely exhausted—but they were artists.
"It's... actually amazing," you admitted, your voice softening.
"Of course it is," Sukuna grunted, admiring his own newly polished forearm. "They had a decent teacher for symmetry."
"And the best anatomy coach!" Choso added, leaning over the counter with his new cash-out ledger.
"And me!" Gojo yelled from outside, still frantically Windexing the spot where his tongue had been. "I provided the soul!"
You sighed, looking around at the beautiful, chaotic, tattooed mess of a family you had built. "Punishment's over," you muttered. "Everyone go home."
The cheers that followed were loud enough to rattle the windows Yuji had just finished cleaning.
There were days at Red Star Tattoos when the shop hummed with the easy pulse of normalcy—machines buzzing, music drifting, Twinkles patrolling her domain with imperial grace—and then there were days where the entire universe positioned itself to remind everyone inside that peace was not, and would never be, a natural state of existence for this establishment. The last afternoon of the Great Glass Penance was one of those days. The sun outside hit the storefront windows with such violent enthusiasm that the entire building seemed to vibrate with light. Not reflect it—obliterate it. The glass had been polished to such a supernatural transparency that it no longer looked like a surface, but rather an open portal, a seamless doorway into nothing. As if Red Star Tattoos had collectively ascended and forgotten about earthly barriers like “doors” and “physics.”
On the sidewalk, Yuji and Gojo stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning on their squeegees like seasoned warriors resting on their swords. Yuji’s hair clung to his forehead in Windex‑scented clumps, and Gojo’s blindfold drooped dangerously over one cheekbone, revealing the faint shimmer of an eye so teary with fumes and pride that he looked borderline spiritual. They stared at the window, breathing heavily, drinking in the result of five months and twenty-nine gruelling days of relentless cleaning—a surface so spotless it mocked them with its perfection.
“It’s beautiful,” Gojo whispered, voice hushed with reverence. “Majestic. Transcendent. It’s like gazing into the soul of the universe. Pure. Empty. Ethereal.”
Yuji nodded, chest rising and falling with exhausted triumph. “I can see my entire future. And it does NOT include glass cleaner ever again.”
But the universe—benevolent in theory, petty in practice—was listening.
And it delivered.
Down the street, a businessman approached—mid-forties, suit tailored within an inch of its life, Bluetooth headset blinking like a struggling lighthouse. He walked with the brisk intensity of someone issuing commands to an underpaid assistant. His gaze was glued to his phone. His stride was purposeful, unyielding, the stride of a man who had never once questioned the existence of doors.
He did not slow.
He did not look up.
He did not see the glass.
He walked straight into it.
THWACK.
The impact reverberated through the entire building—a wet, resonant slap, followed by the tortured squeak of skin smearing across invisible surface. His forehead compressed first, then his nose, resulting in a distorted grimace pressed against the glass before he ricocheted backwards in a wobbling, stunned mess. His briefcase exploded outward as he stumbled into a planter, sending a confetti of papers spiralling into the air like the saddest corporate fireworks.
Inside the shop, time stalled.
Toji reacted first. He let out a bark of laughter so violent it seemed to summon ghosts from the walls. He toppled sideways off his stool, clutching his stomach as he howled, tears streaming down his face. He pointed at the man’s dazed form and wheezed, “HE BOUNCED. HE ACTUALLY BOUNCED—OH MY GOD—”
Gojo collapsed to his knees outside, slamming a palm against the pavement, shrieking with feral delight.
“TEN OUT OF TEN! STRAIGHTEN THE REPLAY! A PERFECT IMPACT!”
Yuji half-laughed, half-screamed in horror. “I think he’s DEAD—”
But inside the shop, Suguru shot forward like a responsible adult in a sea of clowns. His expression twitched violently between concern and hysterical laughter as he hurried out to help the poor man. Kneeling beside him, Suguru pressed a cloth gently to the businessman’s forehead while biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to indent his soul.
“Sir, can you hear me? Are you dizzy? Any nausea?”
The man groaned, blinking up at him through watery eyes. “There… there was no door…”
Suguru inhaled sharply, desperate to maintain composure. “Yes. I know. It's… complicated.” His voice cracked. Once. Twice. He cleared his throat violently. “Just… try not to move too quickly.” He whispered to nobody, “Oh god, don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t—”
Behind him, Toji was on the ground wheezing, pounding his fist against the concrete.
Meanwhile inside, Sukuna stood behind the counter, ledger open but completely forgotten, shoulders jerking subtly in the effort to contain his amusement. His face remained absolutely stoic—his pride demanded it—but every few seconds a tremor ran through him like a suppressed earthquake. His gaze flicked to his forearm, where the new, clean, bold Red Star Smiley—the crew’s professional emblem—stood crisp and confident.
A stark contrast to Choso’s situation.
Choso leaned against the wall in the corner with the air of a man who had accepted the unfairness of the universe and was simply too tired to fight it. He popped a stick of gum, chewing quietly. A soft pop broke the silence as he blew a bubble and let it collapse back against his lips. The hem of his shirt lifted inadvertently as he shifted, revealing the faint edges of that cursed three‑eyed cosmic entity you had once tattooed there in your youth—a permanent, blurry relic of chaos past, untouched and unfixable.
He stared at the window carnage with dull familiarity.
“I knew this day would come,” he muttered.
And then everything fell apart completely.
Twinkles, benevolent ruler of the shop, strutted forward with her tail high, surveying the scene. She spotted a bird perched across the street. Her pupils dilated. Her whiskers twitched. A hunter awakened.
She chirped—a proud, fearless little mrp.
Then she sprinted.
Her tiny body launched forward at full feline velocity, paws outstretched as if she were diving into the great outdoors.
But there was no outdoors.
There was only the glass.
DONK.
The cat bounced backward in an almost cartoonish recoil, landing in an indignant fluff‑heap of betrayal. Her eyes widened with moral outrage, and she whipped her head toward you all as if you personally had conspired against her.
Everyone froze.
Sukuna became a blur—a pink‑haired streak of panic—as he swept Twinkles off the ground with the frantic tenderness of a man rescuing an endangered species. He cradled her like a wounded knight, glaring murderously toward Yuji.
“LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE,” he snarled. “YOU’VE MADE THE AIR TOO INVISIBLE FOR THE QUEEN.”
Yuji whimpered.
Gojo was still screaming with laughter on the sidewalk.
Toji was wiping tears from his eyes, muttering, “Oh, that cat went full Looney Tunes—”
You took in the entire scene: the dazed businessman now being helped to his feet by Suguru, who was shaking from suppressed laughter; the greasy forehead smudge on the glass; the grown men losing their minds; the teenagers exhausted from months of polishing; and Sukuna holding Twinkles like a dramatic Renaissance sculpture of grief.
Your sanity snapped like an overstretched rubber band.
“Enough,” you whispered.
Everyone stopped.
“Punishment over.”
They stared at you.
“I’m serious,” you said, voice hoarse with divine exhaustion. “No more Windex. No more scrubbing. No more polishing. The windows will remain dirty until the end of time. Throw the bottle in the trash where it belongs.”
Yuji let out a howl of relief that echoed across the street, collapsing dramatically onto Megumi, who pretended not to enjoy the hug but absolutely did. Gojo sprang to his feet, threw his squeegee into the air like a graduation cap, and declared the dawn of “THE GLORIOUS ERA OF THE SMUDGE” while skipping in a circle.
Sukuna punched a celebratory dent into the wall one‑handed, still holding Twinkles with the other like a proud single father.
Choso simply chewed his gum, blew a slow bubble, let it pop, and nodded with sage approval.
“This,” he said quietly, “was the only possible ending.”
And as the sun glared off the once‑invisible glass, now decorated with a businessman’s forehead print and a cat‑shaped smudge, you allowed yourself a long, bone-deep breath. This shop was a mess. A circus. A beautifully dysfunctional galaxy of chaos and affection.
Morning at Red Star Tattoos arrived with the kind of shaky, awkward calm that follows a natural disaster no one wants to admit happened. The sunlight filtering through the once‑menacingly pristine windows now looked softer, diffused by the greasy forehead imprint and the tiny, round, bewildered cat‑smudge that had saved the shop from a seventh month of window‑cleaning purgatory. The universe, for one brief moment, had shown mercy.
Suguru stood at the front counter with a clipboard and a mug of herbal tea he claimed helped with “stress management,” even though everyone knew it did absolutely nothing but make him smell like a plant. He surveyed the street with a professional squint, as though expecting another businessman to materialize and launch himself forehead‑first into the glass at any moment. Every so often he’d adjust his glasses and mumble statistics to himself about impact velocities and hazard signage, which only made Gojo laugh harder.
Gojo sprawled across the waiting couch like a man who had experienced enlightenment through slapstick trauma. He kept reenacting the businessman’s collision in slow motion, complete with exaggerated sound effects and dramatic death spirals, pausing only to wipe tears of joy from the edges of his blindfold. He had reached his tenth reenactment by 10 a.m., and each one somehow got worse, louder, and more physically impossible.
Toji contributed nothing useful, sitting on the arm of the couch eating a protein bar with the smug contentment of a man who had watched destiny unfold and recorded it for future generations. According to him, the collision had been “art,” and he said it with the same tone someone might use for a museum-worthy oil painting.
Choso leaned against the front counter with the grim resignation of someone who had seen too much and slept too little. A stick of gum stretched lazily between his teeth as he blew a frustration‑bubble that popped flat across his lips. He wiped it off with two fingers and muttered something about “karma” and “the fragility of man and beast,” while making a pointed effort not to look at you, the woman who had declared the Penance Era over with the wild, haunted eyes of someone who had seen the future and rejected it.
And Sukuna—standing stiffly at his booth, arms crossed, murderous aura simmering—had not let Twinkles out of his sight since the night before. He kept one hand perched protectively on the cat’s back as if she might launch herself into another glass tragedy at any moment. Twinkles herself was curled in his lap like a recovering war veteran, occasionally blinking up at him with accusatory betrayal when the memory of her collision resurfaced.
You arrived last.
And the moment you stepped through the door, the shop fell into a hush—not out of fear, but in the way one becomes reverent after watching someone survive a spiritual trial. The last day had aged you. Not dramatically, but in the subtle way the soul grows heavier when forced to referee grown men, panicking teenagers, and a suicidal cat.
Suguru cleared his throat politely, stepping forward with a level of professionalism no one else in the building could dream of achieving. “So… I checked in on the businessman this morning. He’s fine. Bruised ego. Slight bruised forehead. He said he ‘saw God for a second,’ which I think means he’s pressing charges against the divine and not us.”
Gojo wheezed loudly from the couch.
“He left a Yelp review,” Suguru added, pulling out his phone.
“Oh PLEASE read it,” Toji said, already laughing.
Suguru adjusted his glasses like a courtroom attorney unveiling evidence. “Here it is. Five stars. And I quote: ‘I have never walked into a tattoo shop with such force, nor have I ever been treated so kindly by a man desperately fighting the urge to laugh. Excellent customer service. Glass was too clean. Would recommend.’”
Gojo slid off the couch and onto the floor, kicking his feet like a toddler in hysterics.
You buried your face in your hands. “We’re going to be a meme, aren’t we?”
“I already made one,” Toji said, showing you a photo of the businessman mid‑impact. He had added sparkles around it. And wings.
The bell above the door jingled lightly as a mail carrier entered—only to come to a dead stop, eyes widening as he stared at the window smudge gallery.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “What happened to your door?”
“War,” Choso replied, blowing another gum bubble that popped tragically against his lip.
Twinkles, apparently offended by the reminder, released a grumpy chirp from Sukuna’s lap. Sukuna stroked her head as though calming a feral deity, glaring at anyone who dared look in her direction. “She’s recovering,” he warned sharply, as if Twinkles herself had been hospitalized.
The mail carrier blinked, nodded, and slowly backed out of the building with the energy of someone escaping a cult compound.
Once the door shut, Gojo rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. “We need a sign,” he declared brightly. “Something to warn people. Like: ‘Glass Ahead. Please do not enter at Mach Two.’”
Suguru sighed. “Or we could just… stop making the windows invisible.”
Before you could respond, Sukuna muttered darkly, “Or we let nature take its course and the weak shall fall.”
Choso blew a bubble in agreement.
But the final, crushing blow of the aftermath came later that afternoon, when Megumi—who had been silent through most of the chaos—stood near the window assessing the damage. His eyes narrowed critically at the forehead smudge, then at the cat print, then at the way the sunlight illuminated them like relics.
“We should leave them,” he announced. “As a warning. Or a lesson.”
“A lesson?” you echoed.
Megumi nodded solemnly. “Of hubris.”
Yuji nodded immediately. “Yeah. Hubris.”
Toji exploded into another laughing fit so hard he had to lean on the wall for support. Gojo clapped like a proud parent. Sukuna muttered something that sounded like, “Kid has a point.”
And Choso, grim, weary, philosophical Choso, took a long, thoughtful chew of his gum, blew one more bubble, and murmured:
“In the end, glass is just a mirror that bites back.”
Gojo sobbed laughing.
You gave up altogether.
Twinkles head‑butted Sukuna in solidarity.
And Red Star Tattoos carried on, forever marked by the day the windows became too clean for mortal comprehension.
sneak peek: The "Open" sign flicked off, leaving Red Star Tattoos in a heavy, grounded silence. No needles, no Gojo-induced fires—just the scent of green soap and a truth that slipped out of Sukuna’s mouth before he could catch it.
But the quiet didn't last. Between escaping a literal indoor flood to move into a 1920s French-style apartment and Gojo entering his "Passenger Princess" era in a supercar, the peace was always on a timer. It all culminated at the karting track, where the adults formed a "sparkly midriff cult" and realized too late that you aren't just an artist—you're a biological hazard behind the wheel.
RED STAR STUDIO LOG:
THE L-WORD: If Sukuna says it first, don't tease him unless you want the "Salmon-Pink" blush of the century.
DOMESTIC UPGRADE: If your ceiling starts "crying," move out. Sukuna is already apartment hunting.
TRACK ETIQUETTE: Kart #4 is officially banned for violating the laws of physics and humility.
"Next time," you whispered, leaning into a stunned, defeated Sukuna after shattering the track record three times in a row, "catch me."
From "I love you too" to outrunning the most dangerous men in the city, the hierarchy of the shop has been permanently rearranged by a lap timer and a silver navel piercing.
The door to the Red Star clicked shut, the heavy deadbolt sliding into place as Sukuna locked up for the night. The shop was quiet, the hum of the tattoo machines replaced by the low, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
He was exhausted. It had been a back-to-back day of intricate linework, and his back ached in that specific way that made him crave the silence of his own apartment. You were standing by the front desk, slinging your bag over your shoulder and checking your phone one last time before heading out to your car.
"Ready?" you asked, looking up at him with that tired but soft smile that always seemed to catch him off guard.
Sukuna didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, framed by the neon "Open" sign he’d just flicked off. In the dim, filtered light of the streetlamps hitting the shop windows, the usual sharp, jagged edges of his personality seemed to settle. The adrenaline of the day was gone, leaving only a heavy, grounded sense of reality.
He reached out, his hand finding yours instinctively, his thumb grazing over your knuckles. He wasn't thinking about the sketches on the wall or the fact that they still had to walk to the parking lot. He was just thinking about the way you’d kept him caffeinated all afternoon and the way you always knew exactly which playlist to put on when he was frustrated with a design.
"Yeah," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rumble. He pulled you a fraction closer, pressing a brief, firm kiss to the top of your head. "I love you, Bubbles."
The words came out steady and effortless, slipping into the silence of the shop like they belonged there.
He started to turn toward the door, already reaching for his keys to make sure the alarm was set, before the weight of what he’d just said actually hit him. He froze, his hand hovering over the security keypad.
He hadn't meant to say it yet. Not here, surrounded by the smell of green soap and stencil fluid. He’d had a whole plan involving a quiet dinner at his place, or maybe yours—somewhere private, away from the ink and the needles.
He didn't pull his hand away from yours, though. He just cleared his throat, his ears turning a subtle shade of red that he hoped the shadows would hide.
"Anyway," he added, his voice regaining its usual rough edge as he opened the door to let you out into the cool night air. "Let's go. I'm starving."
You stepped out into the cool night air, the door clicking shut behind you. For a moment, the world was just the two of you on the quiet sidewalk — the streetlamps humming softly, the faint neon buzz of nearby storefronts, and the steady warmth of Sukuna’s hand still wrapped around yours.
You didn’t say anything at first. You just stared at him — really stared — because even though he’d turned away, even though he was pretending to punch in the stupid alarm code wrong on purpose, even though he was acting like the words hadn’t just slipped out of his mouth…
They had.
And you’d heard them.
“Sukuna,” you said softly.
He froze again. You watched the tension ripple across his back — the way his shoulders rose just slightly, the way his fingers stalled over the keypad as if the buttons suddenly stopped making sense.
“…What,” he muttered, clearly preparing for impact.
You stepped closer, tugging gently at his hand until he turned around. His face was shadowed by the light behind him, but you could still see the faint pink at the tips of his ears. “You said something back there.”
He scowled — the defensive kind, the kind he used when he was caught being human.
“I say a lot of things.”
“Not like that.” You whispered.
His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to the ground, then back to you, unsure, guarded, braced.
You took a slow breath — calming, grounding — and slid your free hand along his forearm. The muscles under your palm twitched, but he didn’t pull away. He never did with you.
“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”
He did. Hesitantly. Like he was afraid of what he’d see reflected in your eyes.
You smiled, warm, tired, real. “I love you too.”
He didn’t react at first. Not visibly. It was subtle, a tiny shift in the air, the way his breath caught for half a second. The way the hardness in his expression cracked down the middle.
“…You don’t have to say that just ‘cause I—”
“I’m not saying it because you did,” you interrupted, stepping closer until you were nearly chest‑to‑chest. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
His throat worked. Once. Twice.
Then he exhaled, long and slow, as if your words had knocked the tension straight out of him.
“Okay,” he murmured — soft, but almost disbelieving. “Okay.”
He lifted a hand, cupping the back of your neck with that familiar rough gentleness he reserved only for you. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, and the exhaustion in his eyes finally softened into something warm. Something unguarded.
“Good,” he whispered.
He leaned in — not rushed, not desperate, but steady, deliberate, and pressed his forehead to yours. A quiet, grounding touch.
Then, almost under his breath:
“…Say it again.”
You laughed, a soft huff against his skin. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes like the words hit somewhere deep.
When he opened them again, they were warm in a way that made your chest ache.
“C’mon,” he muttered, tugging you gently toward the parking lot, his fingers lacing with yours like it was instinct. “If you make me emotional out here, I’m gonna lose my appetite.”
“You? Emotional?” you teased.
He shot you a glare, but it was ruined by the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The air inside Red Star Tattoos swirled with the unmistakable scent of sandalwood incense, green soap, and impending emotional catastrophe. It was the kind of atmosphere that suggested someone in the building was bracing for impact, the sort of tension normally reserved for natural disasters, surprise audits, and Gojo’s shopping decisions. Two days remained before Satoru and Suguru’s anniversary — a date which, historically, always hovered somewhere between “romantic milestone” and “strategic operations disaster.”
Today, however, the catastrophe was not hypothetical.
It was already here.
And it was wearing sunglasses indoors.
Gojo barrelled toward you as if propelled by cosmic desperation, his sunglasses sliding down his nose to reveal wide, shimmering eyes filled with a dramatic blend of panic, chaos, and the unmistakable sparkle of impending poor decision-making. With all the grace of a man collapsing onto a fainting couch, he slumped across your station like a Victorian lady in crisis.
“Bubbles. Emergency. My mysterious aura is literally evaporating before your eyes,” he announced, gesturing wildly as though the very molecules around him were failing to uphold their duty. “I cannot, I physically cannot, locate the perfect tribute for my better half.”
Across the room, Sukuna’s expression contorted into something between agony and long‑suffering resignation, the muscles in his jaw twitching as though resisting the urge to fling Gojo into the nearest dumpster.
Perhaps it was the desperation in Gojo’s voice. Perhaps it was the way he clutched dramatically at his chest like a man in a telenovela. Or perhaps, more realistically, he had simply decided that if anyone in the shop could salvage this spiralling fiasco, it was you.
Because before Sukuna could protest, and he certainly tried, Gojo performed an act so shocking it may as well have come with dramatic thunder and a choir:
He tossed you the keys to his beloved Audi R8.
“You drive,” he declared, slipping into the passenger seat with all the flourish of royalty entering a chariot. “Today, I relinquish the throne. I am — officially — in my Passenger Princess era.”
The engine roared to life beneath your hands with a silky growl that vibrated all the way up your spine, the kind of mechanical purr that made even the most stoic gearheads weep in reverence. As you eased the car away from the curb, Sukuna stormed out of the shop doorway, witnessing his last remaining brain cell sprinting into the distance inside a supercar he did not trust you with.
The interior of the Audi smelled faintly of leather, cedar, and Gojo’s designer cologne, a scent so luxurious you felt like you were violating some sort of tax bracket boundary. Surprisingly, the turbulent king of chaos settled once the city stretched out before you, the hum of the engine apparently soothing enough to coax sincerity from him.
“He’s going to buy me a fountain pen,” he muttered, staring dreamily out the window, as though haunted by the ghost of elegant stationery. “I know it. He’s been comparing ink swatches all week.”
“And you,” you reminded him, guiding the car through a tight turn that would have made Sukuna swear, “were about to buy him a limited‑edition headset. Again.”
“It’s a classic, Bubbles,” he argued, affronted by your lack of reverence.
“It is also exactly the thing he bought for you, Satoru,” you said, summoning your most unimpressed tone — your infamous Red Star Daycare voice. “If both of you unwrap the same box on your anniversary, the universe will collapse under the sheer weight of unoriginality.”
Thus began the sacred pilgrimage of retail decision‑making, two chaotic hearts guiding each other through aisles of indecision, overly expensive collectibles, and existential crises about gift symbolism.
By the time the two of you had circled the marketplace twice and emotionally dissected Gojo’s entire romantic history, a solution emerged: a rare, vintage woodblock print Suguru had admired months ago but dismissed as too indulgent.
It was perfect.
Even Gojo, king of glittering distractions, recognized it.
“You’re a genius, Bubbles,” he proclaimed as you pulled into the shop’s parking lot, beaming like a child on his birthday. “I’m almost tempted to let you keep the car. Almost.”
You handed him the keys with a flourish worthy of cinema, stepping out of the sleek machine with the smug satisfaction of someone who had tamed a mechanical beast. Gojo looked at the car, then at you, with an expression so dangerously sentimental that Sukuna, emerging from the doorway, let out a growl audible over the still‑rumbling engine.
“Nonononono, babes, you are WAY too tempted,”you teased, leaning against the glossy door. “I saw the look you gave me on that bridge. I’m a natural, right? I know you want to gift this beauty to me.”
Gojo clutched the keys to his chest with a gasp so dramatic birds probably scattered somewhere in the distance.
“Bubbles. My heart. My soul. My leather interior. I adore you, but this car is a pillar of my personal brand. If I arrive anywhere without divine flair, how will people know I’ve entered?”
Before you could retort, Sukuna stormed across the pavement, his ears tinted a blazing, unmistakable pink, eyes narrowed with territorial irritation.
“Get away from the car, Bubbles,” he grumbled, placing a hand at the small of your back with faux‑casual possessiveness. “And you, bleach‑mop, stop offering her your toys unless you want me to rearrange your whole facial anatomy.”
Gojo fluttered his eyelashes innocently.
You winked at him.
Sukuna glared at both of you like a cat forced to share its sunbeam.
And just like that, Red Star Tattoos survived what could have been a catastrophic anniversary disaster, all thanks to one ill‑advised joyride, a supercar with excellent suspension, and a friendship that had somehow grown into something solid, strange, heartfelt, and absolute chaos.
The date had unfolded in that soft, indescribable way that only happens when two people have already crossed the line between wanting and loving. There was no fluttery panic, no awkward fumbling, no desperate reaching for conversation; it was simply you and Sukuna tucked shoulder‑to‑shoulder in a booth, knees brushing beneath the table, exchanging quiet smiles that said more than any flirtation ever could. You shared food without thinking about it, swapped glances that lingered a heartbeat too long to be casual and let silence settle between you in that comfortable hush that only exists when affection has already carved a permanent space between two people. On the walk home, he pressed a kiss to your temple like he had done it a thousand times before, like your skin had always been the place his lips belonged.
Your apartment door clicked open with the familiar metallic groan, and you stepped inside first… only to stop mid‑stride. At first, your brain tried to deny it, as if staring long enough would magically change the scene in front of you. But no — the ceiling was very much crying. Not politely. Not discreetly. Sob‑bing. Water poured from above in a steady, merciless sheet that hammered the hallway wall and spread across the hardwood like a fast‑moving flood with personal vengeance.
You blinked at the water. The water blinked back, metaphorically. “…Oh.”
Sukuna stepped in behind you and froze with the same disbelief, then with the sharp, focused suspicion of a man who had already begun assessing structural damage. The smell of damp plaster hit him. The ominous hiss of pipes giving up echoed above. His eyes narrowed like the apartment had personally offended him.
“…Bubbles,” he said slowly, “why is your ceiling crying?”
There wasn’t time to answer. Another loud crack split through the air, and the plaster sagged like a weary old man who’d had enough. You barely let out a squeaked warning before Sukuna’s hand clamped around your waist, pulling you back with the reflexes of someone who took “potential cabin collapse” extremely personally.
“Hey, back. Now.”
A wet chunk of ceiling surrendered to gravity and crashed onto the floor, exploding into soggy debris. The splash ricocheted across your rug, your wall, and all your remaining will to live.
“…Okay,” you managed with the weak calm of someone actively dissociating. “So. That’s new.”
Sukuna unleashed a string of profanity so creative you were certain a poet somewhere felt their chest tighten in spiritual recognition. His gaze swept the destruction like a general surveying a battlefield. Every sign pointed toward your apartment officially giving up the ghost.
“How long has it been making noise?” he demanded.
You winced. “…Since winter.”
His head snapped toward you. “Which winter.”
You gave him a tiny, guilty shrug. “…Last.”
He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, the exact breath of a man discovering his beloved girlfriend had been living in the domestic equivalent of a condemned raccoon den. “You live like a raccoon,” he muttered. “A brave raccoon. But still.”
“I was going to call maintenance,” you protested feebly.
“And they were going to ignore you,” he said flatly. “Because they always do.”
As if wanting to prove him right, the water surged even harder, inching toward your shoes. Sukuna, without a shred of hesitation, pulled out his phone.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Looking for apartments.”
You blinked. “…Excuse me?”
“This place is done,” he said, scrolling with the certainty of a man searching for a hit list. “Pipes are shot. Ceiling’s unstable. I’m not letting my girlfriend sleep under something that might cave in at 3 a.m.”
The word girlfriend did a little cartwheel in your stomach, but this was not the moment to emotionally explode, so you nodded. “I can stay with you tonight.”
He didn’t look up. “You are staying with me tonight.”
“And tomorrow?”
He paused, finally meeting your eyes. There was nothing flustered in his expression — just steady, warm conviction.
“Tomorrow, we find our place.”
Your heart performed an Olympic‑level somersault. “Sukuna—”
“I love you,” he cut in, casual and certain, as if explaining a very obvious math problem. “Which means I don’t do ‘temporary’ when it comes to your safety.”
Another aggressive drip landed in the hallway like applause.
You laughed. “You’re apartment hunting during a flood.”
“Best motivation there is.”
He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders, tugging you against him to keep you dry. The gesture was so gentle you almost forgot the ceiling was melting.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered, kissing the top of your head. “Grab your essentials. I’ll deal with this disaster later.”
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m furious,” he clarified. “At the building. Not you.”
That was enough to make your arms slide around his waist, instinctive and soft. He squeezed you back, solid and unshakable.
“I hate this place,” you whispered.
“I know,” he murmured against your hair. “You’ve just been loyal to it longer than it deserved.”
A week later, the only water pouring anywhere was from the rainfall view outside your new windows — tall, elegant windows in a 1920s French‑style apartment tucked into the quiet, pretty part of the city, close enough to Suguru and Gojo that they could drop by unannounced but not close enough for Gojo to physically climb through the balcony. Sukuna hadn’t just found the place; he bought it, calmly and intentionally, like it was the most obvious solution in the world.
Moving day became a full Red Star event.
Toji arrived first, carrying the heaviest boxes like they weighed nothing, while Sukuna marched behind him inspecting everything with the intensity of a home inspector fuelled by caffeine and rage. Gojo floated around the living room buzzing with aesthetic opinions, holding your sketches up to the light and nearly fainting every time he found a “perfect beam of inspiration.” Suguru claimed the kitchen with the quiet authority of a man who alphabetized spices by scent alone. Choso vanished into the library, which now belonged to both you and Sukuna — and alphabetized your books with the precision of someone who deeply respected Sylvia Plath and titanium jewellery.
Twinkles immediately claimed her new kingdom, a fully curated “Gremlin’s Corner” with climbing towers, soft blankets, and a panoramic view of the city. She sat upon her perch like a benevolent dictator inspecting her subjects.
And when the last box was opened, when the new home finally felt lived in, the family gathered for the unofficial housewarming, and Sukuna, to the shock of literally everyone, took over the kitchen.
He didn’t just cook; he executed. He moved with the same meticulous, razor‑sharp focus he used during a long tattoo session. Ingredients were chopped with surgeon accuracy, pans moved with the ease of a man who already knew where every utensil was, and he seasoned dishes like some kind of tattoo‑chef hybrid.
“He actually has taste,” Choso murmured, watching him like he was witnessing a rare species in the wild.
Sukuna’s ears went pink as he set a plate in front of you. “Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled. “It’s just chemistry with better seasoning.”
Gojo and Suguru were arguing over fish tank placement. Toji stood beside Choso, both of them watching the room with that quiet, shared understanding only people who grew up around chaos possessed. Yuji and Megumi had already sprawled on the couch, laughing about something entirely unrelated to reality.
And you, standing there with Sukuna at your side, felt a warmth bloom deep inside your chest. He leaned back against the counter next to you, his hand finding your shoulder with the ease of habit, the matching stars on your wrists catching the soft golden light of your new home.
“Better than the old place?” he asked, voice low and almost tender.
“Infinitely,” you whispered, leaning into him.
In that moment, with the laughter of your found family echoing through the apartment, the scent of Sukuna’s cooking drifting through the air, and his steady presence beside you, you realized the truth.
For the first time in your life, home didn’t feel like something you tolerated.
It felt like something you built.
Something you chose and chose you back.
The bell above the door jingled with the bright, innocent optimism of a Tuesday morning, a sound that should have warned no one, yet somehow sent a chill through the entire shop the moment it echoed off the tattoo machines. Before anyone could determine why, Yuji exploded through the doorway like a confetti cannon with no safety pin, pink hair already a halo of panic and excitement. Behind him, Megumi entered with the measured grace of someone who had resigned himself to a fate in which he would surely regret being friends with Yuji but was now too emotionally invested to escape.
Yuji skidded across the floor, nearly bowling over Toji’s prosthetic mannequin, and thrust a glossy karting pamphlet upward with the fervour of a prophet revealing a divine vision. Megumi, breathless but trying valiantly not to show it, lifted his half of the pamphlet with both hands, as if presenting an ancient relic before the council.
“We want to do this,” he declared, sounding like someone in a fantasy film pleading with the elders for passage across a dangerous mountain range.
Every head in the shop lifted.
Every conversation stopped.
Even Twinkles’ tail paused mid‑swish, hovering in the air like a frozen metronome.
Gojo, who had been leaning over the counter offering unsolicited life advice to a confused walk‑in client, straightened so fast his sunglasses nearly launched off his face. Suguru, who had been sipping tea and marking down appointment changes, looked up with the deeply parental dread of a man who had raised chaos incarnate for too long. Choso blinked once, slow and cat‑like, as though bracing himself for inevitable destruction. Toji’s grin widened a millimetre — enough to signal that whatever the children wanted, it would almost certainly end in violence, adrenaline, or entertainment. Sukuna looked up too, brow furrowing, as if trying to determine which part of this scenario would eventually give him heartburn.
Then, before logic or caution or even one single adult survival instinct could interrupt…
“YES.” It came from every adult in the room, a perfect, unplanned chorus.
Loud.
Immediate.
Shockingly unified.
Yuji froze; Megumi’s mouth fell open. The pamphlet trembled in their hands, caught between them like a fragile artifact.
“Did… did they just…?” Megumi whispered.
Yuji nodded, eyes wide. “All at once. No arguing. No yelling. No threats. Just… yes.” He clutched the pamphlet closer. “Oh my god. I think we unlocked a secret level.”
Megumi swallowed. “Or we’re about to die.”
The adults did not wait for further discussion. They moved with lethal enthusiasm, grabbing keys, sunglasses, jackets, and drinks like a synchronized heist crew. Within seconds, the shop was locked, the lights flipped off, and the entire Red Star family poured into the parking lot.
Yuji whispered to Megumi, voice trembling with awe, “We’ve never had this much power before.”
Megumi muttered, “We should be terrified.”
They were right.
The karting track shimmered under the afternoon sun like a battlefield waiting for a prophecy to unfold. Engines snarled, helmets gleamed, and the staff, bless their unsuspecting hearts, smiled politely, unaware of the sheer calamity that had just walked into their establishment.
You adjusted your helmet beneath the floodlights, feeling the low hum of adrenaline beginning to coil through your chest. The moment you settled into your kart, a breeze swept across the track, dramatic enough to mimic the opening shot of an action movie. The air crackled with tension, not the fearful kind, but the delicious kind that comes right before stupidity becomes legend.
To your left, Sukuna gripped his steering wheel like it had personally offended him. His burgundy eyes drilled through your visor, a mixture of pride, possessiveness, and the faint horror of a man tasked with protecting something at forty miles per hour despite the high probability she will ram him into a wall.
To your right, Toji lounged in his kart with the casual arrogance of a man who had already accepted the gold medal, expenditure of effort optional. He smirked, slow and wicked, tapping his fingers along the wheel like a predator waiting for its prey to make the first move.
Gojo had climbed into his kart backward at least twice before figuring it out, then proceeded to stand in it, announcing to the entire facility that he, Shop Royalty, would break sound barriers today. The staff had already made eye contact with management for backup.
Suguru adjusted his gloves with calm precision, though the faint clench of his jaw suggested he was quietly calculating potential injuries, emotional damage, and how many apology coffees he would owe the staff afterward.
Choso sat motionless, quiet enough that he seemed carved from marble, emanating the energy of a monk preparing for spiritual enlightenment or homicide, impossible to tell which.
Yuji and Megumi revved their karts with the manic enthusiasm of pilots about to launch an untested rocket.
You tightened your grip on the wheel.
They had no idea what you were capable of.
And you smiled.
The men should have known they were doomed.
The lights blinked from red to yellow to green — and you took off like a glittering bullet launched from the bow of destiny.
You shot forward, leaving behind a wake of stunned adult men who had severely underestimated the competitive bloodlust hiding behind your soft smile.
Sukuna attempted to follow but immediately fell into high-speed bodyguard mode, hovering behind you like a snarling guardian spirit terrified you’d crash into a hay bale. Every time you took a sharp turn, he emitted a noise halfway between pride and cardiac arrest.
Choso moved like liquid shadow, smooth and effortless, gliding through the pack with the precision of a surgeon cutting away unnecessary noise. His eyes never left the track, his body synced to the rhythm of speed itself.
Toji tried intimidation, drifting dangerously close to your kart with the audacious confidence of someone who had never actually lost a fight. But when you met his manoeuvre with a fearless, razor‑sharp counter, his smugness cracked into something rough and approving, a predator acknowledging another.
Yuji screamed for you to wait, tears of laughter—maybe?—streaming out of his helmet.
Megumi stared at the track like it was teaching him life lessons he didn’t want.
You drifted through the final corner and crossed the finish line first, basking in victory while the men descended into emotional ruin.
Sukuna looked like he was experiencing the five stages of grief in under fifteen seconds.
Gojo threw himself to his knees in theatrical despair.
Choso bowed his head in respectful defeat.
Toji wheezed, delighted.
Suguru sighed with exhausted acceptance.
Twinkles (who had been wheeled in inside her carrier by Megumi) chirped with judgment.
You stood beside your kart, flushed with triumph, every inch of you glowing.
The second race gathered tension like storm clouds before a monsoon.
Even the air hesitated.
This time, Sukuna vibrated so intensely he might have created his own gravitational pull. His sole mission was clear: win, protect you, and win without accidentally injuring you while protecting you, an impossible paradox that had him spiralling before the signal even sounded.
When the race began, he drove like a man torn between romance and rage, checking over his shoulder for your safety so often that Choso passed him with the elegance of someone casually sidestepping a toddler.
And then, in the final lap, Yuji, sweet, lovable, chaotic Yuji, transformed into a tiny pink meteor and shot past Sukuna in the last chicane, screaming like a firework.
Sukuna finished fourth.
Fourth.
He sat in his kart afterward, unmoving, staring into the void like he had been insulted by the wheel.
You approached him, heart soft, trying to hide a smile. He refused to look at you. His ears glowed crimson.
“…I didn’t want to mess you up,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “Didn’t wanna risk you.”
You cupped his cheek through his helmet.
He melted like a lava cake.
It was the final race, Yuji’s asking. The starting grid buzzed beneath the afternoon sun like a coiled creature ready to spring, the entire karting facility vibrating with the uneasy anticipation of employees who had very clearly realized the mistake of letting your entire crew race three times in one day. The pit staff huddled by the timing screens like war generals, whispering at the glowing numbers with pale, nervous faces as if the monitors had begun broadcasting prophecies.
You rolled your kart into place at the very back of the lineup — the position Sukuna had insisted on with the furious determination of a man trying to regain bureaucratic control of a situation long since surrendered to chaos. He sat two rows ahead, broad shoulders stiff beneath his helmet, posture carrying the unmistakable weight of someone who was trying not to think about how badly you had humiliated everyone today while also worrying you might die at any second.
To your right, Toji lounged in his kart like a professional saboteur waiting to be paid. Megumi adjusted his gloves with silent dread, Yuji buzzed with caffeinated enthusiasm despite not having had a single drop of caffeine, and Choso’s stillness radiated the calm of a man who had mentally left his body to observe the race from above. Gojo, meanwhile, shimmered — literally — visor catching the light like a disco ball possessed, bouncing in his seat and hyping himself up with unearned confidence and delusional joy.
The lights overhead blinked.
Red.
Yellow.
The tension stretched like elastic, ready to snap.
Green.
You launched forward as if catapulted by divine favour, the kart vibrating beneath you in pure exhilaration. The wind swallowed everything — voices, engines, shouts — turning the world into a single, rushing current. Your hands moved with instinctive certainty, cutting a path through chaos with the elegance of a dancer and the precision of a trained assassin.
In the first corner, you slipped past Yuji, who shrieked your name with a mixture of admiration and fear.
The second corner carried you past Megumi, whose eyes widened in a look that could only be described as a crisis of faith.
The straightaway let you glide alongside Suguru, who shot you a calm, fatherly shake of the head before you executed the cleanest overtake of the day.
Then Toji tried to block you — subtle, mischievous, predatory — but you ghosted around him with such understated disrespect that he laughed in sheer delight, the sound echoing across the asphalt.
Even Choso tilted his head when you passed him, acknowledging your speed with the reverent silence of a priest watching a miracle unfold.
Only Sukuna remained.
His shoulders tensed the moment he glimpsed you in his peripheral vision, his hands tightening on the wheel like he wanted to grab the road itself and yank it out of your path. You could practically feel the roar in his chest as you drifted beside him, your kart brushing his slipstream like a whispered dare. His growl vibrated through the air, through you, through the track beneath your wheels, a protective, frustrated, adoring thunderclap, but you did not yield. You angled your kart, leaned into the acceleration, and left him behind in a streak of motion that ripped a disbelieving snarl out of him.
You finished Lap 1 in second place.
Lap 2 was yours.
Every inch of it.
You carved through the track like the circuit had been built specifically for you — a ribbon of asphalt unravelling beneath your wheels, bending to your will, singing beneath your tires. The karts ahead blurred, then vanished behind you, until the only figure remaining was the one leading the race.
Gojo.
He was driving like a man possessed, screaming joyfully inside his helmet, arms flapping slightly every time he took a turn wrong but somehow managing not to die. He kept glancing behind him like he could sense you gaining ground, like he wanted you to see him in his glory, like he needed this one thing — this one ridiculous, glitter-dipped victory.
And in that moment, something in you softened.
You knew he wanted this.
You knew he had never won a single athletic thing in his life, let alone in front of his entire family.
You knew he wanted to celebrate — loudly, obnoxiously, dramatically — and you knew he wanted to do it with you watching.
So you made a choice.
You approached the final straight with enough speed to take the win effortlessly.
The finish line gleamed in the sunlight, beckoning.
Sukuna screamed something murderous from behind you.
The pit crew held their breath.
And then, with a gentle, decisive exhale, you tapped the brake.
Your kart decelerated with smooth, practiced grace.
Gojo shot past you with a shriek of triumph so piercing the crows in the nearby trees took flight in terror.
You crossed second.
The world went silent.
Then it detonated.
Gojo threw himself out of his kart and skidded onto his knees like a soccer star scoring the championship goal, arms flung wide as he howled to the heavens, “I AM SPEED! I AM GLORY! I AM AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE OF PURE TALENT!”
The pit staff dropped their clipboards.
One of them staggered forward with a timing tablet pressed to his chest like a holy relic.
Another had tears in his eyes.
“Miss,” he croaked, “I… we… we need to tell you something.”
You lifted your visor, still catching your breath.
“You didn’t just set the lap record today…”
He gulped.
“You broke it.”
He turned the screen for you to see.
“Three times.”
Around him, staff members nodded in horrified awe.
“Three separate times,” another added, voice trembling. “In three separate races. Do you understand? That record stood for eight years.”
“And you annihilated it,” a third whispered. “Repeatedly.”
Sukuna ripped off his helmet, stormed toward you looking like every vein in his body was trying to revolt, and snarled through clenched teeth:
“You let him win. You beat the record three times today, and you LET. HIM. WIN.”
You smiled.
Slow.
Sly.
Sweet.
Sukuna’s soul left his body.
Toji nearly died laughing.
Choso actually applauded, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
Suguru lowered his head and whispered a prayer into his palms.
Yuji sobbed into Megumi’s shoulder.
Megumi patted him gently, whispering, “It’s okay, he needed this.”
Gojo fainted from joy.
Twinkles chirped like an alarm clock set to “judgmental.”
And you?
You walked toward Sukuna, placed your hands on his chest, rose onto your toes, and kissed him, slow enough to steal his breath; soft enough to soothe his bruised ego; mischievous enough to remind him exactly who you were.
“Next time,” you whispered against his lips, “catch me.”
Sukuna growled something unholy.
And somewhere in the background, the staff wrote in their report:
“The woman in Kart 4 is banned for violating the laws of physics, safety, and humility.”
sneak peek: The sun was blazing, the sunscreen was flowing, and for once, Red Star Tattoos was at peace. That is, until Yuji noticed the light hitting everyone's midriffs.
“WAIT,” he shrieked, his soul leaving his body. “WHY do you all have the SAME sparkly THING in your BELLY BUTTONS?!”
While Megumi analyzed the group like a weary psychiatrist uncovering a midriff-based religion, the "King" of the shop turned a very aggressive shade of salmon pink.
RED STAR STUDIO LOG:
BEYOND THE SHOP: Do not mention the "Sparkly Stomach Cult" in public.
WILDLIFE WARNING: Crabs do not care about your designer sunglasses or your pedicure.
SATORU’S SPECIALTY: If a client asks for a tattoo of a crab wearing sunglasses, the answer is always Yes.
“It was a tactical choice!” Sukuna barked, his hand instinctively covering his navel as Yuji ran circles around the beach towels in an existential crisis.
Between Gojo losing a fight to a "sea demon" the size of a cookie and Sukuna’s secret phone wallpaper becoming legendary shop lore, the "warm chaos" has officially moved from the studio to the shore. And honestly? The crab might be the only one here with any sense.
The sun was doing the absolute most — blazing down like it was auditioning for a villain arc — but for once, everyone at Red Star Tattoos was actually relaxed. Coconut sunscreen replaced green soap, Gojo hadn’t started a fire yet, and no one had threatened murder in the last twenty minutes.
It was practically a miracle.
Yuji was mid‑ramble about a seashell shaped like “a tiny screaming potato” when everything in his brain short‑circuited. His finger froze mid‑point. His smile died. His soul left his body.
He stared, at the adults, at their beach towels, At their bare stomachs.
At their matching belly‑button jewellery glinting in the sun like some sparkly, cult-coded constellation.
“Wait.”
He blinked once. Twice. “WAIT.”
Everyone turned.
Yuji’s voice cracked like a teenager in a coming‑of‑age movie.
“WHY do you all have the SAME sparkly THING? In your BELLY BUTTONS?!”
Megumi didn’t even look up immediately — he finished his sentence, placed his bookmark with judgmental precision, then lifted his eyes.
His stare was slow. Calculated. Tainted with disappointment in advance, just in case.
“…Is this a cult?” he asked. Completely monotone, completely serious, as if this was the third cult he’d caught Gojo joining this year.
“Did you all form a midriff‑based religion without telling us?”
Sukuna, the terrifying tattoo king, walking threat, man whose glare could curdle milk, turned pink. Like aggressively pink. Like salmon fleeing upstream pink.
Choso stared at the ocean with the coldness of a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here. His hand hovered near his stomach like it was trying to hide the jewellery itself.
You felt both boys staring at you.
Yuji: betrayed Pikachu face.
Megumi: Walgreens psychiatrist watching a patient spiral.
Your last two functional brain cells screamed in unison and you blurted: “IT WAS GOJO’S IDEA.”
Gojo gasped like you had stabbed him with a glow stick.
“I WAS ROBBED OF MY ARTISTIC MOMENT!” he cried, slapping a hand over his chest. “SABOTAGE! TREASON! A TRAGEDY, AND TECHNICALLY IT’S SUGURU’S FAULT”
“You were flirting with the Wi‑Fi router, Satoru!” you yelled. “I had to do the mapping because you were making heart eyes at its signal strength!”
Gojo pointed at you dramatically. “That router and I had a connection.”
“Yeah,” you said. “A weak one.”
Chaos. Immediate chaos.
“And then Sukuna got jealous!” you added.
Sukuna made a noise like a forklift dying. “I was NOT jealous! I simply refused to let the bleached mop be shinier than me!”
“He sat in the piercing chair like he was accepting a royal crown,” you said, throwing your hands up. “And he grabbed my hip like I was going to run away mid‑pierce!”
“I WAS STABILIZING YOU!” Sukuna barked, ears burning.
“And THEN,” you continued, steamrolling, “TOJI walked in, and Suguru volunteered for his like he was auditioning for a slow‑burn romance montage—”
The boys snapped their heads toward Toji like synchronized swimmers.
Toji, fresh from the ocean, glistened like a gym commercial. Water dripping, sun hitting him just right, muscles rude in all lighting.
Yuji’s knees buckled.
“Toji-san…” he whispered. “Tell me you’re normal. Please. PLEASE.”
Toji smirked, adjusting his sunglasses with a sinful little twitch of his scarred lip.
He stretched — arms up, shirt rising — and the sun glinted off a very obvious, very shiny belly‑button piercing.
Yuji shrieked so loudly a seagull dropped its stolen chip mid-flight.
“EVEN TOJI?! THE SCARIEST MAN HERE?! WE’RE THE ONLY ONES WITHOUT JEWELRY, MEGUMI—WE’RE NOT COOL ENOUGH FOR THE BEACH!”
He ran in panicked loops around the towels like a golden retriever discovering existentialism.
And then, because the universe wanted comedy, Gojo screamed from the shore:
“MY TOE! MY BEAUTIFUL PEDICURED TOE!”
A crab had latched onto him like a tiny, angry purse.
Gojo flailed.
The crab held on.
Crab: 1. Satoru: 0.
Sukuna didn’t move.
He simply pulled out his phone.
“Don’t help him,” he muttered. “I need this for my lock screen before the tide steals my opportunity.”
Megumi stood, brushing sand off like this entire situation had aged him ten years.
“I’m going to the snack bar,” he said with a sigh. “The ice cream at least won’t try to induct me into a sparkly stomach cult.”
The incense was burning in its usual dramatic curl, Gojo was humming off‑key to a song that didn’t exist, Choso was reorganizing needles in a way that suggested spiritual awakening, and Sukuna… well.
Sukuna was in a good mood.
Which was terrifying.
You sat at the front counter entering client notes, humming under your breath. Sukuna leaned on the counter beside you, pretending he wasn’t looking at your reflection in the iPad screen every five seconds.
Then the front door chimed.
A client walked in — young, excited, nervous, clutching a printed Pinterest tattoo design that looked like it had been through three wars and a washing machine.
“Hi!” you chirped, stepping forward. “You must be—”
The client froze.
Completely froze.
Not because of you.
But because Sukuna, in an absolute betrayal of his entire brand, had just taken out his phone to check an appointment reminder.
And his lock screen lit up.
Which would’ve been fine.
If the lock screen had NOT been:
Gojo screaming bloody murder on the beach, mid‑flail, a medium‑sized crab latched onto his toe like it was auditioning for a horror movie.
The client gasped. Out loud. “What— what is THAT?!”
Sukuna, who had not realized the screen was facing the entire shop, snapped his phone against his chest like a Victorian woman clutching pearls.
“It’s nothing,” he growled. “Mind your business.”
Gojo, from across the room:
“OH MY GOD, YOU STILL HAVE THAT?!”
Choso didn’t look up.
“He set a reminder every hour to look at it. For motivation.”
“IT IS A VERY IMPORTANT IMAGE,” Sukuna barked.
You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking.
The client blinked rapidly, torn between fear and curiosity.
“Was… was that man being attacked by a crab?”
“YES,” Gojo shouted. “AGGRESSIVELY. VIOLENTLY. WITH INTENT.”
Suguru slid into view from the back room, sipping his iced coffee like a prophet arriving to bless the chaos.
“Show them the live photo, Suki,” he said serenely.
“SHUT UP.”
But it was too late — the client perked up like they were watching a documentary.
“There’s a live version?” they asked, star‑struck.
You nodded, absolutely zero shame.
“Oh yeah. It has sound.”
Before Sukuna could stop you, you tapped his phone.
The live photo played.
Gojo’s voice echoed majestically through the shop:
“AAAAAAHHH—NOT MY PEDICURE—GET OFF ME YOU SEA DEMON—”
The crab: click click click
Gojo: “WHY DO YOU HAVE HANDS?!”
The client burst out laughing so hard they had to lean on the counter.
“I’m sorry—” they wheezed, “I can’t— is he always like that?”
“YES,” every employee answered in perfect harmony.
Gojo threw his arms in the air.
“I WAS INJURED! I WAS BETRAYED BY NATURE!”
“It was a crab the size of a cookie,” Megumi muttered from a corner, not looking up from his book.
“A VERY DANGEROUS COOKIE,” Gojo corrected.
The client wiped tears from their eyes.
“This is the best tattoo shop I’ve ever been to.”
Gojo snorted so loudly he choked.
Choso whispered, “Debatable.”
Suguru patted Sukuna’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry. They love you.”
Sukuna scowled harder — the universal sign that Suguru was correct.
The client looked back at the lock screen, still grinning.
“So uh… do I get to meet the crab victim?”
Gojo bounded over instantly. “HELLO. YES. I AM THE VICTIM.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell over the counter.
And just like that, Sukuna’s lock screen gained legendary shop status — and the client left with a tattoo and a story they’d tell for the rest of their life.
Red Star Tattoos was vibing at its usual level of barely-contained chaos when the door chimed and The Client of Destiny returned — folder tucked under their arm like they were carrying state secrets.
“HELLO AGAIN!” they announced.
Sukuna stiffened immediately. “Oh hell,” he muttered.
Gojo popped up from behind the counter like an excited meerkat. “THE CRAB PERSON! My greatest fan!”
The client beamed. “I brought the updated design!”
They whipped open the folder to reveal:
A crab. But with Gojo’s sunglasses. Perfect shape. Perfect tilt. Tiny smug crustacean energy.
Gojo gasped so dramatically the blinds rattled.
“It’s me,” he whispered. “But smaller, and a crab.”
The client nodded, glowing. “And I want YOU to tattoo it.”
Gojo froze.
Then—
He burst into laughter.
Not normal laughter.
Apocalyptic laughter.
He folded in half.
He wheezed.
He slapped the counter.
He slid to the floor like a fainting Victorian bride.
Sukuna stared down at him, unamused.
“You done?” he asked flatly.
“Crab— heh— sunglasses— pfffHAHAHAHA—” Gojo was gone. No brain cell left alive.
The client blinked. “…So is that a, yes?”
“No,” Sukuna said, grabbing the folder. “Move.”
Gojo was still choking on air. You knelt beside him.
“Can you tattoo it?” the client asked Sukuna, and even though his facial expression contorted in a way that said “I don’t want to” but internally, you knew he was loving every single second of this interaction.
“BUBBLES—” Gojo wheezed, clutching your arm, “I can barely see— the crab— it looks like it’s about to say, ‘I’m sexy, deal with it.’”
Sukuna snatched gloves from the box like he wanted to strangle something with them.
“You’re pathetic,” he informed Gojo.
“Client, chair. Now.”
The client sprinted into the chair like they were being knighted.
Sukuna laid out his station with military precision, jaw tight. You could practically see him thinking I refuse to let a dumb crustacean ruin my reputation.
The stencil went on.
The client squealed.
Gojo tried to peek over the counter, still giggling like an unhinged ferret.
“It’s TOUCHING its little sunglasses— Bubbles— look— IT KNOWS IT’S COOL.”
“Gojo,” Sukuna said sharply without looking up, “if you laugh in my ear one more time, I’m tattooing this crab on you next.”
You began laughing, and Gojo did not stop.
Eventually, Sukuna started tattooing, clean lines, crisp angles, a disgustingly dramatic flourish on the sunglasses. He pretended he didn’t care. He cared; everyone could tell.
He wiped the tattoo, leaned back, and grunted: “…done.”
When Sukuna Walks into the Night You Haven’t Quite Left Behind
The Red Star Tattoo Shop Universe
word count: 4546 | previous chapter, next chapter
sneak peek: The back door of Red Star Tattoos didn't just open; it was torn aside by a man who had run out of patience and air. Sukuna stepped into the alley with a silhouette that knocked the breath from your lungs—broad, braced, and bleeding a raw, unguarded hurt that he usually kept under lock and key.
The "King" didn't come for an apology. He came for the truth, even if it cut him to the bone.
RED STAR STUDIO LOG:
INKED PROMISES: A tattoo is a "now." A ghost is a "then." Know the difference before you speak.
THE KING’S TERROR: Losing a war is nothing compared to the seven minutes Sukuna spent losing you.
BROTHERS IN ARMS: When the rivalry ends, only the truth remains—and it’s heavier than any machine.
"We kissed," you told him, the words steady and sharp in the freezing air. It wasn't a confession of a mistake; it was the sound of a door finally slamming shut. Sukuna’s face cracked—a volcanic mix of jealousy and the naked fear of a man who realized he wasn't the only one standing with his chest open.
The door clicked shut behind Choso, a soft, final sound that left you alone in the alley with nothing but the thin cold and the lingering ache beneath your ribs. For a moment you simply stood there, letting the night air settle around you like frost, trying to steady your breathing even though each inhale seemed to scrape against the inside of your chest. You intended to move—straighten, shake out your hands, walk back inside as if you hadn’t just buried a ghost—but your feet felt fused to the concrete.
Because something inside you already knew what would come next.
The lock turned again.
This time it wasn’t gentle.
This time the door opened as if someone had run out of patience entirely.
You turned, breath catching as Sukuna stepped into the alley.
His silhouette always carried weight, but tonight it knocked the air straight out of your lungs: broad shoulders braced in tension, jaw locked, the alley light slicing across the sharp lines of his face and revealing everything he usually tried to hide from others—but never could from you. Fear lived there. Jealousy burned bright and hot. Anger simmered beneath his skin with nowhere to go. And beneath all of it, raw and unguarded and painfully human, was hurt.
The kind that had no armour.
He took one step toward you, then paused like the ground between you had become dangerous, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to stand.
“Bubbles.” Your name came out like a breath he’d held too long.
You opened your mouth, but he beat you to the words.
“Where were you?”
There was no accusation in it—only fear, thin and trembling at the edges.
You swallowed hard. “I—”
His gaze dropped to your wrist.
The wrist with the star.
The small matching mark he carried on his own skin, the one you had placed on him, the one he had placed on you. A promise exchanged in ink: we move forward together.
His jaw tightened.
There was no way he missed the faint warmth still lingering where Choso’s hand had been.
You watched the realization hit him like a physical blow.
He didn’t reach for you, even though you could see the instinct in him, almost violent in its urgency. Something held him back, some fragile thread of fear that pulled tight right before he stepped forward. His eyes flicked from your wrist to your face, searching for the truth and terrified of what he might find there.
“Did he…” He swallowed hard. “…did something happen?”
You saw the exact moment his breath caught. The exact moment he imagined losing you.
So you gave him the truth you had already chosen.
“We kissed.”
Your voice didn’t shake. It wasn’t a confession meant to wound, it was something he needed to hear, it was an ending spoken aloud.
Because it wasn’t he kissed me. It wasn’t a theft, or a mistake, or a rush of forgotten emotion, it was we. A mutual goodbye. A door finally closed.
Sukuna’s face cracked, shock first, then a pain so sharp it might as well have cut straight through you, followed by the fierce, volcanic jealousy he never bothered to hide from you.
And then his eyes went back to your tattoo.
You didn’t have to guess what he feared. Did I lose you?
Did you give someone else a piece of you that was supposed to be mine?
Am I the only one standing here with my chest open?
You took a small step toward him.
He took a tiny step back, not rejection, not anger, but fear so naked it nearly broke you.
“Sukuna,” you whispered, letting your voice soften in the way you only ever did for him. “Look at me.”
He did. Slowly. Bracing like he expected the final cut.
“We kissed,” you repeated, quieter now, letting the truth settle. “We. Not him. Not a stolen moment. It was something I needed to close.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“And you…” He forced the words out; you could hear how much they scraped. “…did you want it?”
You didn’t lie, you didn’t run, you couldn’t the man standing in front of you, the man you loved needed to know, and you wouldn’t lie to him, not again.
“I wanted to end it clean,” you said. “And that was the goodbye we never took.”
His breath stuttered, the first crack of understanding, sharp and painful.
You reached for him slowly, letting him see every inch of the movement. Your fingers brushed his, and his whole body tensed like the touch shocked him.
But he didn’t pull away.
You lifted his hand and placed it over the small star on your wrist, warm beneath his palm, the ink pulsing with meaning. “This,” you said, voice steady, “is my now.”
The look in his eyes softened, barely, but enough.
“And he,” you added gently, “is my past.”
Sukuna exhaled a breath so shaky it was almost a confession.
He brought his other hand up, cupping your wrist between both palms, his thumbs brushing reverently over the lines you’d inked into his skin. When he said your name again, it wasn’t a word—it was a plea.
“Bubbles…”
You stepped closer until your forehead touched his, grounding him the way he often grounded you.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “With you. Only you.”
The fear in his eyes, wild, sharp, aching, finally broke.
He kissed you.
Nothing like Choso’s soft, fragile goodbye. Sukuna kissed you with a desperate relief, a trembling intensity that made the world tilt. His hands framed your face, pulling you as close as he could without crushing you, his mouth pressed to yours with everything he’d been too afraid to feel in the last ten minutes, fear, anger, longing, love he never knew how to contain.
When he pulled back, his voice was wrecked against your lips. “Don’t walk away again,” he whispered. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
You slid your hand up his chest, over the steady thrum of his heart. “I won’t,” you breathed.
His fingers drifted back to your matching tattoo, touch soft and protective.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice trembling in a way you had never heard from him, “and I’m yours.”
You leaned into him, your nose brushing his. “For ever.”
He exhaled, long and shaking—the last of his terror leaving his body.
Then, quieter:
“Bubbles… I need you to tell me the rest of it. Not because I’m jealous.” His jaw flexed. “I just… want to understand what happened. Back then. Between you and him.”
Something inside you uncoiled.
He wasn’t accusing you.
Wasn’t interrogating.
He was making space.
For you.
For the truth.
For the wounded parts of you he wanted to hold instead of fear.
“I didn’t know,” you whispered.
His brows knit. “Didn’t know what?”
“That you two were related.”
Sukuna blinked, actually blinked, the shock almost comical if the moment hadn’t been so raw. His grip tightened around your wrist, a brief, instinctive squeeze.
You continued, voice softer now, “I swear I didn’t know. Not when it happened. Not after. Not for years. I had no idea until—”
“Yuji,” he said, voice stunned and quiet.
You nodded.
“When he walked into the shop and called Choso and you “Big brothers”…” You shook your head, breath trembling. “It felt like the ground opened beneath me. Everything made sense and nothing did. All at once.”
Sukuna’s jaw clenched—not in anger, but in the ache of finally understanding something that had been shadowing the room between you.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, the gentlest he had ever asked you anything. Not hurt. Not angry. Just trying to understand where to place his hands so he didn’t break anything.
Your throat tightened. “Because I wasn’t ready,” you said. “I couldn’t explain something I hadn’t even made peace with myself. I thought ignoring it made it smaller.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you felt it. “But it didn’t,” you whispered. “It followed me. Followed us.”
Sukuna’s expression pulled into something fierce and unbearably tender, something that said without words: You’re safe. I’m here. We’re going to walk through this together.
You placed your hand over his heart.
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice breaking. “For not telling you sooner. For not being ready. For letting that old ghost hang over us when you’ve given me nothing but—”
“Hey.” He lifted your chin gently, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Look at me.”
You did.
And what you saw there made your breath catch.
He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t wounded anymore, he was relieved.
“You’re here now,” he said softly. “You told me now. That’s enough.”
“But—”
“Bubbles.” He stepped closer, forehead pressing against yours again, breath warm and steady. “You closed it today. I knew the second you looked at me.”
You let out a trembling breath.
“I forgive you,” he whispered.
Your eyes flooded. “Just like that?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “Because losing you for seven minutes felt worse than anything you could’ve told me.”
Your fingers curled into his hoodie.
“And now?” you echoed, barely a breath.
Sukuna slid his hand to the back of your head, closing the last sliver of space between you.
“Now,” he murmured, certain and soft, “I don’t have to be afraid of ghosts anymore.”
His thumb brushed your tattoo again.
“And neither do you.”
You made a small sound, half laugh, half sob, and he pulled you into another kiss, gentle this time, grounding, present.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours. “Let’s go inside,” he murmured. “Together.”
And this time, when you nodded, the past didn’t tug at your ankles.
You let him take your hand, his fingers slipping around your wrist, warm over the tattoo you shared. A promise written in ink and skin and the simple act of walking forward. A beginning.
A choice, of being together, even after truths that hurt.
Gojo was still buzzing around the shop like an overexcited ferret in designer sunglasses, hovering shamelessly, waiting for someone to feed him gossip.
He watched the way Sukuna kept your wrist enclosed in his warm, large hand.
He watched the way you leaned into Sukuna without hesitation.
He watched the way Sukuna’s whole soul had stopped looking like a kicked dog.
And Gojo — who had spent the last twenty minutes pacing the shop like a widower — finally exhaled with all the flair of a telenovela actor.
“OH THANK GOODNESS!” he cried, hands flying dramatically over his heart.
“You’re not broken up! I swear to GOD—if you two had ended things, it would’ve HAUNTED ME for the rest of my life!”
He launched himself onto the nearest chair like he had fainted from emotional overload.
“I mean it! I would have been narrating your tragedy every day like some tragic Greek chorus. Suguru would’ve divorced me. Choso would’ve moved out. Toji would roll his eyes so hard they’d pop out of his skull. TWINKLE would stop sleeping on us. My whole ecosystem would’ve collapsed!”
Suguru sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Satoru—”
“No, no, let me speak!” Gojo pointed at him dramatically. “I have suffered. I have aged. I lost SEVEN MINUTES of my lifespan today. MINUTES I will NEVER GET BACK.”
Sukuna growled under his breath, jaw tightening. “I swear to god, Satoru—”
Gojo sat up straighter, pointing between you and Sukuna.
“You two are NOT allowed to traumatize me like that. Ever. Again.”
You snorted.
Choso hid a smile under his hand.
Toji shook his head, deeply betrayed by Gojo’s existence.
Suguru patted Gojo’s shoulder like he was consoling a hysterical toddler.
Twinkle chirped like she was agreeing with Gojo (which was honestly worse).
And Sukuna—
Sukuna just squeezed your wrist a little tighter, pulling you slightly into his side with a grumbled:
“Relax, dumbass. We’re not going anywhere.”
Gojo gasped again—hands clasping dramatically.
“JOY! HOPE! LOVE! The family is WHOLE once more!”
Sukuna picked up a rag from the station and threw it at him without looking.
Gojo dodged. “You missed, lover boy!”
Sukuna’s eyes flicked to you—
soft, warm, anchored—
and muttered under his breath:
“Didn’t need to hit him. I already won.”
And the energy in the entire shop shifted.
The laughter.
The teasing.
The warmth.
The stupid, chaotic love in every corner.
The shop softened into silence again, the kind that settles only after a room has finished exhaling. The laughter, the teasing, Gojo’s operatic dramatics — all those sounds folded into the background until the large, bright studio felt impossibly intimate, holding only two figures at its centre as though the lights themselves had dimmed around them.
Choso.
And Sukuna.
Brothers by blood, opposites by nature, one carved from calm, slow-moving gravity, the other from sharp-edged fire, yet bound now not by rivalry or habit, but by the woman whose presence had threaded itself through both of their histories in ways neither of them had ever planned for.
Sukuna remained standing, shoulders loaded with tension but none of it hostile. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, fists tight enough that the fabric pulled, as if he feared that if he let them show, they would betray just how violently they trembled. He did not wear anger. He did not wear jealousy. And despite the way his jaw had twitched the moment Choso re-entered the room, he did not look like a man preparing for a fight.
He looked… unfamiliar. Unsteady. Stripped of the armour he had spent years forging.
“Choso,” he said finally, voice low, sanded down, as if he was afraid a louder tone might splinter something between them.
Choso lifted his head, waiting.
“She told me what happened out there,” Sukuna said, the words slow, measured, quieter even than before. “What you two did.”
He didn’t look away, didn’t flinch or harden or sharpen.
He simply stood in front of his brother and let the truth sit between them without rushing it, without shaping it into something uglier than it was.
“I’m not asking because I’m pissed,” he continued, and the honesty in his voice was so bare it almost sounded young. “I already know she chose me. I know she came back to me. I’m asking because…” His throat worked around the words. “…because I want to understand.”
And Choso felt that — not as a threat, not as a blade slid beneath his ribs, but as the rarest thing that had ever existed between the two of them: a reaching hand.
So he stepped closer, his movements deliberate, slow, almost reverent.
“Then I’ll tell you, “He said, his voice soft but certain. “All of it.”
Sukuna nodded once, just enough to show he was bracing himself for the truth, whatever shape it came in.
Choso took a breath.
“She was my first love,” he said, the words simple but heavy enough to shift the air.
Sukuna’s eyes flickered. Not with the violent jealousy that might have once defined him, but with something deeper, a startled ache, a raw sting of humanity that softened his posture rather than tightened it.
Choso kept speaking.
“And not a small love, not an almost-love, not the kind you outgrow like old clothes. We loved each other in the only ways we could at that age, broken, frantic, terrified of the world and ourselves.” His voice didn’t shake, but it closed around the edges of the words like it wanted to. “But it never even met daylight. We never had the chance to be real. We never built anything solid. We just held onto each other that night, trying to survive our souls that were too heavy for people that young.”
Sukuna’s breath hitched, barely audible, not anger, not suspicion, just the quiet shock of being invited into a chapter he didn’t know existed.
“And then it ended,” Choso said, softer now, the memory settling somewhere behind his eyes. “Quietly. Gently. Because we both knew we wouldn’t survive each other if we kept going.”
Sukuna pressed his lips together, jaw flexing, not in resistance, but in the effort of absorbing something he had never prepared himself to hear.
“And today,” Choso continued, “in the alley… that kiss wasn’t about wanting her. It wasn’t about reaching for the past.”
He lifted his gaze and held Sukuna’s directly. “It was the goodbye we never took. That’s all.”
Sukuna exhaled — long, rough, the sound of someone letting a weight shift off their shoulders, not disappear, but settle differently, in a place that no longer crushed his ribs.
“And you don’t still—?” he began, barely managing the question.
“No.” Choso cut him off immediately, firmly, without hesitation. “No. Not like that. But I will always love the version of her who saved me back then. The same way you love the version of her who saves you now.”
Something inside Sukuna stopped, His throat bobbed painfully. His eyes flicked, as if against his will, toward where you stood on the far side of the shop, laughing at something Toji murmured, Twinkle dancing between your ankles, your smile bright and warm and very much present.
When he turned back to Choso, something had shifted in him, softened, unravelled, rebuilt all at once.
“Choso…” he said, and his voice had changed; it had become thin at the edges, quiet in a way that felt almost breakable. “Thank you.”
The words came out uneven, scraped raw, as though they had never existed in his mouth before.
Choso blinked, faint surprise crossing his features. “For what?”
“For telling me the truth,” Sukuna said. “For… not making me feel like I’m stealing something from you.”
Choso’s expression gentled.
“You didn’t steal anything,” he said. “She is herself, not something to possess, and we were a moment. You two are a life.”
Sukuna’s breath trembled, the kind of tremor that only comes when a truth finally fits inside the place it was meant to go.
“And for what it’s worth,” Choso added, voice quiet but steady, “she loves you in a way she never loved me. Not less, not more, just differently. A way only you get. I’m not saying it to hurt you. You deserve to know.”
Sukuna looked away, jaw tightening, eyes burning with a heat that was not anger. “Fuck,” he muttered roughly. “I hate when you talk like that.”
Choso laughed, not mocking, not sharp, but soft and warm, the kind of laugh that closes wounds instead of opening them.
“You’re scared,” he said gently.
Sukuna didn’t deny it. He didn’t even bother to look offended.
Choso stepped closer, a brother in full now, not a rival, not a ghost from the past. “You’re scared because you finally have something real,” he murmured. “And you’re terrified of losing it.”
Sukuna’s eyes flashed — the kind of flash that came not from fury, but from recognition. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I am scared.” “Shitless scared” he confessed.
“You won’t lose her,” Choso said. “She came back to you. She trusts you. She chose you after closing everything behind her.”
The last of Sukuna’s tension dissolved, slow, painful, beautiful, like thawing ice.
He nodded once, small and broken and grateful.
“…Thank you,” he whispered again, the words softer this time.
Choso lifted a steady hand and set it on his brother’s shoulder, a gesture that had never existed between them before, not like this.
“We’re good,” he said. “Better than before.”
Sukuna exhaled, a sound that carried both relief and ache, the echo of fear and its release.
Choso slipped away from Sukuna with that same soundless composure he always moved with, his retreat so effortless it almost blended into the soft warmth that had returned to the shop after the storm. Gojo was laughing too loudly at a joke Suguru wasn’t even trying to pretend was funny; Twinkle was chirping happily at your ankles; you, across the room, looked lighter in a way Choso had noticed the second you re-entered, your shoulders unburdened, your expression softer, your presence no longer shadowed by the weight you had carried into the alley. He was glad for it, truly, sincerely. Closure always came with weight, but weight didn’t always have to crush. Sometimes it simply had to be set down.
He slipped into the piercing room and flicked on the light, low and warm, enough to paint the walls in a quiet amber. The familiar scent of steel, antiseptic, and that lavender‑tinged disinfectant he preferred rose up to meet him, grounding him in routine. He set a tray on the counter and began lining up fresh needles, clamps, alcohol swaps — each one placed with slow, practiced precision. Organizing steadied him. It always had.
The door clicked behind him. He didn’t turn; he didn’t need to.
Toji’s presence filled a room differently from anyone else’s, heavier, older, quieter, but with a warmth tucked underneath the rough edges that only surfaced when he wanted it to. He shut the door gently, leaning his back against it with his arms crossed, watching Choso with that steady gaze that didn’t bulldoze through walls like Sukuna, didn’t pry like Gojo, didn’t coax like Suguru. Toji simply looked. And somehow, the looking alone carried enough weight to make truth rise to the surface.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice lower, softer, a register he didn’t offer to just anyone. “You alright?”
Choso’s hand stilled mid‑reach, fingers hovering over a clamp before he picked it up with a little too much care.
“Yeah,” he said. Even, controlled, almost carefully neutral. A little too neutral for Toji not to hear the strain underneath.
Toji didn’t move, didn’t push, didn’t prod. He simply watched him, head slightly tilted, eyes narrowing just faintly, not suspicion, not pressure, but recognition. Older men had a way of seeing through boys who were still learning how to carry their own history, and Toji had lived enough for two lifetimes. He read Choso the way he read a blade: by its balance, by its tremor, by what it tried not to show.
“That didn’t look like nothing,” he said, calm, steady.
Choso’s hands paused again, the smallest break in rhythm. Then he set the clamp down with deliberate precision, followed by another tool, each movement giving him just enough time to breathe once, then again, then finally let the air out of his lungs.
“She’s okay,” he said quietly. “He’s good for her.”
“I know,” Toji murmured, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that came from observation rather than assumption.
Choso brushed the edge of the tray with his fingertips, grounding himself with the cold metal. “And he needed to hear the truth. All of it.”
Toji nodded once. “And you needed to say it.”
Choso didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He leaned forward slightly, palms bracing against the counter, his head bowing just a fraction — but Toji saw it. He always saw it. The small tremor of a man who had just unpacked years of something he thought he’d already made peace with.
Toji pushed off the door and walked toward him, unhurried, measured. He stopped beside Choso rather than in front of him, the way only someone who truly understood him would — offering presence, not confrontation.
“You did right,” Toji said, quiet and steady. “For her. For him. For yourself.”
Choso let out a breath that hovered on the edge of a laugh but didn’t quite make it. “Didn’t feel good.”
“Well,” Toji said, his tone dry but warm, “truth rarely does.”
Choso turned his head a little, just enough to catch the older man’s profile. “He deserved to know. He needed to understand what it was. What it wasn’t.”
“And he does now,” Toji replied. “Because you didn’t lie.”
Choso nodded, not with pride, but with a kind of settled acceptance, a quiet peace stirring somewhere under the ache.
Then Toji’s gaze softened, really softened, in that rare, careful way he reserved only for Choso, the way a man softened when he recognized something he had once felt in a younger version of himself.
“You hurting?” he asked.
Choso hesitated, just long enough for Toji to know the answer before it left his mouth.
“A little,” he admitted, voice low and honest in a way he only allowed in rooms like this, in moments like these.
Toji didn’t say a word. He didn’t fill the silence with platitudes or logic or unnecessary noise. He simply stepped closer and laid a large, warm hand at the nape of Choso’s neck, his thumb brushing the hairline with a slow, grounding stroke that said I’m here far more clearly than anything he could’ve spoken aloud.
Choso’s shoulders dropped. The tension eased out of him like someone had loosened a knot tied too tightly for too long.
“You’re allowed to,” Toji murmured.
Choso closed his eyes for a breath. “It was a long time ago,” he whispered. “But it was real.”
Toji nodded — steady, calm. “First love always is.”
Choso inhaled, a small, uneven breath. Not pain — recognition.
“I’m not grieving her,” he said softly. “I’m grieving who I was with her. Who we were. The part of me that didn’t know better yet.”
Toji’s thumb drew the faintest arc along his skin. “And you’re not that man anymore.”
“No,” Choso agreed, voice firmer this time. “I’m not.”
Toji leaned in, pressing a kiss to Choso’s temple, soft, careful, grounding. Not passion, not hunger, just presence. A warm hand closing a lingering wound.
“You’re better,” Toji murmured.
Choso opened his eyes. There was warmth gathering at the corners, not tears, not sadness, just softness, finally allowed to exist.
He turned enough to meet Toji’s gaze without hiding a single thing.
“I love you,” he said quietly, and the words didn’t tremble; they simply existed in the air between them like truth.
Toji’s expression didn’t flinch. His smile unfurled slowly — devastating and gentle, knowing and steady — the smile of a man who had long since learned how to hold someone without demanding anything from them.
“I know,” he whispered. A beat. “And I’m right here.”
Choso let out a breath he had been holding since the alley, since the past resurfaced, since closure opened old doors only to let new air in. Something in him finally settled — not broken, not raw, just… realigned.
He rested his forehead against Toji’s, letting his boyfriend warmth dissolve the last cold imprint of memory clinging to him.
“She’s home now,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “With him. And I’m… okay.”
Toji’s hand slid up, fingers curling gently into his hair, grounding him with a steady touch.
“You’re more than okay,” he murmured. “You’re free.”
And Choso believed him.
For the first time in seven years, he finally felt free.
When truth or dare became Sukuna and Toji’s worst nightmare
Red Star Tattoo Shop Universe
word count: 4032 | previous chapter, next chapter
sneak peek: The air in Red Star Tattoos was thick with champagne fizz and sandalwood, a celebration of weeks of grueling work. But a single question from Gojo—"Who was your first love? The one that actually left a mark?"—turned the "warm chaos" into a suffocating silence.
While Sukuna tensed with a territorial rage he didn't yet understand and Toji held a grounding hand on Choso’s shoulder, the ghosts of seven years ago finally walked through the door.
RED STAR STUDIO LOG:
TRUTH OR DARE: Strictly prohibited if Satoru Gojo is the one asking the questions.
TERRITORIAL DISPUTES: If the King looks ready to rip his station off the floor, give him space—and maybe a cat.
ALLEYWAY PROTOCOL: Some conversations are seven years overdue. Let them happen.
The air in Red Star Tattoos was thick — champagne fizz clinging to the air, sandalwood incense curling into the corners, and the metallic echo of a long workday still pulsing faintly through the floorboards. The shop was technically closed, but the “warm chaos” of their found family was in full, messy swing. They were celebrating a miracle: a massive, collaborative back piece finally finished after weeks of joint effort.
Toji Fushiguro sat on the edge of the counter like he belonged there — long legs stretched out, a glass of whiskey dangling lazily from his hand. His presence was a gravity well: heavy, slow, unbothered menace. One calloused hand rested on Choso’s shoulder, fingers idly tracing small patterns over the fabric. Choso leaned into it in that quiet, grounding way only he could.
Gojo, several drinks deep and humming with energy, clapped his hands.
“Alright, misfits! Enough with the shop talk. Truth or dare!”
Chaos’ favourite game.
For thirty minutes it was harmless: Gojo’s skincare revelations, Suguru’s smug expressions, Sukuna threatening to bite people, Toji looking vaguely amused, Choso giving answers short enough to be legally meaningless. You laugh into your glass.
Then Gojo’s eyes sharpened — bright, cutting, seeing too much.
“Okay, no more fluff,” he declared, leaning forward. “Real one: Who was your first love? The one that actually left a mark.”
Silence.
Real silence.
You froze first, your hand tightening around your glass. Choso stilled beside Toji, his lashes lowering, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor like he was seeing a ghost.
Neither of you looked at the other.
Neither of you breathed.
But everyone felt it — the sudden, cold pressure in the room.
Sukuna caught it immediately.
His whole body tensed, tattoos shifting over taut muscle. His red eyes flicked from you to Choso and back again. Once. Twice. Reading something he didn’t understand but absolutely hated.
Toji felt it too.
Choso’s energy shifted under his hand, not outwardly, not visibly, but Toji knew him on an instinctual level by now. Knew the subtle stiffening of his spine. The way his breath caught in quiet places. The way his shoulders curved inward like he was holding something heavy.
Sukuna, however, looked ready to rip the metal off his own station.
Your voice cracked through the tension.
“I need a smoke.” Barely more than a whisper.
You stood and slipped out the back door before anyone could stop you.
Choso rose a heartbeat later, quiet, graceful, expression unreadable, and followed you out.
The front room exhaled like it had been punched.
Gojo blinked. “…What the hell was that?” he murmured to himself.
Sukuna pushed off the counter immediately, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. Territorial rage simmered under his skin, not loud, not explosive. Worse. Quiet. Controlled. Cold.
But as he moved to follow, Suguru slid a handout and caught his forearm.
“Sukuna.”
“Don’t.” His voice was a warning.
Suguru didn’t let go. “They need to talk. You know that.”
Sukuna’s breath snapped in his throat. His fingers curled into tight fists.
He didn’t sit, but he didn’t walk out the door either.
Toji watched all of this, the tension, the panic, the furious protectiveness hidden under Sukuna’s scowl. He recognized the look. The stiff jaw, the clenched shoulders, the way Sukuna’s breathing had gone shallow.
A man seconds from detonating.
Toji moved.
Slow, steady, deliberate.
He pushed off the counter and settled beside Sukuna — not blocking him, not confronting him. Just… standing at his side. A grounding weight. A steady presence.
“…Relax,” Toji muttered, voice low, almost lazy. But the look he aimed at Sukuna was razor‑precise. “She’s fine. And so is he.”
Sukuna didn’t respond. His chest heaved once — the only sign of the panic clawing at him.
“You think Choso’s gonna hurt her?” Toji asked, tone almost mocking. “Please. You know better than that.”
Sukuna’s throat bobbed.
He didn’t look at Toji.
Didn’t look at anyone.
Toji continued, quieter. “I get it,” he said. “It’s not fun watching your past and her past hold hands in front of you.”
His eyes flicked to the back door. “But some conversations aren’t yours to chase.”
Sukuna’s fingers twitched.
Toji stepped a little closer.
“If she wanted distance, she would’ve told you”, He said. “If she wanted him instead, she wouldn’t be wearing your hoodie right now. She wouldn’t be looking at you the way she did all damn night.”
Sukuna’s jaw trembled.
Just once.
Toji’s voice dropped, gentle in a way he rarely used. “You’re not losing her.”
Sukuna closed his eyes, breath shuddering out.
And then Twinkle, sensing every emotional fracture in the room, hopped onto his lap. Her tiny silver star pendant clinked softly as she pressed her whole weight against his stomach and purred.
Sukuna’s hand automatically curled around her.
His shoulders eased.
Barely.
But enough.
Toji watched the tremor leave Sukuna’s hands, watched the storm settle into something manageable.
He nodded once, satisfied. “You’re alright, King,” he muttered. “Just breathe.”
And standing there, with Suguru’s steady hand on his arm, Toji’s quiet presence beside him, and Twinkle purring against his chest, Sukuna stayed.
He didn’t chase you; he didn’t explode, he just waited.
It had started the way most of bad decisions do, too much red wine in plastic cups, and too many cigarettes shared on a balcony that overlooked campus lights. The music bleeding through the walls of a cramped student apartment, and two people who already knew they were trouble for each other.
You had paint under your nails, you always did. Arts faculty. Messy bun, smudged eyeliner, laughter that was a little too loud when you’d had something to drink.
Choso smelled faintly of antiseptic and smoke, a med student, perpetually exhausted, too observant for his own good. The kind of man who watched instead of participated.
You two had never been friends, had never been orbiting next to each other, so that night was something special, that famous butterfly effect that some people talk about.
Different faculties, different buildings, maybe different futures.
But the same late-night loneliness, and that night at the party, it was easy.
Too easy.
He found you on the balcony first. Wind tangling your hair, cigarette between your fingers, looking like you were thinking about something heavier than a party.
“You don’t look like you’re celebrating,” he’d said.
“You don’t look like you ever celebrate,” you shot back.
He almost smiled.
You two talked, about nothing, about everything, that way in which two old souls meet each other in a way that even when it seemed superfluous was intense, and deep. You talked about how art felt like setting yourself on fire for a grade. About how medicine felt like memorizing the human body until you forgot you had one.
You shared the wine bottle, then shared a cigarette. At some point the distance between you stopped existing.
And when they stumbled into his dorm room — or maybe it was yours — neither of you pretended you didn’t know what you both were doing.
You both were young, and lonely, curious… too curious about the way the other breathed.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careless either. It was the kind of night built on hunger, the kind that isn’t just physical, the kind in which each breath, each word, each touch, gets engraved in your heart, maybe for the rest of your life.
Afterwards, the room felt too quiet.
Sheets tangled. Window cracked open. your breaths finally steady, synchronized. Your back pressed on the bed’s headboard, staring at the ceiling as you were tracing imaginary shapes in his back, Choso sat next to you, his elbows on his knees, hands laced together like he was contemplating his life.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then you laughed softly. Not happy. Not sad. Just… aware. “We’re terrible for each other,” you said as you finally made your mind about the situation.
He didn’t argue.
Because he knew.
You were wildfire. Impulse. Art without rules. He was control. Precision. Discipline stitched tight.
You were both intense in different directions.
“You want the world to feel something,” he said quietly.
“You want to fix it,” you replied.
Silence again. There had been something real in the way you looked at each other, and that was the problem, it would have been easier if it had been just lust.
But it wasn’t. It was recognition of two people who saw too much, two people who felt too deeply.
Two faces of the same coin, but coins don’t bend, they don’t merge.
They just flip.
“You’ll resent me,” you said eventually.
“You’ll get bored of me,” he answered at the same time.
You both went still, because you both knew it was truth.
He turned to look at you. You were already looking at him.
Same thought, same fear, the same stubborn pride.
Choso stood first. Pulled his shirt back on. Slow. Quiet. Controlled.
You sat up, wrapping the sheet around yourself like an armour.
“So that’s it?” you asked.
He nodded once.
“If we try,” he said carefully, “we’ll ruin each other.”
“And if we don’t?” you asked breathless.
“We’ll remember it like this.”
That hurt more.
You stood too, walking past him to grab your clothes. Your shoulders brushed, electric, unfinished.
At the door, you paused.
“We’re the same,” you murmured.
He didn’t look at her this time.
“I know.”
And that was exactly why it wouldn’t work.
He should have let you go.
He should had done the mature thing, the logical thing, the thing that would hurt less later.
But still, he was selfish.
“Bubbles.” Your name left his mouth like a warning.
You turned, and that was the mistake, but you were young, and you loved the way in which his voice hinted that he needed you, so you looked at him. You were selfish too.
The air between you two felt tight, like the room itself didn’t approve of the decision you two had just made. Like the walls knew you were lying to yourselves.
“You’re sure?” he asked, not about the night, not about the attraction.
About the ending.
You swallowed. “If we try, we’ll break it.”
“And if we don’t?”
You couldn’t answer.
Because you both knew the truth: You would carry this forever, like a treasure, in both of your minds, in your hearts.
He crossed the distance first.
Not fast. Not desperate.
Slow. Intentional. Like he was memorizing the last few steps he’d ever take toward her. His hand came up to your jaw, firm, steady, almost clinical at first. But his thumb trembled against her cheekbone.
“This lifetime,” you whispered, breath unsteady, “isn’t meant for us.”
He leaned closer, forehead almost touching yours. “I know.”
And that was what made it hurt.
The kiss wasn’t hungry like before, it wasn’t reckless, it was restrained, and that restraint made it painfully devastating. His mouth pressed to yours like he was trying to swallow the ache. Like he was trying to draw you into muscle memory.
You kissed him back with something that felt dangerously close to grief, and it tasted like red wine, like smoke. Like regret before the regret had even happened.
There was no rush. No urgency.
Just a quiet, furious tenderness.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. His hand slid to the back of your neck, not to pull you closer, but to hold you there, steady, grounded, as if the world might tilt otherwise.
It was the kind of kiss that resented fate, that resented timing, that resented youth.
The kind of kiss that resented the cruel practicality of knowing when something beautiful would not survive.
When you two finally parted, your foreheads stayed pressed together.
He exhaled first. “If there’s another version of us,” he murmured, voice low, almost detached to protect himself, “I hope they’re braver.”
You let out a broken laugh. “I hope they’re luckier.”
The door had been half open.
you should have left after the kiss.
He should have let her.
Instead, silence stretched between you like a thread pulled too tight.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
“So are you.”
Neither of you moved for a long moment. It would’ve been easier if one of you had been certain. If one of you had been cold.
But you weren’t.
You were two people who loved intensely and knew that intensity would consume them in the wrong season of their lives.
He closed the door.
Not dramatically. Not angrily.
Just… closed it.
The click sounded final, but not in the way they’d intended.
you didn’t speak about it, there was no “should we?” No justification.
Just a silent agreement: If this was ending, it would not end half-felt, it would not end with pain, with regret.
He stepped towards you again, and this time you didn’t brace for goodbye.
This time you reached for him first.
It wasn’t frantic like the party night. It wasn’t careless like before.
It was deliberate, slower, like you were memorizing. Your hands traced his shoulders as if mapping something you would have to live without. His fingers rested at her waist, steady, grounding, like he was afraid she might disappear before he finished committing you to memory.
You held each other for a while before anything else.
Just held.
Foreheads touching. Breaths mingling.
“This is stupid,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“Tomorrow, we go back to our lives.”
“I know.”
“And we won’t do this again.”
A pause.
“…I know.”
But knowing didn’t make letting go easier.
When you finally moved together, it wasn’t about heat.
It was about closeness.
About pressing your bodies together as if they could fuse something permanent into skin and bone. About the quiet desperation of wanting to remember how the other felt, the weight, the warmth, the heartbeat.
You kissed like people who already missed each other.
You touched like people trying to soften the future.
There was tenderness this time. A kind that hadn’t existed before. Less hunger. More ache.
He brushed your hair back gently.
You kissed the corner of his mouth like you were apologizing.
At one point you pressed your face into his chest and he wrapped his arms around you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re already saying goodbye.”
You didn’t answer.
Afterwards, the room was quiet again.
But it felt different than before.
Not empty.
Full.
Too full.
You lay against him, head on his shoulder, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his collarbone. He stared at the ceiling; one arm draped protectively around her.
you didn’t rush to separate.
you both knew the clock was ticking.
“I want to remember this version of you,” you said softly. “Not the one I’d grow to resent.”
He swallowed. “I want to remember you laughing. Not exhausted from loving me.”
That was the truth of it.
You didn’t end because none of you care.
You ended because you both cared too much, and you were too young to carry something that heavy.
When you finally sat up, the air felt colder immediately.
He reached for your wrist — not to stop you.
Just to feel your pulse once more.
“Be brilliant,” he told you.
“Be kind,” you answered.
You dressed first this time.
He watched.
At the door, you paused, but you didn’t turn around, you just sighted, gathering the strength to leave.
When it was over, it wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet.
It was a silent promise of a love that couldn’t exist.
And that quiet was what made it unforgettable.
Years later, if they ever thought about that night, it wouldn’t be about the physical closeness, it would be about the way they held each other like something sacred, knowing it was the first time that someone looked into their souls. And sometimes love arrives before you’re even ready to work on yourself, when you are just so scared, that shatters your heart.
The night hit you the moment you stepped outside, cold, clean, too sharp after the warm, noisy chaos of Red Star. You let the brick wall catch your weight, rough and grounding beneath your spine, as you cupped your hands around a trembling cigarette.
The lighter flared.
The flame caught.
Your breath didn’t.
Smoke slid past your lips in a thin, fragile ribbon. The alley swallowed it whole and held its silence like a secret. For a moment you wished the quiet could freeze time—just long enough for the world to stop pulling at you from every direction.
You’d barely taken your first shaky inhale when the back door clicked open—soft, careful, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re afraid of breaking something already cracked.
You didn’t need to turn.
You knew the weight of him.
Choso.
He didn’t speak your name, he didn’t ask, he simply stepped into the moonlight the way he always had—quiet, sure-footed, a figure carved from shadow and patience. He walked three slow steps and stopped. Not close enough to touch. Not far enough for you not to feel him.
Just… there. A presence shaped like memory.
Smoke curled through your fingers. Neither of you spoke.
“…Sorry,” you whispered, voice thin, lighter clicking shut in your palm.
Choso’s gaze fell to the pavement.
“For what?”
“For reacting like that. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“It was already weird.”
The corner of your mouth twitched, but the laugh couldn’t climb out of your chest.
Silence again—thick, familiar, strangely soft.
The kind you never found uncomfortable with him.
“I didn’t think Gojo’s question would…”
“Hurt?” he finished for you.
Your throat tightened.
“That.”
He nodded, not agreeing or excusing—just acknowledging the shape of the truth between you.
“I felt it too,” he said. “Like the room lost all its oxygen.”
That unravelled something inside you.
“Choso…”
He lifted his eyes, and the reality of them—soft, distant, threaded with seven-year-old echoes—made your chest collapse inward. It was him as you remembered him. Him as he had been before either of you knew what you were capable of breaking.
“Seven years,” he murmured. “You’d think a single night would fade.”
The cigarette burned low between your fingers.
It felt like the only warm thing in the alley.
“But it didn’t,” he said quietly. No tremble, no falter—just the truth worn down to its bones. “Not for me.”
You crushed the cigarette under your heel and pressed the heel of your palm into your eyes. Your hands needed something to do—rub your arms, fix your hair, hold yourself together.
“I was young,” you whispered. “So were you. And everything was so—”
“Fragile,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
Wind tugged at his hair, catching the faint silver glint of the moon on his piercings.
“I cared about you,” Choso said. “Deeply. But we weren’t ready for what that meant.”
You let out a broken laugh.
“We would’ve ruined each other.”
“Maybe.” His voice softened into something small, vulnerable, human. “Maybe we would have.”
A pause.
Then— “I never regretted it.”
Your breath lodged in your chest.
Choso stepped closer—slow, careful, the way someone approaches a wounded animal they’re trying not to scare. He stopped within reach, offering warmth you could step into or walk away from.
“You look happy now,” he said, and the pride in his voice fractured you. “With him.”
Your heart twisted sharply.
“You’re the only one I’m not jealous of,” he went on. “Because I know you didn’t choose him over me.”
Your head snapped up.
“You chose him now,” Choso said gently. “But seven years ago? You chose peace. You chose survival. And I wasn’t either of those things.”
Your eyes stung.
“And him?” you whispered. “Sukuna?”
A sad smile tugged at his lips—soft, understanding, almost fond.
“He’s the first person I’ve seen you let in completely. No mask. No fear.”
A beat.
“He loves you loudly. Wildly. In that way he can’t hide.”
You wiped at your cheeks before anything fell.
Choso studied you for a long time—long enough that the air between you felt like an old photograph slowly being put away. Then, gently, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
Not romantic.
Not dangerous.
Just honest.
“You’re important to me,” he said softly. “In a different way now. A safer way.”
Your breath fell apart in your chest.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For… not running.”
“I never run,” he said.
“You literally followed me out here.”
“That’s different.” His voice warmed just a little. “It’s you.”
Your laugh cracked into the cold, brief but real.
Then the truth hit you—biting and sudden.
“I didn’t know you and Sukuna were related,” you said. “And I never wanted to hurt you. Not then. Not now.”
Choso’s expression folded grief tucked into tenderness.
“You didn’t hurt me,” he said. “Life did. Time did. We did—by not being ready for each other. But not you. Never you.”
The words broke something open in you—something old, something tired.
He glanced toward the shop—toward the man pacing inside, waiting for you the way he waited for almost nothing.
“You should go back in,” Choso murmured. “He’s worried.”
You nodded, but when you stepped back, he caught your wrist—lightly, gently—his fingers brushing the small matching star inked into your skin.
He inhaled, not shaky determined.
“Bubbles,” he murmured, voice soft enough to bruise, “can I…?”
You already knew, your chest tightened, your throat burned.
And you nodded, thanking the universe that it was him who asked.
He stepped closer, reverent, slow. His hand rose to your cheek, tracing down your jaw, brushing the curve of your throat like he was memorizing something he knew he would never touch again.
It was a bitter mix between regret, gratitude and affection with nowhere left to live.
You leaned in, offering the same honesty he was offering you. Your foreheads touched, a shared breath, a tremor that passed through both of you, a memory of that night.
Then he kissed you, not with hunger, but soft, not with longing, but fragile, not with a claim, but exactly like the wound it closed.
A kiss woven from everything you once were—everything you almost became—everything time had taught you to outgrow.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, not pulling, just steadying. Both of you holding the ghost of an unlived life long enough to let it finally rest.
He pulled back just barely, noses brushing. A soft sigh escaped him before he pressed a second kiss, warm, lingering, against your forehead.
A blessing.
A goodbye.
A thank you.
A promise.
When he stepped back, his hands fell from your face.
“That was the one we didn’t get,” he whispered. “The one we needed… so it wouldn’t haunt us.”
Your eyes shimmered.
“And now?” you breathed.
“Now,” Choso said, stepping back with a bittersweet smile, “we finally stop being ghosts.”
You swallowed hard.
He wasn’t yours anymore, and you weren’t his anymore, but for one small, necessary moment, you honoured what once lived between you.
And then… you let it go.
Choso nodded toward the door. “I’m going back inside. He needs to talk to you.” A faint smile. “And I need to talk to Toji.”
You wiped your cheeks, exhaled and nodded.
Choso stepped into the shop’s warmth first.
And the past stayed in the moonlit alley, quiet, closed, and finally allowed to sleep.
When in Choso’s apartment, tattoo war and Gojo earned his belly button piercing
The Red Star Tattoo Shop Universe
word count: 4640 | previous chapter, next chapter
sneak peek: The "silent temple" of Choso’s apartment has transformed into a neon-lit confessional of top-shelf tequila and "truth or shot" dares. Between Gojo performing children's songs like high art and Suguru treating Britney Spears like a sermon, the filters have officially dissolved.
But the night deepens when the jokes thin out. From Sukuna admitting he’d "eat the devil" to Toji trading his soul for the shop’s survival, the "Red Star" family is laying it all on the table.
RED STAR STUDIO LOG:
TRUTH OR SHOT: The answer to "Who is the hottest?" is always "Me."
TATTOO CRIMES: Beware of "No Recrets" and hyper-realistic ham sandwiches.
HONEST QUESTION: Why is everyone always matching?
"So, you say wanna try out that tongue piercing, don’t ya?" Gojo winks, his smirk leaning into the charged silence of the room. You don't flinch, raising your glass with a slurred, alcohol-fueled confidence. "Always been bisexual, and will always be."
"Cheers to that," Toji rasps, as the most dangerous men in the city raise their glasses to the messy, plural, and chosen love that keeps the "Red Star" heart beating.
The narrow hallway of Choso’s apartment, his silent temple of hand‑drawn anatomy, brass clips, and vintage medical diagrams, buzzed like a live wire. Top‑shelf tequila and warm sake glowed in mismatched cups; the incense was faint but familiar, that stubborn sandalwood that you always left trailing behind on your sweaters. Someone had wiped the counter too clean, so it smelled like disinfectant and expensive leather. None of them were good at “off.”
Suguru tapped a silver stirrer against his glass the way a conductor might lift a baton. The motion was quiet, and everyone quieted with it, like they were all part of a ritual he’d written without telling anyone.
When he finally spoke, his voice came smooth, velvet and a little dangerous. “Every question, every person,” he said. “No shots to escape the truth. If it burns, let it.”
They started with silly confessions, the low‑risk warmth you use to open a door.
“So what’s the song that ruins your playlist? Suguru asked first, you know the one that makes your algorithm shift awkwardly, your guilty pleasure song?
Gojo, already vibrating in his seat, blurt‑out sang a slice of Affirmation Song by Doggyland with so much confidence that it not only became performance art but it made the kid’s song seem cool, then grinned as if daring gravity to keep up.
You matched Gojo’s energy with an over‑caffeinated burst of Guess by Billie Eilish and Charli xcx, all flapping hands and improvised choreography that made Suguru’s mouth tip tremble like he was trying not to smile.
Across from you two Choso, whose eyes were half‑lidded and unbothered, surprised the room by nailing every syllable of a rap verse of a Central Cee song BAND4BAND, with surgeon’s precision for someone who didn’t like to talk much.
Sukuna tried to hide his amusement behind the rim of his glass, but later admitted, almost academically, that the early‑2000s “All the things she said” song by t.A.T.u had “curious vocal layering.”
Toji hummed the melody of the chart monster “DTMF” by Bad Bunny, looking like a statue someone had taught to smirk.
And Suguru finally answered closing his eyes and sank into something heavy and cathartic, as if Toxic by Britney Spears was a sermon that he’d shown up to listen.
“Worm or crow?” Gojo asked suddenly, eyes bright, like he’d pulled the lever on a slot machine and was waiting for the universe to spit out coins. The answers fell like cards on a table. Suguru and Gojo both chose crow for different reasons, like shiny spoils, and elegant solitude, a little screaming now and then. Toji and Choso went worm without shame: peace, closed eyes, social batteries staged a coup hours ago. Sukuna didn’t pick either. “Predator,” he said. “I don’t scavenge.” Bubbles rolled a shiny pen between her fingers and said, “Crow. I’d bring Sukuna trinkets he pretends to hate,” and he made the face of a man who had been seen in public.
“Besides your partner,” Bubbles asks, her eyes darting around the circle, “who’s the hottest person in the room?”
The answers come with the sting of a fresh tattoo.
Sukuna points his glass at Suguru, calling him the only one who doesn't look like a “bleached mop.”
Choso chooses Bubbles for her rare social skills, and Toji picks Sukuna, admitting he likes a “challenge that barks back.”
Gojo and Suguru both point to Bubbles, the jasmine-scented glue holding their fractured shop together.
And you finally confess that you’ve been broken by Choso’s mysterious navel piercing.
The jokes thinned and the room deepened a shade. Toji spun an empty shot glass like a coin and let it wobble to a stop. “Alright,” he said, and his voice dropped into something almost gentle. “Let’s pay a price. Who here would sell their soul to fulfil a dream—and what’s the dream?”
Suguru answered first, the way he always did when courage was a group activity. “I already sold ‘normal,’” he said, soft and even. “Gave it away to keep this shop—this family—under one roof. I’d trade whatever’s left for a city where people like us don’t have to explain we’re safe before we’ve said our names.”
Sukuna watched him with that rare, silent respect he pretended he didn’t have. “A king’s answer,” he muttered, then confessed he’d bargain for absolute clarity, the kind that burns fog off a coastline. “And if I met the devil,” he added dryly, “I’d probably eat him.”
Gojo laughed, but it came out hollow around the edges. “Reset button,” he said, staring into his glass like it might offer a replay. “Just… a quiet room and no expectations.”
Toji shrugged like the room had asked him about the weather. “I traded survival for the idea of a soul a long time ago,” he said. “Dream’s simple. Make sure none of you have to do the same trade.”
It was now your turn; you grasp on the glass stronger this time. “I’d sell my soul to the certainty that all of you are actually feeling good, and safe, that’s what I’ve tried to do with the shop”
They pivoted back to air. It’s how families survive the heavy parts, they bob, then breathe.
Gojo pitched a ridiculous hypothetical about animal battles; strategies were declared with the kind of seriousness that made Bubbles snort into her sleeve. They debated who would get eaten in a zombie apocalypse (Gojo willingly volunteered as tribute for anything shiny; Choso was deemed too polite; Sukuna, insulted, insisted he would out‑strategize the undead). They picked voices they’d borrow for a day and immediately roasted each other with them. Someone laughed so hard a coaster flew; someone else caught it like a magician.
Suguru tipped his chin and the mood shifted again, just enough to show bone. “If we’re airing out souls,” he said, “first kiss disasters. Don’t lie. I’ll know.”
Gojo went first because he always went first when the room needed someone to jump.
"I was fifteen. I was obsessed with my own reflection in a shop window. This girl, bless her heart, thought I was looking at her. She leaned in, and I was so startled I accidentally headbutted her. We both ended up with bloody noses. It wasn't a kiss; it was a crime scene."
You giggled, hiding your face in Sukuna's shoulder. “ Mine was behind a rival tattoo shop. It tasted like cheap peppermint soap and rose incense. I was so nervous I forgot how to breathe and ended up giggling maniacally right into her face. She never called me back. I don't blame her, though."
“ Her”… Gojo remarked the pronoun. “You’re bisexual? “Gojo exclaimed way too shocked with the new information.
“Always been and will always be” you said solemnly as you raised your cup.
“Cheers to that” Toji raised his glass back and so did the rest of the group.
Choso stares at his glass, his voice a low rumble. "A library. I was trying to study anatomy ironic, I know. She leaned over a stack of medical journals. I was so awkward and clinical about it, I actually told her she had excellent facial symmetry mid-press. The silence that followed was louder than any scream."
Toji snorts, spinning his glass. "Back of a truck during a warehouse rave. Pure chaos. I didn't even know her name, and halfway through, the truck hit a massive pothole. I nearly bit my tongue off. I spent the rest of the night bleeding into a Solo cup while she danced to techno."
Sukuna growls, a smirk playing on his lips. "A tactical error. I was young, loud, and thought I knew everything. I tried to make it a 'moment', the rain, the dramatic porch light. I leaned in with so much confidence I slipped on a wet leaf and took us both down into a rose bush. I spent the next hour picking thorns out of my backside while she laughed herself sick."
Suguru sighs, shaking his head. "A summer storm under a bridge. It was actually going perfectly—very cinematic, very soft—until Satoru appeared out of nowhere on a bicycle, screaming that he found a legendary Pokémon. The mood didn't just die…”
“It was murdered.” Gojo pointed at himself, unapologetic.
Then the tone shifts. Suguru doesn’t announce it — he just sharpens the blade.
“Truth or shot,” he says to you.
“Truth.”
“Who do you think is the hottest person here.”
You don’t even pause. “Me.”
The room explodes.
Gojo shrieks. “AS YOU SHOULD.”
Choso chokes on his drink.
Sukuna’s laugh is low, surprised.
Toji looks you up and down, then smirks. “That’s why Sukuna likes you.”
Your cheeks burn. Sukuna doesn’t deny it.
The conversation shifts naturally from the lips to the skin. Being the best artist in the city comes with a history of terrible mistakes, usually on themselves or each other.
"Who's the winner of the worst ink?" Gojo asks, poking at Suguru’s ribs.
Suguru pulls up his sleeve to reveal a tiny, faded squiggle on his inner wrist. "A 'minimalist' bird Satoru tried to give me when we were seventeen and drunk on stolen wine. It looks like a sentient eyebrow. I refuse to cover it up because it reminds me never to let him near a needle after midnight."
Sukuna scoffs, shifting his weight. "I have a 'Live, Laugh, Love' script on my inner thigh. Choso did it as a bet. He used the most aggressive, gothic font possible so it looks like a threat from a medieval warlord. I hate that I actually like the linework."
Toji shrugs, unbothered. "I have a realistic portrait of a ham sandwich on my calf. Why? Because I was hungry, and Choso wanted to practice his shading. It’s the most well-rendered deli meat in the tri-state area."
Choso looks down at his own hand. "Before the shop even existed, I let Bubbles tattoo a 'smiley face' on my ribs. She was so excited that she gave it three eyes by accident. Now I just tell people it’s a 'cosmic entity,' but we all know it’s just a mutant emoji."
And you blushed, pointing to a small, hidden spot on her ankle. "I have a tiny smiley tag on my left toe, but now its fading.”
Gojo finishes the round by lifting his shirt to reveal a "No Regrets" banner across his ribs—spelled exactly like that, but with the 'g' missing. "I did it myself in a mirror. 'No Recrets.' It’s a lifestyle, honestly."
“Let’s escalate,” Gojo says, kicking his long legs. “In this circle of degenerate love, who’s your ‘Free Pass’? The one person your partner would actually let you ruin your life with for a night, no questions asked.”
You don’t hesitate, pointing at Choso. “He’s got that ‘I’ll read you poetry while I dismantle your soul’ vibe. Sukuna wouldn’t even be mad; he’d probably just ask for notes on the technique.”
Sukuna snorts, a low, guttural sound. He leans back; his arm draped heavily over your shoulders. “I wouldn’t need notes. But she’s right. If it’s Choso, it’s basically a medical procedure. I’d allow it. My pass? Suguru. The man is a masterpiece of repressed chaos. It’s a mercy kill.”
Suguru raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m honoured, Sukuna. My pass? Bubbles. Obviously. She’s the only one who can handle my focus without getting bored. Satoru knows she’s the only person I’d actually listen to in the dark.”
Toji grunts. “None of you. But if I had to pick a disaster to ride out? Sukuna. We’d burn the city down and be home by dawn. My partner knows I like a hunt.”
“What’s your guilty indulgence nobody would expect?” Gojo asked.
“I like learning linguistics” you confessed as you took a sip from your drink.
“Nerd” Gojo scoffed as he muffled it with a fake cough. “I like reading true crime blogs at 3.AM.”
“Psycho” you retorted with a dangerous smirk.
“Rewatching old Disney movies.” Choso added as he shrugged his shoulders.
“Hoarding vintage pictures, no pattern.” Toji confessed.
“My books must be alphabetical but organized by genre” Sukuna added, glancing at Choso’s library which was too unorganized for his liking.
“I like organizing the flash sheets by symmetry” Suguru added.
“Of course he does” Gojo said as he kissed his boyfriend’s forehead.
The room stills.
“Partners not included,” Suguru starts “Everyone answers.”
No one laughs this time.
“With whom would you have a threesome.” The question dropped heavy on the room, but you were all too drunk and too curious to know each other’s answers, so you all answered.
“Choso and Gojo. Choso for precision, Gojo because he’d eat it just right.” You said too fast with too much confidence, as your words slurred together for the alcohol. Sukuna’s jaw tightens, not angry, in awareness
Choso’s face went paler than usual, knowing what those words meant, but you were too drunk to notice, and Gojo’s chuckle was heard in the whole building.
“So, you say wanna try out that tongue piercing, don’t ya?” He winks at you as he smirks in that annoying way that screams “I know I’m hot”. But before Sukuna could even scold him or make a scene Suguru answered his own question.
“Bubbles and Sukuna. The heart and will of the shop, educational purposes actually or maybe Gojo and Sukuna it would be too hot.
Toji nodded in agreement to the last statement
Silence. Dense. Charged.
Sukuna exhales through his nose. “Bold.”
“But honest,” Suguru replies.
“I know we said no partners allowed but Bubbles and Suguru, would be a dream, imagine a magical princess and the calm anchor of the shop” Gojo confessed, his eyes glimmery with something else.
Suguru looks away. Doesn’t deny it.
You laughed nervously drifting your gaze to the pots with different types of plants.
“I’d watch Sukuna and Bubbles while Choso directs, it would be explosive, obviously a mess. A religious experience.” Toji said, making Suguru nod in approval.
“Jesus Christ” Choso whispered, his pink cheeks betraying him.
“ I think…” Sukuna’s eyes drifted to the room “Suguru and Toji, Control and Competence.” Sukuna confessed for everyone’s surprise.
Your eyes drifted to Choso who had lifted an eyebrow in surprise.
“Bet you want us, pretty boy” Toji winked at him, playfully. And Sukuna’s hand tightened in your waist, pink cheeks betraying him.
“And you?” Gojo asked looking at Choso, whose attention was on his cup. “ Toji and Bubbles or Bubbles and Suguru, Fire and passion or energy and calmness, I don’t know, I think it could be fun” he said softly as his glance drifted between you and Suguru. No shame. No apology. Just truth.
“Lots of foreplay, guaranteed” Gojo added with a wink.
The room doesn’t explode as anyone would have thought, instead it settles.
“Okay, now something lighter” Gojo started, as he clapped his hands excitedly breaking the moment. “Who is more prone into turn into a cult leader?”
Everyone’s finger lifts at the same time and lands squarely on Suguru Geto.
Sukuna doesn’t even bother hiding the accusation. “Mediator,” he mutters, tipping his chin at him. “Makes us all obey without raising his voice.”
You exhale a laugh that melts into the warm haze of the room. “Please. We’re already in his cult. It’s called Red Star Tattoos.”
Suguru only lifts his glass, serene, like he’s accepting an honorary title he absolutely deserves.
At some point the drinks turned to honey in their veins and the filters dissolved entirely. The floor looked like a game board of discarded coasters and inside jokes. Twinkle, who had smuggled herself into the party through a hoodie, clicked her new pendant once and went to sleep on a folded sweatshirt like a tiny white judge.
Now, out of nowhere asks the worst one yet. “ Final question, who here have you loved in a way that wasn’t romantic.”
“I think that friendship means being in love with each other” Gojo said softly, his palm resting on Suguru’s hand.
“Yeah, I agree. I think it’s the purest form of love” you added.
“Right. No expectations, nothing to get in return” Suguru said.
“We choose to stay for each other; we choose to care” Toji added
“So, everyone” Sukuna ended up answering the question.
And the realization hits all at once. That this is love. Messy, plural, chosen.
The drift came quiet. Gojo sprawled across the rug as if claiming the room by surface area alone, one arm flung watchman‑style over his face. Toji slid lower on the wall until his shoulder found Choso’s; the piercer tilted just enough to make it intentional. Bubbles felt Sukuna’s palm settle warm against the side of her neck, his thumb drawing small, patient circles, as if inventorying the place her pulse lived. Suguru looked at them all like the storm he kept watch over had finally agreed to sleep.
“We’re a disaster,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Gojo mumbled from the floor without opening his eyes. “But we’re our disaster.”
In Choso’s silent temple, the misfits rested, unguarded, unarmoured, whole in the way you only are when you’ve told on yourselves and been loved anyway. The incense burned down to a stubborn ember. The night exhaled. No one said goodnight. No one had to. They were too drunk. Too honest. Too bound together by something that doesn’t need rules to survive. Friendship — the purest, most dangerous kind of love.
The late‑afternoon sun hit the “Closed” sign at Red Star Tattoos, casting long shadows across the studio floor. The smell of green tea lingered warm in the air, mixing with sandalwood and the soft hum of Sukuna’s machine. Twinkles slept in her usual spot, curled into a perfect, judgmental marshmallow on Sukuna’s station.
It should’ve been peaceful, but of course, it wasn’t.
The front door didn’t just chime, it exploded open — boot first.
Satoru yelped on his seat, almost knocking over his station.
Twinkles opened one eye in offense.
Suguru didn’t even turn.
And Sukuna… didn’t flinch.
A man strutted inside wearing a battered leather vest from a rival studio. He walked like he’d invented arrogance, chewing gum obnoxiously as he scanned the shop.
His gaze caught the NO CREEPS sign.
He laughed.
“Cute,” he sneered. “Real cute. Looks more like a daycare than a studio. Must be true what they’re saying. The ‘King’ of Red Star’s gone soft.”
Sukuna kept tattooing.
Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe differently.
“Three seconds to explain why you’re in my building,” he muttered, voice low enough to vibrate the floor. “Then I break your legs equally so they match.”
The man grinned wide.
“I’m here to challenge you,” he said, spreading his arms. “But honestly? I’ll take any of you.”
He stepped forward, chin lifted with obnoxious pride.
“So tell me…” He spun around dramatically. “Who’s gonna try to beat me?”“Who’s brave enough? Huh?”
Suguru finally looked up, dead‑eyed. “This is going to be embarrassing.”
But the intruder wasn’t done. “One‑on‑one. Cleanest linework on silicone skin. Winner keeps their dignity. Loser takes down that ridiculous sign,” he pointed at Twinkles’ corner, “and admits this shop is a joke.”
Twinkles hissed.
Sukuna stood.
All six‑plus‑feet of tattooed authority rose like a storm behind the station. He crossed the room in three calm strides, resting one large hand around your shoulder in a protective sweep.
“Fine,” he growled. “But you don’t pick me. You pick any artist here. You lose? You never come near this block again.”
The intruder scoffed, scanning the room, and then, his eyes landed on Choso.
Choso, sitting calmly at the piercing station, sorting titanium jewellery, hair tied back, quiet as a temple statue.
“That one,” the intruder said with a smirk. “The piercer. He looks soft. Like he hasn’t held a machine in years, I doubt he is even good anymore.”
You saw Satoru flinch.
Suguru’s spine straightened just slightly, a tell.
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed.
But before anyone could speak, Choso stood.
slowly, quietly. With that eerie calm that meant someone was about to die of humiliation or stupidity.
He walked forward, gloves snapping on as he passed Sukuna, voice dropping into a smooth, cold rasp: “What’s wrong?” He tilted his head.
“Afraid to lose to a piercer?”
The room froze.
Suguru whispered, “Oh no.”
Satoru whispered, “Oh YES— but also oh NO—”
The intruder bristled. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Choso’s lips curled into the smallest, cruellest hint of a smile.
“That’s unfortunate,” he murmured, “for you.”
The timer started.
The intruder attacked his silicone skin like a man charging into battle, fast, sloppy, breathing hard.
Choso was a different universe, he held the machine like a surgeon holds a scalpel — straight, effortless, steady. His strokes sank into the silicone at flawless depth. He wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t sweating. Wasn’t even blinking, he was just breathing, slow, controlled, precise.
Satoru was gripping Suguru’s arm, and Suguru was gripping Satoru’s face to keep him quiet.
When the timer beeped, both sheets were pinned to the Wall of Fame.
The intruder’s: Good. Passable. Shaky edges.
Choso’s: A damn hyper- realist flower print, sharp, elegant, balanced.
Clean gradients, clean line weight, flawless composition.
The shop exhaled.
The intruder didn’t. “How…?” he sputtered. “How the hell— you’re just a piercer!” he said dismissively.
Choso set the machine down with exact, surgical grace.
“I am a piercer,” he agreed calmly. “Which means I understand precision. Steel. Depth. Angles.”
He stepped in close. “And I was trained by someone much better than you.”
Sukuna moved behind him like a shadow forming into shape. Their matching star tattoos glinted under the lights.
“You came into the wrong shop,” Sukuna growled, pointing at the door. “Now—get out. Before I let Bubbles here,” he nodded at you, “give you a tattoo on your forehead.”
The man scrambled out so fast the door bounced behind him.
The shop was silent for two beats.
Then, Satoru shrieked. “Choso! Our secret weapon! Our silent sniper! Our technical god in disguise!”
Suguru sighed, smiling into his palm.
You leaned into Sukuna’s side, his arm tightening in approval he’d never say out loud.
Twinkles hopped onto Choso’s foot like a blessing.
And the shop, loud, chaotic, full of idiots and loyalty and steel, felt safer, stronger, and more whole than ever.
By Monday morning, the sandalwood incense hanging in the shop felt heavier than usual — not ominous, just… judgmental. Mostly because the silicone practice nose still sat on the counter like a passive‑aggressive shrine to Gojo’s previous failure. Choso had placed it there with intention. Gojo, for once, didn’t argue.
With his sunglasses folded neatly beside the sterilization tray, Satoru stood over the mannequin torso like he was staring down a final exam. He even looked focused — genuinely focused — which was frankly unsettling.
“You know,” Suguru said from the couch, flipping a page with the confidence of someone who has never once failed a task in his life, “last time we did this, Bubbles got the placement perfect. No theatrics. No screaming. No attempts at interpretive dance.”
You blinked, heat gathering at your cheeks as every head turned toward you. You gave a little shrug, shy but smug.
Gojo pointed at you immediately.
“THAT—” he announced, “was sabotage. I was robbed of my artistic moment. Robbed!”
“You were flirting with the Wi‑Fi router, Satoru,” you reminded him gently. “I warned you it wasn’t a person.”
Choso didn’t even sigh. He simply rotated the mannequin two centimetres, placed his gloved hands behind his back, and said:
“Resume mapping.”
Gojo obeyed like an emotionally unstable soldier.
To everyone’s genuine shock, he measured twice, breathed once, and guided the needle through with a steady precision that made even Choso pause. Then Choso nodded — actually nodded — which in Choso‑language was equivalent to a standing ovation.
Suguru stood, gliding over like he was walking toward the climax of a romance movie. Then, without breaking eye contact with Gojo, he unbuttoned his shirt just enough to reveal his abdomen.
“I volunteer,” he said softly, like the scene needed lighting and soft background music.
You nearly dropped your gloves.
Gojo choked on his own spit. “This— THIS IS REAL??”
“This one’s ours,” Suguru murmured, and Gojo almost sat down on the floor.
Under Choso’s watchful eye, Gojo prepped the skin and pierced with the kind of careful reverence he usually saved for dramatic monologues. Suguru laughed — a soft, warm sound — and that was it. Gojo fully transcended.
When the first client tipped him generously for his “good hands,” Satoru stared at the money jar like fate itself had kissed him on the forehead.
And then, Sukuna decided he had suffered enough.
“If that bleached mop and the monk are getting one,” he growled from his station, “I’m not being left behind.”
He stalked over, placing a large hand on your waist with enough stubbornness to power the whole building.
“Bubbles,” he muttered, ears pink, “do mine. And don’t you dare make it minimalist.”
You snorted. “You wouldn’t survive minimalist.”
He glared, which meant he agreed.
He sat in the piercing chair like a king reluctantly accepting a crown. While you prepped the area, his hand stayed latched to your hip — not stopping you, just… grounding himself in a very Sukuna way.
The piercing went beautifully. He didn’t flinch, didn’t curse, didn’t even breathe too aggressively — just watched you the entire time like you were the only steady thing in the room.
“That’s one,” Choso announced, because— Toji had just entered the shop.
His boots hit the floor with that signature thud that suggested structural damage. Sukuna jabbed a finger toward him instantly.
“You. Legacy. Belly button. Now.”
Toji raised a brow. “Legacy? That what we’re calling peer pressure these days?”
Choso, prepping a tray of titanium barbells, didn’t look up.
“You can call it legacy,” he said, voice velvet and lethal, “but we all know you just wanted an excuse to see his abs.”
The shop imploded.
Gojo screamed. Suguru covered his mouth to hide a smile. Toji smirked directly at Sukuna like he was five seconds from causing chaos.
Sukuna turned a violent shade of pink. “I— THAT’S — WOULD YOU— STOP TALKING!”
And then Toji stretched, arms over his head, shirt lifting just enough to show the perfect canvas of his abdomen.
“You piercing, or staring, boss?” Toji asked, all faux innocence.
Sukuna sputtered. You nearly ascended.
And then Toji said the words that rewired the entire day: “Actually… Bubbles should go next.”
The shop went silent.
“Me?” you squeaked.
“Yeah,” Toji said with a shrug. “If it’s matching, you’re the one who started the trend.”
Sukuna made a noise somewhere between a growl and a dying appliance.
You took the chair. And this time, Sukuna did the prep, slow, precise, uncharacteristically gentle. His hands were steady, his eyes sharper than any of his machines. When he pierced your belly button, he barely breathed, like the entire world needed to hold still for it to sit perfectly. When he was done, he whispered, just loud enough for you:
“Good. It fits you.”
Your brain short‑circuited.
Which was the perfect moment for Choso to tap Toji’s shoulder.
“You’re up.”
Toji stretched out on the chair like it was a sun lounger, hands behind his head. “This better be symmetrical,” he warned.
Choso’s deadpan was immaculate.
“I don’t mess up symmetry.”
The piercing was clean, flawless, fast, Choso’s artistry at its peak.
Gojo applauded. Suguru nodded with quiet pride. Sukuna grumbled something about “show‑offs,” but never let go of your hand.
And just like that, Red Star’s Unofficial Heavy‑Hitter Belly‑Button Club was born.
