[ content: crazy!reader, fluff (?), rage baiting sukuna, #makehispocketshurt, for my cutie pie @indiewritesxoxo think of this as a love letter ]
Most people never understood your relationship with Sukuna.
For the most part, you were a friendly, upbeat person—talking to strangers in line at the grocery store, talking up the baristas making your coffee orders, sharing recipes with call center agents when the call got too long.
Then there’s the big grumpy man that’s always standing right behind you, and he never fails to look miserable when doing so. Strangers will try to speak to him and he’ll either grunt in response or just pretend to not hear them at all. Same goes for baristas. The last time he spoke with customer service through the phone, the agent started the call off by saying they hoped he was having a good day so far—Sukuna got annoyed and grumbled, “no you fucking don’t,” in hopes that they’d stop with the pleasantries.
Overall, he’s just kind of a dick. They look at you and immediately think of some horrific scenario like Sukuna yelling at you for not having dinner done by the time he got home.
That brings them to the question: how do you two even get along?
And your answer to that is: you kinda don't.
But that's okay! You knew what you were signing up for and you don't regret it one bit. You love him, and you love making him angry. It's so easy, too. Who needs therapy when you can just stress him out? Exactly.
So you sent the text.
[You]: are you fucking serious right now? i had to find out from HER?
[My Husband 🥰]: what are you talking about?
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
[My Husband 🥰]: babe pick up the phone
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
[My Husband 🥰]: what the fuck are you even talking about? find out WHAT???
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
[My Husband 🥰]: BABE
[My Husband 🥰]: PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
Missed call from My Husband 🥰
The only reason why the phone calls stopped was because you blocked him, but he would’ve kept calling until his phone died. It’s happened before.
Soon you get a Zelle notification.
R. Sukuna has sent you $200.00.
Memo: unblock me.
You sent R. Sukuna $20.00.
Memo: you can keep your fucking money
R. Sukuna has sent you $20.00.
Memo: you can’t just tell me to keep my money but then pocket more than half of it. and what the fuck am i gonna do with 20 dollars??
You sent R. Sukuna $2.00.
Memo: and now you have 2, see what happens when you don’t appreciate what you have?
R. Sukuna has sent you $2.00.
Memo: what the fuck does that even mean?? can you just unblock me already?
You sent R. Sukuna $0.50.
Memo: no
R. Sukuna has sent you $100.00.
Memo: JESUS FUCKJNGCHRIST UNBLOCK ME
You sent R. Sukuna $0.01.
Memo: NO
You sent R. Sukuna $0.01.
Memo: we’re out of sugar and creamer btw don’t forget to grab some on your way home
hi! no, the app i use (memi message) has chatbots as well as the option to create your own texts. the warning that comes at the bottom when you make your own texts is by default and i cant remove it. i absolutely do not condone the usage of ai in writing or any other form of art, so i would absolutely never use it to create anything i put out! hope this clears it out <3
cw: MDNI, cursing, suggestiveness, reader refers to themselves as "mamas".
a/n: sukuna lowkey pathetic. like. stand up boy. also, i dont know if people didn't see my post stating taglist is closed and me mentioning in the previous post as well that it's closed, but so many of y'all flooded the notes asking to be added😭 i'm so sorry that i haven't been able to, because its been closed this entire time💔 anywaysss
Buried deep in the guts of a grueling engine overhaul, Sukuna has lost all sense of time. Right now, he's wedged halfway under a lifted sedan, sprawled out on a rolling creeper with only his massive boots jutting out from beneath the bumper. Low, gravelly curses rumble from somewhere under the car as he wrestles with a bolt so rusted it might as well be welded in place.
Easing through the side door, you catch it with your hip, making sure it shuts quietly behind you, unwilling to tip off your husband just yet. One hand clutches a brown paper bag heavy with takeout from his favorite burger place, while the other grips an ice-cold drink that beads condensation onto your fingers. Without a word, you tuck both out of sight on the bottom shelf of a rolling tool cart, careful not to let even the smallest sound give you away.
Showing up in your nice clothes was never an option. You know him far too well for that. If you’d walked in wearing something fresh, his stubborn streak would have kicked in, and he’d have spent the whole visit keeping his hands to himself, too worried about getting grease on your outfit. So you planned ahead, pulling on a pair of faded, soft sweatpants and one of his old, oversized graphic tees that had long since been retired from his wardrobe. The message couldn't be any clearer if you'd said it out loud.
Navigating the concrete floor as quietly as you can, you weave past stacks of heavy tires and loose equipment until you reach the front of the sedan. Dropping into a low crouch beside the front wheel well, you lean down to peer beneath the chassis, trying to catch a glimpse of him.
"Need a hand down there, mechanic?" you call out, grinning with way too much energy.
At the sound of your voice cutting through the space, the frantic scraping of his wrench stops cold. A socket clatters onto the concrete somewhere beneath the car, and with a sharp, impatient shove of his boots, Sukuna rolls out from beneath the car and sits up, eyes already searching for you.
His heavy canvas coveralls are peeled down to his waist, with the sleeves knotted carelessly in front, a concession to the thick summer heat. What's left is just a dark ribbed tank top clinging to his broad chest, leaving the ink across his arms and shoulders on full display. Sweat beads along his skin, catching the light, while grease smears his forearms and a bold streak of grime slices across the sharp line of his jaw.
The moment his eyes find your face, every trace of irritation from that stubborn bolt disappears. A wide grin splits his mouth, and his gaze immediately drops to the soft collar of his old shirt slipping off your shoulder before settling on your sweats. As he takes you in, he realizes exactly what you've done, and his smirk turns wicked, thoroughly pleased.
Without hesitation or bothering to wipe his hands clean, he catches you by the waist in one effortless, powerful sweep of his arms. Grease-stained fingers dig into your sweats, rough and insistent, and with a sudden, needy tug, he pulls you straight down to him. A startled gasp escapes as you tumble, landing hard and ungraceful, sprawled right across his lap.
"Sukuna!" you laugh, swatting at his bare shoulder, though you instantly wrap your arms around his neck anyway.
His grip on your waist tightens, drawing you in until his racing heartbeat hammers against your ribs. He leans in, crashing his mouth into yours in a kiss that leaves you breathless and reeling. Rough stubble scrapes your jaw as he tilts your head, deepening the kiss and holding you as if he’s been starved for weeks. His large, calloused hand slips beneath your shirt, tracing a slow path up your spine until it settles warm and heavy against the nape of your neck.
“Didn't know you were coming, angel," he rasps after he finally pulls back, just barely, a helpless grin tugging at his mouth as his thumb traces a streak of black grease along your collarbone. “Fuck—needed this," he murmurs, closing the distance again to peck your lips before letting his forehead rest against yours.
You laugh brightly, eyes crinkling as you tip your head back, fingertips absently gliding over the tattooed circles on Sukuna’s right shoulder as you settle comfortably across his lap, letting him feel every bit of your joy.
His eyes drop to where his arm has shoved the hem of your shirt up, leaving a broad strip of your waist bare, and a low, drawn-out groan rumbles from deep in his chest at the sight.
"Ruined your shirt, by the way," he purrs, not even bothering to lift his gaze from your exposed skin.
"It's your shirt," you point out, fingers of your free hand toying with the ends of his hair as you shake your head at your hopeless husband. "And I wore it on purpose."
Another quiet, utterly pleased sound rumbles low in his chest as his free hand wanders lower, slipping beneath your shirt from the other side, his thumb absently brushing along your waist.
Only then does he finally drag his eyes back to your face, and whatever smug amusement had been there melts away. His chest rises with a slow, shaky breath as he just stares at your smiling face, completely undone by you wearing his old clothes just so he wouldn't have to think twice about wrapping his grimy hands around you.
His grip on your waist tightens, but then his eyes drift past your shoulder, catching sight of the brown paper bag and the drink resting on the bottom shelf of the cart. A loud, dramatic groan escapes him as his head falls back against the sedan's front wheel well, gratitude written all over his face.
"Tell me that's food," he groans, his stomach growling on cue. "Please tell me you brought me something. I haven't had a damn second to eat all day. I'm about five minutes away from eating a customer."
"Yeah, I figured," you laugh. "You're impossible when you're hungry."
Sukuna stretches out one long arm, tearing eagerly into the top of the paper bag. The scent of burgers hits the air, but then he catches sight of his own hands—palms nearly black, grease caked under his fingernails and smeared across his knuckles. He lets out a defeated, annoyed sigh, tossing the crumpled top of the bag back onto the cart. His hands drift back to your waist, giving you one last firm squeeze before he gets ready to hoist you to your feet.
"Hold up a sec, angel," he mutters, slouching in exhaustion. "Gotta wash this shit off before I get it all over the food."
"No, you don't," you cut in with a knowing smile, batting his hands away from your hips before he can push you off his lap.
Surprise flickers across Sukuna's face as you twist to the side and your clean hands dive into the bag, fishing out his massive double smashburger. Peeling back the last layer of paper, you fold it neatly beneath your fingers and hold the hot, juicy burger well out of reach of his dirty hands before offering it to his mouth.
"Bite," you command softly, unable to hide your triumphant grin.
For a moment, Sukuna just stares, crimson eyes going wide before a slow, helpless grin tugs at his mouth. The deep, gravelly chuckle that follows rumbles straight through your lap, shaking you with its force, rich with affection as he lets you take care of him. For once, he doesn’t argue or posture—he just leans in, jaws closing around the burger as he takes a massive bite, satisfaction written all over his face.
Chewing, he wraps those thick arms loosely around your waist, settling you more comfortably against him. A deep, contented hum vibrates against your neck, his whole body melting under your hands.
While he works through that bite, you pull a few hot, salty fries from the bag and pop them into his mouth one by one. Sukuna takes them eagerly, his rough tongue grazing your fingertips as his gaze locks on yours, the heat making your chest ache and swell all at once.
One of his hands reluctantly leaves your waist to reach for the drink on the cart, and he takes a long, slow sip, his throat working as he swallows.
"You're too damn good to me," he mumbles against your fingers, voice going all soft as he sets the cup back down. "Seriously."
"Oh, I know," you say with a tiny, pleased smile, reaching into the bottom of the bag to pull out your own burger and peel back the wrapper. "I wasn't going to make you eat alone."
A low, deeply contented rumble escapes Sukuna as he waits patiently for you to offer up his next bite. The radio hums somewhere in the background, the shop floor still as dirty as ever, but neither of you pays it any mind. Sitting in the middle of the bay, sharing burgers and fries while tucked comfortably in his lap, feels so wonderfully, perfectly normal that neither of you has any intention of moving anytime soon.
a/n: so, this is a little thank you drabble for @aenn00 for supporting me from the start <3 thank you so, so much!
Not a day has gone by without him feeling guilt, and you were doing your part by creating further disparity. Your husband can't take more of the distance.
Words: 3.03k
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It was two days after Sukuna's arrival. It is the late afternoon and you were in the library. The sun will begin to set soon, and the shadows were slowly spreading over the desk.
The ledgers were all sprawled across the desk like a map during a battlefield. Having them opened in disarray had already spiked your frustration, but what really fuelled it was the man who was present with you, eager to re-establish his presence.
"The expenditure here is inefficient, my dear." He pointed to a row of figures, his voice smooth. You took note of his hand, a lot larger than yours, fingers lengthy and thick.
You did not look up, but your lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. "If you account for the seasonal rainfall patterns I’ve tracked for the last three years, the current expenditure is the only way to ensure the harvest remains stable, dear husband. Unless you want to lose the yield." You were already there with a counter-argument that was more precise, not letting him outsmart you. You may have many weaknesses, but nobody could outclass you when it came to basic mathetmatics — as if you hadn't already double-checked all the calculations.
Then, slowly, you looked up, your eyes challenging him. He was standing too close, you soon realised, leaning over your shoulder to have a look at the page.
He could smell the faint scent of old paper on your skin, and you could smell the strong scent of scandalwood all around you thanks to him hovering so close over you.
Sukuna gulped, feeling a sudden, sharp impulse to set the ledger aside and press his face into the curve of your neck, to stop you from bickering, to declare victory over the argument, to just feel you.
He stayed still, his broad body tense, hand hovering near where yours was on the desk. He did not touch you, he would not dare. He did, however let his fingers linger in that space just inches from yours. You watched inquisitively, stilled by the mystery of where his hands would go from there.
"You have been very thorough," He murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
"It is my duty to be." You replied in a cool voice, waiting, breathing, anticipating.
The ticking of the clock felt louder in those seconds; tick, tick, another tick. You let tick five more times before shifting your hand away and turning back to the books. The escape was subtle, but it was absolute.
It left him standing there, the air around him feeling suddenly thin and cold.
"If you have concluded your trial, I would like to tidy up. The maids will soon bring tea." You spoke, monotonously, closing each ledger one by one with utmost care. Sukuna watched, experiencing a new degree of frustration.
═════════════════
A week after your husband's arrival, you two had been invited to the parish. As the primary patrons of it, you were expected to officially open the event, and partake in a few activities with the community.
It was the afternoon, and the air was heavy with the scent of all kinds of flowers, particularly lillies.
You smiled as you bent foward, handing out a prize to the little girl, around five years of age, for bring well-behaved at school.
"Smile, Your Grace," You slipped out while smiling, one that did not reach your eyes.
Sukuna had his arm hooked through yours as both of you walked among the local parishioners. Lady Shiro was hovering nearby, eyes like a hawk, waiting for a crack in your facade. She may be a thorn amongst the flowers, but her lady instincts were unfortunately, alarmingly accurate for feeling something amiss with your relationship.
"We need to be a portrait of domestic harmony." He muttered, his arm tightening onto your hold. The contact was purely physical for the crowd, but it burned through his coat sleeve.
"Then let us give them a good performance," You replied with a radiant smile. You leaned towards him, looking up with an expression that would seem like absolute adoration to any bystander. "Are you enjoying your return to the country, my lord? Or are you already planning your next departure?"
A low blow question, delivered with the sweetness of honey. Sukuna felt a surge of genuine anger, not at you though, but at himself, for creating this wall.
He stopped, forcing the both of you to stand together in the middle of the path.
"I am exactly where I intend to be," He stated, his voice hard as he locked eyes with you.
For a second, you felt the mask slip again. He noticed it, the look of hurt on your face as your gaze dropped. You gulped, pulling your arm from his very subtly. It was not enough for anyone to notice, but enough for him to feel the sudden jolt by your absence.
"Of course," You nodded, recovering that polite graceful tone with a soft smile. "We must ensure the parishioners are tended to. Shall we?"
═════════════════
It seemed that Lady Shiro was not done with her activities. When you thought you were being sly with your distance for the Duke, it went unnoticed by all, almost all.
The hawk-eyed lady with her bright pink gown and extensively laced hat did not overlook that matter. And seeing she had no valid basis to expand on her doubts, it made most sense to distrub you the very next day for trivial matter, to obviously cover her devious intentions of gaining intelligence upon the affairs happening within the walls of your estate.
She was at it again in your drawing room, her voice a thin condescending needle. She was questioning your management of the local charity funds, occasionally poking at your intelligence with an insincere smile.
To your lack of awareness, Sukuna was in the library at that moment, reading his Heian poetry when he lost enough patience to close his book shut and intrude on the disrespect. His fists was curled, counting down his patience and maintaing composure. A slip from him would be far too scandalous. Even for a pitiful lady like Shiro, his involvement could cause far more damage. It was not that he minded, but he knew you would never forgive him if he did what his heart wanted to do in that moment.
He was about to step out, not to react, but make his presence be known, when he stilled in his steps.
His gaze landed on you, sat upright. You did not blink, you did not look the slightest bit flustered. You looked bored.
"I appreciate your solicitude for the funds, Lady Shiro." Your voice dropped into that calm tone that made the room feel cold. Leaning forward slightly, you continued. "However, your assessment seems to rely on the outdated ledger. I have spent the last week auditing the current numbers. If you were to look at the actual figures, which I have most distinctly noted here, you would see that our surplus is the highest it has ever been."
You slid a paper across the table with a soft yet decisive thud. Lady Shiro faltered, her face reddening as she scanned the organized data.
There was no response.
Sukuna stayed back in the library, his heart thudding a loud rhythm against within him. He had intended to step in, but he realized that you hadn't needed saving at all.
He watched in awe, the way your eyes sparked with that sharp, beautiful intellect. The way you simply commanded respect without asking for it, all through your sheer competence. A surge of something raw and overwhelming — pride and desire — rushed through him.
His breath hitched. Good God, you are magnificent.
Duke Sukuna had been treating you like a fragile creature who needed his space for adjustment. In reality, you were the most discerning person in the room. He realized then that his distance hadn't just been a grave mistake, it was an insult.
═════════════════
It had almost been two weeks since your daring husband came back after tending to his matters. Additionally, it had been over a month since you wedded him, a month and a week to be precise. You weren't counting.
For Sukuna, his internal state was a lot like the storm that was currently active. It prowled around the estate. The wind was strong enough to twist the branches of the oak trees until they snapped and shrieked against the library glass. The sound set the Duke’s nerves on fire.
Thunder rolled, a low vibration that he felt in the soles of his boots. It was a suffocating. Every flash of lightning lit the room.
He was not able to sleep, his work in his study was suffering. All he did day and night was observe you.
He begins to notice tiny details: the way your quill pauses when he enters the room, the scent of your lavender soap lingering in the library, the way you avoid his eyes. He has become excessively attached to you from the distance.
You, likewise, were exhausted by the very wall you had created. Being polite and distant was hard work. It drained you, and all you wanted at times was to scream into the abyss and put an end to the conflict you had developed.
At times, you would catch yourself wanting to reach out for his arm. You find yourself reading in the library at night, specifically because you are aware he frequently visits it at that hour.
The wind hammered against the library glass. Inside, the room was brightened by flickering glow of a single lamp. Sukuna was sat in the wingback chair, his book on Heian poetry closed and ignored, his gaze fixed entirely on his wife.
It was late, and you were in a dressing gown. You should be less of a 'Duchess' and more the woman he fell in love with , yet he was unable to see the soft side of you.
You stood by the fireplace. You had been quiet all evening.
"You have not once cast a glance at me since dinner." He spoke up, his voice unusually low, rough.
You slowly turned with a guarded expression. You had the same polite mask you had been wearing since he returned. "I have been reading, Your Gr- dear. It is a quiet evening." You bit your lip.
"It is an evening of torment," He corrected you, his voice rising, a bit like the Duke-like cadence he had tried to maintain. He stood up, his movement sudden and almost predatory. He didn't approach you with the measured gait of a husband, instead Sukuna crossed the room with the frantic energy of a man who had reached his limit.
Stopping just short of you, just enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of his skin, enough for you to feel his scent — that had a strong mix of something barbaric — you felt your senses get overwhelmed.
"I have spent two weeks watching you." He murmured, his eyes searching yours with desperation. "I watched you destroy Lady Shino with a single sheet of paper. I watched you rule over this house with a grace that puts my own governance to shame. And I have spent every waking second of those two weeks hating myself for leaving, and hating myself even more for the distance I’ve kept since I returned."
You tried to step back, but his hand was faster, catching your arm with a soft yet desperate frip.
"Don't." He pleaded, his voice breaking. "For the love of God, do not walk away from me tonight."
"Why?" You breathed, feeling your composure break slowly. It came by at such a pace that you weren't aware of the shimmer in your eyes. Maybe it was the hurt you endured since your marriage. "You wanted space, did you not? You left me for a week to do as I pleased, and I have done exactly that. I have learned to endure your absence. Isn't that what you intended?"
"No!" The word ripped from his throat.
He looked at you, but his usual composure was completely obliterated. He looked terrified. "I left to demonstrate that I could fulfill my obligations, and I returned to find that my duty was here, in this room, with you. You think you’re so clever, acting like the dutiful, cold-blooded wife." He growled, a low rasp to his voice. "You’re torturing yourself, and I am quite done watching this pitiful performance of yours."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitching in a way that made your heart stop. "I am not a Duke tonight. I am a languid man sorely besotted with his wife. Tell me to leave, and I will go, and I shall never again set foot in your study. Yet, should you let me stay, should you declare you still desire my presence here…"
He did not conclude his sentence. There was no need to. In the sudden, deafening silence between the thunder, the air was so charged it felt electric. You did not pull away, you stood perfectly still, one arm in his hold while the other hand rested against his chest, feeling the uneven hammering of his heart.
"You speak of the freedom you left me." You whispered, voice barely steady. "I am capable. I am intelligent. I can manage the ledgers, the estate, and the silence of this house better than most men could. I pride myself on that strength, Sukuna. It is who I am." You looked up at him with searching eyes that were moist with tears you had refused to let fall.
"But there is a difference between being capable of surviving alone and wanting to be left alone." You continued with a trembling voice. "When you departed… I found no objection to the labour. It was the silence. I had imagined, in my foolishness, that marriage would be a partnership. It would be a place where my intellect would be met with affection, not just administrative delegation. I am not a solitary specie, Your Grace."
You felt his hands tighten on your arm, his touch a silent plea.
"I have spent two weeks watching you rule this house silently, untouchable." He hissed, his hand sliding down to your waist, thumb dragging harshly across, not with reverence, but with a bruising friction. "And each time your gaze passed through me rather than resting upon me, I longed to burn this entire library down just to compel you to acknowledge my presence."
You stared into his eyes, a blazing fire lit in them. You were aware of his fiery temper, feeling his heat prickling your skin. It was indeed Ryomen Sukuna. He was not a duke for nothing. Behind his composure and graceful strides lay a man of authority, and though it it should make you feel dread, it stirred something far more thrilling within you.
"Upon your return, I was not cold because my affections had subsided." You admitted, your voice dropping to a whisper. "It was because I was seized with a dreadful terror. I saw a man who felt obligated to me, not one who desired me. I deemed myself unworthy of something I most earnestly desired, which was your affection. I his behind my duties because it was the only way I knew how to protect myself from the realization that I may have married a man who never intended to lay eyes upon me."
A heavy, ragged sound escaped him — a mix of a sob and a growl. He pulled you closer, shocking you as his forehead dropped to your left shoulder, his hands clutching to your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him bound to his sanity.
"I never intended to make you feel unworthy," He breathed, his voice raw and hot against your neck. "I was a fool. I thought I was being noble in granting you distance. And I have been enduring the torment of every agonizing second you have been standing five feet from me."
He was tired of the elegant and polished words that had kept you apart from him. He was meeting his patience. Moving with brutal focus, he stepped into your space until your backside met the desk. He pinned you there with his frame, his breath ragged, uneven against your cheek now.
"I don't care for your ledgers!" He snarled, words thick with desperate hunger. "I don't care for your efficiency or fortitude. I desire the woman who has been yearning to scream at me for the past month. I desire you — not the Duchess, but my wife who has been staring at me, awaiting the moment I should finally lose my reason."
A flush climbed up your neck, feeling hot as every word escpaing his mouth kissed your skin heavy.
Your trembling hands raised up to grip his coat, your knuckles turning white as you anchored yourself to him. The logic and carefully curated distance meant nothing now. You didn't just want him; you needed him to be as unhinged as you were. A choked, breathless sound escaped your lips, a mix of relief and an aching.
He lifted his head, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that burned. "I don’t want a stewardess for my estate. I want the woman who makes me feel, for the first time in my life, that I am not just a title, but a man."
He pressed his palm against your cheek, his thumb tracing a line across your jaw. "I am warning you, do not make me live another day in this house without knowing that I am yours."
The man who had been pacing like a caged animal mere moments ago now moved with a deliberate slowness to his moves. He kept his palm pressed against your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip, as if he were memorizing you.
You leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. All the anger, the administrative efficiency, and the pride you had armored yourself with dissolved away. Instead, there was now an aching, raw relief. You was tired of being strong.
He finally leaned down, pausing a breath away from you, a silent question hovering in the space between you two.
You did not wait. You reached up, fingers threading into the peachy hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him the final inch.
At first, It was a gentle pressure of lips that had been denied each other for far too long. He kissed you with a way that felt like worship, his mouth moving against yours with a slow, agonizing tenderness. That gentleness barely lasted a second.
He then kissed you with an aching desperation, his hands roaming over you with a heavy, possessive roughness that demanded you feel every ounce of the torment he’d been through. It was a kiss that was meant to punish you for the distance and simultaneously beg you for relief.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound of surrender, pressing you harder into the desk until your legs gave out and he was forced to catch your weight. There was no softness, just the suffocating and electrifying realisation that he had finally stopped playing the game. He was done with the distance, and he was taking what was his.
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Shall we... take it a base further? :O
(Thank you Merriam Webster and Thesaurus dot com, I owe you so much istg.)
warnings // 18+ only!, smut, f. recieving oral, toxic relationship, daddy used once, sukuna is a bit agressive
word count: 4.9k
author's note: part two is ooout
part two |
You spotted his car before you even made it to the front door.
Parked along the curb beneath a streetlight, clean and familiar.
Good.
That meant he was already here.
The music from the frat house rattled the pavement beneath your heels as you stepped out of the Uber, smoothing your hands down the sides of your outfit before glancing at your reflection in the dark window of his car.
You'd spent nearly two hours getting ready for tonight, and not because you were excited about the party.
No.
You were here because your ex was.
Petty? Maybe.
But after two months of watching him parade around campus with his new ‘girlfriend’ like the last two years had never happened, you felt entitled to a little pettiness.
The front lawn was already packed with people. Music poured from the house through open windows and the constantly swinging front door while groups of students crowded the porch with drinks in hand. Laughter drifted across the yard, mixing with the smell of alcohol, weed, and cigarette smoke lingering in the warm night air.
You looked toward his car one more time before lifting your chin.
Tonight was about making sure he regretted it.
You weave your way through the crowded side yard, careful not to twist an ankle on the uneven gravel. The deeper you move into the party, the louder everything becomes.
Music blasts from speakers somewhere near the house, vibrating through your chest while groups of people crowd around folding tables and lawn chairs scattered across the backyard. Strings of lights hang overhead, casting a warm glow across the sea of students packed shoulder to shoulder.
Your eyes immediately begin searching for a familiar head of pink hair.
When you finally spot him, you nearly laugh.
Of course.
You watch Sukuna as his arm candy practically hangs off him, clinging to his bicep like she paid for the privilege. He stands at the end of a long table watching a group of underclassmen frantically play flip cup.
Empty cans and half-finished drinks clutter every inch of the table, and judging by the way everyone around them is yelling, this is less of a game and more of a public humiliation ritual disguised as entertainment.
You couldn't care less.
You didn't come here just to stand on the sidelines.
You make a beeline towards him, people parting around you as you move through the crowd.
They knew who you were.
By the time you reached the opposite end of the table, several of the players had already noticed your arrival. A few glanced between you and Sukuna with poorly concealed curiosity, while others openly stared, their attention drifting away from the game entirely.
News traveled fast in Greek life after all, and your breakup had been very, very bad, and very, very public.
It had only been two months since the two of you imploded at Tau Kappa Epsilon's start-of-the-semester mixer, and judging by the looks you were getting, nobody had forgotten about it.
You certainly hadn't.
The entire night had started with you watching Sukuna make his way through the party, surrounded by girls.
At first, you'd ignored it.
Then, you'd tolerated it.
Eventually, we were out for blood.
What started as a few sharp comments quickly turned into a screaming match in front of half the fraternity, and shortly after, you were throwing empty liquor bottles at his head while he tried to snatch you up and drag you to his car.
The argument continued all the way back to your dorm. Neither of you had ever been particularly good at fighting fair, and once the two of you got going, there was no such thing as a line that couldn't be crossed.
Every insecurity, every bad habit, and every mistake either of you had ever made became ammunition. By the time he pulled into the parking lot, you were both angry enough to say things you couldn't take back.
You told him you were done with him.
Then, because hurting him suddenly seemed more important than just walking away, you told him you were sleeping with your RA.
The lie worked far better than you'd intended.
At the time, you'd expected him to react the way he always did. You figured he would disappear for a few days, cool off, and eventually find his way back to you.
Instead, he vanished completely.
For an entire week, you tried contacting him. You texted, called, showed up outside his classes, stopped by his apartment, even waited outside his job, hoping to catch him before he left.
Every attempt ended exactly the same way, with him ignoring you.
Eventually, you stopped trying when he started showing up to places with another girl, a mere 10 days after your split.
You tried to convince yourself you didn't care.
That delusion lasted right up until you saw her wearing a gold bracelet he'd bought for you. You'd left it behind out of spite, never imagining he'd ever hand it over to somebody else as if you had never existed.
That was when you really began to spiral.
For weeks, mutual friends had been telling you that Sukuna hated you now and never wanted to see you again.
Maybe there was some truth to that, maybe there wasn't.
Either way, you had never truly believed he was indifferent. You knew Sukuna too well for that.
Your relationship had always been toxic.
The constant fighting, jealousy, breakups, makeups—none of it was healthy, and neither of you had ever pretended otherwise. But for all the damage you'd done to each other over the years, there was one thing you'd never doubted.
Sukuna was utterly and completely obsessed with you.
And judging by the way his attention locked onto you the second you stepped in front of him, completely ignoring his new girlfriend, you had a feeling he wasn't nearly as over you as he claimed to be.
You cross your arms as you both look at each other.
His expression had darkened significantly since you arrived, and you could feel the rage radiating off of him in waves.
The girl attached to his arm says something to him, but he doesn't take his eyes off you.
Instead, he scowls.
“The fuck are you doing here?” he asks, giving you a deadly look.
“I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to have fun.” you roll your eyes. “Besides, I’m here for him.”
You nod toward the guy standing beside Sukuna.
The vice president, Jacob, immediately points at himself.
“Me?”
You nod and offer him a small smile.
“Yeah. You said you were gonna give me a tour of the house, remember?”
The lie leaves your mouth effortlessly, and to nobody's surprise, he goes along with it without question, his face immediately breaking into a grin as he straightens slightly, clearly pleased by the attention.
“Yeah, of course.”
You have to stop yourself from laughing.
Around you, the backyard is still packed with people. Music pounds from the speakers mounted beneath the patio roof while groups of students crowd the banister. The flip cup game finally continues in front of you, players shouting over one another as beer splashes across the table, but your attention remains fixed on Sukuna.
Or more specifically, the girl hanging off his arm.
She presses herself against his side, her manicured hand wrapped around his bicep while she smiles up at him. Every now and then, she leans closer to say something in his ear, and every time she does, that ugly feeling in your chest twists a little tighter.
You knew there would be other girls after the breakup.
You weren't stupid.
Still, seeing one draped all over him while he stood there looking completely unbothered by it made your eye twitch, especially when you notice that damn gold bracelet that hung off her wrist.
Your bracelet.
“Were you still offering?” you ask, turning your attention back to Jacob.
“Absolutely.” he smirks and steps towards you.
You step around the corner of the table and slip your arm through his.
The gesture is small, but you immediately see the effect it has. Sukuna's eyes drop to where your hand rests on the poor guy's arm before slowly lifting back to your face. His expression doesn't change much, but you've spent too much time with him not to notice the tension that settles into his posture.
The girl notices it too.
Her smile falters slightly as she glances between the two of you, suddenly looking a little less confident than she had a moment ago.
“Ready?” Jacob asks.
“Lead the way.” you smile.
As he begins guiding you through the crowd, you allow yourself one last glance over your shoulder. Sukuna is still watching you, his attention fixed entirely on you.
Exactly what you wanted.
You let Jacob pull you through the large house, showing you random memorabilia and supposed sacred artifacts of TKE, before he leads you upstairs.
He pushes through the door to his room and holds it open for you, stepping aside so you can walk in.
“And this is my cave.” he smiles at you, his dimples popping out under the dim lighting.
“Hm.” you walk in and run your fingers over his bookshelf.
“Sooo.” he rocks back and forth on his heels. “Wanna fuck?”
You snort and snap your gaze towards him.
“No.”
He nods his head and purses his lips as a semi-awkward silence falls over you.
“You’re tryna make Sukuna jealous, right?” he asks you.
You raise your eyebrows at his directness.
“Yeah.” You don't bother lying. It's not like he was going to do anything about it anyway.
Jacob shakes his head and lets out a breathy laugh as he closes the bedroom door.
“Yeah, I figured,” he says with a lazy smirk. “Hopefully he doesn't kill me.”
“Yeahhh.” You give him an apologetic look. “Sorry 'bout that.”
“It's fine.”
You wander further into the room while he leans against the door, giving yourself an excuse to look around. Compared to the rest of the house, it feels strangely normal. The music downstairs is still loud enough to vibrate faintly through the floorboards, but it's muted here.
A desk sits beneath the window, covered in textbooks, notebooks, and empty energy drink cans. Fraternity shirts are draped over the back of the chair, and a collection of figurines and random trinkets crowd the shelves lining one wall.
You sit down on the edge of his bed and reach over to pick up one of the figurines sitting on his nightstand.
“Your room is a lot cleaner than I was expecting.”
Jacob laughs as he pushes himself away from the door.
“Were you expecting a pigsty or something?”
“Yes.” you set the figurine back down.
“You're really honest.” he says, eyeing you.
You snort. “I know someone who would disagree with you.”
“I think I could probably guess who,” he chuckles. "I've heard stories about you.”
“Figured." you mumble as you look at your nails.
“I heard about all the shit you did to Sukuna.” he grins. “You're kind of crazy.”
“You have no idea, kid.” you sigh and clasp your hands together in your lap.
His grin only grows.
The conversation slows after that as you lean back on your hands and glance around the room again. Through the open window, you can hear groups of people moving through the backyard below, their voices drifting upward alongside the music.
The string lights hanging over the patio cast a warm glow across the room, and every few minutes, another burst of cheers erupts from somewhere outside whenever somebody wins a drinking game.
“I think it's hot.”
“Is that so?” you roll your head to the side to look at him.
Jacob shrugs, though the faint redness creeping up his neck gives him away.
“Yeah.”
You let your eyes drift over him openly.
He really is cute. Not enough big muscles or tattoos for your taste, but he looked clean-cut in a way most of the men you found yourself attracted to never were. His hair is slightly messy, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and despite trying to act confident, there's still an obvious nervousness lingering in the way he carries himself.
“I guess we could make out if you want.”
Jacob blinks. “Deadass?”
“Yeah, fuck it.” you pat the empty spot beside you.
He crosses the room immediately and sits down next to you. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and the closer he gets, the more obvious his nerves become.
His shoulders are stiff, his hands uncertain about where they're supposed to go, and he keeps glancing at you before immediately looking away again.
“Why do you look so weird?” you ask with a laugh. “Have you never kissed someone before?”
“Yeah,” Jacob says, rubbing the back of his neck. “but no one as hot as you.”
The answer is so genuine that you can't help smiling.
“Just relax. I'm not gonna hurt you.”
He lets out a nervous laugh and nods.
“Okay.”
You shift slightly toward him and watch him swallow. The sounds of the party continue around you as you lean closer. Music hums through the walls, voices drift past the bedroom door, and somewhere downstairs, somebody starts shouting the lyrics to whatever song is playing.
When your lips meet, he freezes for half a second before finally kissing you back.
The kiss starts slowly. You can practically feel him figuring it out as he goes, growing more comfortable each time your lips meet.
Eventually, he relaxes enough to slide closer, one hand settling against your side while yours moves up into his hair. The nervous energy he'd been carrying around all night gradually disappears as the kiss deepens.
You barely notice the footsteps in the hallway at first.
People had been walking past the room all night.
It isn't until they stop directly outside the door and nearly swing it off its hinges that either of you pays attention.
You both pull apart immediately.
Jacob's hand drops from your side while yours slips from his hair as you look toward the doorway.
Sukuna stands there.
The hallway light spills in behind him, casting part of his face in shadow, but you don't miss the crazed look in his eyes. His gaze moves from you to Jacob and then back again, locking in on your frame, taking in the sight of the two of you sitting together on the edge of the bed.
Jacob looks between the two of you nervously.
“Hey bro... we were just—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Sukuna doesn't even glance at him.
His eyes remain locked on yours.
You stare right back.
The tension settles over the room so quickly that it almost suffocates you. Jacob is looking increasingly uncomfortable the longer the silence stretches.
“You know it's rude to interrupt people who are about to fuck.” you smirk.
Jacob nearly chokes. “W-We weren't— Sukuna, I wouldn't—”
“I said shut the fuck up.” Sukuna finally turns his head toward him. “Or do you want me to break every bone in your scrawny body?”
Jacob immediately goes silent.
Sukuna's attention returns to you. “You. Get up. We're leaving.”
“Yeah, fuck no.” you cross your arms over your chest and lean back slightly. “Who the hell do you think you're talking to?”
The muscle in his jaw jumps.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then, Sukuna crosses the room.
The distance disappears so quickly that you barely have time to react before his hand closes around your arm. His grip is firm as he pulls you to your feet, forcing a startled curse from your lips while Jacob immediately stands.
“Bro, chill—”
“Sit down.”
Jacob sits.
Immediately.
You would laugh if you weren't busy trying to wrench your arm free.
“Sukuna, let go of me.”
“No.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
You glare up at him, but he doesn't budge. If anything, his grip tightens as he starts dragging you toward the door. The music grows louder with every step closer to the hallway, while students pass by outside completely oblivious to what's happening inside the room.
“Sukuna!”
“Keep walking.”
“You are actually insane.”
“Yeah?” he finally looks down at you. “And what does that make you?”
You keep your mouth shut at that, because unfortunately, you both already know the answer to that question.
Still gripping your arm, Sukuna drags you into an empty bathroom at the end of the hall.
He all but tosses you inside before he slams the door shut behind him and locks it.
“The fuck is your problem?” you growl, rubbing at the spot where his fingers had been digging into your skin.
His jaw is clenched so tightly you can see the muscle twitching beneath his skin, and the veins running along his forearms are noticeably raised from how hard he's balled his hands into fists.
“You wanna tell me what the fuck you were doing with my vice president's tongue down your throat?” Sukuna asks, standing between you and the door.
You drag your eyes over him and almost smile.
The calmness in his voice only makes him look crazier.
“Uh, like I said, we were about to fuck before you barged in like some angry caveman.” you reply with a roll of your eyes.
“You think it's okay to fucking embarrass me like that in front of the whole frat?” Sukuna takes a step closer. “I'm their president. How do you think it makes me look when my batshit fucking crazy ex shows up and starts drooling over every guy she sees?”
“I don't give a shit about how you look,” you scoff. “and why do you care who I sleep with? I'm not your girlfriend.”
A humorless laugh escapes him as he drags a hand down his face.
“Oh, so that's what this is about?” he asks. “You're mad I don't want your ass anymore?”
The smile on his face doesn't reach his eyes.
“I don't care what you want or don't want.” you cross your arms over your chest. “We both know I have no issue getting whoever I want. Half your frat would probably get on their knees for me if I asked.”
“See, that's your fucking problem.” Sukuna points at you as he takes another step forward. “You always think you're the center of everything. Always convinced everyone is obsessed with you.”
He gives you a cruel smile when he stops right in front of you.
“But the truth is that without me, you fade into the background,” he says, his voice dropping lower as he stares down at you. “Because there is nothing interesting about you. You're just another fucking slut who happens to have a pretty face.”
For a second, your stomach twists painfully, but then you look at him standing there breathing hard enough that his chest is rising and falling beneath his shirt.
His hands are still clenched, shoulders still tense. He still looks one wrong word away from punching a hole through the bathroom wall.
And suddenly the whole thing feels ridiculous.
“Then why are we here, dear king of frats?” you ask, tilting your head as you look up at him.
Sukuna's jaw flexes. You watch his eyes narrow, but he doesn't answer.
Instead, he stares at you while the music downstairs continues vibrating faintly through the floor, and voices drift past the bathroom door.
The silence lasts long enough for you to know you've hit a nerve.
Because really, he knows you're right.
If he didn't care, he'd still be downstairs. If he were really over you, he would've let Jacob have his little tour and stayed with his girlfriend.
Instead, he'd marched through a house full of people, dragged you out of another man's room, and locked the two of you in a bathroom because the idea of you touching someone else made him lose his fucking mind.
“That's what I thought,” you say softly.
The corner of Sukuna's eye twitches. The look he gives you is murderous.
Good.
You want him angry.
Jealous even.
You want him to feel every miserable thing you've felt for the last two months.
“You're unbelievable,” Sukuna mutters.
“Yet here you are.” you glare at him.
The words barely leave your mouth before his hand closes around your jaw, causing your breath to catch. His grip isn't gentle.
Neither of you wants it to be.
For a second, he just stands there staring down at you, his thumb pressed against your cheek while anger, frustration, and something far more desperate flickers behind his eyes.
Then he pulls you forward and crashes his mouth against yours.
You kiss him back immediately.
The kiss is rough from the start. Your lower back hits the counter with a sharp thud as his free hand grips your waist. Every ounce of tension that had been building between you explodes at once.
Your tongues slide messily against each other as he brings both hands to grip your ass through your dress.
You pull away to smirk at him. “You missed me, huh?”
“I fucking hate you.” he growls out before crushing his mouth against yours again.
You reach a hand down between you two to slide it into the waistband of his joggers, his growing bulge jumping in your hand, causing him to groan loudly.
“You sure?” you reach down further to cup his heavy balls in your palm, “Your dick seems to say otherwise.”
You give him a toothy grin that's laced with pure sadism.
His jaw hardens noticeably, but he allows you to feel him, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s always been known for his cocky attitude and brutal nature, yet he stands there, letting your pretty hands wander wherever they wanted like you own him.
His breathing hitches, barely audible under the muffled noise of the party downstairs.
You lick your lips as you slowly watch his composure crumble under your touch. You bring your hand back up to wrap around his girth, stroking him slowly as he grows to full mass.
“You think you can control me with a few touches?” he breathes out.
“I know I can, baby.” you blink up at him, fluttering your lashes just the way you know he likes.
A low, dangerous growl rumbles from his chest—his cock visibly twitching under your palm in agreement despite his pride trying to fight it. He reaches a hand up to grip your chin again, harder this time, forcing your face closer to his.
“Get on your knees.” his voice is barely above a whisper, deadly and dangerous.
You look at him with lidded eyes, arousal and yearning swirling around them as you speak.
“No.”
His pupils dilate as they watch the smirk tugging at your lips.
“I think you need to earn it.” you say.
He growls, the sound low and satisfied as his eyes lock in with yours. He knows exactly what you’re hinting at, and he’s willing to show you just how badly he deserves it.
With a sudden movement, he turns you around, pressing your hips into the cold counter and pulling up your dress. He groans as he notices you aren’t wearing any panties.
“God, no panties? Dirty girl.” he reaches down to run his fingers through your wetness.
You let out a breathy moan as he drops to his knees behind you.
He doesn't hesitate. His hands grip your hips like a vice, pulling them back until your ass is perfectly presented in front of him.
“Lean forward.” he presses a large hand against the center of your back.
You immediately oblige, your arms reaching out to brace your weight against the counter.
He spreads your cheeks before he buries his face between them, his tongue immediately finding that tight, pouting heat he’s been dreaming about for months.
He groans against your flesh, his eyes closing in bliss as his tongue drags slowly up your slit.
You let out a shaky breath, your arms trembling as they already struggle to hold up your weight.
His tongue drags along the center seam of your ass, not caring about the slight hair there. He braces one hand on your hip, the other curling around your thigh to hold you in place.
“Stay still.”
He begins to eat you out slowly, but deeply.
You sigh as your knees knock together at the sensations overwhelming your core.
He grips both thighs now, forcing your knees apart with his palms. His tongue spreads your folds, tasting your arousal like it's the sweetest nectar.
He groans against your skin, his grip tightening possessively. His eyes are closed in concentration, giving you the attention he always reserved only for you.
“Spread wider.” he commands.
You shuffle your feet further apart, opening your core up for him more.
He rewards your obedience by diving deeper, his tongue plunging into you with a wet, obscene sound. His chin presses against your clit, the friction driving you wild.
“Oh fuck…” you whine as your head falls forward.
He uses his thumbs to spread your cheeks even wider apart, giving him full access.
There he was.
The self-proclaimed frat king on his knees, worshipping your sweet pussy like it's his only reason for existence.
“Kuna.” you pant out as you feel his tongue slide in and out of your hole.
He curls it inside you, mimicking his cock as he eats you out desperately. Slick sounds fill the bathroom as he works you open, his breath hot against your dripping folds.
One of his hands slides up to pull the front of your dress down, exposing your tits before he grips one firmly.
“Mm, your pussy missed daddy, huh?” he murmurs against you before sucking your clit hard between his lips.
You jerk forward at the sharp pleasure.
“Yes…fuck yes, baby…” you moan as you grind filthily back onto his face.
He growls against your clit, the vibration making your thighs shake violently. He keeps his grip on your soft mound of flesh, his fingers pinching and twisting the stiff peak as you grind shamelessly against his mouth.
His tongue swirls around your sensitive bundle of nerves before sucking it back in ruthlessly, the wet slurping noises echoing off the walls and shooting right back into your core, making your quivering hole leak all over his nose and chin.
“Missed every fucking inch of this messy, fucking cunt.”
He pulls back to spit directly on your pulsing clit before he dives back in to lap at your slick entrance.
“Oh shit! K-Kuna…” your legs can barely hold you up at this point. “I-I’m gonna fuckin’ cum, baby.” you moan as you grind harder against him.
Your hole clenches violently as drool and slick drips out and down your puffy lips.
He swallows, his tongue catching every drop with a slow, deliberate suck. His eyes roll slightly at your words, the smell of your arousal and taste of you on his tongue overwhelming him.
“Good girl, fucking cum all over my tongue.” he sets a steady rhythm, trying to give you that last push you need to fall over the edge.
“Ohhhh baby…just like that..” you moan as your breathing turns into rapid pants, your entire pussy burning as the pleasure begins to pool. “Gonna cummmm.”
His ego swells with pride at your pleasure, his tongue making bolder, more aggressive movements against your swollen, hard clit.
He spreads your cheeks wider, almost pulling them taut as he fully sucks your wet folds entirely into his mouth. He runs his tongue over them as he slurps them up, his eyes fluttering closed as he laps up your juices like a man dying of thirst.
You gasp as your body slowly stiffens, your hole clenching violently around nothing as your orgasm builds tighter and tighter.
“S-So close…” you whimper out, your face pressed onto the counter as you squeeze your eyes shut.
“Cum for me.” he growls out as he pulls away slightly, his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit. “Make a fuckin’ mess for me.”
He dives back in to suck your whole pussy back into his mouth, swirling his tongue up and down, back and forth through your heat.
Your orgasm hits violently, your twitching slit gushing wet streams directly onto his face and tongue. He catches every drop with absolute devotion, mouth moving rhythmically against you, guiding you through your trembling release.
“Kuuunaaa fuuckkk yes!” you moan loudly into your arm, your body locking up as you grind your achy, leaky cunt all over him.
He doesn’t pull away as he swallows your fluids, not stopping until you're shaking from overstimulation.
Once finished, he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your swollen clit before standing and pulling himself from his joggers.
You're still panting as he grips the base of his cock and rubs it against you.
“I’m gonna fuck this tight fucking pussy so hard.” he groans as he rubs his precum over your slick entrance.
Right before he can sink into you, you stand and pull your dress down.
“Huh?” he looks genuinely confused as he watches you adjust your dress back over your chest.
You sigh and turn on shaky legs before planting a kiss on his clothed chest.
“This was fun.” you smirk up at his confused expression.
You can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to figure out why you look like you’re about to leave.
Before he can think too long, you flash him a smile and unlock the bathroom door to step back into the hallway.
He watches the door shut behind you, his cock in hand and a stupid look stuck on his face.
You smirk as you walk down the stairs and towards the front door.
…YOU LET ME CALL YOU BABY BUT I CAN’T CALL U MINE ?
sum. when geto is partnered up with you for a ‘fake family’ project, it gives him the perfect excuse to touch you as he pleases. but when you continue to laugh him off, can his frat brothers help him make you see him as boyfriend and not ‘bestie’?
“you’re partners with y/n?! that’s your sign to lock in, man. stop playing safe and take the fucking leap.”
ΣΧ
“i think we should name the baby ‘nagito komaeda.’”
“i think you’ve lost your damn mind.”
in the common room of the sigma chi frathouse, geto suguru has his legs spread lazily & his back against the old couch. he’s scrolling through his phone with bleary eyes as sato & sukuna debate a name for their project’s fake baby. sato gojo is scribbling names in red on the whiteboard. ryomen sukuna is taking up half the space on the living room couch.
“sukuna the second,” sukuna says with a gulp of his cola. he sets the can down with a thud & crosses his feet over the wooden coffee table, leaning back into suguru’s space. “it’s the only respectable option. suguru, what do you think?”
geto suguru thinks that sukuna hasn’t showered today.
he also thinks his privacy screen is his greatest investment. ryomen sukuna has his cheek smushed against suguru’s shoulder and his brown eyes blinking up at him, but he doesn’t notice that geto is scrolling through your instagram posts, staring at pictures where you look too pretty to be real with a tight jaw & stifled heartbeat. sukuna flicks his temple. “helloo. earth to suguru?”
suguru’s silver piercings are glistening in the heat. he blinks once, twice—memorizes the photo on his screen where you’re grinning while hugging a plush bear bigger than your head—& clicks his phone off with a sigh. his head rolls back in defeat.
“y/n is my project partner.”
the room goes silent.
gojo sato freezes against the whiteboard, marker still in hand. sukuna has leaned away from suguru, eyes wide, as if suguru has just admitted to not showering this morning. the two boys stare at suguru. then at each other, then back to suguru again.
“ouuuu shii,” they drawl simultaneously.
“please don’t start this nonsense…”
“suguru, this is huge!” sato lets his marker fall to the floor, and runs to crouch in front of geto, elbows on suguru’s knees. “think about it, man. you and the girl of your dreams. partnered up to play husband n’ wife and take care of a plastic baby.”
suguru bites his cheek, neck hot. “it’s just a project.”
“no, it’s an opportunity,” sukuna corrects. “this is the girl who calls you bestie even when you look at her like you wanna eat her alive.” he snaps his fingers. “this is your chance, idiot. to show her you’re husband material. you have an excuse to call her wifey, for fuck’s sake.”
suguru’s phone is tight in his palm. his thumb is still tracing the line of your smile in the image he was staring at before he clicked his phone off.
“she thinks i’m her friend,” suguru murmurs, voice half-gone as he slips his phone into his pocket. “she’s comfortable with me. i’m not gonna ruin that by acting like a feral dog.”
“you’re already feral, idiot. y’think i didn’t see you staring at her IG photos like a creep?”
geto blinks. “how did you—“
“not important!” sato interrupts, slapping suguru’s thigh. he rests his chin on suguru’s knee, blue eyes glimmering in the light. “what’s important is, you have an opportunity. she’s already comfortable with you—you just have to take it further. call her sweetheart. baby. wife. see if she doesn’t stop you. take the leap, suguru.”
“take the leap,” sukuna grins.
take the leap. but the leap is a jump with no safety net. geto suguru knows what’s at stake. he knows if he ever let himself get too greedy—too carried away—he risks losing the friday mornings spent at the library with your head against his shoulder while you pretend to read from a book. he risks your voice calling his name across campus, and the way you hug his arm when you haven’t seen him in days, and the way you tug the piercing on his lip with a playful smile when you want his attention. geto suguru knows better than to risk it. he knows not to take the leap.
but he nods, lips tight as he reaches for his car keys on the table. “i’ll take the leap.”
“let’s go, daddy geto!” sato roars, dapping sukuna up. the boys watch with stupid grins as geto shoves things in his pockets. geto glances at the time: 5PM. “i’m going to her place now, we agreed to meet up.”
sukuna clutches his heart, then waves. “go get your wifey, asshole.”
suguru doesn’t look back. it’s time to fucking leap.
# SHOW TIME !
“suguruu, stop acting responsible and come cuddle me.”
ah, you’re such a fucking bother.
it’s sometime after six and geto suguru is in your bedroom with his shirt tossed somewhere on the floor and his silver chain cold against his chest. he’s putting together the plastic baby crib in preparation for the project’s official start on monday, and trying very fucking hard to ignore the fact that you’re all sprawled out on your bed behind him: hair fanned out, pillow to your chest, and whining his name because who are you if not a tease?
“you’re such a bad husband,” you mumble wistfully. “leaving your wife all alone on her bed like this…”
god.
geto’s throat bobs. there’s blood in his throat but his eyes skim the instructions with hazy focus. lord knows he wants nothing more than to press you into the covers and kiss you till you’re laughing his name and you can’t fucking breathe, but he knows the minute he pads over there you’ll laugh in his face.
his mouth dries.
“someone has to build the crib, angel,” he murmurs. it comes out lower than he intended, but whatever—it came out regardless. pet name number one, okay. “unless you want our fake baby sleeping on the rug?”
“i want my fake husband,” you hug your pillow tighter, and geto can hear the pout in your voice. your eyes are still on the ceiling, and geto doesn’t miss the fact that you don’t comment on the pet name. perhaps you didn’t hear it. perhaps you just don’t care. “and the baby is plastic,” you grumble. “it doesn’t care if it sleeps on a mattress or a floor.”
he hums. “bet it doesn’t complain as much either.”
“hey!” you gasp, chucking your pillow at him with a laugh. geto’s lip twitches in a smile. he rubs the back of his head, sweeping away the black strands falling in his face. he turns to glance at you, and then he wishes he didn’t, because you’re staring back at him with the brightest eyes he’s ever seen.
he bites his cheek. and then he pads over to you.
you watch, starry eyed, as geto lets the instruction manual glide to the floor. he presses a knee into the mattress, leg swinging over your thighs, bed dipping underneath his weight. his hair tickles your jaw and his chain dangles in front of you and geto suguru smells like dogwood and something too warm to have a name.
you blink up at him. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he murmurs. “you look cute like this.”
he shouldn’t say that, he knows he shouldn’t, but you’re already curling your hand around his necklace and letting your thighs squeeze underneath him. and geto’s eyes rake down your body—just once, just a little, because he knows better than to leap that fucking far. so he bites his lip.
“i always look cute..” you mumble, lashes fluttering and voice fading underneath him.
“mm, but you look extra cute today,” he mutters, “like a real life mommy.”
you tug his necklace, grin cheeky. “geto suguru. are you trying to seduce me?”
“no,” he murmurs, and his voice is too low and the words come too fast. “i’m being a good husband. taking care of my wife’s needs before she even asks.”
he’s still propped up over you, bare pecs heaving & chain glinting too close to your face. the heat of his body pricks at your skin. you tug him closer by the chain: “and what needs do i have?”
“attention,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your cheek. “you've been whining since I got here. wanted me to stop working. wanted me to come cuddle you.”
“i was only joking..” you mumble, slightly shy. and geto wishes you wouldn’t say that. wishes he didn’t know that already.
but he’s a patient man. and how can he be upset when you look so pretty underneath him?
“i know,” he murmurs, voice warm, half-lidded eyes boring into yours. “i’m sorry. am i making you uncomfortable?”
he says he’s sorry but his thumb still grazes your cheek, because he can’t not. you lean into him reflexively, and then you blink.
“what—? no, no. it’s just—“ your brows furrow, and you frown in that way that makes geto want to kiss it off. “it’s just… you’re so good at this, geto!”
his thumb pauses over your cheek. “what?”
“this husband thing!” you grin up at him, cheeks flushed. “you made me feel all hot and funny inside. your future wife is gonna be so lucky.”
geto blinks. you keep going.
“you were so hot,” you cup his cheek with a palm, and geto’s jaw is slack. “and you’re so responsible setting up the baby stuff. whoever you date and marry is gonna be so lucky. in a way this is perfect practice, isn’t it?”
his jaw tightens. “yeah, practice.”
he doesn’t say you’re the only girl he’s ever wanted, the only girl he’ll ever want, that last summer when you fell asleep on his couch with his hoodie on your shoulders he thought about you with his last name; or that every time you swat his chest and laugh away his efforts his heart cracks a little in his chest. he doesn’t tell you he’s only a man and his heart can’t take much more much longer.
but he squeezes your hip. bites your neck so you giggle and swat him away. rolls off you and pretends his chain isn’t still warm from your grip.
geto suguru pads away to kneel by the crib’s side. “is my wife gonna keep whining, or is she gonna help me fix this?”
SATO’S REMARK : TOUGH LUCK. BUT KEEP AT IT, BROTHER!
HUSBAND TACTICS #2: GET DOMESTIC !
taught by: toji zenin
“wanna woo her? take her on a family-esque activity. that’ll show her you’re husband material.”
ΣΧ
sigma chi’s frathouse kitchen is two bottles of bourbon & cranberry jam left open on the countertop. in the kitchen suguru geto is there, a hyper-realistic plastic baby on his hip as toji scribbles grocery items in handwriting geto will have to pretend to understand.
“here’s everything,” toji grumbles, clicking his pen and passing the note to suguru. geto’s face scrunches immediately, piercings glimmering as he squints his eyes in a desperate attempt to read the list. “how the hell is your handwriting worse than sukuna’s?”
“you’ll figure it out. it’s for meg,” toji answers, bored, drumming his pen against the sticky counter. “and some of the organic stuff my girl likes. i’ll be back late today, so i need you to drop it off at my place.”
suguru shifts the doll over his chest, taking one last look at the sorry note before stuffing it in his pocket. “are you taking meg with you today?”
“no, he’s home with the babysitter,” toji grunts, slipping his hands into his skinny jean pockets to hide the fake ice on his wrist. “new job’s paying good, so i’m taking the missus out on a date.”
“aww,” suguru softens, smile tugging at his lips. he’s pleased to see toji doing better, to say the least. he’s engaged to a pretty, rich lady now; working hard as a ghost writer for drake, all while being a good young father to meg. he pats the doll’s head absentmindedly. “that’s cute. what are you planning?”
“luxury shopping date,” toji mumbles.
“really?” suguru tilts his head. “where are you going?”
“shoppers drug mart.”
geto doesn’t comment.
“you should take that girl with you,” toji says, hands still in his pockets. “take her n’ your plastic doll grocery shopping. it’s good domestic practice. get her some expensive strawberries and see if she doesn’t fall head over heels.”
suguru bites his lip, phone already heavy in his pocket.
can’t hurt to try, right ?
# SHOW TIME !
suguru wishes you wouldn’t do this to him.
wishes you wouldn’t look all cute standing by the store’s glass doors, lashes fluttering as you blink around trying to find him. he should raise his hand, text you he’s just two aisles over and you should move before the lady behind gets mad at you for blocking the entrance. instead he watches with a fond smile as you frown and fumble to grab your phone from your purse.
he sighs, walking over to stand behind you with the fake baby in his arms. your eyes are still on your phone as your thumbs tap frantically, typing a message to send to his contact: ‘SUGURU. where are u???’
his lip twitches. he’s leaning so close over your shoulder that he can smell your shampoo, and your hair is tickling his nose, but you still don’t notice. so cute. geto thinks you’re so cute.
he hums into your neck. “who are we texting?”
“suguru!” you gasp, whipping around at the sound of his voice. he’s looking down at you with those half-lidded eyes, teasing smile, dark sweater sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. you frown at him. “you scared me! don’t you know you shouldn’t sneak up on vulnerable young women?!”
suguru blinks. “what?”
“you heard me,” you grumble, fake pout on your lips as you lean down to the plastic doll in his arms. “hi, lafayette. daddy’s being mean to mommy again.”
“i still can’t believe you named our baby after a revolutionary leader.” geto mutters.
“he’s my fave in hamilton,” you hum, slipping lafayette into your arms. “shall we get shopping?”
——
in geto’s shopping cart, there’s five shades of lipgloss, a bag of plantain chips, and four other items that are not on the shopping list.
geto suguru needs to start saying no. but it’s hard to deny you when you look up at him with those pretty eyes, batting your lashes all sweet in that way that makes his chest hurt. so he pushes the cart, resigned, watching the sway of your hips as you balance lafayette on your side and coo silly things to him like he’s a real human child. he shakes his head, bites his lip. geto suguru is utterly fucked.
“suguru! look at this!”
he shouldn’t look. because it’s just going to be another item you’ll seduce him into buying, but he looks anyways. you’re pointing at a box of dinosaur cereal—a clear off-brand version of froot loops. “lafayette would love this. can we get it for him?”
he pads around the cart to get a better look. “lafayette can’t eat cereal.”
“i meant megumi,” you coo, running a hand down his pecs. “he likes dinosaurs. he’ll love this.”
“no, he likes gummy worms,” but geto suguru is already distracted by your hand stroking his chest. his lip twitches, “you want this for yourself, don’t you?”
“caught me,” you flash him your sweetest smile, squeezing his pec before setting lafayette in the cart. geto watches as you lean up to the top shelf, skirt riding up your thighs as you reach for the box of cereal. his eyes drop. but then his neck heats and he quickly looks away.
“suguruu,” you frown, still reaching. “help me.”
suguru lets out a rough breath. he shouldn’t help, but he always will—what else can he do when you call his name like that?
he steps behind you, chest pressing against your back, arm reaching up and caging you in the process. your breathing hitches. suguru doesn’t miss it.
“suguru,”
“hm?”
“what are you doing?”
your voice comes out breathy, and suguru has to pretend he doesn’t like the way you sound or how you’re staring up at him with big eyes. he hums coolly. “i’m helping my wife.”
“oh,” your lashes flutter as he reaches to tug down your skirt. his knuckles brush your thigh & you glance down at his arm snaking around your hips before mustering up a smile.
you tease, “such a good husband, protecting my modesty.”
“mm,” he murmurs, “the best.”
your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. geto watches your lashes flutter—shy? nervous?—as your hand curls around his bicep to steady yourself. your palm squeezes his arm. he lets his hand dip to squeeze your inner thigh, and prays you don’t hear his breathing hitch.
“do good husbands usually grope their wives..?” you murmur, and geto thinks you’re teasing, but your lashes are low and your voice is so small and god he wants to kiss you so badly.
“don’t think so,” he mutters. “am i bad?”
“so bad,” you breathe. and your breath is hot & he’s leaning so close he can feel it on his lips. you squeeze his arm, eyes boring into his, and you really need to fucking stop before he leans down and kisses you. “but i don’t mind.”
god. you’re gonna fucking kill him. geto parts his lips to speak but you get your words out first.
“so,” you beam up at him, “the cereal?”
oh. the cereal.
fuck you and the cereal.
he doesn’t mean that, though. his jaw tightens as he lifts the box and drops it into the cart. his hands shove in his pockets, and geto suguru can only blink away the irritation burning in his eyes.
“thanks, sugu,” you lift lafayette into your arms. he’s gripping the cart handle right now, trying to ignore the fact that you’re smiling up at him and cursing himself because even now he thinks you are so beautiful.
“well then,” you chirp, grin sweet, “back to shopping!”
TOJI’S REMARK : SHE DON’T WANT YOUR ASS 🤦🏿♂️
HUSBAND TACTICS #3: GET SMOOTHER.
taught by: toru gojo
“your problem is that everything you do maintains plausible deniability. i think it’s time you claimed her in a way she can’t deny.”
ΣΧ
the good news is, even though geto ended up spending $200 on items not on toji’s list, the plantain chips you roped him into getting were really good. the bad news is, sato gojo is lying here on his lap, forcing geto to feed him said chips while gaming on sukuna’s nintendo switch.
“sugu, i want one,” -> geto feeds sato a chip. chew, swallow. “i can’t believe you embarrassed yourself like that.”
suguru’s eye twitches. “no more chips for you.”
they’re on the bed in toru’s room, and toru gojo sighs before slipping his headphones off at his desk. “sorry, but you guys are getting crumbs on my bed.”
sato laughs. “as if sukuna doesn’t jerk off in here every other day.”
“that was before he finished therapy,” toru mumbles in response, cheeks flushed in dismay. god bless geto for enrolling sukuna in therapy for his exhibitionist kink, despite sukuna’s wishes. toru takes his glasses off, runs a hand through his hair. “suguru, what’s this about you and y/n?”
“every time suguru tries something with her, she laughs him off,” sato snitches. he flashes geto a clumsy grin, smile totally innocent. “sugu, i want one.”
geto shoves him off his lap.
“maybe you’re not obvious enough,” toru plays with the stem of his glasses. “you guys are super close. even if you’re touching her, she might not take it seriously because she’s used to touchy friendships.”
“yeah!” sato agrees, fist pumped up, face flat on the floor. “my thoughts exactly, twin brother.”
“shut up.” geto and toru say simultaneously.
“anyway,” toru continues. “maybe get bolder. do something she can’t pass off as ‘just friends’.”
geto stares at the chips in his lap. “just friends, huh?”
#SHOW TIME!
geto leans by the kitchen door. “hi, mommy. what’re you doing?”
suguru’s over at your house for dinner. he’s just put lafayette to sleep in his crib, and he has his hands in his pockets as he pads over to you, sweatpants low on his hips. his arms cage you by the stove. “you smell good,” he mutters.
you ignore him. “i’m making dinner!” you beam, turning to face him.
geto can’t even tell what you’re showing him. in your hands is a charred mess, and geto can only pray the squiggly thing on the plate is spaghetti and not something else. his brows furrow in amused confusion as you beam up at him, lashes fluttering.
he cocks his head. “is this a burnt offering?”
“rude,” you swat his chest, and geto only smiles, eyes tracking the way your hair falls over your shoulders. you mutter curses as you shift the plate away, staring at the pot in dismay. “i wanted to cook for you.” you grumble.
his lip twitches. “like a real life wife?”
“yeah,” you turn to him, lips in a pout as you play with the chain on his chest. “but it didn’t work out. can you believe it?”
“i believe it,” he hums, but in reality he’s trying not to laugh, or rather, avoiding thinking about how glossy your lips look when you pout. his palms find your waist, “need your hubby to help?”
you smile up at him, “if he’d be so kind.”
geto lifts you by the hips before you can think better of it. you yelp as he sets you down on the counter, gripping him in a panicked hug. “suguru! you can’t just do that!”
he smiles, big. “do what?”
“lift me! and without warning!” you’re still hugging his neck tight, heart racing against his collarbone. he laughs, face in your hair to muffle the sound. his hands are splayed on your back, anchoring you against him.
“stop laughing at me,” you frown, and geto pulls back. he still has that lazy smile on his lips. “i’m not laughing,”
“yes you are,” you cup his face, smushing his cheeks in your palms. “look at your smile. it’s mocking.”
“adoring,” he mutters, gaze reverent.
“lying,” you pout, frown deep.
geto doesn’t argue. he only watches, eyes half-lidded, as you lift a palm from his cheek to card through his hair, stroking softly. you’re still pouting, still pretty. his thumb presses into your spine.
“i’ve never lied to you in my life,” he murmurs.
“yeah?” you’re still raking his hair, eyes never meeting his own. “then were you laughing at me just now?”
“no, mommy.”
“see?” you cock your head. “liar.”
he lets out a long, shuddering breath, hands sliding from your back to your waist, then down to squeeze your hips. you’re still stroking his hair, unbothered. no idea that you’ve got him crumbling beneath you.
“you feel so soft,” he murmurs before he can think better of it.
you tilt your head. “my hips?”
“and your waist, and your thighs,” he drawls, and he’s not even thinking straight anymore. “everywhere.”
you stare at him, brows knit, hand pausing in his hair. “suguru,”
“yeah, baby?”
“you’re being bad again.”
he lets out a strangled breath. he’s staring at your lips, he has been for a while now, and his gaze is bleary & eyes half-lidded. “sorry mommy,” he mumbles, “are you uncomfortable?”
“no?”
“then i’m gonna kiss you now.”
“sugu—“
and he does. he pauses just slightly—just enough to let you pull away if you don’t want this, if you don’t want him—but you don’t so geto presses his lips to your own. his first thought is gloss. your lips are so glossy; strawberry sweet & sugary fake. he lets his tongue slip out to lick your mouth, before cocking his head to kiss you deeper. you squeak, moaning into his mouth, kissing him back as he presses you into him. your thighs squeeze around his waist and geto slips a groan past your lips.
“so good,” he chases your lips when you pull away to breathe, “taste so good, pretty,”
you let him press sloppy kisses to your jaw, hands still in his hair.
but geto doesn’t notice how you freeze underneath him.
TORU’S REMARK: MY ADVICE WORKED?! THIS IS WHY I’M THE BETTER TWIN!! :)
HUSBAND TACTICS #4: GO GET YOUR WIFE !
taught by: ryomen sukuna
“good progress, bud. now all you gotta do? maintain the pace. keep showing her you’re the man now.”
ΣΧ
in sigma chi’s living room, ryomen sukuna is strapped to an armchair as sato hooks him up to a birth simulator.
idiots, the both of them. it started with sukuna saying that taking care of their plastic baby isn’t much work after all, and so motherhood can’t be that bad, and giving birth must not be that bad either. sato, ever the feminist, decided to challenge him on that. now it’s a weekday evening and sato is pressing electric pads to sukuna’s belly with his tongue in his cheek. sukuna the second (their plastic baby—sukuna won the argument it seems) is crying somewhere in the distance.
“nice work, daddy geto,” sukuna hums, shifting so sato can press another pad to his belly. “you’ve gotten the girl.”
geto has. so why doesn’t he feel like it?
you kissed him back. kissed him again. in fact, he’d say he had your lips for dinner. but the texts he sent you this morning are still unread: did you sleep well? can we talk?
geto shakes his head, relaxing into the sofa with his legs spread out as he watches sato fumble with the machine. “now all you gotta do is keep up the good work,” sukuna mumbles. “easy-peasy.”
“i feel like something’s wrong,” geto plays with his necklace. “but i’m not sure what it is, exactly.”
“nothing’s wrong, dumbass,” sukuna squints, watching sato frown at the remote. “you’re just not used to being forward. months of holding back will do that to ya. what you need to do now? ramp it up. tell her you wanna put a baby in her or something. girls love that shit.”
“oh, i agree with that. it’s like saying she’s wifey type.”
“you get me, sato.”
sato grins. then he presses a button on the remote and sukuna screams.
“jesus christ of nazareth!” sukuna roars, jerking in the chair. “fuck—! turn this shit off! sato!”
sato watches him jerk with his hands on his hips, lips bent in a clumsy smile. “what? i can’t hear you over your screaming!”
suguru eyes his frat brothers, both sukuna’s—and sukuna the second’s—cries roaring in his ears. he’s still not sure why this is even happening, but he’s long concluded both his frat brothers were born with a brain. he sighs, burying his face in his hands.
he really needs to fucking see you.
#SHOW TIME !
geto wasn’t sure you’d want to see him.
but you’d already planned to meet up today; long before he kissed you on the countertop, long before he sent you six messages & deleted them all when he received no response. it would be wiser to stay home but he shows up anyway, because he’s a coward who’s trying not to be, and he hasn’t eaten anything in days because everything in the sigma chi kitchen suddenly tastes like your lips.
you greeted him with a smile on your face.
lafayette on your hip, pretty smile as you beckoned him in. said you were just about making lunch. asked him to go handle it in the kitchen because obviously you don’t want to see his face.
geto shakes his head, stares at the water running off his hands in the sink. he has to think positive.
“lafayette, baby, please don’t cry,” your voice comes from the living room. “mommy’s trying so hard—oh my god. i swear i’m gonna take out your batteries!”
geto laughs through his nose before he can think better of it.
he wipes his hands, pads over to the doorframe to watch you fuss over lafayette in the living room. you’re bouncing the plastic robot in your hands, trying to get it to stop its automated wailing. “shhh. want me to sing you a song, baby? you like songs from hamilton, right? okay, okay. why do you cry like you’re running out of time—”
lafayette screams. geto falls in love.
well he was already in love, but somehow his heart has gone sticky in his chest. it’s silly, isn’t it? but geto’s thought about it a lot. your laugh in the kitchen on sunday mornings, your contact saved with his last name, you waking him up at 3am for some ridiculous craving; and he’d get up to retrieve it, of course. because geto suguru would go to the ends of the earth for you if you’d allow it.
is it weird to think of domestic life with someone you aren’t even dating?
probably. but then he thinks about your thighs squeezing his waist on the kitchen counter, your pretty moans in his mouth, your hands in his hair—and god. god god god. geto suguru has never wanted something so badly.
so he doesn’t think too much before padding over to join you in the living room, arms wrapping around your hips. “hey.”
you tense, just a little, just enough that geto doesn’t notice, then relax into him just slightly. “hi. are you being bad again?”
he can hear the smile in your voice, but your usual playfulness isn’t as strong. “maybe. you look cute, bouncing our baby like that.”
you force a smile, eyes dropping to lafayette wailing in your arms. “well—“
“you’d make such a pretty mommy,” geto breathes, and even he’s not sure what he’s saying. all he knows is you’re warm and pretty and in his arms and it’s all he’s ever wanted, all he’ll ever want.
you don’t respond, and geto’s in his feelings now, so his mouth keeps moving: “i think about it a lot,” he murmurs. “mornings with you. you burning the eggs because you’ve never been a good cook.” his palm shifts to your belly. “and i’ll eat them anyways.”
“suguru,”
“and you’d get mad at me for eating them,” he breathes, collapsing into your neck. “tell me you don’t need my sympathy and frown up at me while bouncing our baby on your hip. and then you’d kiss me because you secretly find it sweet of me.” he breathes. “i think about it a lot.”
“you’d make such a pretty wife, such a pretty mommy,” geto breathes. and your neck is so warm, and his lips are ghosting over it, and as his palm glides over your belly his dizzy mind flashes back to sukuna’s words: girls love feeling like they’re wifey!
so he kisses your neck. “can’t wait to see you round with my baby.”
if you were tense before, you’re frozen now.
“suguru.”
“hm?”
“i’m uncomfortable.”
geto freezes.
you step out of his hold, lafayette to your chest, pretty eyes looking up at his. but you’re not looking at him with your usual fondness. your eyes are bored—unimpressed—something geto’s hazy mind can’t seem to name. your lips are tight. “i think you should take lafayette for the weekend.”
“y/n—“
“and don’t contact me,” you snap, irritated. “don’t call, text, nothing. i just—“ you bite your lip, “you need to leave, geto.”
not suguru, geto. okay. okay.
geto leaves with lafayette in his arms. his heart is still in your living room.
SUKUNA’S REMARK : WHO TOLD YOU TO SAY THAT?!
HUSBAND TACTICS #5: DIVORCE COURT !
taught by: nanami kento
“you’ve been leading with actions instead of words. are you really surprised?”
ΣΧ
is it so bad to be forward?
geto has his head on the steering wheel & his heart in his throat. lafayette is crying in the backseat but geto doesn’t care, doesn’t care to rip out the batteries or at least sing the doll to sleep. instead he grips the steering so hard his knuckles turn white.
can’t wait to see you round with my baby.
why did he say that? he wants to blame it on sukuna but he can’t. geto knows it’s all on him, of course. he let himself get too love drunk, too hope drunk, too drunk on a future that will never exist. he thought about sato and sukuna who don’t think before they talk and still manage to get the girl. but life has never let him have anything easy, and with you in his arms he managed to forget that. now the only girl he’s ever wanted thinks he sees her as just flesh, and geto is a coward so he doesn’t plan to redeem himself.
it’s best to let you go.
“do you intend to drive?”
nanami’s voice is flat beside him. it’s more of a bored comment than a question, and geto lifts his head up slow. nanami kento is beach-blond hair & pressed on clothes and a bored look that never seems to leave his face. he stares at geto. geto stares back.
“i’m going through a crisis.”
“i observed. should i get toji to drive me instead?”
“have a heart, kenny,” geto slumps against the driver’s seat. nanami’s license is on a three-day suspension for being slightly tipsy while driving, and it’s unusual for kento, but we all have our problems. geto reaches for a cigar in the glove box. nanami smacks his hand away.
“this is about y/n, correct? sato told me all about it.”
of course he did—what a snitch.
geto rests his head on the wheel, careful not to let the horn sound. “is it my turn for some advice?”
“i suppose,” nanami pushes up his glasses. “did you ever try speaking english?”
geto blinks. “english?”
“the others advised you to be forward, correct?” nanami starts. “touch her, kiss her, all of it. but did you ever speak english? tell her that you liked her? wanted her?”
geto blinks. but kento’s not done.
“i heard about what happened most recently, sukuna told me all about it,” nanami sighs. “telling a woman she’d make a pretty mom. telling her you can’t wait to see her round with your baby.” kento scoffs. “you have your domestic fantasies, geto. but do you know how terrifying that is to a woman who you haven’t even told ‘i love you’?”
ah. geto knew he’d been missing something.
he’s always been a coward. at thirteen, he pierced his own ears with a ballpoint pen and hid the bleeding from his parents for weeks. at seventeen, he got his first tattoo, and charred it off with cigarette butts until all that remained was the outline. at nineteen, he kissed a girl and blocked her the next day. at twenty-two, he fucked up his chances with the only woman he’s ever loved. geto suguru has never known how to handle wanting something. he either destroys it or runs far, far away.
“so what do i do now?” geto asks, brows knit. “she told me to stay away from her.”
“then you do exactly that,” nanami’s already unbuckling his seatbelt. “give her the space she needs. you’ve crowded her for long enough, suguru.”
he has, hasn’t he?
“i’ll ask toji to give me a lift,” nanami is standing outside the car. “you’re in no condition to drive.”
nanami slams the door shut. lafayette is still crying in the backseat.
# SHOW TIME !
geto suguru is back in your room again.
not in the way he’d like, not sprawled on your bed or with you curled into his side. he’s sitting diagonally across from you on the mini-table you have laid out, because he’d tried to sit opposite you and caught the way your lip twitched with irritation.
geto is on his best behavior.
the plastic doll is asleep in its crib as you and suguru fill out spreadsheets. logs on feeding times, that sort of thing. he stares at the gleaming columns—empty. they’ve been empty for an hour now, because geto suguru can’t stop his eyes from shifting from his laptop screen to your face.
“feeding log,” you say flatly. “did you do the 2PM ?”
“yeah,” he did—he thinks. everything is blurry.
“no you didn’t,” you bite. “i’m literally looking at the column right now. it’s empty. and it shouldn’t be.”
geto’s fingers twitch over his keyboard. the spreadsheet in front of him is empty, but the previous one—the one you’re looking at—shouldn’t be. he remembers logging it yesterday with his back bent over the kitchen island, eyes clouded over, thinking, wondering if he should send you a message.
he croaks, “i did fill it in. check the—“
“you didn’t,” you snap, and geto’s never had you snap at him before so he’s not sure what to do with that. “i’m literally looking at it right now. can you please take this seriously?”
“okay,” he swallows.
you turn back to your laptop, irritated. geto fills out the spreadsheet in front of him. he won’t give you reason to be upset with him any longer.
———
the second time geto sees you after the incident, it’s at the local library.
you’re already done with today’s work, and the walk back to the residences is long & winding. geto suguru knows his place. he has his eyes down on the pavement, wind flinging his hair in his face, three feet behind you because you’d eye him if he got any closer.
you’re shivering.
and geto noticed it three minutes ago, to be honest. noticed how your shoulders hugged together, how you shoved your hands into your pockets. he should give you his jacket. you’re cold, and he doesn’t want you getting sick, and he doesn’t want you to snap at him or shoot him down but you’re cold and you’re beautiful and geto suguru is calling your name before he can think any better of it.
“y/n—here.”
he holds out his jacket. you turn back to look at the material, and then back at him.
“i don’t want it.”
he should stop. “you’re freezing. i don’t want you to catch a—“
“i’d rather freeze.” you deadpan. “can you not speak to me?”
geto bites his lip. he stops himself before he can say okay.
——
in the library’s study room, geto suguru has his head on his keyboard and eyes staring at the glass door.
his phone chimes, but he doesn’t check the message because he knows it’s just team snapchat. but then it chimes again, and geto reaches for his phone even though he knows there’s no point.
—
y/n :)
where are you
i have your location.
we need to work on the project
—
geto scrambles—actually scrambles, he accidentally knocks over the chair behind him—and then he breathes. wipes his face with his hoodie sleeves. breathes again.
when you walk in, you don’t say hi.
you sit diagonally across again, and open up your laptop. you look pretty today. hair loose over your shoulders, cheeks flushed from the weather, lashes fluttering in the light. and your lips are glossy again, like they were in the supermarket, like they were on the kitchen counter—and oh god. geto needs to stop staring.
but he doesn’t. he watches, mouth slightly agape, as your nails click at your keyboard. he can tell you’re upset or irritated, and he thinks—no, knows it’s because of him, and he really needs to get this work done so you won’t get sad and snap at him again. he doesn’t want to be in trouble. he doesn’t know what to do when you get like that. so he turns his eyes to his laptop. but somehow, they drift back to your face again.
“can you stop fucking staring at me?”
“sorry—“ he flinches. “i’m sorry, i’ll look away.”
there’s a lump in his throat. he’s looking at the screen but he can’t quite see it, and the numbers and columns have mixed together and swollen up on the page.
but you aren’t done.
“seriously, what is your problem?” you snap, irritated. “we have a project to do. and you’ve been letting your stupid feelings get in the way of it all!”
he wants to say he’s sorry again, and that his feelings aren’t stupid but he’s sorry, and it’s all he’ll ever be, but instead his voice comes out as a croak. “i’m trying.”
you stare at him in disbelief. his fingers are shaking under the table. has he always been this jumpy?
“you need to try harder,” you snarl. “or what? too busy thinking about marrying me? having me round with your baby?” he shrinks. “what the fuck, geto?”
he doesn’t know how to explain that that day in the living room he wasn’t thinking of actually giving you a baby, at least not right now. he doesn’t know how to explain that when he looks at you he thinks of forever, he wants forever, and ever since starting this project ‘forever’ has looked like wedding bells and sunday mornings and grocery runs with a mini-you in the cart. he doesn’t know how to say he wants you to be his, your last name, your everything, and it’s sick and twisted and too much too fast but geto suguru has never been able to want in increments.
so he shrinks. stares at his keyboard. you snap, “say something!”
“i’m sorry,” he croaks, eyes on his lap. “i didn’t want to—i wasn’t trying to—“
“you scared me!” you snap. “geto, you scared me. you’ve been scaring me! these last few weeks—“ you slam your book shut. “touching me. kissing me. and i don’t mind—swear to god i don’t. but you’ve been acting so weird so suddenly! saying things you’ve never said before. is this some kind of twisted roleplay?!”
geto stifles a breath. tries to count in his head so he doesn’t breakdown in front of you. he knows that wouldn’t be fair. you keep going:
“i don’t know what i’m supposed to think,” you grip the table. “my best friend of how many years gets partnered with me for a project, great! but then he starts kissing me on countertops. standing too close in grocery stores. telling me i’d make a pretty wife and mommy and—it’s weird! i don’t know where it’s coming from! he’s never said he likes me in his life, but he can’t wait to see me round with his baby?”
you’re sniffling now. “what the fuck, geto?”
your shoulders are shaking, and you’ve sat back down, and your pretty face is in your hands as you cry. geto’s heart aches. because you’re not supposed to cry because of him. because he’s not supposed to make you uncomfortable, or confused, or upset, and he’s done all of that in the span of a week. and geto’s mouth dries. he wants to pad over and hold you in his arms but he knows he doesn’t have the right to fucking do that.
he breathes in, deep.
“i’m sorry—for moving too fast,” his hands fist. “i’ve been in love with you since freshman year. and i tried, i swear i did, to show it. but you always laughed it off. and instead of telling you outright, i just got more and more aggressive with it. i think part of me has always thought you’d never feel the same,” he swallows. “so i thought it’d be safer to show it than say it out loud. but that was only safe for me.”
he bites his lip. you’re still bawling into your hands, small and terrified, and geto‘s eyes sting. he can’t believe you’re shaking because of him.
“baby—“ he catches himself, “please don’t cry,”
“i hate you,” you sob, “i’m never gonna forgive you ever.”
he swallows. “you don’t have to. but please don’t cry,” his hands tighten on his jeans. “i don’t know what to do when you cry.”
and it’s the first time geto’s been honest, because he really doesn’t know. because you’ve never cried because of him, and normally if you ever cried at all he’d drag you into his chest but right now that doesn’t feel appropriate.
but he gets up anyways.
takes your hands from your face. and you’re so gorgeous even with tears on your cheeks, eyes glistening wet, lips puffed out & nose flushed from crying. and he wants to hug you so badly, but for now he settles for crouching to your height and wiping the tears from your eyes.
you glare down at him, and he should be scared again but all he can think is that you’re so fucking cute. your nose is all puffy and your eyes slightly red. “you’re such an idiot.”
“i know.”
“and this is so cliché.”
“i know.”
“and i want you too, but slower.”
“i didn’t know that.”
“you know it now,” you curse. “you’re an idiot, i swear.”
geto breathes. and then you cup his face, watching the way his eyes glisten with wet. “you still haven’t confessed to me, suguru.”
“i love you,” he says too quickly. “since freshman year. i think about you too much. you’re always on my mind, and i don’t want anyone but you, and i love you so much y/n and i’ll love you forever if you’ll let me—“
you interrupt him with a kiss.
BONUS !
“i can’t believe he said he wants you round with his baby.”
the project is long over, and today you’re on the countertop of the sigma chi kitchen, legs swinging as you gossip with sukuna. he has your plantain chips in his hands, leaning against the counter as he eagerly munches on the snacks.
“i told him to approach you calmly and honestly, y’know? told him girls love communication,” sukuna clicks his tongue. “nobody listens to me in this household.”
you laugh, “really? that would’ve saved him a lot of trouble.”
“right?” sukuna shakes his head, passing you a plantain chip. “he’s got his brain in his ass cheeks, i swear.”
you giggle, and right then, the door swings open. sato gojo bursts in with his arms spread out in glee. “we’re back!”
geto trudges behind him, holding too many shopping bags for one person. sato has already run towards his room, leaving you and sukuna confused—but then geto drops the bags to the floor with a thud. he looks up at you. “hey,”
sukuna absentmindedly blocks your head with his own. “yo, man.”
“can you move your fat fucking head?” geto walks past him, ignoring the gasp sukuna lets out. he brackets you on the counter, forehead slightly sticky with sweat, chain glistening in the afternoon heat.
he murmurs, “hi, baby.”
“hi, handsome,” you cup his face. “back from your date with sato?”
“not a date,” he mumbles, kissing your palm, then your cheek, then your jaw. “was getting groceries.” he murmurs. “missed you so bad, pretty.”
you gigle, squeaking and squirming away as he attacks your face with kisses. he pulls back teasingly, smile smug, before you tug him back in by his chain. sukuna watches calmly, shoving another plantain chip in his mouth. he nods in approval of the flavor.
but he quickly grows bored. “don’t get too comfortable guys. i’ll whip out my dick and start stroking right now.”
“what...?”
“can you pretend to be normal?!”
before suguru can strangle sukuna, sato bounces back into the kitchen. his grin is clumsy, cap tilting off his hair, and in his hands is a machine that looks like a mini-tablet and a bunch of wires connected to pads at the ends.
⡴ toxic!reader manipulating & leading on frat!sukuna who is unfortunately whipped
“are you fucking kidding me?” he yells, nose scrunched up while he stares down at you. he grates his teeth before continuing while his hands thread into his roots distressingly. “what am i doing wrong?” it’s almost weird to hear his usually deep, solemn voice so whiney.
you exasperatedly sigh, rolling your eyes and sticking your hands back into your (really his) coat pocket, ready to leave his room. “oh, here we fucking go.” his deep red eyes squint, closing in on your annoyed face.
“here we fucking go?” he quotes you, dark eyebrows raising on his forehead in disbelief. “don’t try and act like i’m being fucking crazy!” his bulky arm whips out to gesture his point while the other remains in his tussled hair.
“i think you’re overreacting a little about your friend going on a date that hasn’t even happened yet.” your choice of words is intentional. as expected, his chest heaves a couple feet away from you. “you’re being—”
“FRIEND?” he screams in what sounds like horror. your eyebrows lift in almost a mocking way. his shoulder tense even harder before he slaps his calloused hands on his tattooed face and runs them down his skin, pacing back and forth infront of you. “THAT’S what you wanna call us? i-i’ve fucked you, took you out on dates, bought you fucking flowers.” he leans on his wall, covered in his nephew choso’s band posters, facing away from you and hissing through his teeth.
“i’ve told you thank you, ryomen.” his head snaps back to hiss at you, looking over his shoulder as the words fall out your mouth.
“you can’t even call me by my fucking name?” you don’t respond, playing around with the lighter in his coat pocket. “what will it fucking take for you to like me? i’ve dedicated the past six goddamn months on you and now you’re going on a date with gojo?”
“i do like you, sukuna.” his gaze softens for a moment at your words. his bottom lip juts out ever so slightly, if he wasn’t upset right now you’d tease him about the pout. “me and gojo are just going to the movies. me and him have been friends for years.”
he grumbles under his breath, turning to fully face your gaze again. he looks conflicted, now biting at the side of his lip. in full honesty he looks pathetic, his shoulders have now slumped discouragedly yet still looking over you.
“he wants to fuck you.” he grimaces, like it disgusts him to even mention him to you with another man at all. “you wouldn’t care at all if i hung out with yorozu?”
your arms crowds over themselves in front of your chest.
“i know you wouldn’t do that, ‘kuna.” he sighs out at the nickname. “unless you all of a sudden wanna give this up.” you gesture to the two of you.
“fuck.. no.” he shakes his head, pushing back the hair he did all nice for you tonight, exited to see you—atleast before you dropped you’ll be going on a date with his frat brother right after you fucked sukuna. “…why do you do this to me?” his voice cracks halfway through before his neck cranes to the side like he’s trying to hide his face from you.
you step forward, coming closer to him and softly placing your manicured hands—that sukuna insisted on paying for this past time— on his cheek and turning his face to the side. his lips are slightly ajar while his eyes bore into you.
you lean up to be level with his ear, glancing lightly at the botched ear piercing you have him when he moved at the last moment.
“i’m not doing anything, ‘kuna.” you whisper, soft just centimeters away from his skin. his large hand moves quickly to grab at your hip like he’s trying to keep you in his room forever from those words alone. he breathes hot against your neck. “how ‘bout you take me out this saturday? try to convince me you’re better than gojo.”
you’re about to step away now before his whole arm wraps around your waist, and he stares smittenly down at you. he hesitates before he finally opens his mouth to say something.
“block that other guy for me and it’ll be somewhere fancy.” he grumbles, matching your glare.
“i’ll think about it.” you kiss his cheek before he immediately tries to place his palm over where you left the smudge of lip color. “give me a reason to break gojo’s heart and not yours.”
you weave out of his grasp, and walk out of his room.
Whatever exists between you and Sukuna does not receive a name.
Not from you.
Not from him.
You do not ask because asking feels like placing a glass object on the edge of a table and waiting to see whether either of you is clumsy enough to knock it over. You have never been good at pretending labels do not matter once spoken. They change the weight of things. They turn gestures into evidence, silences into arguments, delays into accusations. A word like dating, seeing each other, together, casual, serious — each one comes with a set of expectations, and you do not know yet which ones would survive being placed between you and him.
Sukuna does not ask because you suspect asking is not part of his vocabulary in that way.
He takes. He appears. He decides. He sends messages that sound less like invitations and more like alerts.
Leaving in ten.
Eat before I get there.
You done?
Downstairs.
Sometimes he only sends your name, and somehow that is worse than all the others because it carries no explanation and still makes your pulse jump hard enough to embarrass you.
He does not vanish at all. That surprises you more than it should because you keep expecting him to.
The expectation is not too big and dramatic at first. It is practical, even boring. People like him have lives built out of motion, attention, access and appetite. He is famous enough that strangers follow his race schedule, injured enough to be held temporarily in place, proud enough that being forced to rest must feel like a punishment, and desired enough that he has probably never needed to try twice with anyone. You tell yourself that one night turning into two, then into three, does not necessarily mean anything beyond convenience.
You tell yourself this while packing clean clothes in your work bag on a Wednesday morning.
The realization makes you stop in the middle of your bedroom, one blouse in your hand and another folded beside the tests you need to grade. Your apartment is quiet. The morning light sits flat and pale over your desk, showing the neat stack of papers, the pen you forgot to cap, the mug you need to wash before leaving. You stand there, looking at the extra underwear, the soft shirt, the small pouch of toiletries, and understand that you have adapted around him without deciding to.
Just in case.
That is the phrase you give yourself.
Just in case the superstar is in one of his moods. Just in case he decides he does not want to drop you home after dinner. Just in case he parks outside your school after most people have already left and waits with the engine running, one hand on the wheel, looking half bored and half pleased when you open the passenger door and tell him he should warn people before appearing like a criminal.
At least he never pulls over while everyone is still around. That matters more than you let yourself say. Because he waits.
Sometimes not patiently, but he waits until the street is quieter, until your coworkers have gone, until the students have disappeared into buses, cars, or the kind of afternoon chaos that belongs entirely to them. He does not make a spectacle of you. He does not lean against the car where the parents can see him. He does not force you to explain why a champion motocross rider with tattoos, pink hair and an expensive car is waiting near school property like an urban legend with a driver’s license.
You notice that.
He respects your privacy in his own blunt way, with no speeches about it, no reassurance, no gentle declaration that he wants to protect the quiet pieces of your life. He simply appears when it will not expose you. If he arrives too early, he waits somewhere else. If a coworker lingers beside you on the sidewalk, his message comes instead of his car.
Tell them to go home.
You reply once, You are not my boss.
His answer appears almost immediately.
No. I’d be better at it.
You laugh in the middle of the sidewalk and have to pretend you are reacting to something else.
It becomes a rhythm before you can stop it. Not a routine.
Sukuna is not gentle enough for a routine. He does not fold neatly into a weekly calendar beside lesson plans and grocery lists. He interrupts. He derails. He turns Tuesday into the kind of night where you end up eating late dinner at his island while he complains about physiotherapy and lets you place a warm compress over his shoulder afterward. He turns Thursday into takeout on his couch while race footage plays with the sound low and his body gradually shifts until your head rests on his good shoulder, your legs tucked beneath you, his fingers idly tracing the hem of your skirt as though the contact helps him tolerate stillness.
“Shoko’s agenda is fucking insane,” he says one night, while you sit curled at the end of his couch with your laptop and a stack of papers balanced over your knees.
You barely look up from the test corrections in front of you.
“Did she ask you to do something terrible, like follow medical advice?”
“She booked me early.”
“She’s your doctor, not your event coordinator.”
“She enjoys it.”
“Keeping you alive?”
“Being annoying.”
You mark a wrong answer in red pen.
“Maybe stop making it rewarding?”
He does not answer, which means he has no intention of doing that.
You feel his eyes on you after a moment.
Not the race footage.
You.
You keep writing comments beside a student’s answer about a poem they did not read carefully enough, pretending that stare does not alter the air against your skin. Sukuna watches like he watches everything he does not understand yet. Not impatiently. Not gently either. He observes, collects, tests. Sometimes you get the distinct sense that he wants to ask why you are still there, why you are comfortable enough to sit quietly with him, why you do not demand constant performance from him when performance is the language everyone else understands.
He never asks. Instead, he hooks two fingers around your ankle and drags your foot into his lap.
You look up. He rests your heel against his thigh and keeps watching the screen as if nothing happened.
You let him. That becomes a kind of language too.
You on his couch, half buried in schoolwork. Him beside you, restless and forced into recovery, occasionally making cutting comments about riders who cannot scrub properly or mechanics who should have caught an issue before practice. Sometimes he rewinds to show you a line. Sometimes you ask questions and feel his attention sharpen with that almost dangerous pleasure he gets when you notice the thing beneath the spectacle.
On yet another night, you fall asleep with your head against his shoulder while footage from the race he is not riding plays on the screen. He stiffens at first. You feel it even while half asleep, the brief lock of muscle beneath your cheek, the pause in his breathing, the old resistance that rises in him whenever comfort arrives without warning. Then the tension leaves by degrees. His shoulder is better now, though not fully healed, and you are careful where you rest against him. His hand settles at your waist, not moving, just holding the fact of you there.
You wake once to the sound of commentary and the low vibration of his voice near the top of your head.
“He’s taking that rut wrong.”
You blink at the screen, drowsy, and see another rider from his team launch cleanly through a section Sukuna has already criticized twice.
“He wins anyway,” you murmur.
“Winning doesn’t make it less ugly.”
“You’re proud.”
He scoffs.
You smile against his shoulder because you hear it. Not in the word. In the way he does not change the channel. In how closely he watches the other rider’s performance. In the way his fingers tighten once against your waist when the team mechanic flashes on screen near the podium, clapping and laughing.
He misses it.
The riding. The immediate heat of victory. The simplicity of a body punished for something it chooses.
You do not say that either.
The shoulder did improve first, but not completely. You see it in the way he reaches more comfortably across the counter, then still stops before pushing too far. The knee remains temperamental, swelling after long days even when he pretends it does not. His ribs bother him when he laughs too suddenly or twists at the wrong angle, which means sometimes your best jokes punish him more effectively than your lectures.
You try not to think that you like having access to this.
Not the pain — never the pain. The access.
The proof that he is a person under the machinery of champion, menace, superstar, predator, arrogant bastard, impossible man. A person with appointments he resents, food he forgets to eat unless reminded, an apartment too clean in some places and careless in others, and a habit of falling asleep more deeply when your hand rests somewhere on him.
You notice everything with him, because Sukuna is not a man who gives reassurance in the expected ways. He gives it in logistics. In waiting. In the warm press of his hand at the small of your back when you cross a parking lot at night. In sending a car instead of taking his motorcycle, even though you know it irritates him. In keeping your face out of photos. In never touching you where someone from your life can see unless you step toward him first.
You tell yourself that does not mean anything.
Then he shows up on a Wednesday evening with food you did not ask for because you mentioned, hours earlier, that you forgot lunch.
He does not hand it to you like a gift.
He tosses the bag onto the passenger seat before you get in, then glares at you when you look at him.
“Eat before you become a pain in the ass.”
You look inside and find exactly the kind of meal you like after a tiring day, not too heavy, not too fussy, with the extra sauce you never remember telling him you prefer.
You decide not to ask how he knows. The answer would make your chest feel too tight.
During the first week, you wonder whether he is bored.
You wonder if that is all this is.
A month off the track leaves him with space he does not know how to fill, and maybe you are simply interesting because you arrived at the exact moment his body was forced to stop. You are not naive enough to ignore timing. He has no races, no training, no adrenaline strong enough to silence whatever rattles around inside him when he is still. You become an available disruption.
Then he texts on days when he has other things to do. Then he remembers you hate answering parent emails after nine because it ruins your sleep. Then he keeps a bottle of the shampoo you used once in his bathroom without saying anything about it. Then, on a Monday night, he opens a drawer in his bedroom and tells you to stop keeping your clothes in your backpack like a fugitive.
You stare at the empty drawer.
He looks away first.
“Your bag is annoying on the chair.”
“Sukuna.” You huff a brief laugh. “That’s why?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing.”
You put two folded shirts inside and pretend it does not make your throat tighten.
Whatever this is, you do not name it.
But it grows anyway.
By Friday, you are sitting beside him at another team dinner, this time in a smaller place with warm lights, wooden tables, and less quiet money in the walls. It’s still nice. Better than places you usually choose, but comfortable in a way the wine tasting was not. The tables are closer together. The plates are heavier. The staff laughs with Choso when he thanks them too seriously for bringing extra sauce.
He tells you Choso wants to hear your thoughts about the performances.
That is the excuse.
You know it is an excuse because he could simply tell Choso what you said. He remembers, even when he acts like he does not. He remembers the observations you make half asleep against his shoulder, the questions about suspension and timing, the way you paused the footage once to ask why the front wheel seemed to hesitate before settling after a landing.
Still, you accept.
This time it is to celebrate the win of the rider who stood in while Sukuna recovers. The victory seems to have put everyone into a better mood.
Everyone except Sukuna, who claims he is not annoyed.
He is absolutely annoyed.
It is not exactly jealousy. Not because the other rider won. At least, you do not think so. You do not think he resents the win itself. He respects competence too much to begrudge it where it exists. But sitting still while someone else carries the noise that usually belongs to him scrapes at something raw. The problem is that the celebration exists in the space where he should have been performing. He sits beside you with one arm draped along the back of your chair, his body outwardly relaxed, but you can feel the restless dissatisfaction beneath it.
He wants to be the one they are talking about.
He wants to be the rider whose timing, risk and control everyone dissects over food.
He wants to be on the motorcycle.
He is not.
So he keeps one hand on you instead.
At the door, at your back.
Then, once seated, over your thigh.
Possessive as always, but less like a public declaration now and more like habit. A physical preference. As if, after three weeks of touching you whenever he wants, not touching you would require a discipline he has no interest in exercising.
At some point, his fingers rest over your shoulder, occasionally brushing the silk of your sleeve or the bare place near your collar when your blouse shifts. Sometimes his hand drops to the back of your neck, thumb grazing once before retreating. He listens while others talk, but you feel his attention split between the table and your body, as if your presence is a point he returns to each time his irritation threatens to sharpen.
Choso and Nanami sit closer this time. Naoya sits farther down, which improves the air immediately. Mei Mei is present tonight.
That changes everything.
You understand it within ten seconds of being introduced. She looks at you the way a person looks at a new variable that may affect finances, reputation, emotional stability, performance, legal liability and future scheduling. Her smile is beautiful, bright, and absolutely not warm enough to be mistaken for harmless.
“So,” she says, after Sukuna fails to introduce you with any detail beyond your name. “You’re the reason my rider has become marginally more cooperative and significantly more difficult to locate after six in the evening.”
You nearly choke on your water. No, you do choke and cough, no dignity to save there.
Sukuna looks bored.
“You’re welcome.”
Mei Mei’s smile does not move.
“That was not gratitude.”
“It should’ve been.”
Nanami, who has the look of a man already tired of where this could go, adjusts his glasses. Choso greets you more sincerely and almost immediately asks whether you watched last weekend’s races.
You did. You watched them on Sukuna’s couch, your head on his shoulder, his body warm and still beneath you except for the occasional twitch of irritation when a rider took a poor line or a commentator said something stupid. He pretended not to care as much because he was not in the race, but his attention was viciously sharp. He explained certain choices without prompting, sometimes stopping mid-sentence when he realized how much he was giving away.
You remember most of it.
So when Choso asks, you answer.
At first, carefully. Then the way you always end up answering when someone gives you enough room to be interested. You talk about the start, the way the winning rider managed the first turn without wasting momentum, the difference in body position through the whoops, how the bike looked more nervous than Sukuna’s but still responsive, how the front seemed to bite better after the halfway mark. Choso listens like each observation has weight. Nanami asks what you noticed about the fatigue in the final laps, and you admit you could see the rider losing precision before his lap time showed it.
Sukuna says nothing for several minutes, and that’s how you know he is pleased — his silence is too still, too satisfied.
When you glance at him, his mouth carries the faintest curve. Not a smile. Something meaner, prouder.
As if you are something he has brought to the table and everyone else is finally realizing the quality of it.
That bothers you a little. It also warms you more than you want to admit.
Naoya makes one comment from farther down about you being more useful than half the media team, and Sukuna’s eyes cut toward him so sharply that the sentence dies before it can become anything worse. Mei Mei notices that too. You see her notice. She sees you seeing her notice, and her smile becomes faintly amused.
Shoko arrives late, drops into a chair across from Sukuna, and looks him over the way she always does.
“You missed a session.”
The table quiets.
You turn your head toward him when he responds.
“I rescheduled.”
His expression does not change even though your eyebrows knead together.
“I overslept.”
Shoko’s eyes shift to you before returning to him.
“When?” you ask.
He gives Shoko a look that contains threat, warning and betrayal in equal measure.
Shoko is immune.
“Wednesday morning.”
You remember Wednesday morning.
You also remember why he overslept.
You had been at his apartment the night before despite insisting you needed to go home. He had taken you to bed after dinner with such slow, deliberate hunger that your body still went warm thinking about it, and then he had kept you there with his arm around your waist long after the alarm on your phone should have ended the night. When you tried to leave, he pulled you back without opening his eyes and told you five more minutes in a voice low enough to ruin your judgment.
Five minutes became forty.
Forty became staying over.
Apparently, staying over became missing physiotherapy.
You look at him.
He looks back, stubborn and unrepentant.
“If you think about missing another appointment because you wanted to keep me in your bed again,” you say, voice calm enough that Choso looks down at his plate, “I’m the one driving you there.”
A few people at the table go very still.
Sukuna’s brows lift slowly.
Then he tsks.
“I rescheduled. You and Shoko can calm the fuck down. I’m doing it.”
Shoko points her fork at you without looking away from him.
“I like her.”
“I didn’t ask,” Sukuna says.
Mei Mei sips her drink, eyes bright with amusement.
“She makes him more manageable. Keep her.”
Your face heats. Sukuna’s arm shifts from the back of your chair to your waist.
“She’s not a team asset.”
The words are flat. Immediate.
The table registers the boundary.
So do you.
Mei Mei’s smile softens only by a degree, but something like approval passes through her eyes before she looks away.
You do not thank him for it, you only place your hand over his on your waist beneath the table.
His fingers tighten once around you.
The night becomes easier after that.
You let yourself relax.
The food is good, the conversation less formal, the attention less suffocating. You understand now that Sukuna’s people are not one thing. Choso is intense but kind in a careful, guarded way. Nanami is sensible, blunt without being cruel, the kind of man who probably saves everyone trouble by being willing to sound boring. Shoko is tired and sharp and watching Sukuna with the weary commitment of someone who has decided keeping him alive is both her job and her curse. Mei Mei remains terrifying, but not in a way that feels carelessly invasive. She measures everything, yes, but she also seems to understand value beyond spectacle.
Naoya is still Naoya. You keep your distance. Sukuna notices and approves.
Mei Mei eventually asks you whether you have always followed motocross.
You laugh softly.
“No. I started because of him.”
That changes the air, but not badly. Sukuna’s thumb stills. You do not look at him.
“Not because of— well yes he’s very handsome,” you add, because that matters. “I went to one event because a friend had an extra ticket. I didn’t understand most of what I was seeing, but I wanted to once I saw him jumping. So I started learning.”
Mei Mei’s eyes move briefly to Sukuna.
“Motivating, isn’t he?”
Sukuna’s mouth curves with arrogance.
“He’d be more motivating if he listened to his doctor,” Shoko says.
“Fuck off.”
The table laughs, and the moment passes before it can become too exposed.
But later, when Sukuna drives you home, he is quiet longer than usual.
You sit in the passenger seat with your coat over your lap, watching the city lights move across the windshield. His hand rests on your thigh, but without the usual idle strokes. Just warm weight. Anchoring or anchored, you cannot tell.
“You started because of me,” he comments eventually.
It is not a question. You look over. His eyes remain on the road, always.
“I thought you already knew it.”
“And still watching when I’m not riding.”
“Yes. It grew on me.”
The answer is simple because anything more would make it fragile.
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite.
“You really are strange.”
You smile and cover his hand with yours.
“Maybe.”
He turns his palm upward and threads his fingers between yours before returning them both to your thigh.
The rhythm your relationship takes after that is calmer than you expected.
Which is strange, because Sukuna is not calm as a person. Sukuna, by all appearances, should not be a calm man. He is too sharp, too physical, too used to speed and impact. His stillness always feels like something restrained rather than natural.
He is controlled, yes, but control is not calm. Control can hold violence the way a locked door holds back a storm. Calm is different. Calm is the shape of evenings where he lets you grade papers at his table while he does his recovery exercises on the floor with a scowl. Calm is him complaining about resistance bands and then doing every set because you are watching over the rim of your mug. Calm is waking up in his bed on a school morning and finding your clean clothes folded on a chair because he pulled them from your backpack while you slept. Calm is his mouth at your neck while you brush your teeth, one hand at your waist, his voice low and sleep-rough telling you to leave the apartment before he changes his mind and keeps you there.
You indulge his rest.
Not because he becomes soft. He remains impossible. He refuses to call most things by their proper emotional names. He says you are irritating when you remind him to ice his knee, then sits with the ice pack where you place it. He says he does not care if you are tired, then turns the bedroom lights low and takes your phone before you can answer late messages from work. He says the race footage is boring without him in it, then watches it with you anyway because you ask questions and he enjoys answering with the arrogance of a man who knows more than everyone on the screen.
You watch movies he criticizes until he falls asleep halfway through. You bring papers to grade at his place and end up on the floor near his coffee table while he stretches with visible resentment because Shoko sent him a list of exercises and apparently you have become an unofficial witness to compliance. You eat together more often than not, sometimes at his apartment, sometimes in the car, once at a tiny noodle place where he wears a cap low over his face and still gets recognized by the owner within five minutes.
You do not talk about what you are.
He does not call you his girlfriend.
You do not call him your boyfriend.
He does, however, begin saying my teacher once in a while, usually in a tone that suggests he knows exactly what it does to you.
By the third week, the dangerous thought has stopped arriving as a warning and started settling as fact.
You miss him when he is not there.
You do not like that. You also do not fight it as hard as you should.
You decide to invite him over for dinner, then. Properly.
Not takeout balanced on your knees, not something eaten from containers at his kitchen island, not coffee after he picks you up, not a quick meal before he pulls you into bed and convinces you sleep is optional.
Dinner.
At your apartment.
It happens because you are standing in your kitchen after work, looking into your fridge, realizing you bought too much food for one person again because your sense of portion has been ruined by eating with a man who treats protein like architecture. You think about cooking. You think about Sukuna complaining that Uraume’s recovery meals are joyless.
You send the message during lunch, after spending an unreasonable amount of time typing and deleting variations that all sound too formal.
Do you want to come over for dinner this week?
His reply comes after eleven minutes.
You become suddenly rich?
You stare at the screen in the teachers’ room.
Then type:
Asshole. I intend to cook said dinner, but I’ll understand if you only eat food that costs more than a popular car.
His answer is faster this time.
When.
You give him the day and time.
He replies with a simple:
Fine.
You sit there smiling at your phone until Maki, passing behind you with a stack of copies, mutters, “Disgusting,” without slowing down.
You spend Wednesday pretending not to think about it.
You fail.
By Thursday afternoon, you are mentally rearranging your entire apartment while explaining grammar to teenagers who are far too entertained by the way your attention keeps slipping. You go home with the kind of focus usually reserved for emergencies. The apartment is already tidy because you are naturally organized, but apparently that is not enough when Sukuna is going to see it for the first time.
On the day itself, your apartment becomes a battlefield against your own nerves.
You clean as though a government inspection is scheduled.
Then you clean again because the first cleaning reveals things you had stopped seeing through familiarity. Dust near the window. A stray receipt beside the bookshelf. Shoes that need to be arranged rather than kicked neatly to the side. Your laundry is already done, but you refold the blanket on the couch twice. You wipe the kitchen counters until they reflect the light. You check the bathroom, the hand towel, the candle you light and then blow out because it smells too strong, then light again because without it the room feels too plain.
Your apartment is not large. Certainly not compared to his.
There is no city view that makes people pause. No leather furniture, no giant windows, no kitchen island that looks like a magazine designer had a nervous breakdown over minimalism. Your home is tidy, organized, lived in. Books, work materials, a few plants you have not killed, small items chosen over years rather than bought all at once.
You like it.
You do.
But knowing he is coming makes you see every modest part of it.
The table is small. The chairs are comfortable but not elegant. The kitchen requires coordination if two people stand in it at once. Your bedroom is close enough to the living room that leaving the door open feels too intimate and closing it feels worse.
Then there is the poster.
You stand in front of it for a full minute.
It is from one of the races, purchased half impulsively and half because the shot is genuinely excellent. Sukuna stands in the foreground, helmet under one arm, hair damp, face turned slightly toward the camera with that bored hostility that somehow translates into being ridiculously photogenic. His jersey is half unzipped. Dirt marks his gear. Behind him, the track lights flare.
He looks good as fuck.
You are not ashamed. You are, however, unwilling to survive his teasing if he sees it tonight.
You remove the poster and hide it behind your wardrobe with the solemnity of burying evidence.
Then you cook.
You choose something you know you do well. Rich enough to feel like an invitation, not so elaborate that you spend the whole evening trapped in the kitchen. You season the meat early. You prepare the sauce, the vegetables, the side dish that always makes the apartment smell warm and lived in. You choose a red wine that actually matches the food because, after the tasting event, you cannot unlearn the difference. You are not wealthy, but you can be thoughtful. That matters more to you.
At seven, your phone lights up.
Outside.
You check the time. Then the window.
No expensive black car. A normal app car idles near the curb.
You smile despite yourself.
You had told him to come by app because you fear his car could be a target in the neighborhood. He told you to stop worrying that much. Then he apparently came by app anyway, because he is like that. He will argue, dismiss, complain, act like your concern is excessive, and still adjust his behavior around it if the concern is yours.
You buzz him in.
While he comes up, you stand near the door and try not to smooth your dress for the fifth time. It is not too fancy, not too simple, something comfortable enough for cooking but pretty enough that you know exactly what you are doing. Your sandals are black and delicate. Your hair is loose. You wear the perfume he likes because you are apparently no longer pretending not to enjoy the way he reacts to it.
The knock comes.
Your heartbeat answers first.
You open the door.
He is standing there in a dark shirt and dark pants, no jacket this time. The absence of layers makes him look broader somehow, more immediate, all hard lines and lazy posture. The dog tag hangs around his neck, resting against the solid planes of his chest, catching faint light when he shifts. His hair is pushed back but already slightly unruly. He looks like he would if you were taking him to a very great restaurant, which is unfair because you are feeding him at your small table in your small apartment and he still arrives looking like the night has been arranged around him.
He also looks like he could be ruining your life.
His eyes drop over you.
You barely get his name out before he leans down and kisses you.
It startles you still.
Even after the last weeks, even after sleeping in his bed, even after learning the weight of his hands and the sound he makes when your nails move through his hair, you are not used to being wanted so immediately. Not because he has not kissed you plenty by now, but because your apartment doorway is still your ordinary life. Rent. Keys. Shoes near the entrance. The faint smell of cleaning products under dinner. He steps into that normal space and kisses you like he belongs there already, mouth warm and assured, one hand briefly touching your waist.
You smile against his lips before you can stop yourself.
His hand comes to your jaw, fingers firm, keeping you there for another slow press of lips before he draws back.
“What?”
“I’m not used to that.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“To being kissed?”
“At the— my door.”
“Stupid thing to be unused to.”
“Thank you for your empathy.”
“You always open the door like you’re about to ask for identification?”
“You kiss people like you’re preventing them from speaking?”
“Works.”
He steps inside and slips off his shoes without needing to be told. You notice that too. The tiny respect of it. He looks around while you close the door, and for one horrible second you wonder if the apartment is too small, too ordinary, too much yours in a way that might not fit the scale of his life.
His presence changes your apartment instantly. He simply enters, and the room becomes aware of him. The ceiling looks lower. The hallway narrower. Your tidy little entryway suddenly contains a man who seems designed for larger spaces, for stadiums and garages and motorcycles and rooms where everyone watches him whether they admit it or not.
His gaze moves over the table already set, the wine glasses, the plates, the kitchen, the books stacked near the shelf, the blanket folded over the couch, the little signs that a person lives here carefully and with limited space.
He does not look unimpressed.
He looks attentive.
That is worse for your nerves.
“Smells good,” he says.
You exhale.
“Thank you.”
His eyes return to you. There is a pause. A dangerous one.
Then he does that thing again.
He catches your waist and pulls you in against his chest, close enough that the dog tag presses cold through the fabric of your dress for a second before warming between you. His face lowers to your neck, and you feel his inhale before you hear it, deep, unabashed, as if scent is something he has every right to take from your skin.
Your eyes close, your hand lifts to his arm.
His nose brushes the column of your throat. His mouth follows, warm, slow, a kiss placed where your pulse is already embarrassing you. He grins against your skin.
“You smell better, though.”
Heat rushes through you and he straightens, entirely pleased with himself.
“You’re maddening.”
“Hungry.”
“Then wash your hands.”
His teeth graze lightly beneath your jaw, not enough to mark, enough to make you tighten your grip on his arms.
“Bathroom?”
You point down the short hall.
He goes to wash his hands, and the moment he disappears, you press both palms against the counter and breathe like someone trying to lower a fever.
Ridiculous.
You invited him here to eat.
You are an adult. You teach children, manage teenagers, deal with parents, meetings, deadlines, whole rooms full of noise and emotion. You can survive Sukuna washing his hands in your bathroom after smelling your neck like he wants to devour you before dinner.
Probably.
By the time he returns, you are serving the food. You tell him what you prepared as you plate it, trying not to sound like you care too much whether he likes it. You do care. Obviously. You are a good cook, that much you can say with confidence, but Sukuna’s relationship with food is intense in ways you still do not fully understand. He notices quality. He notices effort. He eats with the focus of someone whose body is always demanding repair and fuel, but also with the selectiveness of a man who refuses mediocre things on principle.
You pour the wine after serving both plates.
The red catches the light inside the glass.
He sits across from you, and the sight is strange enough to make something in your chest ache. Sukuna at your table. Too large for your chair, shoulders broad, dog tag resting against his shirt, tattoos visible at his throat, face — obviously — biceps and wrists, his presence making your apartment feel smaller but not invaded. You are used to being beside him. In his car, on his couch, at team dinners where his hand finds your thigh or waist or shoulder.
Across from him, there is space. A modest table between you. Plates, glasses, the bottle of wine.
He looks more rested tonight.
Yet even with distance, his attention reaches.
You notice while he reaches for his fork. The shadows beneath his eyes are lighter. His movements are smoother, less guarded. The shoulder has improved. The knee too, though you know he still notices both when he thinks no one is watching.
“You look better,” you say.
His brow cocks.
You realize too late that it sounded blunt.
“I mean more rested.”
“I slept probably the same as always.”
You smirk before lifting your glass.
“You really can’t accept a single compliment without trying to deflect it.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” He retorts and his upper lip tugs up a fraction. “It was just medical surveillance.”
“Can’t it be both?”
He huffs, unimpressed, and turns his attention to the food.
You try to be subtle about waiting for him to taste it.
You are not subtle.
Not to him.
His eyes lift before the fork reaches his mouth.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re sitting there like you’re waiting for sentencing.”
“Just eat already.”
His mouth curves.
He gives you the mercy of tasting without dragging it out further. You watch despite trying not to. The fork enters his mouth. His jaw moves once, twice. His gaze drops briefly to the plate, then returns to yours.
“It’s good.”
Your shoulders loosen before you can stop them. His expression shifts at the sight.
Something in him reads your relief and absorbs it with a quieter attention.
“Really good,” he adds, lower this time.
You smile despite yourself. He looks down at the plate again.
For a moment, the arrogance thins into something more difficult for him.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
Sukuna saying thank you in your apartment with a plate of food you made in front of him and his voice lowered enough that the sentence feels almost private despite no one else being there. And it lands harder than it should.
Maybe because he says it without performance. No smirk. No insult afterward to protect himself from having been sincere. Just the words, slightly rough, as if gratitude is something he can do but dislikes feeling exposed while doing it.
You hold your glass with both hands and let your smile warm fully.
“It’s the least I can do to show I appreciate your effort in recovering,” you say, tone playful because your own sincerity needs some cover too, “and the fact that you did not ghost me.”
His eyes gleam.
Not with amusement alone.
He sets his fork down slowly.
“I had no reason to ghost you.”
You startle a little at how frank he sounds.
Before you can answer, he continues, voice level, almost too serious for the little table and the wine and the food cooling between you.
“And you shouldn’t thank anyone for the bare minimum.”
Your fingers tighten around the stem of the glass.
That is the kind of statement that reveals more than he probably intends. Not because it is sentimental, but because it tells you something about his standards, about what he thinks you might have expected, about the anger that rises in him when you treat being treated decently like a gift instead of a floor.
He is right. You know he is right.
But it still matters that he says it, because everything about his life suggests he could have gotten away with giving less. He could have taken what he wanted and disappeared into the distance maintained by fame. He could have turned you into a story you told Maki over coffee once, half embarrassed, half wistful. He could have made you feel foolish for expecting anything after a night with someone everyone wants.
Instead, he sits at your table and tells you not to be grateful for not being discarded. You hide your smile in a sip of wine because looking directly at him with all the tenderness that just moved through you would be too much.
He watches anyway. Of course he does.
The meal settles into comfortable silence after that, and it carries the sounds of cutlery against plates, wine being poured, the city beyond your windows, his breath when he leans back slightly to ease pressure off his ribs. You notice that, of course. You notice the way he sits differently in your chair than he does at his own island, how the smaller space gives him fewer ways to hide discomfort.
That silence gets broken by random pieces of conversation from the week. You tell him about a student who answered a literature question with such confident nonsense that you almost respected it. He tells you Choso threatened to lock him out of the garage if he kept touching the bike without clearance. You ask if he did touch it. He says no in a tone that means yes in spirit if not in action.
You tell him Maki asked whether he was still alive after you did not answer messages for several hours one night.
“She worries?”
“She threatens.”
“Smart.”
You laugh.
He asks about work without making it sound like asking. More like a statement with space for you to fill.
“Classes were shit yesterday.”
You blink at him.
Then realize he means your classes, not his.
“One of them was,” you admit. “The others were fine.”
He listens while you explain, eating steadily, eyes occasionally dropping to your mouth, your hands, the way you reach for your glass. The listening is not gentle in the way other people listen to comfort. Sukuna listens like he is gathering information for future use. Like every detail of what exhausts you becomes something he might one day remove from your path if he can find a way to do it without asking permission.
At some point, his foot finds the side of your calf beneath the table.
The contact is slight. A brush, then a rest.
You look down even though you cannot see much under the table. He continues eating as if nothing happened.
You understand, then.
Even sitting across from you, he likes the contact.
Minimal, hidden, unnecessary and therefore more revealing.
You do not comment.
Instead, when he rests his forearm on the table between you, you place your hand over his.
His fingers still beneath yours.
For one second, you think you have misread it. Maybe the contact is too soft, too open, too domestic for the mood he knows how to handle. Then he turns his hand beneath yours and holds it as if that is the most natural thing in the world.
His palm is warm. Callused. Strong enough that the gentleness feels like a choice you can feel in each finger.
Your heart hurts. You look at your joined hands instead of his face.
You eat like that for a while, your hand in his, his foot against your calf, the apartment quiet around the clink of utensils and the low noise of the city beyond the windows.
You do not think about labels.
After dinner, you clear the plates despite his objection.
“I cooked, I’ll clean. You can sit.”
“I’m not useless.”
“You’re a guest.”
He follows you into the kitchen anyway and leans against the counter instead, accepting exile with poorly disguised amusement. The position makes him look like he belongs in some expensive, moody magazine spread about dangerous men in domestic spaces. Arms crossed, dog tag resting against his chest, eyes following you as you wash dishes and rinse glasses. He has the indecent ability to make standing still feel like pressure.
The space is too small for him to be there without affecting your every movement. His hip rests near the drawer you need.
You tell him to move twice.
He moves half an inch.
You give up.
You keep talking while cleaning.
Little things. Harmless things. The neighbor’s dog that barks at exactly seven every morning. The bottle of wine. A student who drew a surprisingly accurate motorcycle on the back of a test and made you think of him against your will.
“That kid has taste.”
“That kid was supposed to answer question four.”
“Maybe question four was boring.”
“It… was.”
“So he improved the paper.”
You glance at him over your shoulder and find him smiling. You almost drop a spoon.
The conversation drifts as your hands work through warm water and soap. He tells you Choso wants you to come by the garage once they test new settings, then adds, as if the invitation is not from him, that you might find it interesting. You ask whether he is allowed near the bike without riding it. He gives you a look.
He has been patient all evening.
For him.
That qualifier matters.
You felt the restraint during dinner, in the way he watched you move around your own kitchen, in the way his boot touched your calf, in the way he held your hand but did not pull, in the way his eyes dropped to your mouth whenever you drank wine. He behaved through the meal because the meal mattered to you.
Now the dishes are almost done.
Now the apartment is quiet.
Now there is no team, no restaurant, no car parked outside your building, no morning waiting immediately on the other side.
The last plate slides into the rack.
You turn off the tap.
Before you can reach for the towel, his hands are on your waist.
Your breath catches.
There is no question in the touch, but there is enough room for you to stop him if you want. That is another thing you have learned. Sukuna is forceful in style, not careless in fact. He likes taking. He also notices response with frightening precision.
Your body gives him one immediately.
You lean back into him before he finishes pulling you in.
His arms cross around your midsection, locking you against the front of him. He is warm through the dark shirt, broad enough to make your kitchen feel suddenly too narrow. He has to bend to put his mouth at the curve between your neck and shoulder with the accuracy of a man who has spent three weeks memorizing where you soften fastest.
The first nip makes you flinch. The second makes you laugh. The sound comes out breathier than intended.
“Sukuna.”
He hums against your skin. You try to reach for the towel. He tightens his arms.
“I have to dry my hands.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a yes or no question.”
His mouth moves along your shoulder, lazy and warm.
“It became one.”
“You just ate and now you’re trying to eat me.”
He hums again, mouth moving slowly along the side of your neck.
“Mhm.”
“You can’t still be hungry.”
His hands spread over your stomach, fingers flexing once.
“For something else.”
Heat curls through you so fast your knees feel less reliable.
“Sukuna.”
He likes his name in your mouth.
You know because his breath changes each time. Because his fingers grip a little harder. Because there is always one second where his control tightens around the sound, as if he wants to take it from you again immediately.
He nips at your shoulder.
You giggle, partly because it tickles, partly because the wine has made everything in you too warm and too honest, partly because there is something absurdly joyful about being held in your own kitchen by a man who looks like he was built for violence and is currently trying to distract you from dish towels by biting you.
The giggle becomes a yelp when he lifts you from the floor.
It happens with disturbing ease.
One moment your feet are on the kitchen tile. The next, his arms are locked around you and your body is lifted against him, your toes leaving the ground, the whole room tilting slightly as he turns.
“Sukuna, put me down!”
“No.”
He lifts you with disturbing ease, arms locked around your middle, and turns away from the sink as though carrying you through your apartment is the most reasonable next step.
Your feet leave the floor, your hands grasp at his forearm, and the thrill of it moves through you before you can pretend otherwise. He carries you like you weigh nothing. Like your apartment belongs to him the moment he decides on a direction.
“You can’t just carry people across their homes!”
“I’m doing it.” His words move your hair as he speaks and keeps walking.
“You’re still recovering.” You wiggle a bit, useless.
“I’m just walking.”
“With me!”
“You weigh less than the shit Choso makes me lift in physio.”
“I am not equipment, you ass!”
“You’re more entertaining.”
You object the entire way, but you are also giggling, which ruins your authority completely — not only because you are still laughing and because a shameful part of you enjoys it too much. The ease of it. The certainty of his arms. The way he handles your weight like it is nothing, like your body is something he wants in his grip and has no trouble taking there.
He carries you past the couch, past the shelf, toward the short hallway.
Your apartment is not large enough for mystery.
He finds the bedroom easily.
“You didn’t show me this room,” he says as he steps inside.
You twist enough to glare at him over your shoulder.
“You’re finishing the tour?”
His mouth brushes your ear.
“Yeah.”
“You’re shit at making excuses.”
He reaches the bedroom doorway and pauses just long enough to let you feel his grin near your ear.
“Fine,” he says, blunt as a blade. “I’m having my dessert.”
The words hit low and hot. Your laughter dies into a breath. He carries you inside.
Your bedroom seems smaller with him in it, more intimate than it did ten minutes ago when you were nervously checking whether the bed was made properly. The lamp is on, casting warm light over the blanket, the pillows, the chair where you definitely threw clothes earlier before shoving them into the closet in your cleaning panic.
He sets you down only when he reaches the bed, and even then, set down is generous.
He lets you fall forward onto the cushion with enough control to keep it playful and enough force to steal the air from your lungs, and even then he does it in a way that feels like another kind of taking. Your knees hit the mattress first, then your hands, your body falling forward onto the cushion with a small, startled sound. Before he can move, you turn yourself quickly so you can face him, propping yourself on your forearms and leaning back into the give of the bed.
Then you look up.
And for a second, the room goes quiet inside you.
He stands at the foot of your bed, too large for the space, too intense for the soft light spilling from the bedside lamp. The dark shirt stretches across his chest. The dog tag rests where your eyes keep returning. His hair falls slightly over his forehead now, less controlled after the evening. His gaze moves over you in a way that makes every part of your body feel seen, and with a hunger so direct it makes your skin prickle.
He is too fucking magnificent.
That is the only thought your brain offers, and it is not useful.
He reaches one hand behind his back, grips the collar of his shirt, and pulls it off in one clean motion, the unfair one-handed stunt that should be illegal given the state of his shoulder and the state of your sanity. The fabric drops wherever he lets it fall.
Your eyes fall immediately to the tattoos stark against the planes of his chest, the dark lines shaping over muscle, down his ribs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants where the edge of his boxers shows. His body looks better than it did the first night, less bruised, less punished, though you can still see faint traces of damage if you know where to look. Yellowing shadows near his ribs. A small healing mark near his hip. The shoulder moving with more ease but not full freedom.
You see the recovery, you see the danger of forgetting it. He sees you seeing it.
“Don’t start now.”
“You’re annoying, let me worry about you.”
“No.”
He crawls onto the bed.
The mattress dips beneath his weight, and your pulse jumps with it. You backpedal a little to give him room, palms pressing into the cushion, but he follows with deliberate slowness, crowding you onto your own bed as if he has been waiting all night to bring the whole world down to this.
“Dinner was good,” he says.
His hands slide up your calves. His palms are warm against your skin.
“This is better.”
Your body reacts before you can produce any clever answer.
He notices.
The arrogance in his face deepens, but there is something else underneath it, something almost relieved. A release of tension you had not fully noticed him holding. Here, with you underneath him and the door closed and no one to watch, Sukuna’s restless recovery sharpens into focus. All the energy he has been denied on the track gathers into touch, into attention, into the controlled way he takes your knees and guides them apart enough to settle between them.
Your breath shortens as his hands find the hem of your dress.
He pushes it up with no patience for fabric pretending to be an obstacle between him and what he wants. The material slides over your thighs, bunching at your hips, then higher as his palms travel over your stomach. He watches the path of his own hands and you feel the scorching, delightful sensation they leave in their wake. You watch his face. The way his jaw tightens. The way his eyes darken with each inch of skin revealed. The way his breathing grows slower, not calmer, but deliberately contained.
Maybe it is the wine.
Maybe it is how shameless he is.
Maybe it is the fact that he is in your bedroom, on your bed, looking at you like all the restraint of the past three weeks has only taught him where to aim his hunger.
Your whole body tingles.
He does not ask whether you want him like this because the answer is already in your body, in the way you let your knees part, in the way your breath catches when his fingers hook into the fabric gathered at your hips, in the way you watch him as though looking away would waste the sight.
He removes the rest of what stands in his way with the same focused ease, not rushed exactly, just hooking his fingers on the straps of your panties and sliding the piece down until you’re baring your core to him. Your sandals come off too in his skilled hands, one strap, then the other. His hands, so large and capable of harshness, work with careful ease. Then he catches one of your feet before lowering it back to the bed.
You look at him, confused for half a second.
He brings the top of your foot to his mouth.
The kiss is slow.
Your breath leaves you in a soft rush.
He does not look away from you as he does it, watching your face with rapt attention.
Then he kisses higher.
Your ankle. Shin, then, slowly. The hinge of your knee. The inner side of your thigh. The other leg receives the same treatment, but not in the same rhythm, not mechanically, not as if repeating a pattern. His teeth appear occasionally, not to hurt, only to make you jolt, to pull little sounds from your throat that make his shoulders settle lower with satisfaction.
He explores by response. Each small intake of breath from you teaches him where to linger, where to scrape teeth lightly, where to press his mouth open and warm until your fingers twist in the bedding and heat pools low and heavy, turning your thoughts soft at the edges.
There is nothing delicate in his expression. He doesn’t look reverent. He looks hungry, amused by your surprise, pleased by the way your body goes quiet in his hands. But the care is still there, buried in the pacing, in the way his grip supports instead of restrains.
When he guides both your legs over his broad shoulders, instinct makes you tense.
His shoulder.
Even now, even with your heart racing, you think of it.
He feels the hesitation immediately. His gaze cuts up to you from between your thighs, sharp and almost offended.
“It’s better,” he says before you can speak. “Three weeks of resting, remember?”
“Resting,” you echo, breathless. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
His mouth curves.
“This is me being patient.”
You laugh once, but it breaks when he bites softly into the plush skin of your inner thigh.
The gasp comes out before you can control it.
He presses you back into the cushion with one forearm across your hips, not cruelly, not hard enough to hurt, but firmly enough to tell your body where he wants it. The pressure makes your breath stutter. His mouth keeps moving, kissing higher with a slow inevitability that makes anticipation worse than any rush would have been.
The room becomes too small for all the heat in your body.
His face lowers.
You feel his hot breath first.
Then the nuzzle of him against your mound, brushing your well kempt pubes with his nose tip, intimate and shameless, as if he wants to memorize you the same way he memorizes the response of a machine under his hands, not mechanically but sensually, by pressure and sound and the smallest adjustments of your body.
Your fingers fly to his hair and your voice sounds small, breathless.
“Sukuna—”
He answers by closing his mouth over the most sensitive part of you.
The sound you make does not feel like yours.
It wakes something in him.
You feel it in the sudden tightening of his hands on your thighs, in the low sound that leaves him, in the way his eyes close for a second as if he has been given something better than he expected and hates that he wants it so much. He settles lower, lying against the bed with the ease of a man preparing to take his time, and keeps you open to him with a possessiveness that leaves no space for modesty. The man who hates stillness becomes utterly still where it matters, focused down to a point, his whole body arranged around the act of taking you apart with his mouth.
Your head falls back.
The ceiling blurs.
Sensation gathers hot and fast, then spreads, then concentrates again under the relentless attention of his mouth. He is not gentle in the delicate sense. He is too hungry for that. But he is attentive, and that is far more dangerous. He learns you quickly, almost unfairly quickly. What makes your hips lift. What makes your breath catch instead of spill. What makes your hands tighten in his hair. He takes each reaction and answers it, not softly, but with a deepening hunger, as if every sound you give him is something he has decided belongs to him now.
You try to keep yourself steady.
It is useless.
He follows every reaction until pleasure becomes something he is drawing out of you with increasing satisfaction.
Your legs tense over his shoulders. Your back arches. The dress remains bunched high over your body, the cool air touching places his mouth has made too hot. Your hands hold his hair, then pull when he does something that sends pleasure rushing through you so sharply your vision blurs for half a second.
The first time your fingers close and tug, his response vibrates through you.
A groan. Deep, pleased, almost unwilling.
Then he intensifies the way he eats you out. Your eyes snap open.
“Oh fuck,” you mewl.
You feel him smiling against your sex.
Terrible man.
The discovery makes something wild and delighted flicker through you. Even overwhelmed, even unraveling under him, you can still read this. Sukuna likes your hands in his hair. Likes the scratch of your nails at his scalp, the control of your grip, the way you can make him react with one firm pull. For a man so obsessed with control, he has these little betrayals his body gives you, and each one feels like a secret placed hot against your palm.
You tug again, experimentally, and his grip tightens so quickly that your whole body arches. The pleasure sharpens. His name leaves you before you can decide whether to say it, not loud at first, but broken enough to make him press closer.
He likes the sound.
You can tell.
It is not only arrogance. Not only pride in being good at this, though he has plenty of that. It is the proof of you coming apart because of him. The proof that you are not thinking about school, privacy, labels, fear, whether you are foolish to want him, whether he wants you beyond convenience. Your mind has nowhere to go. He keeps bringing you back into your body.
Into him.
Your fingers twist harder in his hair.
He rewards it with another rough sound and a shift that makes your entire body seize. The heat in your lower belly breaks open.
You reach for the headboard with one hand, then return to his hair because apparently you no longer have survival instincts. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders. Your voice becomes something you would be embarrassed by if embarrassment could survive this much pleasure.
It cannot.
Your first climax breaks through you before you are ready for it, fast and full-bodied, a rush that empties your lungs and makes your grip tighten hard in his hair. He holds you through it, mouth still moving, tongue still sliding between your slick folds, lips still suckling at your sensitive bud before flicking the tip of his tongue just to make you whine, hands keeping your thighs open when your body tries to close around the force of it. Your voice shakes around his name, and he reacts like the sound pleases him somewhere deeper than pride.
He does not stop after you’re done riding your high. You learn that quickly.
Sukuna loves overstimulating you.
Not in a careless way. Not because he does not notice when sensation becomes too much for you. He notices everything. That is the problem. He hears the change in your voice, feels the tremor in your legs, sees the way your hands push weakly at his head and then pull him closer a second later. He learns the contradiction and enjoys it with a vicious patience.
You should have expected that from him. Sukuna does not release control simply because your body has reached a limit. He wants the limit after that one, and the one after that, wants to hear what happens when your composure is gone and all that remains is want mixed with pleading. He holds you through the shivers, gives you half a breath, then pulls you under again with such deliberate hunger that your back lifts from the mattress.
“Sukuna,” you gasp, trying to sound like a warning.
He hums against you, the vibration makes your whole body jerk.
He holds you down.
Your hands twist in his hair again, less coordinated now, tugging when pleasure turns sharp enough to make you writhe. The bedding bunches beneath your fingers. Your head presses back into the pillow. You try to form words and fail, each attempt breaking into another sound that seems to pull him deeper into whatever hunger has him.
You can feel how much he likes this.
Not just the act. Your surrender to it. Your inability to remain composed. Your voice, your hands, the way your body keeps admitting what you want even when your mind tries to negotiate dignity.
It does something to him.
You sense it in the roughness of his breathing, in the way his hips press unconsciously into the mattress, in the tension across his back when you pull his hair hard enough to make his control slip for a second. He is not detached. Not performing. Not collecting an easy victory. He is in it with you, absorbed in your pleasure until it becomes his own kind of relief, a place to put all the violent energy he cannot spend on a track.
His expression turns wicked and you feel how easily he slides two digits inside your wet heat now. The sensation is overwhelming. A relentless assault of pleasure that pushes you far beyond your limits. Every time you think you've hit the ceiling, he finds a way to break through it.
Your body is a live wire, sparking and twitching under the masterful coordination of his tongue and fingers now. The way he curls those fingers inside you, hooking them upward to massage your sweet spot while his tongue flickers with against your clit.
You’re sobbing now from the sheer intensity of the overstimulation. Your hips are bucking wildly, trying to escape the pleasure and dive deeper into it all at once. You can feel the muscles of your thighs trembling, your strength failing as he keeps you pinned.
The second wave builds slower and worse.
You feel it coming from farther away, deeper, your body already sensitive enough that every touch feels multiplied. You tell him you cannot, and he knows you are lying before you do.
He keeps you there, keeps you held and open and shaking, not rushing, not letting you escape from the feeling until it crests again and takes what little strength you have left.
"Please... I can't... I'm going— fuckfuckfuckfuck—" you gasp, your voice breaking, but he doesn't let up.
He lets out a low, hungry growl against your cunt, the vibration sending a fresh wave of shivers up your spine. He loves this — the way you lose control, the way your voice turns into a series of broken, lewd whimpers. He increases the pressure, sucking your clit into his mouth with a firm, rhythmic pull while his fingers pump faster, deeper.
The second orgasm hits you with a violence that makes your entire frame go rigid. Your toes curl, your back arches off the cushion, and a loud, unrestrained cry rips from your throat. Your internal walls clamp down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic spasms that seem to go on forever.
But as the peak begins to plateau, he doesn't pull away. Instead, he intensifies the stimulation. He begins to flick his tongue rapidly, almost aggressively, against the hypersensitive nub of your clit, and his fingers start to move again inside you.
"No... Sukuna! Stop— please— it's too much!" you wail, your voice a mix of desperate pleading and raw lust.
The feeling is almost painful now, a shimmering, white-hot intensity that makes you squirm and writhe beneath him. You're floating in a void of pure sensation, your mind blanking out as he forces you to stay in that state of peak arousal.
He’s drinking in your reactions, savoring the way you call his name, the way your breath comes in short, jagged hitches.
He shifts his focus for a moment, sliding his tongue deep into your soaking entrance, tasting the flood of your release, before returning to your clit with a sudden, sharp suck that sends a fresh jolt of electricity through your nerves.
You let out a high-pitched keen, your fingers clutching his hair with a desperate grip, pulling him closer even as you beg for mercy.
He is relentless, you know this already. A predator of pleasure, determined to map every inch of your response. He keeps you balanced on the edge of a third orgasm, teasing you, pushing you, and then pulling back just enough to make you crave it again, only to slam you back into the depths of overstimulation.
You are completely undone, a shivering, wet mess on your own bed, entirely at the mercy of his mouth and hands.
He finally lifts his head only when you are still trembling through the aftermath, breathless, boneless, barely aware of anything beyond the heat of your own skin and the weight of him moving above you.
He crawls higher over you, dragging kisses up your body as he comes, your dress still bunched around your waist, your legs still hooked over his shoulders until your body is folded beneath him in a way that should feel ridiculous and instead feels devastatingly intimate. Nothing feels ridiculous when he looks like that. Mouth slick, eyes dark, hair mussed from your hands, expression sharpened by satisfaction and something almost tender if tenderness on him did not wear teeth.
He presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is luscious, deep, filthy as it lets you taste yourself and soft in how he takes your breath slowly instead of stealing it all at once. His lips move with lingering hunger, his tongue drawing yours into a slow, heated exchange that makes your body pulse despite exhaustion. You make a weak sound into his mouth. Your hands, no longer strong enough to grip his hair, rest against his chest, palms spreading over the heat of him. His skin feels almost fever-warm beneath your fingers.
He kisses you like he has nowhere else to be.
Like recovery has taught him patience in the worst possible way.
Like he has spent three weeks learning the shape of your days only to bring all that waiting here, into your room, into the slow pressure of his mouth over yours while your body still pulses with echoes of what he has done.
You feel his heart beneath your palm.
It beats harder than you expect.
His body is affected too.
Not only aroused. That much is obvious in the press of him, the heat, the strain in the muscles braced above you. But there is something else in the way he kisses after tasting you, something that feels less like victory and more like need he has not decided how to handle.
As you lay there, folded in half with your legs still draped over those broad, tattooed shoulders, the world outside the bedroom ceases to exist. The kiss is deep and hungry, a slick exchange of saliva and the salty, musk-sweet taste of your own release. His tongue sweeps through your mouth with the same possessive intensity he used on your core.
He eventually pulls back just an inch, his breath hot against your lips, his eyes dark and predatory. He looks down at your chest, watching the way your breasts heave with every ragged breath, the nipples hardened and peaking through the fabric of your dress.
"You taste like heaven," he rasps, his voice a low vibration that seems to echo in your very bones. "But I'm not done with you."
He doesn't give you a chance to respond, to your utter despair. He shifts his weight, sliding his body up and pinning you firmly against the cushions. His hands, large and calloused, slide from your chest down to your hips, gripping the flesh there with a firmness that borders on bruising.
He reaches down, his fingers grazing the entrance of your soaking wet heat, feeling the way you're still pulsing from the double orgasm he just ripped out of you.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he reaches for the waistband of his pants. You watch, mesmerized, as he shucks them off along with his boxers in one fluid motion, revealing a cock that you know is thick, vein-riven, heavy and imposing — the head glistening with a bead of precum, and pulsing with a need that matches your own.
He doesn't slide in immediately. Instead, he rubs the broad head of his shaft against your clit, teasing the overstimulated nerve endings. You let out a broken whimper, your hips instinctively arching upward, begging for the fullness even though your body still tingles and your muscles didn’t finish spasming just yet.
"Tsk. Be patient," he murmurs, a smirk playing on his lips. "Teacher."
He positions himself, the tip of his cock pressing against your opening. He pushes in slowly, an agonizingly steady invasion that stretches you wider than his fingers did just a few minutes ago. You gasp, your fingers digging into the muscles of his chest, feeling the ink of his tattoos beneath your nails. He fills you completely, bottoming out with a heavy thud that knocks the wind out of you. For a moment, he just stays there, buried deep, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him.
Then, he begins to move.
It starts as a slow, grinding rhythm, his pelvis crushing against yours, making sure every ridge of his shaft scrapes against your sweet spot. The friction is so fucking electric. He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more rhythmic, and far more demanding. Each slam sends a shockwave through your folded body, the bed creaking under the force of his drive.
"Tell me," he groans, his voice strained as he hammers into you, "tell me how good it feels to have me filling you up."
"Ss—uku— Jesus fuck," you can’t go past uttering useless babbles by now, your head tossing back against the pillow. “F—ckin goo— good!”
He lets out a guttural sound, his grip on your hips tightening until his knuckles are white. He shifts his angle, lifting your legs higher, hooking them behind his neck to drive even deeper. The change in position allowing him to hit your sweet spot with every single stroke.
You're losing it again — the overstimulation from before has left you raw and hypersensitive, and now, with him wrecking your insides, you're spiraling toward another peak.
“What’s wrong?” He coos at you at some point when he halts his hips, sheathed inside you and giving you a moment to try and gather your scattered, outfucked thoughts.
As you open your mouth to say whatever you might have said, he starts to move again, pace already fast, thrusting hard enough to knock again the breath from your lungs. Sadistic fucking bastard.
You try to focus on his face, on how he grins, teeth bared and carmine eyes glinting with pleasure as he fucks into you, but his dog tag catches your eyes, dangling near your face, distracting you for a second, thus making it even more devastating when the knot building in your stomach reaches the snapping point.
He notices the way your internal muscles begin to clench around him, the rhythmic squeezing of your walls signaling your approach. He doesn't slow down — instead, he accelerates, his thrusts becoming savage, punishing. He's not just fucking you once again, he's claiming you, marking you from the inside out. His possessiveness knows no barriers.
"Cum for me again, princess," he commands, his voice a rough growl that sounds too drenched in lust by now. "I wanna feel you shaking while I'm inside you."
The orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your vision blurs, and a loud, unrestrained scream tears from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you in violent waves. You try to press your legs closed, but it’s just impossible bent like that, but he presses his weight further against you.
As you peak, he lets out a triumphant groan, his body stiffening as he delivers one final, deepest thrust. He pours himself into you, thick ropes of his seed pulsing hot, deep inside your cunt.
He stays buried in you for a long time, the silence of the room only broken by your synchronized, ragged breathing. He kisses your forehead, a rare moment of tenderness that only makes the power dynamic between you feel more intoxicating.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The room is quiet again except for your breathing and the faint sound of traffic outside. Your dress is a mess. His dog tag hangs between you, cool when it brushes your skin. Your legs remain over his shoulders because neither of you has bothered to reorganize your bodies into anything reasonable.
His eyes move across your face. You wonder what he sees.
Your hair spread over the pillow. Your swollen mouth. Your flushed cheeks. The remnants of pleasure still making you tremble beneath him. Maybe he sees proof that he can have you like this, that he can reduce the careful teacher, the private woman, the one who hides posters and packs spare clothes without admitting hope, into someone soft and shaking in her own bed.
Maybe he sees more. The thought scares you more than the first. Then his hand comes to your face.
For all the intensity of what he just did, the touch is almost restrained. His thumb traces the edge of your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
“You’re quiet.”
You let out a breath that almost becomes a laugh.
“You think… I can talk right now?”
His mouth tilts. Pride. Pure, terrible pride.
You tap his chest weakly.
“Don’t look… so damn pleased,” you still sound breathless, which taints the authority as well.
“Impossible.”
“At least pretend to be humble.”
“No.”
You laugh, and the sound catches because your body is still sensitive enough that even the movement of him above you affects you.
His eyes darken again. You see the moment he notices.
“Sukuna.” You warn, or try to.
“What?”
“Behave.”
His gaze flicks to your mouth.
“You invite me to your apartment, feed me delicious food, let me fold you like a chair, pull my hair like you know what it does to me, and then tell me to behave?”
The words move through you like heat poured slowly down your spine.
His hand slides along your side, over the bunched fabric of your dress, then beneath it where your skin is still too sensitive to receive touch without reacting. You inhale sharply. He watches the movement of your throat, the parted shape of your lips, the way your fingers tighten on his skin.
You expect him to push for more immediately.
Instead, he shifts your legs down from his shoulders with surprising care, one at a time, lowering them to the bed so your hips can settle properly. The relief of the position change leaves you sighing before you can stop yourself. He notices that too, and for once he does not mock you. He adjusts his weight so he does not crush you, though the press of him remains heavy enough to make your body feel held in place. His body lowers carefully over yours, mindful of the shoulder even now, one forearm bracing beside your head, his hips settling between your thighs as he keeps still buried inside you.
The shift makes both of you exhale.
His breath catches against your mouth.
There.
Not invulnerable.
Not unaffected.
You feel him. The restraint. The strain. The way he wants to press closer and is forcing himself not to rush because you are still trembling, because his shoulder is not fully healed, because something about your bed and your dinner and your hands on him has made this different from taking.
You slide your palms down his chest.
He shudders once when your nails lightly cross his ribs — not the injured side, carefully avoided, but close enough that the memory of pain moves through him. You stop immediately.
His hand catches yours.
“I hurt you?”
“No.” His grip tightens, then loosens. “Stop touching me like I’m breakable.”
The words are low. Rough. They enter you deeper than the heat.
You look up at him.
His face is close enough that you can see the resistance in it, the anger at having said something too honest, the need beneath the anger, the challenge he places over both as if daring you to pity him.
You do not. Pity would insult him. Instead, you lift your hand back to his chest, pressing your palm flat over his sternum, directly beneath the dog tag.
“Then don’t make me guess where it hurts,” you answer softly, eyes holding his gaze.
His jaw works once.
“I told you the shoulder’s better.”
“I’m not only talking about the shoulder.”
You did not mean to say it like that. Or maybe you did.
Sukuna’s eyes sharpen, but he does not retreat. His body remains over yours, heavy and hot, his hand still around your wrist. You feel his pulse under your palm. Faster now.
“Careful,” he says.
Not quite a warning. Not quite a plea. You still hold his gaze.
“I am.”
You feel it in the way his grip changes. The way his breathing deepens. The way his eyes leave yours and lower to where your hand rests on him.
For a second, he looks angry. Then tired. Then hungry in a way that is not only about your body.
He lowers his face to your neck. Not biting this time. Only resting there.
His mouth presses once beneath your jaw, then he stays, breathing against you. You slide your fingers into his hair again, slower now, combing through the sweat drenched pink strands. His body remains tense for several breaths before the tension shifts, not gone but redistributed, turning into weight he allows you to hold.
You stare at the ceiling, eyes burning unexpectedly.
This is what undoes you.
Not only the desire. Not only the way he can make your body forget language. This. His refusal to name anything and his inability to stop showing you small truths with his body. His anger when tenderness reaches him. His hunger for care disguised as arrogance. His insistence that he is not breakable while placing the most tired parts of himself into your hands.
You kiss his temple.
He goes very still.
Then his mouth moves against your throat.
“Don’t get sentimental.”
Your laugh comes out soft.
“You’re literally lying on me like a weighted blanket with anger issues.”
“I can leave.”
“You won’t. I don’t want you to.”
His head lifts. The look he gives you should scare you. It makes you feel reckless instead.
“No?” he asks.
“No.”
The word is gentle.
Certain.
His eyes search your face, and for once you cannot tell whether he likes what he finds or hates how easily you offered it.
Then he kisses you again.
This one is different.
Still hot.
Still deep.
But slower at the center, as if he is trying to move through the want without losing whatever fragile thing opened beneath it. Your hands roam over him with more confidence now, learning warm skin, hard muscle, the edges of tattoos, the places he permits pressure and the places where his breath warns you to ease. He lets you find him. Not completely. Not without resistance. But enough that it feels like a gift he does not know how to wrap.
The rest of the night stops belonging to sentences.
It becomes your dress finally leaving you, his belt landing somewhere on the floor when he gets rid of the pieces on the bed for real, the lamp throwing shadows across his back as he bends over you again, your legs wrapping around his waist this time, his body and yours spent but working through patience and something close to tenderness. It becomes his mouth at your ear, saying things too low and rough for the rest of the room to keep, making your face burn and your hands clutch at him. It becomes your nails against his nape, his broken groan when you pull his hair again, the way he keeps returning to that discovery as if you have handed him a secret weapon against himself.
He is still arrogant, still filthy when he wants to hear you gasp, still possessive when his hands pin your hips or drag you closer, still wicked when you tell him to be quiet because the neighbors might hear and he murmurs that maybe they should learn something.
But every time your hand moves near his shoulder, he adjusts before you worry. Every time your breath turns too sharp now, he slows. Every time pleasure makes you lose track of where his injuries are, he takes the strain onto his good side without making you feel guilty for it.
He wants you badly. You feel that everywhere.
He also wants to be good at wanting you. That part that makes your chest ache.
When the heat has broken once again for the nth time and the night has settled around both of you, you find yourself lying half across him with your cheek on his chest and one leg tangled between his. Your room smells like sex, like wine, like dinner lingering faintly from the kitchen, and both your perfumes fading under sweat. The lamp is still on because neither of you bothered to turn it off.
His fingers move slowly through your hair.
Not in the polished way of someone trying to be tender. More like he found himself doing it and has not decided to stop.
You trace the edge of one tattoo with your fingertip.
He watches you from beneath heavy lids.
“You hid something.”
Your hand pauses, genuine confusion crosses your face.
“What?”
“When I came in.” His voice is rough with exhaustion. “Wall looked wrong.”
Your heart stops.
“What does that even mean?”
“Something was there.”
Damn him.
Damn him and his eyes and his attention and his absurd ability to notice the emotional absence of a hidden poster.
“You’re imagining things.”
“You’re bad at lying before and after sex.”
Your face heats and he smirks.
You lift your head enough to glare at him. Then you look away first.
He catches your chin.
“Show me.”
“No way in hell,” you huff.
“Now I know it’s good.”
“It’s not good.”
“Then show me,” he insists because he’s insufferable.
“You’re in my bed naked asking to inspect my walls after ruining my ability to stand? Get a grip, Champion.”
His grin turns slow.
“Ruining?”
“You’re getting distracted.”
“I’m focused.”
“You are never focused on the correct thing.”
His grin widens. The softness of the evening snaps into familiar menace.
“You had a shrine there?”
“No.”
“A shrine with candles?”
“Goodnight.”
“Pictures of me?”
You glare.
“Poster?” he drawls.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath.
He laughs quietly, and you feel it beneath your palm.
There is no escape.
You push yourself up with a groan, wrapping the sheet around your body because dignity, though mostly symbolic at this point, still deserves an attempt. Sukuna watches with open interest as you climb out of bed, your legs not entirely steady. His satisfaction is unbearable.
“Stop thinking you won something,” you warn without looking at him.
He laughs again.
You retrieve the poster from behind the wardrobe with as much composure as a person can have while naked under a sheet and emotionally compromised.
When you turn, he is propped against the pillows, one arm behind his head, dog tag resting against his bare chest, looking like the most insufferable man alive.
You hold the poster out.
He takes it.
His eyes drop.
Silence.
Then the corner of his mouth lifts very slowly.
You want the floor to swallow you.
“It’s a good shot,” you say defensively.
“It is.”
“The composition is good.”
“Very.”
“The lighting too!”
“Mhm.”
“And you look—” You stop.
He looks up. Dangerous. Amused. Hungry again despite everything.
“I look?” He coaxes.
You pull the sheet tighter around yourself.
“You know how you look.”
His grin widens.
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Coward. Tell me how I look.”
“It’s rude to berate a guest in my home,” you taunt him.
“I’m naked in your bed, I think you’re far from berating me.”
He looks back down at it.
You expect teasing. You expect him to be unbearable, and he is, but not immediately.
His thumb moves over the edge of the image, near the printed version of himself holding the helmet. Something shifts in his face, subtle enough that you might have missed it weeks ago.
“You bought this before we talked.”
You sit back on the edge of the bed, the sheet pooled around your thighs.
“Yes.”
His gaze lifts again. There is no mockery now, only attention. That same focused, unblinking attention from the photo in your phone. The one that makes you feel seen past the parts you deliberately offer.
You swallow.
“I told you. I got a little obsessed.”
“With motocross?”
He asks again but you told him once. Twice, maybe. Still, you think he likes the reassurance. He likes hearing why you are where you are now with him.
You hold his gaze.
There it is.
The place where honesty requires stepping forward without knowing what waits beneath your foot.
“With the way you ride.”
His expression stills, so you continue before you can lose nerve.
“At first, yes, I told you it was the spectacle. The jump, the sound, the control. I didn’t understand anything, so all I knew was that I couldn’t stop watching. But then I wanted to know why it looked different when you did it.”
His mouth twitches faintly. You do not let the humor distract you.
“I started learning because I wanted to understand what I was seeing. Not so I could talk to you. I didn’t think I would ever talk to you, if I’m being honest here. I just wanted to know how you did it.”
He says nothing as the poster rests in his lap.
You look at your hands.
“Then you stopped near me and ruined my life.”
That gets a brief, low laugh of him.
You glance up. His expression has changed again, guarded but not closed.
“You think I ruined your life?”
“You made it much less organized.”
“Good.”
“Of course you’d think so.”
He sets the poster carefully on your bedside table instead of tossing it aside.
The care of that small gesture makes your throat tighten.
He reaches for you, and sure as the sun rises every morning, you go.
Not because he orders, not because he pulls hard, but because you want to. You crawl back onto the bed and let him draw you down against him. The sheet slips, and he fixes it around your back with surprising patience before settling his arm over you.
For a while, you simply lie there. Your apartment no longer feels small.
His body is warm under yours. His fingers return to your hair. Your dinner dishes are clean. The wine glasses wait on the counter. Your hidden poster is now exposed on the nightstand, and somehow the world has not ended.
“You’re putting it back up,” he says.
You huff against his chest.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t survive your ego if I do.”
“My ego survived you hiding it.”
“Barely, I’m sure.”
“Put it up.”
You lift your head.
“Why?”
His eyes meet yours.
The answer takes a moment.
Maybe because he is deciding whether to make it arrogant. Maybe because the honest version costs more.
“Because you like it.”
The simplicity of that hurts too.
You stare at him.
He looks away after a second, jaw tightening.
You touch his face before he can armor himself completely.
“Okay.”
He glances back.
“I’ll put it up,” you say.
His hand slides over your back and you lower your head to his chest again.
The night continues in quieter pieces.
You talk a little. Not much. Enough.
He asks about the first school you taught at, and you answer. You ask what his first race felt like, and he tells you it smelled like wet dirt, cheap fuel and someone else’s fear. You ask if he was scared. He says no too quickly. You do not challenge it directly. You only wait.
Eventually, he adds that he was angry.
That, you believe.
He speaks of racing like a language his body learned before his mind had better options. Speed as discipline, impact as consequence, winning as proof. You listen with your cheek against him, hearing the vibration of his voice through his chest more than the sound itself.
You touch the dog tag resting between you and he looks down at your fingers.
“Does it mean something?” you ask.
His eyes return to yours.
For a second, you think he will deflect.
He almost does. You see the insult form, see the easy exit open. Then his mouth closes.
“My brother gave it to me,” he mutters.
The room changes quietly.
You know about Yuuji, but not much. You know enough to understand he is a soft place Sukuna protects by pretending not to have soft places at all. You have not pushed. You know better.
Your fingers rest lightly over the metal.
“It suits you.”
“It’s a cheap piece of shit.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suit you.”
He watches you with an expression you cannot fully read.
Maybe he is waiting for you to make it too sentimental. Maybe he is waiting for himself to hate that he said anything. Maybe both.
You release the dog tag and place your hand against his chest instead.
He does not talk about childhood much. Not directly.
But sometimes he leaves doors open by accident.
A mention of Yuuji small enough to fit in one sentence. An old bike repaired with parts that did not match. A man who said pain meant weakness and weakness meant losing. A house that was never quiet in a safe way.
You do not force him to enter any room he only gestures toward. You remember what he told you without telling you.
Careful.
You are.
He exhales slowly at some point. Then pulls you closer until your face rests near his throat and one of his legs presses between yours, tangling you together in the warm mess of sheets and discarded clothing. His body is still tense in places, still wanting, still not fully satisfied in the way desire remains visible under his skin. But he does not move to take more.
That might be the most intimate part of the night.
When sleep begins to take you, you think he has already gone quiet.
Then his hand moves once over your back.
“You working tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Early.”
He exhales through his nose, displeased.
“I can go,” he says.
The sentence is stiff.
Awkward.
Offered like something he does not want to offer but thinks he should.
You wake a little more.
“Do you want to?”
His silence answers before he does.
“No.”
Your smile presses into his chest.
“Then stay.”
His body eases beneath you. Only slightly.
“You sure?”
“You’re asking?”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing. You asked.”
His fingers pinch your side.
You laugh softly and shift closer.
“Yes,” you say. “Stay with me.”
He does. Of course he does. For all his sharpness, for all the arrogance, for all the ways he pretends every choice is his alone, he stays like he has been waiting for permission to want that.
You turn off the lamp eventually.
The room falls into darkness, your curtains letting in only the faintest line of city light. Sukuna shifts carefully onto his better side, and you adjust with him without needing to be told. Your bed is smaller than his, which makes distance impossible unless one of you deliberately creates it.
Neither of you does.
His arm settles around your waist.
Your back fits to his chest.
For several minutes, he does not speak.
Then, near your ear, low enough that you almost think you imagined it, he says,
“Food was better than the restaurant.”
Your eyes open in the dark.
You smile slowly.
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“I would never.”
“You are ruining it right now.”
You laugh, quiet and tired. His arm tightens — not enough to restrain, just enough to keep.
You place your hand over his where it rests against your stomach. His fingers turn, threading with yours in the dark.
You think he might be missing you.
Not just bored.
Not just entertained.
Missing you, in the private, inconvenient way people miss someone whose absence has started to make rooms feel wrong.
You do not let yourself believe it fully. But you let the possibility lie beside you for a little while.
Whatever this is, you still do not name it.
But your clean clothes are in his drawer.
His poster is going back on your wall.
His body is in your bed.
His hand is holding yours like sleep can wait until he is sure you are still there.
And for tonight, that is enough.
More than enough.
It is dangerous.
It is calm.
It is him.
I'm a young one
Stuck in the thoughts
Of an old one's head
When all the others were just stirring awake
I'm trying to trick myself to fall asleep again, woah
My head's in heaven, my soles are in hell
Let's meet in the purgatory of my hips and get well
Hurry, hurry
You put my head in such a flurry, flurry
Oh freckle, freckle
What makes you so special?
What makes you so special?
I'm gonna leave you
I'm gonna teach you
How we're all alone
How we're all alone
Guild me, build me
It's your club, so let me in (let me in)
Knowing how heartwarming
It is inside your skin
My head's in heaven, my soles are in hell
Let's meet in the purgatory of my hips and get well
Hurry, hurry
You put my head in such a flurry, flurry
Oh freckle, freckle
What makes you so special?
What makes you so special?
I'm gonna leave you
I'm gonna teach you
How we're all alone
How we're all alone
How we're all alone
Hurry, hurry
You put my head in such a flurry, flurry
Oh freckle, freckle
What makes you so special?
What makes you so special?
I'm gonna leave you
I'm gonna teach you
How we're all alone
How we're all alone
Mama
If we don't take the medication
We won't sleep for days
We won't sleep for days
Mama
If we pray to the lord
Does he sing on a stage?
Does he sing on a stage?
We waste it all in the back of a long dark car
And I'm a sunshine machine
I want to get stuck
I want to get stuck
And be golden in your memory
first day, first lecture, actually. he stepped in late, and the only empty seat left was beside you. you both stared at the professor in pure, utterly confused silence, question marks probably floating on top of your heads as you tried to gather anything. after five minutes, you simply turned and asked him to let you pass so you could leave.
he grabbed his stuff, joining you. he asked if you wanted to grab coffee, and that’s how it all started.
three years later, you were the untouchable sukuna ryomen’s girlfriend. your relationship was private, no one knew any details (it wasn’t like anyone would dare to ask sukuna, especially with the way his resting face was a terrifying glare to everyone else) and you two preferred it that way.
no one knew the details. no one knew how sukuna was deeply and utterly smitten— the scowling, terrifying, muscular 6’4 man turning immediately into lovesick puppy for you. clingy, needy, obsessed, your guard dog of a boyfriend never ever let you doubt his love. he always made it clear, whether it was his arm’s wrapped around you every chance he got, or him spamming your phone whenever you weren’t around, using any excuse to talk to you, or the way he dropped everything for you, making it clear you were his first priority, or the way he listened intensely to every word that left your mouth and noticed everything about you— which showed when he referenced your words from months ago, or bought you gifts you didn’t even mention, or could tell you weren’t okay from a single glance.
it really was not a lie that sukuna ryomen loved you. he knew it. you knew it. his frat knew it. everyone that really knew sukuna knew he loved you.
which was why the break up broke you.
that night didn’t even seem real. he had ignored you for a total of three days, replying to your texts dryly, which was already odd. then, he showed to to your place in the middle of the night, jaw clenched, eye bags dark, like he hasn’t slept in days. he didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain— simply told you he was tired, that he couldn’t do this anymore, and walked away.
like he didn’t just ruin you. like you two weren’t discussing your shared future a few days ago. like you two hadn’t already agreed what stupid fucking roses you wanted at your wedding. like he hasn’t kissed you so softly just a few days ago, murmuring soft pleads for you to never leave him.
to make it worse, he didn’t disappear after. he attended your shared lectures as usual— sitting behind you, always behind you, like he needed to keep you in his vision. he left your notifications on, which you knew because he remained the first to view every story until you blocked him. he kept going to your favorite cafe beside campus (he didn’t even like their coffee) at the exact same time you always did, his sad eyes set on you, buying a single water bottle each time, until you stopped going. you even had to stop going to the library late at night, because he would always be there, blank notebooks open as he pathetically pretended to focus when his eyes wouldn’t leave you alone. even late at night, when you would scroll through your chats, you would see his bubble. tying. erasing. there.
it was worse, because it was obvious that he still loved you.
it made you want to scream, really. it would have been better if he just… pretended you didn’t exist. ignored you. blocked you first. flirted with girls in your vision. did anything to make you feel like he didn’t care anymore. like he didn’t give a fuck, so you could move on. so you wouldn’t get the stupid urge to show up to his place and ask him what the fuck his issue was. so you could hate him.
but again, unfortunately for you, sukuna was never good at hiding his love for you.
it was going to be okay, though. because sukuna already broke it up, and moving on was clearly the only good solution. it wasn’t like he will ever come back, anywa—
bzzz.
dilf420: bro. ur fucking bf is sulking and ruining my party. can you come pick his drunk ass up. ill pay u.
you blinked once at the notification, then twice, then immediately opened it. you really should have blocked the whole frat.
you: broke up. no longer my bf. also, ur broke.
toji replied immediately.
dilf420: idc that u two broke up he’s drunk and blabbering about missing his fucking wife come pick his ass up
you stared at the dm blankly, eyes staring at the words like it would disappear if you blinked.
his fucking wife.
your throat felt dry. heart physically hurting, like someone’s fingers were digging into the muscle and squeezing it the way sukuna used to squeeze your fingers before kissing each knuckle. it hurt, so much, your vision slowly blurring the longer you stared at the three words.
on the other side of the phone, sukuna was pressed against toji, shoving his face into the cracked screen, face flushed from the alcohol, lips almost pouting, hair messy from running his hands through it so many times. “is she answerin’?” he muttered, voice slurred. “my pretty wife, is she comin’?”
toji sighed. “nah, man. she left me on read. you’re so fucked.”
sukuna groaned, stumbling slightly before he was leaning on the wall, eyes shut in pure devastation. “she hates me. what if she doesn’t wanna get back?”
“…you showed up at three in the morning and broke up with her without giving her a reason, bro. on gojo’s soul, she does not want to get back.”
it was silent for a few seconds before a quiet sniffle echoed in the room, and toji’s head snapped to the untouchable, scary figure sliding down the wall, face buried into his hands, shoulders trembling. toji’s eyes widened briefly, but sukuna grunted, the sound shaky. “not a fucking word.”
the next monday, you were still recovering from toji’s dm as you slid into your morning, 8:30 am lecture. you were half-asleep, buried in sweatpants and a hoodie, hood up in an attempt to hide from the world. your eyes were drooping sleepily, head slowly slipping from where your head rested on your palm, the tip of your pen slowly seeping ink into the paper.
someone slides beside you, and you freeze. you knew that cologne. you bought that cologne.
you didn’t move a muscle, shoulders tense, eyes suddenly focused as they stared ahead. you could feel his gaze, his thigh pressing against yours in the annoyingly small seats. you could feel the heat from his skin, even from the thick fabric of your sweatpants.
…what the fuck was he doing?
your jaw clenched, before you took a quiet deep breath, convincing yourself he must have not looked properly when picking a seat. it takes a few minutes, but you’re finally able to focus back on your professor again, ignoring the way you could feel his gaze shifting to you ever few seconds.
“…i’m sorry.”
you sucked in a sharp, annoyed breath, gaze still ahead, fingers tightening around the pen in your grasp, eyes unamused. he slowly placed a cup on your desk— your favorite coffee, from your favorite cafe. you froze, and you could see him wincing from your peripheral vision.
“…give me a chance explain, please?”
you carefully pushed yourself up, grabbing your bag and notebook, and silently stepped out of the hall. outside, toji was standing, a sigh on his lips as he caught up with you despite how you only spared him an annoyed glare.
“he loves you, you know that.” toji murmured. “give him a chance to explain.”
“no.” you muttered. “he’s a coward who left me without an explanation. now he wants to give me one?”
toji grimaced. “that wasn’t his brightest moments, but… come on, he’s your sukuna.”
“he made it clear he’s not.”
that night, you were dragged to one of their parties, curtesy of gojo begging you to show with tears and snot running down his face, using a lame excuse about how everyone in the frat misses you. you didn’t buy it, but you had to stop the embarrassingly loud bawling boy on your doorstep.
now, you sat in their kitchen, perched on the counter, an overly sweet drink between your fingers, and a staring ex-boyfriend on the other side.
sukuna was sulking.
eyes set on you, lips pursed, arms crossed— he ignored everyone who stared at him just so he could keep his eyes on you. geto and nanami sighed as they passed, geto offering him a bottle casually, and sukuna grabbed it, eyes still on you before he tilted his head back and drowned half the bottle down, only stopping when nanami pulled it back while snapping about expensive liquor.
the thing about sukuna? he was a lightweight, and an emotional drunk. that usually manifested in a shorter temper when he wasn’t with you, and him being unbelievably clingy with you, and now, a few hours after gulping random drinks down?
it manifested in him dragging himself to stand in front of you, lips wobbling and eyes tearful, looking like a kicked puppy instead of the frat bro everyone was terrified off. “baby…”
you hated how your own heart clenched, fingers digging into your palm to prevent yourself from cooing at him and tugging him into your hold safely. you only narrowed your eyes at him, and his eyes glossed even more. he opened his mouth, probably to beg, only to halt dangerously.
you, unfortunately, knew him too well. you let out a loud groan, quickly jumping off and dragging him to an empty bathroom upstairs, shutting the door just in time for him to drop to his knees and empty his stomach out into the toilet. he let out a choked sob between retches, and you sighed, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, a hand slowly rubbing his back. “dumbass.”
“i miss you so much,” he immediately whimpered, eyes shut painfully. “i miss you so, so, much. please, angel, forgive me, please— i want you back, i need you back, ‘m a stupid son of a bitch for every breaking it off, i need you in my life, please—“
he was interrupted with another gag, and you sighed, resuming to rub his back as he continued, your own vision blurry, heart shattering at the broken sob he let out once he was done.
“breathe.” you murmured softly. “come on, kuna, breathe for me. you can do that, yeah?”
“no,” he choked out. “i can’t— can’t even breathe without you, baby. please, please, forgive me for being a dumb idiot, i need my wife back, please—“
“if you breathe now, and we can talk tomorrow.”
it was almost humorous how he immediately straightened up, red, watery eyes wide, nose red and cheeks flushed from the alcohol. you sighed, reaching over to wipe his tears away, and he let out a pathetic whine, immediately leaning into your touch. you finally helped him up, forcing him to brush his teeth before you opened the door, quietly leading him into his room.
inside, he immediately flopped into bed, tired, sad eyes staring up at you. “you’ll… talk to me, right? please, baby?”
“tomorrow,” you murmured, throwing him a pair of shorts. “just sleep now, okay?”
he nodded frantically, eyes shutting quickly, obediently.
no one would believe this was the version of sukuna ryomen you knew— now when everyone else got the loud, short-tempered, rude, asshole version of him. you stared at him softly, watching his breathe even out, eyes fluttering shut, before you sighed softly, and stepped out of his room.
the next morning, you woke up to sukuna in front of your door, hair messy and eyes exhausted, yet holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers and your favorite coffee, the other messily trying to adjust his shirt to look more presentable. the second you opened your door, eyes sleepy and hair messily, lips pulled into a frown, he froze.
red eyes widened softly before his body relaxed, eyes softening, and breathed out slowly. “…hi.”
you reluctantly opened the door wider, letting him in. he stepped in, 6’4 solid figure suddenly seeming small, gently setting the items down, hands that are used to throwing punches leaning down to carefully adjust a delicate petal before he straightened up, eyes falling back on you, so full of unsaid emotions that they were already glossing over.
after a few seconds, he swallowed harshly, throat bobbing before he took a step closer. “i missed you.”
you frowned, eyes narrowing. “why did you break up, sukuna?”
“please,” he choked out the second the name escaped your lips, eyes wide in pure devastation. “please, angel. ryo, kuna, baby, pretty boy— anything but that.”
your frown deepened. he let out a defeated, shaky breath, and stepped even closer. “i broke it because i was a fucking idiot. i… i never loved someone so much, angel, i never cared about someone so much. you made me the happiest person alive, and… i knew you deserved better.”
you froze. he sniffled, taking another step closer, eyes desperately and voice breaking. “angel, i… i’m a selfish, possessive asshole, and you deserve someone perfect. i was so scared that you’ll wake up one day and end it, so i… just did.”
your vision clouded with tears, and he dropped to his knees, eyes wet with unshed tears. “i was a stupid, fucking idiot. i should have stayed, talked to you, got the reassurance i know my angel would give me, but i didn’t want to be selfish… i thought i was doing what’s best for you…”
he let his head drop, face falling to press against your abdomen, a loud, pained whimper escaping him. “turns out i was a fucking idiot for ever considering letting you go. i… i have been miserable, angel, bawled my fucking eyes out an embarrassing amount of times. i miss you so much, baby, i can’t— i can’t live with you. i can’t sleep, eat, breathe,” he gasped, hands trembling as they slowly reached to hold into your waist, and let out a louder sob once his fingers touched your body, tears soaking your shirt. “i need you in my life, angel. please, i can’t live without you. my heart only exists to beat for you. i was a fucking moron to ever think about letting you go. you deserve so much better— and i promise, ‘ll be better. i’ll be a better boyfriend, a better partner, a better everything— just, give me a chance,”
you sniffled. the second you did, his head snapped up, eyes wide and tearful and horrified, and he immediately shot to his feet, ignoring his own soaked face as gentle fingers slowly cupped your cheek, wiping your tears away. “please don’t cry, i can’t handle you being upset, please—“
“you idiot.” you finally whispered. he froze, eyes wide and pained, and you only stepped closer, letting your head drop into his chest. his arms immediately wrapped around you, pulling you until no space existed between you both. “are you stupid?”
“i am. i’m sorry, baby,” he whispered back. “i’m so sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m—“
“shut up.” you croaked out. “you’re an idiot. i love you as you are, you asshole.”
“i know, baby. i’m sorry.” he buried his face into your neck, his tears damping your shirt once more. “i’m never leaving you again, angel. not even physically— i’ll be so clingy you’ll get sick of me. i can’t live without you, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.”
you let him hold you, eyes shut tiredly. “…idiot.”
he let out a sharp laugh, holding you even tighter, pressing wet kisses all over your face until a smile broke on your pretty lips, and you could physically feel him finally breathing normally, still pressing kisses to your face, gentle and needy and desperate. “i know, angel. only an idiot would ever walk away from you. never, ever again. i love you. never, ever again. i’ll marry you, my love. never leaving you again.”
a/n i hate tumblr i had to write this three times </3 anyways hi ^^ still obsessed w these headers…
areudirty
izzy806
amandla
blakekathryn
stormborns
vaporwave
ellievsbear
gracieabrams
dailybridgerton
