Sukuna is reincarnated into the modern world, only to realize that being a villain is actually kind of a bore. Now a teacher at Jujutsu High by pure technicality, he’s decided being a “good guy” is way more entertaining, mostly because it still lets him do whatever he wants while everyone thanks him for it.
Unfortunately for you, that also means you get assigned to him as a specialist, since your technique is one of the very few things that can smooth out the jagged, overwhelming nature of his cursed energy after he uses it.
The problem is… you’re absolutely terrified of him. Every second in the same room feels like your body is trying to shut down, and the idea of having to touch him to do your job makes it even worse.
Sukuna, on the other hand, finds that fear hilarious and treats you like the funniest toy he’s ever been gifted.
pairing: sorcerer sukuna x sorcerer f!reader
wc: 13.2k
content: mdni, slow burn, kinda enemies to lovers, objectification, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion, possessive sukuna, violence, murder, blood, gore, dubious consent vibes, true form sukuna, yuji's not his vessel (...and probably smut at some point)
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Mid-afternoon heat settles over the practice grounds, heavy and damp, as if someone’s draped a wet wool blanket across everything, so before you even have a chance to breathe, the air already feels thick in your lungs. Off to the left, tucked near the old cedar trees, Kusakabe moves through his sword forms alone, and his katana flashes in the sun, steel catching the harsh light with a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. Each swish slices through the humid air, the only sound that reliably cuts through this end of the field. Near the equipment sheds, a couple of managers slip by with folded mats and wooden practice weapons balanced in their arms, keeping their heads down and their voices so low they just blur into the endless chorus of birds.
And then there’s Sukuna. He’s perched on the edge of the low stone wall right beneath the trees’ overhang, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else—hell, maybe anywhere in the world. He props his chin in one palm, elbow balanced on his knee, and lets his crimson eyes drift across the dirt at his feet, the expression on his face pure boredom.
Technically, he’s supposed to be supervising the first-years, which is a job he usually ignores so thoroughly that his actual presence today seems to annoy him more than anyone else’s. Since arriving, he hasn’t offered a single word of instruction, and it’s clear he doesn’t plan to start now.
The administration needed something to call his presence on the roster, so they settled on supervision. Teaching, after all, takes repetition, patience, and at least a passing interest in whether anyone actually learns, or, at the very minimum, understands what they’re told—qualities Sukuna lacks entirely.
His gaze drifts sideways, following each careful turn of Atsuya’s wrist as he runs through the motions, precise enough to hold Sukuna’s attention for a few seconds before boredom wins out again. He lets his eyes wander over the rest of the field, silent and unimpressed, then leans his head back against the rough bark behind him and closes his eyes. The students can bruise and batter each other without his help. If one of them manages to do real damage, maybe then he’ll have something worth watching.
You head down the path toward the training grounds, folder hugged tight against your chest, planning to cut across the field on your way to the office. The sounds reach you before the view opens between the trees: shoes striking packed earth, the sharp crack of wood meeting wood, Nobara’s voice carrying above the others, and the hiss of Kusakabe’s sword.
The moment the grounds come into view, your eyes land right on Sukuna. He’s sprawled in the shade, like the whole class is just a backdrop for his comfort, long legs stretched out and eyes closed while the students train themselves. Seeing him should annoy you, but weirdly, your shoulders drop just a little. At least he’s here, visible and occupied, and you hate how quickly your body has learned to treat that as a small relief. If he’s out here, maybe you’ll have your office for yourself for at least an hour, without him snapping your pens or looming over your desk.
Footsteps reach Sukuna’s ears before you even reach the edge of the field. One eye cracks open, just enough to spot you making your way down the path, already halfway to the office. He watches you for a second, confirms where you’re headed, then lets his eye slide shut again, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came.
No point in opening his eyes when, a moment later, footsteps peel away from the drills and angle toward where he’s seated. The rhythm alone gives away the culprit long before a shadow stretches across the grass at his feet. He waits, hoping for a miracle—that the idiot will finally learn the value of silence. That hope barely lasts a second.
Yuji’s voice slices through the training grounds, scraping at Sukuna’s patience before the kid even makes it to the tree. He stops at the edge of the stone wall, fists planted on his hips like he’s about to scold a lazy classmate instead of the man who could turn the whole field to rubble before he finishes his next sentence.
“You’re really just gonna sit there?” the boy asks, his voice flat and completely unbothered by the pressure rolling off the man. His breathing still carries the edge of training, but annoyance is way clearer than exhaustion. “You’ve been here for like an hour and you haven’t said a single word. You’re supposed to be teaching us.”
Sukuna doesn’t bother to move, just keeps his head tipped back against the rough bark behind him. “Leave,” he rumbles flatly, as if he’s dismissing an annoying fly.
It doesn’t work. Yuji just tilts his head and stares at him, like the answer didn't even register, brow furrowing in stubborn, genuine frustration. He’s used to Sukuna skipping out on class entirely or showing up just to ignore them, but having him sit right there while they run the same self-made footwork drills for an hour is ridiculous.
"No, seriously. Why'd you even show up if you're not gonna do anything? You could at least tell us what we're doing wrong. You love doing that anyway."
Another step brings him closer, and his shoe scrapes against the loose gravel, right by Sukuna’s outstretched leg.
“Just give us ten minutes,” he continues. “Megumi and I have been doing the same drill since you got here, and Nobara—”
“Enough,” Sukuna interrupts.
His voice drops half an octave, lazy indifference sharpening into something cold and razor-thin. Crimson eyes open, sliding sideways to pin Yuji with a flat, unblinking glare that should, by every biological instinct, send any living thing within a hundred meters sprinting for cover.
Instead, Yuji just lets out a noisy, frustrated sigh, rolling his shoulders.
“I’m not trying to bug you, Sukuna!” he argues, crossing his arms over his chest, staring right back into that crimson eye. "I'm actually trying to learn something. If you're bored, then teach us. Show us a technique. Throw us around, whatever. Anything's better than you just pretending we're not here."
Sukuna exhales slowly through his nose, the sound carrying more irritation than effort. The kid has an almost supernatural resistance to being dismissed. Most people get the message with a glance; the smarter ones don’t even need that much, but Yuji needs it spelled out, and even then, the words just slide right off him, leaving not a mark. Months of this routine haven’t improved anything. If anything, he’s gotten worse. Familiarity has convinced him that surviving yesterday entitles him to become louder today.
"Stop talking."
Yuji clicks his tongue, crossing his arms instead of backing off. "See? That's exactly what I mean. Somebody asks you to actually teach, and you just tell them to shut up. You're impossible."
Not even bothering to dignify the latest complaint with a response, Sukuna lets the silence stretch. Nothing about this conversation is worth the breath it would take. By now, it should have ended three times over, but Yuji keeps stacking complaints, relentless, each one tumbling out before the last has even landed.
"You always do this," Yuji, apparently immune to his own self-preservation instincts, keeps going, his frustration sharpening. "You show up, sit there, ignore us, and then leave when you get bored. Nobody asked you to become a teacher in the first place.”
Sukuna’s expression stays flat and unbothered, because it never needs to do more. His patience ran out ages ago, and Yuji’s survival instinct is still as broken as ever. The moment Yuji draws in another breath, Sukuna’s already moving, rising before the next complaint can even form.
With a single stride, he closes the gap and drives the heel of his hand straight into the boy’s chest with enough force to lift him clean off the ground. Yuji skids across the packed dirt, shoes gouging shallow trenches, and only comes to a stop when his shoulder catches, rolling him hard onto his back.
His hand drops to his side, the other hanging loose near his hip, and Sukuna already dismisses the whole exchange as finished business. The brat wanted attention; now he’s gotten more than he ever deserved. Anyone with a shred of sense would stay down, gather up whatever breath they had left, and remember that Sukuna’s warnings never needed to be repeated a fourth time.
Twisting onto one elbow, Yuji shoves himself upright before the dust even has a chance to settle. His jaw locks so tight the muscles in his cheek stand out.
"I said," Yuji rasps, dragging air back into his lungs as he gets one foot under himself. His voice is rougher than before, but the same irritation pushes every word out. "You're supposed to be teaching us!"
Sukuna halts mid-turn, not even finished pivoting back toward his spot on the stone wall, eyes sliding sideways to track every twitch and movement Yuji makes. Yuji straightens, one hand pressed to his sternum for a heartbeat before he drops it and stubbornly starts back toward Sukuna, refusing to let the matter drop. The other students slow, but don’t stop completely. Nobara glares over the end of her practice weapon with her mouth twisted in disgust, while Megumi shifts his stance and watches Yuji approach with the kind of weary attention that only comes from seeing this argument end badly more times than he can count.
“And I said, stop talking,” Sukuna barks.
Yuji barely makes it within arm’s reach before Sukuna steps forward and cracks him across the side of the face with a closed fist. The second blow lands even harder, snapping Yuji’s head to the side and hurling him after it, body following the momentum. He hits the ground shoulder-first, rolling through the impact until he comes to a stop on his stomach several meters away. A smear of red stains the corner of his lower lip, but he doesn’t bother to wipe it away.
Irritation flickers across Sukuna’s face as he watches the boy’s fingers claw into the dirt. “Stay down,” he snarls.
Beside the sheds, managers freeze with bundles of wooden weapons clutched tight against their chests. Kusakabe lets one drill bleed into the next, his gaze slicing toward the center of the field. Even you pause on the stone path, folder pressed hard against your ribs, watching Yuji hit the dirt. Nobody moves to interfere, but the absurdity of it catches every eye. A teenager stands in front of the open jaws of a tiger and keeps poking, convinced that surviving the last bite means he can survive another.
Yet this has become routine, just another exasperating part of daily life at Tokyo Jujutsu High. Yuji pesters, Sukuna snarls, Yuji nags again, Sukuna loses his patience, and Yuji gets thrown across the training grounds before coming back with another argument stuck behind his teeth. Everyone watching hates the miserable pattern between a nephew who never learns and an uncle who happens to be a walking calamity, but seeing it a hundred times has worn it into the shape of an ordinary afternoon.
Slowly, Yuji’s elbows lock as he forces his upper body off the ground. His head hangs low, sweat and blood dripping from his chin onto the dry earth, but he refuses to stay down. Knees dragging forward, boots scraping for traction, he forces his spine straight and stands up for the second time.
With the back of his hand, he wipes his mouth, smearing a streak of red across his cheek before lifting his eyes to Sukuna.
"You..." Yuji wheezes, chest heaving as he drags air back into his bruised lungs, his voice furious and steady. "...you really suck at this."
Jaw clenched tight, Sukuna goes utterly still in the middle of the dirt as his eyes track the boy dragging himself forward again. The brat is impossibly, stupidly loud, and that shreds the last thread of restraint left inside him.
Every word, every refusal, every stubborn step back into reach has stacked irritation on irritation, until it contracts into a hard, concentrated rage that wipes the rest of the training ground from his awareness. He’s warned the brat, struck him, ordered him down, but Yuji still comes at him with that same furious insistence, treating survival as permission to keep going.
The shift hits you before your eyes can process it. Pressure thickens over the open grounds until every breath drags against your lungs, and the folder against your ribs bends beneath the sudden grip of your fingers. You know this sensation, though recognizing it doesn’t make it familiar. You’ve felt the air change around him like that once before, when he watched your fear with open amusement and controlled every second of it.
This carries the same unmistakable alteration in his presence, sharpened until it presses harder against your chest. But this time, anger has burned away every trace of amusement, and more of his cursed energy presses into the space around him, no longer contained as tightly. Even now, though, you can sense that far greater power remains packed inside him, held under perfect, unyielding control.
The others only feel the pressure increase. The managers stiffen, and Kusakabe’s sword stops at the end of its arc, his focus snapping straight to Sukuna. They’ve felt him flood the air with his cursed energy before, a reminder of just how much he carries, and for a moment, they have no reason to think this is anything else. Nobara and Megumi react harder, and both of them go rigid, their training forgotten as the air clamps tight around their lungs. Yuji feels it too, but fury has narrowed his world until all that exists is Sukuna standing in front of him.
The human form is a concession, a tedious little game he tolerates only because compressing his frame takes less effort than getting annoyed every time he wants to move through a hallway. It’s served its purpose, keeping him compact enough for narrow corridors, weak furniture, and the endless limitations of the modern world, but Yuji has stripped away his willingness to maintain that minor convenience. Sukuna refuses to spend another fraction of his attention compressing his body while this pathetic, blood-smeared brat dares to speak to him like an equal.
He just lets go, his true shape returning as naturally as a clenched hand opening. Shoulders widen first, stretching the hoodie tight across his back until the seams give with a series of sharp cracks. Fabric tears beneath his arms as another pair forces its way through, sleeves twisting around the upper limbs while the rest of the hoodie splits and hangs from him in ragged strips. Sukuna doesn’t bother pulling any of it free or even glancing at the damage. He keeps growing until the ruined garment is tangled around the body he’d been compressing beneath it.
Where a two-meter man stood a heartbeat ago, there’s suddenly a mountain. Sukuna stands at his full height, the torn hoodie hanging uselessly from his frame, four massive arms loose at his sides while all four eyes settle on the boy in front of him. The King of Curses’ face still carries that same irritation from a moment ago, but now the familiar expression sits on the body of the calamity everyone’s only heard described in hushed voices.
Yuji barely reacts. His eyes flick once over the second pair of arms and the added bulk, then settle back on Sukuna’s face with that same furious focus. He’s seen this body before, knows exactly what it can do, and anger keeps him from giving the change the attention it deserves. Breathing still rough, blood streaking his mouth, he keeps his weight forward, ready to come in again.
Shoko’s words come back with sickening clarity. When he uses that form in public, it usually means he’s irritated enough to stop caring. You understood the warning when she gave it, but now the meaning lands differently.
Back in your office, Sukuna had changed because it amused him to watch you panic, every part of it under his control because the fear was the point. He’d taken the time to pull off his hoodie before shifting, entertained enough to watch you realize why. He’d known exactly what he was doing, bothered to keep it intact because tearing it would have been inconvenient.
Here, the ruined hoodie hangs from his widened frame in ragged strips, caught around four arms and shoulders far too broad for it, and the sight tells you just how sudden the snap inside him was. He didn’t pause, didn’t plan for the change, didn’t spare a single thought for what might get ruined. Yuji has pushed him past the point where those small inconveniences matter, and the man standing in the dirt isn’t indulging anyone with the shape they’re used to seeing.
The others don’t have the advantage you and Yuji do. Nobara goes completely still, her weapon lowering slowly before she even notices. Megumi’s stance stiffens instantly, every part of him bracing as he takes in the extra limbs, the added reach, the sheer size of the man now standing in front of his classmate. Kusakabe keeps his sword in hand, but the next drill never comes. His eyes track over Sukuna once, quick and careful, and his shoulders tense as the truth settles over the field: none of them have ever seen this body before, and even the stories hadn’t made it large enough.
And for Sukuna, hitting the brat in human form stopped feeling like a punishment three seconds ago. He no longer wants to shut him up; he wants to break him into pieces.
Before Yuji even manages to shift his weight, Sukuna moves, closing the distance in a blink. One of his lower hands clamps onto the front of Yuji’s uniform, lifting him so fast that his feet barely leave the ground before Sukuna slams him straight back down. The impact rattles through the training field, cracking the packed dirt beneath Yuji’s shoulders and sending a thick burst of dust swirling around them.
“Stay the fuck down,” Sukuna snarls, his words slicing through the silence of the field with such force that even the managers lingering by the sheds flinch.
Expecting the matter to finally be settled, Sukuna lets go of Yuji’s uniform and straightens to his full height. But as the dust thins, Yuji’s eyes are locked onto him again, burning with anger and completely devoid of the fear that should have pinned him to the ground.
Yuji’s palm slams into the packed earth, his arm locking straight as he drags his knees beneath him. His teeth grind together so fiercely that the muscles in his jaw bulge beneath his skin.
Blood drips from his lower lip, pooling in the dirt, but he drags in a breath and answers, “You don’t get to order me around.”
That unfathomable stupidity makes the rage inside Sukuna coil tighter, muscles in his jaw ticking with irritation. He hates stupidity. He despises ants that don’t recognize the heel above them, creatures so defective they crawl straight back beneath it the moment the pressure lifts.
Yuji surges up from the ground, and even now, after everything, he comes at Sukuna, refusing to grasp the reality in front of him. Deciding he has more to say, he throws himself right back into reach.
The strike lands before Yuji can even finish closing the distance. Sukuna’s hand catches him across the side, sending him flying, the force tearing through the air and kicking up dust from the impact. Sukuna watches the dust settle with a flat expression, already expecting the same answer as before.
The boy pushes himself upright, dragging in a harsh breath, one hand pressed against the ground while the other swipes at the blood smeared near his mouth. His breathing is rougher now, but his eyes stay locked onto Sukuna, burning with that same infuriating determination.
“Seriously?” Yuji coughs, forcing himself back onto his feet. “That’s your answer to everything?”
Sukuna stares down at him, and in that stare is nothing but endless, aggravating insistence, the sense that if Yuji keeps moving, eventually the world will have to give him what he wants.
Yuji comes in, his body shifting around the pain instead of letting it slow him down. His first strike aims for an opening, and Sukuna turns just enough to take the worst of it away. Yuji adjusts before the gap closes, landing another hit higher against Sukuna’s side.
It’s nothing compared to what Yuji can do when he’s fighting someone in his own range, and it means even less against Sukuna’s body. Still, the fact that it lands at all makes the irritation burning beneath Sukuna’s anger sharpen further. The boy knows how to fight. He has the instincts, the physical ability, the awareness to adapt—and he’s wasting all of it by refusing to understand when something is finished, refusing an order simple enough for an animal to understand.
One of Sukuna’s upper hands drives straight into Yuji’s chest, folding him around the blow and sending him skidding backward through the dirt. Yuji’s shoulder hits first, then his hip, his body rolling twice before coming to a stop several meters away. Blood spatters from his mouth as he coughs, the sound rough and involuntary, his hands pressed against the ground as he tries to drag air back into his lungs.
Again, Sukuna waits, and again, Yuji gets up.
The boy rolls onto one knee, coughing into his fist and shaking his head as if that could clear away the damage. For a moment, his limbs tremble under the effort of moving again, but he still plants both hands beneath himself and pushes. His movements are slower now, his breathing harsher, but he still turns toward Sukuna.
Sukuna watches him stand and understands that no correction will reach him. Yuji has turned every warning and every strike into another reason to return, and each return demands a harsher answer than the last.
“You don’t fucking learn,” Sukuna snarls as Yuji comes at him again.
“Then act like a teacher for once,” Yuji shoots back, lowering his center of gravity before slipping beneath the first hand reaching for him, only to meet one of the lower hands instead.
One strike catches him across the ribs before he can adjust, and the second lands higher, throwing his upper body sideways and breaking the rhythm he’d been trying to build. Yuji’s body reacts quickly, correcting his balance, trying to turn the damage into another opening, but Sukuna sees every adjustment before it finishes and lands a heavy uppercut that snaps Yuji’s head back, making him stumble.
“How many times do I have to put you down before you get it?”
Straightening fully despite the pain pulling through his body, Yuji glares up at him. “Maybe if you explained things instead of just throwing us around, I’d get it.”
Yuji drives two quick blows into Sukuna’s body, one against the ribs and another higher near the sternum. The second strike lands cleanly enough to turn Sukuna’s torso by a fraction. Yuji’s eyes sharpen at the sight, and he tries to follow through before Sukuna can adjust, using speed to work around the difference in their size. The attempt lasts only until Sukuna’s lower hand clamps around his collar, killing Yuji’s momentum so abruptly that his boots scrape forward without carrying the rest of him. Sukuna lifts him all the way up until they’re nearly eye level, the fabric twisting tight beneath his fist while Yuji claws at his wrist and kicks once against empty air.
“You think this is a game?” Sukuna growls, staring into the bloodshot eyes Yuji still refuses to lower.
Yuji’s first answer is a cough that sends blood across his own chin, followed by a breathless, furious laugh that has no humor behind it. He’s exhausted, but his mouth still pulls into a hard, blood-smeared grin. “No,” he forces out. "I think you're just pissed I'm still standing."
Before the last word can even leave Yuji’s mouth, Sukuna slams him down, driving his back into the earth with enough force to split the ground beneath them in a web of cracks. It’s the simplest reminder Sukuna can give—that there is a difference between them. Yuji’s head snaps against the ground, more blood spilling over his lower lip as the impact rips another ragged breath from his chest. For a second, his body goes slack under Sukuna’s grip.
Sukuna keeps him pinned, one fist pressed hard against Yuji’s chest while the other three hover above the crater. Blinking through the haze of dust, Yuji spits a mouthful of blood beside his cheek and then has the audacity to pull his mouth into a crooked, humorless grin. His teeth are red, one eye already swelling shut, and his whole body trembles under Sukuna’s grip, but that look on his face promises he’ll get up the second the hand holding him loosens.
That grin strips away the last measure of force Sukuna had withheld. His other upper hand curls into a fist and he brings it down, with no restraint, no holding back, not a single thought spared for the body beneath him. Crack. The force drives Yuji deeper into the broken ground, scattering loose dirt across the field and sending another tremor beneath everyone’s feet.
Yuji takes the hit because his body was made to survive things that should have ruined someone else a long time ago, though survival just means blinking through an eye gone red where the white should be.
Sukuna expects the brat’s limbs to stay where they fall, but Yuji’s fingers start curling into the dirt, one after another, his hand trembling with the effort. Sukuna towers over him, two arms hanging loose, his focus locked on the stubborn body beneath him.
Everyone watching finally understands—this stopped being normal a while ago. This isn’t just Yuji pestering Sukuna until he gets thrown. Now, Sukuna hits, Yuji comes back, and each blow lands harder because neither of them will accept the other’s refusal. Yuji won’t stay down, and Sukuna has stopped caring how much damage it takes to keep him there. Only one of them gets to decide when it ends.
Nobody moves for several seconds. The silence across the training grounds stretches, thick and suffocating, until one of the managers finally snaps. He drops the bundle of practice weapons and bolts for the main building, shoes pounding against the stone path as he yells for Gojo before he’s even halfway there. The sound carries, but everyone left standing knows exactly how little it matters. If Satoru were anywhere on campus, the pressure alone would have dragged him here by now.
Kusakabe moves next, but there’s no rush in it. He starts across the field at a steady pace, blade held low beside his right leg, the tip hovering just above the grass. Sweat beads along his hairline and soaks the collar at the back of his training shirt, but his steps stay even as he closes the distance.
Down to the marrow of his bones, he knows he can’t stop this. The sword in his hand is almost useless against the King of Curses, and he knows it, but the sight of a four-armed calamity beating a teenager into the dirt in broad daylight forces his legs to move anyway. It isn’t a fight he expects to win, but he still puts himself close enough to interrupt the next strike, hoping a few stolen seconds might matter if Gojo is somehow already on his way.
It’s a terrifying, suicidal gamble from a man who’s built his whole career on cold, shameless self-preservation—a pragmatist who maps out escape routes before stepping into a room and lies without blinking to avoid a dangerous assignment.
Down on the walkway, you’re rooted in place, fingers locked around the bent folder, breath caught so tight in your throat it feels like swallowing glass.
Kusakabe gets within fifteen paces, posture locking as he readies himself to drop into a stance. The scrape of his shoes reaches Sukuna from the side, followed by the faint shift of steel as Kusakabe adjusts his grip. Sukuna registers him without turning, not sparing so much as a glance, his gaze fixed on Yuji as the boy tries to push himself up.
"Stay out of it," Sukuna snarls, voice echoing across the field as Yuji shifts under his grip. "I'm his fucking uncle. I can fucking kill him if I want to."
The sheer, arrogant absurdity of that statement hangs in the stifling air. Kusakabe freezes mid-step, sword still raised slightly between them, while down in the dirt, trapped beneath a hand that could crush his sternum to powder without a second thought, Yuji lifts his head at once. Blood covers his chin, his right eye swollen shut and purple, every breath catching against bruised ribs, but he still lets out a sound from deep in his chest.
What comes out is a rough, wet, horribly broken laugh, with absolutely no humor, playfulness, or warmth in it. It’s pure defiance. Yuji forces one foot under himself, sways, and spits a mouthful of dark crimson onto the dirt near Sukuna’s foot, his chest heaving in shallow hitches, his remaining eye burning with wild, unyielding fury.
"OH, NOW YOU ACKNOWLEDGE YOU'RE MY UNCLE?!" Yuji shouts through the blood in his throat. "NOW IT SUDDENLY MATTERS?!"
Sukuna’s attention snaps to Yuji’s face, a fresh edge of disgust twisting his features. The brat has taken a warning meant for someone else and managed to dig up another argument inside it.
“Don’t get comfortable with it, idiot,” Sukuna snaps, the word uncle dropping from his mouth like it’s nothing, his face settling into that blank, uncaring look that’s somehow colder than his fury.
Yuji straightens as much as his battered body will let him, glaring up at Sukuna with the same stubborn refusal that started this whole fight.
One of Sukuna’s lower hands catches Yuji’s next punch at the wrist, while an upper fist slams into his ribs with enough force to fold him. Yuji’s feet leave the ground, but Sukuna keeps hold, dragging him back into range before the momentum can carry him away. He strikes again across the jaw, sending blood from Yuji’s mouth in a thin spray. Sukuna pulls his fist back, then hits again—crack—and again—crack—before finally throwing Yuji hard enough that his body skips once across the ground before rolling to a stop.
Kusakabe takes a step toward him, but checks himself when Yuji moves before he can get there. The boy plants a forearm beneath his chest, pushes his knees under him, and drags himself upright. Sukuna waits, watching him rebuild his stance piece by piece, only to knock it apart again.
Yuji comes in, finds an angle, lands a hit, and takes three heavier strikes in return. He drops, drags himself upright, and comes back with less speed but more intent, forcing his battered body to adjust around injuries that keep piling up. Sukuna meets every attempt with more force, though the anger that sharpened every blow at first loses its purpose. Yuji’s refusal doesn’t surprise him anymore; the brat keeps rising because that’s what he does, and even defiance turns dull when it offers nothing new.
By the time Yuji gets to him again, Sukuna is no longer interested in proving the point. He catches the boy by the front of his uniform with one hand, absorbs the punch Yuji drives into his ribs, and looks down at him without a trace of the rage that carried the fight this far. Yuji tries to wrench free, boots scraping over the dirt as he searches for leverage that isn’t there, and Sukuna gives him one last look before throwing him across the field.
Yuji hits the ground near the edge of the training area, loose earth scattering in every direction as he rolls once and comes to rest on his side, making no move to get up. Sukuna doesn’t bother to check if his fingers will twitch again. He turns away, strips of his ruined hoodie dangling from all four arms, and walks past Kusakabe without so much as a glance at the sword still raised between them. By the time he reaches the path, his posture has already slackened into something almost lazy, as if the boy left broken behind him has already stopped mattering.
No one moves. For several long seconds, the silence stretches, every eye fixed on Sukuna as he leaves the ruined training field behind, but even with his back turned, he manages to keep the entire courtyard frozen in place.
Yuji lies crumpled near the boundary stones, close enough that the dark bloom of blood across his uniform is impossible to miss. Every part of you aches to go to him, but your feet stay rooted to the stone. The past three months have drilled this rule into your bones more thoroughly than your mind ever wanted: when Sukuna’s that angry, you wait until he’s gone. To approach before then would only draw his attention, and after witnessing what that attention has done to Yuji, you can’t force yourself to take the first step.
Only after Sukuna vanishes behind the trees does the pressure begin to ease, though the air still catches sharp and painful in your throat, as if he’s left something behind for you to choke on. You listen for the last of his footsteps to fade along the path before dragging in a ragged breath, the paralysis breaking all at once. The bent folder remains crushed against your chest, its edge biting into your palm, but you barely register it as you stumble off the path and hurry across the churned earth toward Yuji.
Nobara and Megumi break from their shock almost at the same instant, rushing in from the far side of the courtyard. Kusakabe follows behind, lowering his sword with a long, shaky exhale, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, his eyes never leaving Yuji.
No one calls out at first. From a distance, Yuji’s stillness is terrifying, but every step closer brings new details that are somehow worse. Blood streaks his chin and soaks the torn front of his uniform, one eye swollen shut, dirt clinging to the scrapes carved across his face and arms. The way he guards one side of his chest at an unnatural angle makes Megumi’s expression tense even before he reaches him.
Yuji stays motionless long enough for your stomach to knot, but then the fingers of his uninjured hand splay against the ground, raw knuckles whitening as he presses his palm into the dirt. A shudder runs through him when he braces his forearm beneath his chest, and for a moment it looks like the effort will break him. Still, he drags one knee forward, forces his other hand underneath himself, and starts to rise. There’s nothing graceful about it, only stubbornness and pain, his body folding and trembling as he tries to make his battered limbs obey. By the time the four of you reach him, he’s managed to push himself halfway upright.
"Yuji, don't move!" Nobara snaps as she drops to one knee beside him, the command sharpened by fear even as her voice cracks around it. "Just stay down, you dumbass. You're going to make it worse."
She reaches for his shoulder, but Yuji bats her hand away. There’s barely any strength behind it as his arm nearly buckles from the effort, but the refusal is absolute. Before Nobara can try again, he drags both knees beneath himself and forces his body upright, swaying so hard when he stands that Megumi steps in, and your own hand lifts without thinking, both of you ready to catch him. Yuji refuses to let either of you touch him. He plants his feet wider, bows over his injured ribs, and stands through what appears to be force of will alone.
"I'm... I'm fine," he manages, each word broken by the shallow pull of his breathing.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, only managing to smear fresh blood across skin already stained with it. Still, he glances down at the mess as if it belongs to someone else and can therefore be ignored.
"You're bleeding, your ribs are broken, and you can barely stand," Megumi says, his voice so flat that the fear beneath it becomes more obvious rather than less. His hands hover near Yuji's arm without quite closing around it, poised to catch him the instant his legs give way. "Sit down before you fall down, idiot.”
Yuji lets out a rough huff, maybe meant as a dismissive laugh, but it ends in a wince when the movement tugs at his ribs.
"Yeah," he rasps, lifting his head until his one open eye narrows against the hard glare of the sun. He adjusts his footing again, stubbornly rooting himself in place before repeating, with more conviction than breath, "Yeah, but I'm fine."
No one believes him, least of all Yuji himself, but the fact that he’s standing on his own gives you one thin thread of relief to hold onto. You stop within arm’s reach, the forgotten folder crushed between your hand and your chest, watching the tremor running through his legs while you fight the urge to grab him, just to prove he’s still solid and still here. The same stubbornness that kept dragging him back into Sukuna’s reach now keeps him upright, even as every strained breath and unsteady shift betrays the damage he refuses to acknowledge.
Not long after, Shoko appears down the path, moving at a pace just shy of running, the assistant manager trailing several steps behind, struggling to keep up with her stride. He must’ve managed to get the basics across before they reached the training grounds, because her gaze sweeps over the torn earth, over you and the students, and lands instantly on Yuji.
Her eyes track the blood smeared across his face and uniform, then drop to the arm held protectively over his ribs. For half a step, her stride falters. The hesitation is so brief no one else seems to catch it, but from where you stand, you see her fingers curl at her side, the usual composure tightening across her face before she reins it in and moves forward again.
Shoko has treated injuries caused by Sukuna before, most of them on Yuji after his uncle sent him down a flight of stairs or straight through a wall. She’s read enough reports to know exactly what kind of damage Sukuna leaves behind when irritation tips into violence. Even so, the sight in front of her catches her off guard.
On the way down, the manager had breathlessly rattled off something about Sukuna using a technique to transform, and while Shoko understood what he meant, she didn’t bother correcting the details. What Sukuna actually did was release a technique he uses almost constantly. The difference matters, but not nearly as much as reaching Yuji, who, as she knows, isn’t standing because he was strong enough to take it, but because Sukuna got bored before finishing it and, for his own reasons, decided to walk away.
A short, controlled breath escapes Shoko through her nose, the only sign of the anger she doesn’t have time to deal with. She closes the last bit of distance, reaches for Yuji’s wrist, and tells him, "Sit down before you fall down," her voice dropping into something sharper, more personal. "What the hell were you thinking?"
Yuji opens his mouth, probably ready to offer the same exhausted protest he gave the rest of you, but Shoko’s hand closes firmly around his arm before he can even think about pulling away. Her other hand finds his shoulder and pushes, not gently, making it clear this isn’t a request. Whatever argument he had lined up dissolves into a sharp, pained breath as his butt finally hits the ground.
“Seriously, Yuji. You know what he’s capable of,” Shoko continues, crouching in front of him. Frustration draws her brow tight as she tips his face toward the light, checking the split on his lower lip, but even with impatience threading her voice, her touch stays careful, fingers avoiding the worst of the swelling. "What were you even trying to do out here?"
"I was..." Yuji stammers, flinching when her fingers brush his swollen cheek, but he still tries to lift his chin against her hold. "I was just telling him to do his job. He was just sitting there doing nothing, and—"
"So you kept nagging him until he snapped?" Shoko cuts in flatly. She shakes her head and presses her palm against his chest, her expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion. "You saw him sitting there ignoring you and thought, yeah, this is a good time to push him a little harder? Do you actually have a brain in that head, or do you just like making my job harder?"
Yuji draws a careful breath and winces when his ribs expand beneath her palm. The pain makes him pause but does nothing to soften the stubbornness in his voice when he finally mutters, "He’s supposed to be teaching us."
Shoko closes her eyes for a moment, holding them shut like she’s searching for the last scraps of patience she has left. When she opens them again, her focus drops right back to the mess in front of her.
"Then complain to Yaga next time," she says, tightening the hand beneath Yuji's chin when he tries to turn his face away again. Her tone softens, turning more tired than angry. “Don’t stand there and keep pushing until Sukuna decides he’s done with you. One day he won’t get bored, Yuji, and I won’t be able to repair what he leaves behind.”
You stay close to Shoko while her cursed energy works its way through the damage, watching the swelling around Yuji’s eye slowly shrink and the bruises under his torn uniform fade, bit by bit. Each time she moves to another injury, Yuji straightens his spine, as if sitting up tall might fool everyone into thinking the last ten minutes barely affected him, but the act falls apart when she presses along his ribs and his fingers dig into the dirt beside his thigh.
Shoko tells him to hold still, her voice carrying that usual tired irritation, but the tension never leaves her shoulders. Her hands stay steady as she runs her thumb carefully beneath the eye Sukuna nearly closed, still keeping her palm against Yuji's chest until he can breathe without each inhale catching halfway.
You’ve watched Shoko treat people before, and until now, you always mistook the flatness in her voice for distance. She makes jokes over blood, complains about the inconvenience of serious injuries, and talks about Sukuna like he’s an overgrown toddler in the middle of another tantrum. Sitting this close, though, you can see how much effort that calm actually takes. Her jaw stays clenched while she works, and every few seconds her eyes flick back to Yuji’s face, making sure he’s still awake and following what she says.
There’s nothing else she can do with all that frustration simmering under her skin. Dragging Sukuna back to the field and making him answer for it isn’t an option, and promising Yuji it won’t happen again would be a lie. If Sukuna decides to level half the school tomorrow, nobody can stop him unless he allows them to try. Shoko can’t change any of that, but she can scold the idiot kid for walking back into danger, fix his ribs, and keep working until the color returns to his cheeks and his body is strong enough to carry him away.
Around you, everyone finds their own way to be useful—or at least, their own way to deal. Kusakabe wipes dust from his blade before sliding it back into its sheath, clinging to the familiar routine even though sweat still stains the collar of his shirt. Nobara kneels beside Yuji, with her arms folded so tightly her knuckles press white against her sleeves, muttering under her breath every time he tries to claim he’s fine. Megumi barely says a word, but his eyes never leave Yuji, and when his friend starts to lean to one side, he shifts closer so Yuji can rest against his leg without either of them having to mention it.
Not one of them thinks Sukuna’s harmless, and nobody’s forgotten what he’s capable of. They’ve just learned how to carry that fear without letting it freeze their hands whenever he walks into a room. Panic won’t slow him down once he decides to act, and it won’t help anyone left behind when he loses interest. Watching them now, you finally understand something you’ve spent months missing: they aren’t calm because any of this is safe. They’re calm because it’s the only way to keep functioning.
That’s why Gojo cracks jokes about the buildings Sukuna destroys, why Shoko lights another cigarette after patching someone up, and why Kusakabe grumbles in the faculty lounge every time Sukuna acts like an asshole. Treating him like a disaster every second of every day would leave them unable to do anything else, so they eat lunch, teach classes, argue over training schedules, and pass him in the halls, all while carrying the truth of what he is quietly in the back of their minds.
Somewhere along the way, you started doing the same thing without realizing it. You learned to work while Sukuna sprawled across your couch, to quietly complain when he snapped another pen, and to let his presence settle into the routine of your day. Those small, everyday annoyances made sharing space with him feel almost possible, and after a while, you started thinking of him as a dangerous but manageable part of your life, something you could handle as long as you followed the right rules. Now, every one of those harmless afternoons feels different with the image of his four arms slamming Yuji into the ground burned into your mind.
When Shoko finally lifts her hand, Yuji draws a careful breath and rolls one shoulder, testing the repaired muscles before pushing himself to his feet. He still looks terrible, with dried blood across his chin and half his uniform hanging in torn strips, but both eyes are open now and his legs hold his weight without shaking.
The woman stands, brushes dirt from her knees, and catches his wrist when he tries to move too fast. She waits until he steadies himself before letting go, then tells him firmly that he’s going to the infirmary whether he likes it or not. Yuji starts to protest, but Kusakabe steps in on his other side and tells him to save whatever argument he’s got for someone who didn’t just spend the afternoon watching him get punched through the ground.
Shoko’s gaze catches yours over Yuji’s shoulder, her eyes flicking across your face before landing on the folder still crushed to your chest. She notices the faint tremor in your jaw—you can tell by the way her expression softens, though the small, tired smile she offers doesn’t pretend things will be better tomorrow. When she glances at Yuji, then back at you, it’s the only comfort she can honestly give: the boy’s standing, Sukuna’s gone, and all of you made it through this one. She turns toward the infirmary with Yuji at her side, while Kusakabe, Nobara, and Megumi hover close enough to catch him if his legs give out, leaving you beside the broken ground as their footsteps fade down the path.
Silence settles over the training field, but your body refuses to follow its lead; tension knots your shoulders, your breaths come shallow, and every blink drags up the memory of four arms moving through the dust. Only after a long moment do your fingers finally unclench from the folder, and you make yourself move toward the main building.
Most days, the walk to your office is automatic, your feet carrying you along the path without a second thought. Today, though, every curve in the walkway becomes another place to scan before you dare to move ahead. You peer through the spaces between trees, half-convinced you’ll spot a shred of torn fabric or a shape that’s simply too big to belong. Each time you approach a corner, you pause to listen, your footsteps kept soft and careful, even though you know Sukuna would hear you coming no matter how quietly you move.
By the time the building comes into view, the muscles along your neck burn from holding yourself so stiffly. The moment you step inside, Sukuna’s unmistakable cursed energy hits you, and you know exactly where he’s gone.
No longer the crushing force that shattered the training field, but Sukuna isn’t bothering to hide it, either, and your steps slow without conscious thought. The office sits at the far end of the corridor, and every meter you cross gives your mind another chance to conjure up four arms inside that room, broad shoulders crowding the space beside your desk, Yuji’s blood drying across his hands.
Sukuna’s back in his human form; his cursed energy is familiar and contained in the shape you’ve gotten used to, but that knowledge brings no comfort or relief. If anything, it only proves how easily he’s left the afternoon and what happened behind. While you were watching Shoko heal the body he nearly destroyed, Sukuna changed back, crossed the campus, and made himself at home in your office.
He knows you’re coming, too. There’s no way he’s missed your cursed energy moving through the building, but nothing inside the room stirs as you stop outside the door.
A shaky breath fills your lungs as you clamp your fingers around the brass handle, knuckles whitening with the effort. Only when you can’t stall any longer do you force yourself to press it down and slide the door open.
Sukuna sprawls across your couch in his human body, one ankle hooked over his knee, phone balanced in his hand. The dark green hoodie he wears now covers the same shoulders that ripped through black fabric on the field, sleeves shoved up to bare his forearms, hair pushed back from his face without a speck of dust left behind. He’s washed up, changed, and claimed his usual spot before you’ve even made it back, his focus fixed on the screen like nothing worth remembering happened this afternoon.
Just inside the doorway, your feet come to a halt. The hand cradling his phone is the same one that clamped around Yuji’s uniform and lifted him off the ground, but now it looks ordinary again, broad, human, and relaxed around the device. The shoulder pressed into your couch widened beneath torn fabric only minutes ago, and the face turned toward the screen is the same one that watched Yuji cough blood into the dirt without a hint of concern.
The couch, the phone, and the clean hoodie all belong to the routine you’ve spent months building around him, but the wrecked field follows you into the room anyway. Echoes of impact still ring in your ears, Yuji’s body folding around every blow, while Sukuna scrolls with the same bored look he gives you when you take too long grading papers.
Your gaze drops before it can meet his, and you hug the wall as you step inside, putting more distance between yourself and the couch than you have in weeks. In just one afternoon, every habit you built over the last three months has vanished, your body snapping back to the wary distance it kept when Sukuna first started invading your office, when every shift of his weight twisted your stomach, and every glance made you measure the distance to the door.
Sukuna notices before you’re even halfway to your desk. His thumb drags across the screen one last time, pale light flickering in his crimson eyes, before he drops the phone to his lap and turns his head, tracking your path along the wall. His gaze lingers on the folder pressed tight to your chest, then shifts to the way your shoulders curl in under his stare.
For weeks, familiarity had made it possible to work while he occupied your couch. That thin layer of comfort you’ve worked so hard to build is gone now, replaced by the same raw, immediate fear you showed him at the start, and he recognizes its return at once.
He shifts lazily against the cushions, elbow braced on the armrest, chin propped in his palm, taking his time as he watches the last bit of color drain from your face.
“Back to looking at me like that?” Sukuna asks, voice almost playful, but it only makes your hands clench harder on the folder. His smirk sharpens as he adds, “Finally figured out what you’re dealing with? A little late for that, don’t you think, little thing?”
No answer comes. Your throat’s so tight that even swallowing feels like a struggle, and any thought of bringing up Yuji dies before it can reach your lips. Sukuna watches as you cross the last few steps to your desk, not hurrying, eyes glued to the floor until the desk’s edge comes into view.
When you finally lower the folder, its bent cover snags against the wood, sending a handful of papers sliding out of place, giving you an excuse to straighten them, one by one, before you pull out your chair and sit. Most days, that routine would settle you: folder open, papers stacked, pen taken from the drawer, but today your fingers hesitate at every step, and the soft tap of Sukuna’s thumb against his phone echoes with the memory of fists slamming into Yuji’s body.
Sukuna adjusts his weight on the couch, and your hand freezes with the pen hovering uselessly above the page, your shoulders drawing tight before you can stop them. He hasn’t stood or moved closer, just stretched one leg along the cushions and shifted an elbow against the armrest, but his eyes linger long enough to catch the breath stuck in your chest. The smirk at his mouth deepens as your body gives him exactly what he wants, and a low, satisfied breath of laughter escapes him before he finally turns his attention back to his phone.
His thumb resumes its slow drag across the screen, and somehow, that dismissal rattles you more than any question could have. He’s already gotten what he wanted—your fear, right where he likes it, raw and impossible to hide, and now there’s nothing left he needs from you.
Your eyes drop to the first page, but you read the same line three times without absorbing a word. Every soft creak of the couch yanks your attention back across the room, to where Sukuna sits clean and comfortable in your office, scrolling through his phone while you keep bracing for a violence he’s already forgotten.
——
Late afternoon the next day, your attention keeps drifting to the clock no matter how firmly you try to hold it on the second-years’ quizzes spread across your desk. Yuta’s paper has been open to the second problem for several minutes, your pen resting uselessly against the margin while you half-listen to the familiar sounds outside your office and do your best to pretend you aren’t counting down to the time Sukuna usually shows up.
The routine’s gotten so predictable that you find yourself expecting him without even thinking about it, and the thought winds a familiar tension through your shoulders and settles beneath your ribs. Yesterday keeps returning in brief, ugly flashes whenever your concentration slips, forcing you to lower your eyes to the quiz, take a careful breath, and remind yourself that you’re still in your office, surrounded by familiar furniture, with the afternoon sun falling across the same shelves it always does. None of it helps for long. Every footstep in the corridor pulls your attention toward the door, and every distant flicker of cursed energy tightens your grip on the pen until you realize it belongs to someone else.
Weeks went into learning how to work with Sukuna in the room, how to keep writing when he moved behind you, and how to answer him without letting your voice betray you, but yesterday unraveled all of that, stripping those habits down to their flimsiest threads. The images come back without warning, sharp enough to shatter whatever thought you’re trying to hold onto, and each one leaves your body braced for an impact that never actually lands in the quiet of your office.
You feel Sukuna’s presence before a single sound reaches the corridor. His cursed energy seeps through the plaster walls and wooden doorframes in cold, invisible waves, settling at the edge of your awareness until the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. Your fingers freeze, leaving the tip of your pen pressed uselessly to the paper, and you can’t make yourself lift it as his footsteps draw closer at the same unhurried pace they always do.
By the time his hand finds the door, you’ve already straightened the papers twice and nudged your chair closer to the desk, making room around yourself like rearranging the office might somehow make his arrival easier to stomach.
Sukuna opens the door and steps inside wearing a black shirt, his hair still damp near the temples like he’s just come from the showers after training or a mission. His eyes find you right away, exactly where he expected you to be, clocking the careful distance you’ve already put between your chair and the open side of the desk. Amusement flickers across his face before the door even clicks shut.
He walks straight toward you, taking his time as your gaze drops lower with each step, then stops close enough for his shadow to fall across the quizzes. Bracing one hand on the desk’s edge, he leans down until his chest hovers beside your shoulder and his arm stretches across the only clear exit from the chair. He hasn’t touched you, but standing would mean ducking under his arm or asking him to move, and he knows you’ll do neither.
“You look worse than yesterday,” he says, amusement curling his lips as he shifts closer, watching the color drain from your face. “So much for getting used to me.”
A hard swallow sticks in your throat as you force your eyes to the page, though the numbers have already melted into a useless blur. Sukuna tracks every bit of effort it takes just to keep still, clearly entertained by how quickly yesterday dragged you right back to the reaction he relished the first time he took over your office. The soft scrape of his fingers against the desk sends a sharp jolt through your shoulders, and just the sight of his hand resting beside your papers yanks the training field back into your mind, sudden and vivid as a slap.
“Poor brat did all that work just for you to ruin it,” he drawls, looking down at the page rather than moving away. “Imagine having your grade left in the hands of a teacher who can’t even hold a pen.”
Your gaze drops to the quiz, and only then do you spot the dark pool of ink spreading beneath the nib. It’s already swallowed the last problem whole, blotting out Yuta’s answer and soaking straight through the softened paper. When you finally lift your hand, the pen’s point snags in the wet page and tears a small hole right through the middle of the stain. Heat crawls up your face as your mind scrambles for any way to fix the quiz or explain the mess without admitting what actually caused it. Sukuna’s quiet laugh drifts down from above, low and thoroughly pleased with this new proof of just how deep yesterday’s damage runs.
Rather than stepping back, Sukuna drags the empty chair from across the desk and plants it right beside yours, letting its legs scrape loudly across the floor. He drops into it with one knee angled through the narrow gap between your seat and the desk, blocking the only space you’d normally use to stand. The couch sits empty across the room, but he ignores it, settling close enough to watch every mistake your unsteady hand makes, in a spot that would force you to squeeze past him if you tried to leave.
"Keep going," he says, resting his elbow on the desk as he leans back just far enough to see you clearly. "You managed it before."
The amusement in his voice leaves no doubt he knows exactly why you can’t manage it now. His eyes follow every careful breath, every tiny shift you make to avoid brushing against him, and he looks perfectly content to sit there, waiting until you finally stop pretending you can hide any of it.
The knock comes just a heartbeat before the door slides open and Gojo leans into the room without waiting for permission, resting one hand against the frame while his gaze, hidden behind that blindfold, sweeps across the office. He takes in Sukuna, who’s sitting right beside you, with one knee blocking the narrow space between your chair and the desk, so close that his sleeve threatens to brush your arm whenever he moves. Then his eyes flick to you.
Even though his smile stays as easy as ever, you can tell he’s clocking every detail you’d rather keep hidden: the pen clenched in your stiff fingers, the spreading ink stain bleeding across Yuta’s paper, the way you’re trying to carve out extra space without actually moving your chair, the subtle tilt of your body away from Sukuna, and the fact that Sukuna’s attention is fixed on you instead of the stack of papers.
He already knows Sukuna treats your office like his own personal lounge, one he can enter whenever he pleases, but seeing him here at the usual hour, comfortably settled at your side, confirms just how permanent the habit’s become.
Sukuna clocks the assessment right away and turns his head toward the door, that smug trace of amusement from the ruined quiz still lingering in his expression.
Before he can say anything, Gojo leans one shoulder against the frame and hums, "Well, well. Guess yesterday's training took more out of... certain people than it did you, huh?"
A sly smirk flickers at Sukuna’s mouth as he glances toward the open door again. "You do know knocking is supposed to happen before you enter," he says, sounding more amused than bothered, which is almost funny considering he’s never once bothered to knock himself.
"I knocked, didn't I?" Gojo asks, spreading one hand as though that settles the matter.
"You're supposed to wait afterward," Sukuna replies, his elbow still planted firmly on your desk.
"I did wait. Briefly." Gojo shrugs, stepping inside and letting the door slide shut behind him before adding in the same easy tone, "Yuji's out of the infirmary, by the way. Shoko gave him the all-clear."
Sukuna doesn't so much as shift in his chair. With his chin still propped lazily in one palm, he turns his head just enough to fix Gojo with a flat, crimson stare. "How unfortunate," he deadpans.
"Yeah, she told him to take it easy till the end of the week," Gojo continues, clearly unfazed by the response. He taps his chin with one finger, his grin widening a bit as he adds, "So naturally, he'll sneak out to train by tomorrow morning."
"Didn't ask," Sukuna says, already sounding bored out of his mind. “But she should've snapped his legs before letting him out. Might've kept him still for a day."
Gojo lets out a quiet hum. The smile’s still there, but it thins a notch while he studies Sukuna. "Atsuya said Yuji kept getting back up. And arguing, of course."
"That's the brat's only talent," Sukuna sneers, though some of the disgust leaves his voice, irritation pulling him further into the complaint. "Tell him to quit and he acts like it’s a challenge. Put him on the ground, and suddenly the problem is that I haven’t explained myself well enough. He could be spitting blood and still waste what little breath he has arguing with me."
"From what I heard, he actually did," Satoru points out, sounding far too pleased by that detail.
"Exactly. That’s why he’s unbearable." Sukuna’s mouth curls as he turns to face the white-haired man. "He's never understood the difference between guts and flat-out idiocy. Once he thinks he's right, pain stops mattering, and he'll drag everyone along for the ride just to prove a point."
Gojo’s eyebrows shoot up behind the blindfold as he fights back a smirk. "Wow, Sukuna. That almost sounded nice. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
"Maybe not," Gojo laughs, undeterred, rocking back on his heels. "All I heard is that he’s committed."
"He doesn’t know how to quit," Sukuna huffs, irritation flattening his voice. "That’s not the same thing."
Gojo tilts his head, pretending to give the distinction serious thought, though the grin tugging at his mouth ruins the act. "So, you kept trying to teach him the difference?"
"I wanted him to shut up," Sukuna grumbles, lip curling in disgust. "He kept running his mouth like saying the same stupid thing again would make it less stupid. You saw where that got him."
You sit frozen between them, lungs refusing to fill with Sukuna pressed so close at your side as your eyes stay glued to the ruined quiz, even though the ink has stopped spreading and there’s nothing left to watch. Now that he has a chance to complain, Sukuna sounds almost amused by what happened, which somehow makes it worse. He talks about Yuji with the same irritation someone else might use for a student who won’t stop interrupting, and every offhand remark drags yesterday back in sharp, stinging flashes. Before you realize it, your fingers have curled tight around the edge of the desk.
Satoru answers like this is just another petty argument between coworkers, and maybe that’s the only way to talk to Sukuna without giving him exactly the reaction he wants. The logic makes sense, but your body refuses to cooperate. Sukuna’s knee stays angled right beside yours, his elbow still planted on your desk, and each word reminds you how little effort it took for him to put someone in the infirmary. You lower your shaking hand into your lap before he can notice, only to realize you’ve drawn your arm even closer to his leg.
A short, breezy huff escapes Gojo as he turns his attention from Sukuna to your rigid posture. That smile creeps back onto his face, a warning that he’s just found a new way to make the room even more unbearable.
"Skipped out on supervision again today?" Satoru asks, grinning as he tilts his head toward Sukuna. He pushes away from the door and takes two lazy steps farther into the room, his hands still buried in his pockets. "Funny how that works. Can’t spare twenty minutes to check their footwork, but somehow you always make it here just fine."
You suck in a sharp breath before you can disguise it, and Sukuna catches it instantly. His eyes flick to you as you try to draw your knee away from his chair—not that there’s much room left, with the desk crowding your other side. The smirk at his mouth deepens when he realizes Gojo has handed him a brand new way to torment you.
"This is way more entertaining," Sukuna rumbles, his voice low and so close you feel it stir the hair at your temple.
Your fingers freeze against the edge of the quiz, betraying you all over again.
Gojo’s smile widens, though he keeps his attention fixed on Sukuna. “You know there are, like, a dozen other places to sit on campus, right?”
Without so much as glancing away from the white-haired man, Sukuna drags his chair forward until the edge nearly bumps yours. He plants a hand on the desk behind your papers, his forearm running alongside yours and taking over the space where you’d been resting your elbow. You immediately pull your arm tight against your ribs, hand cramped awkwardly over the quizzes just to avoid touching him.
"There are rooms everywhere," Sukuna shrugs, glancing down at you with that infuriating smirk. "But none of them are as accommodating."
That word lands too close to something personal, even if you know exactly why he keeps showing up here. The weaving calms the irritation beneath his skin, your fear amuses him, and somewhere along the way, he decided your office was his. Heat still crawls up your cheeks when Gojo tips his head, clearly sizing up the space Sukuna’s claimed around you.
Your tormentor notices before you can turn your head away, that mean glint in his eyes sharpening as he shifts his leg so his knee rests lightly against the outside of yours, erasing the last bit of space you were using to angle yourself away. When you pull your arm in tighter against your side, his mouth curves higher, clearly delighted.
Satoru sweeps the room with another slow, exaggerated look before chirping, "That so? You’ve really settled in here, haven’t you?"
"What can I say? She gets more done when I'm here." Sukuna taps a finger against the stained quiz in front of you, looking far too pleased with himself. "See? Already ruined one."
"How thoughtful of you," Gojo chimes brightly with enough sarcasm to fill the room. "I’m sure Yaga would be thrilled to know you’re pitching in with faculty work. All those extra hours must be saving the school a fortune."
Sukuna leans back, looking perfectly self-satisfied. "You know me. I'm nothing but a helpful man."
Gojo lets out a laugh and gestures loosely toward the corridor. "Right. At this point, we might as well put your name on the brass plate outside."
Sukuna gives the office a slow, lazy once-over before finally letting his gaze settle back on you. "Why bother?" he asks, that faint smirk never leaving his mouth. "Everyone already knows whose room it is."
You open your mouth before you can stop yourself, but nothing comes out. Sukuna’s clearly waiting with open interest to see if irritation will win over fear. When you shut your mouth and turn back to your quizzes, he lets out a low laugh and shifts closer until the side of his leg rests firmly against yours.
"Well, I'd love to stick around and watch you offer more administrative guidance," Gojo says, fishing a folded mission brief out of his pocket and tossing it onto the desk beside Sukuna's elbow, "but Yaga wants that Special Grade in Kitakyushu handled before midnight, and I'm headed up to Hokkaido."
A jolt runs through you as the meaning sinks in. Did Satoru really show up here looking for Sukuna, already expecting to find him in your office? Is this just where everyone expects him to be now?
Sukuna flicks a glance at the folded page but doesn’t bother to reach for it. His bored gaze lands back on Satoru, making it obvious just how little he cares about the assignment. “Then why isn’t he the one telling me that?”
Gojo tilts his head, shooting Sukuna a knowing look, brows rising behind the blindfold. "Because, let’s be honest, you were going to ignore the message anyway."
"I read it." Sukuna slings one arm across the backrest of your chair, making you flinch, the mission brief still sitting untouched by his elbow.
"Oh, did you?" A lazy grin creeps across Satoru’s face. “And when, exactly, were you planning to do something about it?”
"When I feel like it." Sukuna shrugs, utterly unbothered, and lets the silence linger long enough to make it clear that neither Satoru nor Yaga gets to decide when he moves.
He’s already decided the assignment can wait. Tormenting you and watching you squirm is just so much more entertaining now that your fear’s back. Why hurry, anyway? It makes no difference to him if everyone dies before he bothers to show up. There’ll be plenty more bodies after he's done with that thing because, let’s be honest, it’s not like he’d actually kill it without playing with it first.
"Great. Then my work here is done." Gojo flashes a grin, his covered gaze passing once more over Sukuna's chair pressed against yours and the pleased smirk on Sukuna’s face. He turns for the door, hands sliding back into his pockets as he heads into the corridor, calling over his shoulder, "Don't have too much fun without me!”
The moment Satoru’s footsteps fade, silence settles over the office again, thick, heavy and instantly suffocating. Keeping your eyes glued to the next paper, you wait for Sukuna to finally move to the couch now that there’s no one left to entertain. Seconds drag by, but he doesn’t budge from your side.
Instead, he leans in, reaching across you to snatch up the pen you abandoned after ruining Yuta’s quiz. He rolls it between his fingers, inspecting the ink at the tip, while his forearm brushes so close to your chest that you’re forced deeper into the chair. Your shoulders tense, and the low, amused laugh he lets out makes it clear he noticed.
“Guess yesterday wasn’t a total waste,” he muses, giving the pen a lazy spin between his fingers before letting it fall with a clatter on the far side of the desk, well beyond your reach. “The brat finally did something useful. You were starting to forget yourself.”
Your eyes flick to the pen, then to the spare tucked near the corner of the desk, and Sukuna follows your gaze. He slides his elbow, blocking off that side of the desk and trapping the replacement beneath the space he’s claimed. You could ask him to move, or just lean across and grab it, and he watches you weigh both options, his mouth curving higher as the silence stretches.
"I need that," you manage, though the words come out softer than you meant them to.
"I know." Sukuna props his chin on his hand, grinning, never making the slightest move to lift his arm. "Go on. Don’t let me stop you."
The spare pen is right there, just a few centimeters past his wrist, so close you could snatch it if your body would just cooperate. Sukuna waits, savoring every second of your hesitation, and when you still can’t bring yourself to move, a deep chuckle rumbles out of him. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
You curse him in your head—for putting the pen there, for watching you struggle, for making a few centimeters of desk feel impossible to cross. Forcing your arm forward, you keep your shoulder tucked in, but Sukuna moves closer at the same moment, his chest pressing against your arm and pinning you between him and the desk. Your fingertips graze the pen but don’t quite close around it as suddenly, yesterday flashes back in sharp, vivid detail: Sukuna’s real body above Yuji, blood spread across the training ground. Your hand goes rigid, eyes squeezing shut before you can stop them.
“Don’t tell me you’re still stuck on yesterday, human,” Sukuna drawls, his smirk widening as he watches you fight through the hesitation.
You force your eyes open, hook your fingers around the pen, and drag it toward you, retreating as far as the cramped space will let you. Sukuna’s chair blocks any hope of escape, and he doesn’t bother to give you room. He just slides Yuta’s stained quiz aside with a dark-nailed hand, revealing the clean paper underneath.
“Next one,” Sukuna says, voice syrupy with fake concern, elbow still propped on the edge of your desk, his gaze fixed on you the whole time. "Come on, don’t freeze up now. These poor kids are counting on you to finish their precious quizzes. Wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you?"
You look at the next paper on the stack—Maki's test—and pull it closer onto the center of the blotter, but your hand shakes so badly the page rattles in the hush of the room. Tightening your grip on the pen, you make your eyes follow the first line of her calculation.
For the next forty agonizing minutes, Sukuna stays glued to your side, watching every stumble as you slog through the quizzes. You end up checking each answer three or four times, because the numbers blur and slip out of order whenever he shifts in his seat, and he reads over your shoulder without a hint of shame, sometimes tapping a question and announcing that the student deserves fewer points for such a hideous solution.
Ignoring him only encourages him, though. Using the pen he stole to scrawl his own mark in the margin, he drags a heavy line through one answer before you cautiously catch the edge of the paper and pull it slowly out of his reach. He laughs at the dismay written across your face as you stare at the line, your mouth tightening with helpless frustration, but he doesn’t even pretend to move back to the couch, not even as the light outside begins to fade and long shadows stretch across the office floor.
Eventually, the stack of ungraded quizzes shrinks, and your breathing finally steadies enough to finish one whole problem without your pulse spiking, though Sukuna’s presence never really fades. He grows quiet when you start on the first-years’ papers, but somehow the calm presses against your nerves harder than his taunting ever did. Every few minutes, his fingers tap against the wood near your hand, each soft sound reminding you that he has chosen to remain in this chair long after Gojo left.
Some time later, the door slides open without warning. Yuji steps inside with a workbook tucked under one arm and a pencil case in his hand. Shoko has erased every visible trace of yesterday from him; his face is free of bruises, his stride is steady, and nothing about the way he moves hints he was beaten into the ground just the afternoon before.
"Hey!" Yuji calls as he crosses the threshold, his voice breaking through the quiet. "I brought the makeup notes for—"
He stops barely two steps in, eyes locking on Sukuna, who’s planted himself far too close beside you, one arm sprawled across your desk. At the same moment, Sukuna’s gaze lifts from the quiz and lands on Yuji, taking in that he’s not only alive and well but already intruding on his afternoon again.
Yuji just shuts his eyes and tips his head back, letting out a long, exhausted groan. Beside you, Sukuna’s jaw flexes, muscle jumping with irritation.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” they say in perfect unison.
a/n: if anyone's interested and hasn't seen them yet, here's a post with some lamb!sukuna facts, and here's a post about his heian era hobbies!
and a huge thank you to everyone who helped me with choosing that one sentence lmao <3
oh. and i'm sorry for yuji.
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series masterlist
Ray Bradbury’s short story “There Will Come Soft Rains” that was written in 1950 is set on the day of August 4th, 2026 (tomorrow)!! Now’s your chance to read it around the time it’s based in!
Audio: A recording of Leonard Nimoy reading it on Internet Archive.
Advice From a Librarian to Combat the U.S. Literacy Crisis #1:
If you don't read books: Read a book. Read any book. Read a book you loved when you were a kid. Read a book that interests you now. Read an entire collection of poetry or essays and think about why the author or editor arranged those works in that order. Read an erotic novel. Read nonfiction. Read graphic novels or manga. Read a kids' chapter book or a YA novel. Read a book digitally. Read a book on paper. Read an audiobook and really focus on it - if you notice yourself spacing out, scroll back to the last words you remember and try listening again. Read any book. And then when you finish it, celebrate for a minute (get those endorphins going!) and then read another one.
If you read books: Try reading a book that intimidates you. Maybe it's thick. Maybe it uses archaic language. Maybe it's a book that was translated from a language you don't speak into a language you do speak. Maybe it's a genre you don't normally read. Maybe it's the same kind of book as always, but you put your phone away and really focus on reading for 20 to 30 minutes at a time. (I know I've been struggling with this.) What scares you about reading? What challenges have you been avoiding? Try getting out of your comfort zone just a tiny bit, celebrate for a minute, and then try again.
you're not supposed to wander around appalachia at night bc you'll fall off a sheer drop that you couldn't see coming. this is also a major risk during the day. you really have to watch out for the sheer drops that you don't see coming due to the undergrowth. I suspect 100% of spooky missing persons cases in appalachia have the spooky explanation of "sheer drop disguised by undergrowth"
really cannot overstate how many utterly invisible ravines we got here and also how big the woods are. they can't find people because the woods? are big
- You're the one for me, Mr. Hakuji. Will you... be my husband?
- Yes. I'm going to become stronger than anyone else and protect you for the rest of my life.
- Mr. Hakuji, thank you. That's enough. That's enough now. It's all right.
- I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry I couldn't protect you! I'm sorry I wasn't there when it counted the most! I couldn't keep a single promise I made! Forgive me! I'm begging you, please forgive me! Forgive me!
- I'm so glad that you remembered us. I'm so glad that you're back to being the Mr. Hakuji that I know!
probably a controversial opinion but I think screenshotting someone else’s fic and posting it elsewhere because it’s “obviously ai” is also harmful to the writing community you’re trying to protect. because
every single time I see these posts, there are always writers who say “this looks like how I write” and “what if my works sound like ai”. it’s discouraging to genuine writers to see a screenshot of a fic that is “obviously ai” and then wonder if their own human-made works “look like ai” too. it’s discouraging to genuine writers to have to live in constant fear and worry if someone will screenshot their human-made fics and put them on blast for being “obviously ai” too.
no matter how “obviously ai” a fic looks, unless the author says they use ai, you can never know for absolute certainty that it’s ai. you assume. based on vibes. and there’s always a chance of you wrongly accusing a genuine, innocent writer and encouraging people to harass them. “real humans don’t write like this” do you know literally every single human being to say for absolute certainty that none of them write like the machine that was trained on millions of human-made works to look and sound like humans? “most people can tell” no, no one can tell unless authors disclose their use of ai. most people guess. based on vibes. every ai telltale is something humans actually write, otherwise ai would never have been able to mimic it in the first place. short sentence stacking? some people prefer it as a stylistic choice. “not x, not y, but z” type of sentence? people have been using this for ages, way before gen ai became a thing. I’ve been using it in my writing for almost a decade, way before gen ai became a thing. em dash? you mean proper grammar? not to mention how often people who are autistic and people whose native language isn’t english are wrongly accused of using ai in their fics because “real humans don’t like write that” — it’s super offensive and harmful.
even if someone says they use ai, the right thing to do is to not read their fics and leave them alone if it bothers you. I don’t like ai fics. I don’t agree with people who let ai write for them. but I will always condemn harassment. no matter what. also not to mention, if you harass someone for being honest about using ai and tagging their fics as such, chances are that they will stop tagging their future ai-generated fics as ai, meaning no one can know for sure if the fics are ai, meaning it’s impossible for anyone to filter them out. if you want to be able to effectively avoid ai fics by filtering them out, you’ll have to make sure people who use ai are comfortable enough to be honest about it.
I also want to say that no one “writes like ai”. it’s the other way around. ai writes like human, because that’s what it was trained to do. saying a human-made fic “reads like ai” is saying a work looks like its copycat.
last but not least, harassment, accusations, speculations and witch hunt harm the writing community as much as ai does. if not more.
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