Man-eater in Male-Dominated Fields with Vaginismus
Summary: In a world full of men who think “foreplay” means breathing on you & hoping for the best, you’re just trying to pick the least catastrophic option. Unfortunately, both your options come with sharp teeth, bigger egos & even bigger problems. You’re not scared. Not really.
Warnings: Soft!Kuna, Frat!Jo, Dark humor, Manipulation, Infidelity (non-sexual, & yes—it stops), Mentions of Vaginismus & its emotional/physical impact, MDNI, Smut (mildly explicit, but not Gratuitous), Minor Violence, Sukuna with his usual BPD.
A/N: I don’t know what possessed me to write this. Probably procrastinating on third-wheeling's ending like the professional clown I am.
Header & dividers are my own.
You sat with your legs crossed, pencil heels bigger than most dicks, swinging lazily, phone glowing dim between your hands.
The bar smelled like bleach and bodies—not the kind of clean that reassured you, but the kind that said somebody mopped up vomit ten minutes ago and thought it counted.
Around you, men. Always men. Loud, slouching, one hand in their pockets like it made them seem mysterious instead of constipated. You’d watched them all night; they watched you too, though less cleverly.
One already tried to buy you a drink. He leaned in too close. His cologne smelled like rubbing alcohol and sugar. When you ignored him, his hand hovered over your thigh just long enough for you to consider snapping his fingers backwards.
He got the hint.
So now you sat alone. Gin sweating in your glass. Lipstick half-worn. Every man you looked at here looked like a cautionary tale in athletic-fit jeans.
It had been two years.
Not because you were a virgin—god no—but because the kind of men you let in once tended to stay long after you threw them out. And lately your body had been screaming at you about it. Heat pooled in your spine every time you leaned back in your chair. The occasional muscle memory of hands that never bothered to learn the map of you.
And you wanted it anyway.
You wanted it so badly it was annoying.
But you couldn’t even stand the thought of letting some two-pump stranger inside you, fingers rough and clueless, teeth on the wrong places, groaning into your hair like they’d split the atom.
You scrolled down to his name first.
Gojo Satoru
Your thumb hesitated over the message box.
You’d been seeing him casually for… a while. He liked to joke about how you “kept coming back” like it was some magic trick, as though you weren’t also seeing someone else behind his back.
Which he would deserve to know if you cared enough to explain yourself. Which you didn’t.
He sent you a message first, actually.
Satoru: miss me yet? 😉
You could practically hear it in his voice, that cocky edge—but softer now. Not quite as loud as he used to be with the other girls.
You didn’t answer yet. Instead, you scrolled lower.
Ryomen Sukuna
A different kind of danger. He didn’t even pretend to be nice about it. He spoke to you like he already owned you, and it irritated you enough to keep entertaining him.
He sent you something too.
Sukuna: Where the fuck are you tonight. Don’t make me come find you.
Always like that. Possessive, like he could sense when your attention strayed.
You set the phone down for a second and surveyed the bar again. Two guys by the pool table glanced away when you met their eyes. You could already picture what they’d say if you took them home—you’re so tight, baby, you’re so—
You weren’t doing it because cheating thrilled you.
You were doing it because some drunk college girls crying in a bathroom had asked you to chew them up, spit them out, then feed that mess to the ones who’d hurt them—so it’d feel like they still had the last word.
Gojo was notorious for saying whatever you needed to hear until he got what he wanted, then never looking back. And Sukuna—well, he was Sukuna.
The girls weren’t even your friends.
You’d just drunkenly agreed, because female tears had always meant more to you than a man’s life.
The girls had all graduated now. No calls, no texts. You didn’t mind.
They’d told you to do whatever it took. Sleeping with him had been the least of it.
You took a sip. Let it burn.
When you picked up the phone again, you decided to ask them both what you really needed to know.
Not outright, of course. You liked to watch men squirm.
To Gojo, you typed:
You: Tell me, do you actually know what you’re doing? Or do you just talk a big game because everyone assumes you’re good?
The little typing dots appeared immediately.
Satoru: …excuse me???
Satoru: You doubt me??
Satoru: Babe. I’m offended.
Satoru: You know how many women have cried for me?
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.
You: I asked if you know what you’re doing. Not if you make women cry.
He sent a selfie of himself looking mock-hurt, fingers over his heart. Then:
Satoru: Come over and let me prove it then. …Unless you’re scared I’ll ruin you for everyone else. 😏
Typical.
You flipped to Sukuna.
You: Do you actually care about a woman’s pleasure, or are you just… fast and loud and think that counts?
You watched the dots come and go. Then:
Sukuna: the fuck kind of question is that
Sukuna: you think I’m some frat boy?
Sukuna: I don’t even take my pants off unless I know you’ll be begging me by the end of it.
You smirked at that one despite yourself.
At least he wasn’t pretending to be humble.
You: So what does begging mean to you?
Sukuna: you. on your knees. clawing at me. not even pretending you want it to stop.
You set the phone face down on the bar.
They were both horrible in their own ways—beautiful, dangerous, capable of wrecking your life if you let them.
Which you probably would.
Neither knew about the other.
And neither knew about Ino, who’d caught your eye in quiet moments between classes. Awkward, dorky, and inexplicably charming in a way that didn’t smell like bleach or entitlement.
He sat two tables down now. Glasses slipping down his nose while he scrolled through something on his phone, embarrassed when Nanami barked at him from the doorway. Toji walked by and flicked his ear.
Ino just mumbled something and adjusted his collar.
You watched him longer than you meant to.
Then picked up your phone again.
Satoru: still typing…
Sukuna: where the fuck are you. answer me.
You slid your fingers over the glass, half-distracted by the shape of Ino’s hands around his drink, the way he held himself like he was already bracing for impact.
And when the bartender came by, you handed her your empty glass.
“Another?” she asked.
You smiled, slow. “No,” you said. “I think I just made up my mind.”
Your legs were going numb against the stool, but you didn’t move yet.
Not until you were sure.
The gin had long since gone warm in your glass, and the texts from Gojo and Sukuna were still sitting there, glowing like two separate little threats.
Satoru: Just say when and where. Promise I’ll make you forget every other guy you’ve met. 😏
Sukuna: if you’re fucking someone else i’ll break his neck. now pick up the fucking phone.
You scrolled up through their old messages absently, studying their words like they were evidence exhibits. They kind of were.
You weren’t sentimental about this. You didn’t want someone who’d light candles and whisper about “making love.”
You just didn’t want your own body to betray you again.
Two years without sex had made the vaginismus worse. You knew it.
Every time you even tried to use your own fingers, you could feel it—that snap-shut, burning lock that even the most tender partner would mistake for disinterest or rejection.
And tenderness wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind with either of these men.
So now you had to figure out whose dick would hurt less.
Or, more precisely, which one actually knew how to use it.
You picked up your phone again and typed.
To Gojo:
You: I’m serious. How big are you actually. Because if it’s just ‘looks big in sweatpants’ big, then I’m not impressed.
He answered faster than humanly possible.
Satoru: LMFAO
Satoru: You’re adorable.
Satoru: I’m not some “sweatpants big” guy. I’m ruin-your-life big. I’ve had women cry after bc they couldn’t walk the next day.
Satoru: But you? you’d handle it. I’d make sure of it.
You snorted. Of course.
That didn’t tell you anything.
Men who brag like that were usually five inches and counting the base.
So you moved to Sukuna.
You: If it’s just all attitude and no follow-through, you can stop pretending now. Better be honest.
A beat.
Sukuna: I don’t pretend.
Sukuna: big enough to split you in half if I wanted. but I know how to make it good for you.
Sukuna: I don’t rush. I make sure you remember me for weeks.
Marginally more promising.
Still unprovable.
You locked your phone and finally uncrossed your legs, standing up just as someone bumped into you—a clumsy boy with messy brown hair and glasses slipping down his nose. He was holding a stack of books and muttered something like “sorry” without meeting your eyes before scurrying to a booth at the back.
You didn’t have to look twice to recognize him. Ino.
Poor bastard.
Nanami and Toji had been making sport of him since the semester started—you’d seen it more than once. Nanami with that quiet, surgical disdain, and Toji with open, brutish mockery, smirking when Ino fumbled his notes or tripped over himself.
Theirs was an odd friendship. Nanami and Toji, polar opposites when you saw them together, but somehow laughed at the same jokes.
Even now, you could see them at the other end of the bar, watching him from their table like wolves scenting a rabbit. Nanami adjusted his hoodie’s collar and muttered something to Toji, who laughed low in his throat.
Ino dropped a pen trying to sit down, and Toji made a little show of clapping for him. Ino just straightened his shoulders and ignored them, which—you had to respect—showed more dignity than you’d have expected.
You glanced back at your phone. Still nothing useful.
You needed… data. You needed something more concrete than ego and metaphors about splitting you in half.
So you texted Gojo again.
You: Do you know what a clit is, or is it just a rumor you’ve heard about.
Satoru: …
Satoru: You’re hilarious
Satoru: Babe, I could find it in the dark with both hands tied behind my back.
Satoru: And I wouldn’t stop until you’re shaking.
Satoru: You think I got this reputation by accident?
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
To Sukuna:
You: How’s your… technique. Do you think two fingers jackhammering counts as foreplay, or do you actually know what you’re doing.
Sukuna: hah
Sukuna: I know what I’m doing.
Sukuna: I take my time. mouth, hands, everything. I know exactly how to tear you apart & put you back together.
Sukuna: but if you’re scared, say so.
Both of them sounded exactly like every man you’d already dismissed tonight.
But at least they were clean. Probably.
When you finally left the bar, you still hadn’t made up your mind.
---
It was almost annoying how many people noticed you when you walked onto campus.
Eyes followed you through the courtyard. Whispers followed too—not the cruel kind, but the awed kind. You’d been here long enough to recognize it.
More women than men noticed you, actually. Which you preferred.
Gojo was already leaning against the wall outside the astrophysics building, sunglasses on, grinning like he’d been waiting for you all morning.
“Hey, stranger,” he called out, loud enough that half the crowd looked up. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad at me for last night.”
You didn’t break stride. Didn’t even look at him.
“Ah,” he murmured, theatrically clutching his heart as you passed. “Playing hard to get. Love that.”
From the corner of your eye you could see his friends—Suguru among them—watching, amused.
Gojo flashed them a look as if to say, See? Mine.
Then you heard another voice. “Don’t fucking ignore me.”
You turned your head just slightly to see Sukuna standing at the other end of the courtyard near the MBA building, arms crossed, tattooed fingers tapping against his bicep.
He was watching Gojo with a look that could kill a small god.
“Tell him to fuck off already,” Sukuna said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
Instead, you kept walking.
Gojo called after you, “Don’t worry—she’ll come crawling back. They always do.”
Sukuna’s laugh followed you too. Dark and low. “Sure. Until she figures out you’ve got nothing to offer but talk.”
The crowd was eating it up.
But you? You just kept walking—toward the library, where Ino sat at a table in the corner with his laptop, headphones in, blissfully unaware of the spectacle outside.
Even now, Toji and Nanami loitered nearby, pretending to look at a notice board while muttering under their breath and occasionally glancing toward Ino.
You slipped into the chair opposite him, setting your bag down deliberately.
He looked up, startled. “Uh… hi?”
“Hi.” You leaned your chin on your hand and watched his ears go pink. Not with romantic shyness—with the quiet, resentful kind of embarrassment someone gets when they’re used to being laughed at.
Nanami’s voice drifted over from the notice board. “Ino, you forgot how to talk again?”
Toji chuckled low. “Leave him. He can’t help being useless.”
You didn’t bother looking at them.
Instead, you stared at Ino like you were considering something—which you were.
Ino cleared his throat and tried to focus on his screen.
Behind you, Sukuna’s voice cut through the murmur of the library.
“Get your ass over here,” he called.
A beat later:
“Or better yet—get over here and apologize for ignoring me.”
You didn’t move.
Then Gojo’s voice, almost overlapping, “There you are. I was starting to think you didn’t love me anymore.”
Both of them stood on opposite sides of the library now, staring each other down across the tables and pretending they weren’t drawing an audience.
Suguru had appeared behind Gojo at some point, smirking faintly, and Toji was openly enjoying himself now, leaning against the doorframe.
You glanced up at them briefly.
“Do I know you?” you asked flatly.
Gojo froze mid-step. Sukuna’s head tilted dangerously to the side.
Someone at a nearby table snickered.
You smoothed your sleeve and opened a book, pretending they weren’t even there.
That was the worst part for them, you knew.
Not the silence.
Not the rejection.
But the sheer audacity of a woman—the woman everyone else wanted on their arm, not to love but to gain status through showing her off—acting like they were nothing but classmates.
It made them both seethe.
You didn’t even hide your little smile when you saw their fists clench at their sides, as if the idea of you walking past them without a word was more humiliating than if you’d slapped them.
And across from you, Ino finally risked a glance up at you—his expression confused but not hopeful.
He wasn’t stupid.
He knew what this was: not kindness, just curiosity.
Which was more than most men you’d met could say.
You kept reading.
Let them stew.
You’d just started enjoying the quiet—their wounded pride hanging in the air like humidity—when the chair beside Ino scraped back.
You didn’t look up right away, but the movement was impossible to ignore.
A tall figure sat down next to Ino, dropped his messenger bag without ceremony, and leaned over his shoulder to mutter something in his ear.
Ino stiffened slightly, then relaxed again.
And then—kiss.
Right there, in front of you and everyone else pretending not to watch, Choso leaned in and pressed his mouth against the hinge of Ino’s jaw. Not a shy kiss, not obscene either—just intimate enough to make the back of your teeth ache.
Your head came up then, slow.
Choso didn’t even look at you at first. He was busy glaring at Nanami and Toji where they stood, still trying to look like they owned the room.
Nanami met his gaze for about three seconds before glancing away, jaw tight. Toji didn’t bother hiding his grin, but even he seemed slightly less smug under the weight of it.
You—meanwhile—sat perfectly still, fingers curled around the corner of your page.
Of course.
Of course the one man on campus who you thought might be worth unraveling turned out to already be spoken for.
And by Sukuna’s brother, no less.
You didn’t let it show on your face.
Choso finally glanced at you across the desk. His eyes stayed on yours, polite, but his mouth barely moved when he finally spoke—quiet enough that only you could hear him.
“…Choso. Nice to meet you,” he murmured.
The corner of your mouth tugged. “Likewise,” you replied, tone perfectly polite.
And the worst part—the worst part—was that you couldn’t even hate him. Not even internally.
Because that was what it looked like, you thought. What you’d never had and never wanted but envied all the same—someone who could touch you in public and mean it without making it about himself.
You forced yourself to look back down at your book, even though you could feel both Gojo and Sukuna watching you from opposite ends of the room, simmering.
You didn’t acknowledge either of them.
---
It was later that afternoon when Gojo found you alone in the empty hallway outside your seminar room.
You didn’t bother looking up when he leaned against the wall next to you, still wearing those obnoxious sunglasses even indoors.
“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.
You blinked at him.
“For… what?” you asked coolly.
He scratched the back of his neck. “Y’know. Being… that guy.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to narrow it down.”
He grinned faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “…For assuming you’d just keep orbiting me. Even though I’ve been a dick.”
You watched him for a beat. Then finally shrugged. “You’re forgiven.”
His relief was instant. He draped an arm lazily over your shoulder like nothing had happened and started babbling about dinner plans before you even finished gathering your things.
By the time he walked you out of the building, he was already back to talking about how much you’d “missed” him and how you “looked like you needed it bad.”
You ignored him and unlocked your car.
---
You found Sukuna waiting outside your apartment building that night, leaning on the hood of his car like he owned the place.
You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed.
He didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then finally:
“…I fucked up.”
Your eyebrow ticked up.
“I’m not good at—whatever the fuck this is,” he continued, staring somewhere over your shoulder. “But. I don’t wanna make you feel like I own you. I just… don’t like seeing other assholes think they can touch you.”
You stared at him evenly.
“That’s sweet,” you said dryly, after a beat too long. Just enough to make him uncomfortable.
He snorted. “Don’t push it.”
But he didn’t touch you. Just opened your door for you when you moved past him.
You forgave him, too.
And unlike Gojo, he didn’t immediately bring up sex afterward. He actually asked about your assignments. Let you vent about some professor who kept calling you miss instead of doctor. Even offered to break the guy’s kneecaps if you wanted.
It was unsettling how that almost made you like him.
---
You hadn’t planned on sleeping with either of them.
But Sukuna caught you off guard.
You’d let him walk you up to your apartment one night. He didn’t even try to come in at first—just leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, muttering that your building “smelled like a home full of mint and bad decisions.”
You didn’t remember who kissed whom first—just his hands. Bracing on either side of your face, hot and steady, his thumbs dragging over your cheekbones like he was trying to memorize you. His mouth was rough, not rushed—bruising yours deliberately, tilting your chin where he wanted it—but he never pushed past what you gave him.
And before you realized what you were doing, you’d already tugged him inside by his shirt.
He followed you without a word, lips skimming the side of your neck, fingers already working at the zipper of your dress.
But when he pressed you back against the wall, you froze.
Not from fear—just muscle memory, bitter and familiar, your body locking up the way it always did when it remembered how bad it could hurt.
He caught it instantly.
His mouth stilled against your shoulder.
His eyes flicked up to yours—sharp, assessing—and then he stepped back a full foot, hands raised slightly.
“You good?” he murmured.
You nodded too fast.
He narrowed his eyes faintly, watching you for another second. Then said, low and rough, “Take your time.”
That—more than anything—made you feel like your lungs worked again.
When he finally guided you toward the bed, he didn’t crowd you. He just stripped your t-shirt and shorts down lazily, leaning back on his elbows, watching you sit there with your hands in your lap like you were waiting for a verdict.
“You scared?” he asked, voice quieter now.
You hesitated. “…Not scared. Just—”
“—tight,” he finished for you, flat and certain. “Doesn’t go in easy. Hurts if they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.”
Your head snapped up at that.
He gave you the faintest smirk—not unkind. “Figured it out the first time you locked up under my hands.”
Your face burned.
But instead of mocking you, he just leaned closer and murmured, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
And for the first time—you wanted to believe someone. Him.
He didn’t touch himself first. Didn’t rush.
He settled between your thighs fully clothed, his palms bracing your hips as he leaned over to press slow, open-mouthed kisses into your ribs, your sternum, the hollow of your throat—until your shoulders softened under him and you stopped flinching.
When he finally let his hand trail lower, he didn’t try to slip inside. Not yet.
He just brushed you deliberately with his knuckles, circling slow, coaxing your hips into moving on their own.
He muttered something against your collarbone—soft, like, “that’s it… just let me have it”—while his thumb dragged in lazy circles over your clit, his other hand still cradling the back of your neck.
You felt yourself unclench. Not all at once, but enough.
“Better?” he murmured, not even looking away.
You nodded, shaky.
“Yeah,” you managed.
Only then did he ease one finger inside—careful, shallow—pausing every time your breath hitched, waiting for the muscles to stop fighting him. He didn’t shove, didn’t even fully penetrate at first; just gently stretched you, curling slightly at an angle that burned but didn’t tear.
“Still good?” he asked again, quiet.
“…Yeah,” you whispered.
He added another finger, slow—still patient—feeling you tighten reflexively and then deliberately stroking along the inside wall, gently coaxing it to release.
By the time he finally slid his fingers out and kissed you again, you’d stopped thinking about how this could go wrong and focused on the way his tongue flicked against your nipples.
When he lined himself up and pressed forward, you gasped—because he was big, more than you’d expected even knowing his arrogance, and the initial stretch made your eyes sting—but he didn’t force himself the whole way in.
He stayed still halfway, lowering his forehead to yours, breath warm against your cheek.
“Tell me when,” he muttered.
You nodded against him.
It took longer than you wanted to admit—the hot sting of your body learning how to take him, his hands gripping your hips steady but not moving yet—until finally you exhaled, and he sank in deeper.
He groaned against your ear—low, sharp, but restrained.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured—but it didn’t sound like a complaint or a bad thing like the others said it.
Once he had you there, he stayed still again for a moment, letting you adjust, letting the ache settle into something sharper but bearable. Maybe even pleasurable. His mouth brushed along your jaw, murmuring things you couldn’t even parse—"You’re fine; look at me, just like that.”
When he finally began to move—careful at first—your body didn’t clamp down the way it usually did.
And when you came apart under him, it wasn’t because he hurt you or rushed you or made you feel small—it was because he’d taken his time, because he stayed, because he actually knew.
After, he didn’t roll away. He didn’t gloat.
He stayed half-propped on his elbow, tracing his knuckles along your jaw.
“You were always fine,” he murmured. “Just needed someone who knew what the fuck he was doing.”
You swallowed, staring at the ceiling.
Because he was right.
And because for once—for once—you came and didn’t feel like erasing the memory of a man inside you.
---
You didn’t see Gojo again until three days later, when you ran into Suguru and the others on campus.
He was unusually quiet—leaning against a railing, staring off into the middle distance while Suguru rambled about something inconsequential.
You would have walked right past him if Suguru hadn’t stopped you.
“You two good?” he asked, glancing between you and Gojo.
Gojo straightened slightly and forced a grin. “Yeah,” he said easily. “She’s just shy.”
You shot him a flat look.
Then—almost as an afterthought—he added, “You still coming to meet my parents this weekend?”
You stopped cold. “What?”
Gojo blinked. “…I said—you’re still coming to meet my parents this weekend, right?”
Suguru stared at him like he’d grown two heads.
You stared at him like he’d grown three.
“…You’ve never even mentioned you had parents before,” you said slowly.
Gojo just shrugged. “Well. You’re special.”
And just like that—it clicked.
The endless cocky jokes, the endless women on campus falling at his feet, the casual way he wore everyone’s attention like it was his birthright. None of them knew anything real about him.
Not even you.
That night, lying awake in your own bed, you couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it had been to hate him—and how much worse it felt now that you couldn’t.
Man-eater status: intact.
But you still texted Sukuna again the next week anyway.
Because at least he never pretended.
---
You didn’t plan to intervene.
You never did.
But when you stepped out of the library that afternoon and saw Ino cornered—again—it felt different.
Toji had him by the collar, slammed against the wall, grinning—bored cruelty made flesh. Nearby, Nanami stood with his arms folded, radiating the quiet threat of a man methodically filing paperwork... and fully prepared to weaponize the stapler.
Ino didn’t even try to struggle anymore. His knuckles were white where he gripped his books; his jaw was tight, but he wouldn’t meet either of their eyes.
You’d been watching this exact scene play out for weeks. Maybe months.
But something in you finally snapped.
Your heel struck the floor harder than you meant as you crossed the courtyard. “—That’s enough,” you said evenly.
Nanami’s head barely turned. Toji raised an eyebrow.
“And here comes the princess,” Toji drawled.
You stopped just short of them, arms loose at your sides, eyes on Ino. “Let him go.”
Nanami’s mouth quirked humorlessly. “Not your business.”
“It is now,” you replied.
Toji snorted. “What’s this, you finally scraping the bottom of the barrel?”
“Let. Him. Go.”
Toji stared at you, his hand still gripping Ino’s collar, his eyes narrowing just slightly—and then, suddenly, another voice cut through the air.
It wasn’t calm.
It wasn’t even words at first—just a guttural noise that made everyone freeze.
You didn’t even see him coming until he shoved Toji so hard the man staggered backward, slamming into the wall.
The entire courtyard went silent.
“You two think you’re big men, huh?” Gojo hissed, pulling his sunglasses down, eyes blazing. “Picking on someone who’s got more fucking guts than both of you combined—”
Nanami barely had time to turn before Gojo’s fist connected with his jaw.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t the cool, untouchable Gojo everyone expected—it was messy and furious, years of pent-up hurt boiling over.
Toji recovered first, swinging hard at Gojo’s ribs. The sound of it made your stomach turn.
Gojo didn’t even flinch.
You caught yourself stepping forward—stupid, dangerous—but before you could interfere again, someone else did.
Choso.
He appeared at the edge of the fray like a shadow and moved fast—grabbing Toji by the collar and yanking him back, slamming him to the ground. His hand was already red, blood gathering at his knuckles as he delivered another blow.
For a second, it was chaos—fists and curses and heavy, wet sounds of impact.
Then Nanami finally shoved Gojo off and backed away, wiping blood from his mouth.
Toji followed, laughing low, already retreating.
“You’re both insane,” Nanami muttered, straightening.
Gojo didn’t answer. He was breathing hard, with blood at the corner of his lip and one sleeve torn.
Choso hovered just behind him, still glaring after Toji and Nanami, his fingers curled protectively around Ino’s arm.
You watched them—all of them—in silence.
---
Later, you found Gojo sitting on the steps outside the engineering nerds dorms, head bowed, knuckles split.
You didn’t speak at first.
And when you finally sat down beside him, he didn’t look up.
“…You didn’t have to,” you murmured.
His laugh was low and humorless.
“Couldn’t help it,” he admitted.
You studied him—his profile still sharp even in defeat, his fingers twitching against his knee like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
He turned finally, eyes a little too bright.
“I thought—” he started. Then stopped.
You swallowed.
“Gojo,” you spoke gently.
He flinched at the sound of his name.
“I don’t think this is…” You searched for the word. “Enough. For me.”
He stared at you like he didn’t understand.
“I want to see other people,” you said finally.
The words hung in the air, cruel and clean.
His jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.
Just nodded once, slow, and let you stand up without another word.
When you glanced back over your shoulder, he was still sitting there, staring at the ground.
---
You didn’t mean to end up at Sukuna’s door.
But by the time you climbed his stairs and knocked, your legs were already shaking.
He answered shirtless, soft spiky pink hair mussed, a faint scowl softening when he saw your face.
“Took you long enough,” he muttered, stepping aside to let you in.
You dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes without ceremony.
The apartment was warmer than you expected—cluttered but clean, a faint smell of dark rose and soap.
You hovered in the doorway for a beat before he tilted his head toward the couch.
“You gonna stand there all night?”
You settled on the edge of the couch, suddenly heavy.
He watched you for a long moment, then crouched in front of you, hands on your knees.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for me to hurt you.”
You swallowed.
“I’m not,” you whispered.
His fingers squeezed gently—enough to ground you, not enough to bruise.
“You wanna stay here tonight?” he asked finally.
You nodded.
“Alright,” he murmured.
It wasn’t like you expected.
He didn’t press or push or even touch you much after that.
You curled on his bed fully clothed, cheek against his pillow, his scent already working its way into your lungs.
He lay on his back beside you, one arm flung over his face, breathing steady.
You stared at the ceiling.
You’d told yourself this was just about power.
About control.
About proving you could take and take and never give too much of yourself.
But lying there—the fight still echoing in your chest, Gojo’s silence still heavy in your ribs—you felt something else creep in.
You didn’t name it.
Didn’t dare.
Sukuna’s hand brushed against yours under the covers, rough and warm.
You didn’t pull away.
---
The next morning, you walked back across campus with Sukuna at your side.
Heads turned. Whispers rose.
Nanami stood near the library steps, arms crossed, eyes following you both.
Toji whistled low when you passed, a faint bruise still blooming at his jaw.
And at the far end of the quad, Gojo leaned against a railing, watching you—no sunglasses this time, eyes bare and strange and quiet.
You didn’t slow.
Didn’t stop.
Because you already knew what they’d say.
And because you already knew what you’d say back.
Man-eater status: Undefeated.
Even if, just this once, you let yourself rest your head on someone’s shoulder and pretend it didn’t matter.
A/N: I blacked out halfway through writing & woke up holding a glass of wine whispering “househusband Ryomen” to myself.
🗳️ Poll: Who should’ve been smited harder?
🔥 Toji
🔥 Nanami
🔥 Gojo (for his parents reveal)
🔥 Me (for writing this)
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