Fratkuna x MeanGirl!Reader x Fratjo ! dirty little secrets | m.list
Fanart by su2kuna on X | Smut (?) | ⚠️: Mentions of anal | 1.2k
“Hey, baby.” Sukuna hums as he wraps his large arms around you.
You stiffen and huff out a sound resembling a whine. “Sukuna! Not in public!”
“It’s just you and your friends, doll. They know me, they know about us.” He whispers in your ear, warm breath hitting your skin like a vice you can’t escape.
You turn around and push him away. “There is no us.”
He lets go and scoffs. “Right, right. ‘Cause your prissy little self is too good for someone like me. Got it.”
You cross your arms and give him a derisive look. But he knew you wanted him, even if it seemed delusional to even think so. “Call me when you get the stick out of your ass, ‘kay?” He smirked and your friends snickered.
“You’re all walking home today.” You snarled at their betrayal.
Sukuna didn’t look defeated as he walked away—more so ecstatic. Did talking to you get him that excited? What a fucking loser.
—
“She does not like you, bro.” Satoru, who saw everything that went down, said as his friend approached him.
“Not in front of her friends, no. She’s incredibly vain.”
“So what are you guys? Fuck buddies?”
“Kind of. She likes to keep me around, and I like being around.” Sukuna answers with a soft smile growing on his usual scowled lips.
Satoru didn’t miss the opportunity to tease him. “Dude, you’re fucking whipped. You’re holding yourself out for a girl who wouldn’t care if you dropped dead.”
“Count your days, boy.” Sukuna spoke gruffly as he stared daggers at the slightly shorter male. You’d care, right…?
—
That night, you did just as you were told. Each number you pressed on the dial pad let out the familiar sound that corresponds to Sukuna’s number. His phone rang with a ringtone that was uniquely set for you. Maybe Satoru wasn’t far from the truth—Ryomen Sukuna was whipped.
“Come over.” You demanded.
“Not in the mood.” He lied.
“‘Kay, I’ll ask someone else then.” You hung up immediately.
You knew that meathead was fuming right about now. He was probably already grabbing his jacket and marching out of the frat house to head to your dorm.
Not even 10 minutes later, you heard a knock—more like a bang.
“It’s Sukuna.” He announced. “Let me in.”
You opened the door with the sweetest smile on your face as if you didn’t just antagonize the hell out of him. “G’evening, ‘Kuna.” You greet with feigned innocence.
“What’re you doing here? I said I’ll ask someone else.”
He rolled his eyes and gently pushed past you to enter your abode. “Yeah, like who?”
“Like Toji or Satoru.” You shrug. “Whoever wants to cater to my needs the most.”
He looked at you like you just let out the most unreasonable combination of words ever spoken, which you kind of did.
“Toji’s busy, and Satoru’s probably fist-fucking himself to the thought of you.” Sukuna scoffed.
“Exactly! Since I’m so nice, I should make ‘Toru’s dream come true, no?” You giggled as you closed the door.
“No.” Sukuna spoke blankly.
You walk over to him, playing with his collar as you looked at his neck. “What kind of friend are you, ‘Kuna? Don’t you want your frat brother to be happy?” You teased.
Soon, his hands claimed their stake on your body, pawing at the plush skin, keeping you steady. You kissed him first—slow, deliberate.
You had him right where you wanted him.
Small moans escaped your lips as Sukuna began caressing your ass. “Seems like ya finally got the stick out, baby. Good job!” He patronized.
“Maybe next time we should shove dick up there, no? Or are you too scared?”
“I’ll shove a dick up your ass.” You bit back.
“Okay, okay, not into ass fucking. Got it! Noted, princess.” He chuckles.
His head dipped to your neck, renewing the healing bruises. Before him, your skin was untouched—unmarked.
“Mnhf…” you whimper as he reached a sensitive spot. He gently shushed you, knowing how thin the walls are.
“Sorry, baby doll.” One of his hands went over your mouth while the other was sprawled on your back, keeping you in place.
You bit the side of his palm, trying to tay quiet as he sucked harder.
Knock, knock, knock !
The two of you froze. Sukuna looked through the peephole and saw the familiar snowy tufts atop a tall slim loser—Satoru fucking Gojo.
He glared at you. At this point he was contemplating whether or not to make Satoru a cuck, but he went against his better judgment and opened the door. He may be an asshole, but he was still a consent king!
“Hey, angel!” Satoru pulled you into a warm embrace, flexing his muscles as he pretended Sukuna wasn’t in the room.
“‘Toru!” You nuzzle yourself into him.
“What fresh hell is this?” Sukuna mumbled.
“Oh, Ryo’, didn’t notice you there!” Satoru spoke, lying through his perfect teeth.
“Why the hell are you here, Satoru?” Sukuna asked like he was interrogating him.
“Because the princess messaged me to come over, duh!” Satoru held your face in his hands, babying you to his heart’s content.
You smiled sweetly, which annoyed the hell out of Sukuna. You never smiled at him like that. You never smiled at anyone like that.
Sukuna pinched your nose and made you face him instead of Satoru. “So what? Are we all just part of your growing harem? Is that what this is?”
“Yeah, exactly! Good job, ‘Kuna! You deserve a kiss!” You answer condescendingly, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
Satoru pouts at your actions. “What about me, angel?”
You gave him a kiss as Sukuna crossed his arms, accentuating the tattoos on his large arms.
“Should’ve made Satoru a fuckin’ cuckold.” Sukuna grumbled.
You put your hands on his arms, pushing them away from his body. “C’mon, ‘Kuna… shouldn’t you learn how to share?”
“No way.”
“Then why are you still in my dorm, hm?”
“Because I know I can outlast this insufferable traitorous little shit.” Sukuna grabbed Satoru by the collar, trying to prove his point.
Satoru had his hands on Sukuna’s wrists, staring him down with the same angry expression.
“Not my fault she wants soft and not rough.” Satoru smirks.
You cross your arms. “Who said I only wanted one?”
“This is my harem, not yours.”
You push them away from each other, and you push Satoru down on the couch. You climb onto his lap and spread your legs above his crotch.
This time, it was your grabbing his collar, which he didn’t even try to stop. He already had that fucked out look on his face, excited for what you’d do next.
You lean down and kiss his lips while circling your ass over his already growing hard on.
Sukuna approaches the two of you with a scowl. “Don’t make me the cuck.” He says as he tilts your face up with his fingers then crashing his lips onto yours as you continued to roll your hips on Satoru.
Satoru’s hands slither under your shirt, pawing at your uncovered breasts. From this alone, you were sure that you were in for a long night.
A yandere heian-era Six Eyes holder Sugawara x SIkuna
The six eyes highkey embrace the confinement route while sikuna lowkey terrified and highkey hide from them
The only thing saving sikuna from capture is the fact that their powers are equals, with the sugawara only trying to capture pick sikuna up from his solo adventure while sikuna trying his hardest to run with minimal collateral from their surrounding
And now, when he wakes up from his rest forced resurrection and face to face with the abomination sugawara again, is it any wonder that his first reaction is to bolt far away from the creepy guy?
(Where Gojo Satoru is more than his ancestor but still an exact copy in all the ways that matters; and sikuna having the No Good Very Bad Horrible Time in this modern era as he's having Trauma Flashback every time the six eyes glance at Yuji(him) and running on fumes and adrenaline)
(Kenjaku can't decide whether to feel crossed or admire the audacity of that crazy sugawara to hijack his incarnation plan just to chase after sikuna. Seeing how the former holder of the six eyes distracted sikuna enough to let kenjaku finish the final phase of his plan though... Well, it's not like his participation is unwelcome.)
Satoru, the next sorcerer to be born with the six eyes and limitless has been born — in the absence of a better word — cursed. He is to be kept from the public eye due to his peculiar appearance, even though he is, to this day, the strongest man alive.
Fortunately, when a particular festival arrives and the elders busy themselves with other subjects, he has the chance to explore the world that has been kept from him for so long.
art by @m-stew
I hope you all enjoy it; I revamped it. 🎐
The first thing they do when he is born is scream.
It is not the sound a baby expects to meet.
No soft laughter, no wonder.
No mirth.
The midwife drops him and his mother catches him with trembling arms, fingers slick with blood.
For a moment there is only his crying and the frantic whisper of robes as elders rush in, as if the house itself has been cursed.
His mother shushes him and pulls him close, turning her body so their eyes can’t reach his.
It is too late.
Everyone in the room has seen.
Three rows of eyes.
One pair where they should be, the other two stacked neatly beneath, climbing down the pale slope of his cheeks.
Six irises, all a clear, dangerous blue.
When they crack open for the first time, the elders stagger back as though the newborn has swung a sword.
“A blessing.” one of them says finally, voice shaking. “The Six Eyes.”
He spends his childhood behind painted screens and tinted glass. The estate is wide, but his world is small — the same garden view from different angles, the same corridors memorised by the touch of his fingers on the walls when he walks blindfolded.
They teach him early how to wrap bandages and cloth over his face.
To keep three rows of eyes closed.
To watch the world with cursed energy instead, because his eyes “upset people” when they move in different directions at once, when they see too much.
“You’re the strongest man alive.” the elders tell him when he’s of age.
They also tell the servants not to let him near the windows during visits
Not to let him be seen.
A hidden strongest, locked up like a secret shame.
He starts hearing the summer festival long before he ever sees it.
Drums drifting over the outer walls, the distant pop of fireworks, the faint smell of grilled sauce carried on the wind. Every year he presses his forehead to the paper screen and imagines colours he’s never actually watched with his own eyes, only ever sensed as bursts of energy against the night.
This year, the drums are too close, the music too bright, the house too empty.
Most of the elders are away at some emergency council in the main compound, the remaining watchers are tired, sloppy with their vigilance.
The barrier at the outer wall hums like a thin thread instead of a rope, stretched as the clan’s attention leans elsewhere.
Satoru stands alone in his room and realises that for the first time in his life, there is no one between him and the rest of the world except paper doors and his own fear.
The thought terrifies him.
The thought thrills him.
He dresses himself with hands that shake a little, not from power training this time, but from nerves.
A dark indigo yukata printed with pale lanterns, the one his mother had bought and then never let him wear.
A soft white obi.
Gloves that tug up over his wrists. And finally, the hat.
It’s an old woven kasa they’ve modified for him, as if they knew one day he’d try this anyway.
A thin curtain of black gauze is stitched to the brim, falling all the way to his chest in a light veil.
From the outside, he will be just a tall shape, face a blur.
Inside, with all six eyes closed, he can still see everything through cursed energy.
The world glows in lines and currents, people like burning lanterns, buildings like slow stone rivers.
He slips through the estate with Infinity brushing gently over the floors, turning creaks into silence, their wards into suggestions.
Past the sleeping guards, past the gate that has always been locked for him.
When he steps onto the street, the world rushes in.
Noise hits first.
Vendors shouting their wares, children shrieking with laughter, the raw, overlapping murmur of hundreds of strangers.
Then smells — sugar, soy sauce, charcoal smoke, sweat, spilled beer, perfume, warm pressed cotton. The air is thick and humid, his yukata clinging under his arms, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Lanterns line the street, hung on poles and stalls, warm orange light brushing against him. Paper streamers flutter. A goldfish scoots in a plastic bag near his elbow, the leakage of its tiny life brushes the edges of his perception and makes him smile.
It’s so wonderful, colorful, alive.
Overwhelmingly so.
He doesn’t know what to do first.
So he walks.
He moves carefully, trying to imitate the way he’s seen people walk when he spies them through cracks in the gate. Not too fast, not too slow, arms loose at his sides.
His height helps, people part around him on instinct, muttering apologies when they brush the curtain of his veil.
“Sorry,” he says back, every time, even when it isn’t his fault.
His voice sounds strange to his own ears out here, less like something trapped in a room, more like a thing that can hang in the air.
“Satoru Gojo is to remain within the estate.” the elders would say.
He hears their voices in his head, and for once, he walks anyway.
He pauses near a stall selling candied apples, the red glaze catching the light.
Three children stare at him, whispering to each other.
“Why’s he dressed like that?”
“Maybe he’s famous.”
“Maybe he’s ugly,” one of them laughs.
Satoru’s mouth pulls down under the veil.
His fingers twitch at his side.
Of course even here—
He’s jostled from behind.
Someone stumbles into him hard enough that he rocks forward, Infinity catching them both before they really collide.
The touch sparks instinct — his cursed technique snaps up, space tightening for a split second.
“Whoa, easy,” a low voice says right at his shoulder, lazy and amused, like nothing in the world worries him. “Sorry, sorry. Crowd’s a nightmare near the yakitori stand.”
The hand on his arm is warm and large. It shouldn’t be there — no one touches him without layers of rules and explanations — but the Infinity between them keeps actual contact from happening, so he doesn’t yank away.
“I’m fine,” Satoru says, a little too quickly. His voice comes out deep but unsure, shaped by years of talking mostly to people who expect answers, not conversation. “It’s… crowded. That’s all.”
The man steps back a pace.
Satoru feels the shift in the energy, the heat of him settling just to his left.
“That it is,” the stranger agrees. “And yet here you are, dressed like a bride at a ghost wedding.”
Satoru stares at him through the gauze and his closed eyes, six awarenesses focusing down on one person.
The man is tall, nearly as tall as Satoru himself, broad across the shoulders. His yukata is a deep red that looks almost black in the lantern light, left open careless at the chest.
Ink sprawls over his skin, black lines framing the sharp cut of his jaw, winding down his throat and over his collarbones.
His hair is cropped short and rough, a dull pinkish colour that should look silly but doesn’t at all.
It just makes the bright red of his eyes stand out.
Crimson irises, deep and mesmerizing, looking straight at him.
Not through him, not past him.
At him.
Satoru forgets to answer.
The stranger smirks, like he’s used to this reaction and finds it entertaining.
“Cat got your tongue under there?”
“I…” Satoru swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “No. I have my tongue.”
“Good start.”
The man shifts his weight, hands sliding into the wide sleeves of his yukata.
He tilts his head, studying Satoru’s veiled face.
“You local?” he asks. “Or did you come down from the mountains just to haunt the festival?”
“Do I look like a ghost?” Satoru blurts, then immediately hears how defensive that sounds.
The stranger chuckles.
It’s a low sound, rumbling out of his chest, and for some reason it sends a little shiver down Satoru’s spine.
“A very polite ghost, maybe,” he jeers. “What’s with the veil, anyway? Broken nose? Terrible haircut?”
“It’s to keep bugs out,” Satoru lies. It’s the first excuse that comes to mind and he clings to it. “Mosquitos.”
The man’s eyebrows lift.
“Mosquitos,” he repeats, flat.
“Yes,” Satoru insists, suddenly stubborn. “They like me.”
The smirk widens, showing a hint of sharp canine.
“I bet they do.”
Silence drops between them. It isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s new
Satoru realises he has no idea what people do at this point in a conversation.
He stands there, hands useless at his sides, the festival roaring around them.
The stranger taps one knuckle lightly against the brim of the kasa.
“First time out?” he asks, too soft and certain to be a real question.
Satoru hesitates. He could lie. That’s what the clan has taught him — never let anyone know more than you have to.
But he is already out. Already breaking every rule that held his life together.
“Yes,” he says. “First time.”
The man huffs, almost pleased, like he’s won a small game.
“Thought so. You move like someone who’s only ever walked hallways.”
Satoru’s cheeks heat under the veil.
“That obvious?”
“To someone watching, yeah.” The man tips his head toward the line of stalls. “You eaten yet, hallway boy?”
“I— no.” The foods smells have been twisting around his head since he stepped outside, but he was too overwhelmed to approach any of the stalls alone, too aware of how wrong he must look.
“Then you’re in luck.” The crimson gaze flickers down his veiled form and back up again. “I was just thinking I needed a way to keep myself entertained before the fireworks. Tag along.”
Satoru blinks.
“With you?”
“Unless you see another handsome stranger standing behind me.”
“I don’t.” Satoru says honestly.
The man barks another laugh.
“Then yeah. With me.”
He doesn’t wait for more permission than that — he turns and starts walking through the crowd, expecting Satoru to follow.
For a few steps, Satoru just stands there, stunned.
Then his feet move on their own, drawn along by curiosity and something else that feels a little like gravity.
They slip into the flow of the street.
People swirl past, noisy and alive, the man moves through them like he’s lived in crowds his whole life, a lazy predator who knows no one will bump him unless he allows it.
He keeps talking, as if it would be strange not to.
“Name?” he asks, glancing back once.
Satoru’s clan name sticks like a stone in his throat.
“Satoru.”
The man rolls it around in his mouth, tasting it.
“Satoru, huh. I’m Sukuna.”
Something tightens in Satoru’s chest at the name.
He’s heard it before, in old reports, in muttered conversations when elders thought he was asleep.
A dangerous sorcerer.
A problem.
A man the clans would rather avoid than fight.
He looks at the broad back in front of him, at the relaxed shoulders, the red eyes that had softened when they thought he might be a ghost, and the old stories don’t quite match.
Sukuna buys him things.
He does it without asking, tossing coins at vendors and shoving skewers and sweets into Satoru’s gloved hands.
“Try this,” he says, watching, when Satoru bites into a still-hot yakitori skewer and almost yelps. “Careful. Not invincible against heat, are you?”
Satoru chews, six eyes fluttering briefly under the veil as the flavour hits. It’s so salty and rich and real compared to the careful food of the Gojo kitchen that he almost sways.
“It’s good,” he murmurs.
“Of course it’s good. This stand’s been here since I was a brat. Here. Takoyaki next. Don’t choke.”
He eats dango, the sauce sticky on his tongue. He drinks cold ramune, the marble clinking at the top of the bottle when he tilts it back.
Sukuna looms beside him the whole time, making quiet comments about the people around them, pointing out ridiculous yukata patterns, counting how many goldfish kids spill on the road.
Satoru laughs sometimes before he can stop himself, short surprised bursts. Each time, Sukuna’s eyes flick to him, quick and sharp, like he’s collecting the sound.
They end up near the shrine at the edge of the festival grounds when the hour grows late.
The main crush of stalls thins out there, the crowd more scattered.
Stone steps climb up toward a torii gate half-swallowed by darkness.
Fireworks are due to start any minute.
“C’mon,” Sukuna says, jerking his chin toward the steps. “Best view from up there.”
Satoru follows him up, breath a little uneven from more than just the climb.
The stone is cool under his geta and the lantern light falls away behind them, replaced by starlight and the faint glow of the town below.
They find a spot on the steps, not quite at the top.
There’s space between them at first — after a while, as more people trickle up and sit down, that space shrinks until Sukuna’s shoulder brushes his.
The contact hums against the thin layer of Infinity he keeps out of habit, strange and electric.
He should pull away, probably.
Make room? That’s what people normally do, right?
But his body leans almost imperceptibly toward the warmth instead.
“Not going to take that thing off?” Sukuna asks after a stretch of comfortable quiet, flicking a finger against the brim of the hat.
Satoru’s hands tighten in his lap.
“No.”
“No?” Sukuna echoes. “Even just the hat? It’s hot as shit.”
“I’m fine.”
Sukuna hums.
“You’re certainly something.” He tips his head back, looking up at the dark sky. “You know, Satoru, most people come to festivals to be seen.”
“I’m not most people,” Satoru says before he can help himself.
The corner of Sukuna’s mouth twitches.
“That, I don’t doubt.”
A firework goes up, the whistle cutting through the night.
It blooms above them in a burst of gold, casting momentary daylight across the steps.
More follow, red and green and white, cracking the air with sound.
Satoru lifts his face anyway, veil or no veil — for the first time in his life, he actually sees the shapes, the colours, each flicker reflected in the fine threads of the gauze. All six eyes are still closed, but his perception stretches up, tracing the lines of cursed energy that spiral with each explosion.
“Pretty, huh?” Sukuna says softly.
“Yes,” Satoru murmurs. “More than I thought.”
“Mm. You sound like you’re reading a report.”
“I am not,” Satoru protests, offended.
“Then act like you’re having fun.” Sukuna’s shoulder bumps his again, deliberately this time.
Satoru breathes out and lets the next laugh come easier.
Their hands rest between them on the step, so close their little fingers almost touch.
During one particularly loud volley of fireworks, someone behind them jolts forward, and Sukuna instinctively shifts, his hand sliding over Satoru’s to steady him.
The touch catches on Infinity for a heartbeat, then Satoru, without thinking, lets the technique ease.
Skin meets gloved skin.
His entire body goes tight.
Sukuna doesn’t snatch his hand away, he just lets it lie there, heavy and solid and warm.
Then, slowly, he turns his palm, fingers brushing against Satoru’s.
Satoru’s heart stutters.
He looks down, even though he doesn’t need to see, and watches their hands inch toward each other.
It feels like one of those training exercises where he has to thread a needle with his cursed technique — tiny movements, high stakes.
Their fingers tangle.
Satoru’s glove rasping against Sukuna’s calloused skin.
Sukuna squeezes once, firm but not demanding.
“See?” he says quietly, as another firework bursts overhead. “Not so scary.”
Satoru’s throat works.
“You don’t even know what I look like.”
“I know enough.”
Enough.
Satoru doesn’t know what that means here, on a stone step under a burning sky, his hand engulfed in someone else’s.
The elders’ warnings crowd in at the edges of his mind.
If anyone saw.
If anyone knew.
“Why are you being nice to me?” The question slips out small, almost childish.
Sukuna’s head turns.
Satoru can feel the weight of his gaze on the side of his face, on the veil.
“Because you looked like you needed someone,” Sukuna says simply. “Because your voice is interesting. Because I was curious.” The fingers around Satoru’s squeeze again, gentler. “And because I wanted to.”
Satoru makes a tiny, helpless sound.
He’s never been told it could be that simple.
Nothing in his entire life was simple.
The fireworks continue, each bang echoing in his chest.
He thinks maybe his heart is going to wear itself out against his ribs.
He doesn’t notice Sukuna’s hand leaving his until the warmth shifts. Sukuna lifts his other arm, slow enough that Satoru feels it coming, a careful movement like he’s approaching a skittish animal.
When fingertips touch the side of his face through the veil, Satoru goes rigid, breath locking in his lungs.
He doesn’t pull back.
Sukuna’s fingers trace along his cheekbone, down toward his jaw.
Through the thin fabric, he can feel the shape of him, the slight hollows where extra lids lie closed, the faint raised seams left by old stitches the clan had once used to “manage” the eyes that frightened them so much.
Sukuna pauses when he finds the line of a closed eyelid where no normal human would have one.
His thumb lingers there, pressing very lightly, feeling the softness under the scar.
“Huh,” he murmurs.
Not disgusted. Not recoiling. Curious.
Satoru’s thoughts are a rising roar.
The elders’ voices snarl in his head — They will call you a monster. They will scream. They will try to kill you before you curse them.
His grip on Sukuna’s hand tightens until his knuckles ache.
“Don’t,” he whispers, finally, the word torn out of him. “Please.”
He’s not sure what his plea is about.
Sukuna’s hand stills.
For a moment Satoru thinks he’s going to withdraw, leave the veil where it is, let him keep pretending.
Instead, Sukuna’s fingers slide up, brush the edge of the gauze.
“Satoru,” he says quietly, the name soft in his mouth. “Look at me.”
The fireworks flare again, painting the world in flashes of red and blue.
Sukuna lifts the veil.
The night air hits Satoru’s face like ice cold water.
He squeezes all six eyes shut on instinct, lashes damp.
Part of him expects the crowd to gasp, for people to scramble back.
No one is close enough or paying enough attention to have seen yet — the roar of the fireworks covers everything.
“Hey,” Sukuna says, and there’s something new in his voice now, something that isn’t mockery at all. “Easy. I’m right here.”
Satoru forces one pair of eyes open.
Then the next.
Then the last.
All six meet Sukuna’s.
The world sharpens. Colours burn. Now the world is not shapes, frames, lines, the almost — the similar.
He sees everything as it is.
Every line of Sukuna’s face is perfect in painful detail — ink, scars, faint freckles across his nose, the shift of his pupils as he takes Satoru in.
Six pupils meet four.
Four crimson pupils, two side by side on the right eye, and the same configuration on the left one.
True polycoria.
He finds Sukuna’s eyes artistically beautiful, and yet he fails to see the beauty within his own self.
Satoru knows what he must look like.
Pale skin, too much of it taken up by shining blue.
Two eyes where they should be, the other four marching down his cheeks in eerie symmetry.
Tear-slicked lashes, lower lids already going pink from the strain.
He waits for the flinch, the recoil, the disgust.
Sukuna’s expression doesn’t twist. It doesn’t even harden. His red eyes widen a fraction, then soften at the edges, lids lowering a little as if he’s really seeing something he likes.
“Satoru,” he says again, almost on a breath. “You are— fuck.”
His other hand lifts, joining the first.
He cups Satoru’s face carefully, palms broad and warm, thumbs resting just beneath the lowest pair of eyes.
The touch is grounding, steady, so warm Satoru feels like he could melt.
“You’re beautiful.” Sukuna tells him, clear as if he’s stating a fact. “Wickedly so. Hauntingly.”
The words hit harder than any praise Satoru has ever received.
Strongest. Weapon. Asset.
Those have all been thrown at him like weights, like chains.
Beautiful lands like something else entirely, something fragile that has to be held.
A small, choked sound catches in his throat. He doesn’t know if it’s a laugh or a sob.
His six eyes tremble, the top pair going glassy, tears threatening again for an entirely different reason.
The corner of Sukuna’s mouth lifts, soft and sure as he leans in while the sky cracks open above them in another spray of colour.
“Relax.” he murmurs, close enough that Satoru can feel the words against his lips. “Let me?”
Satoru doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t.
He just doesn’t move away.
Their first kiss is not perfect, yet it is nothing less than it.
Satoru tilts his head wrong at first, bumping noses. Sukuna huffs a tiny laugh into his mouth and corrects the angle with a gentle tug of his hands. Then it’s just warmth and the press of lips, the faint taste of ramune and soy sauce and something sharp underneath that must be Sukuna himself.
Satoru’s hands finally move, almost of their own accord. One clutches at Sukuna’s sleeve, feeling the muscle underneath. The other tightens around their joined fingers, holding on.
Above them, fireworks bloom and fade.
The crowd cheers somewhere distant.
The elders’ voices are far away, drowned out by the rush of blood in Satoru’s ears and the quiet sound of Sukuna breathing against his mouth.
When they part, just a little, Satoru keeps his eyes open.
Sukuna’s face fills his vision, reflected six times over.
His four red irises hold tiny shards of light from the fireworks, like he’s caught bits of the sky there.
“Better than watching from hallways?” Sukuna asks, voice low.
Satoru swallows hard and nods, because if he tries to speak he isn’t sure what will come out.
Sukuna’s thumbs stroke once more under his lowest eyes before he lets the veil fall back into place, carefully, like he’s covering something precious rather than hiding something shameful.
“Good.” he says. “Then stay with me a little longer.”
For the first time, Satoru thinks that maybe he can.
You have your will in your palm
So plant your dreams and wishes now
You must grow strong
No room for wilting flowers
Will you stay or will you go
The choice is yours it's yes or no
Voices whisper in your ear
'There's nothing in this world to fear'
So, will you stay or will you go
The choice is your it's yes or no
Voices whisper in you ear
'There's nothing to fear'
Rise and take flight, darling
Let's soar high
For the first time in forever you're alive
Don't you forget that
Rise and take flight, darling
It's your time
There's no room for wilting flowers here
Smile and wipe away your tears
Cruel and wicked life
How it hurts you deep inside
Cold and vicious life
How you wish to make it right
Eden's waiting for you beyond it all
You have your will in your palm
So plant your dreams and wishes now
You must grow strong
No room for wilting flowers
Rise and take flight, darling
Let's soar high
For the first time in forever you're alive
Don't you forget that
Rise and take flight, darlingIt's your time
There's no room for wilting flowers here
Smile and wipe away your tears
Will you stand and fight
For the war has just begun
And there's nowhere left to run
Here's your chanceTake it in your hands
Will you stand and fight
For the war has just begun
And there's nowhere left to run
Here's your chance
Take it in your hands
You have grown
You have strived
First time in forever you're alive
The power is in your hand
A floral crown for you, my dear
Smile and wipe away all your tears
Sapphire · Don't Lose Your Way (Kill la Kill) · Song · 2015
