things they do that make you second-guess your friendship
featuring: gojo satoru, geto suguru, kento nanami, ryomen sukuna, toji fushiguro.
you’re used to gojo’s touch.
the way he drapes himself over your shoulders like a human scarf, pulling you into his side without a second thought. the way his hand finds the small of your back when he guides you through a crowd, his palm pressing firm against you, like he’s staking a silent claim. you’ve grown accustomed to the way he plays with your fingers absentmindedly—twisting your rings, tracing circles over your knuckles—while he rambles about something completely unrelated.
it’s always been like this.
that’s what you tell yourself, at least. that it doesn’t mean anything. that he’s like this with everyone.
but lately, it’s been getting harder to believe that.
because his touches have started to linger. his fingers don’t just graze your wrist anymore—they rest there, warm and grounding, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate strokes against your pulse. when he reaches for something above your head, he doesn’t just stretch over you; he presses his chest against your back, close enough that you feel the heat of him seep into your skin.
and then there’s the way he looks at you.
you’re both sprawled out on his couch, half-watching some random movie he insisted was a classic (it’s not), when you feel it—his fingers, absentmindedly tracing shapes on your wrist.
you try not to react, try to focus on the screen, but your breath catches anyway. if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. he just keeps going, slow and lazy, the pads of his fingers skating along your skin like he’s mapping out something only he can see.
your pulse jumps when his fingers move up—tracing the inside of your forearm now, featherlight. it’s not accidental. you know it. he knows it.
you sneak a glance at him, expecting that usual smug grin, but he’s still staring at the screen. too casual. too relaxed. he’s testing you.
like he’s waiting for you to do something about it.
you should move your arm. you should pull away. you should call him out.
because the way he’s touching you now—it’s not friendly. it’s not casual. it’s not something he does with anyone else.
GETO - never correcting people when they assume you’re his partner.
you don’t think anything of it at first.
you and geto move through the grocery store like you always do—bickering over which brand of cereal is better, tossing random snacks into the cart, laughing when he makes fun of your terrible attempts at balancing fruit on top of an already overflowing pile of groceries.
it’s easy. it’s comfortable. it’s just you and him.
and then you get to checkout.
the cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, watches as geto effortlessly lifts the heavy bags before you can even reach for them. he does it without thinking, just like how he had taken the cart from you earlier, just like how he always opens doors for you, just like how his hand had rested on the small of your back when guiding you through the aisles.
“you two make such a lovely couple.”
your brain short-circuits for a split second, mouth already opening to correct her, but then—then you hear nothing from geto.
not a single word of clarification. not even a chuckle or a shake of his head.
instead, he just hums, tilting his head slightly as if considering the statement. he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t laugh it off. just lets the words sit there, completely unbothered.
your head snaps toward him, eyes wide.
he meets your gaze, entirely too calm, a slow smirk forming at the corner of his lips. and then—because he’s absolutely insufferable—he leans in slightly, voice smooth as silk.
“you hear that?” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “we’re a lovely couple.”
you want to strangle him.
your reaction must be obvious because the cashier just beams, clearly convinced she was right. “oh, young love is so sweet. you take good care of them, dear.”
geto chuckles, and before you can protest, he effortlessly places a hand on the back of your head, ruffling your hair like you’re some flustered little thing.
“always,” he says smoothly.
you don’t remember the rest of the transaction. you’re too busy contemplating whether it’s legal to strangle someone with a grocery bag.
as you’re walking out, geto leans in again, voice dripping with amusement.
“you could’ve corrected them,” he muses, lips dangerously close to your ear. “but you didn’t.”
your stomach flips. you hate that he’s right.
NANAMI - always taking care of you.
you don’t plan on staying this late.
but time slips away between deadlines and last-minute emails, and before you know it, the office is nearly empty, the sky outside painted in deep shades of navy. you sigh, rubbing your temples, already dreading the long commute home.
by the time you step out onto the quiet street, the city lights glowing around you, your phone buzzes.
you don’t have to check to know who it is.
you: just leaving work. why?
the message is barely delivered before another one comes in.
nanami: stay there. i’ll be there in five.
you frown at your screen. he was nearby?
true to his word, exactly five minutes later, a familiar figure approaches.
nanami, dressed in his usual crisp attire, looking entirely too put together for this hour. he doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at you, scanning you over like he’s checking for any signs of exhaustion.
“you should have left earlier,” he says, voice even, but you catch the slight furrow of his brow.
you roll your eyes. “yeah, well, i got caught up.”
“hm.” he exhales, the sound bordering on exasperation, before tilting his head toward the direction of your apartment. “let’s go.”
you huff a laugh. “nanami, it’s fine. i can handle walking alone.”
he gives you a flat look, as if the idea is so ridiculous it doesn’t even warrant a response. Instead of arguing, he simply starts walking, fully expecting you to follow.
it’s not the first time he’s done this. You know it won’t be the last.
he doesn’t hover, doesn’t lecture you about staying late. but his presence is solid beside you, steady and unwavering. his hands stay in his pockets, but you know—if anything were to happen, if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way—he’d be on them in a second.
as you near your building, you sneak a glance at him. “you didn’t have to do this, you know.”
nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’re the one giving him a headache. “i know.”
he stops walking. turns to face you, studying you for a long moment.
then, with a sigh—like he’s so tired of explaining the obvious—he simply mutters:
“because you don’t take care of yourself.”
and that’s that. no room for debate. no further explanation.
your heart stumbles in your chest.
because he doesn’t say i worry about you. he doesn’t say i do it because I care.
the truth lingers in the quiet, in the way he watches you, in the way he makes sure you’re safe—every single time.
and when you step inside your building, looking back one last time, you catch him still standing there. waiting.
SUKUNA - being unreasonably jealous.
it starts off as nothing.
a passing comment here, an unimpressed scoff there. sukuna has always been blunt, always had a sharp tongue and an even sharper glare. but lately, you start to notice a pattern—one that becomes impossible to ignore.
it happens again tonight.
you’re out with friends, the atmosphere light and easy, laughter filling the air. you’re mid-conversation with some guy—a friend of a friend, nothing special—when you feel it.
it’s not loud or obvious, but it’s there. a weight lingering at your back, pressing into your skin before you even turn around.
sukuna is already watching.
seated across the table, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his gaze locked onto you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. bored. blank. irritated.
you try to ignore it. you keep talking, keep laughing at whatever the guy is saying, but it doesn’t matter. because every time you sneak a glance in sukuna’s direction, his eyes are still on you.
you swallow, trying to shake the weird tension creeping up your spine. but then the guy leans in slightly—just slightly—and that’s all it takes.
there’s a sharp scrape of a chair against the floor.
and then sukuna is there, standing beside you, a hand dropping heavily onto your shoulder.
“alright,” he drawls, voice slow, lazy, but carrying something unmistakably sharp. “this conversation looks thrilling.”
the guy stiffens. you do, too.
you glance up at sukuna, narrowing your eyes. “what are you doing?”
“listening.” his fingers tap idly against your shoulder, his weight sinking into the space beside you like he belongs there. “should i join? or is this, what—special?”
your brows furrow. “are you serious?”
he tilts his head slightly, feigning confusion, but you know that look. the glint in his eyes, the smirk barely tugging at his lips—he’s enjoying this.
the guy across from you clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “uh—i was just—”
“no, no,” sukuna interrupts smoothly, finally dragging his gaze away from you to look at him. “you were just what?”
the guy hesitates, then shakes his head. “never mind.”
and just like that, he stands, mumbling something about needing another drink before walking away.
you whip around to face sukuna fully, shoving his arm off your shoulder. “what the hell is wrong with you?”
he doesn’t move, doesn’t even pretend to be remorseful. if anything, he looks amused. “relax,” he hums. “didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
you scoff. “oh? and how exactly was he looking at me?”
sukuna shrugs, completely nonchalant. “like he could have you.” his head tilts, eyes flickering over your face. “and he can’t.”
you open your mouth, then close it. because what do you even say to that? what does he even mean by that?
he smirks at your silence, reaching out to flick your forehead lightly before leaning in—just close enough that your breath catches.
“relax, brat,” he murmurs, voice deep, low, too much. “i’m just looking out for you.”
you should shove him away. roll your eyes. call him out for acting like an overprotective asshole.
but instead, you just sit there, pulse unsteady, second-guessing everything you thought you knew about this friendship.
because you know sukuna. and you know damn well—
this wasn’t just him looking out for you.
TOJI - flirting with you consistently.
it starts small. barely noticeable at first.
a lazy smirk here, a lingering touch there.
you don’t even think much of it in the beginning. it’s just toji being toji, right? he flirts with everyone—cashiers, waitresses, random people in passing. it’s just how he is.
except… it’s different with you.
because when he leans in close, voice dropping lower just for you to hear— “that color looks real good on ya, sweetheart. what, tryna drive me crazy?”—his eyes don’t leave your face. because when his fingers skim the small of your back, guiding you through a crowd, they stay there a second too long to be casual. because when he throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth, he’s comfortable like he belongs there—like he’s claiming that space.
and then there are the compliments.
not just the casual you look nice or that suits you. no, never that simple.
“bet guys lose their damn minds over you.” he says it so offhandedly, like it’s just a fact—just something everyone knows.
you scoff, rolling your eyes. “yeah, sure.”
“i mean it,” he murmurs, and you hate the way your stomach flips when his gaze settles on you, something dark and unreadable in his eyes. “if i were them, i wouldn’t let you outta my sight.”
you tell yourself you’re imagining it—that he’s just messing with you. that’s what he does.
but then it keeps happening.
every single time, without fail.
you’re just trying to grab something from a high shelf? suddenly, he’s behind you, reaching over your head, his chest nearly brushing against your back. he doesn’t have to get that close. he knows it. you know it. but he does it anyway, voice low in your ear as he hands you whatever you needed.
“next time, just ask me, yeah? don’t gotta strain that pretty little neck of yours.”
you push him away, muttering something under your breath, and he just laughs, all smug amusement.
he’s always touching you, like he can’t help himself. a hand grazing the back of your neck when he adjusts your hoodie. his palm resting against your thigh when he leans in to say something. he doesn’t cling to you, doesn’t make a big show of it—but it’s there. subtle. constant. a quiet, unspoken thing.
and then—then, there are the moments that really get to you.
like when you’re out with friends, sitting side by side, and his fingers find the hem of your sleeve. absentmindedly playing with the fabric, rolling it between his fingertips. he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it, just listening to the conversation, relaxed and completely at ease. like touching you is second nature to him.
or when you’re waiting in line for something, standing close, and he leans in just slightly, dropping his voice low.
“keep looking at me like that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips for half a second. “gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’ from me.”
and the worst part? the absolute worst part?
he sees it. every damn time.
sees the way your pulse flutters at your throat. sees the way your fingers twitch, like you don’t know what to do with them. sees the way you avoid his gaze, pretending like your entire body isn’t reacting to him.
and every time, without fail—he just smirks.
like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. like he’s enjoying it. like he’s waiting—patient, unhurried—for you to break first.
you think he knows you will.
