»-♡→ frat!sukuna who decides to tag along with his friend to some stupid english class because he was bored enough
»-♡→ frat!sukuna who man spreads in his seat and unapologetically scrolls through his phone too loudly, earning stares from everyone
»-♡→ frat!sukuna who almost falls asleep within 10 minutes of the lecture, that is, until he spots you
»-♡→ you're sitting a few rows down from and across from him, so he has the perfect view
»-♡→ you're typing as your eyes flicker from your laptop screen to the professor, and ever so often to the novel you have open on your desk
»-♡→ your hair flows behind you, a few prices framing your face
»-♡→ your eyes wide and attentive, lips sometimes getting pulled behind your teeth as you furiously type something
»-♡→ you're clad in a lilac sweater that falls from one of your shoulders
»-♡→ frat! sukuna realizes he's been watching you for 15 minutes, just assessing every little thing you do
»-♡→ frat! sukuna taps his friend's shoulder, "yo, who is that?"
»-♡→ his friend explains she's a health sciences major who just took this class for fun, as a passion. frat! sukuna finds that so absurd, who the fuck takes an english class for fun
»-♡→ frat! sukuna tries getting her instagram from his friend, who declines and says that would be an "invasion of her privacy" or whatever the fuck
»-♡→ frat! sukuna waits for the lecture to end and decides he's going to ask you himself
»-♡→ but when you start walking up the stairs and out of the lecture hall, he can't do anything but stare
»-♡→ stare at the way you adjust your bag on your shoulder, or how you tuck your hair behind your ear, or smile at your friend, and you wave her goodbye, where he notices your soft and manicured nails
»-♡→ and then you laugh at something your other friend says, and sukuna can swear it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard
»-♡→ so he does nothing except stare like a dumbass as you walk by and out of the lecture hall
»-♡→ "good job, idiot, glad you got her Instagram," his friend pats him on his shoulder
»-♡→ frat! sukuna has never been afraid to approach a girl, ever. so why were you the exception?
»-♡→ he was fucked, but God, were you cute
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
masterlist
this is my original work, no ai used. please do not claim as your own. - @maroonskiesfrvr 2026
It's your ten year high school reunion and there's just one person you're don't want to see, your first love - Satoru Gojo. He was the football captain, you were the cheerleader, it was that high school love that consumed you, only for it to all fall apart when Satoru broke your heart. Even after all these years, you still resent him for it, you hate him, in fact - so how do you two end up in the backseat of his sports car!?
˚⊹♡ pairings- ex bf! gojo x reader
˚⊹♡warnings- a little angsty, past emotions, high school sweethearts, you were a cheer captain and he was an allstar player, flashbacks, idiots in love, insecurities, teasing, mutual pining, longing, oral ( f receiving) fingering, squirting, riding him in the backseat, love confessions, happy ending <3
this one just randomly popped into my head out of nowhere, comments/rbs always appreciated if you enjoy! Wc- 7.3k
Art creds right here!
Ten years - it's been ten years since you saw him, your first love, your first kiss, the first everything.
High school reunion and truly the two of you look the same, he's a little buffer, his shoulders are broader, perhaps his jaw has sharpened ever so slightly - but it's undeniably him and you. Satoru Gojo - the top football player in the school and you - the pretty cheerleader who was always with him.
On him, near him, on top of him in the front seat of his sports car, smacking your head and giggling as he fucked up into you, stretching you out on his cock. He'd been sweet that first time, even as you all snuck around and parked in the middle of nowhere, even with the cramped confines.
Yet he'd been there - kissing you deep, messy and slow, pumping you up and down that veiny length as you took more and more from him, kissing you with his tongue ring clicking against your teeth. You'd whined out, desperately arching for more, shattering and fluttering your eyes shut.
The memories heat you up as you stand there across from him, trembling with your thighs pressed together, nails pressing into your palms, seeing him catching up with all his friends. He'd gone to university, but you'd gone out of state, and that was when it had all fallen apart.
The pain is there, lingering, eating at you - yet those feelings linger, the first love, the youth you all had where you couldn't get enough of each other, just for it all to end.
When those eerie blue eyes catch you across the room, however, he's not smirking, not laughing and shoving his friends, no he's got them locked on you now. Suguru and Nanami pause, peering over at you, then at each other, as you turn and rush to grab a drink.
You can't even stand to be in the same room with him after ten years.
You run into Shoko and Utahime, they give you a hug and the three of you throw back a shot, laughing a bit as you catch up with them.
“You two together, hmm?” Your lips twitch up in amusement, they look at each other and then kiss. “Stop that, you’re making me jealous!”
“Have you decided to stop being into men?”
“No I wish,” you pout and lean back, letting Shoko grab you another shot. “It’s been nothing but hell.”
“Another shithead?” Utahime asks, frowning a bit.
“Yeah, but it was three years…” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t talk about it, I’ll cry again, and I am not crying with Gojo at this party.”
“Ah, Gojo,” Utahime makes Shoko laugh. “What, I can’t stand him!”
“He’s not that bad, just an idiot,” she grabs her pack of cigarettes and starts smacking them on her palm, raising a dark brow as you look over at him, turning quickly when he catches you staring.
“You still have it bad, all these years, sweets?”
“No! Shoko!” You cover your face and shake your head. “Never again, I haven’t even spoken to him.”
“In ten years?” Shoko asks, surprise clear on her features.
“No, I’ve not even been in the country for five years, but he never reached out to me, and neither did I, aside from when his parents were sick and it was on the news. I did write to him, but he just… hearted it. I’m sure he had a lot going on.”
And that fucking hurt, that you couldn’t even comfort him, that you knew he faced a fuck ton of responsibilities now. Yet all these years Satoru hearted one of your photos, and reacted to the only message you sent – you swear the heart must have been a misclick, too.
It hurts so bad, that you were too stubborn to reach out in the darkest times, that he wouldn’t leave your memories. Sure – it faded, you went and got your master’s degree, you went abroad, now you’re back home, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d run into him somewhere. Yet, Satoru had been doing a lot of traveling himself this past year.
You’d know, you stalked his IG.
How pathetic after a decade to still want to know about him, but there was nothing to be done – since the breakup you’ve been even more so thinking of him.
Of how nothing ever felt like him touching you, him inside you, him looking at you the way he did. Yet it’s always overshadowed by the fact that you never heard him say those words, just three words that you craved so badly as a young girl. Even now, the words that spill from your lips never feel the same as that confession.
“He takes care of the company now, I think that’s hard for him.”
“He’s still just a dick,” Utahime says to Shoko, she laughs and shakes her head at her. “Sorry, but he is.”
“You two always hated each other,” you muse, peeking again to see him walking over. “Shit!”
“I’m… gonna smoke,” you gasp and Shoko grabs Utahime. “Outside… bye, baby!”
“You brats!” You hiss as they laugh and rush out, you tense as you smell his goddamn cologne the closer he gets.
Bergamot.
It was so distinctly him – even when he had none of it on, his smell on clean skin just did something – especially with raging hormones as a teenager. You clench your thighs just inhaling him, trying to ignore his very presence, but he’s already standing next to you, murmuring your name.
“Gojo.” He raises a brow, he’s just gotten hotter, his jaw is so cut it’s unfair, his blue eyes peeking at you.
Suddenly you’re nervous, tugging at your dress – you’re not eighteen anymore, your tits don’t sit up quite like they did, your hips widened, you’re just… different. And Satoru looks the same, if not more cut.
You become conscious of everything, almost holding your breath as he takes you in, smiling at you. His girl you’d seen him with was a fucking actress, you’re just a small town girl, nothing glamorous. Surely he wanted-
Why do you care what he wants?
Why is he sending you spiraling just coming near you?
“What do you want?” He sighs at that, the cocky grin off his face, easing back when you push at his chest just a bit, hand pausing before you tug it back, staring down into your drink.
“That’s the greeting I get, sweetheart? After a decade?”
“Should just smack you.”
“I’d probably like it,” you snort and roll your eyes, making his tentative little smile come back, sitting next to you. “Can’t I get a hi?”
“Hi,” you narrow your eyes now. “And bye.”
“God you’re mean,” he leans close, lips brushing against your ear, your heart hammers in your chest. “It’s hot on you.”
“You’re so full of it,” you lean back and sip your drink, narrowing your eyes at him. “As if you don’t have a girlfriend or five.”
“Yeah, no,” you raise a brow. “I was engaged, but that was over as of… let’s see,” he calculates in his head. “A month now.”
“Oh,” you frown, looking down at your own finger, the little change of color where the band once was. “Me too, but like two months.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” you shrug a bit, seeing his eyes dart to your finger.
“He fucked my former best friend – and she got pregnant.”
“What!?”
“Yeah,” you throw back the rest of your wine, shaking your head. “Go ahead, laugh at it.”
“Why would I fucking do that?” You look at him and feel your heart pound in your chest at his face, at how he looks at you in that moment.
Fuck you missed him, didn’t you?
“You were mean then,” you whisper, and he falters, looking down, hurt clear on his features. “So mean to me at the end.”
“I know that,” it kills him to think of then, how upset he had been that you weren’t going to his university, the sheer upset of you moving, the fear of how desperately in love he was already.
He never even got to tell you.
His parents were pushing him to marry even back then, and it was anyone but you – a pretty middle class girl wasn’t up to ‘their standard’. It had killed him to try to keep up with that, but even so he never wanted to lose you – though he was scared shitless by what he felt for you, by the sheer obsession he had.
Even ten years ago he was searching for you, pictures of you where you’d moved, trying to keep tabs – fuck, last year he saw you with that fiance and almost got sick from it. His fiance was just someone his parents pushed enough, and with him having to take over their place soon, he’d gone along with it.
It’s not like he could ever love anyone after you.
There was nothing like what he felt, countless women underneath him, on top of him, bent over with their asses arched, but nothing came close to the breathless way he held you, how your lips brushed together. He wondered often if it was because you were his first love, you were so many of his firsts, no he wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t do all the things you two did before you.
Before that it was awkward, fumbling around, he’d usually been so nervous he’d let the girls take the lead, but everything about you made him want to – the way you fell apart when he learned to eat pussy with every flick of his tongue on you. You didn’t know that, of course, he ended up being sort of a prodigy at it rather quickly.
Satoru may have been a jock, but he was also very much a nerd at heart, so he studied it all extensively – porn wasn’t even for jerking his cock, it was to learn how to make you squirt. It was to make his girlfriend feel good.
Satoru was good at making you cum.
Yet he failed in so many other areas of your relationship – royally failed, especially that day you said good bye at the airport, and he was so very fucking hurt by you. It rushes through his head – and is if he is on the same wavelength –you say it softly.
“That day at the airport, I can’t forget that,” you shake your head. “Call me petty, a ten year long grudge holder, I agree.”
“You’re not…” He trails off then, cupping your face in a way he shouldn’t.
How does Satoru remember your scent still? After a decade it’s as vivid as ever, the scent that if he even caught a whiff of it he’d search for you, even now.
That’s what scared him the most – how obsessed he was then.
How hopeless in love he was, and scared of getting hurt – only to hurt you.
*****
Ten years ago
You were trembling, tears streaming down your face – you get it, why Satoru didn’t think long distance could work, some fucking promise to be friends, but staring at him now has you furious. You see him holding back, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re happy I’m going far away,” you whisper, clutching your luggage as he glares.
“I’m not fucking happy, what?”
“You are,” you laugh then, swiping at your cheeks, hating those trails that revealed just how upset you were. “Why’d you take me here? To make the break up more permanent?”
“I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to lose you, it’s on the tip of his dumb ass eighteen your old brain to say it.
– I don’t want to lose you. –
Yet those words never spill – he just cups your face, thumb brushing a tear away, looking into the face of the girl he’s terrified of. He’s scared to feel it all, to lose you to someone, to be put under all that pressure to marry and cause you more pain. Then he didn’t truly know how to handle it.
“Wanted to feel better by saying goodbye?”
“We were friends for years before this,” he desperately cups your face, leaning low as the rush of people walk past you all, headed toward their flight, and the attendant is making her announcements. “I just want what’s best for you, how would us being across the country ever going to be okay?”
“I’d have made it work,” you had shut your eyes, tugged him close by his letterman’s jacket, the one you used to wear all the time after you both went on dates. He’d wrap it all around your shoulders, enveloping you in that scent, the warmth. Now it’s a cruel joke to have it underneath your fingers.
“I’m your first boyfriend, what if you…” He had swallowed down that bile in his throat at the thought. “What if you regret only being with me, what if you wanted more experience?”
“You think that?” You asked, lost in his eyes, unsure how he thinks you’d ever want a boy but him. “No, I-”
‘Boarding flight 111 now, five minutes to board.’
You curse, turning to leave when he slams his lips down on yours, and for just a moment you’re done for, you’re melting in his arms, hands slipping up his chest as he presses you right against one of the pillars, uncaring of who walked by. You meet his kisses, exhaling and letting his tongue slide in, the familiar barbell dancing on the roof of your mouth.
His hands are firm on your waist, pulling back and looking down at you. “I’m doing this for you.”
You glare then, shoving at him. “For me!? Leaving me?”
“You’re the one leaving!”
“No, I’m going to college, you’re the one who won’t try! I can’t believe I let you kiss me again!” you rush off and he grabs your wrist, you jerk back and glare up at him again. “I’m done. Satoru, just let me go – don’t hurt me more.”
“I don’t want you to-”
“You don’t know what you want,” he lets your wrist go, his own eyes glazing over with emotion, pretty even under the harsh lights of the airport. “You don’t get to tell me what I’ll want in the future, you don’t get to decide that for me, and you sure don’t get to tell me that this is ‘for my own good’. It hurts, and you have to deal with that.”
“Please, just,” you can’t. You can’t fall into his arms, how would you let him go? “Just keep talking to me, keep-”
“It’ll kill me,” you stepped forward and tiptoed then, kissing his lips softly, tasting the salt of both your tears. “It’ll kill me to have to talk to you when I can’t have you.”
“Sweetheart-”
“I love you,” he faltered then, you’d not said it because he hadn’t, but there was no stopping it now. “I’ll miss you, Toru.”
You rushed off before he could say anything, tears hot down your cheeks, Satoru had rushed to catch you, but you were…
Gone.
*****
“I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” you pause, leaning back in shock. “Though now you’re probably glad I did.”
“You… you’re… saying sorry?”
“Is it so surprising?” He rubs the back of his neck, you’re in shock clearly. “Guess so, I wasn’t one to admit I was wrong then.”
“Why do you say you shouldn’t have?” He sips his own drink, eyes shutting for a moment. “You feel bad how it happened?”
No, Satoru knows he’ll never feel that way about anyone – and a decade of loneliness has only made him regret that shit more. He could have three babies with you by now, have given you anything you wanted – he stalks your pages, he knows you work constantly, and he loves that. But another part of him wishes you didn’t have to, that you were taken care of.
You’d probably smack him and call him a misogynist for that shit, and he loves that about you.
He still loves that girl from high school, the woman sitting here with her face just a bit more defined, with her tits so soft and pretty looking, hips he bets would feel so good to grab as he bent her over. Thighs that he has to touch, they just look too smooth with whatever shimmery lotion you put on them.
He gives into the urge, fingertips brushing on your skin, eliciting a shaky little breath from your lips, your eyes catching each other. “Yeah, you could say I feel bad about how I did it. I never said…”
He’s not really gonna apologize is he?
“Shh,” you put a finger to his lips, he smirks a bit. “Don’t make me like you, Toru.”
“Toru, fuck, been forever since I heard that,” he grins all dopey and cute, taking your wrist in his hand, long fingers wrapping it. He presses a little kiss to your fingers, a gesture he used to do forever ago, pausing as it feels too natural.
“I don’t want to like you.” He nods a bit, thumb brushing over your knuckles, eyeing the place where that ring was.
“He was an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d know, I’m a big fucking idiot,” you laugh a bit, nodding. “Don’t agree with me!? Brat.”
“Well, you are,” you sigh then, he nips your finger hard with his sharp ass teeth, and Shoko and Utahime walk back in, watching you both.
You have the eyes of your entire graduating class on you both.
Satoru and you, the perfect couple – that perky cheerleader and the star player, voted in the yearbook to be the best couple in fact, most popular, the best looking, you name it. You and Satoru won so many they had to give them to other people – and all for what?
To hate looking at your yearbook?
To look at how happy you were?
“Do you ever wonder…” He eases your hand down now, but he doesn’t let it go. “If it was just the first love, the hormones, the high school puppy love?”
“Puppy love…” You’ve never even heard him say that word – love. Though he means it differently, it gets you. “I guess everyone’s first love is kind of epic.”
“Nah, not really,” he sips on his drink, a little droplet clinging to his lips, one of his thighs brushing against yours and you barely hold back a gasp at the contact. “I haven’t found many people that had… what we did.”
“A toxic ass relationship, nasty breakup?”
“That was some of it,” he admits, heart racing like he’s some inexperienced boy and not a grown man – you just make him feel that way.
“Yes I wonder,” you sigh, admitting it finally. “I wonder if it was hyped up in my head, if the nostalgia and the… pain of you breaking up mess with me more. All the what ifs.”
“I hurt you.” It’s a quiet little statement.
“You hurt me, and I hated you,” he looks down where your hand brushes on his thigh, covering it with his huge one. “You were a dick.”
“I know, I just-” you lean forward and kiss him before you can stop yourself, making him tense up, his hand on the small of your back tugging close as he relaxes into it, exhaling against your lips. You pull back with a little dazed look, lips glossy. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“I was trying to see if that’s what it was,” you whisper softly. “Puppy love.”
“Ah,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again, your earrings fall back, brushing the side of your neck as he tugs you close until your ass is half off that barstool. “We should see, yeah? If it’s just nostalgia.”
“Yeah just for um… closure,” he laughs a bit, and you glare. “Closure and I’m horny and single.”
“I’ll take it,” fuck he’d take any of you. “For true nostalgia we should…”
He’s kissing down the side of your neck, your eyes flutter closed as his mouth leaves a wet trail, his tongue flicking over your racing pulse. You cling so tightly, it’s hard to let go, whining out and arching your hips, thankful there is loud music reverberating all over.
Satoru heard it, though, leaking pre and pulsing from your taste, your scent, the softness of your skin.
Fuck he can’t ever do this and hope to be ‘normal’.
But there was no way he didn’t take one night with you.
“Should what?” You murmur, biting down on your lip when he gently nips behind your ear, your nails cling to his jacket tightly.
“For old times sake, I’d say we go to my car,” you laugh then, shaking your head as he pulls back, kissing your lips again. “Lemme drink your pretty little cunt up again, finger you till you squirt all over my new seats.”
Fuck.
Fuck him, really.
“In your car? Are we in high school?” He looks around and you laugh then, shaking your head. “Fine, but I’m not as flexible, I haven’t tumbled since college.”
“I bet you still are,” he teases. “Used to fold you right in-”
“Now.”
“Now?” You hop down with his help, turning and just walking. “Wait!”
It’s moments and you all are devouring each other, stumbling against the cool brick wall outside as the night air brushes against your skin, you’re shivering as he walks you to his car – by walking, that meant him carrying your ass, cock pressing your needy cunt as your thighs wrap his hips.
The car is nicer than his in high school – a fancy ass Audi – you aren’t one to know anything about cars, but the damn thing looked like it was exactly what Satoru would drive. The expensive leather hits your senses as he slides you in, your mouths are all over each other, needy and desperate.
"Missed this," you almost don’t believe it, that he ever could, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before trailing his mouth down your jaw. "Missed you."
“You don’t…”
“No?” You sigh, shaking your head as Satoru shifts, maneuvering you both until you're lying back across the wide seats, his body covering yours, an even heavier weight than you remembered, pinning you down with his hand on your wrists, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.
It's a tight fit even with how surprisingly big the interior is, the cramped space reminding you of every stolen moment you had in his old car, sneaking before curfew, fuck you two would ditch school and go drive in that car, you’d lay your feet in his lap and just let him drive you around with the tops down. The memory of his smile, of his laugh, of his kisses all come together as he captures your very breath.
This isn't the sweet, messy kissing of teenage versions of you and Satoru – this is pent up need, a decade of frustration poured into a single, desperate kiss, his hands all over you, huge palms taking you over. Satoru’s tongue is delving in and out of the hot recesses of your mouth, tongue gliding right along yours, the click of his tongue ring against your teeth shooting every bit of memory back.
God you remember when he pierced it.
You remember him buying that vibrating tongue ring so he could eat your pussy out – and oh, he did it every time he could, no one has made you feel that way since, no one could figure your body out like him. The nostalgia hits as much as the need, the pleasure, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders over his dress shirt.
“Need more,” you whisper out, pausing then as he looks at you under his lashes. “Just tonight, right?”
He doesn’t say anything – as if he’d take only one night and be fine with that.
"Fuck, I've thought about this so often it’s pathetic," he laughs out without humor, hands slipping up your hips and bunching that little dress up your hips.
“You thought of me?” You ask, and he stares at you then – swollen lips all pretty and glossy in the night, ruining him.
You don’t think he remembers?
You don’t think he regrets it all?
He kisses you softer, nipping a plump lower lip between his sharp teeth, drinking up your little gasp. "Thought about this mouth, this body, the way you used to squirt all over me."
“Satoru…” You shake your head, moaning softly when he tugs your neckline down, hands squishing your pretty tits. “You don’t mean it.”
“No?” You shake your head, eyes rolling back in your skull when his tongue swirls around your nipple ever so slowly, tongue ring flicking that sensitive peak. “You think I forgot you, huh?”
“I know you did, ah!” His fingers find you, sliding your panties aside and swiping up and down in that mess. “Toru…”
“God please,” he’s plunging them inside you, she clamps right down, spasming as he finds that spot he remembers in those tacky walls, watching your face as he presses over and over. “Call me that again.”
“Sh-should call you dickhead,” he laughs breathlessly, curving those fingers again so that your head smacks back, almost hitting the handle in the car door, he kisses your lips as he fucks his fingers into you, the stretch making you ache. “Ngh!”
“Tight as ever, god, how…” he marvels as he plays with your cunt, all pretense gone when he looks down at you, breaking the kiss, breathless from you. “I’ve thought of you an embarrassing amount of times.”
“Don’t say it,” you sniffle just a bit. “I can’t handle it.”
“The truth?”
“I can’t believe you thought of me too…” You trail off, emotional even as you are soaking wet and needy, Satoru keeps kissing down, lower, lower, feeling his breath against your skin makes you jolt. “You didn’t.”
“I did, sweetheart, I missed this so much, the sounds you make… how soaking wet you got,” he’s running his thumb on your clit, gauging your reaction, shoving your thighs even higher. “How pretty you looked when you fell apart f’me.”
“You can’t remember,” he sighs and watches you get closer, getting you so, so close until he knows it’s not enough. He’s shoving you up, damn near folding you in half. “Ah! Toru I can’t bend like that?!”
“No?” he murmurs, big hands gripping your thighs bruisingly, pushing them up and apart, you blink a bit, gasping when he’s licking the trails of slick from your inner thigh, inhaling your cunt and bumping your clit affectionately almost. “God, your scent drives me fucking crazy, why do you have to smell s’good?”
“Do I? I – ah! Satoru, what are you…" He places an open mouthed kiss on your messy, dripping entrance, peeking up at you. “You’re um…”
“I’m starving,” he teases softly, kissing it again, you feel that pleasure shoot up your body until you’re dizzy, weak from it, so exposed to him when he tugs those panties further aside, on one side of those puffy lips. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“No…”
“Yeah, and I’ve seen alot,” you glare and he chuckles, resting his hands on those knees and flicking his tongue to gather the drops of arousal falling down between your slit. “What, ya jealous?”
“No!?” Yes.
“No?”
“No,” he smirks just a bit and then he folds you in half, those broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs, forcing your knees to your chest, your dress hopelessly shoved up.
“See? Still a cheerleader,” you want to laugh but you’re smushed.
“I so am not, ah!” You're completely exposed to him then, utterly vulnerable in a way that makes you nervous.
“Relax,” he says then, softly, peeking up at you and kissing your inner thigh. “If you want me to stop, just tell me. It was enough I got to kiss you again.”
You falter, that boy you fell in love with – the sweet, nerdy one? The jock who was also an entire nerd? Goofy and yet ultimately serious Satoru Gojo, leaning his head against your inner knee, nuzzling you damn near. You’re weak then, as every feeling you’ve shoved down for over a third of your life comes back full force.
“We can go back in, or just look at the stars,” he eases up, and sees how nervous you are. “You’re so beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not in high school now,” you whisper, he eases up your body then, brushing your cheek and shaking his head.
“Neither am I, sweetheart.”
“Yet you look even better-”
“You’re even sexier, even prettier than the first time I saw you,” you kiss him again, lost in his every kiss, his every touch, afraid that he’ll just disappear, clinging to him so tightly you don’t know if you can ever let go. “You are.”
“You haven’t seen me all naked…”
“I wanna,” he grins and you giggle, even as he’s kissing up your cheeks. “I wanna see every part of you.”
God you can’t take it – it feels just like that first date all over again. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he slides your dress up and off you then, breath catching as he takes in your body – you’ve only gotten sexier, it’s so evident when he just looks down at you, folded in half in his damn car and the prettiest thing he’s seen.
You cover yourself a bit then ease your hands off, breasts rising and falling as Satoru looks at you, his gaze heating you up before his fingers can touch. “You’re seeing all of me.”
“I am,” he grips a tit and squishes it in his hand, that familiar barbell flicking an areola, having your back arch in the cramped confines of the car, still humming softly underneath you. “Is it bad if I say I jerked it to your IG?”
“Satoru!” He’s chuckling now, grinning all big as you smack at him. “We were having a touching moment!?”
“Yeah I know,” he’s back down between your thighs, shoving them high and sighing.
“Did you really?” His lips curve up in amusement, watching your slick pussy drip down.
“You love that, huh?”
“No!?”
Yes.
“How often?” He’s laughing now.
“I’m not tellin’ ya, no way.”
“Hmmph,” he’s too gone then, every bit of this moment the very thing he’s searched for.
He could have had it.
He’ll think of that later, the hot regret of letting you go, of being young and dumb and then too fucking stubborn, for now you’re his, underneath him, looking up in that way that you used to – like he was the very stars in the sky. The ones peppering the sky overhead and shining through that little sky light in his car, illuminating your pretty body for his gaze.
“A lot. Happy?” He whispers, you just bite your lip, not answering, letting his lips graze your entrance once more.
“Satoru!” Your eyes roll back in your skull, pleasure shooting as the tip of that tongue swirls your clit lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.
"Look at this pretty little cunt," he breathes out softly, feeling your slick coat his tongue, lapping another filthy stripe achingly slow. "Still so fucking perfect.”
“You d-don’t have to…”
“S’perfect,” he whispers, holding back what he truly wants to say.
Mine.
You’re not his, he can’t get possessive and psychotic, even when faced with your winking hole and the soft give of your thighs underneath his fingertips. He buries his face in you, his mouth hot and messy as it drinks up every bit of those juices your pussy is pouring, lavving a broad, flat stripe up your slit and slurping you up, eliciting the prettiest whines for his ears.
“Mmm, that’s it,” he whispers, flicking his tongue on your clit and groaning as he parts those lips. “She’s jumpin’ all around, fuck… look at her.”
You cry out, your fingers tangling in the soft white strands of Satoru’s hair, only for him to place them on your thighs, looking at you in that way only Satoru Gojo can.
“Hold ‘em up f’me,” he’s slurring, mouth just full of that messy cunt, swallowing it as he watches you do just that. “Good girl.”
Fuck him.
Fuck him truly and completely, for what those damn words do to you, how they have you a needy mess for him. He groans at the sight of your manicured nails pressing on the back of your thighs, the vibrations rushing on your pretty pussy, and then his tongue is inside you, fucking your hole as if he’s never forgotten how.
“Toru!” You’re quivering, thighs threatening to close, he breathes , that barbell smacking your spongy spot over and over, with the same intensity he used to use with his cock.
Your first time with him flits through your mind, he’d made sure to lick your pussy for thirty minutes, even then he’d been worried he’d hurt you – even then he’d eased into you, watching your every movement. That Satoru and this one merge – the jock and the cheerleader now gro business people.
But you’re still just the two of you.
He's lavishing every crevice, every bit of your cunt like it’s worship – his tongue, his lips, the sharp edge of those fangs of his scraping against your clit just making you scream out, weak from it. He bites it again, groaning as your juices spill over his mouth, his chin, down his neck.
Satoru wants to drown in you.
"You like that, huh?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening embarrassingly with how much you’re gushing. He swirls two fingers down it, raising a thin white brow. "Like me eating this pussy?”
“Yes… ah!” He’s curving his fingers up, rutting his cock along the leather seats, dying to bury it inside you.
“Missed this, didn't you? Missed my tongue on you?"
You can only nod quickly and let out a pathetic little moan, wishing you could play coy or tease – but how can you, when he’s taking you over. One hand pumping fingers into you, his tongue finding your clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a mean little hum, and the cold metal of his tongue ring just flicking.
“Toru! I’m so… I’m…”
He pulls back and sighs.
You’re so beautiful like this.
“Cum for me,” he says softly, curving up one more time, and you shatter for him, peak crashing into you so hard you see stars – ones that aren’t the ones hanging in the sky. No, they’re right behind your eyelids, pussy spasming as moans escape those lips that hold you in that kiss.
Satoru eases back, curving his fingers a few more times, every slide sensitive. “Please…”
“Please what, baby?” He whispers – he hadn’t called you that since the last time you saw him, brushing your hair back and kissing you, your juices spilling into your own mouth with a push of his tongue.
“Need you.”
“I’m here-”
“Need more,” he pauses, blushing a bit and making you giggle. “What, you think I don’t want more?”
“I didn’t know,” he trails off now, sitting up and dragging you on his lap, undoing his zipper as you’re on your knees, head smacking the ceiling, Satoru chuckles and puts his hand right over it, sighing. “You want my cock inside you?”
“You’re such a jerk,” he grins now, running his hands down your waist. “You gonna make me say it?”
“Nah but it’d be fun to hear,” he frees his cock, watching the blush dance across your cheeks when faced with his pearly pink cock, thick and veiny, leaking all that white. You gather some and swirl it on your thumb, sucking it off. “God…”
It’s moments when he’s got you positioned on his cock, slamming you down in one mean stroke, filling you so full you feel him everywhere – in your stomach, so fucking deep your cervix hurts. But fuck you want it, you want more, but he holds you down for a moment, hands brutal on your hips.
“Fuck, don’t move yet,” he barely bites out those words, looking up at you underneath that fringe of lashes, breaths coming in short pants, fogging up all the car windows. “Please, baby. Hold on a sec.”
“Feel good, Toru?” You tease, he glares and bites your shoulder. “Ah! Sharp t-teeth…”
“Jus’ stay here for a minute,” he’s mumbling against your skin, exhaling at the feeling of your pussy wrapping around his cock. “You’re so warm, so tight… god you feel s’good…”
You’re holding there, cunt gripping him so tight he’s gonna bust, and he was not doing that after ten damn years. He has stamina now, he can’t bust inside you in one minute – has it even been a minute!?
“Wanna move, please,” you’re damn near whining, wriggling as he pins you even more firmly. “Toru!”
“You’re bratty still,” he murmurs, lifting you up and slamming you back down, that mess of slick pouring all over. “You want me to cum in three pumps?”
You blush then, realizing that one key thing – he’d never cum inside you, the two of you were careful to make sure it never happened. “I um… inside me?”
“Only if you wanted… god imagine breeding your cunt,” you suck in a breath as his hands press into your hips. “Breedable fucking hips, bet you’d have so many babies for me.”
“Babies!?”
“God yes, bet you’d give me three, hah…” he’s fucking lost it now, fucking up into your cunt, your head smacks his ceiling, your hand up to brace yourself as he begins to move, feet planted on the floor of the car, cock gliding in and out of your mess even faster. “Sorry baby.”
“Sorry? You’re psychotic, j-just once,” he holds you down and runs his thumb on your clit then, watching your eyes flutter closed as you cum again, this time milking him. “Ngh!”
“So beautiful, fuck,” he’s looking right at you with those blue eyes, your arms wrap his neck, letting him lift you up and down him, huge hands just using you, you’re quivering around him, cunt squelching in the backseat of that car, his lips slamming on yours and drinking down your whines.
You hear the faint noises of the party with your ringing ears, his thumb brushing faster, your tits bouncing right in his face. “Breed k-kink tracks for you…”
He chuckles, grinning up at you, painting those pretty patterns until you’re overstimulated, thighs twitching on either side of his hips, the open leather belt pressing on your heated skin. His lips are swollen when his tongue runs across them, as if to catch any lingering juices he can, his brows drawing together as he gets closer, cheeks flushed pink in the dark.
“Should I pump you full? Hmm?” Your answer is to roll your hips, making his own eyes shut, those fluffy lashes sweeping across his cheeks. He’s pinning you down, slipping that thumb in between your lips and letting you suck as his cock twitches. “I used to jerk it to your cheer pictures b-before we w-went out…”
“Toru, you freak,” you’re breathless, struggling to take that stretch, whining out as his veiny length brushes your walls, white pre kissin’ your cute little cervix with every pump. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he’s full of confessions, you guess, but that one has you blushing, even mid fuck, giggling a bit until he slams hard, your head falling back. “You love it.”
“Cum inside,” he moans – you don’t have to tell him twice – cock pumping your hole full, so much your walls are just coated, those puffy ropes flooding you. “Ah!”
You’ve never been so full, his warmth rushing in hot and sticky as you kiss him desperately, needy, shaking as your teeth click together, your mouths messy and dripping saliva. It’s filthy, the sounds of your whines mixing with the squishing and clicking of his cock pumping impossibly more, his moans filling your mouth, tongues dancing along each other as his cock keeps twitching.
“F-fuck…” He’s whimpering in your ear as he holds you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping your waist as he bucks his hips up and fucks more cum inside you. “God I love you.”
“Wha-? Huh?” You must be fucked out and hearing shit, you barely blink any sense into yourself, as he pulls back, looking at you and sighing.
“I should have said it then, not let you leave thinking…” He swallows now, cupping your face with one hand, thumb slipping across your cheek reverently. “That I didn’t.”
“You can’t… I didn’t… you…” You’re trembling now as it all hits, breaths mingling as you hardly hold back. “You did then?”
“Of course I fucking loved you, how couldn’t I?” You kiss him then, tears slipping down between your mouths, salty on his tongue as his hand slips up the curve of your spine, the two of your hearts racing in your own ears. “I never stopped.”
“Don’t say that…” You pull back now, hands on his wrists. “That’s impossible, it’s been t-ten years and… you don’t know me now, and…”
“Do you still love me?” He asks, voice breaking, still intimately joined with you, easing you off and eyeing the mess that pours, sighing. “Fuck I shouldn’t ask that.”
“Yes,” he blinks a bit, looking up in shock as you go back to sitting on his lap, cunt pouring him right back down on his cock. “I never stopped loving you, even though I hated you, too. I hated you so much for so long… but I never quit loving you, Satoru.”
“I hated me too, s’okay,” you shake your head. “I did, for being so dumb. For letting you go – pushing you away.”
“We were so young, Toru… so young.”
“There was all that time we could have had this,” he sighs now, nose brushing yours, looking into your eyes with utter devotion. “I can’t let you go again. I can’t let this be once, this? I’ve never felt anything close to you.”
“I know…” you’re kissing again, forgetting about anything else, and soon you’re in Satoru’s pretty penthouse, fucked out after he’d lifted you right up on that glass, so many stories up.
After he’d ate his cum out of you, and you’d lapped your pussy off – after your friends started texting you both, making sure you’re all right since you two had disappeared. After Satoru orders you food, and the two of you are laughing in bed, and you’re in one of his big shirts, does he bring out that jacket, making you pause.
“Toru…”
“This was yours,” he exhales and throws it over your shoulders, tugging the lapels closed and kissing your head. You’re all flushed and pretty, your hair a tangled mess, that mascara long gone, swallowed by that letterman’s jacket. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
“I get to keep it this time?” You tease, but the emotions are rushing still, tummy fluttering as you toy with the snaps, the familiar scent bringing you right back.
I KNOW YOU WANT ME, SO WHY WON’T YOU ACT LIKE IT ?
sum: when you reject fratjo because of his playboy reputation, can his frat brothers—and real brother—help him win you over & prove he’s not a player ?
NICE GUY TACTICS #1: STOP TALKING, START LISTENING !
taught by: nanami kento
“maybe if you listened to y/n as much as you spoke, she’d finally give you a chance.”
ΣX
at a desk behind a bookcase somewhere in birge-carnegie library, nanami kento has a book in his hands & sato gojo’s voice in his ears.
“—rich, handsome, charismatic, compassionate,” sato counts the words on his fingers. “i’m all these things and y/n still rejected me! can you believe it, kenny?”
nanami kento does not give a fuck.
4PM thursday means a box of timbits & the latest volume of nanami’s new favorite BL manhwa. he’s trying to root for cirrus as he pursues his love interest, skylar, but sato gojo’s whining in his ears makes concentrating very, very difficult. nanami snaps his book shut.
“first of all, can you please sit like a child of God?”
across from him, sato gojo is all loose limbs & no decorum; legs open & spread over the mahogany table as he leans back just enough to rock in the wooden chair. he has his arms folded behind his head but when kento snaps, he sits up. his lips are tugged in a stubborn, trying-to-be-cute frown:
“kento,” sato pouts. “help me.”
nanami kento drags a palm over his face. his collar feels tight on his neck & his fingers twitch over his book but sato has his lips pouting & lashes fluttering across from him. if helping out means sato will leave him alone to focus on reading lost in the cloud, who is he to refuse?
RULE #1: TALK LESS, LISTEN MORE !
sato gojo finds you somewhere on the second floor.
he didn’t mean to find you, really. heaven knows he was only on the way to the bathroom, snapchat map clearly not open to your location. at the desk you have your knees to your chest & a marker in your teeth as you frown at your textbook, and sato has to swallow the ache in his throat because your lips are all pouty & glossy & bruised against the marker-cap. fuck.
he strolls over, smile easy & hands in his pockets like you don’t make him shed nerves by the pint.
“y/n l/n,” he grins, leaning over the chair across from you. “fancy seeing you here.”
“don’t make me reject you twice in one week, sato.”
sato gojo bites his lip. your eyes don’t care to meet his as you speak & sato can only watch as you twirl your marker in your teeth. god, you’re so pretty. and god, you’re so mean, shutting him down every time he tries to speak to you because of his ‘playboy reputation’. bullshit.
he’s silent for a beat. “you have sharpie on your nose.”
you blink, hands slowly lifting to your face to rub at your nose. your fingers come back stained in black, & sato gojo can only bite back a smile as you frown at your palms.
“oh my god,” you groan.
“cute,” sato chuckles, pulling out the chair to sit across from you. you’re frowning at him now, lips curled in distrust. but sato doesn’t miss the heat in your cheeks, the glint in your eyes. he makes himself comfortable & leans forward over the table:
“so what’s got you so mad you’re drawing on your face?”
you frown, but sato still gazes at you with that stupid grin & a twinkle in his eyes. you sigh, licking your molars, eyes flitting back to your textbook.
“my group mates,” you tap your marker. “they dumped all the work on me, again. something about me being the ‘smart one’ anyways.”
sato nods, but his attention is split. half of his mind is on the way your gloss spoils in the heat. the other half’s focused on how your lashes flutter even though you’re grumbling. his stomach aches.
“i get that, y’know.”
you blink up at him. “you do?”
he misses the snark in your tone. “people expecting stuff from me, it’s exhausting.” he leans forward, takes the marker from between your fingers & taps it against your knuckles. “for me, it’s girls.”
“…girls?”
“mhm,” he’s still playing with your knuckles, tapping the marker-cap to the bone, lifting each finger & cocking his head like he’s inspecting them. “tons of ‘em, blowing up my phone just because i was nice to them once,” he tugs your thumb wistfully before leaning back. “it gets tiring.”
“…girls.”
“yeah,” sato nods. “girls.”
it’s silent for a beat, sato’s eyes boring into yours. his gaze is tender, nose red, & the marker that was once in your hands is somehow between his lips. his lashes flutter in the light.
you can’t believe he’s deadass.
you’re packing your books now, orgo chem & other textbooks shoving into your book bag. sato watches with his brows knit in confusion. “hey, hey—where are you going—?!”
you leave the library and don’t look back.
NANAMI’S REMARK : WHAT KIND OF MISCOMMUNICATION TROPE IS THIS…?
NICE GUY TACTICS #2: PLAYBOY? NAH, PAYBOY !
taught by: toji zenin
“girls like you for your face but stay for the black card. stop talking and start spending.”
ΣX
it’s tuesday again, and toru gojo’s room is filled with practically everyone but himself. sukuna’s palming his dick with his phone in one hand & toru’s bedsheets covering the other. sato’s twirling a beach ball even though it’s the peak of spring. toji zenin is tugging black tights over his thick thighs, upper half already covered in an equally tight black leotard.
“so,” sato hugs the beach ball to his chin. “new job?”
“dance instructor for katseye,” toji grumbles, struggling to fit the tights over his ass. sato bites his cheek.
“what happened with skai jackson? thought you were working as her personal AI prompt writer.”
“fired. and the brat says AI is bad anyways.”
sato nods. on the bed beside him, sukuna has blown his load & is laid back against toru’s sheets. he has a hand behind his head & the other resting lazy against his cock. “nice ass, zenin.”
toji doesn’t look up, still shifting the tights over his buttocks. “don’t talk about my ass with your dick in your hands.”
sato drops the ball to his lap and groans. “can you guys believe i’m still having no luck with y/n?”
“oh, brother.”
sato shoots sukuna a glare. he slumps against the wall, “i’ve tried listening to her, just like kento suggested. no fucking luck.”
in front of the mirror, toji zenin has succeeded in fitting the tights over his taut ass. sukuna asks him to do a spin & toji tells him to fuck off. sato watches the exchange with a slight pout before his eyes drop to toji’s crotch. damn. he was no expert in print catching, but that dick was definitely a D+.
he shakes the image of toji’s dick away. “i really don’t know what to do about y/n.”
toji picks up his duffel bag. “you’re a gojo, right? you got money?”
“yeah?”
“then use it, dumbass,” toji grunts. “pull out that black card and pay your way into her good books.”
sato only frowns. “y/n doesn’t seem like the materialistic type, though.”
“all women are materialistic,” toji mutters, fumbling through drawers for his keys. sukuna throws them at his head, & toji’s smart enough to pick them up with a tissue to avoid getting precum on his hands. “i’m not gonna ask why you were with my keys. and sato, take my advice if you want a chance with this chick.”
toji exits the room. sukuna has his dick out again, and sato contemplates his next steps as sukuna moans in pleasure beside him.
# SHOW TIME !
at the campus bookstore, there’s a line of 20 students glaring holes into your back.
four textbooks, a lab coat, & five other things you’ll use for class & never touch again. at 214 college street, there’s a heat in your cheeks & an ache in your stomach as the cashier hands you back your card. declined.
“sorry, can you just try again? or could i split the total between two cards—?”
“miss, i’m afraid you’re holding up the line.”
your lips are already bruised & half-bitten when someone sighs loudly behind you. you’re scrambling for another card with too many books in your hands but before you can find one something hard presses against your back.
“she’s with me. put everything she has on here.”
gojo sato has his chest smushed against your back & lalique’s encre noire pricking at your nose. he leans over you to hand his black card to the cashier, who takes it from him with glee.
you tense from the feel of his skin. you bite your lip as you watch the cashier swipe the card, & you’re fiddling with your fingers as your cheeks flush in embarrassment.
“relax,” sato murmurs in your ear. “i’ve got you.”
and you do. your shoulders slump into him. your breathing steadies. you don’t even mind the way sato’s hair tickles your ear as he leans over you, or the way his palm has climbed up to meet your hip. he mumbles a sorry as he presses you closer to the counter. his palm doesn’t fall afterward, & your spine tingles when his thumb brushes your side.
“here you go!”
the cashier hands you the bags with a smile as stretched as plastic. sato takes the bags instead, and you watch, wide-eyed & stupefied, as he carries the heavy load all in one toned hand. he walks slightly ahead for a bit before he reaches out his palm behind him. he makes a grabby hand & you take it with a blink.
he gently tugs you forward to walk beside him. he’s grinning, “Hi.”
“Hi.”
his smile grows. you’re peering up at him with wide eyes & god you’re so cute, you’re always so fucking cute, and god. his heart’s all swollen & sticky in his chest.
his hand shifts to your waist now, brushing up & down gently. “good thing i was close by, right?”
“thank you—“
“no need to thank me, sweetheart.” he hums, pressing you flush against his side as you walk together. “i know people like you are usually impoverished. that’s why you study so hard, right?”
you blink, “what?”
sato doesn’t hear you. “i saw you struggling to pay,” he sing-songs, eyes shut & grin pleased. “so i generously thought to step in. pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to pay anyways.”
you stop in your tracks. his thumb is still rubbing slow circles on your hip. “sato.”
“hm, baby?”
“don’t ever show your face to me again.”
you leave him on the street with your books in his hands & his heart in his throat.
TOJI’S REMARK : 🤦🏿♂️
NICE GUY TACTICS #3: LET HER COME TO YOU !
taught by: geto suguru
“you’re doing too much. sometimes you gotta give girls space and let them come to you.”
ΣX
“i’m actually creasing!”
it’s thursday again, and sato gojo is sitting cross-legged on his bed with sukuna’s head resting lazy on his lap. through his macbook screen geto suguru is laughing hysterically, tears in his eyes as sukuna snickers on sato’s leg with a palm clutched over his mouth.
they’re all wheezing—with the sole exception of sato gojo, of course.
suguru wipes his tears on his cashmere knit sweater. he’s looking all neat & proper, hair tied back & the picture of perfection. suguru is away in manchester for a study abroad semester. sato misses him badly.
till he opens his mouth again.
“i can’t lie, yeah,” suguru dabs at his eyes. “you’ve absolutely bottled it.”
“can you drop the british accent? you’re a first gen japanese immigrant.”
“allow it,” suguru shakes his head. sukuna is throwing up peace signs at the camera so balloons rise up on the facetime screen. “to call the girl you like impoverished…” suguru says through balloons, “just pack it in, mate.”
sukuna props his head up so his face is on the screen. his smile is clumsy: “your boy’s a proper wasteman.”
suguru grins, “is he?”
sato groans. “i was being a provider. following toji’s advice.”
“mind you, the man can’t even provide for himself.”
suguru snickers at that. “not too much, ryomen. and sato, don’t you think you’re trying too hard?”
“i don’t think i’m trying enough.”
“i think you’re trying in the wrong direction,” geto leans back, all calm & cashmere soft. “give her some breathing room—some space. let her come to you.”
sukuna bends his hands into a heart & a heart bubble appears on-screen. “might be your only option at this point. suguru, can i play on your sims 4 save file?”
“absolutely not.”
sukuna breaks the heart.
sato gojo has his back slumped over, brows knit, & lips twisted in concentration.
“let her come to me…got it.”
# SHOW TIME !
sato gojo is stalking you.
you’re on the way to class with a pen in your ear & a patience worn thin. he was three seats away at the local café. two in the campus library. now you’re walking through the courtyard & sato gojo is leaning back against a bulletin board like his eyes aren’t following your every move.
he has your books in your hand from the other day. is he wearing your lab coat?
you shake the thoughts away & keep walking. you’ve got a test in two hours. a project due in three. screw sato gojo & his rich kid privilege & clumsy smile & bright blue eyes and—
sato scurries behind you just to lean back coolly against yet another bulletin board. what the hell is his problem?
you snap, whipping around. “sato! what are you doing ?!”
his eyes widen. he’s still leaned against the bulletin board, your books in his arms & his hair messy-cute. there’s red on his cheeks & his eyes widen before he fixes his face & plasters on that smooth smirk:
“i’m letting you come to me.”
you blink. “no, i’m going to class.”
“and then you’re coming to me afterwards.”
“no, i don’t fucking think i am.”
he slumps forward as if your words are a weight on his shoulders. he’s pouting now as he walks up to you, your books hugged tightly to his chest. “i owe you an apology.”
“do you?”
“yes—god, yes i do.” he’s close now, too close. “y/n, i’m so fucking sorry. i wasn’t thinking straight. i was trying so hard to impress you and look like a provider but ended up sounding like some classist prick. you’re fucking amazing—strong, smart, independent—god, you’re my inspiration. please don’t make me stay away from you,” he clutches his chest. “my heart can’t fucking take it.”
sato gojo looks like an idiot.
your lab coat shrugged lazy over his shoulders, thick books pressed to his chest & a gaze too tender. he keeps his eyes on yours but his pupils shift like they’re heavy with nerves. you bite your lip. fuck.
“i forgive you,”
he blinks, straightens up. “really?”
“yes, really,” you murmur, picking out each book from his hold. he watches as you pluck them into your arms, your nose flushed & lashes fluttering, & his gaze is all misty. his heart goes sticky in his chest.
“i really like you.”
oh fuck. he didn’t mean to say that. he meant it, oh god, he meant it, but he didn’t mean to fucking say it and—
“i know,” you peer up at him, voice soft & gaze gentle in the heat. “walk me to class?”
he takes your books back into his arms. your lecture is two hours too long but sato gojo waits outside the whole time.
GETO’S REMARK : NEAR DISASTER; BUT CHEERS, MATE !
NICE GUY TACTICS #4: ACT LIKE YOU’RE THE PRIZE !
taught by: ryomen sukuna
“act like you’ve already got her, and you finally will. law of assumption or whatever.”
ΣX
in toru gojo’s room, ryomen sukuna is playing the sims 4 because he has no respect for suguru’s wishes.
sato gojo is on his bed, cheeks flushed & head dizzy. he’s still brushing a thumb over his palm, heat prickling at his skin as he remembers the way you held on when he picked you up after class. your hands were so soft, & you’re so pretty, & gojo sato is utterly fucked.
you’d frowned up at him when you found him waiting but let him hold your hand & guide you to the library regardless. sato tries to breathe. the air goes sticky in his lungs.
at toru’s desk, sukuna is drowning geto’s sim. “why are you smiling like an idiot?” he mutters.
“ryomen,” sato exhales. “i think i’m in love.”
sukuna scoffs, then grins when suguru’s sim kitchen catches fire. “so? you guys are dating now?”
“not yet,” sato sighs, easing into the covers. “to be honest, i’m not even sure she likes me. at least, not the way i like her.”
“mm. i think she just tolerates you.” / “shut the fuck up.”
“listen,” sukuna’s typing cheat codes into the game now. “you want her to be yours? act like she already is. it’s the law of assumption.”
sato blinks. “you believe in manifestation?”
“i use subliminals. how do you think i got my dick so big?”
sato doesn’t comment. “by the way, suguru’s sim asked yours for a divorce. just thought you should know that.”
sato sits up, suddenly serious. “new save file. now.”
# SHOW TIME !
sigma-chi’s frat house is blaring speakers & bodies pressed together on a friday evening.
sato gojo has a cup in his hands & liquor in his teeth. beside him sukuna’s on a chair chugging beer, porn playing in his headphones so he can have a dick print. his technique seems to be working—two bodies to the left, there’s a girl & her friend. sato overhears them conclude sukuna must be a D.
in sato’s ears, however, he’s playing an attract your crush! subliminal—hand-picked & recommended by ryomen sukuna, of course. he has his hands in his pockets, cap slumped & limbs lazy—until he spots you.
glossed hair, glazed lips & your tongue in your cheek. you’re wearing a skirt too short to be sweet & now sato has his tongue in his cheek too. you’re shifting around as if nervous—as if you’d rather not be here, & sato’s heart aches with something akin to want.
he doesn’t realize when his body starts moving.
you’re faced away from him, lips bitten, so he takes your hand from behind. you jolt, “oh—hi.”
“hi, baby,” he mutters, guiding you closer. “you look pretty.”
“thank you,” you murmur, breathless. sato’s arms loop around your hips. you only lift your palms to rest on his chest.
“have you had anything to drink?”
you shake your head, and sato’s hands are climbing higher now, under your top & grazing your spine. his hands are cold, so cold.
sukuna’s subliminal is still buzzing in his ears. he’s always been a daring boy, so he takes the leap. cups your cheek with a palm. brushes your waist when you shiver. “i can get you something.”
“that would be nice.”
he nods & guides you towards the bar.
——
sato gojo’s not sure how he’s done it.
you’re so pliant today. soft & unguarded, warm edges & caramel-sweet. even now he has your back pressed against his chest at the bar, hands on your hips, your perfume in his lungs.
you look up at him, “sato?” and he wants to kiss you because your eyes are too big & your voice is too pretty.
“mm?”
he leans down to hear you & his nose brushes your neck. his thumb is brushing circles on the dip beneath your waistband.
“do you…um. do you actually like me?”
oh god.
sato wants to say he’s never liked anyone more. that last night he dreamt about the shape of your frown, that his ribs ache when you ignore him, that his heart scraped against his throat the day he tried to pay for you but he messed up & you left, that he practiced his apology in the mirror till his throat hurt & if you ever said you liked him back he’d swallow his pride & cry.
but the subliminal still hums in his ears. sukuna’s words are still a ghost in the heat. ‘act like you’ve already got her!’
so he clears his throat. puts on that fake confidence like frat boys do.
“dunno,” but his hand grips your hip. “why? you want me to give you a chance?”
you still in his hold. sato gojo has fucked up once again.
SUKUNA’S REMARK : DAMN.
NICE GUY TACTICS #5: EGO IS THE ENEMY !
taught by: toru gojo
“i’ve played these games before. trust me when i say to just be yourself.”
ΣX
that evening, sato gojo has his knees against the tile & acid in his jugular.
he’s bent over the toilet seat, tongue curled & bone in his stomach. toru gojo has his hand in sato’s hair, holding it back as his twin brother spills his guts into the toilet bowl.
“i fucked up,” he rasps, then pukes again. “toru—toru. i fucked up,”
his nerdy brother bites his lip. it’s a sight for sore eyes—his twin on the bathroom floor with split lip & bruised knees, babbling over a girl with red cheeks & eyes watery. toru picks up a towel to wipe his brother’s face. “you need to calm down—you made a mistake. it’s not the end of the world.”
“it is, fuck, it is.” sato’s tears fall faster than toru can wipe. he’s shaking, “you know this isn’t the first time? that i called her poor?” toru winces. “and she let it go like a fucking saint and—hic—i still fucked up. i hurt her again.”
sato’s nose is blotchy red & his eyes are swollen puffy. the tears don’t stop. “i always hurt her. toru, why do i always hurt her?”
toru kneels down to his brother’s shaking figure, one hand on his cheek & the other dabbing his tears. “because you keep trying to perform. keep acting like something you’re not.” toru pauses. “like i was doing before i finally got my girlfriend.”
sato remembers—how he and his frat brothers gave toru a bunch of ‘playboy tactics’ to woo over his girl. sato shakes his head, sniffling. “i’m not pretending. i’m not fucking pretending.”
“you are,” toru wipes sato’s nose with his sleeve, then quickly regrets it. “i’ve been busy with projects but i know how you get, sato. acting all suave like you don’t overthink everything she says. like you don’t ask for advice on reddit forums. like you don’t make geto roleplay with you so you can decide exactly how to approach her.”
toru pauses, takes in his brother’s sore eyes & tear-stained cheeks. he hugs his brother’s head: “i know how you get.”
sato goes limp in his arms. “i really, really like her.”
“i know,” toru squeezes. “we all do.”
sato lets his head fall limp in his brother’s neck. he can’t help but wish that it was you.
—-
sato gojo has typed your name four times into his notes app because he likes the way it looks on his screen.
then he deletes it, then types it again, then deletes it with tears in his eyes. there’s still alcohol in his throat & his head is too fucking dizzy. it hurts to breathe & sato gojo can’t fucking think.
y/n.
it takes him three tries to spell your name into his contacts. not because he can’t spell, but because there are tears clouding his eyes & his throat hurts whenever he tries to sound your name out. y/n y/n y/n. no search results. then he finds your name saved under ‘baby :)‘ & he’s finally able to breathe again.
he’s still half-drunk, and he can’t really see, and there’s a wound in his chest & his thumbs are shaking so he prays to god for strength as he types. sato gojo hasn’t been to a church since he was eleven. he can’t even spell the word messiah.
SATO:
Hy [deleted]
Hi
y/n i’m so sorry
for everything
ikm such a fucking idiot
when u asked me if i reallly liked u and i said idk and u froze in my arms i felt my heart fucking stop in my chest y/n i’m so sorry
i like you i like you so bad
i don’t have the confudence to say it out loud to your face im so sorry
*confidence
i want to be a better man for you
i’m sorry for always hurting you i try not to i swear i do but i always think too hard and say the wrong things i swear i never ever mean to hurt you never ever
i liek you so much i’ve never liked any girl the way i like you ever in my life
i take acantability
accowntabikity
accountant
accountabity
i’m sorry im accountable
sato’s eyes blur. he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the tears. his hands are shaking but he prays again and he’s able to type just one more message.
SATO: ilikeyouilikeyouilikeyouilikeyou
the typing bubble pops up in the chat. he passes out before he can see your message.
——
“where is he?”
sato gojo has his nose beneath the covers, lashes sticky with dried tears & want. his hearing is muffled & his head is dizzy so when the lights flick on he retreats further into the covers.
toru gojo kneels in front of him. “sato. wake up.”
“mmrrnnhhhh.”
toru sighs. you walk up next to him and kneel in front of the bed. “sato?”
he stills. he knows that voice anywhere.
slowly, agonizingly, he pulls down the covers. just a little, just an inch—just because his nose is still blotchy & his eyes are still puffy & he doesn’t want you to see him like this. he opens his eyes & god. if this is a dream—messiah. please don’t wake him up.
you are so beautiful & your eyes are so big & sato gojo can’t believe you’re right here in front of him.
“sato. hi.”
he tries to say hi back. his lips part but he can’t seem to get anything out.
toru rises to his feet. “i’ll get him some water. be right back.”
it’s just you and him now; sato gojo and the only girl he’s ever loved. is it too early to use the word love? you’re resting your chin on folded arms right in front of him & sato does think he’s in love. he hasn’t even properly told you he likes you. he has to hurry up and say it.
you’re so close your noses are touching. you’re so pretty & you smell so sweet. “sato.”
“hi, baby—” but then he coughs. “hi, y/n.”
you giggle at that. sato realizes he’s never heard you giggle before. he wants you to giggle again. can you giggle again?
“i got your messages,”
ah. he swallows. “i texted you back and you didn’t respond. i got worried so i came here.”
sato can’t believe his ears. you worried about him?
he blinks. “i love you.”
your brows furrow.
“i’m sorry for saying it,” his voice is small, shy, slightly muffled beneath the covers. “but i think it a lot. and i’m sorry for loving you because i know i’m not worthy of your love, or of you in general, but if i said i like you that wouldn’t be correct, because the way my heart feels when i think about you is more than ‘like’,”
he breathes. “so i’m sorry for loving you. but i still love you. i’m sorry.”
you don’t know what to say to that. sato gojo is still peering at you—lashes sticky, blue eyes dim yet brimming with light. he’s retreated further into the covers now so all you see is white wisps of hair & those bright blue eyes.
you tug down the covers. he freezes, breathing heavy, eyes wide with both fear & adoration as you climb on top of him.
“say it again.”
“i…like you.”
“no, the other one.”
oh. “i love you.”
sato gulps. “i love you. i love you i love you i love you—“
you press your lips to his own as he holds your hips. he still says ‘i love you’ between your lips.
BONUS #1 — Y/N’S MESSAGES !
——
baby :)
😂😂 lol
you don’t expect me to acc believe this right?
do you know how many times you’ve hurt me these last few weeks and i let it go because my dumbass was in love with you?
*liked you
i was vulnerable and asked if you truly liked me and u said u don’t know and some other dumbass shit
that’s so fucked
you’re so fucked
you’re not fair to me that’s not fair sato
you say you’re sorry and you like me but you can’t even say it to my face? how is that fair? huh sato?
sato
sato?
are you okay
sato
i’m coming over
BONUS #2 – EPILOGUE !
it’s friday again, the end of the week, and sato gojo is at the airport with a grin on his face. his best friend is finally back in town & sato is practically vibrating.
“well, if it isn’t our casanova.”
“suguru!” sato tackles him in a hug. geto laughs, feet wobbly, patting at sato’s back affectionately. “you’ve got a girl now, mate. back up a bit, yeah?”
sato pulls back, frowning. “no more british accents.”
suguru smiles, “no more.”
in the car they talk about everything. sato should be driving but instead he plays passenger princess, recounting the last few weeks without him.
“so you’ve finally gotten the girl.” geto hums.
“yup.”
“and you told her you loved her before you even started dating.”
sato bites his lip. “yes.”
“you’re down bad.”
“i know.”
“i’m glad you’re happy, y’know,” geto is talking but sato’s phone dings in his lap. that special notification sound he’s set up only for you.
mine🫀: are you still picking up geto?
sato grins.
—
sato: you miss me, baby?
mine🫀: shut up
i’m still at the library
sato: i know babygirl i’m omw
mine🫀: nooo don’t come here
i need to study and u won’t let me focus
sato: thought i was your favorite distraction? 💔
mine🫀: ha. ha. don’t come here
sato: too late already at the exit
mine🫀: SATO
—-
“sato? are you listening?”
“sorry,” sato mutters, locking his phone. his knee is bouncing & his chest feels light. god, he’s so in love. “take the next left. suguru, do you know ryomen fucked with our sims’ marriage?”
“he what?”
“i need you to make a sim for y/n. i want to marry her instead,” sato hums. he’s clicking his phone on & off now, clearly not waiting for your next notification.
“i told that fucker not to touch my game.”
sato licks his canines. “that boy doesn’t listen.”
suguru’s grumbling now, something about a ‘good for nothing porn addict’ and ‘fuckass exhibitionist kink’ but sato only hums along in the passengers seat. then his phone dings again.
mine🫀: [Image Attachment]
he clicks on it way too fast.
and it’s a picture of you, phone in your lap & pouting down at the camera. your hair’s all messy in your face & your lips are bent in the cutest frown. god, you’re so beautiful. god god god.
he licks his lips. types back: ‘i love you my baby.’
“sato—? sato? what the fuck, man.” suguru’s still gripping the wheel, eyes on the road. “i’ve been talking for two minutes. who’s got you smiling like that?”
[ SUM ] — college soccer coach toji has a secret admirer. but how secret is it when most of the highlights in the school paper are photos of him, instead of the players scoring goals?
[ TAGS ] — MDNI 18+ ONLY. nsfw. piv. raw. unprotected. age gap (mid 30s x early 20s). slight exhibitionism. HEAVY CREAMPIE. FAT BULGE. spanking. CUNNILINGUS. oral f!recieving. dacryphilia. reader kinda freaky. thick dark sexy HAPPY TRAIL. nudity. SHOWER SEX. SCENT KINK. pet names. spitting. wc: 19.1k
[ A/N ] — inspired by coach!toji from my fratkuna series. I was gooning too much whenever I’d mention him soooo
photo-journalism can mean many things. at its core though is documentation and being present. it’s about recording what happens so it doesn’t vanish into the noise of the world. and that’s what you’ve been doing since you started uni.
working for the school newspaper means covering everything that matters to the university. big events, games, and when you attend a school with a division 1 soccer team, that’s ranked the top of the country, it means your weekends are spent on the sidelines of the pitch. floodlights humming overhead, cleats tearing into the turf, and the air sharp with anticipation.
everyone’s eyes are on the match, on the players, the scoreline, and the inevitable victory. everyone’s, except yours.
your lens has a habit of drifting. and it always finds him on the sidelines, the head coach.
standing just outside the white chalk lines. shaggy raven hair that never looks styled, stubble he clearly forgot—or chose not—to shave that morning. his infamous scar pulling at his lips as he shouts. he wears the same black team jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. when he folds his arms or gestures sharply toward the field, you always catch his muscles shifting beneath the fabric, veins flexing making it so impossible to ignore.
it’s just a photographer’s eye for striking subjects. for sure….
he beautifully contrasts against the chaos of the game…even if he’s shouting, or breaking his clipboard…. still, you capture him mid-shout, mid-thought, jaw clenched as he’s holding the entire team together.
and then later, when the photos run, and his photos dominate the highlights more than the actual goal, well, you pretend not to notice how often your name sits beneath them in a small, neat printed font.
he doesn’t know you. you’re just another person with a camera on the sidelines. you’re just another face in a sea of professional press badges, not just one of the universities many photographers. but you know him. you know the way his brows pinch when one of his players gets injured, the way his mouth twitches when his team scores, and the way he exhales with relief when the game ends.
and you keep clicking the shutter button—
“again?!” the head editor exclaims. “you didn’t get the goal?”
“I did!” you huff, glaring at the senior grad student who basically runs the entire school newspaper.
“not the first one, the final goal! the one scored by the universities ace! sukuna—“
“god forbid i missed a shot, I basically got everything else, plus I’m not the only one taking photos on the pitch. don’t you have other photographers?” you tsk, arms crossed.
he glares at you behind his desk, clicking through the photos you’d uploaded. “you got every single expression of the damn coach,” he mutters under his breath, clicking through one of toji shouting, then another of him spitting on the grass, then another of him scratching his jaw—
you nibble on your cheek, slouching slightly in the seat.
“you hate when we use someone else’s photos,” he adds, licking his teeth as he finally gets to your photos of the actual players. and they were spectacular. the action shots were perfect, you can see the sweat dribbling down their foreheads.
“because it’s my job,” you mutter, glancing at your editor who frowns when the photos return back to the head coach.
“unbelievable,” he mumbles, exhaling slowly as he sits back in his seat. “you’re killing me.”
your heel kicks the floor. this wasn’t a first. this happens almost every time. your lens just happens to drift away from the ball and fall on the head coach.
even with fans shouting in the stands, and the other cameras flashing in the other direction. your camera can’t help but find coach toji in the chaos. he was just as important as the team. he’s acting like toji isn’t mentioned a million times in the articles! god forbid you want him getting his flowers. but your editor wasn’t very appreciative of your sympathies.
“we’re going with these three, and taking one from the other photographers for the final goal you didn’t get,” he sighs, showing you your three photos, one of the team celebrating, another of satoru gojo sprinting across the field with the ball, and of course, the final — and in your opinion the best — of head coach toji standing with his muscular arms crossed at the start of the second half.
your editor rolls his eyes turning his screen back to him. “if you bring another folder and it’s seventy percent of this damn coach, I’ll drop you and pull noah up.”
the threat has you lowering your head and muttering a hesitate okay, because at the end of the day, you were the only photographer that worked full time for the paper, and you go to every single match. the rest are focused on other stories, or working their way to become editors.
while you liked photo-journalism more. it helped, that on weekends, you got someone to admire. and your editor was not the only one that’s noticed.
“what the hell, you’ve got to be kidding me,” geto huffs, snatching the paper from gojo as he sits on the pitch. “why am I never in these damn fucking articles??” he huffs with anger
“score more goals,” gojo sticks his tongue out, just to get kicked harshly by his friend.
“I fucking scored this game,” geto snaps, grumbling even more as he flips through the paper, seeing the team celebrating.
sukuna chugs his water behind them, “my picture sucks ass,” he grumbles, spitting the water right beside their goalie making him jerk back in annoyance. “you didn’t score, but I get the shit picture?” he snaps lowly at gojo.
geto frowns, “I scored, and at least you get a picture.”
gojo chuckles, pointing at the next photo, making the entire team roll their eyes simultaneously.
“some things never change,” one teammate, yuno, mutters. his hands are on his hips as him and the rest of the team glare at the immaculate, pristine, jaw-dropping photo captured of their strict, grumpy, nicotine addicted head coach, toji.
sukuna snarls as geto looks like he’s going to fucking tear out his luscious black hair. “fucking unbelievable.”
gojo snorts even louder, snatching the paper just to wave it from his place on the ground towards toji, who’d just gotten off the phone. “coach! you’re mogging the cameras again!”
toji’s brows pinch until he notices the photo. and it’s always the same reaction from the head coach. his eyes scan over the photo, then they fall down to the same printed name underneath. “not bad,” he casually says, handing back the newspaper like it’s nothing.
but the entire team is seething, with the exception of gojo laughing his ass off.
“I finally figured out who your secret admirer is,” gojo announces, “it’s definitely the cutie with the charm on her camera and stickers on her flashlight.”
geto raises a brow “how d’ya know that?” the rest of the team immediately huddle in.
gojo clears his throat.
“for the last few games I’ve been purposely fixing my shoes or drinking water on the sidelines where they’re all huddled up. obviously I ruled out all the old farts, then I narrowed it down to the ladies. then i crossed out the outside press, but it’s hard since I can’t see all their press badges—but then i noticed,” gojo holds up the newspaper, slapping his index finger on your name beneath the photo. the entire team have basically memorized your full name by now. “she was the only one still photographing the field, BUT it was pointed at coach,” gojo points to toji.
“AND,” gojo continues, “she had this cute little charm on her camera, and this sticker. and it’s definitely your secret admirer,” gojo confidently smiles.
however, geto scratches his jaw, glancing at gojo then the newspaper. “so which one was her instagram?”
oh right, gojo rubs his neck in disappointment.
your name under a majority of the game’s photos started catching the teams attention a couple months ago. your credentials at the bottom of the article was always signed with your first and last name. however, when the team caught on to your not-so secret admiration for their coach, and neglect of the rest of team, they tried stalking you.
yet, they couldn’t find a single social media handle. not your instagram, twitter, tiktok — even your linkedIn was just the default linkedIn pfp. and the school paper website didn’t have a photo for you. either way, the team was on a mission.
“I don’t think her socials are even under her name,” gojo admits, making the team groan.
toji, silently watching the ordeal transpire, claps his hands, breaking the gossip. “enough, continue your drills unless ya wanna stay till sunset!”
once the team finally finishes practice and began packing their gear. neither one of them notices the students enjoying the nice weather on campus, or the girl that take a detours to walk past the field.
your eyes easily fall on your perfect subject. his hand cracks his neck as he stifles a yawn, kicking the soccer ball towards one of the players as they kick it up, tucking it under their arm.
it was a routine….one that you found yourself subconsciously doing on practice days. you would follow the path down from the quad, until you reach the second soccer field on campus, mainly used for practice and training.
your bag hangs off your shoulder along with your camera — the lens was downsized to your fixed 24mm and the flash wasn’t on — that’s usually how your camera is when you aren’t at events, or games.
it isn’t uncommon to watch the schools infamous soccer team practice. especially when half of them are also part of a fraternity. hell, on the other side of the field were a few girls fawning over the sweaty players.
in other words, you don’t stand out. and you’re unbothered by the hot players that glance your way as they pack their bags. well, until a certain white haired player is squinting across the field, before muttering a quiet “no way…”
geto gives his friend a look, lifting his duffle over his shoulder as sukuna wipes his face with the hem of his jersey, “what?” he grumbles.
gojo’s bag hit the grass. he locks eyes with you. then he does the worst thing imaginable. he shouts your name.
the entire team snap their necks in your direction. gojo suddenly leads the pack of six foot whatever college men across the field — their bags drop, cleats half untied, some bare foot. but all on one mission.
you.
the color immediately drains from your face. your body freezes like a deer in headlights. and when the entire team of sweaty, built, hot men crowd the waist-high fence that separate them from you. you’re ultimately stuck.
“you’re-you’re—“ slightly out of breath and pumped full of adrenaline, gojo heaves out your name. not just a first name, no—your full government name. “right!?”
you eyes lazily drag between the men, fixing the strap of your bag, your camera clinking against the side, drawing every man’s attention to the little charm gojo had just described less than an hour ago.
“yeah,” you manage to exhale, shifting your balance. “did you need something?”
“yeah,” the low voice of the hot headed team captain interrupts. he hadn’t ran with rest of the players, instead he walked up, casual and full of loud confidence. finally making his way across the field, energy drink in hand, glaring right through you as he continues. “why the fuck was my picture the only one not taken by you? it looks like shit.”
you exhale, about to answer when another one cuts in.
“why haven’t you taken one of me? the game last month was my debut and you didn’t get me going on the pitch—“
“I liked that shot you got of me when—“
“can you get my good side next time—“
“why did you—“
“can you—“
“you didn’t get my goal!” geto manages to dogpile. all the men yell complaints and compliments, overwhelming you with critiques. until you’re frowning, glaring harshly at the group of men you’d watched from a distance since your freshman year.
“I don’t work for you guys,” you finally snap. your words are cold making the men frown. “I work for the schools paper, and they choose the photos, not me.”
“and yet coach is in every single one of em?” geto bites back, and that’s when they all catch the slight surprise that crosses your face.
gojo smirks, leaning over the fence, getting close as he tilts his head. “seems like a majority of your photos have our coach. it’s like your editor can’t help but be forced to put him in.”
you feel your stomach churn, glancing between the sharp sapphire eyes. “that’s not how it works,” you mutter.
you did not expect your first interaction with the soccer team to be this. accusing you of favoritism. you can practically feel all their eyes on you, like they knew exactly who you are, even if this is your first time speaking to them.
“sure looks like it,” sukuna drawls, smirking wide when he sees you shift uncomfortably. “you like our coach or somethin?”
“of course she does,” geto’s smooth voice cuts in. “do you get all hot lookin at coach toji?”
you swallow thickly, pushing down the heat crawling up your neck to glare at the men. “you guys are disgusting,” you spit, but the men don’t falter, instead they continue gloating and poking.
“we just wanna get to know you. you’ve been takin’ our pics for months, we can’t have a chat now?” geto cuts.
they were quietly impressed with your composure. your poker face would’ve been perfect if not for the slight fidgeting you’re doing with your bag and camera strap. either way, your glare was mean, unwavering until—
“cut it out.”
the sharp voice slices through the team. then, one strong palm shoves gojo into geto, and the rest of the team topple on each other like dominos. the head coach plants himself between the fence, his team, and you.
“i forget you’re all a couple children,” toji tsks, his arms are crossed standing like a lone knight keeping a pack a wolves from a poor princess.
your heart slams against your rib cage. all your composure evaporates into thin air, struggling to catch your breath. this was the closest you’ve gotten to the head coach. you can practically smell the mixture of his cologne and natural musk. your cheeks grow hotter by the second, completely dazed and loosing all other senses, unaware that practically half the team noticed your sudden shift.
gojo elbows geto eyeing the way your pupils basically turn into bright pink hearts. even your lips look more glossy from the drool collecting in your mouth.
they’d never seen anything like it, and for their coach of all people?!
you’re caught up in gawking at the huge man, eyeing his wide shoulders, the veins straining from his compression shirt, his shirt clinging to every muscle that could break you in a blink of an eye — that you miss his short lecture towards his boys to quit scaring off a young woman, all to end with him shouting—
“ten more laps!”
the team’s eyes bulge, jaws dropping in shock, and quickly follow up with a spew of complaints.
“ya heard coach!” sukuna, the hot-headed captain, interrupts. and if the team wasn’t scared of their coach, they definitely had a reason to be with their captain. they ultimately drop their things and start their laps. however, sukuna hangs back at bit, “I didn’t even say sh—“
“you were late to practice, so you were gonna do the laps anyways,” toji cuts, earning a loud tsk from the tattooed captain. his duffle drops on the floor dramatically, eyes flicking towards yours, which — no surprise — haven’t left the coach’s profile, and with his own groan, his cleats hit the grass starting his lap.
with the entire team running laps….you’re left alone.
coach toji doesn’t move.
instead, he leans against the fence, strong arms crossing. you’re barely a foot behind him, close enough that the scent of grass and dizzy cologne reaches you when he shifts his weight. close enough that your brain short-circuits again.
then he looks over his shoulder.
it’s not rushed or sharp. it was an easy turn of his head, his dark emerald eyes flick to you with calm, assessing. and up close, he’s worse. he’s broader than he looks from the sidelines, his stubble shadowing his jaw feels unfair for a sunday morning. sunlight catches the edge of his cheekbone, and the curve of his mouth makes you stare shamelessly especially when it lifts just slightly. he’s amused by something you’re not aware of yet and you don’t even notice.
your heart stutters.
you practically forget how to stand or how to function like a grown ass adult, instead you feel like someone who’s just had their fantasy materialize directly in front of them.
heat rushes to your face, your chest tightens, and you pray, desperately, that your expression isn’t as transparent as it feels. you focus on keeping your hands still, even as your pulse flutters wildly under your skin.
and toji’s gaze lingers. he takes you in like the way someone experienced does, without staring, without shame, just a brief glance that drifts. from your fidgeting fingers, to your necklace trapped between your pretty cleavage, to the tank top that hugs your chest, to the zip up hoodie falling off your soft shoulder. to your lips, wet from the amount of times you’d lick and bit them.
and you still don’t notice it! you’re too busy trying not to melt into the grass beneath your feet. all you register is how hot the space suddenly feels, how solid he seems standing there.
from the field, a player snickers mid-lap. a majority watching the entire interaction, waiting for someone to make a move. gojo snickers as geto analyzes.
you don’t hear any of it, all you know is that the knights are real, and he’s right in front of you, and your carefully maintained composure never stood a chance. especially when his eyes meet yours and his deep, husky, voice sinks into your bones.
“been wondering who was seein’ me like that, sweetheart.”
you were gone.
s-s-s-sweetheart!?
your heart bursts, veins burning through your skin as your lips part, words falling into the void as your brain struggles to reply.
and he finds it adorable.
college girls are cute, but you, you’re a little pervert. how many photos have you taken of him? and for the past year too? he’s wondered just like his team had, who was behind all those photos. who was oogling him while the best team in the nation was playing right before their eyes?
at first, he was bothered, confused even, how big of a stalker did you have to be to take his photos for months and not introduce yourself?
but now he sees it. the way you’re struggling to find words. the way your eyes flick between his — surprised even that you’re not shying away from eye contact, but instead, struggling to just respond. like the words are right there, but your dumb brain is getting fried just by his presence. cute.
“I’ll try an’ wink next time.”
he just hammers the nail straight into your heart. your face bursts into flames as you let out a strangled hum like whine, face burning even more. unfortunately, your audience isn’t as silent. instead a few had caught your reaction and were bursting with laughter. a few whistling at their coach.
“she’s too young for ya, coach!”
“get someone y’er own age!”
“coach, the shy ones are the freakiest!”
the last one — somehow — snapped you back to reality. your glare cut through the field, immediately hitting one of the players making him burst out laughing along with the others around him. your face pulls into a scowl, heart hammering at the teasing you’re receiving from the team. who even are they? they don’t know anything about you!
shy?! you?!!! you scowl in annoyance, eyes rollin—
“ignore em, sweetheart. they’re just being dicks.”
fuck.
your face burns hot again, heart hammering against your ribs as you stutter out another nod, fingers gripping your bag as you glance at the head coach again. his green eyes were unbelievably dark, just staring at them, you felt like you were getting dizzy.
the scar on his lip twitches up, leaning an elbow on the fence, his eyes flick down to your camera. “what kinda camera is that?”
your eyes widen, looking down like you’re surprised it’s there. but it seems like he flicks a switch in your brain with that question, because now you’re fumbling to hold the delicate thing in your hands. then you hold it out for him.
a small puff of air leaves his nose in amusement. you’re cute. he turns, reaching his hand out, just for your small ones to place the expensive camera in his. the same one you’d deny your friends from even holding, afraid they’ll drop it.
b-but if coach toji holds it…if he wants to hold it…who…who are you to stop him!!!
your blush only breaks out across your body once you feel your hands brush his, eyes so bright and big even he can see the hearts explode from your irises, fuzzy pink flowers glowing around your head like a cartoon.
“looks expensive,” he finally takes his eyes away from you to momentarily examine the camera. it was nice, sony. “bought it yourself?”
you nod, smiling as you rock on your heels. “it was…” oh first words, toji’s eyes flick to you, eyeing your glossy lips as they part. “my first big purchase,” you glance at the camera then back up at toji as you point with your manicured index finger, towards the camera. “it’s nice…right?”
well fuck me.
toji chuckles internally. he really can’t read you. from rude (to the team), to shy, to snappy (to the team), to demure, to charming—all while looking up at him like he’s some shinning knight and not a coach, albeit for the best team in the nation, but still.
his lips curl up, his internal switch already flipped when he shooed the team away, and the smooth voice of his poured out like second nature. “very nice, sweetheart.”
you nod, enthusiastically.
god, you were a cutie.
“and you take such good pictures with it too, you’re a natural,” the sweet words just keep pouring from his mouth like honey, and you’re eating up every drop. your feet manage to carry you closer to the fence…closer to him.
you wet your glossy lips, leaning close to point at the camera, “it also takes video here…I initially wanted to do more videography, but I stuck with photos. but it’s a nice perk with the camera…and I can shoot in raw and jpeg, so I can edit them afterwards if I want, and uh and I have other lenses too. this one is a fixed one, so it can’t zoom, but I have two other ones that zoom, I usually use those ones for work…like during your….games.”
your rambling was one of, if not, the most attractively adorable things you could’ve done at this moment. especially when you’re oblivious to the light flush that settles in the coach’s stomach as he eyes you down.
his gaze flicks between your fingers on the camera, and your profile from his height. your hair lightly brush’s back from the wind exposing your neck, your perfume reaching his nose.
“can I try takin’ a pic?”
your face bursts hot, you feel like it’ll melt off as you gawk up at the head coach, before nodding your head frantically, a wide smile pulling at your lips. you try to clear your throat as you turn the camera on for him and take the lens cap off.
“good?” he asks.
you just nod again, biting your cheek feeling how wide you’re smiling it almost hurts, but you can’t take your eyes off the way his big hands handle your camera. your biggest crush ever is using your camera!
you contain a squeal as he stands straight. he brings the camera to his eye, before lowering it again, confused. your eyes widen momentarily before realizing he’s struggling and quickly stepping up again.
you lean over the fence. and toji purposely avoids coming down to your height. instead, he watches you hold the fence to stand on your tippy toes, the other gently holds his wrist to ask him to lower the camera just a bit from his eye so you can instruct him. fuck, the confidence to touch him when you were just a jittery mess a second ago.
“the shutter button is here. if you half press it, it’ll auto-focus for you—“ you move to the front of the camera flipping some switch, “jus’ turned it on. but just press down all the way and it’ll take the picture,” you say, mistakenly glancing up from where you are, just to realize that coach toji’s face is inches from yours. his warm breath fans against your cheek, his scar so close, his lips right there and his eyes….
you were beyond gone. the steam immediately comes off your face as your eyes turn into big giant hearts. you’re so easy to read it should be illegal.
you fall back on your heels, allowing toji to attempt again. what you weren’t expecting was for him to point the camera at you.
well considering the wider lens, I guess he wants to shoot something closer for more satisfaction. but it caught you slightly off guard, your cheeks flame once more, heart stuttering, but your face immediately lights up.
his lips curve up behind the camera, watching you give him a cute smile, angling your head to tip to the side a bit. people that automatically smile when a camera is pointed at them is definitely a cute trait.
he takes a few quick photos, before pulling the camera back. “how do I see ‘em?”
this time he lowers the camera for you, but keeps it close to his body so you’re still leaning over and up beside him, albeit with the fence between you both.
“ah the sun was behind me,” you realize now looking at the photos. toji hums like he knows what that means (he doesn’t) but he clicks the button to go to the next picture and same thing.
“let’s do it again,” he says, already pulling the camera back, but your finger quickly reaches out, easily flipping it back to view mode before moving back. toji watches you glance up at the sky, before moving yourself in front of the sun. “smile f’er me, sweetheart.”
you were smiling, but now—toji chuckles through his nose at your reaction. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he takes one photo, than another.
your smile turns more pose worthy, not so big, but just as beautiful. “you’re a natural,” he comments, with full honesty.
your cheeks flush, waving your hand in front of you, “don’t glaze me.”
toji snorts, “jus’ saying what I see, not my fault you pose like a model.”
a model?!
toji notices the way you bite your cheek and the way your hands fidget with your bag. “put the bag down, sweetheart.”
your heart skips again, the nickname electing a response from you every time. but you oblige, setting your bag on the ground. now without anything to fidget with, your hands carefully clasp behind your back, your navy hoodie completely off your shoulder, exposing the casual white tank top. his eyes glance at the swell of your tits that your bra pushes up. and the sliver of skin that peaks at the bottom.
the wind was like a perfect accessory, blowing a warm spring breeze in your direction brushing your hair again.
you do your best to pose casually, smiling at the camera, eyes low as you stare into the lens, heart beating erratically as you wait for coach toji to finish.
your breath catches momentarily. cheeks stinging and lips parting like a deer in headlights, because you notice it. just briefly, the way toji lowers the camera from his eye, gaze tracking down your figure, eyeing your thighs, then your hips, then your tits.
he’s definitely checking you out.
you glance away, flustered, unaware that toji was now clicking the library to view the photos he’d just taken.
“I think I’m a pretty good shot,” he compliments his nonexistent skills, but the light hits you so well.
you smile watching him look at the photos. eyes glued to his lazy smirk, stomach hot and heart fluttering at his short comments. he’s so handsome, you glance at the curve of his nose, the stubble on his cheek. he’s so so pretty.
your mind was getting dizzy, all because coach toji is in front of you, but it made you completely forgetful that if he keeps clicking next, it’ll eventually reach—
“oh.”
you first notice the slight raise of his brows, then the scar on his lip twitching wider, then the greens of his eyes darkening.
“did ya’ submit these too, sweetheart?”
your brows furrow for half a second, then it clicks. you lunge forward.
this can’t be happening!
you immediately cover the screen and take the camera as you hear the coach chuckle. of course you’d forgotten that you had these on your sd card.
staring back at you is a photo of toji’s fat bulge from the game. you managed to catch the moment he reached down to itch himself, grabbing it. if he saw this one he definitely saw the three before this of the closeups of his lips, his big biceps, his ass when he was fixing his shoes.
your heart is beating in your ears, skin sizzling with embarrassment as your vision starts to narrow. your eyes flick up to the coach in horror, flustered beyond speech. “it’s not—“ you struggle to explain, “you weren’t supposed to see that. I was just taking one—then I someone bumped so like, the camera went down—“
the rambling was unlike the one before, this one was much more uncoordinated, fueled by your humiliation, anxiety, and desperate attempt at defending yourself to him, so that he doesn’t think you’re some creep.
“I wore that shirt from the match two weeks ago. not this one….” his head tilts, arms folded across his beefy chest. “why do you still have ‘em?”
the older man is quite unbothered. instead, his chest grew hot, and his mind wandered off imagining this hot college girl laying in her bed, staring at pictures of his crotch with her small fingers playing with her wet little pussy. his eyes flick to your chest again.
your eyes are wide, glancing at your camera.
“I just forgot to format the card,” you quickly reply, pretty chest rising and falling. “I always forget, and I realize after when I’m exporting the photos or run out of storage—I delete them, i-i swear!”
he snorts, head tilting, “you swear?”
you nod frantically.
his emerald eyes narrow, tongue poking out to wet his lips, touching his scar. his eyes flick to the camera in your hands. you’re quite the actor…
“okay, I’ll take your word then. you wouldn’t lie to me…?” his gaze was intimidating, the darkness of his pupils felt like a black hole pulling you in. but somehow you manage to shake your head.
“no, sir.”
toji holds eye contact, before tearing it away to reach for his phone, “good girl.”
your heart beats in your throat, threatening to tear out, but you step forward, eyes big and sad. “sorry, coach.” there’s a slight waver in your voice, the man’s eyes widen briefly, chuckling under his breath as he brings a hand up to the crown of your head.
“don’t worry about it, keep taking photos of me. ya’ make me feel important,” his comment is punctuated with a flirtatious wink, shooting another arrow straight into your heart.
you were lovestruck the entire trip home. and so unbelievably grateful.
you talked your way out of such incriminating evidence. because how could coach toji know that in truth, you have an entire album of photos just like the ones he saw, that you pull out almost every night to help you cum.
you really should be an actor, you think, blushing at the way he called you good girl. the way he looked at you, the way his fingers brushed yours on the camera —ahhhh, you bury your hot face in your hands.
you were in shock for days, heart slamming against your chest and face heating up every time you thought back to the moment.
you were so in your head that you hadn’t even noticed the two athletes walking up behind you on your way out of class, crossing the quad.
it’s like that thing that happens. when you’re finally introduced to someone for the first time, then you’re suddenly seeing them everywhere. that’s how geto and gojo felt. you’d been under their noses the entire time.
with a lecture of over two hundred students, of course they’d spot you when you entered today. gojo elbowed his friend, nodding in your direction. geto’s eyes nearly popped.
“what the hell?” geto leans forward, the two men closely watch you enter the lecture hall, walking a few rows down before slipping in. geto’s eyes narrow at the camera you carefully place in your lap as you take out your ipad.
it was like the cards were being dealt out for him perfectly.
“wait, I don’t get it,” gojo huffs catching up to his friend as the lecture hall empties.
geto tsks, “what’s not to get? I’m gonna bribe her into taking photos of me next game. I’m fucking tired of being some fucking blur—“
“you’ve gotten some photos man—“
“well i want more. ones where I’m actually scoring,” geto huffs, brushing his bang back in frustration.
once the two men hit the pavement outside, they spot you. gojo is tagging along for the fun, while geto is set on a mission. one he conjured up mid-lecture the second he saw you. it was perfect. genius—
“what?” your face scrunches in mild disgust. the two men baffle at your reaction, especially at the way you’re looking up at them with narrow, and irritated eyes. your expression isn’t hard to decipher, it’s basically screaming, why tf are you talking to me?
geto licks his teeth, exhaling through his nose, “you heard me fine, sweetheart—“
“don’t call me that.”
his jaw clenches, repeating his line without the pet name. “the next two games are the semifinals and then the finals, so I’ll give you access through our manager to join press during the media window two days before the matches—“
“I already have access to that through the school paper,” you give him a look, immediately ticking him off.
“let me fucking finish will you—“
“you’re taking forever and I’m being cornered,” you snap back, rolling your eyes at the pretentious athlete. geto bites his tongue, as gojo gasps.
“you’re not being cornered!” he states, just to exchange a look with geto as they both see that they’ve steered you off the pavement and against a tree. “no—we’re just talking.”
you exhale, glancing back at geto, “whatever, just finish.”
geto licks his lips, continuing, “you’ll also get access to our locker room strategy meeting or whatever, and behind the scenes access — you only do photos, no video or interviews?”
you shake your head, heart beating just a little quicker because now you’re starting to see the perks. bts access is the one thing university teams can deny since they don’t like any outsiders butting into their strategies or taking them out of “the zone.”
that also means you can see….coach toji.
gojo and geto both notice the realization crossing your face, especially when your lips part, much more glossy than before. unbelievable.
“but,” geto snaps you back, your eyes darting up to meet his, “you better take some good fucking shots of me during the game. if I’m not in the fucking paper and insta page, then no deal.”
you gasp, “dude, you’re literally acting like I’m the one in charge of that?? it’s my editor that picks the photos to put in the articles.”
geto tsks, “yet somehow coach is in every single one.” your jaw clenches, stomach heating up. “take more photos of me so it’s inevitable. got it?”
your lip curls in annoyance, eyeing geto, just for gojo to suddenly but in—
“but also take some of me, i look so hot in them and i like reposting them on my insta,” gojo flashes you a smile.
your frown deepens, “there’s other photographers. you guys know that right?”
“yours are the only ones they choose and they look better than whoever took sukuna’s,” gojo snorts, remembering their captains complaints.
nevertheless, geto and gojo wait for you to agree, both men standing with their arms crossed, blocking the spring sun from hitting you.
then a certain captain happens to pass by, noticing his two teammates, and frat brothers.
“the fuck are you guys doing?”
the men whip their heads as sukuna steps up, bag slung over his shoulder wearing a backwards baseball cap. and with a quick explanation from his friends, sukuna tsks glancing at you and adding.
“coach always showers before or after our games.”
and it was that one bit of information that automatically has you saying: “deal.”
—
you don’t rush setting up. you check your flash, bouncing it once off the ceiling to make sure it won’t wash anyone out. your fingers move with muscle memory, standing in these rooms plenty of times for the school paper, along with other journalists from the school paper especially for media days, post-game scrums, pre-season press.
so this isn’t new territory.
the room is packed, though. there’s national outlets mingling with campus press, and clusters of journalists already talking. you hear familiar phrases float past as you move, many talking about the teams unbeaten streak, their goal differentials, their historic season.
familiar names are easily getting tossed around. captain sukuna coming up first, always, and his leadership, and the way he commands the field. gojo’s speed follows after, and his natural talent and eye for goals, then geto’s consistency, his intelligence and composure. someone mentions scouts again, plural this time, and how a few clubs have been hovering around those three all season.
you barely react because you’ve heard all of this before, and it was impressive of course, you enjoy it. however, what does get you, embarrassingly, is his name.
every time coach toji is mentioned—his tactics, his discipline, the way he rebuilt the program and incorporated new strategies —you feel heat creep up your neck. it’s a soft and traitorous blush that you’re grateful no one’s looking closely enough to notice you smiling.
you keep your eyes on your camera, pretending to fiddle with a setting you don’t actually need to adjust, reminding yourself that he’s just part of the team. a very effective, very respected part of it.
then finally, the noise dips and the conversations fade into an expectant quiet as the side door opens.
the players file in first, with sukuna at the front, expression unreadable, gojo already grinning, geto calm and observant as ever. everyone’s cameras lift, and recorders click on. and then he steps in behind them.
coach toji, in a suit.
your face breaks into a hot mess, heart skipping a beat as you eye him through your lens. it fits him too well. dark, sharp, shoulders filling it out like it was tailored perfectly. no team jacket today, no morning stumble. no, he looked clean, with polished shoes, and authority. he guides the team forward eyes sweeping the room calmly.
your flash fires once, professionalism wavering again. how can it not when your knight is walking into the room and reminding you exactly how out of reach he is.
the entire team easily spots you in the front row for the first time. your charm hangs from your camera strap, along with the little sticker on your godox flash. they all know who you are now, so their wasn’t any hiding the way they’d purposely glance at your camera lens, giving you their best shots.
many of the questions are being directed towards the coach, your eyes focus on his reaction, lens zooming close as he rolls his dress shirt over his forearms. your camera flashes and your cheeks warm. you do this every time. acting like it’s your first time seeing the coach in a suit even though he wears one every semifinals press. but you can’t help it!
journalists throw questions without breath, firing rounds until the set time is up.
“photographers only, please.”
the room clears out fast. chairs scrape back, and laptops snap shut. you step forward instinctively, already lifting your camera. the players shift back into place. sukuna straightens, his expression resetting into something stoic. gojo cracks a joke under his breath that earns him a look. geto adjusts his sleeves, calm as ever.
toji moves standing just off to the side at first, arms crossed, smooth dress shirt crinkling over his taut muscles, and unforgiving across his shoulders.
the manager gestures. “let’s get the team all together first.”
cameras flash as the team pose, all in their uniform. you move easily getting their shots, unaware of the emerald eyes watching your every move.
coach toji noticed you the minute he stepped into the room. however, he remained composed, knowing how many eyes were on him. but now, his eyes sweep over your figure.
your grey dress pants hugging that right ass, and those hips. the tight dress shirt hugged your frame, with the top buttons undone allowing some of your cleavage to be revealed along with your necklace stack. business casual, but he’s sure half the team is looking at your tits. your pretty anklet catching the light as you move in your kitten heels.
“coach with sukuna,” the manager says.
toji steps forward.
you track him without thinking, framing the shot as he places a hand lightly at sukuna’s back, guiding him a half-step to the left. your shutter clicks, noticing how easily he steps into your frame, how naturally he fills it. his height just a hair taller than the hot headed captain, at least in your eyes.
“alright, another group photo,” the manager says.
toji turns, motioning the players in with two fingers. his eyes briefly catch yours making your eyes widen. the team clusters around their coach, heads bowed slightly, listening even though there’s nothing to hear. he speaks low anyway. you circle to the side, careful, capturing the curve of his shoulder, the way his jaw tightens when he focuses.
toji’s gaze lifts again, slow and deliberate, landing on you.
why does he keep doing that?!
it’s brief. just a glance that lingers a fraction longer, his eyes flick from your face to the camera in your hands and back again, like he’s remembering the photos he saw on your camera.
you feel heat blooming under your skin, pulse kicking hard enough to throw you off guard. you steady your hands, inhaling subtly, pretending you don’t feel the way the air shifts when he turns slightly…when he ends up closer than before, just at the edge of your frame.
“okay, we’re good,” the manager calls.
the team breaks, the players disperse, but toji stays put for a beat longer, adjusting his sleeve, posture relaxed again, unreadable.
you lower your camera only when it’s over, breath leaving you in a quiet rush you didn’t realize you were holding. you don’t see him glance at you when you step back to check your photos. you also don’t notice the small, satisfied curve of his mouth.
not until you’re feeling a gentle, firm, hand on your waist, and a low voice right against your ear, “say hi next time. you’re not a stranger anymore.”
your body immediately catches on fire, eyes snapping to the man like a magnet, heart slamming against your ribs as you watch him pull back, emerald eyes meeting yours.
“right, sweetheart?”
your face stings, as you nod quickly, heat pooling deep in your stomach, feeling his thumb caress your hip over your shirt. your lips part, mind dizzy as you glance as his strong forearms, he’s towering over you, slightly leaning down to speak to you in quiet whispers.
“I’ll see c’ya tomorrow, yeah,” he gives your waist a squeeze as he greets you with a kiss to your cheek like some gentleman. then he walks away. and if you weren’t a mess before, the casual glance he shoots over his shoulder has a third arrow piercing your heart.
you couldn’t contain it anymore. you were consumed by this man. every waking thought was spent daydreaming about him— his voice, his eyes, his hands, his demeanor. it was intoxicating.
all for you to show up in the lockerroom, the next day, hours before the match. the team is either dressed in their uniforms, or still shirtless, huddling around the white board as they prep for the game.
geto was the second to notice you, after gojo. both their eyes twinkling as they walk up to you. “they gave you the pass,” geto nods to the press badge around your neck.
you nod, glancing around the lockerroom. it felt tense, the aura suspenseful as the time ticks closer to when they walk onto the pitch.
“get your vip shots, but you better get my photo,” geto hushes in your ear.
“and mine!” gojo blurts, just as a certain coach is stepping out of the steam.
and you feel it. the towel wrapped low around his waist, skin still slick with water that traces unhurried paths down his sculpted torso. his hair is darker when it’s wet, heavier, droplets slide from it and disappear along the hard lines of his shoulders.
your eyes catch his muscles moving when he walks, hard mass, that shifts beneath skin without effort. you swallow thickly, body heating up, stomach fluttering as you catch the trail of dark coarse hair leading down from his navel, and disappearing beneath the towel. your eyes follow it to the bulge you know is under there. your cheeks sting at the thought of it.
you were utterly shameless. as if the two men standing beside aren’t still talking to you. but they immediately recognize the shift in your attitude and notice the steam leaving your face. gojo stifles a laugh, as geto sighs. you’re hopeless.
your eyes follow the scars you’ve never seen before. the old pale marks catch the light, etched across his side, his pecs, and back, proof of some life before this one. then he turns just enough and your heart stutters, and your panties soak.
ink blooms along his ribs where the towel dips. the tattoos are sharp and intimate, black against his skin that’s still flushed from the heat. you’ve photographed him dozens of times, from every angle, but you’ve never seen a peak of a tattoo.
“how wet are you right now?”
the comment snaps you back, glaring straight at the crystal ocean eyes narrowed in amusement.
“don’t talk to me like that,” you huff, “I’m working.” your attitude really is night and day when it comes to anyone else and toji.
gojo blushes, “I love mean girls.”
you roll your eyes.
“what’re you two doing? get the fuck over here,” sukuna snaps.
the team huddles as the fifteen minute timer starts. and that’s what you should be photographing, but instead you glance back. toji is now pulling up his pants, wet hair still dripping down the expanse of his back. his eyes catch yours for a second, gaze flicking to your camera, taunting…
his hand subtly cups his crotch, squeezing his girth just to present you with a size, one that has your lips parting with a shaky exhale, heart pounding as you glance between his emerald eyes and the way his forearms flex when he fixes the waistband of his boxers, pulling the material down just a bit that you catch more of the thick patch of hair at his base seeing a peak of it, before he’s fixing himself again.
and once he zips his pants up, glancing at the team as they huddle for some words from the captain before coach steps in, toji walks to you. just a few feet away, your eyes widen in surprise, heart stuttering as you watch him lean down to greet you with a kiss to your cheek, again!
he’s acting like you’re familiar even though this is just your third interaction with him…but maybe you are…
“thought I told you to say hi next time,” he says against your ear, pulling away.
your face heats up, “you were….changing.”
“so?”
you gulp, eyes flicking between his, heart pounding. he’s so close. your breath catches when his scent hits your nose, sandalwood, oak and something deeper under it. his stubble is darker than yesterday, rougher along his jaw, and you realize you’ve been staring for too long when the heat creeps up your neck.
he doesn’t move away though, he stands beside you, attention forward on sukuna as he speaks. focused, and so aware of you’re attention he has to hold back a smirk. and maybe he doesn’t mind messing with you, so his hand remains at your lower back, light, almost absent, but there.
your stomach flips, attention gone. you try to listen, you do. sukuna is talking about positioning, about discipline, about not getting sloppy or something and the room is locking in around you, everyone leaning in. these would be great photos—but all you can think about is how close he is.
how his hand hasn’t moved, every small shift makes your pulse jump. you keep your eyes forward. you don’t trust yourself to look at him again.
and that gives toji the opportunity to take you in. his pupils dilate just a fraction as his gaze travels down your body. his eyes zero in on the multiple open buttons of your tight dress shirt. you’re not even hiding yourself, and the sliver of skin that peaks between your pants and shirt doesn’t help.
his hand remains over your clothes, heat settling in his stomach when you take a deeper breath and your tits push up, and his eyes shamelessly look down your shirt from his towering height. fuck, he wants a look at that pretty ass too—
“coach! you’re up!” sukuna’s voice cuts through everything, snapping toji back. your gaze whips with it, catching him off guard as you wait for his next move like anything he touches is gold.
he controls himself, giving your waist that same squeeze before his hand leaves you just like that.
you push down the feeling that hits immediately, sharp and cold. but now you can finally breathe properly when he steps away. he moves past the players without rushing — a few of the boys let their eyes roam over you— toji adjusts his sleeve ignoring the feeling bubbling up when he notices them. and then he’s at the front.
he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to now, but he usually gets to that point around the halfway mark. but this was the first time you’re seeing him speak in private…and when he speaks, they all listen—every single one of them.
gojo notices, gossip second nature to him. but the quick glance your way already has a grin tugging at his mouth before he nudges geto. geto follows his gaze, then sukuna does too, just briefly—and it’s obvious. painfully obvious. the way your expression softens, the way your attention doesn’t wavers. it’s written all over you.
“she’s actually really hot,” gojo comments.
though you wish you could stand there forever, the time finally comes for the team to head to the pitch, and that’s when the chaos begins.
not just on the field…but off it.
the press box is packed, bodies press against you shoulder to shoulder. the field below is relentless. everything fast, and aggressive, and loud enough that the noise bleeds through everything. you always forget how overstimulating and exhilarating semifinal matches are. but you remember the deal you made with the three stars.
your camera moves with them, tracking their plays, snapping multiple shots of them without hesitation, and then catching the moment when things go wrong...
sukuna gets taken down hard during a penalty shot—and there’s no whistle. no call.
you’re already shooting when the other team pushes, then scores, and the stadium erupts, but sukuna is on his feet, shouting. the goal should be discounted. the captain was known to be a hot head, but even you could see that the tackle he received was completely brushed off by the ref and he was right.
everyone watches as the team moves forward in defense of sukuna, but also holding him back. the other side meets them just as hard. the crowd shouts as they watch the players shove, yell, and slam into each other—and through it all you keep shooting. you catch toji too, voice cutting through the chaos as he orders his players to pull sukuna back.
the press talk amongst themselves as halftime quickly breaks up the argument. your feet quickly carry you out of the press box, towards the locker room.
“no locker room access.”
your jaw tightens immediately irritation flaring hot and sharp.
“I have a different badge,” you show the security guard your press ID. the one geto gave you.
“no press allowed, do i need to repeat myself?” the man snaps.
your irritation ticks at your side. fine. whatever. the second you step back, your mind is already running, already circling back to geto. you scoff under your breath, shaking your head as you pace along the corridor, camera swinging lightly at your side.
seriously? all that talk, all that stupid ass convincing, and for what? you were supposed to be there. that was the whole point! you roll your eyes, heat building the longer you think about it, every step feeding into this petty irritation instead of cooling it. were you overreacting —yes, but whatever—if he’s not holding up his end, then why should you?
by the time you make it back up, you’re done. done thinking about it, done entertaining it, done with their stupid deal.
the second half starts and you fall back into rhythm. camera up, focus sharp, and attention on only one thing now, the ball….
gojo and geto drift near the press box occasionally, clearly expecting something, acknowledgment, a photo, but you don’t even bat an eye. not a look, not a flicker, hell, they might as well not exist.
it’s almost satisfying. almost.
the final whistle blows and the stadium erupts, the first leg ended in a draw, preparing for next game to see who’ll continue. cameras around you go wild, capturing every second of it. the quiet annoyance of both teams, the noise in the crowd. but you don’t. you lower yours, expression flat, already turning away. it’s petty. a little unfair, but still, you walk.
“you’re not coming to the locker room?” gojo’s voice follows you, footsteps quick behind yours as you head in the opposite direction.
“why would i?” you snap, sharp, not even slowing. “am i even allowed,” there’s an obvious clip in your tone that has gojo confused.
“what’re you talking about?”
“deal’s off.”
huh?!????
gojo barely has time to react, before you’re walking away.
baffled and utterly confused, gojo makes his way back to the locker rooms. the energy is stiff, sukuna is grumbling under his breath about how embarrassing it was to end their first leg in a draw, geto is lounged beside his bag scrolling on his phone, and toji is in the corner talking to the managers. ugh, does no one care that their personal photographer isn’t taking photos of them???
they do care.
especially when the next paper comes out and the article is filled with photos taken by other people, not you!
“WHY THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE THAT!??” sukuna shouts, entire body fumming as they all sit outside during practice. sukuna is not the only one pissed, geto is practically seething because there isn’t even a single photo of him or gojo.
“what is this girl’s problem?! i thought you idiots made a deal with her?!” sukuna snaps, already in a foul mood, but now it’s worse.
geto licks his teeth, jaw ticking, “we did.”
“I told you guys she was pissed that she didn’t come in during halftime,” gojo throws, as if anyone was listening to him after their shitty match.
“so she throws a tantrum because she didn’t see coach’s dick during halftime?” sukuna clips.
“she looked super hot when she was all pissed though,” gojo throws, “she’d definitely go for me after she realizes how old coach is.”
“what’s wrong with you?” geto rolls his eyes, confused how gojo can talk about your looks when you screwed them over. even if he maybe also finds you attractive, it doesn’t negate your shitty attitude.
gojo throws his hands up in defensive, “I’m just calling dibs now.”
toji, just a few feet away, strides over after noticing the group no longer doing drills. “what’s the hold up!” he grunts, also in a shit mood because of the embarrassing match and then overheating what gojo had said.
“your stalker fucked us over,” geto snaps, eyes burning into the school paper. “she didn’t even get a pic of you.”
gojo’s eyes light up, “oh shit, yeah—she’s definitely over you!”
the paper then hits toji’s chest, his brows furrowing as he holds it up. his eyes glance over the sports section, and just as geto had stated, there wasn’t a single photo of him, unless you’re counting the wide shot of the field and you see him standing in the corner, but it definitely was a starch contrast from the streak you’d created.
“so?” toji tosses the paper like it’s nothing, “you guys playing for the cameras or because you want to win?!”
the men baffled, gasp and scoff. “we want to win!”
“then get off your fucking asses! I don’t have time to be doing this shit with you all!” he snaps aggressively, uncharacteristically pissed off, whether it’s because of the teams misdirected frustrations, or something else. either way, the school paper is long forgotten beside their bags and the team is splitting into practice teams.
it doesn’t matter…
it doesn’t matter that you made a deal with suguru geto and satoru gojo. and the captain pushed you to seal that deal with the information about coach — and they broke it. none of it matters! you still should’ve taken those photos, especially when you’re receiving an earful from your editor, and then sulking through the week of classes.
“what’s your problem,” your friend, shoko, cuts in, snapping you back to the campus day festival. you were once again sulking on the picnic bench, ice cream melting in the cup as you stare off.
“you’re gonna get annoyed…” you mutter, brows pinched in agony.
for most passing by, they immediately steered clear of you, not only did you carry a lethal rbf, your words of “agony” really translates to, you’ll rip someone’s head off and if looks could kill, everyone would be dead. it was quite funny, considering how you’re pretty sweet when you want to be, shoko quietly thinks. still, most would rather avoid you, thanking the heavens that you stay behind the camera so you don’t interact directly with people.
“don’t start,” shoko groans, piecing together the not so subtle mystery.
you frown, “i didn’t even say anything!” you whine even more, glaring at your ice cream. your pretty camera sits on the table beside you, collecting dust when you should be photographing this event. “I just screwed myself over,” your tongue laps at the dripping ice cream.
“agreed.”
your glare snaps to your friend, to which she brushes off with a shrug.
“you should’ve taken those photos,” she starts.
“I know…”
“then you would’ve made your editor happy,”
“I know…”
“and then you wouldn’t have to do this event.”
“I know.”
“and you’d have more weird pictures of coach toji.”
your heart drops. eyes snapping to shoko. “what?!”
shoko goes mute. suddenly realizing what she said. “nothing.”
“pictures?” you repeat, “I have weird pictures of the coach?? I don’t—why would you even say that??“ you’re not subtle at all. and shoko feels guilty at your horrible lying skills, but still…she confesses…
“you uploaded photos to your drive, when we’d study together,” she tries to hold in her laugh as heat crawls up your neck, “like more than once.”
you glance away, eyes flicking over your camera, “that’s it?”
shoko raises a brow. “yeah…what do you mean?”
you look back, “like that’s how you know, it’s not like you heard from someone else or anything?”
shoko shakes her head, “no, who else would know?”
your cheeks are burning at this point, and it was written all over your face now. the realization hit shoko in seconds. “no…” you’re silent. “does the coach know about your photos?”
you don’t want to make eye contact.
“how?!!”
even though it happened days ago, why is it now starting to feel even more embarrassing. maybe because of your cool headed friends reaction— “it was an accident.”
“how did he find out though?” shoko pushes.
you cringe, “well…” you swallow, “when I first spoke to him, remember…” shoko nods, “I let him use my camera because he was interested.” you pause, reliving the humiliation all over again. “then he kept swiping to see the pics, and just found them…” your hands slap your face, “that’s not bad!”
shoko is getting second hand embarrassment, “dude.”
“STOP IM GONNA KILL MYSELF!!” you cry out, humiliation seeping from your pores.
shoko is trying not to laugh, but it’s quite hard not too, especially when you’re groaning like that. “what was his reaction?”
“I obviously said it was an accident, and he was like whatever and seemed fine,” you explain quickly, trying to cool the situation. “It’s not bad!”
“okay okay!!” shoko laughs, trying to calm your reaction. however, shoko knows about your huge crush, what she didn’t know is about a deal her two friends made with you. heck, she didn’t even know that you interacted with them. not until those two men are standing directly behind you, sweaty and pissed. “what the hell—“
“I guess you don’t know how to keep your word,” geto spits, bag dropping aggressively on the bench beside you.
you jump, then, your eyes flick over your shoulder, immediately rolling them when you see them. you turn back to shoko.
geto snaps. “there wasn’t a single photo of us!”
“not my problem,” you scoff, attitude returning in seconds, shoko completely used to it. but she’s shocked that you know gojo and geto. “not like you guys even played well.”
gojo’s vein bulges, “we played fucking good, we didn’t lose!”
“you didn’t win,” you shrug, cold.
that’s when gojo and geto both glance up at shoko. shock crossing their expressions. “you know her?!” they both point down at you.
shoko raises a brow, “she’s my friend.”
“she’s a bitch—“ geto spits, just to receive the worst glare of his life from you, but he just rolls his eyes. “how the fuck do you know each other?”
“I just told you she’s my friend. you’re the ones that screwed her over.” shoko takes your side.
gojo gasps, “we didn’t screw her over! she screwed us over! you saw the paper this week—not a single highlight!”
you glance at shoko, ignoring the men behind you, “how do you know them?”
“we went to high school together,” shoko throws with a bored wave.
frustrated, geto straddles the bench facing you, his hand falls on top of your camera, immediately making you snap your attention to him.
“hey—“
“listen. our deal was that you get access and then we get photos, you didn’t finish your job,” he keeps a grip on your camera. shoko frowns.
“you guys didn’t give me access—i got like ten minutes before the match, then I couldn’t even go in during halftime where everyone was pissed, so what’s the point?” you snap, getting in his face.
“the point is that has nothing to do with me!” geto shouts, your eyes pierce his in two, but neither of you back down.
“it literally does though!”
“guys,” shoko and gojo attempt at intervening, but neither of you will back down. especially when geto won’t let go of your camera.
“let go,” you seethe, hand on the camera as geto flexes, grip strengthening around it.
your heart pounds against your chest, the hot spring sun beats over the four of you, sweat building on your neck while geto scoffs. “you better take those photos of us this week—“
“or what?” you glare, “are you seriously threatening me?” you were dripping with ego and confidence, except for the fact that your eyes kept darting to your camera, your poor, expensive, beautiful camera—
“is this your first time being threatened—“
“the fuck.”
the deep, intimidating voice breaks the argument in seconds. geto’s eyes widen as he feels the gravity taken away from him and being lifted off the seat. the collar of his jersey tightens around none other than toji’s brutal grip.
your eyes break into hearts, grasping your camera before it clatters back on the table, glancing up to see geto gripping his coach’s forearm.
“since when do you fucking shout at girls. you?!” toji barks, baffled. sukuna sure, gojo maybe, but geto?!
“I wasn’t fucking shouting, we were talking,” geto tsks, neck red from embarrassment.
toji shoves him back. geto slams on the bench. you hadn’t realized it but they all looked like they just finished practice, geto and gojo both still in practice uniforms and duffle bags, and coach toji wearing his usual black cargos, and that compression shirt that left nothing to the imagination.
geto scowls, rubbing his back in pain.
“you were shouting, that’s why i came over—“
“she was shouting at me!”
“so what!?”
the table is quiet. a few passerby’s glance over before quickly walking away. it isn’t a shock to know how unbelievably hot your face is right now. especially when coach toji continues his stern lecture to geto.
“you’re defending some girl that can’t keep her word, mind you,” geto mutters, flashing you a glare—his breath catches. you’re not even looking at him!! shoko stifles another laugh along with gojo, because you really were, truly, unbelievable.
how can you look at someone like that?!? like he’s some idol?! him! a musty ass college coach?!
but none of it mattered, not when toji’s attention shifts to you!!! a warm heat floods between your legs, as your lips part. then suddenly, you glance away…
“I actually did shout too…” you confess, taking accountability. “and kinda screwed them over.”
gojo, geto, and shoko, stare at you in shock.
toji sighs, like some grown ass man (which he is), his hand settles on his hip as the other scratches his hair like he’s surrounded by immature children and figuring out what the fuck to do with you all. so he decides to confess too…
“i told security not to allow any outsiders.”
your heart drops.
“including you.”
oh shit.
the three audience members immediately glance at you, and what none of them, not a single one, expected, is to suddenly see the your eyes tear up.
toji felt a sharp twist in his gut, eyes widening for a moment, before sighing. “it wasn’t personal.”
your throat feels dry, unable to look away until now. a tear hits your camera. “how is that not personal,” you whisper, bottom lip trembling.
shoko’s brows pinch in hurt, at least out of everyone, she knows how much and how long you’ve liked this man. and then sulking and now— she knows you’re absolutely shattered.
“I needed the team to focus, and you’re press,” he states like some cold fact, and that hurt even more.
your grip tightens on the camera. “but…” your not a stranger anymore…. but you can’t get the words out…your heart pounds loudly in your ears, the heat surrounding you felt suffocating, and your head was growing dizzier by the second. and the only thing spinning in your mind was how fucking embarrassing this is.
“don’t be upset.”
you manage a small nod, though another tear falls on the camera, and your body freezes. “how can i not be upset?” your small voice catches toji off guard.
you’re standing up, eyes hot with tears, walking past the esteemed coach.
“wait,” he catches your wrist, “if you have something to say don’t just run away.”
you’re fuming, your pretty chest rises and falls, the disappointment turning into built up anger, “I don’t have anything to say right now, and it’s stupid—“ your hand twists in his grip. “let go.”
he does.
you’re practically heaving, tempted to turn away, especially when the dryness in your throat gets worse. the stinging behind your eyes burns like hell as you try to rip your gaze away from the towering man. you really are stupid…
toji wets his lip, head tilting as if disinterested, but the cooling in his chest says otherwise. why does he have a weak spot for women?
“we can talk.”
his words hang in the air. a silent, open invitation for her. it’s a clear sign of his guilt for making this cute college girl cry. he was too blunt, forgetting she isn’t one of his boys.
your hand comes up to the bridge of your nose, quietly recentering yourself as this older coach watches. your shoulders rise with a deep exhale, then inhale.
pull yourself together…
you nod. cute.
you swallow the embarrassing lump in your throat, clearing your throat. “can we talk while walking…I have to work,” your usual clipped tone used for everyone except him, comes out, but he can hear the slight shakiness.
“sure.”
gojo, geto, and shoko are left in utter shock. it’s not until you and toji completely disappear into the crowd, do they slowly exchange looks.
“what…”
“the fuck,” geto finishes shoko’s sentence.
gojo stares baffled, “did we just set them up?!”
geto’s brow jumps up, “why is he always saving her like some knight?? and he was the one that screwed us all over!!”
gojo shakes his head in agreement, “nah for real, what the hell, blaming us but it’s all him.”
geto slouches back in the picnic table, rolling his eyes. “still,” he tsks, “she didn’t have to be so bitchy and not take our pictures. isn’t it her fucking job—“
“hey!”
“ow!” geto feels a slap upside the head from brunette, her eyes harsh. “what the hell!”
“don’t call girls bitches what’s wrong with you?!” shoko huffs, baffled by geto’s attitude.
gojo snickers beside the man, “he’s been like this since he met her.”
“I haven’t,” he grits, rolling his eyes at the thought of you. “she’s just a—she just gets on my nerves.”
“really because she reminds me of you,” shoko cuts him off. geto’s eyes widen, as gojo breaks into a loud laugh.
“WHAT?!”
“oh god BAHAHA she does!” gojo’s obnoxious laugh sounds like knives stabbing his ears.
shoko hums, “she has that rbf look, intimidating, very blunt, but also so cute with her friends.”
“cute?” geto frowns.
gojo smiles, “it comes out when you’re hanging out with ussss.” gojo and shoko dramatically strike a cute pose. geto tsks.
the campus was packed with students and faculty roaming to booths and small events. it was the university’s 102nd anniversary, and as memorable as it is for the students to enjoy the activities during this nice spring day, you couldn’t bring yourself to give a shit.
not only did your editor scream at you all week, still pissed about the shit photos you took during the match, he also threatened removal if you didn’t take good photos during this event. and now, after sulking with shoko, then procrastinating some more, you decided you’d be able to take such fanatic pictures while your idol and crush trails beside you….sure.
toji lets out another sigh, hands in his pockets as he stands to your left watching you snap some shots of laughing students beside a booth.
“it’s not a big deal,” you mutter, behind the camera. toji notices the twitch in your fingers. “I overreacted, so it’s whatever.”
toji wets his lip, “sukuna and a couple others jus’ get jumpy with cameras.”
you hum, looking at the photos you just took. “I understand.”
“I didn’t know about this deal you did with geto,” toji admits, hand instinctively coming to your waist and guiding you away from some unaware boys shouting and laughing. your cheeks flush, stepping away from his hand. toji notices. “we didn’t have a good game anyways.”
“I know, so it whatever. not a big deal,” you sigh, heat crawling up your neck. this is so embarrassing, so embarrassing! ugh you really don’t know how to keep a cool head at all when it comes to this coach. you overreacted during the match, then blamed geto for screwing you over, then almost cried because the coach locked you out on purpose, and now—
“I feel bad.”
your heart stops.
toji glances at your manicured nails holding your camera, your cute necklaces dangling on your exposed chest, cleavage glistening from the heat. but then his eyes flick up, and you’re staring at him like he’s holding the entire world.
“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” his voice is softer, gentler, nothing like how you’ve heard him for months, shouting, harsh. your stomach heats up, face stinging.
his hand, unexpectedly, comes up, feeling your hair between his fingers. “you work hard, and all your pictures come out so nice…” the compliment hits your heart. “but I couldn’t risk the boys getting distracted.”
your face suddenly twists, lips pursing and jutting out just a bit, your brows pinch. your dewy makeup makes you look like a fucking doll, he thinks. “I was jus’ gonna take photos in the corner, not interview them,” you reply harshly.
“you saw how they are when they talk to you,” he cuts in. your brow quirks, noticing his sharp inhale. “sweetheart, you’re hot.”
your face bursts into flames, pupils turning to literal swirls, and brain getting fried in seconds.
what?!
your reaction was priceless. toji controls his smirk, thumb brushing your adorable cheek, glancing at your glossy lips then your eyes. “I know you’re a professional, but most of those boys aren’t, y’ understand?”
you nod, cheeks sizzling, you’re surprised his thumb isn’t burning.
“so you see why I couldn’t allow you in the locker room then, and i won’t next time,” he watches you nod again. god, you’re fucking precious.
then, your tongue wets your bottom lip before speaking… “are they the only ones that would’ve been distracted?”
shit. can a grown man really pop a boner that fast?
toji’s chest heats up, glancing between your pretty eyes filled with hope. this isn’t the first time a younger girl has crushed on him, and it also isn’t the first time he’s nice to one. but what really got him, is the way you’re maintaining eye contact, almost afraid to look away, and you’re holding your ground against him.
“no,” he admits, “they’re not the only ones.”
oh. your lips curve into a smile toji hasn’t seen before, and his hand flexes in response. you look like you’re going to eat him alive right there, and he’d let you, no questions asked—
“that’s good to hear,” you pull away. you touch your heated cheek with the back of your hand, wetting your lip as you glance over the coach’s flushed face. “your cheeks are red.”
what?! his eyes bulge, catching you off guard as you break into a loud laugh.
“tch,” he looks away, his own hand rubbing down his face. it really is burning out here. but even so, his emerald eyes look through his fingers at this pretty college girl laughing at him and he doesn’t know why his chest warms at the sight.
“I can buy you ice cream. I feel bad now that you had to explain yourself when I was just being the unprofessional one,” you start, already leading him to the nearest ice cream booth.
your camera hangs over your shoulder as you point to your favorite flavor than glance up at him, he points at the cookies n cream. “oh! I love cookies n cream,” you say, reaching for your phone to pay.
ding.
your eyes widen as toji pays instead.
“wha—it was supposed to be my treat, man,” you huff, accepting the cone he gives you, hand on your lower back as he guides you away from the booth. neither of you batting an eye to the multiple people gawking at the renowned coach of their soccer team, walking around with the hot, rude, student photographer.
“as if I’d let you pay,” he snorts.
your brows pinch as you take a lick of your ice cream, the cool sensation leveling your body temperature. your eyes narrow at him as he enjoys his ice cream, grateful to have something that cools the heat building up under his skin. “so not fair,” you mutter.
“how come?”
the two of you walk across the quad, sun still beating down.
“I wanted to use it as an apology,” you say, “I said that.”
“you don’t need to apologize,” he shrugs, casual, unbothered. you huff again. this time toji smiles, scar twitching up. “you can pay next time.”
your heart skips a beat, stomach doing a stupid flip.
“….next time.”
toji catches the smile behind your cone, his eyes trailing over the ice cream coating your tongue, your pretty hand wrapped around the waffle as your bracelets clank around your wrists.
“there’s other things you need to apologize for,” he coolly says, finding a bench and dropping his weight, eyeing you as you sit close beside him. unashamed.
your brow quirks, eyes narrowing, full body facing him, “what other things?”
toji shrugs, “we can talk about it next time.”
“but I can’t just be left in suspense, that’ll give me anxiety?!”
toji snorts, loud. his big tongue is finishing the ice cream so quick he’s already eating the cone. “don’t be anxious,” he says with his mouth full.
you tsk, rolling your eyes, and you don’t notice the twinkle in the older coach’s eyes. he can definitely see geto’s point about your attitude, but if he leans over—
your eyes go wide. stomach flipping.
he takes a bold bite of your ice cream, emerald eyes shut, and thick lashes kissing his flushed cheeks. your heart feels like it’ll break from your ribs, then, he opens his eyes. he doesn’t pull away yet, instead his tongue cleans his lips, humming in low delight. the heat around you wasn’t helping your own body temperature as it skyrockets.
“taste’s sweeter than mine,” his voice his huskier than before, catching you by surprise, and the heat pools between your legs.
“i—“ you can’t even form words! your eyes won’t tear away from his lips, and your chest is moving erratically because he’s so close.
“do you want a taste of mine. I took a bite without asking yo—“
his words cut the minute your lips press against his.
shock prevents him from reacting, eyes going wide. you gave in so quick, sure he was teasing, but still. he could feel the certainty in your kiss, along with the warmth, and anxiety. after a long ten seconds you pull away—
you pant against his lips, chest rising and falling, brain scrambled. “i jus’…” your heart is beating loudly in your ears. mind trying to keep up with what your body just did. you kissed him. you kissed the coach. the one you’ve been idolizing and photographing for months—
“we can do it again.” his free hand tilts your chin up, lips hovering over yours again. his breath is warm. “kiss me.”
you do.
this time you’re a little bolder. your lips connect with his, soft again, sucking his bottom lip, skillfully. slowly. he brushes your jaw with his thumb, humming in delight just like he did with the ice cream. but the sound goes straight to your core. completely unbothered by the rowdiness of the uni day activities around you. your free hand rests on his thigh, leaning more into the kiss.
“open,” you murmur against his lips. you can feel the the shit-eating smirk that breaks his face, groaning just low enough to make the heat furiously spread under your skin.
then, his lips part.
his tongue immediately connects with yours. caressing the wet muscle. he tastes the ice cream, delving a little more. it was just so easy taking control, and your little whines are too sweet for him to stop. his jaw opens wider, taking the lead as you follow. his hand cups the side of your face, unexpectedly possessive, ignoring the alarms sounding off in his head.
you had a crush, you’re fucking adorable, and you kissed him. plus, you make these cute sounds when he shoves his tongue against yours, thumb pressing into your cheek. how could he resist?
your grip against his thigh tightens, his back is pressed fully against the bench, while you were practically leaning over him, trying to swallow him whole.
“breathe,” he mutters, lips hovering close, waiting for you to inhale. his scar quirks up, you’re so cute. his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, eyes glancing between your fluttering lashes. “if we keep kissing, I’ll have a problem.”
your face burns, eyes darting down to the tent pressing up near your hand. and unlike toji, you let your second ice cream of the day melt and fall to the ground. you were a mess. you carefully lean back in your seat, the sudden space between you allowing you to take another deep breath. being near coach toji is intoxicating. it’s not that you didn’t feel like yourself, but you definitely throw all common sense out the door when he’s in front of you.
“are you staying to see the booths and stuff?” you clear your throat, trying to ease your erratic heartbeat.
toji finds it cute. his hand once cupping your face, slides down to brush the hair off your shoulder, fingers brushing the multiple earrings that dangle from your piercings. you’re much more stylish than he is…your accessories, the cute tank top that hugs your breasts, and embroidered low rise flared jeans.
“nah, gotta drive back home so i can take my son to practice.”
toji eases, not a single thing can bother him. it was a routine, the subtle throw away line about having a son that scared off many young women, or had them wanting a one night stand with the older dilf. so his eyes flick over you, the second he finishes his sentence.
your freeze.
your blood runs cold, eyes flicking down to his ring finger.
even if you’re looking, you know he isn’t married. you know. you’ve been photographing him for months, and not a single time have you ever seen him daunt a ring on his finger.
“there’s no one waiting for him at home?” you question, wetting your lip.
toji’s fingers slide from your earrings to the dried ice cream on your chin. “nah, if I’m late he’ll go to his friends house.”
you nod, anxiety slowly dissipating. “how old is he?”
“ten.”
your eyes light up, “my nephew is just a year older, that’s when they get really fun to hang out with,” your voice is so light and sweet, toji has to shove down the weird somersault his stomach does.
“really?” toji is not convinced. “all my son does is give me attitude and bully everything i do.”
you laugh, waving your hand, “yeah they get super opinionated, but it’s funny—trust trust he’s just doing it because you’re an easy target.”
“I’m an easy target.”
you nod, waving a hand again, “your his dad, my brothers and i were the same to our parents.”
brothers? toji doesn’t comment how that peaks his interest, but he naturally asks, “how many siblings do you have?”
“three older brothers,” you nod.
damn….toji hums, that explains your attitude and how you can handle geto’s bitchy moods. what also quietly settles in his mind is how your oldest brother would probably be around his age, considering your nephew is a year older than megumi. is that why you’re easily holding a conversation this long…maybe the age gap isn’t that big then…
“they were so freakin bossy, definitely why i pushed to dorm away from them,” you huff, toji zoning back into your rambling. it was cute watching you talk mindlessly, hands waving making your bracelets clank against each other. the sweat glistened across your skin, making you look eternal, which is amusing since you’re just talking.
but still, toji is the one to lean up this time. his hand settling on your waist as a anchor and he presses a firm kiss to your warm cheek.
your glossy lips part in shock, heart stuttering again. unbothered, toji casually stands up, towering over you as his hand gently settles atop your head. “i have’ta get going, but I’ll see you next week for the match. I’ll also let em know you can come in before and after the game, but not during halftime. okay?”
you nod.
“I’ll see ya’ sweetheart.”
and with a wink, he solidifies the fourth arrow straight through your heart.
—
it was very likely that your entire week looked like sunshine and rainbows, all because you had a full on make out session with your idol on a park bench. you couldn’t bring yourself to care much about anything else—well except for your job. you had to scramble to get photos after toji left, afraid of staying on your editor’s bad side.
luckily you pulled through, and convinced him to keep you on for the semi final match this coming weekend.
which leads you to your current blissful state. watching toji speak to the team in the locker rooms. unlike last time, you grabbed different shots, smiling every time toji glanced at the camera, but frowning any time any of the other boys looked.
“surprise surprise, couldn’t stay away too long,” gojo coo’s after the team breaks to finish changing.
“don’t bother me or I won’t take photos of you,” you throw, eyes flicking up at the tall man.
gojo pouts, “but I’m just talking to you,” his words drag.
geto is scowling a few feet away, jaw tightening and relaxing, until he finally comes up to you. your attitude shifts, eyes narrowing up. geto holds eye contact, chest rising with a subtle inhale. but once he exhales, his shoulders ease, and his eyes close, the fakest smile you’ve ever seen graces his naturally attractive features.
“I’m looking forward to seeing your photos after the game.”
your lips purse, brow quirking. “yeah…”
geto leaves. shortly after, the team gets called out. gojo utters the same line geto had just said, but much more cheerfully, all while toji walks up to you. brow furrowing at the two athletes as they walk towards the exit.
“they still bothering you?”
your eyes light up the moment you see him. “s’ fine,” your pretty lips pull into an easy smile, unexpectedly warming the coach’s heart. is it that easy to smile because of him?
“I’ll tell them to fuck off again,” his voice is naturally deep, hand subconsciously roaming up to the strap of your camera.
you smile, “okay.”
god, you’re really cute. his hand cups your cheek, leaning down and easily locking lips with you.
you’re immediately caught off guard, but his hand is so firm on your cheek, you just melt. your lashes flutter shut, leaning in more. he’s so big and tall. your cheeks sting, humming against his lips, trying to fight off the butterflies in your stomach. but it’s worse when he pulls away, and your heart leaps into your throat as he brushes his rough thumb against your lip, dragging the spit across the plumpness.
“I’ll c’ya after.” he winks.
you barely feel your feet when you step back out onto the field. your camera in hand, strap tight around your neck, everything exactly where it should be, and still, your entire body is giddy.
toji….toji toji toji—
you press your lips together, trying to fight it down, but it’s useless. your mouth keeps twitching, threatening to break into a smile and you can’t help it! he kissed you. twice now! like it was nothing—
you snap a shot.
sukuna’s first goal. the team and stadium erupts, and you’re already capturing it, body moving before your thoughts can catch up. you don’t need your editor screaming at you this time, so you shift angles, crouch lower, shoot through. geto lines up for a penalty shot, and you catch that too. the strike, the follow-through, and the way the net snaps back as the ball hits. you don’t miss a second of it.
but…inevitably…your lens drifts…to him. you can’t help it!
toji’s on the sidelines, where he always is. his sleeves are pushed up again, pacing, shouting, running a hand through his hair. you catch the flex of his arm, his biceps bulge and you feel heat pooling between your legs. you catch the drag of his palm across his broad huge chest, the set of his jaw when gojo almost tackles into another player.
you shouldn’t be taking this many photos of him. you know that, but you take them anyway. your chest feels tight with every picture, cheeks still burning, and your smile impossible to get rid of.
halftime comes and goes, and you don’t even try to get into the locker room this time. instead, you linger with the rest of the press, nodding along to conversations, camera hanging loose in your hands. you don’t care. not really. not when your mind keeps replaying it—his hand on your face, the way he looked at you after, the wink.
the second half starts and you’re back in position immediately. getting more action shots of the players—ugh but you keep stealing other moments too…small unnecessary ones. his biceps when he folds his arms. the scratch of his chest. the tilt of his head as he watches the field.
your thoughts don’t stop. why did he kiss you? why did he kiss you again? what is that supposed to mean? is he going to kiss you again??
the spiral doesn’t fully come to an end until the pitch breaks out into celebration. the team is off to the finals!
managers and the rest of the team flood the pitch as the stadium breaks out. you do your best to get the best shots of the team together, and you stay after to capture them talking to journalists, and press. unaware of the coach that slips away.
you follow the team and a couple managers back to the locker room as they continue celebrating. you can’t help the smile about how happy they are, they played well.
“how was the match?” geto corners you quickly.
“good,” you nod casually, fixing your flash. “you guys played really well.”
geto’s brow quirks. that’s nice….his lips purse. “I scored.” he mutters, glancing at the multiple piercings on your ear as you tuck a hair behind it.
“yeah, it was a nice shot,” your eyes flick over your camera before glancing up to meet his eyes, testing, “you wanna see?”
his eyes narrow again, “no.”
he’s quick to ignore your eye roll, as he points over his shoulder. “coach is calling for you.”
you can’t control the way your head whips to geto, then following the direction he’s pointing at. you don’t hesitate, your legs carry you across the locker room, and into the steamed shower room.
your heart hammers against your chest, putting the lens cap back on your camera and carefully sliding it off your shoulder, afraid to step further in until you put it back in your bag.
a single curtain is closed. shower running.
“coach toji?” your voice echos.
there a beat of silence, then…
“that you, sweetheart?”
you flush. controlling the smile that breaks your face as you hum, “yeah.”
the shower is still running, steam collecting in the room. your heart is beating erratically, you barely register anything aside from the fact that coach toji is definitely one hundred percent fully nude just a few feet away. his clothes are laid on his duffle on the bench beside the door.
“sweetheart?”
you jump. “yeah?”
“you gonna come in?”
you blink. again, then once more. then— “WHAT?”
your screech bounces off the tile floors, making you shrink at how loud you are. but it was a normal reaction. he just asked you if you wanted to come in? how else would you react—
“leave your things by my bag,” he doesn’t even react, like what he’s saying is the most casual kind of flirting. the kissing was one thing, but this…
your camera is zipped back in your bag, and in seconds, you’re peeling your panties off standing completely naked in the middle of a shower room. goosebumps break out, necklace and bracelets still on as your nipples harden.
what’re you doing, seriously?
one, this is highly unprofessional (whatever). two, you haven’t even gone a date with this man. and three, w-why would he even ask you to come in?!?! does he like you?! he does—he has too—
your bare feet pad against the steamed tiles until you reach the curtains. your hands won’t stop shaking, face burning hot, and lips parting as you let out a shaky exhale. then, you slowly pull back the curtains—
“come in before someone sees you,” is what you hear just as you’re being dragged into the steaming water, curtain pulled closed behind you.
the steam wraps around your skin instantly, thick and suffocating. your pretty nipples perk up in seconds. and standing right in front of you is the 6’5 two hundred pound man. water cascading down his body in slow, steady streams. you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest tightens, and your hands hover close to his forearm.
you’re so close.
your gaze is eye level with his broad solid chest, rising and falling slow and controlled like none of this affects him. like you standing in front of him naked is something he expected. but your too dazed to care. especially when you follow the droplets sliding over his muscles, catching the shallow lines as you continue going lower, and lower. the heat pools more obviously between your legs as you see the thick patch of dark coarse hair…then you see it.
your face burns hotter, stomach flipping hard making you even dizzier.
his cock twitches under your gaze. your knees almost buckle just at the sight. it’s huge. you have to suppress a whine, lashes fluttering as you feel a strong hand cup your chin.
“say hi first,” his voice is unbelievably deep, tearing your gaze away from the monster between his legs. his dark forest green eyes sink into you.
“hi.”
shit. he bites back a groan, eyes trailing down your naked body. nipples already perky and standing all pretty for him. his hand comes up, cupping the side of your face as he leans down, lips colliding with yours.
you whine immediately. your lips move together, tongues colliding as your hands slide up his muscular chest, feeling the deep ridges of his abs as he holds the side of your face, dominating the kiss.
it was overwhelming, the shower box, his body heat, his cock touching your thigh, it was all making you dizzy in the best ways possible. he pulls away, letting you catch your breath, but he stays close, brushing his lips over yours like it’s not enough. because it isn’t.
“did anyone see you come in?” he husks, hand still cradling your face as the other brushes your naked waist, pulling you closer. your skin is so soft under his palm.
“no,” you shake your head adorably, tongue poking out to wet your lip, “I don’t think so.”
the older coach hums, his hands freely roaming your side as he nudges your nose with his. “good,” is all he adds before he resumes the heated make out.
your tongues collide and caress, jaw falling slack as you moan a little louder when he grips your ass. groaning into your lip when your arms lock around his shoulders, wet chest pressing against his. you were such a sweet tasting girl.
his hand nudges your thigh. “jump.”
you gasp when he easily picks you up, back already pressed against the tiled wall. the hot water cascades down his back as he continues kissing you. “were you mad at me?”
you pull away, breath hot as you glance at his features. he’s so handsome, your hand cups his face, pushing his drenched raven hair back. “why would I mad?”
“because I kept ya out during halftime.”
you shake your head, lips curving as you trace his wet eyebrows, chest rising and falling. “no,” you drawl, wetting your glossy lips again. “I was jus’ confused about how much you kiss me.”
his scar tugs up, biting back a smirk threatening to break free. “you kissed me first.”
“that one time.”
“you started it,” he leans close, lips brushing yours, “so you can’t blame me for getting hooked.” his eyes are lidded. “it’s really hard for me to break bad habits.”
this time you kiss me.
you’re so unbelievably hungry for this man’s affection, you can ignore all the blaring red light going off in your head. he’s so hot, he’s so big, and he’s so fucking sexy! your mind has been completely and utterly fried and you don’t care.
“fuck, you’re dripping,” toji husks, his finger collecting your juices from your pussy, groaning at how turned you are. “kissing me makes ya feel that good? your cunt always dripping like a fountain?”
“yeah-aah—“ your lips part as he shoves a finger inside. he groans against you, chuckling at the choked whines leaving your pretty lips, your nails dig crescents along his shoulder.
his lips trail down your neck, tongue flattening against the wet skin and licking until you squirm a cute whimper. his smirk is impossible to hold back. he sucks a dark bruise as another finger pushes in your fluttering hole.
“c-coach—“ you gasp, lips so wet from spit. you try to look down at his fingers pistoning inside you. every muscle on his body flexing, keeping you up like you weigh nothing, while fingering you against the little shower wall. “fu-fuck, I’m gonna—cu-uhm—“
it really is too much for your obsessed brain.
coach toji’s fingers are inside you. he’s kissing you like he’s hasn’t pleasured a woman in years. and his groans are going straight to your pussy—
“I wan’…coach—“ your whine drawls a little longer, thighs shaking, and arms locking around him, head falling to neck.
the older man chuckles close to your ear, voice deep and husky as you fall apart, in his arms. hugging him like he’s your savior. his fingers curl, slowly pumping you through your orgasm. “that was quick. my baby hasn’t cum in awhile?” he says as a matter of a fact, but you just hug him closer, lips pulling away to trail kisses up his neck. your fingers coarse through the back of his head, grasping them as you kiss the corner of his mouth.
“it’s b’cause of you, toji.” you kiss his scar, panting as he pulls his fingers out and lifts you up suddenly, hooking his arm under your knee.
“you want a good fucking princess?”
you nod frantically, cheeks dewy and stinging, as you glance over his face then his chest, then you feel his cock between your slick folds.
“it’s a big stretch,” he mutters against your lips. “you saw.”
you nod, nervous stirring at the way he’s preparing you. but you don’t break away. you doubt you physically can, when your mind is only screaming his name over and over.
“I can take it, coach,” you nod, determined.
“you’re so fucking cute,” he snorts, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he kisses your lips in quiet reassurance. “ever take a cock this big?”
you shake your head, water droplets falling from the tips of your hair. your pretty necklaces still wrapped around your neck, all wet and glistening between your perky breasts.
“it’ll hurt,” he strokes himself underneath you, thumb running over his tip multiple times before lining it with your pretty clit and teasing you. “then you’re gonna cry.” you gulp, nodding along. “then you’re gonna tell me to stop—“
“I won’t!”
he snorts. “it’s okay if you do.”
you shake your head, “I won’t I’ll be okay. okay coach? I can take it, I wan’ you inside me. please.”
the tug to his heart is immediate. how can it not be when this cute hot girl is begging him to fuck her? but he can’t even formulate this emotional string that’s tying him to you. the only physical response coming out is this fucking erection that feels like the most painful shit he’s experienced, twitching after he first spoke to you and then again when you kissed him. surely it’s disgusting….an older man like him getting that quickly turned on…
but maybe it was the way he’s only felt this tug in his chest one other time in his life, and even if it didn’t end the way he wanted, he never regretted pursuing his baby mama.
so he’s all in right now.
“deep breath, sweetheart.”
you inhale sharply, just as toji pushes his engorged tip past the tight rim of your pussy, and you suddenly clench—
“shit!—“
your eyes widen, “I don’t feel anything,” you mutter, glancing down to see his ears burning a deep shade of red.
“your cunt squeezed me too early and shoved me out,” he wets his lips, as he crashes his lips against you. “relax, baby,” he husks.
you whine against his dominating mouth, lower body relaxing as he lines up again and the moment you ease up, he snaps his hips in.
“angh!—“
your jaw slacks, and he continues kissing, groaning at the unbelievable tightness that’s squeezing every corner of his tip.
“Mmm so warm, took me in good,” he groans, rocking his hips and grabbing a handle of your ass. “you’re gonna make me feel good?”
you nod, lips connecting with his, it’s messy, teeth clashing, spit mixing.
toji’s guttural groan echos through the shower, bouncing off the tiles as he rocks his hips, going in inch by inch, until he’s finally shoving his entire length deep inside your cunt with one mean thrust.
“fhuck—“ he chokes, jaw slacking as you clamp around him again. “full?”
you nod, brain scrambled as you glance at your tummy, cheeks stinging at the obvious bulge. “keep going,” you pant, securing yourself better as he grunts, pulling out and snapping his hips back.
it was mind numbing, toji holding you up with his strong arms hooked under your knees, hands gripping each ass cheek as he ruts into you like a beast in heat. the squelch and clapping was deafening as it bounced off the walls, the steam enveloping you closer as your whines flow right into his ear.
“nghhh—gettin’ me worked up,” thrust. “when you squeeze me,” thrust. “with this tight.” thrust. “fucking.” thrust. “cunt!”
his massive cock is stretching you in ways you never could’ve imagined. his blunt tip slams into your cervix with every thrust. your thighs shake, eyes filling with unshed tears as your nails dig into his tough skin.
“m’ s-sorry—haah ah coa—ahh! it feels s’ fuhh—fuh’me ple-easee—ahh!” your pretty lips were so glossy, drool coming down as water droplets fall from your pretty breasts with each vicious slam of his hips.
he was unforgiving. and his laugh like groan didn’t help your pussy from fluttering and tightening around his chubby cock. you can feel every thick pulsing vein and ridge. it was numbing your brain to mush. your fingers curled into his hair, tugging as he gives your ass a mean, violent, spank!
“angh!” your eyes bulge, a wave of heat crashing into you.
toji laughs, gripping your ass as he quickens his pace. “admit it,” he husks, voice condensing, and eyes dark with lust. “this is what ya’ wanted.” you’re falling apart around his cock, and he’s not slowing down, even as the tears finally break, making you look even more irresistible. you’re gasping like you can’t breathe. “you always wanted the coach to fuck you. taking those dirty photos of my bulge—nghh!” thrust. “imagining how big my dick is.” thrust. “how big is it baby, tell me.” thrust!
you were fucked dumb.
your face is flushed, eyes glossed over, as you whine like a full blown slut. and even with your two orgasms in a matter of minutes. your mind was still screaming one thing: toji.
“c’mon baby, I know you’re still with me,” he snorts, ears red, and body flushed with sweat as he feels his climax edge closer. “tell me—fuck—how big is it?”
your stupid brain catches his words, and your fingers dig into his neck as you gasp and moan, the stimulation of his massive cock slamming into you was ruining you. mentally and physically. it was humiliating. but still…
“haah—fuh its’ it’s so big— i wan’ you to cum in me! please —wan’ your cum so bad, wanna feel your big fat cock cum inside my pussy toji—ahh!”
anothet sharp spank takes your breath away.
toji is at a loss.
his grunts grew louder and thrusts sloppier, until finally, he gave you one final thrust, and stilled. his ass tightens, body pressing you into the tiled walls, face buried in your neck, and teeth sinking into your shoulder. toji completely unravels in the shower, holding up a pretty college girl that whines so beautifully in his ear he thinks he’d never cum this hard again, but sure enough—
your adorable whine has him rutting shallow thrusts into your pussy, like a fucking dog. his cum pumping out as he continued stuffing you full, purposely milking out ever drop as his dark wet pubes rubbed against your puffy clit.
you both catch your breath. your lashes wet from tears, as the water from the shower head fills the silence. after a moment, toji pulls away from your neck, his lidded eyes, hypnotizing as he stares up at yours.
you don’t know why you suddenly feel shy. your cheeks burn as the emerald irises bore into your own. lips parting, and a gentle hand coming up to his cheek. you brush back the raven hair flattening against his features, smiling softly when his full face comes into view.
and he could’ve sworn you looked like an actual angel at this moment.
your eyes twinkled above, face illuminating in the dark shower, and body glistening like you’re an eternal being.
“toji…” the soft call has his heart doing something it hasn’t done in years. and that has his soft cock twitching inside you. “I’m,” you lean closer, arms wrapping around his shoulder, lips hovering near his, breasts smushed against his chest. your confidence comes back the moment you feel the man lean closer..but you continue. “I hope you don’t think…i wanted to have sex…just because i thought your dick was really big.”
toji blinks.
then he does the worst thing ever.
he laughs.
your cheeks sting, watching his head fall back in loud laughter. your hand flys to your face, embarrassed. “I’m being serious!” you yell.
toji laughs louder, body shaking as he lifts you up, his cock slipping out. he carefully sets your shaky feet down on the wet tile. the height difference returns, making you even more ticked off, your little attitude was oozing out, and his slick cock couldn’t help but twitch against his thigh at your pouting.
god, you’re fucking hot.
he brings your attention back to him. hands cupping your face, tilting your head to look up at him. your brows are pinched together, and lips pulled in a subtle scowl.
toji smirks. “don’t worry, I know you also took pictures of my face.”
you flush, rolling your eyes. “those were accidents.”
“so you just wanted pictures of my dick?”
your eyes widen, “no! i told you they were all accidents.”
toji clicks his tongue, leaning down to your level, making your tummy flip “you’re fucking cute, but let’s not lie to adults.”
“I’m an adult though,” you raise a brow, pushing back, and god if that wasn’t the hottest thing ever.
but still, toji’s easygoing smile remains on his playful lips, “it’s embarrassing. i understand,” he softens the blow as your face heats. it was humiliating when he found those pictures, “taking photos of the coach like that. but now’s the time to take some accountability.”
you lick your teeth, eyes boring into him, narrowing. but it’s toji. toji is asking. and you can’t hold back any longer…
you exhale, glancing away, even though he’s still cupping your face. “yeah, obviously I took those photos on purpose,” your eyes meet. “happy?”
water is still running down his shoulders as he keeps your face tucked carefully in his hands like you’re something precious despite the grin threatening to split across his face again.
but then toji smirks. “ecstatic.”
your eyes narrow immediately, “you’re so annoying.”
he huffs another laugh under his breath, quieter this time, thumbs brushing over your heated cheeks. standing this close to him is ridiculous now that the adrenaline’s settling. he’s huge. his broad chest still damp against yours, muscles flexing every time he shifts, towering over you while you stand there completely naked except for the necklaces you’re wearing. the little gold chains glisten under the shower head, delicate against flushed skin, and toji’s eyes flick down to them for a second before returning to your face.
that look in his eyes makes your stomach tighten all over again. he knows he’s not trying to be mocking, or casual like before. it’s fondness.
“those shots were real creative, sweetheart,” he says, voice rougher now. “nice and close too.”
you groan, immediately trying to shove his chest, but he barely moves. “oh my god, can you let it go already?”
“can’t,” he answers easily. “been thinkin’ about it for weeks.”
your face burns hotter. weeks?!
toji watches it happen in real time, watches the attitude crack just enough for embarrassment to slip through, again. and it does something terrible to him. you’re sharp with everyone else—cool, hard to impress. he’s seen it. seen the way you brush off gojo and geto without a second thought. but with him? you melt.
even now, glaring up at him with your brows pulled tight, lips still swollen from kissing, legs trembling from the multiple orgasms, trying so hard to stay irritated while your body keeps betraying you. it’s fucking adorable.
“don’t look at me like that,” you mutter weakly.
“like what?”
“like you know things.”
his grin widens instantly. “but i do know things now.”
what proceeded after was the thirty something year old coach, dropping to his knee and lifting your leg up, burying his face between your legs like a starving man. your lips part in shock.
but still, as toji works your pretty body to another orgasm, tongue shoved inside, cleaning this little pussy up, jaw slack as he gulps down his own cum. your fingers thread through his hair, tugging whenever he’d give your clit a mean rough suck, cheeks hollowing. his hand, grips your ass from behind, squeezing and slapping as he pleased, until you were falling apart.
afterwards, he cleaned you up. this time with some soap. his big hands roamed your body, every crevice and curve, hands massaging your breasts as he had your back pressed to his chest, chuckling when you’d whine. thumbs tugging playfully. hand rubbing between your legs, head tucked in your shoulder as he watches your smaller hands hold his forehead, face hot.
“toji,” you whine, embarrassed, as he teasing a finger against your hole again.
“what,” he smirks, watching your reactions, “I’m jus’ cleaning you up.”
he’s a fucking perv. but still, he teases you through the whole shower, keeping you close to his body and even letting you wash his back, admiring the muscles and ink that decorate his skin.
eventually, he steps out first, keeping you inside so he can grab an extra towel. his own wrapped around his waist.
that was the start of all of it.
three months later….
you and shoko are sitting out in the quad. table covered in assignments and forgotten laptops. all while you explained to shoko how your weekend went.
“no, we definitely got along. megumi is so cute!” you gush about the ten year old, describing how your first meeting went. toji had spoken about you enough to prepare megumi, waiting until the right time to introduce you both.
and now, you’re going to every single one of their soccer games, toji and megumi’s.
and eventually, after another hour passes by. a group of athletes comes walking down the path. covered in sweat, holding their duffles, and behind them is a very hot coach, already breaking into a smile when you jump up.
“toji!”
it was a routine. your arms thrown around his shoulders, as he lifts you up with one hand. zero regard for any pda, as he kisses you deeply. smiling as you hum, pecking him over and over.
“why do you guys look like that?” shoko grimaces, looking at gojo and geto who look far worse than the rest of the team that leave.
geto scowls, glaring at his best friend, “fucking coach overhead him again.”
shoko shakes her head, rolling her eyes, at the white haired idiot. “you need to stop—“
“it’s been three months and she’s not over that old man?!”
“he’s not even that old!” shoko defends.
but gojo scowls harder, glancing over his shoulder at you laughing and talking, hands animated, like the man in front of you was holding the world. “it’s always the mean girls.”
shoko frowns, “you’re messed up in the head.”
but even geto narrows his eyes when toji wraps a possessive arm around you, glaring up at the two players.
it was clear as day.
you’re his.
a/n: this was LOONG overdue, mb guys!!! but i hope you all enjoyed it!!! ahhhh i love coach toji sososososo much—like its a serious problem, i cant make reader behave normally when its toji, like she has to be obsessed with himmm
anyways, the next oneshot will def be the frat gojo fic! possibly thinking of frat geto after this oneshot too bc i put in some little easter eggs about how they both kinda lean into mean girls so stay tuned! — (divider by @/strangergraphics)
SYNOPSIS — You spent most of your time this year shoving that part of your life away, attempting to move on, and at the expense of your own friends. You’re here trying to take this version of yourself back, to look at your friends or your college memories without thinking of him. It’s a lot harder to hangout though when you listen to them look back at it like a funny memory, and you’re both forced to revisit what you pushed back enough to forget, but never fully.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Ex!Sukuna. Ex!Fwb!Sukuna. angst. porn with plot. Secret relationships. hurt/comfort. drinking. slight mentions of drug use. depictions of intoxication. post-college AU. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. soft spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. soft sukuna. spooning position. máting press. unresolved feelings. anger issues. alcohol. slight ooc. kinda toxic. happy ending! first published work.
WC: 11k — art by: @/inaillus on twt
a/n: MY FIRST FIC IM SO HAPPY! My design formatting is heavily influenced by @/spideyyeet’s format. (I’m so worried that I’ll miss cw’s and tags!) Anyways, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING and excuse my spelling and grammatical errors. I’m really trying to explore on my writing styles!
Sukuna and you decided to be civil after your break up. Or whatever civil means to the both of you. It was more than what you could ask for, given his reputation of not having much patience, and being someone who has been on the receiving end of that, this feels almost like a gift.
You wouldn't say you ended on good terms, between the two of you, you felt like the one who held more of a grudge than him. It wasn't a sudden breakup, it happened quietly, kinda like the rest of your relationship.
You look at him from across where you’re seated, a beer in his hand, smirking at the friends you were able to keep around you because you chose to be ‘bigger people’. They were talking about what only adults talked about, settling or something work related probably. Is he seeing someone now? Last you’ve heard of him, he's taking over the family business.
You blink out of your own thoughts and sip on your beer, the malt leaving a creamy texture only someone who's familiar with it could feel. You sigh to yourself as your college friends continue to catch up with one another, loudly passing stories of the lives you no longer share. And here you were still thinking about it quietly. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, but something within you feels out of place. Or is it you wanting to get out, especially when Gojo mentions something about a drinking game.
Everyone internally groans, some loud yet still somehow he manages to make everyone participate, including quiet Sukuna. You almost chuckle thinking about it, he tries so hard to be serious.
You join in as well, pulling yourself off the minibar, not wanting to look more out of place than you feel. You gather around, the cool air and the bonfire in Geto's wide backyard pair up well in this nostalgic atmosphere. It's also perfect for Shoko who doesn't need to be left out now when she has to smoke outside.
You join her side when everyone forms a circle around, drink in hand. "What's he up to now?" You whisper, looking at how Gojo pulls a reluctant Nanami out of his chair.
She blows smoke out while looking in the opposite direction before looking back to talk to you. She chuckled while tapping the ash off her cig, "Beats me, he's acting like the host but it's not even his house."
"I heard that!" That yell draws attention to both you and Shoko giggling to each other. You look around, suddenly conscious of the eyes on you before the laugh dies in your throat as you meet a pair of all too familiar ones. You look away a little too fast, not even having enough time to curse to yourself quietly.
"First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who came today. I'm glad you all chose to acknowledge the existence of your college friends, I know it must be hard to be sincere-"
"Get on with it!!" Someone, who you're guessing is Geto, exclaimed from behind since Satoru continued to do the opposite.
He goes on about how it's been years (11 months exactly, it’s now June) since the last time you all completely got together. No one says it out loud but you're glad to see every close friend you've made in college here, there was probably an underlying feeling of uncertainty before each one of you arrived.
He continues with how back in your sophomore year of college, you stood in the exact same way on Nanami's birthday but while listing down predictions for you guys after graduation. You were probably too wasted at the time you participated that now there was only a faint memory of the night of Nanami's surprise party, most distinctly remembering the appalled look on his face when he turned on the light. Only to be welcomed by just half of the people he knew invited there and being blasted with a big-ass party popper.
You don't really know where Gojo's going until he pulls out a piece of paper, folded and looking a little creased up. He expected people to beam at it like he's holding a relic except his friends look at him in confusion or indifference.
"Guys! It's the list!" A chorus of sarcastic ah's and oh's emit from you all. He nods in approval of the correct reaction, "And I found some pretty good predictions here. Sooo good that I made a drinking game out of it." Now that peaks your collective interest. How bad could they be?
Hiromi, the ever skeptical heedful man he is, raised his hand and answered without waiting to be called, "Now when did we have time to list all of those ourselves while inebriated? And who's to say you didn't just list down some weird scenarios there if we don't even remember who wrote each? And I doubt we wrote our names next to them."
Gojo smirks looking around you all, you didn't wanna read into it but you felt like he stopped a second longer when he reached you before moving to look at everyone. "Trust me, you'll know who wrote it." He does a double take and raises both his thumbs before he picks up his beer from a stool.
It took so long explaining the rules that Utahime managed to make it in time, surprising you from behind. You greet her as your attention draws away from Gojo, she was your closest friend aside from Shoko within the group. You try to brief her on what's currently happening but ultimately just tune Gojo out as you got the gist of his instructions and focused on her.
Everyone gets back to their steady commotion when he and Suguru go back into the house to bring out trays of straight poison (whatever vile concoction he somehow kept prepared for this.) You lean into Utahimes side, grabbing her arm in excitement as you haven't seen each other in almost a month. You suddenly feel a lot more relaxed when surrounded by two of your best friends.
You catch up, talking about when you'll see each other again, work-life, and pointing fun at Gojo before Utahime asks more about the game so she could also participate. Shoko starts since you tuned out Gojo a little too much earlier that you also don't know all the rules, "So basically we pass around this list and we could choose to read aloud or fold the paper— and we drink if it actually happened to us, or if you’re the reader you can also not read aloud and choose to drink so you can move to the next person"
You huff, "What's the fun in that? you won't even know what was written if they choose not to say and fold it."
Shoko raises her index up, "The catch is, you have to wait for the next person to see it cause they can choose to read it out loud too or choose to fold it!"
"What if it's consecutively bad that they don’t read?"
"Then you’ll just have to pray that the person after you isn't messy, which in our friend group..." She looks at Utahime, then they both look at you.
"Ha ha, okay." You roll your eyes, a smile planted on your lips while you take another swig from the bottle. They giggle and coo at you while you feign your indignation and look away. "Don't worry too much about it, all the stuff there was listed long ago."
Utahime perks up, "Ouhh that list from Nanami's party?" You both nod or make a noise of agreement. And then you pause, before letting your own mouth run without thinking.
"Do you remember what was there?" Your brow raised in question. "Did I put anything in?"
"Shit, I don't remember putting anything either." Shoko whispered, before taking a puff.
At this, Utahime's grin spreads ear to ear, realizing she has an upper hand over you both. Your eyes squint, trying to read her face but you’re left uncertain. She giggles to herself and gives Shoko a knowing look as well. Almost as if she got the message too, Shoko laughs.
You start to feel left out, but not in a way that hurts you, just enough for you to get a little curious. "Wait, please, what is it?"
Utahime smiles just thinking about it, and waves her hand in dismissal. "No, actually it's nothing. It was so long ago already," Shoko can't help but put a hand on your back, as if trying to comfort you and control herself from giggling at the same time to avoid giving you fomo. You look at them pleadingly and she caves, "I mean, it was all during the whole Sukuna spiel, remember?"
Shoko sucks her teeth before continuing, "Yeah of course she does, how could we forget." She rubs your arm and something in you stirs.
Utahime nods, a harmless expression her face while your insides churn. “Holy— I can’t believe you were fucking around at one point."
Fucking around, yeah. You almost forgot how it was like that, at least to them. Your smile fades into something less, not fake, just less. You straighten yourself and laugh with them, almost to stave off the embarrassment you narrowly missed.
Suddenly you're a little nervous, and your hands start to feel kinda clammy.
Just in time to fill the silence, Satoru walks in with a tray of appletinis looking hella nuclear, and what you're assuming are Jaegermeister shots. You grimace.
Just how many predictions did you all put there?
***
“Satoru hype that shit up way too much.” Shoko comments, voice loud without having to yell. Your brow quirks up when you look down at her, leaning on your shoulder as she slumps onto you.
The game started, and everyone had been reading them first, no one passing up. It got a little rowdier though when everyone started pulling up chairs and taking the shots. It starts mellowing out midway though, less competitive aside from Gojo who is still a lightweight, the air starts getting less tense for you and you find yourself enjoying the sound of everyone sharing a laugh.
You wonder what Satoru was trying to do with bringing this out. Did he want to just fuck around or catch you lacking. If so, it’s his unlucky day because you’re on a roll by the second time you choose to not share something; also second least out of anyone who skipped, by the way.
Your lips folds shut into itself right after the bitter alcohol burns in your throat. You let out a parched noise, “That’s vile.” You clear your throat and try to keep yourself from feeling the effects too soon. The game continues, and more and more does it feel like it’s easier to humor you.
Satoru finally gets financially cut off by his parents before the term ends
Geto gets caught faking results during a drug test
Shoko stops using cigs and starts vaping ‘cause she’s broke
And it goes on.
The game ends up turning into this mixture of just drinking and conversation starters. Everyone seems to have something to say with the level of accuracy events predicted had or if they counted. But this kind of vibe felt nice, like you were lighter now.
Higuruma’s up when he gets the paper, this is the 17th one now, “Ah,” He looks up and chuckles to himself. Even someone as blunt as him started reacting a lot easier now. “Nanami,” He starts, “Nanami graduates top of the class without getting laid throughout college.” He looks up with an expectant grin.
Everyone laughs at that (except the butt of the joke), some already pitching their own theories or coming to his defence.
“That’s impossible, look at him-“
“So what if he’s still a virgin?”
Nanami stands, raising his hand, but low. Everyone turns to him, commotion dying and waiting for him to either bring the tiny shot glass between his fingers to his mouth, or to stand his ground. He raises the glass and opens his mouth before pausing. Then a small smile grows on his lips, “It was the night of graduation-“
“Impossible!” Satoru yells while Nanami’s smile falls just as fast when the blur of white hair from your vision stands up from his seat. The loud commotion grows with a chorus of laughter and a constant complaint of, “That’s not counted! That’s not counted!” Nanami didn’t even try entertaining him, sitting back down on his chair and dusting his slacks.
You leave Shoko by the chair (she drank the most shots currently), before walking over to Utahime who is currently standing nearer to the bonfire. “Is the game supposed to have a winner?”
She turns, making space for you to stand by her side, she shrugs, her eyes looking a little droopier now. You continue. “ ‘cause I feel like there should at least be a loser, like who’s you know, the one most out of it first?” You both look at Satoru trying to re-explain the rules with too much passion. Your laughs stacked on top of each other, your cheeks hurt so badly from how much they stretched into a smile, but it's also numbed by the slight buzz in your system. “I think I’ve had good luck.”
A short silence follows, the cracks of the fireplace and the distant crickets creak in the trees. Utahime rubs her arms, warming herself. ”Well don’t jinx yourself,” She comments while staring at the fire, before turning her head to look at you with a cheeky glint in her eyes.
For a moment you pause, her demeanor now mirrors her early reaction when you first mentioned the list. At first, you’re curious and squinting at her. What isn’t she telling me? Before looking at the sparse number of shots left on the tray, then back at her. You shake your head, “Nah, I’d win.”
The commotion dies down and so does Satoru’s energy, seemingly taking a break when he dramatically lays back on the outdoor lounger.
“We have 4 left to read! and…” Geto looks around, noting how Shoko, Nanami, and Gojo look near done from participating. “5 left of us.” He claims, and no one protests.
The paper opens softly as Geto looks down at the list, then looks up, before looking down and contemplating to himself.
He looks at the person next to him and it’s…Sukuna. Maybe it’s the mix of four different drinks in you or you’re just paranoid and Suguru just looks like that, but his eyes look like they’re smiling for him.
A palm gently lands on your shoulder and you look back at Iori with her phone buzzing in her other hand. “Shit- it’s my boss. I’m gonna take this.” She looks at you then at Suguru, to which he nods to her in acknowledgment. It’s not long till you’re now alone with these three idiots after she leaves your side with a soft squeeze to your arm. You keep your focus back on Suguru.
You purposely keep your attention on just Suguru.
“Four of us then,” You voice out, one of the first things you kind of directed at Sukuna, and with a tighter smile on your lips than normal. Geto beckons for you to come closer and you follow, not wanting to think much of it.
Geto downs his shot quickly and your steps falter slightly on the way to them. It was a short 3 steps away but you wished your hesitation wasn’t noticeable. He’s already handing the paper to Sukuna when you stand a little off to the side, keeping a friendly distance. You didn’t notice it but the other three losers perch up in their seat and inch closer discreetly yet flagrantly watch the interaction.
You weren’t prepared to be this close to him, you realize. You didn’t know what to expect out of today but you showed up anyway. Time does really change your perception of someone, you think to yourself.
It’s weird how you were so used to his presence before, to be able to know who was behind you if your eyes were closed, and to be able to recognize the air that they brought with them. Deep down, something in you feels tight when the realization comes that your body is no longer familiar with him. You feel it in your posture, the stiffness of your spine and muscles.
You’re now gawking at him, and time feels slower than usual. You excuse yourself in your mind for being so shameless, but he looks healthier now. His hair’s still the same, his skin looks a little tanner with a soft tinge of red from the alcohol. His head is craned over at Geto with his side profile facing you, his well trained neck muscles flexing underneath his black henley top. Man, this shit was so unfair.
He’s looking away from you, but it has a purpose. You swallow the obvious disappointment that shouldn’t be there. He hasn’t talked to you today you note, but you also shouldn’t mind. What’s there left to say?
There was a very brief pause as he stared at the piece of paper, a familiar empty look returned on his face.
“At least 2 people will be taken by next year, and/or after graduation.”
It was oddly specific. But it was oddly familiar to you too, a vague memory pieces itself in your head of the words being written on paper. You’re suddenly deep in thought, remembering where you were in that time of your life. That unknown tightness makes itself known in your body once more, except this time you know exactly where it’s coming from.
You remembered the confidence you had back then, the sureness that what you had with him was concrete. The beginning that felt like a slow buildup to a solid relationship. No rush, you agreed and it felt exciting to sneak around at first. You could almost hear the thought said in his voice.
That night, you had a petty fight. He didn’t hold your hand when you tried to and you were drunk so you vented it out on paper, not caring about how stupid it would be to read sober. Or in a few years. The tightness rushed from your stomach and wrapped around your throat.
He looks up, again his eyes find yours immediately. Again, no words were shared. It was all but two seconds, but it was long enough for the last two years of your private relationship to cross the bridge between both your minds.
You note how he doesn’t make a move to take the shot.
Prick.
It was you first who looked away, but you gathered yourself like you always did. Your eyes found Geto’s behind him, ignoring the nosy audience behind you. “That was targeted.” You forced a chuckle out of yourself, the sound came up like a shield, like if you mocked it too it would mean you’re in on the joke.
Your eyes flit over to Sukuna, but whatever vulnerability you let peek through was gone, replaced by a passive, sober guard. You smile at him, an attempt to look friendly but it falls as just that, looks. A look you were able to master in the years of keeping your relationship under wraps. You wonder briefly if he ever realized that. When you face away from him, you don’t get to take in the way his jaw clenched.
The diversion seemed to work when the tension in the air dropped, your friends went back to talking with a distant ‘told you so’ muttered by Gojo before the game picked up again. As a response, you tune your surroundings out — a reward for carrying yourself through this internal humiliation ritual. You don’t spare him another glance though.
It ends with Hiromi and Sukuna as the last ones standing because you decided to sit the second to last round out; a dishonest victory for him, you think bitterly. But stopping in the game doesn’t mean you will stop drinking. You came here to have fun with your actual friends and were sick of letting this guy affect you.
It’s been almost a year already, that should be enough to move on. But it’s the same thought every once in a while. The same mantra you repeat to yourself when you down the last of the leftover appletini shots with Shoko, Utahime, and Gojo.
“Oh you should’ve seen the look on her face, Hime. She just smirked and was all like,” She copies how your head turned, “It was cold as fuck.” Shoko slurred, putting an arm around your shoulders. You roll your eyes with a lazy smile. “Whatever bro.”
“No! Seriously, we thought it was really bad back then but-.” She looks over at you to gauge if you’ll react violently in private but you don’t. Your eyes are hazy and calm, effectively numbed by the alcohol enough for it to be sincere.
Gojo, impatient, completed the sentence. “—Just that we thought you guys were going out forreal.” You hate how that easily sobers you up, again. Even if it's only for a split second, you wanted to stop flinching at even the thought of how embarrassing that experience was. How crazy you had felt back then.
You don’t say anything, you just let out an awkward chuckle. It’s missed by them though, the sound overlaps with your friends talking over it as they’re adding to the joke.
Shortly after, Shoko and Utahime retire upstairs to the room they’ll be crashing at Geto’s house. Its a big enough place with 2 other guest rooms but you really weren’t planning on staying the night despite your lack of ability to walk in a straight line.
Even Gojo settled on the couch back inside while Higuruma was sober enough to drive Nanami off as well. You said your goodbyes to each other despite only talking briefly, then turned to try and help clean up, but a rough hand stops you before you stuff another pizza box into the garbage bag you found.
“I can’t let a guest do the cleaning, go to your room.”Geto smiled, he was evidently more sober than you.
You shake your head, slower than you could earlier. “Nope, gotta compensate ‘cause I won’t be able to hang tomorrow.” He takes the garbage bag still, looking down at you with a jutted lip. Before he asks why, you interrupt. “Have t’a finish some work — Going home.” You smile, nodding your head. He squints at you, not quite understanding. You straighten yourself up and pull out your phone, the loading screen in your app already looking for a driver.
“I’m uh, Uber.”You try reassuring him with another unconvincing smile while tucking the device in your back pocket.
“I don’t know how I feel about you going home at two a.m., alone.” He raised his brows as he emphasized the last word, “It’s definitely not safe and you’re drunk.” It was a short back and forth, you slowly losing interest in explaining and wanting to get into the car of —you open up your phone— Jose who’s 8 minutes away.
When he continues on his rant on safety and not trusting you to call him when you get home, you make a face at him, unable to control yourself. You push again, trying to clarify, “I do this all the time after my office parties-“
“-That’s dumb.”
Your shoulders slump, running out of options to convince him. Before you could help it, “What are you gonna do, drive me?” Suguru scoffed at your words, it was obvious what his answer would be already as he was also struggling to stand upright fully.
A beat passes, his eyes scanning the backyard when he zeroes on a rosette head of hair, bidding his goodbyes by the sliding door to a knocked out Gojo, keys in hand.
***
You were gonna kill Suguru.
Your head scrambled to explain how you allowed yourself to get to this position, but he’s already circling the front to reach the driver’s side. You feel his gaze past the windshield, blatant, intruding.
If worse comes to worst, you’ll throw yourself out of the moving car and roll out of the door if it means saving yourself from real danger.
The thrum of Sukuna’s black Hellcat was unpleasantly familiar. The red interior still looked new, but the passenger seat molded well to your body like a pair of old jeans. But the smell is different now, he used to have this cheap citrusy scented air freshener that hung from the mirror (courtesy of the former owner), obstructing his view. It's now replaced by a light charcoal freshener clipped on a vent.
“You should really get rid of that thing, it’s dangerous y’know?” Of course the first thing you say about his car isn’t a compliment. He rolls his eyes at how typical it was of you.
“Why?” He slides in and shuts the door gently, like second nature, he doesn’t bother with a seatbelt. “Worried I’ll get into an accident?” He asks, left hand finding the wheel.
“Sure, but it’s similarly distracting for the air to smell like 20 fluorescent orange peels.” He laughs lightly followed by a nod, agreeing. He’s generous enough to roll the windows down halfway.
A beat passes, “And yes, you should also be more careful now that you’re driving me home.”
The door shuts, snapping you out of your lingering thoughts, the ticking from the hazard lights cease as he rolls out of the driveway. You’re quick to pull out your phone, head down. At least now you know it's going to be a mix of dry and windy tomorrow.
You know there’s no right way to act and dread is now backing you into a two seater sports car until you confront it. It catches up to you, in the form of the unwavering presence of his body right next to you.
There isn’t possibly enough space in this car for both you and your thoughts. You turn your phone off, internally scoffing at yourself for trying to play non-chalant, opting to just look out the window but it’s hard to see it through your bleary eyes since it’s tinted.
You close them instead, thinking of a place outside of your own consciousness, outside of here. For a moment, you’re able to achieve peace when you’re actively pushing down thoughts of him, nothing but the muted sounds of cars passing by and the faint breeze gently caressing your cheeks. You open your eyes and realize the window has been rolled down for you.
Slowly, your head turns without thinking, he’s still set on the road with both hands tightly on the wheel, you note.
On the highway when you feel the car speed up, your body slightly surges forward when you’re nearing a slower area, your hand instinctively reaching for the glove compartment to brace. He cleared his throat beside you, and you loosen your grip. You look down, realizing you’re holding onto his forearm while his hand is on the gear shift. Stupid manual car.
You’re quick to pull off him and awkwardly put your hands on your lap. “Sorry.” You mutter, your face warm.
He replies, similarly strained, “ ‘s okay.” It’s strange hearing his voice like that. Maybe it’s strange to hear overall since it’s been forever since it’s been directed at you. He had always been the picture of confidence to you, a natural cadence for smooth talking and sureness. You don’t know what to feel. No, scratch that, you know what you’re feeling.
It’s getting harder to swallow your pride when memories and these feelings that you never had the chance to confront felt like bile rising from your throat.
“You really won’t talk to me?”
And there it is, that confidence finding its footing. It makes you sick how it’s so easy for him to take your silence as reluctance, though it actually is. You hate how he doesn’t spare a second to think before acting on his impulse to speak to you when you spend plenty.
A beat, and nothing from you. He scoffed, you can feel him adjust his seating in a more relaxed manner. He’s about to add when, “You cheater.”
You hear the scrunch of his pants on the leather interior pause, “What the fuck?” He muttered, low, offended at your words.
You turn to him, arms crossed over, on guard. “In the game, dumbass.” You deadpanned, matching his vulgarity. His eyes flick to you and then on the road, now one handed as he scratches his jaw, a light stubble growing underneath.
“A year later and that’s all you have to say?” he grunts, thick brows scrunched, his piercing tugged by the movement.
“Yes.” You voice out sternly, a newfound stubbornness arises from your half drunk mind.
“You were always a brat.”
“At least I don’t care what others think of me.” You mumble like a petulant child. He makes a face, gaze flicking on the rear view mirror.
He scoffed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh Ryo I think out of everyone,” He meets your eyes at the nickname, “You would know what I’m talking about.”
Something stirs in him, the way his name sounded coming from you wasn’t new, but it’s now stripped from any warmth that used to always come with it. “You know I had to.”
It’s your turn to scoff, “Yeah even after everything, it just has to go your way.” There’s a shift in the air, the car picks up its speed, accelerating but you don’t flinch.
“You’re not making sense to me right now.” He’s quick when moving the shift to 4th gear. Your eyes flit over to the dashboard 65,66…,70 kilometers per hour, “Sukuna-“
He slows down, moving back to 3rd gear when you’re approaching a new set of traffic, then he breaks early. You jolted forward, his arm coming up to block you by your stomach. Your eyes are wide and piercing at the windshield, “What is wrong with you?!”
He shook his head, unphased by the forces that just came onto your bodies. “You broke up with me,” he emphasized on ‘you’. Like saying that meant it justified how he made you feel after, your face twists in distaste.
“Oh so now we’re talking about it.” You’re looking down at his arm, he’s big, like bigger than it was when you were both in college. It’s a drunk thought you wanna ignore but it’s imposing. You don’t think of it because you’re dissecting how attractive he looks but it’s despite how he could overpower you, how typically you shouldn’t feel safe around a big man with anger issues and a fast car, you aren’t scared. Your safety is regretfully the farthest thing from the thoughts running through your brain right now.
When you pick up your head he’s already looking at you, the red light casts on his face, you can see everything now. The bump of his nose, the fleck of red on his irises, the way his monolids looked slightly hooded.
How can someone draw you in and simultaneously make you want to run far away? He doesn't make a move to detach himself from you. You try to shove him away, looking back at the still red light, then back at him. You push, he doesn’t budge. “Hey-“
“You ran from me, not the other way around.” Your lips part, you think you’re about to say something or scoff, but you can’t bring yourself to utter a sound.
“You don’t get to hold a grudge and make it sound like I was the one that left when you said you didn’t picture us like that.” A chill runs itself on your spine as he repeats verbatim what you said, a cold look on his expression. “Whatever that fucking meant,” He mumbled, arranging himself back on the drivers side, rolling the windows back up.
This was unfair, this was singling you out. But technically, he was right. You broke up with him and you never reached out after. But it wasn’t all your fault, that’s what you wanted to say. Despite everything you agreed to, it was out of how deeply you had felt for him.
You trusted him that he wanted you just as much, but in time, you wanted more. But were you so wrong to want more than to be someone he came home to — without bothering to even so much as say hi to you around others? Were you wrong to not want to look like he just kept you around long enough ‘cause you’re a decent fuck? You swallow the words you couldn’t say, tongue thick in your mouth.
It feels like you could breathe again when he pulled himself off you, but comfort doesn’t return immediately. The car moves forward and you’re back to sinking in your own pool of thoughts, completely disassociating.
Sukuna looks back at you, noting how you’ve completely sunk back to your seat. You, who he remembered as someone so fired up and just earlier was laughing loudly, your presence now damp and the look in your eyes empty with all but 20 minutes alone with him. But he says nothing, his eyes on the road knowing he can never get it quite right when it comes to telling you how he felt.
The road starts to make familiar turns, until the drive ultimately comes to a stop, slowing down in front of your apartment complex. You move around, making sure you have your bag and keys with you. When you held them in your hands, it still felt like you were leaving something behind.
Your fingers ghost over the door lock, knowing if you flicked it open it would mean being obnoxiously loud in the silence. You don’t know how long you sat there, and he doesn’t unlock the door for you either. The thought that he’s letting you decide what comes next puts more pressure on you than you’d like to admit is actually there.
“Were you—” It comes out hoarse with your voice high, your throat feels dry too. “I didn’t break up with you because I didn’t see you in my future.” He shifts, but you don’t even think of moving, tightly clutching your bag on your lap. “I didn’t think you did.”
He’s quiet, allowing you to continue until you choose to let it settle. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Your shoulders sag. This is unbelievable. You unbuckle your seatbelt and gather everything you own. Your throat constricts, “I don’t even know why I’m-“ When your hand finds the lock, it shuts back on its own. “What the fuck?” You turn immediately, hair whipping on your face. “Open it,” You’re tired, it seems to be more obvious to you when you’re pulling on the door the wrong way. “Open it!”
He reaches for your bicep, you’re gonna break the handle. “Hey- Stop it.”
“Let. Me. out!” You smack on the window, you pound heavier with each word, it hurts the side of your fist. “You’re crazy!”
“Oh I’m fucking crazy?!” He pulls you closer, away from doing anything even more damaging to yourself. “Whatever you have to let out, do it to me. Not the fucking car ‘cause it’s fucking pointless.” He spat, you don’t see the concern laced in his pointed eyes because his proximity is torture alone, eyes averted.
Your nostrils flare as you breathe out a long sigh. “You were embarrassed of me.” It doesn’t come out as stern as you’d like it to be, the claim comes out as half a whisper.
His hand loosens on you, but he doesn’t let go. You continue, “It made sense- it was the only reason that made sense when you couldn’t even look at me around our friends.” He finally lets go, hand resting on the back of your headrest.
“You said it was okay-“
Your voice can't help but raise in his wake, your heart beating faster than normal. “Of course I would! Would you have been with me if I pushed you to tell everyone? You couldn’t even do it earlier!”
Sukuna’s hands find themselves planted on the wheel. He’s not even driving, but he feels like it’s the only thing grounding him at this moment.
“You agreed to it! You didn’t say I should change anything, and we just kept going like before anyways—”
“—They knew we were sleeping with each other, I would’ve taken that!” Your voices overlap each other, both your defenses coming up to protect yourselves suddenly. “I would’ve taken being known as part of your body count. At least then I wouldn’t look so desperate. It was humiliating!” You unlock the door, thinking that you were gonna leave it at that. He locks it back, you throw glare at him.
“You don’t think it was embarrassing when you left ‘cause you told me there wasn’t a future for us? How fucking dumb I felt when you never showed up to gatherings and everyone looked at me?” You could’ve sworn a vein was appearing on his forehead, and judging from how he was putting his swear words to a minimum of two, he was definitely holding back.
“Don’t you dare twist this on me,”
“I was never fucking embarrassed of you!”
“You never fought me on it!”
The yell leaves an imprint on the silence that follows.
“I thought if I gave you an ultimatum, you’d back away. So I told you something I wasn’t sure was true myself, until you didn’t fight it. So maybe you were thinking the same and I just stuck with it.” Your words spilled, finally coming out of the confines you’ve kept it all these months.
“I was lying to my friends,” You continued, the words unable to hold in your conscience. “I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. But I also couldn’t talk to you-“ Your voice cracked, “I was alone.” You couldn’t even look at him. You didn’t wanna be faced with any more disappointment.
You wanted him to be distraught, to care that he hurt you, dragged your self worth without knowing, and you fed what was left of it back to yourself. But you weren’t sure if he did care, so you sat stiffly.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” He asks, hesitant.
You reply without the ability to filter yourself, “ ‘Didn’t wanna look insecure.”
“But you were.” He answers, and it still stings. Of course I was.
“Could you blame me?” You shift in your seat, putting your phone inside your bag, you fish out for your keys you threw back inside during your earlier fit. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit. You find it again but you stay there. Waiting.
You don’t know why you stay longer than you should, no, you do. You steal a glance at him, and his body is still, contemplative. You unlock the car door, and it doesn’t click back to lock. A part of you that you refused to acknowledge still waits for him, but your heart is already heavy with rejection, with the weight of his silence.
You say nothing, the words are lodged in your throat. You’re quick to get out of the car, the crisp air bites your arms and you realize you left your jacket halfway to the entrance of your complex but you keep walking.
Your heels click on the pavement, arms crossed over your chest like you’re holding yourself together. You feel a sting in your eyes — this feels too final. Your lip wobbles but you don’t look back, you’re drawing a line in the sand.
The keys fumble in your hand, your sight gets blurrier and blurrier.
“You’re a fuckin’ baby, you know that?” You stop breathing, fingers caught mid-twist on the door knob. You look up in surprise, your eyes wide and glossy. The sight tugs on Sukuna’s chest.
He raised his hand, your jacket hanging off his fist. “You hate me so much you couldn’t even get back your jacket?”
Your body shivers when a faint gust of wind blows at you, and it feels like that might be enough to take you down like a pile of sticks. “F-fuck you.” Your teeth chatter, and you go back to trying to open your door.
There’s two steps that shuffle behind you, a warmth on your back makes itself known. The keys cease its movement. Your head comes down on the door in a thud, still you don’t look back. “Can you please…” You start, but you aren’t sure what comes after.
Sukuna’s hand wraps around yours on the door knob, he gently pries it off and takes the keys himself. You let him do so, fingers pliant. The touch is warm, intimate — it doesn’t help the twist in your gut.
“I didn’t know how to want you, but I knew how I felt.” He starts, the words coming out hesitant but like release at the same time.
“It felt kinda like nothing would go wrong if I kept it between us. And it didn’t matter to me ‘cause you were,” He hesitated, fiddling with the keys himself till he found the right one. He twists it, the lock clicking. “You’re all I needed.” His breath is on your hair, arms caging you by the doorway.
“I thought if I gave you enough attention, it would be enough to keep you satisfied. And I know now it wasn’t enough. But I didn’t want to lose you then but I’m—yeah, I still did.” He takes a step back, his warmth leaving with him. The door swing opens with a light push of his fingers.
He finds himself in the same position as you, breath stuck, body rigid. You turn around, he looks like he’s holding himself back on something with his fists closed tightly, your keys still between.
“I wasn’t sure what I should’ve done. I never wanted you to be alone.”
The silence that passes is louder than any yell you threw at each other. You both stood there, a step away from each other. The door was now open, but it's for you to go in, not him.
“Is that an apology?” You whisper, he looks down from the ceiling and locks in on you.
“I’m sorry.” He grunts, a foreign word paired with his voice. But it isn’t forced, it’s laid out for you to take if you wanted it. Your heart pounds in your chest, you don’t take your eyes off him. He takes a deep breath and for the first time he looks as uncertain as he actually feels. The words force itself out of him once more, “I’m-“
He blinks and your lips find his. It’s half a second that he doesn't kiss back until he finds your waist and melts into you, eyes shutting. You’re rough, hands coming up his hair and tugging him deeper onto you. Strangely he’s soft, allowing you to pull him in. His hands however are holding onto you like a lifeline. Feeling your body, from your face to your hips, like you’re anchoring him to the ground.
His hand is on the back of your thigh and squeezing, it’s when you gasp as he lifts you when his tongue finds itself in your mouth. Your arms are around his neck when you part from each other.
Sukuna's eyes are half lidded, gazing up at you. Your thumb grazes his cheek, tracing the ink on his face before coming back down to kiss him, you want him closer.
This kiss is different, slow like you’re tasting him. He walks into your apartment while you’re still on his lips. You don’t see the door shut but you hear it. He blindly navigates his way into your apartment like the back of his hand, the only light coming from the dim moonlight cast behind the thin curtains.
He’s on the edge of your bed when you open your eyes, your breaths mingle against each other. You tug at the bottom of his black shirt, palming the expanse of his hard abdomen underneath. You pull off his lips with a whine, “What is it, baby?”
He holds your face, cheeks warm at the nickname. He takes you in when you inch closer, trying to close the distance, your lips puffy and bitten to a flushed red.
Both your brains struggled to connect your thoughts and feelings at this moment. Every graze of his fingers, and squeeze is out of disbelief, making sure that the other is truly there.
You peel your own shirt off, leaving you in nothing but your bra and pants. His throat bobs and you feel him harden underneath your thighs.
You haven’t said anything since you entered your home. Sukuna is searching your face, a little too close to scrutiny. Your brows pinch together, but still you reach for the back of your bra.
Before you let it fall, his hand finds yours that’s keeping your strap from unclasping. He’s waiting for you to say something, trying to get a read on you. You’re doing the same when he pulls you closer, his lips landing on your cheek, your neck, and to the skin above your chest. He picks his head back up, his eyes hazy and dilated.
The hand on your back tightens atop yours, silently urging you to make your discomforts known, if it’s there. He’s patient now but his restraint is hanging by a thread and you, the blade that cuts it clean.
You let go, bringing his hand down from your back to let the piece of garment fall. The weight of his stare is heavy on you, looking down at your soft breasts, nipples stiff and pointed up from the cold. Sukuna stops a groan from escaping his throat.
His head dips, mouth finding your collar bone while his teeth grazes them before biting down. Your hands come up to hold his head, whining as he sucks and licks the spot to soothe. But still, he isn’t dipping down to pay attention to your breasts nor is he squeezing you on the spots you want. Its easy to tell when he’s holding back.
He lets go, a bruise forming above the wet spot of your chest. You’re biting your lip, hands planted on his thighs and you’re leaning forward to balance yourself. It’s getting harder to keep this shit gentle when you’re pressing your tits together for him.
“I don’t,” He swallows hard, “I don’t wanna fuck you.” He says, the words are bitter in his mouth. Liar.
A smirk finds itself on your lips, nodding. You don’t push him. Sukuna watches as you lift yourself off his lap, now standing between his legs. His hands work on their own as they find a place on your bare waist, but he stops the urge to plant your ass back on him.
A gentle thud signals your pants are now at your feet. He scans your body from down up, you feel his eyes on your calves to your thighs. “You don’t wanna touch me?” You poke, stepping out of the pool of fabric.
A hiss comes out of him when squeezed his cock, straining underneath the uncomfortable denim of his jeans. You know he won’t beg you, or plead, but you made a compelling argument.
“Well, I want you.” You continued, looking down when you’re suddenly aware of how you were in nothing but your thin pink underwear. Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, tugging up like you did earlier. “Do you still want me?” The words are half part of the tease, what it could possibly mean lingers in the air.
The way he peers at you isn’t primal, it’s many things you know he won’t be able to tell you. But the answer lands when he takes your hand, guiding you to lay on the bed gently. You land on the pillows, sprawled out while he finally sheds his shirt and jeans off. It’s your turn to gawk, the familiar sight of the thick black bands decorating his skin, still there. It’s still him.
It’s not long until his lips land on yours, hungry and exploring. He kisses down to the skin above your stomach, his tongue sticking out to lick up to your breasts. Your shudder, eyes fluttering shut when his lips latch onto your left nipple and sucking. He’s taking his time before finding the neglected one on the right. Heat builds in your stomach, the fabric of your panties clinging to your folds.
His lips pop off your chest, nose dragging down to your navel, then landing on your underwear. You bite your lip while you’re looking down at him. He steals a glance at you, winking. “You’re an idiot,” The laugh that bubbles dies down into embarrassment when you hear him inhale sharply, taking in your sweet scent.
The deep groan from his chest has your stomach doing flips. Almost immediately, the flimsy fabric of your panties are gone.
The first taste of your pussy has him feeling like he found water after days in the desert. Eyes rolling back underneath his lids, then he sucks on your clit — harsh like he’s trying to get something out of it.
You yelp, your thighs attempt to close around his head but his grip is unyielding as the way he laps at your core hungrily.
It’s taking more effort to stop making so much noise, your own palms coming up to muffle your mewls. Sukuna notices almost immediately, but he doesn’t stop you, instead he takes it as a sign to press his face harder, head moving side to side.
His eyes are wide, a crazed look in them, lips impossibly secured on your cunt. There’s a rough squeeze on your ass, tilting your hips upward to meet his need to go deeper, like devouring you whole isn’t enough.
Sukuna leaves open mouthed kisses on your quivering nub, pulling off it before spitting square on the sensitive flesh. “Y’ gonna keep quiet all night?”
He spreads the fluid on your cunt like butter on his meal, middle finger sinking in while his other hand rubs on your poor clit. Your mouth parts, a shock makes its way through your body, feet twitching. “Ry-ryo, I’m-“
His eyes are glued to how your hole grips around his finger. “No one been fucking this pretty pussy in a while, huh?”
You shake your head, your stomach tightening with each speeding thrust of his thick finger. Your insecurities now forgotten, hands falling to tug on his pink locks. To pull him closer or farther from you, you aren’t sure.
More whimpers spill out of your throat when he adds another digit, fast and unwavering. “I-I can’t—“
He watched you with unbridled attention, mouth parting as you groped your own tits and rode his fingers. “You wanna cum?” He asks, breathless.
The voice you let out is now high and whiney, “Yes, yes, yes—” on the verge of a sob.
The plea runs down like oil on his back, his cock twitching painfully in his boxers, soiled with pre. He goes back to licking up your little clit, lost in the sounds he could emit from you or your body. It’s when he curves his finger upwards, enough to brush the spongey part inside of you, hitting it over and over again, that your legs start to shake. Your hips grow erratic, whimpers spill from you like a damn bursting open. He lets you ride it out, brushing your hair and sweat out of your face as he slows his fingers, your warm body quivering underneath him.
He sits back, watching you heave, legs spread open. You hum, legs shutting before falling to one side, your gaping cunt clenching at nothing, presenting itself to him. A sigh leaves you, “Thanks,” It makes him chuckle, followed by your own. The atmosphere is light for a moment, both of you catching your breaths when you hear clicking at the edge of the bed.
Sukuna’s sitting up on his knees, his presence abundant and just big, you think to yourself when you fix your sights on his cock. Finally free from the confines of his gray boxer shorts, an angry red tip leaking as he jerks his shaft. You realize you’re gawking and your gaze lifts to his.
“Polite as always.” He replied as if he wasn’t jerking his cock in front of you, to you. He’s using the hand he used to play with you earlier, your juices spread on his cock like a personal lubricant.
There’s a tug on your ankle, you’re pulled away from the comfort of your pillows and now close enough that the smooth skin of your ass brushes against his balls. The same hand leads your legs to fold sideways. He hovers above you like a weighted blanket, his lips finding your jaw, then your lips.
“It’s a shame,” he mumbled against you, tip already lining up at the entrance of your drooling pussy. “I’m not as nice.”
You both gasp in each other’s open mouths when he finally sinks in, slowly pushing, inch by inch. His head falls against yours as he holds himself back from bottoming out too fast.
“Oh fuck”
One of you cursed, but you weren’t sure who it came out of. The contents of your head now reduced to something lesser than mush. Unable to comprehend anything beyond sensations. Finally, he bottoms out fully, frothy ring of white developing at the base of his cock with each shallow thrust.
Then he pulls out halfway, before pushing back in all the way. Your breath is caught in your throat, nails digging into his forearms holding your thighs. Slow and deep. Pulling back before plunging himself back to your aching heat.
Again and again.
The pounding resounds in the walls of your apartment, heavy and accompanied by his throaty grunts and your uncontrolled whimpers. He kisses you, tender. A stark difference to the obscene arrangement he’s fucking you in. His balls are hitting your thighs repeatedly, forearm supporting under them and keeping you folded sideways. Every breath that leaves him grazes your skin, directly groaning into your ear.
The room disappears in and out from your vision with each roll of your eyes, each thrust compressing you closer between the sheets and his chest. Each push feels like he’s driving you to the edge, no, insanity.
Because that’s exactly what this is. Seeing your ex on a whim, confronting him drunk, making him plead for forgiveness.
Now he’s flipping you on your back, asking if he could show you how he could fuck inside deeper, and you’re digging your nails into his arms when your knees touch your shoulders.
Yeah, insanity.
A sob eagerly pushes its way out of your throat when he bottoms out in the new angle, the headboard bumping against the wall with the force of his hips. He’s on his knees, thrusting into you with his arms hooked under your legs, palms on the meat of your ass to bring your hips in to fuck on his cock.
Each loud cry prompts him to go even faster, testing how much more you could take, how much more noise he could get out of you.
Noises jolt out of you with each time the blunt head of his cock drives deeper, “H-harder.”
His heart is pounding twice a second but he doesn’t falter, picking up his pace when he feels you clench around him. “Fuck, you’re so fucking gone.”
“I want more, Ryo—”
“don’t-This is more.” Sukuna’s hips stutter, iron grip squeezing your flesh at the request. His tone is concerned, yet strained. Holding back on something you both want. He thumbs your clit, eliciting a cry out of you. But it’s not enough, it doesn’t feel enough. You need to be impossibly closer.
You’re shaking your head, stomach clenched as the heat builds up inside of you, but you don’t want it like this — Sukuna’s thumb rubbing hastily on your sensitive nub. Your desperation grows palpable, hips meeting his after each thrust, thirst still unquenched.
He lets out a frustrated groan that you can only describe as guttural, resolve unravelling as he watches your tits bounce as you eagerly try and take more in. “I’m gonna- I don’t wanna hurt you.” He pants, leaning forward, your legs bending a little more towards you.
“No.” You choke out, “Don’t hold back-” There’s now a hold under your thighs, keeping you from moving out of your position. Your hands are clutching his thick biceps fervently, pulling him down to put his weight on you. Folding yourself in half for him, his hips slowing, thrusts turning deep and languid. “Don’t hold back on me, please.” You gasp out, an earnest request, voice teetering off aroused and closer to pleading.
The air shifts and it’s easy to point when the rest of his resolve releases from the tension in his body.
“Okay, okay baby. Shit.” Throat bobbing before reaching out for you, “C’mere,“ He brings your face to him by the back of your head, lips sloppily meeting each other, tongue prodding past your warm, parted mouth. You’re barely able to kiss back, mewling against him when he pulls back slowly, before bottoming out all the way to your stomach.
It’s not long until he’s picking up the pace, repeating the motion in a fast, unwavering tempo. He’s growing more vocal by the second, and you’re deduced to nothing but a mushy, crying, wet mess underneath him.
“I thought you wanted more?” You don’t—can’t reply, something between whimpers and wet chokes only leave your parted mouth. “I gave you more, now you can’t even thank me?” The sound of his deep chuckle that follows after, reaches all the way to your pussy, getting wetter and wetter around him with each mean tease he sends your way.
Your legs are numb now, the only sensation left is the one building up in your core. The pads of his thumb brush away the stray tears running down the side, you’re biting your lip and pulling him in closer by the arms slung around his neck. “Th-thank you, Ryo.” It comes out as half gasp and a mewl, your breathing uneven and failing to regulate yourself at the stimulation from within. “So good, ’s really—more”
There’s nothing but a deep, guttural noise that returns to you. He feels your thighs struggle to hold yourself with his weight on you, holding himself above you, carrying your hips and letting your legs slacken against your side.
“You’re shaking so much.” Your muscles lessen in tension, heart tugging at the consideration.
But you tuck that nervous, unstable part of you away, not ready to confront these feelings fully. You’re unable to look at him, head falling at the side. His lips fall on your cheek, wetly dragging them across till they’re hovering over your ear,
“Keep acting this nice I might do anything you want me to.”
“Sh-shut up,” You mouth off, tightly shutting your eyes so as to not meet his taunting crimson ones. He can’t help the grin that tugs on his face, watching you get bashful over him mocking you. He remembers how easy it is to get to you, a trait typically bothersome for others, on you it’s wholly endearing. Despite your words though, you’re clenching around him, pulsing, wetter, and wetter still.
He continues to press on, hips slowing down to start driving into you deeper, a dull ache hitting your cervix. “You missed this,” He bends down, closer against your face, smushing you who’s still turned away, pressing against the mattress. Like he’s trying to merge your bodies together. “Admit it, you fucking missed this.” Continuing on his pace, grunting when you clamp down on him, “I can fucking feel you— Say you missed me, c’mon.”
“I-I’m, Oh my,” The words float around your head, unable to connect as a full sentence when he speeds up. You struggle, trying to keep up with both chasing your orgasm and his foolish requests. “Imissedyou, oh shit, I’m so close.“ You’re reaching down with your fingers, aiming for your swollen clit when a much larger, iron clad grip, sticks your hand to the bed. You feel like crying.
“What d’you say? A little clearer for me.” He pushes, unsatisfied with your answer.
“Fuck you!” Your free arm lands on his leg, quads flexing as they’re put to work. Your nails claw into them, the flesh of his hard thigh burning with reddened marks.
Still, he doesn’t let up, “I don’t think you want me to.” He takes carrying your weight for his own advantage, dragging you body down on his shaft, up and down like he’s using you to jerk himself off.
Amidst hot, bursting sensations within, the constant hesitation you seem to bring into everything peeks through.
The words play in your head, and you waver. Your guard coming up, “I-I miss your cock then—fuck!” The curse spills out after a hand comes down on your puffy cunt, your nerves triggering small shocks all the way to your toes. He’s really pushing it out of you. A notch grows between his brows.
You feel so much all at once. Your physical feelings and emotional sentiments clash with one another, making you unable to decipher what you want quickly — your emotions are unpacking at the most inconvenient of times.
A taunt now left feeling a lot more like a weighted decision.
You look for an answer in his stare, he’s already focused on you and maybe equally nervous, reaching to see if you’ll meet him halfway.
Tears prick your eyes at the intensity of it all.
You reach for his face, and it feels like coming back to earth. “I miss you—I-I missed you.” And he’s toppling over, your gravity pulling him in.
He lets out a breath, “F-fuck, I know,” It comes out closer to a snivel than a whisper, tucking himself in your neck and breathing in you scent. It’s grounding enough that he lets out a groan. “I missed you too.”
His hips grow erratic, member throbbing in your walls, pre-cum mixing with the mess of your sopping cunt. He can’t last. The shame that comes with the fact doesn’t reach him though as he’s lost in the persistence of feeling you cum around his cock, rolling his hips, pink tufts on his pelvis rubbing against your mound.
The knot in your core tightens even more, back arching off your bedsheets as his engorged tip rams upwards, grazing your cervix repeatedly. Your orgasm crests over like a thousand shocks, toes curling and twitching as you ride it out. He’s pulling out after, leaving your hole gaping, and hastily pumping up and down on his cock, drenched in your fluids.
Curses spill out of him, watching your chest heave in the dim light, never averting his gaze before he shoots white spurts of his cum all over your stomach with a breathy moan.
Your vision comes and goes afterwards, hardly able to keep your eyes open. One moment he’s wiping on you with his soiled shirt, the next he’s pulling your covers over you and placing his arm around your waist.
Before sleep comes over your consciousness, a peck lands on the side of your head, soft and lingering. He mumbles something to you, you don’t catch it. The world around you already turning black, head quiet.
***
The sun peaks through the blinds, a warm glow casts on your naked back. Sukuna observes, fingers brushing against the yellow and purple blooming on the skin of your waist. There’s a faint buzzing that interrupts his quiet morning, continuous and irritating. He reaches over to your bedside table, careful to not dip your side of the bed too much.
“I knew you weren’t gonna call me last night! I was getting worried he’d drive you off the highway or something.” Before the voice could continue, there’s already another distant, feminine one, muffled and saying something along the lines of ‘Is that her’ or ‘Did you tell her?’
“Yeah! ‘m about to ask!” Sukuna’s face pinched at the clear yell, pulling the phone away from his ear.
It’s early as fuck.
There's a noise on his end, dishes clanking and clothes shuffling. “Since you're done ghosting us, I wanted to check if you were free next week? I promise, I won’t force you in a car with Sukuna’s grump ass agai—“
“Yeah, we’ll see if we can go.” Before Suguru could say anything, the grump hangs up with a furrowed brow, sliding your phone back on top of your drawers.
He sat back on your headboard, contemplating the unfamiliar, light feeling fluctuating in his chest. He finds the culprit, stirring in her sleep, arm reaching out slowly for the warmth that left behind her.
You peel your eyes open. taking in the morning light, blinking. Your hair falls down to your side when you turn, shamelessly gawking when you first take in his bare chest and only then do you peer back at his focused stare.
You tuck a hand underneath your head, challenging his focus.“What?” your voice comes out laced with traces of sleep.
“Geto’s asking if we’re free next week.” There’s a comfortable silence between you two, one that soothes over the warmth in the air. You’re first to blink, a smirk pulls on your lips at the sight of a grin on his.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤstalker! izuku midoriya x reader ── .✦ university au!
౨ৎ tw / cw (18+); yandere-implied izuku, law student! izuku, possibly ooc izuku, dry-humping, fingering, face-fucking, missionary, use of panties as a blindfold, praise-kink, piss-kink, alcohol & drug use, invasion of privacy, reader has a v, reader has a twt acc, violence [if some tags don't show up in this part, it will be in the next part]
౨ৎ synopsis; izuku midoriya, a motivated law student, all too known for an unshakable moral compass and a charmingly personality, tries to pry into your life.
꒰ care to note, this part is very like internal monologue, though...the next part i fear...oough prepare...
౨ৎ wc; 21k
"oh," izuku hummed out, amused as he soaked in the layout of your twitter blog. his eyes scanned the cute cat profile picture, smiling tenderly at your bio. it was nothing explicit — to be honest, there was nothing about it that seemed relatively interesting.
there was nothing about the account that indicated it could've been you; no trace, no sign, nothing about an age, or a name. he scrolled absentmindedly through your account, singing a quiet melody to himself, absorbing the person you were, the stuff that made you happy, the stuff that made you sad, little quiet blogs of your day that no one cared about. this was you blended into the internet without a care in the world.
his attention flickered to the tabs of your profile, noticing your likes were public. this was great for him! he could know actually what you liked, your interests, the content that you indulged in. maybe from there, he could slowly bleed into your life...
with a fast tap of his thumb, the page loaded almost instantly. izuku propped a pillow behind his neck, arm supporting his tussled hair as he began binging your likes.
you liked romance anime, that was cute. shounen, specifically. it was a undeniable observation that you loved other people’s daily rants, stories of nonsense, ‘am i the asshole’ stories that you’d find on reddit — all posted and liked within a timeline of 3-days.
izuku scrolled further down, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. something warm swelled in his chest from being able to digest parts of you like this. in a way, this was intimate to him, never would he have been able to know you like this just from your instagram posts alone. he’d have to pay hitoshi extra for this, simply just for gratitude, of course.
as he further swiped, the content began changing, bit by bit.
“f—fuck, right there!”
izuku’s eyes widened, quickly turning down the volume on his phone. heat bloomed across his freckled cheeks at the video, eyes dazed as his focus trained on the explicit movement on his screen: a close up shot of a man fucking into a woman, pussy making obscene slick sounds as she moaned.
“the fuck?” izuku frowned, scrolling further, only to come across a plethora of porn, all taken with a similar low quality resolution — all liked by you.
he didn’t want to pry further, all he wanted was to see what you were interested in, the things you liked, stuff that he could use to his advantage to merge into your life — not this.
but he couldn’t stop. the videos were filthy, majority of the short clips consisting of some form of explosive cumming from the male. so, you had a little breeding kink? that wasn't something he was sure he liked; besides, he didn't want kids yet.
he scrolled further, a faint tent growing in his sweats. it wasn't the porn that turned him on, it was the fact that you were leaving yourself bare and open for him, openly liking these filthy pornos, probably getting off to these, knowing you don't even have a man to recreate these with. he wondered if you touched yourself to these, did you like having your fingers inside of you? or were you the type to stimulate your clit. he thinks the latter.
his face turned into a grimace at a particular video that caught his eye. piss. golden shower. the first video was of a woman opening her mouth, lips spluttering as she drowned in piss, gurgling with a sweet smile on her face. the next was of a woman pissing on her partner mid cowgirl.
eurgh... to be honest, this was disgusting. izuku felt his cock soften at the videos, quickly swiping out off twitter — he'd seen enough. he stared up at his ceiling, eyes moving to watch the fan, an unchanging heat simmering in his chest.
his thoughts of you didn't change. how could they? you were this sweet thing he's had his eye on ever since bumping into you at the art club, so what if you got a little piss and breeding kink? maybe he could accommodate, or if that didn't work, maybe he could fix the way you thought — get rid of that porn addiction you obviously have. yeah! that sounds like a good idea, and in a way, he'd be saving you.
happy with his decision, he set his alarm for the next morning, snuggling in his sheets with a grin on his face. he knew exactly what to do, and how to make it work — how to make you fall for him.
𐙚
in the art room, you sat snugly in your leather seat, eyes eager as you drew in your sketchbook of some of your favorite fictional characters. the room was quiet, dust particles floating in the air, sunlight beaming through the glass windows and onto your skin.
for as long as you could remember, you loved drawing, painting, sketching, you name it. the feeling of graphite smooth on the underside of your palm, imagination coming to life on grained paper, brought something pleasant in your chest. it was a gateway from of your stressful academic life.
"that's a nice drawing," a gentle voice hummed out from behind you.
you almost flinch from the sound, instinctively covering your sketches with your arms. the page crumples a bit, bending at the corners as you turn to look at the voice.
oh, just your luck.
of course it had to be the cute law student, izuku midoriya.
you closed the notebook completely, leaning your chest over the cover, mustering a kind smile in an attempt to cover up the heat creeping up your neck. embarrassment twisted in your chest.
it’s childish, he shouldn’t see this.
you've seen him a couple times around here, nose buried in his note-book, scribbling notes no one's ever seen before. he was pretty popular around here, always bringing friends over, using the art room as a third-space. you and him have never talked before, but, you always noticed him. how could you not?
izuku was the law student everyone seemed to like without trying. he was soft-spoken, unfailingly kind with a voice that sounded like honey on toast, and eyes that always lingered like he was really listening.
he carried that boyish warmth in his features — gentle unruly curls, an expression that softened easily — balanced by his more mature features. a sharper jawline, a scar drawing down the right side of his cheek that wondered where he'd got it from, quiet confidence settling into the angles of his face, making him… distracting in a way you tried not to think about.
he was unfairly very nice to look at. you knew you never had a chance with him, so you never really thought about it.
you’d heard he’d recently received some sort of recognition award from the dean, mentioned in passing during lectures and whispered about in the halls, though he never brought it up himself. he didn’t seem like the type to.
izuku took a step back, moving into the chair swiftly beside you. "sorry, i didn't mean to scare you," he said, syllables practically dripping with honey, tone quiet and measured. "i just noticed you sketching some anime. i also like anime, too."
you scratched the nape of your neck awkwardly, arm still guarded on top of the cover. "y—yeah, it's nothing, though. just saw something like it the other day, so..." your lips thinned into a tight line, something panicked swarming in your chest. "i don't really know that much about anime so..."
izuku's lips curled upwards, leaning against his palm as he saw through your lie, noticing the undeniable blush on your cheeks. "if you don't mind, can i please look at your drawings? i won't judge," he asked, gesturing to the protected notebook as if he was testing his luck. "promise."
you paused, eyes drifting somewhere else in the room. suddenly the dried and crusty paintbrushes, brittle from misuse looked interesting.
you thought about his words, fingers trembling as you slowly pried the book open. it didn't take much convincing for you to nudge your book towards him, your pinky remaining secured on the edge of the page. "sure...yeah, yeah you can."
izuku shuffled his chair closer to yours, shoulders faintly brushing as angling his head so he could inspect you sketchbook. "thank you."
oh god.
he smelt so nice, especially up close. you almost felt as if you've just been winded.
the air around him hung with something masculine, warm, woody. you tried replaying to his words, but all you could think about was how pleasant he smelt, and the way he was practically invading your senses.
izuku waited for a fraction of a second for your response. seeing that you weren't going to say anything, his eyes narrowed onto your drawings, fingers thoughtful as he traced each sketch.
his eyes fell on a sketch of two characters kissing, thoughtful as he noticed a more intimate, vivid sketch below — a saliva string connected by two heated tongues.
"oh! um, please ignore that," you stammered out, face deepening a shade of red. a familiar twist of shame nestled in your chest as you resisted the urge to cover your face with your hands, wishing to melt into your seat and disappear.
izuku laughed, thoughtful as he turned to page to calm you down. "don't be embarrassed, it's really detailed. i like this detail here," he pointed at a fresh page which included a plethora of suggestive hand sketches. "these hand drawings are really good, mind me asking what they're meant to be doing?"
"i don't really know," you mumbled, pulling the sketchbook away already. you hadn't realized how explicit your sketches were until someone else was seeing it.
"seems pretty intimate," he commented, letting you close the cover once more. "i'm sorry, i hope you aren't embarrassed — there's nothing wrong with the content of your drawings at all. i hope you know that."
you nodded, chin tucked downwards as a feeble attempt to avoid his kind gaze. "i'm sorry i can't show you more."
izuku leaned back against the chair, observing you with understanding eyes. "okay, that's alright. i just want you to know that you're a very talented artist."
you turned to him, eyes still partially drawn away from his. "do you really mean that?"
"yeah, of course," izuku replied. "does it seem like i'm lying to you, y/n?"
your movements paused, hands stilling on the wooden table. "y—you know my name?"
izuku chuckled at your shock, his laugh warm against the quiet. "of course i know your name, y/n. you're always around here."
with an awkward laugh, "oh, that makes a lot of sense."
"my name's izuku midoriya, just if you were wondering as well," he added in quickly, hand reaching out.
of course you knew who izuku was. but you weren't surprised by his humbleness.
after staring at his hand for a while, you reached forward, your sweaty palms connecting with his calloused one — the contact so light and feathery. izuku, upon noticing the stiffness in your shoulders, adjusted immediately, loosening his grip.
“Izuku,” you repeat quietly to yourself, as if the name was something new.
he smiles at the sound of his name, small and careful. when he speaks again, it’s even softer, measured like he’s choosing each word with intention.
“...i really hope you didn't think i was judging you,” he says gently.
your shoulders sink a fraction, tension easing out of you in a way you hadn’t noticed was there. you look down at your sketchbook, thumb worrying at the bent corner of the page.
“i always feel like… if someone sees it, they’ll think it’s weird,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “or immature, or something.”
Izuku hums — quiet, understanding. he doesn’t contradict you right away, doesn’t rush to fix the feeling.
“i don’t think that at all,” he says eventually, voice low and reassuring. “didn't i tell you before i like anime? i wouldn't lie.”
you glance up at him, caught off guard by how certain he sounds—still soft, still gentle, but anchored. his expression is open, kind, unbelievely charming.
“just thought you were pretty cool, is all,” he adds quietly, almost like a vow, “I won’t ask you to show me anything you don’t want to.”
the words settle deep in your chest, warm and steady. that was the first time the two of you had properly talked.
the following days were filled with izuku popping by the art room. he didn’t hover invasively around you, solely maintaining a gentle greeting every now and then.
you’d nod curtly, passing him a quiet smile as your gaze followed his back down the sand-stone hallways — light filtering onto his curly hair.
you drew a little sketch of him absentmindedly, eyebrows fixed as you tried envisioning him from your last interaction. it wasn’t meant to be anything stalkerish or obsessive, it was just something that popped into your mind one day!
with your bottom lip tucked beneath your teeth, you carefully outlined the angle of his jawline, moving to draw his kind eyes. when you were done, you held your sketchbook back, analyzing the sketch from a distance, only to frown in response.
he looked insanely off here. was it the eyes? his nose maybe? or did you draw his lips too low.
“woah, my brows are pretty thin in this.”
“oh—omphh!” you scooted in your chair, almost sending yourself into an accident. “i—it’s not…if’s not what it looks like, i’m really sorry, i can rub it out if you feel uncomfortable, i swear!”
izuku’s intrigued eyes softened at the tremble in your lip, the way your hands began to shake as you reached for an eraser.
“hey hey hey, it’s okay,” he whispered out, hands reaching to pry to sketchbook back open. “may i look?”
your heart slowed in jagged rhythms, the remnants of your shock lingering as soft thumps patted against your ribs. you nodded, choking out a short response. “of course… go ahead.”
izuku eagerly pulled out the chair from beside you, plopping his bag beside him on the floor. the thump was relatively loud against the marble — an obvious indication of the volume of textbooks in his bag.
he leaned close, giving enough room for proximity. “you make me look pretty in these,” he commented thoughtfully, fingers drifting to trace the faint graphite where you’d erased and redrawn.
your face heated, a wobbly smile making it hard to even speak at all. “ah, really? heh.”
“yeah! i look really charming here,” he smiled as he pointed to another sketch at the corner of the page. “goodness, you’re incredible.”
his praise sent a shiver down your spine, sending heated waves across your chest. “i…i just drew what you looked like.”
izuku smirked to himself before it was quickly neutralized by surprise. “well then… i must be pretty then, is that right?”
you remained silent, eyes fixed on the sketch before you, mustering half a nod.
izuku noticed immediately.
izuku let out a quiet, thoughtful hum. “hey,” he said softly, leaning just a little closer. “you’re okay, right?”
you nodded again, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the page. “yeah. i just… didn’t expect you to see it.”
“mmm.” his smile was small, reassuring. “i kind of figured.”
you glanced up at him, startled. “you did?”
“a little,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “you get that look when you’re nervous, not that hard to tell.”
your heart squeezed at how easily he noticed.
he looked back down at the sketchbook, eyes gentle. “i really like these though,” he said, voice calm but sincere. “i'm kinda flattered.”
“i'm glad,” you murmured. “yeah...”
izuku chuckled quietly, the sound warm. “do you draw everyone you meet? or am i a one off exception.” he paused, glancing at you through his lashes. “if so, i don’t mind that at all.”
your face heated, your expression already giving away the answer. “this is so embarrassing.”
“yeah,” he said softly, smiling. “but not in a bad way.”
he reached out, fingertips hovering before lightly touching the corner of the page. “the rest of me looks accurate,” he noted gently. “i liked how you included my scar.”
you swallowed. “i didn’t want it to look wrong.”
“it doesn’t,” he said immediately. then, quieter, “it looks really nice.”
he closed the sketchbook carefully and slid it back to you, his fingers brushing yours in a way that felt electrifying.
“if you ever want to draw me again,” he added, voice almost shy despite the confidence beneath it, “you don’t have to hide it. i’d be okay with it.”
the way he said okay with it made your chest ache — gentle, steady, sincere. izuku midoriya was so kind...
𐙚
izuku grumbled to himself, staring at the pile of work layering the corner of his desk. he'd already completed a whole two, maybe it was three, hours of full-focused study, and he still had another case-study to go through. luckily, he started already, so he wasn't too stressed.
and besides, he deserved a break. after all, he's managed to maintain a smooth, impressive gpa after all this time, who's telling him he isn't allowed to have other hobbies outside of academia?
deciding so, izuku checked your twitter blog, refreshing the page with a swift swipe, eyes focused on the immediate difference of your posts.
misocats353368p
19012026.
today was really nice! i did some really cool sketches (won't show them), but someone saw them, which is kinda rare. anyway, i did some baking after my lectures and tutorials, this is what i made!
that was really sweet.
izuku smiled to himself, clicking on the photo of the blueberry cheesecake you had made, that honestly, looked underbaked. he doubted it'd taste any different, and it'd still taste delightful and flavorful, filled with the most delectable jam beneath the cream, and...
izuku turned his phone off, face down onto his desk. he stared down at the tent in his pants, sinking against his chair as he tilted his head back to inspect the ceiling without purpose. he softly palmed himself through his sweat, eyes fluttering as he mounded his hand around his erection.
he didn't know necessarily why he had this much interest in you to begin with. he wasn't sure if it was a crush, infatuation or boredom for some change in his life.
to start off — if he thought hard enough — he'd realize that he didn't really have any romantic feelings towards you, and that he was just chasing something interesting.
need less to say, that didn't mean he didn't want to get closer to you; to know you inside and out, but the feeling in his chest, it wasn't tender, nor was it delicate. he didn't know what it was, and a part of him knowingly felt bad about it.
maybe he just wanted to be your friend.
with a grunt, izuku came in his pants, sticky, and opaque against the grey of his sweats. he watched unintentionally, eyes fixed on the way it oozed through the material, beading into thick clumps on the surface of his crotch. it was so unexpected, but he had no time to question his body.
after izuku took a shower, washing off his sins and the haunting thoughts of you, as well as his feelings, he found himself back under the study lamp, warm against the back of his hand.
a notification dinged on his phone, loud and obnoxious. with a slightly impatient sigh, izuku unlocked his phone, reading the short brief message sent to him by a fellow member of the same society he was in — under a phone number izuku forgot to save.
xxx-xxx-xxx (maybe from ua. university???)
hey man, we proceeded with your management details for the networking ball, so it should be all sweet for next week.
also catering is all sweet and planned.
also iida said he was all good to scan tickets on entrance.
izuku felt relief settle into his shoulders, a tension he's been aware of for weeks finally coming to a cease. networking ball was coming, and it's taken quite a significant toll on his own mental health, despite it being something that should be fun. the planning, all rigorously thought out by him, took an absurd chunk of his time, and he was hoping by the time this was all over, he'd be able to have more free time.
maybe he'd go back to normal after this.
the following days, were probably easily described as hell. there was always someone in the committee that found a loophole to his organizing, even though there really wasn't any.
at the final meeting till the ball, izuku wanted to rip his hair out. the room casted with stale lighting, hung over the faces surrounding the oakwood table. familiar faces shared across different majors, all dedicated to get the ball running smoothly. yet, it felt that the workload all this time, has been placed onto him.
"izuku, have you considered the other employers that have made last minute—"
"yes, yes i have. i've already done that ages ago," izuku mumbled out, tone flatter than he'd intended.
"okay, then... just also checking, ITP wanted to run their program—"
izuku peered up from his laptop, a smirk filled with annoyance simmering beneath his expression. "riko, yes. i've considered it. everything you're listing down just to list, i've already dealt with it."
the other faces in the room laughed nervously at izuku's words, eyes flickering back down to their screens to organize any last finishing touches.
izuku took a moment to breath, posture straightening. "i just wanted to focus on our positions for next week, which shouldn't be too hard," he said, a little more softer now. "after this, i reckon we can wrap it up."
for the next following hour, conversations filled with thoughtful decisions and meaningful inputs filled the air, and by the end of it, izuku could feel light flitering from the end of the tunnel.
"thank you all for your hard work! i'll see you guys the day of the ball, 4pm sharp," izuku hummed out, nodding to each member, waiting patiently for the room to filter out before he locked up.
he already knew where his body wanted to take him, and he already knew what he wanted to see.
the afternoon sun casted a warm glow, long shadows slanting across the pavement, painting clouds with amber hues. the air felt cool against izuku's neck, anticipation nipping at him as he made his way to the art block.
by the time he reached the room, pearlescent rainbow glass muting the shadow of you inside, he felt all the oxygen he's been depriving himself of finally come back. of course you'd be here.
instead of sneaking behind you — a silly habit of his — he decided to make his presence known.
"hi," he said softly, careful to not disturb the other students in the room minding their own business.
you smiled softly, movements slow as you adjusted to his presence unrushed. this was good, just what he wanted.
"oh, hi izuku!" you squeaked out, voice a bit wobbly, despite him knowing it wasn't on purpose. the way you said his name sent a satisfied swell throughout his stomach, cresting into something victorious as he settled beside you.
"what are you working on today? how were classes?" he asked, tuning in on the way you didn't flinch this time, fingers continuing to sketch soft details on the open page.
you flushed at his question, a look of surprise spreading across your face. it was as if this was the first time someone's asked you this many questions. "it was okay..." you replied, almost too fast and dismissive. "oh, i'm just drawing some anatomy, i got inspired today."
izuku leaned further, attention fully fixed on the careful movements from your hand. he tried to give himself time to understand your dismissiveness to the latter of his question, but decided maybe it was nothing. "really? inspiration from?"
you paused at his words, lips tucked into each other.
izuku's eyes creased tenderly at the sight, amusement written all over his face. "anime, maybe?"
you nodded, subconsciously leaning into your palm to hide the faint blush on your cheeks. "yeah...something like that."
izuku laughed as he pulled out his equipment from his bag, opting to savor this moment with you as much as possible. after all, he deserved it.
"mind if i stay here, and get some work done?"
you glanced up fully, wandering eyes skimming over his hands, prominent veins and tethered skin clasped around his ridiculously-sized textbook as he fiddled through the pages worn with time.
"yeah! that's okay," you replied, voice rejecting your quiet nature as you quickly turned back to your drawings. "if...if you want to talk, or if you just want to sit in silence— just let me know.."
izuku perked at your words, surprisal blooming his features. "what would you want? i can do both."
you kept your eyes on the ligament you were sketching out, brows furrowed. "maybe...sit in silence?"
izuku nodded, happy. "we can do that. of course we can do that."
with that, izuku strained his focus to the work before him. suddenly, the load of content and high-volume reading didn’t weigh heavy anymore.
maybe this is what he wanted the whole time. maybe he really just wanted to be your friend; to bask in your delicate nature as you lived in the center of it. maybe he just liked the calm within you, the brightness in your eyes that flickered whenever you were in your own little world.
the scent of you, powdery and light, brought a calm haze to him that he couldn’t even phantom. it worked like meditation within him, drawing out a euphoria as his mind filtered from all the stress earlier. with you beside him, everything wrong, everything stressful in his life, seemed to water in your essence.
the room hummed quietly, the ac whirring at a freezing temperature by the time the sun kissed the horizon, deep blue cascading the sky into a lilac purple.
he hadn’t noticed this whole time, but somewhere within the hour, you’ve switched from drawing to studying too. he wanted to question you on what you were studying, but the way your brows knitted in concentration, lips pursed in thought — he couldn’t have. he didn’t want to.
instead, his eyes flickered back to the case study he was meaning to wrap up.
he waited till you initiated the goodbye, which never came. izuku set down his pen, a smile faint on his face. “we should pack up, hey?”
his eyes scanned through your unbreakable focus, furrowing at the way your shoulder tensed when you wrote something down.
“y/n?” he said softly, careful. he closed his textbook, the sound alerting you from your trance.
you startled, eyes blinking rapidly as if you’d just surfaced from underwater. “oh—” your gaze flicked to the window, then back to him, sheepish. “i’m sorry. i didn’t realise how long i was… like that.”
izuku smiled, small and apologetic. “no, it’s okay. i just—” he hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of his notebook. “it’s getting kind of late. i didn’t mean to interrupt you if you were in the middle of something.”
“no,” you shook your head quickly. “thank you, actually.” you let out a quiet laugh, breathy. “if you hadn’t said anything, i probably still would’ve been here.”
his brows knit, just slightly.
“…still?” he echoed, not questioning, just simply processing.
you shrugged, a little embarrassed. “yeah. i tend to lose track of time when i’m trying to get something right.”
izuku leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to you in that thoughtful way he had — like he was carefully rearranging pieces in his mind. “so,” he said gently, “you’re kind of a perfectionist.”
you froze for half a second, then smiled crookedly. “aha… i guess i am.”
“mm.” he hummed, nodding once. “that makes sense.”
you glanced at him. “does it?”
“yeah,” he said easily. “the way you focus. you don’t stop until it feels finished to you. not just done.”
the warmth in your chest was unexpected. “…you noticed that?”
he laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “i notice a lot, i think.” then, quieter, almost uncertain, “i mean— i do the same thing. i think. maybe.”
you paused, studying him now — really looking. the way his shoulders held tension even while relaxed. the way his notes were meticulously annotated, all messy, but still there, detailed.
“…i think you have perfectionist tendencies,” you said gently.
he blinked. once. then smiled, slow. “yeah,” he admitted. “i was afraid you’d say that.”
your laugh came out softer than you expected.
and for a moment, neither of you moved — like you’d both just recognised something familiar in each other, something quiet and unspoken, sitting comfortably between you.
the two of you packed up slowly, neither rushing, the quiet stretching comfortably between movements. izuku slipped his pens back into their case with practiced neatness, while you carefully slid your notebook into your bag, fingers lingering on the cover as if reluctant to close it.
outside, the campus had softened into night.
lamps lined the pathways, casting warm halos over the concrete, cicadas humming faintly from the trees. the air was cool — not cold, just enough to raise goosebumps along your arms. you adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder as the two of you began walking, steps falling into an easy rhythm.
it felt natural. too natural.
izuku walked beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed but attentive. every so often, his gaze flicked your way — not staring, just checking. like he wanted to make sure you were still there.
“did you park on campus?” he asked casually.
“no,” you replied. “i usually just walk.”
he slowed a fraction. “all the way home?”
“yeah,” you nodded. “it’s not too bad.”
he didn’t respond right away. instead, he glanced at the darkened stretch of road beyond the gates, brows knitting almost imperceptibly.
“…it’s pretty late,” he said after a moment.
you shrugged lightly. “i don’t really notice the time when i’m studying.”
he smiled at that, fond. “yeah. i can tell.”
the gates creaked softly as you passed through them, the world outside campus quieter somehow, more exposed. cars passed occasionally, headlights washing briefly over the pavement before disappearing again.
izuku cleared his throat. “hey,” he hesitated, then glanced at you. “i could give you a ride, if you want.”
you stopped walking.
not abruptly — just enough that he noticed immediately and halted too, concern flickering across his face.
“oh— sorry,” he said quickly. “i didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything, i just thought—”
“no, no,” you shook your head, heat creeping into your cheeks. “it’s really nice of you, i just… i think i’m okay. i wouldn’t want to bother you.”
his eyes widened slightly. “bother me?”
“yeah,” you laughed quietly, embarrassed. “you’ve already been here so long, and i know you’re busy, and—”
he cut you off gently. “hey.”
the single word was soft, but it stopped your spiral instantly.
he turned toward you fully now, expression earnest. “you wouldn’t be bothering me. at all.”
you hesitated. “i mean… it’s my choice to walk. i don’t want you to feel like you have to.”
izuku exhaled slowly, thinking. “it’s not that i feel like i have to,” he said. then, more quietly, “i just don’t think i’d be able to sleep if i let you walk home alone this late.”
your heart stumbled.
“…oh,” you murmured.
he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a little bashful. “that probably sounded dramatic. sorry.”
“no,” you said quickly. “it didn’t, i get it.”
the streetlamp above you flickered softly, bathing his face in warm light. you noticed things you probably shouldn’t have — the faint tiredness under his eyes, the loosened collar of his shirt, the way his shoulders relaxed when you didn’t immediately shut him down.
you looked away first. “you’re… really considerate.”
he smiled, small. “i try.”
the two of you resumed walking, a little closer now than before. your arms brushed once accidentally and neither of you moved away.
“where do you live?” he asked.
you told him. his brows lifted. “that’s not close.”
“…i know.”
he hummed, thoughtful again. “yeah. i’m definitely not letting you walk.”
you laughed, startled. “izuku—”
“i mean,” he corrected quickly, smiling sheepishly, “only if you’re comfortable. i don’t want to pressure you.”
you slowed again, turning the decision over in your mind. you weren’t afraid — not of him — just unused to being… looked after like this.
“…would you really be okay with it?” you asked quietly.
he met your gaze without hesitation. “yeah. i would.”
something in his voice — steady, certain — made your chest ache.
“…okay,” you said at last. “if you’re sure.”
his smile bloomed instantly, brighter than the streetlights. “i am.”
he led you toward the parking lot, steps light, like a weight had lifted from him. his car wasn’t far — a modest thing, clean, well-kept, obviously not within your budget. he unlocked it quickly and moved without thinking to open the passenger door for you.
“oh,” you said softly. “thank you.”
he froze for half a second, then laughed quietly. “right. sorry. habit.”
you climbed in, smoothing your skirt over your knees as he shut the door gently. the interior smelled faintly of clean fabric and something warm — coffee, maybe. comforting, woody.
when he slid into the driver’s seat, there was a brief, charged silence before the engine turned over.
“…i’m glad you said yes,” he admitted, eyes still on the road as he pulled out.
“me too,” you said before you could overthink it.
he glanced at you, surprised, then smiled with that boyish look.
the drive was quiet in the best way. not awkward, just calm. the kind of silence that felt shared rather than empty. streetlights blurred past, casting soft shadows across the dashboard.
the road unspooled quietly beneath the headlights, a familiar route izuku could probably drive with his eyes closed, but tonight, he was more aware of the way the steering wheel felt under his palms, the way the accelerator felt more sensitive tonight, the low hum of the engine, the steady rhythm of his own breathing. and you.
you sat beside him, small movements only, tucking your hands into your sleeves, gaze drifting out the window as the city lights passed in soft blurs. you looked calmer now. like something heavy had finally been set down, and you were trusting him. he realized, dimly, that his chest felt lighter too.
izuku had been calling it a lot of things in his head. concern. attentiveness. curiosity. he’d analyzed it from every angle, turned it over like a case study, tried to label it cleanly so it wouldn’t spill into anything messier. obsession felt too sharp a word, but it hovered there anyway, the way his thoughts circled back to you without permission, the way he noticed the smallest changes in your expression, the way silence felt different when you were in it with him.
but sitting here now, he felt something shift. it wasn’t urgency. it wasn’t even that familiar, buzzing anxiety he got when he cared too much. it was ease, simplicity.
he liked the quiet with you — they way that it didn’t demand conversation, didn’t make him reach for explanations or justifications. the kind that let him exist without performing, without solving, without proving anything at all.
he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, just once, careful not to linger. your lashes cast soft shadows against your cheeks, lips parted slightly as you breathed. peaceful. present.
he thought, suddenly, that maybe he’d been wrong to frame it as obsession at all.
maybe he just liked being around you.
liked the way time softened when you were near. the way the world felt less sharp at the edges. the way he didn’t feel the need to be switched on — heroic, driven, composed — but could just be... izuku, quietly driving a car through half-lit streets with someone he trusted beside him.
a breath of air, he thought. that’s what you felt like.
his grip on the wheel loosened without him realising.
maybe he hadn’t wanted anything complicated from you at all.
maybe he just wanted to sit next to you, walk with you, study in the same room, make sure you got home safe, hear you talk about the things you cared about. notice the way you furrowed your brows when you were thinking too hard and gently pull you back before you disappeared into yourself.
maybe he’d wanted to be your friend this whole time.
the thought didn’t disappoint him the way he might’ve expected. it didn’t feel like a step down, or a consolation prize. it was normal, how it should've been.
he breathed out slowly, a small smile ghosting across his lips as he turned onto your street.
you shifted beside him, glancing over. “is everything okay?”
“yeah,” he said easily, meaning it. “just thinking.”
you smiled, soft and tired, and looked back out the window.
“…you know,” he said eventually, “about earlier.”
you looked at him. “yeah?”
“the perfectionist thing,” he continued. “i didn’t mean it as a bad thing.”
“i didn’t take it that way at all.”
“good,” he said. “because i feel like you care a lot. but… that’s not something i’d want you to lose.”
when the car slowed near your place, your heart sank just a little — the night already slipping away from you.
he parked and turned the engine off, the sudden quiet settling between you.
“thank you for the ride,” you smiled bashfully.
“anytime,” he replied. then, softer, “really.”
you hesitated, fingers tightening on your bag strap. “um… maybe next time, i won’t stay so late.”
he chuckled. “maybe next time, i’ll just remind you earlier.”
you smiled, stepping out of izuku's line of vision.
𐙚
izuku had memorized the schedule down to the minute.
doors at seven, opening remarks at seven-fifteen, first rotation at seven-thirty. networking clusters evenly spaced, lighting adjusted warm but not dim, music low enough that conversations wouldn’t strain.
he’d triple-checked the seating chart, colour-coded the committee roles, walked the ballroom twice before guests even arrived.
everything was set. that was supposed to be reassuring.
instead, he felt oddly restless as he stood near the entrance, blazer smooth against his shoulders, tie sitting exactly where it should. people filtered in steadily now, familiar faces, polite smiles, introductions layered over one another like static. he greeted them all easily, instinctively slipping into the role he knew well: capable, composed, dependable.
this was what he was good at.
“midoriya,” one of the committee members called quietly, clipboard tucked under her arm. “the west tables are ready.”
“great!” he nodded. “thank you.”
he took a breath, scanning the room.
it looked beautiful — he could admit that much to himself. soft gold lighting reflecting off polished floors, banners hung just right, the low hum of conversation building like a living thing. maybe over exceeding the budget was worth it.
and yet, his eyes kept drifting back to the entrance.
he told himself it was habit, he was just monitoring flow. making sure check-in was smooth. but every time the doors opened, something in his chest tightened, then eased — a quiet, unconscious rhythm.
don’t overthink it, he told himself. he’d done that enough lately, especially with you.
“you okay?” another committee member asked as she passed him a glass of water.
“yeah,” he replied easily. “just making sure everything’s running on time.”
she smiled. “of course you are.”
as she moved away, izuku let out a slow breath. his reflection caught his eye in one of the tall mirrors lining the wall. he looked put together, more than usual. he’d spent longer than he cared to admit choosing his tie, adjusting his collar, smoothing his hair, curls still messy.
still, there was that faint, persistent thought he hadn’t been able to shake all evening — the sense that something was missing, or perhaps waiting.
the doors opened again.
and this time, his breath caught for real.
it wasn’t dramatic. no music swell, no sudden silence. just the simple, unmistakable feeling of his attention snapping into focus.
you stepped inside.
for a second, he didn’t recognize you, not because you looked unfamiliar, but because you looked different. dressed up, softer and sharper all at once. the satin fabric you wore moved when you did, catching the light, and suddenly he was acutely aware of how underprepared he felt for this version of you.
you glanced around the room, tentative but curious, fingers brushing the strap of your bag before you let it fall. you looked like you were deciding where you belonged, how to blend in, but really you stood out.
izuku forgot the schedule.
forgot the rotation times, the carefully planned flow of the evening. all he could do was stand there, heart doing unhelpful and frantic in his chest as he watched you take a few steps forward.
you hadn’t told him you were coming.
the thought landed with surprising weight.
of course you hadn’t, you weren’t on the committee. you weren’t required to update him on your plans. and yet, a small, irrational part of him felt caught off guard in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
you looked… so nervous.
he noticed it immediately. the way your shoulders sat just a little tense, the way your gaze flicked between clusters of people before settling on nothing at all. it was the same look you got when you were thinking too hard, when you were quietly bracing yourself.
without thinking, his feet moved.
he stopped himself halfway.
you're your own person.
still, his attention stayed tethered to you as he forced himself to greet another guest of another company, respond to a question about seating, nod politely through small talk that suddenly felt distant and unreal.
when he looked back, you were further inside now, talking to someone he didn’t recognize. you smiled politely, hands folded in front of you.
that was… new. a warmth swelled across his chest at the sight of you easing.
but, something unfamiliar tugged at him, not jealousy, exactly. just awareness. the quiet realization that you existed in rooms he didn’t always control, that people saw you the way he did, maybe even for the first time.
it shouldn’t have unsettled him, but it did.
izuku retreated to the side of the room under the pretence of checking timing, though he already knew everything was running smoothly. his thoughts felt louder than the ballroom now.
he wondered what had convinced you to come to this. curiosity, maybe. obligation, or perhaps you’d simply wanted to step outside your usual orbit, test the edges of something new.
the idea made his chest tighten, and that's where he caught his obsession for you. it was filled with a careful kind of concern, one that might have been compromising.
would you be okay?
he watched as you laughed softly at something someone had said, the sound lost in the larger noise of the room but visible in the way your shoulders loosened. okay, okay, good. you weren’t uncomfortable.
still, he felt that familiar urge rise to check in, to ground you, to make sure you weren’t disappearing into yourself.
he resisted it. for now.
this was your space too, after all. you weren't this little project for him anymore, you were a genuine person.
as the first official rotation was announced, the room shifted, people rearranging themselves as planned. everything working exactly as it should. izuku straightened, refocusing, slipping back into his role, he had to focus.
but every so often between introductions, between nods and handshakes his gaze drifted back to you.
and each time, he felt it again. that quiet, undeniable truth settling deeper with every passing moment:
he’d organised the entire night. every detail, every position, every outcome. except for you.
he wasn't sure if he could handle that.
“midoriya,” a familiar voice called, pulling him from his thoughts.
he turned just in time to be greeted by a small cluster from his law cohort, all dressed sharper than usual, expressions bright with that polished ease people wore at events like this.
“wow,” one of them laughed lightly, eyes flicking over him. “charming as per usual. the venue's gorgeous.”
another nodded in agreement. “seriously. better than first year.”
izuku felt heat creep into his ears. “ah— thank you,” he said quickly, waving it off. “it was a team effort.”
“still,” the first added, teasing. “you always look like you belong at these things.”
he smiled, polite and practiced, answering their questions, accepting the compliments with a kind of careful gratitude. this was familiar territory, his domain — praise delivered cleanly, friendly.
past the hum of conversation, past the clink of glasses and low laughter, his gaze landed on the far side of the room — near one of the smaller tables tucked just off the main flow.
he was halfway through excusing himself from another conversation when it happened.
not a sound. not a call of his name, just the feeling, similar to a gravitational force.
that sudden, unmistakable pull in his chest, like something tightening and warming all at once, made him look up without thinking.
and there you were, all kind and polite. you’d spotted him across the room.
he saw it instantly, the way your posture shifted, how your eyes widened just a little before brightening completely. your mouth curved into a smile that was entirely unguarded, relief and recognition woven together so naturally it caught him off balance.
oh.
his breath hitched, barely noticeable, but real.
you raised a hand in a small wave, already stepping toward him, weaving through the clusters of people with careful determination. he watched you approach, unable to look away.
he hadn’t realized, not really, how much he’d wanted you to see him here.
“izuku!” you said when you reached him, voice warm, eyes still shining. “i was wondering if you’d be here.”
he laughed softly, a little breathless. “yeah. um—” he gestured vaguely around the ballroom. “i kind of had to be.”
you blinked.
your gaze swept the room — the banners, the committee members, the smooth orchestration of movement — then snapped back to him, incredulous.
“you didn’t tell me you planned this whole thing.”
his ears flushed instantly, all solid confidence flushed down the drain under your warm eyes. “oh—i didn’t plan all of it. i mean, i was on the committee, and—”
you stared at him for a second longer before laughing, the sound light and genuine. “izuku.”
the way you said his name, fond, amused, all in that pretty tone, sent that tingle through him again, sharper this time, lower.
“you’re incredible,” you added, shaking your head. “this is amazing. it's really nice here.”
he rubbed the back of his neck, smiling shyly. “i’m really glad you think so.”
“of course i do,” you said easily. “i mean—look at this.” you gestured around again, eyes sparkling. “it’s kind of perfect.”
perfect. the word landed heavier than it should have, more meaningful, more like a praise.
he glanced at you, noticing the way your excitement softened the edges of your nervousness, how standing here with him seemed to ground you just a little. your shoulders weren’t as tense now. your smile came easier, you weren't like the person he talked to a week ago.
and something in him eased in response — it meant you were getting comfortable with him.
“are you enjoying it?” he asked gently. “really.”
you hesitated, just a fraction, then nodded, a bit certain. “yeah. i am.” you smiled again, smaller this time. “i just needed a second to breathe earlier.”
he nodded, unsurprised. “yeah. i thought maybe.”
you tilted your head. “you did?”
“mhm.” he smiled. “you get this look when things get loud, didn't we talk about this before?”
your eyes softened. “you really do notice everything...”
he laughed quietly. “i try not to.”
there was a pause. and in that moment, izuku was aware of how close you were standing now, how easy it would be to stay here all night. how easy it would be to just drift away from the crowd and be with you.
“i’m glad you came,” he said finally.
your smile returned in full. “me too. especially now.”
the room shifted around you as the next rotation was announced, voices rising and moving in waves. someone brushed past, apologizing quickly, the noise swelling to a loud crescendo.
izuku hesitated, then gestured toward the quieter edge of the room. “do you want to walk for a bit? i can show you where we planned the less overwhelming spots.”
your eyes lit up again, all in that way izuku adored. “i’d love that.”
as the two of you moved together, izuku became aware of how different this felt from everything else he’d orchestrated tonight. schedules could be adjusted, lighting could be fixed, conversations could be guided. everything would've been fine.
but this — the warmth in his chest, the way your presence softened the sharpness of the evening — wasn’t something he could ever plan.
it just happened and for the first time all night, he stopped thinking about whether everything was running perfectly, because standing beside you, watching your face light up like that — that felt more than enough.
izuku heard the next rotation announcement clearly this time.
seven-forty five. cluster b and c transition. something about the west table rotate clockwise. exactly as outlined. exactly as prepared.
he felt the familiar reflex rise — the instinct to move, to oversee, to ensure nothing slipped through the cracks. it had lived in him for so long it felt automatic, like breathing, especially in this lived role.
but then he stopped, he didn’t need to.
every contingency had been accounted for, every loophole closed. he’d walked the room twice, briefed the committee, adjusted for worst-case scenarios that never came. the system didn’t hinge on his constant presence anymore, there was nothing more he could do.
tonight was already perfect.
the thought settled, solid and calm.
all he just needed to do was enjoy the night himself.
he let his shoulders drop, just slightly.
he glanced at you again, the way you stood beside him, eyes following the movement of the room with a quiet curiosity rather than obligation. you weren’t measuring outcomes or impressions, you were just like him. just trying to enjoy the night.
and suddenly, the choice felt easy.
fuck talking to other people.
fuck the endless cycle of introductions and polite interest and performative charm. he’d done his part — more than his part. the night didn’t need him to keep proving it.
what it hadn’t planned for was you.
he slowed his pace, matching yours again, attention narrowing deliberately. when another committee member’s eyes flicked toward him from across the room, searching, he met her gaze briefly, calm, assured, then nodded once.
a silent it’s fine.
he turned back to you, voice warm. “hey. do you want to sit somewhere quieter, even quieter?”
you looked surprised, then thoughtful. “aren’t you busy?”
he smiled. “i was. not right now. i think they can handle.”
something in his tone made your shoulders ease immediately. “okay,” you said. “i’d like that.”
as the two of you moved toward the edge of the ballroom, the hum of conversation continued uninterrupted. people rotated, laughed, exchanged cards. the night unfolded exactly as he’d designed it to.
he took a seat across from you, the space between you unhurried, intentional. the windows beside you reflected soft light, the city beyond blurred and distant.
for the first time that evening, izuku wasn’t tracking time.
fuck talking to other people, he thought again, this time without heat. without rebellion.
the ballroom noise had softened into something distant here by the windows, the music reduced to a low thread beneath conversation. the table between them was small, round, intimate — two glasses of water, one abandoned dessert plate, the soft reflection of light rippling across its surface.
izuku rested his forearms lightly against the edge, posture relaxed in a way he rarely allowed himself. he should’ve been scanning the room, checking on guests, but he didn't want to.
instead, he was watching you.
you were speaking — something about your classes, your schedule — your hands moving slightly as you talked, fingers tracing shapes in the air without you realising. every so often, you paused to think, gaze lifting briefly toward the ceiling before returning to him.
he nodded along, listening. really listening. at least, he tried to.
“so i’m technically in law,” you were saying, voice calm, a little hesitant. “but it’s a double degree.”
that caught his attention properly.
“you are?” he asked, surprised. “law?”
you laughed softly, shyly. “yeah. i don’t usually advertise it.”
“why not?”
you shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. the motion was small, unconscious, yet it did something unsettling to his chest. “i don’t know. i guess i don’t feel very… law-coded.”
he smiled at that. “what does that even mean?”
“you know,” you said, amused. “confident or outspoken. ready to argue at any given moment. kinda like you.”
he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “that’s not all of us.”
you glanced at him, eyes warm. “i suppose...”
something about the way you said it — not complimentary exactly, just observant — made his breath hitch.
“what’s the other degree?” he asked.
“arts,” you replied. “i like the balance. something structured, something… softer.”
he nodded slowly. “that makes sense.”
and it did. everything about you made sense in that quiet, inevitable way, like if he’d been paying attention properly all along, he would’ve seen it coming. you were this ball of comfort that bleed into his life, filling it with sunshine.
you continued talking, explaining how you ended up there, how one degree grounded you and the other let you breathe, the one that let you be yourself. he watched your face as you spoke, the way your expression shifted subtly with each thought — earnest, careful, a little self-conscious when you worried you were rambling.
“sorry,” you said suddenly, smiling apologetically, flashing him that meek look. “i’m talking a lot.”
“no,” he said immediately. “please don’t stop.”
you blinked. “oh.”
he cleared his throat, heat creeping into his ears. “i like hearing you talk.”
your smile softened, something gentler settling into your features. “okay.”
you kept going, and that was the problem.
because the longer you spoke, the harder it became for him to stay anchored to the words themselves. his attention drifted — not away from you, but deeper into you. into the way the light caught on your cheekbone when you turned your head. into the faint curve of your smile when you found the right phrasing, all so sure of yourself when you did. into the way you looked at him when you were trying to make sure he understood, the slight furrow in your brows.
he did understand, of course he did.
he realised, with a quiet jolt, that he’d stopped thinking in sentences. stopped analysing, categorising, planning, everything around him, you. his thoughts came slower now, softer, reduced to simple impressions.
beautiful. you were so beautiful it dulled everything around him.
there was no other word that fit.
not in a dramatic sense. not in a way that demanded attention. just… undeniably, painfully beautiful in the way you existed so naturally in front of him.
he’d seen you before, of course — studying, walking through campus, sitting across from him with notebooks between you, you were sweetly addicting like that. but tonight, something was different. maybe it was the way you’d dressed, or the way the dim lighting softened everything it touched. maybe it was the way you seemed more open, less guarded, like you’d decided — just for tonight — not to hide. this was you.
he swallowed, forcing himself to refocus as you asked, “what about you?”
“me?”
“yeah,” you said. “how did you end up in law?”
he almost laughed at the timing.
“uh,” he started, then paused, collecting himself. “i think i always knew. in a way, i think it was something i always wanted to get into.”
you leaned forward slightly, attentive. “because of justice stuff?”
he smiled. “that obvious?”
“kind of,” you admitted. “you have that look, like you care a lot.”
the words landed gently, but they stayed, bringing him a sense of deja vu.
“yeah,” he said quietly. “i do.”
you nodded, satisfied. “that makes sense.”
he found himself smiling back without thinking, something warm and gnetle spreading through his chest.
this, this was dangerous.
not because it felt wrong, but because it felt easy, because sitting here with you didn’t require effort or performance or vigilance. because for the first time all evening, his mind wasn’t split between ten different responsibilities.
it was just you. it was the only thing filling his mind at this point.
you paused, noticing his silence. “are you okay? you’re doing that thing again.”
“what thing?”
“staring,” you said gently, observant.
his breath caught.
“sorry,” he said quickly. “i don't mean to.”
it was your turn to interrupt him. “it’s okay, i'm not judging.”
you held his gaze, unbothered. maybe even a little curious, something inviting beneath your gaze.
for a moment, once more, neither of you spoke.
the space between you felt fragile, like something easily broken if either of you moved too quickly — izuku didn't want that.
izuku felt the yearning then — properly, unmistakably. not sharp or desperate, but deep and steady, like a current pulling at him from somewhere beneath his ribs.
he wanted to reach out. not to touch you, not yet — just to exist a little closer. to stay in this pocket of quiet longer than the night technically allowed.
he wanted to know you. not in fragments or shared moments, but fully — your habits, your contradictions, the way your mind worked when you weren’t trying to be careful. he didn't want to just know what you liked, what your interests were surface-level, he wanted to know the mundane things, your routine, which food you liked because it reminded you of your childhood. he wanted to absorb all of you.
and the realisation scared him, just a little.
because he didn’t want to rush it. this wasn't just the meek girl in the art room who stayed afterhours, this was someone he genuinely...
whatever this was, it deserved patience.
“…i’m really glad you came tonight,” he said softly.
you smiled, something tender in it. “me too.”
and as the night continued around them — the networking, the conversations, the perfectly planned flow — izuku stayed right where he was, trying to memorize the feeling of this moment.
he wanted to engrave you into his skin, breath you in like oxygen and hold you like you were the only form of matter on this planet. the sound of your voice. the warmth in his chest. the quiet certainty that for once, wanting something didn’t feel like a problem to solve.
it just felt like something to hold.
he tried, really tried, to follow what you were saying.
but you looked too pretty. so fucking pretty, it almost felt unfair.
the golden lights hitting the shine of your dress, caught the warm light every time you moved, clinging to you. it glowed softly, the fabric pooling and shifting when you breathed, constricting around your chest when you leaned forward, when you laughed under your breath.
and your eyes — god.
they looked endearing under the lights, softened by the glow, thoughtful and gentle in a way that made his chest ache. you listened the same way you always did, fully. like every word mattered. like people were worth holding space for. there was something so mindful about you, so careful, and it made him want to be careful too.
your cheeks were flushed, not with nerves exactly — with kindness. with warmth. like the room hadn’t overwhelmed you after all, like you’d found a way to exist inside it without losing yourself, allowing yourself to be free around him. the color bloomed there naturally, and he had to stop himself from staring at it, from wondering what it would feel like to cup your face and feel that warmth beneath his palms.
and your hair.
pulled up, neat and intentional, a careful updo that spoke of time and patience. not rushed. not careless. soft intentional curls framed your face, falling just loose enough to shadow the softness of your cheeks. gentle. deliberate. beautiful in a way that didn’t try to be anything else.
he swallowed, pulse loud in his ears.
if he had known how gorgeous you'd look under these warm lights, under the disco ball above iridescent against your skin, he might've just planned a second ball just to see you like this again.
get it together, izuku.
but he couldn’t stop thinking about how much care must’ve gone into this. how you’d probably stood in front of a mirror, adjusting, fixing, hesitating — wondering if this was too much or not enough. how you might’ve almost undone it, almost chosen something safer, something smaller.
and yet here you were.
sitting across from him, hands folded neatly, voice soft, eyes bright — completely unaware of the way you were undoing him piece by piece.
he realised then that this wasn’t just attraction. it wasn’t novelty, or the dim lighting, or the elegance of the night.
it was the way you existed so gently in the world.
and fuck — he didn’t know what to do with that yet, so he stayed quiet. he listened. he held the moment carefully, filing this image of you carefully into his mind.
because wanting you like this — silently, reverently — felt too important to rush, far too valuable to treat as a little project.
the ball thinned out gradually.
not all at once — just in small, polite waves. conversations wrapped up. coats and blazers were collected. laughter softened into goodbyes. the music dimmed, almost imperceptibly, like the room itself was beginning to exhale.
izuku noticed it the way he noticed everything.
he’d already been thanked three times; already assured that it had gone beautifully, that the night was a success, that the committee could handle the rest of the cleanup. someone mentioned the afterparty in passing — a loose plan, informal, nothing he needed to oversee.
he nodded. smiled. filed it away. and then forgot about it entirely.
because you shifted in your seat beside him, smoothing your dress as you glanced toward the exit.
“i should probably head off soon,” you said softly, eyes creasing in that apologetic sense. “it’s getting late.”
something in his chest tightened — not sharply, just enough to register.
“yeah,” he replied. “i was thinking the same.”
you stood first, slipping your bag over your shoulder. the movement drew his eyes again, traitorous, lingering. the golden shimmer of your dress caught the light one last time, and he felt that familiar ache settle low and steady.
you waited for him without asking.
he stood, too.
the walk toward the entrance was unhurried. the room looked different now — emptier, less demanding. the work was done. the night had unfolded exactly as planned.
except for this part.
he stopped near the doors, the cool air from outside brushing faintly against his neck.
izuku hesitated.
he’d offered before. a few days ago. the night at that time, felt simpler. because he didn't feel this strongly not too long ago, but this felt different — heavier somehow, more deliberate.
“um,” he started, then cleared his throat. “do you want a ride home?”
you blinked, surprised — then smiled apologetically. “oh, it’s okay. i can just grab a taxi.”
he nodded automatically.
and then, in his head, something stalled. what was he thinking?
a taxi meant waiting. standing alone under streetlights. a stranger behind the wheel. it meant letting you disappear into the night like you were just another variable, another thing he didn’t need to think about.
and that, that felt wrong.
uncomfortable. an inconvenience.
the thought surfaced unbidden, clear and undeniable.
it’s never an inconvenience when it’s you.
the realisation startled him with its honesty.
he looked at you again — the way you stood there, composed but tired, eyes slightly lidded, still soft around the edges despite the long night. the way your fingers curled lightly around your bag strap, like you were already halfway gone.
“please,” he said instead, more firmly this time. “really. i’m heading that way anyway.”
it wasn’t a lie.
not exactly.
you hesitated. “are you sure? you’ve probably had a long night.”
he almost laughed.
“yeah,” he admitted. “but this part’s easy. can't let a pretty girl going home alone can i?”
you studied his face for a moment, like you were weighing something — then nodded. “oh! uh— okay, if you’re sure.”
“i am,” he said, without hesitation, already guiding you.
outside, the night air was cooler, quieter. the exterior of the venue's lights cast long shadows across the pavement as you walked side by side, close enough that your arms brushed once, neither of you moving away.
his car wasn’t far.
as he unlocked it, you paused, glancing back at the building. “you did really well tonight,” you said. “everyone could feel how much care went into it.”
the words settled warm in his chest.
“thank you,” he replied. “that… means a lot.”
you smiled at him — soft, genuine — and he felt that ache again, deeper now. how was he going to handle this...
you slid into the passenger seat, dress gathering carefully around you. he closed the door gently, then took a second before walking around to the driver’s side.
as he started the engine, he felt the pull of the rest of the night somewhere behind him — the loose invitations, the unspoken expectations, the afterparty he hadn’t even mentioned.
he didn’t think of it as a sacrifice. he thought of it as a choice.
and as he pulled away from the curb, the city lights stretching ahead, izuku realised something quietly, undeniably true about himself, and about you.
there were a lot of things he was willing to rearrange.
but when it came to you, nothing about this felt like an inconvenience at all.
the car settled into a gentle hum as he pulled onto the road, the city lights sliding past the windshield in slow streaks of gold and white. the heater was on low, just enough to take the edge off the night air. everything felt muted in here — insulated, almost private.
you broke the silence first.
“i talked to a lot of people tonight,” you said softly, gaze turned toward the window. “more than i thought i would.”
“yeah?” he glanced at you briefly, then back to the road. “how was it?”
you smiled, small and thoughtful. “good! a little overwhelming at first, but… good.”
he nodded, encouraging, letting you set the pace.
“there was this girl from corporate law,” you continued. “she was really kind. she told me about her clerkship and how scared she was at the start.” you laughed quietly. “which helped, actually. made it feel less… impossible.”
“i’m glad,” he said. and he meant it — deeply. of course you could handle yourself.
you shifted in your seat, fingers brushing the fabric of your dress absently. “i don’t know if i’ll hear from any of them again,” you added. “but it was still nice. like… proof i can do it, you know? talk to people. be in those spaces.”
his chest warmed at that.
“that’s not nothing,” he said gently.
you looked at him then, eyes catching the dashboard light. “yeah. i think i needed to be a bit like you tonight.”
there was a pause, comfortable but full. the kind that let thoughts stretch without pressure.
he listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke about the night, the way pride threaded quietly through your words — not loud or boastful, just earned, rightfully so. he found himself wanting to catalogue it all. the cadence of your speech, the way you chose your words carefully, like you didn’t want to overstate or undersell the experience.
he admired that about you. the balance. god, you were so pretty.
“i kept thinking i was saying the wrong thing,” you admitted with a small laugh. “but then i realised… most people are just happy someone’s listening.”
he smiled, nodding as this thumb drummed against the rim of the steering wheel. “that’s true.”
you glanced back out the window. “i think that’s why i liked it more than i expected. it wasn’t about impressing anyone, just connecting.”
the word lingered.
connecting.
tonight was a success. no, it was more than a success.
he felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and warm. he wondered if you realised how naturally you did that — how you drew people in without trying, how your attention felt like a gift rather than a transaction.
he wanted to tell you, how your caring nature drew him in effortlessly with the least amount of words possible. he didn’t.
instead, he said, “you’re really good at that.”
you hummed, unconvinced but pleased. “maybe. i’m still not sure i belong in rooms like that.”
he tightened his grip on the steering wheel for just a second.
“you do,” he said quietly. “even if it doesn’t always feel like it.”
you turned toward him again, studying his profile. “you really think so?”
“yeah,” he replied without hesitation. “i wouldn’t say it if i didn’t.”
something softened in your expression — relief, maybe. trust. it made his chest ache in that familiar way, the yearning curling gently rather than sharply now, beckoning him to feed into it.
you leaned back into the seat, exhaling. “thank you. for tonight. and for the ride.”
“anytime,” he said. then, softer, “i’m glad you came.”
you smiled to yourself, eyes drifting closed for just a second. “me too.”
the rest of the drive passed quietly, but it wasn’t empty. it was filled with the sound of your breathing, the rhythm of the road, the shared understanding of a night well-lived.
izuku kept his focus on the street ahead, but his thoughts stayed with you — with the way you spoke about the people you met, not as stepping stones or opportunities, but as moments. experiences. proof of your own growth.
he realized then that this was what he wanted to know about you. not just your ambitions or your plans, but the way you processed the world. the way you took meaning from small, human interactions. he wondered how you felt about him.
as he turned onto your street, something in him tightened again — a quiet reluctance.
the car slowed. the moment thinned.
but he held onto it carefully, storing it away.
because even if you never heard from those people again, even if the night faded into memory, this — this conversation, this calm — mattered.
and as he pulled to a stop, izuku knew one thing that was absolutely true. tonight hadn’t been about networking at all.
it had been about you finding your place.
and him realizing how badly he wanted to stay beside you while you did.
𐙚
the networking ball might’ve been the best thing izuku’s ever planned yet.
not in a technical sense — sure, catering as beyond expectation, speeches inspired and the schedule ran without collapsing in on itself. those were things he already accounted for, no surprise there.
the following week, izuku received praise. not just from the students, but also professors he was working closely with.
he hadn’t done it for recognition — god, no, that never even entered his mind. nor had he done it for the networking, not really. he wanted something that felt intentional, a means for students to still enjoy their university days without feeling guilty for compromising on studying. something that didn’t feel hollow or transactional.
and somehow, after all of the budgeting, negotiations, it worked.
students were able to line up with companies for further work, people got to have a good time, new perspectives were unveiled for those stuck.
committee members drift past him in the hallways, offering quick appreciative thanks, light teasing about finally relaxing. someone claps him on the shoulder, while another jokes about him being “charmingly competent, as per usual”.
izuku smiles, polite and warm, accepting the praise with content that all went well.
and, he should feel done. the mission was complete, it should just be back to the books now, the days should unfold normally.
he grabs lunch on the go, grumbling to himself about forgetting to meal-prep the night before. he tucks himself into a quiet spot in the law library, answering emails, cleaning up any missed content he might’ve let slip through the cracks of his schedule before moving to his next lecture.
the campus hums around him, familiar and unremarkable. this is the moment he gets to sink in the sun’s warmth on his skin, the noticeable cool breeze on his arms and neck.
at one point, while crossing the quad, he thinks he catches a glimpse of you near the arts building — just a flicker of your hair blending with the moving crowd. by the time he looks again, you’re gone.
he remembers the way you’d looked at the ball — endearing, beautiful, everything tender and loving in between. it was enough to have him spiralling, doing everything he could to make you his, but that wasn’t right.
he shook his head slightly, refocusing on the green ahead of him. things should be ordinary, but the only thing out of place, was his mind.
the lecture ended with a collective mundane sigh. this lecture was particularly content-heavy, and by the time the professor had taken off his glasses and shoved his laptop into his bag, izuku already knew he’d be reviewing the whole thing from scratch tonight.
on the way from the lecture hall, he decided to take a detour. his feet shift direction, pivoting him down a familiar corridor without much thought.
the day had been long, but manageable. but really, it’s only been manageable because a part of you has occupied his thoughts, while the other half blurred with case notes and the low hum of the aging professor echoing faintly in his head.
the art building is quiet at this hour.
he slows as he reaches it, already feeling your presence, already anticipating you. the air changes immediately — it’s warm, welcoming with the faint smell of paint and paper, and definitely something mineral he hasn’t dealt with before.
he should head home, review the notes in his room, add to the pile of work he already has accumulating on his desk. but, how could he not see you? just because he felt guilty about getting hitoshi to practically discover your twitter account, and that he may have jacked off to your liked videos. but he’s changed, right? he only wants to know you for you, now.
the hallway is mostly empty, footsteps echoing softly against the marble floor as he walked past closed doors, ongoing tutorials till heard from within. for the majority, most of the lights are off, and the vast of the building had already begun settling into its evening rest.
except for one sector, the one he goes to most afternoons, the one he used to go to just to ease his mind, but was now just to see you.
a glow spills from the art room, rainbow panels dull against the sun’s setting, a thin line of the afternoon’s last sun cutting across the floor.
izuku slowed, breathing shallowing. this was, undoubtedly, his favorite part of his day whether he wanted to argue it or not. he approached closer, peering in through the open doorway with an idle intention of saying hello — or maybe just confirming if you weren’t even there at all.
just when he was to enter the room, the sound reaches him first, soft, uneven, pained.
his chest tightened instinctively as the realization settled in.
you’re seated at your normal spot, shoulders hunched, sketchbook open and forgotten beneath your trembling hands. your head is bowed, hair falling to cover your face, but can already tell what state you’re in with the way your body shakes.
his body moves before he can even think of what to say.
“hey hey,” he says softly, tone gentle as he slots himself beside you, careful to not invade your personal space.
your head snapped up, panic flashing evident across your face, raw as if you’ve been caught. you scrub at your cheeks with the heel of your hands, shaking your head frantically.
“i—i’m fine, izuku,” you sniffle out quickly, too quickly. “sorry, i didn’t think you were going to come by—”
“no no no, please don’t apologise, please don’t. it’s okay,” izuku reassures, tone softening even more. “i didn’t mean to intrude, i just heard you…couldn’t leave you crying here alone.”
you look like you might bolt. your breath stutters at his words, feelings collapsing even more, chest hitching like it’s trying to decide on imploding in on itself. you turn away purposefully, shoulders curling inward.
izuku recognizes it immediately — the way you're panicking even more now.
“okay,” he murmured, calm even as his heart hammers against his ribs. “okay, okay, it’s okay, deep breaths for me. you’re safe.”
you shake your head, fingers digging into the edge before they move to hold izuku’s, body still turned away from him. “i’m being stupid.”
izuku’s eyes widened at your words, more than your touch. “hey, no you’re not.”
he moved around you, crouching down before you slightly so he’s not towering over you, keeping his movements slow and visible, gently grabbing your clenched fists and rubbing small circles over your knuckles.
“i am, izuku,” you sob out, hot tears spilling down your cheeks and falling onto izuku’s hand. your breathing stutters again, before easing at his patience. “i am… i’m sorry. so so sorry…”
“hey,” izuku says again, quiet, thumb still tracing slow circles, completely ignoring the way your tears patter against his skin. “you don’t need to be sorry, not for this, just let it out, okay?”
you shake your head at his words once more, frustration making its way to your pained features. your grip tightened in on itself as you try to make sense of izuku’s touch, warm and comforting.
“i didn’t mean to make it weird,” you whisper, words barely holding together, though it seems like you’re speaking more to yourself. “i swear i didn’t…”
his brows knit, confusion and concern flickering across his face. “y/n…what’s going on, sweetie?”
the endearment slips from his lips accidentally, and it definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but you’re too distressed to even care.
you don’t answer right way, your eyes focusing on his kind ones as you try to calm down, your breathing evening out a little now, just enough for you to swallow, shoulders still curled inward.
“someone said something about m—me,” you say finally, voice choked and raspy.
his thumb stills, hovering mindfully over the delicate skin of your knuckle. “yeah?”
you nod, the dam of tears almost unleashing. “they—they said i was weird.”
the word sits heavy between you, ugly and sharp in your mouth.
honestly, it wasn’t as bad as izuku thought it would be. but, that being said, he’d never undermine your feelings if that was something that really hurt you.
izuku exhaled slowly through his nose, processing your words. “i don’t think that’s true. how could that be true?”
you let out a small, broken laugh. the sound ripped from your throat raw, eyes downcast now. “you don’t really know me. they’re probably right.”
“maybe not,” he says gently, shifting himself closer so your knees are almost touching his chest. “but i know that crying over something like this doesn’t come from nowhere.”
your lips tremble at that, nodding shamefully.
“i didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter now, voice hushed. “i wasn’t trying to— i wasn’t trying to do anything wrong.”
he doesn’t ask you to elaborate, seeing that you’re obviously devastated about something that had happened throughout the day. the thought set something ablaze and uncomfortable within him, heat swirling in his chest at the thought of someone hurting you like that.
“i don’t think you’re someone who does things with bad intentions,” izuku started. “i think people mistake your quiet, thoughtful nature for indifference.”
your shoulders sag, tension leaking out of you with exhaustion. tears spill freely now, more devastatingly calm this time, as if he’s just cracked a code.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper again, voice cracking. “i don’t know why i’m like this— i thought— i thought that the networking ball, i proved myself…”
izuku frowned at the sight before him, you collapsing in on yourself, defeat cementing painfully in your chest. “don’t apologise for being yourself. if you want, you don’t have to explain everything to me.”
that, seems to be what finally breaks the lock you had on.
you let out a sob, real and pained. your head dipped forward as you struggled to pull yourself back together.
izuku stays right where he is, patiently carrying whatever weight he can. he doesn’t rush you, doesn’t fill the silence with reassurances. he just keeps that same, steady tempo of circles into your knuckles, like he has all the time in the world. because with you, he really does.
eventually, your breathing eases out again, sniffles filling the silence instead.
“thank you,” you sighed out, worry still painted all over your face.
“of course,” izuku replied kindly, tone still careful and mindful of your emotions.
you sit there together for a moment longer, allowing the art room to settle back into its usual hush. when you finally straighten, posture recorrecting itself, your hand slips from his, wiping at your cheeks with the sleeve of your jumper.
he was meant to do that. it’s too late now.
he doesn’t comment on it, instead he moves to sit in a chair, legs slightly strained from the crouched position he was in. his eyes drifted briefly to the sketchbook still open on the table before returning to you.
“hey,” he says after a beat, voice still hushed. “can i ask you something?”
you glance at him with a wary look before it’s neutralised. “okay, go ahead…”
he offers a small, reassuring smile at your dismay, assuring you that he wasn’t going to interrogate you.
“do you mind telling me who said that about you?” he asks gently, tone clipped more than he’d like. “only if you want to.”
“i don’t want to make it a big thing,” he adds easily, like an afterthought to what he’d originally asked. “i just don’t like the idea of someone making you feel like that, is all.”
you hesitate, the name cautious on your tongue. your fingers twist together, a grimace making its way to your face, worry etched into every small movement.
“it was adam,” you say finally.
the name comes out oddly softer than it should.
izuku blinks once, registering the name before filing it away.
“adam trideschi?” he repeats, the name falling off his tongue slowly, simply making sure he heard you right.
you nod. “yeah, he—” you stop abruptly, lips pressing together in thought. “maybe he— i don’t know, izuku. i don’t want you to like go up to him or anything, or talk to him about this. i don’t think he was trying to be cruel. it was probably just a joke. i’m just— i guess i’m just sensitive.”
izuku’s jaw tightened at the sight of you overexplaining yourself for him, as if you’re trying to compensate for whatever flaw you’re insecure of — though to him, there’s nothing you need to prove to him.
“what kind of joke is that?”
you shrug, shoulders lifting and falling quickly. “the kind that lands wrong i guess. i mean, i’ve always been a crybaby…”
that’s all you say, nothing more.
he took a deep breath, gaze drifting somewhere past the table as he absorbed this new information. adam. law cohort, same year as the both of you. the name rings a bell, familiar in a way that he can place a face to the name, despite the fact they’ve never been close.
“thank you for telling me,” izuku hummed out after a moment. “that was really brave of you.”
you look up at him, eyes bloodshot and tired, uncertain. “you’re not upset?”
he shakes his head immediately. “never. why would i be upset with you?”
your shoulders ease at that, relief swelling across your features as let out a choked laugh. “i just don’t want drama,” you add in quietly.
“i know,” izuku assures. “and it doesn’t have to be, okay?” he pauses, still lost in thought. “if he says something like that again, you don’t have to deal with it alone. okay?”
you nod, eyes shining faintly as tears line your waterline. “o—okay.”
izuku gives you an empathic smile, warm and considerate as he pushed himself up from the chair. he hesitates for half a second, fingers curling at his side like he’s debating something personal.
“for what it’s worth,” he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck, moving up to his undercut, a little sheepish. “i’m kind of a cry baby too.”
your brows lift, surprised.
“seriously.” he huffed out a quiet laugh, the embarrassment settling into something certain and natural. “i just hide it better now.”
something in your creased brows soften, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite everything.
“so,” izuku continues lightly, bag by his shoulder, “you’re in good company. no judgement here. i think i cry harder than you.”
he could never leave you alone like this — especially after what happened.
the walk to the car is quiet, and the ride home was already implied by the way he clung to your side. the campus is hushed around you as you move beside him, steps small, arms folding loosely around yourself as if you’re still bracing yourself.
the drive is gentle. no music, just the soft hum of the engine and the streetlights sliding past the lightly tinted windows.
you talk a little — unsurprisingly not about what has happened. just smaller things, and he knows it’s your way of distracting the thoughts in your head. you talk about how cold it’s gotten at night, how the semester feels longer than it should. and all izuku offers is attentive nods, meaningful comments that make you huff a breathy laugh.
when he pulls up outside of your place, neither of you moves to get out right away.
he can still see it. and it hurts for him to realize the truth.
you’re still hurting, and from whatever really happened today, something you definitely didn’t let him know about — you’re drowning in it.
the engine idles before he completely turns off the car decisively.
you stare at the dashboard, fingers picking at the strap of your bag. izuku watched you from the corner of his eye, heart tugging uncomfortably in his chest.
“hey,” he says softly, filling in the silence of the outside, the distant sound of the wind whistling.
you look at him, as if you’re silently pleading something.
“do you feel okay going inside by yourself?” he asks, hand hovering over the steering wheel.
you hesitate, and it’s written all over your face, the way your lips tremble say you choke out a reply. “i’m okay.”
he nodded slowly, choosing to accept it, watching as you slowly step out of his car. then, pauses. swallowing. he shouldn’t take advantage of this moment. he shouldn’t take advantage of this moment—
“this is— okay, you don’t have to say yes.”
you wait, movements halting immediately at his gentle voice.
“but,” he continues carefully, seeing the way your shoulders relax. “would it be okay if i came in for a bit? just to make sure you’re settled. i can leave whenever you want.”
there’s no expectation hidden in his sugared tone, no leaning closer, no pressure. just a kind offer.
you turn, searching his face — the earnestness, the concern he isn’t trying to hide — and something inside you eases.
“yes, please….”
the relief that crosses his face is immediate, but restrained, concealed beneath the rationality of the situation. “okay, let me carry your stuff then.”
you almost refuse, but izuku can see the way your eyes gather down to his biceps, a light blush coating your puffy cheeks before you hand over your bag.
“thank you, izuku.”
“hmm.”
you step inside first, flickering on the light as izuku lingers just behind you, your bag bunched at his shoulder with ease.
the house is quiet, empty. simple.
you freeze for half a second, urgency swirling into your expression as you pad to — where izuku assumes to be — your room.
“um—” you say quickly, voice slightly pitched with a nervous laugh. “i just— just need to clean my room really quickly…um, you can grab your stuff from your car while you wait if you want to stay for a while and— um, study…since it takes you a while to get home.”
izuku’s eyes light up at your invitation, nodding eagerly, your words flying over his head. “sure.”
as he made his way to the front door, he turned to look at you who’s still standing in your original spot. “by the way, your home is really nice, i promise you i’m not judging if your room's a bit messy.”
your face heats instantly. “i know! i just—it’s embarrassing.”
the sight of you flushed like this, to him, it’s endearing. he nods in response to your flusterness, a light look on his face as he jogged to his car, gathering his bag from the boot.
izuku returns back inside of your house a minute later, unable to hide the smile flush on his face, bag slung over his shoulder, shoes nudged off neatly outside like he’s trying not to impose.
“sorry,” he says lightly, maintaining eye contact with your shy ones. “you’re right. it is so cold out there.”
“it’s okay,” you reply, a little too quickly before softening your tone, steady. “um, you can come into my room now — unless you want me to make food, we can do that.”
“that’s okay, thank you for the offer. but if you haven’t ate, i don’t mind hovering around either.”
you shake your head, pointing to the empty containers where you must’ve eaten from throughout the day.
you hover for half a second, fingers intertwining playfully as you gesture down the hall. “my room’s just— here.”
izuku nodded, following behind you without question.
the space is meek. small, but warm. it’s lived-in in a quiet way, a neat bed, desk pushed up against the wall, soft amber light from a flower lamp pooling the walls. everything looks tidy, but not sterile. in fact, it’s cozy.
you step aside to let him in fully, giving him a curt look. “sorry if it’s cramped.”
“it’s fine,” he intercepts immediately, waving a hand. “it’s really nice in here, y/n.”
he means it. he likes— no, he loves it. it’s adorable. it’s you. this is you, the version of you he’s been searching for, where you rest, where you hang out. it’s as if izuku’s unveiled another intimate layer of you, and you’re entrusting him with it.
you move around him cautiously, straightening something unnecessary on the desk, fingers brushing the edge of one of your heavily annotated textbooks before pulling away awkwardly.
“you can, uh, sit wherever,” you add, nervous energy creeping back into your voice. your eyes dart around the room, shrinking in on yourself when you realize the only place to really sit…is your bed or the floor.
you perch on the edge of your bed, smoothing your skirt out of habit. the room settled into a quiet that feels different from the rest of the house, charged. closer. something intimate but not quite.
izuku glanced around once more, polite and unobtrusive. “you have a lot of books,” he observed.
you laugh softly, playing with the ends of your hair. “yeah, kind of a problem.”
“i get it,” he beamed, a warmth spilling from his cheeks and out his ears as he realized just how in your life he was. “same.”
he sat down beside you, his stronger frame sinking the mattress. his posture is precise, attentive in the way he’s trying to respect your humble abode.
for a moment, neither of you spoke as he plopped his bag down on the floor.
then, izuku breaks the silence gently. “do you…want to study? or we can just sit and talk, either’s okay with me.”
you hesitate, rooming the options. “we can study,” you say. “yeah, that’d be good. i mean, yeah we probably have a lot of work to do.”
izuku’s already reacting with compliance, reaching into his bag and pulling out his laptop. “okay.”
you stand again, too fast as you stumble to your desk. “i’ll just grab something,” you say quickly.
“take your time,” he hummed out easily, already flickering his eyes back to his screen, reviewing his typed out notes from today’s gruelly lecture.
you turn away, and just for a moment, izuku catches the way your gaze flicks to the one place in the room you were careful not to touch, a closed box.
whatever’s there stays hidden, and izuku assumes it’s best not to pry. if he were to guess what was inside of that box, tonight might turn into something else. and tonight wasn’t that night.
you plop yourself back down across from him, taking the headboard, expression calm, hands steady. the night resumes its quiet rhythm. you question if he’s comfortable where he is, and he says it’s fine.
it’s until he’s about three quarters of his notes and the syllabus when he notices the air in the room shifting.
attentively, he gave you a glance, noticing your attention drifting from your own work and onto him.
it’s subtle, fleeting almost. but he catches it swiftly. he sees the way your gaze lingers, the almost imperceptible pause when it lands a little too low, a little too close to his mouth, and even lower. when you notice he’s caught you, yor dip your head into your laptop, humming quietly.
it makes his breath hitch, a heat spreading uncontrollably throughout hin.
you clear your throat softly, breaking the silence. “thank you…for earlier, you know…comforting me, even though you really didn’t have to.”
his fingers pause on the keyboard, screen dimming. “of course,” he replied, voice steady even though his chest feels strangely tight.
“even if i probably looked really gross. heh.”
there it is again, that self-deprecation you wrap yourself in. it’s softer now than when you were crying, but all in the same way, damaging. this is what he was worried about earlier — going inside, sitting in your room in silence, allowing adam’s words to replay in your mind. that wasn’t okay.
izuku closed his laptop, giving you his full attention, not before autosaving his work.
you’re sitting cross legged across from him, shoulder relaxed against the headboard, eyes earnest in a way that makes it hard for izuku to think properly. there’s a faint blush tacked onto your cheeks, the rosy hue lingering from something emotional rather than embarrassed this time.
“you didn’t.”
you blink. “pardon, sorry?”
“look gross,” he clarified, fingers clasping over his politely, not intentionally.. “you just looked like you were having a rough time, which you were. that’s excusable and it’s okay.”
you smile softly, as if you were trusting yourself with this, before dropping your gaze to your lap. “still.”
a sigh left izuku’s lips, leaning back against the heels of his palms. “if that’s gross,” he says lightly. “then i think i look horrific crying.”
you laugh at his words, allowing his comfort to ease into the room, filling it with a warmth that overpowered the amber tones from your lamp. there was a pause, and somewhere in that silence, izuku notices a lot about you.
he’s aware of you in a way that feels new now — it’s not overwhelming, just a lot. and he’s happy to take that load. the way the lamplight catches in your hair, relaxed and effortless, the way you keep worrying your soft bottom lip between your teeth like you’re holding something back. his gaze instinctively flickers down there before he can even stop it.
to your lips.
your soft, plush, kissable—
he looks away almost immediately, heart thudding, fingers curling into themselves. he should focus.
he doesn’t realize what you’re doing at first. he’s too busy focusing on slowing his heartbeat and quieting his mind to even notice.
you’re on your knees, a needy look in your eyes, shifting closer, slowly and careful until you place yourself right beside him — shoulder to shoulder.
“y/n…”
your hand finds the fabric of his sleeve, fingers curling there as if you’re testing your proximity.
“hey— “ he starts softly, but you lean in instead.
your arms wrap around him, tentative at first, as if it’s something foreign to you. then, tighter, melting into something you’ve been longing for. your cheek pressed against his shoulder, breath warm through his jumper, and izuku freezes for half a second before instinct takes over.
his arms come up around you, just as gentle, securing you in a blanket of affection. he holds you like he’s afraid of startling or hurting you. god, the thought of him even making you uncomfortable sickens him.
your grip tightens once, and it’s an uncharacteristic notion from you, but izuku just lets it happen. he simply takes it.
you pull back slowly, your hands lingering on his chest as you lean away, still within close proximity. when you lift your head, your eyes flicker, once to his half-lidded eyes, then to his slightly open lips.
izuku swallows, suddenly vulnerable in your orbit.
he sees it then, the clear opening, you hesitating to take it. there’s a want hidden beneath your lashes as you peer straight at his lips.
the room feels very small all of a sudden, hot and charged. electrifying at his tips.
“you’re not weird or gross,” he says quietly, almost without thinking. “god, how could you ever be…”
your lips part, like you’re about to say something, like a response to his dialogue. but he doesn’t let you.
fuck it.
izuku leans in first, closing the distance slowly enough that if you wanted to stop him, you could. when his lips meet yours, it’s soft, velvety, moving against yours unhurried.
you taste so good.
you make a small sound, something quiet and needy muffled between your tongues. your hands tighten around the fabric on his chest, anchoring him and pulling him closer. the kiss deepens, gentle, unmeasured as izuku pressed his tongue against yours, groaning.
his hands move to your jaw without thinking, slotting it perfectly just beneath your ear. and for a moment, nothing else exists. not the art room, not the crying that happened earlier, not izuku questioning his feelings for you — because now it’s true.
kissing you like this, finally tasting you, this was worth the obsession. it was worth figuring out if he liked you, or if it was infatuation. because now he’s certain; with you in his arms, all mush and affectionate against his lips, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here.
when he finally pulls back, a string of saliva connecting between your tongues, izuku’s face heated a warm red.
“was that okay?” he whispers.
you nod, eyes bright and almost desperate, cheeks that pretty tinge. “more…”
he smiles, soft and relieved, a little awed at your affection.
he leaned in once more, a little more passionate now, rougher. one second, you’re leaning into him, knees brushing his, the next his hands are on your hips, gilding you closer until you’re settled onto his lap.
you let out a quiet, surprised breath, hands flying to his shoulders.
“izuku—“
he paused, pulling from the kiss once more, eyes searching yours with a generous concern. “is this okay still?”
your answer is in the way you stay, the way your hips move lightly against his, nudging the growing tent in his pants.
that’s all he needs.
his arms wrap around you, sliding beneath your top to feel the bare skin of your back as you lean in again. the kiss deepens, lips moving together with a familiarity that makes his chest ache, like this has been waiting just beneath the surface the whole time.
your weight settles fully in his lap, movements warm and pressed close, and izuku becomes acutely aware of how this is making you feel right now. he can feel it. the way your delicate fingers slide up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his curls with need, the way he can feel your heat beneath your skirt and through your panties.
fuck, you weren’t wearing shorts underneath.
he lets out a soft sound against your mouth, moaning into the kiss as you rock against his erection, tiny mewls spilling out in response.
the kiss grows unhurried but hungry in a quiet way — all lingering touches and stolen breaths. his hand settles at your waist, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles like earlier, only now it sends a different kind of heat through him.
you pull back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against his, both of you flushed and unsteady.
his heart is pounding. yours too — he can feel it.
“…we can stop,” he murmurs, even though his arms don’t loosen. “anytime.”
you shake your head, breathless smile tugging at your lips. “don’t want to.”
something in his chest twists — soft and overwhelming all at once.
he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it. like he’s afraid if he rushes, the moment might break and rewind.
and as you sit there together — tangled, warm, entirely focused on each other — izuku realises this doesn’t feel reckless.
he knows he shouldn’t have come inside your home. he saw you crying earlier, chest heaving with panic. you should be resting up, probably sleeping. but he just can’t help it. he might be the most selfish human alive right now.
it feels right. too right, even with that quiet, guilty voice in his head. but he doesn’t care, not right now. not especially when you’re so compliant on top of him, grounding your pussy against his crotch like you need him.
and for once, he doesn’t overthink it. he just holds you closer and lets the moment carry you both.
still, he couldn’t believe it. him being in your room, the soft glow of your lamp casting warm shadows across crumpling sheets, wrinkling from movement.
his heart pounded unrelenting in his chest, hammering against his ribs as he soaked in the scent of you, the essence of your lips, the soft warmth teasing his cockhead beneath his pants.
you were driving him absolutely insane.
the way you moved, your clothed pussy unforgiving against him, felt as if you’d claimed every inch of him for yourself. it was greedy the way you were humping him, needy sounds flooding the room.
he could feel the dampness spreading, warm and slick, marking him. and the worst part about it, izuku wanted to return the act. he wanted to put his warm cock inside of you and take you right here, ruin you from anyone else if there was any. but this isn’t how he wanted things to go.
“y/n,” izuku murmured against your mouth, breaths coming out short, breaking the kiss.
you shook your head, eyes dazed as your tongue chased his, not letting him pull away for too long. you rocked your hips harder, the wet slide of your clothed pussy lips against his bulge sending jolts of pleasure up his spine.
izuku gripped your waist trying to slow you down, something primal inside of him igniting in the way you were desperately chasing this.
he wanted to slow this down. he didn’t want to have to shove his cock in you tonight, especially not with how distressed you were earlier.
but fuck, you were a needy little thing; humping him through your soaked panties, the fabric of his jeans memorising the curve of your pussy lips. he almost remembered the type of porn you liked to watch when he stalked your twitter account.
this was you, you just weren’t afraid of hiding it anymore.
he didn’t really want to stop you, because a part of him deep down, wanted to claim you too. he was just simply trying to be rational here.
“izuku,” you breathed out, voice sultry with the way you uttered his name. there was a clipped hunger in your voice, shaky and unrestrained. you nipped at his bottom lip, a bit too hard, before soothing it with your warm tongue. “p—please don’t stop…need you…”
your hands slid under his shirt, palms flat against his rigid torso, careful as you only allowed your fingers to rest stationary against his muscles.
he hesitated, pushing you back at bit, fingers hovering around the hem of your skirt. “we should…you know i want this, but i don’t want to take advantage of you, okay?” his words felt weak as he said them, because he knew he wanted to take you here. if it was any other day, he’d have you bent over the art table, cock deep against your cervix if that’s what you wanted.
you frowned, the tender whine from your lips as you nodded. “oh— okay. that’s okay, ‘m sorry…”
izuku reached up to grab your face, thumb caressing your jawline. “nono i mean, we can keep going if you’d like. just wanted to check in with you first, nothing more than this, okay?”
you nodded, leaning now into his shoulder, face hidden against his neck as you continued rocking, hips circling deliberately now, your clit caught with each bump against his erection.
“feels nice, izuku…don’t wanna stop…” you shuddered against him, a fresh wave of wetness soaking the space where the two of you were connected.
“i know, i know, you can keep moving, i got you.”
izuku began grinding against you, gentle movements as he humped your pussy through your soiled panties. something dark, a familiar thrill, twisted in his gut, a beckoning truth that was just waiting to be acted upon.
he wanted this just as much as you. in fact, he probably wanted this more. from when he saw you at the ball, back to when he saw the filthy shit you probably touched yourself to, he should’ve known how sweet this pussy would be. he didn’t want anyone else to have access to this.
no, he couldn’t let anyone have access to this.
not especially how pretty you look, your sweet nectar soiling his erection.
“i’m so close…’m so— close!” you panted, nails moving to dig into his shoulders, your back arching as you desperately chased the edge.
izuku wrapped his arms tight around you, grounding you closer to him, whimpering lightly as he felt your pussy clench against the barrier of your panties. his heart raced, a possessive surge rising in him at your soft sounds, the way it should be so wrong to know what you sound like, all close and horny. but he wanted to swallow it all, take it in for himself, file it into memory so he can replay it the next time he jacked off.
“i got you, sweetie. come on, ride it out for me…you’re doing so good.” his words came out commandingly more than he’d intended, tone wrapped in tenderness. he thrusted up slightly into your caged form, meeting your grind with his own restrained buck.
“fu—hnnggh— “
you pulled back suddenly, shuddering at the loss of contact. your cheeks flushed deeper, scarlet hues softening your features. you bit your lip, eyes drooping to his chest before flickering up, vulnerable.
“you okay?” izuku asked, caressing your back in comforting circles.
you nodded, thoughts evidently trapped in your mouth as you tried navigating your next request.
“y/n?”
“can i have your fingers in me?”
izuku’s eyes widened, processing how small your voice sounded, almost hesitant. he searched your face, searching for any overlap in the moment that could’ve had you feel this way. but there was this look in your eyes, something beneath your gaze that held an underlying hunger, a faint promise beckoning him in.
the request hit him, stirring shadows in his mind where he wanted to corrupt you and mold you into this little sweet thing that was untouched from the world outside. he paused, his hands stilling on your back, processing his own buried impulses.
he wanted to, he wanted to. he wanted to do more than just finger you. he wanted to have you all pretty over his cock as he fucked you with the most upmost tender care, slow deep movements that’d seal everything unexplainable between the two of you.
he imagined visiting you at the end of each day, sitting in that art room, sunlight faint against your skin. the way your eyes lit up when you saw him, sketchbook open to whatever erotic-implied concept you were working on that day. he wanted to be the one who drove you home, the one you turned to when things went south. the one who was in your life like it mattered.
he wanted every inch of your life, every little cozy bit of your reality. he wanted to be in it. no, he wanted to be it.
the vision was fleeting, but vivid. it was his bound to you, the way your eyes locked on his as if he was the only person in the world.
the sight made his cock twitch, guilt and desire warring inside him. he wanted to give in, to feed that madness burning in every fiber of him.
he swallowed hard, pushing the dark visions down, but not far enough. maybe tonight, this could just be about you. making you feel good.
“yeah,” he said finally, voice rough with self-control as he nodded, giving in to the gravitational pull. “i can do that, of course.”
your eyes lit up, tears brimming your waterline as you allowed izuku to ease you off his lap, shifting the two of you back onto the bed. izuku carefully fluffed the pillow beneath your head, arranging the sheets thoughtfully around your legs, his touch reassuring as he positioned himself beside you.
“spread your pretty legs for me, okay?” he hummed out, slipping an arm beneath you and around your other shoulder, pulling you close to his chest. “i’ll take care of the rest.”
your body relaxed slightly under his attention, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you settled against him, knees parting meekly.
izuku smiled as he slid one hand between your thighs, brushing the drenched cotton aside — quickly noting to himself that you liked floral panties. your pussy was on display, folds slick and swollen, dripping with need.
izuku groaned, his erection twitching in the confinements of his jeans. you were so pretty. so undeniably, unmistakably gorgeous. he couldn’t see all of you, and he wish he could, but the sight was enough.
“your fingers are ticklish,” you commented, voice slightly shaky as you peered up at him.
“is that a good thing?”
you shrugged, blush deepening. “i think so.”
he traced your entrance, collecting the arousal on his fingertips, shuddering at the way you whimpered.
slowly, he pushed his index finger, feeling your walls snug around him, hot and velvety.
"a—aah!"
you were incredibly tight, your walls fluttering around the intrusion as he sank in knuckle-deep, enveloped by your velvety heat and the obscene wetness that coated him immediately.
“oh... you're so cute,” he breathed, his eyes widening at the sensation, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. but there was none — only pleasure, your lips parting in a soft moan as your hips lifted slightly to meet him.
he moved slowly at first, sliding in and out with deliberate care, letting you adjust to the stretch.
“that's it, just like that... you're doing so well for me,” he praised, his free hand coming up to stroke your hair, thumb brushing your temple in reassurance. the words spilled out naturally, sweet and encouraging as he added his middle finger alongside the first, stretching you further.
your pussy clenched greedily around them, pulling him deeper, and he curled his digits upward, searching for that sensitive spot inside.
“izu! nghh!”
when he found it — rubbing firmly against the spongy wall — you gasped sharply, your back arching off the bed as a rush of your juices soaked his hand. “yes, right there... my sweet girl, you're so responsive. i love how you squeeze me like this, so so pretty.”
he began to pump his fingers with more purpose, the initial gentleness giving way to a building rhythm.
the slick sounds of your arousal filled the room, mingling with your breathy cries, izuku's gaze stayed fixed on where his hand worked between your thighs, mesmerized by the way your folds parted around him.
“you look incredible taking my fingers... so wet and perfect for me,” he continued, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, praise dripping from every word as he watched your body respond. "want me to go faster?"
your clit peeked out, swollen and begging, so he brought his thumb to it, circling the nub in firm, steady strokes that made your thighs tremble.
sensing your growing need, without response to earlier, he picked up the pace, thrusting his fingers faster now, deeper, the motion turning insistent as he chased your pleasure.
your walls gripped him tighter with each plunge, your moans escalating into desperate pleas of his name. izuku smiled endearingly as he curled his fingers, massaging that spongy spot inside of you.
“izuku... oh god, please…” you gasped, and he leaned in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, breath mingling in the heated space between you.
“i've got you... you're so close, aren't you? come on, let go for me— fuck, you're beautiful,” he encouraged, his tone sweet yet urgent, fingers pistoning in and out with rapid precision, thumb flicking your clit harder to push you over the edge.
he could feel it building — the way your body tensed, thighs quivering uncontrollably, breaths coming in sharp, desperate gasps.
“izuku! think— think i’m gonna…something's!”
izuku sighed, chest heavy with the thoughts of your piss kink, but he was sure, he was so sure, that wasn't the case. his fingers moved faster, deeper, knuckles deep. god, he hasn't put this much concentration into something before.
“come on, baby, let it all out for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with adoration, thumb grinding harder against your clit to tip you over. "you're so perfect, taking my fingers so deep... i want to feel you come undone."
it hit you like a tidal wave. your back arched sharply off the bed, a high-pitched whimper escaping your lips as the orgasm crashed through you. your pussy spasmed wildly, squeezing his fingers in powerful pulses, and then you squirted, a hot gush of your release spraying out around his hand, soaking the sheets beneath you in a warm flood.
"that's it..."
he watched in mesmerized awe, the sight of your body convulsing, twitching against his touch, your folds fluttering and dripping with your arousal. every quiver, every soft cry that followed, sent a jolt straight to his core.
the intensity of it — the way you surrendered completely, vulnerable and beautiful in your ecstasy — pushed him past his limit. izuku groaned low in his throat, his hips bucking involuntarily against the air as his cock throbbed painfully in his jeans.
he couldn't hold back; the pressure built unbearably, and with a shuddering gasp, he came hard in his pants. thick ropes of his cum spilled out, soaking through the fabric in sticky warmth, pulsing with each aftershock as he rode out his own waves.
his free hand gripped your thigh tightly, grounding himself in the feel of you, that possessive fire flaring brighter in his chest.
”that's my girl... you came so hard, so good for me.” finally, he withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, bringing them to his lips for a quick, instinctive taste—salty-sweet, just like you.
"izuku..."
he gathered you into his arms then, pulling you against his chest as your breathing evened out, the warmth of your body seeping into his. that fierce protectiveness swelled again, tinged with the unspoken obsession that mirrored your own hidden depths, even as you both lay there, not yet bound by any label, but undeniably connected in this raw, intimate moment.
that night, he watched as your breathing settled into rhythm, conscious descending into a peaceful slumber.
𐙚
it was nice like this. the routine of seeing you, not forcing you into his orbit because he knew you were always just there, waiting for him. this was incredible, and with adam dealt with, you were happier than ever.
it isn't until later — much later — into their sweet, innocent routine, that the thought returns.
he's sitting in lecture, half-listening as the professor speaks at the front, pen moving mindlessly across his notebook before he scraps that measly idea and moves to typing on his laptop. the words blur, cases stack on top of each other, and everything still feels normal.
too normal, in a way that's so mundane to him, something must be off.
i've never see her here.
he frowns faintly, eyes drifting around the room without really looking at anyone in particular. he knows his cohort, he's good with faces, and incredible with pattern. he notices who sits where, who skips weeks, and who always shows up late.
and yet, he can't place you here.
not in this room, not in the shared common study areas where law students nest their noses into heavy, dusted textbooks.
but you told him you were in law.
law. double degree.
you'd never lie, and he believed you without question — so why does it feel so strange now?
maybe your timetable's different, maybe you took up different electives, tutorials at odd hours. law is like that sometimes — its fragmented, and makes students scatter across the buildings at unfavorable times.
still.
he's seen adam, he's seen people he barely knows. he's seen faces once, and filed them forever, but never you.
wait, but that wouldn't make sense. you had to be in law, how else would you have known adam?
the thought shouldn't matter, and yet, it lingers, prickling at the back of his mind. maybe he didn't know you as much as he thought he had.
most importantly of all, he needed to stop.
he catches himself, and exhales quietly, settling into the uncomfy chair he was on.
he needed to stop. he needed to stop noticing absences, filling in unnecessary gaps that potentially antagonised you.
you said you were in law, and that was enough.
he forced himself to tune back to the front, drawing his attention back to the lecture and the contents on the board that would most definitely be on the final. but, as much as he tried to let the words flow in through one ear, and out the other, the unease never quite disappeared.
you’d never lie — izuku knew that was one thing for certain. maybe this whole time, he realises with a faint, uncomfortable twist, that he’s been paying so much attention to you in the art room, all quiet and adorable with your sketchbook that he couldn’t comprehend you here. maybe you quietly linger the same halls as him.
maybe this is something he should bring up with hitoshi.
the cafe is tucked just off campus, far enough from the lecture halls where the noise thins out. the ground smells of rain-soaked concrete by the time izuku arrives, hair slightly damp by the afternoon shower.
hitoshi is already there when izuku arrives, slouched in his chair with a coffee thats gone lukewarm, eyes half-lidded at the sight of him.
“you’re late,” hitoshi said, taking a sip. “you know that i’ve got a study schedule outside of this sketchy business?”
“five minutes,” izuku replied with a light apologetic smile, sliding into the seat across from him. “that’s not late, come on.”
hitoshi hummed, rolling his eyes at izuku’s annoyingly kind, bright eyes. “for you? it is.”
izuku exhaled in defeat, slouching into the seat. “you know i’m one of your favorite people…why so mean today.”
“because,” hitoshi starts off, voice flattening, “every time you say that, you’re about to ask me for a favour. don’t even try denying it, i know.”
izuku paused, blinking. “...okay, first of all—”
“no,” hitoshi cuts in, setting the cup down. “second of all, what stalker crime do you want me to do for you?”
izuku winced, sinking shamefully. “you didn’t even let me start…”
hitoshi arched a brow, a light smirk daunting his tired features. “you don’t need to — i already know.” he paused, watching izuku’s eyes hang on the space before them. “come on, spit it out.”
“it’s about y/n,” izuku added, light returning to his eyes.
hitoshi sighs. it’s long and exaggerated, drawn out in a purposeful way to shame izuku. “why am i not surprised,” he says, disbelief threated through his words. “you’re still on this girl.”
izuku leaned back against his chair, scoffing as he folded his arms. “i’m not—”
“uh-huh, you’ve been ‘not’ on this girl for weeks.”
izuku opened his mouth, before closing in again. “...i’m just— i’m just trying to figure out if i’m overthinking.”
hitoshi remained silent, a laugh bubbling up his throat at his friend’s distress. “you most definitely are,” he says immediately after. “but, that doesn’t mean you’re wrong to check yourself, and i’m damn glad it’s with me, god— hey you know this is illegal, right?”
izuku relaxes at his words, pouting at the quarter end of hitoshi’s sentence. “of course i know it’s wrong, but you came to me with your business…so as a good friend…”
hitoshi studied him for a moment, reaching forward for his cup once more, swirling the last inch of coffee. “as a good friend,” he repeats dryly, “i’m obligated to tell you that i hate when you preface things like that.”
izuku huffs. “you’re the one who said you were glad it was you.”
“i am,” hitoshi says easily. “that doesn’t mean i like being morally compromised — this is so weird, but go on. just spit the rest of it out.”
izuku hesitates, brief and telling. “she said she’s in law,” he begins carefully, “and i believe her, i do. it’s just—” he frowns, eyes drifting toward the window. “i’ve never actually…seen her in any of the usual places, lectures, study rooms. nothing.”
hitoshi stared blankly, unimpressed. “and? you realise that people may have different schedules?”
“i just don’t know though,” izuku admits, quieter in thought now. “or if i’m just noticing things i shouldn’t be now that i’m so involved in her life.”
hitoshi snorted. “you definitely are.”
izuku shot him a look, brows knitted. “can we please be serious here.”
“i am,” histoshi says, settling the cup down after finishing it. “you’re great at pattern recognition, and that’s not always a blessing.”
he pulled his laptop out anyway, because of course he does. it’s not the same one he uses for all his other uni work, or anything personal. “double degree students get split all over the place,” he mutters, scrolling. “law’s a scheduling nightmare — ever thought of that, genius? different cohorts, rotating tutorials, electives in random buildings—”
his thumb paused, then he nods once, assured. “yeah, she’s enrolled. law. no funny business.”
izuku’s shoulders dropped noticeably, a sigh of relief immediate and unguarded. “i knew it.”
izuku doesn’t argue, still sitting with the confirmation.
“tuesdays and thursdays for tutorials, mid-day if you wanted to know,” hitoshi added. “arts-heavy electives this semester. that explains why you keep seeing her in the art room instead of your concrete nightmare.”
izuku let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “okay— that explains why we never see each other. while i’m in my lectures, she’s in her tutorials and— okay.”
“okay,” hitoshi echoes back with a mocking look. then, “so what exactly were you planning to do if she wasn’t?”
izuku stiffens, hit with the brutal alternate. “nothing…”
“right,” hitoshi says. “that’s what everyone says right before doing something stupid. especially you. look what happened,” he sighed out, motioning to the scar on izuku’s face.
izuku groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “i’m not planning anything, i just— well, someone said something to her. made her feel weird about herself.”
hitoshi’s expression sobered slightly. “and that didn’t sit right with you, hey?”
“no,” izuku said immediately, expression serious. “it didn’t.”
it most definitely didn't. but, the damage couldn't be reversed, especially with the way adam's been limping around campus now, a notable jaggedness to his breathing. what was done, was done, and izuku couldn't be more happier.
hitoshi watched him for a second, a faint smile at his friend’s commitment. “you’re lucky i think you’re a good person. okay, then here’s your answer.”
izuku looked up, eyes softening as the spiral in his mind ceased.
“she’s in law,” hitoshi began. “she didn’t lie. you’re not uncovering some hidden truth, and as your friend, if you keep digging past there, it stops being concern and starts being…something else, which i fear is already happening but that isn’t my business.”
izuku nods slowly, guilty. “i know.”
“do you?”
“...i’m trying to.”
hitoshi leaned back in his chair. “good. because you’re allowed to care. god you’re just so weird sometimes..”
izuku’s lips pressed together, thoughtful.
“also,” hitoshi adds, already reaching for his bag, “if you ever say ‘as a good friend’ to justify dragging me into this again, i’m charging you coffee. for the week.”
izuku smiles faintly. “deal. thank you, again.”
as they stand to leave, izuku feels steadier than he has in days. the facts are simple. clean.
before the two parted ways, hitoshi turned back to him, nodding certain. “just to talk to her, i’m sure she’d be ecstatic. oh, and it wouldn’t be as weird that way, too.”
you’re in law. you told the truth. he doesn’t need to fill in the gaps. why would you ever lie to him in the first place? that wasn’t you at all.
and yet, as he steps back out into the damp afternoon air, the unease doesn’t fully disappear, and he berates himself for it.
because knowing you’re here doesn’t explain why you always seem just out of reach.
and that question, quietly, stubbornly, stays with him. this isn’t something hitoshi can figure out for him. this is something he had to figure out for himself.
꒰ my laptop genuinely hates long-worded fics so it was a bit hard to edit </3 but i hope you guys enjoyed...and are ready for part two!! if while reading this part, and you caught something....
tags; love potion trope, physical violence (not by sukuna), medieval fantasy, yorozu needs her own warning, lots of playful teasing, all fluff and no smut, minor angst, suggestive content but nothing explicit, romance (obviously), soft sukuna, misunderstanding trope, happy ending.
synopsis: you're a maid working under the tempestuous duchess, lady yorozu. she unknowingly plans something devious to force the royal army's general, sukuna, to fall for her. but he ends up falling for you instead...
word count; 12k+
somewhere, in a distant and faraway kingdom...
a hardworking and humble woman is promoted to become the head maid of an estate, at the fairly young age of twenty-six.
with the previous one finally retiring for good, luck was on your side with most of the housekeeping staff happening to be more junior than you.
for those belonging to the lower classes, even such a small title as being the manager of working staff is of great significance.
it is certainly not anything grand. but you take pride in your work. they say art can be found within anywhere and anything, and you believe there's a certain element of elegance and artistry to be found in the duties of housekeeping. it is a job that reaches the heart of a home, keeping everything rolling smoothly in someone's everyday life.
even if that someone isn't a person that you are very fond of. truth be told, you really don't like lady yorozu.
the duchess of aizu-- is a spoiled and obnoxious brat, if you've ever seen one. though you can never say such out loud, for it would immediately end with your termination, or even worse, your execution.
though it is technically her parents that you work for in this estate, they are much too doting to manage their daughter's selfish behaviour, and most of her unreasonable demands are met within time.
you must act with vigilance, if you want to survive in this environment. your plans are to work just enough to keep yourself afloat, and then eventually find and marry a man who is capable to take care of you. as a maid, it isn't possible to get greedier than that. a comfortable enough life should suffice.
today, you are preparing a grand feast for a visitor who comes from the very heart of the kingdom, a man who answers directly to the king himself. the head general of the country's military forces. ryomen sukuna.
he is an alleged barbarian of a man, merciless on the battlefield, with no regard for others, notorious for being a figure of intimidation who proudly wears the scar that runs down the right side of his face. of all the battles that sukuna has led during the wars against any enemy territories, he has never failed to bring the opposite forces to their knees, having them raise their white flags in surrender. such countless feats has made him the old king's favourite, and he is rumoured to have been spoiled with wealth and riches in exchange.
lady yorozu is known to have gotten absolutely infatuated with him, ever since their first meeting at a ball in the castle, and she has not stopped attempting to court him since.
you cannot understand her obsession with a man who has such sinister rumours circulating him. yet part of you also holds sympathy for him, receiving all those distasteful love letters and countless invitations to her home.
he has finally accepted one of her pleas, an invitation for a meal together, which has surprised everybody - since sukuna has been said to adamantly reject lady yorozu's advances with a look of disgust on his face.
the mansion is busy with preparation, you're giving orders left and right, while making sure everything looks spick and span. there isn't much time left until his arrival.
when things are seemingly perfect, you do a final scour of the kitchen, dining area, and various other possible locations that may be seen by the guest in the mansion.
you fail to notice the lady herself, cleverly sneaking her way into the kitchen, with a mysterious looking bottle in hand.
when the general arrives, the servants, including you, all bow deeply to the noble guest, who pays no mind to any of you and walks towards lady yorozu, who stands with adoration, hearts in place of her pupils, looking excited and yet also equally restless.
the general comes over to her and takes her hand to offer a light kiss onto the top of it, with a neutral expression. it seems clear to most of the crowd that he is doing it out of obligation and courtesy, but it pleases the lady regardless, making her smirk and hold her head high. her parents look on with admiration and hope from behind. perhaps this meeting shall end with a marriage agreement?
dinner ensues not long after his arrival, almost immediately so, as urged on by lady yorozu.
after the quick appetizer, comes the soup.
the chefs of the kitchen are nervous. it didn't seem like the general enjoyed the first course of the meal so much. are his standards so high?
you notice the lady looking especially restless, strangely so. her leg bounces slightly under the table, unladylike and crude.
when the soup is gracefully offered to each noble around the table, you notice one of the newcomer servants struggling to work their way around the table, being especially nervous around the stern-looking guest himself. you offer to take the jug of water in their stead, and approach the table, in fear of them possibly making a mistake.
as the general takes his first sip of the soup, you simultaneously and swiftly come by his side, noticing that his glass of water had almost been emptied. as you're pouring him his water, you notice that he is suddenly wincing and clutching at his head with one hand, like a man with a sudden onset of a headache.
"are you alright, sir-?" you begin to ask.
"get away from him! my love, look this way!"
yorozu has stood up from her seat next to her mother and has sprinted towards you before shoving you aside to the floor.
but at that point, it was too late.
the one that sukuna was gazing at was not the lady that was fretting and grabbing at his face frantically, but the maid who was cast aside to the expensive marble floor.
you don't understand the situation. what is happening?
the general seems to be still affected by the strange throbbing in both his head and his heart, unable to move from his seat as of yet. you're in a complete daze as you stare back at the man who is equally as confused as you are. why does his heart race? why is he so smitten by a maid he's set his eyes on for the first time?
yorozu grabs at the hem of her dress with such force that her knuckles turn white. that stupid maid...!
you have barely gotten yourself standing on your feet when lady yorozu suddenly grabs you by the collar and raises her hand to slap you. but when you brace yourself by shutting your eyes in preparation for the impact, nothing hits you.
you're instead, met with the sight of the general holding the lady's wrist back, preventing her from hitting you.
just from receiving the slightest attention from this man, your life has been thrown into chaos. you've been cast into the spotlight and sights of the surrounding nobles-- you, who had never been worth offering a second glance from those of the higher class-- is now the one in the centre of attention in this estate.
sukuna suddenly remembers yorozu's intent eyes on him, as he took his first sip of the soup.
"you... what have you laced in my food?" sukuna glares at her with a vein popping out of his forehead.
"my lord! you must be mistaken... i have not laid a single finger onto your soup.." she mutters, letting go of you and freeing herself from sukuna's hold.
"it must have.. it must have been the maid, yes! it was clearly a scheme devised by her! i was merely trying to punish-"
"silence. lie to me once more, and i will burn every plot of land in aizu to cinders. you stood up and ran over because you knew exactly what was going on, while everyone else was thrown into confusion."
his words are voiced loud and clear, and they cut through the silence of the atmosphere so deeply. it is expected of the top general of the royal army.
lady yorozu's father suddenly stands from his seat.
"yorozu... what is going on?" he asks with a waver in his voice, at fear of the house's reputation as well as the consequences of upsetting their precious guest.
the duchess keeps her lips tightly together, and she glares at you with tears brimming the corners of her eyes. she sends for everyone else in the room to get out. they silently leave, and you are ordered to stay behind.
when yorozu finally confesses spiking the general's soup with a love potion, illegally obtained from an unlicensed sorcerer from a town in the outskirts of the city, everyone around the table pinches the bridge of their nose, including her own parents.
"do you understand... that this is a crime punishable by law?" sukuna voices slowly, looking at the lady with a dark glint in his eyes, finally having had enough of her bullshit.
"please, mighty general, pardon my daughter's foolishness. it was merely out of her genuine love and desire for your-"
"i've heard enough. tell me the sorcerer's name and last whereabouts. everything you know about him. i shall have him undo the spell myself."
"he... he may have gone into hiding..." yorozu tells him with a low, nervous voice, twiddling her fingers.
a long sigh drags out of the general, and you are afraid he will break the table in anger. surprisingly however, he pulls himself together, and remains calm.
"...no matter. i'll send out my men to look for him. you are to spit out everything you know about him. and in consequence of this incident, any current and future negotiations between us are now done."
"g-general sukuna! please! i wish you would have the heart to reconsider- we will make sure this will never happen again-" her mother pleads.
"once was plenty enough. from now onwards, i am severing ties with everyone in this mansion," sukuna puts his foot down sternly, voice monotonous and unfeeling.
"be glad this is the extent of it. i have no need to be so merciful. unless you'd like me to bring this up before his highness himself?" the general asks with a raised eyebrow.
"no, no! it-it's a deal! we shall do as you suggest-- yorozu, dear, please tell them everything about who you purchased this potion from..."
the lady seems to be on the verge of tears, her plan having ended up in a disaster, and this may as well be the last time she sees the general again.
"and one more thing," sukuna adds on.
his gaze flickers towards you momentarily.
"you are to hand her over to me," he demands, pointing directly at you.
your cooperation might be needed in order to break the spell, after all. and in the back of his mind, he brings up the moment yorozu tried to hit you after her plans went awry. you'll probably be abused if you are to stay in this mansion.
your chest tightens.
not because of anything good. not excitement, not shyness. you don't care about any of this at all. you're upset that your workplace will be taken away from you. everything you've worked to build here has crumbled away into pieces.
sure, the general may have fallen for you. but it's a facade, and once the spell breaks away, what will become of you? cast aside onto the streets? who will take you in after the situation gets resolved? why did this have to happen right after you'd finally reached a place a little more comfortable, a little less suffocating than before?
you're staring down at your hands that grab the hem of your maid dress so tightly that your knuckles have turned white.
idiotic nobles. you wish they'd all fall from grace and go to hell.
lady yorozu is the one that begins to throw another tantrum, instead of you. you envy her for being able to lash out whenever she desires.
she wails, and wails. demanding that he do not take you with him. for she is afraid he is doing so out of his romantic feelings for you. however, there is nothing she can do but struggle against her parents that restrain and hush her, as sukuna orders you to follow him outside this horrible mansion.
you curtly and expressionlessly follow the man. you're forced to pack what little belongings you have into a small briefcase before you climb aboard his carriage.
there is silence between you. you're sitting on the other side across from sukuna, and also towards the far left of your seat, whilst he is on the far right.
as you stare outside the little window, seemingly indifferent to the situation, your mouth forming a straight line, and eyes being difficult to read. he wonders what is going through your mind. can you notice every lingering gaze given by him? these intense feelings that he is unused to having is driving him up a wall. he does his best to ignore your presence entirely, by looking outside the window on his side, mirroring you.
if the potion truly has made him head over heels for you, he sure is excellent at not showing it. rather, it feels underwhelming, after all that ruckus was made. perhaps your mood would have been a little better if this dull man softened up even a teensy amount and made some conversation with you. you're not sure what you had been expecting.
when the carriage comes to a halt, you are thrust in front of yet another tall mansion. those of higher class are all the same, it seems.
this one has a rather dull garden. it's a shame. the only place of solace in your previous master's estate, was their beautiful courtyards. it doesn't seem like you'll have anything to lean on for comfort here.
general sukuna gets off the carriage after you and walks inside without a word, surely expecting you to follow behind him. it's a struggle to catch up with his long strides due to his tall stature. there arrives a butler of his, hair in a bobcut and pale features, happy to see their master is back, and puzzled about the stranger that is following behind him.
"show her to one of the spare guest rooms upstairs. i'll explain the situation later," sukuna tells them, while still walking down the hallway. "i'll be in my study."
they give a respectful response and gesture for you to come with them.
the second floor upstairs, there are numerous guest rooms down the hallway, and your mind cannot seem to comprehend why the general would have kept aside so many spare rooms when he clearly doesn't seem to be a welcoming man, or one with many friends at all.
such disrespectful thoughts plague your mind as you bow gracefully to his butler before being left alone in your new room with your dainty number of belongings.
it's a rather fanciful room, to be given to a maid like you. if it weren't for the potion, you wouldn't be directed here at all. despite having a nice bedroom to yourself, you can't help but feel mildly uncomfortable, like an uninvited guest. you crave the simplicity and plainness of the servant's quarters... at least there, you wouldn't have to feel so out of place.
there's a comfy, soft looking bed in one corner of the room. a big window on the wall opposite side of the door, and a small sized desk and chair in front of it.
you set down your briefcase and seat yourself down on the chair, and look blanky through the glass pane, at your fatigued self that is reflected in it. it has been... an eventful day.
being so suddenly cast aside from your usual busy duties, you find yourself uncertain on what you should be doing in this free time. you'd often snagged away a couple of books from the library at lady yorozu's estate to read quietly on restless nights, but you're not keen on discreetly exploring the general's home on your first night here, like a thief.
so you take yourself to the bed to retire early for the evening.
the mattress feels fluffy and tender under your weight, yet it provides little solace to you. it smells unfamiliar. somewhere outside, a clock is ticking. crickets chirp outside. when you close your eyes, the events of today creep up into your vision, and the humiliation of being cast to the floor burns the blood in your veins. the action of the duchess trying to strike your face. it wouldn't have been her first time.
despite being so tired, you cannot bring yourself to sleep.
sitting back up in bed, you curse your restlessness, and stare outside the window once again. the moonlight casts a dim atmosphere into this room.
you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, and slip your feet back into your shoes. perhaps you won't sneak around his mansion, but outside. some fresh air for a change, and somewhere to release your bottled up emotions. a dull garden at best, is still better than nothing.
you somehow find your way outside quietly, smoothing your hand alongside the walls to guide you there.
sukuna had been contemplating his plans for what to do with this sudden anomaly in his life. not only has he been forced to love someone, he is suffering the humiliation of it being unrequited. the damn yorozu... he will find a way to properly get her back for this.
tomorrow, he shall arrange for the investigation into finding that sorcerer to break the effects of the potion. with his status and influence, it shouldn't take too long. as for you, well.. he is still thinking of what to do with you once he's free from the situation.
his emotions are thwarted. not only does his heart beat faster when he brings you up in his mind, his logical thinking also has been getting interfered. his usual self would have no problem sending you back to that house, or kicking you out to the streets. he is not responsible for you, after all.
yet.
the idea of seeing you suffer in any way makes him feel so... upset. he doesn't even know you. he shouldn't care to, but he wants to. he wants to know more. he wants to see you again, and he's also mildly happy about you living under his roof right now, this very second. he doesn't even know you.
sukuna despises this, knowing that these are false feelings, yet also, some part of him enjoys this emotional turmoil - this oddly addictive feeling of intense yearning. he's only ever known the adrenaline rush from the battlefield, the exhilaration of victory, and the satisfaction that came with being at the top.
he sighs and stands up from his desk, in his grand study room. he stands by the tall window that shows his gardens outside, with his hands in his pockets, to ease his eyes with the moon's illumination.
when he looks down however, he catches a small figure wandering around, and then standing still in the corner of his garden. it's difficult to tell, but judging by the meek stance and rough silhouette, he judges that it might be you.
what does it matter? why should he care? he should just head back to his chambers.
for god's sake.
he hastily grabs a coat and heads out to the gardens.
the neatly cut grass underneath the soles of your shoes feel soft to step on. the night hasn't gotten too chilly yet, it's a rather comfortable temperature.
the bushes around this area bear no flowers, and are only managed to the bare minimum, it seems. the moon is your only source of light, and comfort. there's coiled feelings of anxiety and helplessness wriggling in your stomach.
and then once the tears start pricking the corners of your eyes, they do not cease. you don't cry often, but when you do start, it is difficult to stop it. your previous indifference has melted away seamlessly, and now you're crying like a spoiled child yourself.
even when you hear footsteps a couple of metres away from you, you cannot stop your sobs. through your sight that's been blurred with tears, you make out the pink hair and assume it's the general, before covering your face with your hands and turning away in embarrassment.
sukuna's lovesick self feels incredibly distraught by your tears, but he keeps those feelings in check, watching as you hide yourself quickly.
"i don't remember giving you permission to wander into my gardens... were you planning on watering the area with your tears?" he asks with his usual style of dry humour. but the moment the snarky question leaves his lips, he feels himself regretting it as you continue sobbing into your hands.
"...cease your weeping. it won't solve anything," sukuna adds on, not knowing what else he should say. he's never been great at comforting people, let alone crying women.
"i already know that..." you say with a low voice, between hics.
"what?"
"i said, with all due respect, general, that i already know that!" you yell impulsively, "i know that crying won't solve shit! still, can't a woman let her emotions out in peace?!"
you're still turned away from him, yelling out into the open space despite your words being directed at him.
"give me a break... first i'm tangled into a silly ridiculous plan that had nothing to do with me... taken away from my work and everything i'd built for myself for so long! of course you'll be scotch free after breaking the spell but what about me?! i won't have anywhere to go! and now i'm not even allowed to cry?! you tell me to get permission before entering your garden, yet it's not even..." you ramble without thinking, no longer wanting to hold yourself back.
"it's not even a garden worth looking at! if it's bothered you so much, then i shall find elsewhere to cry-"
when you try to run off past him, sukuna grabs your arm and stops you in place, while you're still covering your face with one hand.
"stop that. you'll trip over and make a fool out of yourself," he tells you.
"i already have. there's no point in saving face now."
"and yet you're still covering your face up with your hands. you should look at someone when you're making complaints to them."
you expect him to pry your hands away from yourself, but it never happens.
sukuna takes his coat off with a sigh and drapes it over your head. the weight of it makes your head feel heavier, but you feel somewhat relieved from the security... the security of not being seen in this vulnerable moment.
"... but, i shall let you off the hook tonight. i suppose you're also a victim in this situation. perhaps i should even be thanking you, for interfering," he voices thoughtfully. "it is distasteful to think about what would've happened if that woman succeeded in her plan."
the mere thought of it makes him scrunch his nose.
you've gotten silent. your tears have stopped, the cologne from his coat takes over your olfactory senses and it's calmed you down a little, strangely enough.
"you're more interesting when you're like this, rather than pretending to be indifferent. a little brazen, but not bad."
he flicks you over his own coat, making you jolt. it makes him chuckle.
"tell you what. i'm feeling a little generous after reconsidering the situation. i'll promise you a place to work after i find that sorcerer. i know a couple of acquaintances who may be interested in an extra helping hand at home."
your eyes brighten up at the offer. it's not anything grand, but you'll take it. it is better than nothing.
"i... i won't take anything to heart without it being written onto paper," you sniffle, voice muffled.
"aren't you a clever woman," sukuna laughs heartily. he looks at the pitiful shape of your head, covered by his coat.
"very well. i'll arrange a contract to set it in stone. you should know i rarely am this charitable. be grateful."
it's the first time that you actually believe that the potion must be working on him.
"the night has deepened. i'm heading back now," sukuna informs you.
"th-thank you, general," you voice awkwardly, ultimately regretting the outburst of your emotions now that he'd calmly brought you back to your senses.
you hear his footsteps heading towards the mansion, but they suddenly stop. and then you hear them coming back closer to you again.
a warm hand grabs yours, and shoves something soft, something that feels like fabric, into your hand.
"it's getting cold. don't roam around here too long."
his voice sounded tender this time. firm and caring, like he really meant it.
his footsteps walk away from you once more, until they are no longer audible.
when you slowly take the coat off of your head and look down at the item in your hand, you find that it's a handkerchief. with his initials on it.
the moon shines brighter than ever tonight, illuminating your tear stained cheeks and disheveled hair, holding onto an oversized coat and a handkerchief, as the man has left you behind with a confused, yet racing heart.
the next morning... you find yourself sitting across the general himself, on his grand table, with a beautiful plate of breakfast before you. what should feel like a privilege to be seated here, you still cannot shake off the feeling of mild discomfort at the abrupt difference in treatment.
he shares not a single word with you at the table, only focused on his food and graceful skill with his knife and fork. it may be in your best interest to do the same - there would be little meaning in trying to make light conversation with him. there are many ears and eyes around - maids, servant, butlers alike, are always prone with gossip. though you'd like to thank him for last night's occurrence, there are too many people around.
the thought of saying anything gives for a rise in the heat of your face. how do nobles converse so easily without embarrassment before their own servants? perhaps it's because they consider folks like yourself not even worth being mindful around.
still, there has been a pressing question you've wanted to ask the general since the morning had begun.
"sir..." you voice, albeit a little quieter than you'd intended.
he gives no response, meaning it is safe to assume that he did not hear you at all. you clear your throat.
"sir?" you try again.
sukuna's cutlery doesn't stop moving as he continues with his food on his plate. only his eyes perk up to meet yours.
"speak. i'm listening," he tells you curtly, eyes falling down back to his plate.
"i was wondering if there was anything i could do around your house during my stay here. i would love to be of help - it would be impolite of me to stay fed and sheltered without giving anything in return."
the man puts down his cutlery, seemingly finished with his meal. he wipes his mouth with a serviette and pensively looks at you.
"uraume?" he calls out.
the butler who had been standing by not too far from him steps up and answers your question in his stead.
"i'm afraid we have all the hands we require around the house. there wouldn't be anything for you to do lest we take away the jobs of those who already work here," they inform you calmly.
"there's your answer. don't worry about repaying the favour. i'm keeping you here for my interest, after all. and if there's something i want you to do, you'll know in due time."
the general stands up from his seat languidly.
"do enjoy the rest of your breakfast. come to my study once you're done - we shall discuss the details of our contract together."
that makes you perk back up again, and you begin hurrying with the rest of your food, working your knife a little faster, stuffing a bit more into your mouth at a time.
you pause when a deep chuckle resounds as the general walks past with his watchful eyes upon you.
"daft thing. you'll choke," he teases, "take your time."
feeling strangely embarrassed again, your chewing slows as your cheeks burn up. maybe you will take his word for it and properly savour this expensive meal before you stand up.
"...but if you take too long, i might change my mind," he adds on mockingly, just before he leaves the dining hall.
his phrase hits like magic, and makes you fall into a coughing fit as a food particle goes down the wrong pipe. uraume fills your glass up with water without a change in their expression. as you're chugging it down to clear your throat, you hear the wretched man's cackles as he heads down the hallway to his study.
the sorcerer must've been half asleep when he made that cursed potion! what kind of man treats the woman he "loves" in this manner? you angrily set your glass down onto the table, and wipe your lips with your sleeve, uncaring for the many peering eyes in this moment. the general irks you in ways you thought were not possible. if there is one thing you've learned from one night of being here, it's that the man is not as scary as everyone believes he is. he is instead, irritating.
after you've finished your breakfast in a timely manner, you are guided to sukuna's study with still yet a mildly congested and uncomfortable feeling in your chest. what an unfortunate way to end a good meal.
inside, the general is sitting at his desk with an intimidating type of elegance, closing up the book he had been reading to shift his attention towards you.
you have just sat down in front of him, when he slides you a sheet of paper, inked with the contract agreement and the terms for each party involved.
"take a look. if you're satisfied, sign your name at the bottom, and i shall stamp it to make it official," he tells you.
you read through the paper. it's not a very complicated agreement, so there isn't much written up at all. having no problems with the contract, you grab the pen and sign your name.
you must say, it's gotten a little bit too easy for your liking. is there really nothing you could do around here during your stay...?
sukuna has already stamped the contract in the meantime, and once he looks up at you again, he notices you're staring outside the window behind him.
"you seem distracted. is there something on your mind?" he muses.
you shift your gaze back to him with a face that tells him you have a suggestion to make, but are hesitating to bring it forth to him.
"if you've got something to say, then make it quick. i don't like stalling."
"may i... tend to your gardens?"
you hadn't expected him to agree to it so easily.
not only agree to it-- he's supplied you with plenty amounts of high quality soil and other tools to make the most of your work around his gardens.
"general. are there any types of flowers you are particularly interested in?" you had asked him, at one point.
"i'm not knowledgeable in that area. plant whatever you'd like. i'll leave it up to you," he'd responded without even the slightest glance towards you.
"if it's not to my tastes..." he says with a slow smirk, "i'll simply just have you start all over again."
a mean bastard, he is.
nonetheless, you are happy to have something to tend to, once again. and being in charge of such a large area? it'll be a lot of work, but you find that excitement pulses in your heart as you've always had your fantasies with having the freedom of adorning your own garden with flora of your own choice.
when you explore his gardens once again, many ideas pop into your mind, so much so that you've brought a little notebook with you to scribble in some ideas that befall you while you start planning what to do in where, and what kinds of flowers you'd like to see sprouting in these spaces.
the general has even paired you up with a gardener to make discussion with and have some extra support with the job.
the gardener, hanami, has a gentle voice, and is a peculiar fellow who prefers to have his face covered up. but you can see he holds a genuine love for plants and flowers. the two of you get along quite quickly.
the only problem is, you're hesitating on deciding which flowers you'd like to have within the garden.
you make your way to the general's grand library after getting his permission, to hopefully find some books on flora for inspiration.
while you're wandering about, you find that he is already there, looking for books of his own appeal. completely not orchestrated at all on his part, he just coincidentally happened to also want to read this afternoon.
you give him a polite bow before making your way to the shelves elsewhere, idling here and there, being distracted by titles not related to plants at times. you realise that there may not be any books on flowers in his library at all, considering his lack of knowledge on the topic. but the room has so many different books, surely there must be at least one?
eventually, you make your way back to the shelf where the general is standing about. it's the only place you haven't checked at this point.
he pays you no mind as he's flickering through some pages on the other side of the bookshelf. you also try to ignore his deafening presence as best as you can.
your eyes scan the books below, and then up above. there, you catch one that seems to finally be what you've been looking for all this time.
it's located a little bit too high. but you think you can manage. the tips of your fingers barely reach the bottom of the book spine, but-- just-- a little-- more--
you're on your tippy toes when someone of a larger frame comes behind you and snags the book you were reaching for.
not surprisingly at all, it's none other than him.
"a book on flowers? i thought you knew plenty about them, from the way you insulted my garden with tears pricking your eyes," the general teases, looking down at you with the slyness of a cheeky cat.
"i... was merely looking for some extra inspiration," you tell him through gritted teeth, keeping your irritation at bay.
"oh, i see. inspiration, hm?" he holds the book up with an irritatingly handsome toothy smirk. for a man pushing mid-thirties, he sure is playful. you try to take it back from him but he merely bumps the spine of the book against your forehead, somewhat gently.
"ack--" you let out an unladylike noise without meaning to.
after having his good chuckle, he lets you take the book from him with a huff.
you thought that'd be the last of him fooling around. but it only gets worse from there. he soon makes a habit of startling you.
"oh! goodness gracious!" you yell out, after spotting the general's tall figure from the corner of your eye after having completed some of the trimming around the green bushes of his garden.
"sir! i thought my heart would leap out of my throat," you say, clutching at your chest.
sukuna scratches the shell of his ear, unbothered by your startled demeanor, dismissing it as your exaggeration. he'd only been admiring-- no, observing your work from behind for a couple of minutes.
"making a fuss over nothing... you're a woman with a louder voice than you let on."
he makes a couple of steps towards the nicely shaped bushes you've trimmed down.
"you have a better hand for this than i thought. where did you practice these skills?"
"oh... well, i tended to the gardens at lady yorozu's estate. it was a comforting hobby of mine, which i attended in secret."
"hmm. i see," sukuna muses, peering at the surrounding drastically improved aesthetics of outside his mansion.
"keep up the good work, i suppose."
i suppose? he can be so rude.
you pause in your tracks when he pats you on the head without thinking much of it. his gentle expression, and his hand that is as warm as sunlight touching you tenderly. you mustn't be within your right mind. you're falling for a man whom you already know is acting on feelings created by a potion.
the gentle pat doesn't last long however, and you are irked when he opts to ruffle up your hair instead. you scowl at the man, but find yourself feeling flustered all over again when you catch his boyish smirk, while you attempt at fixing up your hair.
the lord of this house is rude, yet effortlessly charming at the same time. it hurts you to think-- would he have acted this way towards you without the potion's effects?
the investigation into finding that sorcerer responsible for this potion that grips at his heart is nearing it's end. they've found a lead to his whereabouts, and all that's required is capturing him.
quite a bit of time, around four months perhaps, has passed to get to this point. but sukuna's once cold, and wretched heart still finds itself beating in a lively way around you. it's strange that the potion's effects continue on for this long. surely this sorcerer was one that was skilled, rather than a quack. nevertheless, a rather bittersweet feeling wells up in his stomach when he thinks about how soon this will all be over, and he will return back to the days filled with boredom and repetition.
sukuna would never admit it to you out loud, but it's rather been... fulfilling to feel something for somebody. is this why there are those that are always chasing after love? he'd always assumed it was a humiliating feeling to yearn after someone, but this is different. this pitter patter of his heart had felt uncomfortable only in the beginning, and soon afterwards he started to warm up to it. the thrill of seeing you close by, the joy of teasing you and how elated he is that you lived under the same roof as he did. there was always something new to look forward to, when it came to seeing you.
whenever he'd see you scribbling in your little notebook, taking this task too seriously for your own good, it made him stare-- taken in by your intense concentration. polite and a little too uptight at best of times, but a strong sense of responsibility. your beautiful form tending to the flora, was always a sight to see.
and, the more he learns about you, the more he is captivated by your presence.
when you had told him about your experiences at the duchess' place starting out as a new maid, he realised you had been through many a challenge before ending up here. he understood weakness in strength did not always equate to weakness in character. if you were weak-willed, you would not be here today.
perhaps, he wishes his feelings were real after all, because it would mean he could pursue you without anything to hold him back.
but how do you feel about him?
the sudden question that comes up in his mind bursts his bubble, and sukuna stares off into empty space as the awfully hurtful thought of you not only unreciprocating his love, but also disliking it, plagues his mind.
...
the general has been acting off today. he hasn't approached you in his usual playful style, and has been doing not much more than stare off blankly, seemingly lost in thought. you can't help but feel concerned by the sudden change in behaviour. despite so, you felt as though it was not within your business to reach out to him and ask him about what was going on. it has always been a habit of yours to act mindfully around the nobility.
however, despite your avoidance, later on while you're browsing his library again, you run into the lord of the house, who seemed to have arrived in search of you. you meet his eyes and he looks at you with a face too serious for your liking.
"good afternoon, sir. come here in coincidence once again?" you ask, trying to liven up the mood.
"no. i have something i must ask you," he replied solemnly, with no hesitation.
"what seems to be the matter?" you ask.
this time, sukuna hesitates. for a split second, he appears timid and unsure. which is very unlike him.
"i know you are aware that the reason i hover around you pathetically is because of that love potion given to me," he starts off slowly, with his arms crossed.
"but, let's say if these feelings of mine were real... if they were real, would you have accepted my advances?" he finally finishes the question.
your response of initial silence drags out for quite a while, which makes him nervous with each passing second. he feels so vulnerable. and small. another new feeling for the general to get acquainted with.
"i... i wouldn't think so, sir," you lie, "i don't believe we'd be a very good match."
what would be the point? there's no point in confessing to him, 'yes, i would accept you in a heartbeat,' when you already know these are falsified feelings, and you'll be left humiliated with your one sided love, having foolishly fallen for someone who you knew was swayed only because of a stupid potion in the first place. if he will be returning back to feeling nothing for you at all like any other noble, you would rather keep your feelings hidden and locked up forever, sparing yourself the utter embarrassment. how could you dare, as a maid, covet the attention of someone so highly ranked?
so this is what rejection feels like. sukuna is so hurt. it feels almost like a stomachache, but directly in his chest. his heart swoops in dejection, and is followed by a bitterness spreading in his mouth.
"...i see. your honesty is appreciated. thank you," sukuna replies truthfully, before uncrossing his arms and turning around to leave.
you watch him as he leaves the library to give you some peace, feeling awfully guilty about your shameless lie.
"that heartache you feel, it'll pass soon. i'm sorry," you whisper. really more for reassuring for yourself, rather than him.
the next few days pass by in a blur. the mood of the mansion is rather sullen for reasons unknown. at least to the rest of the staff working here. you continue your work in the garden all the same, but you notice small things like, the general being absent from meal times a lot more often, and also seemingly spending more time outside.
his absence causes for a great gaping hole in the mansion's atmosphere. and a big aching loneliness in your heart. where could he be going, all the time? you come to the realisation that you barely know what his hobbies consist of, despite him knowing you almost inside out.
but of course. it's easier for the higher ranking person to question those beneath them. it's not like any noble would take a commoner's questions seriously.
"stop it," you tell yourself, "thinking such ugly thoughts."
perhaps he's out there searching for a more befitting love interest for himself. who knows. and with that, you've sabotaged yourself by putting yourself in a bad mood.
so preoccupied with your thoughts, you don't hear the gentle footsteps in the grass coming from behind you.
"if you are wondering about master sukuna... he has mainly been outside indulging in his hobby of hunting wild animals," a soft voice speaks out.
you turn to the side to see uraume standing next to you, meeting your eyes.
uraume. another mystery of a human being to you. who are they, and how long have they served the general for? you have no way of knowing - but the bond between them is surely one of importance. you can tell they have a deep sense of respect for their lord, and general sukuna himself trusts uraume to handle most of his matters without any hesitation.
"i-i see. thank you for letting me know," you mumble meekly.
in fact, you are much better at dealing with the great general himself rather than uraume. you don't know how to act around them, as often they are overbearingly polite and formal with everyone they interact with.
"the gardens have indeed looked much better ever since you have begun working on them. i often see my liege gazing towards it whenever he passes by a window."
"oh, does he? that's a pleasure to know. thank you very much," you give a small smile, as you continue watering the rosebushes before you.
"recently however, i believe something has upset him."
you pause, beginning to sweat profusely. uraume smiles politely at you, but it feels rather intimidating.
"the usual lack of sharpness in his voice, his dulled appetite, and the way he goes out of his way to distract himself by heading outside..." they continue, turning back to the flowers, specifically the roses in front of them and reaching out to gently caress one.
you stand there awkwardly, shuffling off to the side.
"please, there is no need to be so nervous around me," uraume chuckles, "i am simply teasing."
it only makes you more nervous.
"forgive me for eavesdropping, but i did listen into your rejection of him the other day."
your face loses its light all over again. they duly take note of the fact.
"why did you lie to him?"
your eyes widen and your grip on the watering can gets tighter.
"how did you know...?"
"it's impossible to not notice, as an outsider. in fact, i was surprised my liege didn't catch onto it at all. perhaps it is true that love blinds all. your warm gaze towards him isn't something that can be impersonated."
there's a small silence between the two of you as you gather your thoughts for a satisfying answer.
"i'd like to act like i did it out of honour, and say it was for the general's sake," you start off slowly, putting down the watering can to the ground.
"but that isn't the case at all. i rejected him for my own sake."
"how so? i would think taking advantage of his feelings in that moment would be more for your sake, would it not?" uraume questions.
you shake your head.
"the potion's effects will wear off in due time. if i were to accept him and then his feelings one day disappeared on me, what would become of me? to engage in unrequited love with the general... i would rather spare myself the humiliation. it's better not to start anything at all."
"... so you mean to say the lord who one-sidedly seeks you out now is currently in a state of humiliation?"
you shake your head again, violently.
"heavens, no! i didn't mean it like that. it's just... it's not the same. please think of it as knowing my place. my class is that of a lowly servant, while he leads the royal army and is on speaking terms with the king. i couldn't fathom..."
uraume stares at you, deadpan.
"my master isn't so shallow that he judges based on class, rather than person. can you not tell by the way he treats those working here at his mansion?"
they make a good point. the staff here always look content and act with a sense of pride, unlike those who worked under the duchess.
but, all of a sudden, you feel a spark of annoyance within you.
why did the conversation end up here, anyway? this isn't even the main issue.
"you've been questioning me an awful lot here. are you meaning to say you wanted me to accept his feelings knowing they are false? perhaps saying yes would have granted temporary joy, but it's foolish to think it would benefit either of us in the long term. i would rather die than become a nuisance to the general, like that of lady yorozu," you inform uraume quickly, in your polite yet enforcing tone, your sense of intimidation having flown away.
uraume blinks at you, and then simply bursts into laughter.
"did- did you mean to make a fool out of me?!" you ask, raising your voice without meaning to, your cheeks burning.
"that wasn't within my intentions, no," uraume says, still giggling, "it's just that... your tone shifted so quickly. and your dislike of yorozu, that feeling is mutual."
it's the first time they've displayed such laughter. you calm down a little, and wait as they settle after a few moments.
"then i'll take it that it wouldn't be a problem if my master's feelings for you are indeed true. i'll keep that in mind. thank you for your honesty."
you're left standing there alone again, wondering what in the world that conversation exactly was about. the master and their servant both in similar nature, seem to be aiming for your emotional turmoil, all the same.
you are in dire need of a nice long break.
there's no point to pursuing falsified feelings. he is well aware of that. yet, the things he feels for you... they just seem so utterly real. it's fooling even himself. however, at this point, the idea that this is only caused by the potion brings him a sense of comfort. he has already been rejected, and he's made peace with it.
well, not quite yet. but he is making amends towards it.
at his study desk, he finalises the paperwork that means to send you away to a different man. one he trusts and knows wouldn't work you unreasonably. he is sending you away a bit earlier, as he finds it difficult to keep himself away from bothering you. your dutiful work on his garden is almost completed, and it wouldn't hurt to have you work elsewhere while the investigation continues.
with a heavy heart, he stands up and heads over to his glass window pane, where he can see the well-tended garden below.
there you are, busying yourself with more garden work. this is exactly why he tried hard to stay outside of his own home. sukuna aches to head down and talk with you. tease you. to touch you. instead, he only observes from afar.
the bushes are forming a nice shape already, but you had wanted to attend to the details, just for a nice finishing touch. using some small garden shears, you get to work and snip off some of the end parts, when you zone off in your thoughts and accidently nick your finger.
darn it. the one time you skipped using your usual thick gardening gloves. this was supposed to be a simple job, yet here you are with your profusely bleeding index finger. it stings more than you'd like it to.
for a couple of minutes, you apply strong pressure to the area but the wound seems to be deeper than you initially thought. it hasn't stopped yet. cursing under your breath, you start again.
"did you injure yourself?" a stern voice asks you.
sukuna pries your hand off of your index finger and looks at it himself. he clicks his tongue, and takes his handkerchief out from his pocket.
"silly woman. you're not applying pressure correctly," he comments under his breath, wiping away your blood and then wrapping it around your finger before applying firm pressure on it with his thumb.
and he stands there, holding your hand in this manner for a couple of minutes, making your heart race. when he opens up the handkerchief, you find that the wound has magically stopped bleeding.
"go and get it treated by uraume. i won't say it twice," sukuna tells you without any space for protest.
"yes sir," you respond, bringing your hand back to yourself, finally.
"and you can keep the handkerchief."
he walks off without another word. you quietly wish that he could do the bandaging for you as well. but when you head back into the mansion, you find uraume already standing there, waiting for you with all-knowing smile on their face.
a few days later, you are called into the general's study. he sits you down, and calmly explains he has found somebody who is need of an extra helping hand at their home. he slips in some reassurance that the noble is nothing like lady yorozu, so you can have some peace of mind. the duke, nanami, is someone you have heard whispers of before. he is known for being a stern yet gentle man who appreciates those who can be on time.
you are not surprised the general is sending you away in a few weeks' time. you were expecting it soon enough, with the garden work being finalised as well. it's a shame you cannot be the one to continue tending to it in the following years to come, but you have shared some tips and advice to uraume, and hanami will be around at times as well... you're sure they'll do plenty good of a job as you would have.
you curtsey in respect for sukuna's benevolence to you and accept this new job opportunity.
you can start from scratch. like a refresher. you're certain any place would be better than the previous duchess.
you still exit his study with the feeling of a heavy heart. but you keep your head held up high, as you walk back to your chambers.
the unnamed sorcerer has finally been found and captured. tied up, bound to the chair and bruised from the beatings he received while being dragged to where sukuna's feet are, the man pleads for his life.
"please! i'll do anything sir. i don't know what i've done but please spare my life!"
sukuna sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, having heard these tedious words before.
"your love potion. tell me how to undo it's effects," he demands.
"l-love potion? you mean the one i sold to that duchess? there is no antidote, or method to undo it.... the effects were made to wear off after a month at most. i-i had a couple other versions but they all ended in failure," the sorcerer babbles on, eyes quivering in fear.
"...you serious?"
sukuna appears distraught as he hangs in head in disappointment. of course. he had hoped it was still the potion. but thinking about it again, he had always wondered why it seemingly lasted for so long. this was no talented sorcerer, he was merely imitating to be one.
"send him away," sukuna orders, standing up from his chair.
what's done is done. he'll just have to get over his own feelings in some way, somehow. you are leaving tomorrow, anyhow. perhaps with some distance between you and him, his heart will also forget about you in due time.
but when he arrives home via carriage, he realises one dire mistake he had made, during your stay here.
letting you work on his gardens.
he will think of you every time he looks out his windows. silently hoping to see your figure mingling amongst the flowers in the greenery. and he will probably reminisce to those precious moments where he could easily bump into you anywhere in his mansion. the privilege of seeing your tears. your smiles. your face under the sun and moonlight.
when sukuna is greeted by uraume, they are worried for the downtrodden, tired expression on his face.
"the potion's effects have long since worn off. what i feel for her is..." he has no need to complete his sentence.
"master... perhaps you should tell her," uraume advises, broken hearted to see him so low-spirited.
"no. do not say a word to her. there's no need to burden her with such information. it'll only trouble her."
uraume purses their lips, feeling frustrated by the situation.
"i am fine," sukuna reassures, as he walks down towards his chambers. he is well-aware that his expression does not reflect those words.
the next day arrives all too quickly for sukuna's liking.
you're packing your things, and you wonder since when you've gotten so many of your own things. when you first arrived, you hardly even needed the briefcase to fit all your belongings. but now...
there's the books that sukuna had given away to you on a whim. a couple of extravagant looking pens and notebooks. the gardening gloves and hat.
... his handkerchief.
you look at the cleaned and neatly folded cloth and smile sadly. your finger brushes over his embroidered initials. this one you'll keep close, for the rest of your life.
the general hasn't come by to say his final goodbyes to you. has the potion's effects finally worn off? you would wish it lasted for a little longer. perhaps it is for the better. you'll always remember him for the way he looked at you with tender eyes and joyful teasing, not his indifference.
by the time you head outside at midday, the other servants at the estate say their goodbyes to you on your way, and uraume is seen waiting down at the entrance.
the general has kindly arranged for a carriage and a few of his men to safely escort you all the way there. it makes you feel like a terrible person, leaving without even saying farewell to him.
when uraume catches your gaze, they appear troubled.
"is general sukuna attending to important matters? i haven't seen him since this morning. i... wanted to say goodbye for a final time."
you had noticed there was another extravagant carriage that came by today morning, but you hadn't gotten the chance to see who the visitors were. ever since their arrival, sukuna hasn't left his studyroom.
"yes. he has been preoccupied with a rather troublesome guest..." uraume tells you, looking down at the ground.
"i see. that's alright. please tell him... that i am thankful from the bottom of my heart."
"and you've done a lot for me too, uraume. i would know the extra workload that comes with an additional person to arrange a bed, food and clothes for, believe me," you tell them with a laugh.
"i was merely acting on orders..."
after all, they've never refused orders from their master in their life. but it seems like they are about to now, for the first time.
"don't say a word to her."
"i know. but thank you, nonetheless."
you begin to climb up into the carriage, when you are stopped by them.
"please wait."
confused, you step back down and wonder what's gotten into them all of a sudden.
"do you really wish to leave this place?" uraume asks.
"...i ... truth be told, i don't. i want to stay. even if i know it would most likely hurt me. if i could see his face everyday, i think i would be content with that. however, i cannot fathom wasting away his effort of finding me a new workplace. it would be discourteous of me."
there is a limit to how much greed you can express. you feel as though you've experienced mountains more privilege than a maid really should in her lifetime.
you give them a sad smile. they sigh, shaking their head lightly. one only hopes that they too, don't become this airheaded should they ever fall in love.
"please listen to me carefully..." uraume beckons you over, and you lend them your ear.
what they tell you gets your heart palpitating, and your eyes widen.
meanwhile, sukuna is at his wit's end.
not only is he losing the one person he came to love today, but a painfully bothersome guest has also come by in the form a very poor coincidence.
his majesty himself, king gojo the fifth.
"are you listening, sukuna?" the childish man bemoans, munching on the sweets he brought to the mansion as a visiting "gift" for the general, despite knowing he wasn't fond of desserts.
"yes, your majesty. i am listening. so you are troubled by your own kingly duties. what else could be new?" sukuna rolls his eyes.
such an impudent attitude towards the king...! gojo's guards, who are standing outside the study, are thinking to themselves.
"you're as mean as ever! you should know best that becoming king was the thing i desired the least. oh, my tragic life..." he pouts, leaning his head back, letting it dangle over the edge of the seat's top.
sukuna sighs so deeply, it almost blows the papers on his desk away.
"you seem down. i know you always a have a stick up your ass, but this is a new expression on you," the king suddenly comments, observing the man closely.
"with all due respect, get out of my mansion, your majesty," sukuna tells him, rubbing his temples.
"hearing you use honorifics on me still sound like you're using a curse against me, rather than respect. anyway, i'm not going home until you indulge me in what's on your mind," gojo insists.
outside the room, a woman comes sprinting, panting and sweating from dashing at maximum speed from outside the mansion. eyes brimming with hope and desperation.
the guards stop you.
"halt! who are you?"
"i wish to see the general. please step aside," you claim boldly, no longer cowering. you try to slip past them, but one of them grabs you by the collar.
"they are in the midst of a discussion. someone like you is not to interrupt them," the guard states monotonously.
ahh, how you hate this. how is it that you cannot even see the person you love freely? due to your status?
if only you were born into nobility. if only you had the status and power to barge into whatever room you wanted!
you bite your tongue. what does that matter? you don't care how important this visitor is. you are going to see him, now. for once in your life, you want to be selfish, and greedy.
"i said step aside! i want to see him!" you yell, breathless, still panting from sprinting all the way here.
"what's all this ruckus about?"
sukuna slams the door open, and unintentionally, the force of the door swinging wide bumps into the guard holding you up, and causes him to let go of you, and stumble forward a bit.
at this timing, uraume also manages to run into the scene, for fear of you getting beat by the guards. you had dashed off without listening to everything they had to say, like an impulsive fool, which is very unlike your usual self.
you meet eyes with sukuna. just like that, all the things you were desperate to tell him about, gets lodged in your throat.
"this insolent woman tried to-"
"hold your tongue. she too, is a guest of mine."
the guards lose the rest of their words, and fall quiet.
so you're not a worker here. you're a guest. you suppose he's never really treated you as a worker since you were allowed to do pretty much whatever you wanted while you were here, but it still... warms your heart.
sukuna approaches you in kind, and inspects you from head to toe, making sure you weren't injured. you're still catching your breath, and sweating profusely.
"what's going on? you're drenched in sweat..." he mutters, and his hands wipe away the droplets on your forehead, all too naturally. he doesn't question why you haven't left yet. because he doesn't want you to.
your hands gripping the hem of your skirt, you take in a couple of deep breaths and finally conjure up the words you had been planning to say to the man as soon as you met with him.
"general-- the truth is, i have always yearned for you. your love is not one sided at all," you declare, your head held high.
a gasp rings out from behind sukuna, and you are devastated to see his majesty poke his head out from the doorway, with a comedic expression of interest, hand covering his mouth like a nosy maiden.
"y-your majesty?!" you exclaim, your previous emotions flying off the rails, completely shocked at what you had done. not only have you challenged the king's guards, but you proudly professed your love in front of him. how embarrassing!
"i-i apologise for my outburst, your majesty, i-" you babble, clearly flustered, trying to make a deep bow, but sukuna stops you by the shoulders, and pulls you closer to his own body, covering you from the sight of the rest of the men.
"satoru- your majesty. i'm afraid i'll have to send you back to the palace. let us postpone our discussion for another day."
the king smiles, standing tall with a hand on his hip. sukuna referred to him by his name for the first time in a while. he means to be serious about this.
"is that so, my dear general. very well. i shall give you some space for today," gojo relents, smirking.
he playfully throws both of his arms over the shoulders of his two guards, forcing them to walk at his pace.
"i expect all the romantic details the next time we meet, sukuna! hahaha!" he exclaims, while on his way.
you had known from rumours that the king was rather young and had a childlike humour to him, but this wasn't something you were expecting. sukuna grimaces, but simply turns his attention back to you.
"come with me," he simply tells you. your hand is wrapped in his, as he brings you inside his study. outside, uraume hangs their head and thinks of a way to apologise to their master once he is done with you.
"so you were saying?" sukuna immediately probes, turning around to face you again.
you find it difficult, not to squirm under his intense gaze.
"when you had asked me whether i'd accept you if your feelings were true... my answer back then was all a lie. i was selfishly trying to protect myself. i truly... have no shame," you confess.
as you feel cathartic at finally having told the truth, tears begin to well in your eyes, and your vision blurs. you feel pathetic. does he really feel love for someone like you?
he tenderly wipes your tears away, and looks down at you with a serious look in his eye, followed by a slow, soft smile. he's just found out that his love isn't unrequited at all, how could he not be happy?
a heartwarming moment, yet here you are, weeping once again, like you once did in his gardens.
"it's like that time when we spoke outside, under the moonlight. shall i cover you up with my jacket again?" he chuckles, as he wipes more and more of the seemingly endless tears away.
you shake your head, giving a small sob in response.
"silly woman. more sensitive than you let on, acting tough yet breaking apart in the end. but that part of you is endearing to me, too."
you get pulled into a tight embrace, and you feel his large hand cradling your head as your ear pushes up against the general's chest, causing you to hear his heartbeat. it's rapid, and strong. your arms wrap around his body, learning the soothing effect of hearing one's steady, beating heart.
after a few moments to settle down, the two of you part from the embrace, and sukuna looks down at you with the same intense gaze from before, ever so longingly and sweet, you can't help but rise to your tippy toes to offer him a meek little kiss.
though, it doesn't stay meek for long - as he soon places his hand against your back and pushes you closer to him with a smirk, deepening the kiss.
a few days has passed by now. sukuna had arranged for uraume to write an apologetic letter to the duke, nanami, who was kept waiting for a long while before being informed of anything. the poor man. while you felt apologetic towards him, the general appeared indifferent.
the two of you found space in his garden area to set up a small, sheltered table and chairs, a place to share food and tea whilst admiring your hard work of the blossoming flowers outside. though currently, you were too busy chatting with him to really watch the scenery.
"he can find plenty of servants elsewhere. you fret too much. and at this point, i would rather set the palace alight with flames than send you off to another man," sukuna boldly claimed, shrugging, but that phrase sets you off to panic.
"oh, sir! please don't say such things-- you'll be executed for treason!" you exclaim, shocked by his careless statement, and looking around frantically.
"had satoru been here, he would've laughed at my words. there is no need to worry about such things," he chuckles, squeezing at your cheek in a playful manner. how he's missed this. it takes more than a second and a sharp look of flustered annoyance to stop him from doing that. you opt to hold his hand instead, which he seemingly was compliant with.
"i knew you were on speaking terms with the king... but to be so casual with him, even using his first name... if you don't mind me asking, just what exactly is your relationship with his highness?"
"i've known him since we were children. the previous head general found me back when i was a brat roaming the impoverished streets of the inner city," sukuna begins explaining, playing with your fingers, "i had clashed with one of his men after stealing food. he recognised my strength, gave me a good beating, and then forced me to train under him."
you gape at the man with wide eyes. it's difficult to imagine the great general as a helpless boy who had to resort to stealing for survival.
"there, i met little prince gojo, who was as much of a brat as i was. we often sparred together, and the rest is history," he shrugs, scanning your expression for your reaction.
"i see... so my assumptions were completely wrong. i had thought you were born into the higher class, like most..." you confess, shameful of your prejudiced way of thinking.
"disappointed?" he asks, holding onto your hand a bit tighter.
"hardly. if anything, i am in awe of you. you must have been impressive, catching the eye of the royal army at such a young age."
he bursts into laughter which startles you.
"impressive, sure. for being a troublemaker," sukuna acknowledges your comment, seemingly reminiscing to his younger days.
you question him more about his past, brimming with curiosity, and he openly and patiently answers each one, while he continues to intimately play with your hands and then your hair with innocence, slowly closing the distance between the two of you.
and even more slowly, you realise your presence is definitely shifting into the role as a lover, rather than a guest, over the next couple of months you spend here, with sukuna. it should be obvious, but to you, it still feels foreign and surreal to have such a powerful man bring you wonderful dresses, and shamelessly flirt with you across anywhere in the mansion.
one morning, he even brings you hunting with him. presumably, to show off his horse-riding skills and impeccable aim.
the general, as expected of him, has his own personal well trained, well kept horse for his hobby of hunting.
for the rest of your life, you shall not forget the feeling of being seated at the front, while your back is warmed by the man's broad chest, holding the reins of the horse from behind you, while you also timidly grip onto the reins. it was actually more enjoyable than you thought it would be. sukuna's control over the horse was absolute, and you felt safe while being on top.
except... for the one time he purposefully sped down the forest path momentarily, as a means to tease you. while you screamed until your voice ran hoarse, he only cackled from behind.
you also had a go at hunting a deer at one point, though with significant help from the general using the bow and arrow. his hands held yours gently, and you couldn't help but fall in love all over again with the way he appeared so skillful and versatile.
it was your first time, yet the man couldn't seem to help but endlessly make fun of your poor aim. though your strength in drawing back the arrow on the bow while keeping still was impressive. all those years of intense housekeeping didn't amount to nothing.
when the two of you got back home-- yes, now your home, you somehow, ended up bathing together. by all means, you knew sukuna wasn't the type of man to follow traditional courting methods, but you wondered if this was progressing the relationship too fast.
at first, your heart felt as though it would fly out of your throat, the way it beat so rapidly. but once you got over the initial embarrassment of exposing yourself and in turn, seeing his nude body, you felt yourself oddly becoming calm once again. perhaps his composure was something rather infectious, the way he treated you all the same despite seeing you so vulnerable, made you feel comfortable to return the same favour.
you sat between his legs in the spacious bathtub, leaning back against him in the water. you take peeks at the man behind, at his beautifully flushed face from the heat of the warm bath water, and wet hair.
you find the courage to turn around slightly to press a warm kiss to the scarred side of his face, and he appears to be taken by surprise for the first time. sukuna lifts your chin up and kisses you on the lips, in reciprocation.
later that night, it becomes almost impossible to separate yourself from him. it was getting late, and the time to return to bed couldn't be pushed back any further.
"general... such a plain guest room like this wouldn't suit your image at all. would it not be better for you to sleep in your own chambers?" you suggest, as the two of you stand outside your room, holding hands.
"are you trying to keep me away from you? or, is this a ploy devised to see yourself in my bedroom...?" he asks in an impish manner, brushing his thumb across your lips.
you return his gaze with bold smirk.
"perhaps i am... would you be willing? to escort a lady like me to your chambers..." you ask with an equally playful tone, hand feeling up his broad shoulder.
sukuna abruptly lifts you onto his shoulder, like you were a sack of potatoes, making you yelp.
"i thought you'd never ask. shall we go?" he voices proudly.
"sir! this is hardly an appropriate way to hold a person up! let alone a lady!" you squirm, voice changed from the way you were dangling upside down.
"is that so? my bad," sukuna chuckles, setting you back down after only a couple of steps forward.
you sulk a little bit, crossing your arms before him. your mood from before has completely shifted now. yet suddenly, you are swept off your feet once again, having no time to yourself for another second.
this time, he carries you bridal-style, holding you up closer to his face, where he looks into your eyes, silently declaring his love for you using his gaze only. it silences you, and your arms wrap around his neck and shoulders for support, while your cheeks heat up with simultaneous embarrassment and affection.
"is this better?" he asks.
"...very much so."
"my, the lady of this mansion is more demanding than i anticipated," sukuna states with glee. nonetheless, you are carried all the way back to his chambers, where he spends a fruitful night with you in his own bed.
and then afterwards, the grand wedding ceremony occurs not even after a full month's passing.
synopsis: a drunk night with your bestie shoko leads to something more, and you don’t expect your roommate suguru to be home early from work! whoops
content: 18+ mdni! shoko x fem reader x suguru, smut with no plot, drunk sex, lesbian sex, heavy makeout, spitting in mouth, cunnilingus, scissoring, voyeur suguru, bj, cum shot
eli’s notes: something small hehe, suguru & shoko are my fav jjk ship so i thought id write something abt them <3 this is 1.4k and the fanart is by @/679sinner on here!
“that’ll be 15 dollars, ladies.” the taxi driver says with a smile.
shoko digs into her tiny purse, pulls out a crumpled twenty, and hands it over without waiting for change.
“keep it, handsome,” she slurs, winking at him through the rear view mirror.
you both stumble out onto the sidewalk, heels clicking unevenly, arms looped around each other’s waists to stay upright. the night air hits your flushed faces, cool and sharp, but it does nothing to sober either of you up. laughter spills out loud and messy as you fumble with your keys at the apartment door, shoko pressing her whole body against your back, chin hooked over your shoulder, breath hot with vodka and lime against your neck.
“fuck, hurry up,” she mumbles, fingers sliding under the hem of your top just to feel skin. “i gotta pee so bad.”
you finally get the door open and you both tumble inside, kicking off expensive heels that the two of you bought for nights like these that go flying somewhere into the dark living room. the place smells faintly like suguru’s cologne mixed with your vanilla candle from earlier. the lights stay off—neither of you bothers—and you collapse onto the couch together in a heap of limbs and soft giggles.
shoko sprawls half on top of you, head on your chest, one thigh thrown over yours. you run your fingers through her dark hair, twirling the silky strands around your knuckles, tugging gently just to hear her hum.
“your hair always smells so fucking good,” you whisper, nose buried in it.
she tilts her head up, eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, lips parted. “yeah? come closer then.”
you do—barely have to move—and her mouth crashes into yours. it’s not soft or testing. it’s drunk and hungry right away, lips sliding wet, tongues pushing in without asking. she tastes like tequila and the cherry gloss she kept reapplying all night. you suck on her tongue hard, pull it into your mouth, and she moans low, hips rolling forward into you. saliva drips between you, messy strings when you pull back for air, only to dive in again. she spits into your open mouth and you swallow it greedily, grinding your clothed pussy against the seam of her jeans.
“god, you’re soaked already,” she pants against your lips, hands shoving your skirt higher. “i can feel you through my fucking pants.”
you whine, dragging her closer, nails scraping down her back under her cropped shirt. the couch feels too small suddenly, too hot. you both slide off it in a tangle, hitting the soft carpet with muffled laughs that turn into gasps when mouths find each other again. clothes start come off fast and rough—her top yanked over her head, bra unhooked and tossed god knows where, your skirt dragged down your thighs. panties ripped off when she gets impatient.
skin on skin finally, warm and sticky with sweat.
you push her flat on her back, carpet soft under her shoulders, and crawl down her body. you got your mouth on her tits first. full, heavy, nipples dark and stiff. you suck one deep in your hot mouth, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch and curse.
“fuck— harder,” she begs, fingers twisting in your hair.
you double down, leaving red marks on her skin, then trail lower, kissing over her stomach, nipping at her hip bones until you settle between her spread thighs.
her pussy glistens, swollen lips parted, clit peeking out, dripping down to her ass. you don’t tease. you dive in like you’re starving, mouth open wide, kissing her folds slow and filthy. your tongue drags up her slit, collecting every drop, then you suck her labia into your mouth one side at a time, tugging gently, letting them pop free shiny with spit.
she bucks up, thighs trembling around your head.
“don't tease me— please—” she gasps, hips chasing your face.
you focus on her clit, flicking her bundle of nerves fast, then slow broad licks, sucking it between your lips until she’s shaking. you let two fingers slide inside her easily. she’s so fucking wet they sink right in, curling up to hit her sweet spot while your tongue keeps working.
her walls flutter, gripping your digits tight, and then she cums hard, thighs clamping around your ears, gushing over your chin and fingers. you lick her clean, gentle now, until she yanks you up by the hair for another sloppy kiss, tasting herself on your tongue.
when it comes time to be your turn, she flips you onto your back without warning, simply just spreads your legs wide and buries her face between them. no slow build—she goes straight for your clit, sucking hard, tongue lashing side to side while three dexterous fingers pump deep in your tight heat.
you’re already close from eating her out, her pleasure being yours, so it doesn’t take long. the feeling coils tight and snaps like a rubber band, your soppy pussy clenching around her fingers as you come with a broken cry, hips grinding up against her mouth, soaking her cheeks.
you’re both panting, sweaty, when the front door clicks open.
suguru, your roommate steps in, tie loosened, jacket over one arm, keys still in hand. the thought of him potientally coming home never crossed your mind. you were far too busy with her being nose deep in your pussy to even realize that he had just gotten home.
he freezes in the doorway, eyes going wide at the sight—you and shoko naked on the living room floor, thighs shiny, faces flushed.
for a second nobody breathes.
then his gaze drops to the obvious bulge straining his slacks then back to you two. probably the hottest girls he knows, his bestest friends, naked and fucking right in front of him. like any sane man would, he drops his bag, shuts the door quietly, and walks over slow.
“hey, don’t stop on my account,” he says, already unbuckling his belt as he sinks into the couch.
he shimmies out of his pants and boxers, taking his cock out. and you knew suguru was big, having accidentally gotten a glimpse passing by him in the restroom, but fuck, it’s big and pretty. thick, flushed dark, precum beading at the tip—and he wraps a fist around it, stroking lazy while he watches.
shoko glances at you, bites her swollen lip, and you nod in silent agreement.
why not give your roommate a little show?
you both crawl closer to each other on shaky knees until you’re between each other again. legs tangled, pussies slotting together perfectly—hot, slick, swollen. the first grind pulls a lewd moan from both of you. it’s obscene how wet you are, clits bumping, folds sliding so deliciously, juices mixing and dripping down to the carpet. you rock against her faster, harder, hands gripping thighs to pull her warm body impossibly closer. every slide feels electric, messy squelching filling the room.
“fuck, look at you two,” suguru mutters, fist moving quicker. “so fucking pretty like that.”
you cum first this time—sudden, sharp, squirting hard against shoko’s pussy in messy pulses. she follows right after, grinding down, her own release spraying over your clit and thighs. both of you tremble through it, hips still twitching, too sensitive but unable to stop.
suguru groans low. “come here—both of you.”
you crawl to him on weak legs, kneel between his spread thighs. shoko takes him first, her mouth sinking down, cheeks hollowed, spit dripping down his shaft. you lick at his balls, suck them gently, then you trade places. your lips stretch around his fat head, tongue swirling, taking him deeper until he hits the back of your throat. shoko kisses you around his cock, tongues tangling with him in the middle, messy and greedy.
he doesn’t last long after that, pulling out from both your greedy mouths with a hiss as his fist starts pumping fast, and cums hard—thick ropes painting both your faces, across your cheeks and lips, dripping down your chins. you lick it off each other slowly, kissing each other slow and deep, sharing the taste while he watches, chest heaving, cock still twitching in his hand.
silence settles softly, broken only by heavy breaths and the distant hum of the city outside. shoko rests her head on your shoulder with a sated look on her face, fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh.
suguru reaches down, thumb brushing a streak of cum from your lip, and smirks.
synopsis: pilot suguru geto and his sweet flight attendant that he’s had unspoken feelings for get stuck in a week long layover in new york together for the holidays!
content: 18+ mdni! suguru geto x fem reader, pilot suguru, flight attendant reader, featuring co pilot gojo! , christmas/new years activities, corny holiday romance movie vibes, mutual pining, long time pining, fluff & smut with a lot of plot, multiple positions, lots of p in v sex, lots of cumming, oral (m & f receiving), little bit of somno (consensual), rough sex at times, marathon sex, praise, usage of pet names, geto’s a freak in my eyes shrugs
eli’s notes: whew my god, this has been in the works all december and i was going to post this yesterday night but i got busy with new years stuff, but HAPPY NEW YEARS MY LOVES! thank you for everything this year and also thank you for 5k! it means more than words can express, have an amzing year guys. enjoy! this is 13.2k!
you stand at the galley counter in a massive two story plane at narita airport, adjusting the red ribbon that you tied into your hair—a silly habit you picked up years ago when you first started flying. when it first felt so scary and new.
today it’s christmas morning in tokyo, japan, the international terminal buzzing with holiday travelers dragging suitcases filled with souvenirs or christmas gifts, kids hyped up on candy canes, couples snapping selfies under mistletoe decorations strung across the gates.
this route is new—tokyo to new york, it's the longest one you’ve pulled yet—and the company assigned suguru as captain again, paired with satoru gojo as always. three years now you’ve flown together mostly, ever since you transferred from doing only domestic flights. suguru with his calm voice and dark hair always pulled back neat, satoru with the endless jokes and white mess of hair that defies gravity. they balance each other up front and somehow you fit right in the middle.
back then, your first trip with them was a red-eye to singapore. you had spilled coffee on your dress during turbulence, cursed loud enough for the whole galley to hear, and suguru poked his head out the cockpit door mid-flight just to check if you were okay. he handed you his spare shirt without a word, the sleeves too long on you. from there it built slow. shared crew meals in hotel lobbies, late-night texts about roster changes that turned into conversation about literally anything else, him saving you the window seat on flights home.
he calls you out over the pa every time now, little inside jokes that make your cheeks burn but also make the shifts bearable. best friend, sure, but the way he looks at you during layovers—lingering, protective—screams something heavier.
the passengers board slow today, stamping snow off their boots, complaining about delays from earlier storms. you greet each one at the door, scan tickets, point out seats, stash carry-ons for elderly folks struggling with the wheels.
“welcome aboard, merry christmas,” you say over and over, voice bright even after the early sign-in.
once everyone’s settled, you close the overhead bins and check that every one has their seatbelt on, run safety demos—pointing out exits, tugging on oxygen masks.
suguru’s voice crackles through the speakers right on cue.
“welcome aboard flight 329 with service to new york,” he starts, tone smooth and low, cutting through the cabin chatter easy. “this is your captain, suguru geto, speaking. we got a solid fourteen hours ahead crossing the pacific, but me and my copilot satoru gojo will keep things steady and get you to jfk right on schedule. ladies in the house, quick note, satoru’s single and accepts applications after landing.”
scattered laughs bubble up, a few women crane necks toward the front to see if they can spot him. satoru’s voice leaks faintly through the open mic. “dude, stop pimping me out, i got standards!” before suguru kills it with a soft laugh that statics a bit.
“cabin crew will roll through soon as we hit cruising altitude. we've got hot meals, drinks flowing, snacks if you’re peckish. blankets, pillows, headphones for the movies. and hey, please treat my team right, especially the real pretty one with the red ribbon keeping that smile going strong. play nice, she controls the extra peanut supply.”
your stomach flips hard, same as always. passengers glance your way, some grinning knowing, you duck your head and pretend to organize napkins and anything else you can find in the galley, but the warmth sticks.
soon, the push back starts and tugs hauling the massive bird away from the gate while ground crew wave lighted wands under flurries drifting down. the engines get loud, vibrating through the floor as you buckle into the jump seat, the harness tight across your chest. takeoff rolls smooth, the runway lights streaking past windows, nose lifting up sharp into the air, tokyo shrinking fast under wing lights cutting through light snow. mount fuji peeks in distance on the left, capped white against gray sky, before clouds swallow everything.
the seatbelt sign dings off hours later, cabin lights dim for the long night ahead. you unbuckle, stretch legs stiff from sitting, start rounds with the carts—slamming overhead bins that passengers left cracked, tossing soft blankets to shivering folks in middle seats, passing headphones that tangle up easy in eager hands.
“need anything else?” you ask a mom wrestling twins, slipping extra cookies when she nods, exhausted.
service drags on, dinner trays with steaming chicken or pasta, wine pours that slosh in turbulence pockets, coffee runs that never end. you chat nonstop like usual, yapping about holiday plans to bored businessmen, recommending movies to teens glued to screens.
during a quiet stretch over the dark ocean, you slip forward, knock softly on the cockpit door. suguru unlocks it quick, glances back with those steady eyes under the glow of screens.
“come in, get off your feet a minute,” he says low, patting the observer seat.
satoru spins around, feet kicked up, munching on stolen pretzels. “look who graces us, suguru's favorite flight attendant herself.”
“oh shut it, gojo. jealously isn't cute,” you shoot back, sliding in, door clicking shut. the space feels tight, warm, instruments beeping soft.
suguru reaches over, brushes a loose strand behind your ear casually. “how’s the zoo back there?”
“umm, it's manageable. but one guy in 12a keeps hitting the call button for water every ten minutes. i think he’s flirting but it's bad.”
satoru’s eyebrows shoot up. “want me to talk to him?”
“no it's okay,” suguru cuts in, but his hand lingers on your knee a second, firm, shielding. “i’ll handle if it escalates.”
you smile softly and lean in closer. “you know, it's my first time to new york over the holidays. always dreamed about seeing the tree lit up, countdown in times square, and go ice skating maybe.”
he nods slow, gaze locking yours in the dim blue light. “i’ve done this run dozens of times. i know every corner worth hitting. once we land, i’ll show you around properly— no tourist traps.”
“promise?” you tease, bumping his shoulder.
“yeah,” he murmurs, thumb tracing your wrist absent. “been waiting for an excuse to have you there with me.”
satoru groans dramatically. “gross, save the heart eyes for the layover. some of us gotta fly this thing.”
you laugh, shove satoru’s arm on the way out, but suguru’s words hang warm in your heart for the rest of the flight—his voice humming in your mind under engine drone while pacific blackness stretches endless below.
turbulence hits nearing alaska, the seatbelt sign flashing back on, trays rattling. you brace in the galley, soothing nervous flyers, gripping the counters as the plane dips sharp.
suguru updates everyone calm over the pa. “just some bumps folks, nothing serious, hang tight for me and we'll get you all down safely.” his voice anchoring everyone, including you.
sunrise paints the clouds pink hours later. you sip tea in a jump seat, watching light bleed across endless white. your descent starts, jfk approach stacked deep from incoming storms. suguru’s updates every now and then, holding patterns looping while snow hammers the coast.
eventually, after what felt like forever, the plane's wheels finally thump down in jfk on christmas morning into a full blizzard, the visibility is shit, deicing trucks are spraying everywhere, the plane is slowly crawling toward the gate like it’s lost. passengers groan, phones light up with delay alerts.
you announce the plane's arrival chipper as always anyway, wishing everyone happy holidays while they shuffle out with grumpy faces. your phone buzzes before the last bag drops.
suguru: storm’s grounding everything. our layover just turned into a week. hotel rooms are already secured downtown
you: a whole week? on christmas?
suguru: yeah. sorry pretty girl
suguru: or maybe not. grab your coat, city's waiting
once you get your bag, you step off the jet bridge into the crowded terminal at jfk. the blizzard howls outside the massive windows, wind rattling the glass, flights canceled flashing red on every single board. your cheeks sting from the dry cabin air, your red ribbon slightly frayed now after fourteen hours, but you spot him immediately—suguru leaning against a pillar near the gate, coat slung over one arm, dark hair now put up in a half up, half down, falling past his shoulders in soft waves that catch the harsh fluorescent light.
satoru trails behind you both, wheeling his bag with his annoying lazy swagger, sunglasses perched on his nose like he just got off a plane that came from the maldives.
“alright, lovebirds,” he announces loud enough for half the waiting area to hear, clapping suguru on the back. “i’m ditching you two. got a buddy in brooklyn who owes me a couch and probably some decent whiskey. don’t do anything i wouldn’t do—which honestly leaves you a lot of room.”
suguru rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “get out of here, satoru. stay warm, man.”
“oh i will! liquid blanket. try not to fuck in the uber, yeah? these drivers rate harshly,” satoru shoots back, already backing away with a shit-eating grin. he throws you a wink over his shoulder. “have fun, sweetheart. make him work for it.” then he disappears into the sea of stranded travelers, white hair vanishing quick around a corner.
suguru turns to you fully now, gaze steady and warm despite the chaos swirling around—people yelling into phones, kids crying, announcements blaring overhead. he reaches out, fingers brushing your elbow light but deliberate, guiding you away from the gate toward baggage claim.
“the storm’s fucked everything,” he murmurs, voice low so only you hear. “company booked us downtown, but separate rooms originally…but i already called ahead and changed it.”
you glance up at him, pulse kicking up harder under the harness of your coat. snowflakes melt on his lashes as you pass under an exit sign. “changed it how?”
“one room. king bed. big windows facing the park if the visibility ever clears.” he pauses, thumb tracing slow along the inside of your wrist, warm against your colder skin. “unless you want your own space. say the word and it stays separate. no pressure.”
you swallow, the terminal noise fading to a dull roar in your ears. his purple eyes search yours, patient but dark with something hungry underneath the calm. “and your reasoning, captain?” you tease, voice softer than you intend.
he leans in closer, breath ghosting your ear, lips almost brushing skin. “can’t take you to see new york from across the hall,” he says, rough and quiet. “want you next to me. want to watch the snow fall on the city with you pressed against the glass. want to wake up tomorrow and not waste a second of this week pretending i don’t.”
your stomach flips, heat pooling low despite the freezing air seeping through the doors ahead. you nod, barely trusting your voice. “one room sounds perfect.”
his smile curves slow, satisfied, fingers tightening around yours as you step out into the arrivals hall together. taxis crawl outside, horns blaring through the whiteout, but he flags one down easy—arm raised, coat flapping in the wind and pulls the door open for you first.
“after you, pretty girl,” he says, guiding you in with a hand at the small of your back, touch lingering possessive as he slides in right beside you, thigh pressed flush to yours on the cracked leather seat.
the driver grunts something about traffic being hell, but suguru just gives the hotel address downtown, then turns to you fully, knee nudging yours.
“you know, i spent fourteen hours in the air,” he murmurs, voice dropping even lower now that you’re alone or as alone as a yellow cab allows. “thinking about getting you by myself the entire time.”
you bite your lip, watching city lights blur past through frosted windows, his hand sliding over your thigh under the cover of your coat, claiming. “yeah?” you breathe. “what exactly have you been thinking, suguru?”
he leans in again, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, words hot and rough. “peeling that uniform off you piece by piece. tasting every inch of you the second that door locks. making you forget there’s even a storm outside.”
the cab lurches forward into the snow-choked streets, but all you feel is the heat of his palm burning through your skirt, promising everything the next seven days—and nights—are about to become.
eventually you jerk to a stop outside the hotel entrance, tires crunching over slush and ice piled along the curb, the windshield wipers still thumping lazy against the relentless snow. the driver mutters something about the fare, voice rough from chain-smoking and suguru hands over a stack of bills without even looking, he tips generously because his attention stays locked on you, on the way your eyes light up at the busy street while you peer out the fogged window.
he climbs out first, heavy boots hitting the salted pavement with a solid crunch, then circles around to pull your door open. cold air rushes in, biting at your exposed skin, but his hand finds yours immediately, fingers interlacing tight and tugging you gently into the storm for the short dash to the revolving doors. your bags drag behind you both, wheels rattling loud over the threshold as warm lobby air hits like a wall, thick with the scent of pine garlands and cinnamon from some holiday display near the concierge desk.
gorgeous marble floors gleam under chandeliers dimmed low, a massive tree still lit in the corner, ornaments glittering gold and red. the front desk staff bustle in crisp uniforms, voices hushed, probably gossiping about all the flight crews coming in to stay for the long layover, and suguru guides you straight there, palm settled warm and firm at the base of your spine.
“reservation under geto,” he tells the clerk, voice low and even, sliding his id across the counter. the woman taps keys quick, glances between you two with a knowing smile she tries to hide—probably sees crew all the time, recognizes the exhaustion mixed with something electric crackling underneath.
soon, two plastic cards are handed over, and suguru pockets one while passing you the other.
“twenty-third floor,” he murmurs, steering you toward the elevators with that same steady touch. mirrors line the walls inside the car, reflecting you both back a dozen times — his coat unbuttoned now, dark shirt stretched across his chest, hair slightly tousled from the wind; you still in uniform skirt and blouse.
the ride up stays quiet except for soft ding of passing floors and the faint hum of cables. he stands close enough that his arm brushes yours with every subtle shift, heat radiating through fabric.
the elevator doors slide open on twenty-three, the hallway carpet thick and plush underfoot, sconces casting warm pools of light. he leads the way to the room, swipes the key, pushes the door wide for you to enter first. city glow filters through floor-to-ceiling windows already, blizzard turning everything outside into a swirling white blur, but inside the space feels enormous— a king bed dominating the center dressed in crisp white linens, pillows stacked high, a sleek sitting area by the glass overlooking what should be central park buried under snow.
you drop your bag near the dresser, rolling your shoulders since they're stiff from hours strapped in your seats and that crazy turbulence. suguru sets his down slower, shrugs out of his coat and tosses it over a chair, then turns to face you fully—hands sliding into pockets, posture relaxed but amethyst eyes intense, dark, hungry in a way that makes your pulse stutter.
“listen,” he starts, voice rougher now in the privacy of the room, stepping close enough that you smell faint traces of airplane coffee and his cologne lingering from morning. “i want you—fuck, i’ve wanted you for longer than i should probably admit. but we just dragged ourselves off a fourteen-hour flight. you’re exhausted, i’m exhausted, and as much as every part of me is screaming to pin you against that window right now and find out exactly what you sound like when you come apart…” he exhales slow, jaw tightening. “i’m not gonna rush this. not with you.”
you swallow hard, heat flooding your cheeks and lower, thighs pressing together beneath the skirt. “suguru—”
he shakes his head once, gentle but firm, reaching up to tuck that stubborn loose strand behind your ear again. “no no, i'm serious. you deserve perfection, especially after years of dragging my feet.” he smiles, and takes a deep breath. “so. shower first. wash the flight off. i’ll order room service. steak, pasta, whatever you want. extra dessert because you deserve it after dealing with that cabin full of assholes.” his thumb lingers against your cheekbone, tracing soft. “then we eat, we talk, we watch the storm wreck the city from bed if we feel like it. and after that…we take whatever comes next as slow as you need.”
his words settle warm in your chest, something tender threading through the raw desire in his gaze. you nod, throat feeling a little tight. “okay. slow sounds…perfect.”
he smiles—small, genuine, a little strained around the edges like restraint costs him. “good. towels are in there, everything you need. take your time, pretty girl.”
you slip past him into the bathroom, door clicking shut soft behind you. marble everywhere, massive rainfall shower, steam already fogging the mirror as you twist the handle towards the hottest setting. your uniform peels away piece by piece—blouse unbuttoned slow, skirt unzipped and pooled at your feet, tights rolled down your thighs. the water hits your skin scalding at first, then perfect, cascading over shoulders and breasts, tracing every curve you know he’s imagined a hundred times on long flights.
outside the door, suguru stands rooted in place longer than he should, listening to the rush of water start. he drags a hand through his hair, exhales sharp through his teeth, forces himself to move toward the nightstand where the room service menu waits. every shift of sound from the bathroom paints pictures behind his eyes—water falling over your collarbones, dripping from full breasts, sliding down the slope of your stomach to the soft heat between your thighs. he imagines the way your head tips back under the spray, throat exposed, red ribbon finally discarded on the counter, wet hair clinging to your bare skin.
his cock stirs hard against his thigh, thick and insistent, straining the fabric of his slacks just from the thought of you slick and naked twenty feet away. he adjusts himself and bites back a curse, fists clenching at his sides. every instinct screams to push through that door, drop to his knees on the tile, drag his tongue slow up the inside of your leg until he tastes how ready you are—bury his face between your thighs and lick you open until you’re shaking, fingers tangled in his hair, crying out his name.
instead he grabs the phone, dials room service with a voice steadier than he feels. orders filet mignon rare for himself, the chicken you like, extra fries because you always steal his, chocolate cake thick enough to share. he hangs up, then sinks onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring out at the storm raging against the glass.
he stays there the whole time you shower—fighting the pull tooth and nail, counting down minutes, reminding himself over and over that waiting makes the eventual unraveling sweeter.
because when he finally gets his hands on you, when you let him, he wants it to ruin you both for anything less.
steam still clings to your skin when you push the bathroom door open, thick clouds of it rolling out into the cooler bedroom air. you step barefoot across the carpet, toes sinking deep into the plush weave, wearing the softest pajamas you packed—oversized charcoal sweatpants that hang low on your hips and a thin white tank that clings damp to your breasts from the humidity, nipples faintly visible through the fabric because you skipped a bra. your hair hangs wet and heavy down your back, droplets tracing slow paths over collarbones and disappearing beneath the neckline.
suguru sits on the edge of the bed, sleeves of his black shirt rolled to the elbows, forearms tense as he scrolls through his phone. the second he hears the door, his head lifts, and those deep purple eyes lock on you—pupils blowing wide, dark, ravenous. a slow smile curves his mouth, soft at the edges but sharp underneath, like he’s drinking you in.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, the sound coming out rough. “you look better than anything i’ve pictured on a thousand red-eyes.”
you feel heat rush up your neck, pooling in your cheeks, and tug self-consciously at the hem of your tank. “it’s just pajamas, suguru.”
“exactly,” he says, standing slow, towering as he crosses the room. his gaze drags down your body—lingering on the way the cotton molds to your tits, the faint outline of your nipples stiffening under his stare, the bare strip of stomach where the waistband sits low. “food’s on the way. twenty minutes, maybe? mind if i steal the shower now? i still smell like jet fuel and recycled air.”
you shake your head, throat dry. “go ahead. take your time.”
he pauses close enough that you feel the warmth rolling off him, fingers brushing a stray water droplet from your shoulder, thumb lingering against damp skin.
“won’t be long,” he promises low, then slips past you into the bathroom, door clicking shut.
you hear the water start almost immediately—hard, steady rush against tile. he strips fast, shirt yanked over his head, slacks kicked aside, boxer briefs shoved down his thick thighs. his cock already stands half hard just from seeing you fresh from the shower, flushed and bare-faced and soft in those clothes. he steps under the spray, lets scalding water pound over his shoulders, down the defined lines of his back, and palms himself without hesitation.
a low groan rips from his throat the second his fist wraps around his shaft, long, heavy, veins pulsing hot under his grip. he braces one forearm against the cool tile, forehead pressed to it, his eyes squeezed shut as he strokes slow at first, base to crown, thumb swiping over the slick head where precum already beads thick and clear.
he pictures you exactly as you stand outside the door. your wet tank clinging to your breasts, nipples peaked and begging for his mouth. he imagines dragging his tongue over them slow, sucking one stiff peak between his lips while his hand shoves those sweatpants down your hips, fingers easily sliding through your slick folds because you’re soaked just from the way he looks at you. he thinks about the sound you’d make when he sinks two fingers deep, curling rough, pumping while his thumb circles your clit swollen and needy.
his strokes turn harder, faster, hips fucking into his fist with wet slaps drowned out by the water. water streams down his abs, over the sharp v of muscle leading to his cock, balls drawn up tight and heavy as he edges himself brutal. he bites down on his own forearm to muffle the growl building in his chest. he thinks about bending you over the sink, spreading your thighs wide, watching your pretty face in the fogged mirror while he drags the fat head of his cock through your dripping cunt, teasing until you beg.
“fuck—please, suguru—” he hears your voice in his head, broken and desperate, and it snaps something loose.
he cums hard, thick ropes painting the shower wall, pulsing over his knuckles in long, shuddering spurts. thighs tremble, breath ragged against tile as he milks himself dry, every last drop wrung out to thoughts of burying himself raw inside you, filling you up until you leak down your legs.
minutes pass before he straightens up, rinses himself clean with shaking hands, turns the water colder to kill the lingering ache in his groin. he towels off roughly, pulls on loose black sweatpants that do nothing to hide how thick he hangs even soft, and a plain gray t-shirt that stretches across his chest.
when he steps out, hair damp and loose around his shoulders, steam follows him like smoke. he finds you curled on the bed flicking through channels, city lights strobing faint across the room through blizzard-blurred windows.
a knock sounds at the door—room service, finally.
“perfect timing,” he says, voice steady again, though his eyes still burn dark when they meet yours. “come eat with me, pretty girl.”
suguru answers the door and the cart rolls in heavy with silver domes and the thick scent of seared meat and truffle oil, steam curling lazy into the chilled air.
he tips the guy quick, wheels the cart closer to the small table by the window, and lifts lids one by one—your chicken glistening golden with herbs, his steak bleeding rare onto the plate, fries piled high and crisp, chocolate cake dense and fudged in the center.
you settle cross-legged on the carpet with the plates balanced on your knees. he drops down beside you without hesitation, thigh pressed warm against yours, shoulder brushing every time he reaches for the wine bottle he ordered, deep red poured into hotel glasses that catch the muted city light filtering through snow-smeared glass.
“eat,” he says, cutting into his steak slow, juices pooling dark. “you barely touched the crew meal on the plane.”
you spear a piece of chicken, moaning softly when the flavor hits you. tender, perfectly seasoned after hours of recycled air and stale pretzels.
“this is obscene,” you mutter around another bite, stealing one of his fries slick with parmesan. “i forgot food could taste this good.”
he watches you chew, purple eyes hooded, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “keep making those sounds and we’re not leaving this room for a week.”
heat flares low in your belly, but you roll your eyes, bump his knee with yours. “behave. you promised me new york.”
he smirks, licks a smear of sauce from his thumb deliberate and slow. “alright, pretty girl. tell me where you want to go first. rockefeller? times square? some overpriced rink where tourists fall on their asses?”
“rockefeller,” you answer immediately, voice softening. “i wanna see all the lights. i’ve seen pictures since i was a kid, but never in person. especially not with snow actually falling.”
he nods slow, sets his plate aside half-finished, leans back on his palms. “tree’s still up through new year’s. lights stay on till late.” he glances at the clock—barely past noon local time, bodies still screwed from the time jump and red-eye drag. “storm’s supposed to ease by late afternoon. how about we nap first? couple hours. then we bundle up, grab coffee, and i’ll take you straight there when the lights look best against fresh snow.”
you hesitate, fork hovering, but exhaustion sits heavy in your bones, eyelids already threatening to drop. “a nap sounds…dangerous with you.”
“dangerous?” he echoes low, amused, shifting closer so his breath fans across your neck. “i’ll be a perfect gentleman. scout’s honor. we sleep, nothing else. yet.”
you shove the last bite of cake between his lips to shut him up, chocolate smearing the corner of his mouth. he licks it clean slow, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
soon the plates get stacked back on the cart, pushed out into the hallway with the do-not-disturb sign hooked on the handle. he flicks through the tv menu, finds home alone, a classic christmas hit because even pilots get nostalgic—and dims the lights further until the room glows soft from the screen and the blizzard outside.
you crawl onto the bed first, sink into pillows that smell clean and expensive. he toes off his socks and slides in behind you. one strong arm hooks around your waist, tugs you flush against his chest, your spine curved perfect to his front.
his hand spreads wide over your stomach, fingers splayed possessive just under the hem of your tank, skin on skin where fabric rides up. his thigh wedges between yours, heavy and warm, nose buried in your damp hair as he inhales slow.
“just sleep,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, voice gravel-rough. “got you.”
the movie starts—kevin’s family screaming about the flight, familiar chaos that you and him are used to—but the sound fades low under the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back. his thumb traces lazy circles on your bare stomach, dipping just beneath the waistband of your sweatpants and retreating, teasing, soothing all at once.
you feel him hard against the curve of your ass—thick, insistent, trapped in soft cotton but he doesn’t grind, doesn’t push. just holds you tighter when you shift, breath catching.
“shhhh,” he whispers, lips brushing the nape of your neck. “told you. slow.”
your body melts into his anyway, heavy limbs tangling deeper under the duvet, snow hissing against the window like static. his warmth seeps into every cold place the flight left behind, and within minutes your breathing evens out, his following close behind—both of you finally, truly off the clock, city waiting outside for whenever you decide to wake.
after a few hours, you stir slow under the heavy duvet, body warm and languid from the deepest sleep you’ve snatched in weeks—no turbulence, no call bells, no crying babies two rows back. the room sits dim, curtains still drawn tight but soft afternoon light leaks around the edges, painting faint gold stripes across the sheets.
the television hums quiet across from the bed, home alone long ended, screen now cycling lazy through netflix suggestions—more holiday classics, thumbnails of grinning families and snow-covered houses. suguru stays wrapped around you from behind, arm heavy over your waist, palm flat against your stomach where your tank rode up hours ago. his breath fans steady and deep against the nape of your neck, soft snores rumbling low every few exhales—rare, unguarded, hair loose and wild across the pillow you share.
you twist carefully in his hold, propping yourself up on one elbow to watch him. lashes dark against his cheeks, mouth parted slight, the sharp lines of his face softened in sleep. he looks younger like this. no captain, no steady voice guiding a plane through shit weather, just yours. a smile tugs your lips wide and helpless, warmth blooming thick in your chest.
your phone rests on the nightstand, screen lighting when you grab it. you see a few notifications, but nothing urgent. you swipe to the camera quick, angle careful not to shift the mattress too much and snap a couple shots: one close on his sleeping face buried in your hair, another wider showing his arm locked possessive around you, fingers splayed over your soft belly.
thumb hovering, you open the chat with satoru, last messages being from earlier. probably about six or seven messages from him sending you dumb memes. you attach the best photo, the one where suguru’s lips brush your shoulder even asleep, and type fast.
you: finally domesticated him
the message shows seen almost instant, three dots bouncing as satoru types back—of course he’s awake, probably nursing a coffee and annoying whoever's couch he crashed on.
satoru: about fucking time
satoru: tell the captain when he wakes up his reputation is ruined
satoru: also send more pics, i need blackmail material
you stifle a laugh into the pillow, glancing back at suguru who's still out cold, snoring softer now. the storm howls faint against the windows, snow piling thick on the sill, but inside everything feels quiet, suspended, perfect.
you set the phone face-down, slide deeper under his arm again, pressing your back flush to his chest. his grip tightens instinctive even in sleep, pulling you closer, nose nuzzling into your hair with a low content hum.
only about an hour passes and the sky outside shifts deep orange and purple through the gaps in the curtains. the sun dipping low over the hudson, painting the room in fading gold as late afternoon bleeds into evening. suguru stirs behind you slow, arm tightening around your waist instinctive, pulling your back harder against his chest. his nose drags along the curve of your neck, breath warm and ragged from sleep, then lips follow—soft open-mouthed kisses pressed lazy to sensitive skin just below your ear, trailing down to your shoulder in a hot, wet line.
another kiss lands on the hollow beneath your jaw, then higher, brushing the apple of your cheek. he hums low, satisfied, fingers splaying wider across your stomach, thumb stroking bare skin where your tank bunches.
“hey,” he murmurs rough against your cheek, voice thick with sleep, lips lingering. “sun’s going down. time to move, pretty girl.”
you roll your eyes as you thumb through tiktoks absentmindedly, but his mouth distracts you easily—another kiss pressed firm to the corner of your lips, then your temple, pulling your focus entirely.
“come on,” he says softer, nipping gentle at your earlobe. “get up. go do that makeup you do so well. i want pictures of you glowing under those lights tonight.”
he releases you reluctantly, rolling onto his back with a low groan, hair a dark mess across the pillow. you slide off the bed, pad to the bathroom mirror to do your makeup.
your outfit comes next, you put on your coziest outfit that you packed along with your boots, zipping them up for the snow that's still piled outside.
suguru watches from the bed a minute, purple eyes tracking every move, then pushes up to get ready himself. black jeans pulled on over strong thighs, dark sweater stretched across his chest and arms, then his hair — fingers raking through the thick waves, gathering the top half into a loose knot, the rest spilling wild down his back and shoulders. he shrugs into a long black coat, collar turned up, scarf draped casual.
“god, you're so beautiful. might half to fight off half the city tonight,” he says low, stepping close to adjust your beanie slightly, thumb brushing your lower lip. “ready?”
you nod, pulse quickening under his stare. the elevator ride down stays quiet, his hand settled warm at the small of your back, thumb tracing slow circles through coat fabric. soon the lobby doors slide open to biting cold—wind whipping, snow flurries swirling under streetlamps already flickering on.
he steps to the curb, arm raised confidently and hails a cab quick despite the evening rush. a yellow sedan pulls up slick against the curb, tires crunching ice, and he opens the door for you first—hand guiding you in, then sliding in right beside, thigh pressed firm to yours.
“rockefeller center,” he tells the driver, voice steady, then turns to you as the cab merges into traffic, city lights streaking past fogged windows. his fingers lace through yours under the coat sleeve, squeezing once.
you watch the city lights fly past you as you make your way to midtown manhattan. the night air filled with honking and chatter all along the streets. the cab pulls up along fifth avenue, the holiday lights already blazing bright against the early dark. the crowds swell thick around the rockefeller center, tourists bundled in puffy coats, kids dragging parents toward the railing. the massive tree towering above it all, a pretty little swarovski star glittering sharp at the top, the branches heavy with thousands of multicolored bulbs that shift slow from gold to crimson to icy blue.
suguru pays the driver quickly and climbs out first, circles to your door and offers his hand, gloved fingers curling firm around yours as you step onto the curb. his body blocks most the cold air, an arm sliding naturally around your waist to steer you through the press of bodies.
you tilt your head back to take in the tree fully—eighty feet of norway spruce draped in light, reflections dancing across wet pavement and fresh snow dusting the promenade. your breath clouds white, eyes wide, and he watches you more than the display, purple gaze soft but intense.
“beautiful, yeah?” he murmurs low against your ear, lips brushing the shell through your beanie.
“it’s bigger than i imagined,” you breathe, voice hushed like the lights demand reverence. “all of it…it's so pretty. the colors keep changing.”
he hums in agreement, but he takes out his phone from his coat pocket—the camera angled subtlety while you lean against the gold railing, the city glow painting your cheeks, snowflakes catching in your lashes. he snaps several but he pockets it before you can catch him each time, looking at you like he’s memorizing every single second.
you turn toward the rink below, skaters circling slow under strings of white bulbs, laughter echoing up with the scrape of blades.
“come on,” you say, tugging at his sleeve. “we’re doing this.”
he laughs low and lets you pull him down the steps to the rental booth. normally, you wouldn't catch captain serious doing anything like this. but for you? his skates are laced tight. he holds on to the railing for a second as he steps onto the ice first, then lets go.
he spins back around, steady as always, offering both hands. you wobble immediately as you get on to the ice, gripping his hands tight, but he pulls you close, one arm locked firm around your back.
“i got you,” he says, pure amusement in his tone, guiding you forward slow. “just lean into me.”
you find rhythm quick together—his strides long and controlled, yours smaller but gaining confidence with every circle. crowds blur past you both, music piping over the speakers, some old guy singing about christmas. he spins you once, coat flaring, then catches you against his chest, hands sliding to your hips to steady.
“pft. show-off,” you mutter, breathless, cheeks flushed from the cold and effort.
“only a little,” he counters, thumb stroking over your coat at the waist. “just wanted to see you smile.”
you two skate until both of your legs burn faintly and fingers go numb even in gloves, then climb off the ice shaky and buzzing. the whole time together, it feels natural. like you've been dating for years, which if you asked satoru, he'd say yes.
eventually, he finds a spot near the prometheus statue, gold fire glowing behind you both and pulls you in front of him for photos—his phone first, then yours passed to a stranger for a couple together. his chin rests on your head in one, arms wrapped full around you from behind, both of you lit up in shifting tree colors.
after, he guides you across the street to a tiny cafe tucked between boutiques, the windows fogged, warm light from, inside spilling onto the sidewalk. the second you walk in, you're hit with smells like cinnamon and roasted coffee beans, thankfully the line is short this late. he orders two hot chocolates piled high with whipped cream, hands one to you, the cup steaming, fingers brushing yours deliberately.
you cup it in both hands, taking a seat at a small marble table by the window, watching the skaters still circle outside.
“thank you,” you say softly, meeting his eyes over the rim. “for bringing me here. for all of this. it’s perfect, suguru.”
he leans forward on his elbows, hair falling loose in his face from the half-knot, purple eyes locked steadily. “don’t thank me yet, pretty girl.” his voice drops low, rough around the edges. “it’s only christmas day. we’ve got till new year’s trapped in this city together. six more nights, seven days if the storm keeps grounding the flights.”
you raise a brow, sipping slow, whipped cream clinging to your upper lip. he reaches across, his thumb swiping it clean, then sucking it off slow without breaking eye contact.
“what exactly are you planning, captain?”
“tomorrow,” he says, leaning closer, knee pressing yours under the table. “i’m taking you shopping. fifth avenue, wherever you want. coats, dresses, lingerie—everything on me. i want to watch you try things on, want to peel whatever you pick right back off you in that hotel room later.”
heat immediately floods your cheeks and lower, thighs shifting on the chair. “but suguru, you don't have to—”
“we’re just getting started,” he says in a gentle tone, fingers lacing through yours on the tabletop. “i told you, i have six more days of having you entirely to myself and i'm sure as hell you're gonna make sure you never forget a single one.”
outside, the tree lights shift to deep violet, reflecting in his eyes as he watches you—patient, hungry, already mapping out every hour ahead.
after hot cocoa and conversation that could go on for hours, the cab drops you off outside the hotel just past midnight, the streets quieter now with the holiday crowds thinned out, snow still drifting lazy under streetlamps. suguru’s hand stays locked with yours the whole ride back. his thumb stroking slow over your knuckles, knee pressed firm to yours in the backseat, city lights streaking blurred across his sharp profile.
he pays and pulls you out into the cold for the short walk through revolving doors. the lobby feels warmer, hushed at this time of night. you make your way to head up, ready to get cozy in bed with suguru. the elevator ride up drags on, his arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his side, lips brushing your temple every few floors like he can’t stop touching, like this is all some dream he's going to wake up from.
the door to the room clicks open, darkness swallowing you both as he flicks on just the bedside lamp—low golden glow spilling over the king bed still rumpled from earlier. both of your coats are peeled off slow, dropped over the chair, scarves unwound and tossed aside.
once you change into your pajamas and do your nightly routine, you crawl onto the mattress first, body heavy from skating and walking and too much hot chocolate. the sheets feel amazing hitting your skin, having opted for tiny silk shorts that barely cover your ass and a thin camisole that clings to your tits, nipples already peaked from the chill seeping through windows.
suguru strips down to nothing but low-slung sweatpants, the drawstring loose, fabric hanging off his hips enough to show the deep v cutting down to where his cock rests thick and half-hard against his thigh. as usual, hair comes fully down, dark waves spilling wild over bare shoulders and chest as he slides in behind you.
you both warm up quickly under shared body heat. he pulls the duvet high, his arm hooking heavy around your waist to drag you back flush against him.
“fuck, you’re warm,” he mutters low against your neck, nose buried in your hair, inhaling deep. his hand spreads wide over your stomach, fingers dipping just under the waistband of your shorts.
you shift back instinctively, ass grinding slow against his length, feeling him twitch and thicken behind you. a soft groan rumbles from his throat, lips pressing open-mouthed to the sensitive spot below your ear.
“please. keep still, pretty girl,” he warns roughly, voice gravel-thick with sleep and restraint. “or neither of us sleeps tonight.”
his leg wedges between yours, knee nudging your thighs apart just enough to settle heavy, trapping you closer. palm strokes slow up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through silk, then retreating to safer territory—flat again on your stomach, anchoring.
outside, snow taps faint against glass, city muffled distant. your breathing syncs gradual with his — deep, steady, exhaustion pulling hard after the long day. his mouth finds your shoulder one last time, kiss lingering wet and lazy.
“six more nights,” he whispers into your skin, words slurring soft toward sleep.
you hum quietly, your eyes already drifting shut, body melting fully into his hold. the lamp clicks off from his reach, plunging the room dark except for faint glow through curtains. his grip tightens once more, but he still doesn’t move—just breathes deep, even, letting sleep drag you both under tangled and wanting, saving everything else for tomorrow.
but eventually, hours bleed past midnight, only the low hum of heat vents and distant traffic filtering through the windows. you surface slowly from sleep—body pressed tight to suguru’s, his arm still draped heavy over your waist, palm flat against your bare stomach. your silk shorts rode up sometime in the night, your ass nestled perfect against his groin, and you feel it immediately: his cock thick and rigid, pulsing hot along the crease of your thigh through thin sweatpants, a damp spot already forming where precum leaks steady.
he breathes deep and even behind you, still out, but his hips shift instinctive in sleep—a slow roll forward, grinding that hard length against your skin with a muffled groan caught in his throat. heat pools instantly between your legs, your thighs clenching at the feel of him so swollen and needy, the way his body betrays every ounce of restraint he swore by earlier.
you know he wants slow—you do too. he wants to drag this out, savor every second—but the ache in your core throbs insistently, thinking about all the times you two could've made a move on each other over the last three years. not only that, but the thought of him suffering through another night hard and untouched twists something filthy inside you.
you want him, you want him so bad.
careful, you turn in his arms, sheets rustling. moonlight slices faint through the curtains, painting silver across his face—lips parted, lashes dark against his sharp cheekbones, hair spilled out over the pillow. you trail your fingers light up his chest, over warm skin and defined muscle, then lower, dipping beneath the duvet. your palm slides slow over the rigid line of his abs, tracing the deep v until you reach the waistband of his sweatpants. the fabric strains obscenely, his cock twitching the second your hand brushes it.
“suguru,” you whisper soft against his jaw, lips brushing his skin, then again firmer. “wake up, baby.”
his eyes flutter open slowly, purple irises blown dark with sleep and instant lust when he registers your touch. a low rumble vibrates his chest, hips bucking up into your palm.
“fuck, what time is it?” voice thick with need.
“mmm, late,” you murmur, fingers wrapping gently around his shaft through the cotton. hot, velvet-hard, veins pulsing under your grip. “you’re so fucking hard. you woke me up, been grinding against me in your sleep. ”
he exhales sharp, head dropping back to the pillow, jaw clenched tight. “told you we’re taking it slow— shit, that feels good.”
“i know what you said.” you stroke slow, base to crown, thumb circling the soaked spot at the head where precum seeps out. “but i want to help you. want you in my mouth. let me take care of it, suguru. please.”
his breath stutters, hand shooting down to grip your wrist, not stopping, just holding, knuckles white. restraint is plastered across his face, his pupils swallowing all color, cock jerking hard in your fist.
“sweetheart,” he rasps, voice breaking rough. “you start this, i’m not gonna last long. been thinking about you like this, forever.”
you lean in, lips brushing his. “good, i don’t want you to last.”
that snaps the last thread. any and all restraint gone out the window. a guttural groan tears from his throat, hips thrusting shallow into your grip. “fuck— fuck me, yeah. do it.”
you shift down the bed eagerly, sheets sliding over your bare skin. he shoves sweatpants low enough to free himself. his cock's is so pretty, springing up heavy against his stomach, long and thick, flushed dark, head slick and swollen, pre glistening in the dim light. veins stand prominently along the shaft, balls drawn up tight and full beneath.
you settle between his thighs, hands spreading them wider, your nails dragging up his sensitive skin. he watches you intensely, chest heaving, one hand fisting the sheet, the other tangling gentle in your hair.
you lick a slow stripe up the underside first, tongue flat and wet from base to tip, tasting salt and musk thick on your tongue. he hisses sharp, abs contracting hard, cock twitching against your lips.
“christ baby, your mouth,” he groans, voice wrecked.
you swirl around the head, sucking softly, cheeks hollowing as you take him deeper inch by inch, your pretty lips stretching wide around his girth, throat relaxing to swallow more. saliva pools out and around his length, dripping messy down the shaft, coating your fingers where you wrap tight around what your mouth can’t reach yet.
his head falls back, neck corded, low curses spilling from him constantly. “fuck, just like that— take more, pretty girl, you can take it.”
you start bobbing slow then faster, tongue pressing firm along the underside with every pull back, hand twisting at the base. obscene wet sounds fill the quiet room—slurps and soft gags when he hits the back of your throat, your moans vibrating around him.
his hips start rocking shallow, fucking up into the heat of your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair. “'m close— fuck, i’m so close already, baby—look at me.”
you glance up through wet lashes, lips swollen and shiny with spit and precum. the sight undoes him completely, having imagined this god knows how many times—a broken sound rips free, cock pulsing thick on your tongue.
“gonna cum, f-fuck. swallow it all f'me, shit—”
the first spurt hits hot and heavy, flooding your mouth with thick ropes of cum—salty, bitter, endless as he empties down your throat. you swallow greedily around him, milking every drop, tongue lapping at him softly until he shudders, body oversensitive and tugs you off gently.
he drags you up immediately, crushing your mouth to his, tasting himself on your tongue, kissing you deep and filthy, hand cupping your jaw possessively.
“you are…fucking incredible,” he pants against your lips, voice hoarse. “come here, baby.”
he pulls you flush to his chest, arms locking around you tight. soon, sleep tugs at you heavy again, both of you spent and sated in the dark.
“slow's overrated anyways,” he murmurs into your hair, lips brushing your temple.
you smile against his skin, limbs tangled, the taste of him lingering thick as you drift off together once more.
dawn creeps slow through the curtains, suguru stirs first, body heavy with the kind of deep rest he rarely gets as a pilot, but the ache between his legs returns instantly. he shifts quietly, eyes dragging over your sleeping form. your camisole twisted, one breast spilled free, nipple stiff in the cool air, silk shorts wedged deep between your legs, outlining swollen lips and the damp spot already darkening the fabric.
he exhales rough, control fraying fast. his mouth waters at the thought of tasting you, of waking you with his tongue buried deep your cunt.
slow can wait another time.
careful, he slides down the bed and settles between your thighs. hands hooking gently under your knees, spreading you wide. low enough not to jolt you awake yet. your scent hits him hard, warm and musky-sweet, cunt already slick from dreams or the way he held you all night. he doesn't care, he just wants to return the favor. he presses his mouth to the damp silk first, nose dragging up the seam, inhaling deep while his tongue traces the outline of your folds through fabric.
you stir faint, hips twitching, a soft sound catching in your throat. he hooks fingers in the waistband, tugging your shorts down smooth inch by inch, exposing your pussy glistening in the low light, clit peeking swollen from its hood. cool air hits your skin and you shiver, thighs tensing, but he soothes them open again with warm palms.
“stay still, pretty girl,” he murmurs low against your inner thigh, lips brushing your plush skin. “let me wake you up right.”
the first lick is slow, from entrance to clit—flat and broad, tasting the slick that gathered overnight. you gasp, waking up immediately, back arching off the mattress, fingers scrabbling blindly for the sheets. he groans deep at the flavor, salty-sweet and all you, diving back in hungry.
his tongue circles your clit slow, teasing flicks that turn firm and steady, sucking the swollen bud between his lips with wet pulls. a hand moved from your thigh to drag up and down your wet cunt, two fingers slide easy into you. you're soaked, clenching tight around the intrusion, walls fluttering as he curls them rough against that sweet spot inside you that makes your thighs shake.
“suguru! f-fuck,” you moan broken, voice hoarse from sleep, hips bucking up into his mouth. “oh god, don’t stop, pl-please”
he doesn’t. his tongue lashes faster, messy and relentless, spit and slick coating his chin, dripping down to your ass. his fingers pump deep and steady, thumb pressing hard circles over your clit when he pulls back to watch your pussy swallow him whole.
“so fucking wet for me,” he growls against your folds, sucking hard on your clit until your legs clamp around his head. “taste like you’ve been dreaming about my cock, hm?”
your hands find his hair, tugging hard at the roots, grinding shameless against his mouth. he shoves a third finger in, stretching you burning-full, curling brutally while his tongue flicks like rapid-fire over your clit.
the pleasure is far too much, it coils tight and vicious in your belly, thighs trembling hard around his ears. he feels you tighten, cunt spasming around his fingers, and doubles down, needing to make you cum on his face before breakfast.
you break with a sharp cry, back bowing off the bed, pussy gushing slick over his hand and mouth in pulsing waves. he drinks down every drop, riding you through it until oversensitivity makes you whine and push weakly at his forehead.
he pulls off slow, lips shiny and swollen, chin dripping with you. he crawls up your body predatory, caging you under him, cock heavy and leaking against your stomach where sweatpants got shoved down sometime in the haze.
“morning,” he rasps, voice wrecked, pressing a filthy open-mouthed kiss to your lips so you taste yourself on his tongue.
suguru crawls up your body slow, chest heaving slick with sweat, mouth still glistening from your release. his pupils swallow the purple whole, dark and feral as he settles between your thighs, knees nudging them wider to make room for his hips. his cock hangs heavy between you—flushed an angry red, thick veins pulsing along the shaft, head slick. he drags the swollen tip through your soaked folds, coating himself in the mess he made, teasing your entrance until you whimper soft and broken.
“look at me,” he rasps, one hand cupping your jaw firm, thumb pressing into your lower lip. “i want to see every second of this.”
you nod frantically, hands sliding up his back, nails digging into muscle as he leans down. his mouth crashes into yours in a deep, filthy kiss. tongues tangling wet and desperate, teeth clashing, his groan vibrates against your lips when he pushes forward slow. the stretch burns so perfectly—the fat head breaching your cunt inch by thick inch, walls fluttering greedy around him, sucking him deeper until he bottoms out with a guttural curse.
“g-god, you're so tight. loosen up for me, pretty girl,” he growls into your mouth, hips still, buried to the hilt, balls pressed flush to your ass. “pussy gripping me like you were made for me.”
you moan loud into the kiss, legs wrapping high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him impossibly closer. he starts moving, giving you slow, deliberate drags out until only the tip remains, then sinking back in your heat, deep and controlled, every ridge and vein stroking your velvety walls raw. the pace is torturous, but he's still savoring every bit of it, his hips rolling languid, pelvis grinding against your clit with each thrust until your thighs tremble hard around him.
he breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down your neck, sucking bruises into sensitive skin, teeth scraping sharp. “you taste so fucking good everywhere. i'm such an idiot for not doing this sooner,” he mutters against your throat, one hand shoving your camisole higher to palm your breast roughly, his thumb flicking your nipple, pinching until you arch hard beneath him.
your hips buck up to meet every thrust, wet sounds filling the room. slick skin slapping together softly, your cunt squelching around his cock, a creamy mess coating the base and dripping down to the sheets. he shifts the angle slightly, putting his hands at the back of your thighs to put you in a mating press. his hips start snapping deeper, hitting that spot inside that makes your vision go white with pleasure.
“there! right there, suguru, please—” you gasp, the sound coming out broken, nails raking red lines down his back.
he growls low, pace picking up just enough to punch the air from your lungs, but still controlled—deep, grinding strokes that drag over every sensitive inch inside you. his forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, sweat dripping from his hair onto your chest.
“gonna fill you up,” he pants against your lips, kissing you messy between words. “gonna pump this pretty cunt so full. i want it dripping out of you all day.”
you clench hard at his filthy words, your orgasm building vicious and fast, walls spasming around his thick length. he feels it, cursing roughly, thrusts turning harder, deeper, the bed frame creaking under the force.
“cum on my cock, baby— soak me, let me feel it—”
you shatter with a sharp cry, back bowing off the mattress, pussy clamping down vicious as you cum hard, gushing slick around him, your thighs shaking uncontrollably. he follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a broken groan, pulsing hot inside you, thick ropes of cum flooding your cunt, painting your walls white until it leaks out around his base with every shallow thrust he gives through the aftershocks.
he collapses, weight pressing you into the mattress, cock still twitching deep as the last spurts empty into you. his lips find yours again, much softer now, lazy and deep, tongues sliding together.
“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “that was worth every second of waiting.”
you smile weakly, fingers threading through his damp hair, legs still locked around him to keep him buried inside. cum and slick ooze slow onto the sheets beneath you, warm and filthy, the room thick with the scent of sex and sweat and him.
when suguru finally pulls out slow, cum drips down your cunt in warm streaks, mixing with the slick mess already coating your skin. he presses one last deep kiss to your swollen lips.
“come on,” he murmurs rough, his voice hoarse from groaning your name. “let’s clean up before we ruin the sheets any more.”
he stands first, cock still half-hard and glistening with your release, offers his hand to pull you up on shaky legs. you both pad toward the bathroom, the light flickers, the marble cool under your bare feet as he leads you inside and turns the rainfall shower scalding hot. the water pounds down on the two of you heavily. his dark hair is plastered to his shoulders and chest, droplets tracing every cut of muscle down his abs to where his cock hangs hard again already.
you step under the spray together, his arms wrapping immediate around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush to his front. he pumps some soap into his hands and suds you up, his palms roaming greedily, cupping your tits. his thumbs circles nipples until they're stiff and sensitive, making you arch hard against him.
“turn around,” he growls low against your ear, spinning you fast to face the tiled wall. his hands plant beside your head, water cascading over your back as he kicks your feet wider, cock sliding hot and rigid between your ass cheeks. “i need more of you. one round isn't enough for me.”
he lines up quickly, the fat mushroom head nudging your entrance—still swollen, dripping cum and slick—and thrusts in deep with one smooth snap of hips. the stretch burns but your walls flutter around his thickness, sucking him deeper until his balls slap wet against your clit.
“fuck me— this tight cunt,” he groans broken, pulling out slow just to slam back in, water splashing loud with every rough drive in to you. “yesterday morning, you were in this exact shower, naked and dripping wet twenty feet away. i had my fist wrapped tight around my cock, stroking raw to the thought of bending you over just like this.”
his hand slides down your stomach, fingers spreading your cheeks wide so his shaft drags heavy over your clit with every thrust—thick, veined, relentless. “came so fucking hard picturing your pretty pussy stretched around me. now i get the real thing.”
you brace harder against the wall, moans echoing off the tile, plush ass pushing back to meet every brutal snap of his hips. water streams over your face, into your open mouth as you gasp his name.
“taste so goddamn sweet,” he rasps, leaning in to lick a broad stripe up your neck, teeth sinking into your shoulder hard enough to bruise. “ate your cunt this morning and i’m already starving for more. could live between these thighs. drinking every drop you give me.”
his pace turns punishing, cock spearing deep and fast, hitting that spot inside that makes your knees buckle. one arm bands tight around your waist to hold you up, the other snaking around and in between your legs to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.
“gonna fuck you again and again,” he pants against your ear, voice wrecked and raw. “every morning, every night—his week, next layover, every goddamn flight together. want this pussy wrapped around my cock for the rest of my life. want to fill you up until you’re dripping my cum everywhere we go.”
your orgasm comes crashing sudden and hard—cunt spasming wild around his shaft, gushing slick down your thighs mixed with the water. he curses as he feels you tighten up around him, his thrusts turning erratic, then buries himself deep with a guttural groan—cock pulsing thick ropes of cum straight into your cunt, flooding you, claiming every inch.
he stays buried balls-deep through the aftershocks, hips grinding slow to push it deeper, mouth sucking wet bruises along your shoulder and neck. water starts cooling around you both, but he doesn’t move, he simply holds you against pinned and full of his cum, lips brushing your ear soft now.
“not done with you yet, pretty girl,” he whispers hoarse. “not even close.”
the water runs cooler now, streaming over your bodies in lazy rivulets, washing away the thick mix of cum and slick that coats your inner thighs and his cock. suguru stays buried inside you a moment longer, hips rolling slow and shallow, milking the last pulses from his spent shaft while his mouth drags wet kisses along your shoulder blade, teeth grazing faint marks he left earlier.
“fuck, your pussy’s still so tight around me,” he mutters hoarse against your skin, voice echoing soft off tile. “what a greedy little thing, sucking me even deeper.”
he pulls out gradually, cock slipping free with a wet sound, thick strands of his cum immediately leaking from your swollen cunt, dripping warm down your legs before the spray catches it and washes away. his fingers slide between your folds quick, pushing the mess back inside—two digits curling deep, stuffing you full again until you whimper and clench hard around them.
“keep that in there while we shop,” he growls low, pumping once, twice, then pulling free to watch more ooze out slow. “want you wet and full of me under whatever pretty dress you pick.”
you turn shakily in his arms, back pressed to the wall, water plastering hair to your face and neck. he kisses you deep and filthy, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s chasing the taste of your moans, hands cupping your ass to lift you slightly off the ground before setting you down gentle.
you two decide to actually shower, his hands lathering slow over your breasts, thumbs circling nipples peaked and sensitive, then down your stomach, between your thighs where he washes you careful but deliberate, fingers slipping through slick folds, rinsing his cum from your skin but teasing your clit until your knees buckle again.
you return the favor, palms sliding sudsy over his chest, tracing every hard line of muscle, down abs that flex under your touch, wrapping firm around his cock still half-hard and heavy. he groans rough, hips pushing into your fist lazy, letting you stroke him clean under the cooling water.
“keep that up and we’re not leaving this room today,” he warns dark, but his hand covers yours, guiding the pace slower, savoring it.
eventually the spray shuts off, steam thick and heavy around you both. he dries you first, patting down your breasts, knees pushing your thighs apart to drag the fabric slow between your legs, eyes locked on your cunt still puffy and glistening. you dry his hair, ruffling dark strands messy, then his back, nails scraping faint down his spine.
after getting ready, you manage to make it out of the hotel without him pouncing on you once more. fifth avenue glitters under the weak winter sun, snow still piled high along sidewalks, holiday sales still blazing in every window. he pulls you into bergdorf first—floors of dresses and silk and lace, the air thick with perfume and quiet wealth.
you wander slowly through racks, pulling all sorts of options—deep emerald silk that clings to every curve, black velvet with a slit high enough to flash a little bit of thigh, crimson satin that dips low between your breasts. he trails behind you patiently, arm around your waist when crowds press close.
“go on, baby. try them all,” he says low against your ear in the dressing lounge, sinking into the plush chair outside your curtained room. “take your time. want to see every single one wrapped around you before i peel it off tonight.”
you model each dress slowly. it drives him nuts, seeing you step out to spin for him, the fabric whispering against your legs, his purple eyes darkening with every reveal. he adjusts a strap on one of the dresses, fingers lingering on your collarbone, nods approval low and rough.
“that one hugs your body perfectly, sweetheart. but you should know,” he mutters, leaning forward elbows on knees. “i will fuck you in it later. push the hem up and bend you over the hotel desk.”
your cheeks heat up as you chuckle, turning around to head back into the dressing room to change.
after an insane amount of money spent on dresses, the lingerie floor comes next. the store filled delicate lace bras, sheer sets with garters, silk teddies that barely cover anything. you hold options up to him, teasing, watch his jaw tighten, cock already straining faintly against his jeans.
he doesn’t rush once, just sits relaxed while you disappear and reemerge in scraps of lace, posing quick in the mirror before ducking back. bags start to pile up steady at his feet, his card swiped without a blink every time the total climbs.
“get the red one,” he says hoarse when you peek out in a set that leaves nothing to imagination—nipples visible through sheer cups, thong cutting high on your hips. “and the black one. fuck, get all of them. i need options for how i ruin you each night we’re here.”
hours pass easy like that—no hurry, just his gaze heavy and possessive on your body every time you step out in something new, fingers brushing yours when he hands over another dress to try. city lights start flickering on outside the massive windows, snow beginning to fall fresh again.
bags start to hang heavy in the crook of his arm by the time you finally step back onto the sidewalk, his free hand laced tight with yours.
“are you hungry?” he asks low, pulling you close against the cold, lips brushing your temple. “or you want to head back and let me unwrap every fucking thing we just bought?”
the week dissolves into a haze of tangled limbs and city lights, each day bleeding slow into the next, time stretching thick like honey under suguru’s hands and mouth.
12/27
he wakes you with his cock sliding home deep and unhurried, his thick shaft stretching your cunt wide, walls fluttering slick around every veined inch as he rocks forward gradually, hips grinding flush to yours. he kisses you awake properly, tongue licking slow into your mouth, swallowing every soft moan while he fucks you into the sheets already stained from the night before, cum from previous rounds leaking warm around his base with each deep thrust.
“god, 'm so in love with you,” he rasps against your lips, voice rough from sleep, one hand pinning your thigh high to his waist so he sinks even deeper, fat head nudging your cervix until you arch off the mattress and cum clenching hard around him, milking thick ropes of his load straight into your womb.
room service comes right after— pancakes dripping butter and syrup, coffee steaming strong and waking you both up fully. you eat naked in bed, him feeding you bites between kisses that taste like sugar and sex, his fingers dipping into your cunt to scoop out the mess he left and paint it over your nipples before licking them clean slow.
afternoons spill out into the city, bundled thick in coats and scarves, his arm locked possessive around your waist as you wander soho galleries. abstract paintings splashing color across white walls. dinner that night is a dimly-lit steakhouse, rare cuts bleeding onto plates, red wine loosening both of your tongues, his foot sliding up your calf under the table, eyes locked dark while he tells you exactly how he’s going to ruin you later.
back in the suite he makes good on that— wrists bound loose to the headboard, your thighs spread wide over his shoulders, his mouth devouring your cunt slow and thorough, tongue delving deep into your hole to lap at the creamy mix of both your releases, sucking your clit swollen and throbbing until you cum twice on his face, thighs shaking hard around his ears, tears streaking your faces. he flips you over after, cock slamming home from behind, ass cheeks rippling with every brutal thrust, balls slapping wet against your clit while he growls about how perfect your pussy feels gripping him, how he’s addicted to the way you scream his name.
12/28
this day brings central park under fresh powder, a gorgeous horse-drawn carriage clopping slow along paths lined with bare trees, blankets tucked warm over your laps — his hand holding yours the whole ride, while the driver points out frozen ponds and bridges. you rest your head on his shoulder, thinking about every single moment that led up to this. from your first flight together, to now. suguru can't help but think the same, remembering the sweet flight attendant he couldn't wait to see every flight. how he just had to get the plane down safely, not only for the passengers but for you, too.
12/29
you head to rooftop bar at dusk after spending the day in bed together, watching movies, the empire state glowing distant across the skyline, cocktails sharp with citrus and gin. back at the hotel he strips you slow in front of the window, city sprawling dark below, fucks you pressed to the glass—tits flattened cold against the pane, ass arched back for his thrusts, cock dragging thick and deliberate through your folds, cum flooding you deep when he comes with your name broken on his tongue, both of you watching your reflections in the window like a private show.
12/30
brooklyn—the streets slick with ice, taking photos under the manhattan bridge framed perfect against the brick and steel, his hands warm on your hips while you snap shots together on a polaroid camera he bought you just to keep memories of this entire trip together.
nights blur the same—new lingerie every time, lace ripped or pushed aside, positions shifting from you riding him slow on the couch, tits bouncing heavy while he sucks bruises into your neck to him eating your ass from behind until you’re dripping down your thighs, then slamming in deep to fuck both holes with fingers and cock to slow lazy side-fucks at dawn, his arm banded tight around your chest, cock grinding deep while he whispers about forever, about taking new routes together, about never flying without you ever again.
new year’s eve looms closer, the suite already stocked with champagne chilling and that black velvet dress laid out, the one with the slit high enough to flash the garter he bought. your body carries his marks everywhere—thighs purple with his fingerprints, neck dotted with bruises, pussy perpetually swollen and leaking his cum no matter how many times you shower. the city hums outside, crowds gathering early for the ball drop, but inside time still moves languid, deliberate, every touch drawn out like he wants to memorize the week in your skin before the year turns and reality tries to pull you both back to cockpits and rosters.
he watches you now from the bed, hair loose wild over bare shoulders, cock thick and resting heavy against his thigh, purple eyes dark with the same hunger that’s burned steady since christmas morning. “one more night grounded,” he says. “then we ring in the new year with a little kiss in times square. sound good, pretty girl?”
you smile slowly, crawling across the sheets to straddle his hips, cunt already slick and ready sliding along his shaft. “sounds perfect,” you whisper, sinking down inch by thick inch, both of you groaning deep as the week stretches just a little longer for now—slow, filthy, entirely yours.
before you know it, new year’s eve arrives—times square absolutely electric. cold air biting sharp through layers of coats and scarves as crowds swell thick into times square hours before dusk settles full. you and suguru weave through the barricades early enough to claim a decent spot near the center, red ribbon bright in your hair already. his arm locked firm around your shoulders to keep warmth shared and bodies close. dozens of billboards blaze endless color across faces bundled tight, confetti scraps from tests fluttering down occasional like early promises.
satoru texts mid-afternoon—that familiar string of emojis and complaints about the cold—then appears sudden through the press of people, white hair unmistakable even under a hood. “finally,” he calls loud over the chatter, shoving through to reach you both, arms throwing wide for dramatic hugs. “thought you two lovebirds ditched me.”
suguru laughs low, pulling him into a quick back-slap embrace before tugging you closer again. “never. i need someone to annoy me on the flight home.”
hours stretch slow in the pens—no bathrooms, no leaving once settled, just shared snacks from pockets and stories from their years as pilot swapped amid the growing roar of performers testing stages and crowds chanting along to warm up. satoru yaps endlessly about his brooklyn couch crash, how he went to this club and that club. suguru’s hand stays steady on your waist, thumb tracing patterns through the fabric, grounding you like always.
as midnight nears, the energy shifts instantly, lights dim slight across the square, the massive constellation ball gleaming high above one times square, crystals catching every flash from screens. performers wrap up their final notes, hosts count down loud over speakers, and the sea of people presses tighter, breath clouding white in the freeze.
“ten,” the chant rises unified, voices echoing off buildings. “nine…eight…seven…”
suguru turns you fully to face him, hands cupping your cheeks gentle under gloves, purple eyes locked deep on yours amid the chaos. “six…five…four…”
you smile wide, fingers curling into his coat front. “three…two… one!”
the ball drops smooth and glittering, confetti explodes in a storm of color raining thick, horns blare chaotically and suguru pulls you in close, lips meeting yours soft at first then deeper, warm and certain, tasting champagne from earlier toasts and the promise of everything ahead. cheers erupt endless around you, satoru whooping loud at your side, arms thrown skyward as he takes a video of everything for his instagram story, pyrotechnics bursting bright overhead.
he breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice a murmur, quiet just for you. “happy new year, pretty girl.”
you whisper it back, heart full under the shower of paper and light.
the next morning dawns sluggish and bright, you check out of the hotel and put on your uniform. the snow cleared just enough for flights to resume back to normal. the three of you drag your bags through jfk early afternoon, the same roster pulled together again, tokyo-bound directly. the cabin is familiar under your feet as you prep the galley one last time. passengers board slowly as usual, chatting about resolutions and hangovers, settling into seats with bleary excitement.
suguru’s voice flows smooth over the pa once push back starts, calm and low as always. “welcome aboard flight 329 to tokyo narita. cruising time is about fourteen hours across the pacific, weather clear ahead for smooth skies.”
he pauses deliberately, that familiar tease he gives you already creeping in. “cabin crew cross-checking doors now. please be nice to the girl in the red ribbon—she might give you extra peanuts if you do. but not too nice, that’s my girlfriend.”
scattered laughs ripple through the cabin, a few heads turning curious your way as you feel heat flood your cheeks, ducking quick behind the galley curtain with a grin you can’t hide. satoru's voice can be heard crackling faint over the open mic before suguru cuts it.
“dude, seriously? announcing it to the whole plane now? possessive much?”
content: 18+ mdni! satoru gojo x fem reader, nerdjo, down bad gojo, snowboarder gojo (snowboarding terms will be used), bimbo reader, she's a ditz but my ditz HEHE, college au. gojo is an absolute sweetie in this, reader's besties yuki, shoko & utahime are kinda mean and bully him a lil but like out of love or whatever, sukuna cameo, smut with lots of plot! male masturbation (dubcon ish? he jerks off to photos w/o readers knowledge), first times talk (first kiss, first time having sex etc), oral (m & f receiving), unprotected p in v, virginity loss, premature ejaculation, riding, doggy style, creampie, happy ending!
eli’s notes: aghhh this took me so long, lots of research cuz i know like jack shit about snowboarding. this is 11.7k holy yap LOL but i'm so in love with this and excited for everyone to read it, read the tags and enjoy mwah! fanart creds to @/bureichi on twt!
“fuck!” satoru groans, running a hand through his snow white hair after scrolling through all the local seasonal job openings near him. he doesn’t want to work retail or fast food. he’d like to do something of substance.
he sighs, spinning around in his swivel chair and takes a look around his room, seeing his snowboard hung up on the wall. and it’s like a lightbulb goes off in his little nerd brain. his long fingers fly against his keyboard, searching up the local resort he frequents during the holidays. the opening for snowboarding instructor pops up almost immediately.
love snowboarding? we're hiring instructors! apply now!
pushing up his glasses, he starts attaching his resume, action shots of him snowboarding, photos of his awards from competitions, his cpr/first aid certification, a cover letter—literally anything of relevance and confidently hits submit on the application.
the wait eats him alive for three whole days. in the middle of his anxious pacing, he gets a notification on the second day: a virtual interview scheduled for 2 p.m. today. panic hits instantly. he scrambles around his dorm, trying to make it look less like a disaster zone on camera. when he can’t find his actual pants, he settles for a button-up and boxers, sets up his laptop, and adjusts the angle until it hides the worst of the mess. with a deep breath, he clicks join. he’s met with the familiar faces of the hiring team—people he’s only ever passed on his trips to the lodge.
after that brief but nerve-wracking interview, satoru finally clicks away from the call, heart still pounding.
he refreshes his inbox every ten minutes, paces circles around his room, trips over empty ramen cups and scattered textbooks about gravitational waves. he even texts his mom a cryptic “might have some good news soon” and immediately regrets it because she replies with seventeen heart emojis and a voice note asking if he finally has a girlfriend.
when the acceptance email finally drops he yells so loud his neighbor bangs on the wall.
email subject: Congratulations, Satoru Gojo!
Dear Satoru Gojo,
We are thrilled to inform you that you've been selected as our newest snowboarding instructor! Welcome to the team. We can't wait to see you on the slopes!
Best regards,
Limitless Summit HR Team
he fist-pumps, nearly knocks his monitor off the desk, then spends the rest of the night waxing his burton like it’s going to prom.
the next morning, he rolls up to the resort in his blue honda civic, board strapped to the roof with bungee cords that look one bump away from snapping. the parking lot is already packed with trucks and subarus covered in stickers, plenty of college kids he recognizes from his classes. he yanks his beanie low, adjusts his round glasses that keep sliding down his nose, and hauls ass to the staff lodge. the manager barely glances at his paperwork before slapping a red instructor jacket on him.
“gojo, right? seen your videos, you're pretty damn good, kid. you’re on beginner hill all week, okay. try not to scare the little ones. got it?”
satoru salutes like an idiot and spends the first hour teaching eight year olds how to strap in without crying. he’s good at it, patient, cracks dumb jokes about newton’s laws when they fall on their asses. and by lunch he’s floating, cheeks wind-burned, feeling like a god on his board.
then the afternoon private lesson list gets taped to the board and his stomach drops straight through his boots.
y/n. 2:15 pm. adult beginner. one-on-one.
he knows it’s you before he even sees the last name. you, the girl from his tuesday/thursday astrophysics class who wears tiny skirts in december and somehow still looks warm, who paints her nails bright pink and asks even the most basic questions in that soft breathy voice that makes his brain blue-screen. you who he’s pretty sure doesn’t even know he exists except for the one time he tripped over his own laces in front of you and you helped him up with a giggle and said “cute glasses.”
he’s fucked.
2:10 rolls around and there you are at the base of the beginner slope, stomping around in rented boots that look two sizes too big, pink snowboard under your arm like you’re holding a dead fish. your jacket is baby pink with white fur on the hood, your pants have little hearts printed on them, your fenty lip gloss is reflecting the sun so bright it hurts to look at directly. your friends are already halfway up the lift, yelling down that they’ll “send search and rescue if you’re not at the bar by four.”
satoru coasts over on his board, stopping with a shaky spray of snow because his legs suddenly forgot how to function as soon as he sees your beautiful face.
“uh, hi. i’m satoru. your instructor.” his voice cracks on the last word and he wants to die.
you look up, big eyes blinking slow, then recognition hits and your whole face lights up. “oh my god, satoru? from class? no way!”
you bounce on your toes and the board clatters to the snow. “this is so crazy! i totally suck at this, my friends just dragged me here because boys in beanies are hot or whatever.”
he short-circuits, boys in beanies? are hot? he's wearing a beanie. holy shit.
he adjusts it for no reason and almost knocks his glasses off. “cool. cool cool cool. uh. let’s get you strapped in then.”
he kneels to help clip your bindings and realizes way too late that he’s eye-level with your thighs. imaging the smooth, silky skin underneath the baggy heart-print pants. probably some cute panties with lace, a little bow right in the middle. he swallows so hard his throat clicks.
you wobble the second you stand, arms pinwheeling. “woah woah woah—” you squeak, grabbing his shoulders to stay upright. your nails dig in through his jacket and he’s pretty sure he forgets how to breathe. “these things have a mind of their own!”
“it’s okay, i got you,” he says, voice higher than usual, hands hovering around your waist without actually touching because what if you don’t want him to what if he’s being weird what if— “just lean into me a little. like a trust fall but on snow.”
you lean closer, pressing your whole front against him, tits soft against his chest even through layers. “like this?” you ask, all innocent, tilting your head so your fluffy hood brushes his chin.
he nods like a broken bobblehead. “yep, perfect. gold star.” inside he’s screaming.
but getting you up the magic carpet is a disaster. you keep sliding backwards, giggling every time your board crosses his and you almost take both of you out. at the top he has to hold your hand to keep you from zooming straight into a tree. your mittens are fuzzy and white and smell like vanilla. his palms sweat so bad underneath his gloves, he’s scared you’ll notice.
“okay, point your board downhill, knees soft, look where you wanna go,” he instructs, trying to sound professional while his heart jackhammers. you nod super serious, tongue poking out between glossy lips in concentration, then you push off.
you make it exactly four feet before eating shit spectacularly, tumbling ass-over-teakettle in a cloud of powder. satoru drops to his knees beside you, panicked. “oh fuck are you okay did you hit your head do we need medical—”
you pop up laughing, lifting your goggles, snow stuck to your lashes, cheeks cherry red. “i’m fine! that was kinda fun actually!” you flop onto your back and make a snow angel, legs kicking. “come lay with me!”
he stares. “we’re…on the slope.”
“duh, that’s why it’s exciting.” you grab his sleeve and yank him down. he topples next to you without resistance, board still attached, staring up at the sky while you wiggle around. “see? the clouds look like cotton candy. that one’s shaped like a dick.”
he wheezes, half laugh half dying. “you’re gonna get me fired.”
“oh boo-hoo.” you roll onto your side, propping your head on your hand, staring at him. “you’re really good at this, you know. like snowboarding and stuff. you make it look easy.”
his ears burn under the beanie. “thanks. i've been doing it since i was like. twelve. um, physics helps—understanding weight distribution and angular momentum and stuff.”
you blink slow, ditzy. “you just said a bunch of smart words…that’s like really hot.”
he sits up so fast he gets dizzy. “what?”
“what?” you mimic, grinning, then hop to your feet, miraculously without falling. “teach me a trick! preferably, something easy. i wanna impress my friends later.”
he scrambles up. “okay uh…basic straight air? just pop off that little roller over there.” he points to a tiny bump no one else would even notice. “watch me first.”
he drops in smooth, hits the lip and spins a lazy 180 and lands clean. when he looks back you’re clapping like he just won the olympics. “that was so cool, satoru!”
he chuckles. “alright, now your turn,” he says, coasting back up.
you try you actually kinda ollie, get maybe six inches of air, squeal the whole time, and stick the landing by sheer dumb luck. “did you see that?!” you scream, throwing your arms up. he catches you when you launch yourself at him, hugging tight, legs kicking in the air. “i’m a pro now!”
“you’re a natural,” he mumbles into your hood, arms locked around your waist, afraid to let go in case this is a hallucination. you smell like vanilla and hot cocoa and something sweet that he's already addicted to.
the rest of the lesson flies by in a blur of you falling on your butt and him catching you every time, your laughter echoing across the hill, his newly confident hands lingering longer than strictly necessary on your hips 'for balance.' when the lift shuts down for the day you’re still clinging to his arm, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
“same time tomorrow?” you ask, bouncing on your toes outside the rental shop while your friends honk from the parking lot.
“yeah—i mean, if you want. i’m here all week,” he says, pushing his glasses up for the millionth time.
“cool. it’s a date then.” you lean in quick, press a sticky gloss kiss to his cheek, right below his eye. “see you tomorrow, teach!”
you skip off toward the car, waving over your shoulder. satoru stands there frozen, hand slowly coming up to touch where your lips were, brain completely offline. somewhere behind him the head instructor sukuna wolf-whistles. he doesn’t even care. he’s so screwed but he can’t wait for tomorrow.
you pile into utahime’s jeep, snow crunching under the tires as shoko cranks the heat and yuki immediately cracks open a white claw she definitely smuggled from the lodge fridge. the second the doors slam shut they all turn on you like sharks smelling blood.
“okay spill,” shoko says, lighting a cigarette even though utahime yells about the seats. “was the instructor actually hot or did you just hit your head too many times?”
“he’s so hot,” you groan, kicking your boots off and pulling your knees to your chest. “like stupid hot. white hair, blue eyes, glasses, the whole package. and he’s in my astrophysics class. his name’s satoru gojo.”
yuki snorts so hard cider almost comes out her nose. “satoru gojo? the nerd who wore a nasa shirt to my halloween party and tried to explain black holes to a drunk sorority girl for forty-five minutes?”
“that was him?” utahime cackles, reversing out the parking spot. “i remember! yeah, yeah. he had some glowy tube thing and called it a ‘plasma containment device.’ what a fucking dork.”
“stop,” you whine, burying your face in your fuzzy mitts. “he’s sweet. he caught me like eight times today and didn’t even laugh when i face-planted into a drift.”
“sweet?” shoko repeats, blowing smoke out the crack in the window. “babe, he’s a virgin with a capital v. suguru's is his bestfriend and says gojo’s never even kissed anyone. that he spends all his free time building model rockets and jerking off to hentai.”
“he totally does not!” you yell, cheeks burning. “he’s just…focused…and quiet…and cute.”
“quiet because his brain is doing calculus while the rest of us are trying to get laid,” yuki adds, reaching back to poke your thigh. “bet he calls it ‘making love’ and cries after.”
utahime makes a fake sobbing noise. “oh y/n, we're quantum entangled, you complete me—”
“shut up!” you grab yuki’s empty can and chuck it at utahime’s head. “he’s not like that. he was nervous but he kept holding my waist and his hands were really warm and he smelled like pine and hot cocoa and—”
“and he probably nutted in his snow pants the second you hugged him,” shoko finishes, deadpan.
you scream into your hoodie sleeve the rest of the drive while they roast him mercilessly, ranking his hypothetical kinks from “missionary under the stars” to “asking if reverse cowgirl defies the laws of physics.” by the time you pull up to the little wooden lodge you’re ready to combust.
“i hate all of you,” you announce, slamming the jeep door and stomping through the snow in your socks. “i’m going to bed. alone. forever. because my friends are assholes.”
“we love you too, bitch!” yuki calls sweetly.
inside you lock the bedroom door, you yell at them to fuck off through the wood when they start knocking and fake moaning, then strip out of your clothes. the shower is heaven, hot water melting the chill, the strawberry body wash turning everything pink, fruity and steamy. you change into your cutest pajama set, tiny satin shorts with a lace trim and a matching cami that barely holds your tits, then crawl under the fluffy duvet with your phone.
the lodge is quiet now except for the wind rattling the windows and your friends’ muffled laughter downstairs. you scroll mindlessly for a bit, then curiosity wins. you tap away on your phone as you search up the college instagram, finding the tagged photos from the physics fair last semester. there he is, satoru in a black turtleneck and lab coat, hair a fluffy mess, holding some glowing contraption while grinning like a kid on christmas.
then you pull up shoko’s page, clicking on a photo she posted of her and suguru recently. curiosity wins, so you tap over to suguru’s profile next. it doesn’t take long to notice he’s tagged satoru in a bunch of photos—mostly candid shots, half of them looking like they were taken without satoru’s knowledge and the other half with him posing like he absolutely knew. scrolling through them feels a little like flipping through someone’s scrapbook, messy and intimate in a way that makes your chest feel warm and weirdly nosy at the same time.
you've got satoru asleep on a library table surrounded by red bull, satoru mid-air on his snowboard doing some grab you don’t know the name of, satoru holding a trophy with the goofiest smile.
you’re three years deep, heart doing dumb little flips at every photo, when your thumb betrays you and double-taps a picture from two summers ago. it’s satoru, shirtless at the beach, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, long fingers wrapped around a melon soda. his abs are lean and cut, a white happy trail disappearing beneath low-slung swim trunks. the red heart flashes up like a death sentence.
you squeak and launch your phone across the bed like it’s radioactive. “no no no no—” your pulse is in your ears, panic fizzing in your veins as if unliking it fast enough could erase the digital footprint of your humiliation. but of course, you know it’s too late. the damage is done, and the universe is laughing.
meanwhile, across the resort in the cramped staff lodging, satoru is face-down in his pillow trying to will away the semi he’s had since your gloss smeared on his cheek. his phone buzzes on the nightstand. he rolls over, squints at the screen, and bolts upright so fast he smacks his head on the empty bunk above.
instagram: ynthedoll liked your photo.
he squints a little to see which one you liked. he goes a little wide eyed when he sees the photo, that photo. the one suguru took specifically to embarrass him because he said, “dude your v-line is fuckin' crazy, the girls need to suffer.”
he stares at the ceiling, heart hammering. then, before his brain can talk him out of it, he opens your dms. you never followed each other, he never had the balls to, despite how many times you came up in his 'people you may know', but the message bar is right there.
s4t0roo: hey…saw you liked my old beach pic lol
s4t0roo: everything okay after today? you took some solid falls
s4t0roo: not that i minded catching you or anything!!!! i'll catch you again
s4t0roo: shit that sounded creepy
s4t0roo: i mean you smelled really nice
s4t0roo: FUCK ignore that
s4t0roo: hi
he watches the “seen” pop up and immediately yeets his phone into his laundry basket, groaning into his hands. thirty seconds later it buzzes again.
ynthedoll: omg i’m so sorry that was an accident 😭
ynthedoll: i like totally dropped my phone and the floor liked the photo with your abs
right…
ynthedoll: not that i didn't think your abs weren't nice!!! they’re very nice
ynthedoll: i mean
ynthedoll: hi 🥺
satoru stares at the messages until the screen dims. his palms are sweating. he types, deletes, types again.
s4t0roo: surprised you were lurking on my page, i’m kind of a loser
ynthedoll: omg what??? you’re not a loser! you’re literally a pro snowboarder who understands quantum thingies! that’s like super hot
s4t0roo: you think i’m hot?
ynthedoll: i think you’re extremely hot
ynthedoll: like unfairly hot
ynthedoll: is that weird to say lol
he exhales shakily, dick twitching in his sweats just from your texts. he bites his lip hard.
s4t0roo: not weird
s4t0roo: i think about you aaallll the time in class
s4t0roo: like can’t-form-sentences level
ynthedoll: really?
ynthedoll: that’s cute
ynthedoll: i sit a row ahead on purpose so you can see my outfits 😭
oh, he sees them. he makes a strangled noise and palms himself once through the fabric before forcing his hand away.
s4t0roo: tomorrow can we ditch the beginner hill
s4t0roo: there’s this secret run suguru and i like to hit when it gets busy. no one goes there
s4t0roo: just us
ynthedoll: just us?
s4t0roo: yeah
s4t0roo: if you want
ynthedoll: i want
excitement bubbles up, your heart lurches at the thought of getting to s[end more time with him, just the two of you. you tap away at your screen, kicking your feet underneath the covers, giggling.
ynthedoll: night toru <3
s4t0roo: night y/n :)
s4t0roo: dream of me or whatever
he drops the phone on his chest and stares at the dark ceiling, grinning like an idiot, cock aching against his stomach. he tosses and turns, attempting to sleep at least a little.
he flops onto his back again for what feels like the nth time, ceiling spinning slow from staring at it too long. the little staff room feels too warm even with the window cracked, wind whistling outside while his digimon pajama pants tent straight up like a fucking flagpole. he palms himself once, twice, groans low and frustrated because it’s not helping. every time he closes his eyes he sees your glossy lips, the way your tits bounced when you hugged him, the little squeak you made when you landed that tiny jump and crashed into his chest.
he grabs his phone off the charger, thumb hovering over pornhub like muscle memory. opens it, scrolls—blonde, brunette, redhead, big tits, small tits, anal, threesome, whatever. nothing sticks. every moan sounds fake, all of it feels wrong. he types random shit to find someone like you, your features but still nothing. with a pissed-off huff he exits the tab and opens instagram instead.
your page is right there in his recent dms and he clicks it like a guilty addict.
first highlight: “girls trip ❄️✨”
he taps. it's video of you in the jeep mirror, lip gloss cap between your teeth, shoko crowding into the video while you laugh to something yuki said. your tongue pokes out to lick your lips and his cock jerks so hard it slaps his stomach. he shoves his pants down just enough to free himself, long and flushed angry red, tip already slick. he wraps his fist loose and starts slow strokes while the video loops.
second highlight: “ootd dump”
just a bunch mirror selfies in tiny skirts, crop tops riding up to show your soft tummy, one where you’re bent over tying platform boots and the curve of your ass fills the frame. he zooms in, breath hitching.
“fuck me” he whispers, thumb swiping precum over the head, spreading it shiny. his hips twitch into his hand.
third one is new—posted an hour ago. story of you fresh out the shower, hair damp, satin cami strap sliding off one shoulder, cleavage spilling, caption just “cozy night in 🐰”. the sight of you in the cozy lighting of the lodge murders him. he replays it over and over, imagining crawling into that bed behind you, pressing his bare chest to your back, sliding those tiny shorts to the side, your tight warmth welcoming him.
his strokes speed up, grip tightening, wrist twisting on every upstroke the way he likes. the precum keeps coming, dripping over his knuckles, making wet sounds in the quiet room. he bites his lip hard enough to sting, eyes locked on a photo of you in a bikini from last summer—same pink as today’s jacket, tits pushed up, nipples just barely hidden by two tiny triangles. he zooms until all he sees is skin and gloss and the little heart you drew on your hip with sunscreen.
“shit—y/n—” it slips out ragged. he pictures you on your knees in the snow, fluffy hood framing your face, mouth open, tongue out for him, taking him into your mouth. pictures your pretty hands with those nails wrapped around his cock instead of his own. pictures pushing you down on this shitty lodge mattress, peeling those satin shorts off, spreading your thighs and burying his face between them until you cry.
his balls draw up tight, spine arching off the bed. “fuck fuck fuck—” he cums hard, thick ropes shooting across his stomach, splattering the hem of his t-shirt, one shot hitting so high it lands under his collarbone. his hand keeps moving through it, oversensitive, milking every pulse while your instagram story loops one last time—your sleepy smile, the way you blow a kiss at the camera.
he lies there panting, ceiling swimming again, cum cooling sticky on his skin. phone slips from his hand onto the pillow.
tomorrow he’s gonna kiss that gloss right off your mouth. maybe more. definitely more.
he reaches for a dirty t-shirt to wipe himself off, still half-hard just thinking about it, and passes out with your name on his tongue and your face burned behind his eyelids.
you wake up before the sun even thinks about it, phone buzzing with a single text from satoru that just says “i'm ready whenever ur up :)” with the little smiley face making your stomach flip.
the lodge is dead quiet, shoko snoring on the couch with a wine glass still in her hand, utahime’s door cracked and yuki’s boots kicked halfway down the hall. you tiptoe past all of it, heart racing like you’re sneaking out for real.
outside it’s stupid cold, breath puffing white, but you’re in your cutest fit: baby-pink snow pants that hug your ass, white puffer with baby-pink fur, matching beanie with a massive pom-pom that bounces when you walk. you even did your makeup because priorities.
the walk to staff lodging is all crunchy snow and dark blue sky, your airpods blasting some hyper pop while you practice what you’re gonna say. “hey sexy” feels too much. “morning babe” also too much. you settle on literally just waving like an idiot.
you get there in nineteen minutes flat, cheeks wind-burned and nose pink, and there he is leaning against the doorframe in black snow pants and a loose gray hoodie under his open instructor jacket, board tucked under one arm. his hair is a fluffy disaster, glasses already fogging from the warm air inside hitting the cold. when he spots you he straightens so fast his board almost slips.
“h-hey! you’re—wow—early,” he stammers, pushing his glasses up and immediately sliding them back down with nervous fingers. “i mean good early! great early! hi!”
you bounce on your toes, pom-pom flopping. “hi toru! told you i’d be here.” you do a little spin so he can take in your whole outfit. “do i look okay?”
his mouth actually opens and nothing comes out for a solid three seconds. “you—yeah—you look—really pretty. think i’m having a crisis.”
you giggle and step closer, close enough that your mittened hand can brush his sleeve. “mmm, a good crisis or bad crisis?”
“good,” he squeaks, then clears his throat and tries again lower. “really good. hi, again.”
you hook your arm through his like it’s the most natural thing. “ready to walk to the lift? i brought us hot cocoa.” you wiggle a little, the thermos peeking out your tiny backpack and he makes this soft little “oh” sound like you just handed him a puppy.
the two of you start trekking toward the private staff lift, boards clacking together. he keeps sneaking glances down at you, cheeks redder than the cold can excuse.
“so,” you chirp, bumping his hip, “were you up all night thinking about me or just a little?”
he trips over literally nothing and catches himself on your shoulder. “i—uh—a normal amount. a healthy amount, of course! definitely not a creepy amount.” he adjusts his glasses again. “ok, maybe a little more than healthy.”
“good,” you say, leaning your head against his arm for a second. he smells like pine and laundry detergent and you wanna crawl inside his hoodie. “i couldn’t sleep either. kept thinking about your hands on my waist yesterday.”
his breath hitches so loud you hear it over the crunch of snow. “yeah? well i mean, i was trying not to be weird about it. failed probably.”
“nope, i loved it.” you peek up at him through your lashes. “they’re really big and warm. i felt safe.” you give him a soft smile, the tip of your nose already red from the cold.
he makes a strangled noise and stares straight ahead like the trees personally offended him. “you can’t just—say stuff like that. my brain stops working.”
“that’s the goal,” you tease, squeezing his arm. “i like when you get all flustered. it’s cute.”
“cute,” he echoes faintly, like he’s testing the word. “i’ve been called a lot of things, you know. dork, nerd, idiot, loser. but…never cute.”
“well you are. cute and hot at the same time. a deadly combo.” you tug him to a stop just before the lift line starts, spinning to face him. the pom-pom on your beanie brushes his chin. “also your glasses fog up when you’re nervous and it’s adorable.”
he groans, hiding his face in his mittens. “god, stop perceiving me.”
“never.” you reach up and tap the lens gently, thumb swiping at the fogginess. “i like seeing you all foggy for me.”
his hands drop slow and he looks at you, his blue eyes huge behind smudged glass, lips parted. “you’re gonna kill me before we even start.”
“promise i’ll resuscitate you. like mouth to mouth and everything! i'm cpr-certified still from life guarding last summer,” you tease, then bounce back like nothing happened. “c’mon, secret run time!”
his mind immediately flicks back to your photos from your instagram, picturing you in that tiny bikini. he gulps and follows after you in a daze, board dragging a little because his legs forgot how to work. when you step onto the lift first he hesitates, then slides in next to you super careful, leaving a polite six inches until you scoot over and plaster yourself to his side.
“it’s cold,” you lie, even though the sun’s up now and you’re basically a furnace underneath your layers. he immediately wraps an arm around your shoulders, tentative, then tighter when you snuggle in.
“is that better?” he asks, voice soft as he looks down at you by his side.
“way better.” you tip your head onto his shoulder and feel him shiver—not from cold. “you’re like my favorite heater.”
he laughs under his breath, the sound shaky. “anytime, literally anytime.”
the lift climbs higher, resort shrinking below, just the two of you swaying gently above the trees. you tilt your chin up, lips brushing the edge of his jaw accidentally-on-purpose. “thanks for this, satoru. it kinda feels like a date.”
he swallows hard, looking down at you again. “was kinda hoping you’d think that.”
you grin against his neck. “well, mission accomplished then.”
he doesn’t kiss you—his hands flex on your shoulder like he wants to cup your face but he’s too scared, too sweet. instead he just holds you closer the whole ride, thumb rubbing little circles through your jacket, both of you pretending to watch the view while your hearts try to beat out of your chests.
when the lift reaches the top he helps you off first, steadying you even though you don’t wobble this time. you spin to face him again, bouncing on your board. “ready to show me your secret spot, teach?”
he smiles, a small, nervous, one but stupidly pretty. “yeah, follow me, princess.”
you trek next to him, giggling the whole way down the untracked powder, his shaky flirting and your shameless teasing echoing through the quiet trees.
once you reach a good spot, he kicks off first, carving a lazy s into the fresh powder, glancing back every three seconds to make sure you’re still behind him. the run is tucked way off the map, narrow and steep at the start, then it spills into this wide gladed bowl nobody hits because the only way in is a sketchy traverse most people miss. trees tower on both sides, branches heavy with snow, sun slicing through in golden beams like the whole mountain’s showing off just for you two.
you follow his line, wobbling a little because the snow is deeper than yesterday and your board keeps sinking, but every time you yelp he slows instantly, reaching back with one hand.
“grab on,” he says, voice all soft and breathless and you latch onto his fingers like it's nothing, like it's completely normal for you two. his glove is huge around yours and you swing behind him, giggling when powder sprays up your jacket.
“you’re showing off,” you accuse, squeezing his hand.
“maybe a tiny bit,” he admits, cheeks pink. “wanted to look cool for like…five seconds.”
“i always think you look cool,” you say, loud enough for the trees to hear. “cool and nerdy and tall and—satoru! slow down i’m gonna crash into you!”
he laughs and purposely checks his speed so you bump gently into his back, arms wrapping around his waist from behind to stay upright. you don’t let go even when you’re balanced again, chin hooked over his shoulder, tits pressed to his spine. “this okay?” you ask against his hood.
he makes this tiny broken sound. “more than okay. never let go actually. mhm, our new rule.”
you squeeze tighter and feel his abs jump under all the layers. “deal.”
the traverse flattens and he leads you through a little tunnel of pines, ducking branches, then suddenly the trees open up and it’s just…perfect. untouched white rolling out forever, little kickers and pillows everywhere, the resort noise completely gone. just birds and your breathing and the soft shush of boards on snow.
he stops at the lip of the first drop, kicks his back foot out of the binding so he can turn and face you fully. you do the same, clumsy, almost fall, and he catches your elbows automatically.
“welcome to my favorite place on earth,” he says, gesturing grand with one arm like he’s presenting a kingdom. “no lifts, no kids, no rules.”
your eyes go wide and sparkly. “it’s so pretty, i think i’m gonna cry.”
“don’t cry,” he panics, stepping closer. “i’ll cry too and then we’re both screwed.”
you laugh and shove his chest playfully. “teach me something cool then. something only you can do.”
he rubs the back of his neck, snowflakes melting in his hair. “uh…there’s this butter box i built with some friends. wanna try a boardslide?”
“teach me words later, just show me,” you demand, bouncing.
he grins so big his dimple pops and drops in first, hits a little side hit, ollies smooth and slides the fallen log like it’s nothing—grabs indie, spins out clean. when he looks back up the hill you’re literally clapping with mittens, pom-pom on your head flapping around.
“your turn, princess,” he calls, coasting back up on foot, boots crunching.
you puff your cheeks, nervous for the first time all morning. “if i eat shit you have to kiss it better.”
his whole face explodes red, imagining his lips on yours. “deal—now, focus! knees bent, look at the end of the log, not your board.”
you nod super serious, tongue out concentrating, then push off. it’s messy—you pop too early, your board clacks loud, but you actually stick the slide for like half a second before bailing forward into the powder with a squeal. snow explodes everywhere. satoru’s there before you even stop rolling, on his knees, brushing snow off your face with frantic hands. “you okay? shit, are you hurt—”
you grab his jacket and yank him down on top of you, giggling like crazy. “i did it! kinda! did you see?”
“i saw,” he breathes, propped on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you, hair hanging down and tickling your cheeks. “you were perfect.”
“liar,” you whisper, but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. your legs are tangled, boards still half attached, and he’s so close you can see every snowflake melting on his lashes.
he swallows hard, eyes flicking to your mouth and back up. “still gotta…guess i gotta pay up though. you said to kiss it better.” your heart slams in your chest, cheeks red from more than just the cold.
“where does it hurt?” he asks, all breathy and teasing. then he hesitates for a second—big blue eyes nervous behind foggy glasses—then gently taps your forehead where a tiny bit of snow stuck. “here?”
you scrunch your nose. “lower.”
he moves to your cheek, barely a brush of cold lips against flushed skin. “here?”
“lower,” you whisper again.
his breath shakes. he hovers over your mouth for what feels like forever, thumb stroking your jaw, then chickens out at the last second and drops a soft kiss to the tip of your nose instead.
“there,” he mumbles, voice wrecked. “all better.”
you whine dramatically and wrap your arms around his neck so he can’t escape. “tease.”
“i’m—working up to it,” he admits, burying his burning face in your neck. “gimme like…five more minutes of not dying.”
you thread your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the nape. “take all the minutes you want, pretty boy.”
he groans against your skin, whole body trembling and you just hold him there in the quiet powder while the sun climbs higher and the mountain holds its breath around you.
you stay tangled in the snow way longer than you should, his nose pressed to your neck while you talk about nothing and everything. he tells you how he found this run when he was fifteen and sneaking out the lodge at night with suguru, how the stars look insane from the ridge up there. you tell him about the time shoko dared you to streak through the quad freshman year and you only made it halfway before security showed up. he laughs so hard he snorts and then dies of embarrassment, hiding his face in your scarf while you scratch his scalp until he’s boneless.
eventually your stomach growls loud enough to echo off the trees and he sits up, hair full of snow like a dork. “shit, you’re starving. i’m the worst date ever.”
“you’re the best,” you correct, letting him pull you up. your legs are jelly and you almost face-plant again, but he catches you by the waist, steady as always. “pancakes? my treat for showing me your secret run.”
he lights up like you offered him the moon. “the diner does chocolate chip ones the size of your head.”
you gasp dramatically. “i'm sold.”
the ride down is lazy and perfect, him in front, you holding his hips the whole time, carving slow s-shapes through the powder while the sun turns everything gold. when you finally pop out at the base he grabs both of your boards without asking and carries them under one arm, other hand locked with yours like it belongs there.
the diner is warm and smells like bacon grease and coffee. you slide into a booth way in the back, knees knocking under the table because he’s too tall to fit right. he orders chocolate chip pancakes for you and blueberry for himself, plus extra whipped cream because he said that 'you strike him as a whipped cream girl.' you kick his shin gently and steal his hot cocoa when he leans down a bit to rub the spot the second it arrives, leaving a glossy print on the rim that makes his ears go scarlet.
you’re halfway through demolishing a pancake the size of a steering wheel when both your phones start vibrating like angry bees. his lights up first—
manager: gojo where the hell are you group lesson in 10
then yours explodes: ten missed calls, thirty-seven texts ranging from shoko’s “did you die” to yuki sending increasingly unhinged eggplant emojis.
you pout at the same time he does, syrup sticky on your fingers. “ugh, fuck my life. adulting.”
“worst timing,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with a napkin and then folding it into a perfect little square. he looks so sad kicking at the table leg that you reach across and lace your fingers with his sticky ones.
“hey,” you say soft, “your shift ends at four, right?” he nods, hopeful.
“come find me after. we can do a real date. no boards, no lessons, no friends cockblocking us.” you lean in, voice dropping. “you mentioned there’s other fun stuff to do here. show me.”
his eyes go huge behind his glasses. “like—like actual date stuff? dinner and walking around and holding hands without pretending it’s for balance?”
“exactly that,” you grin. “i wanna wear a cute outfit and everything…maybe the little black dress i packed just in case i met a cute guy.”
he makes this wounded noise and squeezes your hand so tight your knuckles creak. “i’ll be done at four on the dot. i’ll shower so fast, i promise. meet me by the big fireplace in the main lodge? i’ll probably be the idiot smiling too big to function.”
“perfect,” you whisper, and because your friends are now spam-calling again, you lean across the table quick and kiss the corner of his mouth, tasting chocolate and whipped cream. “go be all professional and stuff. i’ll be thinking about you all day.”
he touches his mouth like you branded him, stands up so fast he bangs his knee on the table, then drops cash for the bill plus a ridiculous tip. “four o’clock,” he says, backing toward the door because he can’t stop staring. “i'll be there, pinky promise.”
“see you soon, pretty boy,” you call, waving with syrupy fingers.
he trips over the welcome mat on his way out and you laugh so hard hot cocoa nearly comes out your nose. best morning ever.
you stomp back into the lodge with snow still clinging to your lashes and that dumb floaty feeling in your chest. the second the door slams behind you, three heads snap up from the couch like meerkats on crack.
“there she is,” yuki announces, kicking her feet up on the coffee table, white claw already in hand even though it’s barely noon. “miss secret morning ride. spill it, did you let the physics nerd raw you in the trees or what?”
shoko doesn’t even look up from her phone, just blows smoke toward the ceiling. “bet he cried when he came. virgin boys always cry.”
utahime cackles so hard she snorts. “did he call your pussy a black hole and say he wanted to study the event horizon?”
“shut the fuck up,” you hiss, cheeks on fire, kicking the door closed with your heel. “it wasn’t like that. we just…snowboarded and talked…and ate pancakes. and he paid. and he’s picking me up at four for a real date.”
“a real date,” yuki repeats in this fake dreamy voice, clasping her hands under her chin. “oh y/n, will you quantum entangle with me under the stars—”
“bitch, i will throw this boot at your head,” you threaten, hopping on one foot while you yank the rented ones off. “he’s sweet, okay? he held my hand the whole lift ride. leave him alone.”
shoko finally glances up, eyebrow raised. “he held your hand. wow, groundbreaking. did he ask permission first or just spontaneously combust?”
“both,” you mutter, flopping face-first onto the armchair, muffling your scream into the cushion. “he’s coming at four and i’m wearing the black dress i brought and you bitches are not allowed to embarrass me.”
“no promises,” utahime sings, already scrolling her phone. “i’m texting suguru right now. bet he has dirt.”
you launch a pillow at her head.
meanwhile, across the resort, satoru is dying.
he’s supposed to be teaching a group of twelve year olds how to link turns on the bunny hill but his brain is still in that diner booth tasting chocolate syrup on your tongue. every time he demonstrates a carve he almost eats shit because he’s thinking about the way your knee knocked his under the table, how your lip gloss left a perfect pink smooch on his cheek.
“mithter gojo, why are you red?” one kid asks, staring up at him with snot frozen to his nose.
“uh—windburn,” satoru lies, pushing his glasses up for the hundredth time. they’re fogged solid. “okay tiny humans, pizza slice position, let’s go—”
he spends the next three hours mechanically correcting stances while his dick twitches every time he remembers you calling him pretty boy. by the time the last kid gets picked up he’s sweating under his jacket even though it’s negative digits outside.
sukuna—his asshole coworker with pink hair and face tattoos—leans against the rack smoking a cig. “you look like you’re about to nut in your pants, dork.”
“fuck off,” satoru mutters, yanking his beanie lower. “i have a date.”
“with the chick in the heart pants? the one who face-planted twenty times yesterday?” sukuna grins, all teeth. “she’s a baddie. real fat ass. you gonna last thirty seconds?”
“i’m gonna last—” satoru starts, then realizes he has no clue. “i’m gonna be a gentleman.”
“sure you are,” sukuna laughs, flicking ash into the snow. “text me when you prematurely bust and cry about it. maybe i can fill in for ya when you're done.” he winks. satoru flips him off and bolts for the staff locker room.
he showers so fast the water’s barely warm, scrubs pine body wash everywhere like it’ll make him smell less like nervous boy. stands in front of the foggy mirror with a towel low on his hips staring at himself like he’s never seen his own reflection before. his dick is already half hard just thinking about seeing you in a dress. he has to slap his face to make it behave.
he changes three times—black jeans and a white hoodie, no too casual; gray sweater, no too soft; ends up in dark jeans and a black turtleneck that makes his eyes look insane. runs product through his hair until it’s fluffy and messy in that way you stared at yesterday. he sprays cologne once, twice, then panics and waves his arms like a bird to disperse it.
by 3:58 he’s pacing in front of the massive stone fireplace in the main lodge, hands shoved deep in his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet. people keep glancing at him because he looks like a runway model who accidentally wandered into a ski resort.
at exactly 4:00 on the dot you appear at the top of the stairs and his brain flatlines.
the black dress is tight and short and clings to every curve he’s been jerking off to for the past twenty-four hours. thin straps, neckline dipping low enough that he can see the swell of your tits when you breathe. your legs look endless in sheer tights and little black kitten heels. hair down and glossy, lips red this time instead of pink.
you spot him and your whole face lights up, waving like a dork as you trot down the stairs. he meets you halfway because his legs move on their own.
“hi,” you breathe, stopping one step above him so you’re almost eye level. “you clean up nice. toru.”
he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—like his brain has short-circuited the moment you got too close. his hands hover uselessly in the air, like he’s scared to touch you where people might see. it’s painfully, adorably obvious.
you sigh, roll your eyes, and hook your fingers around his wrist. he lets you tug him down the stairs, obedient in that dazed, long-limbed way of his, until you slip into a quiet corner by the windows where the hallway hum fades and the world feels smaller.
the moment you’re out of sight, you step in, push him gently back against the wall, and kiss him for the first time.
and for satoru, it’s like someone cracked open the sky.
like constellations reorganizing themselves behind his eyelids, like every astrological forecast he’s ever read suddenly making sense. every atom in his body lights up in this wild, electric way—like the universe just nudged him and whispered, this is it.
the kiss starts soft—just the press of your lips against his, glossy and warm, sticking to his for a heartbeat before you pull back. that tiny separation nearly kills him. his hands finally land on your waist, tentative at first, then gripping the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid he’ll float right off the planet if he doesn’t hold on.
“hi,” he finally manages, voice wrecked. “you’re—fuck—you look unreal.”
“i wanted to look pretty for you. how'd i do?” you murmur, nipping his bottom lip. “mission accomplished?”
he nods too fast. “i’m—yeah—gonna need a minute or i’m gonna do something embarrassing in my pants.”
you laugh against his mouth and he swallows the sound, kissing you deeper this time, tongue sliding slow and careful like he’s scared he’ll mess it up. you taste like cherry lip gloss and the mint you chewed on the way over. your hands slide up into his hair and tug just hard enough to make him groan.
when you pull back his glasses are crooked and his pupils are blown wide. “dinner first,” you decide, smoothing his turtleneck where you wrinkled it. “then we can do embarrassing things in private.”
he exhales shakily. “dinner, right. forgot about food. i can do food.”
you lace your fingers with his and he starts walking you toward the little italian place attached to the lodge, his palm sweaty against yours the whole walk.
once you both reach the restaurant, you tug him through the arched doorway and the warm air hits like a hug—dim amber lights, red checkered tablecloths, old dean martin crooning from hidden speakers. the hostess recognizes satoru immediately since he’s been coming here with suguru since they were freshmen and gives you both the corner booth that’s half-hidden behind a fake grapevine.
satoru slides in first because he’s too tall to fit on the short side and you scoot right next to him instead of across, thighs pressed together under the table from the jump. he freezes for a second, then relaxes when you bump his shoulder with yours.
“um, is this okay?” you ask, nudging his knee.
“more than okay,” he mumbles, cheeks pink again. “just—i'm still, you know, processing that you’re real and that this is real and you're sitting this close and wearing that dress.”
the waitress drops off menus and a basket of garlic knots that smell like heaven. satoru immediately grabs one and tears it in half, steam curling up between you.
“these are dangerous,” he warns, holding the bigger piece out to you. “eat this or i’ll finish the whole basket and hate myself later.”
you take it, fingers brushing his, and he watches your mouth way too intently while you bite. butter and garlic and parmesan explode on your tongue and you actually moan a little.
his eyes go comically wide behind his glasses.
“good?” he croaks.
“marry me,” you say around the bite, more so talking to the garlic knot than him, then laugh when his ears turn scarlet.
you both order—him the carbonara because he’s a creature of habit, you the spicy vodka rigatoni because you saw it on the specials board and wanted to watch him sweat when you'd eventually feed him a forkful. he orders a coke, you get a sprite and then you’re just staring at each other wrapped in candlelight while frank sinatra sings about strangers in the night.
“so,” you start. “tell me something embarrassing that isn’t about snowboarding or astrophysics.”
he snorts, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “uh, well…last month i tried to microwave a burrito still in the foil. i might've set off every smoke alarm in the dorm. suguru filmed me running around in boxers waving a towel like a helicopter. it was on his private story.”
you cackle loud enough that the couple two booths over glares. “oh my god, you have to send it to me later.”
“never,” he says, but he’s grinning. “your turn.”
you lean in, voice low. “freshman year i got so drunk at a halloween party i thought the campus statue was a real guy hitting on me. probably spent like twenty minutes trying to give it my number before shoko dragged me away.”
he throws his head back and laughs—full, loud, nose scrunch and everything—and it’s the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.
the food comes and it’s ridiculous portions. you stab the pasta with your fork and hold it up to his mouth because sharing is caring. he takes the bite, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk, then immediately starts coughing because the sauce is actually spicy as hell.
“water—water—” he wheezes, grabbing your sprite and chugging half of it. you pat his back, giggling. “told you it was hot,” you tease.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes watering. “you’re evil, really evil.”
the conversation flows stupid easy after that and he keeps stealing bites off your plate even though his carbonara is right there. you keep stealing bites off his when he’s not looking and he's not at all, because all he can look at is you. every time his hand brushes yours, he gives it a gentle squeeze like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
at one point the waitress drops off tiramisu you didn’t order and winks. “on the house for the cute couple.”
satoru goes bright red and mumbles thank you while you beam. you dig in first, scoop up a massive bite of mascarpone and cocoa and hold it to his lips. “open,” you order, wiggling the fork a little.
his eyes flutter shut like he’s tasting drugs. “fuck, that’s good.”
you take the next bite and a little cream sticks to your bottom lip. he stares for a solid five seconds, thumb twitching on the table like he wants to wipe it off. you beat him to it, licking it slow on purpose, watching his throat bob.
“you’re killing me.” he whispers, brows furrowed, eyes soft.
“good.” you whisper back, batting your lashes up at him.
by the time the check comes, he snatches it before you can even look, you’re both leaning into each other, shoulders touching, his arm stretched along the back of the booth behind you. he traces little circles on your bare, bare shoulder with one finger, light enough to raise goosebumps.
“do you…still wanna walk around?” he asks, voice soft, a little nervous. “or we could…i dunno…go somewhere quieter?”
you turn your head so your lips almost brush his jaw. “quieter sounds perfect.”
he pays, leaves yet another ridiculous tip, and then you’re sliding out of the booth, his hand finding yours immediately like it’s magnetic. outside the restaurant the lodge is all twinkle lights and soft jazz spilling from speakers hidden in fake pine trees. he tucks you into his side as you walk, thumb rubbing over your knuckles.
“so…the fireplace again?” he suggests, nodding toward the massive stone one in the main lobby. “or my room’s…closer. staff lodging is right behind the rental shop. no sukuna, he’s on night patrol tonight.”
you squeeze his fingers. “your room. definitely your room.”
he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours and steers you toward the side exit, his heartbeat hammering so hard you can feel it through his jacket where you’re pressed against him. the night air is sharp and cold but neither of you feel it—you’re both burning up, fingers tangled, stealing little glances every three seconds like teenagers who just discovered kissing exists. he keeps bumping your hip on accident, you keep stepping on the back of his shoe, both of you giggling like idiots under the strings of bulb lights.
the staff lodging is a low wooden building tucked behind the main lodge, warm light glowing from a couple windows. he fumbles the keycard twice before the door clicks open, then ushers you inside like you’re made of glass. his room is exactly what you expected and somehow cuter: string lights along the ceiling, digimon posters half-hidden under snowboard magazines, a stack of physics textbooks threatening to topple off the desk, one single bed pushed against the wall with a navy comforter that’s definitely too small for him. it smells like the pine soap and laundry detergent you've come to adore over the last two days.
he shuts the door, locks it, then just stands there staring at you in the soft light, hands flexing at his sides. “hi,” he says again, like it’s the first time tonight.
“hi,” you answer, stepping closer until your boots bump his sneakers. “so…are you gonna kiss me again or do i have to climb you like a tree?”
his answer is immediate—he cups your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks, and kisses you slow and deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours like he’s been starving for it. you make this soft needy noise into his mouth and he walks you backward until your knees hit the bed, never breaking the kiss.
when you finally pull apart you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. “been thinking about doing that again after the first time,” he admits, voice rough.
“same,” you whisper, fingers curling into his turtleneck. “now, please take this off before i rip it.”
he laughs shakily and yanks it over his head in one motion, hair exploding into fluffy white chaos. the second the shirt’s gone you’re on him again, hands sliding over warm skin, tracing the lean lines of his stomach, the little happy trail that disappears under his jeans. he shivers hard when your nails scrape lightly over his nipples.
“fuck—wait—” he gasps, catching your wrists gently. “i’m—i’m gonna embarrass myself if we go fast. like really fast. i’ve never—”
“i know,” you soothe, kissing his jaw, his throat, his cheeks. “we go slow. whatever you want. i’m not going anywhere.”
he exhales like you just lifted the weight of the world off his shoulders and kisses you again, softer this time, guiding you down onto the bed so you’re straddling his lap. the string lights paint both of you gold and his hands are shaking when they settle on your hips over the dress.
“tell me if i do anything wrong,” he murmurs against your lips.
“you won’t,” you promise, rolling your hips once just to watch his eyes roll back. “just touch me, toru. anywhere. everywhere.”
and then his hands are everywhere—sliding up your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress higher, thumbs tracing the lace tops of your tights, mouth hot on your neck while you grind slow and dirty in his lap. slick pooling in your panties.
he keeps rocking you against him like he can’t stop, hips jerking up every time your clothed pussy drags over the bulge in his jeans. the friction is filthy, wet sounds starting already because you’re soaked through the lace. his breath hitches against your throat.
“fuck—wait—” he pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. “i’ve literally never done this. like. any of this. zero. virgin with a capital everything. you were my first kiss tonight. i don’t even own condoms because my brain never got that far.”
you kiss the tip of his nose. “i’m on the pill and i’m clean. we’re good if you want it raw. and toru, baby, i want you to wreck me tonight, okay? no embarrassment allowed.”
he makes this broken little sound and drops his forehead to your shoulder. “you’re sure? because once we start i don’t think i can—”
you shut him up by sliding off his lap and sinking to your knees between his spread thighs. his belt clinks loud in the quiet room when you yank it open.
“oh fuck oh fuck—” he whispers, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to put them.
you pop the button, drag the zipper down slow, and his cock basically jumps out—long, flushed angry pink, tip already shiny and leaking. he’s thick enough that your fingers barely meet when you wrap around him. the second your hand touches bare skin he jolts like you shocked him.
“sensitive,” he chokes out, laughing nervously. “really sensitive—shit—”
you stroke once, slow, thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum. his hips buck hard enough to lift off the mattress.
“gonna taste you now,” you tell him, voice low, and before he can answer you lean in and lick a fat stripe from base to tip.
his reaction is instant—head slamming back against the wall, a strangled “jesus—fuck—” ripping out of him. you take the head into your mouth, suck gentle, tongue swirling, and he’s already shaking, thighs trembling on either side of your shoulders.
“y/n—baby—you keep doing that a-and i’m not gonna last, i swear—” he’s babbling, fingers finally landing in your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life. you pull off with a wet pop and he whines, actual tears in his eyes.
“that’s okay,” you murmur, kissing the inside of his thigh. “cum whenever you want the first time. we’ve got all night.”
you sink down again, deeper this time, cheeks hollowing, hand twisting at the base. he lasts maybe thirty seconds—hips stuttering, abs clenching—then he’s yelling your name, cock pulsing hard as he shoots thick ropes of cum straight down your throat. you swallow every drop, humming around him until he’s twitching from overstimulation and tugging weakly at your hair. you pull off slow, lips shiny, and he hauls you up immediately to kiss you messy and desperate, tasting himself on your tongue and groaning into it.
“your turn,” he rasps, flipping you so fast the room spins. he shoves your dress up to your waist, practically rips your tights and panties down in one go. the second he sees you bare he freezes, staring like he’s never seen pussy before—which he hasn’t.
“so pretty,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “can i—”
you cut him off, voice needy. “yes, toru. please.”
he dives in like a starving man—nose bumping your clit on the first try, tongue licking a broad stripe through your slick folds and moaning loud enough to vibrate against you. he’s sloppy, eager, licking into you like he’s trying to drink you dry. when he finds your clit and sucks you jolt so hard he has to pin your hips down.
“like that?” he mumbles against you, words muffled because he refuses to pull away long enough to talk properly.
“fuck—yes—just like that—”
he loses his mind after that. tongue fucking into you, then back to your clit, two fingers sliding in easy because you’re dripping for him. he curls them, finds that spot on the first try—pure luck—and you arch off the bed with a broken cry. he does it again and again, sucking your clit in pulses until you’re grinding against his face, thighs clamping around his head.
“toru—gonna cum—don’t stop—”
he moans into you and doubles down. you shatter, clenching hard around his fingers, flooding his mouth. he drinks it all down, licking you through it until you’re pushing at his forehead because it’s too much.
he finally pulls back, face wrecked—lips swollen, chin shiny, glasses completely fogged and crooked. he looks drunk. “again,” he says hoarsely. “wanna do that again.”
you laugh breathlessly and drag him up to kiss him, tasting yourself everywhere. “later, need you inside me now.”
he scrambles for his wallet like a man possessed, then remembers he has nothing and just whimpers like a puppy. you push him onto his back, straddle his hips, reach between the two of you and line him up, the fat tip nudging your tight hole.
“we'll go slow, okay?” you tell him, sinking down inch by inch.
he’s big—stretching you open, burning in the best way. his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, mouth open in a silent scream. when you bottom out you both just breathe for a second, foreheads pressed together.
“move—please move—” he begs. you roll your hips slow and he’s already shaking, cock twitching inside you. you ride him steady, watching his face—eyes rolling back, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. after maybe two minutes his abs clench hard.
“fuck—gonna cum again—i’m sorry—”
“do it,” you whisper, grinding down hard. “fill me up, toru.”
he snaps—hips slamming up, coming with a choked sob, pumping you full of heat. you keep riding through it, chasing your second, and the overstimulation makes him whine and buck wildly.
you cum again clenching around him, milking every drop. he’s still hard thankfully so you climb off shaky legs and flip onto your stomach, bending over.
“please don't stop,” you gasp. “i want more.”
he goes wide eyed and blanks for a second at the sight of you on all fours presented to him like a meal. he cartoonishly shakes his head and scrambles up, grabs your hips, slides back in easy because he’s made a mess of you. the angle’s deeper—he hits something that makes you scream into the pillow. he fucks you hard now, confidence blooming, one hand sliding up your spine to press between your shoulder blades.
“like this?” he pants. “tell me—tell me it’s good, baby—”
“so good—so fucking good—hah- harder—”
he pounds into you, the bed creaking, skin slapping against skin so loud in the tiny room. you reach back, grab his wrist, guide his hand around to your clit. he rubs messy circles and you’re gone again, pussy fluttering hard around him. he follows right after—hips stuttering, burying deep and spilling again with a broken moan of your name. you feel every pulse, hot and thick inside you. he collapses half on top of you, both of you sweaty and wrecked, his cock still twitching. after a minute he kisses your shoulder, your neck, your cheek.
“again?” he mumbles, already half hard inside you.
you laugh into the pillow. “give me five minutes and then ruin me some more, pretty boy.”
you wake up tangled in navy sheets with his long arm locked around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. he’s already half hard again, pressed against your ass, mouthing sleepy kisses along your shoulder.
“morning, princess,” he mumbles, voice gravel-rough. “round four? five? i lost count.”
you laugh and roll over to kiss him slow and lazy, both of you tasting like last night. the rest of the trip melts into one long blur of exactly that. cozy mornings in till he has to go to work, waking up wrapped in each other, sneaking off the slopes to fuck in empty locker rooms, quickies in the staff shower, slow sleepy sex at 3 a.m in his room with the string lights painting gold across his back while he whispers how perfect you feel around him. he eats you out on his desk at least twice a day until your legs stop working. you somehow manage to jerk him off in the gondola once and he has to bite his own glove to stay quiet.
your friends go from roasting him to adopting him in like forty-eight hours. the first morning after the date you stumble into the lodge kitchen at noon wearing his hoodie and nothing else, thighs still shaky.
shoko looks up from her coffee, cigarette dangling. “jesus, he actually dicked you down. you’re glowing.”
yuki whistles. “gojo! get in here, nerd!”
he appears in the doorway in sweatpants and messy hair, cheeks pink.
utahime throws a croissant at his head. “you made her walk funny. good on you, dork.”
by day three they’re dragging him into their jeep for late-night hot tub runs, forcing him to shotgun white claws, teaching him beer pong on the coffee table. he loses spectacularly every time but laughs so hard, actually enjoying the time he's spent with you and your friends, for once, he doesn't feel like the dorky nerd everyone paints him out to be.
on the last night you all pile into the hot tub under the stars, steam curling up into the freezing air. satoru sits behind you, legs spread so you’re between them, chin on your shoulder.
yuki splashes him. “so, gojo, are you treating our girl right or do we have to bury you somewhere on the campus grounds?”
he tightens his arms around your waist, kisses your wet shoulder. “planning on keeping her forever if she lets me.”
the girls aww dramatically. shoko flicks water at both of you. “that's so fucking gross, i like him now. don’t fuck it up.”
you and the girls go home the next day, his hand never leaving yours as he walks you utahime's jeep. he kisses you stupid until sukuna yells at him to get back to work.
two weeks later, on christmas day, you’re standing in his childhood driveway in kyoto, snow dusting the traditional roof tiles, wearing the fluffiest coat you own because he warned you his mom keeps the house like the arctic. he’s vibrating beside you in a black peacoat, hair doing its fluffy thing, holding your hand so tight your fingers go numb.
the door flies open before he can even knock.
“satoru!” his mom shrieks, launching herself at him for a hug, then freezes when she spots you. her eyes go comically wide. “oh my god. oh my god! is this the girlfriend???”
satoru’s face explodes red. “mom—”
she’s already grabbing your cheeks, squishing them, tears in her eyes. “you’re real! you’re so pretty! he said he had good news and he never answered and i thought—”
“mom!” he wails, trying to pry her off you.
his dad appears behind her, tall and quiet and smiling exactly like satoru does when he’s trying not to laugh. “let the poor girl breathe, dear.”
she finally releases you but immediately drags you inside by the hand, chattering a mile a minute about baby photos and his old digimon bedroom and how she always knew he’d bring home someone perfect.
satoru catches your eye across the genkan while he’s kicking off his boots, mouthing “i’m so sorry” with the goofiest grin.
you mouth back “i love you” and watch his entire soul leave his body in the best way. his mom is still talking as she pulls you toward the living room, grabbing her photo albums.
“i knew it! i knew my baby finally got a girlfriend!”
satoru groans into his hands but he’s smiling so wide it hurts.
(titles marked with * are flagged explicit - 18+ only)
the short story
good wife *
the drabbles
you, for dinner *
white lies *
lay me down *
breathing you*
all of me wants all of you *, treasured *
call me by your name *
ginger miso *
jealous, wolf and the lamb *
bad day *
for a lifetime
eyes open *
yours *
all worked up *
blushy boy
midnight messes *
for me * (sinners!au)
tied up *
on the edge, lick back *
-
papamin (sub-trope)
breadwinner
spoiled *
clogged
whipped *
pheromonal *
sore-tongued
closeness
starving *
growing old, sandy laundry
six weeks, no mind no mercy *
manners *
talk talk, daddy’s home, bedtime
dodging bullets
stability
shameless
ditl!
elly's favs ୨୧
pheromonal * - you're no stranger to your husband's odd antics -- after all, he's nearly super-human. but you never expected to walk in on him sniffing your underwear.
growing old - you and kento retired to malaysia after rin graduated high school. now, you two have a lifetime of love to share.
talk talk - you and kento's three-year-old daughter has a lot to talk about, especially when her dad's around
PAIRING • Underground Boxer! Sukuna x Med Student! Reader
SUMMARY • Under the neon haze of Shinjuku’s underbelly, Sukuna Ryoumen lives two lives — a ruthless underground boxer feared for his violent brutality, and a man just another ghost slipping through the city’s cracks. A medical student who should’ve stayed a stranger. But when he starts showing up in your life, bruised and grinning like sin itself, you find yourself making the mistake of caring. — You’re patching up the parts of him he swore were long gone. But his world is not meant for someone like you. Each time you thread the needle through his skin, you stitch yourself deeper into his chaos — and when it comes crashing down, both of you must decide what’s worth saving: his pride or your heart.
WORD COUNT • 37.3 K . 3h 6m
THEMES • Modern AU, Unfergroud Boxer x Med Student, mutual pining, Strangers to lovers, Violence, Strong language, Explicit Violence, Detailed injuries, Yearner of yearning, Profanity, Hospital, Blood, Slow-Burn, (Sukuna might be a little ooc oops), MANY misunderstandings and arguements, Threats, Fluff, HEAVY ANGST, Bittersweet, Little comedy, Matcha, Making out, Domestic relationship,
AUTHOR'S NOTE • AAHHH, finally done. After facing many technical issues, it's done. Honestly, Tumblr decides at times to annoy me, but nonetheless, here, I have a lot of fun writing this story, even if I can't feel my back now. Also, I've made some changes from the Original Headcannon. Please excuse the grammatical errors, or any mistake, as I'll edit those soon enough as I get my rest and any medical terms, as some might be incorrect, and I got carried away adding those to the story as well as violenc,e but i do hope i did a good job incorporating it into the story anyhow enough talking and happy reading!
Ryomen Sukuna.両面 宿儺Masterlist • Support my writing
The crowds pressed in like wolves hungry for a kill, the stench of sweat and cigarette smoke thick in the stale air of the underground pit, a concrete basement beneath an abandoned warehouse. Its walls echoed with hoarse voices and clattering coins. A swarm of gamblers pressed against the rusted cage, smoke, sweat, and adrenaline hanging heavy in the air. The scent of copper—blood, fresh and old—stained the concrete floor.
In the pit below, a makeshift ring sat in the center, ropes sagging, the floor dark with old blood no one had bothered to clean. Flashlights, camera phones, and flickering bulbs bathed everything in harsh, uneven light. Fighters stood like wolves, waiting to tear each other's necks apart.
In the center of the ring stood him.
Shirtless, his body carved in scars and ink, his skin gleaming with a sheen of oil and sweat under the dim light. His fists were already taped—not white, but stained pink from old blood he hadn’t bothered to wash off. His eyes burned like coals behind the curtain of damp, dark hair. Across his ribs, arms, and back, tattoos curved like fangs, crawling over muscle, eyes sharp and unblinking, red under the dim light. Four scars sliced down his back like the marks of a god’s hand.
“The Oni’s fighting again.” “You sure? I thought he got banned. Didn't he almost kill the kid yesterday?”
“Yeah, three motherfucking circuit of excessive brutality. That kid just might be a murderer rather than a boxer, he doesn't give a flying shit about the rules, man.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s here. They brought him back for the money, dipshit.”
Sukuna. No—The Red King. The Four-Armed Devil. The Oni. Names spat like prayers or curses, depending on who said them. When he rolled his shoulders, the crowd roared.
“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”
It started as a murmur, then became a chant that shook the walls. He didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t need to. Their faith was irrelevant. All that mattered was the fight. The money. He stepped into the ring, bare feet scraping against concrete smeared with dried crimson. Across the ring, his opponent—a mountain of a man, bigger, heavier, veins throbbing under his skin, mouth guard glinting. A brick of a man named Vega cracked his knuckles.
“Heard you’re a myth,” Vega sneered, voice gritty. “Time to see if myths bleed.”
Sukuna’s lips twitched—a faint smirk.
The ref, if you could call him that, barked something about “rules,” but they both knew there were none here. The bell cracked through the air. Sukuna rolled his shoulders, inhaled slowly. His heartbeat pounded in his skull. His muscles twitched, restless.
Somewhere behind the roar of the crowd, his manager shouted across the chaos.
“You want that damn cut, you win this clean! None of that mercy shit, Sukuna!!! Don't make me clean your shit again!!”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He’d already taken the pill fifteen minutes ago—the little white capsule that burned like hellfire down his throat, making his pulse explode. His veins high alert, muscles tight, eyes sharp as razors. The drug hit like lightning.
DING!
As hell broke loose.
The first hit landed like thunder. Vega’s fist slammed into Sukuna’s ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. He grunted, barely budging. Vega was good—fast, technical—but Sukuna's not a sportsman.
He let him hit. Let the man feel like a winner. His opponent charged again, throwing a right hook that cracked against Sukuna’s thick jaw. Pain bloomed. He grinned, teeth flashing through the blood in his mouth, and retaliated with a brutal left uppercut that sent the man stumbling back.
The crowd went feral.
“ONI! ONI! ONI!”
He swung low, body twisting with the weight of a man built for violence. His knuckles connected with Vega’s jaw. The sound was sickening—a crack, followed by the splatter of blood onto the mat. Vega staggered back, spitting teeth. Sukuna didn’t pause. Hook. Uppercut. Elbow. Every blow spat blood everywhere.
He didn’t fight for them. Didn’t fight for fame.
He fought for the money, the money that would secure his life back—a life, a moment, a piece of himself long buried.
Sukuna advanced like a devil. Every punch was a war drum — fists slamming into flesh, ribs crunching, breath hitching. He didn’t fight to score points. He fought to hurt. To erase. To feel the impact reverberate through his bones like proof he was still alive.
His opponent swung again, wild, desperate. Sukuna didn’t dodge — he took it, cheek splitting open. Blood spattered across the mat, copper on his tongue.
He spat it out as he struck—a knee to the gut. Vega doubled over. Sukuna grabbed him by the neck, forcing him upright before slamming a fist into his stomach so deep it made the crowd flinch.
“FUCKING KILL HIM, MAN!” someone screamed. “MAKE MY MONEY WORTH!”
Then he drove his fist into the man’s gut once, twice — a third time, until he heard the retch, the gasp. The man crumpled, clutching his stomach. Sukuna grabbed him by the scruff, yanked him upright, as heavy hot breath left from his bloodied mouth, exhaling, and rammed a knee into his face. Bone cracked. The crowd screamed.
One. Two. Three.
Each strike is like punctuation. His vision pulsed red, the pill thrumming through his blood, adrenaline flooding every nerve. He could hear the ring — the deafening voice of his bitchass manager, the pulse — the rhythm of bodies, the chant of his name.
Sukuna’s eyes flicked up. The crowd blurred. For a second, he saw something else—
A flicker of memory.
A small room. A little boy sitting beside a hospital bed. Hand cold in his. The machines had gone silent hours ago. He’d been twelve.
“No coverage. No transplant. I’m sorry, kid.”
He’d sworn, then, he’d never beg again. Never be helpless. Never be poor. Never be weak.
Another hit—Vega’s desperate hook. It connected with Sukuna’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. Pain bloomed. He stumbled a step back, tongue brushing his bleeding lip. Vega’s eyes went wide—hope flickering for a heartbeat.
Sukuna smiled. A feral, teeth-bared grin.
“THAT ALL YOU GOT!?”
He surged forward, unhinged. The next thirty seconds were carnage. Sukuna absorbed punches that would have ended lesser men.
His body swayed, his muscles screaming—but his fists never slowed. He drove Vega to the corner, one, two, three blows splitting the man’s eyebrow open, blood cascading down his face. A right cross. A left hook. A knee.
The man staggered back, face a ruin, eyes glassy. Sukuna followed, relentless. A hook to the jaw. Another to the ribs. He ducked a counterpunch, felt it graze his temple, saw stars — then answered with a cross that dropped his opponent like dead weight.
The ref hesitated — the man wasn’t moving.
But the crowd wanted blood.
The finishing strike—an uppercut that sent Vega sprawling. The man hit the mat with a sickening thud that silenced the crowd for a breath. Sukuna’s chest heaved. His hands shook — not from mercy, but from the aftershock. He lifted his fist, hesitated just long enough to prove he could’ve killed him — then lowered it. Turned his back, his feet stained from Vega's blood-pooled form.
The bell rang. A roar so loud it shook the rafters.
Sukuna stood above the body, Hot steam emitting from his overheating body, chest heaving. The audience's sure they have just seen the devil as blood drips from his crooked nose, his jaw, his fists.
His eye is swollen. He didn’t raise his arms. Didn’t smile. Didn’t celebrate. He just spat on the floor. Body drenched in sweat, heaving. Stepping over the ropes, every muscle screaming, heart thundering.
As walked off, leaving the medics to scrape Vega off the mat.
The shower ran cold, an icy cascade sluicing over his bruised, battered body, stripping away the sweat and grime of the fight. His teeth chattered involuntarily, his arm pressed against the wall for support, the muscles trembling under the shock of cold. And yet… he welcomed it. Every drop seemed to claw at the tension coiled tight in his body, every jet of water dragging the painful adrenaline from his veins.
The room echoed with the slap of water against tile, the hiss of steam curling in the corners like smoke from a dying fire. The cold seeped into every joint, numbing the aches that throbbed insistently. He pressed his palm against a split rib, grimacing as the sting of contact flared, then slowly traced the jagged cut along his forearm.
Blood bled into the torrent, streaking down the drain, a grim red lace mingling with the water. Fingers flexed slowly, testing joints and tendons, feeling the betrayals his body had endured in the ring. Every bruise, every abrasion, whispered reminders of his mortality and his persistence. He tilted his head back, letting the water sluice through his pink hair, washing away the black dye, sweat, and grime, sending it into the tiled abyss. The burn of each bruise, each cut, pressed like tiny warnings—but he welcomed it, a silent acknowledgment that he was alive, still fighting, still himself.
Then the door slammed open.
“You really fucking think you can just—” Rin’s voice cracked, sharp as a whip. High heels clicked over wet tile as she stormed in, hands flailing like she might tear him apart with words alone.
“That was—why the fuck did you fucking knee him! You almost got fucking disqualified! Do you even care what this does to your—YOU CURSE FUCK OF A MAN,”
Before he could react, she grabbed the nearest object—a metal hairbrush from the counter and hurled it across the room. It clattered against the tile, ricocheting off the wall mere inches from his head. Water sprayed from the shower in tiny droplets as he flinched but remained rooted, eyes half-closed, letting the icy stream mask the sting of her anger. Her chest heaved, cigarette smoke curling around her face as she glared, trembling with fury.
“Do you even fucking hear me? Or are you too busy playing with death like it’s a game?”
Sukuna didn’t respond. Not a word. The water shielded him, the icy rush masking her voice, isolating him in a bubble of pain and focus. He didn’t even open his eyes; instead, he worked methodically to clean the coagulated blood from a deep gash on his shoulder. Fingers pressed, massaged, scrubbed—not violently, but with the precise, deliberate patience of a ritual. The drug still throbbed through his veins, amplifying the sensation of every pulse, every micro-muscle spasm.
“You’re supposed to be precise! Controlled! Use your fucking fist! Not—this!” Rin’s face twisted, pointed, accusatory. She stepped closer, breath sharp with cigarette smoke, but Sukuna remained still, letting the ice seep deeper into his skin, letting the water burn its lessons in.
“You’ll get yourself killed one day, you fuck!!”
Her words ricocheted off him like empty glass. He didn’t need approval. Didn’t need warnings. Didn’t need anyone. She groaned in frustration, dragging a hand through her hair, the cigarette between her fingers trembling, and finally backed away, muttering threats under her breath, the door slamming shut behind her. Sukuna let the water carve along his body, every drop a silent promise: he fought for no one but himself. And for the first time in hours, everything quieted—just a little.
When the water finally stopped, he lingered under the dripping silence, wrapping a towel around his waist. Steam clung to him, fogging the mirror, and he studied the reflection of a man who looked more ghost than human: blood streaked his face, bruises shadowed his jaw and collarbone, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Yet he stood unbroken. Hollow, but unbroken.
He flexed his hands again, tracing the cuts along his arms, lingering on each, memorizing each imperfection. A small, bitter smile tugged at his lips. The world demanded more. He would oblige. The locker room was dim, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent light that cast long, jagged shadows. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked cadaverous as he stepped out, water dripping from every scar, bruised shoulders trembling.
“Fifty grand,” Rin said, tossing a thick envelope to Sukuna, who caught it midair without counting, bills smudging under his damp fingers before he shoved it into his bag.
Her eyes were sharp, calculating. “You’re lucky the crowd went crazy tonight. You made the house—and me—a fortune. You’ll get your cut once I settle the bets.”
“You took too many hits tonight,” Rin muttered, voice low, dangerous. “You’re gettin’ sloppy.”
Sukuna’s eyes flicked up, cold. “Still won.”
“Barely. You’d be dead without the drugs.”
Her hand delved into her coat, retrieving a small bottle. Pills rattled inside as she shook them, as Sukuna’s eyes followed, unblinking. The drugs. Not steroids. Worse. Something that burned through nerves like acid, amplifying endurance at a terrifying cost. He’d been taking them for two years. Each fight lasted longer. Each crash left him more hollow.
“Can’t afford to have you pass out mid-match,” Rin said, tossing it casually. Sukuna caught it, thumb brushing the glass, contemplating the poison.
“Next fight’s next week,” she continued, cigarette smoke curling around her words. “Big crowd. Big bets. And keep your head down—no cops. The syndicate wants money, not paperwork.”
Sukuna didn’t respond. Rin smirked, tapping her cigarette. “You’re a goldmine, Red King. Don’t go soft on me now.” He walks toward his locker, gathering his duffel bag, towering over the fluorescent-lit room. The bruises along his shoulders and collarbone caught the harsh light as he methodically began dressing, sliding on his damp shirt over the scratches and dark welts on his chest.
Laced up his worn shoes slowly, deliberately, each movement precise, controlled—a predator preparing to leave the cage.
Rin watched, leaning casually against the wall, cigarette smoke curling lazily around her face. Her eyes traced the arc of his muscles as they flexed under the taut skin, the subtle quiver in his fingers as he tugged on his sleeves. She saw the remnants of the fight in the bruises, the blood smeared along his torso, and yet she didn’t look away. The tension in the room thickened as she studied him like a hunter marking prey—and prey that refused to be tamed.
“I don’t fight for you,” he said finally, voice low, controlled, as he slung the duffel bag over one shoulder, his damp hair sticking to the sweat and water running down his neck.
“Yeah?” Her smirk widened, sharp as a blade, and her eyes glimmered with something sharper than amusement. “Then what do you fight for?”
She stayed quiet for a beat longer, letting her gaze linger on him as he zipped up his bag, wiped the remaining water from his hair with a towel, and adjusted his shirt over the cuts and bruises. Every flick of movement, every motion, was deliberate, and Rin felt a flicker of something she didn’t expect—admiration, maybe, or something closer to fascination.
Sukuna caught her watching only with a slight tilt of his head, acknowledging her presence without conceding anything. Then, without a word, he stepped toward the door, the fluorescent light flickering over the sharp planes of his bruised, battered body. And left.
The chilly wind cut through your face like a knife, slicing through the ushanka you had sworn would keep your face warm, as the snow fell in delicate, wet flakes, settling quickly into the slush that already coated the busy, noisy streets.
Your arms were full — medical files stacked precariously against your chest, a cardboard tray of lab samples propped up on top as your glasses threatened to slip off your nose, along with your bag hanging from one shoulder, its strap digging into your flesh, threatening to slide off at any moment. Winter had betrayed you today; it's almost humorous. It wasn’t the first time you’d walked home in the dark from the campus, but it was the first time the city felt actively against you, slicked in ice and hostility.
Every step was a gamble as your boots hit a patch of frozen puddle, slid out from under you, and you grabbed at the nearest railing — which proved too thin and flimsy — barely catching yourself. Papers fluttered from your tray, landing in wet, unreadable messes, along with your glasses. God, you really need that retainer for your glasses.
“Shit!” you cursed under your breath, crouching to pick them up as passerbys gave you wary looks, some startled enough to jump back. You flushed hotly, muttering apologies to no one in particular, shoving stray papers back into place, fumbling with the project.
By the time you managed to get everything back in order, your gloved fingers were numb, the ends of your hair damp from the snow, your back aching under the weight of responsibilities that seemed to be nonstop just because the world had frozen. Your bag had shifted again; the strap caught on your coat, and you stumbled once more.
A voice of reason — yours — screamed inside your head, Take a shortcut, the alley, less traffic, less chance of humiliation. You turned sharply into the narrow alleyway between two brick buildings. The streetlights were few and flickering, casting long shadows that seemed to twist and creep with the wind as the alley smelled faintly of mold, old smoke, and something metallic you couldn’t identify. The kind of scent that made you wrinkle your nose and double-check your belongings still with you.
Your boots crunched on ice and broken concrete, each step unstable. You muttered curses under your breath at the world for being too cruel, at the campus for giving you too much to carry, at the alley for being both a shortcut and a trap. And out of nowhere in your peripheral vision, you saw him.
He appeared like some sort of shadow carved out of muscle and menace: broad shoulders, towering height, pink hair plastered against his face by the sweat and snow. For a moment, you froze, heart lurching. He was big. Bigger than anyone you had ever seen in person. Not just tall — imposing, dangerous. Your mind raced with every warning you’d been taught about judging strangers at first sight, but you couldn’t shake the primal instinct to panic.
Heart hammered against your ribcage as you forced yourself to take a step back.
Don’t judge too quickly, you told yourself, but your brain screamed RUN. You adjusted your grip on your pile of hospital things and began to sidestep around him, careful to avoid contact, but your boots betrayed you. A slick patch of ice caught your shoe, and you stumbled. You cursed, arms flailing, and in a desperate attempt to catch yourself, you collided directly with his duffel bag. The world tilted. There was a thud, a grunt, and then — your belongings scattered in every direction like wet confetti. Papers rolled across the concrete. Papers stuck to icy patches. Your tray flipped halfway, samples sliding across the floor with a sickening rattle.
He cursed — deep, guttural, and sharp — a sound that made your stomach lurch. He bent over, steadying himself against the wall with one hand, while his other hand twitched toward his duffel bag as if he could physically erase the impact of your collision.
“I—oh God, I’m so sorry!” you stammered, bending frantically to gather your scattered items. Every instinct screamed that this was his fault too, that if he hadn't been standing like a looming threat in a dark alley, this would never have happened, but your entire being was a textbook case of embarrassment and panic. As he straightened slowly, a sneer cut across his face. “Watch where the fuck you’re—” His words cut off as he staggered slightly. His hand went to his chest, his knees buckling.
You froze. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. You looked at him, really looked. His face was pale beneath the snow and shadow, lips cracked, bruises still dark and angry along his jaw and cheekbones. His knuckles were raw, and his shoulders slumped forward as if the act of standing upright alone was an achievement. You reached out instinctively, then thought better of it. You’re not supposed to touch strangers — but he’s not just a stranger.
He’s… something, and something must have happened. But before you could think any further, he collapsed, hitting the ground with a dull thunk. Your heart dropped. He fainted.
You froze in panic. Thoughts collided in your brain. Is he dead? He’s dead. He’s… someone else will come… but no, you couldn’t leave. Couldn’t. You're a med student. A healer. A person who spent nights memorizing anatomy and pharmacology, and emergency procedures. You wouldn’t walk away. Not now. Quickly dropping to your knees beside him, carefully brushing snow from his pink hair, you checked his pulse. It was weak, thready — but there. Relief mixed with fear, forming a bitter taste in your mouth. You checked for breathing, listened for signs of life. His chest rose in uneven rhythms.
Your hands trembled as you adjusted his position slightly, careful to avoid jostling his battered body. And noted every detail, a swelling along the jaw, a black eye, and lifting his jacket only to see a bruised shoulder, raw knuckles, and dark purple streaks along his arms as you lifted the sleeves. He had been fighting, or at least had gotten in a nasty fight. You could see it in the way his body responded to gravity, how his posture screamed exhaustion, trauma, and how he smelled of something… something chemical.
It hit you then—A withdrawal. Whatever he had taken, possibly his blood pressure had dropped, or his brain wasn't getting enough oxygen; his body was rejecting it now. That would explain the fainting. The agitation. The sheer exhaustion made standing impossible.
You swallowed hard, eyes scanning for anything in your surroundings that could help: nearby trash bins for stabilization, a wall to lean him against, a piece of cardboard for insulation from the ice. And his big ass duffle bag to elevate his legs about 12 inches (30 cm) to help his blood flow to the brain. Your hands hovered over him, unsure, until logic took over panic. Check for any injuries, stabilize the patient, keep him warm, and do not leave.
You started gathering his arms gently, sliding the icy concrete from his jacket where possible as his head lolled slightly, and you instinctively cupped it, making sure his airway remained clear. “You’re okay… you’re okay,” you whispered, more to convince yourself than him. His body was still trembling. Bruises and cuts were clear under your gloves. You traced your gloved hand along his jawline, checking for fractures. Nothing that couldn’t be stabilized in the short term, but he’d need care. A hospital, yes. Tonight, he's your patient, and you are all he has now.
Your breath came in shallow bursts, fogging the air. Then, without hesitation, you pulled off your ushanka and placed it gently over his head, adjusting the flaps to cover his ears.
It looked absurdly small on him — the fur-lined cap barely containing the mess of pink hair — but the thought of leaving him bare in the cold made your chest ache. You pressed it down carefully, brushing the snow from his brow, muttering under your breath as your glasses slid down your nose again.
You pushed them back up with your wrist, squinting through the fog of your own breath, only to realize you were still fussing over the hat like an obsessive mother hen who refused to stop adjusting it until it looked “just right.” He stirred faintly, lids fluttering, eyes hazy and unfocused. Through the blur of snow and pain, his gaze found you — your trembling hands still readjusting the flaps, the slip of your glasses catching the dull light.
His cracked lips parted, the faintest rasp escaping him. You didn’t catch the word, but the look said enough. Confused. Disoriented. Maybe wondering why some stranger was tucking him in like a stubborn nurse from hell.
“Don’t even think about moving,” you muttered, fingers brushing his temple as you adjusted the hat again. “You’ll thank me later.”
Your glasses slipped once more; you shoved them back with your wrist, smudged, fogged, but you didn’t care. You didn’t stop. He blinked slowly — sluggishly — watching the movement of your hands, the care in every adjustment, and then, as his consciousness slipped again, his head tilted slightly toward the warmth you’d given him.
To anyone else, you probably looked ridiculous — a soaked, shivering med student with crooked glasses and no hat, kneeling in the snow — but to him, through fading awareness, you looked almost unreal.
A blur of breath and warmth and concern that didn’t belong in this frozen alley.
You pushed your glasses up again, hands trembling. “You’re fine now,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
The wind tore at you, sharp as a blade, cutting through your uniform's winter coat and straight into your bones. His weight pressed into you like a stone, heavy, unyielding. Quickly shoving your scattered papers and throwing the broken test tubes in the nearby trash bin, rattling them into a pile, your hands feel numb from the cold. Your own bag, half-open, was shoved over your shoulder, straps biting into your shoulder blades, as you tried to steady your trembling arms.
Your mind raced. Carry him? Impossible—his weight pressed into your back and arms like molten lead. Drag him? Ice everywhere, too dangerous. Call for help? He was already slipping into exhaustion, body half-collapsed. You couldn’t leave him. You couldn’t. Years of study, of memorizing every artery, every tendon, every method of saving lives—all of it demanded you keep moving.
That's when your eyes landed on the duffel bag. And suddenly your chest plunged into panic-soaked dread. You really going to do this—his rigid, bloodied, nearly unconscious body—and now this massive, ridiculous bag? Your stomach knotted, your lungs caught in a spasm. He groaned, low and ragged, and you flinched. His eyelids flickered, gaze distant, unfocused. He tried to speak, a hoarse whisper lost in the icy air.
“You’re not dying on me, okay? I don't want to drag a dead man.” His hand twitched weakly, almost pushing you away, and you caught it, holding it firmly. No letting go, not until he was safe.Gripping beneath his shoulders, bracing your knees, you lifted him. Every muscle screamed. Your forearms burned as they bore his weight; your shoulders screamed under the strain, back arching in protest. Cold bit through your gloves, snow and ice crunching beneath your knees. But you didn’t care. You couldn’t.
“Just… hang on,” you whispered through gritted teeth. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. Okay?”
He groaned again, faint and low, and you tightened your grip. Then the duffel. Bending your knees slightly as your free hand grips the strap, muscles tensing painfully. The bag was a solid weight, as if a freaking boulder was inside the bag. Both straps of your bag and his massive duffel bag were digging into your shoulder as you lifted. Your arms shook violently; elbows and forearms burned as if on fire.
Back muscles screamed in protest. You stumbled slightly on the icy ground, each step a battle to keep balance.
Every shift of the bag threw off your center of gravity. Your knees wobbled. Snow clung to your boots. You were grateful that you decided to switch your heels earlier in the train as every muscle in your body burned, screaming that you were over your limit.
Panic clawed your chest. You’re going to drop him. You’re going to fall. You can’t do this. Stop. Stop now!
But you didn’t stop. You tightened your grip on him, pressed him closer to you, and forced your legs to move. The ice threatened to betray you, but you shuffled step by painstaking step, heart hammering in your ears, lungs screaming for air. Each breath came ragged. Arms quaked violently. Back arched painfully with every tilt of his weight. Fingers dug into fabric to keep him from slipping.
Your mind raced, a jumble of instructions, warnings, panic, and determination: Just get to the street. Just get him to safety. Don’t think about the bag. Don’t think about the snow. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. The snow muffled the city around you. Lights flickered palely over the alley. Every crunch beneath your boots, every groan from him, every shiver of effort sent adrenaline snapping through your veins.
You were a taut wire under impossible strain, each step a battle between body and gravity. And yet, somehow, impossibly, you kept moving, even if you looked like a walking tilted tower.
Step after painstaking step, muscle burning, lungs burning, heart hammering like a war drum, you carried him. Each second a torment, each second a victory. You were collapsing inward, yet moving forward, every fiber of you devoted to keeping him safe. In that flickering, snow-covered alley, you carried him like he was everything—the first life outside classrooms and simulations that truly depended on you.
The first life whose weight pressed on your soul so heavily that it almost broke you.
You finally stumbled out of the alley, snow crunching under your boots as you half-dragged and half-carried him forward. The streetlight ahead glowed like salvation. A small convenience store appeared through the snowfall, its flickering sign buzzing faintly — warmth, light, safety. Your breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale burning your throat raw. His weight slumped heavier against you with every step, muscles under your hands twitching and tightening. The duffel bag — God, this damn duffel bag — bit into your shoulder, straps cutting through your coat, bruising the skin beneath. Your arms felt like fire, your back screaming for mercy. Every step was a war against gravity.
You staggered as the alley opening came to view, knees nearly buckling. “Just—just a little more,” you hissed to yourself, gripping him tighter, the duffel dragging against your side. His shoes scraped the ground, heavy and uncooperative. You could feel his faint breath against your neck — uneven, hot, too shallow. Finally, the narrow space widened, giving you enough room to rest. His weight shifted suddenly, his body tensing under your hands. He groaned and stirred, eyelids fluttering under the ushanka in his head.
You flinched, tightening your grip before he could fall again. He tried to push himself upright, muscles straining under your palms. You caught him instantly, your hand flat against his chest, steady but firm.
“No,” you said sharply, breath still uneven. “You’re not getting up.”
His gaze flicked to you — sharp, fiery, defiant even through exhaustion. That look that said I don’t need saving. Like he was trying to convince you, or maybe himself, that he was untouchable. “You badly need help,” you pressed, voice firm but calm. “You could pass out again. You’re dizzy, your body’s wrecked, and I’m not letting you ignore it.”
He blinked, jaw tight, muscles trembling as he held your stare. His lips parted, a stubborn growl forming — but something in your voice stopped him. Maybe it was the authority, maybe the tremor of fear hidden beneath it.
“…Fine,” he muttered finally, the word grudging and quiet. “…Do your thing, doc.”
Relief flooded your chest, dizzying and sharp. Carefully, you guided his weight toward a nearby bench outside the store. Every motion hurts—your spine protesting, your arms trembling like frayed cords. As you quickly lowered him onto the outdoor chairs just outside the convenience store, the canopy roof shielding the patio tables from the snow, steadying him as he hunched forward.
The duffel and your bag slipped from your shoulder and hit the ground with a dull thud. You exhaled shakily, your arms tingling from the loss of weight.
“Sit. Don’t move,” you instructed softly, brushing the snow from his shoulders with trembling hands, adjusting your hat that's on his head as you pushed his hair inside the ushanka. “You need water and warmth. You’ll feel better.”
He scowled, breath steaming in the cold. “You’re… just fuck off, lady,” he rasped, voice low, suspicious. “I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do,” you cut him off, already fishing your wallet from your uniform pocket. “Trust me. I’m a med student. I know what I’m doing.”
He made a low sound — half scoff, half groan — but didn’t move. His chest rose and fell unevenly, shoulders rigid with leftover adrenaline. You turned toward the convenience store, boots crunching through snow, headlight from exhaustion. The blast of fluorescent light as you pushed open the door felt almost blinding, a harsh contrast to the dark, cold behind you. Inside, you moved quickly through the aisles — a bottle of water, a heating pad, something, anything that could help. Your breath fogged your glasses, hands shook as you paid.
For a few seconds, the store’s hum felt like a mercy, a brief reprieve from the biting air and the sound of his labored breathing echoing in your head. You stayed just a little inside the store; the warmth of the place creates a sharp contrast to the icy alley you were in minutes ago. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly overhead, casting a pale glow over the snow-dusted street outside. Your breath fogged in little clouds as you leaned forward, gripping the cashier's counter for support.
He sat there, shoulders hunched. The snow clung stubbornly to your ushanka, protecting his head, eyelashes dusted with white. For a moment, he looked almost small, not the untouchable, fiery man from moments ago, but fragile, human, caught in the aftermath of something that had scarred him. The scowl remained, just out of habit, but his eyes softened slightly when he blinked slowly, exhaustion smoothing the sharp edges of defiance. You studied him from the store's glass, heart still pounding, adrenaline still raw.
You caught yourself shivering — from cold, yes, but also from relief. Relief that he hadn’t fallen again, relief that he was finally letting himself rest, relief that somehow, against the chaos of the night, he trusted you enough to pause.
You noticed the small things — the tremor in his fingers as they gripped your shoulders earlier, the way his chest rose unevenly, the slight tilt of his head, as if he was listening to something only he could hear. It struck you sharply: for all his bluster, he was human. He was exhausted. He was vulnerable. A faint pang of protectiveness curled through your chest. You weren’t sure if it was fear, responsibility, or something sharper, more insistent. Either way, it made your limbs tense, ready to move, ready to carry him again if necessary. He might be a stranger, a force of chaos, someone who seemed impossible to handle—but right now, in the quiet between wind and snowfall, he was yours to keep steady.
Watching as he shifted slightly on the bench, eyes drifting toward the alley like he might be ready to bolt at any moment. But he didn’t. He stayed. And that small act — that refusal to move, that tiny surrender to warmth and care — felt monumental.
When you returned outside, he was still hunched over, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. Snow dotted his hair and lashes. Your heart twisted at the sight. “Here,” you said, kneeling beside him, handing over the bottle. “Drink. Slowly.” He took it from you, suspicious but silent, fingers brushing yours — still cold, still trembling. He sipped carefully, eyes narrowing like he didn’t want to admit it helped. You offered him the heating pad next as you took it out of the paper bag. “And this — for warmth.” He frowned at it, like it might explode in his hands. “You’re… really nosy.”
“Sit. Drink. Warm up,” you said firmly, dropping onto the bench beside him, the cold metal biting through your uniform's slacks. “You just fainted in an alley. I don’t care if you’re stubborn or curse me out. You need this.” Finally, with a grunt, he pressed the pad to his neck. The heat began to spread, faint but steady. You watched as the stiffness in his shoulders eased, his breathing steadied, the tension bleeding away in quiet increments.
“You always this nosy?” he muttered, voice softer now, almost teasing — but edged with exhaustion.
“You always this dramatic?” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. It made him snort— The first time anyone had made him laugh after a fight. “When it’s life or death. I'm nosy, that’s basically my job.”
He huffed out a dry, humorless sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Life or death… yeah, fucking see that now.”
You leaned closer, meeting his tired eyes. “Good. Now keep drinking that water. Don’t worry about anything else. I’ve got you.” He didn’t argue this time. Just drank. Slowly.
The bench creaked under his weight as he leaned back, the water bottle clutched loosely in his hands. He sat, you watched his chest rise and fall, noted the dark bruising along his jaw, the swelling under his eye, and the thin cut along his lip. Your own belongings, still scattered messily inside your bag, beckoned. Papers were wet and smeared, test tubes cracked, tray bent. You sighed and muttered under your breath as you sorted what could be salvaged. Each slip of your fingers reminded you that his presence here made even this mundane task tense.
“y'know what, let's go to the hospital,” you said, more to yourself than him, straightening as you stuffed damp papers into a spare paper bag.
“You’re a mess.”He didn’t respond. Just shifted slightly, scowling, irritation clear in the tight set of his jaw.
“The hell ya talking bout?” he finally muttered, voice low and rough, “…I’m fine. You’re the one wasting your damn time here.”
“No,” you said flatly, snapping your bag closed. “Your face alone says otherwise. And those cuts along your knuckles, the swelling—do you want me to start listing the rest?”
He gritted his teeth. “fuck off, woman.”
“No, I won't. That lip? Needs attention. That eyebrow cut? I don't know, might need a few stitches. The swelling on your cheek? A goddamn hematoma is forming. And your knuckles… tch, those will be bruised for weeks if you don’t ice them properly.”
He leaned back further, glaring. “…You’re fucking obsessive.”
“Medically accurate obsession,” you retorted, standing. “Now get up. We’re moving.”
“No.”
You crossed your arms, tilting your head. “…You’re not going anywhere like this. I’m taking you to the hospital, and that's final. You need stitches.”
“…I’m not fucking going,” he said flatly, voice clipped, irritation boiling in every syllable.
“Don’t need me?!” you barked, tone sharper than intended. His head jerked, the faint glint of surprise in his eyes.
“…You just got out from god knows what and drug.. Whatever you took, you withdrew and nearly passed out in an alley. And now you think you can waltz into the night like nothing happened?”
The argument had him narrowing his eyes in frustration, lips twitching as if he might explode. “…fuck off, lady—”
“You’re not going to continue arguing with me right now. Not with me. Not now. You’re getting medical attention whether you like it or not.”
He sputtered, muttering curses under his breath, face red — not from exertion, but from sheer irritation. He pushed at your arms. “…Bitcha—”
Your patience snapped. You raised your palm sharply and gave him a firm slap across his bruised jaw, the sting resonating on top of the existing ache. “STOP PUSHING ME.” He froze, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide in shock, pain flashing across his features, and something else — grudging acknowledgment. “…You—”
“Yes, me,” you said, voice low but controlled. “I’m the one who’s going to make sure you don’t ruin yourself further. Now stand.”
The argument didn’t stop. He barked sarcastic comments, muttered about “wasting time” and “med students thinking they know everything,” and growled every time you readjusted your grip. You barked back, sharp, correcting posture, keeping his head stable, and shoving him gently but firmly forward when he attempted to veer off. After nearly an hour of bickering, slipping on ice patches, almost toppling over, and wrestling a man clearly stronger than you into submission, you reached the hospital entrance.
The automatic doors swished open. Fluorescent lights cut through the winter haze, and the scent of antiseptic assaulted your senses. Sukuna, still tense, still growling under his breath, allowed you to guide him toward the triage desk. The lights of the emergency room had that sterile, almost cruel brightness that made every bruise and cut stand out like neon
The nurse blinked, eyebrows raised, taking in his bruised, battered form. “Name?” she asked cautiously. “Stitches to his face, his lip, maybe in his brow area. And he’s exhausted — possibly high blood pressure. He’s in withdrawal from… something, possibly stimulants. And he just looks like he fought someone from hell; he’s sustained multiple contusions, lacerations, and I suspect he needs sutures.
His vitals are weak, pulse slightly irregular.” You rattled off in rapid succession, no hesitation, med student efficiency cutting through the tension. Sukuna scowled
The nurse’s eyes widened slightly. “Alright…A doctor’s on the way. Let’s get him assessed.” For the first time, he made no sound, just let himself be guided. His shoulders slumped, exhaustion and irritation warring across his face. And you? You silently noted every bruise, every cut, every shadow under his eyes, already planning how to prioritize stitches, cleaning, and pain management.
Moments later, the nurse guided you both toward the nearest medical bed. You half-carried, half-steered Sukuna across the room, his weight heavy against your side as he stumbled. Every step made his body tense, his breath uneven, pride wrestling with exhaustion. You carefully helped him shrug off his jacket, then reached for your ushanka to take it off him — even if you knew he’d bark at you for it. “Quit acting like you’re my goddamn mother,” he muttered, voice rough.
You ignored him, tugging the ushanka free anyway, your movements steady but gentle. Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, the extent of his injuries came into full view. Bruises bloomed across his jaw and cheek, purple and swollen, while small cuts traced over his knuckles. You mentally cataloged each one, the way your professors drilled into you during training. The antiseptic sting of the air bit through the faint metallic tang of blood that still clung to him. The doctor arrived shortly after — clipboard in hand, posture calm and professional, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. His gaze landed on Sukuna first before flicking briefly to you.
“Patient in withdrawal?” the doctor asked, voice even but alert.
“Yes,” you answered immediately, your tone clipped but steady. “He’s barely conscious, lethargic, and unable to provide reliable information. Multiple bruises along the jaw, cheek, and knuckles. Two open lacerations — one on the lip, one above the eyebrow — both need sutures. He’s dehydrated, and his vitals are borderline stable. I recommend immediate wound cleaning, pain control, and monitoring.” Sukuna’s head turned slightly toward you, his eyes half-lidded, heavy with fatigue and irritation. His glare said enough.
The doctor raised a brow, intrigued. “Are you a medical student?”
“Yes,” you said, straightening unconsciously before faltering a little. “First-year… actually.”Sukuna huffed under his breath, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “Fuckin’ overachiever,” he muttered hoarsely. You ignored him, but the doctor’s mouth twitched, an amused glint in his eyes. “Good. Let’s get him cleaned up and sutured.” You nodded, then turned to Sukuna.
“They’re going to clean your cuts now. It’s going to sting, but you need to stay still. Infection isn’t something you can just walk off.”
“I said I don’t—” he started, voice low and edged with warning, but you cut him off with a firm slap to his arm — not hard, just enough to make him flinch and meet your gaze.
“No,” you said quietly but firmly. “You’re not leaving me to guess what’s safe. Just trust me for five minutes.”
For a moment, he looked like he might snap again, his jaw working as he weighed his pride against his exhaustion. But then he exhaled sharply through his nose, resigned, and looked away. The nurse moved in, dabbing antiseptic over his eyebrow and lip. Each touch made him hiss softly, his muscles twitching beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The sharp scent of iodine filled the air, mingling with the sterile hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet rustle of gauze.
You stood near the foot of the bed, arms behind your back, but eyes observant. “Laceration on the lip’s about three centimeters — irregular edges. The one above the eyebrow is around two and a half, linear. It’ll need two, maybe three sutures. Contusions along the zygomatic arch, swelling’s setting in. Recommend local anesthetic before suturing, and post-care for pain management.”
It wasn’t until the words were already out that you realized what you’d done. Heat crept up your neck as you clamped a hand over your mouth. “I— I’m sorry, doctor,” you mumbled, mortified. The doctor’s smile was faint but approving. “No need to apologize. I appreciate the enthusiasm.”
Sukuna’s glare burned into you, but he didn’t say a word as the nurse injected the anesthetic. You saw the tension ripple through him, his fists curling, knuckles white, but he stayed still. The doctor scribbled something onto the chart, his tone even. “As she said. You’ll be needing stitches, hydration, and follow-up imaging to assess any further sustaining injuries.” Before excusing himself, thanking him as he left.
The nurses worked quickly. Each stitch was deliberate and neat, threading through the swollen skin under the stark white light. Before they began, He peeled off his shirt without a word — the fabric sticking briefly to his side before falling to the floor with a dull, wet sound. Despite the bruises mottling his ribs and shoulders, his body was undeniably defined — every line of muscle carved deep beneath the harsh light. You froze for a second, heat creeping to your face before you could stop it. The sight of him, battered but still impossibly built, stirred something you quickly tried to smother. God, focus, you told yourself, as one of the nurses reached for the suture tray. You tried not to look, tried to focus on the medical aspect of it — the discoloration along his ribs, the shallow rise and fall of his chest — but your face burned all the same. The air felt suddenly too warm, and you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to catalogue the injuries instead of the way the light carved shadows over his torso.
Focus, you told yourself. You’re a student. This is anatomy, not admiration. But your thoughts betrayed you anyway, heat crawling higher at the faint curve of his smirk as if he could sense it. Sukuna didn’t flinch this time; he sat rigid, jaw tight, his eyes fixed on an invisible point on the ceiling. You took a step back, slipping off your snow-dusted coat and folding the ushanka neatly in your hands. Your eyes followed every motion — every pull of the needle, every faint tug of the thread — until the last suture closed the wound neatly. Only then did your shoulders loosen.
“For someone who got this hurt…” You murmured after a while, your voice softer, curiosity slipping through. “How did this even happen? Car accident? What happened to you anyway?” He glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable, lip twitching as if the question amused him. But instead of answering, he turned his gaze away. The silence that followed was heavy, deliberate, full of unspoken things.
The nurse tending to him caught your lingering concern and smiled faintly. “You’re very dedicated,” she said warmly. “Most first-years don’t stay through the entire procedure. You clearly care.” You let out a small, awkward laugh. “I just… wanted to make sure he’s alright.” At that, Sukuna looked at you again — just for a second — something flickering in his bloodshot eyes. It wasn’t gratitude, not quite, but something that sat close to it, raw and quiet.
Once the final stitch was tied and the antiseptic reapplied, the nurse pressed a cold pack gently against his bruised jaw. The bleeding had stopped, and the swelling was controlled. Some color had even started to return to his skin. Flipping through the chart, the nurse gave a final nod. “We’ll schedule an X-ray — the doctor suspects a minor fracture. You,” she said, pointing at Sukuna, “should stay seated until we’re sure.” You nodded quickly, maybe a little too eagerly, earning an amused look from her before she left the room.
Silence settled again. The only sound was the low, constant hum of the fluorescent lights. You stood at the foot of the bed, your arms tucked loosely around your middle, unsure what to say. He sat still, cold compress pressed against his jaw, eyes distant. The air between you felt heavy — full of frustration, stubbornness, and something else neither of you dared to name. And as you looked at him — stitched up, bruised, but finally still — you realized it wasn’t just pity or duty that made you stay. It was something far more dangerous, something you weren’t ready to understand yet.
The sterile hum of the ER filled the silence—soft beeps, the distant echo of shoes against linoleum, the low murmur of nurses exchanging updates. Sukuna sat propped against the inclined hospital bed, one arm cradled against his ribs, knuckles wrapped in white gauze. The fight from earlier still burned across his body—skin blooming purple under the lights, jaw tense, eyes half-lidded as fatigue began to settle. You sat beside him, quiet. Your hands rested on your folded coat and hat, your eyes flicking between the chart on your lap and the way his chest rose and fell under the paper-thin blanket. He hadn’t said much since—only grunts, short answers, and one sharp look that told the nurse to stop talking so damn loud. For someone like that, he seemed… at peace now.
“Still waiting for the X-ray,” you murmured after glancing at the wall clock. “Shouldn’t take long.” He gave a low hum, the kind that barely counted as acknowledgment. His head tilted slightly toward you, crimson eyes meeting yours for a moment—long enough to register that you were watching him, longer still to make you look away.
You sighed softly, looking at your hands. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?”
“No,” he muttered.
The word fell between you like a stone. You hesitated, fingers brushing the strap of your bag that's beside his. “Do you… Want me to get you something? Rice meal, maybe?”
“I’m fine.” His voice was rough, clipped, as if the offer itself irritated him.
But there was something in the way his jaw flexed—half stubbornness, half pride. You’d seen it before in people who’d rather grit their teeth through pain than admit weakness. You tilted your head slightly, smiling despite the exhaustion tugging at your cheeks.
“It’s on me,” you said gently. “And if you say no again, I’m just going to assume you like hospital air for lunch.” He let out a low grunt, almost like a laugh, though his eyes stayed downcast. Then came the hesitation—his tongue pressed against his cheek, his shoulders stiffened, and finally, he muttered, “…Rice. With egg. Maybe meat, if they have it.”
You smiled, a little triumphant but mostly relieved. “Got it. I’ll be right back.” When you left, the air changed. Sukuna’s gaze followed you until the door clicked shut. His body relaxed a fraction. The faint scent of antiseptic filled the room again, and for a few moments, he stared blankly at the ceiling—thinking of the fight, the crowd, the blood. But what lingered more vividly was the image of you fussing over his IV line earlier, your brows knitted in focus, your hands careful, voice calm. You were too gentle for a place like this. Too gentle for someone like him.
By the time you returned, a light sheen of snow had gathered on your shoulders. You were carrying two styrofoam containers and a small bottle of water balanced under your arm. “I got pork katsudon,” you said as you entered, slightly breathless. “It was the last one. The food vendor outside thought it would not be enough for you, so she served the whole tray." That made him glance up. The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, more of an amused twitch.
You laid the food out on the small rolling table between you. The smell hit immediately—soy, vinegar, garlic—and Sukuna’s stomach twisted in betrayal. You caught the sound, a small growl, and raised an eyebrow. “Still not hungry?”
He didn’t answer this time. Just took the container when you passed it over. The first few bites were ravenous—sharp movements, spoon clinking, rice and sauce gone too fast. You blinked, startled by how quickly he devoured it.
“I—oh,” you said softly, lips parting as you watched. He paused, glancing at you from under his lashes. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head quickly. “Just… you looked like you haven’t eaten in days.”
“I haven’t,” he said between bites.
The honesty caught you off guard. You looked down at your own container, picking up your spoon. “You shouldn’t do that to yourself.”
“Part of the job,” he replied, tone flat but not unkind. You didn’t argue, just ate quietly beside him. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore—it was warm, heavy with exhaustion but softened by the shared meal. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, and every so often, you caught his gaze darting to you between bites. There was something unspoken there. Something wary, curious. “You really shouldn’t be this nice,” he said suddenly. You blinked. “Sorry?”
He scooped another bite of rice, his eyes still fixed on you. “To people like me.” You tilted your head. “You mean patients?”
He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his bandaged hands, the veins snaking along his arms, the faint tremor in his fingers from the painkillers finally kicking in. “No,” he said after a long moment. “People who choose violence for a living.” You studied him quietly, your spoon halfway to your lips. “Maybe I’m not nice,” you said softly. “Maybe I just see someone who deserves to eat.”
He looked at you for a long time, then—so long that the hum of the hospital seemed to fade out. Then, finally, he smirked faintly. “You’re strange.”
“Medical students usually are.” That made him let out a quiet huff of laughter, the sound low and rough, but genuine. For the first time since you’d met him, his shoulders seemed to drop—just a little. When the nurse finally came in to wheel him to the X-ray room, he didn’t complain. You followed close behind, holding the tray with the half-finished meal. His hand brushed the edge of yours when you took the blanket off the bed rail. Later, when the X-ray results came in, the translucent image of Sukuna’s ribs was glowing against the sterile white of the wall. You stood beside the radiologist, eyes tracing the faint lines. There were cracks, yes, but clean ones—no displacement, no puncture risk. He was lucky.
“Minor fractures,” you said quietly, half to yourself, half to him as he stood behind you. “Two ribs. You’ll be sore for a while, but you’ll live.” minor fractures along the rib, some soft tissue damage, nothing life-threatening—you could see the relief flicker across his face. He didn’t say it, but you could tell. Meeting his gaze. There was a faint smirk there, but under it—a kind of weariness you hadn’t seen before. He rolled his shoulders experimentally and winced when the motion tugged at his side. You stepped closer, instinctively, and pressed a hand to his arm to stop him.
“Don’t push it,” you said softly. “You’ll make it worse.”
He froze at the contact. Your hand was small against the muscle of his arm, cool from the air conditioning, firm with the confidence of someone used to patching wounds. His crimson eyes darted down to your fingers, then back to your face. “Doc,” he murmured, a ghost of a smirk returning. “You really like tellin’ people what to do, huh?”
You blinked, caught off guard, but smiled faintly. “Only when they’re terrible at taking care of themselves.” When you helped him sit back on the bed, placing his meal back on the tray, he looked at you with something close to gratitude. “Next time,” you said, almost teasingly, “try not to get hit so much.”
He let out a low hum, the corner of his mouth curving faintly. “No promises, doc.” His gaze lingered on you—your gentle hands, your steady posture, your kind voice cutting through the static haze of his world—and something in him shifted quietly. For the first time in a long while, he thought, maybe kindness didn’t always have to be a weakness. The nurse returned with a clipboard, explaining his release papers and the hospital payment. You nodded, thanking her, stepping towards the nurses’ station. Sukuna watched from afar, silent, arms crossed, as the fluorescent light cut sharp lines across his bruised face. You pulled out your wallet, fishing through the few bills you had. You were tired, your brain running on caffeine and instinct, but still—he’d been your patient, even unofficially. It only felt right.
But before you could hand the payment over, something heavy dropped onto the counter with a dull thud. A thick stack of bills appeared in front of you, clearly new.
“Don’t,” Sukuna’s voice rumbled behind you.
You turned sharply. “What—” He didn’t even look at you. Just shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, as his duffel slightly swayed from his shoulder, bandaged knuckles flexing. “Use that. ” You stared at the stack of cash. It was easily five grand—maybe more. Shiningly new. You looked from it to him, stunned. “You can’t—”
“I can,” he cut in flatly. “I made it. You helped patch what that money broke.” For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Around you, the nurses tried not to stare. The man standing before you looked like a contradiction—bruised, battered, eyes sharp with defiance but laced with something almost… respectful. You swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he said, already turning away. “But I wanted to.”And just like that, he walked out. The sliding doors opened with a hiss, letting in the humid night air. You blinked, heart stuttering, watching his figure disappear into the dim parking lot light.
“Wait—!”
You didn’t even think. You grabbed your belongings, nearly tripping over as you sprinted after him. The cold, snowy night air hit your lungs as you ran through the doors, scanning the snow-covered street. He was already halfway down the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his jacket, moving like a man who didn’t belong to any place long enough to stay. You caught up just as he reached the curb. “Hey—hey, wait!”He slowed, just a little, enough for you to fall into step beside him. “You forgot your discharge papers,” you said breathlessly, holding them up. “And—your change—” He stopped walking. Turned slightly. His gaze landed on you under the flickering hospital light, the faint shimmer of exhaustion on your face, the paper's still clutched stubbornly in your hand. For a long moment, he just looked at you, jaw tightening.
“You don’t gotta chase after me,” he said quietly. “Not your job.” You looked up at him, catching your breath. “Maybe not. But you didn’t have to throw that money like that.” He gave a soft snort. “That money’s got blood on it. The hospital’s better off with it than me.”
You blinked, thrown off by the blunt honesty. “That’s not—”
“Yeah, it is.” His voice softened slightly. “You got good hands, doc. Don’t waste ‘em tryin’ to fix violent people.” Something in your chest tightened at that. His tone wasn’t harsh—it was tired. Defeated in a way that made the streetlamp shadows look heavier on his face. You stepped closer, your voice gentle. “You say that like you’re not worth saving.” He looked at you then, really looked—eyes tracing your features, the faint crease between your brows, the way your fingers still clutched his paperwork like it meant something. And for the briefest second, his expression softened, raw and unguarded, as tiny snowflakes dropped onto your hair.
“Don’t make me start believing it,” he muttered, feeling his thumb wipe a snowflake that fell on your cheek. Then he turned, walking off into the night. You stood there for a while, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance, the city swallowing him whole again. Your hand touching where his thumb had been mere seconds ago, the street smelled like faint gasoline, and something metallic—like the echo of everything he’d been through. Looking down at the discharge papers in your hand, and sighed. The edges were crinkled, his name scrawled in messy handwriting across the top: R. Sukuna.
And as you exhaled, a soft chill swept through the air. Slightly fogging your glasses, as snow falls—slow, fragile flakes drifting through the dim glow of the hospital lights. They landed on your hair, on the papers, melting almost instantly against your skin. The season had shifted quietly, unnoticed until now—winter settling over the city like a hush, cold and endless. You watched the snow trail after him, the white specks vanishing against his dark figure until he was gone completely, swallowed by the storm.
The night had that heavy stillness only winter in the city could hold — where everything hummed but nothing truly moved. Cold air clung to the streets, thick with smoke and frost. Sukuna’s steps hit the pavement in slow, uneven steps, his breath curling like pale ghosts beneath the flickering neon of a convenience store sign a block away. The stitches above his brow tugged when he squinted against the streetlight. His lip throbbed with every inhale, and the dull ache in his ribs made him hunch even as he refused to admit it — not to anyone, not even to himself.
He’d felt worse. He told himself that.
But something about tonight had stayed under his skin, the way blood did when you didn’t clean it right. Reaching into his pocket, he found his cigarette pack crushed, muttered a curse, and fished one out anyway. The lighter’s flame flared against the wind, its reflection burning briefly in his tired eyes. Leaning against a graffiti-stained wall, exhaling smoke that drifted up and disappeared into the brittle cold. The sting in his chest steadied him — until the silence gave way to memory. Until he remembered you.
Your voice — steady, even when you were nervous.
He cursed softly, dragging a hand down his face. The city’s hum faded behind the echo of your voice. He could still taste the rice you’d given him. Warm, simple — human. The kind of meal he hadn’t had since before the fights had eaten his life whole. He’d devoured it like an animal until he caught the small curve of your lips — a quiet, amused smile. You’d looked at him like he was something to understand, not fear.
And it pissed him off. Because it felt good. He exhaled smoke through his nose and tossed the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his heel. Somewhere nearby, a moped sputtered down the street, laughter trailed from a bar, but none of it touched him. His ribs ached, his stitches burned — yet what hurt most was the sound of you in his head.
“You say that like you’re not worth saving.”
His throat tightened. He tilted his head back against the wall, muttering under his breath, “Too damn kind for her own good.” The wind bit at his face, sharp and cold, carrying faint snowflakes that clung to his hair. Kindness like that didn’t survive in his world. People like you got crushed by it. And people like him were the ones who did the crushing.
Still, when he finally pushed himself off the wall and started walking again, his steps slowed. The city didn’t feel as empty as it had an hour ago. It felt like it was watching him — waiting to see what he’d do next. His apartment wasn’t much — cracked ceiling, mold biting at the corners, one flickering bulb humming with static. The air was stale with smoke and sweat. He dropped his duffel by the door and slumped against the sink, towel around his neck, knuckles bandaged and raw. The mirror above him was split down the middle, slicing his reflection in two — one half cold and unreadable, the other faintly human under the buzzing light. He traced a finger along the line of stitches on his brow, the purple bloom along his jaw, the swollen lip.
The Nurse had done clean work. You had done clean work.
He could still hear your voice — calm, precise, scolding him like he was a reckless kid. He huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Snapped at me like she had the right to.” And maybe you did. He remembered how your hand had struck his cheek — hard, and sharp enough to cut through his temper. The sound had cracked through the cold air like a warning shot. It didn't hurt — not compared to the things he was used to. But it had stunned him. Not because of the slap. Because of you— flushed from the old and adrenaline, eyes burning with frustration, breath misting in the freezing air. He remembered how close you’d been, how your lips trembled, but your voice didn’t. The heat that rose in his chest— he’d blamed it on pain, on anger, on the fight still buzzing through his veins. But sitting here now, alone, he knew better.
You’d rattled him. Too new to medicine to be that confident. Too gentle to be that fearless.
“Tch.”
You’d warned him about infection, told him to rest, to take care of himself. He didn’t listen. But your voice lingered now, steadier than the flickering bulb above his head. He stared at the faint steam rising from the sink, his reflection split by the crack. He found himself touching his jaw where your hand had landed — the faint burn of your slap still there, the echo of warmth beneath it. He almost smiled.
“Damn near made me blush,” he murmured, a laugh rumbling low in his throat — rare, soft, human. The apartment felt a little less empty then.
In the corner of the room, an envelope of cash was sitting by the counter — the rest of what Rin owed him. He should’ve cared, but it barely meant anything now. The only thing that lingered was the image of you standing under the streetlight, calling his name, snow catching in your hair. Maybe he’d see you again. Maybe not.
But as the winter wind howled faintly through the cracked window, he knew this — For the first time in a long time, the thought of someone had made him hesitate. He smirked faintly at his reflection. His breath fogged the glass, blurring the line down the middle.
“Shit,” he whispered, dragging the towel over his face. “You got under my skin.” And somewhere across the city — in your small apartment, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to your fingers — you thought of him too. Neither of you knew it yet.
You woke up to the hiss of your old radiator, sputtering like it was trying to breathe for you. The first thing that hit you was the smell — a sterile ghost of antiseptic that clung to your coat, your hair, your hands. The faint perfume of hospitals never really left easily. Eyes fluttered open to the soft gray of the morning light bleeding through the window. The cold had crept into your apartment overnight, numbing your fingers where they gripped the blanket. You lay still for a while, eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling of your apartment, trying to piece together what was a dream and what wasn’t.
That man. Sukuna.
The image hit you all at once — the flash of his teeth when he sneered, the guttural sound of him hitting the ground, your trembling hands pressed to his skin as you checked his pulse. The way he’d scowled even in pain. You sat up sharply, the blanket slipping off your shoulders. The folded bills and his discharge papers from last night were still on the chair where you’d left them — the change from that five grand he’d thrown last night at the nurse's desk, like it was just some spare change. You picked them up, the crisp paper feeling too heavy, too warm from your own touch.
“What kind of man does that?” you muttered.
You didn’t know him, not really. You didn’t know why he fought, or what he was trying to prove, or what kind of people threw money at someone who tried to help them. But the memory of his bruised jaw and the faint tremor in his hands stuck with you like a splinter. You rubbed at your temple. “He’s probably fine now.” But you didn’t sound convinced.
Not wanting to waste your time thinking about him, you started to dress up for your lecture today, the motions mechanical — warm slacks, your uniform pressed from last night. The fabric hugged your shape before flaring slightly at the hips, and the mirror betrayed how put-together you looked despite feeling like you hadn’t slept at all. You sighed, tightened your bun. Outside, the world was bone-cold. The pavement was slick with thin sheets of ice, and every step felt like a gamble. The sun hadn’t broken through the clouds yet — just that dim, bluish light that painted everything like a half-forgotten dream. You stopped at a small bakery, grabbed a hot bread and a coffee, and tried not to think. But every time you blinked, you saw him again — sitting on that hospital bed, eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling heavily. You hated that your stomach twisted with concern instead of just forgetting about him.
When you reached the campus building, the smell of cigarette smoke greeted you before anything else. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. Shoko leaned against the wall near the entrance, smoke curling lazily from her lips, eyes half-lidded as if she hadn’t slept in days either. Her breath fogged in the cold, her hair messy in a bun.
“You look like a corpse,” she said with a smirk as you approached. You exhaled a small laugh. “You’re one to talk. It’s six in the morning.”
She shrugged, the cigarette glowing between her fingers. “That’s called coping. What’s your excuse?” You hesitated before replying. “I, uh… had a weird night.”
Shoko raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. “Weird how?” So, you told her. You told her everything — how you’d slipped on the icy street, how your things had gone flying, how you’d crashed into a man twice your size who looked like he could break someone with a glance. You told her about his collapse, the fight you had, the slap that left your palm throbbing, and how you ended up in the hospital with him. When you finally finished, Shoko just stared at you, cigarette burning low.
“You slapped him?” she asked, incredulous.
You crossed your arms defensively. “He was being an ass.”
Her lips curled into a grin. “And you’re alive to tell the tale. That’s impressive.”
“I didn’t have much choice. He wouldn’t listen.”
“Sounds like a guy who’s used to not listening,” she said, flicking ash into the snow. “You sure he wasn’t, like, a mobster or something?” You frowned. “He said nothing about himself. Just… glared.”
Shoko hummed thoughtfully, taking another drag. “So he’s dangerous and mysterious. Classic recipe for your type.”
“He is not my type,” you said quickly.
“Mhm. Sure.” You rolled your eyes, tugging your coat tighter around you. “It’s not like that. He was… hurt. Someone had to help him.” Her voice softened. “Yeah, I get that.” She glanced up at the pale sky. “But don’t lose sleep over some stranger who doesn’t want to be saved.” You didn’t answer. Because she was right — and yet, for some reason, her words felt heavier than you expected.
“Shokooooo!” Gojo’s voice echoed through the courtyard, obnoxiously cheerful. He bounded up the steps, scarf flying behind him like a cape, sunglasses perched even though the sky was cloudy. “Gojo,” Shoko muttered, exhaling a long sigh, “it’s literally freezing. What are you doing with that much energy outside in the goddamn early morning?”
“Enjoying the weather,” he declared dramatically. “And keeping my two favorite girls company.”
“Make that one,” you said dryly.
“Ouch.” He grinned, unbothered. “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t get your morning coffee?”
“I did. It just didn’t come with patience.” Before you could step past him, Geto emerged from behind — quieter, calmer, his dark hair falling over his face. His gaze lingered on you briefly, perceptive in that way that made you feel seen. “What’s going on?” he asked Shoko.
“She met someone,” she replied, smirking. Gojo gasped dramatically. “You what?!” You groaned. “It’s not like that. He fainted.”
“He fainted? So romantic,” Gojo teased. “Did he fall for you literally?”
Shoko burst out laughing, smoke escaping through her grin. “You’re impossible.”
“He was injured,” you cut in, glaring. “Oh, even better,” Gojo said. “The Florence Nightingale fantasy.” You slapped your notebook lightly against his arm. “You’re insufferable.”
He only laughed harder. “You like the bad ones, huh?” You turned to Geto instead, exasperated. “He’s hopeless.” Geto smiled faintly. “You’ll get used to it.” Then, after a beat, “You never got his name?” You hesitated. “I did, well, only from his medical Bill. Sukuna.”
For a moment, they all went quiet — even Gojo, who tilted his head slightly, studying you. Shoko exhaled the last of her cigarette, crushing it under her boot. “Sounds like trouble.” You looked down. “Maybe.”
“Or maybe,” she said, voice lighter, “you just met someone who’s been fighting his own kind of war.”
By 9 AM, you were in the Anatomy lab.
The air was cold and sharp, tinged with the distinct, metallic-bitter tang of formalin — a smell that clung to your clothes and hair no matter how long you scrubbed after lab. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across rows of stainless-steel dissection tables, each covered in crisp white sheets. Beneath them lay the silent teachers — preserved cadavers whose waxy, grayish skin stretched taut over structures you had spent months memorizing. You tied your apron a little tighter, the vinyl squeaking faintly, and pulled on your powder-free nitrile gloves. The thin material hugged your fingers, cool and slightly tacky against your palms. When you peeled back the white sheet from your group’s assigned cadaver, the faint mist of formaldehyde hit stronger — chemical, sweet, and nauseating.
Your professor, Dr. Ramírez, walked to the center of the lab, snapping her gloves once for emphasis.
“Today,” she announced, “we’ll be reviewing the superficial muscles of the face and neck. Focus on their origins and insertions. These are often mixed up in exams, and I won’t be merciful.”
A few students chuckled nervously.
You nodded, but your mind wasn’t fully in the room. The names and diagrams you’d studied blurred into one image — Sukuna’s face. You remembered the plane of his zygomatic arch, the ridge your fingertips had traced while checking for swelling, the laceration that cut diagonally over his orbicularis oculi, and the deep bruise that had spread beneath the skin of his masseter, dark and inflamed. His expression, even unconscious, had been one of tension — jaw clenched, veins visible beneath the surface.
“Let’s begin,” Dr. Ramírez said, nodding toward the dissection guide. “Identify the zygomaticus major.”
You picked up your forceps, brushed aside a thin flap of preserved tissue, and whispered under your breath, almost like a prayer: “Zygomaticus major… levator labii superioris… orbicularis oris.”
You traced the fibers lightly — from the zygomatic bone down to the angle of the mouth, noting the direction of each muscle’s striation.
You could almost see his smirk, the faint twitch that appeared when he tried to hide pain. “Hey,” your lab partner, Mira, said softly beside you. “You okay? You’re spacing out.”
You blinked, forcing your focus back to the cadaver. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… memorizing.”
By 11:30, you were in Pathophysiology. By mid-morning, the air in the lecture hall was thick with the scent of old coffee and tired concentration. The projector hummed softly, displaying a slide titled “Acute Stress Response and Systemic Inflammation.”
Your pen tapped rhythmically against your notebook until the professor’s voice cut through.
“The catecholamine surge during acute stress — primarily epinephrine and norepinephrine — leads to increased heart rate, elevated blood pressure, and glucose mobilization,” he said, pacing as he spoke. “Think: fight or flight. The sympathetic nervous system hijacks homeostasis.”
You remembered Sukuna’s pulse pounding beneath your fingers that night — rapid, thready, tachycardic. His skin had been hot, slick with sweat, pupils dilated yet sluggish to react. Adrenaline storm. His body was fighting even as consciousness slipped away.
Your pen trembled slightly as you jotted down notes:
Increased HR, BP
Peripheral vasoconstriction
Cortisol release — long-term effects
“Now,” the professor continued, flipping to the next slide, “if stress becomes chronic, the physiological response turns maladaptive. Cortisol remains elevated, leading to immune suppression, insulin resistance, hypertension, and eventual tissue damage.”
The bullet points blurred together, heavy and personal.
At 2 PM, you moved to Clinical Skills.
By afternoon, your head throbbed with caffeine and exhaustion. You walked into the simulation ward — bright, organized, too clean to feel real. The walls smelled faintly of disinfectant and latex gloves. A row of hospital beds lined one side, each with a mock patient or classmate practicing basic assessment skills.
“Alright,” said your instructor, Ms. Lewis, flipping through her clipboard. “You’ll be performing a basic patient interview and physical exam. Vital signs, neurological check, and a preliminary assessment. Work in pairs.”
You sat across from your partner, Kira, who gave you a mock groan and clutched her forehead. “Chief complaint: dizziness and fatigue,” she said, pretending to sway a little. You smiled faintly and slipped into your clinical tone, professional and measured.
You froze.
You remembered Sukuna’s tremor — the fine, rapid oscillations in his fingers. His pupils are sluggish under light. Skin pallid. Lips are cracked and dry. His body reacts to absence, not excess. Whatever he’d been taking, his body was starving for it.
Kira blinked at you. “You good?”
You nodded quickly, clearing your throat. “Sorry. Just thinking about phrasing.”
You finished the assessment mechanically, listening to her “heart” with your stethoscope, noting “vitals,” pressing fingers to her “radial pulse.” The checklist blurred together in muscle memory. Temperature, pulse, respiration, and blood pressure. All numbers — all detached from meaning.
When Ms. Lewis passed by, she gently adjusted your hand position on Kira’s arm. “You’re too tense,” she said kindly. “Relax your grip. You’ll bruise the poor thing.”
You exhaled, a soft laugh escaping before you could stop it. “Sorry, long night.” She smiled, patted your shoulder, and moved on. But your chest stayed tight, your breath shallow. You knew the truth — it wasn’t the long night making you tense. It was the lingering echo of a pulse that wasn’t there anymore.
By the time evening rolled in, your brain felt swollen, like it was trying to hold too much—every Latin muscle name, every biochemical pathway, every faint echo of Gojo’s laughter still bouncing off the walls of the cafeteria. You’d spent the entire day surrounded by the low hum of conversation, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and the rhythmic scratch of pens against paper. Anatomy lab had blurred into physiology, and by the last lecture, even the diagrams of skeletal muscles had started to look like meaningless webs of red and blue lines.
Still, your notes were immaculate—highlighted margins, neat annotations, the kind of precision that came from equal parts anxiety and ambition. Shoko had joked that you studied like the apocalypse was scheduled for finals week. You laughed, but even as you did, your thoughts kept drifting.
Gojo had stopped by your table during lunch, sunglasses pushed up in his messy hair, grin too wide for someone who’d just come from a four-hour training session.
You didn’t even have the energy to glare at him properly. “Gojo, the only thing keeping me up is your voice echoing in my head when I’m trying to study.”
Shoko, chewing on her straw, flicked a balled-up napkin at him. “Leave her alone, Satoru. Some of us actually have to pass exams to survive.”
He gasped, hand to his chest. “Ouch. You wound me.”
Geto sat beside them, sipping his coffee with quiet amusement. His eyes—steady, unreadable—flicked to you once or twice. He didn’t tease, didn’t say anything, just watched the way your fingers worried at the edge of your lunch container. Sometimes, that silence felt louder than Gojo’s entire existence.
You tried to join in, to laugh when they did, to let their energy fill the space where your thoughts threatened to unravel. But in the quiet moments, between Gojo’s jokes and Shoko’s dry comments, your gaze found its way to the window.
Outside, the sky was a bruised gray, snow falling in steady, soft sheets. The world beyond campus looked cold, almost lifeless. And for reasons you didn’t want to name, you found yourself wondering if he was out there somewhere—walking through that same snow, shoulders hunched against the wind, bruised and bleeding but still refusing to ask for help.
You shook the thought away, forced yourself to focus on the conversation again. But it lingered, stubbornly, like the ache that comes after pressing on a wound.
By the time you finally returned to your apartment that night, your body felt like it was moving on autopilot. The elevator ride up was slow, the air stale with the faint scent of detergent and cold metal. When you stepped inside your unit, the familiar warmth of the radiator greeted you, accompanied by the soft hiss that always filled the quiet.
You set your bag down on the couch and stood for a long moment in the half-light, letting your eyes adjust. The city stretched out below your window—alive but weary, wrapped in the muffled silence that snow always brings. Cars crawled along the slushed roads, headlights glowing like distant stars. Someone laughed faintly in the next building over. A siren wailed somewhere far away, swallowed by the wind.
You walked to the window, fingers absently tugging at the sleeves of your sweater. The glass was cold against your palm when you leaned closer, your breath fogging faintly on the surface. That’s when you noticed it again—the folded bills sitting on your desk, right where you’d left them. You picked them up. The paper was rough at the edges, one corner faintly stained a rusty brown that you knew wasn’t dirt.
Blood. His.
Your thumb brushed over it before you realized what you were doing. His words echoed in your mind again, low and rough like gravel—
“Don’t need your help.”
You exhaled through your nose, a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “You’re impossible,” you whispered to no one. Setting the money down gently, as if it were something fragile.
The radiator hissed again, louder this time, the steady rhythm of it filling the silence. Outside, the snow continued to fall—soft, unending, merciless. You watched it gather on the ledge, on the branches, on the streetlights below until the whole world seemed wrapped in white.
You pressed your forehead to the glass, the chill seeping into your skin. Your reflection stared back at you, tired eyes and all. You told yourself he was just another patient—one of many, one whose chart you’d filed, whose injuries you’d patched, whose heartbeat you’d listened to just long enough to confirm he was alive.
You told yourself you didn’t care. But the truth slipped through anyway, quiet and steady as falling snow. You didn’t believe it.
And when you finally turned away from the window, the folded bills still sat on your desk, untouched—like proof that somewhere out there, under the same gray sky, the man who swore he didn’t need anyone still had a piece of you.
The following weeks had been mercilessly long. Thank god it's Friday.
The kind that blurred the hours between coffee and exhaustion, where your body ached from standing too long and your brain felt bruised from absorbing too much. You’d spent the morning deep in trauma and emergency medicine, a lecture so dense it could’ve suffocated you if not for your focus.
“Remember,” your professor had said, voice echoing through the auditorium, “fracture patterns tell you stories. The angle, the splintering — they reveal the violence that caused them. It’s your job to listen to what the bone is saying.”
Your pen had scribbled, ‘bone tells story of force.’
Fighting you, fighting the idea of help.
By the time the class ended, your chest was buzzing with restlessness. The memory of that night — of him — stuck like static in your head. You sighed, deciding that caffeine might be the only cure. Outside, the winter wind cut through your uniform coat like a blade. You pulled your scarf tighter, your breath ghosting in front of you as you made your way to the subway. It was nearly dusk now — the kind of grey hour that makes the city look colder, lonelier. You passed through the turnstile, descended the steps, and waited at the platform, your bag hanging off one shoulder. The train screeched into view, lights blinding in the tunnel’s darkness. You stepped in.
Immediately, heat and movement swallowed you. Packed car. No seats. Just a mess of coats, and the faint hum of someone’s cheap headphones. You found a metal pole and clutched it, your knuckles white, the cold ache in your fingers pulsing.
The train jerked forward, sending everyone swaying. Your head dipped, exhaustion taking hold for just a second. Then—
“You again?”
The voice was unmistakable. Deep. Rough. Familiar enough to freeze your chest. You turned around. Sukuna.
He sat in the seat right behind you, rough hands on his knees, hood half-pulled up. His bruises had yellowed, fading into sick shades of green and brown. The corner of his lip was split but healed. Still, even with the exhaustion carved into his face, he looked strong — too strong for the world he was sitting in.
Your throat went dry. “You—” Before you could even finish, he stood up. His movement made the crowd shuffle, people instinctively moving aside. He towered over you, his expression unreadable as his gaze dragged from your scarf to your tired eyes.
“Sit.”
You blinked. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t listen. He just took your bag from your hand, gently but firmly, and nodded toward the now-empty seat.
“Sit,” he repeated.
You hesitated, then sighed, sinking as he took your spot — standing, one large hand gripping the overhead bar, his other hand clutching your bag. He stood in front of you like a shield, his body forming a barrier between you and the crowd pressing in. It was strangely protective — intimate, even — though his expression stayed cold.
“You shouldn’t be standing,” you murmured. “Your ribs—”
“Ain’t broken,” he grunted, not looking at you. “Doc said it’s just bruised.”
You glanced up, unimpressed. “Bruised ribs can still puncture the lung if you push too hard.”
“You sure talk a lot for someone who slapped me that day.”
You nearly choked on air. “You deserved it. You pushed me!” You instinctively shut your mouth with your hands as the people inside looked at you; some snickered as you silently apologized, bowing slightly. Making Sukuna, who was watching it all unfold, smirked.
“I said I didn’t want to go,” he replied after you bowed, tired eyes looking at you with amusement.
“And I said you needed stitches,” you whispered, still embarrassed as you lowered your head. His lips twitched — the closest thing to a smile you’d seen on him.
“You got guts, doc.”
“Medical student,” you corrected sharply. “And you’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice softening slightly. “Guess I am.”
The words hung there, suspended in the clatter of the train.
You both fell silent, your eyes dropping to your gloved hands. The train rattled, lights flickering against his face — and you caught a glimpse of something different. Not arrogance. Not aggression. Just… weariness. The kind that comes from being hit one too many times. “I owe you,” he muttered suddenly.
You frowned, head looking up. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Don’t lie,” he said, eyes flicking to yours. “You dragged a stranger into a hospital. Sat there ‘til they patched me up. You even tried to pay my bill.”
You blinked. “I couldn’t just leave you—”
“Why not?” His question wasn’t mocking. It was quiet. Honest. The kind that made your throat tighten because you realized — maybe no one had ever not left him before.
“Because I’m not built like that,” you said softly. Something flickered in his gaze — like confusion, maybe even respect. He exhaled slowly, shifting his stance as he adjusted your bag that's on his shoulders. An imposing and scary man on a train with a bag that's clearly for a woman made the scene comedic as the train slowed. “Then let me pay you back.”
“For what? Doing my job?”
“For giving a damn.”
You stared at him, at the sincerity buried under that gravel tone. He looked away first. “Food,” he said. “On me.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“Didn’t ask if it was.”
Your lips twitched into a small, unwilling smile. “You're always this stubborn?”
“Only when I mean it.” The announcement chimed for the next station. He looked down at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “There’s a café two blocks from there.” You told him. Handing you your bag. His hand brushing against yours, warm, calloused, and steady, and for a fleeting second, your pulse jumped.
The train doors sigh open into winter air. Steam rises from vents along the street, mixing with the smell of exhaust and fried batter. You blink at the sudden light of lanterns strung between buildings — rows of them, red and gold, swaying above narrow alleys. As he took your hands in his, he guided you out of the train as the people patiently waited for their turn to exit the station.
“A café?” Sukuna mutters, side-eyeing you as he adjusts your scarf once out of the station. “You were really about to waste money on foam and sugar?”
You blink, amused and slightly defensive. “It’s coffee, not foam—”
“It’s fake food.” He jerks his chin toward a side street pulsing with voices. “You ever eaten real food? C’mon.” Before you can protest, his hand ghosts against your elbow, steering you down the west exit of Shinjuku's station and to the crowded Omoide Yokocho street. The smell hits first — soy glaze, grilled meat, ginger, and oil sizzling. Stalls line the path like glowing ribs of a dragon: yakitori skewers, gyoza pans, bubbling oden pots. Steam hisses as cooks shout orders, and the winter chill dissolves into warmth and a cacophony of noise.
He moves through the crowd easily, tall enough to see over the heads, parting people without even brushing against them. You follow closely, clutching your bag to your chest. He glances back once, noticing. His hands are intertwined with yours, firmly. metacarpals flexing, tendons shifting beneath warm dermis as his fingers intertwine firmly with yours. You can feel the rhythmic contraction of his flexor digitorum, the steady pulse of his radial artery brushing your palm.
Heat blossomed on your face whenever he stopped, pulling you close behind his back. broad scapulae moving beneath his jacket as he shields you from the press of bodies. Your fingertips graze the prominent veins tracing along the dorsal surface of his hand, the faint vibration of blood coursing through them. You swear you can feel his systolic pressure rise every time your skin touches his.
“Stay near,” he says, voice low enough that it disappears under the clang of ladles. His breath ghosts close to your ear — warm, rough — and you nod, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips.
At the first stall, he stops. Charcoal smoke curls up from the grill; chicken skewers glisten with tare sauce under the red lantern glow. Sukuna folds a bill between his fingers and slides it toward the cook without looking away from you.
“Two yakitori sets,” he says. Then, with a sideways glance, “You like spicy?”
“Maybe not too—”
“She’ll take the spicy,” he interrupts.
You give him a look, but he only smirks — that faint, knowing curve that always makes your stomach twist. When the skewers arrive, he hands you one first, holding it out by the end like an offering. His fingers brush yours — just barely — and you swear the contact lingers longer than it should.
The sauce drips onto the paper tray, sweet and peppery. You take a bite, almost burning your tongue, the heat blooming across your lips.
“Okay… that’s good,” you mumble, cheeks puffed with rice and meat.
“Told ya.” His voice drops, half amused, half husky. The corner of his mouth lifts, a shadow of pride flickering there.
You eat side by side, standing close enough that your coat sleeves keep brushing. The hiss of grills and bursts of laughter fade into a softer hum between you. Lantern light flickers across his scarred knuckles as he grips the skewer, his thumb absently rubbing over the edge of the stick. He keeps his body turned, subtly shielding you from the crowd — the kind of protectiveness he’d never admit to.
From the corner of his eye, Sukuna watches you — the way your breath fogs your glasses when you laugh, how you tilt your head to catch his words through the noise. Not afraid anymore, he thinks. Crazy girl.
He buys more. Takoyaki this time — the smell of batter and bonito flakes filling the air. Before you can even reach for your wallet, he’s already paid, a lazy flick of his wrist dismissing the cook’s change.
“I said I’d treat you,” he murmurs, leaning down so you hear him clearly. Smoke curls through his hair, catching on the faint scent of soap and steel. “So stop reachin’ for your wallet.”
You laugh into your hand, and for a heartbeat, he forgets to hide it — that soft, unguarded look in his eyes that makes the night feel a little warmer.
“Cafés are fake,” he muttered beside you, his hood finally off, the drizzle catching in his pink hair. “You eat air and pay for it.”
You blinked up at him, clutching your bag close as your breath curled in the cold air. “You mean… pastries?”
“I mean, whatever that green sludge you were talking about,” he scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked a step ahead. “Didn’t think you’d be a goat for melted grass.”
“Matcha latte,” you corrected, half laughing, catching up to him. “It’s good for your heart.”
“My heart’s fine,” he said flatly — but the corner of his mouth twitched. When he glanced at you, his eyes softened for a second, catching the little smile you tried to hide.
Your gaze flicked to his hair — strands damp and clinging to his forehead, glowing faintly pink under the streetlight. “Is that color even real?” you asked, teasing, but your voice came out quieter than you meant.
He turned to you fully this time, the hint of a grin pulling at his lip. “Yeah. Real as it gets.” His tone dipped, lazy and warm. “Why? You like it?”
Your throat went a little dry. You looked away quickly, pretending to study the line of food stalls, the steam rising from them. “I didn’t say that.”
He chuckled low — the sound deep and unguarded — and you felt it more than you heard it, brushing close like heat under your skin. When you risked a glance, he was already watching you again, head tilted, eyes tracing your expression like it was his new favorite thing.
stopping before a stall where smoke curled up from skewers of chicken hearts and beef tongue. “Now this—” he pointed with the tilt of his chin. You followed him reluctantly, the soles of your white heels clacking against the wet pavement. He didn’t ask what you wanted—just ordered a spread of everything: yakitori, karaage, okonomiyaki, even bowls of steaming udon. The stall owner grinned knowingly, eyes darting between the two of you.
“You two on a date?”
Before you could stammer out a denial, Sukuna just shrugged. “She’s paying next time.”
“I'm not,” you shot back.
His mouth curved, faint and dangerous. “We’ll see.”
He carried the tray to a small table under a flickering paper lantern, where the light softened the sharp planes of his face. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not in blood, not under fluorescent hospital lights, but here… where his jaw unclenched, his shoulders relaxed, and for once, he wasn’t running from pain.
You watched him eat first. He didn’t use chopsticks delicately like you expected; he tore into the food like someone who’d been starving all his life. You tried not to stare at the way his hands—rough, calloused, still wrapped from the last fight—moved with quiet precision.
When you finally took a bite, he looked up, smirking. “Not bad, huh?” he said, leaning back with that infuriating confidence. You hummed, savoring the sweet-salty glaze.
“Okay… fine. You win. It’s better than café food.”
“Told you,” he said, leaning back. “You look too high-class to be eating this, though. Thought you’d run the moment you saw smoke.”
“I’m not that delicate,” you said, rolling your eyes. poking at him with your chopsticks.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “You slapped me yesterday. So yeah, I noticed.”
Your chopsticks froze midair. “That was— you were being rude!”
“Still hit like you meant it,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “Didn’t expect it from someone who wears white shoes and talks like a nurse.”
“I am a nurse,” you said, crossing your arms. " Soon to be."
He blinked, pretending to look impressed.“Right,” he said. “You patch up idiots like me.”
“Exactly,” you said, leaning closer with a mock glare. “And I can also sedate them if they get too cocky.” His grin faltered just a bit before returning, sharper. “...You threatening me with medical equipment now?”
“Depends,” you said sweetly, taking another bite. “You planning to keep talking?”
He chuckled, eyes glinting. “Guess I’ll shut up. Don’t want the pretty nurse to euthanize me mid-dinner.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out—small, soft, and dangerously close to fond.
You exhaled a soft laugh, watching him through the warm haze of lantern light. “Honestly, I didn’t expect you to be like this.”
“Like what?” he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he leaned back in his chair.
“Not…” You hesitated, twirling your chopsticks, trying to find the right word. “Not cold. Not cruel. Not a gang member who bites people for breakfast.”
That made him laugh—really laugh loud, sudden, and unrestrained. Heads turned from nearby stalls. a few vendors peeking over their steaming pots. You couldn’t help smiling, even as he dragged a hand down his face to muffle it. “You thought I was a mobster?” he grinned, voice deep and raspy with amusement.
“You kinda look like one,” you admitted. “Tattoos, scars, attitude. You even have that… scary resting face thing going on.”
He leaned forward then, elbows on the rickety table, voice dropping low enough to make your pulse skip. “You been staring at my tattoos, nurse?”
Your cheeks flared hot. “That’s not what I—! I was just— medically observing.”
He chuckled again, softer this time, a slow rumble that vibrated between you. “Medically observing, huh? Should I take my shirt off so you can… observe properly?”
“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, swatting at his hand when he made a show of tugging at his collar.
He laughed, leaning back again, smug and satisfied. “Relax. You’re too easy to tease.” Something shifted then—between the noise of frying pans and the hum of conversation, there was a pause.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too, the corners of your mouth betraying you. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze flicking to your lips for just a second too long. “But you like impossible things, don’t you?”
The air between you went still—soft, charged, and sweet with the scent of grilled meat and night jasmine. Somewhere nearby, someone shouted an order, a pan clattered—but it all faded beneath the quiet thrum of his laughter and the way his knee brushed yours under the table, just once, like a dare.
His laughter faded, but the warmth didn’t. It clung to the night air like smoke, softening the edges between you. He leaned back, head tilted toward the dark sky, breath curling in the cold. “Not a mobster,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “Just a guy who fights for rent money.”
You gave him a look. Studying the scar under his eye.“You don’t have to sound so proud of that.”
He huffed a laugh, lips quirking. “Not proud. Just honest.”
The honesty hung there—bare, unguarded. It softened something in your chest that had been tight since yesterday, maybe longer. The city noise dulled to a hum around you, leaving just the faint crackle of the food stall behind and the way the light caught the scar under his eye. He wasn’t the monster people thought he was. He was just a man who’d been fighting too long—against fists, against hunger, maybe even against the silence in his own head.
“Why fights?” you asked quietly. “You’re good. You could work without meeting yourself at death’s gate.”
He shrugged, chopsticks still in hand. “Legit means contracts. Means people wanna own me. Tell me how to do shit, when to stop.” He took another bite of the noodles, chewing lazily. “I already did that once. Not again.”
You smirked. “So you’d rather get beaten up to the pulp for free will?”
He gave you a side-eye. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It is stupid,” you teased. “You could at least get dental insurance.”
That earned a real laugh out of him—low and rough, the kind that made your stomach do something inconvenient. He leaned back, grin still lingering. “You talk too much for a nurse.”
“And you bleed too much for a man.” His grin widened, teeth flashing. “Match made in hell, huh?”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was thick, charged, the kind that made you hyper-aware of how close your knees were to touching.
You stayed quiet. You understood more than he realized—what it meant to have people dictate your worth, your limits, your place. After a moment, you exhaled and said softly, “Guess we’re both working ourselves to death, huh?”
He turned to you, the humor dimming a little, replaced by something quieter. “Difference is, you save people. I don’t.”
You looked at him then—really looked. The bruises under the streetlight, the faint tremor in his hand from exhaustion, the strange calm in his eyes.
“Maybe you’re not as different as you think,” you said.
For a second, he looked like he might say something. But he didn’t. He just watched you—eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes, longer than it should have been. Like he couldn’t decide which was safer to look at.
Then he smirked, barely. “Careful, doc. Say shit like that, and I might start believing I’m a good guy.”
You smiled faintly. “Would that be so bad?”
He leaned in just a little, the warmth of his breath brushing your cheek. “Yeah,” he whispered, something sad curling under the grin. “’Cause then I’d have to stop fighting.”
You ended up walking through the food park for another hour. He insisted on buying you everything you pointed at: takoyaki, taiyaki, even roasted chestnuts. Every time you protested, he’d wave you off with that half-lidded look and mutter, “You patched me up, didn’t you? Let me pay.” Somewhere between bites, you found yourself laughing too easily as your voice blended into the night air, echoing off the lanterns.
And when it was time to leave, he didn’t ask where you lived; he just knew how to walk you there.
The streets were quieter now, the hum of the city softened into something almost intimate. Neon light bled through the mist, pooling over the slick asphalt where snow still shimmered in broken reflections. Every sound was distant — a car door slamming, a siren somewhere far away — muffled by the damp hush of midnight. The glow of vending machines spilled over the snowy asphalt.
You walked beside Sukuna, you walked beside Sukuna, close enough that your sleeve brushed his knuckles now and then. He didn’t move his hand away, but he didn’t reach for you either. The air between you hummed with the smell of snow still clinging to your hair.
To anyone passing by, he looked at ease — lazy, maybe even bored — but you could see the quiet alertness beneath it. His eyes flicked to every reflection in the puddles, every shadow that lingered too long, every echo of footsteps that didn’t belong, of footsteps across the street, the glint of headlights from a turning car, a group of guys laughing too loud on the corner.
“The streets aren’t safe,” he muttered finally, his voice low and hoarse, like the words had been scraped out of him. “Soft hearts like you shouldn’t walk alone.”
You tried to laugh it off, your voice catching somewhere between fondness and ache. “You make it sound like a movie.”
He turned his head then — really looked at you — and for a second, the snowlight caught his eyes just right. There was something in them that shouldn’t have been there. Something too gentle for a man who knew how to break bones with his bare hands.
He held your gaze a beat too long before murmuring, almost to himself, “You make it look like one.”
You smiled faintly, but his didn’t reach his eyes. He tore his gaze away, jaw tightening like he was holding something back — something dangerous. Because he’d already decided: he could bleed for you, fight for you, walk beside you through every dark street in this goddamn city… But he couldn’t love you. Not when love was the only thing that ever made him weak.
And just like that, the space between you felt smaller — the world quieter. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. Because under that flickering glow, with the snowflakes still clinging to your hair and his heartbeat pulsing faintly beside you, you both knew what neither of you dared to reach for.
You both caught the last bus. The vehicle rattled through the sleeping city, the hum of the engine weaving through the silence like a lullaby. Neon light spilling in through the windows fractured colors—red, gold, violet— painting shifting colors across your faces. You sat by the window, exhaustion softening your posture, your shoulder brushing his with every turn, and began to settle in.
By the third stop, your head tilted—slow, unguarded—until it came to rest against his shoulder.
He froze. For a man who could throw punches without flinching, it was ridiculous how this made him still. It shouldn’t have mattered, shouldn’t have felt like this. But it did.
The weight of your head against him—light, trusting—made something heavy settle in his chest. Somewhere, he didn’t let anyone touch. The steady warmth of you seeped through the fabric of his jacket, and suddenly, every bruise, every scar he carried seemed to ache differently. A quieter pain. The kind that whispered, don’t ruin this.
He glanced down at you.
Your lashes cast faint shadows across your cheeks, your lips parted slightly as you breathed. The rhythm of your chest rose and fell in time with the motion of the bus. You looked soft. Too soft for the kind of world he lived in. Peaceful—dangerously so. Like something he had no right to look at, let alone want.
His fingers twitched before he even realized it. The rough calloused tips from fights and blood hovered midair, trembling in hesitation, before barely brushing your cheek. Just a ghost of contact. Just the lightest touch—but it was enough to burn. He traced the curve of your jaw with the back of his knuckle, feeling the warmth of your skin. Delicate. Unreal. He withdrew almost instantly, fingers curling back into his palm like he’d touched something sacred. Terrified of what it meant that he even wanted to.
Your warmth lingered on his skin long after he pulled away. He clenched his fist around it, as if trying to hide the proof of how much he’d started to care.
He stared out the window, but he didn’t see the city. He saw the reflection of you instead—resting against him, trusting him without knowing the kind of man he really was.
And that’s what broke him most.
Because for the first time in a long, brutal while… he didn’t want to be the man who would have to let go.
When the bus jolted over a pothole, his arm instinctively tightened around you. Your head tipped against his shoulder again, the weight of it warm, familiar. He adjusted your glasses carefully, fingertips ghosting over your temple — protective, gentle — like he was afraid you’d break if he moved too fast.
You murmured something in your sleep then, his name maybe, or a sound that felt like it. And just like that, something twisted deep in his chest. His lips almost curved into a smile — a quiet, startled thing — before he caught himself.
He shouldn’t feel this. Not this soft, aching warmth that spread through him every time you breathed against his skin. He’d spent years hardening himself against that kind of weakness. But you made it too damn easy.
By the time lurched to your stop, he almost didn’t move. He just sat there for a second, watching you — lashes brushing your cheeks, mouth parted slightly, peaceful in a way he didn’t think peace existed anymore.
Then he forced himself to shake you awake, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
“Hey,” he murmured. “We’re here.” You blinked up at him, disoriented, eyes heavy with sleep, and something inside him pulled. Hard. The sight of your sleepy confusion pulled another small grin from him.
“You drooled on my shoulder, nurse,” he said, forcing a crooked grin to hide the tremor in his voice.
Your face went pink instantly. “I did not!” you huffed, wiping at your mouth in panic.
He let out a low laugh, one that cracked a little around the edges. “Sure you didn’t.”
You didn’t notice the way his hand lingered a second too long when he helped you stand. Or the way his eyes followed you as you stepped off the bus — like he was afraid that if he blinked, you’d disappear with the night.
Outside, the air was cool again, carrying that damp, metallic scent of snowfall that always came before a downpour. He walked beside you the whole way to your apartment gate, boots dragging just enough to slow his pace, as if each step forward meant leaving something behind. The silence between you wasn’t awkward this time — it felt heavy instead, threaded with all the words neither of you could say.
Your breath fogged faintly in the air when you turned to face him, ready to thank him, to fill the quiet with something small and safe. But before you could speak, he shook his head once, that familiar guardedness flickering back into place.
“Go on,” he said, low and even.
It should’ve sounded casual. It didn’t. It sounded like don’t make me worry, like I don’t know what to do with this feeling.
Then he turned, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. The streetlight above hummed, throwing pale gold across his shoulders — broad, scarred, impossibly solid — before the shadows swallowed him piece by piece. You stood there long after he disappeared, the faint scent of smoke and snow still clinging to the air, the image of him burned behind your eyes.
He didn’t look back. But if he had, you might’ve seen it — the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand flexed once in his pocket, like he was fighting the urge to turn around.
The days after that night blurred into something hazy and tender, like the lingering ache of a half-healed bruise. You started taking the same routes without meaning to — the same streets, the same train, the same stops. And somehow, he was always there.
Not always on purpose. But never by accident.
Sometimes he’d “bump” into you at a corner too narrow for it to be a coincidence, his hand brushing your arm as if testing if you were real. Other times, you’d look up at a café and find him already there — elbows on the table, eyes fixed on you over the rim of his coffee cup, a ghost of a smirk threatening to break.
And more often than not, you’d spot him first — leaning against a wall like he owned the air around him, that sharp gaze following you with something between hunger and restraint.
Neither of you said much when it happened. You didn’t have to. The silence between you buzzed like static — heavy with the things neither dared name. Each glance was a pull; each accidental touch felt like remembering something you hadn’t lived yet.
It wasn’t just a coincidence anymore. It was yearning dressed as chance.
The first time it happened after the hospital incident, you nearly tripped over your own feet again—arms full of books, notes, and exhaustion. The world tilted for a split second before a familiar hand caught your arm, steady and sure, pulling you back against something solid.
“…Careful,” his voice came low, rasped from disuse and sleepless nights.
You blinked up, heart lurching. His face was too close, close enough to see the faint scar above his brow, the one that's stitched, the one that made something in your chest ache.
“I—thanks,” you breathed, the word catching somewhere between your throat and the space between you. His lips curved, that half-smirk you’d learned to read too well. “Yeah?” His thumb brushed the inside of your elbow before he let go, slow, reluctant. “Try not to kill yourself before med school crushes you.”
You laughed, but it came out soft—nervous, trembling. You could feel his warmth lingering against your sleeve long after he stepped back, both of you pretending it didn’t mean anything. Both of you knew it did.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. There was something about the way he watched—not intrusive, not possessive—just there. Like he was guarding a space he didn’t even know he’d claimed. In some way, that quiet presence had become its own kind of comfort.
Before long, he started helping with your studies—or at least, that’s what he liked to call it. Your apartment's desk was chaos: textbooks stacked, anatomy diagrams spread wide, pens scattered like confetti from another sleepless night. He sat across from you, slouched in the chair, forearms resting on the table as you watched him, with your glasses perched up in your nose, Hair tied up with your claw clip as he scanned through your color-coded notes like they held some secret language.
“Ster… masto… steroid?” he guessed when you quizzed him on sternocleidomastoid. His brow furrowed, lips twitching. You broke into laughter, head falling forward. “You’re impossible.”
“I am,” he said, smug, though the faint twitch at his mouth betrayed him. He liked making you laugh. Probably more than he should’ve.
Over time, the rhythm became familiar. Him leaning over your notes, frowning in concentration. You correcting him, sometimes swatting his arm when he mispronounces pharyngeal. Laughter fills the small space, mingling with the soft rustle of papers and late-night outside your window. There was teasing, sure—but under it, something warmer. Quieter. A closeness that lived in the little pauses between words.
You started noticing things. The way his eyes lingered on you when you were focused. The small huff of amusement when you chewed the end of your pen. The way his rough hands hesitated near yours whenever you passed him a flashcard—close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
Evenings were the hardest. He insisted on walking you home every time from campus, grumbling about the streets being too dangerous for “soft hearts” like yours. You’d roll your eyes, tug your scarf higher, pretending you didn’t secretly love it. His footsteps always matched yours—steady, deliberate. His body between you and the world.
Sometimes, under the hum of streetlights, you’d catch him looking. That usual sharpness in his eyes is gone, replaced by something… unguarded. Soft. And then, like clockwork, he’d look away, muttering something rude to cover the crack in his armor.
It was easy to pretend it was nothing—until nights when the bus ride home grew quiet and heavy. Your head would dip, exhaustion tugging you sideways until it brushed his shoulder. He’d go completely still, as if afraid to breathe. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he’d tilt his head ever so slightly toward yours, his shoulder steady beneath your cheek.
Neither of you spoke. But in that fragile stillness, the air between you pulsed with everything unspoken—the warmth, the ache, the quiet kind of yearning that asked for nothing yet meant everything.
He didn’t sleep in his own apartment that night—not because of anything you’d said or done, but because of the silence that followed after. The memory of your head against his shoulder played on a loop: the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the ghost of your hair against his arm, the way your body had unconsciously leaned toward his like you trusted him. That was the part that haunted him most—the trust.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, every muscle still remembering the weight of you, the warmth that seeped through his skin. And somewhere between midnight and dawn, when the city outside had gone still, he wondered—just once—if someone like him was even allowed to want someone like you.
Days bled into weeks, and your meetings stopped being coincidences. You’d find him waiting at the Shinjuku train station, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a convenience store coffee. He never said he was waiting for you, but his eyes always flicked up the moment you appeared.
At first, your conversations were easy, surface-level things—classes, assignments, the endless grind of med school. But then came the jokes, the teasing, the little confessions slipped in between. You’d complain about memorizing muscle origins, and he’d grin and say, “You patched me up once. That’s enough to graduate, doesn't it?” You’d roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest would linger long after.
He never said what he felt. Not directly. The quiet way he would show up was enough. How he’d wordlessly take your bag when your arms were full. How he remembered your exact matcha latte order—two pumps of syrup, extra ice. How his fingers always brushed yours when he passed you your notes, deliberate yet pretending not to be.
And you felt it too. The pull. The way your pulse betrayed you whenever he leaned too close, or when his laughter filled the narrow space between you. Sometimes, you’d look at him and feel the air thicken, like there was something fragile balanced between you—something that could shatter or bloom with a single word.
But neither of you spoke it. Not yet. Because whatever this was, it was too delicate to name and too precious to risk losing before either of you was ready.
One evening, when the sky outside the ramen house window had deepened into violet, the quiet between you stretched long enough for something real to slip through. Your notes lay forgotten on the table, your voice softer than usual.
“I chose med school because of my great-grandmother,” you said, tracing absent circles on your cup. “She was already in maintenance when I was born. There wasn’t anyone else, so I just—learned. How to take care of her. How to be calm when she wasn’t.” You laughed faintly, though it trembled at the edges. “Also used to work part-time through high school, too—small things, just to save up for tuition. It’s not much left now, so I’ll probably need another job soon. Semester’s been… heavier than I expected.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you—the way your eyes fell to your bowl, the quiet determination tucked beneath your exhaustion. Then he exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair.
“You,” he said finally, voice low and rough, “are terrible at taking breaks.”
You glanced up, ready to roll your eyes, but he continued before you could.
“Working since high school, taking care of people, saving up for this—” He shook his head, smirking faintly, though his tone had softened. “You’re out here trying to patch up the whole damn world, and you can’t even sit still long enough to breathe.”
You let out a small laugh. “That’s your version of cheering me up?”
He grunted. “You want confetti or something?”
You laughed again, properly this time, and he looked almost proud of himself for it. Then his expression shifted—less teasing, more earnest.
“You’re strong,” he said quietly, almost like it slipped out. His gaze flicked toward the floor before returning to you. Your chest tightened, warmth rising to your throat before you could speak. He shrugged, trying to make light of it, though his voice stayed soft.
“Just don’t forget to let someone take care of you every once in a while.”
And when he said it—when his eyes lingered on you like he meant it—it wasn’t just concern. It was something deeper. Something like admiration. Something dangerously close to love.
After he dropped you off at your home, Sukuna lingered outside your gate, staring into the darkened streets. His smile, usually cocky and teasing, faded slowly. Hands shoved into pockets, jaw clenched, he let himself think of you—of how kind you were, of how selfless, of how easily you made him forget the underworld of fists and blood he came from.
He didn’t deserve you. Not someone bright, soft, and healing. Not someone who saved people without question. He's scarred, violent, and dangerous. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be the kind of man who belonged with you. So he stayed silent. He let the warmth linger, let the teasing continue, let himself be near you, but never let himself hope.
And yet, behind Sukuna’s guarded exterior, behind his quiet grudges and fleeting grumbles, something shifted. Slowly, surely. He was falling. And every night, as he walked away from your dorm, that realization weighed heavier than any punch he’d ever taken in the ring.
The air bit at your cheeks as you stepped out of the lecture hall, scarf pulled tight and gloves gripping your hands. Winter had settled over the city like an unshakable fever—streets glistening with frost, railings slick with ice, breath turning to fog the moment it left your lips. You shivered, pulling your coat closer, but even the thought of the campus festival tonight was enough to spark a little warmth inside you—lanterns, laughter, snow drifting in lazy spirals from the sky.
You hadn’t really expected Sukuna to come. It was a half-joking invitation sent between classes, your fingers hesitating over send before you finally hit it.
"You should come tonight. I’ll save you a spot😋."
Hours later, miles away under the hum of flickering fluorescent lights, Sukuna stood in the locker room of the underground arena—sweat still clinging to his skin and his black dyed hair, blood trickling from the split on his lip. The crowd’s roars had faded to a low buzz behind the metal doors. He’d won again, though the bruises blooming along his ribs told a different story. Rin was shouting in his ear about numbers, her voice sharp and elated—something about how much he’d made her money worth tonight, how the crowd was eating him alive. He barely heard her.
His phone buzzed in his hand. A single message lighting up the cracked screen—your name.
The corner of his mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a sigh. For a moment, he just stared at it, thumb hovering above the glass, heartbeat still pounding from the fight. You—clean, warm, far from this blood-soaked place—had thought of him. Invited him.
He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and tired. Rin rolled her eyes, muttering something about him losing his edge if he kept getting distracted by “that girl.” But Sukuna only leaned back against the locker, the metal cold against his skin, and typed his reply with bruised fingers—
🤷♂️
Simple. Careless on the surface. But his chest ached with something restless and alive.
Now, hours later, you lay on your bed as you doomed scrolled through social media, your phone buzzed. One new message.
Just that emoji. But quickly followed by another message.
“I’ll go. Don’t make it boring,”
You had grinned, teasing him in reply.
Now, seeing him waiting near the train station, hands stuffed in his pockets, hood up, posture relaxed as ever, you couldn’t help but notice the sodium light overhead caught the faint bruises along his jaw and the swelling above his lip—Old ghosts of violence clung to him like smoke. But tonight… There was something softer. Something dangerously close to human.
“Hey,” you greeted, your breath misting in the cold.
“…Hey,” he replied, voice low, clipped, but lighter than usual. There was a quiet curiosity in his dark crimson eyes that made your stomach flutter.
You stepped closer, your gaze tracing the bruises more carefully this time. A fresh one shadowed his cheekbone, faint but new, and the corner of his lip was split again—just barely healed over. You frowned. “You’ve got new ones.”
He grunted, glancing aside as if that might hide the evidence. “Yeah. Training.”
“Training?” you echoed, brow furrowing. “That bad?”
He huffed, clearly irritated by the question—or maybe by whoever had landed those hits. “Tch. My trainee got carried away.”
“Carried away?” you pressed, incredulous. “You mean he hit you this hard during sparring?” Sukuna’s jaw ticked as his lips twitched, caught somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement. “He’s heavy-handed,” he muttered. “Didn’t think he’d actually land one.”
You blinked, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “So you’re saying your student bruised the great Ryoumen Sukuna ?”
He shot you a sideways look that could’ve cut glass—but the faintest smirk tugged at his lip, betraying the irritation he tried to fake. “Keep laughing. I’ll make you hold mitts next time.”
You smiled, the sound of his voice melting something in your chest. The space between you felt fragile, heavy with things unspoken. The walk to campus was mostly silent, the crunch of snow underfoot filling the air between you. Every so often, you’d glance at him, noticing how his gaze flicked toward you again—measured, deliberate, as if checking to make sure you were still there. It made your stomach tighten, your heart fluttering in quiet rhythm with his heavy steps.
Finally, the festival grounds appeared. Lanterns strung between poles glowed warmly, casting everything in soft golden light. Music floated through the air, mingling with laughter and the scent of roasted chestnuts. It was magic. For a moment, it almost felt impossible that he was here—Sukuna, the man who existed in the shadows of bloodied arenas—standing under the gentle snowfall like he belonged in this soft, glowing world.
“Go on,” you urged softly, gesturing toward a food stall lit with red paper lanterns. “Let's try some yakitori. Don’t tell me you've changed your mind now.”
He huffed a low laugh, the sound almost disbelieving. “… Just don’t make me look weak.” You chuckled, shaking your head. There was something disarmingly normal about this moment. Something that shouldn’t exist between the bruises and the blood, yet somehow did.
You wandered together through the stalls—sharing bites of sweet mochi, sipping hot tea that steamed against the cold, laughing as he complained about the sweetness, only to reach for another piece anyway. Every time your eyes met, there was a quiet pull, a spark that lingered just a little too long before either of you looked away.
Then, over the sound of music and laughter, a familiar voice pierced through the air.
“No way.”
You froze. Sukuna’s brow arched, his chewing slowing as he turned his head with deliberate calm. Standing a few meters away, bundled in scarves and coats, were Shoko, Gojo, and Geto—your friends, your classmates—and they looked like they’d just stumbled into a crime scene.
“Hey,” you greeted, tone a little too bright, a little too nervous. “You guys made it.”
“You brought him?” Gojo asked, half-whisper, half-screech, his white hair already dusted with snow. “You actually brought your mystery man?!”
Shoko gave you a look that said we’ll talk later, then turned her calm, assessing eyes toward Sukuna. “So you’re the guy who’s been keeping her from our study sessions.”
Sukuna didn’t blink. “She’s the one who keeps dragging me,” he said dryly, voice low and smooth as smoke.
Gojo let out a laugh, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Ohhh, he talks. And he’s got bite, too. I like him.” He leaned forward, that signature grin flashing. “So tell me, tough guy—what’s your major, man? Violence?”
You could feel Sukuna’s glare from beside you, sharp enough to slice through the snow. “You talk too much.”
“That's my specialty,” Gojo chirped, completely unbothered. “You’re a big guy, man, relax. I’m not gonna fight you—unless it’s for her attention.” He winked.
“Gojo,” you hissed, mortified.
Sukuna’s lip curled in something between amusement and annoyance. “Try it. See what happens.”
Gojo’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, blue eyes narrowing just slightly before Gojo howled, laughing, clapping him on the shoulder—but the impact lingered like a test. “Oh, I like you even more now. She’s in trouble with this one.”
“Gojo,” Shoko warned, voice edged with annoyance. “One more word and I’m calling the med tent for you now.”
While the two of them exchanged verbal jabs, your gaze flicked toward Geto—quiet, calm, his eyes lingering on Sukuna in a way that wasn’t curiosity. It was something sharper. Measuring. His dark eyes flicked from you to Sukuna, then to the faint bruises shadowing Sukuna’s jaw.
“Ryoumen Sukuna, right?” Geto finally said. His tone was polite, his voice low. Too calm. even, but there was a weight behind it. “You’ve been around the neighborhood a lot lately.”
Sukuna’s smirk vanished. He straightened, shoulders subtly squaring. “That a problem?”
“Not unless you make it one,” Geto said, smiling still there, though it didn’t reach his eyes—but there was no warmth behind it.
The shift was instant. no longer light or teasing. It was the kind of silence that hummed with unspoken tension. Gojo went still beside you, his grin tightening. His eyes flicked between them like he was watching a live bomb ticking. The crowd noise seemed to fade. Sukuna’s crimson eyes darkened, assessing, predatory. Two predators sizing each other up. One in Uniform, the other in shadows.
“Alright, testosterone festival’s over,” Shoko muttered, stepping in as heavy enough to slice through the tension. Tugging on your sleeve. “Let’s get food before someone before one of you decides to test a theory.”
You exhaled shakily, cheeks hot. “Sorry—they can be… a lot.”
Sukuna grunted, still watching Geto with narrowed eyes. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Even as you tugged his sleeve and moved ahead, he didn’t look away. Neither did Geto.
It wasn’t open hostility yet. But it wasn’t peace either.
And even as the night continued—Sukuna muttering about the cold, even while Sukuna stood beside you, laughing softly at something Gojo said or muttering about the cold, you caught the way his eyes occasionally flicked to where Geto stood—watchful, guarded. You could feel Shoko pretending not to watch. That invisible line drawn between the three of them.
By the time the lanterns began to dim and the laughter faded into the cold, the festival’s warmth dissolved into something quieter—something that hummed beneath the snow and the heartbeat still echoing in your chest. Fellow students drifted toward the station in small, glowing clusters. The air smelled faintly of smoke and sweetness, like a dream slowly burning out.
Shoko and Gojo had split off to grab one last snack run—Gojo calling something over his shoulder about “don’t kill each other!”—leaving you and Sukuna standing at the edge of the quad. The snow underfoot shimmered faintly in the lantern light, turning every breath into mist.
You could still feel the aftershock of everything—the way his hand brushed yours earlier, the small, rare curve of his mouth when you made him laugh. But beneath it all, there was that same weight dragging through your chest: the memory of his stare-down with Geto.
And as if summoned by your thoughts, Geto emerged from the thinning crowd—hands in his pockets, eyes sharp beneath the calm. He didn’t look angry, exactly. Just aware. Like a man who’d already drawn his conclusions.
“Guess that’s my cue,” Shoko murmured, waving lazily before heading off. Gojo trailed behind her, laughing, still half-shouting, “Behave, lovebirds!” That left only you and the two towering men, standing between what felt like two storms.
“I’ll… go ahead,” you said quietly, glancing between them. “See you at the gates?” Sukuna’s gaze flicked to you, softened for the briefest heartbeat before turning back to Geto. His voice was low. “…Yeah.”
You hesitated, sensing the shift in the air—the kind of stillness that came right before something snapped. Then you turned and walked off, boots crunching through the thin layer of snow. You didn’t look back, but you didn’t have to. You could feel it—two gazes locked behind you, heavy and unmoving.
When your footsteps had faded, Geto exhaled slowly. The silence between them was brittle. “You know,” he began, voice calm but cutting, “I don’t think she knows what kind of place you come from.” Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He didn’t turn, but the shift in his posture was immediate—scenting threat. “You don’t either.”
“I know enough,” Geto replied, stepping closer until the lamplight cast the faintest glint in his eyes. “You show up out of nowhere. Always bruised. Always watching her door after dark.” His tone stayed soft, but the precision in his words made it worse. “It’s not hard to notice.”
Sukuna finally looked at him, the faintest curl of his lip ghosting across his face. “You think you’re her protector?”
“I think she deserves to know when someone’s hiding the truth on their hands,” Geto said evenly. The words hit hard—sharp enough to slice the space between them open. Sukuna’s shoulders squared, breath steady but slow. The faint wind picked up, stirring the snow.
He stepped forward once. Then again. “You think you scare me?” Geto didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “No,” he said quietly. “I think you scare yourself.” The silence that followed was suffocating—thick enough to feel. The festival lights flickered in the distance, but here, the world had narrowed to two figures standing in the half-dark, the snow catching between them like static. Two men who understood violence in different languages.
Sukuna leaned in. “You don’t know anything about me. And trust me—” his gaze sharpened, crimson eyes burning through the half-light, “—you don’t want to.”
Geto’s reply came like a whisper, steady and sure. “Maybe not. But it’ll show anyway.”
They stood there, neither backing down, their shadows cutting across the snow like twin scars. For a long, pulsing moment, it felt like something might finally break—like one wrong breath could ignite everything.
Then Sukuna turned. Shoulders tense, steps deliberate. His breath fogged the air as he walked toward the station without looking back, the faint hum of the city swallowing his figure whole. Geto stayed where he was, watching the retreating silhouette. The quiet around him seemed to grow colder.
You were waiting near the gates when he finally caught up. The wind had painted your cheeks a soft pink, scarf was pulled high, hiding the tremble in your breath. He said nothing—just fell into step beside you, his shadow stretching long beside yours in the glow of the streetlights.
“You okay?” you asked quietly. The question felt too small for everything hanging between you. He glanced down, eyes unreadable beneath the hood. “…Yeah.”
But his hand twitched once at his side, that small, human movement betraying the restraint it took not to reach for you—or to look back. You didn’t notice the figure still lingering behind, half-hidden by the falling snow. Geto’s gaze followed you both, quiet and unreadable, a faint frown pulling at his lips as Sukuna’s shadow folded into yours.
Whatever had started between those two—it wasn’t ending tonight.
The snow thickened, falling heavier now, soft flakes clinging to your hair. You pulled your scarf higher, voice muffled when you murmured, “I should probably head now…”
He didn’t answer immediately. You felt him hesitate, saw his hand lift—halfway, almost touching the space between you—but he stopped himself. His jaw flexed once before he exhaled through his nose. “…Yeah. You should.” It hung there. That was quiet, painful, almost. The words neither of you knew how to say pressed at the back of your throats, heavy and fragile. You shifted your weight, trying to smile, but your chest ached. He cleared his throat, voice low, rough with something unspoken.
“…Not tonight.”
Your brows knit. “Not tonight?”
He looked away, eyes fixed somewhere distant, somewhere safe. “…Just go home.”
You nodded, though your heart thudded like it wanted to stay. “Alright. And… thank you. For coming.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His eyes traced your face as though trying to memorize it—the curve of your mouth, the way your lashes caught snow, the quiet tremor of your breath. You couldn’t hold his gaze for long; it felt too much, too deep, like standing too close to something that could burn you alive. You turned toward the train. The world narrowed to the sound of your boots crunching snow and the low hum of the platform. “Goodbye,” you whispered, barely audible.
He didn’t answer. He just watched you go, the amber light of the station catching in your hair before you vanished into the crowd—a silhouette dissolving into snowfall.
The space you left behind felt hollow. The warmth of your presence lingered like an echo, an ache that settled deep in his chest. His jaw clenched. Hands buried in his pockets, he muttered under his breath, voice rough with frustration, “…Damn it.”
He turned away sharply, breath fogging the cold air, walking fast—like he could outrun the feeling clawing at his ribs. He wasn’t angry at you. He was angry at himself—at the words he couldn’t say, the impulse he had to choke down every time you looked at him like that.
Under the drifting lantern light, he paused once, just once, his breath catching. He could still see it—your faint smile, your eyes, the way your voice softened when you said his name. The snow kept falling. The crowd thinned. And somewhere beneath his bruised ribs, a restless fire burned—wanting, aching, waiting for the next time he’d see you.
Neither of you said it. But both of you felt it. And that was almost worse.
Hours later, deep beneath the city where the scent of sweat and iron bled into the air, Sukuna sat in the gym—this time, all alone with his own thoughts. His knuckles were already taped, bruised, his expression distant as Rin paced in front of him, cigarette glowing between her fingers.
“So,” she started, exhaling smoke through her grin. “That the girl?”
Sukuna didn’t look up. “What girl.”
Rin smirked. “Don’t play dumb with me, pretty boy. Your precious little med student. The one who keeps stitching your sorry ass together. Word gets around.”
He said nothing. Just adjusted his wrist wraps, movements slow and precise, but his silence was answer enough. Rin crouched in front of him, a grin softening just enough to show she almost cared.
“You know, you could actually make her part of your life. She’s clean, smart, sweet—all that sunshine you don’t deserve. But,” she added, tone dipping low, sharp as a knife, “don’t forget. You still owe me.” Sukuna’s eyes flicked to hers, that dangerous gleam back in them.
“You’ve got money to make,” Rin continued, dragging the cigarette against the floor, ember dying in the dust. “Blood to spill. Until your debts are cleared, you belong to me. You want freedom? You fight for it.”
He finally spoke, voice flat, low, but laced with warning. “You done?” Rin arched a brow, still smirking. “Not quite. I’m saying this because I like you, Ryoumen. But if that girl gets too close? If she starts poking around my business, or if she gets in the way of yours…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. The air went still.
Sukuna’s hands slowly uncurled from the wraps. His head lifted, eyes catching hers—no amusement this time, no bluff, no feigned calm. Just that quiet, razor-sharp stillness before the kill.
“You touch her,” he said quietly, “and I’ll forget you ever helped me in the first place.” Rin blinked, taken aback. For a second, something flickered across her face—surprise? Respect? Maybe both.
Then she smiled again, lazy and dangerous. “See, that’s the problem with you, "Oni". You only fight like that when someone gives you something to lose.” He stared her down. The locker room light flickered above them, throwing his shadow across the cracked tile.
“Don’t test me,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said sweetly, standing and dusting off her coat. “But remember—love won’t save you down here. Money will. And until you buy your way out, she’s nothing but a risk.” Rin turned on her heel and left, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind her. The sound echoed through the room, hollow and final.
Sukuna stayed seated, unmoving, staring at the floor. The ghost of your laughter flickered through his mind like a half-remembered dream—so soft it hurt. Then he stood, rolling his wrists, eyes cold again.
The days after felt unbearably long, like a frozen river of nothing stretching endlessly before you. No messages. No sightings. No accidental bumps at the train station. As if he had disappeared from the face of the Earth.
You’ve been searching every place he’d ever casually mentioned—the convenience store bench where you’d patched him up, the alleyway shortcuts he never complained about, even the quiet corner café he’d mocked—but there was no trace. It was as if he had been swallowed by the city itself. Your heart ached with a mix of worry and frustration, the absence of him twisting in your chest until it hurt to breathe. Why would he disappear? Why wouldn’t he tell me?
Every corner seemed to whisper his name, every empty space made the ache sharper. Your thoughts tangled endlessly between worry and anger—between the memory of his smirk and the echo of his silence. And then, one night, as you sat in your dimly lit room, replaying every moment of the festival.
Whatever he’d said that night—whatever had passed between them—it had gotten to Sukuna. You’d seen the change, the way his shoulders tensed, the coldness that took root in his eyes after that quiet confrontation. Whatever Geto had told him… it had driven him away. And now, he was gone.
Rin had always seen people chase after him — the desperate kind, the greedy kind — but you weren’t either. You looked like you were about to snap. From her place across the street, Rin leaned against her car, arms folded as she watched you scan the back alleys of Kabukichō for the third night in a row.
The city around you pulsed with life — laughter spilling from bars, the buzz of neon signs, the shuffling of feet on dirty pavement, and yet you looked like you were standing outside of it all. Like someone who’d lost the map back to herself.
Rin had been there the night Sukuna vanished — the night the underground ring had gone silent. The night he’d told her, voice low and eyes distant, not to follow, not to call, not to say a word.
And now, here you were, bundled in that same oversized coat he once teased you for wearing, clutching your phone like a compass that had lost its north.
Rin took a drag, smoke curling from her lips as she muttered under her breath, “That bastard’s gone and got himself attached.” Her tone was a blend of bitterness and reluctant admiration. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”
The great Ryoumen Sukuna — underground champion, the man who moved like a weapon and spoke like a wound — bleeding his heart out for a girl who patched him up with trembling hands and told him he still owed her. Rin didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified. Maybe both.
You kept walking. Past the shuttered ramen stalls and blinking streetlights, past the puddles that mirrored the cold glow of vending machines. Your breath fogged in the air, your gloved fingers shaking as you typed and deleted the same message over and over:
“Where are you?” “Are you alive?” “Are you just really gonna ignore me?”
But the screen stayed empty. Always empty.
You wandered to the places that had quietly become his.
Everywhere you went, there was a trace of him — and yet not him.
The air was brutal that night, biting against your cheeks and seeping through your clothes. By the time you boarded the last train home, filled with people all tired from their day. Your legs ached from walking, your throat burned from the wind, and your reflection in the window looked hollow — a ghost staring back at itself.
The train swayed gently, the city lights flashing by like dying embers — red neon, pale blue, harsh white. Every flicker reminded you of him: the glow of a boxing sign on a billboard, the press of cold metal gloves against skin, the smirk that always preceded a threat or a tease.
When you reached your apartment, your hands shook as you fit the key into the lock. The moment you stepped inside, silence hit you like a blow.
No sound of his boots on the floor. No faint muttering under his breath. No cigarette smoke curling from the half-open window. Just a stale, awful quiet.
You dropped your bag and pressed your palms against your eyes, forcing back the burn that rose in your throat. “Why did you leave me, you asshole.”
The days that followed blurred into each other. You went through the motions — lectures, exams, late nights with your notes spread like open wounds across your desk — but it was like your body kept moving while your mind stayed behind somewhere in Kabukichō.
You started sleeping with your phone on your chest, waiting for a vibration that never came.
Until one afternoon, surrounded by the hum of cafeteria chatter, it all came undone.
Shoko was the first to notice. Her hand brushed over yours, soft and careful, grounding. “He’ll show up soon,” she murmured, trying for comfort. “You know how guys like him are — they disappear, then come back acting like nothing happened. You’ll probably get some dumb excuse about needing ‘space.’”
Gojo, ever the loudest, leaned back with his usual smirk. “Yeah, maybe he’s just brooding in an alley again. Probably writing haikus about you or something. What rhymes with ‘medical bills’? ‘Thrills’? ‘Feels’?—”
You laughed because that’s what you were supposed to do. But it came out wrong. Hollow. Like the sound of a glass cracking before it breaks. And then Geto spoke. His tone was too calm, steady in the way that meant danger. “You should accept it.”
The words barely reached you before the meaning hit. He looked at you across the table, eyes like quiet judgment. “Whatever he was, whatever he promised, it’s over. Guys like that don’t just disappear for no reason. He made his choice.”
Something inside you splintered.
Your hand slammed against the table, sharp enough to rattle the cutlery and choke the air out of the room. Gojo’s grin faltered. Shoko froze mid-breath.
“Suguru—”
Geto’s eyes hardened, his voice dropping low. “And you don’t know what he’s capable of.”
The silence that followed was a blade. No one breathed. No one moved.
You could feel your pulse hammering in your throat, your whole body shaking. “Maybe you said something,” you spat. “Maybe you ticked him off. You were always watching him like you wanted him to screw up—” Geto’s jaw tightened. “If he left, it wasn’t because of me. It was because he's the kind of man who always leaves.”
You pushed away from the table, the screech of the chair against tile cutting through the air. “You don’t get to talk about him like that,” you said, voice cracking. “Not when you just spout accusing words at a person you just met.”
You didn’t wait for anyone to respond. You walked out. Fast. Hard. The world outside hit you cold and colorless, snow falling in lazy spirals that stung when they touched your cheeks. The sound of laughter from inside faded behind you until it was just the whisper of winter and the pounding of your heart. Your emotions getting the better of you, so much so that you failed to feel the presence of someone already watching you. Half-hidden under the awning, a cigarette was burning down to the filter. She watched you go, eyes following your trembling hands, your uneven steps. The anger, the heartbreak — the same look Sukuna had.
Rin exhaled, the smoke curling up into the falling snow. “Guess he wasn’t the only one who fell too deep,” she muttered. And somewhere in the city — in a basement gym that reeked of sweat and blood — Sukuna sat on a stool, bruised knuckles resting on his knees, ribs wrapped tight with tape. He stared at the floor, the echo of your voice still carved into his skull.
The weight of your words. The moments you both had. The freedom he still owed.
He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, inhaled, and exhaled smoke like confession. For a moment, he almost reached for his phone. Almost. But he didn’t.
The café was nearly empty when you stepped in. A faint bell chimed overhead, warm air brushing against your cold cheeks. You were half-numb — not from the winter, but from the silence that had followed him since that night. You’d been coming here every day since Sukuna vanished, telling yourself it was just routine, that maybe he’d walk in one day with that lazy smirk.
“Told you I don’t like this place, but you make it tolerable.”
You stood at the counter, murmuring your usual order — “One matcha latte, please—”
“Make that two.”
You turned. A woman leaned casually against the counter beside you — tall, sharp-eyed, a long scar tracing down from her ear to her collarbone like an afterthought. Her hair was sleek and clean, and her smirk looked too knowing for comfort.
You blinked, thrown off by her sudden familiarity. “… do I know you?”
She tilted her head, looking you over as if weighing something. Then she extended a gloved hand. “Rin.” A pause, a faint glint in her eyes. “Sukuna’s… friend.”
Sukuna's friend? He never mentioned anything to you about a friend of his, not even his own family—
She chuckled low, eyes sharp as if she read the cogs turning in your mind. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Come on — sit.”
Before you could protest, she gestured toward a table by the window, guiding you with a casual but firm nudge. Warily, you obeyed. Heart pounding, unsure whether it was caution or curiosity that made you follow. Rin sat across from you, letting the noise of the café fade into the background.
Without preamble, she reached into her coat and placed a thick envelope on the table. “For you.” You frowned deeply, glancing down at the clean, gleaming stack of bills. The same ones that Sukuna did in the Hospital. Weeks ago.
“Tuition,” she said simply. “From him.”
Your stomach twisted, an unbelievable laugh escaped as your eyes glanced back to her. “Look….I don’t even know who you are, or how you know him. And second, how can I be so sure it's from him. Sukuna's friend”
Rin’s playful smirk vanished, replaced by a serious, almost dangerous gaze. “You really don’t know? huh..” Her voice was quiet, measured. “I know him well enough to know how dangerous it is to be involved with people like you. And if I were you, I’d be careful how much curiosity I let get in the way of your skin staying unbruised.”
You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at you to leave, but you couldn’t. Sarcasm coating your words, “You… you just hand people money and threats. Do you? What a stupid occupation you have.”
Rin leaned back, folding her arms. The smoke from her cigarette lingered around her like a halo of warning. “You’re asking the wrong questions, pretty girl.” Her eyes bored into yours. “The right question is, can you survive knowing even a fraction of what he’s been through?”
You looked down at the money again. Raising an eyebrow “…Is this… Really, the money he makes as a gym trainer?”
Rin laughed — low, amused, dangerous. “Gym trainer? Sweetheart, do you know him at all? He earns that money of his in ways your little textbook couldn’t even cover.”
You blinked, feeling a mix of disrespect and disbelief.
“Good,” Rin said, leaning forward. Her expression sharpened, serious now. “You don’t accept handouts from people you don’t understand. And you certainly don’t throw away your pride for promises you can’t keep.”
Your chest tightened. “Then… tell me. What are you really here for? How did you know about me?”
Rin’s gaze softened just slightly — ever so little — but her warning remained. “I’m here to make sure curiosity doesn’t get you hurt. That’s all. The envelope? Think of it as a lifeline. Keep your pride. Keep your questions. Keep yourself alive.”
You stared at her, frustrated and cautious, barely speaking, barely moving. “… I want to know why he left, and why you’re here instead of him.”
Rin gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “He left because he had to. I’m here because storms like him don’t wait for anyone — especially not for people who aren’t ready. That’s the truth, sweetheart. And if it ever comes… You better be ready to bleed for it.”
She stood, her chair screeching back. Placing her coat over her shoulders as she extinguished the cigarette, and giving a two-fingered salute. “He doesn’t do promises — but if he ever breaks yours, he’ll come back to make it right. That’s all you get from me.”
The door chimed as she left, snow swirling behind her like a curtain. You sat frozen, the envelope untouched, heart racing, hands clenching together in frustration. Even more when the server serves two steaming cups of matcha latte at your table, confused as to only find you alone at the table and a stack of an absurd amount of money in front of you. Outside, the snow kept falling.
The ring smelled of iron and sweat. Concrete walls, buzzing fluorescent lights, the muffled roar of the crowd beyond the curtains — the underground arena felt like a heartbeat, steady and brutal. Rin stood just outside the ropes, arms folded, watching as Sukuna wrapped his hands in silence. The ritual was the same every night — tape, stretch, flex — except his jaw was tighter now, his movements a little sharper, like he was trying to bleed out something that words couldn’t touch.
“You know,” Rin started, her tone deceptively light, “I paid her a visit today.” Sukuna didn’t respond. He tugged the wrap tighter around his knuckles.
Rin smirked. “Your little nurse girl. She was at that café again — the one that smells like sugar and regret. Ordered her matcha latte, sat by the window, looking like she’d been hit by a truck made of heartache.”
“I went to her. Gave her the money,” letting the words hang. “She didn’t take it.”
Rin chuckled, shaking her head. “And the look on her face — priceless. Completely confused and sarcastic. You should’ve seen it…Her confused how much money a ‘gym trainer’ supposedly makes. Though she spat it back at me.”
Her grin widened. “Cute, isn’t it? The way her tired eyes glared at me, her words sharp and stinging. Like she didn’t know whether to laugh or crash out. I couldn’t stop thinking how adorable it was that you were lying to her about your life.”
Sukuna’s jaw clenched, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe,” Rin said, voice light but sharp. “But you? You shouldn't be paying attention to her. That little nurse girl… she’s got guts. Didn’t flinch when I told her who I was. Didn’t blink at the stack of cash — cautious, careful… keeps her pride. I like that.”
Sukuna shook his head, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. “Jesus Christ, Rin.”
Rin reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, translucent pill. She held it between her fingers for a moment, letting the light catch it. “Your little edge,” she said casually. Sukuna hesitated, a flash of reluctance crossing his face. Rin raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’re not here to play house. You’re here to make gamblers empty their pockets for me.”
He took the pill, jaw tight, tossing it into his mouth without a word, swallowing dryly. Rin’s grin returned, sharp and satisfied. “That’s my boy.”
He exhaled sharply, pulling the wraps tighter around his knuckles. “Do me a favor,” he muttered, standing up, cracking his neck once. “Fuck off, Rin.”
The bell rang.
Sukuna stepped into the center of the ring, eyes dark and unreadable. The crowd leaned forward instinctively, sensing the storm about to break. His opponent barely had time to raise his guard before Sukuna lunged, fist snapping like a piston. Bone met bone — the first punch landed with a sickening crack.
“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”
The man staggered, dazed. Sukuna didn’t pause. He pressed forward, elbows and knees, fists raining down in a brutal symphony of motion. Each hit precise, yet merciless — calculated. Blood sprayed, and sweat mingled with the iron tang in the air. His muscles cramp, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding his battered body, making every movement sharper, faster, terrifyingly beautiful.
Rin’s grin stretched wide. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and leaned forward, shouting toward the crowd. “Bet on him! Bet everything you’ve got! You’ve never seen anyone fight like this!”
“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”
The crowd roared in response, feeding the frenzy. People scrambled to place wagers as Sukuna’s fists became a blur, his opponent barely able to defend. A spinning hook sent the man crashing into the ropes, then a fist to the gut doubled him over. Another strike — jaw shattered, and he hit the canvas like a rag doll. Rin laughed, sharp and wild, leaning back against the ropes. “Look at him go! That’s my boy!”
“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”
Sukuna’s vision blurred from the exertion and pain, but all he saw in his mind was her — that stubborn, cautious girl who refused the money, whose pride and carefulness cut deeper than any punch he could throw. That thought fueled him further. Every hit, every swing, was a release of frustration, longing, and fury, all wrapped into bone-crushing precision. The referee tried to intervene, but Sukuna’s fists were relentless — strikes landing faster than the eye could follow. The opponent crumpled to the ground, unconscious before the final bell even rang. Sukuna stepped back, breathing hard, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping, his knuckles raw and bleeding.
'Fucking money'
“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”
Rin clapped slowly, loudly, her sharp eyes gleaming. “Now that is how you fight! Someone get this man a medal — and the money, don’t forget the money! Bet on him, I said!”
'Fucking people'
“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”
Sukuna didn’t answer. He grabbed his towel, wiped his bloodied knuckles, and walked off toward the dark corridor behind the ring — the roar of the crowd chasing him, but his thoughts already far away.
Back to her. Back to the one thing he couldn’t fight.
Months. Months of wandering streets that felt emptier than ever, months of chasing a man's ghost whose name you weren’t even sure belonged to a real man. Every night you’d replay that festival—and still, you had nothing. Nothing but his absence.
At the registrar’s office, you balanced folders and your wallet, your mind on autopilot, counting tuition, calculating deadlines, trying to think of anything besides him. But then the clerk looked up.
“Good news,” she said, her voice polite, detached, like delivering a gift to someone else’s life. “Your second semester tuition is fully paid.”
Your fingers faltered. “Paid? By…?”
“Ryoumen Sukuna?” she said, sliding the receipt forward. “That’s the name on the payment.”
The words clattered through your skull, ringing like a cruel joke. Ryoumen Sukuna. That impossible, infuriating, maddening name.
You stared at the receipt, and suddenly the walls of the office, the folders in your arms, the dull hum of fluorescent lights—they all felt like they were closing in. Why would he do this? Why reach out like this without a word, without a sign, without a trace? Was it kindness—or punishment? Did he even think of you at all, or were you just collateral in his fucking game?
And then came the worst, most unbearable question: Where was he now? Couldn’t see, couldn’t call, couldn’t touch. Just a name, like a cruel joke, reminding you that he existed somewhere in the world—and you didn’t.
Your chest ached with a cold, gnawing frustration. Every logical part of you screamed that this was impossible, that he was reckless and untouchable—but every irrational, desperate part of you wanted to drop everything and chase that name down. To find him. To shake him. To demand a reason.
And you knew, deep down, that no matter how far you searched, he might never let you close enough to understand. That the agony of waiting—and not knowing—was the only thing he could give you.
The library smelled of paper, faint coffee, and antiseptic from the old cleaning sprays that did little to mask the faint, lingering damp of winter. You hunched over your textbooks, pens scratching, diagrams of the human body spread across the table. You were memorizing the layers of the forearm, the path of the radial nerve, the exact points where muscle meets tendon, when you felt it—the subtle click of a chair being pulled out.
You didn’t need to look. Only one person could sit like that, careful yet unavoidable.
“Hey,” he said, low and measured, voice carrying that unmistakable timbre of tiredness and restraint.
“Hey,” you replied, flat, almost casual, as if he hadn’t disappeared for a month, as if he hadn’t secretly paid your tuition to make sure you stayed alive, as if it were normal for him to appear bruised and battered across the table from you.
He shifted in the chair, and your gaze flicked up just long enough to see it—just enough to make the pit of your stomach tighten. His face was a roadmap of trauma: the left zygomatic arch swollen and tender, a black eye already mottled with yellow, blue, and deep purple. The bridge of his nose was swollen under a white bandage, and faint dried blood crusted along his nostrils. A subtle hematoma puffed along his upper lip, and the masseter and temporalis muscles seemed slightly tense, almost rigid, from clenching.
His shoulders were hunched, trapezius taut, the deltoid fibers visible beneath his jacket like cords of strained rope. Even from here, you could see his pectoralis major contracting with each shallow inhale, ribs expanding unevenly under the intercostal muscles. You wondered briefly if the right 8th rib might be bruised too—he’d winced when he coughed.
“What are you learning?” His voice was soft, cautious, like he wasn’t sure he could handle your reply.
You leaned back, pen balanced between your fingers, and let your eyes roam over your medical book clinically, as though you were assessing a patient in the ER. “Did you know how painful it is to break the scaphoid?” Your voice was low, precise, almost conversational, yet it carried a sharp undertone, a warning hidden in its calmness.
He blinked, then smirked faintly. “Scaphoid? That specific?”
“Oh, very specific,” you said, deliberate, letting your words hang in the air, heavy. “If it fractures through the waist, the proximal fragment loses its blood supply. Avascular necrosis is possible. You’ll have chronic pain along the radial side of your wrist, grip strength diminishes, and don’t even get me started on the possibility of osteoarthritis later.”
He laughed softly, a low, strained sound that vibrated along his sternum, lifting the pectoral muscles in a reflexive motion. “You’d do it,” he said, a whisper against the library’s quiet.
“You’d let me,” you replied, tone flat, eyes sharp. “I could crush the proximal phalanx of your index finger, snap the metacarpal clean through. You wouldn’t even flinch—or maybe you’d beg me to. The extensor tendons would stretch painfully before tearing. The flexor tendons might rupture internally, unnoticed until swelling sets in. The pain would radiate along the radial nerve, shocking your forearm muscles—brachioradialis, supinator, pronator teres—every single fiber aware of its helplessness. The way you handle pain… you’re fascinating, really..”
He shifted again, careful not to press against the tender side of his face. The masseter tightened further, temporalis contracting. He swallowed, and the small action flexed the sternocleidomastoid, making the subtle veins along his neck pulse. He laughed again, low, almost brittle, a sound that carried disbelief, pain, and a strange, dark fondness.
“You scare me,” he muttered, voice rough, almost buried beneath the library’s hum.
“I’m supposed to,” you said, leaning slightly closer, eyes cold, clinical, dissecting him in a way no one else dared. “But look at you. Still alive. Still stupidly smiling.”
He caught your gaze, and in that instant, he felt every bruise, every contusion, every microtearing of soft tissue in his biceps and forearms, every slight pull along his trapezius, levator scapulae, and rhomboids, and yet… he was drawn to you. Your words cut with surgical precision, but the proximity, the attention, the danger—it was intoxicating.
“Let me guess,” you continued, softer now, almost dangerous, “the nasal fracture isn’t fully reduced. The septum probably deviates slightly. The left maxillary sinus might be bruised. Each inhale causes subtle pressure changes; every exhale draws pain along the orbital floor. Swelling over the infraorbital nerve is pressing—you feel tingling, don’t you?”
He exhaled slowly, chest rising unevenly. He couldn’t hide it; the subtle twinge along the right kidney from that uppercut, the lingering soreness in the rectus abdominis and external obliques from body blows, the strained quadriceps from running away after the last fight—all of it made him vulnerable under your gaze. And yet, vulnerability felt different with you. It felt… intimate.
“You’re insane,” he said finally, almost a laugh, almost a warning.
“And you’re not afraid enough,” you replied, voice sharp, deadly calm. “Or you would’ve left before I broke something that mattered. I know where your weak points are—the temporal fossa, the radial head, the patella. I know which ligaments are lax and which tendons could snap with just the right angle. I could incapacitate you entirely, and you’d thank me for it.”
He laughed again, soft, drawn-out, almost breathless. His left eye twitched, orbicularis oculi contracting in a reflexive tick. The right eye—a bruise darkening like spilled ink—followed every subtle shift of your body. Every syllable you spoke mapped onto his body, muscles flexing in anticipation or involuntary tension.
“You’re… terrifying,” he whispered, tone low, gravely.
“Good,” you murmured, pen tapping against your textbook like a heartbeat. “Because that’s how I know you’ll survive. You’re weak enough to feel it. Strong enough not to break.”
For a long moment, he just looked at you, bruised and bloodied, body aching in ways only someone trained in anatomy could pinpoint, and realized that the most dangerous thing wasn’t the fight he’d been in or the street he’d stumbled out of—it was her. Her hands, her knowledge, her gaze. Her quiet, terrifying precision.
And somehow, in the cold fluorescent light of the library, surrounded by textbooks and diagrams of bones and muscles and nerves, it almost felt… romantic.
You didn’t look up. Not even once. The pen in your hand hovered over the page, tapping lightly, a metronome against the silence. He could feel your gaze on him, sharp and cold, even though your eyes were fixed on the textbook, the diagrams of muscles and bones, the thin lines of veins and tendons. He could see that you were thinking, calculating, weighing the cost of a life you didn’t even have to save.
“You should’ve just minded your own business,” he said quietly, voice rough with leftover pain and exhaustion, each word a rasp against the back of his throat. He swallowed, and the movement flexed the tense muscles of his neck—sternocleidomastoid and trapezius twitching under the strain. “Let me die that day. It would’ve been… more favorable than this… than.....” Loving you….
The words hit the air like cold steel. Even in his weakened state, bruises swollen, nose still tender, orbital hematoma throbbing with every blink, and ribs aching with residual contusions, the weight of them pressed down harder than any physical injury. His diaphragm contracted sharply, breath catching—a subtle involuntary gasp that tightened his intercostals. You felt it too, though you didn’t look up: a brief shudder through his body, a skeletal response to emotional trauma layered atop the physical.
Your voice was quiet, even detached, but it carried the same clinical precision you’d used earlier. “I didn’t leave you because someone had to,” you said, pen tapping rhythmically. “Because you can’t handle the truth of your own fragility. Because if I didn’t, no one would have noticed. No one would have cared. You’d still be lying somewhere with crushed ribs, a torn intercostal, a hematoma forming over your liver from that uppercut, and no one would blink twice.”
He let out a bitter laugh, low and ragged. The sternocleidomastoid and splenius muscles along his neck pulsed with each movement, tension radiating into his upper trapezius and rhomboids. “Yeah, well, that would’ve been better than this,” he said, gesturing faintly toward you, though his left arm trembled slightly, the brachioradialis and flexor muscles aching from the fight and months of pent-up tension. “Better than…" loving you. "You—” His voice broke, almost imperceptibly, like a tendon fraying under strain. “You shouldn’t exist in the same world as me.”
You finally leaned back slightly, but still didn’t look at him. Your voice was low, sharp, and unforgiving. “Maybe. Or maybe I should’ve left you in the alley and walked away. Maybe it would’ve been easier for both of us if I didn’t care. But I can’t. I couldn’t. You were… too fragile, too reckless, and yes, maybe too alive to ignore.”
His chest rose unevenly, each inhale dragging against bruised ribs and inflamed intercostal muscles. You could feel the subtle tremor in his torso, a micro-response to pain compounded by fear, shame, and anger. He was physically weak, yes, but emotionally raw in ways that made his body betray him. The heart beneath his ribs hammered faster, pulse rising along carotid and radial arteries—an involuntary response to the mix of threat, attraction, and despair your words carried.
“You should’ve let me die,” he repeated, more insistently now, jaw tensed, masseter muscles flexing painfully. “Would’ve been cleaner. Easier. And maybe—maybe I wouldn’t feel… like this. Like…” His voice cracked, low, guttural. “…like I’d rather bleed for you than breathe without you.”
The words hung between you, lethal in honesty. Your hand, still holding the pen, froze for a heartbeat. And still, you didn’t look at him. You just murmured, “And yet, here you are. Breathing. Broken. Bruised. Swollen. Dying in pieces under fluorescent light. And still, you talk as if letting go is an option. But it isn’t.”
He swallowed again, lips pressed thin, eyes darting, dark against the bruising of his face. Orbicularis oculi twitched with every blink. The small, precise movement betrayed his tension: emotional strain radiating into every muscle, every fiber. The trapezius twitched, deltoids stiffened, forearms flexed involuntarily as if bracing against some invisible weight—your words.
“I hate that you care,” he admitted, voice barely audible, as though saying it louder might shatter him completely. “I hate that I want it anyway. That it’s… worse than." the punches. "Worse than." the blood. Worse than the… pain I feel when I see you and know I don’t deserve it.”
You finally let your pen tap once, twice, slowly. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped, soft as a scalpel sliding through skin. “Then maybe you should’ve died,” you said calmly, voice steady, almost clinical. “But since you didn’t… you’re stuck. And so am I. And every time you breathe through the pain you refuse to admit, every time I see you flinch at the slightest touch—” You tapped the page lightly, almost soothingly. “…I remember why I can’t leave.”
For a moment, the library seemed to shrink, the fluorescent hum fading beneath the weight of the two of you. Every bruise, every contusion, every torn muscle fiber, every tiny nerve strain, every ache and throb—physical and emotional—tangled between you. And though your eyes never met his, the connection burned hotter than any strike to the ribs, any fracture in the hand, any laceration of skin or tendon.
He exhaled, slow, deliberate, the intercostal muscles and diaphragm flexing painfully under the weight of his chest. “You shouldn’t exist in my world,” he repeated, voice low and ragged, “but I can’t… let go. I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
And still, you didn’t look up. You just kept tapping your pen against the textbook, letting him exist in his confession, letting the weight of your silence press into him harder than any punch ever could. Hot tears burn in your eyes as you savour every word that came out of his mouth. His own falling through his bruised skin, never wiping them. Not caring anymore….. Not anymore.
"Can you protect me?"
"It's a deal. You protect the world. I'll protect you.."
The familiar streets were quieter than usual, the neon signs casting fractured reflections onto the slick asphalt. Each puddle mirrored a distorted cityscape, flickering lights that reminded Sukuna of the broken pieces of himself. His body ached in ways he’d learned to ignore—the subtle tenderness along the zygomatic arch where swelling still pressed against his orbital bone, the dull throb of his rib contusions, and the slight stiffness in the trapezius and deltoids from the tension he’d carried all day. But tonight, pain didn’t matter; he was walking beside you, and that alone made the cold bite of winter feel almost inconsequential.
You walked with calm precision, bag hanging lightly from your shoulder, fingers flexing occasionally as though adjusting to the weight without effort. Your posture was rigid but effortless, the subtle engagement of your erector spinae and core muscles keeping you straight-backed as if nothing in the world could disturb your focus. Yet he could feel the energy radiating off you, the invisible pull drawing him in like gravity, and for once, he didn’t resist.
“You don’t have to walk me,” you said, voice neutral, like the air itself, but there was a sharpness there, a hint of teasing that made his chest tighten.
“I know,” he replied, low and rough, the rasp in his throat betraying both exhaustion and restraint. His diaphragm tightened with each exhale, intercostal muscles flexing against bruised ribs. “But I want to. Can’t have soft heart like you walking these streets alone again.”
You glanced at him briefly, a flicker of recognition at his exact words.
“The streets aren’t safe, soft hearts like you shouldn’t walk alone.”
Your heart, oh your poor heart. Skipped a beat at the memory before returning to the path ahead. Even from that slight turn, he could see the subtle tension along your forearms—the flexor and extensor groups engaged ever so slightly as you carried your bag. Every small motion was precise, measured, and alive. It was intoxicating, more so than the fight he’d survived that left his body battered and raw.
The walk was long, the silence punctuated by the occasional distant hum of traffic or the faint scrape of a boot against wet concrete. Sukuna could feel every bruise along his torso shift slightly as he moved—the contusions over his ribs and sternum aching with each step, the inflamed soft tissue along his deltoids and trapezius reminding him that his body was fragile, yet still moving. And yet, he didn’t care. Because beside him was you, alive, calm, untouchable in your own way.
By the time you both reached your door, the street was nearly empty, the neon glow reflecting weakly off the asphalt pavement. Sukuna paused, feeling the residual soreness in his pectorals and obliques as he shifted his weight to adjust for fatigue. Your hand brushed against his, tentative but deliberate, and something inside him tightened—muscles coiling, heart rate climbing, subtle vascular changes coursing through his veins.
Without warning, you leaned in, pressing your lips against his with sharp, demanding intensity. His body reacted immediately, muscles bracing and relaxing all at once—the trapezius tightening, deltoids contracting, fingers flexing reflexively to hold you closer. His Rough hands cupping your nape. His bruised ribs throbbed under the sudden press, but it didn’t matter. Pain became part of the sensation, grounding him, reminding him that he was alive and that you're here, tangible and real.
When the kiss broke, you both exhaled shallow breaths, your chest rising in delicate rhythm, your intercostal muscles flexing subtly as you both tried to regulate the sudden spike in heart rate. His left arm trembled faintly from tension, brachioradialis and flexor muscles aching with exertion, but every ache was secondary to the way your body pressed against him.
Inside your apartment, the door barely latched behind you before the restraint between you dissolved entirely. The dim light from a lone lamp painted your features in warm gold, highlighting the lines of your collarbone, the subtle curve of your shoulders, the tension in your arms and forearms that relaxed only as he leaned closer. He felt the flex of your biceps, the subtle engagement of your trapezius and serratus anterior as you moved against him, and his own muscles responded in kind, bruises and all. The night stretched around you, thick and heavy with need. Every touch mapped onto old injuries: the swelling along his left zygomatic arch, the tenderness in his masseter and temporalis, the dull ache in ribs four through seven from repeated blows. He felt every reaction in his body—muscles contracting reflexively, tendons straining slightly, minor aches flaring with proximity and touch. And still, it was nothing compared to the raw heat between you, the way your hands found the edges of bruised skin, traced the lines of his scars, and coaxed him into surrendering not just physically but emotionally.
Hours passed unnoticed. Your lips on his, teeth brushing against his, the soft exhale of breath against bruised skin—it was a slow unraveling, a merging of pain and pleasure, bruises and warmth. You explored each other’s vulnerabilities, learning the angles, the points of tension, the subtle reactions of muscle and tendon to touch. His deltoids, pectorals, trapezius, and serratus anterior all responded with awareness, subtle spasms betraying the aches he had tried to hide. And you… you reveled in it, tracing the fine line of pain with your fingers and lips, as if reading him like a textbook.
By dawn, the city outside had begun its quiet hum. The fight, the bruises, the blood—all of it faded into the background, replaced by the heat and intimacy of your shared space. You were curled against him, chest pressed to chest, hair spilling across your to his pillow, muscles finally slackening in surrender. He could feel the rise and fall of your chest in a calm rhythm, the subtle engagement of your diaphragm, intercostals, and core as you breathed. Even your fingers, resting lightly against his arm, flexed softly, sending tiny electrical pulses through his skin—a reminder that you were alive, and that you were real.
He was the first to wake, eyelids fluttering against the soft morning light. Every bruise, every contusion, every aching muscle fiber reminded him of the fight, but seeing you asleep, peaceful, undisturbed by the chaos of the world, made all the pain worth it. He traced a finger along your jawline, careful not to disturb you, feeling the slight tension in your masseter, the gentle rise of your collarbone with each breath.
The warmth of your body against his, the steady, shallow breathing, the quiet exhale of contentment—it was a reprieve he hadn’t known he needed. The adrenaline, the pain, the rage—all of it melted in the quiet of your presence. He allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile, heart rate slowing, intercostals relaxing, trapezius and deltoids softening for the first time in months.
Outside, the city moved on, indifferent to the world inside your apartment. But inside, there was calm. There was warmth. There was a fragile, delicate victory: two broken, bruised people finding a small sanctuary in each other. And for the first time in a long while, Sukuna allowed himself to believe that surviving the fight—and surviving her—was a reward in itself. He lay there a while longer, simply watching her, letting the quiet hum of the morning fill the room. Every ache and bruise in his body was still present, but now tempered by the soft certainty of your warmth. And in that moment, he realized that no fight, no blood, no pain had ever felt as necessary as this—holding you, breathing with you, simply being near you, until the world could intrude again.
The morning light crept through the blinds, soft and golden, spilling across the tangled sheets and warm bodies. He fell asleep back, chest rising and falling gently, an arm draped across the space where you had been before your alarm went off. You leaned over him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes, and he stirred slightly, muscles twitching under the gentle touch. His deltoids flexed subtly, his trapezius relaxing as your fingers wove through his soft strands. “You’re playing with my hair again,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, eyes half-lidded.
“You’re just lucky it’s not messy,” you teased, threading your fingers through the pink strands anyway. He shivered slightly under the touch, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the lingering stiffness in his neck and shoulders from old bruises. By the time he sat up, stretching slowly, his muscles rippled subtly beneath the surface, and you couldn’t resist running your hands down the ridges of his back, over the latissimus and erector spinae, noting how his body had healed, but how tension still lingered in small pockets. He blinked, almost startled, then smirked. “You’re lucky I like this,” he said, voice low, teasing, and you laughed softly.
By the kitchen counter waited a small note, written in his messy scrawl:
“Eat. Don’t forget your lunch. -Kuna.”
It made you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. He had memorized your matcha order, bought extra pens, and texted you constantly, even on days he was too tired from "training".
“u eat yet?”
“Get some rest. I got dinner.”
“Missed you today. Don’t tell nobody.”
You teased him endlessly. “You’re so romantic.”
“Shut up, I’m tryin’,” he muttered, voice gruff, though the blush on his ears betrayed him. Even his “friends” noticed.
“You bringin’ her lunch now?”
“Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was a small, secret pride in his tone.
Some mornings, things got silly. Brushing his hair turned into playful battles in the bathroom. One morning, you ended up leaning over him with a razor in hand. “Wait, what are you doing?” he asked, voice low, trying to sound serious but smiling despite himself.
“Shaving your beard,” you replied, pressing gently against his cheek. “You’re too scruffy. You’ll scare the patients.”
“Scruffy is intimidating,” he said, tone playful, chest rising and falling with laughter. The warmth of the water, the fog of the mirror, and your hands gliding along his jaw made him feel… home.
“You’re so annoying,” you laughed, flicking a stray drop of shaving cream at him.
“And you love it,” he teased, leaning forward for a soft kiss, warm and grounding.
Sukuna discovered he enjoyed domestic chaos more than he thought. Cooking breakfast or pasta became an event. Smoke filled the air, the fire alarm screamed, and he stood shirtless, muscles flexing under tension, waving a spatula dramatically.
“You can’t boil pasta without water, Ryo” you shouted, laughing.
“Don’t tell me how to live, woman,” he grumbled, smirk tugging at his lips, wiping a drop of sauce from his chest.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but you love it,” he said, shrugging like it explained everything.
Slowly, your spark returned—the laughter resurfacing as you relaxed into the rhythm of life with him. He noticed it, and every smile, every teasing remark made the tension in his chest loosen, old aches fade, and warmth flood where pain once lingered.
Nights were quiet, warm, intimate. eventually moving in with you after your second year. You’d come home from exhausting hospital shifts, and he was always there—sometimes asleep on the couch, meals ready, TV softly humming.
You’d find him, ruffle his hair, whisper, “Hey, big guy.” He’d blink sleepily, wrap an arm around you, and murmur, “You’re home.”
The small acts—carrying your bag when you were tired, buying extra pens, leaving little notes—wove a rhythm that became home. Pain, bruises, and chaos faded into comfort, laughter, and gentle touches. Slowly, the scars and bruises he carried began to fade. Your hands, playful and gentle, traced the outlines of muscle and bone with care, fingers brushing over healed bruises on his ribs and deltoids, over the slight ridge of a scar along his jaw. You teased, played, and laughed as his body relaxed under your care. He learned to let himself rest, to enjoy the soft chaos of home, and your spark shone brighter with each passing week.
The mornings continued to be a mix of chaos and love. You’d brush his hair before he left for “shifts”, fingers threading through the long strands as he leaned into your touch. Sometimes, it turned into a tug-of-war, laughing, teasing, pulling strands gently while he tried to hold his ground.
On days without fighting, the kitchen became
Your study sessions were full of gentle chaos. Textbooks sprawled across the table, highlighters scattered, coffee mugs teetering on the edge. He’d tease when you were too focused.
“You drool in your sleep,” he’d say, fingers brushing hair from your face as you blinked, annoyed but secretly smiling.
“At least I don’t snore,” you’d reply, tossing a pillow at him.
“Bullshit,” he’d laugh. “You sound like a broken humidifier.” And the two of you would collapse into laughter, the stress of your world dissolving in the warmth of shared moments.
And in that quiet, messy, perfect life, your both safe. Alive. Loved.
Rain tapped softly against the window as you leaned over the counter, finishing up a stack of patient files. The soft hum of the heater mixed with the quiet sound of coffee dripping from the pot, filling the apartment with warmth. You rubbed your temples, eyes tired from the day, and sighed. A shadow fell across the room, and before you even glanced up, you felt the familiar weight of Sukuna’s presence.
“You look like hell,” he said softly, leaning casually against the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. His hair was slightly damp from a quick shower, strands falling into his eyes, but the smirk tugging at his lips made your heart skip a beat. “Did you eat?”
“Yes,” you muttered, without looking up, though a small smile betrayed you. “I had leftover soup.”
He shook his head, moving closer, tugging a chair out to sit beside you. “Liar. I can smell the ramen you microwaved. And that doesn’t count as eating right. You need protein, not just broth.”
You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but I’m helpful,” he countered, fingers brushing against yours as he nudged the stack of papers aside. “And I carry your backpack. And your textbooks. And—” He leaned back, smirk widening, “—basically everything that makes your life slightly easier.”
You laughed softly, finally looking up. His face was bruised faintly along the jawline, a tiny scar catching the light from a week-old. His hands, though rough, were careful as they rested near yours, large fingers brushing yours occasionally. The tenderness was so subtle it almost went unnoticed, but you felt it all the same. Chest tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
And as you shifted slightly in your sleep that night, murmuring softly, he smiled. Months of chaos, laughter, playful teasing, burned pasta, spilled coffee, study sessions, hospital exhaustion, hair brushing, shaving, and whispered “I love you” had led to this:
messy, soft, chaotic, perfect, safe love.
One late morning, the apartment was quiet in that perfect, soft way—the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty but alive. You were sipping your coffee, hair tied messily, pajamas rumpled, when Sukuna appeared in the doorway, gloves in hand, smirk tugging at his bruised-but-healed lips. “Alright, doc,” he said casually, voice low, teasing. “You’ve been living with me long enough. Time to see if all those hours you spend patching me up translate into actual skill.”
You raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across your face. “Skill at what exactly?”
“Boxing,” he said, tossing the gloves to you. They landed in your hands with a soft thud, the leather warm and slightly worn. “Come on. I can’t have you being defenseless if you’re going to keep following me around.”
You laughed softly, setting your coffee aside, but there was a thrill running under your ribs. He guided you to the living room, clearing the small table and couch out of the way. His stance was casual but precise, muscles coiled like springs under the skin of his arms and torso, each movement deliberate, a living lesson in anatomy and force.
“Hands up,” he instructed, demonstrating with ease. His biceps flexed, forearms taut, and you couldn’t help but notice how the light caught the faint scars and healed bruises along his chest and shoulders.
“Protect your face, don’t overextend your shoulders, rotate your hips, drive from your legs—not just your arms. Footwork, balance, posture.”
You listened, mimicking him as best as you could, laughing when your first few jabs barely grazed the air. He corrected your form gently, hands adjusting your wrists, shoulders, hips.
“No, no. Rotate more. Engage your core. The power comes from here,” he said, pressing a hand lightly against your abdomen, and you felt your breath catch at the closeness. Round after round, he taught you the rhythm—jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Each punch made your muscles hum with effort: biceps, triceps, deltoids, and the subtle engagement of your pectorals and latissimus as you followed his lead. He showed you how to pivot on your feet, weight shifting through your calves, quads, glutes, maintaining balance and core stability. And as your punches became sharper, faster, more precise, he let a quiet pride slip into his expression.
“You’re… actually good,” he said, stepping back, arms crossed. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Hey, I’ve been taking notes,” you teased, sweat beading along your hairline. Your forearms burned pleasantly, and your shoulders tingled with the exertion. “Besides, I’ve patched up enough bruises to know how a punch should land.”
He laughed softly, dark and low, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “Yeah, and now you can dish it back.”
As the lesson continued, it became less about skill and more about connection. Every jab, every pivot, every playful spar with him close enough that your shoulders brushed created a rhythm between you two. Laughter mixed with exertion, warm hands adjusted your form, and the small apartment felt alive with motion. You learned not just how to throw punches but how to anticipate movement, maintain balance, and respect the force behind each strike. And Sukuna—your bruised, chaotic, protective Sukuna—watched you with a mixture of pride, affection, and amusement.
By the end of the session, you were both panting, cheeks flushed, muscles pleasantly sore. You leaned against him, forehead resting against his shoulder, breath mingling with his. “You’re crazy,” you whispered.
“And you’re a natural,” he murmured back, tugging you close. “I might have to start sparring with you more often.”
And in that moment, bruised, sweaty, laughing, you realized: this wasn’t just about learning to fight. It was about trust, closeness, and care. Your hands had learned to move with intention, your body had remembered strength and balance, and your hearts had synced in that quiet, domestic chaos that had become your life together. As you sat there, tired and smiling, he pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, brushing your damp hair back. “You’re amazing,” he said softly. And in the glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, it felt like a promise: messy, chaotic, playful, tender, and entirely yours.
The apartment was quiet in the late afternoon, the warm light spilling through the blinds. You were both sweating, panting lightly, muscles humming from the session. Sukuna had shown you the basic footwork, the jab-cross-hook sequence, and by now, your punches had strength, speed, and precision. But you weren’t content to stop at the basics.
“You ready?” he asked, smirk tugging at his lips, muscles taut, a light sheen of sweat on his shoulders. You nodded, gloves up, heart racing not just from the exercise but from the thrill of sparring with him.
“Okay, don’t go easy on me,” you said, and he raised an eyebrow.
“You won’t like it if I don’t,” he replied, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on yours.
The first jab came fast. You ducked, twisting your hips, the pivot of your foot planting into the mat with just enough force. And then, instinctively, your knowledge took over. You aimed not just to hit, but to target specific points—the solar plexus, the soft tissue along the ribs, the jaw angle, the temple.
“Relax your shoulders more, engage your core, rotate the hips,” He instructed as you jabbed lightly at his ribs, feeling the subtle give under your gloves. “If you don’t exhale properly, the force won’t transfer. You’ve got to drive it from your legs, not your arms.”
He laughed, a deep, breathy sound, grunting as your jab connected with his solar plexus. “Okay, okay! that hurt” He doubled over slightly, hands brushing over his ribs.
“See?” you said, smirking under the gloves. “A well-placed strike makes all the difference.” You shifted your stance and threw a precise hook to the side of his torso, where the soft tissue around the lower ribs gave just enough. He staggered slightly, laughing, then caught himself, smirk widening. “You’re sneaky,” he said, hands up again, ready.
“You’re not listening,” you teased. “If you don’t protect the floating ribs, the liver, the kidney area—” you jabbed again, a quick, controlled strike—“you’ll pay for it.”
He groaned dramatically, falling back slightly, then shook his head, grinning. “I hate you. And I love you. But mostly hate you.”
You laughed, light and triumphant. “I’m just applying what I know.” Your fingers, tucked into the gloves, pressed with exact precision. “Strike the upper sternum to knock wind out—careful not to overdo it—and the jaw angle if you want to destabilize balance. The temples are delicate. You never forget a strike there.”
He staggered again under a playful jab to the ribs, but his grin never faltered. “You’re like… a nightmare in gloves,” he muttered.
“And you love it,” you countered, pivoting smoothly and delivering a soft cross to his chest, careful not to hurt him seriously. He exhaled sharply, muscles tensing, then relaxed as he realized he wasn’t in real danger.
“You’re… ridiculously smart,” he said, finally taking a step back, hands on his knees.
“I’m trying to keep up with someone who knows exactly where to hit me. And gives tips mid-fight.”
You chuckled, rolling your shoulders, feeling the warmth of exertion, the ache in your muscles, the rush of adrenaline tempered by the soft, familiar comfort of being here—with him, laughing, teaching, learning, teasing.
“Balance is everything,” you said, moving into a defensive stance. “If you overcommit, the leverage is gone. Rotate the hips, keep your core tight, and always exhale on impact. You want maximum efficiency, minimum energy wasted.”
He shook his head, mock groaning. “I’m officially scared of you now.”
“And I’m proud of you for surviving this long,” you replied, smirking. You jabbed again, this time to the soft tissue along his ribs, feeling the subtle shift as he adjusted his stance to compensate.
“There. That’s how you apply pressure without overextending yourself.”
He laughed, falling back onto the couch after the final round, chest heaving, a sweat-damp strand of pink hair sticking to his forehead. “I can’t believe I just got schooled by my nurse,” he said, voice rough and breathy, smirk lingering.
“Teaching me to box and hit me where it hurts?”
“And you let me,” you teased, tapping the gloves lightly against his chest. “You could’ve easily thrown me off the first time.”
“I know,” he said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “And I wanted to see what you were capable of.” His hand brushed yours briefly, lingering just enough that your heart fluttered. “Turns out, you’re terrifying. And brilliant.”
You laughed softly, the tension of the fight giving way to warmth, connection, the quiet intimacy that had grown between the two of you over months of shared mornings, chaotic kitchens, study nights, hair brushing, shaving, and gentle teasing.
He reached over, pulling you into a soft, sweaty hug, chest pressing against yours. “Okay,” he whispered, breath warm against your ear. “Maybe I’m okay with being your sparring partner. If it means I get to keep seeing you like this—alive, sharp, perfect—you teaching me, me groaning, us laughing—it’s worth it.”
And as you rested your forehead against his, laughing, feeling his heartbeat under your chest, you realized this was just another way to love each other. Playful, intense, chaotic, tender—every jab, every tip, every soft hit a part of the life you’d built together.
But….. It was all just fucking sick joke, huh…. Right, Sukuna?
There he was—bloodied, bruised, standing in the center of the ring. Ryomen Sukuna, the Oni, the Red king, four arm devil. the man who haunted your thoughts, now made flesh in front of you. His knuckles taped, the crimson stains seeping through the cloth. His jaw was swollen, a cut splitting his lip, his eyes sharp and glinting even under the dim lights.
The crowd erupted in a chant, primal and guttural:
“ONI! ONI! ONI!"
You froze. The echoes of their voices seemed to vibrate in your chest. Every chant punctuated by the rustle of bets, the hurried clink of money exchanged in the arena. He was more than a fighter; he was a force of nature, feared and revered.
Sukuna’s eyes scanned the crowd and froze the moment they landed on you. Recognition flickered, a subtle drop in his usual icy, unshakable demeanor. The drug faltered just a moment.
“FOCUS! EYES FORWARD!” Rin, his manager, yelled, exasperation cutting through the roar.
But he didn’t hear. All he could see was you. And that momentary distraction was enough. A fist collided with his jaw, hard, violent, and precise.
The world tilted. He staggered, blood spraying across the ring, body trembling under the force. The crowd sensed weakness and booed in unison. You couldn’t take it. The sight of him, exposed and bleeding, clawed at your insides.
You bolted, weaving through bodies, lungs burning, heart hammering. “Ryo!” you screamed.
And he snapped. That growl, low and primal, reverberated through the arena, cutting through the noise. His fists became a blur of motion, a storm of power and brutality that made even the seasoned crowd flinch.
The fight turned into a massacre:
left hook slammed into his opponent’s temple, sending their head snapping back, teeth rattling audibly. A spinning uppercut shattered the jaw, cracking against bone, spraying droplets of crimson across the mat. Body shots—punishing, precise, aimed at ribs, solar plexus, and kidneys—each blow elicited groans, gasps, and squeals of pain. He pivoted, knees braced, dodging retaliatory punches with animal-like reflexes, countering with elbows and rapid jabs that sent his opponent reeling. The mat became a canvas painted with sweat and blood, the ropes soaking with the remnants of the battle. The crowd was delirious, a chaotic mix of awe and fear. Rin’s shouts for focus went unheard, drowned by the brutal symphony of fists and the primal adrenaline of Sukuna himself.
And yet, amid the violence, he kept stealing glimpses of you. Each flicker of recognition made his movements sharper, fiercer, more reckless. The man who had always been untouchable now fought with a singular, terrifying purpose—you.
Finally, with one brutal combination, his opponent crumpled to the mat, barely conscious, gasping, broken. Sukuna stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles dripping, jaw split. He didn’t celebrate, didn’t raise a fist. The crowd’s roar seemed to fade, leaving only the metallic scent of blood and the heat of his gaze searching for you.
You couldn’t move, rooted to the spot, heart racing. The horror, the awe, and the undeniable pull of his presence all collided in your chest. Barely noticing sirens nearing the underground arena, too consumed by the man you’d come to care about, the one who had disappeared into this violent underworld without a trace. Rushing out of the bloody sight.
Sukuna finally noticed you rushing toward the exit. His expression faltered—irritation, panic, something almost human flashed across his bruised, bloodied features. Without a word, he turned, leaving the roaring crowd, ignoring Rin’s furious shouts. As police filled the scene, raiding every bettor's and associates. The crowd’s voices still echoed faintly in your ears as you pushed through the throng, the winter night biting at your cheeks, icy gusts sweeping down the alleyway. Your legs were unsteady, adrenaline still thrumming from the fight, but your mind was fixed on one thing: him. Ryomen Sukuna, bloody, bruised, and impossibly infuriating. Outside, the winter night hit you like ice. Your breath formed clouds, your chest heaving, yet your mind was full of him—the Oni, the Red king, four armed devil. The man, the mystery. The adrenaline of the fight, the terror of what could have happened, and the inexplicable pull of him left you trembling. Turning around to see his approaching silhouette.
Chest heaving, fists still wrapped in bloodied tape. His normally unshakable presence seemed… smaller somehow, vulnerable under the cold light of the streetlamp. And then the anger you’d been bottling up since his sudden disappearance finally boiled over.
You raised your hand, slapping him across the cheek with a force fueled by weeks of frustration and worry. His head snapped to the side, swelling already distorting his jaw, and he blinked at you, stunned. Hot tears already streaking down your cold face, winters chilling cold kissed your body as you're unable to grasp your mind at the truth in front of you.
“Why the hell—IS THIS WHY YOU DISAPPEAR?!” you shouted, voice trembling with cold and anger.
“All this time — SAYING YOU WERE COACHING?! THAT YOU WERE DOING PART- TIME SHIFTS!? You’ve been fighting? Getting hurt? Dying!?”
He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t want you to worry—”
“WORRY?! I SAW YOU ALMOST DIE IN THERE!”
He tried to reach for you — you stepped back. Hands raised to your head as you steeped back. Away from him. Shattered his heart.
“IS THIS WHY YOU PAYED MY TUITION WITHOUT EXPLAINING ANYTHING?! IS IT? Be honest, please — were you just using me? For patching you up? For free medical care?” His eyes widened, the world tilting.
“NO, what the fu-. Don’t— don’t say that shit. You think I’d ever—”
“Then why didn’t you tell me!?”
“Because I knew you’d fucking look at me like that!” he snapped, voice cracking. “Like I’m some fucking lowlife who ain’t worth your time!”
You flinched. He immediately softened, stepping forward, “I was tryin’ to help, okay? I wanted you to have everything I never could. I didn’t care if it kills me—”
“Then you should’ve trusted me enough to know I’d love you even if you had nothing!”
“If you don’t quit… we’re done.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t respond—just stood there, battered, silent, bruised, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Your words seemed to ricochet off him, unheard. You shook your head, stepping closer, raising your voice.
Finally, irritation cracked through his usual calm. He shoved his hands into the air, voice raw and hoarse. “THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?!”
You froze, realizing how hoarse and garbled he sounded—like the fight had shredded more than just muscle. You tried to repeat yourself, to speak louder, but he raised a hand to his ears.
Suddenly, panic overtook him. He violently banged his fists against the sides of his own head, screaming incomprehensible words, eyes wide and frantic. “WHY IS IT SO QUIET?! WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I HEAR YOU?!”
You stumbled back, heart hammering. “RYO! STOP! STOP HITTING YOURSELF!” you shouted, grabbing his wrists to prevent him from doing more damage, but his panic was relentless. His hands pushed against yours, muscles tense, jaw clenched, and he shook his head, unable to process anything beyond the deafening silence he felt.
“I—I CANT FUCKING HEAR YOU!” he yelled, voice breaking. “I can’t—WHY WONT YOU FUCKING SPEAK TO ME?!”
Your chest constricted as dread pooled in your stomach. “Oh my God, your ears!” you gasped, realizing what had happened. The blows he’d taken in the ring, the repeated hits to his skull, the trauma—it had probably affected his hearing.
“STOP! Please—Ryo, STOP HITTING YOURSELF!” you pleaded, trying to firmly restrain him, trembling with panic, fear radiating from every fiber of your body. “IM RIGHT HERE RYO!”
But his panic didn’t abate. His knuckles thudded against the side of his head, muffled curses escaping him as he continued, desperate, eyes wild with fear. “Why… why is it so quiet? Say SOMETHING!”
“I AM talking! I’m right here! Please… STOP!” you sobbed, tears freezing on your cheeks. Your chest constricted, lungs burning, as you tried to physically restrain him without hurting himself any further. His breathing was jagged, sharp, every inhale a painful reminder of the fight he had just survived.
Then, distant but growing, came the harsh sound of sirens. Flashing red and blue streaked across the snow, reflecting off the wet brick walls.
“Sir, step away! Step away from her!”
Sukuna’s head snapped toward the lights, disoriented, hands still pressed to his ears. He tried to move protectively toward you, grasping his bicep as he puts you behind his back. Stress at the events unfolding Infront of you, but the uniformed officers weren’t patient. Their shouts were sharp and commanding, their boots pounding in the snow, and his panic only magnified.
The first officer lunged, grabbing his arm. Sukuna twisted, flinched, and shouted, but he couldn’t hear himself over the silence that consumed him. He jerked again when another officer reached for you—instinctively, protectively—and that was all it took. They tackled him to the ground, heavy hands pressed to his nape. His battered face slamming to the snowy ground causing you to scream in the sudden, aggressive action. Cuffs snapping over his wrists. His body flailed violently, shoving against the concrete, a muffled scream escaping his lips. “Why… WHY THE CANT I HEAR ANYTHING?!” His voice was broken, desperate, incomprehensible to the officers.
“STOP, no PLEASE! He’s not hurting me!” you cried, lungs raw, trying to push them off. “HE CANT HEAR YOU PLEASE! HE'S HURT! PLEASE!”
But they didn’t listen. They weren’t trained to understand deaf panic born of trauma—they only saw a man thrashing over a woman. Sukuna’s strength was considerable even in his weakened state, and they had to use force to subdue him, each movement breaking something fragile in your chest.
You lunged past them, hands shaking, knees scraping against the cold snow. “Ryo!” you screamed, voice cracking, tears freezing in the wind. You fell to your knees beside him, cupping his bloodied head in your hands. He flinched at the touch, but your tears dripped onto his bruised skin, a silent apology for the world that had failed him. As a officer's hand tries to drag you away again. Hitting you in the face, knocking your glasses off and fall into the crimson stained snow.
Without thinking, you kissed him, desperate, trembling, pressing your lips to his in a silent plea. You whispered words you knew he couldn’t hear but might feel in the vibration, the warmth, the touch:
I’m here. You’re not alone. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.
For a heartbeat, he went still. His wild, frantic eyes softened. Recognition flickered through the terror—tiny, fragile, and beautiful. Your lips trembled against his, the snow whirling around you, the sirens roaring like distant thunder.
Then the officers pulled you back with harsh hands, separating you violently. His body jerked upward, screaming into the silence, arms thrashing, eyes searching for you. His head banged against the concrete in panic, voice broken and ragged, words lost in the cold.
“RYO!!” you cried, lunging forward again, but the officers’ grips were iron, unyielding. He was dragged away, still screaming, still unable to hear, still believing the world had abandoned him.
Your hands reached out, fingers grazing his forearm, nails scraping ice and concrete, but it was not enough. Snow mixed with blood on your palms, cold and sharp, but you clung anyway, whispering his name, trying to communicate across the barrier of sound and fear.
“Please… please be okay,” you sobbed, words swallowed by the night. “Please, Ryo… please come back to me…”
The police pulled him farther into the light, the sirens bright and blinding, and then he was gone, dragged down the alley, still thrashing, still screaming into deafness. You collapsed into the snow, chest heaving, tears freezing on your cheeks, the wind whipping through your hair like the echo of your broken heart.
You stayed there long after, whispering his name, pressing your hands to the snow where he had been, trying to feel him, trying to remind him that he wasn’t alone, even though the world had betrayed him in a single, terrible night.
The sirens faded slowly, leaving only the echo of your sobs, the taste of blood and snow, and the ache of a heart that refused to let go of someone who couldn’t yet hear your love.
After everything — the blood, the silence, the sirens — it took time. Months, even, before the sound fully returned to him. The doctors called it partial trauma-induced hearing loss. You called it luck.
Luck, because he was alive.
Luck, because the brain hemorrhage hadn’t spread.
Luck, because the ruptured eardrum hadn’t cost him everything.
Luck, because somehow, after the storm of that night, the two of you began again — though not in the same world, not as the same people.
Now, there was glass between you.
It was clean, sterile, institutional. A thin divide reflecting your face against his, two worlds pressed together but never touching. He sat on the other side of it in a gray uniform, wrists marked faintly by cuffs, bruises long faded into pale smudges of memory. His pink hair had grown out unevenly, his knuckles scarred from fights you didn’t ask about. The fluorescent lights overhead were merciless, bleaching out the warmth from his skin. When you entered the visitation room, the air seemed to thin. The hum of ventilation filled the silence — a dull, constant white noise that he both heard and didn’t. His right ear was nearly deaf; the left one still caught fragments, ghosted tones. Words came to him through layers of water, muffled, distorted, unpredictable.
You took your seat across from him and picked up the receiver. He hesitated before doing the same, his rough hands trembling slightly as his fingers brushed the cold plastic. For a long time, you said nothing. Just looked. The faint reflection of yourself shimmered against the glass where your eyes met his. You could see the pulse in his throat, the slight tremor in his jaw — signs of a man strung tight, held together by guilt and silence.
Finally, you spoke, voice soft but steady.
“Ryo.”
The sound hit him like a physical thing.
He froze. His breath caught halfway in his chest. The vibration of your voice through the receiver, faint and imperfect, cut through months of dull static that had filled his world. His fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened, and his eyes widened, unguarded for the first time in forever.
He heard you.
Not completely. Not perfectly. But enough. The cadence, the familiar tone — he could hear you.
The muscles in his face shifted, his mouth parting as though he didn’t trust his own voice. He’d spent months in near-silence, the world reduced to echoes, vibrations, and faint memories of sound. He’d forgotten the warmth of your tone, the way it dipped when you said his name like a sigh, like a promise.
You saw it happen — that moment his composure cracked. The realization bloomed across his features slowly, painfully. His eyes glistened, and his breathing hitched.
You pressed the phone closer to your lips. “Hey,” you whispered, almost a laugh, though your voice broke halfway through. “It’s been a while, huh?”
He tried to speak, but what came out wasn’t words. A hoarse sound, halfway between a sob and a broken exhale, echoed through the line. His hand came up to his face, dragging roughly over his mouth, trying to stifle the shaking. He turned his head away from the guards, jaw clenching, eyes shutting tight. The tears came anyway.
You’d never seen him cry before. Not when he was beaten bloody, not when they dragged him out in cuffs, not even when they said his hearing might never return. But now, hearing your voice again — your laugh trembling with tears — broke something unspoken in him.
He managed, barely audible, the words splintering under the weight of disbelief. “God… I can hear you.”
Your laughter came then — shaky, choked, wet with tears. You pressed your hand against the glass, as if touch could bridge the sterile divide. He mirrored the motion instantly, palm aligning with yours through the cold barrier. His skin looked rough, veins stark beneath the pale light, but his hand trembled like a child’s.
“You took your time,” you whispered, smiling through the tears that wouldn’t stop. “I thought you were ignoring me.”
He gave a shaky laugh — a sound more breath than joy. “Didn’t… didn’t think I’d ever hear you again,” he said, the consonants blurred, his tone uneven. He rubbed his ear absently, a habit formed from the constant ringing — tinnitus, they’d called it. Nerve damage from blunt trauma, possibly from the blow that fractured his zygomatic arch and ruptured his right eardrum. The otologist had explained it clinically: “Some frequencies may never return. The auditory nerve might have sustained secondary injury.”
But here, now, those words didn’t matter.
You were the first thing he’d truly heard in months.
“You sound…” he began, then stopped, swallowing hard. His throat worked around the words. “You sound so fucking real again.”
Your tears spilled faster. “You idiot,” you said, voice trembling. “You think I wasn’t real before?”
He laughed weakly, the sound catching in his chest. “No. I just—” He looked down, then back up, eyes glassy. “I forgot what it felt like. To hear something that didn’t hurt.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed with everything unspoken — the fights, the guilt, the things that shattered and could never be rebuilt the same way again.
You studied him through the glass, through the small reflections of movement, through the weight of months apart. “You don’t talk about fighting anymore,” you said softly.
“I don’t need to,” he replied, almost smiling. “It took enough.” He looked down at his bandaged hand — the remnants of an old wound, healed but stiff. “They said I’ll always have ringing,” he murmured. “And that I’ll never hear clearly on the right side again. Guess it’s fair.”
“Fair?” you echoed. “For what?”
“For the noise I made,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “All the people I hurt. Maybe this is what silence costs.”
You shook your head, tears catching on your smile. “You’re alive, Sukuna. That’s what matters.”
His eyes lifted again, meeting yours through the sterile pane, and for a heartbeat, the world softened. The hum of the lights, the murmurs of guards, the metallic clink of keys — it all faded beneath the quiet miracle of your voice. When visiting hours ended, neither of you moved immediately. He stayed with his hand against the glass, memorizing the faint outline of yours, trying to capture the warmth through the barrier. The guard’s voice was distant, almost irrelevant.
As they led him away, he turned one last time, his lips shaping your name silently — but this time, when you mouthed I’ll see you again, he heard it.
Ryomen Sukuna.両面 宿儺 Masterlist • Support my writing
AUTHOR'S NOTE • Heyy, finally made it to the end of the story. But before you go, if you enjoyed the story, I'd very much appreciate it if you leave a thought on how you think about the story. Honestly, the ending is supposed to be a sad one, but I'll spare the heartache and give it a bittersweet ending instead. Writing this story is an enjoyable experience, especially listening to Futile Devices on repeat, and watching Better Days gave birth to this story. Other than that, thank you so much for reading !! I hope you enjoyed the story. I just want a tough man who would yearn for me like this, wishing you all the best 🙈💗
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