you were going to be late for work. not because you woke up late. not because you took too long in the shower and not because you were doom scrolling in bed and lost track of time.
you were going to be late because your husband, satoru, just couldn't seem to let you go. you found it cute at first, him begging you not to go and whining when you say no, but the act was getting boring especially because you were standing at the door, trapped in his arms for the last twenty minutes.
"for the last time, 'toru. i have to go", he only shook his head and pulled you impossibly closer against him.
"you don't have to work...i make enough for the both of us...you can stay home with me...you should stay home with me", satoru whispered into your ear, nuzzling his face against your neck, inhaling your scent.
"i actually like my job. i know you can pay for everything, but i also want to treat myself sometimes". satoru looked at you like you'd grown two heads. he looked you up and down, his frown deepened and shook his head, no.
"absolutely not. what kind of husband would i be if i just let you spend your hard earned money. only a loser would do that, and I'm no loser.", he pulled you closer to him again, this time peppering kisses all over your face.
"as cute as this is, satoru, i have a life to live"
"yeah, with me". this time he captured your lips in a long, passionate kiss, your lipstick now on him before pulling away and staring at you with the most love sick eyes. "i could just lock you up and keep you all to myself. i bet your boss is an ugly guy"
"my boss is a woman", he pressed his lips together in a straight line and sucked his teeth.
"whoever keeps you away from me is ugly by default. how much should i pay you to stay with me? i'll give you double your current salary-"
"don't be ridiculous, satoru"
"it's 'toru to you", you checked your wrist watch for the nth time and rolled your eyes.
"i'm gonna get stuck in traffic if you keep me here for longer", satoru sighed dramatically and pulled you in for one last hug before capturing your lips again in another kiss. but this one felt different. he kissed you like he would never see you again before pulling back and looking at you with the saddest puppy dog eyes.
"you can go now, my love". he escorted you to your car, his hand on your lower back and once you were settled in your seat, the door closed, you rolled down the windows and you kissed his cheek. "get there safe. call me when you do"
you said your goodbyes and were soon. some time later you realized that you had forgotten your purse. you reached for your phone with the intention of messaging satoru to tell him you were coming back. and to your surprise, you found that he sent a selfie of him posing with your purse, all pearly whites out and your lipstick still smeared on his lips. and below it a text.
my handsome clingy husband: i wont let you go this time if you come back
i think young men of our generation (and throughout history) downplay women's issues so much to the point where even if they begin to struggle with the same thing, they'll mansplain it so much to try and convince u that somehow their issues are 10 times harder so u can't even begin to try and help...then they'll whine abt women being so insensitive...
when incels and looksmaxxers try to dismiss criticism by saying "u won't understand bc ur a woman" as if our entire existence has not been defined by our appearance since the beginning of time...like I've played these games my whole life I fear
You get pushed into the throne room, your bare feet skidding across the floor as you stumble.
"Unbind me, dammit! I can walk on my own!" The guards shush you, and you can see the solemn look on their faces. They know that you're going to die. "I'm not going to shush, I'll talk when I want!" You bark back at them, before turning your attention to the ropes on your wrists and bringing them to your mouth to gnaw on.
Why are these fools treating you like you're some common criminal? Disgusting, really. It would be nice to be treated with at least some decency on your march to your death. You were wandering in the woods, peacefully, when suddenly a group ambushed you, claiming that you were on some lord's property and now you're in this empty, stuffy ass throne room. They kept muttering his name on the way here, so now you know for a fact about your fate.
Sukuna Ryomen, the so called "King of curses". Although, the only thing you really knew about him is the fact he eats people. Supposedly. That's what the rumors that float around the towns you visit say.
Does he eat people alive or are they killed first? What seasonings will you be paired with? The guards refused to answer your many questions on the way to the main estate. They just kept telling you to shut up and keep walking.
Whatever.
You huff as you chew on the ropes, brows furrowed, and you don't notice the loud muttering signaling his royal highness's royal arrival. Is he formally a king? How does that work? Why do they keep calling him a lord if he's the king, isn't that rude? Your wrists are soaked with your own drool that had seeped through the thick ropes. You've been chewing for a while and now your jaw hurts.
"What is this?" A deep, booming voice distracts you from your goal of freeing yourself. You lift your head and mouth. There's some brute glaring at you, and a bitch with a bob standing a little behind him. The king? He's definitely a curse, he's got too many appendages to be a normal human. He's got a bunch of eyes, too. They're a kind of scarlet color. They're pretty, to be honest. The king isn't really your type, but he isn't hard to look at, either.
You pull the ropes out of your mouth, having made zero escape progress, as you straighten up your back. You wipe your spit off your mouth with your bound together hands, listening to the way one of the idiots who brought you here clears his throat. You beat him to it.
"Excuse me, sir," You start, ignoring the funny way all of his one billion employees scurrying around look at you. "May I please go? I was brought here for being in your territory, but I truly didn't know."
Sukuna's face scrunches up, his thick brows furrowing as he takes a seat at his throne, spreading his legs wide. Gross. "You dare speak to me?"
"I don't see why I shouldn't." You continue, "And if I'm quite honest, the people you employ are a bunch of bafoons."
"Oh? And how did you come to that conclusion?" he rests his arm on the rests, putting his chin in his hand.
"I could've escaped at any point during the trek over here," You keep your head high, glancing at the guards surrounding you. "They're all wildly out of shape, and complained about the walk and the hills on your property the entire time." Not a total lie, they did do that. Your hypothetical escape is a different story, for you aren't in the best shape either. You should do more cardio, like the old woman at the inn said last week. "They also didn't even have a hold on me. I could've left at any moment."
"Why didn't you?" Ah, fuck, he's seeing right through you. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. He's gonna eat you with soy sauce.
"I thought you should know about the nature of those you employ. I don't think you should be wasting your resources on them, my lord." You need to stop talking out of your ass.
"Really? Is that so?"
You nod, before mustering up your best-est, most polite smile and bow. A winning combo that always works, right? Before you finish raising your head from your bow, a drop of red lands on the tatami in front of you. Followed by another.
You turn your head to the side just in time to see the guards bursting into an explosion of gore, the blood splattering across your clothes and face.
"Is that sufficient enough punishment for the hassle, woman?" Sukuna is grinning. You can't see it, but you can hear it in his stupid voice. Gross. Oh my god, it's so gross. There's blood in your mouth that isn't yours. He's grinning at the dumbfounded look on your face, staring at the pool of blood where the guards stood.
You don't know what to do.
You have to commit to the bit. You did this to yourself. You swallow the blood in your mouth, trying not to gag it back up. You'll throw it up on the way home, you promise yourself, you just have to get out first. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
You turn your head to smile at him, trying to ignore the way that the blood is sticking to your teeth and lips. Gross. "May I go, now?" You hold your hands up in front of you, keeping your prettiest smile on your face as you gesture to the spit and blood soaked ropes binding your wrists.
Sukuna's evil grin falls, and he raises an eyebrow before looking at the person standing next to him. He gestures, and the person starts approaching you to remove your binds. Holy shit, that actually worked. You puff out your chest in silent satisfaction, watching as they untie your hands. They don't even cringe at how gross and covered in spit and blood the ropes are, how professional!
"Thank you, sir." You rub your sore wrists, before performing another polite bow. Deeper this time, to really show your gratitude. "I'll be on my way, now."
"I didn't say you could leave, woman." Ah, fuck, he is going to eat you. "I just undid your ropes. That is not permission to leave." He grins, and his hard stomach grins with him. Now when the hell did that get there? Two mouths? Seriously? "You are to stay here. Unless, you would like to run from me?" Is one not enough?
You cannot outrun this man. "Sir, I got beat up by a squirrel yesterday. I cannot and would not run." You deadpan, forcing your eyes to stare straight ahead and not roll all the way back into your skull.
The silence in the room is suffocating, and it's the only thing that makes you realize that you definitely should not have said that. You have royally fucked up. Your own stupidity amazes you.
You have to commit to the bit. Again. It is so pathetic to suddenly take back your attitude filled comment. You've already said it. You have to go through with it. You just stare ahead at him, the same mildly bored expression on your face.
"You have quite a mouth on you." He raises an eyebrow, crossing one set of his arms over his large chest. He's huge. He's going to eat you alive. Oh god. "Tell me, do you not value your life? Why do you speak to me this way?"
"I speak to you the way I would anyone else, sir." You hum, folding your blood covered hands in front of yourself.
"With no respect?" He smirks, and you can feel his eyes scanning over your form. You quickly fix your posture so that you seem taller and a lot less meek.
"I wouldn't say that." You blink slowly, looking around the room. Not for an escape, necessarily, you know that you can't, but just to appreciate the architecture for one last moment before your rapidly approaching death. You need to keep talking. "I have plenty of respect for people. But respect is earned, no?" You're talking yourself into an early grave, You think, but then again, you were dead the moment you walked onto his territory. "You have respect from the nearby townspeople. What's the harm in earning mine, too?"
Sukuna blinks at you slowly, his smirk slowly falling from his face. It's silent for a moment, before he stands abruptly. "Uraume!" The person who had been floating around the throne room after untying you quickly perks up. Uraume is a pretty name. "Take her to my quarters."
Huh.
"I will wed her tomorrow night." He grunts, and Uraume nods quickly and begins walking towards you. You're too stunned to argue, allowing yourself to be pushed towards a hallway.
What the hell? At least you're not being eaten? Or is it just being prolonged? The thought scares you into finally fighting against Uraume, and you quickly duck under their arm and march back into the throne room. Sukuna was leaving in the opposite direction, his hands folded across his chest.
"Excuse me!" You call after him, fisting the fabric of your blood stained kimono, "I would like an explanation, please!"
He turns his head slowly, looking at you over his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow, and his lips have the barest hint of a smile. "What is it, woman?"
"If you're going to eat me, I'd rather you do it now, and not play with your food beforehand. It's rude." You march towards him, ignoring the way your blood soaked feet are leaving prints behind in the tatami. He turns fully to look at you right when you arrive.
"I am not going to eat you." He huffs in amusement, looking down at you with an awfully smug look. "You entertain me. I would never think to eat something as pretty as you."
You pout, not fully believing him. "Why do you want to marry me? Is it not just a way for you to play with my feelings?" You cross your arms over your own chest, mimicking his position in front of you. You even furrow your brows to further mock him. He snorts.
"No." And that's all he says on the topic. Wow, what a conversationalist.
"Is that it?" You huff, before wiping one of your on your kimono. You jab your pinky towards him, watching the way his eyebrows fly up. "Promise me you won't eat me."
He laughs loudly at that, before holding out his own hand and looping his pinky with yours, "You have quite the personality."
"If you break this promise, I will haunt you for the rest of your life, Sukuna." You grumble, freeing your hand from your pact. "I mean it."
You don't argue with the whole wedding thing. You know that you can't say no, you don't have a choice in the matter. If you did say no, he'd probably obliterate you like he did the guards. It's not like you have anything against living in a beautiful mansion either. You were technically homeless at the moment. You give him a polite smile and bow, before following your bloody footprints back to where Uraume was standing at the mouth of the hallway.
"Do you think I could take a bath?" You ask as they lead you through the hall, "And some new clothes, too?"
"Of course, my lady. Anything you wish."
You could certainly get used to this.
After your bath and thorough rinsing of your mouth, you're sighing happily as you pat your hair dry with a far too expensive cloth that Uraume had insisted on giving to you. They did also stand and watch you the whole time, which was a little off-putting at first, but you did eventually get used to it. Being doted on was quite nice, you have to admit. Much better than the nomadic lifestyle that you had been living when you first arrived. "Say, Uraume," You hum once you're fully dry, allowing them to bring you a very pink and very pretty robe. You held your arms up to assist them as they dressed you, trying to sneakily inspect their too calm face. "Does he always marry random women?"
They shake their head, smoothing out the sleeves of your robe as it settled onto your body, "No, my lady, he doesn't."
"No concubines, then?" You pull away when they finish, fixing your hair to sit the way you like.
"He's had a few, but they don't last very long. He gets bored easily." Uraume folded their hands in front of themselves, before gesturing to the entrance, "He requested you in his quarters."
Oh, yeah. He did, huh? You grimace at what that could imply, but nod your head anyway.
Uraume starts guiding you to the room, and during the leisurely walk you take your time looking around the winding hallways of the estate. Not a lot of art on the walls. Or anything, really. It's kind of empty in here. Maybe you could request some more decorations? Wife privileges, and all.
You follow them as they push open the door, not bothering to hide your sounds of awe. "Wow, it's so pretty!" You walk around them to look around the room, giggling. "So much fancy art."
"Master Sukuna doesn't use the term pretty," Uraume stood by the doors, watching as you flopped backwards into the ridiculously massive bed. "I don't think he would like you using it, either."
"He can deal with it." You hum, sitting up and crossing your legs over each other. "How come he doesn't have any art in the halls? Is he hoarding it for himself, maybe?"
Uraume shook their head, "I'm not sure, my lady."
"You should go ask him." You scoot to the edge of the bed, tossing your legs over the side. "Better yet, I'll ask him! Go get him!"
"He's in a meeting, my lady."
"Okay, so?" You tilt your head, watching the tiniest hint of an uncomfortable expression forming on Uraume's face. Are they not used to women being so bold? "I'm going to be his wife. Aren't I the most important to him, then?"
Uraume nodded slowly, before turning on their heels, "Yes, my lady."
You wave at their back disappearing down the hallway. You sit there for a few seconds, before deciding that you were bored. You stand up, making your way to one of the doors in the bedroom, sliding it open to reveal what appears to be a closet. You peek your head into it, inspecting the clothing neatly folded on shelves. In the corner, there's a small, ornately decorated jewelry box.
You pick up the box, gently turning it around in your hands to inspect the beautiful swans embroidered onto the lid. You let your thumb find the clasp, flicking it open just as you hear the sound of heavy footsteps entering the room.
"So now you're fiddling with my belongings?" Sukuna hums, stepping to stand behind you. You're a little startled, but you steel yourself.
"I was bored." You turn the box to look at the gems inside, oohing and aw-wing. "You have such nice jewelry! How come you aren't wearing any?" He watches you with a raised eyebrow as you poke around some of the rings. Being an asshole has done you good so far, so you might as well keep it up. You push the box towards him, scooping up one of the rings.
You inspect the ring before putting it on and turning to hold you hand to the light, admiring the gemstone.
"They're not the right size." Sukuna stood there holding the box in one of his four hands, his too many eyes scanning your face. You ignore the stares the best you can, before a realization dawns on you.
"Well, how are we going to go about our wedding rings?" You turn your head to glare at him, before quickly fixing your face into a pout.
"We won't, that's how." He snorts, rolling his eyes and placing the jewelry box back on the shelf where you found it, before crossing all of his arms. "Why would we do some silly western thing? We will have a traditional Japanese wedding."
Oh, that makes sense. You think about it for a moment, weighing out the pros and cons in your head.
Cons: None
Pros: pretty piece of jewelry…
An easy decision to make.
"I want rings." You blurt, taking the ring you had been fooling with off and placing it on top of the jewelry box. "Matching ones."
Sukuna's expression slowly morphs from one of mild amusement to a disturbed grimace. He sucks his teeth, "You can have however many rings you want, woman. Why are these ones special?"
"They're symbols of our marriage!" You pout, crossing your arms, "You can't grant your bride this one wish?"
"It's not a matter of granting you anything." He argues back, "My fingers are far too large for rings. I will not force one onto myself and amputate my own fingers for you!"
"What, you can't afford to have a custom one made?" You scoff, rolling your eyes and picking up the jewelry box from the closet shelf, pushing it towards his chest. "Sell the rings in here, then! They sit around collecting dust, anyway! Sell them all so we can have our rings!"
"These rings are not 'ours', only you desire something as frivolous as matching rings." He pushes the box back towards you. "Put it back. I have the funds to have a ring made. I have enough to have a thousand made."
"Thank you," You huff with satisfaction, putting the box back onto the shelf before sliding the closet door shut. "Have two made. For each left hand."
You turn your head to look at him, mildly uncomfortable at his steely gaze on your face.
"What?" You pout, stepping closer to him.
"You amuse me." He laughs, settling his hands by his hips and walking to the edge of the large bed in the room. "No other woman would dare to have such an egregious attitude with me."
"Well," You pause for a moment, thinking it over in your head and moving to sit next to him. "I've never met a man like you, either."
"I wouldn't call myself something comparable to those measly human men you have played with. "
"Fine," You cautiously scoot closer, before leaning your head on his solid shoulder, "I've never met a curse quite like yourself."
You and Nanami enjoying an early morning post-retirement after Shibuya in Malaysia !
He's awake before the sun has even risen fully over the horizon—just like he always does—body trained over the years for a routine that he no longer had to abide to. For a few seconds, there's the familiar instinct to jump out of bed and get ready in record speed while he braces himself for the stressful day ahead.
But then he hears the ocean.
The steady hush of waves rolling in and quickly retreating reminded him of just where he is, and the tension leaves his shoulders as he takes a deep breath. He exhales slow and carefully slips out of bed with the intent of keeping you asleep, because waking you up before breakfast had passed and lunch was quickly rolling around the corner? A literal crime punishable by the guest room.
You, the lovely lady at the forefront of his mind (like always), are sprawled across the mattress with the duvet twisted, one leg half-hanging off the bed, and bonnet somehow snug in your arms like a teddy despite being over your eyes at the beginning of your sleep.
Nanami smiles down at your sleeping form before making his way to the wardrobe to get dressed—pulling on some linen trousers, and a white shirt unbuttoned just enough for comfort but not enough to be indecent (unfortunately for you).
Once he's done, he slips his Pompompurin flip flops (courtesy of you) on to protect the soles of his feet from the annoyingly sandy ground, and steps out onto the balcony with a book tucked under his arm.
He sits against the soft, woven lounger, adjusting his glasses as he opens the book to the last page he was on. Though he doesn't actually begin reading just yet. Retirement has taught him that he doesn't need to speed run anything anymore, he can do anything and everything at his own pace with no worries of dead lines or a gruelling, imminent death.
The beach of the estate stretches out beautifully below, pale sand practically untouched except for the faint tracks of crabs and your own footsteps from the picnic the two of you had the night before. The private plot of land you had somehow managed to strike a ridiculously cheap deal on sits just far enough from society to feel hidden—that feeling only amplified by the extensive palm trees and greenery decorating the surroundings of the house.
Just as his eyes flicker to the page, the sliding door opens softly.
He doesn't look up immediately. He knows what each drag of your feet means, and this sad shuffle of your slippers against the wooden ground meant you were still half-asleep, stubbornly clinging to the last memory of your (hopefully) ethereal dream before it left your mind forever.
"Good morning, My Love," He greets, voice low and calm, already internally debating how long it'll take until you demand your morning tea.
You respond with a vague noise that could be a greeting. Maybe. He's honestly not too sure what that was. In all honesty, it sounds more like a dying curse then anything else. And even though he hadn't said that out loud, he can very vaguely see the flash of your cursed technique before complete darkness at the mere thought.
He finally turns his head and sees you standing there in one of his shirts, eyes barely open and hair surprisingly intact. Maybe he really did need to invest in a bonnet like you said.
Without asking, you climb onto his lap, knees tucked as you curl against his chest with the grace of a scarecrow. Nanami reacts instantly, his book now placed against a small, glass table and his arms engulfing you into a bear-like hug. One hand rests on the small of your back while the other skims his fingertips gently over your spine in slow, even strokes.
You sigh, all melted like putty in his arms, and press your forehead beneath his chin like a little kitty seeking extra attention as though it wasn't doted on twenty-four-seven.
"Did you sleep well?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your scalp.
"Mhm," You replied, though the simple hum somehow came out so slurred it took him a couple seconds to decipher what it was, "You left."
"I woke early," He says, "Old habits."
You groan at his response, fingers curling into his shirt as he presses yet another kiss to your hairline, littering them down your face until you're nose to nose—breaths mixing (he'll ignore how gross both of your morning breaths are for this cute moment).
"Sorry, Love," He mutters, pressing a long kiss to your lips, "I'll try not to do it again."
"You better," You huff, licking at his cheek just to annoy him, "You should make me a tea to make up for it."
He sighs, patting your ass before lifting you in the air, you still clung to him like a clingy koala, "Yes, ma'am."
a/n : i hate this its so short and so bad like literally such bad writing but i haven't posted properly in foreverrrrrrr and i feel bad 😪
synopsis: a story in which a depressed satoru gets sent to the future and sees just how bright it eventually becomes. meanwhile, you're reminded of how much of a brat your husband used to be when you first started dating.
cw: MDNI, time travel, smut w/ a touch of angst bc we LOVE plot, satoru's actually so mean at first lol, dad!jo (him and reader share a daughter together)
notes: hiiii we got 6.5k words for this one ❤️ comm for the lovely @sadlittlecucumber i hope u like!!!!
song rec: drag path — twenty one pilots
Satoru’s life ended up being a fucking bummer.
His best friend’s a mass murderer. Shoko’s gone off to do her own thing with medicine. Nanami left to go become a banker or whatever. Ijichi’s… Ijichi. Oh, and Haibara’s dead. Everyone who’s alive seems to have moved on— so should Satoru, honestly. But times proved that to be quite difficult.
He’s starting to understand where Suguru was coming from with the whole exorcise-absorb mantra. Except for him, it was exorcise and destroy, leaving every cursed site he’s stepped foot on looking like god himself decided to hit the reset button to obliterate the place.
Nobody says anything about it. He’s probably the closest thing to a god. Despite having tried his hardest all throughout his youth to fit in and act as if he was just like everyone else, people were still terrified to fuck with him.
And despite the chaos he’s constantly surrounded by— mainly from his own doing— the days still find a way to bleed into each other, morphing into a never ending cycle of boredom and violence. It’s quite the combo. The higher ups are lucky he’s too tired to plot anything behind their backs.
He’s exhausted.
The past is too blurry. The future’s too bleak.
Gojo was bound to fuck up sooner or later. The thought of him finally snapping like Suguru did, dangling in the back of his mind, taunting him.
He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things?
One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark.
That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way.
“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery.
He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this.
“Oh hey, you’re home.”
Home?
He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.
You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago.
You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”
First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?
Second, who even are you?
Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger.
Fuck.
“Honey–”
Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again.
“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”
Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth.
There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru.
Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.
“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”
He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”
“You also liked to argue, too.”
“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?”
“No.”
“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“
You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?”
“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you.
“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.”
–
“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”
The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere.
“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”
Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”
“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”
“31.”
Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.”
Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.
“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”
“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody.
Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude.
“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion.
He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”
Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?”
“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”
“I tried my best! I swear!”
“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”
“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”
“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”
The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.
“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.
The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed.
—
You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand.
“Is the food good?”
“Sure.”
“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement.
“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.”
Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”
“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?”
Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.
“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being.
A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.
“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”
It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital.
“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.
“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake.
“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”
Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.
“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”
Sai wasn’t having that.
Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite.
But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.
“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”
“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself.
You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous.
“What?”
There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”
“She’s weird.”
“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”
“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid.
He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind.
“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious.
He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad.
For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear.
—
It’s been over a month.
Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.
But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort.
Over his dead body.
Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.
So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.
Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising.
Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married.
Satoru looks over your body once.
Twice.
He totally understands his future self.
He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks.
It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you.
You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure.
“Hey… any good news?”
“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.”
“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“
“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”
You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.
After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.
“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”
“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”
The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine.
But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him.
You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.”
It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here.
“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered.
He’s always had a thing for milfs.
Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now.
“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”
You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you.
“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you.
And you fucking miss that.
He opens his mouth to respond.
Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you.
Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid.
His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”
Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”
It’s starting to sound more natural.
“Y-yeah,” she sniffles.
Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried.
His little girl was a dream.
—
Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.
It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world.
He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does.
It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.
With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table.
The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions.
You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off.
“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”
He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?”
“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.”
You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact.
Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.
It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake.
Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”
Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now.
“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone.
Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”
“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”
“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“
“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”
“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“
“Kay’ good night.”
Click.
Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head.
He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning.
“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?”
“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.”
“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him.
“So is waking me up.”
“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”
“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?”
“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.”
Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”
“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.”
“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden.
And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.
You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?”
“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.
“I can take care of that, you know.”
“What?”
“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.
“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?”
“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”
“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?”
“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.”
“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.”
Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock.
“Feel good?”
His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”
You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.
“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask.
“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient.
His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”
“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”
You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are.
His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all.
"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.”
“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.
It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that— lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him.
"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."
You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out.
You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort.
"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."
You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder.
He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”
“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”
“You want me to fuck you harder?”
“Yeah.”
Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper.
“Better?”
He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”
“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.”
He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life.
Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”
“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”
He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch.
Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you.
“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself.
When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him.
You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.
And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.
—
It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back.
What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?
He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.
Acceptance.
He likes his life here.
You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.
No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second.
With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life.
You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache.
He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start.
You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.
“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.
There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”
He’s back.
“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”
—
Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.
Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers.
Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly.
Satoru was fucking devastated.
Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo.
God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point.
One Year Later
“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone.
It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job.
“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”
“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.”
The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable.
He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit.
It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him.
The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time.
“And what can I get started for you today?”
His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.
“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”
“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”
“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie.
“Name for the order?”
“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”
He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”
“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind:
He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.
your arranged marriage contract is coming to an end and you present duke kento nanami, your husband, divorce papers but for some reason he isn't letting you go?
inspired by all those historical isekai manhwas that have the same plotline everytime
disclaimers: fem!reader, very ooc, misunderstandings, bad writing, did not proofread
the breakfast room was bathed in the soft light of a grey morning, pale and watery, as if the sun itself couldn't be bothered to fully commit to the day. dust motes drifted lazily through the air, catching the light in tiny, silent dances.
you sat at your usual end of the long, polished table, and he sat at his. the duke, your husband. for two years, this had been the ritual. the clink of a spoon against a porcelain cup, the soft sound of bread being broken, the whisper of fabric as he lifted his napkin. never a word. just the quiet, heavy presence of him at the other end of the table, a presence so constant it had become a kind of silence itself. you had grown so accustomed to the specific quality of this silence that you had forgotten there were other kinds.
you glanced at the document resting on the table beside your plate. the divorce papers. they seemed to pulse there, a living thing demanding attention.
you had signed them last night, your hand steady, your heart a curious, hollow thing. you had expected to feel something…relief, perhaps, or sadness. but there was only a strange emptiness, like a room cleared of furniture.
it was the right thing to do in your head. the contract marriage your parents had arranged was for two years, and two years had passed. you both were still so young, only in your twenties. you couldn't keep him bound to a ghost of a marriage, a political arrangement that had served its purpose. the kingdoms were stable now, the alliances secure. there was no need for this performance any longer.
he deserved to find love, real love, with someone who could laugh with him, talk with him, share a life with him beyond the rigid performance you both put on for the court. you thought of the way he looked at other couples sometimes, at banquets and gatherings, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before it was smoothed away. you had always assumed it was contempt for their frivolity. now you wondered if it was something else entirely.
he was a good duke, everyone said so. not that you needed others to say it, even you could see it. he was strong, silent, fair. the servants respected him, the council listened to him, the people adored him from afar. and he was handsome, in a way that was easy to forget because you never really looked at him. not really. you looked at the duke. you never looked at kento.
his blonde hair was always perfectly in place, his clothes impeccable, his bearing that of a man who had never doubted his place in the world. but sometimes, in the briefest moments before sleep claimed him, you had seen his face soften, the lines of responsibility easing, and he had looked almost young. almost vulnerable. you had always turned away then, feeling like an intruder.
your marriage had a specific contract, written and agreed upon by your parents, of course. you and Duke Nanami had agreed that you would sleep in the same bed every night, but even with that, absolutely no words were exchanged towards each other. for two years, you had gone to bed next to each other as an obligation, two figures on opposite sides of a vast mattress, the space between you a silent treaty.
in public, you pretended to be a loving couple, your hand on his arm, his rare smiles directed at you, but it was only in public. you two barely spoke to each other not in the public's eyes, and if you spoke, it was only for political reasons.
you had to dine together at least once a day, no words spoken, only utensils would be heard. you had memorized the sound of his knife against bread, the way he stirred his tea exactly three times, always to the left. these small, meaningless details had become the entire vocabulary of your marriage.
you waited until he had finished his first cup of tea. he was buttering a piece of toast with precise, economical movements, his focus entirely on the task. you took a breath, the sound seeming impossibly loud in the quiet room, a crack in the stillness.
you pushed the papers across the table. they slid over the polished wood, the edges whispering against the surface, coming to a stop just beside his plate.
he looked at them. his hand stilled on the butter knife.
this movement was not something very unusual for you two. you would often share documents that needed second opinions with each other, only because you were the duke and duchess. financial reports, invitations, diplomatic correspondence. you had passed papers back and forth like this a hundred times. a thousand. your hand knew exactly how far to reach.
for a long, terrible moment, he didn't move. then his eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned the top page. you watched his gaze travel across the words, and you saw the moment he understood. his jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the smooth skin of his cheek. his knuckles, still resting on the table, went white.
you had prepared a little speech. something about it being for the best, about freedom, about gratitude. you had rehearsed it in the mirror last night, your reflection calm and composed. but the words died in your throat as he looked up at you.
there was no relief in his eyes. no acceptance.
there was a raw, confusing anger. it burned there, fierce and uncontrolled, and it was the most emotion you had ever seen on his face. it transformed him. he was no longer the composed duke. he was a man on the edge of something.
"what is this?" his voice was a low rasp, a sound you hadn't heard in two years. it wasn't the cold, political tone he used at court functions. it was rough, broken, barely contained. this was different. this was him, this was kento.
"the terms are fulfilled," you said, your own voice quiet, matching the room's silence, though inside you were trembling. "the contract is complete. we can… we can end this. you can find a real wife you actually want to speak to."
his chair scraped back with a violent screech against the marble floor, a sound so harsh and sudden it made you flinch. he stood, looming over the table, his hands flat on its surface, leaning towards you. his breakfast was forgotten, the toast growing cold, the tea untouched.
"don't worry, i have compiled everything to make sure the divorce is smooth. rumors should die out in less than two months—" you continued, your voice mechanically reciting the practicalities you had so carefully arranged, but he interrupted.
"what did i do wrong?" he asked, the anger in his voice cracking, revealing something else beneath it. pain? desperation? "tell me. what have i done that you would want to leave?"
you were stunned. wrong? he had done nothing wrong. that was the entire point. "you did nothing," you said, trying to be gentle, though your heart was pounding now. "that's just it. we have no… connection. we have an arrangement. it's done. you're free."
"free?" he spat the word out like it was poison, like it burned his tongue. he stared at you for another agonizing second, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes searching your face for something you couldn't name. then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving his half-eaten meal and the signed papers on the table.
the silence he left behind was different. it was empty and sharp, like a blade. you sat there for a long time, staring at the empty chair, at the papers, at the cold toast. you didn't understand, you had given him exactly what he should have wanted.
that night, you were already in bed, your back to the center, as always. you had maintained this position for two years, a silent declaration of boundaries. you heard the door open and close. you felt the dip of the mattress as he climbed in on his side.
the space between you felt like a chasm, wider than it had ever been. you could feel his anger, a hot, tense energy radiating from him, filling the darkness. you turned your head on the pillow, and in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, you could see his face.
his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, his expression carved from stone, but his jaw was tight with a fury he was barely containing. his hands, resting at his sides, were clenched into fists.
"why?" you whispered into the darkness. it felt weird speaking to him so late into the night. you slept next to each other every day for two years, but when was the last time you two spoke in this situation? you couldn't remember. perhaps never.
he didn't answer. he just closed his eyes with a long, slow sigh, the sound heavy with something that might have been exhaustion or despair. he turned slightly away from you, his back now a wall between you, shutting you out completely.
great.
the days that followed were a new kind of torture. the silence was no longer peaceful. it was hostile, charged.
you tried to bring it up again at dinner. you opened your mouth to speak, and he stood immediately, his chair scraping back, and left without a word, his food untouched.
you tried to catch him in the hallway. he walked past you as if you weren't there, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his jaw set. his aide looked back towards you in confusion, perhaps thinking you two had your first marital spat but didn't dare question.
but given everything, every night, without fail, he was in that bed. angry, present, unmoving. you could feel the heat of his rage even in sleep, could hear the tension in his breathing. it was maddening.
finally, one evening, you had had enough. the silence had become unbearable, a weight pressing down on you. you couldn't live like this, in this limbo of unanswered questions and unspoken accusations.
you found him in his study, a room you rarely entered. it was his sanctuary, his domain. he was standing by the fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand, staring into the flames. the firelight played across his features, carving deep shadows under his eyes, making him look older, wearier. you closed the door behind you with a firm click, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"i deserve an answer, your grace," you said, using his title as a shield, as a reminder of the distance between you. "why are you so against this? we are strangers."
he didn't turn around. his shoulders were rigid, the fine fabric of his coat straining across his back. "you think i am a stranger to you?" his voice was low, controlled, but there was a tremor beneath it.
"we have not spoken a single personal word to each other in two years," you said, your voice rising slightly, the frustration of all those silent days finally spilling out. "we share a bed, we share meals, and we share nothing. i know the sound of your breathing at night better than i know your thoughts. i know how you take your tea, but i don't know if you're happy. i don't know if you've ever been happy. i am offering you an out. i am offering you freedom."
he finally turned. his face was a mask of pain, so raw and open it made your breath catch in your throat. his eyes were bright, too bright, and he set the glass down with a sharp clink that seemed to shatter the last of his composure.
"you think this is a loveless marriage?" his voice was rough, broken, barely a whisper. he took a step towards you, then stopped, as if afraid to come closer, as if you might shatter if he touched you. "you think i did this because i felt nothing?"
you just stared at him, utterly confused. your mind, which had been so certain, so prepared, was suddenly blank.
"i was distant because i had to be," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if a dam had finally broken. "my first duty was to make this duchy strong. not for me. for you." he breathed out, a shaky, uneven sound. his eyes showed a mix of anger and… guilt? self-recrimination? "i have spent every waking hour for two years strengthening our position, securing alliances, building our coffers. i trained with the sword until my hands bled, until i couldn't hold a pen, so that if anyone ever threatened you, i could stand between you and them and they would not get past me. i made money, enough money, so you could have anything you wanted, anything at all, without ever having to ask or worry, without ever having to feel the limitations of this duchy." his voice broke completely on the last words. "i did it all for you."
tears were pricking at your own eyes now, hot and unwelcome. this couldn't be true. it couldn't.
"what do you mean you did this all for me? no offense, your grace, you have given nothing to go off of! to my knowledge, we didn't even know of each other's presence before the marriage ceremony itself." your voice was shaking now, the careful composure you had maintained for two years crumbling.
he took a shaky breath, the anger gone, replaced by a desperate vulnerability that made him look younger, softer. "you want me to sign these papers? you want me to let you go?" he looked away, his gaze lost in the flames again, as if he couldn't bear to see your reaction. "i saw you during the imperial ball when we were both sixteen. you wore the most beautiful gown, pale gold, like the first light of morning. it perfectly complemented you. the jewels in your hair sparkled against the chandelier's light, but they were nothing compared to your eyes. you were standing by the window, looking out at the garden, and you didn't know anyone was watching. you had this small, secret smile on your face, like you knew a wonderful secret that the rest of the world was too busy to notice." his voice dropped even lower. "i have been yours ever since that moment. every breath, every thought, every action. all of it has been for you."
the world tilted. you remembered that ball. that was technically your first social debut into high society. you had been terrified, overwhelmed by the noise and the people and the expectations. you had escaped to the window for a moment of peace, and you had been looking at a rose bush in the garden below. you had smiled because a little bird had landed on it, a tiny flash of life in the formal, manicured space. and he had been watching.
"i… i didn't know," you whispered, the words feeling wholly inadequate, a pathetic response to the revelation that had just shattered everything. "you never said…"
"i… i apologize for that." he finally met your eyes again, and the pain there was almost unbearable to witness. "i thought the silence was what you wanted. you were always so composed, so regal, so untouchable. i thought you needed a partner who was strong and steady, not one who would burden you with foolish feelings, with weakness. i thought if i could just make everything perfect, if i could build a world where you wanted for nothing, then one day you might look at me and see someone worthy. i was trying to be what you needed."
he finally crossed the room, stopping right in front of you. he was so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and wine. he didn't touch you, but his dark eyes held yours, pleading, desperate. "the duchy was in the best shape when i first inherited it after our marriage, but it wasn't good enough. not for you. knights were missing a captain, the staff was full of spying rats from rival houses, our treasury didn't even have enough to buy a gown worthy of being taken to an imperial ball." he admitted, finally looking away, shame coloring his features. "i spent all my time during the marriage working to strengthen us, to strengthen things for you. you are a princess…" he hesitated, then slowly reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of your hair with a tenderness that made your heart clench. he held it, watching it shine in the fire's light. "i couldn't let you be treated as anything less. i couldn't let you regret marrying me. but i see now… i see i have neglected you in the process. i was so focused on building a fortress that i forgot to live in it with you."
"don't go," he whispered, the words barely audible, a broken plea. "please. give me a chance to show you. not the duke. not the title. just me. kento. let me try to make you feel even a fraction of what i have felt for you every single day for the past six years."
you were lost. completely, utterly lost. the foundation of your entire marriage, your entire understanding of your life for the past two years, had crumbled to dust at your feet. he wasn't a cold, distant duke who tolerated your presence. he was a man who had been silently, desperately, impossibly in love with you since before you even knew his name.
you shook your head, not in refusal, but in sheer overwhelm. your mind was a storm, a chaos of confusion and disbelief and a strange, terrifying warmth blooming in your chest. "i don't… i don't know how to feel. i convinced myself there was nothing here. i built my entire existence around that nothing. not that i had any reason to do otherwise."
"then let me help you find out," he said, a fragile hope flickering in his eyes, so tentative it might have been extinguished by a single harsh word. "just… stay. stay, and let me try. let me court you. let me show you who i am when i'm not trying to be the perfect duke." he swallowed hard. "and if, after that, you still do not want this marriage… i shall not hold you down. i will sign the papers. i will let you go, even if it destroys me. please. just let me try."
you didn't agree that night. you couldn't. your voice wouldn't work, your thoughts wouldn't settle. you just turned and walked out of the study, your footsteps echoing in the silent hallway. you went back to your shared room, your mind a storm of confusion and a strange, budding warmth that you didn't trust. he followed later, much later, and for the first time, he didn't stay on his side. he laid facing your back, just watching you in the darkness, a silent sentinel. you could feel his gaze on you, a gentle pressure, and for once, it didn't feel like an intrusion. it felt like a promise.
the next morning, he was not in bed. nothing out of the ordinary; he always woke up before you and left. the empty space beside you was familiar, expected.
what was odd was the single, perfect white rose from the garden in a small crystal vase on the bedside table. it hadn't been there when you fell asleep. a note in his elegant script was tucked beneath it, simply reading, 'for the smile.'
you stared at it for a long time, your fingers tracing the delicate petals. for the smile. the smile he had seen six years ago. the smile you had forgotten.
at lunch, he asked you a question. a real question. "what is your favorite color?"
it was so simple, so startling, you almost laughed. after being his wife and duchess nanami for two years, after sharing a bed and a table and a life, he would finally know your favorite color. "blue," you said. "like the sky at twilight. when the day is ending but the night hasn't quite taken over yet."
he nodded, a small, private smile on his lips that transformed his entire face. the lunch continued with small back and forth questions. he asked about your favorite food, your favorite season, your favorite memory of your childhood. and you found yourself answering, found yourself asking him the same questions.
you learned that he loved autumn, the crisp air and the changing leaves. that his favorite food was a simple warm bread his mother used to make. that his favorite memory was of his father teaching him to ride a stallion. the meal lasted twice as long as any meal you had shared in two years.
that evening, he took you for a walk in the ducal gardens. you had no idea how he had made spare time without warning, but you weren't going to turn down his invitation.
the gardens were beautiful in the fading light, the flowers casting long shadows, the air heavy with the scent of roses and lavender.
he didn't try to hold your hand, but he walked close enough that his sleeve brushed yours, a constant, gentle reminder of his presence.
he told you about his favorite tree as a boy, a massive oak he used to climb to escape his tutors. about the first horse he ever owned, a stubborn little pony named pepper who had thrown him more times than he could count. about a silly bet he'd lost to a friend at military academy that had resulted in him having to wear a dress to dinner.
he was funny, and warm, and real, something the public would never believe you if you told them. he laughed, a real laugh, and the sound of it was so surprising, so lovely, that you found yourself smiling without meaning to.
over the next weeks, he courted you. truly courted you, as if you were meeting for the first time. he left small gifts on your dressing table: a book of poetry he thought you'd like, with certain passages marked, a beautifully colored scarf the exact shade of twilight blue, a tiny painting of a bird, like the one you had smiled at all those years ago.
he would find excuses to be near you, not as the duke, but as himself. he would read aloud in the sitting room in the evenings, his deep voice a comforting rumble as he brought stories to life. he taught you how to play chess, and he let you win, though you suspected he was holding back.
he listened. for the first time in two years, he listened to your opinions, your little stories about your day, your memories of your own kingdom. he asked questions, real questions, and he remembered the answers. he started leaving his tea cup on your side of the table after breakfast, a small, silly gesture that made your heart flutter.
you were never one to carelessly spend for yourself, even as a princess in your kingdom, everything you owned was gifts from others because you said it felt wrong to spend others' earnings on yourself. when you told kento this small fact, you woke up to a new gift every day.
he had long noticed you were never one to spend much, but he brushed it off as you being able to tell the duchy was still too poor for your liking and spent more time trying to get more money. now that he knows that is not the reason, why should he hold back in showering his wife, duchess nanami, with gifts when he knows you will not spend it on yourself?
one evening, you were in the library, he was showing you a map of his lands, his finger tracing the rivers and mountains, explaining the history of each region, the stories of the people who lived there. you found yourself watching his hand, the strength in it, the grace with which he moved. you looked up and found him watching you, his gaze having left the map entirely. his eyes were soft, full of a tenderness that made your heart ache, that made you feel seen in a way you never had before.
"you have been… trying very hard," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper in the quiet library.
his lips curved into a hesitant smile, almost shy. "i told you i would. i meant it. i will spend the rest of my life trying, if you let me, every day, every moment. i have four years of catching up to do."
you looked at the map, then back at him. you thought of the two years of silence, of the anger in his eyes when you'd offered him freedom. you thought of the rose, the scarf, the sound of his laugh as you'd accidentally knocked over a rook during your chess game. you thought of the way he looked at you now, as if you were the most precious thing in the world.
you thought of the boy at the ball, watching you smile at a bird, and falling in love.
you reached out and placed your hand over his on the map. his whole body went still, his breath catching. his eyes widened, searching your face.
"i think," you said, your voice quiet but sure, the words feeling right for the first time in two years, "i would like to stay."
the smile that broke across his face was like the sun coming out after a long, grey winter. it was radiant, relieved, and full of so much love it made your own eyes sting with tears. he turned his hand under yours, lacing his fingers with yours, holding on tight as if you might disappear.
"thank you," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, then another, then a third, each one slower, more deliberate than the last. it was the first time he had ever touched you like that, with such deliberate tenderness. it was warm, and soft, and it felt like a promise. it felt like the beginning of something.
that night, when he climbed into bed, he didn't stay on his side. he shifted closer, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you gently against him. you could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your back, a rhythm that seemed to match your own. he pressed a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering.
"goodnight," he whispered into the darkness, his breath warm against your skin.
and for the first time in two years, the silence in the room felt like home. it was no longer empty, no longer a void between strangers. it was full, rich, comfortable. it was the silence of two people who no longer needed words, because for the first time, they understood each other completely.
random spark of ideas and could not sleep if i didnt write, reblogs n comments appreciated!
‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡ you work at the convenience store and sukuna works at his family car workshop by its side, which means you guys acknowledge each other daily but never really talk. that is, until he notices you crying while sitting on the curb, capri sun gripped in your hands, and an unusual relationship blooms between you two.
contents. sukuna x fem reader! fluff • first times • awkward reader • sukuna is down bad but he won’t admit it • eventual smut • angst • hurt/comfort • eventual after high school -> adulthood timeskip in later chapters. if you know the artist let me know so i can credit them!!
the summer had been creeping in quietly, the way it always did in this forgotten corner of the suburbs—longer evenings that stretched the daylight into golden haze, warm air thick with the faint, dusty tang of sun-baked asphalt and overgrown weeds pushing through sidewalk cracks. cicadas hummed earlier each day, their relentless drone seeping through open windows like a promise of heatwaves to come, a persistent soundtrack that seemed to accelerate time itself.
at school, faded graduation banners hung crookedly from the rusted gates, fluttering limply in the breeze like surrender flags. teachers had long stopped pretending anyone cared about final lessons; they just droned through attendance, their voices blending into the chatter of students scrolling phones and trading gossip about post-grad freedom, about escape, about everything waiting beyond these walls.
high school was ending.
and somehow, you were leaving it exactly the way you had entered it three years ago— invisible, adrift, alone, like a ghost who'd learned to walk through hallways without anyone to see.
your family's convenience store sat stubbornly on the corner like it always had, a little box squeezed between the narrow, pothole-riddled road and the low concrete bulk of the auto workshop next door.
it had been there before you were born, would probably be there long after you left— assuming you ever found a way out. its faded sign flickered intermittently, buzzing like a trapped fly against the glass, the letters worn thin by sun and neglect. inside, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on scuffed linoleum floors sticky from spilled sodas, the kind of place people passed through but never stayed.
the bell above the door chimed every few minutes, a tinny jingle that marked the parade of regulars: weary construction workers grabbing packs of cigarettes and black coffee before dawn shifts, kids on bikes snatching candy bars with sticky fingers, tired mothers with overflowing baskets of instant noodles and cheap frozen meals, their faces etched with the same exhaustion you saw in the mirror.
after school, you worked the register; scanning barcodes with mechanical precision, stocking shelves with cans of off-brand soda and bags of chips that crunched under your fingers, wiping down sticky counters that never stayed clean. you smiled when you had to, a tight-lipped curve of your lips that never reached your eyes, because that's what kept the customers coming back, that's what kept the business running, that's what was expected. you had learned early that performance mattered more than feeling.
and every afternoon, like clockwork, the workshop next door roared to life, shattering the store's dull rhythm.
metal clanged sharply against metal— wrenches dropping, hoods slamming. engines revved with guttural growls that vibrated through the shared wall, sending faint tremors into the soda fridge, making the bottles inside clink against each other like nervous teeth. loud voices carried through the open garage doors, rough laughter and barked orders from the men who worked there, oil-stained shirts clinging to sweat-slicked backs.
the air outside grew heavy with the sharp bite of motor oil, rubber, and exhaust, mingling with the store's perpetual scent of stale air freshener and artificially flavored slushies. it was a smell you'd come to associate with late afternoons, with the dying sun, with the border between your world and theirs.
and him.
ryomen sukuna.
he worked there with his family— his older brother mostly, from what you'd overheard in passing, fragments of conversation that drifted through open doors like smoke— his presence as commanding as the rumble of an engine tearing through quiet streets.
grease was always smudged somewhere on him: black streaks across his knuckles, up his veined forearms that flexed when he hauled tires or torqued bolts, sometimes even a careless swipe along his sharp jawline, darkening the faint shadow of stubble there. he went to your school— same grade, same echoing hallways, same looming graduation— but your worlds never touched. they weren't even in the same universe.
he was a storm cloud moving through crowded corridors, students parting like the red sea: the quiet ones averted their eyes, whispering about fights he'd won or rumors of trouble with cops; the bold ones trailed him like moths, hoping for a scrap of his attention, a nod of acknowledgment, anything. sukuna never looked particularly interested in any of it. his steps were deliberate, shoulders broad under his worn black tees, pink hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed and couldn't be bothered to care, tattoos peeking from collars and cuffs— marks that screamed don't approach, don't ask, don't even think about it.
you had never spoken to him, didn’t even want to, although sometimes you were too curious for your own good. you just noticed him, couldn't help it, really. the way he owned every space he stepped into, like gravity bent around him, like the air itself made room. the effortless tilt of his head when he laughed at something crude, the rare flash of sharp teeth that could have been charming if it wasn't slightly terrifying. the way he moved— it was safer to watch from afar, hidden behind the register counter, invisible in plain sight.
sometimes he came into the store.
energy drinks, mostly— cans of monster sweating beads of condensation that left wet rings on the counter. once, a pack of spark plugs wrapped in plastic, the kind you'd seen a thousand times but couldn't name. another time, a box of bandages after what looked like a nasty cut on his hand, the skin around the wound angry and red, and you'd wondered briefly if it hurt, if he'd hissed when the antiseptic hit, if anyone had helped him clean it. you'd ring him up in silence, fingers flying over the keys, avoiding his gaze with the precision of long practice.
the total would flash on the screen: 4.50. 12.99. he'd slide crumpled bills across the counter or tap his chipped card, the screen lighting up green. you'd hand back change, quarters warm from your palm, a receipt fluttering down like a dead leaf. neither of you ever said anything beyond the price. a nod, at most. a grunt. that was the extent of your relationship, if it could even be called that: transactional, forgettable, the kind of interaction that left no trace.
until the day everything hit you at once, like a wave you didn't see coming, like drowning in slow motion.
it was after school, the last week before graduation ceremonies and that final, suffocating assembly where they'd call names alphabetically and you'd walk across a stage to shake hands with people who didn't know you existed.
the hallways buzzed with excitement— clusters of students swapping numbers, planning beach trips to the coast, wild house parties with contraband booze, university orientations in shiny brochures clutched like golden tickets. group photos snapped in the quad, laughter echoing as poses turned silly, arms around shoulders, heads tilted together.
promises flew: "text me all summer!" "we gotta do this again before college scatters us!" "i'll visit, i swear, don't cry!" you stood on the edges, backpack heavy on your shoulders, listening to it all with a hollow ache in your chest that had grown familiar enough to almost ignore.
nobody asked for your number and nobody snapped a picture with you and nobody said, "we should hang out before we all leave town."
you didn't even have anyone to say goodbye to. no yearbook scribbles, no tearful hugs, no shared inside jokes to carry into the unknown. when you'd checked your yearbook that morning— the one you'd paid for like everyone else— you'd found exactly three signatures. one from a teacher who'd written "keep up the good work!" in looping cursive. one from a girl in your english class who'd clearly mistaken you for someone else. and one that just said "have a good summer" in handwriting you didn't recognize. three. out of a class of four hundred.
the feeling clung to you like damp clothes after a rainstorm: heavy, embarrassing, stupidly raw. you tried to shake it off during your shift at the store. you restocked the fridge methodically, shoving bottles into neat rows until your fingers went numb from the cold, until the bones ached. you counted change with exaggerated focus, stacking coins into perfect towers, sliding bills into their slots with precision. you smiled at customers— a harried dad buying diapers, an old lady haggling over lottery tickets like her rent depended on it—your voice steady, automatic: "have a good one," "come again," "that'll be $4.87." the words meant nothing. they were sounds you made to fill space.
but when your shift finally ended and the sky bled into deep orange, painting the workshop's open bays in fiery light, painting the oil stains on the concrete gold, it all came crashing down. the weight of three empty years buckled your knees before you could even make it inside the house attached to the store's back, the small apartment where dinner waited and questions waited and life waited in its endless, grinding routine.
you sank onto the curb between the store and the workshop, back pressed against the rough, graffiti-scratched wall that separated your worlds. knees pulled tight to your chest, you clutched a cold capri sun pouch you'd grabbed from the fridge on impulse— straw still tucked in its side, condensation slicking your palms, the foil crinkling every time you shifted. the pavement bit into your thighs through thin jeans, but you didn't care. the cicadas screamed louder now, mocking you with their endless noise.
and you couldn’t help but cry.
quietly at first, hot tears slipping down your cheeks, blurring the cracks in the sidewalk into rivers, into oceans. you bit your lip, willing it to stop, willing yourself to be normal, to be fine, to be anything other than what you were. but the dam broke— ugly, wrenching sobs that made your shoulders heave, your breath hitch in sharp gasps that scraped your throat raw.
snot dripped, your face twisted in that childish way you hated, the kind of ugly crying no one should ever see, the kind that made you look as broken as you felt. you kept your head buried against your knees, hair curtaining your face, praying the evening shadows would swallow you whole and no one would notice.
unfortunately, the workshop next door was still open, floodlights spilling harsh white across the lot, illuminating everything you wanted hidden.
the sound of heavy footsteps crunched on gravel, stopping just a few feet away.
you froze, heart slamming against your ribs so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your temples, in the places where tears still tracked down your cheeks.
you didn't need to look up to know who it was. that presence—unmistakable, like a shift in air pressure—
"…you done?"
you swiped at your face frantically with your sleeve, mortified heat flooding your cheeks as you stared at a grease stain on the pavement, willing yourself to disappear. "i'm not crying."
a beat of silence passed, thick as the humid air, heavy as the weight in your chest.
"you're sitting on the curb holding a capri sun like it's life support," sukuna said, tone dry as the dust kicking up around his boots, flat as the concrete under you. "and you're crying. i saw.”
you squeezed the pouch harder, the plastic crinkling defensively under your grip, the straw digging into your palm. a weak defense. a pathetic one. "it's cold. helps."
you braced for him to laugh or walk away as he stared down at you— either would shatter you and confirm everything you already believed about yourself.
he didn't leave. his shadow loomed, broad and unmoving, blocking the last of the sun. that somehow made it worse, his silence pressing like a thumb on a bruise.
"did someone die?" he asked after a moment, tone completely serious, which only confused you more.
your breath stuttered. "…what? no. god, no."
"you got dumped?"
you shook your head, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwanted. "i've never dated anyone."
"you fail something? exam? class?"
"…no. i passed everything."
he went quiet again, like he was cycling through a mental checklist and coming up empty, and you were a problem he couldn't quite solve. the distant rev of a test engine idled behind him, underscoring the awkward stretch with mechanical rhythm.
you sniffed hard, pressing your damp sleeve to your runny nose, feeling the fabric grow wet, the mess of yourself in every possible way. the words clawed their way out before you could swallow them back, desperate and unfiltered, torn from somewhere deep.
"high school's ending."
the cicadas filled the uncomfortable silence, relentless and indifferent.
"…and?" he prompted, voice even, but there was no judgment you could detect, just curiosity.
you stared at the ground, throat so tight it ached, pavement blurring anew. "and i didn't make any friends."
the confession hung there, small and pathetic in the open air, smaller than you'd imagined it would sound, more embarrassing out loud than it had been in your head.
"everyone's talking about summer plans," you continued, voice cracking like glass under pressure. "i just stood there, listening to it all week. three years of classes and lunch tables, and nobody even noticed i existed. i was just… there. like background noise. the one kid no one remembered."
you laughed weakly, a choked sound that hurt coming out, wiping your eyes again with a sleeve that was already soaked. "isn't that stupid?"
a long pause stretched, the workshop's clamor fading into white noise, the cicadas seeming to hold their breath.
you risked a glance up, peeking through damp lashes, through the blur of residual tears.
sukuna stood there, arms crossed over his grease-flecked chest, one boot tapping idly on the gravel. a fresh streak of black smeared his forearm, tattoos curling like angry serpents beneath, ink stark against skin. his expression was unreadable— crimson eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, like you were a busted carburetor he was figuring out and he was deciding whether you were worth the effort.
"so make one."
you blinked, brain short-circuiting, “…what?”
"a friend," he repeated, as if it were the simplest fix in the world, as obvious as changing a tire or filling a tank. "you said you don't have one. so make one."
your mouth opened, closed. opened again. "…that's not how that works. you can't just—people have groups already, histories. there's no time to—"
"seems like it is," he shot back, unfazed, cutting through your protest like it was nothing. "you're not dead. start talking."
you stared at him, puffy-eyed and stunned, capri sun forgotten and crushed flatter in your lap, foil crinkling with every small movement.
he stared back, eyebrow arching faintly, as if you were the one making this complicated. you were not? aside from being slightly more awkward than your average teenager, you were normal and perfect capable of being someone’s friend. although the last bit wasn’t proven yet.
the workshop buzzed on behind him— clangs and shouts, the hiss of an air compressor, the rumble of an engine turning over. the evening air hung warm and heavy, carrying faint diesel fumes and the distant smell of someone's dinner cooking. your face still throbbed, nose red, you were a mess, clutching that stupid pouch like a lifeline, like it could save you from drowning on dry land.
before you could talk yourself out of it— before sanity could kick in and remind you who you were talking to— the words tumbled free, reckless and raw, torn from somewhere you didn't know existed.
"…will you be my friend?"
the second they left your mouth, regret hit like a freight train. you wanted the earth to crack open and swallow you, the curb to dissolve, you wanted to disappear into the gravel. what was wrong with you? asking ryomen sukuna— the guy who radiated don't-fuck-with-me energy, the one everyone whispered about like he was a live wire, the one with rumors and a reputation that preceded him like a storm front— to be your friend. while sobbing like a loser and clutching a capri sun like a child.
silence stretched, eternally confusing. your stomach plummeted to your shoes, then through the pavement, then into some infinite void below.
he stared at you, crimson gaze piercing, face unreadable.
you stared back, horrified, heat crawling up your neck, burning your cheeks, making everything worse. "…i mean, you don't have to! forget i said that. i was just—emotional, stupid, i didn't mean—"
"sure."
"…what?"
"sure," he repeated, casual as asking for a pack of cigarettes, shifting his weight like this was no big deal.
you blinked at him, brain rebooting slowly, painfully. "that's… it?"
"what, you want a contract? pinky swear? engraved invitation?" a flicker of something crossed his face— amusement, maybe, or disbelief at your disbelief.
"no, i just—" you floundered, searching his face for the punchline. "why?"
he shrugged, broad shoulders rolling under his shirt, grease flaking off as he uncrossed his arms. "you're here every day. store's right next to the shop. i see you restocking, ringing up idiots, wiping down that counter. might as well make it official."
that… was his reasoning? proximity? convenience? you didn't know whether to laugh, cry again, or pinch yourself to wake up from whatever strange dream this was.
"…so we're friends now?" you asked in a small voice.
"guess so." a ghost of a smirk tugged his lip. “don’t make it weird.”
another pause settled, charged now, electric. he jerked his chin toward the mangled pouch in your hands. "you gonna drink that or just keep strangling it?"
you glanced down— forgotten, warped into a sad pancake, foil crinkled beyond repair. cheeks burning, you fumbled the straw in, stabbing until it punctured, and took a sip. artificial orange flooded your mouth, overly sweet and fizzy, tasting like childhood and sudden, dizzying relief, like something you hadn't known you needed.
sukuna watched for a beat, crimson eyes flicking over you, then he turned on his heel like he was heading back to the workshop's chaos, done with this strange interaction, finished with you.
panic flared hot in your chest— don't go, not yet, please not yet—
"wait."
he paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, eyebrow quirking, waiting.
you swallowed, voice still small but gaining traction, finding strength you didn't know you had. "…friends hang out, right?"
"…yeah."
"so… do you want to hang out? sometime? i mean, if you're free after—"
he studied you for a long moment, the dying sun catching the pink in his hair, turning it fiery, turning it almost gold at the edges. you held out your capri sun toward him, a pathetic peace offering.
"…we can share this?”
he looked at the pouch, then at you, then back at the pouch.
"…that was just in your mouth."
"…i can get you another one."
he gave you a long-suffering look and sighed, running a grease-streaked hand through his hair, disrupting the already chaotic pink.
"…you're weird."
"…i am? well— kinda—"
"…and you cry on sidewalks."
"it was an accident!"
he stared at you one more second, crimson eyes unreadable, face giving nothing away. then jerked his chin toward the store.
"go get another one."
you blinked, confused, as if you weren’t the one offering a minute ago.
"…get what?"
"capri sun, loser," he said, like you were slow. "grape."
your heart stuttered, skipped, restarted.
"…that's a yes?"
he turned, already walking back toward the workshop, toward the noise and the grease and the life you'd watched from afar for so long. you scrambled to your feet, knees protesting, capri sun crushing further in your grip.
"wait—!"
he stopped, half-turning.
"…what."
you clutched the crushed pouch to your chest, feeling your heartbeat through the foil. "…hi. i'm—"
"i know," he cut in, flat and certain. "i read your nametag."
your mouth opened and closed uselessly. "…oh."
and then he walked back into the workshop, swallowed by the noise and by the world you'd never been part of.
you stood there on the curb, staring after him, watching the space where he'd been, feeling the evening air warm on your skin.
your eyes still stung and your face was still puffy and your life was still a mess, still uncertain, still terrifyingly empty in so many ways. but for the first time all day— you were smiling.
just before he disappeared completely, his voice carried back to you, low and steady,
"i get off at eight."
and just like that, your summer started. not with parties or plans or promises from ghosts. not with numbers in a yearbook or invitations to beaches or group chats you'd never be part of.
but with him, with the hum of cicadas and the promise of eight o'clock ticking closer, with the taste of artificial orange still sweet on your tongue and the weight of a crushed pouch in your hand.
You and Satoru Gojo are both handcuffed together by a curse that won’t break until you “resolve your issues.” Problem is, neither of you think you have issues. Spending 3 days literally attached to each other reveals otherwise.
“Oh, that’s cute,” Gojo says, looking at the glowing chain connecting your wrists.
“Cute? CUTE? Get these off right now”
He tries to pull them off. They don’t budge. He tries using Infinity. Doesn’t work. You try to smash them against a wall. Nothing.
And then the curse, before dying, has the audacity to laugh and say, “Only breaks when you resolve your issues”
“What issues?” you both yell at the same time.
So now you’re stuck. Literally handcuffed to Satoru Gojo, the most annoying man on the planet.
“This is your fault,” you say.
“How is this MY fault?”
“Everything is your fault.”
“Wow. And you wonder why we have ‘issues’ to resolve.”
The first hour isn’t terrible. You go back to Jujutsu High, and Ijichi takes one look at you both and just… walks away. Smart man.
Shoko examines the cuffs and basically says “lol good luck” and refuses to help.
“You’re a doctor”
“I’m a doctor, not a relationship counsellor.” She’s already walking away, lighting a cigarette.
“We’RE NOT IN A RELATIONSHIP.”
She just waves without turning around.
The problems start when you realize you have to do everything together. EVERYTHING.
Eating…. He’s right there, stealing food off your plate because “we’re basically the same person now.”
“We are not the same person.”
Bathroom breaks are a nightmare that you’ve both agreed to never speak of. He stands outside the stall facing the wall and hums loudly while you die of embarrassment.
Sleeping is worse. You’re in your room, trying to sleep on your bed, and he’s… also on your bed because where else is he gonna go.The chain is like three feet long.
“Stay on your side, Satoru”
“This is my side.”
“Your side is not the middle of the bed”
“I’m a big guy, I need space.”
“I’m about to murder you and then we’ll really have issues to resolve.”
He eventually falls asleep, and you’re lying there wide awake because you’re hyper aware of every single point where his arm is touching yours and how warm he is and how his hair is falling in his face and…
Nope. Not going there. You’re just tired. That’s all.
Day two is when things get weird.
You’re making coffee and he’s attached to you, obviously, and he’s humming some annoying song and you realize… it’s kind of nice having someone there in the morning. You immediately hate that you thought that.
“Stop hovering.”
“I’m literally chained to you.”
At breakfast, Yuji asks how you’re both doing and Gojo says “Great. We’re basically married now” and you kick him under the table.
“We are NOT….”
“I mean, we sleep together, eat together, spend every waking moment together…”
You kick him again.
“..ow, okay, okay, I’m just saying the handcuffs have a point.”
“What point, Satoru”
“That we should probably talk about… stuff.”
“What stuff?”
He suddenly gets really interested in his food. “You know. Stuff.”
Day three and you’re losing your mind. Not because he’s annoying, okay, partly that, but because he keeps doing weird things like making sure you’re walking on the inside of the sidewalk, and adjusting his pace to match yours, and reaching for things on high shelves before you even ask, and it’s making you feel things that you don’t want to feel.
“Can you stop being so…” you wave your free hand vaguely, “….like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like… nice”
He laughs. “You’re mad at me for being nice?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know! Just stop it”
“What if I don’t want to stop it?”
You freeze. He’s looking at you with this expression you’ve never seen before, and your heart does a very inconvenient backflip.
“Satoru…”
“You know what I think?” He’s closer now, and you can’t step back because you’re literally attached to him. “I think the curse knew exactly what it was doing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our issue isn’t that we hate each other. It’s that we’re both too stubborn to admit we don’t.”
Your face is burning. “That’s…you’re….shut up.”
“Awe, you’re blushing.”
“I’M NOT”
“You are. You’re doing that thing where your ears get all red.”
“Okay, okay” You’re covering your face with your free hand. “Stop talking”
“Not until you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That you like me.”
“I…” You want to deny it. But he’s looking at you like that and you’re tired of pretending and the words just come out, “So what if I do?”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning like an idiot.
“I’m already regretting it.”
“Liar.”
He’s right. You are lying. And when he leans in closer, giving you plenty of time to pull away, as much as you can while handcuffed, you don’t.
The kiss is soft and sweet and when you pull back, you’re both smiling like idiots.
There’s a soft click.
You look down. The handcuffs are gone, just dissolved into nothing, leaving just a faint warm feeling on your wrists.
Later, you find out Shoko absolutely could have removed the cuffs at any time.
When confronted, she just shrugs and says “You’re welcome” and walks away.
You’re gonna kill her. But also maybe send her a fruit basket. You haven’t decided yet.
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yousharknotpass
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