Lina's Spaceヾ

By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

Completely thrown off, you blink a few times, clear your throat, and force a light tone because you’re sure he just missed it somehow. You turn slightly, letting the silk catch the light. 

“…So?” You ask, fishing for that slow, lazy once-over that always makes your knees weak and your mouth dry. “What do you think?”

He shrugs, and it immediately sets something off in your chest. “It’s fine.”

The word hits you like a cold splash of water. It’s so dismissive and so wrong; it doesn’t even belong in his mouth and, honestly, it shouldn’t even be in his vocabulary when you’re looking like… that. The smile vanishes before you can stop it, and you can't stop yourself from frowning.

“…Fine?” you quietly repeat, desperate to find a crack in that blank expression, a lie, the slightest tell, anything.

“Yeah,” he says flatly, not bothering to look up again. “It’s fine.”

Your stomach drops. Heat, prickling and hot, starts crawling up your neck, and suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of every inch of the fabric, every seam, every place the dress might be sitting wrong. This is the man who once had to excuse himself from a crowded restaurant just because your skirt rode up too high when you crossed your legs. Now he’s acting like you’re wearing a garbage bag and calling it high fashion.

“…You don’t like it?” you ask carefully, trying to keep your voice steady, refusing to let the hurt leak into your tone.

He lets out a slow breath through his nose, eyes glued to the glass in his hand. “Didn’t say that. It’s just a dress. Doesn’t really matter.”

That’s even worse. Your brain latches onto that sentence, tearing it apart, turning it over until it’s raw and you can’t think about anything else. Since when does it not matter to him? A sharp spike of panic hits your chest as you nod, maybe a little too fast, already backing toward the bedroom.

“Okay,” you mutter, your pride stinging. “I’ll… I’ll try something else.”

That word, fine, echoes in the silence as you stare at your reflection, trying to figure out what is wrong and where the man who usually can’t keep his eyes off you is.

The second dress is softer, less revealing. It’s still black, but looser at the waist and lower in the back. He’s loved this one before. You smooth it down, adjust the straps, check your makeup again, even though it’s perfect, and walk back out.

He looks up for a split second, and his eyes flick from your shoulders to your legs, then immediately away.

"This one?" you ask hopefully, keeping your voice light, turning so the material flows.

He hums. “Yeah. It’s fine too.”

“Too?”

He nods, rolling his shoulders like he’s just distracted or bored, as if you aren’t standing there looking like you’re about to ruin lives. Before he can offer another soul-crushing word, you duck back into the room. If you stay there any longer, you’re going to ask a question you don’t actually want answered, or the anger or the tears hit. And you’re not crying tonight. Not with this makeup.

Has something changed in the way he sees you? 

The thought sticks in your throat like a thorn as you slip into the third dress—a navy blue halter that ties in a bow at the nape, that’s just begging to be untied. This time, you stay silent, giving him a chance to react on his own, and your heart hammers so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

Sukuna gives another indifferent shrug.

“Sure,” he says. “That works.”

Works.

Your fingers curl at your sides as you swallow hard and nod, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your face neutral. Something is seriously wrong, and you still don't know what it is.

By the fourth dress, your movements are rushed and almost frantic. The zipper snags because your hands are shaking, and your thoughts are a messy, ugly loop you can’t seem to break.

Too much. Not enough. Too tight. Too plain. Maybe you misread the whole night. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe you’re overthinking everything. Maybe you aren’t.

This one is something you pick when you don’t want to stand out. Still beautiful, but safe. Maroon, fitted at the waist, long sleeves, high neckline, flaring into a full skirt that falls to mid-ankle. It’s elegant and classy, subtly showing off how good your body looks without screaming for attention.

“How about this one?"

He finally looks at you, leaning a shoulder against the wall, folding his arms. But it’s still that flat, distant expression, and not the one you’re yearning for.

"Doesn't matter—they’re all fine.”

Something inside you snaps. “Okay,” you murmur, barely audible. “Let’s just go then.”

This time, you don’t even glance at him as you head for the front door, because if you do, you might not be able to hold it together. Putting on your heels, you feel hollow and resigned to the idea that something has changed. Whatever this is, you’ll deal with it later. For now, surviving the night while pretending you don’t feel it is the only goal left.

Just as you reach for the handle, Sukuna moves in right behind you, so close you feel his breath. A hand lifts, hovering near your hip like a threat he’s been holding back all evening. He leans down, and while his mouth brushes your ear, his voice drops into a rough, hoarse rasp that makes your skin flush.

“Go put the first one back on,” he rasps, all that careful indifference stripped away. His chest presses against your back, and you can feel the unmistakable, hard line of him against your spine—undeniable proof that everything you’ve been spiraling over was a total lie. “That one made me want to bend you over the table and ruin you before we ever made it out the door.”

He’s been silently suffering for the past twenty minutes, with his cock straining against his suit pants, fighting not to walk over and prove exactly how far from fine he really was.

Relief is sharp and dizzying, but it’s immediately shoved aside by a surge of pure, unadulterated fury and the overwhelming need to either scream or slap that stupid smirk off his face. You spin around, gasping, already raising your hand with murder in mind.

“You absolute asshole,” you hiss, voice shaking now that you know you aren’t crazy. “I almost cried.”

His mouth curves, slow and utterly unapologetic; his eyes darken, finally drinking you in the way you both needed all along. 

“I know,” he says, raising one brow as the thick length of him presses firmly into your stomach. “Consider us even, brat.”

And if the nearest object you can grab and throw at him survives the next five seconds, it’s honestly just luck.

a/n: this was his payback for the prank reader had played on him before. and i just very much need it to lay some ground work for a different drabble i'm very excited about lol

ps. don't worry, she retaliated by putting petrol in sukuna's diesel jeep

“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”

You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.

Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”

“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!"

“Rehearsed how?"

You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right."

Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you, I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”

You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.

Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?"

You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.

“Then go find him.”

When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise

For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.

Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.

All you have to do is make him see you.

You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.

If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.

The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.

Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold. One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation. You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice. Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for. Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend. If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak. You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face. You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know. The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess. Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been. “Hey!” he calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this." A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls. “In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!" His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement. “What is it?" “Is it a fight?" “Please tell me it’s a fight.” “Did someone break something?” Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you. “Aren’t you coming, Satoru?” Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.” Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop. Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies. You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.” “Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound. His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.” “That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.” Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?"

For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.” He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays." “Excuse me?” “Not a stray,” he amends lightly at  your glare. “More like her lost puppy.” "Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”

“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?"

“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me."

“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”

“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.

“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here."

He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”

You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink."

“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.

Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.

Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.

You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.

When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way."

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?

When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.

Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”

His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.

“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes. When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?" You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin. “I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?" Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here." His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?" You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?” Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?” “Why does that matter?” “Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?” Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness. Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.” You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood. “Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.” Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onward. You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of  his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses. “I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?” He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.” Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain. 

“Wait!”  He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”

You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.

“I like Geto!”

For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.

“What did you just say?”

You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”

He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"

You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”

“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”

“Yeah?”

“Alone.”

“Right.”

His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”

“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”

He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”

You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.

Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”

“What was that?”

“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”

You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”

Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.

“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”

“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”

He doesn’t budge.

“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”

He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”

“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”

His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”

“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”

Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”

“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”

You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.

Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”

You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.

“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”

You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?” “Just get up there before I change my mind.” Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around. When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to. “Five minutes.” You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?” “You have five minutes before I’m going back down.” You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.” He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.” “With Geto.” You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?” Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?” “I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?” “Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–” “Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.” “Oh. So that makes us competition?” He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.” You nod. “You want to confess to him.” “Obviously.” “Date him?” “That’s the goal." “Sleep with him?” You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.” “Because,” you say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an Etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.” “So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?” “Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?" Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.” “That’s fine, I’m flexible.” “That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.” “Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.” “He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” he shoots back. “I accept and embrace his past.” “He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.” “I have hands, I can put them away.” “Where’s your self-respect?” “With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.” Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.” “That’s why I’m asking you for help.” “You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”

Again, you can only shrug.

When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.

“I’ll tutor you!”

His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.

“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”

“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”

You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!” Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher. “You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.” “It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.” “It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?” “I’m offering to give you academic support!” “With strings attached.” “Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.” He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?” “Well, you haven’t yet.” “That's because I don't need one.” “Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?” “You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?” You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.” He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request. Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic. “Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—” “Hey.” “—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.” You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant. “Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.” You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—” “Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.” Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.” At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.” You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?” He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.” “Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.” “How big?” His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.” You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.” “I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?” When you shake your head, he nods. “We’ll start tomorrow.” “Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!” “I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?” You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.” “Oh, so you know?” You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful. “Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.” “Don’t call me that.”

“A complaint?” You bite your lip. “A suggestion.” “Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.” Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!” But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan. It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise. Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn. “You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster. You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?” “Then I guess you’re up to step two.” “Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.” 

Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.

You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.

No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.

It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.

You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.

Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.

And then, you see him.

His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.

“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.

Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.

You weren’t ready for both of them.

Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.

“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”

You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.

“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”

He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”

“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.

“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”

You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.

This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.

“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”

You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”

“No? And is that not my coffee?” You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.” He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.” Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is." Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?” “Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.” It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first. “Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.” “Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.” You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto. “Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?” You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!” “You did.” “He probably thinks I’m a freak!” “Probably.” “And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!” “So now it’s suddenly my fault?” “You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!” “Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for. Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.” “You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?” You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly. “No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.” You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying. You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago. Still a little mortifying but now bearable. Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.” You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder. “Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?” You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders. “I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.” “I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.” He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”

You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.

“Where are we going?”

“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”

“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.

“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”

You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”

You stop abruptly.

“Your place?” “Yeah.” “Your place?” Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?” “Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?” “Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.” “But you just said we’re going to your place.” “Nothing gets past you.” “Your place as in the Sig Kap house.” “Look at you go.” You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come. “Gojo.” “Yeah?” “I am not going to your frat house.” “What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?” “I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.” “Great. Let's end this here.” Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.” “You're not doing yourself any favours.” “Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.” You stand your ground. “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Gojo.” He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun. “You want Suguru, right?” Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?” “Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?” “I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—” Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?” You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more. “So where are we going?” You give in. “Sig Kap.” “Wrong way, sweets.” You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction. Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you. At some point, you stop responding entirely. Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs. “Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking. He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare. Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.

“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” you hiss. “It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.” You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out. “Yo!” Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.” You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too. Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari. “You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever. Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.” “Damn, back for more?” Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment. “She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?” “That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks. Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.” He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power. Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown. Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription. “This is what you bring girls back to?” Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.” You eye the seat in disdain. “What's with the look?” “Is that even sanitary?” He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?” You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?” “What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap. You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”

Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.

“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.

He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”

You pause and type it in. It goes through.

“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.

You look on the screen. “67.”

He chuckles. “Nice.” “Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?” He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details. “Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?” Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents. “Gojo.” “Mhm?” “You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.” Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?” “This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!” “Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.” Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?” “Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?” “51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.” “Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop. “I demand another favour.” He freezes. “You can’t just do that.” “I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.” Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.” You wonder if he’s sulking. “But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.” He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.” You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.” He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego. “Hey.” He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest. “Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you. “You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.” “Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!” His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?” You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap. “Define zero.” “Have you kissed anyone?” You look away. “Define kissed.” He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—” “Please!” you say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—” “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”

“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got. Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint. Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face. “...okay.” Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?” “I’ll do it.” “Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.” “Eager much?” He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.” Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.” “It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.” You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?” “You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.” He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation. “Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.” “You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.” You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.” Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped. And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission. Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles. Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.

The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.

For once, Gojo isn’t talking.

He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.

You steal a glance at him.

His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress. 

“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote. “I know.” “Then why are you?” He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?” You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again. A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet. “Hey,” he says suddenly. You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile. “Thanks.” “For what?” “For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.” You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.” He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.” You study him. “Do they?” He hums and doesn’t elaborate. The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night. You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other. “You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.” He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.” “I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up. He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax. “You really think I can pass?” “Yes.” Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.” You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.” He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener. For some reason your feet slow. “Hey, Y/N.” You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. “Yeah?” He hesitates. “See you tomorrow." You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside. Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back. Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should. Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not. For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image. Right, this is for him. Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications. gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><

You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.

you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig gojo: who said anything about being worried? also don’t flake on me tomorrow i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u

gojo: oh u know do u?

so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?

you: it’s not a date

gojo: sure it isn’t

you: it’s just practice

gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk you: please like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks gojo: ure a hard girl to please you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard try impossible gojo: harder than hard? you: ? gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason anyway is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city you: the campus works for me gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you you: no way gojo: sure sweets i believe u don’t wear anything boring first impressions matter yk you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations its just practice !!!! gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me for suguru like for practice you: ? i know what u meant but sure as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie gojo: wouldn’t dream of it see u saturday sweets You stare at the nickname longer than you should. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving. you: goodnight gojo The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone. You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you. 

You show up early like a super fan.

You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.

You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.

You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.

The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.

Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.

“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”

“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”

“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”

You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”

“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”

You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”

“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”

“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”

“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly.  “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”

You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian. “‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.” “I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.” He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?” You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.” “We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.” “I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.” “I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.” “For practice.” “Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.” You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.” “It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.” “When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.” “Just once, Y/N.” You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.” “Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” he squeals. You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.” “Are you here to mess around or help me?” “Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?” “About Geto?” “Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident. You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric." “Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?” “Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended. “He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.” “And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?” “I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.” “I wasn’t going to parrot him.” “I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.” “Okay, harsh.” “It's all tough love, sweets.” You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”

“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?” “I want to be someone he likes.” “So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?” Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order. “Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.” You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.” “It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral. You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied. “And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?” Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.” You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.” One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! One hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”

The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”

“We're good, thank you.”

Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.

Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.

“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.

Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”

“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”

She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”

Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.

“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”

Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”

“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”

You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.

You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.

“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”

“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.

She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.

“Done staring?” He teases.

“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”

“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.

“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”

He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”

“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”

“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses. Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off. You clear your throat again. “You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.” “Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.” You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?” “You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?” “Yeah, let’s not.” He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.” “Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers. “I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.” You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.” “So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?” That gets you frowning again. “Do you always call everyone something?” “What does that even mean?” “You called her sweetheart.” “I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?” “She has a name tag.” “I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges. You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?” He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?” Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully. “Here you go!” “Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look. You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with. The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance. “I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!” He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared. “Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.” “Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.” Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.” You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?” “I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.” You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.” He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!” “Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”

“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.” “You're lucky I got that reference.” Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?” “Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.” Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.

“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”

“Anything else, Geto expert?”

Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”

You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches.

You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.

“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.

He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”

“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”

“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”

“My ass has never once graced those benches.”

“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”

“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.

“Because Shoko went.”

He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”

There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”

“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”

You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.

“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.

You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.

“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”

Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”

“Again, should I be concerned right now?”

“Are you homophobic?”

“No?”

“Then you’re fine.”

“Wait…”

Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”

He pauses and looks up.

“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”

You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks.  You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.” He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.” You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm. He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.” Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—” He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak. “Yes, yes, I got it,” He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens. “Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.” “Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?” “I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.” “Okay, make sure to—” “Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction. You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.

Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.

Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.

you: u free? im coming over

You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.

You stare at his chest.

“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”

Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.

“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”

You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”

“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”

You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Are you going to put on a shirt?”

He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”

You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.” He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?” “It's common sense when you have a guest over.” His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?” “But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.” “Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?” “I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers. “No, but I do have some manners for my guest.” “You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.” “Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?” You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?” Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly. He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?” “Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.” You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.” “Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock. “Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.” “Could have fooled me.” “Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.” He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.” “That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?” “Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.” “But this is practice.” “You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.” “I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.” His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push. “Just think of me as one of your hookups.” He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”

“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!” His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.” You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?” “Sex.” You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.” “Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked. “We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss. Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.” You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!” He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?” You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?” “Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly. Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form. “You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?” You shake your head slightly. Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips. When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours. Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression. “Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.” You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting?” “Butterflies?” He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.” Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?” “Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.” “Don't call me that, I cringed.” He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.” With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace. It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end. When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back. “Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.” “What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind. “That was my tongue.” “Why didn’t it feel good?”

He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.” “I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.” “Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.” You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping. “You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist. You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again. “Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance. “For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.” Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive. Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense. “Just… slower,” you mumble. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.” He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one. You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over. His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it. He swallows it down without hesitation. His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you. His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness. You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff. Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.

Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder. You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him. Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—” “Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you. You swallow. “You just—” “I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly. When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely. You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off. “Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes. You don’t hesitate. “No.” You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath. “Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.” You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway. Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself. His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair. A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling. You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge. Wow. You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water. Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.

You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.

Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”

“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”

You clamp your mouth shut obediently.

The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.

Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.

“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”

You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”

“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”

Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further. “We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams. You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.” He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.” You frown. “Why?” “It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?” Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?” He snorts. “I’m not a creep.” When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted. When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.

If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto. Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not. It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever. In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own. Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send. you: hey are you in class today? Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes. gojo: yeah i am stalking me, super fan? you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u gojo: :( why whats up though ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right? you: yeah how did u know that? u sure ure not my super fan? gojo: guilty! i just know dont ask what u cant handle so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me you: well you have class with geto right The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear. gojo: yeah i do you: can i come see you? gojo: what you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right so like wouldnt this be perfect? gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart you: ? gojo: our class ends later than urs you: that’s fine i can wait !! gojo: nah i dont feel like it you: ????? man what the hell you said you’d help me gojo: and i did on saturday what if i want suguru all to myself today? you: come on please??? gojo: what if i dont want to see u you: well i wont be bothering u this time i just need an excuse to see him i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away like i feel like i can really do it this time you know? please satoru? gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are fine ill get us to go to the library you: THANK YOU@!!!!!! gojo: u owe me you: YES DEFINITELY gojo: another date this friday then you: OKAY!!! wait what Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white— When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent. You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him. Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen. And of course, Geto sits across from him. Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.

“Oh, hi Satoru!” He doesn’t look up. “Hey.” Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!” Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?” Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up. “Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.” Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.” You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze. “Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.” You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there. You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on. “What was that about?” You laugh. Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.” He looks up at you patiently. “Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?” You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly. “So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?” “You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.” You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.” Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?” “Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.” “I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.” “If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.” “Do you want to go with me?” Your brain blanks. “What?” “I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.” Your answer is obvious. “I’d love to!” It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness. Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone. “Can I have your Insta then? So I can text you the details later.”

Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time. When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming. Oh god, he’s looking right now. "Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.” “Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it. “I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?” “Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.” He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.” Your breath catches. “After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath. Geto nods, completely at ease. “If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.” You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other. He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks. You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry. “Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.” “Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.” “That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem." “Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.” You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.” You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery. Could things possibly get any better? “You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?” You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.” “I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face. “No, no! Nothing like that!” You rush to explain. He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?” While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him. “What do you mean?” “Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.” Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?” “Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.” “What about them?” He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”

You shake your head. “Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.” “And some people still don’t like him?” “Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.” Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.” Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache. “He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.” He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile. “It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents. You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you. You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even. Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold. You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally. Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.” You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you. “Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently. You freeze for a split second. Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself. “Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.” You bite your lip. “See you at the match though?" Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?” The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else. 

You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct. “Go away, I'm jerking it.” You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk. “Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?” No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed. “Y/N?  What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand. “Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.” “No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.” You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you. “Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him. He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.” You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.” “Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?” You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start. “About everything?” You try weakly. He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.” You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.” Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict. “...that’s it?” “That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.” He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression. “That's it?” he repeats, slower this time. You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.” Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading. Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. “You’re terrible,” he mutters. He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt. “You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?” “Yeah but—” “And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.” You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?” “I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.” Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.” “You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight. “So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully. He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.” The worry comes back tenfold. “But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.” You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away. “Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter. He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.” “I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.” “I open up to you and this is what I get?” “You did not open up.” He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.” You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away. The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere. After a moment, he speaks again, softer. “Did you at least get what you wanted?” You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.” Gojo goes still beside you. “My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.” You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying. “Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.” He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass. The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head. Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth. “Can I ask you something?” His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.” “A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto. “How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask. One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.” You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.” Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face. “Oh.” “I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.” He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Y/N.” You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”

Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.” “Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.” You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.” He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?” You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.” “No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.” “You were fantasising before?” “Let's not go there.” “It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?” He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.” “So you had to use your hand.” “I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.” Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together. “Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?” He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.” “Obviously.” “Do you even remember how to kiss?” “Find out for yourself.” You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him. “It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster. “Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn. You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time. Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh. You both look down. “Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior.  “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?” You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?” “Game is game.” He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated. When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.” “Anywhere?” “I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.” 

You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be. As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.” You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.” “I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.” He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak. “You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch. “This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.” “You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.” His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?” “Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away. “Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?” You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed. Fine, challenge accepted. You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks. It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead. “Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?” You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong. You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping. “I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!” Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale. You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?” “That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?” You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?” “No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”

Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle. When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking. “Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.” You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell. Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave. “Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core. Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?” You nod, eyes trained on his bulge. He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum. Your first words are, of course, very sexy. “Oh damn.” Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.” “It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.” That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.” “She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch. “Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.” Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft. “Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.” He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.” He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you. He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.” His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand. Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants. To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away. “Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”

“What?” “This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips. “Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.” “I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?” “Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head. He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.” Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost. The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you. Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance. “Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.” “Even better,” he moans. You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm. The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully. Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.” His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke. “Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.” The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent. “Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head. He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.” A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm. “Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?” The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering. “Yeah, do it. cum for me.” Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—” He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm. 

He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly. “I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?” You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt. “I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?” He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.” He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning. “You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him. “Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?” “Embarrassed,” you say immediately. “But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast. Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.” “Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.” You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position. Now you remember. “I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off. His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.” “But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.” “That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.” “Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.” “And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.” “How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing. His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.” The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you. You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly. You go very still and so does he. His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch. “Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?” “But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?” The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing. “This isn’t… about that.” “Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.” Has Gojo always been so reasonable? “Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?” “Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded. “How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?” Your stomach swoops. “Just to know what it feels like?” “Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.” You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace. “Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?” You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put. You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear. You swallow, hard. “You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.” His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.” “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?” “You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.” He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?” You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.” It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?” You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod. “Good girl,” he breathes. His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.” “Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband. “Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling. 

]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.” “Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.” He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still. “Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.” You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties. “You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.” “If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly. He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else. Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit. “Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again. “Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.” “Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you. You feel his arms tighten around you. “Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.” You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation. When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you. With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you. The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly. “Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?” He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed. Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck. You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out. He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.” “Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original. And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back. He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while. He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched. You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.” “S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep. His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—” You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone. His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck. It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again. When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through. He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap. “Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?” You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.” “Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin. “Yeah.” “Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.” “You're making me sound like a dog.” “Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.” He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side. You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest. “You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something. “Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.” You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument. Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions. And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs. You stiffen and he notices immediately. “Uh. Do you… want to—” “Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—” You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless. “Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.” “No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself. His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?” You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment. Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess. Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on. For a moment, neither of you know where to look. You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor. “Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?” The normalcy of the question feels surreal. “I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.” “Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”

You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over. Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time. “Right,” you say. “Right,” he echoes. He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?” You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.” Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain. “If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside. You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway. Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?” “Uh-huh.” The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious. At the top of the stairwell, you stop. “Are we still going the same way?” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches. “See you, Y/N.” You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back. Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits. “Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly. He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm. “Night, sweets.” When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise. You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong. 

You’re not sure why you care so much. 

You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal. 

You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before. 

Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena. 

You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight. 

You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave. 

When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes. 

The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.

Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately. 

Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable. 

His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from. 

He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours. 

I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—

Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours. 

The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face. 

A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it. 

06. 

If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride. 

Heat rushes to your face. 

It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming. 

When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs. 

From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing. 

Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips. 

“Y/N?” 

You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy. 

“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.” 

You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”

He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place. 

Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention. 

It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted. 

And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white. 

To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward. 

Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching. 

You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained. 

BUZZWORD

The game starts fast. 

Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice. 

You lost track of the puck almost immediately.

Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”

Your eyes find him easily. 

He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck. 

Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder. 

The first goal goes to the other team. 

Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it. 

Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set. 

Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”

Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed. 

On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage. 

It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments. 

By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely. 

The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left. 

The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts. 

Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl. 

The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him. 

Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice. 

You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved. 

“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer. 

Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits. 

He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink. 

The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net. 

For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts. 

Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you. 

Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration. 

He's laughing. 

Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline. 

They won. 

They actually won. 

You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth. 

Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look. 

His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute. 

Your stomach swoops violently. 

You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves. 

You want to throw your arms around his neck. 

You want to tell him that was incredible. 

You want—

“Y/N?”

Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.

You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile. 

“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”

Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed. 

Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.” 

The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on. 

“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. 

On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance. 

Are you going?

Your fingers curl into fists at your side. 

“Ready?” Geto asks softly.

You swallow. “... yeah.”

But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole. 

BUZZWORD

It should be fun. 

Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense. 

You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.  

But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you. 

Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe. 

You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending. 

And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to. 

Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads. 

“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.” 

you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him. 

For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush. 

You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts. 

When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop. 

You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time. 

Gojo. 

Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.

He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand. 

“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”

You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”

The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!” 

“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”

“I never asked you to!”

“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”

Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”

“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!” 

At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto. 

Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”

“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”

You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”

“Oh. So you're okay?”

You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay. 

“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word. 

“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.” 

“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Just like this?” 

Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill. 

Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered. 

“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.” 

Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.” 

“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.” 

For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella. 

You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face. 

His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small. 

“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”

Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?” 

This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain. 

But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you. 

What the hell? 

His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”

Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight. 

“Satoru—”

“My place,” he blurts. “We should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.” 

“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile cause the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state. 

“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “Now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”

“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”

Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.” 

You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.” 

He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that. 

At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you. 

“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. 

You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head. 

“Hey!”

He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”

Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees. 

“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”

“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”

He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions. 

“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”

Hikari quickly notices your presence. 

“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”

Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”

“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you. 

When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.

“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair. 

“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's Sukuna?”

“The guy in the room next to mine.”

“Oh.”

He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more. 

“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”

“It’s not.” 

He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”

You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”

He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”

“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.” 

“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.” 

“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”

Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.” 

You let out a slow exhale. 

This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society. 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word. 

But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan. 

“I think I’m in love with you too,” you say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips. 

“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”

“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”

He chuckles, breath misting your face. 

His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.

“Cold?”

You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes. 

He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you. 

“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.” 

You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set. 

His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace. 

“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in. 

You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat. 

He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”

He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him. 

Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours. 

He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps. 

His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”

He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”

But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching. 

His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head. 

“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough. 

You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”

“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”

“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering. 

“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”

You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.

“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.” 

You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity. 

“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties. 

His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside. 

You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth. 

“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him. 

“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles. 

Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second. 

Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit. 

You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes. 

“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!” 

With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive. 

He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.

“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”

He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”

You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words. 

He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds. 

Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body. 

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips. 

You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu. 

“You okay?”

You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed. 

You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress. 

Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”

He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”

You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”

Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent. 

“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”

You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”

“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”

Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone. 

“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”

His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin. 

You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene. 

He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

“Sweets,” you remind him. 

He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.” 

The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.” 

You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. 

“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.” 

Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room. 

“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”

He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste. 

“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.” 

His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you. 

When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down. 

Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction. 

He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”

You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”

His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”

But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.” 

Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”

He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention. 

You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“What’s got you so wet, hm?”

You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”

“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”

His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp. 

“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”

He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine. 

The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”

Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw. 

“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”

You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom. 

The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in. 

“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”

He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.” 

The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”

His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in. 

It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb. 

“Can I keep going?” 

You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air. 

"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly. 

“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself. 

“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick. 

“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips. 

“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience. 

Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts. 

“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. Makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”

The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly. 

“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”

His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him. 

When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips. 

Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”

You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”

He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you. 

“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?” 

You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth. 

“You?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” 

You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty. 

Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose. 

And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too. 

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.

Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach. 

You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.

You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this. 

“Did you wait long?”

You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring. 

You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.

You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice. 

“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease. 

He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?” You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.” Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile. Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?” “Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.” “Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.” “I learnt that the hard way.” He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return. “Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.” You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears. “I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.” He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.” You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.” “Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering. You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.” Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you. Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care. He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.” “What?" “Why don’t we just have a threesome?”

One of Sukuna’s arms is draped over your waist, holding your back tightly to his chest as though even in sleep he won’t let you go. His other arm is tucked beneath his head. His breath fans your neck, his face nuzzled into its crook. His legs are tangled haphazardly with yours.

He hasn’t moved a muscle since you awoke, and you don’t dare wake him. If anyone needs rest, it’s him.

Truthfully, you don’t mind doing nothing if it means cuddling with him.

You can’t say for sure how much time passes before he begins to stir. Every twitch of his finger or adjustment of his legs is followed slowly by a long inhalation. The kind that tells tales of a great storm and how it’s finally been dispelled.

He groans, only half-awake as he shifts the arm under his head to wrap you in a protective barrier. His hips press into your ass, morning wood grinding against the plush skin.

Smiling, you finally peer over your shoulder. His gaze is mere slits, as though the sun is a personal affront to his bubble of peace. His pupils betray the fact that his mind is elsewhere, though.

“Morning, princess.” His voice has been scraped over sandpaper, rough with the grit of a man who slept over twelve hours.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

He grunts, his breath falling over your skin in soft wisps. “What time is it?”

“Mmm,” you hum decisively, trying to lean forward to peer at his clock, but he pulls you back the moment you inch away.

“Nevermind. Don’t care that much,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck.

Giggling as he wraps you in his limbs, heavy and loose, you relish the feeling of his lips on your bare skin. Every movement is languid and unhurried. For once, he has a lifetime to learn you. A lifetime to kiss every inch of your skin. A lifetime to worship the curves, scars, and marks that make up the woman he loves.

The pace of his movements stutters as he blinks at his own thoughts. His lips ghost your skin as they part, grappling with a realization that came so naturally that it scares him.

Would it be so absurd to think that what he feels for you is that strong already? On one hand, you’ve been official for under twenty four hours, but on the other hand…

How many months has your Gamecube been here? What about your toothbrush?

How many times have you dropped everything to show up for him when he couldn’t get through to his brothers?

How many times have you walked through his apartment like it’s your own, one of his shirts hanging loosely from your frame like you were his from the start?

You became home before Sukuna even realized that ‘home’ doesn’t always come with four walls.

He’s never put a title to those thoughts. Not really. He can blame a lack of time, he can blame how stupidly dense he was– and both are certainly factors– but truth be told, he’s never considered what word could possibly suit the way you make his palms sweat and his heart leap.

Love is a word Sukuna never associated with romantics. The love he shares with his family– his siblings and father– that was never the same as whatever Kaori and Jin shared. Whatever that was, Sukuna learned quickly that it was one-sided.

Now, the word feels foreign on his tongue. Truth be told, it scares him. His heart seizes at the thought that love could be something not just familial, but romantic. Something shared. Undying. Real. The kind of things fairy tales are based on, only real and tangible and here in his arms.

But as you crane your neck to curiously look back at him, your lashes fluttering sweetly as a quizzical quality swims in your eyes, it settles something within him. “Is everything alright, Kuna?”

He hums. He’s not sure it’s a word he’s ready to breathe yet, but it tastes of the freedom and dreams he told you about on your date last night. So he’ll hold it close to his chest, savor the feeling for himself until he’s ready to share something so sacred. “Yeah,” he clears his throat of a modicum of its morning grit. “‘M great,” he murmurs peacefully, resuming his movements with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

It’s infectious, and before you know it, you’re grinning.

“How’d you sleep, princess?”

He shifts, his lips moving to gently suck on the skin at the base of your neck as he pushes up on an elbow. You hum in delight, tilting your head to give him space. “Better than I have in ages.” With lidded eyes, you peer back at the man whose lips graze your throat. “You seem like you slept great, though.”

He lifts his head, contemplating once more what time it is. Now a bit more alert, he squints as he peers towards the window, gauging how high the sun is in the sky. He must have slept over twelve hours. Nightmares didn’t grace him, even the insomnia that his withdrawals brought on was kept at bay by the peace of having his girlfriend at his side.

“Guess I did,” he confirms, resuming the path of his lips down your neck until he reaches your shoulder. With every sultry mark and kiss he leaves on the expanse of your collar, you feel his morning wood twitch. The way he rolls his hips against the plush of your ass isn’t exactly subtle when he’s that big. “You look fucking gorgeous,” he whispers into your skin.

You grin as warmth blooms in your chest, grinding back against him. He groans, his fingers cementing to your hips as he stills you. “Kuna,” you breathe his name in a questioning tone.

He lifts his head from your neck, giving you his full attention with a gruff hum.

In spite of already sharing your first time together, you still find your nerves bubbling up as you pull your lower lip between your teeth. Flipping beneath the blankets to face him, you drink in the sight of the blankets settling low enough on his hips to bare every tattoo and scar you traced last night as the band of his boxers peeks out. He has one arm propping him up, while the other one traces shapes along your skin.

His attention is pulled to your expression, lips pursed and eyes swimming with adoration as your fingers begin a trail at the scar on his shoulder. His muscles tense as you trace a path down his abs, briefly glancing at his appendicitis scar, before following his happy trail to tentatively brush your fingers over the elastic of his boxers.

Peering up at him from beneath your lashes, you search his expression. Somewhere between rested and lustful, his chest rises and falls heavily. His hairline has the faintest hint of sweat already beginning to bead where the strands stick. His jaw is set, tense as he watches your every move with the expression of a man starved.

“Can I?” You softly murmur, grazing your finger along the line where elastic meets skin.

He shudders. His adam’s apple bobs. “Fuck,” he groans, strained. “I still won’t last–” He cuts himself off with a heavy exhale, his expression twisting into an embarrassed scowl.

“That’s okay,” you assure him with a kind smile, shifting to bring your other hand up to graze his stubbly jaw. His lashes flutter as you stroke his cheek, before he decidedly nods.

“Okay. Yeah,” he breathes, tilting his head to kiss your palm. “Fuck, please.”

Sliding your hand over the waistband, you stroke him slowly over the cotton, watching his jaw slack and his eyes roll back as you provide the friction he’s been chasing. His fingers curl into your hip as his cheek rests in your open palm that remains on his jaw.

Discreetly wetting your hand with saliva, you tentatively slip your fingers beneath the waistband, wrapping your palm around him. You already know he’s thick, you’ve felt as much, but with your fingers wrapped around him, your throat goes dry.

Sukuna sucks in a breath at the sensation, warm and wet that envelops him. His abdomen is already clenching, and his boxers are already stained with precum when you start a tentative rhythm, a slow up and down motion that steals his breath. Letting out a broken cross of a moan and a groan, his every breath becomes hot and heavy.

“Fuck, princess,” he grunts, his brain coming to a startling halt when it comes to forming coherent sentences. Pleasure courses through his body, his limbs shifting between completely loose and tense as he focuses on the movement of your cute little hand.

With a heavy exhale, he swallows hard as he casts a glance at your expression first, your lip pulled between your teeth as you learn him. His gaze slips down to your hand. Your nails are cutely done up and look so delicate wrapped around him. He twitches at the mere thought, already close.

The grip he has on your hip is near-bruising as you feel him jerk twice. Your voice is saccharine and sultry as you watch his eyes screw tight. “Feel good, Kuna?”

Another twitch. He groans. “Fuck– it does. Don’t stop,” he gruffs, his voice strained and husky.

Your thumb brushes over his cheek again, soft. Fuck, he won’t last much longer.

Your mind flashes back to the way your boyfriend melted at the first sign of praise. Brushing his cheek again, you keep your voice low. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re doing good.”

It completely disarms and sends him over the edge all at once. His body tenses as he throws his head back, his hand flying to your wrist as his orgasm hits him in waves, covering your hand. The brute’s chest heaves as he comes down from the heady and sudden climax, his stiff grip on your wrist slowly loosening with every pulse of his high.

When he finally releases his grip, you pull your hand back slowly, the proof of his orgasm painted across your skin.

His eyes crack open in response to a brush of your thumb over his cheek again. His pupils are crimson-rimmed, a haze passing over them as he regards you with adoration. “Thanks, princess.” There’s a sultry rasp to his tone that has your eyes crinkling at the corners.

You look pretty like this. Hair disheveled from a night in his arms, your makeup completely smudged and long forgotten. You still have an afterglow from the night before that fuels Sukuna’s pride a little too much.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

His gaze flickers down to the hand you don’t seem super sure what to do with. “Here, I got you.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he’s already on his feet, rolling his shoulders out as he makes his way to the washroom. When he returns, clean and tucked back into his boxers with a wet cloth and dry towel in his hand, he’s gentle as he wipes your hand down. You pout up at him, cross-legged on the bed as he sets the towel down over the spot on the sheets with the evidence of his climax.

“Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

He eyes your pretty pout, smirking as he wipes your fingers. “You did take care of me.”

“I don’t mean–” you sigh, shaking your head. “I should be the one cleaning you up.”

He pauses, looking your hand over before tossing the cloth in a hamper across the room. “Princess,” he gruffs insistently. “You’re my girlfriend. You think your nickname means nothin’?”

“You called me that way before I was your girlfriend,” you point out.

He hums his agreement. “Doesn’t mean you aren’t my princess. Gonna treat you like one.”

You’re unable to fight the wide, shy smile that breaks out on your face. Sukuna grins, a glow to his expression that’s unfamiliar but suits him. The kind of shine you seldom see from him, but you’ll cling to it like something sacred.

“Speaking of being my princess,” he purrs, prowling over you. As he crawls towards you on the bed, his massive figure presses you back into the mattress. Falling back from a sitting position onto your elbows with a giggle, you face him again. The fog in his gaze settles, leaving room for the light that follows. He lowers himself down to his forearms, cradling your face in his hands as he slots his lips over yours.

His kisses are as languid as your morning has been, focused solely on you. His chest rumbles pleasantly as you glide your hands up his chest, folding your arms behind his neck. His tongue glides across your lower lip, seeking entrance as he relishes in the feeling of your tight embrace around him and subtle smile.

His eyes are still shut when you pull back for air, his forehead resting on yours. “What, um–” you pause, left breathless, “what were you saying about me being your princess?”

He smirks. “Dunno. Just wanted to kiss you.”

Bubbly as ever, you giggle beneath him, cracking your eyes open to his still-closed crimson pair. Slowly, they blink open, mirthful.

“Sap,” you tease.

“Mm. I know,” he wrinkles his nose in jest, as though the mere idea is a travesty. “Can’t imagine we’ll have many mornings this quiet, though.”

“I’m okay with that too,” you murmur, pulling him back down for a kiss to his cheek.

He hums again, capturing your lips. “Such a fuckin’ angel,” he murmurs between breaths, a four letter word slowly entwining itself around his very being with every moment he spends with you. “Y’know,” he says between kisses. “Could always spend a bit more time together.”

The sultry lilt to his tone tells you where his thoughts lie. “Don’t you need to pick up the kids?”

He lets out a long breath, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he takes a moment to enjoy the peace before replying. He settles a modicum of his weight atop you, holding himself up just enough to make sure he doesn’t crush you.

You melt into him. Sun basks the room in warmth, settling across you like a blanket. The world outside feels distant, caught up in your own little bubble. Time takes a day off to allow you both some much-needed space to simply be.

Your hand threads through salmon strands, nails gently raking over his scalp. Neither of you moves for a while, even as his arms ache and your neck begins to get a kink at the odd angle you’re laying at, nearly hanging off the edge of the bed.

One of your phones vibrates on the nightstand, serving as a reminder that time doesn’t truly stop for anyone. You stir in his arms, but he pushes up on his elbow, reaching over you to check his phone first.

Noon. “Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand back through his hair. He has a few messages from Toji, half expecting each one to be a complaint about how much of a handful Yuji is, but to his surprise the messages leave him amused.

The first message is a photo of Choso cooking, with the caption ‘why the hells he a better chef than me’. A breath leaves Sukuna’s nose, something akin to a laugh.

The second message is a photo of Yuji with gum in his hair. If he weren’t in such a good mood, the brute would have frowned, knowing fully well his little brother is about to return with a patch of hair missing.

The third one is a photo of a nice looking breakfast, eggs and toast, accompanied by the caption ‘ok wtf’. He snorts, flipping the screen towards you. Tilting your head to get a better view, you scroll through the messages, a grin slowly spreading at the sight of them.

“Cho’s gonna be a great chef someday.”

Sukuna hums his agreement.

“And Yuji’s hair will look just like yours now.”

He flashes you a glare as your mischievous grin widens. “Brat.” Without warning, he plops his full weight down onto you, met with an ‘ough’.

“Kuna–” you gasp as you press against his shoulders with all your might, unable to help the laughter that bubbles in your chest.

“Apologize.”

“Please, Kuna–”

“Nuh uh. Apologize.”

Your hands slip against his shoulders as you fail to push him up at all, wheezing as laughter and your boyfriend both work against you. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, please!”

At last, Sukuna lets up with narrowed eyes. You suck in a breath, staring at the ceiling as you throw your arms out dramatically. Sukuna just stares with a smirk. “Done bein’ a brat yet, princess?”

You nod, pouting at him.

“Good,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss you. “Can’t have three brats walkin’ around the damn place all the time.”

“Dick.”

“Mhm.”

He pushes up to sit on the edge of his bed, shooting Toji a quick message.

“Do you need to pick them up soon?”

He glides a hand back through his hair. “Yeah, I told Toj I’d pick ‘em up in the afternoon.” He tosses his phone aside, craning his neck to face you, still laying at the edge of his bed. Brushing hair from your forehead, he adds, “we’ve got time for breakfast first.”

Sitting upright, you beam at the handsome man as sunlight traces his sharp jaw. In spite of all of his edges, he looks softer now under the gentle glow of early afternoon. “Do you have eggs? I make a great omelette,” you offer.

“Princess.” Your boyfriend shoots you a pointed, albeit warm look. “Stop tryin’ to outdo me.”

“I’m not–” You try to protest, but you’re swiftly interrupted by his thumb and finger closing around your cheeks, squishing them together.

Staring intently at your pouting face, he smirks. “Sausages and eggs work for you? I don’t have much to go in an omelette.”

You nod your approval.

Getting to his feet, he releases your cheeks and pulls you up with him. “Why don’t you go get ready, n’ I’ll take care of breakfast. Or, uh– lunch, I guess.”

When you re-emerge from the washroom– smudged makeup gone and hair no longer in disarray– in the t-shirt and sweatpants you stole from him last night, Sukuna is just finishing cleaning up the kitchen. The smell of hot food wafts through the apartment, luring you straight to the table.

Crimson eyes fix you from over his shoulder. His gaze slowly roams down your figure, satisfaction coursing through him at the sight of his clothing engulfing you. Cute.

“Come eat,” he urges you, flicking water from his hands into the sink and wiping them on his sweatpants. He pulls a chair out for you like everything about treating you like a princess comes naturally to him. He supposes when one look at you makes his heart skip that it serves as a pretty good reminder of how lucky he is.

And how happy you make him.

How life doesn’t feel like constantly trying to make it through another day just to start over again. How he looks forward to seeing smiles on the faces that make his days easier.

Catching him staring from the seat beside you as you take your first bite of your eggs, you tilt your head. “Is everything alright?”

He sucks in a breath, pensive. “Yeah… Yeah, it is.” Picking up his fork, he juts his chin out at your food. “How is it?”

“Great, thanks Kuna,” you grin between bites.

“Mhm. I’ll make sure I have omelette ingredients next time.”

The side of Sukuna that’s truly at peace, this domestic and mild version of him– complete with all the huffing and snark you still expect– it brings a smile to your face. His words from last night still rattle in your chest, not quite settled. That this– you– are his dream.

You smile softly. “As long as you let me help.”

His gaze slides towards you, glimmering blissfully. “Deal.” His face twists suddenly though, as he recalls a time you practically tossed bread crumbs across his floor. “If your recipe has fuckin’ bread crumbs in it for some goddamn reason though, we’re skipping them.”

“Wh–” you try to protest, a vision of food flying everywhere brought to the front of your mind. “That wasn’t my fault, you scared me! I didn’t hear the door unlock.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to sneak up on you,” he teases, finishing his food much faster than you. As he moves to put his dishes away, you admire the trails of tattoos that race down his shoulder blades, accompanied by newly acquired streaks of red. Pulling your lip between your teeth, you conceal a small smile at the satisfaction of Sukuna being marked as your boyfriend.

You suppose it’s only fair given how covered in little bruises and bites you are. He painted you like a damn canvas.

“No complaints?” He eyes you over his shoulder, a brow raising at the realization that he caught you staring. A slow smirk crawls across his lips as he wipes his damp hands on his sweats again. “Cute,” he murmurs, kissing the crown of your head. “‘M gonna go shower. Make yourself at home.”

–

After an encounter with the journalists outside the front door that left Sukuna tightly clutching you to him as they asked invasive questions, you finally pull up at Toji’s place. Your boyfriend still bears a grim frown in spite of your insistence that you’re fine. He supposes it’s just another day dealing with the wreckage left behind by his step-mother, but it still irks him.

Sukuna makes his way to the door, typing a code into the keypad of the school-owned residence like he’s been here before. He leads the way up to the seventh floor, turning corners until he reaches a chipped off-gray door. He raps his knuckles over the wood, his other hand entwined with yours.

You can hear the rattling of excited cheers behind the door, followed shortly by the football player’s appearance and greeting as Sukuna hands his car keys over. Before he even greets you, he gets a shit-eating grin on his face with one glance down at your intertwined fingers.

“Finally grew some balls, Ryomen?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna grumbles, much to the delight of his friend, who barks a laugh as even you struggle not to at least smile.

“Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna!” Yuji chants from behind Toji, tugging on the raven-haired man’s shirt. Opening the door wider, Choso lingers further back as Yuji bursts out to hug Sukuna. Relief floods you to see that the young brunette boy’s eyes are bright as he also puts two and two together at the sight of your hands.

Most importantly though, he looks like he had a good time.

Slowly but surely, his wounds are mending, just as the rest of your group recouperates.

“Hey, Yu,” Sukuna greets the youngest, ruffling his hair as the little boy clings to his leg.

“Kuna! Kuna, I gotta show you!” The boy’s mind moves at a mile a minute as he rushes suddenly back past Toji and Choso in search of something.

Sukuna’s brow raises in amusement as he watches the little boy bolt back into the messy apartment. You can’t say for sure whether that’s just Toji or if Yuji wreaked complete and utter havoc. Both are very real possibilities.

Sukuna’s attention turns back to Toji. “They give you any trouble?”

“Nah. This little man can cook, though.”

Choso’s cheeks redden as he shuffles from foot to foot.

“Yeah, he’ll go places,” Sukuna agrees warmly.

The little boy’s cheeks are completely roseate as he smiles down at the ground now, silently thrilled.

Everything about the interaction fills you with an emotion that words don’t do justice. Pride, joy, and relief all flood your chest, each one in a battle with the last to take the crown for what you feel the most, never to find a winner. Seeing Toji and Sukuna take shots at one another while Yuji tears through the world with all the glee that only a five-year-old can muster, all while Choso grins to himself? It’s a sight you won’t soon forget.

Your hand tightens around Sukuna’s, garnering his attention as he admires you.

Toji follows Sukuna’s gaze, addressing you. “He treat ya well?”

“Yeah, we had a great time. Thanks for watching them, Toji.”

Toji shrugs it off, leaning against the doorframe. His arms cross over his chest as Yuji proudly holds up a friendship bracelet not unlike the ones still wrapped around all of your wrists.

“You’re gettin’ good at these,” Sukuna comments, pulling his hand from his pocket to hold it out.

His little brother reels back, as though offended Sukuna might even assume it’s for him. “Don’t touch! Just look!”

His expression contorts as he glares at his blunt little brother. “Who’s it for, then?”

Whipping around to face Toji, the little boy proudly holds it up to him. Toji’s brows raise. “For me?”

“Yeah!” He pridefully holds out his wrist and the little collection of bracelets worn by people closest to him.

Toji’s devil-may-care attitude contorts as the equally emotionally dense man to your boyfriend is suddenly faced with the kind of thing that ties him not just to the little boy, but to Sukuna. He swallows, caught off-guard as he glances back at Sukuna, standing upright.

The veins in Sukuna’s temple bulge as he watches Toji, once his closest friend– hell, his brother– reel. Held within their silent exchange is the kind of emotion that can only be understood by two people who grew up together. Your boyfriend holds your hand up, showing off your wrist. “You’re in it for life,” he offers, as though he fears the football player may refuse.

Finally, Toji huffs out a laugh. “For life, huh?” He smirks, offering his wrist to the little boy so reminiscent of Sukuna himself. “Lock me in, kiddo.”

Through your peripherals, you can just barely make out the relief, and almost disbelief, that floods Sukuna’s features as he averts his eyes, sucking in a breath. You squeeze his hand in reassurance, stepping closer to brush your arms.

“Lookit that,” Toji grins, holding his wrist up. “I’ve never looked better,” he boasts, ruffling the bubbly kid’s hair. Yuji is all beams, practically ready to burst with how pleased he is with himself.

“Go get your stuff packed up, Yu.”

“Okay!” With an excited bounce, the little boy races back into the apartment, sharing the instruction to get packed up with Choso as Toji turns back towards you both. With his arms crossed back over his chest, he flicks his wrist a time or two as he gets used to the latest addition to his arm.

“The new coach’s gonna kill me,” he chuckles. “Bracelets ain’t exactly easy t’ get approved.”

“Oh yeah, congrats Toj,” Sukuna smirks, clapping a hand down on his friend’s shoulder.

Toji’s still grinning, about as bashful as a guy like him can get. “Thanks, man.”

“New coach?” You pipe in, peering between the two men who are suddenly making you feel very short.

The football player scratches at the back of his neck. “Got scouted. Haven’t really told anyone aside from Ryo and Satoru, yet. Still kinda wrappin’ my head ‘round it.”

“No way,” you gasp. “Congrats, Toji!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he coyly brushes you off, “I haven’t signed yet, so keep it on the DL, yeah?”

Clasping your free hand around Sukuna’s bicep, you nod. “Fine, but you better hold at least a celebration of some sort once it’s official.”

“Roger,” he slyly salutes, his attention drawn to the bundle of energy that just about barrels into his leg with a hug. “Hey, kiddo. You have a good time?”

Yuji nods affirmatively. “Next time we stay over, can we– um–” he pauses to give his mind a moment to catch up to his mouth. “Play more basketball?”

“‘Course, as long as your brother’s up for it,” Toji agrees, eyeing Choso, who warmly nods.

“Someday I wanna be big enough to dunk it like you, uncle Ji!”

Sukuna stiffens, but Toji finds his footing quickly, lifting the little boy up into his arms for a bear hug. Sukuna’s chest rises and falls faster, Toji and Yuji’s conversation lost in the ringing. You can see the inadequacy crawling back up his throat before he can even identify it himself. Always one step ahead of him, you drag his hand clasped in yours up to your chest, settling his palm over your heart.

Although its pace is still fast, it’s steady, and the pounding pulls him out of the thoughts that threaten to choke him.

You shoot your boyfriend a lopsided smile as he blinks and rolls his shoulders out. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he slowly drops his hand from your chest as he casts you a grateful glance. His fingers are still intertwined with yours, a pensive expression caught in the crease between his brows.

He swears you’re his guardian angel. Your wings come in the form of cute knit sweaters and your halo is made up of dainty jewelry, but he’s come to recognize that you must have fallen from heaven, because you’re too good to be true. You’re certainly too good for him.

But… you’re still here. And he’s already pinched himself, this isn’t a dream.

His lip quirks up, just a bit. Enough to call it a smile. It lightens the weight on his shoulders, just enough to leave space for gratefulness to soar within the cavity of his chest. He knows he still has work to do on the front of his friendship with Toji. It’s not perfect. He forgot the energy drink he promised him. But like everything else in Sukuna’s world, it’s on the mend, and that’s all he can ask for.

“Alright, c’mon,” Sukuna beckons both of his brothers along with you as Choso hugs Toji next.

You can’t help but smile as Yuji bounds ahead, followed shortly by Choso. There’s something far too sweet about just how gentle the two scariest looking men you know are.

“Thanks again, Toj. I’ll grab you that energy drink next time I see you.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, man,” the raven-haired man waves a hand nonchalantly through the air. “Can ya take a look at my damn car codes ‘r whatever, though? I dunno what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

Sukuna snorts in amusement. “Yeah. I’ll bring some shit over next week.”

“Cool. I’m gonna go fuckin’ nap,” he points back over his shoulder, earning amused chuckles from you and Sukuna. “‘M happy for ya both, though.”

“Thanks Toj. See you at Satoru’s?”

“I’ll be three drinks in by the time you even get there,” Toji snorts. “You’ll be playing catch-up.”

“Kunaaaaa!” Yuji calls from the end of the hall.

“Gimme a sec, brat.” Sukuna rolls his eyes, though it lacks any signs of real irritation. As Yuji runs circles around Choso at the end of the hall, the brute turns back to Toji. He pulls away from your grasp to lean in and hug his friend. “Appreciate you,” he mutters.

Toji pats his back. “‘Course. They’re always welcome ‘round here.” He pulls back, his arms folding over his chest. “Shit, if y’wanna send Choso for dinners, I won’t ever fuckin’ complain.”

Laughter breaks through whatever tension remained stuck to Sukuna. “I’ll let him know.”

“Alright, catch you later.”

You’re pulled into Sukuna’s side by the waist as he leads the way down the hall. Approaching Yuji with you tucked to him so closely has the little boy stopping to owlishly stare at you. “Are you his girlfriend?” Before you can even ask, he points to you, facing his older brother. “Is she your girlfriend, Kuna?”

Once again falling into the familiar back and forth of being humiliated by his extremely blunt little brother, he presses a thumb to his temple. “Yeah, Yuji. She is.” He casts a glance at the doors surrounding them. “Inside voice.”

“I’m not being loud!” He insists loudly, his lips drawn into a little pout.

Sliding his hand from his temple down his face, Sukuna shakes his head. “Yu,” he warns.

The little boy’s shoulders fall in a little pout. For as unaffected of a man as Sukuna likes to pretend he is, it tugs at his heart strings. He sighs. “Just until we’re outside, yeah?”

That immediately sates the little boy, who hops back towards the elevator with a “kay,” as though it was all an act in the first place. Sukuna’s eyes narrow at the realization that a five-year-old might have learned to play him, breaking into a full scowl as he finds that your shoulders are shaking because you’re laughing too.

How the hell did he end up being the one constantly under fire?

With a huff, he gives your waist a playful squeeze. It pulls a yelp from you as you scramble to get away from the ticklish sensation. Brushing your– or his, you suppose– shirt down in an effort to compose yourself. With a brief glance at your boyfriend before exiting the elevator, you smile at the sight that he’s already watching you. In spite of his mild expression, there’s a loose feeling to the way that he carries himself that makes you smile.

“Tell me all about your time with Toji,” you urge the bundle of energy once you’re out the door as you make the trip back to Sukuna’s.

Yuji– the very same one who just got scolded for not using his inside voice– hesitates. He glances back at his older brothers, then to you with a pleading pout.

You frown. Unfortunately, you recognize the pout as the same one he wore when he admitted to being told he talked too much. Even weeks after winning, it seems as though Kaori and Noritoshi still haunt you.

“I wanna hear every single detail,” you grin in an effort to assure him that you meant what you said when you told him Noritoshi was wrong. It also keeps your scowling boyfriend’s anger from boiling over as he doesn’t pick up immediately on what’s going through Yuji’s head, or he’s not paying attention.

Yuji perks up immediately. With very emotive hand gestures, he excitedly tells you about the big blanket fort that Toji set up for the two brothers, only to end up as the first one asleep in it. He tells you all about how Toji has every movie, which Choso informs him is just Netflix, and they watched two Pokemon movies.

The concept of Toji in a blanket fort watching super powered animals talk to one another is definitely one for the history books.

You suppose he and Sukuna have that much in common. They really are both a couple of saps in their own right.

“I heard Cho made some great food,” you add, casting a glance back at the little boy a couple of steps ahead of Sukuna. Before you even meet his gaze, he’s already sheepishly fiddling with his fingers, a little smile spread across his lips.

It’s sweet. To see a return to a familiar dynamic between the brothers. Maybe even a stronger one, as you catch Sukuna softly smiling too. Pride shines within his sharp gaze brighter than any scowl, hands in his pockets as he trails a short distance behind.

“Mhm!” Yuji enthusiastically agrees with you. “He made us an amazing spaghetti and meatballs!” He bounds up and down cheerily, clutching his little backpack tightly to his shoulders. “And– And–! He made us eggs too!”

“And toast,” you comment. “Toji was super impressed.”

“Yeah!” Yuji cheers, widely grinning. “Choso’s the best chef!”

Choso’s as red as a tomato, but his wide smile gives away just how bashful he is. “It was nothing, really.”

“Dunno, you’re gettin’ better than me,” Sukuna smirks, catching up to the kid in two long strides. “We’re gonna be having Michelin star meals soon.”

“What’s a Michelin star?” Yuji inquires.

“It’s basically an award for having really good food,” you explain in the simplest terms.

“Then Choso gets ten!” He insists.

Ruffling his hair, you chuckle to yourself. “I think three is the max.”

“Nope! I just decided. He gets ten!”

“Yuji…” Choso laughs along with you, sheepishly playing with a loose string on the hem of his shirt.

“There are some restaurants that have them don’t need ‘em, that’s for sure,” Sukuna snorts. “Maybe you can put on your best Mission Impossible gear for Cho if you’re pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down,” Sukuna smirks.

The youngest brother’s brows stitch together as he lets the meaning of Sukuna’s words marinate, only to come up blank. “What are you putting down?”

The eldest barely conceals his amused huff. He brings a hand up to his chin, dragging it over his smile. “You’ll get it when you’re older.”

The little boy throws his head back with a frustrated groan. “You keep saying that and I’ll never be as old as you!” His hands plop down at his sides dramatically as you burst into laughter, facing away from Sukuna as though it might help his bruised ego.

“Quit calling me old, brat,” he growls, his scowl shifting pointedly to you. “He’s calling you old too, y’know,” he points out gruffly.

You shrug it off. “Yeah, but it wasn’t meant for me, which makes it funny.”

“Not a single one of you on my side, huh?” He eyes Choso, who’s also quietly laughing to himself. With a click of his tongue, he buries his hands back into his pockets. His eyes roll, his gaze trailing off to the side as Yuji doesn’t hesitate to launch into telling you the full plot of one of the Pokemon movies, getting sidetracked every time he spots something of interest, when something occurs to him.

“Can we go to the park?” He reaches for your hand in an effort to tug you down the block away from your current destination when he spots a playground in the distance.

“That’s up to your brothers,” you turn back to face them on the empty street corner.

Sukuna shrugs nonchalantly, with nowhere to be and nothing pressing to attend to. “Cho?”

Glancing between the three of you, the boy nods.

“YAY!” Yuji cheers, tugging you by the hand in the direction of the playground when he suddenly gasps. “Tag! You’re it!” Dashing away, you’re left with no other choice but to chase after him. You peer down at your extremely oversized clothing that suddenly feels like a hazard to you with how much material pools at your ankles, but you give chase regardless.

Sukuna watches in amusement as his little brother screams when he spots you coming. With a sidelong glance, he juts his chin in your direction. “You gonna go play?”

Choso blinks, watching you struggle to maneuver the playground in clothing far too big for you. Ignoring his brother’s question, he stares straight ahead. “You asked her out.” It’s not a question, just a fact.

Crimson eyes flit around the little boy’s expression, mild and aloof in the kind of way Sukuna has mastered. He supposes Choso really did pick that up from him. Unable to read the threads that make up his brother’s thoughts, he nods. “Yeah.”

For a long moment when they reach the edge of the playground, where asphalt turns to gravel, Choso remains silent. It stretches on long enough that Sukuna grinds his molars, working the muscles in his jaw. And then– “I’m glad. I like her.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yeah. Me too,” he agrees, a puff of air leaving his nose as he admires you as you laugh heartily and throw yourself down a slide after Yuji. “She’s important to me.”

Choso cracks a smile, craning his neck to face his older brother. “Me too. She’s pretty cool.”

With his hands still tucked in his pockets, Sukuna kicks out a foot to nudge his little brother’s shoe. “You’re pretty cool too, Cho.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

With a lopsided smirk, he shrugs a shoulder. “You’re pretty cool too. Most of the time.”

Sukuna glowers at his little brother, but it doesn’t contain a fraction of fire. “Watch it. I’ll take it back.”

Choso laughs. It’s not full-bodied, it’s not the kind of exclamation that screams of a put-together family built on a solid foundation. But it wisps through the air like the cadence of healing. It’s the sound of two brothers, both still young, both still going through life for the first time, figuring things out together.

Sukuna smirks. “Go play,” he urges the boy again as his laughter dies down.

Choso ducks away from the hand that threatens to dishevel his hair. “I’m not five anymore.”

“Nah, but you’re only twelve once. Go make the most of bein’ a kid.”

Go make the most of a time long past for Sukuna.

With a little shove, Choso turns to walk backwards for a moment, smiling at Sukuna as shoes crunch over gravel. He turns on his heel and dashes back after you and Yuji.

With a drawn out breath, Sukuna makes his way to a worn wooden bench on the perimeter. He sinks down onto the creaky planks, carved with obscenities and initials over years of use. Pools of sanguine watch the three of you with an expression that’s almost serene. Yuji dashes up the slide away from Choso, each boy grinning while you lean over a railing above.

You, with no makeup, no jewelry, and clothing that dwarfs you so much it almost gives off the impression you don’t know how to dress yourself. A breath leaves his nose at the thought, his gaze sliding towards the horizon as the sun makes its way across the sky, still high in the early buzz of afternoon. Though he supposes he’s never been able to take his eyes off of you for long.

He adores your style. He adores the knit sweatshirts and cute shorts with matching flats. He adores the way you experiment with your makeup and hair if you know you’re meeting up with him. He adores that everything about you is saccharine, from your style right down to the way you taste.

But he equally adores the moments that remind him that you’re not just some dream or fantasy that he can only ever long for. The candid way your skin creases when you smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. The way your hair sticks out when you wake up. When your makeup smudges in the rain.

Your laughter is a melody he can’t get enough of as Yuji leaps at you in an effort to tag you.

It makes his heart clench.

You give chase to Choso, who chuckles as you and Yuji bolt away from him once he’s been tagged. His head whips between each of you, before turning to Sukuna, still spaced out and sprawled over the bench. Slowly, he approaches his older brother. With bright eyes, he extends his hand, resting it on Sukuna’s shoulder. The man’s brow raises questioningly. “Tag.” A beat. “You’re it.”

Sukuna’s gaze glides languidly towards the playground. To you, curiously peering at him, and Yuji, grinning widely with an expectant stare.

A slow smirk spreads across Sukuna’s lips that has Choso backing away with a smile.

“You’re gonna regret that!” He barks, dashing to his feet as he chases after Choso. The boy picks up his pace as he heads straight for you and Yuji, falling into a fit of laughter. And this time? It’s not something reserved, it’s genuine.

With the advantage of longer legs, Sukuna catches up to Choso with little effort, throwing him over his shoulder. “Who’s it now, brat?” He grins as Choso laughs and squirms in an effort to get away. Leaping to the top of the playground with heavy steps, Sukuna drops Choso to his feet and bolts in the other direction.

Skidding to a stop beside you, he watches both boys laugh as Choso gets his bearings and takes the slide back down.

You give Sukuna a nudge with your shoulder. “I told you that you know what you need to be for them when it counts.”

His cheeks take no time to dust in a pale rose, his demeanor softening just an ounce. He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to.

Instead, as Choso dashes towards you, a sly grin spreads across Sukuna’s features as he shoves you towards the middle brother. Yelping in surprise, you shoot Sukuna a glare as you’re the next one to give chase.

It makes life feel simple again.

He knows he can’t exist in this bubble forever with no hardship whatsoever, but for once Sukuna’s pretty sure he can make it out the other side of whatever comes his way with his head above water. He just might need a little help from time to time.

And as the dust settles, both in his life and from the gravel beneath his feet as he bolts after Yuji, he thinks he’s okay with that.

–

It had only been three days since becoming official, but Sukuna had already been putting in an effort to show just how much your trust and adoration mean to him.

In his own way.

From what you can tell, he’s come to terms with the fact that he isn’t a traditional candidate for a partner. He’s stopped with the antics that don’t quite suit him, there’s no overdressing or fancy meals anymore, but he does bring you lunch at work when you get all of Yuki’s old projects dumped on you as she moves up the ladder too.

Though Sukuna mainly works from home with the kids back this summer, he still doesn’t fail to show up for a minute or two to drop off something homemade for you.

Being as much of a gossip as she is, the moment Sukuna heads out, Yuki is hounding you with questions.

Between her and Shoko, you don’t hear the end of questions about how your date went and how Sukuna asked you out. Kento may be more aloof, but in spite of his quieter demeanor and more polite approach, you know he’s just as curious. He may not act like it, but he’s a stickler for gossip too.

Aside from them and Toji, you decide to keep things on the low until Satoru’s big party.

The kind woman across the hall offers to watch the kids, and to Sukuna’s delight, she offers to watch them early, letting him come visit you as you get ready.

Sprawled across your bed, his gaze hasn’t once left you, warm with adoration. “I like that dress,” he comments as you try on a white dress dotted in blue flowers. The neckline dips between your breasts, tied together with a cute bow.

“You said that about the last one.” You smile over your shoulder at him.

“I liked the last one too.”

You roll your eyes but your smile gives away your giddiness.

“I think I’ll go with this one.”

Sukuna, who just threw on a muscle shirt and a pair of baggy jeans and called it a day with his usual jewelry, watches with amusement as you move along to choosing your shoes. “Do you do this before every event?”

Holding out two pairs of shoes to him, one pair of flats and one pair of heels, you nod. “Mhmm! Shoko usually sits where you are.”

“Cute,” he hums, pointing to the pair of flats.

“Really?”

“They look comfier. Don’t want my girl drunk and tripping in heels.”

Your eyes crinkle at the corners as you beam at him. “That’s thoughtful.”

“It’s practical. Don’t want you walkin’ around barefoot or askin’ for my shoes when they’re twice your size.”

“They are not twice my size,” you shake your head at his dramatics, holding up a flat to his foot dangling over the edge of your bed.

“They’re close enough,” he snorts as you pale at the sheer size difference. “You know what they say about a guy with big feet.”

Your cheeks warm as you shoot him a wide-eyed stare at the implication behind his sultry tone and lidded gaze. Quickly recovering, you fix him with a playful glare, harmlessly tossing the flat at him. His arms raise to deflect the meager toss, snickering as you turn on a dime to face your closet again.

“You are such a guy sometimes.”

“Too much?” Although he asks, the knowing look on his face contradicts him.

“... No,” you sigh as you clasp a necklace over your collar. “Can I have my shoe back?”

Tossing it back your way, you catch it and turn to face the mirror. Satisfied with your appearance, you twirl to face your boyfriend. His gaze lowers to watch the skirt of your dress flare out, amusement playing on his smirk when he meets your eyes once more.

“Gorgeous.” A beat. “Ready, princess?”

Your cheeks are warm as you reply. “I think so!”

Sliding off of your bed, he steals a kiss and lets you lead the way out the door. The walk to Satoru’s is filled mostly with little details about your days. How Sukuna’s coworker keeps forwarding things to him that have nothing to do with him and doubling down on it every time only to be proven wrong. How it’s a wonder Yuki gets anything done when she spends most of the day gossiping.

It’s entirely mundane in the kind of way some people might dread.

It’s entirely peaceful in the kind of way Sukuna has grown to love. The kind of stability that gently cradles his sharp edges and dulls them into something akin to freedom.

The house is already teeming with party-goers when you arrive. It has to be a majority of the graduating class, all crammed into one house that will undeniably have the cops called on it with the amount of young adults laughing and drinking on the lawn alone.

Silver streamers hang from the roof with a banner that reads ‘congradulations’ in bold font over the house’s usual greek lettering. Coolers are laid across the lawn with a combination of beer and seltzers tossed into them, sweltering in the evening sun’s warmth as the ice slowly melts.

Eyeing the banner as Sukuna ducks into the doorway, he snorts to himself at the thought that you and Kento must have chosen it.

Glancing over your shoulder at Sukuna, you lead the way through the crowd to the back where your friends usually gather. His hand finds your waist, sticking close to you through the crowd of sweaty bodies until you reach the backyard. He keeps his head down as much as he can to avoid drawing attention, though it’s difficult when he’s a head above most of the party-goers.

Streamers and pieces of confetti litter the tree overhanging the fire at the back. It’s far too warm for a fire, but your friends are huddled around it regardless, spirits high. Bass steadily pumps through the yard from within the house, sweaty bodies swaying mindlessly to the pop beat. You thread through them with Sukuna in tow, gathering the occasional curious stare at the drop-out that either doesn’t phase him or he ignores. When you reach the outer edge of your group, tapping Uraume’s shoulder, they perk up at the sight of you.

“There you are!” They lean in for a hug immediately, their cheeks warm with the early buzz of alcohol. They follow suit with Sukuna as the group greets you with smiles and waves. “Here, Atsuya disappeared a while ago, you can have his chair.” They drag theirs to the side to make room for you. “Hold on, I can get a chair for you too, Sukuna.”

“Oh!” You glance over at your boyfriend, mildly watching the situation unfold. Exchanging a glance with him, he catches your drift quickly. “That’s okay, don’t worry about it,” you smile at Uraume.

“Are you sure? I can totally–” Uraume cuts themself off at the realization of the disgustingly cute exchange you’ve just had as Sukuna’s lips curl into a smirk. He brushes past you, manspreading in the lawn chair as he offers you a seat on his lap. He’s not oblivious to your giddiness either, it’s cute as hell.

“I know I’m sure,” he smugly grins. “What guy wouldn’t want his gorgeous girlfriend in his lap?”

Satoru’s head whips around like he’s just heard one of his frat brothers call for a round of shots. “You’re official?” He stares with the kind of eager expression that befits only the most dramatic and gossip-loving person you know. Which is a feat given that he’s up against Yuki.

Your grin betrays you before you can even reply, feeling Sukuna’s grip on your hip tighten as you nod.

“Oh fuck yes! All the more reason to celebrate, we gotta get you some drinks!”

Settling back against his seat as conversation flies across the room, he wraps his arm around your middle as you settle back against him. Drinks are in your hands and the night is in full swing before you know it. The sight of the ex-history major whose lap you’re seated on draws the occasional whisper, but Sukuna pays it no mind and keeps your eyes away from the unnecessary attention.

Plans for the future are slung around left and right, secured positions and interviews on the horizon already, when the question is thrown your way. Yu’s eyes glisten happily as he awaits your answer.

“Well I already have a job, so I guess the next question is where I’m gonna live,” you chuckle. “My lease is up at the end of July,” you explain.

“Oh yeah, you’re in one of the off-campus spots the school promotes, hey?”

You nod. “I guess I probably should have started looking a bit ago but it’s been a long month,” you laugh. Sukuna’s grip on your waist tightens subtly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“At least you have an extra month, Ken and I have to be out of the dorms in a week,” he grins, completely unbothered over having nowhere to live. “If you’re planning on staying nearby, maybe we can all look in the same area.” Beside him, the blonde’s brow raises skeptically as he mutters something about responsibility and already having leases lined up, but Yu’s attention is solely on you. He’s always been the type to go with the flow anyway.

“Yeah I don’t wanna be far from Kuna, Sho, or work,” you agree. “It’d be nice to stay close to everyone.” Your boyfriend hums in delight behind you.

“Hold on, I’ll make a group chat and I can send you the places I look at. What about you, Sukuna?” Yu pulls him into the conversation.

He shifts his legs beneath your thighs, sucking in a breath. “Dunno, really. Still getting used to shit as is.” His hair falls over his forehead as he shakes it at the mere thought of what his year’s looked like. “Got a couple of jobs right now, but one’s a two year contract. Once it’s up, I was thinking I might go back to school.”

Those listening in all perk up. “In history?” Uraume prompts curiously.

He hesitates. “Haven’t really gotten that far,” he admits, the crack of flames drowning out his voice. “I kinda wanna finish my history degree since I only have a semester left, but–” His gaze lifts, hesitantly trailing across the curious eyes fixated on him. He may not know everyone in the group equally, but you visibly see him break a wall down as he lets go and speaks his mind. “Think I wanna go back and do art.”

“Art history?” Yu queries, unaware of much of Sukuna’s talent.

“Visual fine arts.” His voice is low, the admission something he’s kept so close to his heart that this is truthfully the first anyone is hearing of it. He glances up at you, smirking. “Now that I work in design, I wanna improve.”

A chorus of approval rings out across the group. The brute even cracks a smile when Uraume gives him a supportive nudge. He settles back into the chair, pulling you back with him.

“When did you decide that?” You curiously peer at him.

He shrugs as though it isn’t something he’s been turning over in his mind like a precious relic. “Around your grad. Been thinkin’ back to crossing the stage in high school and how different things are since then,” he sighs, toying with the hem of your dress. “Used to think I just graduated n’ went to school for my dad, but now I think I actually wanna do it. I think… He’d be proud.”

Brushing your fingers along his jawline to draw his attention to you, he’s met with your overwhelmingly tender expression. “I think so too.”

His gaze softens. “It’s not gonna be my focus since I already like my job, but–” he cuts himself off with a shrug. “I still wanna do it. Improve my skills n’ all that.”

Leaning in to peck his lips, you nod. “I can help with your brothers.”

“Fuck, you’re always such an angel,” he grins, pulling you back in for another quick peck. The warmth emanating from his chest seems to increase tenfold and were he not such a private person, you’re positive he’d be pressing you into the chair right now. You can’t help but giggle at the thought, pushing against his chest for leverage to sit upright again.

“It’s good to see you opening up to everyone.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Though he brushes you off, his smirk betrays him.

As the night goes on, the extroverts in your group come and go, always returning to the fire that’s completely unneeded even as it draws closer to midnight. Heat permeates the air almost uncomfortably, but even as sweat draws on the brows of each of your friends, you all find the fire like a beacon.

The introverts stay closely grouped together. Sukuna, who falls somewhere in between– happy to follow Toji shot-for-shot, while simultaneously returning to your side to check in and recharge when he needs a moment– makes his way through the party like he never left. Still, there’s something renewed about him. He’s not here to forget anymore. He’s not here to drink until he forgets his misgivings, nor is he here to find someone to follow home, only to up and leave the moment he’s satisfied.

He’s keeping to himself and your friends, his head thrown back in laughter as Kento wrinkles his nose when he accepts a shot, unbeknownst that he’s about to swallow Jägermeister. Sukuna’s not drinking to forget, he’s drinking to be social. He’s drinking because a lightweight orange ball that’s hit the floor too many times to count just landed in the cup in front of him and Toji’s swaying beside him. He’s drinking for fun, and nothing else.

At some point, you find yourself in the kitchen with Shoko, lazily smiling as you eye the beer pong table across the room. Sukuna and Toji are on their second game against Satoru and Suguru. The previous one had Satoru winning by one drink and Toji was not about to let that slide, dragging your poor boyfriend into another round of chugging beer that’s cheaper than the crappy streamers that barely cling to the walls.

Shiu, Atsuya, and a couple of Suguru’s friends all crowd around, alongside some envious eyes that you know all-too-well are eyeing up the four men. It’s hard not to when the richest man on campus is practically yelling at your boyfriend for cheating purely because he has long arms. It certainly draws a lot of attention.

“Birthday cake or pink lemonade?” Shoko queries as she sets two half-empty bottles of vodka beside the soda she pulled out.

“What?” You wrinkle your nose at how sickeningly sweet they sound, buzzed enough that you have to squint at the writing across the bottles in order to focus on them. “Flavorless or at least like, peach or something.”

“Girl, I looked,” she groans. “This is all that’s left for vodka, unless you want tequila, rum, beer, or a spritzer.”

Your lips press into a thin line, deep in thought when Satoru begins yelling again. He draws the attention of more party-goers– yourself and Shoko included– as multiple pairs of eyes are drawn to the dramaticism being thrown around by the fratboy.

Who lost at beer pong at his own grad party. Again.

So, really, what else were you expecting other than a show?

Sukuna rolls his eyes, and though you can’t make out what he says, the way he points to Satoru’s last cup of beer is enough of a tell. Even Suguru is visibly recoiling at the attention being drawn, practically shoving the cup towards the white-haired man. His shoulders fall in relief when his friend pouts and finally accepts defeat. As the party rages on, Shiu makes his way over to Toji and Sukuna, the three laughing as they egg on Satoru across the table.

“He sure knows how to make a scene,” Shoko chuckles as she eyes a double shot in her cup.

“If he didn’t, I’d think someone had replaced him.”

Shoko pauses, hiccuping as a laugh bubbles from within her chest. “Guess if we ever need to check for aliens, I know who to call.”

“Just put him in front of a crowd, if he doesn’t take over like he belongs, it’s not him,” you agree, laughing heartily as you glance back over at the scene. Your heart catches in a moment of brief betrayal at the sight of the very same blonde from the party early last winter approaching Sukuna. Your motion stills as you watch the scene unfold, wide-eyed and momentarily stunned into silence.

Your boyfriend turns as she clings to his bicep, recoiling when he realizes it’s not you. A wave of guilt washes over you for even allowing the thought to fester when he indignantly yanks his arm from her grasp. His lip pulls into a curl as he undoubtedly throws some harsh words at the poor girl who likely doesn’t even know he’s taken, and you’re reminded briefly that the Sukuna that faces you, and even the one that faces all of your friends is just that. The version of him that you see is reserved for those close to him only.

“Damn,” Shoko laughs over your shoulder, clearly watching the scene unfold as well. “Sometimes I forget he used to be like that all the time.”

His shoulders rise and fall in a visible huff across the room, before a thought seems to cross his mind, and he scans the party. His eyes befall you in seconds, something akin to concern flashing through those hazy crimson irises. Smiling warmly, you dispel his worries with a sweet wave, watching the tension in his shoulders release as his eyes crinkle at the corners.

For a moment, the room narrows to just the two of you in a silent exchange of shared radiance. Even as Toji’s arm slings over Sukuna’s shoulders, his attention is glued to you for long enough that his easy smile becomes a full grin, morphing into a laugh as he’s physically dragged away by Toji.

Shoving a sugary drink into your palm, Shoko grins as she sidles up beside you. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy. You two’re a bunch of saps.”

The heat in your cheeks harshens, but you don’t bother hiding your grin. “It’s nice to see him like this.”

“Sure is,” she agrees, eyeing you. “Nice to see you like this too, though.”

With a shake of your head, you down some of the (entirely too sugary) vodka soda in your hand, involuntarily wrinkling your nose. “This year hasn’t even been that bad,” you insist, brushing her off.

Her brow raises. “Girl, I was starting to think you’d have permanent worry lines to match his grumpy ones with all the shit the Kamos put you through. That whole fucking thing with your scholarship had me ready to hunt her down.”

Laughter bubbles up in your chest. “I don’t think Kuna or I would complain, for what it’s worth.”

“I’d be more worried if you did complain,” she laughs, leading the way back to the fire where Kento and Uraume await you. As they welcome you with wide smiles, the warmth of the flames reaches deeper than just skin.

Laughter surrounds you on all sides. Somewhere in the distance you can hear Toji and Sukuna getting up to antics that your boyfriend likely thought he would never have again. Satoru and Suguru never fail to be the life of the party, boisterously taking their places– or more aptly, Satoru’s place– as the center of attention. Yu and Atsuya make their way over to your group by the fire.

It’s bittersweet to think that this is your last hurrah before you trade in textbooks and studying for editing and overtime. Get-togethers like this will grow more few and far between and schedules will undoubtedly get busier, but with such a strong bond tying you all together, you’re more than certain that you’ll all make time for one another.

You crack a fond smile as you settle into your chair, grinning as the back of the old fabric seat shifts with the weight of your boyfriend’s beefy forearms. “What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout?” He murmurs, eyes lidded from the effects of two rounds of beer pong on top of matching Toji’s pace.

With a glance around the fire, you lean your head back to meet his gaze. “Just that this might be the last time we see everyone like this.”

He follows your line of sight, taking in the picture of everyone sweltering around the unneeded fire. Satoru and Suguru squeeze past him and dramatically plop down in their original seats as though the night is finally taking its toll on the duo. Toji isn’t far behind, practically seated on top of Satoru after noticing a lack of seats.

“Nah,” he decides finally, smirking. “You’re as stuck with these losers as you are me.”

“Who’re you callin’ a damn loser?” Toji scoffs, his finger swaying as he juts it out at Sukuna.

Your boyfriend’s hands raise into the air, shrugging with a shit-eating grin. As the two go at it, you fall into the familiar back and forth that always seems to befall the boisterous personalities in the group, but it serves as a reminder that Sukuna’s right. No one sitting around the fire will be out of reach anytime soon.

–

Sukuna’s toothbrush tangles with yours as it clatters into the ceramic cup atop the vinyl counter housing the sink of his new (to him) three bedroom condo. He stares at it briefly, before his gaze flickers to the third addition to what has always been nothing more than a toothbrush holder. He’s pretty sure it’s your mascara, a pink plastic tube settled among the bristles like it belongs. So what the yellow and blue tube laying across the vinyl countertop beside it are… well those he’s not sure at all.

Those aren’t the only pieces of you that have migrated to his home in the month since you helped him move. Your laundry has mixed with his, your shampoo and soap sitting on the shower’s ledge like it’s always belonged. Your hair product sits beside the gel he uses. A blanket is draped over his bed that’s too cutesy to be his, covered in little cartoon bears. A collection of little things that don’t fit in the organized disarray of his home, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He finds himself liking the way each addition draws his eye, reminding him of the woman he fell for.

He finds himself getting lost in thought when he considers what a home could look like with you. His Metallica tour poster framed on a wall alongside something abstract and pale pink you picked up from a local artist. The heat-changing Scream mug that Choso saved up to get him alongside your beige mug that looks like a knit sweater and two cups of apple juice. A world of darkness and sharp edges moulded together with one of light and corners soft to the touch. The thought has him holding you closer every night, given something to look forward to, no matter how far in the future his mind is thinking ahead.

“Kuna?”

“Mm?” His gaze swivels to you, sprawled out on his bed with something paused on his laptop.

You peer over at him now that he’s turned marginally in your direction, his shoulders no longer blocking the piece he’s working on at his drawing table. “Whatcha working on?”

He flips his tablet towards you. “A new brand guide for the Fintech.” His screen is a mix of logos, letterheads, and email signatures for the company he’s been working with for the last couple of months.

“Those look great,” you beam.

“Thanks princess,” he hums, returning to his work. “How’s your show?”

“It’s good,” you hum, a thoughtful lilt to your voice telling your boyfriend that something’s on your mind. He turns to face you fully, setting his tablet aside as he gives you his attention. “Is something on your mind?”

He figured you wanted a kiss. Staring blankly at you, he sits upright, casting a sidelong glance out the window. The moon kisses your skin as it floods the rooms, much higher in the sky than he had expected.

“You seemed pretty zoned out,” you explain your thoughts, leaving the floor open for him if he wants to talk.

With a long, slow inhale, his attention settles back on you, curled up in his blankets. The sight of you is so inviting that even deadlines can’t hold him back as he pushes out of the chair, setting his laptop aside to pull you into his embrace. With your presence steady against him, he exhales softly.

“Kinda had somethin’ on my mind for a bit,” he admits, crimson gaze sharply evaluating your reaction as you tilt your head. “Cho asked about our dad a couple of weeks ago.” He lets the statement hang in the air for a moment, allowing you to grasp it before he continues. “I think a lot of our dad is gone for him. I think–” he hesitates, unsure where he’s going with this statement.

He thinks– what? That Jin’s nothing more than a ghost to the little boy these days, caught between the strange reality that his older brother is his guardian and his younger brother knows nothing beyond this life? That Sukuna’s the only one left to remember the man who raised him? That losing that piece of his life scares him?

The reality is that it’s more than just fear. The thought lingers in the corner of his mind, tasting the shadows with its forked tongue as though it lies in wait to swallow Sukuna whole. It’s a heavy weight to bear the memory of someone so dear and impactful completely alone.

Where once he thought he’d healed, he’s realized now all he had truly done was shove it all down– the fear, the pain, the grief– like a weed he would continue to pluck. When he caught his own reflection in the knife his step-mother held as she tore his wounds open again, that’s when he realized he hadn’t healed at all.

And that’s only a portion of his fears. He still grapples with the fact that Yuji is everything Jin embodied, and yet he doesn’t recognize his father at all. Yuji knows Sukuna as his father, and that’s a whole other situation he’s still unpacking.

Is all that’s left of Jin truly the memories of a man still putting himself back together and two recovering kids who know his ghost?

Your hand on his chest draws him back to the present. “Take your time.”

His brow draws to a pinch. “I think I’m kinda all that’s left of his memory.” Voiced aloud, it’s enough to make him wince. “Dunno, it’s just been sitting weird with me, I guess.”

You nod slowly, searching for comfort, an answer– anything that might help. Nothing about life comes so easily, though. The silence is heavy, though you allow it to be. Its weight isn’t necessarily bad, even if it is difficult, as Sukuna works through his emotions in a healthy manner.

“Choso was young, but even if he doesn’t remember much, I don’t think that means you’re the only one left to remember him.” It feels a bit like an oxymoron, and Sukuna finds himself narrowing his eyes skeptically at you. “Just because Choso doesn’t remember everything doesn’t mean that Jin didn’t have an impact on him,” you point out, your thumb brushing his jaw ever-so-gently. “I didn’t know your dad, so I can’t say, but I’m sure you see a lot of him in Choso. Yuji, too. Even if they don’t remember specific moments, he’s still with them in different ways.”

Pulling you closer to his chest with strong arms, you feel him inhale, long and slow as he processes your words. He cradles your head against his chest, muffling your next words on accident as his fingers thread through your hair.

“There’s other ways to keep his memory alive, too.”

He shifts beneath you, crimson gaze evaluating your words.

“Have you ever visited him?”

“Visited… my dad? Not since the funeral.”

“Maybe visiting would help,” you shrug, pushing back on his chest to face him. “You could tell the boys stories about him, share the memories you have. Talk to him, maybe. It might help with…” you shrug. “Closure, or just getting things off your chest.”

The thought sits between you for a long time. Presented with smoothed edges and delicate petals, its underlying grief softened by your support. He sucks in a breath, nodding slowly. “Might be good for Cho n’ I.” He turns the thought over in his mind. “I don’t think Yuji would get it.”

“Maybe not, but learning about his birth dad doesn’t change what you are to him. He might like to know more.”

His adam’s apple bobs. His shoulders lift and fall. His thumbs rub small circles into your waist. “Would you come with us?”

You shift to get a look at him, catching a glimpse of his troubled expression. “Of course, if you want me there.”

“I do.”

He never could have imagined how small someone of his stature and bravado would feel, faced with the cemetery he’d chosen.

He’s never been here. In spite of choosing it, he never saw the plot himself. The proximity was always important to him since he told himself he would visit, but he never got to a point where he felt prepared.

Hell, he’s not even sure if he’s prepared now. He may finally be healing rather than bandaging the open wound, but it doesn’t make it easier. How is he meant to excuse five years without even visiting once? Guilt pools deep in the pit of his stomach, one that he only casts aside when he looks down at Choso, barely half his age and visibly nervous.

As you pull Yuji from the car seat Sukuna bought now that you’re together, the eldest offers his hand to the little boy shifting from side to side. Choso blinks, raising his line of sight to his tattooed brother.

“Y’alright?” Sukuna gruffs as the little boy takes his hand.

The brunette nods, a question raised to the tip of his tongue. “Is dad buried here?”

Sucking in a breath, Sukuna nods. “Somewhere in here, yeah.”

Processing that information, Choso blinks as he looks over the rows of headstones. “I didn’t know he got buried.”

There it is. That pang again, bitter guilt settling sour at the back of his throat. “Yeah. Sorry, Cho.”

Although the boy doesn’t respond to his brother’s apology, he’s perceptive as ever as he narrows his attention on his older brother. “Are you okay?”

The question hits just as heavily now as it did when he would ask at only seven years old. The difference now is that Sukuna is okay and he knows how to navigate things now. Mostly. In spite of the swirling guilt and fear in his stomach, he cracks a smile and ruffles Choso’s hair. The little boy ducks away with a mild scowl as his older brother replies. “Yeah, I’m good.” Sucking in a breath, he reminds himself that this doesn’t have to be sad. He’s here to share stories from his father’s life, to share the warmth Jin imparted upon all three of his sons. “You good, Cho?”

Choso peers up at Sukuna as he fixes his hair, pushing it back out of his face behind his ears. “I’m good, too.”

With Yuji on your hip, you make your way around to the brothers, proud of the progress they’ve both made.

Their recoveries are long and winding, and they both struggle with sleep still. Choso’s reservations aren’t difficult to read and there are still days where you and Sukuna abandon your dates in an effort to comfort the boy. Sukuna’s struggles are quieter. He gets that distant look in his eye every so often and there are days where routines are forgotten within the fog of his mind.

But as you watch the eldest ruffle Choso’s hair, that signature brotherly scowl taking its place on the boy’s face, you know that they’ll continue along their paths. Slowly but surely, they’ll find their ways with your support and that of all of their friends.

As Sukuna cranes his neck when he catches you in his peripherals, his gaze drops to Yuji in your arms, his expression relaxing.

It’s not just those two slowly finding their ways either. Yuji still hasn’t fully come to terms with the fact that an adult could willingly lie to him. He’s noticeably quieter around those he doesn’t know, but he’s finding his confidence again too.

You’re proud of them, all three of them. You’re proud of yourself, too. Your own confidence has grown tenfold and you find yourself much more sure of things these days. Some might say you spend too much time with the stubborn and boastful tattooed man you’ve grown to call home, but there’s more to it than that.

Over the past year, everyone you’ve chosen to surround yourself with has built up your certainty in the respect you know you deserve. You’re still the same sweet woman who gives everyone the benefit of the doubt– as there’s often more to one than meets the eye– but you don’t let anyone take that kindness for granted.

“Ready?” You face the two boys.

Your boyfriend nods, trying to pat Choso’s head again, only for the boy to duck away once more. You stifle your laughter at the sweet sight as Sukuna leads the way towards the back quarter of the cemetery.

Summer is in full swing. The grass is long and lush, just beginning to show evidence of the recent dry spout. A faint breeze rustles it, blades shifting against well-maintained stones that sit among it. It’s a gorgeous day, the kind that feels as though the world, too, is ready to celebrate the memories of the man who raised Sukuna.

Your gaze travels across the variety of headstones as the brute searches the rows for a familiar name. They range in height, size, and simplicity, with some sporting designs and carvings, while others are more simple, but both remain elegant. Moss creeps into the crevices of older stones, betraying their age, though they’re broadly well-kept and legible.

As Sukuna and Choso silently traverse the plots, you chat with Yuji behind them.

“Can we invite Nobara to my birthday?”

“Anyone you want, honey.”

“So we can invite my whole class?”

Sukuna flashes you a concerned glance at the concept of nearly thirty kids potentially running around his condo, even if he does have more space now. To his dismay, you smile at the little boy sweetly. “Of course we can.”

“Oh! Oh! And Toru, Toji, and Rume?”

“We can invite them too,” you assure him. “They’re all pretty busy though, so just remember they might not be able to stay the whole time.”

“I know, but Toru said he likes dinos so he’ll love the theme!” He insists.

Sounds about right.

“As long as Satoru is gone before the cake comes out,” Sukuna grumbles ahead of you, the amused lilt to his tone giving away his complete lack of disdain.

“Why?” Yuji tilts his head quizzically.

“He’d eat the whole cake,” the eldest gravely delivers what might be the worst news an almost-birthday-boy could hear.

Yuji’s face drops into a pout. “Why? That’s mean.”

“It is,” Sukuna agrees in a faux forlorn tone. “He’s addicted to sweets, though.”

Yuji bounces back quickly, going over the details he wants for his sixth birthday when at last Sukuna and Choso come to a stop ahead of you. The youngest trails off from his spot in your arms, twisting to get a look at what everyone stopped for. You set him on his feet, stretching out your arms after carrying him for so long. You’ve only known him for under a year, but he’s already gotten so much bigger that your heart twists at the thought.

Sukuna takes a seat first, settling cross-legged in the grass. “C’mere,” he holds a hand out to the youngest brother whose face is knit with concentration as he tries to sound out the name on the headstone in his mind. In spite of his visible confusion, he takes his brother’s hand, sitting in his lap while you and Choso take a seat on either side of him.

Sukuna’s silent for a long time, his expression pulled into a thoughtful scowl. Yuji, somewhat restless in Sukuna’s lap, doesn’t understand whose grave he’s sitting at, if his expression is anything to go off of, but he seems to have a grasp of the general idea of where he is and that he’s related to whoever the space belongs to.

The silence stretches on for a long time, scarcely interrupted by anything aside from the occasional noise from the road in the distance or a bird chirping overhead. There’s weight to the stillness surrounding you, but you shoulder it with your boyfriend, supporting him with a gentle palm on his back. His form rises and falls slowly beneath your hand, and with one final long inhalation, he shifts to pull something from his pocket.

You had suggested bringing flowers, but he’d decided on something else. A small candle rests in his palm when he shifts to sit upright once more. It’s a warm vanilla scent, the kind that makes you think of baking and a house filled with family.

Yuji makes no complaints as the eldest leans over him to place the candle in front of the grave. His hand finds the chest pocket of his button-up shirt, pulling from it the familiar lighter he continues to carry with him every day, even since he quit smoking. His thumb brushes the engraved name, and you see now why he opted for a candle over flowers as he lights it.

With the lighter sitting beside the candle and the scent of vanilla warming the wind, your boyfriend sucks in a breath. “Hey, Dad.” His voice is hoarse with that sort of gravelliness that suggests tightness in his chest. “It’s Yuji, Choso, and uh– Ryomen. And I wanted you to meet my girl, too. If you’re out there.”

You can hear his hesitation, his struggle to speak so openly without ever receiving an answer. Regardless of his beliefs, there’s something freeing about putting thoughts out in the open, no matter how difficult.

“Wish you could be here to see ‘em grow up.” He pauses briefly, casting a glance at you as he introduces you by name. “She’s an angel. Still not sure how I deserve her, but I ain’t taking her for granted.”

Your hand slips from his back as you lean into him to give him your support. Your head rests against his shoulder, your presence grounding him as you silently show your appreciation for him.

“You’d love her, I know it.” He lets the thought hang for a moment, casting a warm glance in your direction. His attention shifts as he leans back somewhat to face Yuji’s mild perplexion. “Has Cho told you much about your dad?”

Yuji shakes his head, glancing sidelong at Choso as though uncertain. This whole ordeal must be confusing when for much of his life, Sukuna has corrected him time and time again that he’s simply a brother, though that never seemed to click for the little boy. In Yuji’s mind, Sukuna’s his parent. His dad. You don’t know what he thinks of Kaori’s relation to him these days, but you can imagine his experience with her might leave him with resignations about Jin.

“Jin was your dad. Your first one,” Sukuna opts to try to explain it to the boy, coming to peace with the idea of being Yuji’s dad and older brother. This seems to sit easier with Yuji as he turns to face the headstone, a short and sleek one that reads simply ‘Jin Itadori, devoted father’. It’s elegant in spite of its simplicity. “He used to say I was his clone, but you look even more like him,” he gruffs, ruffling Yuji’s hair. The little boy’s features are far rounder than Sukuna’s, closer to the images you’ve seen of Jin.

“Jin…” Yuji tests the name, staring back at the headstone. “Jin and Kaori are my mom and dad?”

Sukuna nods slowly. “They were. Now you’ve got me, though.”

Yuji peers up at Sukuna, over to Choso, then sidelong to you. He blinks at you for a moment, immediately tacking your name on to Sukuna’s statement as well.

Sukuna doesn’t reply immediately, craning his neck to see you already staring up at him, your cheek pressed into his shoulder. When you don’t deter Yuji’s statement, Sukuna slowly nods. “Yeah. Her, too.”

Reassured of his place in the world, Yuji shifts to face the headstone again. Whether he understands the weight of loss is a mystery, but what he does understand is the warmth in shared memories. “What was he like?”

The tension leaves Sukuna’s shoulders as he falls back on familiarity. “A lot like you n’ Cho,” he begins warily, gaining confidence slowly but surely as he continues. “He was always happy, no matter what. Loved to chat like you,” Sukuna nudges his little brother, earning a smile. “He was real thoughtful and’ kind like Cho, too.”

There’s a gleam in Choso’s gaze as his brother speaks. He averts his eyes quickly, quietly bringing his hand up to his cheek in a betrayal of his quiet tears.

The eldest is no expert in feelings or comfort, but he pulls Choso into him. The little boy’s shoulders quietly shake, though Sukuna never makes a point of calling it out. If Yuji notices, he chooses to leave Choso in peace.

“He was a history teacher,” Sukuna continues.

“Like you!”

“Since when am I a teacher?” Comes the familiar snark you’re used to when it comes to the siblings, breaking up the bittersweet emotions of the day. Even Choso shakes his head in amusement.

“Oh,” Yuji’s lips purse, left in a little ‘O’ for a moment. “Just the history part,” he decides.

Sukuna hums, letting out a breath. “Yeah. I took after him in that way. We didn’t have a lot in common, but he still got me. He was a great dad.”

“Did he like basketball?” Yuji tilts his head thoughtfully. “Or football? Or hockey?”

Sukuna chuckles, giving the question a response in the form of a wave of his hand. “I think the three of us took up most of his time, but he watched Toji play whenever he could. I’d see him watching a game every now and then on TV too.”

Just like that, you all fall into a steady back and forth. Tears are shed every so often by Choso and you feel your eyes welling up as Sukuna shares stories of moments from when Choso was so young he could barely speak.

He tells them about the time he put tinfoil in the microwave and nearly lit the house on fire if it weren’t for his father. He tells them about a time where Toji tried (or succeeded, you suppose) to jump from the roof and broke his ankle. He can’t give a reason as to why Toji ever thought that might be a good idea, but you suppose given what Sukuna told you of his scars, that checks out. He tells them about how Jin was more than willing to drive Toji to other cities for games that Toji’s parents wouldn’t take him to. How he was the kind of person who always put Sukuna first, and Toji by extension.

He tells them about what it was like to hold Choso for the first time. How scared he was to be an older brother, because by that point he’d become somewhat of a delinquent. He leaves out the reasoning behind that, but you know. He tells them about how picky Choso used to be. The kind of pickiness that would leave his father defeated and letting his child eat cereal for the third meal in a row because Choso would bawl.

Choso shakes his head adamantly, unable to remember a moment of this, but Sukuna insists upon its reality.

He tells them about how equally unprepared he felt as a teenager holding Yuji for the first time. How the youngest felt worlds away, so many years younger, but Jin looked at the three of them like they were his world and he was just the moon to revolve around them.

He tells his brothers the memories he holds most dear, and finds himself holding onto his them tightly as even Choso recalls a few stories.

Choso finds his confidence too at some point, wiping his tears and swallowing his fear. He talks about learning to read with Jin, learning to ride a bike, and Jin accidentally allowing his five-year-old to watch Aliens by falling asleep with the TV on. Sukuna’s brow furrows as he regards his little brother, immediately quizzing him on whether or not that’s the night Choso snuck into his room to sleep on the floor.

Choso shrugs with a meek smile, moving on to a memory of being scolded alongside Sukuna for– well, truthfully, he doesn’t remember. Sukuna’s head hangs as he recalls the incident, and that it wasn’t Choso’s fault at all. No, the poor kid had accidentally dragged the edge of his too-long pants through dripping wet graffiti art and tracked it all across the house, oblivious to it.

It’s a relief to see the brother laugh about it so many years later.

As years upon years of resentment and guilt are put out in the open, leaving behind room for true healing, the sun settles along the horizon. It casts pink and orange hues along low-hanging summer clouds that drift listlessly overhead. The clouds have an almost salmon-colored appearance that nearly matches Sukuna and Yuji’s hair– and Jin’s.

As stories leave room for silence and reminiscing, Sukuna sucks in a breath, patting Choso on the back. “You still wanna learn to make Chicken Parm?”

Choso eagerly nods.

“Right. Why don’t we do that?”

Pushing up off of the grass, Choso gets to his feet, offering a hand to Yuji. Before joining them, you lean up to Sukuna, lips close to his ear. “Do you want a moment with your dad?”

The ex-history major hesitantly glances at the headstone, his eyes falling to the near-burnt-out candle and the lighter sitting beside it. Decidedly nodding, you take Yuji’s hand and lead them away to give Sukuna space.

Though you can’t hear what he says, you see him pick up the lighter and tuck it back into his pocket as he speaks quietly. You keep a steady eye on him as you quiz Yuji on details for his birthday party and ask if Choso would like to invite someone too. Just as the brunette mentions someone from his class, Sukuna blows out the candle, taking it with him.

The tattooed man falls back into step with you as you all head back towards your car. Yuji asks Choso about his friend, giving you the opportunity to talk to your boyfriend.

He holds the candle up sheepishly. “He’d kick my ass if I littered,” he chuckles, a bittersweet tone to his rough voice.

Quietly observing the fresh lines of wetness he’s tried to wipe any signs of from his cheeks, you softly reply. “Somehow I get the feeling he wouldn’t.”

With a chuckle, he nods. “Yeah, you’re right. The slap on the wrist still would’ve sucked, though.”

“Nothing’s worse than parental disappointment,” you agree.

Your boyfriend snorts, shifting the candle to his opposite hand to thread his fingers between yours.

“How do you feel after today?”

A muscle in his jaw works as he contemplates how he is feeling after such an emotional day. “Tired,” he admits truthfully as the day catches up to him now that you’re headed back to the car. The day’s been emotionally draining for him, you’re certain. “But… good.”

Your boyfriend’s never been one to give away how he feels so openly, often having to read between the lines. You suppose it’s why you’re quietly observing him now. His gaze is dulled with the tiredness he admitted to, but his shoulders and entire demeanor seems lighter. Like a weight he’s shouldered for the past five years has finally let up, leaving room for him to tend to wounds long-overdue.

So… good seems fitting, overall.

You smile warmly, sliding closer as you keep pace with him. His hand instinctively drops your hand in order to encircle your shoulders and pull you closer. “That’s good,” you hum, leaning into his personal space further if it’s even possible. “Because I can help with the pasta but I have no clue how to make battered chicken.”

His face falls into a scowl at the realization that he’s signed on for a long night of cooking when he’s emotionally worn down before the sun fully sets. Not to mention breaded chicken means cooking oil, and his brother is still twelve, which means… He huffs, raking a hand back through his hair. “So be it,” he grumbles at your side.

“We can work together.”

His shoulders loosen. “Thanks, princess.” He lowers his lips to the crown of your head, at ease as you grin up at him. It’s that brilliant smile and the never-ending chatter of his little brothers (well, Yuji) that reminds him how endlessly lucky he is. The very same three people that bring him happiness.

“Ryomen suits you, you know.”

“Hm?” Your boyfriend is snapped back to reality at the sound of your voice. “I always thought it felt too formal.”

“Is that why you went by Ryo?”

He shakes his head. “Toji chose it. Ryomen was hard to pronounce when we were like four,” he snorts. “Guess it caught on.”

“You know,” you muse, “I was never really sure if you liked when I called you that.”

You catch crimson-ringed pupils curiously examining your expression as you speak. “I didn’t mind it.”

“What about now?”

He glances down at the grass underfoot, watching it flatten beneath each step. “Dunno. Think I kinda like it when it’s you.”

He hums when you press more of your weight into his side, promptly squeezing you tighter. “Good to know, Ryo,” you tease, pleased to spot his smirk in spite of the weariness of the day clinging to his muscles.

As the rows of headstones shift into longer blades of grass and a variety of unkempt weeds, you bask in the warmth of mid-summer. Although the sun is setting, the warmth remains in the air, enveloping you on all sides. Well– that, and your bulky boyfriend acting as your personal heater.

As your phone vibrates in the pocket of your dress, you pull it out to glance at the message, your steps faltering as you lift it to take a look.

Sukuna’s gaze flickers between his brothers down the path and you, pausing a step ahead when your sudden stop catches his attention. “What’s up?”

You’re silent for a moment as you pull up the text you received, your face falling with every word. With another glance over his shoulder to check on his little brothers, your boyfriend strides towards you, stopping a breadth away. Your gaze rises from the screen, briefly settling on the unfair way that his dress shirt strains against his chest.

Blinking yourself back to reality, you fix him with a frustrated pout. “The landlord for the place I really wanted just told me they went with someone ‘more stable’,” you groan, throwing your hand in the air to make quotation motions with your fingers. “Like, are you kidding?”

Sukuna hums, something between acknowledgement of your frustration and agreement that you’re about as stable of a tenant as someone could get. He steps forward, cradling you against his chest with a hand on the back of your head and one running soothingly up and down your back. Your muffled groan in his chest has him smirking. “How long do you have to find a new one?”

“Eight days,” you mumble, still muffled. Pulling back to take a breath and look up at him, you grimace. “I think I’m gonna have to move into Shoko’s dorm for a bit.”

His expression blanks for a second, before twisting into a scowl. “Shoko’s dorm?”

“Yeah, I’ll just sleep on the floor until I can–”

“The fuck am I, chopped liver?”

His delivery has you struggling not to laugh, resting your forehead on his chest briefly. “Kuna, we’ve only been dating for a month and a half, I can’t ask that of you.”

His brow raises. “What, so my friendship isn’t worth shit?” He sarcastically gruffs, his lip curled in a mocking snarl.

“You know that’s not what I mean!” You playfully shove his chest. He doesn’t budge, unless you count his snarky expression smoothing into a grin. “I did think about that, but…” worrying your lip between your teeth, you examine his expression for a moment.

Something thoughtful gleams within the cerise pools of his eyes as they flicker back and forth between yours, awaiting the rest of your sentence.

“There’s just a lot going on right now. You just moved, your second job is still pretty new, the boys go back to school soon and we haven’t been together that long,” you offer your reasoning. “I didn’t wanna add me crashing with you for a bit to your plate.”

“Princess.” He says it like all of the very valid reasons you just listed mean nothing to him. “You’ve been at my place almost every day this week anyway. Your clothes are all over my fuckin’ dresser and there’s three tubes of makeup with my toothbrush.”

“Sorry,” you wince, “I can–”

“That’s not a bad thing.” He leans closer to you, his brow pulled tight, the look he gets when he’s serious. “I like it that way. Come crash at my place n’ if you find a place you like, great, if not,” he shrugs.

He likes the way his brothers’ belongings make his place feel more like home. He wouldn’t mind adding yours to the chaos as well. He enjoys the comfort you bring to his calamity.

It takes a moment for his words to settle, the thoughts hanging loose in the air like dust mites. The gravity of them hits you all at once. “Are you asking me to move in?”

Again, his shoulders lift and fall. “I know it’s kinda soon, but you’ve been livin’ in and out of my place for a few months before I asked you out anyway with my overnights n’ shit.” His jaw ticks as he clenches and unclenches it, giving away a modicum of his nerves. “You don’t have to, you can get your own place if you want, or if this is too much then just ignore my dumb ass.” His cheeks are tinged in a faint pink as his foot intentionally scuffs the grass beneath him, pulling up debris along with it.

Stunned into silence, you brandish a wide-eyed stare as you face your man. There’s such a boyish quality to him with his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks, the flush to his cheeks and the pull to his brow you’ve grown used to. It’s so sweet you can’t help your eager grin.

“Alright.”

His head whips up to stare at you. “Alright?”

“Yeah. I’ll stay with you, and if I don’t find a place, then,” you shrug, mirroring his original actions. Everything about the interaction feels dorky. Like two people so in love that it only feels natural to want to be together so soon.

“You don’t have to,” he quickly backtracks as though he might scare you away. Like this is somehow the scariest thing he’s ever proposed to you.

“I want to.”

“You’ll never have a gourmet meal again, you know. Chicken fingers and pizza are kinda our staples.”

You laugh wholeheartedly, eyes crinkling at the corners as you tilt your head at him. “I think I can manage.”

Sukuna’s expression softens as he stares at you, a lopsided smile still plastered to his face that’s so sheepish it almost doesn’t belong. “You’ll never be safe from whatever plagues Yuji brings into the house.” He tacks on more baggage, each warning serving as a wall you slowly tear down.

“I have a pretty good immune system.”

His gaze averts briefly. “You’ll know every fuckin’ word to Ice Age.”

“I’m pretty sure I already do.”

“Even the–”

“Kuna.” You interrupt him softly, stepping forward to cup his face with your hands. Your thumbs brush the apple of his cheeks as you feel the way his jaw clenches under your palms. He swallows hard, his lips pulling into a thoughtful frown. “You’re not gonna scare me off.”

He lifts one hand from the pocket of his slacks, his long fingers wrapping gently around one of your wrists. He holds you for nothing more than purchase.

“Like I told you before, I knew what things would be like before we ever started dating. I know you put your brothers first and I know that means we won’t always get to go on dates or have fancy dinners.” Your brow pinches as you fix him with your narrowed gaze. “You know that. Why are you trying to scare me off?”

Had you blinked, you might have missed the split second where his fears flashed within his eyes, quickly covered by that hardened expression he’s trained over the years. His jaw tightens as he stares down at you, unable to offer any real explanation. He supposes in spite of actively working to better himself, he still doesn’t see himself as enough.

His brain acted on self-sabotage before he could think twice about it, as though that might somehow do him any good. His brow pulls tightly together, a huff leaving his chest rising and falling heavily.

Dragging his attention back to you by shifting your hands just enough to tilt his head up to you, you offer a kind smile. “Stop doing that. I told you I love you for all of you, not just a part of you. That includes your family.”

He blinks once, twice, then straightens, inadvertently pulling his face from your palms as he stares at you with saucer-wide eyes. Crimson pools swim with shock as his pupils dart across your face. He watches as you freeze, suddenly coming to the realization of what you said.

“Sorry, I, um– It’s probably too early to be saying that, I–”

“You love me?” His voice is a low, deep gravelly tone that makes your chest flutter amidst the waves of concern washing over you.

“I, um–” You hesitate, searching for anything to look at beyond the intensity of his sanguine gaze. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I have for a while. I mean, even before we started dating, all the hugs and hand holding and–”

He saves you from any further explanations by tugging you towards him by the elbow. You collide with the expanse of his broad chest, your words harshly cut off as your fingers curl into the material of his dress shirt. He’s never been one for words, opting instead to tilt your head up with a hand on the back of your neck, the other wrapped firmly around your middle.

He pours the words that don’t come naturally to him into the way his lips move against yours, and the soft hum he lets out when your lips part for him. He tastes of morning routines, distinct notes of coffee and mint laced within the kiss in spite of it being near evening. You melt into it, savouring the taste of his adoration, of something more, as he holds you close.

When he finally pulls back, you feel his lips part, brushing yours. His eyes flutter open, rife with the day’s emotions from mourning and remembrance to new beginnings and nerves, but shining through his dark circle-rimmed gaze is something more. “I love you too.”

You can feel his heart racing beneath your fingers, just as you’re sure he feels yours. Your pulse could give his a run for its money, both fighting for a place on the podium. The sound of the words falling from the lips he just kissed you with has you sucking in a breath, a bubbly laugh escaping you.

He grins, that same boyish charm crossing his face as he kisses you again. “I think we’re still doin’ shit completely outta order, princess.”

Your laughter grows as you nod your agreement. “I think usually the ‘I love you’s are supposed to come before you ask me to move in.”

“Yeah, well…” He shrugs, but his smile doesn’t fade. “I also kissed you before we went on a date so what the fuck ever,” he gruffs in a grumpy tone he uses to cover up his giddiness as his thumb brushes your jaw.

“I guess that’s–”

“Kunaaaaaa!!” Yuji’s voice interrupts from across the remaining field where the grass and path converge into a parking lot. “Hurry up!”

“Patience, brat!” The brute throws over his shoulder with a frustrated grunt as though it isn’t the two of you keeping the kids waiting.

Giggling at your standoffish boyfriend, your fingers curl around his hand, giving him a small tug in the direction of the kids. “Shall we?”

He huffs, taking your hand and pressing what might be the grumpiest kiss on earth to the top of your head. You know he’s just emotionally drained and running on the fumes your love provides, but there’s something sweet in the way his frustration is never any more than surface level with the three of you. He knows to pick his battles now, even if sometimes he picks them wrong. Still, he rarely picks them with the three of you.

“What took you so long?” Yuji groans, tugging incessantly on your car door as though it might make you fish your keys out faster.

“Stop, Yuji,” Sukuna chides, frowning when Yuji does the opposite, practically hanging off of your car door’s handle. “Brat. Stop.”

You exchange a glance with Choso, stifling your laughter at the oldest and youngest, practically always at odds with one another.

When Yuji smiles triumphantly as though he’s won their little scuffle when the door opens, you glance over at Sukuna once before getting in the car. Defeat is written within the creases of his irritation, but there’s a noted difference in the way he still seems at ease compared to when you first met him that softens your smile.

He catches your stare, and although his expression doesn’t change, the corner of his lip briefly twitches. You catch the fire kindled behind his eyes in the moment before he starts arguing with his brother again over the car seat the youngest hates. It’s the kind of flame you always knew was there, but getting to see it for yourself in his day to day?

That’s the greatest gift you could ask for.

–

“Girl, what am I supposed to do without you?”

Your brows raise at Yuki through the screen. “Work?”

“You’re the most fun person in the office and you’re still no fun,” she groans, pouting.

“I’m only gonna be gone for one day!” You insist, shaking your head at her dramatics. You should really introduce her to Satoru, Suguru, and Toji. The four of them would be a wrecking ball out on the town, in the best way you can imagine. “You literally won’t even notice I’m not there.”

Slumping back in her chair on-camera, she twirls a pen between her fingers. “I’m so jealous though, for real. It’s so nice out, you picked the perfect weekend to take an extra day.” Haphazardly letting her pen hit her desk, she sits upright again. “Are Sukuna’s little brothers excited?”

“You have no idea,” you laugh. “Yuji hasn’t stopped talking about it all week. They’ve never been camping before and Yuji’s never had a vacation like this.”

“Oh my god, that’s too cute. His first big vacation!” With stars in her eyes, the blonde grins. “You just know he’ll remember this forever.” She sits upright suddenly, a hand splayed in front of her laptop. “Wait, did you see the headlines about that Kamo asshole?”

You laugh. “You should have seen Sukuna. He was called back to court to testify against Kamo and his wife and you would actually have thought the world was ending.”

Yuki’s eyes go saucer-wide. “And you didn’t think to tell me? I can’t believe they pulled that.” Before you can even reply, she’s going on again. “Wait, why wouldn’t he wanna go testify? I mean he’s like, probably the reason they’re getting divorced and have to serve a sentence.”

“I wanted to tell you!” You insist through laughter, gesturing insistently with your hands before the screen. “We had to keep everything quiet. And honestly, I think he’s just had enough of courts and lawyers for a lifetime.”

She groans. “That’s fair, it’s so stressful. Poor guy.”

Nodding your agreement, you cast a glance over the screen towards your home office door where a pair of deep brown eyes are curiously peering at you. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“Lucky,” Yuki sighs. “I should get back to work anyway. See you Tuesday, have fun girl! Oh, and tell Sukuna thanks for fixing my car!”

“Will do, see you later Yuki!”

As the call ends and you shut your laptop, you lean forward over your desk. “What’s up, Cho?”

He pushes his head through the door, his hair pulled up into the buns you taught him how to style. Over the two years since you and Sukuna began dating, Choso’s confidence has grown exponentially. Not unlike the oldest, he’s still quiet, but he’s bright-eyed and starting to find his way just short of fifteen years old.

He’s taken after Sukuna in a lot of ways, his interests leaning towards the more artistic side of things. Punk music is a staple to be heard from down the hall, particularly Green Day if the shirt hanging from his shoulders is anything to go off of. He even started cooking classes last year and at this point you’re willing to say he might even be better than you at some dishes.

“Hana wants to know if I can go out for a bit?”

“Go ahead honey, just be back by six.”

He’s already darted from the room, the door swinging open behind him as he throws an “okay!” over his shoulder.

Smiling warmly, you note the time. It’s not too long before Sukuna should be back, so you figure it’s a good time to get some preparation done for your trip.

The kitchen is a bit of a mess with a cooler off to one side, the freezer held shut with tape after Sukuna bought two bags of ice for said cooler, and a variety of food he didn’t want to forget spread across the counter. As you take in the sight, you realize he must have done a majority of the preparation before you even woke up today, because even the sleeping bags and tent have already been pulled out.

You smile to yourself at how thoughtful your boyfriend continues to be. More often than not, you find yourself wishing he would actually let you help, but he always insists on taking the brunt of the chores. He never gives much more of an explanation than a shrug and the insistence that it’s still less work than he’s used to and that’s thanks to you.

Still, you’re sure to grab the things he might have forgotten– marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate are a must, as well as flashlights, extra blankets, and camping chairs.

Thank god you rented a small camper to fit everything.

With everything set out, both boys out with friends, and time to spare before Sukuna gets home, you settle atop your bed to read for a bit.

You can tell the moment Sukuna walks through the door. It shuts with relative quiet, but he kicks his shoes off haphazardly and his steps are heavy as he makes his way up the stairs in search of you.

Peering over your book as you await the brute’s appearance at your bedroom door, you smile before he even comes into sight. The years since you’ve met have been kinder to him. His muscle remains, but he’s softer around the edges. Dark circles don’t haunt him like some sort of cartoon villain that never seems to be truly defeated, and his shoulders rest more evenly these days.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t a big old burly cat with how tired he still seems to be. The sight of your smile has his lidded and mild expression relaxing into something almost serene as he tugs his glasses from the bridge of his nose. Folding them, he sets them on the desk at the entrance to your shared bedroom, collapsing forward on the edge of the bed. His head rests on your stomach, arms wrapped around your thighs with a long sigh of relief muffled by your hoodie.

You giggle at the sight, setting your book aside as you thread fingers through strands of pale pink hair. He hums in delight, shifting his face so that his cheek rests on your stomach.

“Long day, Kuna?”

He lets out another sigh, his eyes fluttering shut contentedly as your fingers continue rubbing small circles into his scalp. “Spent most of the day doing figure drawing n’ color theory,” the art major mumbles.

“I can tell,” you giggle, gently scratching dried paint from his cheek. He twitches under your touch, cracking an eye open as he smiles. “Yuki said thanks for fixing her car, by the way.”

“Mm. Tell her thanks for the time off. Maya, too.” You can feel the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders against your thighs, fairly sure he would have a nap right now if he had the time. “Where’re the brats?”

“Choso left to hang out with Hana not that long ago and Toji has Yuji at his team’s practice. They should be back soon and I told Cho to be back by six.”

“Right, Toj’s practice is today,” he murmurs, yawning. “How could I forget?” He snorts to himself as he recalls Yuji practically rattling with excitement at the idea of sitting on the sidelines of Toji’s practice. He can only imagine what the kid would think of seeing a league game from the sidelines, particularly now that Toji’s not a rookie anymore after having been fortunate enough to get a contract with the local team.

Your agreement comes in the form of a chuckle, making your boyfriend smile.

“Thanks for setting everything out this morning, Kuna. You didn’t need to do that.”

He holds up more of his weight on his elbows, blinking his crimson gaze open to examine your expression. Still weary, he leans his cheek against your inner thigh. “Wanted to.”

“What if I wanted to?”

He smirks. “You weren’t awake. Sucks.”

Shoving his forehead, you watch with glee as his smirk turns to a grin. He crawls over you, caging you into the mattress. Recognizing his shit-eating grin, you hold his biceps as though you might be able to prevent the inevitable. “Kuna, wait, please–”

“Cute,” he presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “But nah.”

Contorting yourself to press against his chest and attempt to use your knees to block him, you use all of your might to try to keep him away from you, but he’s too strong. “Wait, wait wait wait please–” His hands find your sides as he tickles you relentlessly, thrown into a fit of laughter that you can’t do anything about.

“Thought you knew my girl shouldn’t have to lift a finger, hm?”

“Kuna– Please ohmygod–” You plead, relentlessly pressing against his biceps, though it’s all for naught.

“Too much, princess?” He mocks, chuckling as you nod through your laughter. He finally lets up, letting you collapse into the mattress, panting as your laughter subsides.

“You’re a dick,” you groan.

“Mhm,” he agrees warmly, pecking your cheek before pushing upright onto his feet.

As you stare at the ceiling, he makes his way around the room, moving back and forth from the closet as he checks to make sure he has everything he’ll need. As you let your poor abdomen recover after his vicious attack, you help him work through a list to make sure he has everything, when he abruptly turns to you after searching for something.

“Is that my hoodie?”

“Mhm!”

“Give it back.”

“But I like it.”

He huffs. “Fine.”

The front door rattles open shortly after, followed by shrill laughter that saves you from any further grumbling over stealing his favorite hoodie.

You suppose you shouldn’t be shocked when you hear your name and Sukuna’s both called one after another repeatedly, growing louder as the youngest Itadori approaches your bedroom.

“Don’t just barge in–” Toji gruffs behind Yuji, but it’s already too late. He bursts through the door to find Sukuna staring over his shoulder from the closet with a raised brow while you wave at the intruders from your spot on the bed. “Shit, sorry.”

Unlike Choso, Yuji has taken after not just Sukuna, but Toji and Satoru too. For better or for worse, he’s got all the bravado of Sukuna and Toji, with all of the energy of Satoru. He looks up to the three of them (and you) so much that a good majority of his interests are bits and pieces of each of you. Sports, skateboarding, and your keenness for crafting are all pieces of himself moulded around each of you. He’s also gotten so much taller that you can only imagine how tall he’ll be once he’s Choso’s age.

You’re fairly certain both of them will be taller than you before you even know it.

“It’s all good,” you brush Toji off, the poor man variably soaked in sweat from the summer’s heat alongside his practice. “How’d it go?”

Yuji pridefully holds up a scuffed football, running towards Sukuna to show him. “Look what uncle Toji gave me!” He exclaims, grinning from ear to ear.

Holding his hand out to take it, you watch as Sukuna’s mild expression twists into a telltale scowl when Yuji pulls it back before his older brother can grab it.

“I said look!”

“What’d we say about sharing?” Sukuna growls at the youngest, holding his hand out expectantly.

The little boy pouts, holding the ball close to his chest before relenting. He places it gingerly in Sukuna’s hand, scuffing his feet against the carpet when Sukuna huffs and flips the ball in his hands to get a better look at it. It has the official league logo plastered across one side, granted it looks as though it’s been scraped hard across metal. Realistically, it probably has.

“That’s cool, Yu,” Sukuna relents, his anger fading though his voice has kept its rough quality. “You thank Toji yet?”

“Mhm!” Yuji nods proudly, glancing back at Toji. Toji nods his approval, arms folded over his chest as he leans against the doorway.

“Good,” Sukuna gruffs, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Now go get your shit ready, we’re leaving soon.”

“Stop swearing!” Yuji yells as he goes bolting past Toji with a quick hug before he races down the hall to his bedroom.

Sukuna shakes his head in exasperation. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, you giggle at the whole interaction. “Thanks for watching him, Toji. I’m caught up on work now so it shouldn’t be too bad by the time we get back.”

“Good shit. Here’re your keys,” he tosses the house key back at you. You nearly fumble it, but just manage to catch it before it drops to the blankets. “I’m dyin’ for a shower, so I’m gonna head out. You two have fun, yeah?”

“Thanks!” You call cheerily.

“I’ll see you out,” Sukuna follows shortly behind his best friend, a sight that still makes you smile.

With Toji gone and Choso returning shortly with a bright grin, you gather everything you need and load it into the camper as your trip enters full swing. Yuji chats through most of the drive while Choso stares out the window, ear buds narrowly keeping him from falling asleep in the back of the rental camper van. Sukuna hums every so often, though he remains focused on the road, his hand firmly planted on your thigh as his passenger princess.

Your destination is as lush and green as ever, the chatter of a nearby creek pleasant to your ears as Sukuna pulls into the lot you reserved. It’s one of the smaller plots, big enough only for a single tent and a car, but you’ll manage with the camper. The upside is that it’s completely isolated from the rest of the grounds.

Trees tower over you on all sides, giving way towards the back of the lot where the creek is undoubtedly tucked into the brush. There’s a spot that’s evidently been cleared of debris for a tent to be set up, while rocks loosely sit around a patch of ash and soot in the center of the lot.

“This is so cool!” Yuji exclaims excitedly, running off towards the sound of running water without so much as a glance back.

“Hey! Don’t go far!” Sukuna barks, a knot tied to his ever-present scowl as he slides open the side door of the van. “Cho?”

Like the amazing brother he’s always been, the fourteen-year-old follows after the youngest quietly, keeping an eye on the troublemaker. The art major lets out a forlorn sigh, shutting his eyes briefly. “That kid…” He mutters to himself.

Sidling up to him, you teasingly smooth out the crease between his eyes with a thumb. You suppose you earn the swat of his hand and further crease when he scowls at you, laughing as you fail to dissipate his frustrations. “They’ll be fine,” you assure him.

“Knock on wood,” he mutters, leaning forward to sort through your belongings in search of the tarp and tent.

“You were like that once too, I’m sure. Worse, probably. You had Toji instead of Choso,” you chide.

His movements pause momentarily, something reminiscent flashing through his eyes.

“See, you know I’m right!”

He cracks a smile, resuming his movements. “Alright, alright. They’ll be fine, you’re right.” Still, he’s half-expecting Yuji to return soaking wet after running through the creek or something of the sort.

He takes charge in clearing a patch of dirt for the tent and draping out the tarp while you pull out the chairs and food for the night’s dinner. As everything comes together, you notice with amusement that he seems to be struggling to put the tent up.

“Do you need a hand?”

“I got it,” he gruffs stubbornly.

He may be more reasonable and willing to ask for help these days, but he’s still that fiercely independent man you came to know. He’s still the man who figured things out and single-handedly entered parenthood and came out the other end in mostly one piece, no thanks to Kaori.

He’s still grumpy when he’s awoken from a nap, he scoffs when Satoru attempts to get a rise out of him and immediately strikes back with a witty retort, and he scowls down at his little brothers when he finds them (and every surrounding surface) covered in flour.

The difference is that he knows his limits now. He knows what he can handle on his own, but he also knows now that asking for help doesn’t hinder his independence or pride. He knows he can count on you and his friends to watch his brothers when he needs to be in the office or classes. He knows you’ll be there at three sharp to pick them up from school and he’ll happily return the favor with a nice dinner when he can.

You insist he doesn’t need to each and every time, but it’s not about that anymore. It’s not a case of Sukuna owing you, it’s gratitude. His ability with words is still nil, so he shows you that he’s grateful in other ways. He cooks, cleans, and he’s meticulous in not letting you overwork. He’s spent too much of his own life in that state to be willing to allow you to overwork yourself. He’s figured out how to convey his emotions in his own way.

Despite his insistence to do everything on his own, you quietly step in and help so that neither of you are overworked. You’re a team, and although Sukuna tries to take on more, you take care to do your part too and take care of the man who loves you so dearly he hates to see you lift a finger.

Stepping towards him, you pick up the instructions your boyfriend has (very typically) tossed aside and chosen not to read. Flipping through them, you point to the end of the pole he’s holding. “I think you’re missing a piece. It doesn’t have enough segments.”

His face scrunches up in confusion as he stares at the mess of parts around him, tossing the body  and stakes aside in search of another piece to attach to the pole. He huffs at the sight of one piece of the end of the pole tangled up in the body of the tent, managing at last to put it all together. You hold the material out in order to help him get it upright, letting him nail it into the ground while you gather the sleeping bags and your suitcases, leaving the boys’ bags in the van where they’ll be sleeping.

“Kuna Kuna Kuna, look what I found!” Yuji comes bolting through the trees straight towards Sukuna holding something suspiciously knife-shaped.

Your boyfriend fixes him with a horror-stricken stare at the sight as Choso runs out from the woods with an equally concerned expression.

“What the hell is that?” Sukuna queries, stepping forward cautiously.

“It’s a sword!” Yuji triumphantly claims, holding it towards the sky like a hero.

The dread on Sukuna’s face as he carefully snatches it away by the blade is like none other.

“Hey! That’s mine!” Yuji yells as the knife is held out of reach while the eldest examines it.

“Christ, no. You can’t have this back.”

“I found it first!” Yuji insists.

You can see the moment transpiring before it even happens. Poor Choso is doubled over after chasing after his brother and Sukuna is so busy examining the weapon that he doesn’t see Yuji on the verge of a breakdown.

Though he cries far less now, some things never change.

“Kuna, give it back!”

“No, brat, this is dangerous.”

Making your way over just as tears begin to prick at Yuji’s eyes and sniffles permeate the air, you kneel down before the seven-year-old. “Hey, your brother just doesn’t want you to get hurt,” you soothe, rubbing his arm gently.

Like the good brother he is, Choso makes his way over, too. Though he’s taken after Sukuna, one thing is for certain when it comes to the older Itadori. He’s far more emotional than your boyfriend. You get the feeling he got it from Jin, but he’s not unlike you in how he learned to handle it and his emotional intelligence, and you can’t say you aren’t proud of the progress he’s made.

“Do you wanna make the fire pit with me?” Choso offers when your soothing doesn’t seem to get through to Yuji, who wipes at the tears on his face.

“I want my sword.”

Choso nods in understanding. “We’ll need firewood. We could make one out of sticks.”

“Sticks aren’t as cool,” the youngest insists.

“Yeah but you know the knife you found was scary. We can’t play games with that.”

This makes the gears turn in Yuji’s mind and he pauses in thought, sniffling. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he decidedly nods. “Okay,” he agrees.

“Thanks, Cho,” you murmur with a grateful grin.

Choso smiles softly, offering his hand to his little brother as he guides the boy over to the spot where the ash and soot dictate the perfect place for a fire pit. As the boys busy themselves with the fire pit, you make your way over to Sukuna, still holding whatever the hell Yuji brandished a ‘sword’.

Sukuna’s grimace remains in place as his attention is pulled from the near-meltdown to you, and back to the knife.

“What did he find?” You curiously ask.

Holding the blade carefully out to you, your expression twists in horror. “A fucking rusty knife with a piece of hose for the handle,” he mutters, holding out exactly that. The handle is duct taped on and it seems dull at best, but it’s still horrifying for a seven-year-old to proudly hold towards the sky.

“Oh my god.”

“Mhmm. I’m gonna go throw this shit away,” he mutters, making his way towards the communal area of the campground.

As the boys create a firepit and wander around in search of firewood, you continue setting up. Your boyfriend helps when he returns, and before long everything is set for a fire just as the sun begins to set over the horizon.

Collapsing in the two-person camping chair with a contented sigh, you lean into the material. The boys have been gathering twigs and small logs for the fire for some time and you have a decent start to the fire, but no substantial wood. Sukuna takes it upon himself to gather some, shedding his shirt to your absolute delight as he makes his way over to the area where you’re allowed to chop trees.

When he returns with sweat-slicked muscles and tattoos that gleam under deep orange and pink hues, you chew on your lip as your gaze hungrily drags down his torso. Two years couldn’t possibly change the effect he has on you. Every time you see him shirtless is like the first and you find yourself giddy at the sight with warm cheeks. The difference is that you don’t avert your eyes anymore.

Sukuna loves every second of the attention, smirking as he catches you watching him wipe the sheen of sweat from his tan skin. He purposefully makes a show out of it, flexing his biceps as he never once lets his eye contact drop.

With a shy grin, your attention is simultaneously pulled back to Yuji excitedly calling Sukuna’s name once more. Exasperation twists his smirk into something more forlorn as he anticipates something crazier than a knife, only to find Yuji now holding a husk of corn out to him.

Something between relief and amusement has your man blowing a breath out from his nose. With a lopsided smirk, he pulls his shirt back on and ruffles his brother’s hair. “That’s cool, Yu. Where’d you find it?”

“On the ground! Can we cook it?”

“No,” Sukuna grimaces. “Not if you found it on the ground.”

“Why nooooot?” He whines.

The eldest sighs, redirecting Yuji’s excitement to the hot dogs you’ll be roasting over the fire now that everything is prepared. With newfound excitement, Yuji returns to Choso’s side with a wide grin, proudly holding the husk of corn out.

Plopping down beside you in the couples’ chair Sukuna very unsubtly bought for this trip, he lets his head fall back, letting out a long breath. “This shit’s exhausting,” he mutters.

Curling into his side, you smile as his arm wraps around you instinctively. The kids are running around opposite the fire and although Choso has outgrown many of the games he and Yuji used to play, he’s still the first to happily indulge his little brother’s wishes. It’s heartwarming to see the way he took on the role of the older brother over the years.

“It’s all about relaxation now that we’re all set up though,” you assure him.

“Yeah, until Yuji finds another knife.”

Your laughter dances through the air in tandem with the breeze and a smile comes easily to the art major. Lifting his head, his gaze slides down to you, warmly watching your lips curve into a gorgeous beam.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since you barged into his life. You never hesitated to extend your hand out to him when he scarcely deserved it, never failing to bite the hand offering such kindness.

Some part of him still fears that, years later. That his growth was all for naught. As though all of that ferocity and fear might take root once more and sting you like nettle, leaving behind scars to stare back at him every time he starts to think he might be the man he wants to be for you.

But there’s another, grander part of him that knows better. That for once, finally, he’s realized that maybe he doesn’t shine as brightly as you do, but he’s found a place within your solar system. At some point he fell into your orbit and while he can’t put a name to what he is, he knows every piece of the solar system is equally important now.

You can put a name to it, though.

Sukuna is the moon. Always there, whether you can see him or not, and just as reliable as the turn of night. He makes waves in your world, crashing against anything that dares to bring you down.

You balance one another. Chaos meeting order in a collision that fills your time with fun and relaxation in equal parts. But truthfully, there’s more to it than just that. Because he shines a light on those around him, too. He’s the kind of person who shines the brightest when he’s helping others, even if he’ll never see it that way.

You see it in Yuji’s smiles as he reaches for his older brother’s hand. You see it in the way Choso’s mild expression cracks into something thrilled upon being offered a fist bump. You see it in the quiet reverence he stares at you with when he thinks you don’t notice. His scowls may hide the light from others, but you see how bright your grumpy boyfriend truly is.

He buries his face into your hair, his breaths warm as they cascade over the crown of your head. “Y’think they’ll have fun?”

“They’re already having fun,” you point out, directing his attention to the two laughing boys darting through the trees like they own the wilderness.

His lips twitch upwards as he allows himself to relax, watching over the flames that lick the darkening sky. “Feels like just yesterday Cho was telling me I was mean.”

You tilt your head thoughtfully, pulling out from under his chin to get a better look at him, though you can’t recall a time where Choso called Sukuna mean to his face. “When was that?”

He hums as the memory comes to mind. “Guess you weren’t there. Can’t say I remember exactly what I said, but he was right n’ I deserved it. You’d left and I went to chase you in your car, but before I did, the kid told me I was mean.”

You let out a breath at the thought. You can’t say you know exactly what he’s talking about either, but it doesn’t sound out of character for when you first met the three brothers.

“It was the first word he’d said to me in…” he shakes his head and shrugs at once. “Fuck, I dunno. Three or four days, probably.”

“Right, after he found out about Kaori?”

“Mhm.”

You nod your understanding. “I really hope we never see her again.”

“Well, we’ve got three years, at least.”

Three years’ prison sentence. It doesn’t feel quite long enough for the fracture Kaori caused her own family, but between that and the divorce from Noritoshi leaving her with nothing, you’re just grateful to know life turned around to bite back for her misdeeds.

“Choso’s gonna be taller than me soon, I swear.”

“Soon?” Sukuna teases, shifting to sit fully upright to really drive his point home.

“He’s not taller yet!” You insist, tugging him back to your side by the collar. His chest rumbles as he snickers at your reaction, retaking his place as your cushion. “Do you think he’ll be taller than you?”

“Nah. My dad always said he was confused how I ever got so tall. Probably some genes on my mom’s side.” 

“Have you thought more about reaching out to her?” You query, approaching the subject carefully. Though Sukuna’s grown more comfortable speaking on difficult subjects, he still has the tendency to bottle things up and can be touchy, although he rarely gets truly angry these days.

He inhales, long and slow. “Yeah. But I’ve got all I need here.” He shakes his head, his focus trained on the crackling firepit before him. “I know there’s the possibility she won’t be like Kaori, but–” He shakes his head, his fingers curling into the plush of your waist. “I’d rather never know than know and have it be another mess.”

He’d spent so much time calculating the possibilities, weighing the pros and cons, but his mind always came back to you and the kids and the effect things could have if they were negative. Things are good, and he doesn’t need more than that. Maybe he can rekindle that relationship someday when the kids have moved out, but for now he’s got everything he needs.

“Whatever you choose, I support you,” you cheer from beside him.

He hums, content. “Thanks, ang–”

He’s interrupted by Yuji calling out to you both. “I’m hungry!”

“Come get hot dogs, then!” Sukuna calls back, grunting as he stands up to get everything set up. He takes his spot once more beside you as you all begin roasting hot dogs with Choso opposite you and Yuji in a kids’ chair opposite Sukuna positioned around the fire.

“Yuji’s gonna burn his hot dog,” you nudge the art major, who’s closer to the boy.

“Let him,” Sukuna replies, too smugly to be the response of a father, but rather a brother. “Needs to learn his lesson somehow.”

You give him a look, though at the end of the day, who are you to stop the brothers from bickering? If he wants to watch Yuji burn his own dinner and chuckle to himself, you’re not about to give him a hard time for playing the role of a conniving older brother.

The kid’s hot dog gets dangerously low to the fire as you chat about an upcoming movie Choso’s been wanting to see, and you’re forced to watch the base of the hot dog begin to singe. It rises steadily up with Yuji not noticing at all, until the whole hot dog is practically inedible.

Well, not practically.

You’re not letting him eat that.

Even if he tries.

Which… He might.

With a shit-eating grin, Sukuna nudges the leg of Yuji’s chair with his outstretched foot, jutting his chin out towards the roasting hot dog.

The whole thing is on fire when he brings it up, horror-stricken. “My hot dog!” The youngest pouts as his older brother stifles a laugh. “Kuna, fix it!”

“Fix what?” He snickers, “that shit’s destroyed.”

“You’re the adult, you’re supposed to make sure this doesn’t happen!” Yuji insists in the prideful way only a seven-year-old can manage.

Choso smiles in exasperated amusement as Sukuna ‘helps’ by taking the roasting stick from Yuji and dragging it over the rocks at the edge of the pit in order to pull the ashy food from it and let it burn in the fire.

“There. Now go get a new one.” He holds the stick back out to his frustrated brother with a challenge in his gaze. Laughing when the youngest lets out a little ‘hmph’ as he makes the walk of shame back over to the table you set the hot dogs on, you simply shake your head at the two who never fail to make a problem out of everything.

The night closes in on all sides with s’mores and scary stories courtesy of your boyfriend that you’re sure will cause more problems than it solves, but the warmth of the fire and the blankets you wrap around yourselves is worth every moment. Sparks flutter through the air, twinkling as brightly as the stars overhead.

After getting the boys settled in the camper and putting out the fire, you make your way over to the tent across the campsite in your own quiet corner. The top of the tent is clear, allowing you to see the stars overhead. You would be willing to bet Sukuna chose it on purpose just as he did the chair, always indulging your romantic whims.

Or maybe he’s just a romantic too under all of those layers of scowls and scorn.

He lifts an arm for you to curl into his side tucked under the sleeping bags, cozy in the heat of his bare chest.

“What the fuck? Why are your hands so cold?” He mutters, hissing as you wrap yourself in him. “Get those off of me.”

You giggle, insistently pressing yourself closer to him. His muscles tense beneath your freezing touch as he squirms away from your koala grip.

“Brat,” he murmurs, beginning to adjust to the cold. “‘S not even cold enough for this shit.”

“I just washed them,” you murmur through a yawn.

“Convenient,” he gruffs, staring up at the stars overhead. Rolling his shoulders, he lets out a long breath, shifting in an effort to get comfortable between your freezing hands and the firm camping mattress. It narrowly keeps you off of the pebbly ground, though Sukuna cushions much of that discomfort for you. You would protest for his comfort, but you know he won’t budge.

His hand settles atop your head, fingers threading through your hair. He feels your lashes flutter against his bare chest as he pulls you in, your quiet contentment making his lips twitch up. Glancing down at you in his arms, his fingers curl into the strands of hair tangled around his digits. He holds you tightly, a reminder of his promise to himself.

One to never let the nettle take root again. He won’t let it sting you, won’t let the jaws of the stray he once was clamp down on you. He’ll provide. For you, for his brothers. He’ll take care of you. He’ll be the man you deserve, while never being expected to be someone he’s not, for you accept him with his rough edges.

“Do you still remember much from your astronomy class?”

“Hm?” His gaze slides up to the night sky behind a thin layer of mesh overhead. His eyes trail lazily between the flickering lights, far brighter out here than the city could ever dream. His hand trails down your spine, pressing softly between your shoulder blades in a lazy massage. “I remember bits and pieces,” he offers. “The stars are a bit fuzzy but I know the history behind most of them.”

Your lips curl against the musculature of his chest. You suppose it makes sense he would know the history. “Tell me about them.”

He hums as he looks over the night sky, assessing what he can point out. After a moment, he moves. “See that really bright star just off to the side?”

You follow where he points. “Is that the north star?”

“No. I don’t remember what it’s called, but it’s the eye of an eagle named Aquila. It carried Zeus’ lightning bolts.” He moves his finger between stars, connecting them into a bird-like shape.

“Why does the god of thunder need his lightning bolts to be carried?”

Sukuna’s amusement comes in the form of his chest rumbling. “In the original myths, his bolts are like weapons. They’re forged for him and the eagle brings them back after he throws them. Like a dog bringing back arrows.”

You lift your head from his chest to fix him with a disbelieving stare, pulling more laughter from him. “I feel like I’ve seen him make lightning in like everything he’s in.”

Your boyfriend shrugs. “Probably. It’s more convenient for storytelling. Most other mythos’ gods of thunder can create them.”

“Huh,” you settle back onto his chest, your breasts pressing against his skin through the fabric of your shirt in a way that has his mind reeling. He peers down at you, shifting on the thin mattress again. His feet brush the end of the tent, clearly not intended for someone of his stature.

Clearing his throat, he carries on. “Near the bottom of the eagle is the Little Dipper, it’s pretty obvious.” He points to the ladle-shape in stars.

“It’s a bear, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Does it mean anything?”

His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Maybe. I don’t really know that one.”

“Where’s the Big Dipper?”

“Uh–” he squints at the sky. He knows it’s close to its smaller counterpart, but he can’t seem to make it out. “Dunno. It’s here somewhere, but I don’t see it.” He grimaces, scrutinizing the night sky. “I don’t see Orion’s belt either, which is one of the other obvious ones. I don’t think I’ve got any more for you, sorry angel.”

The kiss you press to his jaw is soft. The kind that makes his heart flip. The kind that has you grinning in his arms as you feel his pulse race under your head. “What’s Orion’s belt?”

“Three stars in a row. They make up the belt of the constellation Orion. He was a hunter, the constellation looks like a guy holding a bow.” His brow twitches as he recalls what he can of Astronomy, though he’s realizing it was always the mythology he cared about more and he knows next to nothing of the stars themselves. “I think one of the really bright stars might also be part of Euridice’s harp.”

“Oh! Like Orpheus and Euridice, that harp?”

He nods his affirmation with a content smile as you peer curiously up at him. You’re a picture of perfection in his arms. Without the noise pollution of the city and the lights beaming down into his apartment, his little slice of heaven feels like a dream. Here, out in the middle of nowhere under a blanket of stars and planets with the faint smell of pine that seeps through the cover of the tent, Sukuna feels his breath hitch as your eyes catch some sort of flicker in the dark.

There’s no golden shine of his lamp light that catches on your lashes or even the pale shine of the moon. You’ve been cast in pure darkness tucked within a pocket of trees, only visible now that the brute’s eyes have adjusted. You’ve shed the day’s makeup, one of Sukuna’s shirts swallowing your frame and he can faintly make out the bruise that you’ve been covering from the other day when you accidentally smacked your head against a cupboard in a flurry of putting dishes away and trying to calm Yuji down.

Everything about you is raw, and real, and you. Right down to the clumsy blemish on your temple where you collided with the cupboard door and pretended not to cry. You’re stunning in the kind of way that makes his heart clench. The way that reminds him that he has something to lose. The way that reminds him that he has something to live for.

He swallows hard at the thought as his gaze flickers across every little detail of your face.

You’re beautiful. And somehow, you’re his.

He doesn’t hesitate to pull you towards him, angling his neck to kiss you. His lips are slow but insistent, moving in the kind of way that feels like he’s drawing out the moment for as long as he can.

You glide your fingers across his broad chest, up over his shoulders as you grip the point where his tattoo disappears over the muscle. Tilting your head, your lips part for him, giving way for the soft groan that comes with his tongue brushing yours. Your breath comes out ragged as the guttural noise goes straight to your thighs.

Sliding your leg across him, Sukuna’s hands move to guide you to lay on his chest. He couldn’t care less how much you press him further into the firm mattress, his mind is elsewhere. Focused on you, you, you.

His hands roam your curves, thumbs moving smoothly over your hips. One hand glides up your spine, raising goosebumps along with it as a chill runs through you. He smirks into the kiss at the way your body always reacts to his touch, the way you’ve never been able to hide how much he affects you.

Particularly when he knows you can tell how much you affect him. The startling height difference between you has him prodding against your thigh, already hard and aching.

The hand that isn’t tangled in your hair kneads at the plush of your ass. With every curl of his fingers, he rolls his hips against you, letting out a strained breath until he can’t hold out any longer. He flips you both onto your sides, the tent filled with heady breaths as his lips move up your jaw and down your neck, paying extra attention to the sensitive skin at your collar.

His tongue drags over a spot he’s nipped, the sensation pulling a soft moan from your chest. His teeth drag over the skin, the jagged sensation of his canines ripping a gasp from you too. “Be quiet for me, princess.” His chest rumbles as he uses a leg to pull you closer, tangling your limbs. “Can’t have you bein’ too loud, can we?”

He chuckles at your disgruntled whine, pulling back to press a sweet kiss to your lips. The smell of campfire smoke is fresh on his skin as he pulls away, brushing a thumb over the material of your panties clinging to your hip.

“Let me make you feel good. Focus on me.”

As if your focus could be anywhere else when his fingers dip between your thighs before you can even reply. Your words dissolve, morphing into a soft gasp as he drags a digit over your clothed pussy.

“That’s my girl,” he purrs. His voice is low and gruff, heady with desire as he lowly whispers praise to you. “Fuck, I love you. Still can’t believe you’re mine.”

You laugh, breathy as his head dips beneath the cover of the sleeping bag, your shirt riding up as his lips graze your nipple. “I love you too, Kuna. Even after two years, you still can’t believe I’m yours?”

He stops, lifting his head to get a look at you. Sincerity and amusement blend within those ever-steady crimson pools you fell for so long ago. The prideful way he pushes his chest out is so him you find yourself smiling before he can even answer.

“Princess,” he begins, held up by his elbow folded beneath him. This new position has you pressed down beneath him, his weight warm and heavy over you like a blanket. It shields you from the warm summer night’s breeze overhead, just cool enough that your nipples peak. “I’ll be on my death bed and still won’t be able to believe it.”

“Ryo!” You quietly hiss, smacking his arm weakly. He snickers at your reaction. “Don’t talk about that while we’re having sex, oh my god.”

The shit-eating grin on his face has you quietly huffing out a laugh into his chest as he leans over you, though. “Oh fuck me for loving my girlfriend, right?” He plays, pleased when you jolt as his finger brushes the underside of your breast.

“I meannn,” you hum thoughtfully, recovering from the jolt of pleasure quickly as you play his games. “That is the plan.”

He snorts. “Too cute.” He stands by that statement when you beam at him too, your eyes crinkling at the corners in sheer delight.

Eagerly pulling his lips to you by the column of his neck, you let your hands roam his form. The broadness of his shoulders, the scar that passes over one, the way muscle bulges under the flex of his bicep as he holds himself over you. Your hands pass over the blades of his shoulders, sliding down his sides and grazing his abs. They seize under you, evidence you’ve always loved of the effect you have on him.

If that’s not enough, the boner he’s been sporting since you got under the blankets with him is now being rutted against your core, an undeniable wet patch on his boxers that matches your cute lace panties.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he groans as he dips back under the covers, lifting your shirt up over the curve of your breasts and tossing it aside. “And fuck, catchin’ you staring is so hot.”

“You’d make a good lumberjack,” you grin, rolling your hips up against him. He groans, a low and quiet sort of thing as his eyes flutter shut.

“‘M gonna stop you before you say some dumb shit about me being a grumpy old hermit or something,” he mutters, his hand grazing the front of your hip as his thumb slips beneath the waistband sitting at your hip. His gaze, blown and glassy, rises to meet your half-lidded expression in the silent question he always presents you with.

“Please,” you whisper, pulling him down for a too-sweet kiss that serves as a reminder of just how much of a lovebug you really are.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he teases, grateful for the night’s cover shielding his rosy skin as he rids you of your cover.

Laying on his hip as he holds himself up with one forearm, his opposite hand smooths up your inner thigh, squeezing the plush skin. You squirm under his touch, bucking your hips as he takes his time teasing you. The moment he grazes your folds, your head falls back into the pillows as you suck in a breath.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.” His lips slot over yours, swallowing your quiet moan as he covers his middle and ring finger in your slick, rubbing small circles into your clit. The sensation of the rough pad of his digit so gently moving around your sensitive bud has your head spinning as he slowly builds pleasure, giving it time to blossom and bloom through you. It spreads, warm and fuzzy as it takes root through your stomach and makes your brain foggy.

Your boyfriend knows your body like the back of his hand. He knows just how to make you twitch, moan, and scream, but nothing brings him more pleasure than watching your senses dull as you focus only on him and how he can make you feel. He pulls back with parted lips, watching your chest rise and fall unevenly when you shudder at the sensation of his fingers parting your folds.

“God,” you whine, arching into his fingers.

“Shhh, princess,” your boyfriend hushes your whimper with a kiss before shifting his grip on you. He pulls your back to his chest without his fingers ever leaving your entrance, his opposite hand covering your mouth. “Need you to be quiet for me.”

Gripping his forearm for purchase, a shaky breath tears from you when he finally dips into your entrance to the first knuckle, giving you a chance to adjust to the sensation of his thick fingers. His name slips from your lips in a moan, but it’s nothing more than a muffled gasp behind his hand.

His fingers are slow at first, putting just enough pressure behind the curl of his fingers to send sparks through to the tips of your limbs when he brushes your g-spot. Your hips inadvertently buck when he prods against it just right, his hardened length more than evident when you relax back into him.

He works you open slowly, each curl of his fingers accompanied by a pleasant wave of electricity that far outweighs the faint burn of being stretched. He guides your head back into his chest, lazily grinning as your lashes flutter when you peer up at him. Every muffled whimper has him twitching against you, the sound of your voice and feeling of your squirming like a drug to him.

He can just barely make out the sound of you crying out his name, gorgeous irises peering up at him through lidded eyes. He can feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, keeping a steady pace as he works you up to the ledge. “You gonna cum all over my fingers, angel?”

The most you can give him is a nod when your thighs begin to tremble. Between the dizzying sensation of his fingers expertly curling against your walls and his thumb brushing your clit, the knot in your stomach coils tightly.

You arch desperately into his hand, your stomach clenching as you teeter at the edge where he holds you for just a moment. You can feel his smirk against your skin with your growing whines. You plead and beg, but it’s lost between the fog in your mind and his hand over your mouth keeping you quiet, and only when your grip on his forearm tightens and leaves little half-moon indents where your nails dig in does he finally give in.

The sensation is euphoric as your orgasm crashes over you. Wave after wave has you shuddering in your boyfriend’s strong hold as he works you through it with quiet praise whispered into your ear.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he purrs, his lip curling up as you jolt when he pulls his fingers from your core. Collapsing back into him, he finally releases his grip on your mouth. Your lips part as the fog slowly clears from your mind enough that you’re smiling up at him.

“Thanks, baby.”

He hums, delighted. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he sucks the evidence of your orgasm from his fingers before leaning down to kiss you. The sweetness of his lips is such a stark contrast from the debauchery of his proud grin as he licks his fingers.

You suppose that sort of encapsulates everything he is as he holds you like you’re something precious, though. He cradles you in the sort of way that makes you feel as though the world can’t possibly hurt you, always shielded by his broad figure. You may not shield him in posture, but you can’t even begin to know the ways in which you soften the world for him, too.

“How’s my girl?”

Humming contentedly, you twist in his grip, holding yourself upright with a palm on his shoulder while you pull him down for a kiss. “I’m great, baby,” you smile against his lips. “Did you bring condoms?”

“That good, hm?” He teases. You give his arm a little smack as he snickers, leaning off of the mattress behind him to pull condoms from his suitcase. “Yeah, I brought ‘em.”

“Who’s eager now?” You counter.

“Don’t act like you’re so innocent.” As he slides back against you, your back still pressed to his chest, he grinds up against you. He catches the way your lips part and lust wisps through your gaze, proving his point. “We don’t get much time away from the brats, let me have this.”

You can’t help but quietly giggle at the way he puts it. “We’re barely across the lot from them, I’m not sure if this counts as ‘away’.”

“We’re away enough,” he gruffs as you hear him rip the condom wrapper. “‘M not exactly the most romantic guy, but we are under the stars right now and,” he shrugs as he rolls the condom down over himself and slips back against you. “Dunno. It’s cute to me.” Warmth radiates off of him in droves as he rolls his hips, grinding his length between your folds with a groan.

You keep your voice down as you moan, your cheeks warming at your boyfriend’s cute admission. “You’re more romantic than you think,” you murmur quietly, lashes brushing your cheeks as you glance up at the stars. “I’m pretty lucky, you know.”

His movements slow at your words. In the brief lull, the silence speaks volumes. You may not be able to see him, but the way his forearms tighten around you and his form protectively curls in on you tells you everything you need to know. His chest rises and falls heavily as he leans down to press his lips to your bare shoulder. It’s not the eager, hungry ones that match the debauchery of what you’re doing, but something far, far more precious.

In one of the rare moments where life slows down enough for the two of you to catch up, you let the moment hang. In spite of your eagerness, of the way you felt him twitch at your praise, you softly sigh as the weight of the world slips from your shoulders. Work, raising two boys, Sukuna’s classes and projects, for a moment it’s all a world away. It’s just you and him, two people raised in two very different ways, bound together by something so genuine and real you could only dream of it.

When he moves again, there’s less urgency. There’s a smooth rhythm to the roll of his hips, far slower and quiet in the way he gets when he’s deeper in his emotions than he’s willing to admit. You hold his forearm as he lines himself up with you, sucking in a gasp as he pushes into you. Slowly, he feeds you inch by inch, his breath warm on your shoulder.

He’s learned over the years that your body will tell him when to keep going and waits for you to adjust as he slowly glides in. Once he’s buried to the hilt, he shudders. His breath is unsteady as it cascades over your skin, hitching as you roll your hips in search of friction.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, strained as he attempts to keep his voice down. “You feel–” His voice breaks, a raw and quiet groan parting his lips as he begins to move. Something about the stars, the warm summer air on your skin and the isolation from society makes everything feel more intense. Or maybe it’s not the location and solitude, but the solace that’s found in knowing you found your soulmate.

Sukuna’s face buries itself against you as he steadily picks up pace until he’s found a steady, sensual rhythm. He doesn’t rush the pleasure, allowing it to build within you both as he hits the spot inside you that tears a moan from deep within your diaphragm. He moves quickly to wrap a hand back over your lips.

“Quiet, princess. You’re takin’ me so good,” he murmurs into your ear through his clenched jaw. His voice is low, with that strain that makes it sound as though it’s been dragged across gravel in a near-growl.

You whimper into his hand, his words sending heat straight to your core as your vision blurs when he hits the spot that nearly takes you over the edge with every thrust. You swear you see stars as he buries his face into the warmth of your skin.

He keeps his pace just slow enough to keep you at the edge, and if the twitching you can feel within is anything to go off of, him too. The hand keeping your waist flush against him slides down and grazes your clit. Your hips jerk upwards at the sensation as pleasure and overstimulation mix into something overwhelming. Your lips part behind his hand, your moan surely loud were it not for his grip tightening around you.

“I got you,” he murmurs, his lips meeting your temple.

That’s all it takes to send you into bliss. Sukuna’s hips stutter as your walls clench, clamping down around him and sending him over the edge with you. Buried to the hilt, you feel his muscles clench around you as he remains deep within you, filling the condom as you both ride out wave after wave of your climaxes.

The tent is quiet save for your pants as Sukuna releases your jaw. Your head lolls back against his peck, his warmth enveloping you. Your eyes flicker open, lidded as you stare up at the sky. Your gaze travels over the stars, passing over the eagle constellation’s eye. Aquila, the art major had called the bird.

“Pretty,” he hums behind you, a breathless quality to the word.

“Mhmm,” you agree softly, casting a glance back at him, then up to the sky.

He doesn’t correct you. He doesn’t need to, for he knows that you know. This moment, here with you in his arms, is the evidence of Sukuna’s dream having come true, and he selfishly keeps it held between palms that never knew how to cradle something with such carefulness until now.

He lets out a breath when you shift to look back at him, smiling contently.

“Mm?”

“Nothing, really. Just happy.”

He smirks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s nice to slow down.”

He hums, shifting to pull out of your core with a faint hiss. “Guess we don’t get this that often, huh?” He mutters as he sits up and leans over to grab a water bottle and cloth, discarding the condom in a small bag. He clearly had thought this through more than you had, the idea of sex on his mind while he packed as he wets the cloth to clean you up.

You chuckle quietly. “Between work and classes? No chance.”

Sukuna huffs out a sigh, tossing the towel aside as he pulls his boxers back up and grabs you a fresh pair of panties from his suitcase. Okay, yeah, he was really thinking about this. It’s simultaneously sweet and the kind of thing you’re absolutely gonna tease him over when the moment passes.

He settles back beside you, amusement woven through his tone. “Yeah, that and the fuckin’ Ice Age copy that I’m sick of hearing.”

“Come on, he barely even watches it anymore.”

“I hear it at least once every couple of months. That’s too fuckin’ much,” he grumbles.

You laugh, flipping to curl up against him when a twig snapping catches your attention. You both whip your heads around to it as you pull the sleeping bag up over your bare chest. “What was that?”

The sound of brush crunching has you tensing against the brute beside you as it becomes clear something or someone is walking near the tent.

Pulling the sleeping bag up as much as you can, you blink owlishly at your big strong boyfriend. “I can’t decide if it’d be worse if it was a bear of the kids. I hope it’s not the kids. I don’t know where my shirt is,” you murmur, peering around in the dark. Wherever Sukuna tossed it, it’s in one of those pockets where you swear it simply doesn’t exist and your suitcase is too far to reach if it is one of the boys.

“Here,” Sukuna quietly reaches over to drag his suitcase towards you. As you quickly dig through his clothes in search of a shirt, he crawls over to the zipped up tent entrance.

“Wait, what if it is a bear?” You whisper-hiss.

“I can handle a bear.”

“Ryomen. You cannot handle a bear.”

His head whips around in a sneer. “The fuck? Yeah I can.”

Staring at him in disbelief, you have no time to argue with him when you still need to find a shirt and he’s cautiously popping his head out to take a look. As he does so, you shuffle through his clothing quickly, pulling on the first shirt that meets your fingers.

“Huh,” he huffs in disbelief, turning back to face you. His next question is barely above a whisper. “You decent?”

You hum your approval. Shuffling to the side on his knees, he holds the tent flap open, revealing your campsite’s visitor. It’s barely visible in the darkness, but moonlight casts enough of a glow to make out the figure of a young deer. It’s just big enough to give the impression of being an adult, though it has no antlers. It stares back at you both from a short distance, completely frozen as you stare one another down.

Your lips part at the sight as its pupils reflect back at you, wide and cautious. There’s something serene in sharing this moment with a creature so different, like you’re both acknowledging respect for one another. It almost feels like a sign of some sort, though you’re not sure you could identify of what exactly.

“I could take a deer,” Sukuna muses, ruining the serenity of the moment as a laugh bubbles up so suddenly within you that you nearly choke on the sensation. Coughing scares the creature as it bounds away, leaving you covering your lips as you try not to wake the boys.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“What?” Sukuna grins back at you, letting the tent shut as he lowers his hand and zips it back up.

He crawls back into the makeshift bed beside you, pulling you to his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath your ear, the sound soothing you as your lidded eyes slowly flutter shut. “I love you, Sukuna,” you murmur, yawning as sleep settles over you like a warm blanket.

He kisses the crown of your head, humming. Sleep never takes him as quickly as it does you. He’s always left with his thoughts for a moment, no matter how exhausted he may be.

Love is something that he still learns day by day. Not loving you, exactly, that comes naturally to him, but the concept of love itself. He’d never considered himself to be someone who feels love so strongly, but every day you prove him wrong.

He still prefers a life of privacy. His love is quiet in front of your friends, albeit protective. They know better though, they see it in ways he won’t acknowledge. A brush of your waist, checking in to see how you’re doing, your hand enveloped by his, a sharp look when Satoru’s teasing grates his nerves. They see through his aloof appearance just as you do, because once you know what you’re looking for, the signs are obvious. His eyes scanning the room for you, the way he lingers once he finds you, a hand on your thigh beneath the dinner table. Subtle, but reliable.

More than anything, it’s the look in his eyes that gives him away.

Most might assume that after the honeymoon phase, that look in his eyes would settle for something more comfortable, but it never does. His adoration is woven into his very soul. It intertwines with everything that makes him Sukuna. You’re ingrained in the very way he carries himself and he never strives for anything less than perfection when he’s doing something that pertains to you.

And behind closed doors?

He’s not as quiet of a lover as one might think. He loves to tease, smirking when he never fails to fluster you. He’s vocal about how gorgeous you are and more obvious when he purposefully squeezes your ass. He loses the casual subtlety in favor of making sure you know. Because there was once a time where you didn’t and he’ll be damned before he stops worshiping the very ground you walk on.

You’re his angel. It’s more than just a cheesy pet name, it’s his truth, and he’ll never stop showing you that.

He simply wants to exist with you. Even on the nights where he works late, he’ll opt to be in a more distracting space with you and the kids and maybe even his three hundredth viewing of Ice Age, just to be a part of the life he’s grateful for.

“I love you, too.” He murmurs softly against your hair, his eyes heavy with sleep. Not just you, but all three of you. And a day won’t go by again where he leaves room to doubt that. He supposes that’s why a velvet box has been sitting in his bedside drawer for so long. He knew from the start he found the life he wants to live, and he won’t let it go anytime soon. And maybe when he purchased it over a year ago it wasn’t the right time, and maybe it’s not quite yet either, but someday he’ll find the moment.

Until that day comes, he lives in the certainty that he’ll go to the ends of the earth to keep his family and his little piece of heaven safe.

main masterlist || series masterlist || ⏮ prev || end ⏸ || husband wyk!kuna hcs

❦ a/n ; HIII everyone <33 thank you for your patience as i put together the ending for this lovely couple :') genuinely i couldn't possibly have imagined how far this series would come and i'm super grateful for each and every one of you who've read it, whether you've been following along since the beginning or are just finding it <33 i see each and every one of your comments and likes and it means a lot.

i've mentioned it once or twice but this series was meant to be a oneshot initially. i wrote it with plans for it to be 25k. how we got here... beyond me LOL. this story has evolved so much from my first idea and i'm so glad it did bc i'm super happy with the outcome.

when i first got the idea for this fic, i was listening to what you know by two door cinema club and loved the idea of the line 'i can tell just what you want/you don't want to be alone/and i can't say it's what you know/but you've known it from the start' being representative of a man who desperately needs someone to lean on, someone he can trust and rely on, but for that idea to evolve into this, i couldn't have possibly imagined LMAO

this chapter feels like the bow i always wanted to give this couple in letting the boys and sukuna heal and seeing reader and sukuna both have their dreams come true and i hope you enjoy it as much as i did writing it <33 also fun fact the one and only memory i have of camping i went with friends and found a machete with a hose for a handle duct taped together in the forest and just had to include it 🙂‍↕️

there will be more content about this fam in the future but it'll be between other projects from here on out. i have plans for a heian era fic and some more modern fics in the future, mostly for sukuna LOL. i'll keep my current taglist for this series but won't be adding anymore tags to it. let me know as well if you'd like to be removed!

for the sake of not droning on and on i'll wrap it up but i just wanna say thank you for all the support, it means a lot and seeing how dear this series is to so many people genuinely warms my heart. i never could have imagined what this would become but i'm grateful for everyone i've met through it, the experience of writing it, and all the love from you guys <33

anyway, one last time, thank you 🫶 i hope you enjoyed the final chapter of the main series! keep an eye out for oneshots and drabbles in the future 🫶

❦ taglist ; CLOSED. please let me know if you would no longer like to be tagged in oneshots/drabbles and other wyk content in the future!

@yenayaps @kunascutie @aiicpansion @fushitoru @gojoscumslut @hellish4ever @cuntyji @theonlyhonoredone @mad-katsuki @timetoletmyimaginationfly @clp-84 @coffee-and-geto @candyluvsboba @favvkiki @gojodickbig @spindyl @ohmykwonsoonyoung @kyo-kyo1 @officialholyagua @vadergf @ieathairs @cinnamxnangel @nessca153 @aerareads @after-laughter-come-tears @tillaboo @thepassionatereader @erencvlt @v1sque @a-girl-with-thoughts @lauuriiiz @blueemochii @paradisestarfishh @erenxh @call-me-doll8811 @toulouse365 @dabieater @janrcrosssing @satsattoru @angel-loganswife @privthemis @captainsarcasmandsass @ryomeowie @vitoshi @kunasthiast @axxk17 @toratsue @bluestbleu @yuji-itadori-fave @totallygyomeiswife

He blinks, grateful he didn’t awaken you in his restless state. He brushes his finger down your upper arm, sliding his hand down to your elbow as you temporarily relieve the crawling sensation under his skin, giving him something else to focus on. He savors it for as long as he can, his gaze dragging over your form with deliberate care.

He keeps himself within that bubble until it threatens to burst, giving his mind an out from the craving threatening to pull him back into its clutches. He yearns to wrap himself around you, shut his eyes and wait for his heart to sync with yours as the waking world lets him fall from its grasp; but the discomfort sitting on the backburner lurks at the corners of his mind, and he knows this moment can only last so long.

He knew it would come, Uraume had warned him what it would be like based on the few times they’d tried to quit. An itch you can’t scratch, the constant cravings, hunger, restlessness, irritability. They hadn’t warned him about the pounding behind his head, nor the anxiety. Though he supposes symptoms likely differ.

But fuck, he could do without those two.

As the bubble bursts and everything creeps over him like a shadow, he rolls to his side in hopes that the headache might lessen.

It’s all in vain. If anything, it’s worse on his side and he rolls onto his back again, taking a deep breath. He can physically feel the tremor now. Or maybe it’s the itch, but it crawls and scuttles up to his chest with that horrific sensation that he’s choking.

Fuck, maybe he should have waited to do this until he felt more prepared. Until he was more secure in his relationship with you, and maybe he could have taken some time off.

But he’d wrongly assumed he could handle this.

Throwing the covers off, he glances back once more at you before heading into the living space and shutting the door behind him. His gaze washes over the living room; scattered blankets piled on the couch and the pillow thrown to the floor, the table pulled out from the wall with the candle now dormant and flowers awaiting the warmth of the arriving sun.

Staring out onto the balcony sends a fresh chill over his skin that has him recoiling as he’s reminded of smoking. Balling his hands into fists, he heads for the Ibuprofen cabinet in an effort to cure at least the headache. Grabbing whatever drink hits his hand first, he downs the pill and drink, wrinkling his nose when he stares down at whatever he just swallowed.

Expired orange juice.

Great.

Dumping it down the drain, he haphazardly tosses the carton atop the counter and takes a seat at the table, harshly rubbing his forehead in an effort to stop the incessant pounding.

Even as it lessens slightly over drawn out minutes, the sensation never fully dulls. Worse still, it leaves behind a dizzying sensation that he thinks might be even worse.

His morning is a slog. Slow, scattered, and distant.

Texting Uraume to ask how they dealt with it.

Cleaning up a dish.

Sitting down.

Growing frustrated.

Staring out the window.

Remembering the half-finished smokes are in the garbage under the sink.

Playing what feels like a losing game against his brain.

Putting away a dish.

Damn near losing his patience over dropping a sponge.

Sitting.

Standing.

Dishes.

Being informed that the feeling should pass in a few days.

Such bullshit.

Sitting again.

Pacing.

Going outside.

Coming back inside.

“Kuna?”

Just as he steps through the threshold from the balcony, he finds you still wrapped in the comforter from atop his bed. Your hair is a mess, your makeup is smudged across your cheeks, and your eyes are barely open.

You look like everything he could ever want in life.

“Did I wake you up?”

“I heard the door and you weren’t in bed,” you murmur, yawning into the blanket you have cocooned around yourself.

He sighs, scratching the back of his neck, but that itch never quite leaves. “Go back to bed, princess. ‘M just cleaning up a bit.”

You peer past him at the kitchen, though you don’t see any disarray for him to clean. The living room is back in order with a blanket messily folded and set on the cushions, the table has been pushed back into place and the water for the flowers has been topped up.

He’s been up for longer than he’s letting on. You know he’s an early riser, but that’s always been courtesy of the kids, who are still sound asleep given that the sun is barely peeking over the horizon and it’s been doing that earlier these days.

“Come back with me?”

Your request is soft, warm, and inviting. Your voice is thick with sleep and Sukuna yearns for the reality that lets him slip back under the sheets with you, but he knows the incessant discomfort won’t allow him that serenity.

Caught within a multitude of frustrations, it pisses him off.

He presses a thumb to his temple, tight-lipped as he shakes his head. “Don’t think I can sleep anymore.”

Clutching the blanket tighter around yourself, you drag it across the floor until you’re standing right in front of him. If your narrowed eyes are anything to go off of, you’re ready to call his bluff. Slipping your hand out from between the blankets, he recognizes the pointed shove that you’re about to give him, as though he might fall over with a little encouragement.

He didn’t think he looked that tired.

He doesn’t feel that tired.

But truthfully he’s not really sure what exactly he’s feeling.

He just knows that the last thing he wants is for the string holding him together right now to be pulled any tighter.

Grabbing your wrist before you can make your point, he huffs out a long and heavy sigh. “Angel, I don’t think I have the patience for this right now and I don’t wanna snap.”

You blink up at him, but you don’t recoil or pull back. No, because this is improvement. This is communication. You can see now that this is the sharp side of him, the one that bristles under pressure and snarls when you poke it. You’re not sure what’s brought this out, but that’s okay, because growth doesn’t happen overnight.

So… “What’s wrong?”

He inhales, his grip on your arm shifting as the tension from his body releases. His hand slides up your arm, fingers curling around your elbow as he gently tugs you towards him. Your warmth seeps into him, his shirt still cool from the early morning air as the faint smell of the city clings to him.

The harsh smell of smoke that would usually trail after him has faded, though.

And you figure you might have your answer there.

He holds you tight to his chest, his muscles rippling with each breath as though he can’t let go of the tension within them. “It’s not your fault,” he starts reassuringly, “just can’t sit still,” he grumbles in harsh contrast to the gentle nature with which he rubs your back over the thick blankets. You can’t really feel it, but the sentiment is there. “Everything is getting to me. The cars, the birds, even the fuckin’ fridge is pissing me off,” he sighs.

“Is it the withdrawal?” You query.

“I hope so,” he jokes frailly.

“I remember Suguru avoided everyone for the first few days after he quit. He said something similar,” you offer.

He nods, lowering his head and burying it in your hair. He was joking last night about getting his fix, but truthfully this is the only moment since he first awoke where the static of the world seems to stop. Maybe you are his fix after all.

“I can manage a couple of days,” Sukuna begrudgingly mutters into your hair, shutting his eyes.

Your voice has a muffled quality as you speak against his chest. “What’s it like?”

He searches for words for a moment. “Just… shitty. A little itchy. Don’t wanna do anything but I can’t sit still.” Headache. Cravings. Hunger.

“Did you get any sleep after you woke up from the nightmare?” You yawn against his chest.

“A little. Having you there helped.”

Warmth floods your chest. You nuzzle your face against his chest, earning a satisfied hum from deep within. His chest vibrates against your cheek. “I’m glad,” you murmur softly. “None of us are going anywhere, you know.”

His chest rises and falls. As much as he fears snapping at you, your presence in his arms is the steadiest he’s felt since dawn broke. “I know. Just feels like if I blink, everything will slip away.”

You kiss his chest. It’s terribly sweet and melts away another ounce of his tension. “We’re not going anywhere. None of us,” you assure him, your tone heartening in spite of the adorably sleepy lilt it also shares. “And if anything happens, you’ve got me, Toji, Uraume, Satoru, and everyone else in your corner.”

The silence that follows is neither heavy nor light. Something in between, like a bird ready to take flight. Finally, he sighs. His hand resumes its movement up and down your back. You smile against his chest as he settles.

“I can’t convince you to come back to bed?”

“I don’t wanna keep you awake.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, your weight slumping against him. “I don’t think you could,” you admit, another yawn warming his skin through the cotton of his shirt. It sends a chill up his spine.

He squeezes you tighter. Whether he’s trying to keep you warm or trying to steal your body heat for himself, he can’t be sure. What he does know is that you’ve given him something to focus on, something that isn’t the cravings, the discomfort, or the rattling. So with a soft “alright,” he gives in and tucks you into his side as he heads back with you to his bedroom.

Rather than spreading the blanket across the bed, you invite him into the cocoon of blankets you’ve procured. Limbs tangle together as warmth washes back over you.

He supposes you were right to assume that he couldn’t keep you up. You’re asleep before there’s even a sheep to be herded, let alone counted.

Curled around you once more, your words and actions stick with him. The fact that you didn’t pull away, you weren’t hurt when he dissuaded your teasing. He didn’t fuck things up for once. For all of his irritability, for all of the jitteriness slinking deep within his bones, he went about things the right way, and there’s relief to be found within that.

Like a mantra, he repeats the moment in his mind. Your gentle understanding, the warmth of your frame around his. The way your fingers clutch his shirt and he feels like he actually has something to give, whether it be warmth or comfort. There’s security within the fact that he doesn’t feel like he’s sucking the life from you any longer.

It isn’t all at once, but gradually the crawling dulls. The buzzing outside fades. The golden strips on the wall become a distant memory. And with each passing moment, the restless shuffling of Sukuna’s limbs settles until he finds peace again.

–

Every day that follows your date, Sukuna grows increasingly thankful that you convinced him to hop back in bed with you that morning.

By the third day of withdrawal, he’s running on fumes. Insomnia follows him like an old friend. A cold sweat clings to him, his skin slick with moisture that makes every movement feel sticky. His limbs are heavy and his mind is laden with a dense fog that only seems to heighten his frustrations.

The cravings are intense. It presents like a hunger that never dies as much as he eats, only to realize it’s all a trick of the mind. He’s dying for the subtle buzz nicotine provides and his body is begging him to rummage through the trash like some sort of animal in search of scraps.

He very seriously contemplates it at the dinner table one night.

The only thing keeping him in check is Uraume’s reassurance that once you’re past the first few days, it’s all a mental game and the physical rattling dulls. That, he can handle.

It’s the ache, the sweat, the itch. The exhaustion that doesn’t give way to sleep, making his limbs drag and leaving his mind on edge– that’s what he can’t take much more of.

It all comes to a head by the end of the third day when the kids’ door slams shut not once, but twice.

The first– Yuji. The second– Choso.

He stands in the kitchen, every little sound grating him down to his last nerve until there’s nothing left. Within the nothing– that’s when the guilt seeps in.

And he can’t tell if he hates the irritability and anger of his withdrawal or the guilt that bolts him to the ground like tar more. Really, what does it matter when they both lead to the same outcome?

The guilt is sobering, though. It pulls back the curtains on his symptoms just long enough for Sukuna to realize how much of an asshole he really is. It only makes it harder to keep holding out when one hit could bring him back to the median and keep him from pulling stupid shit like this.

Especially when just the other day he felt he’d been better. He supposes recovery and growth are never a linear path, but it still pisses him off.

His real saving grace though? You.

He pulls his phone out without thinking, scrolling to your messages. The past few days since you left his apartment the morning after your date have been spent texting non-stop. A constant back and forth of little moments in which you think about one another, discussions about the kids and plans for more dates. You passed your exams with flying colors– to no one’s surprise– and have been caught up in graduation preparations (well, preparations for Satoru’s final hurrah) and signing on full-time to the publishing house.

Life won’t slow down for either of you, but fuck he wishes it would. As he stares at your latest message, nothing more than an affirmation that you’re getting cozy in bed to read, he can only pray that you have a moment. His thumb doesn’t hesitate over the call button anymore.

You pick up on the second ring.

“Hey Kuna, how are you feeling?” Your voice is light, but edged with concern. He supposes he doesn’t call often.

Laying on his back in bed, his knee bouncing with anxiety, he lets out a sigh of relief at the sound of your voice. “Long day,” he admits. It’s roundabout, but it’s an admission in its own right.

Your shuffling on the other line might be the only static that doesn’t piss him off. Maybe he’s just that desperate to hear your voice. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Yes. “No.” Not yet. “Tell me about work.”

He can’t see your eyes narrow at the strained quality his voice has, but you oblige nonetheless. “Okay, so I told Yuki this morning that I passed all of my exams, and she seemed super excited,” you begin enthusiastically. He can hear you adjust again, practically able to envision you sitting up to excitedly tell him about Maya pulling you into her office to offer you a full-time position now that you’re officially graduating.

His eyes shut, and for a moment he has something to focus on. Something grounding and real that helps him ignore the sweat pooling at his lower back. He clings to every word like a lifeline, humming along to let you know he’s listening, congratulating you as your story comes to a close.

You notice his relative silence over the matter, though you don’t take it to heart. You know his last few days have been a stark contrast to yours, but you keep reminding him how proud you are that he’s working on himself. You hope it helps.

When he doesn’t offer much on his own day, you figure he just wants to hear your voice.

“Hey, um– my grad’s on Thursday. I know you’re probably working since it’s at eleven, but I kept a ticket for you.” You don’t mean to sound so sheepish, but a part of you hopes he can make it anyway, even if you don’t expect it given his busy schedule. “You’d be sitting with Sho, if you can make it.”

“Your parents not taking your tickets?”

“No,” you reply softly, bittersweet. “They can’t make it out here for it. Shoko’s gonna record it for them.”

He hums, recalling brief mentions that your parents couldn’t make it out here when you were struggling with your scholarship. “Promise when my head’s a little more clear, I’ll see what I can do, princess. I wanna be there.”

Your smile can’t be contained. “Thanks, Kuna.”

You appreciate both his communication that he’s out of it right now and the effort he puts into responding regardless. You appreciate that he’s trying.

He still remains relatively quiet, completely still aside from the rattle of cloth that you’re positive is his foot shaking. You move along, telling him about Satoru’s final frat party bash plans and how you’ve been roped in to handling the decorations with Kento, who has no opinion on the matter. Sukuna chuckles, sympathizing with the blonde in spite of your playful whine.

But with every passing moment, you begin to realize something is off. You know your crush is out of it. You know he’s got everything and nothing on his mind all at once, but the everything portion seems to weigh him down more heavily now.

“Hey,” you keep your tone light, but offer him the floor. “Is something wrong?”

His leg is still bouncing. You can hear the shuffle through the receiver, though it’s louder now.

“...I snapped at Yuji today.”

He can’t see your frown, but he feels it. “What happened?” Your tone remains judgement-free and he swears that the pet name ‘angel’ becomes more and more fitting by the day.

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Not really. I was just in a bad fuckin’ mood and he picked a fight with Cho.” Rubbing a hand over his face, he swaps the hand his phone sits in. “They were playing a game and Choso chose the character he wanted or something.” He settles his arm over his forehead, grateful as it blocks the warm glow of the lamp. “Cho gave up the character, but he wasn’t having it for some reason.”

He sighs, but it doesn’t relieve an ounce of tension.

“I dunno. I had a headache and was tryin’ to cook potatoes, chicken, n’ gravy at the same time and I’d already told them to figure it out themselves. He started pulling my sleeve and I dropped the spoon and gravy went everywhere and–” His arm plops to the mattress in exasperation, the sharp sound audible as it seems to sum up how exactly the night went for Sukuna.

You can hear the disappointment in his voice. He knows he’s better, that he’s grown, that he tries not to let genuine anger into his home any longer. This slipped through the cracks that once seeped with smoke and now he’s left in a pool of guilt.

And sweat.

He rolls his shoulder, adjusting as if it might help the way his sheets stick to his skin. “Worst part is things were good. We just got back from Cho’s therapy and he told me he thinks he’s ready to be on his own.” A brief pause. “Figuratively. With a babysitter. He’s mad at me too now, though.”

There’s an airy hum from your side of the call. “Choso doesn’t like when you and Yuji fight,” you agree. “Were you really upset with Yuji?”

“A little.” His brow knits. “Not really. Just frustrated.”

“You think it was the withdrawal?”

“Yeah. Fuck, I think. I hope so.”

Your lips twitch, sympathy in the form of a tight-lipped smile that he can’t see. “Did you apologize?”

“No. The kid wouldn’t understand why I’m in a bad mood. It’s a shit excuse anyway.”

“He probably doesn’t understand why you were so angry with him either way. What matters most now is how you handle it.”

His crimson gaze slides across the ceiling, allowing your words to hang within the silence. He blinks slowly, tears blurring his vision when he fights off a yawn. Rubbing at his eyes, he sighs. “You’re too good at this shit, y’know that?”

“Have I ever mentioned that Kento’s mom was a psychiatrist?”

“No, but that makes a lot of fucking sense.”

You giggle on the other line. “Yeah, I think I got a headstart on this sort of stuff.”

He cracks a hint of a smile. It bears a five o’clock shadow like no other and barely hangs on by a thread, but it’s the first one he’s managed in days. With a breathy exhale in shared amusement, he drapes his arm back over his eyes. “Guess I should go talk to him.”

“Things will work out,” you assure him.

“Thanks, angel.”

“Let me know how it goes. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Mhm.”

“Take care, Kuna.”

The hard edge of withdrawal softens briefly as he exists within your world’s embrace. “You too, princess.”

He lets you hang up first, his thumb hovering over the red button for longer than he’d care to admit. The reality of stumbling through an apology feels harder without you to cushion it.

In the short time since he snapped, shame has already made itself a home within his chest. A nest made of jagged branches settled between his vitals. He doesn’t know how to rid himself of it without scathing his lungs– or worse– his heart. Particularly when every branch has a thorn that reminds him just how the little boy sees him.

The kid’s dad. A subtle reminder of something he fears he can never provide for a soul as genuine as Yuji’s.

He curls his fingers around the first branch anyway. Wiping sweat from his brow, he tears through the shame and makes his way to the door that slammed an hour ago.

Twice.

The floor creaks beneath his heavy gaited steps, alerting the boys of his presence without a doubt, but he still hesitates to rap his knuckles against the door. Sucking in a breath, he lets the sound echo within the silence of the apartment.

Without your voice to focus on, the anxiety creeps in. Particularly when he’s met with a complete absence of a reaction. Pale, his knuckles still rest against the door. His head falls, staring at the hardwood beneath his feet, scratched and worn from where their door hangs a bit too low on the hinges. He shuffles from foot to foot, restless.

Your voice no longer provides him sanctity from his symptoms, which creep up over his shoulders. He rolls them, as if to rid himself of the sensation, but it remains steady and unrelenting.

Rubbing harshly at the dull ache behind his eyes, he pushes through and knocks on the door again. “C’mon, I know you’re both in there. You can keep being mad at me, just let me in.”

Choso’s ambivalent scowl greets him after a moment. A storm brews behind his eyes, as heavy as the gravity that pulls Sukuna’s arm down when the door opens. He exchanges a glance with the older Itadori, giving his brother a chance to slam the door in his face again, but he doesn’t. He leaves it barely ajar and returns to his bed.

Across from him, Yuji is curled into the corner of his bed facing the wall. He’s tucked beneath the covers, sniffling every few moments as though he’s tired himself out. With a heavy sigh, Sukuna steps carefully through the minefield of toys that almost feel purposefully left out given the frequency of sharper objects.

The mattress dips under Sukuna’s weight. Yuji doesn’t move, the soft rise and fall of his form remaining steady aside from sniffles.

“Hey, Yu.”

Nothing. And fuck, Sukuna is starting to get why he tends to win arguments with his sharp and pointed silences.

He curses under his breath. “I deserve that.” Staring down at his hands draped over his knees, he eyes his thumb, the tremor in that one digit much stronger than the rest. It’s the only outward sign that he’s going through anything.

Well, aside from the miserable sweat clinging to his skin.

“Look, I’m–” His throat betrays him, words catching. “I’m sorry. I didn’t handle what happened right and I shouldn’t’ve yelled at you like that.”

To Sukuna’s pained relief as he struggles through an apology, Yuji shifts to eye him from over his shoulder. The little boy’s eyes are still red as though he only just stopped crying.

Sukuna tugs a little harder at the branches nestled within his ribs, letting the thorns graze him. “I was mean, alright? I want you to get along with your brother, but I coulda like– told you that. I didn’t have to snap.” He swallows hard, the words threatening to choke him. “You have every right to be mad at me.”

“I don’t like when you yell,” he finally mutters a pitch too high, muffled by his arms as he rubs his eyes.

“Yeah. Me either.”

Yuji’s still pouting and puffy-cheeked when he flips onto his back, fiddling with the tiger plush that Sukuna can now see is tucked under his arms. It only serves to further break him.

How the hell do you explain something so complicated to a five-year-old? Reluctantly, he tries anyway. “Can I tell you why I yelled?” When he’s met with a tentative nod, he continues. “I’ve been… sick, these last few days. I–”

“You don’t look sick,” Yuji interrupts, and although it comes across in that offhanded blunt way that little kids have mastered, there’s genuine concern swimming within the child’s eyes.

He nods in agreement, dragging a hand down the thickening stubble along his jaw. “Yeah, it’s a weird kind of sick.” He parses his brains for a comparison the child might understand. “Y’know when you eat ice cream too fast and your head hurts?”

The little boy nods.

“That’s kinda how I feel.” He takes a breath to continue, but Yuji pipes in.

“But you’ll get better right?”

Sukuna’s shoulders fall as his little brother’s priorities flip on a dime. No longer upset, but worried. He often wonders whether Yuji fully understands what happened to Jin, or if he understands at all, really. He doesn’t know where the line starts and ends when it comes to how Yuji views Sukuna and how Yuji views his father. He’s not sure where it blurs.

All he can say for sure is that he’s not sure the average kid Yuji’s age would be this worried over a little illness.

“‘Course, just gimme a couple of days, okay?”

Yuji nods, cautiously scooting a little closer.

“Point is, I’m feeling pretty shitty–”

“Bad word!”

Sukuna throws a scowl in Yuji’s direction for interrupting over something so menial. It lacks any real heat though, and the little boy is well aware as their more familiar back-and-forth clicks into place.

Huffing, the brute continues. “I’m feeling bad,” he sneers in reply, the tension in his muscles releasing somewhat as the little boy triumphantly smiles. “And your argument with your brother got to me more than it should’ve. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I’m sorry, Yu.”

Shitty apology. Shitty excuse. But it’s a step forward, right? It’s what he tells himself as the little boy crawls into his lap, arms around his middle as he squeezes with all his tiny might. “It’s okay, Kuna.”

He hugs his little brother back, his gaze hollowed as he stares at the floor. Movement catches his eye, his sightline rising to meet Choso, still staring at him from across the room. Choso may not sport a pout or a scowl, but the brute can still make out that he’s upset if his unwavering stare is anything to go by.

Sukuna frowns. “Sorry to you too, Cho.”

The older Itadori– who hates when Yuji cries– finally averts his eyes, his guard let down. He takes a moment to reply, not as immediately forgiving as the youngest. “Thanks,” he murmurs, letting out a breath.

“Kuna?” Returning his attention to the pink-haired bundle of energy in his arms, he hums. “Can I have a cookie?”

An amused puff of air leaves Sukuna’s nose. “Yeah, alright. If you agree to be nicer to Cho. He gave you the character you wanted n’ everything, didn’t he?”

Yuji pouts, averting his eyes. “Yeah…”

“So what even happened?”

“I changed my mind…”

Sukuna snorts. “Brat.”

“Hey-uh!” Yuji tugs on Sukuna’s hoodie as he leads the way to the kitchen, beckoning Choso along with the promise of cookies for both of them.

As Choso obliges, Sukuna rustles his hair. “Don’t let Yuji boss you around. He ain’t even half your age.”

Swatting Sukuna’s hand away, Choso half-heartedly protests. “I just wanted to be a good bro–”

“Yes I am!” Yuji interrupts as he bounds between his brothers, insistently holding up six fingers. “I’m almost six!”

“Almost six is five,” the oldest dryly states, grateful that the atmosphere has fallen back to what he’s used to. “And don’t interrupt Cho.”

“Okayyyy.”

Opening a cabinet and pulling down a box of cookies purposefully kept out of reach of grubby hands, Sukuna works on opening the new box. Yuji is excitedly tugging on his sleeve with both hands, the sensation of the material dragging against his skin heightening the itch of withdrawal. It’s as though the discomfort has grown tenfold and it grates against his nerves. A muscle in his jaw ticks as thorns grip his lungs and cravings crawl up his throat.

He whips his head towards Yuji when the little boy tugs hard enough to choke Sukuna, lip curled as he nearly snarls at his brother again, only to catch himself. He sets the box down, harshly dragging his hands over his face as he takes a moment to breathe. He has to tune the little boy out briefly as he comes to his senses, but he shakes his head as he stands upright.

“You’re choking me,” he grumbles out as he finally manages to pull the inner bag of the box of cookies open and hand one down to the little boy.

“Sorry Kuna!” He apologizes, entirely unaware of the man’s inner turmoil as he reaches cheerily for the cookie. He turns to bound towards the table before pausing and holding his palm back up at the older man. “When I feel sick, cookies help me.”

Yuji’s offer could melt the coldest ice. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, Yu.” With an encouraging nudge towards the table, Yuji nods in satisfaction and hops into his seat.

“He threw up last time he had more than two cookies,” Choso points out with a wrinkled nose as he reaches up for his own cookie when Sukuna offers the box, trusting the brunette to be more responsible.

“Why do you think I didn’t hand him the box?”

Choso smiles, a near laugh parting his lips as he reaches into the box. With the treat in-hand, he exchanges a glance with his older brother. Both aloof and quiet, they’ve gained something of a silent language over the years. Within the hidden dialogue is an understanding that Sukuna is trying.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy, and at his core he’s still a grumpy brute with a sharp tongue.

But he’s trying.

And that’s enough.

–

Excitement is electric in the air around you. Chatter brims the room from back to front; students, faculty, friends, and family alike.

You always anticipated being excited for graduation, but after the past year, it feels emotional too. The kind where you hold onto every moment, committing each speech to memory because it feels like a blessing bestowed upon you.

Though that would be discounting everything Sukuna has done for you. Twisting in your seat in an attempt to see over the crowd of graduates, you try to search the stands to see if he was able to make it, but you can scarcely see over the crowd.

Putting your focus into the ceremony, you fiddle with the loose gown draping down to your ankles. For as excited as you are, it’s hard not to be equally nervous. Some cruel part of your brain seems to insist that this is a dream, too farfetched to be true when everything was nearly stripped from you.

As the ceremony draws nearer to accepting your diplomas, a buzz heightens the energy of the room as you await the signal to move towards the stage. Your nerves are more frazzled than you care to admit as the word is given and you shuffle to the side of the room.

You scan the crowd that doesn’t don caps and robes, but you can’t make out either Shoko or Sukuna. Mr. and Mrs. Nanami should be among the crowd too, but there’s so many people that it makes anyone hard to spot.

Reasonably, you shouldn’t get your hopes up, either. The kids aren’t in school anymore and your crush works two jobs. You can’t expect his presence when he’s needed in so many places at once.

Sucking in a breath, you cast a glance up at the stage facing far too many people for comfort. Shrinking back behind the row of students, you do what you can to stay out of sight from the large crowd, trying just about every method you can to rid yourself of nerves. With each long, deep breath, you just try to remind yourself that you don’t have to speak. It’s nothing more than accepting your diploma, a quick photo, and you’re off.

You just didn’t expect the crowd to be this big.

Shuffling from left to right, you suck in a breath as the stage grows closer but it doesn’t quell the jitters rattling your lungs.

It’s barely a moment on-stage. Not even a minute. Not even thirty seconds. A handshake and a photo. Most people won’t even be paying attention, all you need to do is take a breath and smile for your photo.

The back of your neck remains warm. There’s a subtle tremble in your fingers in spite of your own mental pep-talk as you make your way up the stairs.

The room feels even larger from atop the stage. The graduating class of this year stretches to the ends of the hall, while risers for friends and family feel as though they reach the ceiling. As you near the front and accept your diploma with a nervous smile and trembling fingers, you make your way to the front of the stage for your photo.

Cheers break out from throughout the crowd, catching you off-guard as you’re able to spot Satoru, Suguru, Yu, Atsuya, and Toji cheering you on from one side of the graduating class, while Kento and Uraume both cheer from another. Beyond them, another small group cheers loudly for you too. Shoko sits alongside Kento’s parents, and beside them–

He made it.

A grin breaks out on your face, the photo snapping as it captures not a meek smile, but genuine glee at the overwhelming support of friends and family.

Your parents may not be present, but you can feel their pride from afar too. You already know tears are being shed as Shoko sends photos and videos.

After the second flash, you duck your head and slip across the stage, heart still pounding as you take your seat once more. In spite of the blood pumping in your ears, it doesn’t feel quite so harrowing with all the familiar faces cheering you on.

You cheer for each of your friends in turn, and as the ceremony comes to a close, you laugh along with the rest of the graduates as you toss your caps into the air. The hats all come tumbling down as the laughter and applause settles for the casual buzz of an excited room of new alumni.

The ticketed crowd files out to wait for their respective former students, while each graduate begins the search for the cap that you all paid for. You fall into step with Kento and Uraume first, embracing them each as you greet one another with congratulations. Even Kento seems jovial today, his usual serenity blooming into a wide grin as he releases you from a hug.

“So, what plans do we all have post-graduation?” Uraume queries as you all begin the search for your caps.

“I actually received an offer to interview for a position in the finance department of the school this morning,” Kento begins, his eyes brimming with the joy he doesn’t express. “My professor recommended me for the position.”

“No way, congrats Ken!” You pull him in for another hug. “I got onboarded full-time at the publishing house earlier this week,” you boast, unable to hide a grin.

Uraume tilts their head knowingly. “Sukuna mentioned as much. He seemed pretty thrilled.”

“Yeah?” You sheepishly reply as you set a cap aside, suddenly wishing you hadn’t written your name on it so that you could just take any unmarked one.

“I’m fairly sure he cheered louder for you than my parents did for me,” Kento chuckles, nudging your shoulder as your cheeks warm over the teasing.

You laugh, unable to deny his claims when you’re equally sure it’s true. Before you can get a word out, Satoru comes barreling into your group, followed shortly by Suguru, Atsuya, and Yu. Congratulations are exchanged once more, alongside hugs.

“You found your cap already?” Uraume’s brow raises as Atsuya returns with one already on. “Fuck no. I just grabbed the first one without a name I could find. I knew this would happen.”

“Smartass,” Toji snarks at his side as the rest of you continue your search in high spirits. Chatter is thrown left and right and slowly but surely you all begin finding your caps within the pile of navy.

Fixing yours atop your head, Kento nudges your arm. “My parents would love to say hi.” He motions back towards the waiting area, your heart palpitating at the thought that Sukuna is back there too, alongside Shoko. “They sent me several questions over ‘the pink-haired man ’,” he smirks, amused. “It sounds as though they put him through a quiz once he mentioned taking you on a date.”

“Oh god.” With a hand covering your lips, you let out something between a laugh and a groan. “Yeah, we can head out.” You turn back to the group, gathering Uraume’s attention. “Ken and I are going to meet with his parents, Sho, and Kuna. In case I don’t see you before then, will you be at Satoru’s on Saturday?”

Giving you another hug, they nod. “Definitely. Congratulations again, I’ll see you Saturday!”

Catching Satoru’s attention, he waves a hand over his head. “You better be at my party!”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” You call back as you head for the door.

“Bring your man!”

A nod and a laugh satiate the fratboy as you wave back, catching up to Kento to push through the doors.

The halls outside are a mess of navy and echoing cheer as relatives try to locate their graduates and vice versa. If you weren’t on cloud nine from the high of moving on to a new stage of life, you might find it overwhelming.

“Hey!” Shoko finds you first, pulling you and Kento into a huge hug. “I’m so proud of you both, oh my god,” she breathes as you all share a moment together.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t graduate with us,” Kento’s head tilts to face Shoko.

She sighs. “Can’t believe I’m the only one not graduating this year.”

“You would be with Suguru had he not taken extra courses,” Kento offers a thin-lipped smile. “We won’t be far though, this won’t change anything.”

“I know,” she sighs. “And I’ll hold you to that. I’m not losing either of you. Any of you, for that matter.”

“Never,” you agree.

“I can introduce you to Hiromi, if it’s any consolation,” the blonde offers beside you.

“Hiromi’s really nice, I think you’d like him.”

“Guess I’ll have to take you up on that, then.” Shoko smiles. “Oh!” She perks up suddenly, turning back towards the growing crowd as more students file out. Getting on her toes, she tries to look over the heads of the crowd to no avail. “Come with me.”

Threading through the sea of navy, she leads the way towards a back corner that allows for a bit more peace and a break from the crowd. Tucked within the open corner are Kento’s parents and none other than your crush, donning a black button-up and slacks and the red tie you gifted him. His brow is curled into a scowl as you’re certain he’s still being quizzed by the couple across from him.

As you break through the crowd, his gaze flickers to the movement, staying pinned on you as the attention of the couple shifts to their son. Sukuna glances to his side in an effort to make a good impression on Kento’s parents, but upon realizing they’ve already parted from the conversation, he lets his guard down and closes the distance to you in a few long strides.

“You made it!” You laugh as his arms envelop you, lifting your feet off the ground as he buries his face into your neck in what can only be described as a bear hug. You cling to his shoulders, hands sliding down to his pecks as he sets you down.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Warmth radiates from his gaze as he smiles down at you, genuine and proud.

He wasn’t present to see you during the presentation you were forced to give alone so many moons ago, but it’s a thought he’ll never let himself live down. No matter what it takes, he wants to be there– at your side or in the crowd– to support you during those moments where anxiety clutches your chest. He doesn’t want to let you down again.

“And look at you,” he adds, bending down to your height with a smirk. “So cute in your robes.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, tugging your lower lip between your teeth sheepishly. “Are your brothers alright right now? How’s Choso doing?” You inquire.

“He’s… actually at a friend’s place right now.” Relief floods his being as the tension in his shoulders automatically dissipates at the thought. “And Yu’s bein’ babysat.”

You can’t help a smile at the thought. “He’s come a long way.”

Your crush hums his agreement. “Which is why…” He takes a long breath, standing upright as he musters up courage. “I wanna take you out. Tomorrow night, if you’re free. For a real date.”

“Our last one was fake?” You tease knowingly.

He glowers down at you, playfully trying to pull your cap over your eyes as you duck out of the way, snickering. “I’d love to, Kuna.” You beam up at him, earning a smirk. “Oh, and…” You begin, a slant to your eyebrows as you stare up at him with admiration. “Thank you for the scholarship thing.”

Lowering down to your level again, his smirk shifts to something more earnest as he brandishes his signature grimace. His palm brushes up the column of your neck, thumb settling along your jaw. “Quit thankin’ me.” His lips capture yours briefly. When he pulls back, he squeezes your cheeks until your lips form a kissy face. “We went over this.”

“I know, but–” Your thoughts are cut short when Kento’s parents call your name, beckoning you both over.

“I need to get a photo of you and Ken together,” his mother insists.

With a smirk, Sukuna steps aside as you’re showered in the closest thing to parental love that you can get right now. Kento has to step in with a chuckle in order to get his mother to stop fixing his hair, only to earn the kind of smile a proud parent gives their child who’s officially moving into the next stage of life. You’re grateful that their pride extends to you, even if it means she insists on straightening your gown and cap.

After snapping a photo of you and Kento that mirrors one you took on your first day of school years ago, she beckons to Shoko. Your best friend smiles as she slings her arms around her you both, but Mrs. Nanami is still insistently watching the spot where Shoko just came from. Sukuna’s smirk morphs to shock as he’s beckoned in as well, at the insistence of clearly being dear to you.

He averts his gaze in an effort to keep you all from noticing the rose that dusts his skin, but he doesn’t deny the request. Sidling up behind you, he rests one hand on your waist, the other briefly hovering in the direction of your friends before settling over Shoko on Kento’s shoulder.

“Alright, smile!” The flash goes off, much to all of your dismay as a photo is taken that immortalizes Sukuna’s blush. “All of you smile,” his mother insists, still holding up the phone.

You crane your neck to get a look at Sukuna, who is smiling, albeit a very subtle one.

“Hm? I’m smiling,” he dryly insists, though it brings on a scowl.

“Don’t be a grump,” Shoko insists, laughter coming over the group as Sukuna huffs.

Rather than heat, the huff has a jovial quality like he’s trying not to join in on your laughter. “I’m smiling, I’m smiling,” he insists, the honest expression captured alongside his blush for eternity.

“That one’s perfect,” Kento’s mother grins at her phone. You reconvene with her, letting her fawn over how proud she is of you and her son, showering you both in hugs. Mr. Nanami, the much more aloof of the two hugs you both as well, quiet pride shining behind auburn eyes.

Although it’s obvious she would keep you longer if she could, his mother eventually shoos the four of you away, insisting you make the most of the day. Shoko practically begs for Korean Barbeque as you reconvene with the rest of your friends ahead of Satoru’s party after all.

The buzz of the day keeps you all in high spirits around the long table as horror stories from your years in school together are exchanged. More than anything though, it makes you grin from ear to ear to see Sukuna at your side throughout the whole thing. Even when he starts going at it with Toji, fighting over everything and nothing at all, there’s a spark behind his eyes beginning to rekindle the fire within him.

–

“You sure this thing won’t crap out on me?” Sukuna skeptically stares at the dashboard of Toji’s car. The football player’s hand rests atop the car as he leans in to take a look at the amount of lights on the dashboard that flicker on upon turning the ignition.

“Your auto shop fuckin’ fixed it.”

“I don’t work there anymore,” Sukuna unhelpfully points out.

“Still, no faith in y’r old co-workers?” Toji snorts.

With a sigh, Sukuna pushes a hand back through his hair. “They don’t normally leave three fuckin’ warning lights on.”

“It’ll be fine. The old man who owns the place told me it’s fuckin’ faulty ‘r some shit,” Toji shrugs nonchalantly. “Told me to code check it every so often.”

“Do you?”

“The fuck do I know ‘bout code checking?”

With a forlorn sigh, Sukuna surrenders and opts to take Toji’s approach. Ignore the problem. “Check the fucking code when I get back,” he mutters under his breath, going ignored by his best friend. “Thanks for lending me the car.”

“I would say no problem but you’re bein’ a fuckin’ prick so bring me back an energy drink or some shit on your way back,” he sneers in reply, though there’s a shit-eating grin on his face when Sukuna fixes him with a glare.

It morphs quickly into a smirk as Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Maybe.”

Satisfied with that response, Toji claps him on the shoulder. “Go treat your girl.”

“Mm. Text me if you need a hand with the kids.”

“Nah, we’ll be good.” Toji casts a glance back at his building where Yuji had been determined to make the ultimate sleepover blanket fort mere minutes ago. “Kids’ll have me busy all night, ‘m sure.” Standing upright, he pats the hood of the car and backs away towards the door. “Don’t keep her waitin’!”

With a smirk, Sukuna pulls the car out of the parking lot. His nerves are far less prominent for your second date, though his palms still sweat against the leather of the steering wheel. For as confident of a man as he is, you break down every wall until he finds himself with sweaty palms and feelings of inadequacy. You also somehow manage to build him back up with your effortless ability to make him feel human and wanted, though.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens as he nears your complex, pushing away the thorns prodding his mind. Swallowing down his nerves, he sends you a message to let you know he’s out front, getting out in his full suit and tie get-up. He’s been wearing it a lot around you lately, opting to put on a nice watch from his father, while his chains and rings adorn his collar and fingers.

It feels a little less formal and a little more him.

Despite giving you a heads’ up to dress fancy, his heart batters against its cage as you emerge from the building. You’ve done your hair in a style he’s never seen on you, while jewelry and a clutch serve as accents to the floor-length dress with a deep ‘V’ neckline that hugs your curves beautifully.

He swallows hard, the only action that keeps his jaw from dropping to the ground.

How is it that his confidence can slip away at the drop of a dime when it comes to you?

You command a room so effortlessly and you don’t even know it.

As he steps towards you, another realization crosses his mind that has his heart hammering at the bones that keep it in place.

You match. And if he knows anything about you, it’s not an accident, either. You deliberately chose a dress in the same shade as his tie. Somehow the action manages to be painfully cheesy, startlingly sweet, and undeniably hot all wrapped up in one crimson bow.

Or– tie, he supposes.

The thought has him tugging at it, straightening the fabric as he lets out a breath to expel the nerves creeping up within his chest. Before he can tell you how jaw-droppingly gorgeous you are, you’re already sheepishly rambling, growing nervous over his unwavering saucer-wide gaze.

“Sorry, is it too much? I can change or–”

“No,” Sukuna interrupts, too quickly. He clears his throat, gaze rising from the dress he hopes to take his time sliding you out of later. His crimson gaze settles on your saccharine expression. “No, you look gorgeous like this. I mean– you always do, but–” He cuts himself off as you giggle, that telltale divot forming between his brows as he fixes you with his stare.

“Thank you, Kuna,” you murmur, peering up at him from beneath your lashes.

Your reaction settles a modicum of his nerves, regaining some confidence as he slides his palms down the sides of your torso, settling them on your waist. “You matchin’ with me on purpose, princess?”

Bashfully, you avert your gaze, confirming his suspicions. His chest rumbles in amusement and satisfaction that everyone will know you’re out together.

“C’mon, let me treat you to dinner.” With a quick peck of your lips, he wastes no time leading you to your (not so) fancy ride for the night, a rusting Honda Civic that you recognize as Toji’s.

You both welcome the conversation that settles the joint air of nervousness on the way to the restaurant as you excitedly tell Sukuna the decorations that you and Kento settled on getting (courtesy of Satoru’s fancy card) for the graduation party. Truth be told, Sukuna doesn’t see a need for any sort of decorations for a frat party, but he’s not about to burst your bubble when you’re happily chatting with him.

He pulls into a parking lot in a familiar neighborhood, not terribly far from his apartment. 

“Wait there,” Sukuna gruffs as he rounds the car to open your door. He offers his hand, pulling you into his side with a little smirk as your hip collides with the side of his thigh. Your sheepish but eager laughter does numbers for his ego as he gets to walk you towards the restaurant, a hand splayed over your hip.

Your destination isn’t in the lot where you parked, the walk only a few blocks away. It’s a welcome stretch of excited chatter under overcast late afternoon skies as you’re pulled towards a building covered with windows with a sleek black canopy over the door. You immediately recognize the restaurant, though you’ve never been able to try it in spite of its stellar reviews. Phenomenal or not, its price tag has never been something you could afford.

With a wide-eyed glance, you purse your lips. You’re not about to question Sukuna’s decisions, but because you’ve seen the menu before, you know the prices. You also know this isn’t your date’s scene, nor is it really yours. You can appreciate a fancy dinner, but this is outside of even your repertoire.

The interior is gorgeous, dark mahogany accents standing out in the lowered lights of the open entrance. A large diamond chandelier hangs from the center of the dining hall that opens to the host’s right, casting soft glimmers of gold across the black walls.

As you take in your surroundings in awe, you’re led to a table in a back corner, the dim lighting moody and romantic, while a candle flickers atop a silken white tablecloth. The atmosphere is gorgeous, it positively seeps adoration, in spite of the way Sukuna shuffles in his seat across from you after pushing in your chair.

“This is gorgeous, Kuna,” you compliment, bright-eyed and cheery.

“Yeah?” His gaze searches yours deeply, a glimmer of something you can’t place held within the intensity of his irises.

It’s in that moment that you can really make out how uncertain he is. His gaze shifts left and right, his thoughts written across his face as obvious as the ink along his jaw. He doesn’t feel adequate. You’ve known for a long time those thoughts are there and you’ve done your best to dispel them and reassure him. But in an environment like this? One he’s never even considered being able to afford, let alone walking through the doors? Those thoughts are emboldened.

There’s soup on the menu worth more than his whole suit.

But you still do what you can to reassure him. “Yeah,” you grin, swallowing your own doubts. “You really went all out.”

The tension in his jaw releases just an ounce as he hums. “Wanted to uh– show my appreciation.”

“I’m definitely feeling appreciated,” you beam.

As he leans forward, his expression softens, slowly adjusting to the environment just as your waiter makes their way over. He introduces himself, before offering a bottle of wine. He goes over the specials for the night, politely pointing them out on the menu for you. The price is hard to ignore.

Casting a glance up at Sukuna, you can just barely make out the deepening grimace on his face as he looks over the same prices. Still, he juts his chin towards you. “Your call, princess.”

Your lips part, but you’re at a loss as uncertainty pools in your stomach. You can’t order wine that’s more expensive than your rent. You don’t have it in you. The same goes for the main courses that are smaller than your fist but cost a small fortune. Decidedly turning towards the waiter, you smile politely. “Can you give me one more moment, please?”

The waiter excuses himself with a nod.

Shutting your menu on the table before you, a knit forms between your brows in spite of your smile. “You know, I never would have guessed how much of a sweetheart you are under all that grumpiness.”

Grumpiness is right when he fixes you with a deadpan frown.

Still, you giggle as you continue, masking your nerves. “This is beyond sweet of you. Like, seriously, this place is gorgeous.”

Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you try to gauge Sukuna’s thoughts, but it’s impossible behind those fiery crimson irises. Reaching for his hand over the table, you settle a modicum of your nerves when his grip closes around you. You can only hope he doesn’t take this the wrong way.

“I really love the thought behind this, but this wine won’t taste any different to me than the wine we had at Itadori Restaurant.”

His lip twitches up at the mention of your previous date.

Grateful for the response, however minute, you continue. “And I’m sure the food is great, but I like mac and cheese too, you know?” His tension releases as you tilt your head sweetly. “I just wanna spend time with you. I really appreciate the thought, but… This is a lot of money. We don’t need to do all of this–” you motion to your surroundings with your free hand, settling it atop the menu, “if you don’t want to. Is this what you want, Kuna?”

His jaw tightens. “I just wanna make you happy,” he stubbornly replies.

“I know,” you crack a smile, “and I am. But that’s not what I asked.”

“Then, no,” he admits begrudgingly. “It…” sliding into comfort with you once again, he cracks a smirk. “Looks like they wash the walls with bleach every night.”

You grin. “It does, doesn’t it?” Giving his hand an experimental tug in the direction of the door, you lean in. “Do you wanna head out?”

His tongue runs over his lower lip. “You sure?”

“Positive,” you affirm with a nod. “The night’s young, we can find another restaurant.”

Sukuna gets to his feet, your hand still firmly clutched within his. He weaves between tables, excusing the both of you to the host with a meager apology. Leading you back out into the early evening air beneath the awning of the restaurant, he curses under his breath at the sight that meets him.

Summer showers have caught up with you, the sun peeking through dark clouds as droplets hit the ground with vigor. It shows no signs of letting up in spite of the golden rays fighting for dominance.

“Fuck,” he huffs, turning to face the direction the car is parked, several blocks away. You don’t share the dejection in the creases of his frown, squeezing his hand as you drag him out from under the awning. “Princess, your dress–” he tries to protest.

He’s met with a bubbly grin in spite of everything going wrong already, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. “My dress’ll dry, come on!”

The world is a blur as hair sticks to his forehead and neck, the white of his collared shirt showing a peek at his chest tattoos with every fresh droplet. He can’t make out whether the slick of his palms is sweat from his nerves or the rain seeping between your clasped hands. Your dress clings to your every curve beautifully still. Even with makeup smudged around your eyes, you look radiant under the sparse sunlight.

As your heels trip you up about halfway to the car, Sukuna tugs your hand to the side, leading you into the first open door before he can consider where you even are. Momentarily safe from the summer storm, he throws his head back, pushing hair off his forehead. Giving you a once over to make sure you didn’t break your ankle in the process of being pulled in here, he lets out a relieved sigh, before taking in his surroundings.

“No shit,” he breathes, some sort of irony to be found in your surroundings. Black and white tiling covers the floor beneath your feet. A bar stretches the length of the wall across from you, equally if not more worn than when you were last here, and red leather booths line the wall closest to you, stretching all the way to a jukebox in the corner. The lights from the old machine gleam over the scratched flooring in shattered neons, accentuating the classic diner’s appeal.

Strip Joint. The very reason this area was so familiar when you were making your way to the restaurant.

“Oh, come grab a seat, dears,” a familiar drawl catches your attention. Spinning to face the voice, you smile kindly at the older woman who served you free tea upon seeing your distress with Uraume, and served you and Sukuna so many moons ago; drunk, a little high, and in need of some ice cream. “Don’t worry about the mess, nothing a mop won’t fix.”

“Oh no, we’re just–” Sukuna cuts himself off with a glance down at you when your hand rests atop his chest. You tilt your head sweetly, motioning to the warm, and dry interior of a little diner that encapsulates a moment so heartwarming to the bond you share.

“Why don’t we have dinner here?”

Sukuna’s gaze flits down to your dress– soaked– but gorgeous nonetheless. “We’re overdressed.”

“So?”

He glances back up at the kind older woman, a rag in one hand as she runs lemon-scented soap over worn oak with a familiar knowing gleam in her eye. Then, he stares back at you, patient as always, with that little smile he doesn’t know how to say no to. He reaches up to brush a strand of wet hair from your temple, a breath leaving his nose as he nods.

“Thanks,” he murmurs to her with a small wave, ridding himself of the heaviness of his soaked suit jacket as he leads the way to the same booth where he sat across from you many moons ago. He drops his jacket down on the leather seat, the sound of droplets slipping to the floor unavoidable as you both slide across the cherry-red material.

The waitress, who you’re willing to bet at this point is the owner, makes her way around the counter with two empty mugs, settling them before each of you. “Can I get the two of you dears something warm?”

The air is brisk on your skin as you nod. “I’d love some tea, please.”

“Black coffee, please,” Sukuna gruffs across from you, his tattoos emboldened under the thin white shirt sticking to bulky muscle. He has a concentrated scowl on his face as he smooths the water out from the tie you gifted him. There’s a layer of frustration baked into the crease of his brow that you’ve learned to read over the past several months all-too-well.

Once the waitress nods and returns to the bar along the back, the coffee machine humming to life in the background, you grab your date’s attention with a nudge to his foot. “What’s on your mind, Kuna?”

He pauses his motions, briefly examining your expression before sighing. His forearms settle along the edge of the table as he leans forward, a stray droplet dripping from his hair down to his chin. “‘M sorry. I thought things would go well this time, n’ the food menu was priced–” he hesitates, because you both know it wasn’t priced well. “It was priced okay,” he settles on the word sourly. “You’re worth the price, I just–” he struggles with words, his nose wrinkling as he grows frustrated with himself.

Your lips press into a tight-lipped sympathetic smile. You regard him with warmth at the kindness behind the gesture. He seems to have these ideas in his mind of how everything should go, convincing himself of what the right way to do things is, as though everything about your connection hasn’t been chaotic from the get-go. As though you don’t embrace the chaos with him, hand-in-hand.

Your teeth sink softly into your lower lip as you slip from your seat, moving around the table to settle into the booth beside him. His eyes convey mild surprise, but they’re still stormy as he shuffles over to give you space to sit. The only break in the storm comes in the form of him gently reaching up to wipe smeared makeup from beneath your eyes.

“Thanks,” you breathe. “And stop beating yourself up over this,” you nudge his shoulder with your own, his warmth welcome in the air conditioned diner. “I told you, I like you for you. You’re still my best friend, you know that, right? I like that we can just talk and hang out and there’s no real expectations. I like the chaos and,” you wave a hand towards the soaked disaster you both are, “messiness.”

Coming around to your words, he nods slowly, the thorns pricking at his mind beginning to unfurl.

“I mean, come on,” you nudge him again. “We’re not fancy people. It’s really sweet of you to wanna bring me somewhere like that, but–” you shrug. “That’s not us.”

Nearly free from the grip of inadequacy, he lets out a long sigh, when his deepest fear pours from his lips before he can pluck the thorns from his mind. “No, but– you deserve the best.”

“Kuna, sweetheart,” you reach up to frame his face with your palms, your heart leaping within your chest at the way he melts as you use a pet name for him. The tension in his shoulders releases, the storm within crimson eyes dissipating as he allows himself to settle within your hold. His cheeks are mostly dry now aside from a stray droplet or two from unruly salmon strands, his skin warm beneath your palms as his face flushes under your attention.

As he allows himself to indulge in the moment, you brush your thumbs along his cheek bones, trying to find the right way to convey your thoughts.

“It means a lot that you feel like I deserve all that,” you tilt your head kindly, “but you know what some of my favorite moments with you have been?” You don’t wait for his reply. “Ice cream at midnight in the middle of a diner that sounds like a strip club. Spilling ramen all over myself and having to wear your jacket because my top was see-through. Watching you point out the planets while we look at the stars on your balcony.”

Tenderness swarms his chest, the cool air no longer touching his damp skin as he’s warmed from the inside out by your words and reassurance. “Me on my knees in the snow?”

His lop-sided grin earns a laugh from you, your palms sliding down to his chest. “God, no. That was too much,” you brush him off, your cheeks warming at the thought. You continue as his chest rumbles beneath your touch. “That, back there,” you point over your shoulder in the wrong direction, although he gets the point. “That sort of thing doesn’t last. It’s all fake, it’s just a bunch of rich people trying to impress one another and then going home and not talking to one another.”

A breath leaves his nose, amused. Finally managing to shed the thorns that had lodged themselves within his mind, he nods. “Guess so, huh?”

“And honestly, nothing would make me happier than knowing you have that money in your pocket for something for your brothers. Or yourself.” Your fingers curl into the damp fabric beneath them. “I, um– I hope I didn’t come off as rude or anything, and I know this is something that you spent a lot of time on, but I promise I’m not trying to change you or–”

“Princess.” Sukuna’s hand rests over yours. “You’re fine. I don’t think there’s a rude bone in your body and you’re right. I was tryin’ too hard to be something I’m not.”

So focused on your date that you forget about your order, you jump when the waitress returns with two mugs atop two small plates, and a small metallic teapot. A selection of teabags are laid out beside your mug as options for you to choose.

“Sorry dear, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she apologizes, her gaze both kind and knowing as she regards you both, now on the same side of the booth. “Are you ready to order food?”

“That’s alright,” you brush her off. “We need a few minutes, sorry!”

“Not a worry at all, I’ll be back in a bit.” Something about the way she carries herself has you wondering if she remembers you both, though you suppose Sukuna’s relatively recognizable. The pink hair and tattoos certainly make him stand out in a crowd.

“Scaredy cat,” Sukuna snorts under his breath. You shove your shoulder into his bicep playfully, grinning as he laughs and uses the action as an excuse to pull you into him. His warmth is beyond welcome, serving as a reminder to make yourself some tea.

As you pour the boiled water over your teabag of choice, you eye Sukuna from your peripheral. “What has you so caught up on details, anyway?” You query, taking notice of how particular he’s been over your dates and how much it’s gotten to him when everything goes awry.

He frowns, contemplative in the way he rolls his shoulders back as though bracing himself. He wants to admit to the sensation that he’ll never be enough, but there’s a serpent, bitter and venomous, wrapped tightly around his throat. It constricts his lungs and clamps its fangs down in an effort to choke the admission like some sort of cruel self-sabotage.

You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, spitting the words out through the cracks. “I can’t get it out of my head.” His body begs for water, the expanse of a desert held within the tightness of his jaw. His gaze traverses the table, settling for coffee that doesn’t quench the sudden dryness.

Your head tilts as you watch his strained reaction. “Can’t get what out of your head?”

“I put you through so much shit this year,” he croaks, tension present in his gravelly voice. “I don’t deserve to be here with you, when–”

“Sukuna,” it’s your turn to swiftly cut him off before the thoughts can spiral any further. “Don’t say that.” You pause, searching his expression, though the storm has returned. His expression is clouded, walls that match the weather outside rising as he admits to something that’s clearly been getting to him. “I know a lot happened this year, but–”

“Don’t downplay what I did,” he grunts, raw. There’s an aching chill that spreads through his body as he prevents you from brushing off his actions.

Your lips purse as you slowly nod. “I won’t.” It’s a near-whisper, the saddened look in your eyes at his dejection worsening the ache in his chest. “But people change, you know. They grow. And I know that you know you’ve grown.” You poke a finger into his chest, garnering his attention as he sucks in a breath, denial settled on the tip of his tongue.

“What if it’s not enough?”

“Then we talk things through. We figure it out.” You shrug like it’s nothing, just another facet of life, because it is. “We’re a team, Kuna. Don’t make decisions about what’s enough when it comes to us without me.”

His shoulders fall as your words hit like a moving train. They wipe clean through him, but more importantly, they take a modicum of the doubt too. Poison still lingers, but your words are burned into his mind, serving as a reminder not to let his thoughts get to him.

The chilling ache of the evening dissipates, warmed by your sincerity. It pumps through his veins and in spite of his soaking clothing, the cold doesn’t touch him. Still not a man of many words, he simply pulls you close, burying his face into your damp strands. No words are exchanged, but he lets you know he hears you.

“Stop beating yourself up. Please.”

His chest rises and falls, his heart rate steady, though you note that it seems faster than usual. “Okay,” he yields, kissing the crown of your head. Another huff leaves his form as if dispelling the last of his uncertainty, before he pulls back to open the menu.

You follow suit, looking over options. “What are you thinking of getting?” You query.

Sukuna doesn’t look up from his menu, though the corner of his lip twitches. “Chicken.”

With a roll of your eyes, you give him a playful shove. “You’re such a smartass, you literally said that last time.”

With a lopsided grin, he lowers his menu, tilting his head in your direction. “Oh yeah, well what are you having then, princess?”

Pursing your lips, you cast a glance towards the menu. Your voice is small as you concede defeat. “Chicken, probably…”

He snorts with a light flick to your forehead as you fall into familiarity with him, only this time you have no doubts of where you stand. As you attempt to flick him back, he catches your wrists and brings them down to your lap, gentle but firm so as to not cause you any harm.

The waitress returns with an amused simper. “Have you decided what you’d like?”

“The original three-piece meal, please,” you order, glancing over at Sukuna with a subtle tug of your wrists in hopes that he isn’t paying attention, to no avail. He barely even budges, ignoring your pout as he orders.

“Extra hot five-piece meal, please.” Using his free hand, he shuts both menus and slides them towards the waitress.

He bears a smirk as she makes her way to the kitchen. The sidelong gaze he shoots at you is as warm as it is shit-eating. “Brat,” he murmurs, low and teasing.

Protest lies among your tastebuds, but Sukuna swallows it with his lips, only letting go of your wrists when you give in to him. He pulls back slowly, a victorious smirk still plastered to his lips.

Sitting upright, he sighs, though there’s an air of satisfaction to it. As though he’s finally let go of every thought tying him to uncertainty, finally at ease not just in life but with himself. You admire him quietly. The curve of his jaw, the strong angle of his nose, the mild flutter of his lashes as his gaze stares through whatever’s ahead of him. What strikes you the most about your date at this moment though, is that the crease in his brow has softened, and the circles beneath his eyes aren’t quite as dark as usual. There’s a peaceful appearance to the man that bears a near-permanent scowl.

Even without a smile, even with lidded eyes that still bear a tired expression, he seems happy. You don’t interrupt whatever goes through his mind, enjoying the moment’s peace.

That is– until he shuffles and he’s reminded that his shoes are two small ponds and the scowl returns to his face.

With a giggle, you follow his gaze down to his shoes. “Your socks must be soaked.”

“They are,” he gruffly agrees.

You poke your heels out from the base of the dress plastered to your figure. “Guess I made the right choice.”

“You almost fell flat on your ass while we were out in the rain,” he points out with a raised brow.

You part your lips to protest, but you can’t conjure any meaningful arguments in your favor when the entire reason you ended up in here was the near-wipeout. “That wasn’t the heels’ fault,” you weakly utter. “I’m just clumsy.”

Sukuna’s large palm rubs up and down your waist in teasing comfort. “At that point, just blame the heels, princess,” he murmurs into your ear. “They don’t look comfortable, anyway.”

“They’re not,” you shrug. It’s something that comes so naturally to you that you barely even think about it until your toes are rubbed raw and the balls of your feet ache. “But they’re cute.” Your gaze lights up as you launch into an explanation where you recall a time that Shoko once begged Kento to switch shoes during a fancy dinner party that her parents had begged the three of you to attend, only to hand Shoko a dress and a pair of heels that didn’t suit her fancy.

“There’s no way that guy put on heels,” Sukuna scoffs, met with your giggle of agreement.

“No, but he did wear socks for the rest of the night and carry the heels around. You know the worst part though?”

Sukuna doesn’t give you much more than a questioning hum in a reply when his gaze is pulled towards the waitress making her way over with each of your meals. You thank her in turn and begin making work of your meal.

Swallowing your first bite of food, you continue your story. “Her parents had a backup outfit in case she hadn’t liked the first one, and it still had heels. She had to buy Ken a new pair of shoes because they took his shoes and she never found them.”

“If there’s an opposite of karma, it’s that,” Sukuna snorts between bites. You chuckle in agreement as he recounts a story from before Yuji was born– finding a receipt for a new pair of Kaori’s shoes, only to return them and swap them for one size too small, just to piss her off. You laugh in tandem at the mere concept, grinning from ear-to-ear as Sukuna opens up about a time far simpler.

You lean into him, fries in one hand as you laugh into his shoulder at childhood stories. He doesn’t hold back, joining in on your glee as his form vibrates in unceremonious chortles, his cheeks faintly flushed. You can’t say whether that’s from the heat of the chicken he hasn’t had the opportunity to finish as you eagerly pull stories from him, the ardor of happy memories, or the warmth of being wrapped up in a date that encapsulates you both perfectly.

As his chuckles die down, something shifts within his gaze, wistful as it is reminiscent. “Y’know, my dad never got mad at Toj’ or I. Not really, anyway. But man, when I took his car right after I got my license when we were sixteen–” he shakes his head, a long exhale leaving his nose. “The old man was so pissed.”

“Why’d you take it?” Your head tilts quizzically as you regard him, your plate of food done as you don’t dare interrupt Sukuna’s stories. Your voice is soft, grateful to hear about his father. You can’t recall a time where your date has so openly talked about Jin outside of tear-filled moments or bitter recollections brought to life by the trial.

He scoffs, shrugging dramatically. “Dunno. Guess I thought it’d make me look cool to pick up Toji n’ a couple of friends for a movie.” He winces at the mere thought. “Y’know that ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ thing that parents do? I got that big time. Toji, too. The poor guy didn’t even know my dad said no to taking the car.”

“That’s way worse than any kind of punishment,” your nose wrinkles at the thought of your parents’ version of that. The look you would get.

“Y’know what the worst part was?”

You shake your head, leaning in.

“Got my license on my birthday, n’ my dad told me I’d need to hang in there for a gift. I told him not to worry about it, I knew we didn’t have a ton of cash and didn’t really care.” He shrugs the thought off. “The day I asked to borrow the car was payday for him, which is why he asked me to wait, I guess.”

“No,” you gasp as the dots connect in your mind.

“Yeah,” he groans, dragging his free hand down his face. He runs it back through pink locks with a sigh. “He got me a fuckin’ car and him and Kaori needed the one I took to go pick it up.”

Both of you sport twisted expressions of horror at the mere thought. “So, what happened?”

“Honestly? He could’ve been way more pissed. Should’ve been.” He shakes his head, his gaze softening as he stares down at the chicken, now lukewarm, still remaining on his plate. “Might’ve been the nicest any parent has ever been grounding their kid,” he snorts at the thought. “But uh– yeah, he grounded me. Got my car officially a month later.”

“He sounds like he was a great dad.”

“Yeah,” Sukuna murmurs, voice barely more than a gravelly whisper. “He was.”

With a small smile, you give the brute a moment as something within his expression twists, from recollection to a scowl, before he seems to come to a conclusion about something. Whatever it is, he blinks it away, finally bringing more of his meal to his lips as he moves on.

“How was your chicken?” He asks between bites.

“Great,” you grin. “Yours?”

He nods his approval, mouth full. He finishes a bite before motioning to the chicken. “Want a bite?”

“Didn’t you get the super spicy one?”

“Mhm.”

You idly chew on your lip in consideration.

“You a little bit of a wimp, angel?” He teases, nudging your thigh with his.

“No,” you bite back, pausing long enough for Sukuna to grin. “That just smells spicy.”

“Try it,” he shifts his plate an inch towards you, his gaze flickering up to the kind older woman across the restaurant helping someone who walked in recently. “I’ll get you some water, just in case.”

With a glass of water on the way, you take a bite of chicken from Sukuna’s plate. It’s flavorful beyond belief, and for a moment, you really enjoy it.

Until the pain hits.

Your face contorts as you suck in a breath of air, trying to play it cool. Much to your disdain, Sukuna is grinning knowingly beside you. His head tilts down into your line of vision. “So?”

Smartass. “It’s great,” you murmur between breaths in an effort to cool your mouth. It’s not a lie either, it is great, even if it’s as hot as the fiery depths of hell.

“Yeah?” He teases, thanking the amused waitress as she sets water down before you. He moves it towards you, which you don’t hesitate to down. It helps in the moment, but the heat returns mere seconds later.

“How do you even eat that?”

Sukuna snickers at your side. “High tolerance,” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “When the kids aren’t around, I usually get spicier food.”

Sucking in a breath after a sip of water, you crane your neck towards him. “Why not just have it around them?”

“You seen Yuji’s grubby hands? That kid eats off my plate more than his own.”

“Something tells me you know this from experience,” you laugh over the rim of the glass in your hand.

He sighs, letting his head fall back as he stares at the ceiling, recalling the incident. “We’d just run out of milk,” he mutters. “The brat was a mess. I had to order a fuckin’ carton online.”

You stifle laughter, though you’re empathetic both to Sukuna’s situation and in this particular moment, Yuji’s too. With another sip of water, you peer over the rim at the rippling liquid. “You’re a good brother, you know.”

The words hang in the air, stagnant but not stifling. His gaze is locked to the glass in your hands, though he stares straight through it, deep in consideration. After a long moment, he finally reaches for your statement with a sigh. “‘M tryin’.” He sits upright, casting a glance out the window as the sound of children laughing seems to taunt him. “Things are gettin’ easier with Cho,” he admits, “but Yuji…” he shakes his head.

Perplexed, you tilt your head. “Yuji?” They have their disagreements, sure, but everything always seemed more strained with Choso.

His jaw hangs ajar for a moment as he contemplates his reply. “Sometimes I dunno what to do with the kid. I always told him I wasn’t his dad, but–”

Right, he told you Yuji called him dad. Cried and screamed for Sukuna, his dad, as Kaori locked him in a car and drove away. “It’s not easy,” you agree. “You’re both, in a way. And sometimes you have to pick sides, I guess.”

“Hard to pick sides when I’m on both of ‘em,” he scoffs.

“Yeah,” you shrug, “but I think you know in the moment what you need to be for him better than you think.”

He blinks down at his lap. “Just hope I’m doing right by them.”

“You are,” you assure him. “Just remember that you do still get to be their brother, too,” you offer the thought. “Both of them. Not just Choso. You can still play Nerf with them,” you shrug with a smile.

He snorts. “Yuji lost all o’ the darts for those things.”

“All of them?” You gape.

“Mhm.”

“How?”

Your date shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “They’re probably under his bed or some shit.”

“Still,” you murmur. “Impressive.”

“That’s Yuji for you.”

“You know,” you smirk, “I bet you were pretty similar when you were his age.”

Sukuna raises a brow, his lips quirking up. He sets his mug down before him. “Can’t say I remember much from his age,” he starts, “but Toj’ n’ I used to spend so much time around my dad while he was watching history shows that we would do dramatic re-enactments of the Ides of March with action figures. My dad was horrified when he found out.” He snorts at the thought, staring fondly at nothing in particular. “Apparently it was ‘too morbid’ for eight-year-olds.”

“He has a point,” you agree, but you’re still giggling cheerily at the thought of Sukuna’s father, mortified as he watches his child reenact the famous murder of Julius Caesar.

“It gave us character,” Sukuna grins.

“It explains a lot, honestly.”

Still, your date is happily laughing at your side as he reminisces on a time long past, launching into another story of how they horrified his father. There’s a little dimple in his cheek as he grins that you’ve never had the chance to notice with all his scowls and aloof stares. It suits him, and between that and the pale flush to his cheeks, you hope to see it more often in the future.

“So, y’know,” he finishes with a simpering shrug. “I was a pretty good kid.” He gives you a nudge. “What about you, princess? You always such a sweetheart?”

You breathe out a laugh. “I don’t know about that, I was still a kid,” you point out. “But until Kento moved in beside us, my parents always said I was a handful.”

Sukuna hums. “Coulda fooled me that his mom wasn’t yours.”

“Oh yeah?”

He shifts to lean on the table, his hand sliding down to the top of your thigh. He idly squeezes at the plush of your leg with no regard for how odd the material feels over wet skin. “Shoko called me your hot date,” he snorts.

“Aaaand she had a hundred questions for you?”

He grunts in reply, mild irritation woven within the lines of his expression.

The sound of your giggle causes him to lean against the table, his elbow folded beneath his cheek. “And now you know why I wasn’t a handful after she moved in,” you laugh.

“It explained a fuckin’ lot about Kento.”

“He’s somehow a perfect blend between his parents,” you agree. “But yeah, their place was a second home to me. I guess I calmed down after that. Ken and I used to go to swimming lessons and book clubs and summer camps together.”

“Book club? Cute.”

Bashfully glancing down at his hand on your thigh, you smile to yourself.

“So that’s how you decided you wanted to work in publishing,” he concludes.

“Mhmm!” You hum your confirmation. “I just wanted to read more,” you chuckle at the thought.

“And look at you now.”

When you crane your head up to Sukuna, his crimson gaze is lidded. Honeyed in the way he only ever gets towards you. You never let yourself believe it was anything more than friendship, and how foolish was that? To think that you’d ever equated his obvious infatuation for anything less than that– anything less than profound adoration– is a thought to behold.

In an effort to divert his heated affection and keep warmth from crawling up your neck to the tips of your ears, you flip the subject back on him. “Um– you know, I still feel bad that you’re giving up two years of your life for that– for me.”

He blinks, unmoving as his gaze briefly flickers to the wall in thought. “Don’t. I’m not giving anything up.” His voice is low, firm, as he reassures you.

“Don’t you have– like– dreams, or anything, though?”

“‘Course I do.” His hand squeezes your thigh gently. “Think mine are just a little different from what you’re thinking of.”

Your line of sight flickers between either of his eyes, pools of sanguine clearer than they’ve ever been as he gives you his full attention. “What do you mean?” You query softly.

The little tilt of your head you never seem to realize has such an effect on him has him breaking into a hint of a smile. He inhales softly, letting out a long breath as he enjoys the sanctity of spending time alone with you.

“Your dream was to finish school and become an editor, yeah?”

You hum in acknowledgement.

“Well, I never really had a career in mind. I kinda just took after my dad because I liked history. That and art were the only things I really could see myself studying,” he admits. Before you can ask the question on your mind, he continues. “I know my dad would have supported me no matter what I chose, but by the time I was applying to schools–” he hesitates, his jaw locking open as he speaks. “I knew. He was sick and we were a couple of months in, and–” he shakes his head.

The air has an edge that Sukuna’s certain only he feels, while you give him the space he needs to find words fitting of the moment. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat bobbing before he parts his lips again.

“You know what everyone says about art school and not making it n’ shit. History felt like it opened more doors for me to support myself,” he sighs. “Hindsight, or whatever,” he squeezes your thigh in place of waving a hand nonchalantly through the air.

You give his statement a moment to settle, shuffling an inch closer to him. Your voice is soft and steady as you quiz him further. “What about as a kid?”

He sucks in a breath. “I mean, sure, I wanted to be a fuckin’ astronaut like every other kid.”

With an airy laugh, you shake your head. “That’s cute, but I mean when you were like a teen.”

Sukuna’s lips press together tightly at the concept of being called cute, his grimace immediately twisting into a glower. He side-eyes you, but reserves any snide commentary for if you push the matter. Brushing off your choice of words, he shrugs. “Sure, I guess. I wanted to be a fucking street artist, but that’s not a job.” He pauses, shrugging as his gaze falls to his hand over your still-damp thigh. “I know it’s not street art, but I still get to work in art because of you. I don’t mind takin’ on some extra work doing something I like to see your dreams come true.”

He delivers it as though it’s natural, like he hasn’t just said the sort of thing that only seems true of a cheesy romantic movie. There’s no grand orchestral note to follow up something so sweet it rips the air from your chest, just his natural mild expression, as though even he sees it as just another day.

It sounds an awful lot like a confession of love to you, though.

“Sukuna, what–? I don’t– That’s so much,” you breathe, struggling to wrap your head around his words when your heart is doing circles around itself.

“Not really,” he shrugs, the air of nonchalance still throwing you off balance further. “I’ll have some late nights, but I quit the auto shop and I can do most o’ my work remotely. I’ll still have time for you and the brats.”

Completely at a loss, all you can do is stare. Your lips are pursed as you attempt to digest the knowledge, brows pulled together in disbelief. “I–” Still, words befuddle you. With a shake of your head, you tilt your head back up at him. “Wait, then what is your dream?”

He blinks slowly, his gaze drinking in every inch of your face. The muscles in his shoulder flex beneath the thin layer of damp polyester as he adjusts his arm to pull you closer by your waist. It’s effortless, the way he moves back into his casual position leaning over the table on his folded elbow after pulling your thigh flush to his. He slips his hand from your waist to settle along the back of the booth, running chilling lines up your spine with the tips of his fingers.

“This is.”

No flourish. No jokes. No teasing. He’s dead serious and wholehearted as he stares unwaveringly into your eyes like this isn’t yet another confession when you haven’t even wrapped your mind around the first one.

“There has to be–”

“Princess,” he interrupts the spiral you’ve started down before it can go further. “I watched my dad chase someone who never gave a shit about him for years. To have you here with me now and know the kids are safe and not with that fuckin’ monster who fucked over my whole damn family–” he shakes his head and shrugs all at once. “That’s all I could ever want.”

Your hand settles on his thigh, still grappling with his confession. In spite of the cool air still chilling against your damp clothing, warmth spreads through you at the realization that Sukuna’s found a slice of heaven. He got the push he needed to find his way in life in the form of a person, and your heart pounds wildly at the thought. Even though his fingers run featherlight along your spine, you’re certain he can feel your pulse, if not hear it.

“I’m happy,” he admits. “And I didn’t that was an option.” His brow twitches, downturning as he glowers down at your empty mug. “I figured I’d just kinda go through the motions as long as my brothers were okay and then,” he shrugs listlessly. “Dunno. Someday they’d move out, and I’d figure my own shit out then.” His gaze cements on yours, his face still contorted into his signature scowl, though he’s firm in his statement. “So, yeah. This. This is my dream.”

Even with his grumpy disposition, it’s sappy. Beyond belief. The kind of thing reserved only for the quiet moments with you where he finds safety within your presence.

You, on the other hand, are still at a complete loss. Sukuna can tell as much, between the owlish look you give him and the way you keep squeezing his leg. “What about after the kids, then? What do you wanna do?”

He continues to quietly examine your expression, reading every blink and twitch, every flicker of your gorgeous eyes across the diner’s walls as you search for an explanation as though he hasn’t laid his thoughts bare before you. Sukuna’s been vulnerable with you before, he’s given you more than the once-cold shouldered and pissed off brute could ever have dreamed; but this– here, now– is the truth, unfiltered and raw without an ounce of guardedness that you’ve grown accustomed to.

So, yeah, he supposes it makes sense that you’re a bit bewildered.

“Dunno,” he admits, sitting upright and rolling his shoulders. He pushes the hand back through his hair, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “I wanna travel. Do some of the things I never got to with my dad or in college. Sports games, concerts, see the world n’ all that.”

Your expression softens, still trying to wrap your head around everything, but falling into familiarity with him once more.

“With you, if you want.”

Something flickers within his crimson irises, a hint of uncertainty, no matter how brief. You quell the thought before he can dwell on it by drawing his attention to your hand as you squeeze his thigh. “I’d love that.”

The smirk he shoots you is lopsided, but it’s genuine. If only for a moment, his sharp edges dull and he bares his soul to you, offering his heart on a silver platter. It’s beaten and bruised, but it beats steadily still. Maybe even stronger, now.

“What’s next for you?” He grunts.

Pulled from your trance, you blink a number of times, still caught up on his sincerity. “Um–” you shake your head, “I’m not sure. I guess I didn’t expect to get pretty much my dream job right out of school.” You take a moment to consider what a future looks like for you. “I mean, there’s always opportunities to grow my career. I think someday I’d like to edit books for adults,” you chuckle at the thought of the children’s adventure novel awaiting you on Monday.

“What, sick of knock-off kids’ books?” Sukuna teases, the serious air beginning to dissolve around you.

“It’s cute and fun, and I think there’s a part of me that hopes kids like Cho and Yuji find something they love in them,” you explain your thoughts, leaning into his hand that continues soothing strokes up and down your back. “But, um– yeah. I'm a little sick of them.”

Amused, Sukuna exhales a harsh puff of air. “Alright, so you wanna edit smut books–”

“I didn’t say–”

“But what about outside of work?” He continues, pleased with himself as you throw him a little pout with narrowed eyes. He can feel heat rising along the back of your neck, a thought that makes him smirk as he teases you.

Cute. Always cute.

Brushing past his commentary, you quirk your head to the side, eyes grazing the ceiling in thought. Second dates don’t feel like the appropriate time to admit that you hope for simplicity and domesticity and that you see him in all of your visions, but he did just admit himself that he wants you to be a part of his distant travels, long after the boys move out.

Sucking in a breath, you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. “I guess I’m not really sure,” you admit, “but I’d like it if you, Yuji, and Choso were a part of it.”

Relief flickers within the cerise of his eyes, for as much as he tries to hide it with a glance away. Something about hearing you repeat his own wishes back to him feels like the last puzzle piece sliding into place. The world must agree too, because the harsh pitter patter of rain softens to something far calmer. He swallows hard, casting a quick glance back at the golden rays peeking through clouds to cast a warm glow on the slick asphalt.

“Think I speak for all three of us when I say we want that too, angel.” His voice is low, words spoken only for you when he looks back over at you. With a glance cast up and down your figure, he figures this is a good opportunity to get you back to the car without drenching either of you any further. “Why don’t we go get you warmed up?”

He calls politely for the waitress, but you catch his attention with a hand on his bicep as she makes her way over. His pupils flicker down, awaiting your reply.

“As long as the night’s not over just because of a little rain.”

He smirks. “Nah. But I’m still not letting you catch a cold, I can feel your goosebumps, y’know.”

With a glance down at the evidence of goosebumps rising along your arms, you hum your agreement. You thank the waitress as Sukuna pays and apologizes for the fact that she’ll probably need to mop. He grabs his suit jacket and leads the way back out into the brisk evening breeze.

The summer days are long and the sun– although low– still graces you with its warmth, thankfully. It almost counteracts the bitterness of the light wind passing over your wet clothing. Sukuna’s palm radiates heat as he squeezes you close by your shoulders as well, grateful for whatever small respite from the cold you can get.

Beginning the walk down the block as close as you can get to the heat he radiates, you bask in the smell of fresh grass and wildflowers sprouting within the cracks and crumbling pieces of the sidewalk. Birds call and sing to one another as the clouds shift and churn. Another bout of thunder growls overhead in the deep grays above, but your walk isn’t far.

Even with the sky warning you the storm isn’t over, you still find yourself stopping when you round the corner of the block, the tall buildings parting just enough to reveal a faint rainbow in the distance. It stretches behind the next block, sparkling as though droplets cascade down it.

Sukuna follows your gaze as you halt suddenly, his scowl softening as he finds the subject that’s captured your interest.

“Maybe mother nature’s apologizing for raining us out,” you offer.

Sukuna hums his acknowledgement, craning his neck to watch your expression. He admires the smooth curve of your lips, the lift of your brow as you examine the sky, and the endearing sparkle in your eye over something so little. He isn’t one to stop and smell the flowers or chase rainbows after a storm, but with you? It doesn’t seem so bad.

He might even get why people do it.

His grip on you tightens as a thought crosses his mind and before he can dismiss it, he swallows down any apprehension and faces his inadequacy, uncertainty, and fears head-on. The scowl he bears isn’t borne of frustration, irritation, or even any of the very beasts he faces, but rather determination as he turns to face you.

Your expression changes to something inquisitive as his arm leaves your shoulder in a cold shiver (that he swears he’ll fix as soon as he can). With a sharp inhale, he steps forward and cements his hands to your waist. His thumbs slide up and down your sides, frowning as his mind races through words that he had prepared…

Back when his plan was to do this outside of the first restaurant.

Not in the rain.

He also would have preferred if had admitted that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough for you on a fifth or sixth date, not the second.

But he supposes you have a point. Everything about Sukuna’s life is chaos, and you’ve chosen to be a part of it and embrace it.

So what the hell is he waiting for?

His fingers curl into your waist, his expression hardening as it always does when he’s deep in thought. “It’s funny, y’know,” he starts, glancing at the rainbow as though it’s suddenly caught his attention. “I had so much shit planned out, right down to the fuckin’ weather.” He blinks, his gaze trailing down to the sidewalk. “I don’t think anything I planned worked out,” he admits, though he seems a bit more confident in his admission than he did a couple of hours earlier.

You crack a smile at the ease he seems to find within your presence. You’re sure he’s completely unaware that he’s rubbing circles into your sides, completely caught up in finding the words suiting the moment.

“But you’re right. That’s not who I am, that’s not how my life goes.” He shrugs, shaking his head. Working up the courage to say what he really means, he swallows down the nerves climbing to the surface. “Shit goes wrong all the time, and I’ve fucked up a lot, but–”

“Kuna–”

“Wait, just–” he interrupts, his jaw tightening as he grapples for words. “Sorry,” he clears his throat, his gaze finally centering on your face. “Doesn’t matter how shit everything is, you’re always there. You’ve been a goddamn angel to me and–” He harshly cuts himself off to stop the claws of inadequacy from being able to get a grip on him. Picking up where he left off, he speaks with more confidence, certainty breathed through his every word. “I don’t wanna waste anymore time not calling you mine.”

Your fingers curl into his chest, your lips pursed. You swear your heart leaps from your chest and takes off, but the wide grin that spreads across your face says otherwise. Any thoughts of being cold disappear as fire erupts in your chest, erupting as it engulfs your entire body in molten thrill.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend, Sukuna?” You whisper, eager and gentle.

“I’d be a dumbass not to.” To your delight, his lip quirks up into a hint of a smile; uncertain, maybe even a little flustered, but hopeful. “And I’m tired of bein’ a dumbass.”

“Yes.”

Sukuna surges forward in an instant, causing you both to stumble back. All precaution and regard for being on a street corner under storm clouds is thrown to the wall as he slots his lips over yours. Everything about the way he captures you is so him. It’s messy, fiery, passionate, and filled with fervor. Whatever it was that was holding him back has unlatched itself from him as his hands roam your body as though he doesn’t know where to keep them.

One slips up your waist, cradling your back as it slides up your spine only to move to your hip and slide back up into your hair. The other squeezes your waist before moving to the column of your neck and finally cupping your jaw.

His tongue glides along your bottom lip when a stray droplet suddenly hits your forehead and you pull back with a gasp of surprise. Your boyfriend scrutinizes the droplet like it’s done him a personal offense, wiping it with a thumb before turning his attention to the darkening sky. Whatever rays broke through the cumulus long enough to grace you with a rainbow clearly decided your makeout session wasn’t meant for a public street corner.

In Sukuna’s eyes though?

Mother nature is smiting him.

One droplet turns to two, and then four, and suddenly the rain is back in full force, pelting you with large droplets.

“Oh fuck off!” Sukuna loudly exclaims to the sky, unable to withhold the frustration that nothing seems to be going right. His hair is plastered to his forehead again when he glowers down at you like a cat caught in a rain storm. The edges smooth just a bit though, when he catches you laughing, your fingers still laced between his.

You shine brighter than the strongest rays that broke through the clouds, radiant as you stand beneath the rain. Unbothered by the droplets catching in your lashes, you simply grin at the grumpy man before you, enjoying his (mostly) faux disdain.

To your delight, the sight of you laughing has him rolling his eyes with an amused puff of air leaving his nose. It’s the first domino that leads him to join your laughter, pulling you by your hands into him. He smooshes your face into his chest with a palm to the back of your head, his laughter rumbling through you like the purr of a cat.

Only once it dies down does he take the time to get a look at your soaked form. “C’mon,” he mutters. “Let’s go dry off. My place?”

With your nod, he pulls you by the hand across the street, leading you beneath any overhang and awning that he can as you make a dash for the car. It may not be far, but it’s long enough that you’re dripping all over again by the time you reach the vehicle.

Sukuna blasts the heat. Although it hasn’t warmed up much yet, you both shuffle uncomfortably against the old leather. It sticks to any exposed skin and tugs at the wet fabric of your dress, a sentiment that Sukuna clearly feels with the way his slacks stick to his thighs. With no solution to his issue than to change, he huffs and casts a glance towards you.

Before pulling out of the parking lot, Sukuna leans over the center console to kiss you again, short and sweet. Before he can pull back, you take his face in your hands, cupping his cheeks. Stubble is just barely beginning to break through his skin, a five o’clock shadow growing in already.

Your thumbs travel his cheeks, pausing briefly on the faint scar that still protrudes beneath his right eye. It turns more prominent on his forehead where it tears through his brow.

He’s beautiful. Every tattoo, marking, and dimple. Every scar, the slit in his eyebrow, and frown lines that make him who he is.

“I think I like being able to call you my boyfriend,” you murmur, concealing your eagerness by biting down on your lower lip.

Although his face remains aloof, the increase in temperature of his skin within your hold gives him away. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, leaning in to kiss him once more, though you surprise him by pecking his forehead.

His face pulls into a scowl as he steals a kiss on your lips, the hunger from your moment in the rain still lingering in the way he presses you into the seat.

When he pulls back, he adjusts himself in his seat, the tightness of his damp slacks now causing a completely different issue. You barely manage to stifle your giggle, but he catches the humorous breath you let out.

“Don’t,” he growls, pulling out of the parking lot before you can embarrass him.

The latest pop on the radio serves as a backdrop for a comfortable silence. The kind that settles like a warm blanket. Coupled with the heat that finally kicks in, you enjoy watching the trees blur by on the short drive.

“Sorry.” It slips from his lips like he doesn’t mean to say it.

“Hm?”

“That it took me so long to figure this shit out. My feelings.” The last words sound a bit like they choke him, but you appreciate his honesty. “Satoru and Toji of all people kinda had to spell out for me how stupid I was.”

“It was a bit confusing with all the handholding and hugs and stuff,” you admit, before realization hits you. “Wait, you’re getting your relationship advice from Satoru and Toji?”

The salmon-haired man snorts, flashing you a smirk. “Yeah, no wonder I suck at this shit, huh?”

You giggle at the thought of Toji offering any sort of love advice. “I don’t know, I think you’re doing pretty good right now.” But another thought has you stifling more laughter. “If they didn’t point it out first, I think Yuji would have made it pretty obvious when we watched Ice Age 2.”

With a scoff, he pulls into his building’s lot. “The little brat doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”

“I think he’s pretty funny,” you tease.

“‘M sure you do,” he grumbles. He chooses to ignore you as he makes his way around the car to help you out, relieved to find that the slew of reporters has begun to dwindle. He wrings his suit jacket out a bit before draping it over your shoulders to protect you from the onslaught of remaining photographers as he blocks you to the best of his ability, still refusing any questions.

By now, he hoped they would have given up, but Noritoshi Kamo is a big enough name to really gather attention.

Making your way up the building to his door, Sukuna locks it behind you and finds the both of you met with silence, something his apartment hasn’t heard for some time. Normally, he would hate the silence, but with the knowledge the kids are safe and he’s here alone with you, it’s nice. Intimate. A pocket of time all to yourselves.

He kicks off his shoes, watching you stumble over yourself in an effort to bend down in your form-fitting attire to undo your strappy heels. Clicking his tongue at the sight, he gives your lower back a guiding press in order to lead you to his couch.

“I’ll get it wet,” you protest with a pout.

There’s an all-too-smug smirk crossing his lips at your statement. “I don’t mind.”

Playfully shoving his bicep, you conceal your shy smile with a look at the floor beneath you.

Although Sukuna’s glad you aren’t quite as meek as you were when you first met, having grown more willing to stand your ground, he’s equally glad to find that he can still fluster you. Especially given the effect you have on him.

Plopping down onto the couch, your pupils blow wide at the sight of Sukuna getting down onto his knees before you for the second time since you’ve known him. This time, the sight sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you straight in the eye with an expression that sends a wave of hunger through you. From his lidded eyes to the relaxed line of his lips that isn’t quite a smile, but something that tastes of more.

His calloused skin grasps your calf as he undoes and slides your first heel off, tossing it aside. He follows suit with the next one, before both hands settle in the ditch of your knees and he pulls you towards him. With a shocked and mildly embarrassing squeak, your hands brace on his shoulders. Your knees collide with the wall that is his abs, before instinctively parting as he pulls you to the edge of the couch, stationary between your legs.

Your dress is bunched up around your upper thighs, barely covering anything as it sends heat straight to your face. Your heart pumps loud enough that in this silence, you’re sure he can hear it.

If he does, he gives no indicator. His focus is solely on the skin of your legs, bared to him and still-cold from the moisture clinging to them. The lump in his throat bobs once as his palms glide from their place beneath your knees, sliding up to grip the top of your thighs. His thumbs create divots in your skin from subtle pressure, sending your heart leaping from your chest with the attention he pays you.

Your breath hitches when his gaze holds yours with insistence as he brings his lips down to one thigh. It’s a form of worship that’s enough to make you shudder.

When he pulls back, his hands glide up your thighs until they reach the wet dress bunched up by your hips. Pulled from his trance, he’s reminded of the reason you both turned in for the night in the first place. A muscle in his jaw shifts, and when he looks up at you, the crimson eyes that make him stand out so much have nearly been swallowed by his pupils. “Let’s go warm my girl up.”

He pats your thigh once, pushing up to full height and offering his hand. Even as you take it, your brain is still short circuiting as it tries to figure out whether that’s an innuendo or not. He doesn’t leave you long to consider it before you’re standing behind him at his closet as he pulls a handful of comfy clothes out for you.

Peering curiously at what he chose for you– a metal band shirt and the pair of sweatpants that barely fit him that he always reserves for you– you find yourself tilting your head and rotating the shirt in an effort to decipher the band’s name. It’s borderline illegible, the white streaks and strands across the black hoodie supposedly meant to spell something, though you can’t make it out.

You suppose it isn’t just borderline illegible after all.

Oddly enough though, it is in the shape of a frog. Which is cute, you suppose.

Pulling out a hoodie for himself, Sukuna snorts at your squinting expression. “You’re not gonna figure it out.”

“What does it say?”

He cranes his neck to take a look at it. “Frog Mallet, I think.”

“Oh,” you tilt your head uncertainly. “Yeah, I think I see it. Do you listen to them a lot?”

“Not really,” he shakes his head. “I’m more of a grunge metal or nu-metal guy, but they opened for a concert I saw, have a fun gimmick, and I liked the design. Thought you might too.”

“What’s their gimmick?”

“All of their songs are about frogs.”

You crack a smile at the absurdity of a metal band singing about frogs as he turns back to his closet to grab a pair of sweatpants and boxers, which reminds you of just how much you’re looking forward to warming up.

In more ways than one.

“Hair dryer’s under the sink if you need it,” Sukuna grunts over his shoulder as you slip over to the washroom. You return feeling a fair bit warmer, albeit a little bare after deciding a hair dryer would not fix your soaked bra.

In an effort to dry them, you hang up your soaked clothing and make your way back to Sukuna’s room as he pulls his hoodie on over sculpted muscle. His gaze slides towards you, his expression remaining aloof in spite of the leap in his chest. Seeing you in his clothes bears a new meaning knowing he gets to call you his now, too.

He clears his throat as you bound towards his bed, plopping down at the edge of it. Leaning back on splayed palms, you gaze up at him with the kind of smile that could melt glass.

“Warmer?”

“Mhm!”

“Good,” he hums as he collapses on the bed, relaxing against the headboard with shut eyes. His whole body decompresses, an air of peace curling around him like the wisps of smoke he’s let go of. His gaze flickers open, his head tilting as he beckons you closer with a curl of his fingers. “C’mere.”

Scooting back on the bed, you barely make it halfway before you’re caught by bulky arms and dragged over his lap. You sit stationed on one side of his thighs, your legs thrown over his lap as he cradles you close to his chest.

There’s a light thump as he lets his skull drop to the headboard. “Fuckin’ rain,” he grumbles. “I was gonna take you to a market after dinner.”

“Ooh, like a flea market?”

He lifts his head as he nods. “An art market. Figured it was the kinda thing we’d both be into.”

You pout at the saccharine thought poured into your night together, even if things hadn’t worked out from the beginning. “That would have been fun! Maybe next time? They’ll probably reschedule if they got rained out today.”

He hums, sliding his hand up your leg to squeeze your thigh. “Next time,” he agrees, shifting to steal a kiss. “But this is nice too,” he smirks against your lips, finally finding his footing to shake the sensation of inadequacy.

“I definitely don’t mind this,” you breathe, splaying your hands over his built chest as you lean in to reciprocate.

The world slows. He moves slow. You both do, in tandem as you match one another. Your breaths, your lips, and the minute shuffling of your clothes under each rise and fall of your chests are all that permeate the air.

His mind no longer swims with shortcomings, drawing blank while simultaneously flooding with wave after wave of you.

Your smile, the gleam in your eye when you’re happy, the way you laugh when Sukuna does something stupid.

Your unending support, the way you always put others first, your effortless ability to reel him into your security.

The curve of your nose, the way your hair falls into place, how everything you wear compliments you beautifully.

Your thighs.

Your curves.

He doesn’t intend to, but his jaw parts, pulling away with a hitch of his breath. The silence is thick, cut with every inhale, but it’s the look in your eyes that gets him the most.

The way desire speaks for itself in the form of blown out pupils. The heat he feels radiating from your cheeks, running warmer than he is. A simultaneous desire and bashfulness that encapsulates everything he’s come to know about you.

He grips your thigh, guiding you to straddle his waist. It’s familiar in the kind of way that should be terrifying, but with an official title tying you to one another in a pretty red bow, neither of you lets it stop you.

His lips don’t move quite as slowly when they capture yours again. There’s a newfound confidence that he was born to inhabit, one breathed into every movement. His palms settle on your hips like gravity, his grip curling into the fabric of the oversized shirt hanging from your shoulders.

He kisses you like he may never get a chance again. The grip he has on your hips grounds him, it grounds you, as your head spins when his tongue glides across your lower lip. Your lips part on instinct as the taste of him floods your mouth. It’s different than all those months ago– both in the way he takes his time learning you, and the smokey quality to his taste having completely disappeared.

He curses under his breath when you pull back for air, giving you no time to get your bearings when he pulls you back by the nape. His pulse hammers against your palm, synced to the speed in which yours races in your ears.

“Kuna,” you breathe his name like a prayer. His fingers curl into your hair as he kisses the corner of your lips in a silent reply. His eyes flicker open. The gaze you’ve grown accustomed to is eclipsed entirely by his pupils blown wide with lust. The sight sends a shiver down your spine, your thighs clenching around his waist on instinct.

He swallows thickly at the sensation. You feel him then, long and hard as every shuffle of your hips has him twitching beneath you. Your breath catches in your throat as you experimentally roll your hips down. 

Your boyfriend’s eyes roll back, fluttering shut as he lets out a breath. “Fuck,” he breathes, wrecked. “Can’t get enough of you.”

You can’t be sure whether it’s selfish or servicing that you roll your hips again, searching for the dizzying sensation of friction as a wet patch forms on your panties. He shudders beneath you, dipping his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt as his hands explore your curves. His fingers trace over stretch marks, scars, and goosebumps alike, mapping them out like constellations as he stares at you reverently.

His gaze lowers as he takes the hem of your shirt and makes a move to bring it up over your head. Your nerves rear their ugly head as he barely lifts it halfway, your fingers curling into his hoodie as you go rigid. For all the attention he’s paying to you right now, of course he notices. He stops dead in his tracks, lowering the hem as he scrutinizes your expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing–!” You insist, too quickly. Sukuna straightens, his brow pinching as he searches for answers. With a breath to steady yourself, you let yourself relax, mentally assuring yourself it’s just nerves. “It’s really nothing, I promise.”

Your shirt falls to your thighs as Sukuna cradles your face. “Talkin’ to one another isn’t a one-way street, angel.”

Letting out a breath, you nod. “You’re right. Sorry.” His thumbs brush your cheeks in reply. “I’m just nervous.”

“Mm.” You don’t get much more than a grunt in reply, as though he’s awaiting something more.

In an effort to quell the butterflies winding up within the pit of your stomach, words fall from your lips to fill the space. “I just– I like you a lot and I don’t wanna mess up, or disappoint you, or–”

Shutting you up with a kiss, Sukuna pulls back with a tight-lipped frown. “Where the hell’s this comin’ from?” But before you can even get a word in edgewise, he’s already connected the dots. It’s not exactly easy to get a reputation in college, especially when you’re not in a frat. No one gives a shit to get in others’ business when you’re drowning in exams.

He’s no stranger to the words that stick to him, bolder than his tattoos. That he’s good, big, but not to catch feelings. That he won’t acknowledge hookups after. That he’s got a penchant for being on the rougher side. That he’s a colossal asshole.

But he wants to leave that in the past, stack it up with every other terrible decision he’s been trying to make up for lately.

“You’re not gonna disappoint me.”

“But–”

Another peck on your lips. “Princess.” It’s just about the sweetest way he can tell you to shut up, though you know the words are on the tip of his tongue. He’s only holding back because every little shuffle of your hips makes it hard for him to think straight. “If you think I don’t feel the same way about you, then I need to do better. I worship the ground you fuckin’ walk on,” he gruffs, furthering the pounding in your chest.

“No, you’ve been amazing,” you murmur, cheeks heating up with embarrassment that the thought had even crossed your mind. You try to avert your eyes, but his hands hold you steady. “You’re right. Sorry, Kuna.”

“Stop worryin’ yourself over nothing. Let me treat my girl.”

If your face was warm before, it’s on fire now. “You know, you’re kind of a sap when you wanna be,” you tease.

“Mm, you’ve turned me into one.”

His grip on your cheeks loosens to let you fall into him. His eyes flicker shut as he figures you’re leaning in to kiss him, but your arms slide around his neck, your head burying into his shoulder. He blinks once, before snugly holding you.

“Y’know,” he ponders, “you’ve got me all worked up, too.”

You giggle, pulling back to look at him. “I can tell,” you hum, grinding down against him.

He huffs, his lips parting. “Brat. That’s not what I mean.” He returns his grip to your hips to stop you from shuffling around impatiently. “I’m nervous too,” he whispers, tentative but raw.

“You are?”

He shrugs, averting his gaze. Sex has never meant anything to him until now. It was a way to satisfy his needs, and that was the end of the story. But saying his thoughts like that to you right now feels entirely too vulgar, so he settles for something tamer. “You’re my first relationship. This means something to me.”

You suppose it’s never occurred to you that you might be. But putting the pieces together, everything adds up. “I trust you,” you offer. “This means something to me too.”

At the admission of your trust, he lifts the hem of your shirt again, waiting on you to give your consent.

“Go ahead,” you breathe, letting him pull it over your head and toss it aside.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his large hands roaming your curves. His gaze trails greedily across your bare skin, his hands following as he commits the sight to memory. His gaze settling on your breasts blows his pupils out further if it’s even possible, the crimson of his eyes a distant thought with every second he spends admiring the canvas of your body.

His palms round the plush of your breasts, giving them a tentative squeeze to test your reaction. You feel him twitch beneath you in response to the break in your breath, a smirk tugging at his lips. The worn pads of his thumbs slide up to brush your nipples, tearing a gasp that has him breaking into a full smirk.

For all his bravado, however, it softens, when he glides a hand up to your collar, beneath your necklace. His palm halts over your heart. Its beats stagger and leap, matching the beat of the blood in his ears. His lips purse, a chill running down his spine at the raw trust an angel like you has placed in his worn hands.

Your fingers curl into his hoodie when he pauses to admire you, giving it a faint tug, but he knows what you want. His arms cross over his front as he pulls it up over his head, adding it to the pile of discarded clothing on the ground.

Muscles, scars, tattoos, and the silver chain beneath his hoodie are bared to you, your gaze roaming down to the salmon happy trail running down into the hem of his pants. You shift your weight to glide palms down the washboard abs you’ve thought about more than you’d care to admit to him. His abdomen clenches as you do so, and whether it’s from the way your hips shifted or your fingers sliding over every peak and valley, you can’t say for sure.

He doesn’t move, watching every micro-expression with the intensity of a man starved. His patience comes as a surprise, but he’s so caught up on you that every moment is an eternity and a blur all at once. Minutes could be hours, but he couldn’t tell you if he tried.

Black ink carves stories into his pectorals, followed in a trail by your fingers until you reach his shoulders once more. The sensation of your small hands exploring the hard mass of his muscle has him shivering, actually shivering, and if he hoped you wouldn’t notice, he’d be out of luck.

A bashful smile crosses your face, equally sharing in his apprehension and eagerness. “You’re gorgeous,” you breathe.

You’re met with a raise of his brows, the wall of sudden interest to him as his already-flushed cheeks harshen. “Gorgeous?” His breath fans the bare skin between you, warm. His tone low, as sultry as it is gravelly. “That’s a new one.”

“A good new one?”

His chest rises beneath you. After a moment, he nods, finding your curious eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, good.”

“Good,” you whisper through the fluttering in your chest, pressing your weight against him to lean down and kiss him. Whatever tension remained in him finally gives as he melts within the warmth of your adoration. The world narrows, the sounds outside fading, the hum of the fridge distancing itself. It’s just the two of you, the sounds of smacking lips and the exchange of breaths.

For the first time– but not the last– sex isn’t just an act. It’s not about getting off and moving on.

It’s about connection. It’s about the way his arm wraps around your middle, holding you with the utmost care as he flips you, hovering over you without breaking the kiss. Even as you gasp, he swallows it, positioned between your thighs that spread on instinct for him.

It’s about the way he smiles. Not a smirk, or a grin. A genuine smile. The kind that matches the saccharine looks you always shoot him. It’s infectious, until you’re both smiling into the kiss.

It’s about the way every sensation and reaction is raw and real. That your nerves are shared, but soothed by the mere presence of the other.

As he pulls back, you would expect the room to feel cooler, but when his lips roam your jaw, lingering on your throat, everything heats up exponentially. Your hands fly to his hair as your head falls back into the downy pillow. A soft whimper parts your lips and Sukuna isn’t sure he’s ever heard something so intimate.

His breath shatters over your skin, the hitch evident when it falls like glass over your collar. He moves further down your body, your breaths turning to soft moans when he grazes your nipple. His gaze lifts when your fingers curl in his hair, a low grunt pulled from him as you unwittingly tug him away in the haze of euphoria.

Pulling himself back down, the flat of his tongue glides over your peaked nipple, your chest rising and falling in quick breaths beneath him. It sends sparks of electricity through your veins like lightning burning bright across a sky, shocking from limb to limb.

The way he moves, the way he learns, it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced. The first touch is always experimental, but he watches you with so much intensity that it’s like he knows exactly what you want before you do.

You suck in a harsh breath as he latches onto your nipple. “Sukuna,” you murmur, light and airy as he explores your body. His tongue flicks out and circles the sensitive skin, but what really makes you jolt is the sensation of him groaning at the sound of his own name dragged from your lips. He repeats his movements over your other nipple with more urgency, not out of a lack of patience, but from need. Chasing the sound of his name sung within your moans.

As he sucks on the peak of your breast and your fingers grip his hair, his eyes shut on instinct when he’s rewarded with a louder, more sure honeyed moan of his name. He’s quick to move up your body, crashing his lips against yours in ardor.

“Say it again,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over you.

“Suku–”

He swallows the sugary whisper before you can even get it out. You latch your arms over his shoulders, fingers curling into the inked skin laid over muscle.

When he pulls away for air, his back rises and falls harshly beneath your fingers with each breath. His gaze flickers across your expression, drinking in your pleasured expression.

“Feel good, angel?” His voice has a heady quality that hits you hard. Your stomach flips as heat blooms between your thighs, instinctively tightening around his torso. He cracks a smile, something between smug and adoring, something so Sukuna, that tells you he already knows, but you nod anyway.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, something soft and sweet, before moving down the bed. He settles between your legs, the jittery sensation of bubbling nerves making themselves known when his fingers settle along the band of the rolled up sweatpants you borrowed. Reaching for the sheets, you ground yourself by gripping them.

His eyes, always attentive, flicker to your hands, cementing themselves in your gaze as you tentatively watch. “Nervous?” His words aren’t meant to tease. For once, there’s no condescension or grin, but a genuine search for understanding.

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you give a nod. “Just a little.”

His thumbs rub soothing circles into your waist. Leaning forward to press a kiss just above the sweatpants, he murmurs his next words against the bare skin. “I’ll take care of you,” he assures, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. You squirm at the sensation, met with another smirk.

Giving his face a little shove at the realization he’s purposefully searching for ways to fluster you and make you squirm, you shake your head. Your smile isn’t lost on him, though.

His fingers curl around the waistband once more, silent searching permission swirling within his wide pupils.

“Please, Kuna,” you breathe as you flutter around nothing, lust outweighing your nerves.

It nearly undoes him to feel your hips shift eagerly. He doesn’t waste a moment sliding the sweatpants from your legs. He picks up right where he left off on the couch earlier, palms gliding up to your hips as he maps your body. “Shit, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous,” he huskily groans. His gaze dips to the wet patch in your panties, lacey and the very same shade of red that you chose for your dress and his tie.

Chosen to match his fucking eyes.

He swallows thickly, squeezing the plush of your thighs. His thumbs are so close to your core that you can’t help the buck of your hips. Pulled from his trance, he smirks, slow and pleased. “Cute,” he mutters, brushing a thumb over the lacey fabric clinging to your hip. “Bet you did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

You try to hide your bashful smile, but it breaks though. “Maybe. The bra matches, too.”

Sukuna’s voice is rough as he lets out an amused hum at your reservation. “Sweet girl,” he hums, hooking his fingers around the fabric clinging to your hip. With a kiss to your inner thigh, he pulls them aside, tossing them into a forgotten pile of clothes. 

You shrink slightly as he doesn’t move for a moment, admiring the sight of you laid bare in your entirety beneath him. He doesn’t let you shy away, though, strong forearms wrapping around your thighs and tugging you closer. With a surprised yelp, your hands fly to his hair again, barely given a moment to ground yourself before he lowers his lips to your dripping entrance.

“Fuck, you’re wet, princess.”

It takes your breath away from the moment he connects with you. The sensation of his tongue dragging through your folds is soft at first as he measures your every reaction. Your moans grow louder as pleasure doesn’t just bloom but blossom, unfurling in your stomach with every flick of his tongue moving between your entrance and your clit. He doesn’t waste any time seeking what has you keening for more.

Sukuna groans as he etches every tremble, jolt, and shudder to memory. The bedside lamp frames you like art meant to be kept in a museum, now selfishly hidden from prying eyes. He keeps your thighs from closing around him with strong arms, amplifying the sensation of his tongue as he eats you out fervently. His grip on you is firm as he doesn’t let you shuffle away from him, set on tasting you when he pushes you over the edge.

“Ah–” You gasp as his tongue pushes between your folds, unintentionally pushing him deeper when your fingers curl in his hair. He groans, and that has the knot in your stomach tightening. It pulls so taut that the wave of your orgasm teeters right at the edge, ready to flood over at his beck and call. “Fuck, please–” You moan, your back arching off the bed in search of release.

You so rarely swear that Sukuna finds himself smirking, smug to pull such debauched noises from sweet you. Your walls flutter around his tongue, he knows you’re close, shifting forward to nudge his nose against your clit and send you over the edge.

“Ah–! Sukuna–!” You moan his name loudly as your abdomen clenches and you see stars, your climax rolling through you in rocking waves. Your boyfriend slows his movements to work you through it with slow drags of his tongue over your slit, pulling back once you slump in his arms. His lips are slick when he runs his tongue over them, cleaning up what he can of your orgasm from his chin before peppering kisses over your inner thighs in his grasp.

He’s surprisingly gentle and patient with you in spite of the aching tent in his pants that twitches with every moan and whimper that parts your lips. Pushing up onto his forearms, he shifts his body back over you, wiping his chin with the back of his hand before lowering back down to share the taste of you.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters between kisses.

When your lidded eyes finally flutter open as he lets you catch your breath, eyes hazy and undeniably mirthful, he grins.

“Hey, princess,” he gruffs. There’s a grit to his voice that has you biting your lip as you admire the bulky man above you. In spite of the lustful and smug aura that clings to him like the smoke he’s since put-off, there’s something charmingly eager and jaunty that fans it away as he yearns for your approval. “How was that?”

Too dazed to give much more than a nod, you smile back at him. “Felt so good, Kuna.”

“Mm.” He leans down to kiss your throat again, making use of the knowledge that it never fails to make you shudder. “Good.”

Sucking in a breath, you watch his movements stutter and his jaw lock as your hand trails low down his torso, bringing one finger to his waistline. He watches you intently, his jaw falling open as you trail your fingers over his clothed length. His eyes roll back, blinking intensely.

You’re no fool, Sukuna is almost seven feet tall and he’s all solid bulky muscle to go with it. He’s a big guy, and some part of you has always known he would be big. You’re not innocent to thinking about it. Not when he manspreads on the couch like it’s the only way to sit and wears the sluttiest gray sweatpants known to man.

Not that you’re complaining.

With everything you knew about him though, you hadn’t expected him to be so patient. To take his time worshipping you, to be so gentle when his hands know only how to be harsh.

But that’s Sukuna at his core, isn’t it? A man left to his own devices, facing the harsh cruelty of the world with a jaded lens, whose layers peel back to reveal a kindness reserved for those closest to him.

The man panting above you now– veins rippling over muscle as his chest heaves, sweat speckling the expanse of his chest– he proves that beneath snarky rebuttals and frustrated huffs lies someone even softer still than the amused banter and smirks you often share. Still undeniably sharp and a little vain, but leaving room for the vulnerability, weariness, and now something far greater. Something akin to devotion.

Still Sukuna.

But your Sukuna.

He swallows thickly, the lump in his throat bobbing as you stroke him over his sweatpants. A broken groan parts his lips. His mussed hair begins to stick to his forehead as sweat beads at his hairline. “Shit, I–”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish whatever’s on his mind when you slip your fingers beneath his waistband. He groans, his hand flying up to catch your wrist. Pursing your lips as his eyes snap shut, you tilt your head.

“Kuna? Do you not want me to…?”

He blows a breath out through his nose, long and even. Even after being eaten out and cumming on his tongue, you’re still timid to the subject of sex. Cute.

What’s not cute is the dismay tinting his cheeks red. “I do,” he grumbles, his expression unreadable as his head hangs. He releases your wrist as you softly pull back, gathering his cheeks in your hands. When his expression meets yours, he’s tight-lipped, frowning with red that reaches the tips of his ears.

“What’s wrong?”

He frowns, then huffs. Heavy, but not irritated like usual. No, his pink-tinged cheeks tell you all you need to know. Reluctantly, he grumbles his confession like it might choke him were he any louder. “‘M not gonna fucking last if you…”

You smile, soft and reassuring. “Kuna–”

He tugs himself free of your grip, but rather than withdrawing, he chooses to bury his face in your shoulder, slumping more of his weight against you. “Don’t,” he warns in a low growl.

Running your hands through his hair one after the other, nails softly raking his scalp, you do your best to quell his nerves. “I’m not gonna tease you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” You don’t get any acknowledgement from him, so you continue. “It’s normal.”

Another huff. An indignant ‘not for me’ that sounds an awful lot like a pout.

You smile softly, kissing the side of his head. “It’s flattering that you’re that into me. I promise.”

Another huff, softer now. He cranes his neck to place a kiss below your ear, lingering featherlight against your skin.

“It’s our first time together,” you offer, “we’re still figuring things out, right?”

He catches the subtle way you seek your own reassurance, still nervous yourself. He doesn’t point out, merciful to you as you are to him. His voice is muffled in the crook of your neck. “Right.”

But performance issues are something Sukuna has never struggled with, something he doesn’t know how to move past. It taunts him. He’s still hard. He aches for you. But his mind won’t move past the blockade.

“Kuna,” you breathe, soft. “Baby.” His muscles slump into you further, more of his weight pressing down against you, unbeknownst to the man disarmed by your sultry name for him. “It’s fine. I promise. It’s kinda hot, honestly. You’re doing good.”

His cock twitches once, twice, in quick succession against your thigh. You blink, the pieces falling into place that your brutish and aloof boyfriend might like the embrace of your softness and praise more than he lets on, but he doesn’t give you the time to think it through. His lips are on yours in an instant, the first kiss a silent gratitude, the second starved.

He lifts his weight again as your hands resume roaming his body. Gripping the flexed and bulging muscles of his veiny biceps, squeezing and exploring the arms he’s so often used to move you at his leisure. Manhandling you like you were his from the start. Like maybe the distance after your argument wasn’t when he started to feel a shift. Like it was well before that, and he just never knew it as anything more than lust.

Your fingers graze his pecs, passing up over the silver of his dangling chain and back down his abs. Every scar tells a story you long to know someday, but you’d be lying to say it’s what’s on your mind when the smell of sex clings to the air.

This time, when you reach his waistband, he doesn’t let up. He lets you move the waistband past his hips, as far as you can manage without breaking the kiss. He even helps, slipping them off with a hand splayed by your head to hold himself over you. You swallow his groan, pulling back yourself to switch the focus to him.

The bold font of branded boxers clings to his hips, unfairly framing him in a way that makes your stomach drop and flip all at once. You can hear the teasing already. ‘Like what you see?’ Hell, you expect it, expect to laugh and roll your eyes, but it never comes. Glancing curiously back at his expression, you find your answer.

He is smirking, you know he’s thinking it. But with a single layer of clothing between you, he’s nervous too.

“I want you,” he growls, low and heady. His gaze searches yours for permission. “Wanna feel you around me,” he rolls his hips, a muscle in his jaw working as a sharp breath passes through your lips with the sudden friction.

“I want you too.” You nod, fingers curling into his back. “Please, Sukuna. I’m yours.”

He reels back, stepping away to let his boxers fall to the floor.

Right. The thigh tattoos he’d mentioned. Matching the bands around each of his limbs. But that’s not where your focus is.

He’s undeniably long. Thick, too. Prominent veins pulse as they run up to the flushed head, curving slightly to one side. Precum has already gathered on his tip, leaking from the angry red head that jerks at the mere sight of you. Like a testament to how much he means it when he says he’s attracted to you.

When he hovers back over you, it becomes increasingly obvious just how much bigger than you he is. He towers over you in every sense, and the cock that hangs heavy over your abdomen sends jitters to the pit of your stomach.

Intently watching your expression as he leans back over you, his fingers glide through your folds. Gathering slick on his fingers as your jaw falls open, he slips a finger in your entrance, moving slowly as your stomach clenches. Any other day he’d make a comment about how he knows he’s big and isn’t about to try to push into you without first taking care to ease your tension.

Today, his thoughts scream only of you. Your pleasure. Your comfort. So he leaves the pride behind.

“Ah–” Your hand flies to his forearm, clinging to the muscle holding your boyfriend upright. The sensation of one finger slowly pushing into you is pleasant in spite of the accompanying mild sting, but his thumb rubbing steady circles over your clit is intense. Once he’s sheathed within you to the knuckle, a shiver rocks your body as the cool metal of the ring adorned on that finger kisses your entrance. “Fuck, K-Kuna.”

“Mm.” Sukuna curls his finger, a groan ripping from the back of his throat when you jerk your hips as it takes him no time to find the spot that has you clenching around him. He smirks as your nails dig into his skin, wasting no time in littering kisses across your breasts. His tongue smooths over every spot his teeth graze as he leaves a multitude of purpling marks across your skin, heightening the sensations as another finger slides in.

With two thick fingers buried deep inside and his lips marking your skin, you see stars with every curl of his fingers. His name falls from your lips like prayers for a man who’s scarcely ever seen an altar.

Your legs tremble with every skillful curl of his fingers, instinctively closing around his torso. “Hah– That feels–” You can’t finish your train of thought when your mind goes blank as he repeatedly presses the gummy part of your walls. His movements are steady, pleasure flooding you with each curl as you coat his finger in slick.

“Feels what, angel?” Sukuna spurs you on, husky.

“Feels– hah– so good, baby.”

He loves your nickname for him, he loves hearing his name fall from your lips in moans, but he adores to be called terms of endearment. There’s a hitch in his breath as he twitches against the bed, growing more and more hungry and desperate to be inside you.

He pulls his fingers from you, waiting for your pretty gaze to flutter open and meet him. Sliding them between his lips, he cleans his fingers with a pop! Smirking as your grip on his arm tightens, you feel your mouth go dry when his length glides through your folds, lubricating himself with the evidence of your lust.

Swallowing hard, your gaze flickers between the erotic way he sucks on his fingers and the sensation of the heaviness resting between you.

He makes you look small, and he’s thick to boot. You cast a nervous glance back up at him. 

His smirk softens, craning his neck down to kiss your jaw. “I’ll go slow,” he assures you.

At your nod, he lines himself up with your entrance, when a thought occurs to you. “Kuna?” Your hand splays across the sturdiness of his chest. “Condom?”

He blinks like it hadn’t even occurred to him, corners of his lips falling. “Fuck… Fuck,” he mutters, grunting as he pushes back from you.

At the bedside, he rifles through his drawer, casting a glance at you as he digs through all the junk and paperwork he’s tossed in there over the past few months. When he spots you grinning, lip pulled between your teeth in an effort to conceal it, he pauses, leaning over the bedside table on locked elbows.

“What?” He grunts.

You shrug, turning onto your side to face him. His gaze flashes down your body, sparks flying through your veins. “It’s just sweet to see you so flustered lately.”

“I’m not flustered,” he deadpans.

“Baby.”

If he wasn’t before, he is now. His cheeks take on a whole new shade of red as he stares at you with a continued frown.

“You know everything tonight’s been perfect for me, right?”

The quiet of the room stills. Something settles in the drawer but Sukuna pays the noise no mind. “Me forgetting a condom is perfect?”

You laugh, an airy sort of sound. “I mean, no, but,” you shrug, “I don’t know. It’s real. It makes the nerves and how clumsy and awkward I feel like I’ve been a little easier.”

The tension pulling his lips back dissipates. He may not reply, but the flare of exasperation settles. He pushes up from the desk, shooting you a sidelong glance as he pulls a condom from a box. “Found them, by the way,” he mutters. He tears it open with his teeth, which somehow feels like the most guy thing on earth, tossing the packaging aside and hastily rolling it down himself, though he pauses barely a quarter of the way down.

He sighs, forlorn, and blinks at you. You tilt your head questioningly, and had you blinked, you might have missed it. The faintest hint of something greater than just a smile. Like he’s choking down a laugh.

“It’s inside out,” he mutters. Embarrassment laces with humor as he fights his own laughter when you have to cover your mouth in any sort of attempt to spare him.

It doesn’t work for long. It slips out, natural and bubbly, as Sukuna hangs his head.

Like the final notch in a dam, his laughter slips loose, too. It breaks through the barricade as his shoulders rock with every chortle.

Because you’re right. For the first time, this isn’t a hasty attempt to wet his dick, but a moment of genuine nerves shared between two people so genuinely into one another that it intensifies everything tenfold. And really, what would your first time be together if not everything that embodies you both? Chaos, comfort, and a whole lot of stumbling and clumsiness along the way.

Dramatically discarding the condom in a garbage can beneath his desk, he pulls another one out, tearing it with his teeth again.

“Do you… need a hand?” You tease, grinning up at him as the atmosphere shifts with your laughter as your nerves settle at last.

His eyes narrow as he sheathes the rubber over his length, crawling back over you. “‘Do you need a hand?’” He mocks, scoffing warmly. “Fuckin’ brat.” He steals a kiss between your laughter as you practically double over, squealing gleefully when he presses his thumb into your waist just enough to tickle.

“Kuna,” you wheeze, breathless. “Wait, please–!”

He’s grinning now, his eyes crinkled at the corners in an unguarded fashion as he releases your waist. “Maybe you’ll think twice about making fun of me next time.”

Desperately trying to catch your breath, you give him a lazy one-shoulder shrug. “Maybe.”

“Done being a brat for now at least?” He queries with the faintest of warning squeezes on your waist. Your hands fly to his chest, nodding. “Good girl,” he purrs, the sound vibrating straight through your veins to your core. You clench around nothing, your hands gliding up to his shoulders and tugging him down closer to you.

“I need you,” you breathe, heat still coiling in your loin.

He meets your words with a nod. Obliging your needs, he dips a hand back down, slotting his lips against yours to swallow your moans. His thumb moves in deliberate circles around your sensitive clit, groaning as your nails graze the skin of his shoulders.

Pulling back for air, his restraint pulls taut as he shifts to line himself up with you. Lifting your head, you cling to his heavily rising and falling chest to ground yourself as you watch him sink into you with a sharp hiss. Just the tip first. The stretch is nothing like his fingers. There’s a sting first, one that he lets you ride out until it shifts into something different.

“Relax for me, angel,” he coaxes you as your muscles still give him some resistance. He licks his thumb, reaching back down to rub your clit. “Breathe.”

He must be able to read you like a book, because every time the burn of being stretched open shifts into pleasure is when he feeds you another inch. Every movement comes with a surprisingly sweet reassurance. Doing so good for me. Just a little bit more. Look so fuckin’ perfect.

When he’s buried to the hilt, your gaze flickers up to his. He’s already watching you, warmth swimming within shadows of lust– and something more. Something you’re not quite ready to put a name to, but something real.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, swallowing around the tightness of his throat. Every ounce of restraint is being poured into letting you adjust, but it snaps like an elastic pulled taut when your legs wrap tightly around his waist.

His hips stutter as he lowers himself over you. His forearms settle on either side of your head, holding himself at an angle where he can still watch you in spite of your overwhelming height difference. He’s slow first, your tight walls testing just how long he can last when he’s imagined this so many times.

You whine as he rolls his hips, feeling so full that every thrust leaves you feeling breathless. “K-Kuna,” you gasp as the last of any restraint dissolves into white-hot pleasure. “Don’t stop.” You can feel every vein that brushes your g-spot, every thrust carrying a weight that you’re certain is intentional, but his eyes are as hazy as yours. Acting on pure instinct and feeling.

It’s like nothing either of you have ever experienced. Pleasure unbound, coiling tight and ripping groans and moans from both of you. His breaths are heavy, his skin sticking to yours as sweat clings to you. He hunches down to lower his forehead to yours, the connection intensifying the sensations in a way you never thought possible.

The emotions that swirl in his eyes are so intense you can feel them dancing off your skin. Your nails drag across his skin, leaving harsh red streaks along the canvas of his back. He lets out a heavy breath between pants, every thrust intentional. It’s hot and overwhelming in spite of the slow way he chases your pleasure.

It builds slowly, like a song establishing its hook as he keeps a steady, deep rhythm. Every thrust feels as though it reaches your lungs, the overwhelming weight of him within and around you deafening you to the world.

He murmurs not your nickname, but your given name like a mantra, something you so rarely hear from him that it feels sacred.

Every twitch and jerk becomes more frequent within your walls, and he buries his face into your neck, his breath hot on your shoulder. “Been wanting this for so fucking long,” he groans, distracting himself in an effort to hold off on his climax when he already feels so close. “It’s everything I fucking imagined.” His hips still stutter, still drawing inevitably closer to falling apart, so hopelessly attracted to you. You’re everything he imagined.

“You f-feel so good, baby,” you breathe, unable to piece together a real reply when it’s the only thing on your mind.

One hand buries in your hair, cradling your head as he grounds himself. He kisses your neck over and over, his mind keening for more. More praise. More pet names. More of this. More of you.

It nearly sends him over the edge, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. “You’re mine.” It’s muffled, barely over a whisper when his teeth sink into your skin, careful not to harm you.

You cry out in pleasure, throwing your head back. His lips travel the length of your neck, kissing your throat, before crashing into your lips. Hard, heavy, fast, needy. His tongue pushes into your mouth like it’s all he knows, his hips pistoning at a pace that has you seeing stars as he pulls you back to the edge.

You tremble under him, whimpering his name until it all breaks. Wordless, the edges of your vision brighten a shade as the world spins.

His forearms tense. But what undoes him is the sensation of you clenching down on him in waves as the dam breaks once more and your arms and legs tighten around him. His hips harshly stutter as he cums with you, short and purposeful thrusts drawing out the moment for you both.

The room is a flurry of panting. Breath trying to be regained under the heady weight of sex. Neither of you move for a moment, lost in the feeling of you continuing to milk him, his abdomen seizing with every clench of your walls.

As he slowly relaxes, his weight presses down on you like a blanket of comfort. The cool sensation of his chain draped over your skin makes you shudder when he buries his face into your neck again. You stay like that for a long moment, reassured by the steady beating of his heart pressed to your sweaty chest that he’s slowly coming down from his high with you.

He shifts with a hiss of overstimulation as he lifts himself back up, a modicum of crimson visible once again in the rings of his eyes when he’s only a breadth away. He leans in, slow, gentle as he slots his lips against yours. They brush as he pulls back a hair’s length. “How’re you doing, angel?”

With a contented sigh, you nod. “Good. Really good.”

He smirks.

“You?”

He hums, unable to put an adjective to how lucky he feels, so he settles on something simpler. “Me too.”

After all, you get it.

And he was stupid for ever worrying that you wouldn’t.

He waits a beat before pulling out with a groan, sliding from the bed as you yawn tiredly. You unabashedly stare at his sculpted figure as he bends over to pick up a shirt and boxers. He pulls on the boxers, momentarily staring at the shirt before he uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and tosses it into a laundry basket across the room.

Sitting upright, you move to swing your feet off the edge of the bed when he clicks his tongue. “Lay down,” he gruffs. “Let me take care of my girlfriend.”

You have to chew on your lip to hide your bashful smile.

He scours the floor for your panties, setting them beside you and kissing your temple. “Be right back. Stay here.”

“Can I have a pair of your boxers?”

He glances down at your panties, then across the room to his dresser.

“My panties are wet,” you pout. “Actually, they have been most of the day.”

He smiles sleazily.

“Not like that,” you reach out to lazily smack his hip, met with a snicker.

“Anything else, princess? Need water? Do you need a shower right now or somethin’?”

“Just water,” you smile at his thoughtfulness. “And my boyfriend.”

Pride swells in his chest as he makes his way out of the room to fulfill your needs.

He returns shortly, condom discarded, water in-hand, and two cloths– one damp, and one dry. Carefully, he cleans your still-trembling thighs before handing you a fresh pair of black boxers. Choosing a side of the bed, you pull the blankets up over yourself, awaiting your boyfriend as he finishes cleaning himself up, taking off his chains and rings, and discarding condom wrappers.

He pauses at the foot of the bed with a gruff “move over”.

“Oh, is this your side?”

His lips pull tight. “No. I just don’t want you near the door.”

Your lips form an ‘O’, at a loss for words as he watches you shuffle over.

His usual mild or disinterested expression has been replaced with something far warmer, albeit a bit fatigued. Though weariness clings to the circles beneath his eyes, it’s not the kind that plagues him. It’s peace. It’s the kind that allows him to gently slip under blankets with you, reaching over you to turn off the lamp like it’s where he belongs.

The blanket of darkness settles over you like an embrace as the lamp gives way to silver light weaving between the blinds. The warmth that surrounds you isn’t brought on by any amount of light though, it comes from the sensation of Sukuna’s bicep wrapping around your middle, pulling you into his chest as he lays on his back. Your leg tucks between his thighs, your arm draping across his abs.

His heart loudly beats beneath your ear, far calmer than it was when he was buried in you.

Undeniably still fast, though.

The room is still, silver tones bathing everything in a dull glow. The world outside has calmed, engines few and far between as the night draws in on all sides. Birds are dozing in their nests and the city has mostly turned in for the night. It’s just you and him, enjoying a pocket of peace, untouched by anyone else.

Your hand traces small patterns atop his pecs, rising and falling softly. You curiously explore the expanse of his torso in ways you couldn’t earlier, too drawn in by temptation. Your fingers pause over bumps, marks, and scars, mapping out stories long before you ever met him.

Your finger glides over a former tear that bites into his shoulder, pondering what sort of thing Sukuna might have gotten himself into.

Your thoughts must be loud within the silence, because he seems to read them. “I was four,” he hums, shifting to glance down at the mark he’s carried most of his life.

“What happened?”

He smirks, craning his neck towards you. Resting your chin on him, you watch him with a curious smile.

“I don’t remember it happening,” he starts, “but y’know those animals on springs at playgrounds that rock back and forth?”

“Yeah.”

“I violently threw myself off of one in an attempt to attack Toji on horseback.”

You barely manage to stifle your laughter.

“Not really sure how I landed on my shoulder. I got stitches there, Toji got ‘em on his back.” He cracks a fond smile. “My dad told me he only looked away for two seconds. He was mortified.”

“You two must have been a handful for him.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Apparently the intake nurse at the ER knew me by name.”

Your brows raise at the revelation. “You were there that often?”

He shrugs. “Broke both o’ my arms. Separately. An ankle, my nose, a few fingers…” He squints in thought. “Dunno. Other shit, too. I’ve gotten a lot of stitches. Was there for Toji sometimes, too.”

“How did you two even manage that?” You gape.

He smirks, rubbing a soothing thumb over your bare waist. “I threw myself off an ATV Toj’ stole from his family, fell in a box of Cho’s Lego, smashed a finger in a car door. Nothing that serious, just wasn’t a very careful kid, I guess.”

“Throwing yourself off of a stolen ATV definitely qualifies as serious,” you point out with an exasperated laugh at the idea of Sukuna’s poor father chasing after him.

“Not if you don’t get caught.”

“How in the world did you not get caught?”

He grins, now. “We returned the ATVs before his family found out. My dad didn’t know they were stolen, and didn’t talk to the Zenins.”

“You are so lucky.”

Sukuna takes pause at that thought. Back then, he wouldn’t have considered himself so fortunate. Toji was always running from his family, while Sukuna avoided his own house whenever his step-mother’s bright red overpriced car was in the driveway. Choso struggled to put things together until everything began to collapse and Sukuna never knew what to make of his relationship with his half-brother. That’s only the tip of the iceberg that Sukuna held up on his shoulders.

But looking back, he can finally see the moments worth cherishing. His entire childhood isn’t a smear on his record anymore. The poison is bleeding out, leaving behind a heart that beats stronger for it.

He remembers laughing with Toji as his dad picked them up from the theater after their first movie alone.

He remembers teaching Choso how to skateboard, buckling a helmet over his head in an effort to keep his dad’s worries at bay.

He remembers how proud his father was as they wandered through a museum and Sukuna curiously pieced together artifacts with the fragments of knowledge Jin had taught him at the time.

He remembers picking a cap up off of the floor at his high school graduation and handing it to his father as he wheeled him out of the ceremony. Jin’s voice, hoarse from treatment, had been fond as he teased Sukuna for having a big head.

He swallows hard as he regards the memory he had once locked away, so filled with grief he couldn’t bear its weight. For the first time, it feels… lighter. Maybe still a little bittersweet, but it doesn’t loom over him like a snake preparing venom.

Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “What about this one?”

Your fingers trail over a scar the length of your thumb that trails across his pelvic bone. He grunts, nudging your hand away before wrapping it back around your waist. You chalk it up to being a sensitive area, unaware that he was deathly close to admitting it tickled.

Something in his expression shifts, lighter than the mild scowl he just shot you, though he masks it before you can figure it out. “Toji n’ I vaulted over a fence and I impaled myself on a nail.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp in disbelief. “Really?!”

That shift in his expression gleams now as he flashes you a shit-eating grin. “Nah. My appendix burst.”

You give his chest a light smack. “You’re such a dick,” you groan as he laughs, his chest rumbling beneath you.

“Mhm. Your dick, though.”

You roll your eyes, settling your chin back on his chest with warmer cheeks than before. “Yeah. My dick.”

“My girl,” he reciprocates the thought, his hand raising to move some stray hair from your forehead.

His fingers trail the length of your spine, gliding over skin smooth, scarred, and everything in between. He maps your stories as you tell him about the meaning of the paths that etch your skin, his gaze never once leaving as you speak. He commits everything to memory with the attention of someone cataloguing the stories away as though they’re his own.

When your voices wear thin and your eyes grow lidded, the quiet of the night slipping in around peaceful souls, you slowly find your head lowering to Sukuna’s chest. Your lashes flicker in an effort to stay awake with him, but his muscles are loosening too.

You yawn, your voice lowered under the blanket of fatigue. Cracking your eyes open just enough to see his peaceful expression, you smile to yourself, your gaze landing on the ink carved into his chest.

“What do your tattoos mean?”

He sucks in a breath, his eyes still shut as he replies. “Nothing, really.”

“You just liked them?”

He takes a beat before replying. For a split second, you think he might just have fallen asleep. “They were a rebellion or something, I guess.”

“A rebellion,” you parrot his words with a yawn. “Against… who?” You can’t imagine based on the way he talks about his father that it would be him.

“Dunno,” he admits. His mind grapples for a reason behind them, but truthfully there’s no meaning to his reasoning. “They just felt like something I could control, I guess.”

You peer up at him, though he’s still the picture of a man nearly asleep. The lines of his brow have smoothed over, his entire body sinking into comfort. “How old were you?”

“Seventeen, I think.”

You bury your face into his chest at the thought of a young Sukuna grappling with the fact that his life seemed so out of his own hands that he reached for anything to feel a sense of control. And to think it was probably booked before his dad even got sick, you can only imagine how your boyfriend handled things after.

“They let you get tattoos at that age?”

“They shouldn’t,” he huffs, half-amusement, half-seriously. “The shop was pretty careless. The artist was good, though.”

“I like them,” you smile against his skin. “They suit you.”

He yawns. “Thanks, princess.”

For the first time since the trial, Sukuna’s nightmares turn into dreams.

main masterlist || series masterlist || ⏮ prev || next ⏭

❦ a/n ; hiii my loves!! i genuinely can't believe this series is coming to a close in one more chapter :') it's been such a blessing to share this journey with you all so thanks for sticking with me on the slowest burn ever

i hope it was everything you all hoped for <33 i took a lot of time working on the smut to make it special and i hope it lived up to expectations. those two saps are so in love and such yearners but i also wanted to share that first times aren't perfect and that's okay and i wanted to capture that realism here :) they're the kind of people who get to find comfort in one another and can talk and laugh together during sex and that's the foundation that builds a lasting relationship

the same goes for their date of course!! i really wanted to capture the fact that sukuna will go to any length to make her happy, but that's not really the kind of couple that they are at the end of the day. i wanted to find a sweet way to show that they've learned to embrace the chaos and that they don't need extravagance to have a sweet date

i'll quit yapping but i'd love to hear your thoughts as always and i hope it all lived up to your hopes <33

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.

@yenayaps @kunascutie @aiicpansion @fushitoru @gojoscumslut @hellish4ever @cuntyji @theonlyhonoredone @mad-katsuki @timetoletmyimaginationfly @clp-84 @coffee-and-geto @candyluvsboba @favvkiki @gojodickbig @spindyl @ohmykwonsoonyoung @kyo-kyo1 @officialholyagua @vadergf @ieathairs @cinnamxnangel @nessca153 @aerareads @after-laughter-come-tears @tillaboo @thepassionatereader @erencvlt @v1sque @a-girl-with-thoughts @lauuriiiz @blueemochii @paradisestarfishh @erenxh @call-me-doll8811 @toulouse365 @dabieater @janrcrosssing @satsattoru @angel-loganswife @privthemis @captainsarcasmandsass @ryomeowie @vitoshi @kunasthiast @axxk17 @toratsue @bluestbleu @yuji-itadori-fave @totallygyomeiswife

Your heart swells to think that it’s Sukuna who found a solution, shoving the blockade aside from a road you didn’t think to approach. You’re not quite sure how he did it, but as the tape pulled aside and your dream became tangible, holding your exam schedule now feels surreal. With the final one completed, you neatly fold the paper and tuck it into your pocket, unable to stop grinning.

Slipping your bag from your shoulder, you pull your phone from the front pocket and power it on, awaiting any incoming messages.

Two from Shoko, and three from Sukuna. You shoot a quick text to Shoko to let her know your final is finished and you’ll meet her and Kento for lunch soon, before opening your messages with Sukuna.

10:43 AM Kuna <3 || hey princess

10:43 AM Kuna <3 || let me know how your exam goes

10:44 AM Kuna <3 || i know youll kill it

You smile at his encouragement.

11:38 AM You || Definitely killed it!! Thanks Kuna :)

With your phone in hand, you make your way over to your car to meet your friends. It vibrates again, lighting up with a text that reminds you of just how lucky you are when Sukuna’s name flashes across the screen.

11:42 AM Kuna <3 || thats my girl

Unable to help but grin at your phone like an idiot, you allow the butterflies in your stomach to grow and flutter like monarchs preparing for migration. He may be a bit of a dry texter, but it makes his encouragement and compliments remarkably sweet.

Your heart batters at its cage as you attempt to put together a message to thank him for helping you get to this point, guilt still pricking at your chest with every step, when he sends another couple of messages.

11:44 AM Kuna <3 || still going out with shoko and kento

11:44 AM Kuna <3 || ?

Settling on an easier reply to his first message, you figure you can thank him later, opting to focus on being free of schoolwork. Free of Kaori.

11:45 AM You || Thanks Kuna <3 yeah I’m just about to head over!

You hope he’s smiling at his phone as much as you are. Tucking your phone into your pocket as he lets you know to have a good time and text him once you’re home, you make your way to the sushi place that Shoko had chosen.

Stepping into the quaint little shop, you’re greeted by the fresh scent of fish and cooked rice. The lighting is warm and inviting, red brick decorating the walls as each booth mimics the appearance of a vintage food stall you might find pressed up against a building.

Making your way across the vinyl flooring, you peer around the slats dividing the booths at the end of the restaurant to find your friends seated waiting for you. Shoko’s head whips up at the sight of you, her usual slow drawl and drowsy expression replaced with something eager. “So?” She pushes you for the details on your final exam.

“I think I killed it,” you grin.

Getting to her feet, she hugs you tightly. “I’m so happy for you, oh my god,” she murmurs, pulling back with a grin. “Congrats girl!”

Kento regards you both warmly from where he sits across from Shoko’s spot. “Congratulations,” he adds, punctuating his cheer with your name.

“Thank you both,” you beam, slipping in beside Shoko. “Thanks for all the help with studying too, Ken.”

“Not a problem,” he hums.

A collective sigh of relief is breathed through the air as another year is finished and you and Kento can look forward to walking across the stage at graduation, while Shoko is sure to do so in the years following. Your parents may not be there, but they’ll get to watch a video and all of your friends will be there to cheer you on.

“I still can’t believe Sukuna pulled that shit off,” Shoko nudges your arm, earning a grin from you that can only be properly encapsulated with the term ‘lovestruck’.

“Pulled what shit off?”

Your eyes widen as a flash of pink strikes your vision, a devilish smirk meeting your gaze as the man in question slides into the booth across from you.

A bashful simper spreads across your lips at the sight of him. You need to chew on your lip in order to hide even an ounce of the eager grin that you’re positive you can’t shake as the three people who’ve kept you sane (and driven you mad) this year all surround you. Your heart warms as Sukuna offers a fistbump to Kento, who looks startlingly out of place as he obliges.

“Took you long enough,” Shoko quips, casting a knowing glance at your eager grin.

“You made it sound like a closer walk than it was,” Sukuna snorts, leaning over his fist.

“Maps said it was ten minutes!” She insists.

As they bicker over Shoko accidentally choosing the wrong location, you can’t help the way you check out the man across from you. Over the past couple of weeks he’s noticeably bulked up again, his skin no longer gaunt. He still looks undeniably tired, but he carries himself in a way that makes it seem like your run-of-the-mill bout of waking up a bit too early. His hair is well-groomed and styled, and for the first time in a long time, glimpses of the real Sukuna don’t just claw and slither through the cracks.

He now sports a snarky grin as he wittily replies to Shoko, one that he used to reserve for little moments in the safety of his home. Now he snorts a laugh as your friend rolls her eyes.

He’s still guarded, you can see him holding back as he tries to find his place within your friends who once threatened to knock his lights out if he hurt you (rightfully so). Now, though, his shoulders aren’t permanently tensed. He’s present, and in the moment. He’s sharing the real Sukuna more openly.

There are stresses in his life, but not the kind that press down on him from every side until the walls close in and his lungs cave. He still has a lot on his plate and for that you do find yourself unable to shake some guilt that he’s giving up two years for you.

“Alright, alright,” Shoko concedes, “I’ll triple-check next time. Just quit your complaining and order,” she rolls her eyes, shoving the menu towards Sukuna.

He shoots you a sly smile from across the table, nudging your foot. “Pick whatever you want. I’ll cover you.”

“I can cover my own, that’s alright Kuna!” You nudge him back.

“Nah, I got the check from Kaori, I gotcha princess.”

“She actually paid?” You gasp.

“Mhm. She returned some of the kids’ shit, too.”

“Only some?” Shoko frowns.

“I wasn’t expectin’ any, so–” he cuts himself off with a haphazard shrug.

Kento leans back with a frown. “I would hope she was left no other option than to hand things over given that she should be tried in a criminal investigation.”

“No kidding,” Shoko agrees. She runs a hand through long brown hair, taking a sip of her drink. “Have you heard anything about it?”

The brute nods, a more serious air to his hardened features. “It kinda went over my head, but the judge referred it to a higher court or something. My lawyer said I might need to testify but it’s gotta go through the whole court bullshit again, so it won’t be for a bit.”

The table nods with an overall solemn dust settling over the situation, though it’s blown over with a firm “good,” from Kento, who offers a smile. “I’m glad her methods turned on her.”

In truth, you hope they bite harder. You hope the next headline you see is her downfall.

“For the record, I offered to kill her,” Shoko points out with a smug grin.

Sukuna snorts, much to Kento’s disdain as he flashes her a warning glare. “Guess I know who to call if shit goes down,” he snickers in spite of the blonde’s tight-lipped frown. That’s just who your friend is, but knowing him for as long as you have, you still spot a glimmer of amusement hidden well within those auburn irises.

“Do you have any plans for the payout?” Kento moves along before Shoko and Sukuna can continue.

A flash of uncertainty swims in claret pools as Sukuna’s gaze slides to your friend. Money is still a subject that Sukuna prefers to keep to himself, weary of those around him when he’s managed so long on his own. While he’s grown capable of relying on others for some things, he remains steely when it comes to income.

When he spots no malicious intent within the blonde, you’re surprised to find his guard lowering his walls just enough to allow for a glimpse into his life.

“Paid off my bills last night,” he starts, “most of the rest is in an investment account for the kids, but I kept some aside for Christmas, birthdays,” he shrugs, fiddling with a thick black ring on his middle finger, “day to day sort of stuff.” He sucks in a breath as his attention turns to the titanium on his digit. “Think I’m gonna get a new place.”

Shoko and Kento both murmur their collective congratulations and approval over Sukuna finally having the money to let him live rather than just exist.

You tilt your head in that cute way that Sukuna’s always loved, garnering a smile from him. “Did you have something in mind for a new place?”

“I wanna give the kids their own rooms,” he admits, tapping a finger on the table in thought when the waitress arrives to gather your orders. After placing them, he picks up right where he left off. “Cho turns thirteen soon, n’ Yuji turns six in a couple of weeks, I think it’ll be good for them to have their own space. Think Cho’s needed it for a while, honestly.”

As Kento discusses good neighborhoods and open houses he’s recently spotted nearby, always on top of being the responsible one, Sukuna’s hand stretches to the center of the table. He settles it with his palm upright, expectant.

Shoko shoots you a knowing grin as your fingers slips between his like it’s second nature, as though your heart isn’t battering so hard you fear the entire restaurant can hear. His thumb glides across your knuckles before firmly gripping your much smaller hand, his calloused skin never failing to set yours alight. The way his touch has the ability to kindle a flame within your chest– and between your thighs– is something you think you’ll never grow tired of.

As Shoko pokes for details about what it was like to take your exams after petitioning, the table falls into easy conversation. Seeing your crush and one of your closest friends fit in with Kento in spite of their differences in the past fills you with a tepidness that you don’t think anything could bring down at this point.

And for once, you don’t feel like you need to watch your back, lest Kaori or anyone else try to take it from you. It’s just you and your friends enjoying life (and sushi) as it is, here in the moment.

When Sukuna slides his card out to pay not just for you, but all four of you, he’s met with protests and the opening of wallets, but he keeps a strong palm over the paper at the edge of the table, unwilling to let any of you place your cards down.

“Kuna, you can’t just–”

“Look, don’t get used to it. But for the next little bit, shit’s on me.”

Kento offers his glass in cheers, a little more his speed, which Sukuna smirks at, followed by your and Shoko’s thanks.

“Oh yeah, you guys have plans tomorrow, right? Taking her out on a hot date?” Shoko pries with a knowing expression as she nudges you.

Heat rises to the tips of your ears as Sukuna fixes you with a simper. He’s always been smug when it comes to his ability to fluster you, but you find that same heat dusting his cheeks too. “Yeah, I was gonna call her tonight,” he admits, though his attention is solely on you. “It’s a little unconventional,” he chuckles, averting that sharp crimson stare, “but I’m hoping she doesn’t mind.”

“Cuuuute,” Shoko jeers at your side, chewing on a toothpick. “Well, you can have her tomorrow then, we’re having a girls’ night tonight.”

“We are?”

“Mhm! I just decided,” Shoko shrugs, knocking her heel playfully into Kento’s shin when he attempts to protest that he planned on applying for jobs tonight. “It’s your turn to choose a movie anyway,” she points out, which satisfies him in spite of his huff.

“Fine. Can we please leave my nails alone this time?” He pleads.

Groaning, the brunette beside you throws her head back. “You’re no fun.”

Sukuna snorts. “Have a good night,” he offers, clapping a hand down on Kento’s shoulder. On his way out, he turns his attention to you. “I gotta get back to work, but I’ll text you details,” he gruffs, leaning down and letting his lips brush your forehead briefly before leaving a chaste kiss where they brushed. “See you tomorrow, princess.” Standing upright, he flashes a wave at Shoko and Kento. “Thanks for the invite.”

With hands in his pockets, he pushes out the door, leaving you a blushing mess to be teased by your friends for the rest of the night.

–

Shoko had opted to stay over to help you choose an outfit given the occasion, as you feel a sense of deja vu with her seated cross-legged clutching your heart-shaped pillow atop your bed.

“Did he give you an idea of what to wear?”

You shake your head, staring at Shoko’s reflection in the full-length mirror ahead of you. Twirling in the cute floral dress you’re trying on, you chew on your lip. “He said Choso’s still been having a hard time with anything outside of their usual schedule, so I actually think he planned something at home?” You explain.

“Poor kid. Is he seeing anyone about that?”

“Yeah, but he only started a couple of weeks ago. I think they’re trying to have him work towards feeling better gradually.”

“Makes sense. He’s pretty young to have gone through what happened. I’m sure I don’t even know the half of it.” Leaning forward over the pillow she’s clutching, she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Honestly, I think I’d love a lowkey first date. It just feels like less pressure and I hate first dates.”

Trying on a dress in a gorgeous silver hue with sleeves that flow just past your elbows, you turn to face her. “I’m still nervous,” you admit, “it honestly doesn’t feel different from a first date with someone I don’t know.”

“Not that one,” she casually breaks the conversation to turn down your dress, ignoring your pout as she adds, “I know you don’t have shoes that go with that, we’ve been over this.”

Right.

“Anyway, it might feel that way now, but you’ll feel better once you’re there.”

Changing into a cardigan with a cute frilly black skirt, you turn back to her as you button it up. “You’re probably right.”

“I like the first dress better.”

Staring down at your outfit, you tilt your head questioningly.

“It said ‘date’ more, this one’s closer to what you usually wear. And it’s just about summer, you’ll overheat. Anyway, you’re lucky. You get to skip right past all the ‘will-they won’t-they’ stuff and not knowing if they like you back. I mean, you told me he basically said he wants to ask you to be his girlfriend.”

“He did,” you agree thoughtfully as you glance at her through the mirror, reverting back to the first black floral dress you had on. “And trust me, I still went through all that anyway,” you laugh, grateful to be beyond that. “But I don’t know, I just don’t wanna mess anything up. I really like him, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” she chuckles, “but I mean the guy’s one of your best friends. I don’t think you could do anything wrong in his eyes.”

Your cheeks warm as you face the first outfit choice in the mirror again, pulling out a pair of heels that accentuate the white flowers stippling the dress. “I guess you’re right.” Trying on the shoes, you grab matching necklaces and rings, doing up the look as much as you can while still keeping it casual enough for his house. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

Spinning to face her, you fiddle with the necklace you’ve just clasped around your neck. “You know Sukuna’s, um, reputation?”