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He hates the clean start people insist on forcing over it, the new contracts, new campaigns, new season plans, new sponsor meetings with expensive coffee and rehearsed optimism. He hates the way everyone speaks as if the year has shed its skin just because numbers changed on a calendar, as if rot does not know how to survive under fresh paint. Monster renews his contract before the first month has settled properly into itself. Mei Mei calls it excellent timing. Kusakabe pretends not to look relieved when the papers are signed. Nanami says the extension gives them leverage for the opening events, his voice even, his expression composed, already rearranging the year into logistics. Everyone around him talks about momentum, return value, audience retention, performance schedule, controlled risk, visual continuity.
Sukuna hears all of it.
He understands all of it.
He even agrees with most of it.
His body is ready. Not the way it used to be before the crash, because there’s no returning to that body. The old one died somewhere between metal, dirt, surgery, and the dark behind his ruined eye. This one is rebuilt. Meaner in some places, more deliberate in others. His neck turns farther now before big landings, his shoulders compensate before he has to think about it, his left eye tracks distance with a precision carved out of brutal repetition. His scar still tightens in cold air and under strong lights, his knee complains when humidity shifts, his ribs sometimes remember impact as if memory can live in bone. None of that matters enough to stop him.
He can ride. He can perform. He can win.
By every external measurement, the machine is functional again.
The problem is that January also means your birthday is coming.
That thought sits behind everything like a second pulse.
He is lying in bed in the dark, one arm bent behind his head, his other hand resting flat over his stomach. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint movement of another person shifting under his sheets. Kenny’s hair is spread over the pillow beside him in a loose, expensive-looking mess, their skin bare at the shoulder, their breathing smooth enough to suggest sleep had almost taken them before they felt him disappear without moving.
That’s the most irritating part about Kenny. They are good at sensing when attention leaves them. Not feelings, not sincerity, not the interior shape of another person, not in any way that requires care. But attention, yes. They know when a room stops feeding them.
Kenny turns onto their side, the sheet sliding low over their waist. Their eyes open lazily, catching what little light bleeds from the city through the curtains.
“What’s in your head, Kuna?” they ask, voice still soft from sleep but edged with annoyance at not being the answer. “You look bleak.”
Sukuna doesn’t answer immediately. His stare remains on the ceiling.
Bleak.
That’s a word Kenny would choose. Something pretty enough to sound observant without touching anything specific. You wouldn’t have said bleak. You would have looked at him too long, too quietly, and then asked if his knee hurt, or if the contract meeting went badly, or if he had eaten dinner like a person instead of pretending coffee and spite counted. You would have guessed closer because you always did, sometimes in ways that made him want to bite and sometimes in ways that made him want to put his face against your stomach and feel your hands on his hair and stay there until the world stopped asking for blood.
Your birthday is soon.
He remembers the date because of course he does. He remembers stupid things when they are yours. He remembers your coffee order, your school schedule from a year that is no longer his to know, the side you prefer when walking near traffic, the way your hand used to find his jaw before you kissed him if he came home in a mood too ugly for language. He remembers the little shift in your voice when you were trying not to ask for something. He remembers the first time you wore one of his shirts to sleep and how he called you nosy for stealing clothes from a drawer he had cleared specifically for you.
He remembers thinking gifts were easy because money was easy, and then learning very quickly that gifts for you were not easy at all because you didn’t want proof of expense. You wanted proof of attention.
He had bought you something small then.
Not the main gift. The main gift had been practical and chosen after three days of pretending not to browse online for it. But the small one had mattered more because you touched it first, laughing under your breath with that look you got when something hit the soft place you did not like showing. He thinks of that now with Kenny asleep where you never are anymore, and the remembering is so sharp it nearly makes him sit up.
He remembers your birthday last year because he had nearly ruined it by being injured, angry, and still convinced he could return faster than flesh allowed. You had not treated it as a ruined thing. You had eaten takeout with him, your feet under his thigh on the couch, laughing at something he did not find funny until your laughter made it worth tolerating. He had watched you lean over a slice of cake with a candle stuck into it because he had refused to buy a whole one “for one damn person” and then bought the expensive single slice anyway. You had closed your eyes before blowing the flame out. He had asked what you wished for. You told him wishes did not work if spoken aloud. He told you that sounded like weak superstition. You told him he said that because he was jealous the universe might listen to you more than to him.
He had kissed you to stop you from smiling like that.
Now your birthday approaches and he does not even have the right to send a message.
The wrongness of it makes something in his chest feel compact, dense, pressurized. Not grief in any clean form. He knows grief as a concept — he has read about it, observed it, watched other people collapse under it with the same detached curiosity he had for storms as a child. This is not just missing. It is the sensation of having built an entire discipline around not needing, then discovering need has been living in the walls, chewing through the structure without sound.
Kenny’s fingers walk across his ribs, light, familiar, performative.
“Don’t ignore me. It’s unattractive.”
He turns his head enough to look at them.
In the low light, Kenny is still beautiful. That has never been the problem. They know how to be looked at. Every angle is managed even in bed, every lazy blink somehow aware of its own effect. They have always had the kind of beauty that doesn’t request attention but invoices the room for it afterward. Years ago, that had made sense to him. Beauty, desire, access, victory, reward. Simple exchange. Easy pattern.
Tonight their face only makes him tired.
His mind does what it has been doing too much lately. It opens backward.
Not to you first.
Farther.
To the first house. The first rooms. The beginning of being a person before he knew personhood could be failed.
He remembers being small in fragments, but the fragments have edges.
Warm bathwater. His mother’s hand under his back when he is too young to hold himself upright. The smell of soap, milk, steamed rice. A toy with bright pieces he lined in straight rows instead of stacking. His father’s voice saying his name, low but not yet cold. His mother feeding him with patient movements, wiping his mouth, smiling sometimes when he stared too intensely at the spoon before opening his mouth. He remembers being lifted. Dressed. Carried. Entertained in the ways adults entertain babies because they believe babies are mysteries full of simple doors. He remembers hands. Both parents had hands, then. Hands that touched him because he needed touching to live.
He was their first child.
That seems obvious as a fact and unbearable as an accusation.
It was his first time being a child too.
That part took him too many years to understand. Adults behave as if children should arrive knowing how to be children in acceptable ways, as if infancy comes with instinctive gratitude, toddlerhood with convenient softness, boyhood with recognizable signals.
Sukuna arrived with nothing. Just a body, a brain, hunger, sensation, noise, light, the unpleasant surprise of needs he could not name. He cried, but not often. That became one of the first stories told about him.
Such an easy baby. He hears it sometimes even now in old relatives’ voices. Easy, because he didn’t scream long enough to disturb the house. Easy, because he stared instead of demanding. Easy, because he slept when placed down and watched ceiling shadows until his eyes closed. Easy, because when he started talking early, the adults laughed at his words and called him smart, then grew unsettled when he used them too precisely.
He crawled early. Walked early. Spoke early. Read numbers before someone thought to teach him properly. Remembered instructions after hearing them once. A prodigy, perhaps, though he did not know the word then. He only knew adults reacted well when he did something before they expected it. Their voices rose. Their faces changed. For a short while, their attention came easily if he performed development like a trick.
He remembers his father holding out blocks and asking colors.
Red.
Blue.
Yellow.
Green.
He remembers his mother clapping the first time he named all of them without hesitation. He remembers the sound because it was sharp and bright and directed at him. A sound made for him. He had looked at her hands, then at her face, trying to understand the relation between the answer and the noise. He answered faster next time.
The reactions became smaller.
That is another thing he remembers, though he doubts they do.
The first time is magic. The second time is impressive. The third time is expectation. After that, it becomes part of the furniture of him.
Of course Sukuna knows that. Of course Sukuna can do that.
He is four when the pediatrician refers his parents to another doctor.
He remembers the waiting room more than the doctor. Too white, too quiet, with picture books arranged on a low shelf and toys he does not touch because they smell like too many hands. His mother sits beside him, her fingers worrying the strap of her bag. His father fills out forms with a pen that clicks twice every time he pauses. The sound irritates Sukuna so much that he watches the pen instead of the room.
The doctor is a woman with a calm voice. She asks him questions. Some are stupid. Some are interesting. She gives him patterns to copy, pictures to interpret, blocks to arrange, stories to explain. She watches him while he watches everything else. Her smile is careful in a way he dislikes without understanding why. Adults smile differently when they are trying to hide that they are studying him.
He doesn’t remember the words said afterward. He remembers the drive home, the muted conversation in the front seats. His mother quiet. His father saying something about not making a big deal. His mother saying the kindergarten will have to know something if he does not adjust. His father saying he is smart, he will adjust. Sukuna sits in the back with his shoes swinging above the floor mat, looking out the window, wondering what there is to adjust to.
Much later, so much later that the information no longer has teeth, he finds out the woman was a neuro-psychologist. Testing him for neurodivergence.
By then he doesn’t care for the label. Not because it means nothing. Because everyone had already acted on the conclusion without giving him the language. They treated him as wrong in all the ways that mattered while praising him as exceptional in all the ways useful to them.
Kindergarten is the first place he realizes other children are a separate species.
They move too much. They speak too much. They ask questions without wanting real answers. They scream when happy, scream when angry, scream because screaming appears to be a social language among them. They touch things without reason, knock over towers, lie badly, change rules mid-game, cry when their own unfairness produces consequences.
Sukuna does not hate them at first. Hatred requires investment. He simply has no interest.
He does his chores. He completes lessons. He listens when teachers give instructions because instructions are clean. Put this away. Sit here. Draw this. Trace this line. Wash hands. Eat. Nap. Stand in line. He can do all of that. It gives structure to the day. The teachers praise him for being capable, then speak over his head with concern when he does not play.
“He doesn’t seem to know how to socialize,” one says to his mother at pickup, bending slightly with that soft adult voice that pretends children cannot hear if the tone is gentle enough. “He doesn’t initiate with other children. He answers when spoken to sometimes, but he prefers being alone.”
Sukuna stands beside his mother’s leg, backpack straps held in both hands, watching a bead of sweat move down the teacher’s neck. He remembers thinking the teacher is wrong. He knows how to socialize. Other people talk. He listens. If they say something worth answering, he answers. If they say nothing useful, he does not. The system seems obvious.
His mother’s hand rests briefly on his head. It's light. Distracted.
“We’ll talk to him,” she says.
They do not. Not really.
His father asks at dinner why he does not play with the other kids. Sukuna says he doesn’t want to. His father says he should try. Sukuna asks why. His father looks annoyed because why is often treated as defiance when adults do not have a good answer.
“Because that’s what children do.”
Sukuna looks down at his food. He remembers rice sticking to the side of the bowl.
“I do other things children do.”
His mother sighs softly. His father says his name with warning in it.
Sukuna learns another thing — asking for reasons makes adults tired of him faster.
So he stops asking out loud as much.
When he is six, Yuuji is born.
The house changes before the baby even arrives. New furniture, new clothes, little folded things, soft blankets, bottles, visitors touching his mother’s stomach and laughing. Sukuna observes the preparations with a kind of detached curiosity. A baby is coming. A brother. Everyone says this with excitement, as if the category brother should create feeling in him before the person exists.
He doesn’t know what he feels at first.
Confusion, mostly.
When Yuuji comes home, he is small and red-faced and loud. He has the same pink hair in softer wisps, the same family mouth, the same capacity to become the center of a room by existing. Sukuna stands near the doorway while relatives hover and his mother sits on the couch holding the baby like something sacred. His father’s face is different. That’s what Sukuna notices most. Not just happy. Open. Unarmored. He bends over Yuuji, touches one tiny fist, laughs when the baby grips his finger.
Sukuna watches the laugh. He has seen that laugh before, but not often and not directed at him like that. Not with such helpless delight. His mother makes sounds he has never heard from her, soft nonsense, musical and embarrassing. Yuuji responds by wriggling and blinking and being alive in a way that earns celebration without achievement.
The first ugly feeling is not jealousy. Yet.
It’s confusion sharpened by calculation.
What did Yuuji do?
There must be a rule. Sukuna’s mind looks for rules always, because rules make the world survivable. Good action creates good reaction. Wrong action creates correction. Need produces care. Excellence produces praise until excellence becomes baseline. Crying sometimes produces irritation, sometimes touch. Socializing is required but not explained. Babies produce warmth by existing.
He stands very still and tries to understand the mechanism. His mother notices him after a moment.
“Do you want to see your brother?”
Sukuna approaches because he does. Curiosity wins over unease. Yuuji’s face is wrinkled, unimpressive, his eyes unfocused. One hand opens and closes near his cheek. Sukuna leans closer. The baby smells like milk and clean cloth and something sour underneath. He makes a small sound, not quite a cry.
His mother smiles.
“He’s saying hello.”
“He isn’t,” Sukuna says. “He can’t talk.”
His father makes a short sound that is almost amused, almost disappointed.
“Don’t be difficult.”
Sukuna looks at Yuuji again.
Yuuji’s fingers close around nothing.
He decides, then, that the baby is not at fault.
That part is important.
Whatever is wrong with the rule, Yuuji has not written it.
So Sukuna likes him.
Not with instant brotherly devotion that adults would know how to photograph. But he likes him with the clear, practical certainty he applies to things he chooses to keep. Yuuji is loud, but his loudness is not malicious. He is needy, but babies are supposed to be needy. He does not speak in confusing half-meanings. He cries because hungry, tired, wet, startled, uncomfortable. Problems with solutions. Sukuna understands that better than he understands kindergarten.
By nine, he is feeding Yuuji more often than anyone admits.
Not every meal. Not enough for someone outside the house to call it neglect in a clean, official voice. But often. His mother returns to work. His father’s hours stretch. Yuuji becomes a toddler with too much energy and no respect for quiet. Sukuna learns how to prepare simple food because waiting creates chaos and chaos makes the house worse. He learns what Yuuji will eat, what he refuses, how small to cut fruit, how to cool rice so he does not burn his tongue, how to wipe his face before the mess becomes unbearable.
“Open,” Sukuna says, holding the spoon.
Yuuji opens his mouth too wide, eyes bright, hands slapping against the high chair tray.
“Don’t hit things while eating.”
Yuuji laughs, rice on his chin. Sukuna wipes it with a cloth. His movements are more careful than gentle at first, because gentle is a tone he is still studying. But Yuuji accepts him without needing the performance perfect. That’s strange. Yuuji reaches for him with sticky hands, calls him Kuna before he can manage anything longer, follows him with a baby’s absolute assumption that presence means safety.
After school, Sukuna sits in his room with books open while Yuuji crawls and later toddles around the floor. He keeps dangerous things out of reach. He blocks outlets. He learns to read with one part of his mind while tracking Yuuji with another. He likes books that are too advanced for him because they don’t punish him for not understanding immediately. They sit still. They let him return. They define terms. They explain systems. Animals. Machines. Human anatomy. Space. Later, psychology books he only half understands but reads anyway because people are harder than engines and less honest than weather.
Yuuji falls asleep sometimes against his leg. Sukuna lets him.
When Yuuji drools on his pants, he grimaces and keeps reading.
By twelve, Sukuna reads about people deliberately.
Friendship. Body language. Facial expressions. Conflict resolution. How to tell if someone is lying. Why groups exclude. Why children bully. Why teenagers perform. Why adults say one thing and mean another. Some books are useless, full of sentimental garbage and simplified diagrams. Others give him tools. Not enough to feel natural, but enough to create scripts. Look at people between the eyes if direct eye contact feels too abrasive — they will not know the difference. Ask a question back if you don’t know what response is expected. Laugh when others laugh, but not too late. Don’t correct every incorrect statement unless correction is the purpose of the interaction. People care about tone more than precision. This is stupid but observable.
Yuuji is six by then and refuses to leave his side.
A little shadow, bright and loud and convinced Sukuna belongs to him in the uncomplicated way children claim what they love. He sleeps in Sukuna’s room more often than their parents know. Sometimes on a futon beside the bed, sometimes crawling right into Sukuna’s bed after a nightmare, hot little body pressing against his side, arms thrown around him with no survival instinct whatsoever. Sukuna complains the first few times because Yuuji kicks and drools and radiates heat like a broken appliance.
Yuuji only tightens his arms.
“Kuna, don’t move.”
“I live here.”
“Don’t move...”
“Yuuji. You’re on my arm.”
“Then don’t need it.”
Sukuna stares into the dark over Yuuji’s head, irritated and oddly still inside.
He doesn’t move.
He makes sure Yuuji feels included. Loved, though he would not have used that word then because love is too imprecise, too often declared by people who fail at basic care. He helps with homework. He attends school events when their parents can’t. He remembers Yuuji’s friends’ names because Yuuji cares. He puts an extra snack in Yuuji’s bag because the brat always gets hungry before club. He threatens older kids who shove Yuuji too hard and teaches Yuuji how to plant his feet when someone tries to knock him down.
He still doesn’t know what he’s doing. That’s the truth of it.
He’s a boy raising pieces of another boy with information stolen from observation, books, instinct, and the terrible private vow that Yuuji will not feel like he does.
By fifteen, Sukuna has learned to pass better.
Not perfectly. Never perfectly. There is always something off if people look too long. But most do not look long unless invited by fear or fascination, and Sukuna learns to use both. Acceptance is one route. Intimidation is another. He builds himself through trial. A smirk at the right time. Silence shaped into threat instead of confusion. Cruelty used sparingly at first, then more smoothly when he realizes people prefer being afraid of him to being unsettled by not understanding him. Bad reputation gives structure too. If they call him dangerous, they stop expecting softness. If they call him arrogant, they stop searching for uncertainty. If they call him an asshole, every social failure becomes character instead of deficiency.
That’s convenient.
He grows into his body hard and fast, all height, muscle, sharpness. Karate helps. Discipline helps. Fighting gives him rules people can’t disguise. An opponent moves — he reads weight, angle, breath, tension. Consequence arrives immediately. No hidden meaning. No polite lie. No one says nice job while their face looks disappointed. He wins or he loses, and losing creates work.
At home, Yuuji is nine and still bright, still affectionate, still convinced his older brother is the strongest person alive. But school begins to show cracks around him. Not socially. Yuuji makes friends as easily as breathing. Teachers adore him. Other children want him near. He is sunny, energetic, disorganized, distractible in a way adults call charming until grades enter the conversation.
Sukuna hears his parents in the kitchen one night. He is supposed to be studying.
Yuuji is asleep at the table over a worksheet, pencil still in hand, mouth slightly open. Sukuna had tried to make him finish, but Yuuji’s eyes kept drifting, his attention slipping away from numbers as if numbers were coated in oil.
Their mother speaks first, quiet with worry.
“His teacher says he isn’t paying attention. His reading is fine, but math…”
“He’s careless,” their father says.
“He’s trying.”
“He needs to try properly.”
There is a pause. Sukuna turns the page of his book without reading.
Their mother says, barely above a whisper,
“I thought he would be the normal one.”
The normal one.
The words do not hit Sukuna with a crash. They enter cleanly.
Precise incision. No blood at first.
Yuuji shifts in his sleep, cheek pressed to the worksheet. His pencil rolls off the table. Sukuna catches it before it hits the floor, silent out of habit.
The normal one.
So Sukuna is not normal.
He knew that already in pieces. From doctors. Teachers. The way his parents’ faces tightened when he reacted wrong. The way praise cooled once they accepted his competence as function rather than miracle. The way adults called him mature when they meant unnerving. But the sentence in his mother’s voice arranges the pieces into something with a name, even if the name is only wrong.
Wrong, then.
He is wrong, and Yuuji was supposed to be proof that the family could produce right.
Something ugly begins to rot in his small self that night.
Not toward Yuuji. Never toward Yuuji.
Toward the rule. Toward the invisible scale that weighs children differently.
Sukuna looks at his sleeping brother and feels a hard, cold certainty settle in him. Yuuji will not hear that sentence if Sukuna can help it. Yuuji will not stand in a hallway while adults discuss his defects with gentle voices. Yuuji will not have to earn warmth through usefulness or lose it by failing to perform the correct kind of normal. If their parents worry about grades, Sukuna will fix grades. If teachers complain, Sukuna will handle teachers. If other kids make fun of him, Sukuna will make fear educational.
The next week, when two boys laugh because Yuuji gets a math answer wrong in front of class, Sukuna waits after school.
He doesn’t hit them. That would create adult attention too quickly. He speaks to them instead, cornering them by the fence with his school bag over one shoulder, his expression calm enough to make both boys go quiet before he finishes the first sentence. He tells them exactly what will happen if Yuuji comes home embarrassed again because of their mouths. Not dramatic threats. Specific ones. Believable ones. He has learned by then that fear works better when given shape.
One boy cries. Sukuna finds that annoying but effective.
Yuuji never knows.
Or maybe he does, because Yuuji always knows more than Sukuna gives him credit for, but he doesn’t ask. He only sits closer to Sukuna during dinner that night and steals a piece of meat from his bowl. Sukuna tells him to eat his own food. Yuuji grins.
At the same time, Sukuna works harder.
That’s the part he hates remembering because it is humiliating in retrospect, the sincerity of it. The pathetic logic of a kid that still wants his parents’ approval. He brings his parents things to be proud of. Best grades, always. Perfect scores. Competition certificates. Karate trophies. Teachers calling him exceptional. Courses completed ahead of schedule. Projects praised. Anything measurable, anything undeniable.
He cleans. He cooks. He takes care of Yuuji.
He walks him to school and back when schedules allow, takes him to soccer, waits during practice with homework open and one eye on the field. He remembers permission slips. He signs some when their parents forget, mimicking signatures after studying them. He packs lunches when mornings are chaotic. He does laundry because clean clothes are a solvable problem. He becomes useful in every direction available to him.
Still, his achievements meet the coldness of expectation.
His father glances at a report card full of top marks and says,
“Keep it up.”
His mother sees a trophy and asks where he wants to put it, not with delight but with household practicality.
A teacher says he is one of the most disciplined students she has taught. His father nods like he has been told the weather.
Then Yuuji brings home a high grade in math after weeks of struggling.
Their mother cries.
Not sobbing. But her eyes fill, and she pulls Yuuji into a hug so fast his backpack knocks against the table. His father ruffles Yuuji’s hair and says he knew he could do it. They order takeout that night. Yuuji glows under the attention, smiling with rice on his cheek, delighted and proud and loved so openly Sukuna has to look away.
He doesn’t begrudge Yuuji the celebration, and that makes it worse. Because if he hated Yuuji, the feeling would have somewhere to go.
Instead it folds inward.
What else does he need to do?
What level of excellence unlocks that face from his mother? What kind of victory makes his father reach for him without restraint? What missing part of him must be compensated for with usefulness, discipline, money, violence, perfection? If being good is expected, then good is worthless. If being excellent becomes expected, excellence is also worthless. The target keeps moving because maybe the target was never behavior at all.
Maybe it’s him. Maybe something in him makes praise harder to give.
He doesn’t have language for despair then. He has anger, and anger is useful. He trains harder. Studies later. Learns to need less visibly. If warmth cannot be obtained, then control will do.
Then one summer, he is riding bikes with Yuuji around the neighborhood.
It’s nothing. That’s the infuriating thing. Not a grand revelation. Not a coach discovering him under stadium lights. Just heat shimmering over asphalt, cicadas screaming from every green place, Yuuji pedaling behind him on a bike slightly too big for him, laughing every time his front wheel wobbles. Sukuna rides ahead, old bike rattling under him, doing small tricks out of boredom. Lifting the front wheel. Hopping curbs. Turning too sharply just to hear Yuuji yelp and try to imitate him.
Near a bar with its door propped open, a small television plays a motocross show.
Sukuna slows because movement on the screen catches his eye. Dirt, bikes, flight, bodies suspended over ramps with a kind of violent grace that makes his mind sharpen and focus. He has seen motorcycles before, of course. But not like this. Not riders turning danger into something structured, not machines launched into air with control so precise it looks like arrogance.
A drunk man outside the bar notices him.
Older. Red-faced. Loud. The kind of uncle stranger every neighborhood has, half sweat and beer and unsolicited commentary. Sukuna would have ignored him, but the man points.
“Oi, kid! Look at you! You could be a professional biker!”
Sukuna stops fully, one foot hitting the ground. Yuuji bumps into his back tire and complains.
The drunk man claps when Sukuna lifts his front wheel again almost without thinking. It is a stupid maneuver. Basic. Barely anything. The kind of thing any bored kid with balance can do after enough scraped knees. But the man cheers as if Sukuna has done something worth witnessing.
“See? That! You’re good! Do it again!”
Sukuna stares at him. The man is excited. Not because of a report card. Not because excellence has been expected and delivered. Not because Sukuna is useful. The man sees a trick and responds with open, uncomplicated delight.
It hits somewhere deeper than it should.
Sukuna does it again.
The man claps louder, laughing, calling to someone inside the bar to look at the kid. Yuuji starts bouncing on his bike, yelling that his brother can do more, that Kuna is the best, that he can jump curbs and ride with no hands and go faster than anyone. Sukuna snaps at Yuuji to shut up, but there is no heat in it.
Something clicks.
Maybe this is the secret.
Not grades. Not chores. Not being quiet. Not being mature. Not being useful in invisible domestic ways no one celebrates because the house absorbs them.
Performance.
Danger.
Spectacle.
A thing that makes strangers react before they can decide he is wrong.
If he becomes excellent at that, maybe he will be deserving of love.
The thought is not phrased so cleanly then. At fifteen, it is more sensation than sentence. A door appearing where there had been wall. A rule finally visible. If he can make people cheer, if he can become undeniable in a way that forces excitement out of them, if he can do something so difficult and dangerous that no one can call his excellence expected, then maybe the warmth will come and stay.
He doesn’t know why Yuuji is deserving by existing.
For some reason, Sukuna needs the harder path.
Fine. He’s good at hard paths.
Convincing his parents takes planning.
He doesn’t ask like a child wanting a hobby. That would fail. Hobbies cost money and produce inconvenience. He presents it like an investment. Dirt bike courses. Local competitions. Possible sponsorship tracks. Prize money. Brand paths. He researches costs before approaching them, prints information, prepares counterarguments. He says he will pick side jobs when possible, do whatever work accepts him, pay back equipment costs if necessary. He says he has discipline from karate, grades stable enough not to suffer, schedule management already proven. He says motorsports can become lucrative if entered early and taken seriously.
He watches their eyes.
For once, when money enters the conversation, something gleams.
Not love. Not yet. But interest.
Interest is enough to exploit.
They buy his first dirt bike after arguments, conditions, warnings about grades and injuries and wasting money. But they buy it. Used, not new. Scratched, stubborn, imperfect. To Sukuna, it may as well be alive.
The first time he sits on it, the world narrows in a way he trusts.
Weight under him. Handlebars. Throttle. Brake. Balance changed by engine and terrain. Noise entering his body through bone. There are too many sensations at first, but unlike a room full of people, they connect directly to consequence. Too much throttle, the bike bites. Bad posture, the ground punishes. Wrong timing, pain. Correction produces immediate improvement. He understands that. He respects it.
He learns motocross with a viciousness that frightens people before it impresses them.
Coaches tell him to rest. He rests enough to keep them from interfering, then studies. Videos, manuals, race footage, mechanical breakdowns, body positioning, line choice, suspension behavior, traction, weather, dirt composition. He watches riders frame by frame until he can see mistakes before commentators name them. He loses sleep before seventeen, not because school demands it, but because there is always another thing to understand. How to scrub properly. How to carry speed through ruts. How to recover when the rear steps out. How to land without letting impact travel wrong through knees and spine. How to make fear irrelevant without pretending physics can be insulted into submission.
He fucks himself up often.
That’s part of the education, though no one calls it that.
Sprained wrists. Bruised ribs. Split skin. A shoulder slammed wrong into dirt. Knees swelling under ice packs. Ankles stiff enough to make stairs irritating. He learns pain by category. Useful pain, warning pain, ignorable pain, dangerous pain disguised as ignorable. He’s not always good at stopping. Stopping feels like losing a reaction before it happens. Stopping feels like becoming invisible again.
Yuuji watches everything. His biggest fan before anyone else learns the role.
He stands at fences, leans over barriers, shouts himself hoarse at local races as if Sukuna is already a legend. He tells anyone near him that his brother is going to be champion. Sometimes people laugh because Yuuji is small and sincere and loud enough to be entertaining. Sukuna pretends not to hear.
He hears every time.
By nineteen, he is a young prodigy.
People use the word again.
This time, he makes sure it does not cool into expectation before it becomes leverage.
Small brands notice. Then medium ones. By twenty, he is being searched by people who saw him ride and understood that whatever is wrong with him socially becomes irrelevant once he is on a bike. On the track, his wrongness converts into precision. His lack of ordinary fear becomes marketable. His intensity becomes talent. His arrogance becomes narrative. The world does not require him to soften if he wins hard enough.
Good.
By twenty-three, he rides for a medium brand, stunts and races big enough to put real money under him but not yet the kind of empire that makes men like Kusakabe talk in measured tones about global reach.
That is when he meets Choso. Choso is not like most mechanics.
Most know their work, but they talk to riders like riders are either reckless idiots or divine instruments. Choso talks to the bike first, then to Sukuna like Sukuna is capable of understanding every bolt, adjustment, and consequence. He is quiet, heavy-eyed, with hands that always seem to be either holding a tool or thinking about one. The first time Sukuna corrects a suspension assumption before Choso explains it fully, Choso pauses, looks at him properly, and then continues with more detail instead of less, and that earns more of Sukuna’s respect than flattery ever could.
They bond quickly because technical obsession is easier than friendship.
Friendship is vague. Shared fixation is clean.
Choso can talk for twenty minutes about traction changes under different dirt moisture without once requiring Sukuna to perform normal warmth. Sukuna can argue about setup without Choso taking disagreement as disrespect. They understand the sport as machinery, violence, calculation, and art, though Sukuna would never use the last word aloud.
Yuuji likes Choso immediately. Yuuji likes most people immediately, but this is different. He says Choso seems nice. Sukuna tells him nice does not set a bike properly. Yuuji says maybe not, but it helps when people have faces. Sukuna calls him an idiot. Yuuji laughs.
Yuuji tries to ride because of course he does. Sukuna should have expected it sooner.
For years, Yuuji watches him like motocross is something holy simply because Sukuna is inside it. He wants to understand from the body, not just the fence. Sukuna helps because refusing outright would only make Yuuji find someone less capable to teach him. He starts him small. Controlled. Basics drilled until Yuuji complains. Balance, posture, braking, throttle discipline. Yuuji is not terrible at first. He is athletic, brave, responsive when focused. But focus is the issue, and something else too. That fine edge Sukuna has, the part that reads danger as data before feeling can interfere, Yuuji does not have it in the right shape.
He has heart. Heart is not enough when wheels leave the ground.
The crash happens in a crowded practice environment that still turns frenzied and messy too quickly. Yuuji misjudges timing, panics when another rider closes, loses control badly. Sukuna sees the error before impact and moves before thought, but distance is distance. Yuuji goes down hard, bike twisting away, his body sliding wrong across dirt. Another rider barely misses him. Then another. For half a second, the world becomes all noise and dust and the impossible sight of his little brother on the ground where machines can trample and crush him.
Sukuna reaches him furious.
Not at Yuuji first. At the track, at the riders, at himself, at physics, at every condition that allowed the scene to exist.
Yuuji is conscious, dazed, crying more from shock than pain at first. Sukuna’s hands shake when he checks him, and that makes him angrier. He snaps at everyone. At medics, at coaches, at Yuuji when Yuuji tries to sit up too soon. His voice goes cruel because fear has nowhere else to go.
Afterward, when injuries prove ugly but survivable, Sukuna forbids him from riding again. Not advises. Forbids.
Yuuji argues until Sukuna says if he catches him on a bike again without permission, he will dismantle it and make him watch.
Their parents blame Sukuna.
Not directly at first. They talk around it, like cowards. He encouraged him. He should have watched better. He knows how dangerous it is. Yuuji is seventeen. Yuuji only wanted to be like him. The accusations gather in the kitchen, living room, hospital corridor. Sukuna stands there taking it because some part of him agrees. He was supposed to protect Yuuji. He let the danger get close enough to touch.
Then Yuuji, bruised and bandaged and still too pale, lifts his head from the couch and tells them to stop.
His voice is hoarse but firm. He says it was his fault. He says Sukuna warned him. He says Sukuna helped him more than anyone else could have. He says if Sukuna had not been there, it would have been worse.
Sukuna feels something ugly inside him then.
Not gratitude or relief.
Wrongness.
Yuuji protecting him is wrong. The direction is wrong. The order of the universe, already unreliable, tilts in a way that makes Sukuna want to leave the room and break something. He is the older brother. He takes the hit. He handles blame. He stands between Yuuji and whatever comes. Yuuji should not have to drag himself upright and defend him with a split lip.
The feeling does not leave quickly. He grows a little apart from Yuuji after that.
Not with an announcement or cruelty sharp enough for Yuuji to name. Just distance. More training. More travel. Messages answered later. Calls missed because he is busy, then because he does not know how to explain the thing in him that recoils from being protected by the person he was meant to protect. Yuuji notices, of course. Yuuji always notices when Sukuna tries to vanish in increments.
He never lets estrangement finish forming. He keeps texting. Calling. Showing up at events. Sending stupid pictures. Acting like distance is a temporary weather condition and not a wall Sukuna is trying to build.
When Sukuna wins his first big championship, Yuuji is there.
Of course he is.
Sukuna remembers the day by sensation more than chronology. Heat under gear. Damp hair. Dirt at the back of his throat. The brutal satisfaction of every risk landing clean. His forearms swollen with effort, fingers stiff around grips, heartbeat still in his teeth after the final lap. The crowd is not the largest he will ever hear, not even close, but at the time it feels like the world finally understands its purpose. Noise rises for him.
Not for a report card. Not for domestic usefulness. Not for being quiet, mature, easy, wrong in productive ways.
For him at full violence. For him winning.
He grins after taking the helmet off.
Vicious, people say later. They are not wrong. It’s also happy.
Yuuji sees that part because Yuuji sees too much.
He catches Sukuna afterward away from the worst of the cameras, eyes bright, face flushed from shouting. He launches himself at Sukuna with the same reckless affection he had as a child, though now he is bigger and hits harder. Sukuna absorbs the hug with a grunt and insults him automatically.
“Get off me, brat. You stink.”
“You stink,” Yuuji says, muffled against his chest. “You literally just raced.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s worse.”
Sukuna shoves him back by the forehead, but not hard.
Yuuji digs in his pocket and pulls out the dog tag. Cheap, by Sukuna’s standards. Simple metal, chain looped around his fingers. Engraved with 優勝者, that reads Yūshōsha. Champion, in Kanji. And beneath it, the number 49.
Sukuna looks at it. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do with his face.
Yuuji’s grin turns nervous around the edges.
“It’s the number of your plate. Well, what it should be. You don’t have to use it or anything, I just thought—”
“It’s a shitty tag,” Sukuna says.
Yuuji laughs immediately, relief breaking through because he knows the translation of Sukuna’s cruelty better than anyone.
“Yeah, okay.”
“I can get better gifts than this.”
“Then win the biggest championship you can and I’ll consider an upgrade.”
Sukuna snorts, closing his fist around the dog tag.
“Sentimental brat.”
He never tells Yuuji he keeps it. Never tells him he fights to keep the plate number in every contract after. Every brand, every sponsor, every negotiation that tries to polish, rename, reframe, or own him because it's a bad number, brings a bad omen, it's tabboo, has superstition, meets resistance on that point. 優勝者. 49. Nonnegotiable. People assume it’s ego, and that suits him fine. Ego is easier to understand than a cheap dog tag from his brother stored like a relic in a drawer, later moved to a case, later carried with him more often than he admits.
At twenty-four, he starts whatever Kenny becomes.
Not dating exactly. Dating is too precise and clean a word for it. Too ordinary. Too full of expectations Sukuna has never trusted. Kenny approaches him after an afterparty following another victory, dressed like they know cameras might exist in any corner and want to be ready to punish them with beauty. They are gorgeous. Not soft. Not warm. Gorgeous in a whetted way, experienced in rooms Sukuna still finds half-irritating because the rules shift under designer lights and expensive alcohol. Kenny doesn’t make him guess long. They flirt directly. That helps.
Their hand on his arm, their mouth near his ear, their eyes moving over him with open want. Desire he can read. Desire tied to his win, his body, his reputation. It makes sense.
He makes out with them in a hallway that smells like perfume, liquor, and electrical heat from too many lights.
The situationship forms without needing a name.
Kenny loves that he is great. They say it often, in different ways, always with that purring voice that turns admiration into a hand around his spine. They love that he wins. They love that people fear him. They love the way cameras chase even his refusal to smile. They love tantrums at media, the aggressive interviews, the brand growing around him like a blade. When he behaves badly, Kenny laughs and rewards it with attention, with touch, with stories posted just vague enough to create speculation. When he insults a reporter, Kenny calls it iconic. When he storms out of a sponsor dinner, Kenny says everyone will talk about him more now. When he turns cruelty into spectacle, they glow beside him.
Behavior. Reward.
Perfect sense.
Victories make Kenny thrive. Fancy dinners. Fancy events. Luxury suites. Sponsorship parties where Kenny takes pictures of their drink near his hand, their shoes beside his gear bag, the edge of his jacket over their shoulders, never too much unless they want the speculation to sharpen. They ask for things in that voice, jewelry, trips, expensive pieces he does not care about, and he gives them because giving is another clean exchange. He brings glory, money, access. They bring admiration, sex, company, a mirror that reflects the version of him everyone pays to see.
Kenny knows how to play him like a tool. He doesn’t know it then. Or he knows and doesn’t care because tools have purpose.
Yuuji dislikes Kenny.
He says so when he is eighteen, old enough to be direct and young enough to still believe directness can save people who don't want saving.
They are hanging out in Sukuna’s apartment, or trying to. Yuuji sits on the floor with takeout while Sukuna checks messages from Kenny, half-listening. Yuuji watches him for too long.
“You’ve been angrier since you started seeing them,” Yuuji says.
Sukuna looks up slowly.
“What?”
Yuuji doesn’t back down, though his fingers tighten around his chopsticks.
“Kenny. Since you started dating them or whatever this is. You’re moodier. You act like an ass even to people who are nice to you. Not just reporters or sponsors. People who actually care.”
Sukuna’s first reaction is offense. The words aren’t entirely false, though he tells himself they are. Because Yuuji is looking at him like he is doing something wrong while Sukuna is visibly succeeding. Winning. Achieving. Being recognized. Getting richer, more famous, more wanted. The world is finally reacting correctly. People want him in rooms. Brands want his name. Fans scream. Kenny looks at him like victory makes him irresistible.
“You think too much for someone who still needs help filing taxes.”
Yuuji’s face tightens, hurt flashing before he steadies it.
“I’m not saying this to attack you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m saying it because I love you, and I don’t think they do. Not in a way that’s good for you.”
That word lands wrong.
Love.
Sukuna stands, takeout forgotten, irritation becoming something hotter because Yuuji has no right to bring love into this like a weapon. Yuuji, who was loved by existing. Yuuji, who didn't have to build a throne out of broken bones and trophies to receive concern. Yuuji, who can say love as if it is not a system with requirements.
Kenny later tells him Yuuji is jealous. They say it gently at first, then with confidence when Sukuna does not reject it hard enough.
Of course he is, they say. Yuuji was always the favorite, wasn’t he? Now Sukuna has the attention. The spotlight. The money. The world. Maybe Yuuji does not like not being the sun anymore. Maybe he is trying to drag Sukuna back into that little family role where he exists to protect and provide and never outshine.
Deep down, Sukuna knows that is not it. Yuuji is not capable of that kind of jealousy. Not in that shape. Not with that intention. Still, the lie offers him permission to be angry instead of uncertain. So he cuts contact down.
Yuuji doesn’t let it fully happen. But Sukuna gives less, replies less, stops inviting him around Kenny, stops answering calls when he knows Yuuji will ask how he is in that tone that makes honesty feel like standing naked under a knife.
At twenty-six, his knee forces the world smaller.
It’s not one crash. More accumulation. Overuse, bad landings, ignored warnings, a particular practice where something twists and heat flashes so sharply through the joint that even Sukuna cannot insult it away. Shoko is already his doctor by then, sharp-eyed and unimpressed by every attempt to minimize damage. She examines him, reads imaging, and tells him he is done for months.
He laughs once. She does not.
“If you ride on this, I’ll make sure every person with authority over your body knows exactly how stupid you are,” she says. “And if that fails, I’ll sedate you myself and tell the board you became hysterical.”
“Malpractice.”
“Prove it while tied down.”
No events. No luxury circuit. No cameras. No Kenny.
That last part reveals itself quietly.
At first Kenny sends sympathetic messages with pretty little sad faces and complaints about how awful timing is. Then fewer. Then none unless Sukuna initiates. When he asks if they are coming over, they say he should message when he is back on track so they can do something nice again.
Something nice.
He stares at the message with an ice pack over his knee and the television off, apartment too quiet around him.
Choso comes by. He brings technical notes, parts research, new ideas he thinks Sukuna will call stupid before asking to see the data. He sits in the living room without needing entertainment and talks about bike geometry while Sukuna pretends not to appreciate the company.
Nanami, newly hired then, appears too. Not yet the fixed figure he becomes later, but already precise, already carrying competence like a moral obligation. He is quieter than most, respectful without being submissive.
Naoya exists around the garage as well, though Sukuna does not understand his exact specialization until he learns the bastard is related to one of the team’s co-owners. Nepotism with a wrench, though not entirely useless. Naoya knows enough technical work to justify keeping him, especially in a team always hungry for able hands.
Shoko sees him often because physio is hell and she has no mercy. Yuuji checks in despite the distance.
Kenny does not.
Choso is the first person after Yuuji to say it plainly.
It happens after a physiotherapy appointment that leaves Sukuna sweating through his shirt, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He sits on the edge of the table, knee throbbing, irritation crawling under his skin because pain without motion feels like punishment. Choso stands nearby, arms crossed, watching him with that heavy, unreadable expression.
“I may be overstepping,” Choso says.
“Then don’t,” Sukuna grunts, upper lip pulling in a sneer already.
“I’m going to.”
Sukuna glares. Choso accepts the glare as weather.
“Kenny isn’t good for you.”
Sukuna’s mouth curls.
“You know them now?”
“I know enough from what you’ve said and what happens when you can’t provide the things they enjoy.”
“Careful.”
“I am being careful. That is why I’m saying it directly instead of waiting until it gets worse.” Choso’s voice remains even, not accusing, not pleading. “They like the fame and money. The access. The version of you that opens doors. I don’t think they like you as a person.”
Sukuna looks away first, which irritates him enough to make his voice cruel.
“You people keep saying that like it’s a revelation.”
Choso pauses. Sukuna feels the shape of his own mistake too late.
You people.
Yuuji. Choso. The ones who check when he has nothing immediate to offer. The ones who keep appearing in the useless months, when he is not winning, not performing, not glittering under lights. Shoko threatening him into healing. Nanami bringing paperwork and updates. Choso talking bikes. Yuuji sending food, dumb messages, offers to come by. Naoya even, though Sukuna suspects his presence has more to do with garage obligation than care.
Still.
People appear.
Kenny does not.
The equation should be easy.
It’s not, because Sukuna’s mind supplies a different rule — Kenny leaving makes sense. He’s not riding. He’s hurting. Recovering. Useless. No spectacle, no moneyed rooms, no victory heat. Why would attention stay when the thing attracting it is inactive? That’s fair. That’s logical. That’s how the world has always worked when stripped of sentimental lies.
Choso looks at him for a long moment, as if something in Sukuna’s face has explained more than he intended.
“If you’re not sure,” Choso says at the next appointment, “test it.”
Sukuna is sweaty, angry, exhausted, and in no mood for riddles.
“Test what now, for fuck’s sake?”
“Tell Kenny you’re not riding anymore. Say you’re stepping back and taking care of your health. See what they do.”
“That’s childish.”
“Maybe. It’s also informative.”
Sukuna tells him to stop reading psychology forums and do something useful.
He does it anyway that night.
Back at the apartment, ice pack on his knee, body dulled by pain and medication, he lies in bed with his phone in hand. The room is dark except for the screen. He types the message three times before sending the simplest version.
I’m probably done. Not riding anymore. Retiring from that life before it finishes ruining my body.
Kenny reads it within minutes. The typing bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Sukuna watches with a strange tightness under his ribs, already angry at himself for waiting.
aw that sucks
Nothing else. He stares at the words until the screen dims.
Aw that sucks.
He waits. Minutes. Hours. Days. A week. Two.
No call. No visit. No real question. No anger, no grief, no attempt to convince him otherwise, no curiosity about what he will do, who he will be, whether he is okay. Just absence.
Then the garage gives him the rest.
Naoya is talking too much, as usual. Rival team techniques at first, then riders, then gossip because Naoya likes information best when it can rot in someone else’s mouth. Sukuna is seated with his knee braced, pretending not to listen while Choso works nearby. Nanami is there too, checking something on a clipboard.
Naoya mentions his friend dating the opponent’s current champion, some guy named Satoru Gojo.
“Who?” Choso asks, frowning at the half information given.
Naoya laughs.
“Sukuna’s ex babe.”
Something snaps inside.
Ex? Kenny didn’t wait a fucking month.
They ghosted him and moved to the next champion like changing venues.
Sukuna texts them once.
What the fuck is that about?
Read. No reply.
The next days are broken in his memory. Pieces.
Pain medication. Knee swelling because he overdoes something stupid and Shoko nearly kills him verbally for it. A glass shattering against a wall. His phone in his hand, then across the room. Choso’s voice. Nanami’s silence. Naoya wisely absent from whatever room Sukuna enters. Sleep that doesn’t rest. Anger so constant it becomes a second skin, then cracks to reveal something underneath he doesn’t know how to survive.
Yuuji comes over one night not knowing the full story.
Sukuna doesn’t remember what Yuuji asks first. Maybe about Kenny. Maybe about whether he ate. Maybe about the knee. It doesn’t matter. The wrong word enters the wrong wound and Sukuna crashes out so hard the apartment seems to tilt.
He remembers shouting. He remembers Yuuji’s face changing. He remembers trying to stand too fast, his knee failing, pain exploding white-hot enough to turn rage animal. He remembers knocking something over, maybe a chair, maybe the low table. He remembers Yuuji grabbing him before he can do something worse, pinning him down on the couch with more strength than Sukuna expects from his little brother, though pain and medication dull him enough to make the advantage possible.
Yuuji holds him there, forearm across his chest, not choking, not attacking, just anchoring. Sukuna bucks once out of fury more than intent, teeth bared in an angry snarl, hands gripping at the collar of Yuuji's shirt. His knee screams. His body gives up before his anger does.
Then the anger breaks wrong.
He hates that memory so, so much. Hates it more than some injuries.
Because he cries.
Viciously. Angrily. Not soft tears. Not the cinematic kind grief gets in stories. His face twists, his breath rips out of him, and the sound that leaves his throat is so raw it doesn’t feel like his. He cries like his body is trying to expel something poisonous lodged there since childhood and failing because it has roots in every organ.
“Why is it so fucking hard?” he hears himself demand. “Why is it so hard for people to like me when I’m not killing myself for it?”
Yuuji goes still. Sukuna can’t stop.
Words pour out with no discipline, no strategy, no pride left to arrange them. They come out hot, like accusations, because that’s how Sukuna can handle vulnerability.
“Why is it so hard for people to stay when I’m not performing? Why do they want me only when I’m entertaining them? Winning for them? Hurting for them to cheer at? How did you do it? How did you get loved since you were a baby? Why don’t people like me unless I’m bleeding? Unless I’m great enough they can justify even touching me? What were you born with that I missed? Why am I unlovable? What the fuck is wrong with me?”
The apartment becomes too quiet after.
Yuuji’s grip loosens enough to stop being restraint and start being contact. Then, he pulls Sukuna into a hug. A tight one.
It hurts because Sukuna is bruised, injured, full of swelling and badly managed pain. He almost snarls at him to get off. He doesn’t. His hands grip the back of Yuuji’s shirt instead, fingers curling hard into fabric like he can still pretend this is aggression.
Yuuji’s voice breaks near his ear.
“You don’t need to perform to be loved,” he says. “You don’t need to hurt yourself or kill yourself for it. You’re loved. I love you. Your friends love you. Some people are just fucking stupid, and I’m sorry they made you think that means something about you.”
Sukuna presses his face harder into Yuuji’s shoulder because if he lifts it, the world will see him. Yuuji holds on.
“I’m always going to be here,” he says. “Even when you’re an asshole. Even when I’m mad. Even when you don’t answer me because you think disappearing is a personality trait. I’m here.”
Sukuna doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Long enough for his body to shake itself empty. Long enough for the ice pack on his knee to melt warm. Long enough for Yuuji’s shirt to turn damp where Sukuna’s face is pressed against it.
In the morning, Yuuji says nothing about the crying.
That may be the kindest thing he has ever done.
He cooks breakfast badly. Eggs overdone, toast too dark, rice reheated in a way that makes Sukuna question whether Yuuji has taste buds. Sukuna insults all of it. Yuuji grins and eats his share.
He goes with Sukuna to physio. Then to the garage. He bonds a bit with Choso, Nanami, even Naoya in the way Yuuji can talk to almost anyone if given enough time. Choso gets visibly animated explaining the new bike he is working on for Sukuna, the additions, the adjustments, the reasoning behind them. Yuuji listens like every technical detail is sacred because it belongs to Sukuna’s world.
Sukuna doesn’t contact Kenny after that. He doesn’t reply when Kenny eventually circles back after he becomes champion again.
A recurring one. A better one.
When the victories stack higher, when the brands grow larger, when his name becomes harder to avoid, Kenny’s messages return with compliments and little hooks. He leaves them unanswered. Not because he’s healed. Because pride and pain have finally aligned on the same side for once.
Until now.
Until all of this.
Until the dinner.
Until Naoya’s toast splits open the beginning of you.
Until Sukuna follows you into a parking lot and lets shame use his mouth.
Until he breaks your heart and stands there watching you leave because going after you feels like reaching with hands covered in glass.
Until he answers Kenny’s message because he has rebuilt everything except the part of him that knows what to do when someone loves him without demanding spectacle.
Now another year has passed.
January again.
Monster renewed. Opening events coming. The world ready to receive him in grand style.
And Kenny is lying beside him while he thinks constantly about you.
The entire line of his life sits in the dark between one breath and the next with such clarity it disgusts him.
He has spent decades mistaking reaction for love.
His parents reacting to milestones until milestones became expected. The drunk man clapping at a bike trick. Crowds roaring because danger made him legible. Sponsors smiling because he converted pain into profit. Kenny purring because victory opened doors and made them beautiful beside him. Even his own brand, his Champion name, his plate, his entire empire built around being undeniable enough that no one could withhold attention without looking foolish.
Then there was you.
You, who looked at him injured and did not brighten because the champion was useful. You, who worried when risk crossed into self-destruction. You, who saw him without the right eye, scarred and altered and furious inside his own skin, and called him beautiful when there was nothing to gain from it. You, who stayed in hospital rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, couches, the unmarketable hours. You, who wanted him to take care of himself as a person.
He didn’t know what to do with that, so he ruined it.
Kenny’s fingers trace his side again, impatient now.
“Sukuna.”
His name in their mouth used to feel like being admired by the room through a person. Now it feels like noise.
He turns fully onto his side and looks at them. Kenny’s brows lift.
“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d died with your eyes open. Should I be offended, or is this one of your brooding champion things?”
Something in him, old and tired and finally bored of the same wound, goes still.
Not numb, at least. Clear. Almost vitriolic.
He thinks of Yuuji at six drooling on his shirt, trusting him without conditions. Yuuji at eighteen telling him Kenny made him worse. Yuuji pinning him down at twenty while he cried himself into humiliation and then cooking terrible breakfast in the morning like love could be burnt toast and silence. Choso telling him to test it. Shoko threatening him into survival. Nanami’s steady loyalty. You pushing his shirts back into Shoko’s hands because keeping them would hurt too much. You removing him from your life with more dignity than he deserved. You probably somewhere in the city with people who are allowed to know how you are.
Your birthday is soon.
He can’t send a message as he is. Not like this. Not with Kenny in his bed and old patterns rotting under fresh contracts.
Kenny’s eyes narrow slightly as they read the shift in his face, not the cause, only the consequence.
“What?”
Sukuna sits up.
The sheet falls to his hips. Cold air touches his chest, the scarred side of his face tightening faintly. He reaches for the lamp and turns it on. Warm light cuts the room into honesty too crude for Kenny’s preferred shadows.
“You gotta go,” he says.
Kenny blinks. Then they laugh once, short and disbelieving.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Then better move faster.”
Kenny props themself up on one elbow, expression sharpening past beauty into something more familiar. Calculation.
“Is this a tantrum? Because if you’re upset about something, you can use your words like a big boy instead of throwing me out because you got bored staring at the ceiling.”
Sukuna looks at them for a long moment.
He could fight. The old way. Cut deep, make it ugly, enjoy the immediate relief of cruelty landing where aimed. Kenny would return it. They are good at that. They could spend an hour tearing each other open in ways that feel almost intimate if one mistakes familiarity for closeness. Then maybe they would fuck again just to prove the damage has somewhere to go. Then he would wake up emptier, and Kenny would take a picture of coffee near his hand and make the world think proximity means possession.
He’s tired of wasting time.
“I’m done,” he says.
Kenny’s mouth closes.
“Done.” Something dangerous flickers through their eyes, not heartbreak, not exactly. Offense. Loss of access disguised as injury. “With me.”
“With this.”
Their gaze moves over his face, searching for leverage.
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie. You’re worse at it when you’re trying to be noble.”
Sukuna’s jaw shifts. Kenny smiles slowly, but there is no warmth in it.
“Ah. Is this about your little teacher?”
The air changes. Not enough for someone else to notice, maybe. But Kenny notices because danger is another form of attention and they have always enjoyed standing close to it. They sit up fully, pulling the sheet with them.
“I wondered how long we’d pretend you weren’t looking over your shoulder for someone who wasn’t coming. Does she know you mope like this? Or was that reserved for me?”
He gets out of bed. Not fast. Not explosive. That would give Kenny too much. He stands, reaches for his sweatpants, pulls them on with controlled movements while his pulse beats hard enough to be irritating. His knee doesn’t hurt tonight. His scar does. Or maybe he is simply aware of it because Kenny once wanted to cover it and you once did not look away.
Kenny watches him dress with growing disbelief.
“You’re serious.”
“I said go.”
“You are unbelievable.” Their voice rises, not into shouting, but into something more polished and cruel. “You crawl back when you’re lonely, use me until you remember you have a conscience, and now I’m supposed to leave because you’re having some delayed emotional awakening? How touching. Should I clap?”
Sukuna picks up their clothes from the floor and tosses them onto the bed.
Kenny stares at the pile, then at him. He meets their gaze evenly. For once, he doesn’t need them to understand. That’s new. Maybe that is what makes Kenny angriest.
They dress sharply, movements clipped, beautiful even in fury because they can't bear not to be.
“She isn’t going to take you back because you throw me out, you know.”
It hurts because it’s true in the part that matters most.
He doesn’t throw Kenny out as an offering to you. He’s late for that kind of proof by more than a year, and you owe him nothing for cleaning a room he dirtied. You may never know. You may never care. You may be sleeping beside someone else right now, safe and warm and loved in a way that doesn’t require translation through disaster. The thought presses under his ribs with enough force to make his next breath slow, but it doesn't change the decision.
“Yeah, I know.”
Kenny pauses, thrown perhaps by the absence of denial. Sukuna continues, voice rougher, steady.
“This isn’t about buying my way back. It’s about being done wasting my life on someone I should’ve left in the past.”
Their face hardens. For the first time that night, something like real anger strips the aesthetic off them.
“You’re still so easy to play when you’re hurting.”
“I know that too.”
That stops them again. He almost laughs, but there is no humor in him.
How much of his life has been spent defending lies other people used because admitting he knew would make him responsible for leaving? Kenny liked him as access. His parents liked him best when he required least and produced most. Crowds liked him when he risked enough to entertain. He knew more than he let himself know, over and over, because knowledge without action is another kind of cowardice and he would rather be called cruel than cowardly.
Kenny grabs their bag. At the doorway, they turn back, one hand on the frame, eyes bright with the kind of malice that used to excite him because it felt like being with someone strong enough not to need softness.
“You’ll get bored of being decent,” they say. “Men like you always do.”
Sukuna stands in the middle of his bedroom, bare chest cold, one eye fixed on them.
“Maybe.” He admits and Kenny’s mouth curves, but he's not done. “But I’m already bored of you.”
That lands properly at least. Good.
Kenny leaves without slamming the door, because slamming would be too honest. The apartment goes quiet after the lock clicks. Not peaceful. Not healed. Not absolved. Just quiet.
Sukuna remains standing for a while.
The bed is ruined with warmth that now feels alien, sheets twisted, Kenny’s perfume lingering where it should not. He strips the bed mechanically, gathering fabric in both hands, carrying it to the laundry like removing evidence from a crime scene no one will investigate.
His body moves with the efficient discipline that has saved him from thought a thousand times. Pillowcases. Sheets. Blanket. Window cracked open despite the cold. Trash collected. Glasses taken to the sink. Kenny’s forgotten hair tie thrown into the bin after a second of staring at it.
When the room is bare, he sits on the edge of the mattress.
The apartment feels… bigger perhaps. Not better in any way. Larger.
Space returns, and with it, memory.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped loosely. The scarred side of his face pulls faintly as he looks down. In the half-open drawer of his bedside table, under a case, under documents, under things with actual monetary value, the dog tag sits where it always has when not around his neck.
優勝者.
Yuuji’s cheap, stupid gift. Now bent a bit, scratched, but recovered and given back after the accident.
Sukuna reaches for it before deciding not to. His fingers stop against the drawer handle.
Your birthday is soon. He still can’t send a message.
Not yet, maybe not ever. He doesn’t know what he would say that would not be another demand placed at your door. Happy birthday from the man who humiliated you by omission. Hope you’re well from the man who made you feel suspected for loving him. I miss you from the man who filled your absence with the exact person his brother once had to help him survive. I love you from a man who learned too late that love is not proven by suffering loudly enough for someone to stay.
The words are useless if they arrive only because he’s lonely.
They need a body behind them. A life. Evidence. Not spectacle.
He rubs both hands over his face, careful near the scar out of habit. For once, the thought of the upcoming season doesn’t give him the familiar clean burn of purpose. It’s still there, the hunger to ride, to win, to open the year in grand style and make the stadium remember why he remains the best thing danger ever failed to kill. He loves that. He will not pretend otherwise. He loves the bike, the noise, the violence of precision, the worship when it crests and breaks over him.
But it can’t be the only place he’s real. It can’t be the only reason anyone stays.
And if he keeps making it that, then losing you was not a tragedy. It was the most predictable consequence of his life.
He stands eventually and goes to the kitchen.
The hour is obscene. The city is dim beyond the glass. He makes tea because coffee would be stupid and because the motion reminds him of you in a way that hurts without destroying him. Water. Kettle. Cup. No sugar. He leans against the counter while it steeps, feeling the ache of a body that has survived too much of its own pride.
His phone sits on the counter. He looks at it.
For a moment, he thinks of calling Yuuji.
Then he thinks of how long he has ignored him again. How many messages he left unanswered after the dinner because Yuuji remained connected to you, because Kenny made old cowardice convenient, because shame gets easier to maintain when dressed as anger. He thinks of Yuuji at six, asleep against his side. Yuuji at nine, protected from bullies he never knew existed. Yuuji at eighteen, telling a truth Sukuna punished him for. Yuuji at twenty, holding him while he broke.
He picks up the phone. The message takes longer than it should.
You awake?
He stares at it, then sends before pride can interfere. The response comes after several minutes.
yeah. u okay?
Sukuna almost types yes.
Deletes it.
No.
The typing bubble from Yuuji appears instantly, disappears, appears again.
Want me to come over?
Sukuna looks around the apartment. The stripped bed. The open window. The tea. The absence of Kenny. The presence of every year that made this one.
He types, then stops.
He doesn’t know how to ask his little brother to come without making it sound like an order, a weakness, an accident.
Another message arrives before he decides.
I’m coming.
Sukuna exhales once through his nose.
“Sentimental brat,” he mutters into the empty kitchen.
But he doesn’t tell him not to.
He drinks the tea standing up, its heat bitter on his tongue, and looks toward the city where you are somewhere beyond his reach. The night doesn’t forgive him. The year doesn’t reset him. The past doesn’t soften because he finally looked at it long enough to name the pattern.
Still, for the first time in months, his apartment no longer contains someone he is using to avoid himself.
That’s not redemption. It’s not enough.
It’s only the first honest space he has made.
I'm in a winter mood, dreaming of spring now
Burning myself down
Burning myself down, burning
I feel like something that's been stretched out over and over again
Until I'm creased and I'm about to break down the middle
Split me right down the middle, right, right down the middle, yeah
The stars are the same as ever
But I don't have the guts to keep it together
Stuck in the permafrost
Stuck in the permafrost
Life is just a game maybe
I'm stuck in a lonely loop, my baby
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
I need the sound of crowds or I can't fall asleep at night
I can't take my thoughts and I
Can't take my thoughts and I am awake
Another year of possibilities left unwrapped
Like gifts the day right after Christmas past
And I'm pretty positive my pain isn't cool enough, pain isn't cool enough
Like a sledgehammer to a disco ball
Crushing all my low low low lows, ache it till you make it
Ache it till you make it
I think I've been going through it
And I've been putting your name to it
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
In another life you were my babe
In another life you were the sunshine of my lifetime
What would trade the pain for? I'm not sure
In another life you were my babe
In another life you were the sunshine of my lifetime
What would trade the pain for? I'm not sure
I used to be a real go-getter
I used to think it'd all get better
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
So much for stardust
We thought we had it all, thought we had it all
Thought we had it all, thought we had it all, thought we had it all
sum: You two are dating, finally, and you grow a bit curious about Sukuna's anatomy.
tags: unprotected sex, doggy style, creampie, sukuna has to cocks, fingers in mouth, innapropriate use of sukuna's stomach maw, a little dirty talking, sukuna has four hands and all of them are over your body, lacquerheadd once again made pink sukuna so i sat down and wrote like their little bitch that i am
Part one: Tainted Love | Part two: Fake Out | Part three: Heartbreak Feels So Good | Part four: My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark
art by: @lacquerheadd
You keep lecturing in Kyoto.
That becomes the first proof that whatever is growing between you and Sukuna will not be allowed to eat your life whole.
You have a backbone. You have rent. You have students who look at you with barely disguised hunger for approval and knowledge, students who need a teacher who will not abandon them in the middle of the school year because the most difficult man alive finally decided to behave for once. You have lesson plans, examinations, field training to supervise, individual technique assessments to update, and a drawer full of student reports that don't care whether your personal life has become a logistical and emotional nightmare.
So you stay.
You stay because Kyoto is yours now, at least for the year. You stay because you built something there on purpose, not by accident. You stay because if Sukuna is serious, then he can learn to be serious across distance. He can take the train. He can wait. He can ask. He can make himself inconvenient instead of making you convenient.
He complains about it exactly once.
Not directly, of course. Sukuna doesn't complain like normal people do, why would he? He states things with the arrogance of a man reporting a flaw in reality.
“Your apartment is too far,” he says one evening while standing in your kitchen, looking profoundly offended by the size of it. Which is a normal size.
You don't look up from cutting vegetables.
“My apartment is where it was when you decided to date someone who works in Kyoto.”
His eyes shift toward you. All four of them carry the same unimpressed weight.
“You could work in Tokyo.”
“I could also throw this knife at you.”
“You would miss.”
You lift the knife without turning. He huffs, but you catch the faint pull at his mouth before he looks away.
That's how it goes, mostly.
Not easy. Never easy when Sukuna is involved. But at least is real in a way that becomes steadier with the repetition.
You take the shinkansen sometimes, usually on weekends when your workload allows and when you feel like being stubborn in the opposite direction. You arrive at Tokyo with a bag over your shoulder and a warning text sent to Shoko beforehand so someone knows where you are if Sukuna decides to be emotionally impossible again. He always knows what platform you arrive at, which should probably bother you more than it does, but after the first time you threaten to put him through the train station floor if he’s using school records to track your ticket information, he only looks down at you and says,
“You told me which train.”
Oh. Yeah, you had. Unfortunately.
Sometimes he comes to Kyoto.
The first time, he claims he was sent to deal with a curse nearby. You believe him for approximately ten minutes. Then Yaga calls later, voice flat in that particular way that tells you he has given up trying to discipline ancient calamities who technically obey the rules while violating the spirit of every single one.
“He volunteered,” Yaga says.
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“For a grade two curse?”
“He said the location was of interest.”
“Of interest,” you repeat.
“Yes. You are the interest in the location, I suppose.”
“And you let him come.”
“I asked him to say hello to you if he happened to meet you.”
You hear, very clearly, the exhausted surrender behind the sentence.
“Yaga.”
“What do you want from me?” he asks, and there's a dry edge to his voice that almost makes you laugh. “He filled out the request properly. for once”
“He filled out paperwork?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s… terrifying.”
“He drew a slash over one section instead of answering it.”
“Sounds like him.”
“I approved it anyway, you know he’d do whatever.”
You stare at your phone for a moment.
“You’re enabling him.”
“I am preserving my remaining years. Not sure how many I still have. Stress is a silent killer.”
The second time Sukuna appears in Kyoto, you don't even pretend to believe the curse excuse. He shows up near the market after your last class, hands tucked inside his sleeves, hair lifted slightly by the wind, looking like some terrible old god accidentally placed among commuters and vending machines. You spot him before he calls your name because the space around him behaves differently. People don't necessarily know why they move around Sukuna, but they do. The crowd bends, splits, avoids. Instinct recognizes what knowledge doesn't.
You stop under the awning of a closed tea shop and stare.
“Let me guess,” you say as he approaches. “A curse near my preferred produce stall?”
His mouth tilts.
“Several curses.”
“Several weak curses needed the strongest sorcerer in history to cross the estate?”
“They were persistent.”
“Bullshit.”
“Not entirely.”
He ends up carrying your groceries. This, you discover, is one of his preferred forms of public possessiveness. Not grand declarations. Not sentimental gestures. Practical domination of tasks. If your bag exists, he takes it. If there are supply bags, they end up in one of his hands before you finish paying. If someone steps too close on a crowded street, his upper left arm settles around your shoulders with casual finality while one of the lower hands remains wrapped around yours. It’s not subtle. Nothing about Sukuna is subtle, even when he thinks he is being restrained.
Dating him is unique.
The less polite truth is that dating Sukuna sometimes feels like negotiating with a natural disaster that has developed preferences about your dinner schedule.
He’s still himself. That doesn't change. He remains arrogant, blunt, impatient with weakness, devastatingly difficult to impress, and occasionally so caustic that you have to remind him normal civilians don't deserve philosophical violence for standing too long in front of a shelf. But he’s different with you now in ways that become harder and harder to deny.
He pays attention. Not sweetly, not always. His attention is heavy. It has weight and heat and pressure. It can feel almost suffocating when you are not prepared for it. He notices everything. The rhythm of your steps when you are tired. The exact point in a faculty meeting when your politeness becomes a thin membrane over irritation. Which foods you pretend are fine but never choose again. Which students frustrate you because you see potential they refuse to use. Which street near your apartment makes your shoulders tense because the lighting is poor and the corner feels wrong after dark.
Sometimes it unsettles you, but not as much as it probably should. Sometimes you catch all four of his eyes on you and feel the old instinct to square your shoulders, to demand what he wants, to defend some private border before he reaches it.
Then one of his lower hands will brush the back of your fingers, or his body will shift half a step closer to block the crush of a crowd from pressing into you, and that wary part of you will find, to its own irritation, that it likes the shelter of him. He feels like a wall. A very warm, extremely dangerous wall.
When you are overwhelmed by people, by noise, by the administrative nonsense of two schools that somehow find ways to make paperwork breed, Sukuna’s presence becomes an awful sort of relief. He stands behind you or beside you, enormous and dark-eyed, and the world gets quieter because fewer people dare approach. His body becomes an edge others don't cross. Even Utahime, who finds the entire relationship fascinating and terrifying in equal measure, admits once that he is “surprisingly useful when one wants a room cleared.”
He’s not too acerbic when you are with him. He still drags looks and comments everywhere he goes because he is Sukuna. King of Curses, Calamity, strongest sorcerer in history, walking disaster, impossible body, ancient arrogance. People stare. Some with fear. Some with curiosity. Some with that feverish admiration sorcerers get around overwhelming power. Students whisper. Adults pretend not to. Civilians sense enough to keep distance without knowing the shape of what they avoid.
And there he is, walking with you through the supermarket, bottom left hand holding yours, top left arm settled around your shoulders as if you might be stolen by the frozen goods aisle, right hands carrying your bag and several supply bags because he refused to let you carry anything heavier than a bottle of tea.
You hate how much you enjoy it. The domesticity of it makes your heart warm.
“You know… I’m capable of carrying groceries,” you tell him while leaving the store one evening, snow threatening somewhere in the hard gray belly of the sky.
“Mhm,” he makes a noncommittal sound and keeps walking besides you. Your bags remain with him.
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he agrees. “I’ll carry them for you. I have got more hands in me than you.”
“You ever get tired of being infuriating or it’s just a passive skill at this point?”
His upper hand squeezes lightly at your shoulder.
“You chose me.”
You glance up at him.
“I question my judgment every day.”
“Not even you believe that.”
The worst part is that he is right.
You are still getting used to his ways. Still learning the difference between the Sukuna you supervised and the Sukuna who waits for you outside the staff building with dinner because you forgot to eat between classes. Still learning how to stand beside him without feeling like you are on duty. Still learning that if he turns quiet during battle, it doesn't always mean danger now. Sometimes it means he is thinking about how to finish quickly because you have papers to grade and he promised, with great reluctance, not to be the reason you sleep late on a school night.
Knowing him comes with knowing his body. That part unfolds slower than curiosity wants and faster than your pride is ready for.
You had seen him shirtless before. Accidentally, violently, inconveniently. The night outside your apartment when you burned his shirt off. The morning during the curse when he came out of the shower in only a towel and nearly caused your brain to abandon professional language forever. But seeing is different from knowing. Looking is different from touching. And Sukuna’s body is not merely large or powerful or strange — it’s a history, a weapon, a shrine to everything unnatural about him.
You get bold one night. It’s after dinner at your apartment, both of you on the rug in front of the couch because your couch remains too small for him and you refuse to buy furniture specifically to accommodate his ego. The heater hums. Empty dishes sit on the low table. Sukuna is eating the last of the gyoza with the focused satisfaction of a man who believes food deserves serious attention, and he convinced you at some point that it does and he’s right.
You have been watching him for too long. He knows, of course.
“Ask,” he says without looking at you, and you blink.
“What?”
“You are staring like one of your students when they think a question is too foolish to survive aloud.”
“That's not how my students stare.”
“I have seen them stare at me.”
“That’s because you look like a final boss from whatever game they like.”
He lifts one brow. You set your chopsticks down, nerves suddenly fizzing under your skin in a way that feels almost childish.
“Can your stomach mouth speak?”
He finally looks at you. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the mouth set into his abdomen opens.
“Yes,” it says.
The voice is lower than the one in his throat. Rougher. Deeper. It carries a rumble you feel in the floor through your knees and in the center of your chest before your mind fully processes it as speech. The sound is uncanny enough that a shiver goes down your spine so quickly you almost laugh from shock.
Sukuna watches the reaction with predatory amusement.
“You are very easy to entertain,” he says from above.
“That's horrifying,” you whisper.
The stomach mouth bares its teeth. Big. White. Sharp enough to make instinct crawl cold across the back of your neck.
You should retreat. Instead, curiosity wins, so you crawl closer on the rug. Sukuna stills in a way you notice only because you have become used to reading the small shifts in him. His main mouth remains faintly amused, but the rest of him quiets. You settle between his knees and lean closer to the mouth at his abdomen, your pulse ticking strangely in your throat.
“Can it taste food?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“Everything you eat from there?”
“If I choose to.”
“That's so strange,” your face is closer to the maw and its’ bared teeth, mesmerized, focused in analyzing it.
“You are the one interrogating my stomach.”
“I’m expanding my understanding of anatomy. Your strange anatomy.”
“You are playing with danger because you think it likes you,” his tone is lazy, but his eyes remain fixed on you.
You glance up at him.
“Doesn’t it?”
All four eyes sharpen at once, and for a second, heat moves between you with enough force to change the room. Then, the stomach maw snaps its teeth together iches from your face. You jolt backward with an undignified sound.
Sukuna laughs fully, head tipped slightly back as if your reaction has pleased him more than dinner did.
“Asshole!” you snap, one hand pressed to your chest. He only grins and shoves another gyoza into his main mouth.
Your heart is still hammering, but now you are laughing too, irritated at him and at yourself and at the fact that fear and fascination can live so close together in your body without canceling each other out.
A few minutes later, your curiosity returns.
You ask whether the four pectorals work through different muscle sections. Whether he can move them separately. Whether sensation is evenly distributed. Whether all four nipples feel touch the same way or whether the lower set responds differently because of the musculature around the maw.
He stares at you through the first several questions with an expression that slowly flattens into disbelief.
“You are aware,” he says at last with a low sigh, “that I am not one of your test papers?”
“You answer more interestingly than most of them. Now answer me. Do you, or do you not, produce milk from your ti—”
He reaches for you mid-sentence. The movement is casual and inescapable. One moment you are kneeling on the rug with some academic dignity. The next his hands are at your waist, and he brings you onto his lap as if rearranging the room to his preference is as natural as breathing.
You end up straddling his thighs. Your knees sink into the rug on either side of him. Your hands land against his shoulders for balance. The heat of his body rises through every point of contact with such immediate force that your thoughts scatter and then regroup around the knowledge of his closeness.
“There,” he says. “If I must indulge this invasive questionnaire, you will sit where I want you.”
“You are so spoiled.”
“You are still asking a lot of shit.”
You are. Worse, you keep asking.
He answers, too. Not with embarrassment. Sukuna doesn't seem capable of that in ordinary forms. But with the faintly superior patience of someone allowing you access because he has decided your fascination is acceptable tribute. His upper hands rest at your waist while his lower hands settle against the backs of your thighs, caressing absently over fabric in slow movements that make concentrating far more difficult than it should be. And he knows it, that’s why he keeps moving his hands.
You move closer to his face eventually. Your hand lifts before you fully decide on it, fingertips touching the left side of his jaw. He lets you. That permission is quiet, but you feel it in the way he doesn't turn the moment into a joke. By now you are half used to the intensity of his eyes boring into you, unblinking and crimson. Only half. There are still moments when being seen by all four at once feels like standing under a blade suspended by a thin thread.
Your thumb slides beneath his cheekbone. The bone is strong under your touch. His skin is hot, smooth where it is not marked, textured where the black tattoos frame him in patterns that feel less applied than inherent. You find yourself studying how the upper and lower eyes coordinate, how his attention moves without moving his head, how impossible it must be to surprise him from any ordinary angle.
“How do you see the world?” you ask, and it comes out softer than intended. A whisper, almost. As if the thought escaped your lips without asking permission first.
He tilts his head slightly.
“More completely than you do.”
You huff.
“That’s not an answer.”
His mouth curves faintly. He considers for a moment, and you feel strangely honored by that. He doesn't rush the answer.
“I have a wider field of sight,” he says. “Depth is not measured from a single arrangement. Movement divides itself more cleanly to me. Four directions can matter at once. Two sets focus and the other two keep the rest of the world in line.”
You listen, thumb still at his face.
“When I fight,” he continues, “there's little separation between what attacks and what approaches. Everything is measured together.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s normal.”
“For you.”
“Mhm.”
Your left hand rises toward the crest on the right side of his face.
The reaction is instant. His eyes narrow. The warning sits there in his expression, old and predatory, and for a second the room tightens. The crest has always drawn your attention. How could it not? It follows the line of his face like something grown and armored, rougher than skin, darker in presence than the rest of him.
You have wondered what it feels like. What it is. Whether he feels through it. Whether it is tender, numb, painful, sacred, hated.
You touch it anyway. Slowly. Not because you dismiss the warning in his gaze, but because you meet his eyes while you do it and give him every chance to stop you — but he doesn't.
The texture surprises you. Not hot like the rest of his skin. Not cold either. It feels like leather at first, then not. Harder. Rougher. There's a density beneath it that reminds you faintly of wood, bone, something grown under pressure, maybe. Your fingertips trace the edge where crest meets skin, careful over the seam. You feel his stillness deepen beneath you. His hands at your thighs stop moving.
You look at the place you touch, then at him. His expression is unreadable in the way it becomes when something matters too much for his pride to allow easy interpretation.
You don't ask what happened there. Not tonight. You simply lean in and his eyes narrow, perhaps expecting a question.
You kiss the corner of the face crest. It’s a small touch, almost nothing. The effect is not small.
His hands tighten suddenly at your waist and thighs. Clawed, black nails press through fabric with enough force to make you yelp softly, more startled than hurt. His breath catches once, barely audible, but you feel the change in him everywhere because you are sitting against him and he is too powerful for any reaction to remain fully contained.
You draw back just enough to look at him. He looks caught off guard.
Not vulnerable because you are not sure Sukuna can look vulnerable in a way that doesn't immediately grow teeth around itself. But something has opened and closed in him before he can stop it, and the sight makes your chest feel too full.
“Careful there,” you murmur, glancing down at where his fingers grip you.
His hands loosen at once. The speed of it matters more than an apology would. He clears his expression into something sharper.
“Are you done exploring me like a large science project?” He sneers, upper lip lifting slightly, though you both know his annoyance isn’t real.
“Maybe for the night.”
“I hear your lack of commitment.”
You smile despite yourself and don't move off his lap. You slide both arms around his neck and bury your fingers into the pink hair falling at his nape. His hair is softer than it has any right to be. You scratch gently at his scalp, slow, deliberate, and the change in him is immediate. It feels like watching a drawn bow loosen by inches.
His eyes dip. His shoulders lower a fraction. Then he pulls you closer firmly, with the confidence of someone who knows you are not going to run from this part. Your bodies press flush. Heat floods through you in a single wave. His face lowers and buries against the top of your chest, nuzzling the swell of your breasts, breathing you in deeply, shamelessly, like the scent of you has become something he stores beneath his ribs.
When he exhales, it comes out as a deeply pleased groan. Your face heats in one catastrophic second. You tug at his hair on instinct because that felt indecent, although you can’t explain or understand why.
“Sukuna!”
He doesn't move. You can feel the curve of his mouth against your skin. You press your lips to the top of his head because you need somewhere to put the tenderness before it embarrasses you more. Then your cheek settles against his hair, and for a while the two of you stay like that on the rug, dishes forgotten, heater humming, his hands warm and still against you.
You like the calm nights with him. That realization stops feeling like weakness after a while.
He demands nothing more than you offer. He learns. Not perfectly, not gracefully either. But he learns as he said he would. He asks more often now, or at least pauses long enough for you to answer with your body before deciding. He waits at doors. He warns you before arriving in Kyoto unless there's a mission, and even then he sends a message after, usually so blunt it loops back around into endearing.
In area. Weak curse. Don't start dinner without me.
Or:
Yaga has approved my presence. He is less irritating than usual.
Or, once:
Saw a flower vendor. Your window needs something alive.
That time he arrives with a potted camellia and refuses to admit he spent fifteen minutes choosing it.
The school year remains tranquil. As tranquil as anything involving jujutsu can be.
He visits you. You visit him. Mei Mei and Yaga become aware of the relationship between teachers with the unsettling calm of people who suspected it before you had the courage to say anything. Mei Mei only gives you a slow, knowing look that makes you want to check whether she has already calculated the political implications and potential profit margins. Yaga, worse, tells you he thought it was about time. You punch him in the arm. Hard.
“How dare you,” you say while he rubs the spot with a deeply unimpressed expression. “You were making my life miserable by assigning me as Sukuna’s handler.”
“I was assigning the only person who could manage him without indulging him.”
“You were trying to make us a couple!” You gesture angrily at him.
“I was trying to keep him from demolishing neighborhoods… also.”
“Liar!”
Yaga’s silence is far too dignified. You punch him again, lighter this time, mostly out of principle. Bastard.
You think about it afterward more than you want to. All those missions. All those forced partnerships. All those times Yaga looked at you over reports full of damage estimates and said you would be assigned with Sukuna again because your technique was effective. At the time, you had thought he was simply being practical. He was. But now you suspect practical and meddling are not mutually exclusive.
Sukuna finds this funny. Naturally.
“He thought you would be useful to me,” he crows at you one night.
“He thought you would be less of a public menace if I was there to babysit your ass.”
“The same thing.”
“You are not helping your case.”
“I am not on trial.”
“You are always on trial with me.”
He looks pleased by that for some reason, grinning like he enjoys your annoyance.
A few months into dating, your Kyoto students request to watch Sukuna exorcise a curse.
You almost refuse on instinct. Then you realize it’s not a bad request. Not if controlled. Not if supervised. Watching overwhelming skill in the field has educational value as long as awe is followed by analysis. So when the opportunity presents itself — a curse strong enough to demonstrate technique but contained enough to prevent catastrophe — you arrange it with more paperwork than the mission deserves and a headache that lasts two days.
Sukuna, of course, is smug.
Not openly in front of the students. He doesn't preen. That would be too obvious and therefore beneath him. But you know him now. You see the satisfaction in the set of his shoulders when the students go silent at the first clean movement of his technique. You see the faint lift of his chin when Mai, despite herself, looks impressed. You see how he pretends not to hear the whispered awe after the curse is eliminated so efficiently that the students almost seem disappointed by how little time they had to process it.
They can’t stop talking about it afterward. For a week, every training session somehow circles back to Sukuna.
Did you see the timing? Did you notice how he didn’t even look at the second angle? Was that Cleave or Dismantle? How did he know where the curse would reform? Do you think he planned the whole sequence before moving?
You let them chatter. Then the next week, you give them a test on everything they saw. The betrayal in their faces is magnificent.
“You said it was a field observation,” one of them complains.
“It was.”
“You didn’t say there would be a written assessment.”
“You assumed the absence of warning meant the absence of consequences?”
Mai mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like admiration hidden inside her usual annoyance.
Sukuna is delighted when you tell him.
Which is why, one Friday evening in Tokyo, you end up correcting those very tests while sitting on the floor of his engawa, back resting against his broad chest, his arms caging you in as the winter garden darkens in front of you.
It’s cold outside, but he is warm enough that the air doesn't touch you properly.
His chin rests on the top of your head. One lower arm lies across your middle, the other loosely over your thighs. His upper hands are free, occasionally stealing a page from your stack when your grading takes too long for his patience. The garden beyond the engawa is stark and beautiful in the deepening blue of evening. Bare branches, stones, winter moss, the faint gleam of water in a shallow basin. The kind of scene that would feel austere if not for the furnace behind you and the muttering directly above your head.
He tsks at one answer. You mark a note in red. He huffs at another. You ignore him. Then he laughs. A sudden, low sound against your hair that makes you pause.
“What?”
He takes the test from your hand before you can stop him.
“Sukuna! What the hell?”
He reads the student’s answer again, eyes narrowing with genuine offense.
“‘Cleave appears to divide the target by visually selected sections based on emotional interest.’”
You press your lips together at the last part, but they stretch despite your attempt to remain serious.
“Emotional interest?” he repeats, as if the phrase written was the stupidest thing he’s ever read. Which you doubt.
“They are trying to describe adaptive targeting.”
“They are describing poetry. Bad poetry.”
“They’re learning.”
“They are guessing.”
“You guessed once,” you frown lightly, raising your head a bit to look at his face upside down.
“I have never guessed.”
“Stop lying! You absolutely have!”
“No. I have perhaps inferred correctly without sufficient information. Once or twice in my life.”
You lean back into him and laugh, unable to stop yourself. He marks the paper with a note so scathing you immediately snatch it back.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You cannot write ‘nonsense’ across a student’s answer.”
“It is nonsense.”
“You’re not the teacher here. I am. You can traumatize your own class.”
His chin presses more firmly on your head.
“I taught them by demonstrating.”
“And now I’m teaching them by not letting you crush their spirits with one word.”
“They will survive,” he grouses.
“Will they? Maybe they die on spot.”
“They watched me work. Their spirits are already inflated.”
You groan and toss the paper onto the stack. Friday finally wins. You decide the tests can wait until Monday.
The moment you gather the papers, Sukuna takes them from you with two left hands, along with your pen case, and places them far enough away that retrieving them would require leaving the warmth of his body. It’s a shameless tactic, and worse, an effective one.
“You are interfering with my work,” you murmur.
“You stopped working already.”
“I was deciding to stop working. That's different.”
“You repeat yourself when tired, woman.”
His mouth lowers to the side of your neck before you can answer, laying a slow, lazy kiss there.
Barely a press at first, warm enough to sink through the skin and pull your thoughts sideways. You close your eyes because the garden is darkening anyway and because his mouth at your neck makes it difficult to remember why Monday’s grading should matter more than the present moment.
He nuzzles there, lips and nose moving along the line beneath your ear. You tilt your head despite yourself. The movement is small, yet he notices immediately.
His hand at your middle spreads wider, palm warm through your shirt. Another hand slides from your thigh to your hip, resting there with weight but no demand. He kisses your neck again, slower, and the heat that blooms under your skin is deeper this time.
“Sukuna…” you mutter, but it carries very little warning.
He hums against you. The vibration travels through your spine. You inhale carefully.
At some point, you stop sitting upright. At some point, his hands guide you, and you let them, because the movement is unhurried and familiar now. Your back remains against his torso. His body shifts under and around yours with absurd ease. The papers are forgotten. The pen case might as well belong to another life. His mouth traces the place where your neck meets your shoulder, and your hands find his forearms because there's too much heat in too many places and you need to hold onto something solid.
You don't know when your shirt becomes too much. Maybe when his fingers slide beneath the hem and pause there, waiting. Maybe when you cover one of his hands with yours and guide it higher yourself. Maybe when he draws in one slow breath at your silent answer, and something in the air changes enough that the winter garden outside might as well vanish.
The fabric leaves you in a blur of warmth and careful hands. He doesn't rush. Sukuna has no lack of hunger — you can feel it in the way his breathing deepens, in the tension coiling under his skin, in the hard restraint of his body behind you. But he takes his time as if time belongs to him and the night has already surrendered.
Your pants go next with a pair of lower hands sliding inside the bar of them, warm palms pressed against your skin, thumbs hooked on the hem and pulling them lower, lower, lower. You help him out as you can, moving here, turning a bit your hips there, letting him manhandle you until you are left only in your underwear.
Your skin meets his heat and your breath catches.
He knows your body differently now than he did when curiosity first led your hands over the strange architecture of him. He has learned where you grow still because sensation overwhelms you. Where your breath changes. Where your shoulders rise if he moves too sharply. Where your laughter hides when you are embarrassed, and where it disappears entirely when want becomes too heavy for jokes.
His hands travel with reverence that doesn't quite soften his nature. Sukuna’s tenderness is still his. Possessive, intense, edged by restraint rather than gentleness alone. He doesn't touch as if you are fragile. He touches as if you are precious and dangerous, as if mishandling you would be an offense against his own pride.
You turn in his lap enough to face him. His eyes are already dark. The red of them seems deeper in the low light, pupils blown wide, attention fixed on you with such total force that your skin prickles. The navy haori hangs loose over his broad shoulders, sleeveless to accommodate the impossible build of him. His hakama sits pale at his hips. His chest is bare beneath the open fall of fabric, all heat and markings and hard muscle speckled with a few pink hairs, the stomach maw quiet for now but present enough to pull your awareness whenever you let your gaze drop.
You kiss him. He answers immediately. Not cautious the way he was the first night in your apartment. Not uncertain, too. He knows now that you want him. He knows because you have said it, because you have returned, because you have chosen him in ways both practical and foolish. His mouth opens beneath yours, his slit tongue sliding over your tongue, and the kiss deepens into something that makes your fingers tighten in the fabric at his shoulders.
He tastes like tea and heat. His upper hands settle at your waist, and his lower ones at your thighs. You feel surrounded, not trapped by him. There's a difference, and your body knows it before your mind names it.
When he presses you closer, pulling you by the hips against his own crotch, making you feel the hard line of him, making you feel how much he already wants you, you make a sound into his mouth. Small and a bit too needy, and that’s enough for him. The change in him is immediate. A current of cursed energy flickers around him, there and gone, like the room itself has inhaled. His hands flex, then still. He draws back just enough to look at you, and the restraint in his face is so visible that it sends another wave of heat through you.
“You hear yourself?” he asks, voice low at your burning face. His wide grin shows teeth.
“Please, shut up for once,” you groan softly.
“You would miss my voice too much.”
The laugh that escapes you breaks the tension just enough for both of you to breathe.
He uses the moment to move. Skillfully, because of course he does. There's no awkwardness in the way he shifts your weight, braces himself, and rises with you held against him. The world tips only slightly before you understand he has you, all four arms distributing the motion so easily that your own body barely has to participate. One moment you are on the engawa with the winter garden fading into night. The next he is carrying you toward his chambers, your arms around his neck, your cheek near his temple, his heat everywhere.
“You could ask, gentleman,” you murmur.
He glances at you, slit brow lifted and expression unamused.
“May I take you to bed?”
You should not smile as much as you do.
“You’re already doing it,” you point out.
“I’ll work on timing.” His mouth brushes your jaw, not quite a kiss. “However, you did not object.”
The kiss you press against his temple is answer enough.
He places you on his bed with less force than he is capable of and more intent than your nervous system is prepared to process, making your body bounce lightly as you land on your ass and forearms, remaining propped up on them. The bedding gives beneath you. For a second, you simply look up at him from where you lie almost in the middle of the mattress, and the sight makes your mind go briefly blank.
Sukuna towers impossibly high at the foot of the bed. Magnificent is the word your pride hates and your eyes choose to feed your mind. All that impossible form. Four arms. Four eyes. Dark markings over hot skin. Haori slipping open, pale hakama loose, hair falling in unruly pink strands around the hard lines of his face. He looks hungry, with his attention honed and pointed solely at you. Hungry in a way that holds itself back because he knows what restraint is worth now.
Your heart pounds. Your thoughts must show on your face, because his brows lift.
“Spit it out,” he says. “You want to ask something.”
You have been asking him so many things you realize he already knows the look on your face when you’re about to start. You bite your lower lip before you can stop yourself. You glance instead of asking, openly this time, at the mouth on his abdomen. His gaze drops to the motion, sharpens, then returns to your eyes. Both his brows rise. Then the grin that spreads across his face is vicious enough to belong on a battlefield.
He understands before you say a word, and your whole body goes hot.
It’s absurd, the way curiosity and desire tangle together inside you. You have asked him about his body before with your head tilted and your tone academic, but there's nothing academic about the room now. Nothing theoretical about the way he looks at you or the way your own breath catches when his upper hands move toward the edges of his haori, letting the fabric slip wider over his shoulders.
His response is a twitch of his fingers towards your bra and panties in a clear order to take them off before he entertains your idea. And despite your best judgment, you oblige.
You do it slowly, sliding your hands on your bare legs as you lower the delicate piece, discarding somewhere you’ll worry about any other time. The same is done with your bra. You unclasp it at your back with one practiced hand and let it the straps slide off your shoulders, then your arms, finally letting his eyes take you in completely bare. Skin flush and hot.
“Are you sure?” he asks lowly.
The question comes with a purr threaded through it, smug and dark and entirely too pleased by your reaction, but it’s still a question.
You nod once too quick and. his gaze holds yours until you find enough voice to answer properly.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
The word seems to move through him, and only then he moves. Not to shock you. Not to overwhelm.
To show you.
He shrugs the haori more fully from his shoulders and lets it fall aside. The room seems to narrow around him. His upper hands settle near the sides of the stomach maw, index and middle fingers hook in the corners of it, not pulling harshly, only opening enough that the mouth reveals itself with obscene, fascinating clarity. Teeth gleam. The inner heat of it shows in the wet shine of the glistening tongue with its unexpected piercing that catches the faint glow, and your breath falters so badly his grin returns.
You should be frightened, probably. Part of you is, but just a little. A very old part of your body understands teeth, hunger, the danger of a mouth where no mouth should be. But fear is not alone. It’s tangled with fascination, trust, heat, and the knowledge that he has asked, that he waits, that the monster in front of you is not careless with you anymore.
“You are staring,” he comments, smugness still present.
“You’re showing off.”
“Clearly.”
That startles a nervous and breathy laugh out of you. His expression shifts with satisfaction, but also something deeper. Hunger, pride, pleasure in being looked at without revulsion. Without clinical distance. Without fear winning. You realize then that your curiosity is not only indulging you. It gives him something too. A way to be seen fully and not reduced to horror.
His lower pair of hands find the edge of his hakama, lowering it with the same unhurried movement he used to undress you back on the engawa. His carved form emerges, the pair of cocks freed in a slow reveal that leaves you momentarily breathless, processing the reality of him.
Two cocks. Okay. That makes sense.
A dark chuckle vibrates from his chest as he draws you forward by the ankles with his upper hands that are no longer stretching widely his stomach maw, positioning you at the edge of the mattress with your legs parted already so he stands tall between them.
The view from below is still overwhelming in its intensity, his beauty is oppressive, so is his attention and his power — yet he remains Sukuna, and he snaps you out of that small trance when he flips you onto your belly.
A pair of hands find your hips, lifting them higher as your knees make the mattress yield beneath them. His upper left hand anchors your shoulder blades with deliberate pressure, a silent command that draws your focus inward, to the way your chest presses into the cushions and your hips rise in offering to his appetite.
Another hand claims your breast, fingers tracing slow circles around your already pebbled nipple that send ripples of awareness through your skin, while the third explores the curve of your waist, mapping the tension that builds there like unspoken promises. He’s squeezing, caressing, kneading with unhurried purpose. His stomach maw hovers close to you exposed core, its heat a tangible caress against your most sensitive places, the rhythm of his exhales syncing with the quickening pulse in your veins.
You asked for this. Still, you feel like you’re about to be swallowed whole by him.
The hot breath from his maw teases your exposed skin for a bit longer, building in anticipation until the pierced tongue makes contact, drawing a shiver through your frame. It glides along your folds and the sensation unfolds gradually, each lap at your cunt make your body arch and settle in equal measure. The metal stud adds a cool contrast to the warmth, teasing and retreating in a dance that leaves you chasing more without quite grasping it yet.
Filthy words spill from him in that low, velvet tone, weaving through the haze while the maw works you relentlessly, licking and probing at your entrances, stretching you sex with its tip while his hands hold you steady.
Pleasure builds in waves, your whimpers escaping as you press back against it, chasing the edge until release finally crashes over you.
He collects every tremor, every drop of your orgasm, before the maw closes slowly and his cock takes its place, sliding its bulbous head between your puffy, slick folds, and pressing in with languid insistence. He’s not done with you, of course not. You’re still feeling the faint shivers running through your skin, breath uneven, chest still pressed against the soft mattress and hands fisting the bedsheets as he breaches your tight muscle rim finally.
The first sting of it sends a shock through your core and makes your thighs tremble faintly. You muffle a few sounds you’re too self aware to let completely out against the mattress, trying to relax your body muscles properly until he can once again move, pushing further, slowly spreading you open with his dick.
The hand that once pressed almost gently your shoulder blades down, now fists the hair on the back of your head, firmly. It’s not done carelessly, not in a way that makes you wince or hurts you — it’s a fistful of hair grabbed near enough your scalp that the purpose of it becomes clear in an instant.
You’re lifted against his chest, your back meets the solid warmth of him, feeling the hard planes of his abs pressing against the curve of your back, the four pectorals shifting, iron coiling under skin as he bottoms out inside you, knocking the air from your lungs and ripping a ragged, breathy moan out of your throat.
You feel so, so fucking full that your eyes flutter close for a moment as you catch your breath once again. You tip your head down, looking towards your lower belly briefly, where a bulge is visible as he fills you completely.
His lower pair of hands steady your hips, thumbs pressing into flesh with just enough force to remind you of his control, while the upper pair shifts — one on your lower belly, pressing down just enough to make you feel your own outline stretched around his thickness, the subtle bulge moving beneath his palm as he fucks into you, and the sight alone sends a fresh wave of slick heat through your core. The other encircling your throat, keeping your head tilted back now, exposing the vulnerable column of your neck as his carmine eyes keep focused on your face with rapt attention.
The thrusts begin as a slow withdrawal, the delicious drag of his shaft against your walls, the deliberate stretch that empties and refills in one fluid motion and has your eyes fighting not to roll back.
The pace builds as he fucks you, starting in a steady, slow rhythm, his hips bucking with controlled power, the back of your thighs meeting the front of his own with the sound of skin slapping skin, the lower cock sliding between your pressed thighs in tandem, the dual sensation layering heat upon heat. He’s still gripping your hipbones with bruising strength as he pounds you with increasing intensity, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the otherwise quiet room.
Each thrust builds inside you like a rising tide, his chest flush to your back, the faint rumble of his chuckle vibrating through you as your moans escape unbidden.
His grip, the stretch, the relentless rhythm that gets more violent, harder, faster — make your head feels dizzy. The hand wrapped around your throat squeezes faintly from time to time. Your head remains slightly tipped back, forced to look at him, forced to sustain that draconian gaze that bores into you, all consuming and absurdly disarming.
His hands are everywhere. Pressing your hips, pulling you against himself with each thrust so he goes even deeper, sliding on your stomach, up your side, kneading the fat of your breast.
"Look at you," he breathes into your ear in a low, possessive rasp that vibrates through your entire body now. "Taking all of me. Every inch. This cunt was made for me, wasn't it?"
You can only manage a broken whimper in response, your mind wiped clean of everything except the sensation of his cock stretching you, filling you, claiming you — and between your pressed thighs, his lower cock finding a punishing rhythm of its own as he picks up the pace.
The friction is obscene — skin sliding against skin, your slickness and his saliva mixing into a glossy sheen that makes every single drag of him against your inner thighs a wet, lewd whisper. The tip nudges against your clit with each deep thrust of his upper cock, a dual assault that makes your toes curl and your fingers twist and press your nails against your own palms, blooming crescent reds on your own skin. That pain gives place to both your hands finding his own and grabbing at the pair that still holds onto your hips, nails biting his skin and making him let out a low growl.
"Look at us," he commands, "Look at what you're taking."
His upper hand leaves your neck to grip your chin, tilting your head down as he bends slightly forward with you. The angle forces your gaze to your joined bodies. You see the thick root of his upper cock disappearing into your pussy, stretched obscenely around his girth.
Below it, his lower cock slides wetly between your thighs, the head disappearing briefly between your lips before reappearing, coated in your arousal and his own pre-cum. The sight is devastatingly erotic, a visual confirmation of the overwhelm flooding your senses.
Your hips buck back against him involuntarily, chasing the fullness, the stretch, the burn.
"That's it. Use it. Take what you need."
His lower hands grip the curve of your ass, spreading you slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts. His stomach maw opens slightly, just enough for his tongue to loll out and its tip find the puckered hole between your spread asscheeks, slobbering saliva all over it, rubbing circles with its own rhythm around the tight rim of muscles, probing at it with its tip and teasing it with the metal stud just to drag a startled yelp out of your fucked out self.
The adjustment makes his upper cock drive even deeper, hitting a spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. At the same time, the shift lets his lower cock slot more perfectly against your clit, grinding against it with every forward motion, letting you feel his every vein, every ridge of his thick cock sliding, hitting, pressing, grinding.
The dual stimulation is too much. It's everything. The hand on your belly presses harder, feeling his cock move inside you from the outside. The hand on your chin releases, only for his upper hand to slide into your hair, fisting the strands on the crown of it and pulling your head back against his shoulder.
Words spill from his upper mouth again as he seems to have found inspiration to rile you up, filthy praise and dark promises, while his stomach maw now presses hot against the small of your back, tongue only eventually lapping at your ass, and its breath fanning across your sensitive skin with every panting it lets out. You can feel the vibrations of a second voice, a deeper resonance that murmurs approval and ravenous craving against your spine.
The coil in your belly winds tighter, impossibly tight, and he feels it — the way your inner walls flutter and grip him, squeezing is girth tighter. The way your breath catches and your body trembles as your tone grows urgent.
"That's it," he growls, his pace becoming punishing now. "Cum for me. Drench my cock with it," he grits out, adamant in each stroke aiming at driving you over the edge.
His pace turns brutal. There's no more restraint, no measured rhythm — just pure, driving need. His lower hand slips from your ass, sliding around to find your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that match the relentless pound of his hips.
The orgasm rips through you without warning, a violent, shuddering release that clenches every muscle in your body. Your pussy spasms around his upper cock, milking him in waves, while your thighs clamp tighter around his lower cock, trapping it against your twitching center. A broken cry escapes your lips, your vision going white at the edges.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into your back. His hips stutter, losing their perfect rhythm as he drives himself as deep as he can, grinding against the clenched vice of your body. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, flooding your cunt with his release. His lower cock spills as well, twitching and coating your thighs with pearly white, hot, sticky cum.
The sensation triggers a second, smaller aftershock that ripples through you and he holds you there, impaled in his cock and trembling, his breath ragged against your ear. His grip loosens slowly, reverently, as he comes down from the peak alongside you.
The hand on your belly relaxes into a flat, soothing press, thumb caressing absentmindedly your skin. The hand in your hair gentles, stroking through the strands.
His lips find the curve of your shoulder, pressing a kiss there. Then another, higher, on the side of your neck.
"Never again," he murmurs against your sweat damp skin, the smugness replaced by something rawer, hungrier. "I'm not going a single day without tasting you, without feeling you wrapped around me like this. You've ruined me for anything less."
His stomach maw laps lazily at the sweat on your lower back, a contented, possessive gesture.
One of his lower hands slides up your stomach to rest over the one already there, both of them cradling the faint swell where his cock remains buried inside you. He doesn't pull out. Not yet. He just holds you, pressed flush against him, the spent heat of your union settling into something quieter but no less intense.
After your bodies cool a little bit, he doesn't collapse over you.
He could. He looks like he wants to, for one heavy second, body hovering, breath ragged, eyes still burning. But then he catches himself with visible effort, gathers you carefully into his arms, and holds you against his chest while your body continues to tremble in little aftershocks.
You are exhausted, and not just physically, emotionally too. Open in a way that feels almost raw, as if the night has taken down layers of you and left the tender parts warm under his palms.
“Stay awake, brat,” he murmurs, noticing your exertion.
You make an offended sound against his skin.
“Why?”
“Bath.”
“I’m comfortable here.”
“You’re shaking.”
He carries you to the hot spring before you protest further. You are too tired to protest properly anyway, and he is too pleased by that.
Steam coils over the surface of the water, softening the stone edges and turning the night beyond the open side of the bath into a dark blur. The cold air kisses the damp places on your skin for only a moment before he lowers both of you into heat, then the water closes around you. You exhale so deeply it’s almost a moan.
His arms remain around you as he settles, back against the stone, body enormous and warm beneath the water. You sit half across his lap, half against his chest, boneless enough that dignity is no longer a priority. The heat soaks into every sore muscle, every point of tension, every place his hands had held with careful strength. Your hair is pinned up badly, escaping in damp strands at the nape of your neck. His haori and hakama are abandoned somewhere on the bedroom floor, along with the last of your coherent thoughts.
For a while, the only sounds are water and breathing.
His lower hand cups water and pours it slowly over your shoulder. You open one eye.
“Are you washing me or trying to drown me?”
“If I wanted you drowned, you would be.”
“And they say romance is dead…”
“I am rinsing sweat from your skin,” he offers in a dry tone.
“Mhm…”
He huffs, and the sound moves through his chest into your back. You let your head rest against him.
His body in the hot spring is almost ridiculous. As if he needed more heat. Yet the water does something to him too, loosening the remaining tension in his muscles, softening the harsh lines of his posture. His hands move slowly now. One over your arm. One at your waist. One resting over your thigh beneath the water. One at the back of your neck, thumb stroking in absent circles that make your eyes close again.
“You’re quiet,” you murmur.
“I am letting you rest.”
You smile faintly without opening your eyes.
“Look at you. Being considerate.”
“Don't sound so surprised.”
“I’m very surprised.”
His fingers pinch lightly at your side, and you twitch with a small laugh. Then the quiet returns.
It’s deep, this quiet. Not awkward. The kind of quiet that only comes after bodies have spoken enough for words to stop scrambling for space. You feel him breathe beneath you. Feel the steady beat of him where your shoulder rests against his chest. Feel the faint movements of his stomach maw when he exhales, relaxed and closed now, no longer a source of startling heat but simply another part of him pressed near you.
Another part of him you know.
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. He feels that too.
“What?”
You shake your head. His hand at your neck stills. You sigh, because lying is too much work and he will only become more annoying if you try.
“I’m just…” You search for the right words through the steam and exhaustion. “I’m happy.”
The confession lands softly and heavily at once. His arms don't tighten immediately to be considered a dramatic gesture or a great response. He doesn't make some grand declaration. Sukuna rarely does the expected thing when the expected thing would be emotionally normal. He just stills again, completely.
You open your eyes and tilt your head enough to look at him. His gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the steam, jaw set, expression unreadable in the low light. For a moment you wonder if the word has unsettled him. Happiness, with all its simple mortal softness. Perhaps that's stranger to him than hunger, than anger, than want. Perhaps joy is harder to accept because there's no enemy inside it.
Then he looks down at you.
“That’s good,” he says.
Only that.
But his voice is lower than usual, rougher at the edges. You understand him better now, so you hear what the word carries.
Good, because he wanted that. Good, because he did not ruin it. Good, because your happiness is somehow now a thing he measures himself against.
You turn your face into his chest before he can see too much of what that does to you, pressing a kiss over the damp, hot skin.
“You’re becoming soft,” you whisper.
His hand resumes its slow movement at your neck.
“You wish.”
“I like being hopeful.”
“I like when you are here.”
That makes you still. The water moves softly around you both. He says it without looking away this time, without disguising it as an insult or a challenge or some strategic concession. The sentence is plain. Almost awkward in its simplicity. You feel the effort behind it, the deliberate offering of something honest because you asked him months ago to stop making feelings into traps.
Your eyes sting a little. You refuse to cry in a hot spring after the night you just had. That would be excessive, even for you. So you lift your head and kiss the underside of his jaw.
“I like being here,” you say, watching his face as his eyes lower to yours. “With you,” you add, because you are also learning.
The shift in his face is small. He bends and kisses you again, slow and deep and almost lazy now, the heat of it softened by exhaustion. There's no rush. No sharp edge of escalation. Only the lingering need to keep touching, to confirm the body is still there, the person still close, the night still real.
When he draws back, his forehead rests against yours. Steam gathers between you.
“You will remain in Kyoto,” he says, and it’s not quite a question. You smile faintly.
“Yeah.”
His mouth tightens with displeasure. You wait. He exhales through his nose.
“Good.”
You blink.
“Good?”
“You said you have work.”
“I do.”
“Students.”
“Yep, that too.”
“A spine.”
You laugh.
“I do. You know it. I wouldn’t kick your ass if I didn’t have one.”
His arms settle more securely around you.
“Then remain there.”
The warmth that fills you has nothing to do with the water or with the furnace that is Sukuna’s body against yours.
This is what you needed him to understand. That being with him can’t mean erasing yourself into his orbit. That your life is not something he wins by wanting it. That if he wants you, he has to want the person who teaches in Kyoto, who grades tests, who takes the shinkansen, who has students and responsibilities and a tiny apartment with a camellia by the window because he bought it and pretended not to care.
“You’ll still complain when you visit me, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And show up for weak curses suspiciously near my school?”
“Someone has to deal with them.”
“And insist my couch is too small?”
“It is.”
“And carry my groceries like I’m helpless?”
“You are not helpless. You are mine.”
You pull back enough to give him a look. His eyes sharpen, perhaps anticipating correction. You let him wait a beat.
“Yours doesn’t mean owned.”
His expression shifts faintly, old instincts brushing against new rules.
“No,” he exhales. “No, it doesn’t.”
You soften.
“What does it mean, then?”
He looks at you for a long moment. The question is easy for you to ask because you grew up in a world where words are supposed to build bridges. Difficult for him because words have always been either weapons or decoration, never the thing itself. Still, he tries.
“It means,” he says slowly, “I look for you.”
Your chest tightens.
“In rooms,” he continues, eyes not leaving yours. “In crowds. After battle. Before leaving. When something is irritating and I think you would have an insult worse than mine.”
You laugh quietly, though it comes out softer than humor. His hand slides up your back beneath the water, anchoring you closer.
“It means I notice your absence,” he says, and something in his voice roughens. “I dislike that.”
You swallow the lump in your throat.
“Me too,” you admit.
There's no smugness this time. Only his gaze holding yours with unnerving steadiness, as if he is storing the answer somewhere important.
The water keeps cooling by degrees, though with his body around you it takes longer to matter. Eventually he shifts, deciding for both of you that the bath has done its work.
You grumble because you are warm and boneless and unwilling to participate in movement for a while. He ignores the complaint in the practical way of someone who knows you will thank him when you are dry and not asleep in water to wake up looking like a raisin.
He lifts you out first, wrapping you in a towel warmed by some method you don't ask about tonight. His hands are efficient now. Gentle but without hesitance. Drying your arms, your back, your hairline where damp strands cling to your neck. You allow it because your limbs feel loose and heavy, because his focus on aftercare is still new enough to make you quiet, because being tended to by Sukuna after being wanted by him feels like discovering a second impossible thing inside the first.
When you are both back in his chambers, he gives you one of his robes. It swallows you, naturally. He looks pleased.
“I think you could make a less obnoxious face,” you raise a brow.
“It’s a good robe,” yet, he looks at you with a grin that gives his smugness up.
“It’s a tent.”
“It suits you.”
You look down at yourself, then back at him.
“You have terrible taste in everything?”
“I chose you.”
You pause. Then narrow your eyes.
“That was either very sweet or very rude.”
“It sure was.”
You throw a small cushion at him. He catches it, and then he catches you.
Later, in bed, you curl against him with the kind of ease that still surprises you when you think about it too directly. His bed is large enough for him, which means it is more than large enough for both of you, yet he still keeps you close as if distance is personally offensive when it comes to your body and his.
You lie with your cheek against his chest, nuzzling on the hot skin speckled with short pink hair and marked with black, symmetric lines — one of his arms is behind your back, another over your waist, the others arranged with unusual care so you are surrounded but not pinned.
The stomach maw remains closed beneath your hand. You rest your palm near it because you can. Because earlier, curiosity brought you there. Later, desire. Now, tenderness.
His fingers move through your hair in slow, almost clumsy strokes. He is better at touching with intent than with idle softness. Idle softness still seems to require concentration from him, and the thought makes you smile against his skin.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re petting me like you’re trying not to fail an exam.”
His hand stills. Then resumes, more deliberately annoying this time, dragging your hair slightly.
“Ow. Improved technique, terrible attitude.”
“You are impossible to satisfy.”
“You managed earlier.”
The silence after that's immediate. Wonderful. You feel his chest shift under your cheek. Then his laugh comes, low and dark and pleased enough that your entire face heats because of what you just gave him.
“I did,” he says.
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
You groan and hide your face more firmly against him. His arms draw closer around you, enough to make leaving unimaginable for the moment. Then sleep begins to pull at you in slow, heavy waves, but before it takes you fully, you hear his voice above you, quieter than the dark seems prepared for.
“You will tell me if I misstep.”
Your eyes open halfway. It’s not insecurity. Sukuna doesn't sound afraid. But there's something serious beneath it, something shaped by the memory of how badly he hurt you the first time he tried to turn feeling into a game.
You lift your head enough to look at him.
“Yes,” you say softly. “I’ll tell you.”
“And you will not leave before telling me.”
Your chest aches.
There it is.
Not a demand. Not quite. A fear wearing the armor of phrasing he understands.
You shift higher, kiss the edge of his jaw, then the corner of his mouth.
“I won’t vanish without a word,” you tell him. “But you don’t get to make that hard, okay?”
His gaze searches yours.
“I know,” he says.
“You’re still learning. So am I.”
That seems to matter to him. Maybe because it makes the work mutual. Maybe because he doesn't like being the only one exposed in any room. Maybe because the idea that you are both learning gives him something less humiliating than failure to stand on.
You settle back against him.
Your life is still in Kyoto. Your students are still waiting. Monday still holds tests to finish grading, lessons to teach, a train schedule to check, groceries to buy, messages to answer. You have not moved back to Tokyo because Sukuna asked you to. You have not surrendered your shape to his gravity. You have not become less yourself to fit inside what he wants.
And somehow, because he’s learning and you are allowing yourself to learn too, his arms around you don't feel like the end of your independence or something ensnaring you.
They feel like a place you choose to rest.
Sukuna’s hand continues slowly through your hair, less clumsy with each pass. You drift toward sleep with your face against his chest, the memory of his mouth still warm on your skin, the scent of hot spring water and sandalwood wrapped around you, and his heartbeat steady under your ear like something ancient, dangerous, and, impossibly, here.
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sum: You two are dating, finally, and you grow a bit curious about Sukuna's anatomy.
tags: unprotected sex, doggy style, creampie, sukuna has to cocks, fingers in mouth, innapropriate use of sukuna's stomach maw, a little dirty talking, sukuna has four hands and all of them are over your body, lacquerheadd once again made pink sukuna so i sat down and wrote like their little bitch that i am
Part one: Tainted Love | Part two: Fake Out | Part three: Heartbreak Feels So Good | Part four: My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark
art by: @lacquerheadd
You keep lecturing in Kyoto.
That becomes the first proof that whatever is growing between you and Sukuna will not be allowed to eat your life whole.
You have a backbone. You have rent. You have students who look at you with barely disguised hunger for approval and knowledge, students who need a teacher who will not abandon them in the middle of the school year because the most difficult man alive finally decided to behave for once. You have lesson plans, examinations, field training to supervise, individual technique assessments to update, and a drawer full of student reports that don't care whether your personal life has become a logistical and emotional nightmare.
So you stay.
You stay because Kyoto is yours now, at least for the year. You stay because you built something there on purpose, not by accident. You stay because if Sukuna is serious, then he can learn to be serious across distance. He can take the train. He can wait. He can ask. He can make himself inconvenient instead of making you convenient.
He complains about it exactly once.
Not directly, of course. Sukuna doesn't complain like normal people do, why would he? He states things with the arrogance of a man reporting a flaw in reality.
“Your apartment is too far,” he says one evening while standing in your kitchen, looking profoundly offended by the size of it. Which is a normal size.
You don't look up from cutting vegetables.
“My apartment is where it was when you decided to date someone who works in Kyoto.”
His eyes shift toward you. All four of them carry the same unimpressed weight.
“You could work in Tokyo.”
“I could also throw this knife at you.”
“You would miss.”
You lift the knife without turning. He huffs, but you catch the faint pull at his mouth before he looks away.
That's how it goes, mostly.
Not easy. Never easy when Sukuna is involved. But at least is real in a way that becomes steadier with the repetition.
You take the shinkansen sometimes, usually on weekends when your workload allows and when you feel like being stubborn in the opposite direction. You arrive at Tokyo with a bag over your shoulder and a warning text sent to Shoko beforehand so someone knows where you are if Sukuna decides to be emotionally impossible again. He always knows what platform you arrive at, which should probably bother you more than it does, but after the first time you threaten to put him through the train station floor if he’s using school records to track your ticket information, he only looks down at you and says,
“You told me which train.”
Oh. Yeah, you had. Unfortunately.
Sometimes he comes to Kyoto.
The first time, he claims he was sent to deal with a curse nearby. You believe him for approximately ten minutes. Then Yaga calls later, voice flat in that particular way that tells you he has given up trying to discipline ancient calamities who technically obey the rules while violating the spirit of every single one.
“He volunteered,” Yaga says.
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“For a grade two curse?”
“He said the location was of interest.”
“Of interest,” you repeat.
“Yes. You are the interest in the location, I suppose.”
“And you let him come.”
“I asked him to say hello to you if he happened to meet you.”
You hear, very clearly, the exhausted surrender behind the sentence.
“Yaga.”
“What do you want from me?” he asks, and there's a dry edge to his voice that almost makes you laugh. “He filled out the request properly. for once”
“He filled out paperwork?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s… terrifying.”
“He drew a slash over one section instead of answering it.”
“Sounds like him.”
“I approved it anyway, you know he’d do whatever.”
You stare at your phone for a moment.
“You’re enabling him.”
“I am preserving my remaining years. Not sure how many I still have. Stress is a silent killer.”
The second time Sukuna appears in Kyoto, you don't even pretend to believe the curse excuse. He shows up near the market after your last class, hands tucked inside his sleeves, hair lifted slightly by the wind, looking like some terrible old god accidentally placed among commuters and vending machines. You spot him before he calls your name because the space around him behaves differently. People don't necessarily know why they move around Sukuna, but they do. The crowd bends, splits, avoids. Instinct recognizes what knowledge doesn't.
You stop under the awning of a closed tea shop and stare.
“Let me guess,” you say as he approaches. “A curse near my preferred produce stall?”
His mouth tilts.
“Several curses.”
“Several weak curses needed the strongest sorcerer in history to cross the estate?”
“They were persistent.”
“Bullshit.”
“Not entirely.”
He ends up carrying your groceries. This, you discover, is one of his preferred forms of public possessiveness. Not grand declarations. Not sentimental gestures. Practical domination of tasks. If your bag exists, he takes it. If there are supply bags, they end up in one of his hands before you finish paying. If someone steps too close on a crowded street, his upper left arm settles around your shoulders with casual finality while one of the lower hands remains wrapped around yours. It’s not subtle. Nothing about Sukuna is subtle, even when he thinks he is being restrained.
Dating him is unique.
The less polite truth is that dating Sukuna sometimes feels like negotiating with a natural disaster that has developed preferences about your dinner schedule.
He’s still himself. That doesn't change. He remains arrogant, blunt, impatient with weakness, devastatingly difficult to impress, and occasionally so caustic that you have to remind him normal civilians don't deserve philosophical violence for standing too long in front of a shelf. But he’s different with you now in ways that become harder and harder to deny.
He pays attention. Not sweetly, not always. His attention is heavy. It has weight and heat and pressure. It can feel almost suffocating when you are not prepared for it. He notices everything. The rhythm of your steps when you are tired. The exact point in a faculty meeting when your politeness becomes a thin membrane over irritation. Which foods you pretend are fine but never choose again. Which students frustrate you because you see potential they refuse to use. Which street near your apartment makes your shoulders tense because the lighting is poor and the corner feels wrong after dark.
Sometimes it unsettles you, but not as much as it probably should. Sometimes you catch all four of his eyes on you and feel the old instinct to square your shoulders, to demand what he wants, to defend some private border before he reaches it.
Then one of his lower hands will brush the back of your fingers, or his body will shift half a step closer to block the crush of a crowd from pressing into you, and that wary part of you will find, to its own irritation, that it likes the shelter of him. He feels like a wall. A very warm, extremely dangerous wall.
When you are overwhelmed by people, by noise, by the administrative nonsense of two schools that somehow find ways to make paperwork breed, Sukuna’s presence becomes an awful sort of relief. He stands behind you or beside you, enormous and dark-eyed, and the world gets quieter because fewer people dare approach. His body becomes an edge others don't cross. Even Utahime, who finds the entire relationship fascinating and terrifying in equal measure, admits once that he is “surprisingly useful when one wants a room cleared.”
He’s not too acerbic when you are with him. He still drags looks and comments everywhere he goes because he is Sukuna. King of Curses, Calamity, strongest sorcerer in history, walking disaster, impossible body, ancient arrogance. People stare. Some with fear. Some with curiosity. Some with that feverish admiration sorcerers get around overwhelming power. Students whisper. Adults pretend not to. Civilians sense enough to keep distance without knowing the shape of what they avoid.
And there he is, walking with you through the supermarket, bottom left hand holding yours, top left arm settled around your shoulders as if you might be stolen by the frozen goods aisle, right hands carrying your bag and several supply bags because he refused to let you carry anything heavier than a bottle of tea.
You hate how much you enjoy it. The domesticity of it makes your heart warm.
“You know… I’m capable of carrying groceries,” you tell him while leaving the store one evening, snow threatening somewhere in the hard gray belly of the sky.
“Mhm,” he makes a noncommittal sound and keeps walking besides you. Your bags remain with him.
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he agrees. “I’ll carry them for you. I have got more hands in me than you.”
“You ever get tired of being infuriating or it’s just a passive skill at this point?”
His upper hand squeezes lightly at your shoulder.
“You chose me.”
You glance up at him.
“I question my judgment every day.”
“Not even you believe that.”
The worst part is that he is right.
You are still getting used to his ways. Still learning the difference between the Sukuna you supervised and the Sukuna who waits for you outside the staff building with dinner because you forgot to eat between classes. Still learning how to stand beside him without feeling like you are on duty. Still learning that if he turns quiet during battle, it doesn't always mean danger now. Sometimes it means he is thinking about how to finish quickly because you have papers to grade and he promised, with great reluctance, not to be the reason you sleep late on a school night.
Knowing him comes with knowing his body. That part unfolds slower than curiosity wants and faster than your pride is ready for.
You had seen him shirtless before. Accidentally, violently, inconveniently. The night outside your apartment when you burned his shirt off. The morning during the curse when he came out of the shower in only a towel and nearly caused your brain to abandon professional language forever. But seeing is different from knowing. Looking is different from touching. And Sukuna’s body is not merely large or powerful or strange — it’s a history, a weapon, a shrine to everything unnatural about him.
You get bold one night. It’s after dinner at your apartment, both of you on the rug in front of the couch because your couch remains too small for him and you refuse to buy furniture specifically to accommodate his ego. The heater hums. Empty dishes sit on the low table. Sukuna is eating the last of the gyoza with the focused satisfaction of a man who believes food deserves serious attention, and he convinced you at some point that it does and he’s right.
You have been watching him for too long. He knows, of course.
“Ask,” he says without looking at you, and you blink.
“What?”
“You are staring like one of your students when they think a question is too foolish to survive aloud.”
“That's not how my students stare.”
“I have seen them stare at me.”
“That’s because you look like a final boss from whatever game they like.”
He lifts one brow. You set your chopsticks down, nerves suddenly fizzing under your skin in a way that feels almost childish.
“Can your stomach mouth speak?”
He finally looks at you. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the mouth set into his abdomen opens.
“Yes,” it says.
The voice is lower than the one in his throat. Rougher. Deeper. It carries a rumble you feel in the floor through your knees and in the center of your chest before your mind fully processes it as speech. The sound is uncanny enough that a shiver goes down your spine so quickly you almost laugh from shock.
Sukuna watches the reaction with predatory amusement.
“You are very easy to entertain,” he says from above.
“That's horrifying,” you whisper.
The stomach mouth bares its teeth. Big. White. Sharp enough to make instinct crawl cold across the back of your neck.
You should retreat. Instead, curiosity wins, so you crawl closer on the rug. Sukuna stills in a way you notice only because you have become used to reading the small shifts in him. His main mouth remains faintly amused, but the rest of him quiets. You settle between his knees and lean closer to the mouth at his abdomen, your pulse ticking strangely in your throat.
“Can it taste food?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“Everything you eat from there?”
“If I choose to.”
“That's so strange,” your face is closer to the maw and its’ bared teeth, mesmerized, focused in analyzing it.
“You are the one interrogating my stomach.”
“I’m expanding my understanding of anatomy. Your strange anatomy.”
“You are playing with danger because you think it likes you,” his tone is lazy, but his eyes remain fixed on you.
You glance up at him.
“Doesn’t it?”
All four eyes sharpen at once, and for a second, heat moves between you with enough force to change the room. Then, the stomach maw snaps its teeth together iches from your face. You jolt backward with an undignified sound.
Sukuna laughs fully, head tipped slightly back as if your reaction has pleased him more than dinner did.
“Asshole!” you snap, one hand pressed to your chest. He only grins and shoves another gyoza into his main mouth.
Your heart is still hammering, but now you are laughing too, irritated at him and at yourself and at the fact that fear and fascination can live so close together in your body without canceling each other out.
A few minutes later, your curiosity returns.
You ask whether the four pectorals work through different muscle sections. Whether he can move them separately. Whether sensation is evenly distributed. Whether all four nipples feel touch the same way or whether the lower set responds differently because of the musculature around the maw.
He stares at you through the first several questions with an expression that slowly flattens into disbelief.
“You are aware,” he says at last with a low sigh, “that I am not one of your test papers?”
“You answer more interestingly than most of them. Now answer me. Do you, or do you not, produce milk from your ti—”
He reaches for you mid-sentence. The movement is casual and inescapable. One moment you are kneeling on the rug with some academic dignity. The next his hands are at your waist, and he brings you onto his lap as if rearranging the room to his preference is as natural as breathing.
You end up straddling his thighs. Your knees sink into the rug on either side of him. Your hands land against his shoulders for balance. The heat of his body rises through every point of contact with such immediate force that your thoughts scatter and then regroup around the knowledge of his closeness.
“There,” he says. “If I must indulge this invasive questionnaire, you will sit where I want you.”
“You are so spoiled.”
“You are still asking a lot of shit.”
You are. Worse, you keep asking.
He answers, too. Not with embarrassment. Sukuna doesn't seem capable of that in ordinary forms. But with the faintly superior patience of someone allowing you access because he has decided your fascination is acceptable tribute. His upper hands rest at your waist while his lower hands settle against the backs of your thighs, caressing absently over fabric in slow movements that make concentrating far more difficult than it should be. And he knows it, that’s why he keeps moving his hands.
You move closer to his face eventually. Your hand lifts before you fully decide on it, fingertips touching the left side of his jaw. He lets you. That permission is quiet, but you feel it in the way he doesn't turn the moment into a joke. By now you are half used to the intensity of his eyes boring into you, unblinking and crimson. Only half. There are still moments when being seen by all four at once feels like standing under a blade suspended by a thin thread.
Your thumb slides beneath his cheekbone. The bone is strong under your touch. His skin is hot, smooth where it is not marked, textured where the black tattoos frame him in patterns that feel less applied than inherent. You find yourself studying how the upper and lower eyes coordinate, how his attention moves without moving his head, how impossible it must be to surprise him from any ordinary angle.
“How do you see the world?” you ask, and it comes out softer than intended. A whisper, almost. As if the thought escaped your lips without asking permission first.
He tilts his head slightly.
“More completely than you do.”
You huff.
“That’s not an answer.”
His mouth curves faintly. He considers for a moment, and you feel strangely honored by that. He doesn't rush the answer.
“I have a wider field of sight,” he says. “Depth is not measured from a single arrangement. Movement divides itself more cleanly to me. Four directions can matter at once. Two sets focus and the other two keep the rest of the world in line.”
You listen, thumb still at his face.
“When I fight,” he continues, “there's little separation between what attacks and what approaches. Everything is measured together.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s normal.”
“For you.”
“Mhm.”
Your left hand rises toward the crest on the right side of his face.
The reaction is instant. His eyes narrow. The warning sits there in his expression, old and predatory, and for a second the room tightens. The crest has always drawn your attention. How could it not? It follows the line of his face like something grown and armored, rougher than skin, darker in presence than the rest of him.
You have wondered what it feels like. What it is. Whether he feels through it. Whether it is tender, numb, painful, sacred, hated.
You touch it anyway. Slowly. Not because you dismiss the warning in his gaze, but because you meet his eyes while you do it and give him every chance to stop you — but he doesn't.
The texture surprises you. Not hot like the rest of his skin. Not cold either. It feels like leather at first, then not. Harder. Rougher. There's a density beneath it that reminds you faintly of wood, bone, something grown under pressure, maybe. Your fingertips trace the edge where crest meets skin, careful over the seam. You feel his stillness deepen beneath you. His hands at your thighs stop moving.
You look at the place you touch, then at him. His expression is unreadable in the way it becomes when something matters too much for his pride to allow easy interpretation.
You don't ask what happened there. Not tonight. You simply lean in and his eyes narrow, perhaps expecting a question.
You kiss the corner of the face crest. It’s a small touch, almost nothing. The effect is not small.
His hands tighten suddenly at your waist and thighs. Clawed, black nails press through fabric with enough force to make you yelp softly, more startled than hurt. His breath catches once, barely audible, but you feel the change in him everywhere because you are sitting against him and he is too powerful for any reaction to remain fully contained.
You draw back just enough to look at him. He looks caught off guard.
Not vulnerable because you are not sure Sukuna can look vulnerable in a way that doesn't immediately grow teeth around itself. But something has opened and closed in him before he can stop it, and the sight makes your chest feel too full.
“Careful there,” you murmur, glancing down at where his fingers grip you.
His hands loosen at once. The speed of it matters more than an apology would. He clears his expression into something sharper.
“Are you done exploring me like a large science project?” He sneers, upper lip lifting slightly, though you both know his annoyance isn’t real.
“Maybe for the night.”
“I hear your lack of commitment.”
You smile despite yourself and don't move off his lap. You slide both arms around his neck and bury your fingers into the pink hair falling at his nape. His hair is softer than it has any right to be. You scratch gently at his scalp, slow, deliberate, and the change in him is immediate. It feels like watching a drawn bow loosen by inches.
His eyes dip. His shoulders lower a fraction. Then he pulls you closer firmly, with the confidence of someone who knows you are not going to run from this part. Your bodies press flush. Heat floods through you in a single wave. His face lowers and buries against the top of your chest, nuzzling the swell of your breasts, breathing you in deeply, shamelessly, like the scent of you has become something he stores beneath his ribs.
When he exhales, it comes out as a deeply pleased groan. Your face heats in one catastrophic second. You tug at his hair on instinct because that felt indecent, although you can’t explain or understand why.
“Sukuna!”
He doesn't move. You can feel the curve of his mouth against your skin. You press your lips to the top of his head because you need somewhere to put the tenderness before it embarrasses you more. Then your cheek settles against his hair, and for a while the two of you stay like that on the rug, dishes forgotten, heater humming, his hands warm and still against you.
You like the calm nights with him. That realization stops feeling like weakness after a while.
He demands nothing more than you offer. He learns. Not perfectly, not gracefully either. But he learns as he said he would. He asks more often now, or at least pauses long enough for you to answer with your body before deciding. He waits at doors. He warns you before arriving in Kyoto unless there's a mission, and even then he sends a message after, usually so blunt it loops back around into endearing.
In area. Weak curse. Don't start dinner without me.
Or:
Yaga has approved my presence. He is less irritating than usual.
Or, once:
Saw a flower vendor. Your window needs something alive.
That time he arrives with a potted camellia and refuses to admit he spent fifteen minutes choosing it.
The school year remains tranquil. As tranquil as anything involving jujutsu can be.
He visits you. You visit him. Mei Mei and Yaga become aware of the relationship between teachers with the unsettling calm of people who suspected it before you had the courage to say anything. Mei Mei only gives you a slow, knowing look that makes you want to check whether she has already calculated the political implications and potential profit margins. Yaga, worse, tells you he thought it was about time. You punch him in the arm. Hard.
“How dare you,” you say while he rubs the spot with a deeply unimpressed expression. “You were making my life miserable by assigning me as Sukuna’s handler.”
“I was assigning the only person who could manage him without indulging him.”
“You were trying to make us a couple!” You gesture angrily at him.
“I was trying to keep him from demolishing neighborhoods… also.”
“Liar!”
Yaga’s silence is far too dignified. You punch him again, lighter this time, mostly out of principle. Bastard.
You think about it afterward more than you want to. All those missions. All those forced partnerships. All those times Yaga looked at you over reports full of damage estimates and said you would be assigned with Sukuna again because your technique was effective. At the time, you had thought he was simply being practical. He was. But now you suspect practical and meddling are not mutually exclusive.
Sukuna finds this funny. Naturally.
“He thought you would be useful to me,” he crows at you one night.
“He thought you would be less of a public menace if I was there to babysit your ass.”
“The same thing.”
“You are not helping your case.”
“I am not on trial.”
“You are always on trial with me.”
He looks pleased by that for some reason, grinning like he enjoys your annoyance.
A few months into dating, your Kyoto students request to watch Sukuna exorcise a curse.
You almost refuse on instinct. Then you realize it’s not a bad request. Not if controlled. Not if supervised. Watching overwhelming skill in the field has educational value as long as awe is followed by analysis. So when the opportunity presents itself — a curse strong enough to demonstrate technique but contained enough to prevent catastrophe — you arrange it with more paperwork than the mission deserves and a headache that lasts two days.
Sukuna, of course, is smug.
Not openly in front of the students. He doesn't preen. That would be too obvious and therefore beneath him. But you know him now. You see the satisfaction in the set of his shoulders when the students go silent at the first clean movement of his technique. You see the faint lift of his chin when Mai, despite herself, looks impressed. You see how he pretends not to hear the whispered awe after the curse is eliminated so efficiently that the students almost seem disappointed by how little time they had to process it.
They can’t stop talking about it afterward. For a week, every training session somehow circles back to Sukuna.
Did you see the timing? Did you notice how he didn’t even look at the second angle? Was that Cleave or Dismantle? How did he know where the curse would reform? Do you think he planned the whole sequence before moving?
You let them chatter. Then the next week, you give them a test on everything they saw. The betrayal in their faces is magnificent.
“You said it was a field observation,” one of them complains.
“It was.”
“You didn’t say there would be a written assessment.”
“You assumed the absence of warning meant the absence of consequences?”
Mai mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like admiration hidden inside her usual annoyance.
Sukuna is delighted when you tell him.
Which is why, one Friday evening in Tokyo, you end up correcting those very tests while sitting on the floor of his engawa, back resting against his broad chest, his arms caging you in as the winter garden darkens in front of you.
It’s cold outside, but he is warm enough that the air doesn't touch you properly.
His chin rests on the top of your head. One lower arm lies across your middle, the other loosely over your thighs. His upper hands are free, occasionally stealing a page from your stack when your grading takes too long for his patience. The garden beyond the engawa is stark and beautiful in the deepening blue of evening. Bare branches, stones, winter moss, the faint gleam of water in a shallow basin. The kind of scene that would feel austere if not for the furnace behind you and the muttering directly above your head.
He tsks at one answer. You mark a note in red. He huffs at another. You ignore him. Then he laughs. A sudden, low sound against your hair that makes you pause.
“What?”
He takes the test from your hand before you can stop him.
“Sukuna! What the hell?”
He reads the student’s answer again, eyes narrowing with genuine offense.
“‘Cleave appears to divide the target by visually selected sections based on emotional interest.’”
You press your lips together at the last part, but they stretch despite your attempt to remain serious.
“Emotional interest?” he repeats, as if the phrase written was the stupidest thing he’s ever read. Which you doubt.
“They are trying to describe adaptive targeting.”
“They are describing poetry. Bad poetry.”
“They’re learning.”
“They are guessing.”
“You guessed once,” you frown lightly, raising your head a bit to look at his face upside down.
“I have never guessed.”
“Stop lying! You absolutely have!”
“No. I have perhaps inferred correctly without sufficient information. Once or twice in my life.”
You lean back into him and laugh, unable to stop yourself. He marks the paper with a note so scathing you immediately snatch it back.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You cannot write ‘nonsense’ across a student’s answer.”
“It is nonsense.”
“You’re not the teacher here. I am. You can traumatize your own class.”
His chin presses more firmly on your head.
“I taught them by demonstrating.”
“And now I’m teaching them by not letting you crush their spirits with one word.”
“They will survive,” he grouses.
“Will they? Maybe they die on spot.”
“They watched me work. Their spirits are already inflated.”
You groan and toss the paper onto the stack. Friday finally wins. You decide the tests can wait until Monday.
The moment you gather the papers, Sukuna takes them from you with two left hands, along with your pen case, and places them far enough away that retrieving them would require leaving the warmth of his body. It’s a shameless tactic, and worse, an effective one.
“You are interfering with my work,” you murmur.
“You stopped working already.”
“I was deciding to stop working. That's different.”
“You repeat yourself when tired, woman.”
His mouth lowers to the side of your neck before you can answer, laying a slow, lazy kiss there.
Barely a press at first, warm enough to sink through the skin and pull your thoughts sideways. You close your eyes because the garden is darkening anyway and because his mouth at your neck makes it difficult to remember why Monday’s grading should matter more than the present moment.
He nuzzles there, lips and nose moving along the line beneath your ear. You tilt your head despite yourself. The movement is small, yet he notices immediately.
His hand at your middle spreads wider, palm warm through your shirt. Another hand slides from your thigh to your hip, resting there with weight but no demand. He kisses your neck again, slower, and the heat that blooms under your skin is deeper this time.
“Sukuna…” you mutter, but it carries very little warning.
He hums against you. The vibration travels through your spine. You inhale carefully.
At some point, you stop sitting upright. At some point, his hands guide you, and you let them, because the movement is unhurried and familiar now. Your back remains against his torso. His body shifts under and around yours with absurd ease. The papers are forgotten. The pen case might as well belong to another life. His mouth traces the place where your neck meets your shoulder, and your hands find his forearms because there's too much heat in too many places and you need to hold onto something solid.
You don't know when your shirt becomes too much. Maybe when his fingers slide beneath the hem and pause there, waiting. Maybe when you cover one of his hands with yours and guide it higher yourself. Maybe when he draws in one slow breath at your silent answer, and something in the air changes enough that the winter garden outside might as well vanish.
The fabric leaves you in a blur of warmth and careful hands. He doesn't rush. Sukuna has no lack of hunger — you can feel it in the way his breathing deepens, in the tension coiling under his skin, in the hard restraint of his body behind you. But he takes his time as if time belongs to him and the night has already surrendered.
Your pants go next with a pair of lower hands sliding inside the bar of them, warm palms pressed against your skin, thumbs hooked on the hem and pulling them lower, lower, lower. You help him out as you can, moving here, turning a bit your hips there, letting him manhandle you until you are left only in your underwear.
Your skin meets his heat and your breath catches.
He knows your body differently now than he did when curiosity first led your hands over the strange architecture of him. He has learned where you grow still because sensation overwhelms you. Where your breath changes. Where your shoulders rise if he moves too sharply. Where your laughter hides when you are embarrassed, and where it disappears entirely when want becomes too heavy for jokes.
His hands travel with reverence that doesn't quite soften his nature. Sukuna’s tenderness is still his. Possessive, intense, edged by restraint rather than gentleness alone. He doesn't touch as if you are fragile. He touches as if you are precious and dangerous, as if mishandling you would be an offense against his own pride.
You turn in his lap enough to face him. His eyes are already dark. The red of them seems deeper in the low light, pupils blown wide, attention fixed on you with such total force that your skin prickles. The navy haori hangs loose over his broad shoulders, sleeveless to accommodate the impossible build of him. His hakama sits pale at his hips. His chest is bare beneath the open fall of fabric, all heat and markings and hard muscle speckled with a few pink hairs, the stomach maw quiet for now but present enough to pull your awareness whenever you let your gaze drop.
You kiss him. He answers immediately. Not cautious the way he was the first night in your apartment. Not uncertain, too. He knows now that you want him. He knows because you have said it, because you have returned, because you have chosen him in ways both practical and foolish. His mouth opens beneath yours, his slit tongue sliding over your tongue, and the kiss deepens into something that makes your fingers tighten in the fabric at his shoulders.
He tastes like tea and heat. His upper hands settle at your waist, and his lower ones at your thighs. You feel surrounded, not trapped by him. There's a difference, and your body knows it before your mind names it.
When he presses you closer, pulling you by the hips against his own crotch, making you feel the hard line of him, making you feel how much he already wants you, you make a sound into his mouth. Small and a bit too needy, and that’s enough for him. The change in him is immediate. A current of cursed energy flickers around him, there and gone, like the room itself has inhaled. His hands flex, then still. He draws back just enough to look at you, and the restraint in his face is so visible that it sends another wave of heat through you.
“You hear yourself?” he asks, voice low at your burning face. His wide grin shows teeth.
“Please, shut up for once,” you groan softly.
“You would miss my voice too much.”
The laugh that escapes you breaks the tension just enough for both of you to breathe.
He uses the moment to move. Skillfully, because of course he does. There's no awkwardness in the way he shifts your weight, braces himself, and rises with you held against him. The world tips only slightly before you understand he has you, all four arms distributing the motion so easily that your own body barely has to participate. One moment you are on the engawa with the winter garden fading into night. The next he is carrying you toward his chambers, your arms around his neck, your cheek near his temple, his heat everywhere.
“You could ask, gentleman,” you murmur.
He glances at you, slit brow lifted and expression unamused.
“May I take you to bed?”
You should not smile as much as you do.
“You’re already doing it,” you point out.
“I’ll work on timing.” His mouth brushes your jaw, not quite a kiss. “However, you did not object.”
The kiss you press against his temple is answer enough.
He places you on his bed with less force than he is capable of and more intent than your nervous system is prepared to process, making your body bounce lightly as you land on your ass and forearms, remaining propped up on them. The bedding gives beneath you. For a second, you simply look up at him from where you lie almost in the middle of the mattress, and the sight makes your mind go briefly blank.
Sukuna towers impossibly high at the foot of the bed. Magnificent is the word your pride hates and your eyes choose to feed your mind. All that impossible form. Four arms. Four eyes. Dark markings over hot skin. Haori slipping open, pale hakama loose, hair falling in unruly pink strands around the hard lines of his face. He looks hungry, with his attention honed and pointed solely at you. Hungry in a way that holds itself back because he knows what restraint is worth now.
Your heart pounds. Your thoughts must show on your face, because his brows lift.
“Spit it out,” he says. “You want to ask something.”
You have been asking him so many things you realize he already knows the look on your face when you’re about to start. You bite your lower lip before you can stop yourself. You glance instead of asking, openly this time, at the mouth on his abdomen. His gaze drops to the motion, sharpens, then returns to your eyes. Both his brows rise. Then the grin that spreads across his face is vicious enough to belong on a battlefield.
He understands before you say a word, and your whole body goes hot.
It’s absurd, the way curiosity and desire tangle together inside you. You have asked him about his body before with your head tilted and your tone academic, but there's nothing academic about the room now. Nothing theoretical about the way he looks at you or the way your own breath catches when his upper hands move toward the edges of his haori, letting the fabric slip wider over his shoulders.
His response is a twitch of his fingers towards your bra and panties in a clear order to take them off before he entertains your idea. And despite your best judgment, you oblige.
You do it slowly, sliding your hands on your bare legs as you lower the delicate piece, discarding somewhere you’ll worry about any other time. The same is done with your bra. You unclasp it at your back with one practiced hand and let it the straps slide off your shoulders, then your arms, finally letting his eyes take you in completely bare. Skin flush and hot.
“Are you sure?” he asks lowly.
The question comes with a purr threaded through it, smug and dark and entirely too pleased by your reaction, but it’s still a question.
You nod once too quick and. his gaze holds yours until you find enough voice to answer properly.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
The word seems to move through him, and only then he moves. Not to shock you. Not to overwhelm.
To show you.
He shrugs the haori more fully from his shoulders and lets it fall aside. The room seems to narrow around him. His upper hands settle near the sides of the stomach maw, index and middle fingers hook in the corners of it, not pulling harshly, only opening enough that the mouth reveals itself with obscene, fascinating clarity. Teeth gleam. The inner heat of it shows in the wet shine of the glistening tongue with its unexpected piercing that catches the faint glow, and your breath falters so badly his grin returns.
You should be frightened, probably. Part of you is, but just a little. A very old part of your body understands teeth, hunger, the danger of a mouth where no mouth should be. But fear is not alone. It’s tangled with fascination, trust, heat, and the knowledge that he has asked, that he waits, that the monster in front of you is not careless with you anymore.
“You are staring,” he comments, smugness still present.
“You’re showing off.”
“Clearly.”
That startles a nervous and breathy laugh out of you. His expression shifts with satisfaction, but also something deeper. Hunger, pride, pleasure in being looked at without revulsion. Without clinical distance. Without fear winning. You realize then that your curiosity is not only indulging you. It gives him something too. A way to be seen fully and not reduced to horror.
His lower pair of hands find the edge of his hakama, lowering it with the same unhurried movement he used to undress you back on the engawa. His carved form emerges, the pair of cocks freed in a slow reveal that leaves you momentarily breathless, processing the reality of him.
Two cocks. Okay. That makes sense.
A dark chuckle vibrates from his chest as he draws you forward by the ankles with his upper hands that are no longer stretching widely his stomach maw, positioning you at the edge of the mattress with your legs parted already so he stands tall between them.
The view from below is still overwhelming in its intensity, his beauty is oppressive, so is his attention and his power — yet he remains Sukuna, and he snaps you out of that small trance when he flips you onto your belly.
A pair of hands find your hips, lifting them higher as your knees make the mattress yield beneath them. His upper left hand anchors your shoulder blades with deliberate pressure, a silent command that draws your focus inward, to the way your chest presses into the cushions and your hips rise in offering to his appetite.
Another hand claims your breast, fingers tracing slow circles around your already pebbled nipple that send ripples of awareness through your skin, while the third explores the curve of your waist, mapping the tension that builds there like unspoken promises. He’s squeezing, caressing, kneading with unhurried purpose. His stomach maw hovers close to you exposed core, its heat a tangible caress against your most sensitive places, the rhythm of his exhales syncing with the quickening pulse in your veins.
You asked for this. Still, you feel like you’re about to be swallowed whole by him.
The hot breath from his maw teases your exposed skin for a bit longer, building in anticipation until the pierced tongue makes contact, drawing a shiver through your frame. It glides along your folds and the sensation unfolds gradually, each lap at your cunt make your body arch and settle in equal measure. The metal stud adds a cool contrast to the warmth, teasing and retreating in a dance that leaves you chasing more without quite grasping it yet.
Filthy words spill from him in that low, velvet tone, weaving through the haze while the maw works you relentlessly, licking and probing at your entrances, stretching you sex with its tip while his hands hold you steady.
Pleasure builds in waves, your whimpers escaping as you press back against it, chasing the edge until release finally crashes over you.
He collects every tremor, every drop of your orgasm, before the maw closes slowly and his cock takes its place, sliding its bulbous head between your puffy, slick folds, and pressing in with languid insistence. He’s not done with you, of course not. You’re still feeling the faint shivers running through your skin, breath uneven, chest still pressed against the soft mattress and hands fisting the bedsheets as he breaches your tight muscle rim finally.
The first sting of it sends a shock through your core and makes your thighs tremble faintly. You muffle a few sounds you’re too self aware to let completely out against the mattress, trying to relax your body muscles properly until he can once again move, pushing further, slowly spreading you open with his dick.
The hand that once pressed almost gently your shoulder blades down, now fists the hair on the back of your head, firmly. It’s not done carelessly, not in a way that makes you wince or hurts you — it’s a fistful of hair grabbed near enough your scalp that the purpose of it becomes clear in an instant.
You’re lifted against his chest, your back meets the solid warmth of him, feeling the hard planes of his abs pressing against the curve of your back, the four pectorals shifting, iron coiling under skin as he bottoms out inside you, knocking the air from your lungs and ripping a ragged, breathy moan out of your throat.
You feel so, so fucking full that your eyes flutter close for a moment as you catch your breath once again. You tip your head down, looking towards your lower belly briefly, where a bulge is visible as he fills you completely.
His lower pair of hands steady your hips, thumbs pressing into flesh with just enough force to remind you of his control, while the upper pair shifts — one on your lower belly, pressing down just enough to make you feel your own outline stretched around his thickness, the subtle bulge moving beneath his palm as he fucks into you, and the sight alone sends a fresh wave of slick heat through your core. The other encircling your throat, keeping your head tilted back now, exposing the vulnerable column of your neck as his carmine eyes keep focused on your face with rapt attention.
The thrusts begin as a slow withdrawal, the delicious drag of his shaft against your walls, the deliberate stretch that empties and refills in one fluid motion and has your eyes fighting not to roll back.
The pace builds as he fucks you, starting in a steady, slow rhythm, his hips bucking with controlled power, the back of your thighs meeting the front of his own with the sound of skin slapping skin, the lower cock sliding between your pressed thighs in tandem, the dual sensation layering heat upon heat. He’s still gripping your hipbones with bruising strength as he pounds you with increasing intensity, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the otherwise quiet room.
Each thrust builds inside you like a rising tide, his chest flush to your back, the faint rumble of his chuckle vibrating through you as your moans escape unbidden.
His grip, the stretch, the relentless rhythm that gets more violent, harder, faster — make your head feels dizzy. The hand wrapped around your throat squeezes faintly from time to time. Your head remains slightly tipped back, forced to look at him, forced to sustain that draconian gaze that bores into you, all consuming and absurdly disarming.
His hands are everywhere. Pressing your hips, pulling you against himself with each thrust so he goes even deeper, sliding on your stomach, up your side, kneading the fat of your breast.
"Look at you," he breathes into your ear in a low, possessive rasp that vibrates through your entire body now. "Taking all of me. Every inch. This cunt was made for me, wasn't it?"
You can only manage a broken whimper in response, your mind wiped clean of everything except the sensation of his cock stretching you, filling you, claiming you — and between your pressed thighs, his lower cock finding a punishing rhythm of its own as he picks up the pace.
The friction is obscene — skin sliding against skin, your slickness and his saliva mixing into a glossy sheen that makes every single drag of him against your inner thighs a wet, lewd whisper. The tip nudges against your clit with each deep thrust of his upper cock, a dual assault that makes your toes curl and your fingers twist and press your nails against your own palms, blooming crescent reds on your own skin. That pain gives place to both your hands finding his own and grabbing at the pair that still holds onto your hips, nails biting his skin and making him let out a low growl.
"Look at us," he commands, "Look at what you're taking."
His upper hand leaves your neck to grip your chin, tilting your head down as he bends slightly forward with you. The angle forces your gaze to your joined bodies. You see the thick root of his upper cock disappearing into your pussy, stretched obscenely around his girth.
Below it, his lower cock slides wetly between your thighs, the head disappearing briefly between your lips before reappearing, coated in your arousal and his own pre-cum. The sight is devastatingly erotic, a visual confirmation of the overwhelm flooding your senses.
Your hips buck back against him involuntarily, chasing the fullness, the stretch, the burn.
"That's it. Use it. Take what you need."
His lower hands grip the curve of your ass, spreading you slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts. His stomach maw opens slightly, just enough for his tongue to loll out and its tip find the puckered hole between your spread asscheeks, slobbering saliva all over it, rubbing circles with its own rhythm around the tight rim of muscles, probing at it with its tip and teasing it with the metal stud just to drag a startled yelp out of your fucked out self.
The adjustment makes his upper cock drive even deeper, hitting a spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. At the same time, the shift lets his lower cock slot more perfectly against your clit, grinding against it with every forward motion, letting you feel his every vein, every ridge of his thick cock sliding, hitting, pressing, grinding.
The dual stimulation is too much. It's everything. The hand on your belly presses harder, feeling his cock move inside you from the outside. The hand on your chin releases, only for his upper hand to slide into your hair, fisting the strands on the crown of it and pulling your head back against his shoulder.
Words spill from his upper mouth again as he seems to have found inspiration to rile you up, filthy praise and dark promises, while his stomach maw now presses hot against the small of your back, tongue only eventually lapping at your ass, and its breath fanning across your sensitive skin with every panting it lets out. You can feel the vibrations of a second voice, a deeper resonance that murmurs approval and ravenous craving against your spine.
The coil in your belly winds tighter, impossibly tight, and he feels it — the way your inner walls flutter and grip him, squeezing is girth tighter. The way your breath catches and your body trembles as your tone grows urgent.
"That's it," he growls, his pace becoming punishing now. "Cum for me. Drench my cock with it," he grits out, adamant in each stroke aiming at driving you over the edge.
His pace turns brutal. There's no more restraint, no measured rhythm — just pure, driving need. His lower hand slips from your ass, sliding around to find your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that match the relentless pound of his hips.
The orgasm rips through you without warning, a violent, shuddering release that clenches every muscle in your body. Your pussy spasms around his upper cock, milking him in waves, while your thighs clamp tighter around his lower cock, trapping it against your twitching center. A broken cry escapes your lips, your vision going white at the edges.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into your back. His hips stutter, losing their perfect rhythm as he drives himself as deep as he can, grinding against the clenched vice of your body. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, flooding your cunt with his release. His lower cock spills as well, twitching and coating your thighs with pearly white, hot, sticky cum.
The sensation triggers a second, smaller aftershock that ripples through you and he holds you there, impaled in his cock and trembling, his breath ragged against your ear. His grip loosens slowly, reverently, as he comes down from the peak alongside you.
The hand on your belly relaxes into a flat, soothing press, thumb caressing absentmindedly your skin. The hand in your hair gentles, stroking through the strands.
His lips find the curve of your shoulder, pressing a kiss there. Then another, higher, on the side of your neck.
"Never again," he murmurs against your sweat damp skin, the smugness replaced by something rawer, hungrier. "I'm not going a single day without tasting you, without feeling you wrapped around me like this. You've ruined me for anything less."
His stomach maw laps lazily at the sweat on your lower back, a contented, possessive gesture.
One of his lower hands slides up your stomach to rest over the one already there, both of them cradling the faint swell where his cock remains buried inside you. He doesn't pull out. Not yet. He just holds you, pressed flush against him, the spent heat of your union settling into something quieter but no less intense.
After your bodies cool a little bit, he doesn't collapse over you.
He could. He looks like he wants to, for one heavy second, body hovering, breath ragged, eyes still burning. But then he catches himself with visible effort, gathers you carefully into his arms, and holds you against his chest while your body continues to tremble in little aftershocks.
You are exhausted, and not just physically, emotionally too. Open in a way that feels almost raw, as if the night has taken down layers of you and left the tender parts warm under his palms.
“Stay awake, brat,” he murmurs, noticing your exertion.
You make an offended sound against his skin.
“Why?”
“Bath.”
“I’m comfortable here.”
“You’re shaking.”
He carries you to the hot spring before you protest further. You are too tired to protest properly anyway, and he is too pleased by that.
Steam coils over the surface of the water, softening the stone edges and turning the night beyond the open side of the bath into a dark blur. The cold air kisses the damp places on your skin for only a moment before he lowers both of you into heat, then the water closes around you. You exhale so deeply it’s almost a moan.
His arms remain around you as he settles, back against the stone, body enormous and warm beneath the water. You sit half across his lap, half against his chest, boneless enough that dignity is no longer a priority. The heat soaks into every sore muscle, every point of tension, every place his hands had held with careful strength. Your hair is pinned up badly, escaping in damp strands at the nape of your neck. His haori and hakama are abandoned somewhere on the bedroom floor, along with the last of your coherent thoughts.
For a while, the only sounds are water and breathing.
His lower hand cups water and pours it slowly over your shoulder. You open one eye.
“Are you washing me or trying to drown me?”
“If I wanted you drowned, you would be.”
“And they say romance is dead…”
“I am rinsing sweat from your skin,” he offers in a dry tone.
“Mhm…”
He huffs, and the sound moves through his chest into your back. You let your head rest against him.
His body in the hot spring is almost ridiculous. As if he needed more heat. Yet the water does something to him too, loosening the remaining tension in his muscles, softening the harsh lines of his posture. His hands move slowly now. One over your arm. One at your waist. One resting over your thigh beneath the water. One at the back of your neck, thumb stroking in absent circles that make your eyes close again.
“You’re quiet,” you murmur.
“I am letting you rest.”
You smile faintly without opening your eyes.
“Look at you. Being considerate.”
“Don't sound so surprised.”
“I’m very surprised.”
His fingers pinch lightly at your side, and you twitch with a small laugh. Then the quiet returns.
It’s deep, this quiet. Not awkward. The kind of quiet that only comes after bodies have spoken enough for words to stop scrambling for space. You feel him breathe beneath you. Feel the steady beat of him where your shoulder rests against his chest. Feel the faint movements of his stomach maw when he exhales, relaxed and closed now, no longer a source of startling heat but simply another part of him pressed near you.
Another part of him you know.
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. He feels that too.
“What?”
You shake your head. His hand at your neck stills. You sigh, because lying is too much work and he will only become more annoying if you try.
“I’m just…” You search for the right words through the steam and exhaustion. “I’m happy.”
The confession lands softly and heavily at once. His arms don't tighten immediately to be considered a dramatic gesture or a great response. He doesn't make some grand declaration. Sukuna rarely does the expected thing when the expected thing would be emotionally normal. He just stills again, completely.
You open your eyes and tilt your head enough to look at him. His gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the steam, jaw set, expression unreadable in the low light. For a moment you wonder if the word has unsettled him. Happiness, with all its simple mortal softness. Perhaps that's stranger to him than hunger, than anger, than want. Perhaps joy is harder to accept because there's no enemy inside it.
Then he looks down at you.
“That’s good,” he says.
Only that.
But his voice is lower than usual, rougher at the edges. You understand him better now, so you hear what the word carries.
Good, because he wanted that. Good, because he did not ruin it. Good, because your happiness is somehow now a thing he measures himself against.
You turn your face into his chest before he can see too much of what that does to you, pressing a kiss over the damp, hot skin.
“You’re becoming soft,” you whisper.
His hand resumes its slow movement at your neck.
“You wish.”
“I like being hopeful.”
“I like when you are here.”
That makes you still. The water moves softly around you both. He says it without looking away this time, without disguising it as an insult or a challenge or some strategic concession. The sentence is plain. Almost awkward in its simplicity. You feel the effort behind it, the deliberate offering of something honest because you asked him months ago to stop making feelings into traps.
Your eyes sting a little. You refuse to cry in a hot spring after the night you just had. That would be excessive, even for you. So you lift your head and kiss the underside of his jaw.
“I like being here,” you say, watching his face as his eyes lower to yours. “With you,” you add, because you are also learning.
The shift in his face is small. He bends and kisses you again, slow and deep and almost lazy now, the heat of it softened by exhaustion. There's no rush. No sharp edge of escalation. Only the lingering need to keep touching, to confirm the body is still there, the person still close, the night still real.
When he draws back, his forehead rests against yours. Steam gathers between you.
“You will remain in Kyoto,” he says, and it’s not quite a question. You smile faintly.
“Yeah.”
His mouth tightens with displeasure. You wait. He exhales through his nose.
“Good.”
You blink.
“Good?”
“You said you have work.”
“I do.”
“Students.”
“Yep, that too.”
“A spine.”
You laugh.
“I do. You know it. I wouldn’t kick your ass if I didn’t have one.”
His arms settle more securely around you.
“Then remain there.”
The warmth that fills you has nothing to do with the water or with the furnace that is Sukuna’s body against yours.
This is what you needed him to understand. That being with him can’t mean erasing yourself into his orbit. That your life is not something he wins by wanting it. That if he wants you, he has to want the person who teaches in Kyoto, who grades tests, who takes the shinkansen, who has students and responsibilities and a tiny apartment with a camellia by the window because he bought it and pretended not to care.
“You’ll still complain when you visit me, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And show up for weak curses suspiciously near my school?”
“Someone has to deal with them.”
“And insist my couch is too small?”
“It is.”
“And carry my groceries like I’m helpless?”
“You are not helpless. You are mine.”
You pull back enough to give him a look. His eyes sharpen, perhaps anticipating correction. You let him wait a beat.
“Yours doesn’t mean owned.”
His expression shifts faintly, old instincts brushing against new rules.
“No,” he exhales. “No, it doesn’t.”
You soften.
“What does it mean, then?”
He looks at you for a long moment. The question is easy for you to ask because you grew up in a world where words are supposed to build bridges. Difficult for him because words have always been either weapons or decoration, never the thing itself. Still, he tries.
“It means,” he says slowly, “I look for you.”
Your chest tightens.
“In rooms,” he continues, eyes not leaving yours. “In crowds. After battle. Before leaving. When something is irritating and I think you would have an insult worse than mine.”
You laugh quietly, though it comes out softer than humor. His hand slides up your back beneath the water, anchoring you closer.
“It means I notice your absence,” he says, and something in his voice roughens. “I dislike that.”
You swallow the lump in your throat.
“Me too,” you admit.
There's no smugness this time. Only his gaze holding yours with unnerving steadiness, as if he is storing the answer somewhere important.
The water keeps cooling by degrees, though with his body around you it takes longer to matter. Eventually he shifts, deciding for both of you that the bath has done its work.
You grumble because you are warm and boneless and unwilling to participate in movement for a while. He ignores the complaint in the practical way of someone who knows you will thank him when you are dry and not asleep in water to wake up looking like a raisin.
He lifts you out first, wrapping you in a towel warmed by some method you don't ask about tonight. His hands are efficient now. Gentle but without hesitance. Drying your arms, your back, your hairline where damp strands cling to your neck. You allow it because your limbs feel loose and heavy, because his focus on aftercare is still new enough to make you quiet, because being tended to by Sukuna after being wanted by him feels like discovering a second impossible thing inside the first.
When you are both back in his chambers, he gives you one of his robes. It swallows you, naturally. He looks pleased.
“I think you could make a less obnoxious face,” you raise a brow.
“It’s a good robe,” yet, he looks at you with a grin that gives his smugness up.
“It’s a tent.”
“It suits you.”
You look down at yourself, then back at him.
“You have terrible taste in everything?”
“I chose you.”
You pause. Then narrow your eyes.
“That was either very sweet or very rude.”
“It sure was.”
You throw a small cushion at him. He catches it, and then he catches you.
Later, in bed, you curl against him with the kind of ease that still surprises you when you think about it too directly. His bed is large enough for him, which means it is more than large enough for both of you, yet he still keeps you close as if distance is personally offensive when it comes to your body and his.
You lie with your cheek against his chest, nuzzling on the hot skin speckled with short pink hair and marked with black, symmetric lines — one of his arms is behind your back, another over your waist, the others arranged with unusual care so you are surrounded but not pinned.
The stomach maw remains closed beneath your hand. You rest your palm near it because you can. Because earlier, curiosity brought you there. Later, desire. Now, tenderness.
His fingers move through your hair in slow, almost clumsy strokes. He is better at touching with intent than with idle softness. Idle softness still seems to require concentration from him, and the thought makes you smile against his skin.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re petting me like you’re trying not to fail an exam.”
His hand stills. Then resumes, more deliberately annoying this time, dragging your hair slightly.
“Ow. Improved technique, terrible attitude.”
“You are impossible to satisfy.”
“You managed earlier.”
The silence after that's immediate. Wonderful. You feel his chest shift under your cheek. Then his laugh comes, low and dark and pleased enough that your entire face heats because of what you just gave him.
“I did,” he says.
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
You groan and hide your face more firmly against him. His arms draw closer around you, enough to make leaving unimaginable for the moment. Then sleep begins to pull at you in slow, heavy waves, but before it takes you fully, you hear his voice above you, quieter than the dark seems prepared for.
“You will tell me if I misstep.”
Your eyes open halfway. It’s not insecurity. Sukuna doesn't sound afraid. But there's something serious beneath it, something shaped by the memory of how badly he hurt you the first time he tried to turn feeling into a game.
You lift your head enough to look at him.
“Yes,” you say softly. “I’ll tell you.”
“And you will not leave before telling me.”
Your chest aches.
There it is.
Not a demand. Not quite. A fear wearing the armor of phrasing he understands.
You shift higher, kiss the edge of his jaw, then the corner of his mouth.
“I won’t vanish without a word,” you tell him. “But you don’t get to make that hard, okay?”
His gaze searches yours.
“I know,” he says.
“You’re still learning. So am I.”
That seems to matter to him. Maybe because it makes the work mutual. Maybe because he doesn't like being the only one exposed in any room. Maybe because the idea that you are both learning gives him something less humiliating than failure to stand on.
You settle back against him.
Your life is still in Kyoto. Your students are still waiting. Monday still holds tests to finish grading, lessons to teach, a train schedule to check, groceries to buy, messages to answer. You have not moved back to Tokyo because Sukuna asked you to. You have not surrendered your shape to his gravity. You have not become less yourself to fit inside what he wants.
And somehow, because he’s learning and you are allowing yourself to learn too, his arms around you don't feel like the end of your independence or something ensnaring you.
They feel like a place you choose to rest.
Sukuna’s hand continues slowly through your hair, less clumsy with each pass. You drift toward sleep with your face against his chest, the memory of his mouth still warm on your skin, the scent of hot spring water and sandalwood wrapped around you, and his heartbeat steady under your ear like something ancient, dangerous, and, impossibly, here.
sum: You're in Kyoto, finally. You are acclimating to the new teachers, new students, new life away from the one who fucked up your trust like it costed him nothing. Life is... going good, you think. You also think you will be free from Sukuna for a while. Guess what?
tags: angst, true form sukuna, everyone is alive and teaching on jujutsu high, yeah sukuna too, you and sukuna are worse than sukuna and gojo in the bickering, this curse is a damn parasitic piece of shit, some yearning happening right there if you pay attention, figting, blood, mild violence, more fluff because i am legitimally so nice to everyone guys see no one is sad here you can trust me.
Part one: Tainted Love. | Part two: Fake Out. | Part Three: Heartbreak Feels So Good | Part four: My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark
art by: @lacquerheadd
Not a sound. Not movement. Something in the air pressure of the night. Not hostile exactly. More like pressure held under skin.
A dense, unmistakable weight in the night that makes your cursed energy lift its head inside you.
You know what it is before you clock him.
You stop walking for half a second.
Then keep going, because pretending not to know would be cowardice and you have never liked giving him that satisfaction even in your own mind.
Sukuna stands by the gate of your apartment complex.
He is too large for the space around him, as always. Too tall against the low wall. Too still under the streetlight. Four arms arranged with deceptive ease, body angled slightly as if he has been leaning there long enough for waiting to become a posture rather than an action. He’s in dark clothes suited to the winter night. Head turned already in your direction as if he has been waiting long enough to hear your steps before they were close enough to matter.
Your thoughts collide so hard they trip over each other.
Did he come while you were at the festival? Did he leave Tokyo before you did? Did he follow? Did he wait the entire day? Did he stand here under the eyes of your neighbors like a nightmare with patience?
You silence the questions before they show on your face.
“How the fuck do you know my address?”
He shrugs.
“It is not difficult to access teacher information.”
Of course.
Of course that is his answer. Practical. Mildly criminal. Delivered with no shame.
You cross your arms and keep what feels like a safe distance, though safe is always a relative word with him. The gate is behind him. Your apartment is beyond it. Your bed is beyond that. Your quiet. Your life. All currently blocked by a two-meter-tall problem with too many eyes and the emotional literacy of a thrown brick.
You wait for him to move.
He does not.
He does not even speak.
He only looks at you.
It is not the stare you remember from battle, bright with hunger and amusement. Not the sneer from faculty meetings. Not the feverish fixation from the curse. This one is heavier, harder to interpret. Still arrogant because he cannot breathe without arrogance, but not careless.
“What do you want, Sukuna?” you ask at last.
His answer is immediate.
“I want to take you on a date.”
For one split second you think you might actually throw up.
You gotta be fucking kidding me, you think immediately.
The cold air, the night, the ache in your feet, the weight of your bag, the exhaustion from travel — all of it seems to tilt. You feel sick and angry at once, a sudden curl of nausea under your sternum because the words are too close to something you once wanted and too close to the way he ruined it.
It feels deliberately cruel.
Of all the cruel things he could have done, this is almost elegant in its brutality.
Maybe that is the worst part. That he can stand there and say it like a normal thing. Like the last time you spent a whole day with him did not end with his thumb on your lip and his grin cutting you open. Like date is not a word he already poisoned once.
He sees your expression change.
“It is serious this time,” he adds.
Your mouth twists before you can stop it.
That addition almost makes it worse.
He really does not know shit about anything mildly emotional, does he? Not about timing, not about the weight of words, not about how normal people approach other normal people after hurting them.
No instinct for the wound, only the place he wants to press. No emotional intelligence broad enough to step around the obvious tripwire. Just straight through everything like that will somehow make the result cleaner.
He is completely unversed in the parts of human interaction that require kneeling before anything that is not power.
You start to raise your voice.
The first words rise hot and sharp—
Then you stop yourself.
Close your eyes.
Breathe.
You do not need this.
You do not want this.
You do.
You want it so badly the wanting itself feels like betrayal, but want is not trust, and trust is the thing he took in both hands and crushed just to see what shape your face would make.
You open your eyes.
“No,” you say. Then, because clarity feels good in your mouth, “And, get the fuck out of here before I beat your ass.”
That gets him.
Not in the way you intend, though.
One eyebrow lifts. The corner of his mouth tugs upward faintly, unmistakable. Something old and familiar kindles in his gaze, daring and taunting and alive.
He pushes away from the short wall around the complex and begins walking toward you.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like every step is a question he knows will make you angrier.
Oh.
The motherfucker wants to fight.
Of course he does. Of course the answer to emotional conflict, in the great ruin of his mind, is to walk straight into physical conflict and see what survives. He wants his ass beaten. Fine. You are not in the mood to deal with him in any civilized capacity, and if putting him under is the fastest way to make him someone else’s problem, then so be it.
Maybe you will actually knock him unconscious this time.
You set your stance.
He sets his.
Some small, rational part of you points out that fighting outside a civilian apartment complex is a terrible idea. The lighting, the walls, the parked bicycles, the landscaping, the windows, the security cameras, the neighbors who absolutely do not need this at the end of their day.
Every part of this is bad.
You are also exhausted from travel, cold through the knees, still carrying the remnants of too many unresolved things in your chest, and the sight of him striding toward you like a dare given shape makes something in you crack into readiness with vicious relief.
You are so, so tired of his shit that caution has to elbow its way through rage, and rage has better footing.
He moves first.
Not fully. A test. You parry, shift, answer with a strike aimed at his ribs that he turns aside with a lower hand. The contact cracks through your arm. He is holding back. You know that immediately, not because he is slow or careless, but because the world around you remains intact for the first three seconds. That’s immense restrain when it comes to Sukuna fighting.
You do not need much power to make your point. You are quick. You know his body. Know where the openings usually are, how his weight shifts before a strike, which feints mean nothing and which ones mean duck now.
He knows you too, infuriatingly well. Knows the angle of your shoulder when you are about to use your technique. Knows how to redirect your wrists just enough to ruin your aim. Knows which attacks you expect and which you hate.
Rage pours off you in waves hot enough to feel.
He, bastard that he is, looks too delighted.
The grin on his mouth as you both get faster nearly makes you reckless. You compensate by getting meaner instead. Low strike, pivot, elbow, heel into his knee, duck under the upper right hand, catch the lower left wrist, torque, shove, move before the next blow comes.
His laugh — breathless and a little maniac — follows one of your harder hits.
The fight tightens.
You are faster now. You have to be. Against Sukuna, speed is not an advantage so much as the entry fee.
You slip under one arm, catch another at the wrist, twist enough to redirect but not enough to control. He lets you have the motion, then uses the shift to bring another hand toward your shoulder. You duck. Your heel strikes his thigh. He huffs something that might be a laugh and pivots before the hit can take his balance fully.
You need precision.
Palm, wrist, elbow, step out.
Avoid the lower left. Watch the upper right.
Do not track only his shoulders because half his body lies.
Do not let the extra arms become noise — read them as separate intentions.
He knows how you think too.
He catches the slight angle of your wrist before your cursed technique can land. Redirects your palm past him and close enough to a metal trash can that your technique buzzes through the edge of it instead. The can collapses inward with a shriek of twisted metal.
“You missed,” he crows at you.
“Asshole!” you snap.
“Observant.”
A lighting pole takes damage when he forces you sideways and you use the base to kick off, leaving a fracture spidering up the metal. A low branch cracks under the force of his body turning too sharply near one of the trees. The little decorative stones around the green patch scatter under your feet. Somewhere near that havoc, a security light flickers like it is considering resignation.
You are absolutely going to be billed for this.
You do not care yet.
You drive in again, aiming for his collarbone. He catches your wrist again before contact.
Your frustration spikes hot enough to sharpen your voice.
“Why are you being so fucking difficult?”
His laugh comes breathless this time, real from deep in his chest, edged by exertion and something like satisfaction.
“I have always been difficult.”
You wrench free and nearly catch his jaw with the next strike. He leans just out of range and adds,
“You never seemed to grow tired of it.”
That lands somewhere under your ribs.
For a heartbeat, the fight blurs with memory. Missions. Bickering. The old rhythm of him pushing and you pushing back, both of you too stubborn to name the way familiarity had grown beneath irritation like roots under stone.
Then he says, because apparently he has a death wish,
“If I win, I am taking you on that date.”
The rage that hits you is clean and scorching.
You attack in a burst sharp enough to make him give ground. One blow lands against his sternum. Another clips his jaw. A third, charged with cursed energy and all the offended dignity you have left, slams into him hard enough to send him flying backward several meters toward the apartment complex wall.
He hits the short wall with enough force to break the top layer and disappears behind it with the cloud of dust slowly thinning after a few seconds.
For one satisfying second, there is silence.
Then four hands rise into view.
He hauls himself back over the short wall like some obscene creature climbing out of a bad dream, laughing under his breath while one hand wipes blood streaming from his nose.
It streaks over his mouth and chin in red that looks almost black in the winter light. Smoke curls faintly off scorched skin where your attack burned through his shirt — the fabric is gone now, hanging in useless blackened tatters before falling away completely. His hakama, unfortunately, remains whole. One of his eyebrows is singed at the edge, and there is a darkening mark near his cheekbone where you caught him.
He looks better like that than any man has a right to.
He looks thrilled.
Weird man.
Terrible man.
Beautiful in a way that makes you angrier because even bleeding and scorched he has the nerve to look vigorous.
When he lunges back, he stops playing as much.
Not all the way. Never all the way, or the street would split open and the building behind you would become rubble. But he gives you enough of himself to remind you why he is what he is.
Now he moves like himself in the old way you remember — vicious, mercurial, impossible to fully predict because all four arms turn every opening into two new problems. Strikes coming from directions a human body should not be able to produce. Feints layered under real attacks. A rhythm that changes each time you begin to catch it. He’s making you sweat and he’s grinning like a demon the whole time.
He is not trying to maim you. You know the difference well enough to trust that much. This is not slaughter. It is overpowering. Dominance. A fight scaled precisely to the edge where he can have fun without tipping into irreversible destruction. A fight to press until you answer with everything he wants from you.
You parry what you can. Some hits get through. Your shoulder jars. Your ribs light up. Your heel skids through ruined grass. You growl through your bared teeth and focus on the single clean chance you need.
Your palm.
His skin.
Your technique.
He is too fucking fast.
You think you will miss again, and the thought makes your frustration flash white behind your eyes.
“I don’t care if you win,” you bark, ducking under a lower arm and twisting past the upper pair. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
All four eyes narrow.
There.
That tiny shift is enough.
You find your angle.
You step in instead of away, take the risk of his proximity, and plant your palm against the slope of his collarbone.
You fire.
He rips back almost instantly, creating distance with a burst of speed that makes the cold air snap between you, but you know you hit him.
Not enough to drop him. But enough.
His body knows the hit for what it is, and in less than a second the violence drains out of the exchange because he knows better than to keep pushing through that particular fog.
The fight stalls.
He stands a few paces away, teeth bared, growling low, shoulders rising and falling under the effort of adjusting to the sudden distortion in his perception, every line of him taut with frustration rather than rage. He blinks harder than usual. The pupils do not focus evenly.
Good.
You got enough of him.
Your technique sinks into the edges of his senses and bends them. Not intoxication exactly, but close enough to make balance unreliable, timing ugly, clarity slippery. The world will be lagging half a breath behind itself for him now. Not long. Not forever. But long enough.
He hates it. Always has.
You watch him carefully, one hand still raised.
For a moment, you think he might push through anyway and cleave you, maybe even dismantle.
Then he huffs sharply, more annoyed than furious, and disengages.
The sudden absence of violence is almost dizzying.
You remain standing until you are sure. Muscles trembling with leftover adrenaline. Breath cutting too fast in the winter air.
You wait, just in case.
Until his arms lower. Until the energy between you drops from active threat to unresolved tension.
You sit hard on the little patch of grass beside the complex that is now more dirt and damage than landscaping.
You breathe hard.
Your lungs hurt from the cold. Your palms sting. Your shoulder throbs. Your wrists ache. The back of your throat tastes metallic from the force with which you bit down on your own concentration during the fight. Adrenaline makes your hands tremble in little pulses you cannot quite hide.
Sukuna approaches after a moment, slower now. Still huge. Still ridiculous. Still bleeding at the nose and looking like a problem no city should ever be expected to manage.
You do not look up until he stops in front of you and lowers himself to his haunches, forearms resting on thighs and knees, huge body folded with strange patience. Blood is drying on his face. The scorch marks over his bare chest look worse in the streetlight, though you know he will heal quickly enough.
He says nothing.
Of course he says nothing.
The silence stretches until you are too tired to maintain hostility in its sharpest form.
“What is your problem?” you ask.
It does not come out angry or hostile.
It comes out honest. Worn down. Threadbare at the edges.
He looks at you — it seems to catch him slightly off guard.
“I have no problem.”
You stare at him.
You nearly laugh from disbelief.
“Then what the fuck was all that about?”
He clicks his tongue and looks away, briefly, toward the apartment building.
You follow the glance.
That is not an answer.
It is, somehow, an admission that he does not know how to give one.
You sigh, long and too exhausted, then push yourself to your feet. Your legs feel heavier now that the fight is done. The cold has found the sweat along your spine and turned it unpleasant.
You want a shower. You want your bed. You want your apartment to be empty of complicated men and full of uncomplicated silence.
Instead, against all good sense, you say,
“Come up.”
His eyes cut back to you.
“I’m going to regret it,” you add. “But I’d rather not leave you outside to brood and break more things.”
He rises.
You open the gate and walk ahead without checking if he follows.
He does.
You feel him behind you the entire way up.
Your apartment feels even smaller with him inside.
That is the first thing you notice once the door closes. Sukuna does not fit into modest domestic spaces. He alters them. The ceiling looks lower. The doorframes narrower. He is too big for the couch. Too big for the doorway. Too big for the narrow strip of open floor between kitchen and living room.
His presence changes the dimensions of the place simply by existing in it.
He stands near the entrance for a moment, eyes moving over the apartment with a look you cannot read.
“Do not touch anything,” you say, pointing at him as you move toward the bathroom. “I need to shower. I need to breathe for ten minutes. If I come out and anything is broken, I’m putting you through the floor.”
His gaze slides to you.
The corner of his mouth moves like it wants to become a smirk but thinks better of it.
“Sit,” you order.
A pause.
Then he sits on your couch, arms crossed, too large for it in a way that would be funny if you had emotional room left for comedy.
You shut the bathroom door.
The second you are alone, the fight drains out of you in a rush.
You brace both hands on the sink and bow your head. Your breath trembles once. Not crying. Just the body catching up with too much in too little time. The festival. The train. His presence. The date request. The fight. The fact that you invited him upstairs because apparently self-preservation and emotional clarity remain separate committees inside you and neither has full authority.
You strip and step under hot water.
The shower is almost too small, but tonight the closeness helps. Steam fills the narrow bathroom. Water pounds your shoulders, loosens the cold from your skin, turns the ache in your muscles into something you can name. Dirt runs down the drain. Sweat. A faint smear of blood from your knuckles that might be his or yours.
You breathe.
For a few minutes, you are alone with heat and tile and the sound of water.
It helps.
Not enough.
But some.
When you come out, dressed in fresh clothes with your hair tied back, Sukuna is still sitting exactly where you left him.
This obedience should not be noteworthy.
With him, it is.
You do not sit beside him. You stand near the couch, arms loosely folded, and look at him with the fatigue of someone who no longer has patience for performance.
“What did you think you would achieve by coming here today after what happened?”
He answers brutally.
“I thought we would argue.”
You wait.
“As we always did,” he continues. “I thought you would accept going out with me out of spite.”
He means it.
That is the worst part with Sukuna.
He truly thought that was a real plan.
You lower yourself onto the coffee table in front of the couch because standing suddenly feels too precarious for a conversation like this. Elbows on your knees. Hands hanging between them. You look at the floorboards for a few seconds, gathering your thoughts like scattered things after an earthquake.
It takes longer than you want.
Finally, you look up.
“What did you think would happen after you told me the curse was gone back in the park?”
His eyes snap to your face.
You keep your voice steady with effort.
“After you told me you had been free from it for the whole day. After you told me you were just messing with me to see how far I’d go.”
His nostrils flare once.
Something alive and unpleasant flickers across him — recognition, maybe.
The silence that follows is not empty. It is crowded with the memory of that night by the lake, his thumb against your lip, the moon on the water, the wine on his breath, the grin that turned every soft thing into a weapon.
“I thought you would just try to fight me,” he says.
You absorb that slowly.
“Curse at me,” he adds. “Try to put me under. Hit me, at the very least.”
You stare at him.
His jaw tightens.
“I realized I was wrong when I saw your face right before you got me down.”
Your hands come up before you can stop them. You press your fingers into your hairline, elbows still on your knees, and look down at the floor.
Of course.
Of course that is what he thought.
Violence, he understands. Anger, he understands. Challenge, insult, retaliation, fury — those are languages he speaks fluently.
He knows how to meet a blow. He knows what to do with an enemy. He knows how to turn conflict into a shape he can hold.
But grief? Hurt? Humiliation? The vulnerability of being toyed with in the exact place you did not want touched? Those had not even entered the calculation.
They ask for more than reaction. For recognition. For care before damage becomes entertainment. They ask him to imagine your inner life as something separate from his game, and that, apparently, is where his centuries of power and cruelty have left him nearly illiterate.
He really is terrible at this.
Not malicious in some grand sophisticated way.
Just catastrophically unequipped.
A genius on battlefields but a real calamity where human feeling is concerned.
When you look up again, he has not moved.
Not even slightly.
The stillness is so complete it almost looks unnatural. You wonder, absurdly, if he thinks that moving too quickly will send you running again.
The idea of Sukuna holding himself motionless like a cautious person approaching an angry dog should be funny, considering the sheer difference in your size and destructive capacity.
It is not funny.
It just makes you tired.
“Did you not consider how it would make me feel?” you ask.
His face gives you nothing.
You continue because stopping now will only make the pressure in your throat worse.
“Two days, Sukuna. Two days of you latching onto me with this massive wave of tenderness and attention and all those little things that would put anyone off balance. Even knowing it was fake, it was coming from a curse, it was still…” You search for the word and hate every option. “A lot.”
He watches you.
“Didn’t you think I would be better off knowing the curse was gone the instant it left? We could have had a normal adult conversation about what happened, about your memories and the curse and, I don’t know, anything helpful for Shoko and her research on the effects of that bullshit.”
His mouth tightens faintly.
“Didn’t you think I would be hurt,” you ask, quieter now, “by you pretending to feel something for me after all that delusion-fed care?”
Your eyes sting.
You hate it so much.
You hate that your voice thins near the end. Hate that the room blurs at the edges. Hate that he is here, in your apartment, seeing proof that he found the soft place and stepped on it.
His face changes.
Not much. With him, not much can mean a great deal.
He goes even stiller, if that is possible.
Then, slowly, he leans forward.
The movement is careful enough to pull your attention from your own rising tears. He reaches toward you the way someone might reach toward a flame they are not sure will burn or vanish. One large hand comes to the side of your face and stops there, warm palm cupping your cheek.
The touch is familiar.
Bitterly familiar.
Your eyes close for half a second before you can stop them.
“Don’t do this,” you say, voice thin, low. “That’s just cruel.”
He pauses.
For a heartbeat you think he will withdraw.
Instead, another hand rises to the other side of your face. He cups you fully between both palms and tilts your face up with a gentleness that makes your chest hurt.
“I did not do it with the intention of hurting you,” he says.
You look at him through the sting in your eyes.
He is serious.
Painfully serious.
It would be easier if he were mocking. Easier if he gave you something sharp to bite back against.
“I thought you would play it off,” he continues. “Go back to treating me as you did before. I thought you would be angry, not…” His thumbs rest near your cheekbones, not moving yet. His eyes move over your face as if the memory of your expression still confuses him. “Not that.”
You laugh once, soft and humorless.
“Devastated?”
His jaw works.
He does not repeat the word.
“I wanted another day,” he says instead. “With myself in control of my own actions instead of a curse. I did not think you would give me that if you knew the curse had ended.”
Your brows press together, trying to understand what was the logic behind his decisions.
“So you lied.”
“I omitted.”
“You fucking lied, Sukuna.”
His eyes narrow slightly, pride reflexively trying to stand up.
You stare him down.
After a tense moment, he says,
“Yes.”
At least that.
You take a slow breath, his hands still around your face. They feel too good. That is the awful part. You become acutely aware then of the warmth of him. Of how good his hands feel, even now, even after everything.
Big, callused, steady. Your body remembers too much. The curse may be gone, but your skin does not care. It still knows what it was like to be held by him, soothed by him, watched over in that unbearable way that made you soften before you had a plan for the consequences.
You missed this.
You did not want to. You missed it anyway. You missed the solidity, the warmth, the sense of being surrounded by a force that, for those cursed days, had turned toward care instead of destruction.
It sucks to feel his hands again because you already know you will miss them when they are gone.
“Why,” you ask, tired enough now that the anger has burnt through into something duller and more honest, “do you make everything so difficult? Why do you scheme the worst possible version instead of just saying what you feel. What you want.”
He does not answer.
That silence is an answer too, in its way.
Because he does not know how.
Because feelings spoken plainly probably seem to him like stepping into battle without technique. Because desire is easier when disguised as conquest, tenderness easier when blamed on a curse, apology easier when wrapped in a fight. Because he is ancient and powerful and still somehow terrible at being a person.
You are too tired to care about protecting every exposed part of yourself now.
So you say it.
“I started to understand my feelings for you because of the curse, at least.”
His fingers still against your face.
You look down for a second, though his hands make it difficult.
“I didn’t plan for that. I didn’t plan to feel anything. I definitely didn’t plan to be hurt by your stupid bullshit, but I was. Maybe that’s the curse’s fault, maybe it isn’t. I don’t know.”
Your words begin to gather speed, not because you know where they are going but because there is too much inside you and no graceful way to let it out.
“I was fine with how we were before. I didn’t mind bickering with you. You’re infuriating, but at least I knew how to deal with that. And now I’m in Kyoto, and I can’t just come back because you finally decided to develop half a feeling and handle it badly. I can’t afford another move. I have students here. I need to finish the school year with them. They deserve consistency, and I deserve not to keep rearranging my life around whatever the hell is happening with you—”
You are rambling.
You know you are rambling.
Something in you keeps trying to turn emotion into logistics because logistics can be solved. Apartments. School years. Transfers. Commutes. Schedules. Those are easier than saying — I missed you. I wanted you. You hurt me. I am afraid to believe you could want me without ruining it again.
While you talk, he leans closer and closer.
So slowly you do not notice at first.
His hands remain gentle at your face, but the distance between you narrows by degrees until the air changes. His presence fills your awareness. The heat of him. The faint smell of blood still dried on his skin, smoke from the fight, cold night air, something darker and familiar beneath it all.
You only stop when his eyes are inches from yours.
All four crimson eyes fixed on you.
Your mouth closes.
The room seems suddenly very quiet.
He waits one beat.
“I know you did not plan for that to happen,” he says. “I did not dislike that it did.”
Your throat moves around nothing. The flutter in your chest is stupid, immediate, and impossible to crush.
His thumbs move once, barely, over your cheeks.
“I only wish I had not made such a stupid mess of it.”
You try for a smile and almost manage one.
“I also wish you wouldn’t be so stupid.”
He clicks his tongue softly.
No bite in it.
Then he leans in the last fraction and rests his forehead against yours.
It is ridiculous.
That is the first thought that manages to rise through the ache.
Ridiculous that this is happening in your tiny Kyoto apartment after a fight that destroyed half the courtyard amenities.
Ridiculous that he is shirtless because you burned his shirt off, dried blood still scattered along his jaw and chest.
Ridiculous that you are sitting on your own coffee table in clean clothes, exhausted from travel, shower-warm and emotionally wrung out, letting the former King of Curses cradle your face like he is afraid of mishandling something he cannot replace.
You let out a little laugh.
It has no humor in it, but it has breath.
“What’s your big idea now?” you murmur. “Go back to pretending you’re cursed so you’re less irritating?”
“Too much work,” he deadpans.
That almost earns a real laugh.
Then he adds, after a small pause,
“I could try being nice to you and no one else.”
You blink.
It is such a ridiculous sentence that for a second all you can do is stare at him.
He means it.
That is the problem. He actually means it. It’s not a joke. He is offering selective decency like some warrior offering tribute after battle, as though being tolerable to one person might be a vow of significant weight.
Maybe, for him, it is.
Your chest and stomach flutter with the proximity, with his hands on your face, with the knowledge that you probably still like him. Not the cursed version. Not the imagined version.
Him.
The difficult, arrogant, emotionally catastrophic man in front of you who can level a city and still apparently cannot figure out that lying about feelings might hurt someone.
He does not push.
He waits.
He stays there, forehead to yours, hands steady, waiting.
So you are the next one to speak.
“I hope,” you say, voice low, “you’re better at kissing than you are at anything involving feelings.”
Something shifts in his face.
It is not the grin you expect. His eyes drop to your mouth, and the focus in them sharpens so completely that your breath catches before he even moves. One thumb strokes once near the corner of your lips, not over them, just close enough to send a line of heat through your whole body.
“You will tell me,” he murmurs.
Then he kisses you.
The first touch is careful.
That disarms you.
You had expected hunger, maybe. Arrogance, always. Some overwhelming proof of confidence, a kiss that announces itself like conquest because that is what Sukuna does with everything else. Instead his mouth meets yours slowly, warm and firm, giving you enough time to reject him if you choose.
You do not.
He kisses like he has been thinking about it.
For one suspended second, your body goes still not from fear but from the sheer strangeness of finally feeling him like this when neither of you can blame a curse. His hands remain at your face, grounding and gentle. His lips move against yours with a patience that makes your heart hurt. He is not clumsy or hesitant. He is controlled. As if control is the only way he knows to show care without making it too fragile to survive.
You breathe in through your nose and taste winter on him.
Blood too, faintly metallic, mixed with the heat of his mouth and the ghost of smoke from your fight. His skin smells like cold air, scorch, and the sandalwood that has always seemed to cling to him even when nothing else about him is soft.
He draws back after only a moment.
Not far.
Just enough to let the choice return to you.
You feel the space open and hate it.
So you lean forward.
The second kiss is yours first.
His answering sound is low and brief and almost embarrassing in how it goes straight through you. His hands tighten by a fraction, no more, thumbs firm against your cheeks. The kiss deepens slowly, gaining weight without becoming demanding.
Your fingers, which had been curled uselessly near your knees, lift and find his wrist first. Then his forearm. Then the hot, solid slope of his shoulder.
His skin is warm under your palm.
Too warm.
Alive and real and marked by your blows.
You kissed him in your head before, somewhere you never admitted. During the curse days, perhaps. On the bench by the lake, before the reveal turned the memory rotten. In the gap between anger and wanting. But imagination had not prepared you for the unnerving precision of his attention.
The way he follows the smallest shift of your mouth. The way he adjusts when your breath catches. The way he seems to put the full force of his focus into learning the exact line between welcome and too much. There is an expertise to him that is not polished or performative. Just attentive. He learns quickly, adjusts faster, follows the slight turn of your head and the softer pressure of your mouth with a precision that should be illegal in a man this annoying.
It is almost unfair.
When his tongue barely brushes the seam of your mouth, you let him in without thinking and hate how immediate the reward is — the tiny shift in his breath, the way his hands tighten fractionally, the unmistakable sense that for all his size and power he is paying attention to every sign you give him like they really matter.
The heat that rolls through you then is steady and full, less like being startled and more like something long-held finally loosening under touch. You are aware of everything. The coffee table beneath you. The ache in your ribs from the fight. The damp ends of your tied hair against your neck. The roughness of dried blood under your fingertips where your hand has drifted near his collarbone. The way his upper hands hold your face while his lower ones remain deliberately away from your body, as if he is making a point of not taking more than you offered.
That restraint matters too.
When the kiss finally breaks, neither of you moves far.
Your eyes stay closed for a breath longer than pride would prefer.
When you open them, he is looking at you with such total focus that your face warms.
“Well?” he asks.
The audacity nearly saves you.
“Well what?”
“You made a claim.”
You blink slowly, still dazed enough that irritation has to swim up through warmth.
“Are you expecting a grade?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you are.”
His mouth curves.
You should not want to kiss that curve.
You do.
“You’re still very irritating,” you tell him.
“That is not an answer to my question.”
“It is the one you deserve.”
His eyes narrow in faint amusement.
For a few moments, that is all you do. Sit there with his hands still on your face, your own fingers resting against his skin, your breathing not quite even.
The kiss has not solved anything. You are very aware of that. It does not erase the hurt, the months away, the transfer, the humiliation, the anger that made you put him on the ground by the lake. It does not make him suddenly competent at the parts of life that do not involve violence.
But it changes something.
Not enough to call safety.
Enough to call beginning.
His gaze shifts over your face, and his expression grows more serious.
“You are not crying,” he notes.
It is blunt enough to startle you.
Your throat tightens, but no tears fall.
“No.”
“Good.”
That one word is so heavy with quiet relief that you do not know where to put it. Whatever else he misread, whatever else he mishandled, he does not want to see that hurt on your face again.
You swallow.
“You don’t get points for basic decency.”
“I am learning that.”
“You are very late.”
“I noticed,” he grouses.
A small and tired laugh slips out of you. More breath than sound, but amusing nonetheless.
He seems to take that as permission to let his hands fall slowly from your face. They do not go far. They settle instead on your knees, one lower hand on each, anchoring but not holding. The shift gives you room to breathe, and the fact that he seems to understand you need it makes the room tilt again in a softer direction.
You wipe at one eye with the heel of your hand, irritated by the remaining sting.
He watches but says nothing.
Good, you are the one thinking now, maybe he can learn.
“You can’t just show up outside my apartment whenever you decide you’re ready to deal with consequences, by the way,” you say after a while.
“I am aware.”
“You can’t turn every conversation into a fight because it’s easier for you, too.”
His mouth tightens, but he accepts it.
“Fine,” he concedes but it seems to cost him something.
“You also can’t manipulate me into giving you time because you’re afraid I won’t give it freely.”
A pause.
Longer this time.
Then,
“No. I can not. I will not.”
You study him.
He does not look away.
You nod once, small and decisive.
“We’re good.”
He waits.
It is almost funny how visible the effort is now. Sukuna, who has never in his life lacked for action, sitting too big on your couch with blood dried on his face, forcing himself to wait because you finally made him understand that moving too fast costs him something he apparently does not want to lose.
You sigh.
“I also can’t keep pretending none of this matters.”
His fingers flex once on your knees.
You see the movement. Feel it through fabric.
“I know,” he says.
The answer is quiet.
Too quiet, maybe. It makes you look at him more carefully.
He has changed in some way you cannot yet measure. Not become softer, no. That would be too easy and too false. Sukuna is still Sukuna. You can feel the arrogance in his bones, the violence under his skin, the pride that takes up space even when he is trying to behave. But something has turned inward over the past months. Something has had to sit alone with consequence and found no immediate enemy to kill for relief.
“You stopped enjoying missions,” you mention and wait.
He glances at you sharply.
You lift a shoulder.
“Satoru complained for twenty minutes.”
“That idiot complains when the sun rises.”
“He said you locate, analyze, exorcise, leave. No collateral.”
“That is the job, is it not?”
“Since when do you care about the job more than the thrill?”
His eyes slide away.
For a while, he says nothing.
You let the silence sit.
Eventually, his jaw shifts.
“There was no point.”
You raise both your eyebrows in surprise.
“In enjoying it?”
“In dragging it out.”
You lean back slightly, the coffee table edge pressing into your thighs.
“Why?”
His gaze returns to you, and there is something almost irritated in it now, though not at you. At himself, maybe. At the fact that the answer exists.
“You were not there to stop me.”
The words settle into the apartment with more weight than you expect.
Your first instinct is to make a joke. To avoid the way your chest contracts.
You do not.
He continues, rougher now.
“If I went too far, someone else would try. They would fail, or get in the way, or make it tedious. So I ended it.”
You stare at him.
That is not exactly romantic.
It is not even healthy, for fuck’s sake.
But it is honest.
More importantly, it reveals something you had only wondered in the privacy of your own thoughts — he had trusted you to stop him. Not in the noble way people write stories about trust. In the Sukuna way. Brutal, practical, unspoken. He pushed because you were there to push back. He played because you could end the game.
Your absence changed the fight.
That knowledge moves through you slowly.
“You’re so fucking ridiculous, you know that?”
You say flatly because anything softer would be dangerous.
“I have been told.”
“By me.”
“Often.”
You huff, and this time the almost-smile stays.
The room eases by degrees.
You ask why he came today, specifically. He says he saw you at the festival. Not directly, not close enough for you to notice. He had been there, somewhere beyond the main crowd, watching the edges like he often does. He saw your old students gather around you. Saw Gojo occupy your attention with theatrics. Saw you laugh at something Suguru said. Saw you speak with Yaga near the takoyaki stall and look almost like you belonged to both schools at once.
Something in him, apparently, did not enjoy remaining unseen after that.
“That is not a normal emotional process,” you tell him.
“No.”
“At least you know.”
“I am not ignorant.”
You give him a look.
He exhales through his nose, annoyed.
“Not entirely.”
“Better.”
He asks about Kyoto then.
Not in a casual, polite way. He asks like he wants a map. About your students. Your classes. Mei Mei. Utahime. The commute before you moved. Whether the apartment is acceptable. Whether the neighborhood is safe. Whether anyone has bothered you.
“That sounds threatening,” you say.
“It is a simple question.”
“It sounds like a threat wearing a question’s skin.”
“Has anyone bothered you?”
“Sukuna,” you say flatly.
His eyes narrow and he raises a brow.
“You,” you clarify. “You bothered me. Outside. Recently.”
The look he gives you should not make you laugh, but it does.
You tell him about the school anyway. The disciplined students who still act like teenagers. Yuuta’s quiet intensity. Mai’s permanent offense at the world. Choso’s formal kindness. Toge’s expressive silence. Utahime’s competence. Mei Mei’s terrifying efficiency. The first apartment viewing. The moving day. Shoko insulting your lamp.
He listens.
Actually listens.
You notice because he does not interrupt to make every detail about himself. He asks follow-up questions, some weirdly practical, some unexpectedly sharp. He seems annoyed on your behalf when you mention one student refusing theory work because he thinks instinct is enough. He looks almost approving when you describe making that same student lose three consecutive sparring rounds because he failed to identify terrain risks.
The conversation stretches.
Not smoothly, exactly. Sukuna is still blunt enough to make rocks feel diplomatic. But there is effort in him now. Visible, imperfect effort. He does not always know what to say, but he tries not to make that ignorance your problem immediately.
“You still wanted to go on a date?” you ask after a moment.
“Yes.”
“After all of this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The answer comes without hesitation.
“Because I like being around you.”
You blink, startled.
It is such a simple sentence. So ordinary. So stripped of game and ego that it hits harder than anything more elaborate could have. He says it like a fact he arrived at late and resents only for its timing, not for its truth.
You exhale through your nose.
“That would have been useful to hear months ago.”
“I know.”
He is getting annoyingly good at that answer.
Silence settles for a while.
Not awkward. Just full. You become aware of the little sounds in your apartment again. The heater humming faintly. Water ticking in old pipes. A car moving past outside. Your own breathing slowly evening out.
Then your eyes catch on the dried blood still at the corner of his mouth and speckled on his chest.
“You look terrible,” you mutter.
He raises a brow.
“You did that.”
“I’m aware.”
He waits.
You sigh, because apparently this night is not done humiliating you by revealing all the ways in which your care still functions even when you would prefer to let him sit there crusted in his own blood.
“Stay there,” you tell him.
He snorts as if he had any intention of fitting anywhere else in the room.
You stand up.
Your legs complain. The fight is catching up with your body in delayed aches. Your ribs throb when you reach for a glass. Sukuna notices and starts to rise.
You point at him without turning fully.
“Sit.”
He sits.
You hide your smile in the cabinet.
When you bring water back, you also bring a damp cloth and your first-aid kit.
His eyes follow the kit.
“You think that is necessary?”
“You look like you got into a fight, so yeah,” you half-joke.
“I did.”
“Seems like you got beaten up really bad, huh?” You go on with the taunt because you finally feel like you can.
“Yes.”
“I’m just cleaning your face so my couch doesn’t look like a crime scene.”
He wisely says nothing in response.
You stand between his knees because there is nowhere else to fit comfortably, and his size makes the position feel more intimate than you intend. You tilt his chin up with two fingers. His skin is hot under your touch. The dried blood at his jaw flakes slightly when you wipe it away. He chooses remains very still so you can finish the job easier.
The blood comes off in dark streaks. His nose has already healed enough that only the mess remains. The burn across one collarbone is superficial. The singed eyebrow, unfortunately, is funny.
You stare at it.
He notices and sneers at you.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You want to.”
“You look asymmetrical.”
His expression flattens.
You press your lips together to stop the laugh, fail, and let it escape softly.
For a moment, he only looks at you.
Then his mouth curves, not fully, but enough.
The sight does something unpleasantly tender to your chest.
You clean the blood from the corner of his mouth last. The cloth drags carefully over his lower lip, and the closeness changes again. His eyes stay on your face. Your fingers slow despite your best efforts.
“You look better here,” he says.
Your hand pauses.
You know what he means without asking.
Better than that night. Better than crying in your apartment after running from him. Better than the expression he finally understood too late.
You continue wiping because stopping would feel too revealing.
“That is a low bar.”
“It is relief, not praise.”
That shuts you up.
You finish in silence.
When you step back, he catches your wrist lightly.
Not a grab. A pause.
His thumb rests over your pulse.
“I am not toying with you,” he says.
The words are plain enough to scare you more than anything elaborate would have.
You look down at his hand around your wrist. At the size difference. At the careful lack of pressure. At the man on your couch who tore open your sense of trust and then apparently spent months realizing it oddly mattered more than he anticipated.
Trust does not return because someone wants it.
You know that.
One kiss does not build a bridge strong enough to carry all of this. One honest conversation does not erase manipulation. One visit does not make him safe.
But you believe, at least, that he means what he says right now.
That is not everything.
It is not nothing either.
“You can visit,” you say.
His grip shifts.
“Sometimes,” you add immediately.
His eyes lift to yours.
“I will.”
“That was not automatic permission.”
“It sounded enough like it.”
You roll your eyes.
“This is why I said sometimes.”
His mouth twitches.
“I’m not moving back yet,” you continue. “Maybe not until the year is done. Maybe longer. I don’t know. I have students here. I have rent. I have a life that I am trying to build without constantly being dragged into your orbit.”
He absorbs that with visible distaste.
Not at you, you think.
At the limits.
He can dislike them and still obey them, or he can leave.
“You can come here sometimes,” you repeat. “But you ask. You do not materialize at my gate like a curse from my bad decisions.”
His mouth twitches.
“I am not a bad decision.”
“You are several bad decisions stitched together.”
“I am an excellent decision if handled correctly.”
“You are making your case worse.”
He sucks his teeth.
You almost smile again.
Then his expression grows more serious.
“I can take the train.”
The image is so absurd you pause.
“You. On the shinkansen.”
“If necessary.”
“You say that like public transportation is a battlefield.”
“You insult battles with your comparison.”
That one gets a real laugh out of you.
It startles you.
It startles him too, though he hides it quickly. The laugh is not loud, not bright like the ones at the festival, but it is real enough that the apartment seems to warm around it.
He releases your wrist.
You sit back down on the coffee table, closer this time. Close enough that your knees nearly touch his. The distance between you feels chosen now rather than accidental.
Your eye catches the dirt his feet tracked in and the faint blood smudge drying near the couch cushion.
He follows your gaze.
Silence.
Then, with the same gravity he used when proposing dating like a military maneuver, he says,
“I can clean.”
You stare.
He stares back.
The image of Sukuna cleaning your apartment is so violently absurd that it wipes your expression blank.
“You,” you say slowly, “want to clean.”
“I caused the damage.”
“That is not the same as knowing how to clean.”
“I know how to remove blood.”
Your brows stitch together and you stare at him like he' just told you he could grab the moon with his bare hands and use it like a basketball.
His brows pull together as well.
“What.”
“That is the least reassuring version of ‘I can help’ I’ve ever heard.”
He seems to think this through and, to your absolute astonishment, huffs out what might be a resigned acceptance of your point.
“I know household tasks,” he says, with visible distaste for the sentence. “I am not useless.”
The very fact that he sounds offended by the possibility nearly finishes you.
“Fine,” you say, still half laughing. “Get a cloth.”
He rises.
The apartment actually changes shape around him when he stands, every proportion suddenly wrong. You forget sometimes how enormous he is until he moves in a contained space and turns the whole place into evidence. He looks toward the kitchen like he expects supplies to announce themselves.
“In the drawer by the sink,” you tell him.
He goes.
You sit there in a daze and watch Ryomen Sukuna, strongest sorcerer in history, former king of curses, catastrophic idiot with the emotional instincts of a natural disaster, find a dishcloth in your kitchen and return to wipe dried blood off your floor.
The universe is laughing at you.
There is no other explanation.
He crouches, too big even for that, and cleans with efficient if somewhat alarming precision. You end up taking over because otherwise he will probably strip the finish off your floorboards, but the fact remains that he tried.
You both clean the little mess in companionable bursts of bickering, passing a spray bottle back and forth, moving around each other in a space too tight for it not to become intimate. His hand brushes your waist once when you both reach for the same rag. You nearly drop the damn thing.
He notices.
“You are distracted,” he says.
“You are in my kitchen.”
“And?”
“And that’s still very strange.”
“I could kiss you again in it if that helps normalize the experience.”
You nearly walk into the counter.
He looks far too satisfied with himself after that.
By the time the floor is done and the blood is off his skin as much as he allows while standing at your sink with a towel you reluctantly hand over, the apartment feels different.
As if some line that used to be rigid and defensive has shifted just enough to let another person inside without sounding every internal alarm you own.
The night grows late.
You both should be asleep.
He should probably leave.
You should probably insist.
Instead the conversation keeps finding new paths through the wreckage. He tells you, haltingly and with irritation at his own lack of fluency, that during the curse he remembered all of it.
Not like being possessed exactly. More like a set of instincts and certainties shoved into him so strongly that resisting them had felt absurd. He had believed you were his wife because the curse made the belief feel older than thought. He had wanted to hold you, feed you, keep you close, not because the curse invented desire from nothing but because it took something he had not examined and built a shrine around it without permission.
That, when he says it, makes your breath stop.
He seems to regret the phrasing immediately, perhaps because it gives too much away.
You do not mock him.
You ask, carefully,
“So it wasn’t all fake?”
His eyes hold yours.
“No.”
A small word.
A large consequence.
You breathe around it slowly.
The hurt does not vanish. It shifts. Reorders itself. Some pieces remain sharp, but others become more complicated. You had told yourself the tenderness was counterfeit because that made the loss cleaner. Now he is telling you the curse did not fabricate everything. It amplified. Distorted. Dragged something hidden into monstrous certainty.
That means the warmth had roots.
That means the lie afterward hurt because it covered something real.
You rub both hands over your face and groan.
He watches, alarmed in his subtle way.
“What?”
“I hate that this helps.”
His brows draw together.
“It makes it worse too,” you add. “But it helps.”
“Good…?”
“Don’t sound so proud. You are still on probation.”
“I was unaware there was a formal system.”
“There is now.”
He considers that.
“What are the terms?”
You lower your hands and look at him.
“Honesty, for one.”
His face does not move.
You continue.
“No more testing me to see how far I’ll go. No more deciding what I can handle without telling me the truth. No more treating my feelings like an opponent you can outmaneuver.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods once.
“And if you want something,” you say, slower now, “you say it. With words. Like a person. An adult person.”
He looks like you have asked him to perform surgery on himself without anesthetic.
You almost laugh, but do not.
Instead, you wait.
He stares at you for several long seconds.
Then says, with effort,
“I want to kiss you again.”
Your stomach drops in a way that is not fear, although it feels a bit close to it.
It is ridiculous that such a simple sentence can do that after everything. But perhaps the simplicity is why. No scheme. No curse. No wager. No taunt disguised as a demand. Just want, spoken plainly because you asked him to speak plainly.
Your voice comes out softer than intended.
“Well. Then ask.”
His eyes narrow slightly in concentration.
“May I kiss you?”
You do not let yourself answer too quickly.
Not because you want to punish him. Maybe just a bit.
Because you want both of you to feel the shape of permission.
Then you say,
“Yeah.”
The second time he kisses you that night, it feels different from the first.
Less like an answer to a challenge. More like a promise he does not yet know how to word. His hands do not go to your face immediately. One settles near your knee, the other at the edge of the coffee table beside you, as if he is physically reminding himself not to take hold before being invited. You lean in enough to close some of the distance, and only then does he lift a hand to your jaw.
His mouth is warm.
Still careful, but surer now.
You let your hand rest against his chest, over the place where your technique had struck earlier. His heart, strange and powerful and real, beats under your palm. The contact makes you dizzy in a quiet way.
You kiss him until your thoughts loosen.
Not disappear.
Just soften at the edges.
When you pull back, your forehead finds his again almost naturally.
“Better,” you whisper.
“At kissing?”
“At asking.”
He hums lowly, satisfied.
“Do not get smug.”
“That is not possible.”
You push lightly at his chest. He does not move because of the force, but he leans back because you want him to. That distinction sits warmly under your skin now.
Eventually the hour becomes impossible to ignore. The clock on your wall shows a time that makes tomorrow look dangerous for someone that needs to be up early. Your body aches from the fight and travel. His technique-induced dizziness seems to have mostly worn off, though every so often his focus lags just enough for you to feel smug as well.
“You should go,” you say.
The words come out reluctantly.
He hears that too.
“I can.”
Not I will.
I can.
You look toward the window. The night beyond it is cold and quiet. Then back at him, too large on your couch, cleaned of most blood but still bare-chested and bruised. Sending him out into the cold feels sensible. It also feels abrupt, and some fragile part of the night resists ending on distance.
“You can stay,” you say, then immediately lift a hand. “With rules.”
His expression shifts into something dangerously pleased.
You point at him.
“Do not look like that.”
“I am listening.”
“You sleep. That’s it. My bed is small and you are the size of a structural problem, so you do not crush me. You do not decide in the middle of the night that I need to be trapped under you for my health. You do not steal my phone. You do not make this weird.”
He looks around your tiny apartment, then down at himself, then at you.
“It is already weird.”
“Sukuna.”
His mouth closes.
“Fine,” he says.
You go to the bathroom to change because even now, especially now, boundaries are not optional. When you come back, he is standing near the bed in the small bedroom, taking in the space with what looks like profound skepticism.
“What?” you ask.
“This bed is too small.”
“You are too big. The bed is normal.”
“It is not.”
“It was normal before you entered the room.”
He glances at you.
“Many things were.”
You roll your eyes, but your face warms.
He notices.
Mercifully, he says nothing.
The logistics are ridiculous.
He lies down first because there is no other way to measure the space. Even carefully arranged, he occupies too much of it. You climb in afterward, suspicious and tired, keeping a deliberate gap that lasts maybe five seconds before the cold air between you becomes offensive and his heat becomes impossible to ignore.
He does not touch you.
He lies on his side facing you, lower arm bent near his body, upper arms arranged awkwardly to avoid taking over the entire mattress. The effort is so visible that your mouth twitches in the dark.
“You look uncomfortable.”
“I am not.”
“You look like you are losing a fight with the bed”
“Your furniture is inadequate.”
“You’re welcome to leave if you want.”
“No.”
The immediacy of that answer makes the air still.
You do not respond.
After a moment, softer, he says,
“Not unless you want me to.”
You turn your head on the pillow and look at him in the dim light.
That is new too.
“I don’t,” you say.
His eyes stay on yours.
You shift closer by your own choice, inch by inch, until the warmth of him reaches you properly. His lower arm comes around your waist slowly, giving you time to object. You do not. It settles there, heavy but not trapping. You let your back turn toward his chest, more because the position fits the narrow bed than because you intend to make a statement. At least that is what you tell yourself.
He is a furnace behind you.
The heat seeps through your sleep clothes, into your spine, across the lingering soreness in your ribs. His breath touches the back of your neck. Your body remembers this from the curse days and goes soft so quickly it embarrasses you, but this time the meaning is different.
He is not cursed.
You are not pretending.
No one is using delusion as cover.
It’s scarier and better at the same time.
You lie in silence for a while, eyes open in the dark.
Tomorrow will still be complicated. You will still be in Kyoto. He will still be in Tokyo. You will still have students, rent, schedules, boundaries, anger, caution. He will still be Sukuna, which is a problem large enough to require its own administrative department. There is no easy version of this waiting just because he kissed you well and admitted something true.
But for once, you are not being dragged.
You are choosing to remain still.
His arm shifts slightly around your waist.
“Are you awake?” he asks.
“No. Go to sleep.”
A low sound brushes the back of your neck. Almost a laugh.
Then, after a pause, he murmurs,
“I can learn.”
You do not ask what.
You know.
You close your eyes.
Your hand finds his where it rests near your stomach, and after one small hesitation, you place your fingers over his. His hand is too large under yours, warm and solid and capable of unimaginable brutality, but it does not close around you until you curl your fingers first.
Then it does.
Gently.
“You’d better,” you murmur back.
The room settles.
Outside, winter leans cold against the windows, while inside your apartment your bed is too cramped, and the former King of Curses holds you with careful restraint as if the act requires concentration. It probably does. That thought should not make your chest ache, but alas.
Sleep comes slowly.
No nightmares, no fear induced insomnia. Your body simply keeps noticing the difference between being haunted and being held, and for the first time since you left Tokyo, you let yourself believe that maybe difficult does not have to mean impossible.
sum: You get sent into a mission with Sukuna once again, because Yaga is a son of a bitch. Things go as they usually do, but when you both leave the battle grounds, something has changed. Not something, someone. Sukuna is acting even weirder than his usual unbearable self. Or; the curse made Sukuna think you're his fucking wife.
tags: Fluff, Cursed Techniques, Love Curse, Sukuna | Ryoumen Sukuna's Original Form, Sukuna | Ryoumen Sukuna is His Own Warning, Slow Burn, Manipulation, Mutual Pining if you squint, Fighting, Manhandling, adding as I go.
Tainted Love
Fake Out
Heartbreak Feels So Good
My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (soon)
all arts are by @lacquerheadd because this series exist solely because of their pink sukunas.
Ryomen Sukuna, but he's from Indian Mythology (I made this up btw)
I seriously freestyled through all of his jewelries, and I've gotta admit that it'd be REALLY difficult to fight with all those on, but let's ignore that detail for now 😅
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mdni. multiple jjk men. fem reader. all fics will feature heavy smut + crack treated seriously. tags will be found in individual posts. gojo art by @keki1205 + div by @pixopix
it's raining...sharks? but, uh, instead of man-eating ones, it seems this one is hungry for pussy! will your ex-husband save you? or do you even want to be saved?
VELOCIPASTOR! starring veloicpastor!geto
WILL FEATURE BONDAGE + GLORY HOLE
as a stripper, you've had your fair share of strange clients. but, uh, a priest turned cult leader with the ability to transform into a velociraptor? yeah, that's a new one.
COCAINE BEAR! starring bear hybrid!toji
WILL FEATURE KNOTTING + PRIMAL PLAY
what's a wildlife activist to do when the bear hybrid she's been studying accidentally stumbles upon a shipment of cocaine? probably not have sex with him. easier said than done.
LAVALANTULA! starring scientist!nanami
WILL FEATURE HUMILIATION + BREEDING
keeping your crush on a coworker secret is hard! a lot harder when the volcano you've both been observing for months erupts - and now you've got to struggle to survive fire-breathing tarantulas together.
GOJO VS. EVIL! starring frat!gojo
WILL FEATURE SEX TOYS + APHRODISIACS
a cabin in the woods. a quiet pond to fish on. a relaxing little getaway where you could enjoy some peace and quiet. what could go wrong? a group of annoyingly attractive college students crashing your sweet spot - and start dying off after you save a beautiful blue-eyed idiot from drowning?
a/n: these fics will probably take me longer than october to finish up but i'll do my best <3 some of them will be shorter, closer to drabbles and few will be longer oneshots :3
the cheering from your students made you bite back a chuckle as you stood before your husband in the middle of the training field. the two of you had been pushed into an unexpected position — your second years and his first years betting on who would win in a fight.
whilst you were an experienced sorcerer as well — strong and capable with a powerful technique — you couldn’t act like beating your husband was something realistic. not when your husband was satoru gojo. even though he was very clearly going easy on you (neither of you wanted to hurt each other after all) it was impossible to touch him thanks to his infinity, and as much as you were having fun, you wanted to show off a little more in front of your students. he couldn’t have the spotlight all the time after all.
“c’mon,” you groaned through pants, a small grin still glued to your face because the whole thing really was amusing. “ditch the infinity already you coward.”
the word hit him like a slap to the face coming from you, and like the masochist he was, his expression exploded into something dangerously amused, six eyes gleaming at you like a predator would lock onto prey, blindfold long discarded. you were putting up a good fight so far, and god was he enjoying himself.
“coward, huh?” he snorted, releasing his infinity in the same breath and making the other students hold their breath. “fine. let’s do this fist to fist.”
“that means no cursed energy from you either~”
it was hard to tell who struck first with how fast fists were flying and bodies were moving, your students struggling to keep up with who was doing what. what was clear, however, was how right the two of you were together. where he excelled in brute force and speed, you dominated in stealth and precision, both of you struggling to land punches on each other.
that was when it happened.
you didn’t have time to blink as he faked that sweep and instead grabbed you by your collar before you could gloat about dodging such an obvious attack, your body hitting the ground with a thud after being thrown to the ground face first. everyone fell silent at that, watching eagerly as you tried to get up just to be shoved back to the ground again by a large hand on your shoulder blade and his knee beside your hip, trapping you.
“got you,” he sneered, watching as you squirmed and struggled uselessly beneath him before accepting your fate and falling limp to the ground. “i win.”
as much as you wanted to say something smart in retaliation, the words died on your tongue the second he pressed you down with just a little more pressure, and suddenly you felt a strange heat fill your stomach. it was weirdly thrilling — both of you panting and sweaty while he practically manhandled you to the ground beneath him. your heart was racing both from the adrenaline of the fight and the thoughts swirling into your mind. he was always such a gentle man with you, so this? this was new. exciting.
it was something you couldn’t stop thinking about even hours later when you returned home, darting straight to the bedroom to change out of your uniform. you’d been sweating in it after all. it desperately needed to be washed and so did you.
you weren’t surprised when satoru had entered shortly after you, just as you had peeled off your shirt, revealing your bra to his already hungry eyes. he didn’t say anything at first, just placed his hands on your hips to pull you in for a kiss, huffing like a child when you pulled away. “i’m all sweaty and gross from you pushing me into the ground earlier,” you teased, making him pout.
“you make it sound so cruel,” satoru murmured. “i didn’t push you — i gracefully pinned my gorgeous wife after an epic battle.” he pulled you flush against him again and you scoffed at his words.
“it was far from graceful. you were crushing me. you’re not exactly light you know.” satoru laughed against your lips at that, a low rumbling sound, before he leaned in to nip at your bottom lip playfully.
“crushing you?” he repeated, feigning horror. “i was gentle! delicate even — like i was handling a flower!” to emphasise his point, he fluttered his lashes at you like he was the picture of innocence itself, his heart fluttering seeing you laugh at his poor attempt at a defence.
you leaned in to press a quick pick to his lips. “i wasn’t complaining,” you hummed with a smirk that undid him entirely — mischief masking itself behind such a sweet smile like you know exactly what you were doing to him. “is that so?”
satoru kept his hands on your hips, walking you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you had no choice but to sit, leaning back on your hands as he towered over you, a thick air of tension suddenly filling the room while his eyes bore into yours.
“if i’m being honest, i actually liked it,” you confessed, watching the way his lips twitched into a wider smirk. just thinking about it all made your stomach pool with heat. the way his big hands held you down…how easily he had overpowered you..that slightly crazed smile when you’d managed to land a punch on him earlier…
he didn’t miss the way your thighs shifted together in an attempt to relieve that familiar ache between them, his cock twitching in his pants at the knowledge that you’d enjoyed (and were most definitely turned on by) him pinning you down. that you liked his strength. naturally it went to his head. both of them
seeing you like this — cheeks slightly flushed from just the memory alone, both of you still a little hot from earlier, and your lips parted slightly as you looked up at him — he couldn’t hold back anymore, pushing you onto the bed properly while he began lifting his shirt off, throwing it somewhere across the room. “liked it, huh?” his voice was half growl, half teasing lilt, but his eyes were intense, a sign he wasn’t just joking around anymore. the boner he was sporting further affirmed that, brushing against your thigh when he leaned in to press hungry kisses to your jaw, grazing you with his teeth just to hear you make those pretty noises for him.
his breath was warm against you, fingers reaching behind your back to unclasp your bra so he could feel every inch of you. he lived for the way you whimpered when his lips wrapped around one of your already pebbled nipples, groaning at the salty taste of your skin. if anything it turned him on more. “toru…” your body arched up into his without thinking, breathy and needy.
“what is it baby? what do you need, hm?” he released your nipple just to meet those eyes of yours staring down at him with raw want. “want it rough…please?”
and god, how could he say no to a request like that? especially after finding out how much you’d like it earlier when he got a little rough with you. without giving you any form of a warning, he flipped your over onto your stomach, manhandling you so that you were in a prone position with just your ass lifted up a little for him. a gasp left your lips when he tugged your skirt off, throwing it somewhere behind him so he could see your panties, along with the clear wet patch you’d left on them.
“you sure you can take it?” satoru jeered, a final sort of warning so you couldn’t say you didn’t know what you were getting into asking for this. at your desperate nod he reached for the waistband of those black panties, tugging on them until they ripped off of you, making your breath hitch.
“it’s your funeral~”
and he really wasn’t joking.
you hardly knew where you were or even who you were at this point. all you knew was that his hips were ramming into you without mercy, ignoring your whines and the way you were clawing at the sheets beside you. satoru had a hand gripping your hips tightly, nails digging into the plush skin there as he held you down, making you take it while he grunted above you. his other hand was tangled in your hair, keeping your face flat against the mattress where you were already drooling.
“ah-ah, no running,” he tisked, an almost cruel lilt to his voice when he felt you squirming beneath him. he was pounding into you with a pace so relentless you could hardly form any thoughts, let alone beg him to slow down. “you wanted this didn’t you?” still, you tried to say something. a plea for…well..you didn’t really know what it was you wanted. either way it didn’t matter because the moment you tried lifting your head to talk he had shoved your face right back into the sheets, making you moan.
“fuck, you’re so filthy,” he groaned, feeling how your walls squeezed him tighter after that. your body alone told him everything. how much you were enjoying this. “you love being treated like this, don’t you? being held down and manhandled..” the broken whine you let out made his hips stutter for a moment, head tipping back with another groan because this was so fucking hot.
a loud crack filled the room as he let go of your hair to deliver a slap to your ass, an action that made you jerk slightly in surprise, even as another moan was dragged out of you at a second slap. “god, i’m gonna ruin you,” he growled, clearly getting as carried away as you were, a large hand splaying across your lower back, pulling you back against each of his thrusts.
tears began to fill your eyes from just how good, yet how overwhelming everything felt — his cock stretching you out and hitting the deepest parts of you that only he could reach. each dirty grumble of his as he made you take everything. the desperate need to cum already. “don’t cry baby,” he cooed, but you knew better than to think he was serious. “you can take it. you will.”
and something about him saying it like that, like he would make sure if it, had you mewling like a stray cat against the sheets, fingers digging into the fabric with such force he almost wished you were marking up his back with those nails instead. “gonna fill this pussy up…fuck, you want that right?”
both hands slid up your back until they reached the back of your neck, wrapping around it with just enough force to keep you pinned down and restrict some of your air flow, but nowhere near enough to really hurt. as much as he was getting off on this power play he didn’t feel like harming his wife. “you’ll take it all for me, won’t you?”
the noises you were making were sinful as you neared your orgasm, legs shaking slightly as he began to speed up his pace, groans being pulled from his throat more frequently now, and you could tell his orgasm was approaching soon too. a few more strokes was all you needed before you were crying out in pleasure, clamping down around him as you saw white. it was intense and dizzying, hitting you so suddenly and causing your whole body to jerk while satoru continued to grind into you until he found himself cumming too.
you were too tight, too warm, and with a final, deep thrust he was spilling himself inside of you. filling you up just like he said he would and leaving you lying limply against the bed as you tried to come too. you hadn’t even felt him collapse on top of you until he was peppering kisses down from the back of your neck to your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings.
you were utterly spent and probably close to passing out, but god did you love it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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