nastya

Yes, Nulla is getting that Muse treatment from me 🗣️🗣️❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 LOOK AT HIM AHHHHHH YOU SEE HOW DREAMY HE IS ⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️

If you had to guess, the end of each break between semesters was her favorite time of year. 

Well, that and her birthday—because your father had made a habit of buying her a new handbag each season, and if there was anything she loved more than a mansion to herself, it was a mansion to herself full of designer purses.

“The car is waiting for you,” she said simply, her tone lacking the warmth of a mother wishing her daughter farewell. 

You hardly noticed its absence. You hadn’t felt it in years, anyway. You’d be lucky—or unlucky, you weren’t quite sure—if she hugged you goodbye.

Just as you opened your mouth to reply, you noticed the furrow in her brow. Wordlessly, she pressed her hand between your shoulder blades to correct your posture. “How is it that you’ve somehow managed to develop a slouch? Your father and I didn’t pay for you to go to charm school for nothing to come of it.”

Your jaw tightened, the familiar urge to shrug her hand away flared, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “And where is he? He couldn’t take an early lunch to come home and see me off?”

She released a breath that sounded more like a laugh than a scoff. “Why would he? You’re going to be back in two months for dinner with the Ryomen family. He’ll see you then.”

This time, your bitterness did reach your voice. “Oh. Right. That.”

Your suitcase was plucked from your side by the family driver and you watched as he loaded it into the trunk.

“Yes. That.” Your mother tugged at your skirt, as if that would make it any longer. 

She looked at you sharply. Her message was clear, even though it remained wordless: don’t show up wearing something like this the next time we see you.

After all, appearances were important. You had learned that from an early age.

By the time you were ten, your eyebrows were already being plucked biweekly. Sometimes, thrice in one month, should your mother notice a hair out of place. At eleven, you learned what pore strips were, why they were used, and what people would say about you if you didn’t. Once you were fourteen, styling your hair came as easily as walking on two feet.

But the Ryomen family didn’t care about that as much as your mother did. 

What they truly cared about was securing a fortune that would create generational wealth. They cared about fostering a bond with your parents that would lead to a prosperous business relationship. They only cared about you because you were the business—an investment that they expected to mature on schedule. Well, you and Sukuna, their son, whom you have practically been betrothed to since you were six years old.

Graduation was approaching, and you would bet your life that this dinner was a gimmick—one for both sets of parents to nudge you two closer together. Not that they cared whether you truly got along. Aligning the Ryomen fortune with your family name would make your combined estate as good as gold. They likely just wanted to ensure that the eventual marriage (business deal) would be lifelong.

Which is to say, they wanted to drill it into your head that filing for divorce was not an option once everything was said and done. How sweet of them.

You couldn’t worry about that now, though. You were already running late, and you needed to get back to campus and unpack. Classes start tomorrow morning, and you would hate to be seen with bags under your eyes—and your mother would certainly hate to hear about it from the monumental amount of staff at Mikage Academy, who seemed intent on notifying her of nearly every step you took over the past few years.

“Well, I should be going,” you muttered—more to yourself than to her—because you weren’t even confident she was listening anymore.

Your suspicions were confirmed when she muttered a final ‘don’t forget about the dinner’ before shutting the door behind you. She didn’t follow you out. Didn’t hug you goodbye either.

Once you were inside the vehicle—headphones on, with music blaring loud enough to drown out any chance at forming a coherent thought—you relaxed your shoulders and slouched, because there was no one here to pester you about it.

At least that was something you could be thankful for.

☆

The student council election was rapidly approaching, and that was just about all you were allowed to think about.

You knelt on the ground with a paintbrush in your hand, carefully mapping out the words Vote Y/N for Student Council President! :) on the posterboard.

The headphones in your ears were turned up a bit too high, because you hadn’t even noticed that your best friend, Utahime, had entered the empty workroom until she accidentally kicked over the can of red paint you had been using. You gasped as it splattered all over the poster, leaning back on the heels of your feet to ensure, at the very least, that it didn’t get on your clothes.

“Utahime!”

“I’m sorry!” she said quickly, tilting the can upright again. 

The damage had already been done, though. She knelt beside you and carefully folded up the poster, tossing it into a nearby bin. Wiping her hands against each other, her eyes landed on you. 

“Let the record show that I didn’t mean to do that and am guilty of all crimes regardless,” she paused, then smiled at you. “You know, you don’t really need to campaign. No one has run against you in, what— three years?”

You frowned as you wiped your thumb over the dot of paint on your skirt. It was small enough that an untrained eye wouldn’t notice. “I know that, but you can never be too sure.”

“Actually, you can be,” she retorted, but retrieved a fresh posterboard for you anyway. “The only way you lose this election is if a meteor penetrates Earth’s orbit and targets Mikage specifically, and in that case, we would all be dead anyway.”

You raised a brow as you dipped a fresh paintbrush into the can. “In that case, I should campaign to make sure that everyone died with an intent to vote for me.”

Utahime laughed with a shake of her head but didn’t push it any further. “I should run a smear campaign against you in the school’s newspaper. Maybe then, your effort won’t be for naught.” She paused. “Speaking of— have you read the newspaper lately?”

You were stopped dead in your tracks. If Utahime had managed to read the entirety of the university’s boring-to-death newspaper and felt it was important enough to bring up to you, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “Yeah? Not this week’s issue, though. Why?”

“Of course you read it regularly,” she mumbled with a smile before fishing her phone out of her backpack. “There’s a new column for blind items. About the students. Can you believe that this shit actually made the final cut? It’s awesome.”

You invaded her personal space to look at her phone screen. “No way. What are they saying?”

Utahime laughed. “Just read it for yourself. I had to change my outfit because I read them this morning while brushing my teeth and laughed so hard, I toothpaste-bombed my own shirt.”

Reading the blind items to yourself, you can’t help but stifle your laugh that comes before the unease settles in. Someone had written these based on what they had observed, and despite how harmless they seemed now, the concept of that person walking among you was something that left a pit in your stomach.

A certain basketball player was seen coming back to his dorm room around 4 a.m. with multiple shades of lipstick on his neck.

A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has been shitting in the showers for two weeks straight.

A sorority girl tossed the entirety of her roommate’s makeup collection out the window and blamed it on someone else, resulting in their expulsion from the sorority.

A notorious rich boy blew his semester’s allowance on a new sports car.

You skimmed the rest and ensured that none of them could be about you before you handed Utahime her phone back. “I’m sure we all know who number four is about.”

She shrugged but nodded anyway. “Right? I mean, Gojo revs his engine like it’s nobody’s business all the time.” She looked down at her phone. “I wonder who’s shitting in the showers, though.”

“Maybe that one’s about Gojo, too,” you quipped, too quickly to hide the bite in your voice.

You regretted how much you sounded like your mother then, and how easily it had come out. 

Your family’s disdain for the Gojo family stemmed long before you were born. Hell, before your parents were even born. The details of it all were up for interpretation at this point—nobody talked about it, and you never dared to ask—but to your understanding, Gojo’s great-great-great-grandfather had screwed over yours—somehow, some way—and this was what had come of it. You would be reluctant to believe it. After all, there were quite a few tools in your own family, and you liked to believe you were nothing like them.

But the asshat that was Satoru Gojo lived up to his reputation, as far as you’d learned. That was enough for you to write him off. 

Not to mention, he was the only student here at Mikage who posed a threat to you. He was academically gifted and never let you forget it; most things came easier to him than they did you, and you hated him for it. 

Well, that and the time he spilled beer all over your shoes at a frat party freshman year. He probably didn’t even remember it had happened, but you did, because some other dipshit had been recording the entire ordeal and posted it online.

The earful you’d gotten from your parents that day was enough for you to stay away from him entirely.

All the while, Utahime raised her eyebrow with a grin. “Oh, wow. You’d better hope he didn’t hear that, or else you just lost a vote.”

☆

All things considered, you were having a good day.

Even though your hair is still slightly damp from the rain and the perfume you put on only two hours ago has nearly worn off, you’re pretty confident that you’ve just aced your first Anatomy & Physiology test. 

Every other person in the lecture hall is already relaxed, scrolling on their phones while they wait for your professor to hand back the graded exams—because all things considered, it’s only worth three percent of your total grade after all calculations. And yes, you have done the calculations (twice!), because heaven forbid you be uninformed about anything relating to your academics.

You glance at your watch nervously. You hope this class is released on time, because attending it was only the second thing you’ve checked off your mile-long to-do list for the day. 

You have a student council meeting at 2 p.m., a meeting with Professor Yaga at 3:15 p.m. about an upcoming scholarship opportunity, and a study date with Sukuna at 4 p.m.—where he doesn’t do much of anything at all aside from scrolling through red pill looksmaxxer Instagram reels for two hours.

A test is lazily tossed back onto your desk, and you pick it up immediately.

It’s a 98%. An A.

You smile to yourself, but it doesn’t last very long. It falters the moment you feel a presence looming over your shoulder—one that carries the scent of expensive cologne. It’s light and masculine, and reminds you of summer, for whatever reason. You may have complimented it if the presence hadn’t beaten you to speaking.

“Only a ninety-eight? Poor thing. Didn’t sleep well or something?”

Suddenly, your compliment dries up, because you’d know that voice anywhere. Satoru fucking Gojo.

You snap your head around so fast it nearly spins off your spine. “Stay away from me and get a life,” you say through gritted teeth, but snatch his test from his hands despite yourself.

And there, in the top corner, written in pen, is a 100%. From what you can tell from all the talking he’s doing right now—which you aren’t listening to a lick—he’s pretty intent on rubbing it in your face.

He clicks his tongue and places his hand on the back of your seat, using it for leverage as he leans over you a bit more. “See? You got number thirteen wrong. You said the fluid inside body cells is extracellular fluid. Ouch.” He pats the back of your seat, as if it’s any consolation. “You know, I’m free Thursday afternoons. I could tutor you, and once the exam comes around, that frown will be turned right-side up—”

You stand abruptly and hand his test back to him, your wrist so rigid it may as well cut through ice. “Oh, I’m so good off that. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with an ice pick.”

Satoru tilts his head, his grin so smug it makes you sick. “Well, suit yourself. Speaking of—pretty sure ice picks are usually on clearance this time of year. Y’know, with it being spring and all.”

A single glance around the room tells you nearly everyone else has already left, and that it’s painfully obvious you and Satoru are the only ones who stayed behind to talk. You’d rather not be spotted with him again. You don’t bother hiding your eye roll as you zip up your backpack and walk away, crumpled test in tow.

“Hey, where are you going? What about our riveting conversation?” he calls after you, and you can practically hear his grin when he speaks. “It was a funny joke!”

The door slams shut behind you.

☆

You can’t stand Sukuna—no matter how hard you try.

“Can you at least turn that down?”

Sukuna grumbled under his breath before slumping even lower into the seat he dwarfed in size, but he lowered the volume of his Instagram reels just enough to pacify you. “What’s it matter, anyway? There’s nobody here.”

You huffed and tried not to take it personally, as the single person currently sitting beside him. “It matters to me because, unlike some people, I actually care about my grades. Very shocking, I know.”

It might be shocking to most—which you’d understand, because it even shocks you on most days—but Sukuna is one of the few people in your life who understands you.

Not when it comes to the things that make you who you are as an independent person. He couldn’t recite your full name if he tried, nor could he remember your birthday, favorite color, or go-to drink order at your favorite café.

Because at the end of the day, Sukuna doesn’t see you. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to. But after everything, he knows you better than most. He knows about the things you don’t say out loud. He knows how much you hate going home, because he hates it just as much. He knows that none of this truly matters, because your parents have had your futures lined up for over a decade, and none of your hard work plays a factor in that.

Where the two of you differ is this: you still seem to be under the assumption that hard work might relieve you of your fate, but Sukuna has long since adopted a different worldview. He thinks that if everything is going to work out in the end—a nice house, a somewhat decent spouse, a few kids in the far future—then what’s the point in trying in the meantime?

“Jeez, woman. I was just asking. It that time of the month or somethin’?”

You scoffed, but didn’t dignify him with a reply.

You don’t know what this is exactly—whatever you and Sukuna are. You aren’t dating. You have kissed a few times—experimental and primarily drunk kisses shared at parties that never amounted to anything, because, well… you just don’t like each other. You aren’t sure if you’re even friends, or if you’d want to be.

At most, you’re familial acquaintances, which is the polite way of saying that he is supposed to be your husband one day, if your parents have anything to say about it.

“I just need to focus. Yaga said I have a good chance at landing the internship, but that doesn’t mean I should start slacking off now.”

“What internship?”

You blinked.

“The internship I applied for three months ago?”

Sukuna blinked.

“The one I passed three rounds of interviews for?”

You scoffed. “For fuck’s sake, Sukuna, it’s just about the only thing I’ve been talking about for months!”

He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, okay. Jeez. The only thing I’m noticing right now is that I’m not the only one being loud in the library anymore.”

A swarm of harsh replies flooded your mind, but you tamped them down—because you were 99% percent sure Sukuna was far too dim-witted to grasp whatever insult you could chuck his way anyway.

“Whatever. I need to get going.” You packed up your belongings and stood, taking a step in the opposite direction before he caught your arm. You glared back at him. “What?”

“Are you mad at me or somethin’? What’d I say?”

Once again, you didn’t give him a reply and walked away.

Sukuna leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a shake of his head. “Women.”

Once in the hallway, you approached the vending machine. You could use a pick-me-up, even if it were in the form of junk food. Just as you were within a few feet of it, an infuriating man with white hair slid in front of you. Satoru was quick to slide a dollar into the machine and punch in whatever he wanted.

“Oh—sorry, did you want something?” he asked over his shoulder, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips.

You were fed up with men today. No, scratch that. You were more than fed up with men today. You rolled your eyes and began to walk away, and maybe Satoru had a change of heart, or maybe he realized that your fallen expression didn’t just have to do with running into him.

“Hey, no— come back, I’m serious,” he called after you. He reached into his pocket and slid another dollar into the machine. “What do you want?”

You turned around, eyeing him closely. “I don’t need your dollar, Gojo.”

Unfazed by your tone, he laughed. It was boyish and carefree in a way that surprised you. “I know you don’t,” he said simply. “Way to make me feel nice about my good deed, though. I didn’t know a single dollar could move you so much.” You narrowed your eyes at him, and he tilted his head toward the machine in response. “C’mon. Pick something.”

And because you just couldn’t catch a break today, your stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly. You placed a hand over your abdomen immediately, your face nearly losing its color.

“…Gummy bears,” you finally managed to choke out. “Please.”

Satoru smiled and punched in the corresponding code for a bag of Haribo Gummy Bears. “Decent choice for a starving woman. Not sweet enough for my taste, but decent.”

You huffed out a breath, watching him retrieve both of your chosen snacks. “Sour Patch Kids? Really?”

He handed you the gummy bears before nodding once. “Yup. Really.” He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “I thought you’d like them. I mean, you’d definitely fit in with them.”

“Fit in with who?”

Satoru tore the bag open and popped one into his mouth. “The Sour Patch Kids. Y’know—with this whole mean-girl-who-hates-me getup you’ve got going on. Really sour of you.”

Your eyebrows pinched together. “That’s so stupid.”

“Yeah, but you almost smiled. Saw it with my own eyes,” he chirped back, chewing on the candy. You smoothed your expression, and he shook his head. “No, no, no— don’t hide it now. That’s just unfair. I paid a dollar for that smile.”

Your face tightened, because now you really were fighting the urge to smile, damn it. “Whatever,” you snapped as you started to walk away—then stopped, your expression tightening even more. “I mean… thank you. For the gummy bears.” You said one last thing before turning your back on him. “And don’t think this means I like you now, because I don’t.”

Satoru just smiled. “Yeah, of course, wouldn’t dream of it.”

☆

Your phone vibrated late into the night.

If it were any other day, you would’ve been fast asleep by now. You’d been strict about your sleep schedule ever since you accidentally discovered—at twelve years old, six hours into a late-night 3 a.m. deep dive—that not sleeping enough can result in the brain eating itself. 

But even the fear of having a peanut-sized brain by the time you were forty hadn’t been enough to lull you to sleep tonight, which was how you found yourself watching ASMR cat spa day videos at 1 a.m.

You groaned when you glanced at the top of your screen and saw who dared to interrupt your doomscrolling.

sukuna: hey

sukuna: i can see u reading my texts.

sukuna: stop being mad at me and listen

sukuna: theres a party tomorrow night and i think you should come

sukuna: and before u get all “i need to focus and stay in and be boring all the time” on me just listen

sukuna: u should take time away from your hw and relax

You nearly smiled. This might’ve been the nicest thing Sukuna had ever said to you.

sukuna: plus i wanna go and it looks bad if we arent there together. people talk.

Never mind.

you: i’ll think about it

sukuna: cool. be ready by 9

you: i never said i was going???

☆

Spoiler alert: you wound up coming to the party.

The air is stale and smells of vape smoke and alcohol. The frat house is far too crowded, and from where you’re standing in the kitchen, everyone looks like a pack of sardines wiggling around to a 2010s pop song that no one has quite caught the rhythm for yet. And yet, for all of your complaining, you’re still here—looking your best, at that.

You weren’t as much of a bore as Sukuna made you out to be, but you could admit that you didn’t party nearly as much as you had when you first started at Mikage. The passing of time makes you more responsible, or whatever the poets say—you can’t remember, and you’re honestly a little tipsy already, truth be told.

Suddenly, Shoko nudges your side with her elbow. “Hey, party girl. You gonna stand in here all night, or do you plan on joining us at some point?”

“I didn’t even see you there,” you say through a laugh, waving a hand through the air to dissipate some of the vape smoke Toji blows only a few feet away. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

You follow her through the crowd, only managing to bump into a few people along the way while clutching your Solo cup tight to your chest. It’s warmer now that you’re enveloped in this sea of bodies; your cheeks feel hot, but you pay no mind to it. You’re not sure how long it takes before you and Shoko reunite with Utahime and Nobara, the four of you forming a little circle for yourselves—something that looks conspiratorial from the outside, but feels like a haven on the inside.

“Took you long enough,” Nobara says by way of greeting. She glances down at your cup. “What’d you find in the kitchen?”

“I don’t even know what the hell this is. I just grabbed whatever was unopened and poured it into a cup with ice. I’m hoping it’ll water down,” you reply with a shrug.

Nobara scoffs. “Toji never stocks shit for these parties—deadass, this is the worst frat. I don’t even know why we come here.”

Shoko laughs, though you can barely hear it over the music. “We come here because girls get in free at the door. I mean, if I’m gonna get shitfaced and regret my decisions tomorrow morning, I sure as hell don’t wanna pay for it.”

Utahime taps Shoko’s cup. “Yeah, speaking of getting shitfaced—you’re drinking water once you finish that. I can’t carry you back to your dorm. The last time I tried, I basically dragged you there.”

Shoko groans but doesn’t fight it. All of a sudden, the three of them lock eyes on something directly behind you, and their expressions fall.

Utahime’s face goes white as she places her hands on your shoulders. “Girl, don’t turn around. I’m so serious.”

“What are you talking about?” Your brows knit together, even as you’re already turning.

And when you see it, your eyes widen.

Sukuna is making out with some girl in the center of the room, and while the sight doesn’t make you sick, it does make you nervous. In the span of three seconds, a million thoughts rush through your mind.

You’re granted a glimpse into your future: a future where you marry a man who invites you to a party just to make out with another girl right in front of you. A future where you never feel secure enough to let your guard down, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A future where you die even more miserable than you feel right now.

Not because you’re jealous. No, you couldn’t care less what the hell he does. It’s the principle that bothers you.

If you were expected to keep up appearances and make time to “bond” with him out of your already packed schedule, why was he allowed to do whatever he pleased?

You hope no one else is paying as much attention to him as you are, because the last thing you need is both of your parents finding out and breathing down your neck, trying to put Sukuna on a leash.

“Just classless,” Shoko hums.

You turn back around, laughing. “He’s a mess. I don’t know what the hell my parents are thinking.”

Nobara sighs. “You should run away and join the circus or something. They’ll never find you.”

“Super helpful, Nobara. Thank you,” Utahime says flatly.

You laugh to yourself, knowing they’re only trying to make you feel better. But the impending doom of your upcoming graduation feels worse than ever now. You feel suffocated—like the air is too warm to breathe—so you mumble out a half-assed excuse before slipping through the crowd and out onto the balcony.

It’s cold outside. Refreshing against your skin.

The party has spilled out onto the front lawn, and the sight is so ridiculous it brings you an odd sense of comfort. Choso wobbles on two unsteady legs with Nanami perched on his shoulders, currently trying—and failing—to fish toilet paper out of a tree. Two seconds later, they go tumbling over together, face-planting into the grass.

“That’s gotta hurt.”

You gasp, wrenching away from the edge of the balcony to look behind you.

And there he stood.

Satoru fucking Gojo.

Only now, he looks different. More casual. Relaxed, right down to the smoothed wrinkle between his eyebrows and the clothes he’s wearing now. You’ve never seen him in anything but collared dress shirts and black slacks, courtesy of Mikage Academy’s suffocating dress code.

He takes a step closer. Then another. Soon he’s beside you, forearms resting on the railing. His shirt stretches across his frame, and your eyes traitorously trace the curve of his bicep. The sharp line of his jaw. The slope of his nose.

You tear your gaze away before it gets embarrassing. Has he always looked like that?

Clearing your throat, you mirror his posture. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he replies easily. He glances at you, then back out at the lawn. “Nice party. Solid DJ choice.”

You huff. “Small talk? Really?”

Satoru shrugs. “I figured I should ease into it. You don’t exactly look like you’re in the mood for my usual charm.”

“You mean being insufferable?”

“Wow,” he says. “I was more so going for memorable.”

Your eyes meet. You’re the first to look away.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I don’t really know how to talk to you when I’m not irritated with you and your stupid gloating.” You pause, then lift a finger. “And before you say anything—I aced the quiz yesterday. So if you came out here to rub it in, save it.”

“Oh no,” Satoru deadpans. “My entire plan— ruined right before my eyes.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling, but it’s softer than usual. 

“No,” he continues, dropping his head slightly. “That’s not why I came out here.”

Your brows pinch together. “No?”

“Nope. I needed air. And maybe a tetanus shot after sitting on that couch, ‘cause that thing’s disgusting.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“And,” he adds casually, “I saw you come out here.”

You turn toward him. Somehow, his eyes look brighter at night. “Is that your official reason?”

“Mostly,” he says. “What can I say? I’m curious.”

“About?”

“About why you look like you’d rather be anywhere else than at a party like this.”

You hesitate. “It’s… complicated, I guess.”

“Ah,” Satoru nods. 

You scoff, easily reading between the lines. “It has nothing to do with Sukuna. Well— okay, maybe a little. But not like that.”

He tilts his head. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looked like your boyfriend might have a lot to do with it.”

“Ew. No,” you say quickly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Something shifts in Satoru’s expression. “Good to know.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just is.”

You roll your eyes, but continue anyway, words spilling easier now. “If my parents have their way, he’ll probably be more than my boyfriend someday.” You grimace. “Which is terrifying, because he’s about as smart as a box of rocks, and I can’t be around him for more than ten minutes without wanting to bang my head against the wall.”

Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Here I thought I was harsh.”

Panic flickers through you when he doesn’t say anything else right away.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you rush on. “There are people who’d kill to have something lined up like that, and here I am complaining. My mom married my dad for business reasons and they’re… fine. I think.” You run a hand over your hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be married right after graduation. I don’t even know if I want to get married at all.”

Satoru doesn’t interrupt, but when he does speak, his voice is quieter. “That doesn’t sound stupid. In a place like this,” he gestures toward campus, “everything’s a transaction. Degrees, connections, last names.” He scoffs lightly. “My parents won’t shut up about networking. Meanwhile, the best relationship I’ve built here is with the lady who gives me extra french toast in the dining hall.”

You laugh, clearly surprised. Not only because the french toast sucks, but because you wouldn’t expect something like that from him. It should make you feel less impressed with him, but for some reason, it doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “Peace isn’t exactly encouraged around here. If anything, you’re expected to trade for it.”

“And you?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “You don’t seem all that worried about it, for someone who comes from a family like yours.”

Satoru shrugs again, but this time it’s different. Less flippant. “Guess I just decided a while ago that I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.”

The quiet that follows is heavier than the music inside. You can hear the hollers and shuffling feet just inside, but it fades away just as quickly as it came.

“You make it sound easy,” you say.

He smiles. “Hey, I never said it was. It’s just easier than the alternative, is all.”

You nod because it feels appropriate, and you aren’t sure what else you should do. Talking with him is surprisingly easy, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to be doing it. That you should be doing it. Even now, you wish you could resonate with Satoru’s ideology, because all you can think about is how much your parents would hate this.

“My parents would hate this,” you blurt out, accidentally saying your thoughts aloud.

You look at him, embarrassed and doing your best to hide it. It feels strange, knowing just how much you’re supposed to hate talking to him yourself, but don’t.

He rubs the back of his neck. “This conversation?”

You try not to stare at his bicep, flexing right in your face.

“Yeah,” you admit. “My parents hate your family. Always have.”

“Mine aren’t exactly fans of yours either.” Satoru laughs, tilting his head slightly. The feeling was mutual—he couldn’t take much offense at it. Still, he asks, “Do you feel that way too?”

“What do you mean?”

He turns to look at you, his expression almost serious. “Do you hate me?”

You huff. “I don’t even understand the reasoning all that much. I just know that the animosity exists, and that I’m expected to respect it— and I guess I have, for the most part.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” he replies simply. “Do you hate me? On your own terms?” He pauses then, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he looked a tad nervous. “I’m sure I’ve given you enough of a reason to. More than one, I’d bet.” He glances away. “The first time we ever spoke, I spilled beer all over your shoes. I shouldn’t have been holding it anyway— I hate beer.”

“I knew you remembered!” you yell, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve been holding that grudge against you for years now.”

“What? Of course I remember. I apologized immediately,” he says quickly. “Pretty sure I almost got on my knees and everything.”

You click your tongue and shake your head. “The damage was already done.”

The conversation stills for a moment, and you choke over your words before managing a more serious reply. 

“For as obnoxious as you are, I don’t hate you. No. I don’t even know you well enough to hate you if I wanted to.”

“Alright, I’ll take it.” Satoru smiles to himself. “I think you’d form a better opinion of me if you let me get to know you. You’re a tough nut to crack, you know— been tryin’ for years.”

You stare at him, and he doesn’t cower in response. Not that he typically would, but you half-expected him to.

“I’m serious,” he says instead. “We should be friends.”

Your laugh comes out sharp. “Absolutely not. My parents would be livid. Beyond livid, actually—they’d probably murder me. And I mean, a true crime podcaster’s wet dream type of murder. No joke.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I think we should definitely be friends,” he says through his laughter. “I’ve always wanted to be in a documentary. Confessionals and all. A face like this is made for the cameras.”

“You’re such a jerk,” you scoff, nudging his side, barely able to fight off your smile.

“Mm-hmm. A big jerk that you’re still talking to,” he replies. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted to be my friend too.”

You don’t reply, which might have just been an answer in and of itself.

For the first time throughout this entire conversation, Satoru turns his body to face you properly. His head tilts down enough to accommodate the height difference between you.

“I think this might be the first argument you’ve ever let me win,” he grins.

You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t a win. It’s more like… a draw. A tie.”

“Sure. A draw, a tie. Potato, potahto. Whatever.” He extends his hand toward you. “So. Friends?”

You take it and shake it. “Yes. Friends.”

He smiles. “See? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

When your hands fall apart, Satoru’s hand stills at his side—fingers flexing—before he grasps the railing. You straighten, stepping back from it yourself. The night air suddenly feels too thin, as if there isn’t enough of it for the two of you to breathe anymore. More anxiety than anything else.

“I should probably go,” you murmur. “It’s late.”

And you’ve been talking for quite some time now, which only means it’s a matter of time before someone notices and writes a blind item in that stupid newspaper column.

“Right,” he replies. “Need someone to walk you home?”

You shake your head. “I think I’ll manage.”

Satoru nods, his smile slow as it turns up at the corners. “Alright. Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Night,” you reply weakly before reemerging into the party.

You reunite with your friends, who seem even more over the night than you are. The four of you walk back to your dormitory together.

☆

You royally fucked up this time.

To no surprise, you won the student council election with flying colors. No one had the balls—or…clit? You don’t discriminate—to run against you throughout the election cycle.

With some surprise, however, you decided to celebrate your victory with the other board members, taking way too many shots from a bottle that was emptied far too quickly.

On a fucking Tuesday.

You mentally kicked yourself—and you would’ve done the same physically if you weren’t on the verge of blacking out.

Vision splotchy, you glanced around the dorm, only to find that everyone was already passed out cold. You couldn’t stay here—you had a meeting bright and early!

And so, with some difficulty, you finally managed to find your purse—the one you had hidden while sober, back when your only concern was someone stealing the $60 in cash from your wallet.

Widening your eyes, the bright screen was a blur of letters and colors, but you managed to open your contacts app. Typing in an ‘S,’ you clicked Shoko’s contact, praying she was awake and able to come pick you up from the off-campus housing.

The line rang twice before someone answered.

You sigh in relief. “Girl, red alert! Get your sexy ass up and come pick me up!…please.”

“Woah, Prez. I had no idea you thought about me this way. Tell me more.”

Your heart dropped straight to your ass.

“Satoru…?” you whine, more than ask.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m startin’ to think you meant to call someone else. Bit of a blow to my ego, but I can handle it.”

Slumping against the couch, you huff. “Meant to call Shoko. Need a ride.”

Silence filled the line for a moment, then an insufferably attractive laugh broke it. “Are you drunk right now?”

You sniffled. “A little. I mean—a lottle. I-I mean, a lot. Very drunk. Drunk and stranded.”

You heard rustling on the other end, the faint jangle of keys. Your eyes fell shut. You were so damn tired.

“Okay, I just left my apartment. Where are you?”

In any other situation, you would’ve refused Satoru Gojo’s help. You were a strong, independent woman. You didn’t need a man to come to your rescue.

But the longer you sat on this couch, the more you wanted to ditch your mandatory meeting in the A.M. and pass out right here.

Even in this state, you were smart enough to know staying wasn’t an option.

“I’m at off-campus housing down the street. Please hurry. And bring water. And snacks. And a blanket. And—”

“Yes, boss, I’ve already got all of that—along with a partridge in a pear tree. Jeez, you’re needy.” He laughed, and it made you pout. “I’m only a few minutes away. Hang tight.”

⭑

“Watch your head, watch your head!”

Thunk.

“Oww,” you whine, rubbing the top of your head while Satoru busied himself fastening your seatbelt.

Rounding the front of his sports car, he slips into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life a few seconds later, but the car stayed in park. Instead, he reaches for the ice-cold water bottle in the cup holder, twisting off the cap before handing it to you.

“How much did you have to drink?” he asks, sounding almost agonized. “Don’t know if you know this, but it’s Tuesday night.”

It took you about ten seconds, a long drink of water, and a deep sigh of relief before you answered. 

“I won the presidency,” you finally say, as if that answered everything.

“Ah.” He reaches for a nearby pack of gummy bears. “This good? That’s all I could find on the way.”

“Yes,” you barely cared, tearing the package open. “Y’know, Gojo…you’re kinda nice.”

He huffs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really? What gave you that idea?”

Chewing thoughtfully, you started listing things your sober self would’ve never admitted.

“You came to get me even though I’m such a bitch to you. And you brought me water, and my favorite candy, and—hic!”

Satoru hums, clearly entertained. “Uh-huh. Keep going.”

“And you tease me all the time, but you aren’t that mean when it comes down to it…” You sniffle. “I honestly wish you were. It’d be easier to hate you.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he finally shifts the car into drive. “Aw, sorry about that. I can be mean to you if you want?”

The drive was quiet, mostly because it was so short—the streets were empty at this ungodly hour. When Satoru parked and killed the engine, he turned to look at you and froze.

You were chewing on gummy bears with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Are you a sad drunk?” he asks, even though he already knew. “Aw, you are, aren’t you?”

You sniffle. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He shifts toward you, more careful now, lifting the water bottle back to your lips. “‘Cause we’re friends now. I’m nice to my friends. C’mere.”

To his surprise, you let him tip the bottle, drinking without protest.

Swallowing, you frowned. “No, you aren’t.” Sniffle. “You’re mean to Suguru. And Nanami. And Toji…”

Satoru’s smile is lopsided. “You have a point. Guess I’m just nice to you then.”

“But why?” you press, not even realizing it. “You have no reason to be.”

Satoru was the type of man who had never needed to wish on stars to get what he wanted.

All it took was a swipe of one of his many credit cards or the mention of his family name. It worked without fail.

For everything except one thing, and she was sitting right beside him.

Oblivious to the fact that since freshman year, she’d made his heart race every time she was near. From the moment he met her in biology—cut down by her sharp tongue—he’d felt motivated instead of defeated.

He’d gone home that night thinking about her. Stayed up, even, planning ways to talk to you the next day. Ways to make you look at him. Talk to him. Give him the time of day.

You had no idea what you did to him, and right now, he had no place to tell you.

He leans back with a quiet hum. “For someone so smart, you can be a little dense sometimes.”

Your sniffle cut him off. His head snaps toward you, and his chest nearly caved in at the sight of fresh tears welling up.

“No, no, no, no— hey, I was joking! I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

Satoru cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. His eyes searched yours, softening despite himself. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You’re kinda cute when you’re drunk,” he says.

What the fuck?

Why would he say that out loud? Right now? Of all times?

“You’re kinda cute all the time,” you replied easily, fingers fumbling with the pendant on his necklace. “You smell really nice, too.”

Satoru’s heartbeat doubled, but he forced himself not to read into it. Not now. Not when you’re in this state.

He cleared his throat, pulling his hands away. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

He stepped out first, then opened your door. Your eyes met his as he reached in to unbuckle you. “Easy,” he murmured.

Getting you out of the car was about ninety-five percent Satoru’s effort; you leaned into him the majority of the way, the two of you making your way toward the side entrance. It felt like it took hours to climb the stairs—but in reality, Satoru carried most of your weight without breaking a sweat.

By the time you reached your room, he helped you onto your bed, carefully slipping off your heels. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing over the faint mark the strap had left behind. He leaned over you slightly, hand smoothing over your hair.

“Get some sleep, okay?”

You didn’t notice when he set a bottle of aspirin and fresh water on your nightstand. You just curled under your blankets on instinct, heavy with exhaustion. Your eyes cracked open just enough to catch your on-call-Uber-driver-slash-friend retreating toward the door.

“Satoru?” you called.

He paused, one foot already out. “Mm?”

“I like it when you’re nice to me.” You shook your head. “No—I mean… I like being your friend.”

Satoru smiled faintly. “Me too.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

☆

You despise how much you enjoy being friends with Satoru Gojo.

You despise how attentive he is. How he silently hands you a pencil a beat after you realize you’ve come without one. How he holds the seat down for you so you can sit more easily in the lecture hall. How he gives you one of his AirPods whenever you’re in the library together, looking for your own books respectively, yet highly aware of how far you are from him when the music begins to chop up.

You despise how much he’s gotten you to let your guard down. How he makes you laugh whenever one of your student council meetings goes awry, because the high of being reelected as council president only lasts until the first meeting. How he assures you that you can get through whatever issue you’re working through with your boardmates, because, according to him, if you were able to snag his vote, then you can just about do anything. How he references Digimon or whatever video game he’s played last into just about every other conversation, to the point where it borders on endearing and annoying—but the expression he wears when he talks about it makes you easily decide on the former.

You despise how he makes you feel. How a simple nudge to your side whenever you reply with a smartass comment makes your face feel warm. How the scent of his cologne lingers after he leaves, and how you feel disappointed when it finally dissipates. How you’ve now become acutely aware of the length of his eyelashes, the vibrance of his eyes, the smile lines that look more handsome on him than you’d ever like to admit.

But more than anything, you despise that you just can’t find anything to hate about him—no matter how hard you try.

It had only been a little over a month, and yet it’s difficult to remember what it was like when the two of you weren’t friends, or what faulty reason you had to hate him in the first place.

You doodle a bit rougher in your notebook as you wait for instruction to begin, trying to get your mind off it. Off him.

Like clockwork, he plops down into the seat beside you, lazily extending his legs before placing a small white box on your desk.

“What’s this?” you ask, setting your pen down. When you open it, you find your favorite pastry sitting inside, untouched. Your brows knit together. “How’d you know this was my favorite?”

When you look at him, he’s already chewing a bite of the muffin he bought for himself.

“We’ve been to the café twice together and you got the same thing both times. How could I not know by now?”

You take a bite of your own, chewing thoughtfully. You’ve been to the café with Sukuna more times than you can count on both hands, and not once has he remembered what your go-to order is. It shouldn’t mean so much—in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a four dollar pastry—but it does. It feels good to be known, even in the simplest way.

“Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no prob,” he replies, setting his muffin down. “Your stomach growls when you don’t eat in the morning—I could hear it from three aisles back.”

You shove his shoulder, eyes wide. “Shut up. No, you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he relents with a grin, glancing your way. “It was four aisles back.”

You roll your eyes, face warm. You glance down at his muffin, and he clutches it closer to himself.

“No looksies,” Satoru says firmly. “Daddy doesn’t like to share.”

You grimace. “Ew. Gross. Don’t call yourself that.”

“Mommy doesn’t like to share?” 

“Even worse.”

Satoru sighs in playful defeat, and just in time—before he can try again—your professor addresses the class and starts the lecture.

And no more than five minutes later, he doesn’t even complain when you ask for a bite of his muffin.

☆

You’re nervous about your upcoming Anatomy & Physiology exam.

The air outside is brisk, the cold biting at your cheeks as you speedwalk toward your dormitory. Even though this is nowhere near your first rodeo with the freezing-to-pleasant transition between winter and spring, it never gets easier to manage. Especially not now, with your arms full of flash cards, two folders, an oversupply of fresh scratch paper, and blank scantrons that are just about begging to be practiced on—which means you don’t have a free hand to grab a hot chocolate from the on-campus café. What a great start to your study session this is.

Your steps are quick, and from afar, you probably look like you’re lightly jogging, which isn’t the best look considering you’re wearing a thick, furry winter coat and a pair of fuzzy pajama pants. It isn’t ideal, but you planned for this venture outside your dorm room to be quick.

That is, until you trip on a shift in the sidewalk and tumble forward.

You catch yourself on your hands, which only makes you realize that your supplies are now blowing away. You manage to pick up a few things on your own and reach for a folder—only to realize someone else has already picked it up.

“Nearly gone with the wind,” Satoru sighs. “Good thing I was here to save the day. No need for thanks— it’s all in a day’s work.”

You straighten once you’ve gathered the rest of your things. “You and your gloating. Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, then glances down. “Cute slippers.”

Your eyes follow his gaze to the fuzzy slippers you only ever dare to wear out when your feet are freezing. You shift your feet and nudge his chest. “Shut up. They’re warm!”

“And fashionable,” he lilts, and gestures to the armful in your hands. “What’s all this for?”

“Studying,” you answer, because it’s obvious. “I’m gonna make flashcards for the A&P exam and probably take a few practice tests.” You reach for the folder still in his grasp. “So, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down a sec.” Satoru lifts the folder out of reach. “Let me help you out, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes. “Why? Don’t you want to score better than me anyway?”

“Oh no,” Satoru says flatly, face blank. “You’ve exposed my master plan once again. Whatever will I do?” Then he grins. “How could you think so little of me? I’ll score better than you without sabotage, you know that.”

“As if,” you retort, averting his gaze.

Satoru raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so confident, prove me wrong.”

You tuck your lips into your mouth, weighing his offer. On one hand, you’re hesitant to let him into your room—afraid that you might not dislike it. That you might even like being alone with him. On the other, you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge like this.

Your pride settles it for you.

“Fine,” you say. “I will. Follow me.”

☆

Rumor has it that this was where it all truly began.

Your bedroom.

It was all rather easy at first. You’d spent about an hour making flashcards, a time primarily spent in silence—save for his voice making noise pollution every so often. Mostly moans and groans about how bored and hungry he is, which fall on deaf ears.

By the time you finish the deck, Satoru’s jacket is hanging on the back of your desk chair, and he’s lazily sprawled across your bed. He’d offered to take the chair, but you insisted that sitting made you focus better. Which it does, but you’re also too nervous to sit beside him on the bed right now.

He tosses a stress ball toward the ceiling, catching it with one hand. “Done yet? I’m dying here. The fun part is supposed to be me quizzing you.”

You straighten the cards before tossing them his way, the deck landing on his stomach. “Yes, now hurry up. I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chirps, propping himself up against your pillows as he gathers the cards. He clears his throat, glances once at you, then back down. “What are the two primary functions of the skeletal system?”

It doesn’t take you more than a second. “Support the body and protect softer body parts.”

He hums and flicks to the next card. “What three things does the muscular system allow the body to do?”

You hum, rubbing your chin. “Movement, support, and… heat production.”

Another flick. “What about the nervous system?”

“It controls immediate responses to stimuli,” you answer easily.

Satoru huffs, flipping through card after card as you breeze through half the deck. Soon you’re naming the primary functions of individual muscles—temporalis, masseter, sternocleidomastoid, extensor digitorum—you’ve lost count of how many you’ve answered correctly. You’re zoned in, until he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“These are too easy for you,” he declares. “You need something more challenging.”

You squint and lean back in your chair. “What? These are plenty challenging.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced. “Nope. You need more independent practice. Stuff you can’t predict.”

“Like what?” you ask. “Since you’re so smart, I’m assuming you have an alternative method. Put up or shut up.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, meeting your gaze without missing a beat. He’s long since learned your tone, your bite. He grins and sits up straighter, lifting an arm and pointing to his own. “What does the tricep do?”

You blink. “Straightens the arm at the elbow? Duh. I thought this was supposed to be hard.”

“Shh, be patient. A master is at work.” He pauses, then asks, “What about the orbicularis oris?”

Your posture straightens against your will, gaze dropping to his mouth. Your eyes trace the curve of his lips—where that muscle would be—and you watch as the corners of his mouth tug upward. Five seconds pass—longer than any question has taken you so far.

“It allows for movement in the lips,” you finally say.

“Mm,” he sighs. “Only half credit. That’s a little vague. Name three specific functions and I might reconsider.”

The room feels warmer. You clear your throat. “Speech, whistling, and… kissing.” Your eyes flick away to your desk as you fuss with loose papers, trying to come off as busy or distracted. You add quickly, “It’s informally known as the kissing muscle. Everyone knows that.”

A low whistle leaves him as he rises from the bed, stretching his arms over his head before stalking toward your desk. He stops behind your chair, flashcards still in hand.

“What’re you doing?” you ask, still facing forward.

He sets the cards down in front of you and places one hand on the desk, leaning just slightly over you. He isn’t touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back, and certainly close enough to make your thoughts scatter.

“Told you,” he murmurs. “I’m helping you study.”

You swallow. “How, exactly?”

He exhales, breath brushing your neck. “Have you practiced for the muscle identification portion yet?”

Shit. You’d nearly forgotten about that. From what you remembered your professor saying, there would be anatomy models stationed around the classroom, highlighted with nothing more than a single muscle on each one. It would be your responsibility to name the muscle and its function on the spot.

“Not really,” you admit, shrugging. Your back brushes his chest, and you clear your throat quickly. “How do you plan on helping with that?”

Satoru brushes your hair off your shoulder, knuckles barely grazing the back of your neck before his thumb presses gently into a muscle along your upper back. “For starters: what muscle just helped you shrug your shoulders?”

You swallow thickly. Your breath leaves you shaky, and you hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps rising on your skin when his thumb traces again, slow and deliberate. Meant to tease you, you’d imagine.

“Upper trapezius,” you say, breathy despite yourself.

“Good.” You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand moves, thumb sliding to the back of your neck. “Your neck’s tense.”

“Well,” you say, forcing a shaky exhale, “it’s not every day I become a study tool. First day on the job.”

He laughs, and there’s something charged beneath it. “You saying you don’t like my method?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all,” you blurt. You glance up and freeze at how close his face is. “...I’ve liked others less. That’s all.”

A lopsided smile. “So you want to continue?”

Your answer is immediate. “Yes.”

His thumb presses more firmly at your neck. “What muscle is tensed up here?”

“Trick question,” you mutter, “still the upper trapezius.”

“Good.” His hand flattens, gliding down your back, following the natural arch of your spine as your breath catches in your throat. “Now tell me—”

Your heart is pounding.

“—what muscle is making your back arch like that?”

You scoff, trying to straighten. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s not an answer,” he tuts. “Don’t know it, huh?”

“Of course I do,” you stammer.

“Then tell me, smart girl.”

Your stomach twists with nerves and something far more dangerous. He shouldn’t excite you. He should make you pull away, push him out, undo whatever this is. And yet, your mind wanders to what it would be like if you didn’t. If you invited him to stay instead.

You shake your head, grounding yourself. “Erector spinae.”

He hums. “See? Not so hard.”

“It was plenty hard,” you murmur, stealing a glance up at him.

He tilts his head, just enough to meet your eyes. Your lashes flutter as you switch between each of his eyes. His nose is nearly brushing yours, and it terrifies you just as much as it intrigues you. No, actually—what you’re feeling now goes beyond simple intrigue. It’s excitement. Bordering on longing.

“What are you doing?” you ask, words tumbling out of your mouth.

“Just lookin’ at you,” he replies easily. “You’re pretty.”

“Wha–? Sh-Shut up.”

He grins. “You’re cute when you’re shy, too.” 

From the beginning, Satoru was supposed to be nothing more than a thorn in your side. Someone sharp and irritating. Something to endure. But when given the chance to poke where you were weakest, he’d held you instead. 

His hand slides to your waist, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He still hasn’t pulled away, and you pray that he doesn’t. You don’t want him to. 

You lick your bottom lip without thinking. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement—and he doesn’t bother hiding it, even after he’s sure you’ve noticed.

And when he’s least expecting it, at least as far as you can tell, you rock up onto your toes, hands fisted into his shirt, and press your lips to his.

Your lips slot into his like two puzzle pieces fitting together. His hands tighten their hold on your waist, and when you force yourself to pull away, to face the music of your decision made on a whim, you find a blushing Satoru staring back at you.

A soft, nervous laugh leaves his lips, breath warm against yours.

“Well, if you thought studying was hard…”

…Oh? 

Your gaze dips.

Oh.

He’s hard.

From a single peck.

His sweatpants hang low on his hips, giving you a slight glimpse of the light trail of hair that leads toward the prominent bulge in the fabric. The sight alone makes your mouth water, enough for you to, within the span of a second, wonder what it’d be like to feel it. From sight alone, it looks big. Heavy.

Every warning system inside your head blares all at once, telling you that this is a bad, bad, bad, horrible, horrible, horrible decision. And yet, you lean into him again.

You kiss him once more, hands clutching onto his shirt as you tug him down to meet your mouth, which he does with no hesitation. His lips are softer than you imagined, gentle on yours.

“And which muscle is responsible for that?” you ask against his mouth.

He smiles, you can feel it. “Ischiocavernosus.”

Satoru’s large hands smooth over the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing at all. You’re lying on your bed before you realize it, and he is hovering atop in between your parted legs.

His lips tear away from yours, kisses mapping out a trail of heat along your jaw. Your hand slips into his hair, tugging when his mouth finds the sweet spot just beneath your ear.

Your back arches off the bed as a signifier.

“Found it,” he rumbles against your skin, smiling against it.

His mouth is searing, kissing down your clothed chest until he pushes your shirt up just enough to expose your belly. Open-mouthed kisses mark his exploration of your skin, hot and wet as he traces the curve of your side.

Your stomach flutters when his mouth kisses down your belly, strong hands holding your waist in place while his tongue darts out to get a taste of your skin.

Satoru’s movements, you realize, seem automatic. Like he’s thought about this before, planned for it, even—he was just waiting for you to give him the chance.

Hands suddenly paw at his shoulders, your hips squirming slightly. “Stop teasing me, Satoru.”

Satoru laughs, fingers tugging your fuzzy pajama pants down just enough to kiss your hip bone. “Fine, fine. Under one condition.”

Your heart pounds. “What is it?”

His hands smooth over your thighs as he shifts a bit lower. “Let me taste you.”

You blink a few times, clearly surprised. You’ve never been with a guy whose first move is to go down on you. “Okay… I mean, if you want to—ah!”

His hands are skilled in the way that they pull the hem of your pants down, leaning back just enough to peel them down your legs and toss them aimlessly onto the floor. 

Satoru’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, focused on the apex of your thighs as he flattens to his stomach. His hands move your legs to rest on his shoulders, his lips already on your inner thigh.

“Fuck, thank you,” he whispers against your skin, wet kisses inching closer to your core. 

And when his mouth finds the wet patch on the gusset of your panties, Satoru knows he’s a goner.

His grip tightens on your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut, he flattens his tongue over the fabric. That only lasts a few seconds before his fingers tug the flimsy material down your legs, and his lips are latching onto the true source.

A groan escapes him the moment his tongue laps at your essence. “Tastes so sweet.”

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at the root when his lips close around your clit. Your hips would’ve bucked into his mouth if his iron grip wasn’t keeping you in place.

Even with his face buried in your pussy, he manages to speak. 

“Mmh— tastes like candy, baby. Thought about this s’many times.”

The confirmation only makes you twitch, which he seems to notice if the firm press of his tongue to your clit is any confirmation.

“Ah— shit, Satoru. Right there.”

Satoru thinks that he could do this forever. Could live and die a happy man, cheeks warmed by your thighs pressing in on them and the taste of you on his tongue.

His nose bumps against your clit, tongue slipping lower to gather more of you on his taste buds. His hips begin to rut into the mattress like a dog in heat, a whimper leaving his throat when you tug particularly hard on his hair. 

“S-Sorry,” you manage, fingers releasing the strands of his white hair.

Blue eyes meet yours, and he forces himself to pull his tongue off you just long enough to speak. “Baby, I don’t care. Tug on it even harder if you wanna. Your pleasure feels good to me.”

“Masochist,” you say through a breathy laugh.

His mouth is back on you. “Only for you.”

You’re like sugar on his tongue, the type of ambrosia that men should go to war for. Satoru knows he would in a heartbeat.

The feeling of his tongue kitten licking your clit has your hands shooting down, one sliding back into his hair and the other scratching at the back of his hand on your thigh.

Satoru gives it to you without a second thought, your fingers lacing with his as you press his hand down on your stomach. 

His eyes crack open to watch your face, twisted in a pleasure that he’s proud to have given you. He sucks your clit into his mouth before releasing it with a slick pop.

Only, your hand in his hair presses his face back into your pussy, and Satoru is nothing if not willing to please you. 

The groan that leaves him travels up your spine, and your hips begin to twitch, thighs closing in on his head. A mewl leaves your lips, clutching his hand before you cry out, the first wave of your orgasm wracking through you.

Satoru flattens his tongue, licking up every drop of your syrupy release, hellbent on committing the taste of you to memory. 

His voice is deep and scratchy when he speaks. “You’re beautiful when you cum.”

Your eyes snap open, a newfound heat finding your cheeks. “Shut up.”

He’s crawling up to meet your lips with a smile, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. Just telling the truth.” He kisses your lips, and you taste yourself on them. “Sweetest pussy. I’d go for seconds if you let me.”

You’re tempted by the offer.

Only, something else tempts you more than it should.

Satoru hisses the moment your palm presses against the bulge in his sweatpants, forehead knocking into yours. His hips twitch against your hand, and when he closes his eyes, you can tell he’s doing his best not to grind into your hand.

A quiet laugh leaves your mouth. “I think I’d rather do something else.”

His hands fist into the bedsheets in an act of restraint. “Like what?” he asks, voice strained.

You huff, free hand taking hold of his chin, forcing him to look at you. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

“I don’t wanna assume. It’s ungentlemanly, y’know?” His lips press against yours, pulling back before you have the chance to deepen the kiss. “Ah-ah-ah, can’t do anything more ‘til the lady asks.”

He’s so fucking annoying. 

The pout on your lips is too cute to handle. Satoru debates kissing it away. Only, your next words stop him in his tracks.

They come out more demanding than you intended, trying to hide how needy you really are. “Stop wasting my time. I want you to fuck me, Satoru.”

His cock twitches against your hand. Maybe bossiness works best with him.

“That’s so hot,” he says, panting. 

Satoru immediately reaches for the hem of his sweatpants and boxers, pushing them down his legs in a hurried, uncoordinated manner. He nearly topples over once or twice in his haste.

Soon, though, his erection springs free, slapping against his stomach. It’s somehow even bigger than you initially imagined…lengthy, and flushed a pretty shade of pink at the tip.

This time, Satoru doesn’t tease you like you were expecting him to. Doesn’t gloat. 

Instead, he kisses your cheek, then your forehead, until his mouth finally finds yours, a broken sound escaping him the moment he rubs his tip through your folds.

Then, his eyes find yours, and it feels like the world stops on its axis.

Forehead to forehead. Chest to chest. Your hand in his hair, his on your cheek. With Satoru Gojo of all people. The one person in this world whom you should stay away from. 

And here he is, looking at you like you’re worth more than your family name and the money bags that come with it, like he wants you for you. Nothing else.

“We don’t have to, baby,” he whispers, sweet and gentle, as if sensing the mental games you’re playing with yourself. “I’m happy to just be here with you. I mean it.”

There it is. An out.

You should stop this before it starts. You should do your best to save the peace between you and your parents—what’s left of it, anyway. You should forget about the way your chest warms up when his thumb strokes over your cheek.

But then, wise words ring out in your mind.

I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.

And in this moment, you realize that losing Satoru would far surpass mere disappointment. It isn’t something you can bear, nor do you ever want to.

You shake your head, leaning up to kiss him, nice and soft. “I want this. So… stop making me wait.”

Satoru laughs, lips on your cheek as he notches himself on your entrance. “Yes, ma’am.”

Inch by inch, his length stretches you open, making your hands grasp at his shoulders for purchase, nails sinking into his skin. You whine at the intrusion, not used to his size by any means.

“You’re okay, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, one hand holding your cheek while the other strokes your hip. “Doing so good for me. Just a liiittle more.”

You huff, risking a glance downward, only to see he was only half inside. You throw your head back on the pillow. “Liar.” 

He smiles against your lips, kissing you. “Figured a little white lie never hurt anyone.”

A moment later, Satoru pushes his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. You both release breathy moans at the same time, grips tightening on each other.

He pulls out, just the tip remaining, before sliding back inside your warmth, creating a slow, languid pace—giving you the chance to adjust to him.

You kiss him then, all teeth and tongue and want, panting hot against his mouth while your hands slip into his hair. “Fuck— faster, Toru. Please.”

The sound of his name on your tongue, so wanton while he’s inside you, spurs him on in a way he’s never felt before. His hands take hold of your hips, angling them up slightly so that he can fuck you deeper, the pace of his hips growing needier with each passing second.

“Mmh, wanted you for so long,” he says, words muffled against your skin while he kisses down your neck. “This—hah—can’t be real, baby. Feels so good.”

You drag his mouth back up to your lips, tongues sliding against each other in a fit of passion that you can hardly comprehend right now with how good he feels. 

“So good,” you whimper into his mouth. “Want more, Satoru, please—”

“Shh, I got you,” he says.

And then his hands press down on the back of your thighs, folding them up against your chest. He pounds into you without sense, the new angle opening you up to him in a way that makes you see stars.

The sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room, the sounds of your pleasure only adding to the conversation. 

Satoru pushes your shirt up, a sound between a whimper and a gasp, leaving him the moment his gaze sets on your breasts. His mouth latches onto your nipple before he can think twice about it.

“You weren’t—mmh—wearing a bra the whole time?” 

You whine, trying to drag his mouth back to yours by your grip on his hair, but he doesn’t let up. “Y-You ask stupid questions.”

He flattens his tongue, laving over the underside of your breast, his hips never faltering. He groans against your skin. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t give me that attitude. Haven’t I been good? Yeah?”

A pout forms on your kiss-bruised lips. “Mm— I’m not giving attitude.”

Satoru laughs, the sound raspy and deep. “You are, pretty girl, but it’s okay. Toru’ll make it all better.”

His lips are back on yours, to your satisfaction, and his hand slips between the two of you, thumbing at your clit. You gasp, stealing the air from his lungs, clinging onto his shoulders and back like a koala bear.

A warmth coils in your stomach, making you squirm against his thrusts. Your nails claw into his back, raking down his skin, surely leaving marks that Satoru will admire for days. A memento of the moment he’s been waiting for.

His cock twitches inside you when you moan again, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, tight and warm. 

You whine. “Satoru—”

“Mm-hmm, I know, baby, don’t you worry,” he says, voice slightly smug as he continues to draw circles over your clit, feeling the way it pulses against his thumb. “Give it to me, sweets, know you can do it.”

Your hips buck up against his, your orgasm crashing into you. Your body tenses around him, squeezing him impossibly tighter.

If the way his pace stutters is any clue, you know he’s close. When you pulse against him, he drops his head onto your shoulder.

Satoru whimpers, so lost in his pleasure that he can no longer function. He fucks you shallowly now, and lost in your own mind, you turn your head to whisper in his ear.

“Inside,” you request, voice breathy. “Please, Toru.”

That makes Satoru cum before he can realize it. 

Hot spurts shoot inside you, his sounds muffled against your skin while his own climax wracks through him. It seems like it goes on forever, but the moment he kisses the underside of your jaw, you realize that he’s finished, finally slipping out of the post-orgasm delirium you put him in.

When your eyes meet his, both of your eyes widen, expressions almost sheepish.

As if it were finally occurring to you that you just had sex with Satoru fucking Gojo, you feel a bit shy, blinking up at him and absolutely unsure what to say.

“…Hi,” you whisper.

Satoru seems to share your thoughts. He brings his hand to your cheek, knuckles brushing over your flushed skin. “Hey, baby.”

Unsure of what to do, you decide to lean back into your old reliable method. The only way you know how to talk to him is without allowing a hint of affection to seep into your voice. Be mean to him.

“Get off me,” you say, pawing at his chest halfheartedly, “you’re heavy.”

It seems that Satoru has learned you well enough to know exactly what you’re doing. Trying to push him away the moment it all feels like too much to handle, reverting to what you know best.

He lowers his head, brushing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. “Mm, no can do, pretty. I like to cuddle after sex, guess you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

You squirm as he begins to pepper your face with kisses, wet and dry, trying to get a proper reaction from you. 

“Okay, okay!” you exclaim, laughing without realizing it. “Fine. We can cuddle…but we have to clean up first.”

Satoru beams at that. He kisses your forehead before practically leaping off your bed, searching for a towel. You aren’t sure why the sight of him prancing around your room in his birthday suit makes you feel so…warm and tingly inside.

God, what has he done to you?

You yawn, rubbing your eyes. “On the left side of the closet. Third drawer down.”

A second later, he’s back and wiping away the mess between your legs, careful with his movements. Once finished, he pokes around in your clothing drawers, managing to find a pair of fresh underwear and a pretty blue shirt that you should've known he’d pick out. 

“Matches my eyes,” he preens, doing most of the work as he pulls the panties up your legs and the shirt over your head.

“Of course you’d notice that,” you scoff, trying to ignore how warm this all makes you feel.

With his boxers back on, he climbs back into bed with you, lying on his back. A surprised sound leaves him when you rest your head on his chest, hand draped over his middle.

Satoru wears a smile as he wraps an arm around you, free hand lacing with yours. “Thought you didn’t wanna cuddle.”

“I never said that,” you grumble.

He laughs to himself, the kind that signifies he’s up to no good. “Aww. Just a cute little cuddle muffin you are.”

“I’ll get off you right now if you don’t—”

He immediately stops laughing and tightens his hold on you. “Sorry, sorry. You run a tight ship.”

☆

In your experience, the morning after could go one of two ways.

You could either cringe at yourself and your decisions, make awkward small talk with the person you had shared not only your body but also a bed with, and then tiptoe out of your hookup’s room, or not-so-discreetly kick them out of yours. 

Or, you could still make equally awkward small talk upon waking up, limbs still entangled and clothes mostly scattered across the floor, but not feel the gnawing feeling to run away and never speak to this person again.

And so far, you’re in no rush to make him go. 

Satoru shifts in his sleep behind you, one arm draped lazily over your middle while the other pillows your head. You blink blearily as you run your fingertips along his forearm, tracing the veins in his hand until you cover it with your own. His fingers slightly twitch until they fill the spaces between yours.

His nose brushes the back of your neck, inhaling indulgently. His arm beneath your head bends and curls inward, his nails gently scratching your scalp. “Morning.”

You feel your heartbeat quicken in your chest. His voice is deep and groggy from sleep, his lips just barely grazing your skin as he speaks. It only gets worse (or better?) when he presses a kiss to the crook of your shoulder and neck, firmer now yet unhurried. 

The strap of the camisole you’d thrown on last night after your shower was now pinched between his thumb and forefinger, slowly slipping it down the curve of your shoulder as his lips explored further.

“Good morning,” you manage out, voice slightly weak but not entirely from just waking up. “How’d you sleep?”

You can feel his lips twitch against your skin, probably turning into a smug grin if you had to guess. His hand stopped on your bicep, his chin now resting on your shoulder as he pulls you closer. 

“Better than usual,” he says, voice rumbling in his throat. “Even with you stealing the covers from me all night, it’d be worth it every time to wake up to this.” He picks his head up just enough to look down at you. “You?”

Your cheeks are warm, and you bury half of your face into the pillow. “Better than usual. I actually feel rested.”

Reaching an arm out, you turn the clock on your nightstand toward the bed. 2:38 p.m.

“We slept the whole day away!”

Satoru hums behind you, chest rumbling against your back. “Mm, good sex tends to do that to people.”

You smile, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Oh? So that’s why you were snoring into my ear all night?”

“Precisely why,” he replies easily, before pecking your lips. “Pussy put me right to sleep.”

This time, you lean in to kiss him. When you pull away, you freeze. 

Oh fuck.

Then you shoot up out of bed, eyes wide and panicked. It’d just dawned on you that, for all the days you could have had sex with your annoying-rival-to-friend, it had to be the day of the Ryomen dinner. And, of course, you had to oversleep with said annoying-rival-to-friend-and-now-hookup still in your bed. 

The drive alone would take two and a half hours.

“Holy shit, I need to go,” you say, scatterbrained as you rush into your closet.

Satoru props himself up on his elbow, sounding more panicked than he likely intended. “What? Why?”

You return to his line of sight, already half-clothed in a pristinely ironed dress, bouncing on one leg as you tug your stockings up. “I have to go to dinner with my family and the Ryomens. My mom is going to kill me.”

And he’s left to watch, helpless, as you check yourself in the mirror—putting your earrings on, looking beautiful as ever…to go have dinner with another guy and his family.

Satoru knows he should be relaxed about this. He needs to chill out. You had sex, yes, but it’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.

(Even though he’d thought about how great that would be as he admired you while you slept.)

“Oh, cool,” he says, forcing a cheery tone into his voice. “What for?”

You press your lips together, hastily applying your makeup lest you show up late with none on. “I’m not really sure. Probably to talk about their plans for us post-graduation. That’s all they talk about these days.”

He bites the inside of his cheek.

Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Sex between friends can be…casual. Don’t read into it so much.

“Right,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck, doing his best to seem relaxed. “Sounds boring.”

You nod at him through the mirror before turning to face him. “Yeah, it will be.”

A silence settles the moment your eyes meet.

Slowly, you walk over to him—still lying in your bed, clad in nothing but his boxers. “I’m sorry I’m leaving like this.”

He waves a hand through the air, making an exaggerated pshhh sound. “Don’t worry about it. I get it.”

You give him a lopsided smile before leaning down to kiss him. He barely has time to close his eyes—to savor it—before you’re already pulling away.

“I’ll text you, okay?” you say. “You can use my shower again if you want. Make yourself at home while I’m gone. Just don’t use up my body wash—it’s expensive.”

Satoru lets out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, no promises. Have fun.”

And then you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you.

He falls back against the mattress, dragging his hands over his face.

It’s casual, he tries to remind himself. Don’t be a crybaby.

But you kissed him goodbye.

What was casual about that?

☆

The hallways are abnormally crowded today.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, Shoko’s messages flooding in.

shoko 💗: hi

shoko 💗: how was the dinner?

shoko 💗: did your parents finally come to their senses

shoko 💗: and drop the stupid engagement idea????

you: i wish

you: they seem even more into the idea now

you: mind you, sukuna fell asleep at the dining table with his fork hanging out of his mouth

you: like oh okay i’m seeing it now, total HUSBAND MATERIAL right here

shoko 💗: fuck my chungus life

you: fuck mine too

The sound of hushed voices in the distance distracts you, making you glance in that direction.

Only then do you realize that they’re looking right at you.

Actually, it feels like everyone is looking at you.

No, worse. It feels like everyone can see through you. Like they know exactly what you’ve been up to. What you did when no one was around.

But that’s ridiculous. How could anyone know?

Suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, you glance back down at your phone.

you: i feel like everyone is staring at me today

shoko 💗: maybe because you look sexier than usual?

you: one can only hope

You crash into someone, limbs flailing, only to be steadied by a gentle grip.

“Watch where you’re going, iPad kid,” Satoru teases, a wide smile on his face.

You pocket your phone, huffing out a laugh despite yourself. “I was watching where I was going. You just came out of nowhere.”

“Uh-huh, totally,” he says.

Without thinking, you glance over your shoulder toward the group that had been watching you earlier, the itch still unscratched.

Always observant, Satoru tilts his head. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” you answer instinctively.

“Talk to me,” he says, nudging your arm softly, still trying to keep things light.

Then your eyes meet his—his blue irises practically begging you to open up.

“It’s just…” Your voice trails off, growing quieter. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About…”

Satoru leans back slightly, like the question physically hit him.

“Uh— no,” he says. “No, I didn’t. Promise.”

You catch the shift in his expression—the way it falters, like something just closed off.

Your eyes squeeze shut. Shit. “No, it’s not that I regret it or anything, it’s just that—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts in, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain.” His eyes meet yours again. “I didn’t tell anyone. Don’t worry.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes quickly. “Good. I’m glad we got that figured out.”

“Me too,” you say, though you don’t sound convinced anymore. “Did— did I say something?”

Satoru shakes his head, that boyish smile slipping back into place. “Nah. You’re good.”

You glance around again. “…Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “Are you going to the party this weekend? Choso’s frat is throwing.”

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll be there. I assume I’ll see you there too?”

“Yup,” he says with a nod. “Well, I’ve gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” you say, turning to watch him walk away down the hallway.

Well… that conversation went well.

Right?

☆

After a few days of Satoru avoiding you like the plague, you’re starting to think your conversation didn’t go so well.

He’s only sent you one Instagram reel over the last three days—and it was about tips and tricks for studying anatomy. Was he doing this on purpose? The last time you studied for anatomy, it ended with you in bed with him.

For what feels like the tenth time this hour, you check your messages.

Satoru :D: Good morning

Satoru :D: Sleep well?

you: good morning

you: yes i did, did you?

And there’s been no response since.

You wonder if you should message him again.

Maybe his phone got swept up in a tornado. (It’s 75°F and sunny outside.)

Maybe he’s currently being attacked by alligators and desperately needs you as a lifeline. (Though you know he wouldn’t even accept your help—he’d be convinced he could take an alligator in a fight.)

Maybe he just hasn’t seen your text. (You saw him repost a TikTok about boba milk tea an hour ago.)

You tap on the text bar, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

“There’s no way you’re about to double text a man.”

You jump, quickly locking your phone. “Utahime, I was not. I was just checking our messages.”

Utahime hums, clearly unconvinced, scrolling on her own phone. “You keep telling yourself that, girl.”

Rolling onto your back, you stare at the ceiling, hands folded over your chest.

“Are you seriously sulking right now?”

“I’m not sulking!”

(You were definitely sulking.)

Utahime sighs, nudging your side. “Did you read this week’s blind items?”

You shake your head. “No.”

She tilts her head down at you. “Well, I’m pretty sure one is about you.”

“WHAT?!”

You’ve never sat up this fast in your life—lightheaded and dizzy as you reach for Utahime’s phone.

There is going to be an engagement post-graduation between a male and female from two of the most well-known families on campus.

A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has still been shitting in the showers. (P.S. Can you please stop already?)

A notorious rich student was spotted talking to a girl who comes from a family that begins with the last letter of the alphabet. Are sparks flying?

A male has been making piss-poor SoundCloud music at 4 AM for the past week. (Please stop. You are better off sticking to your career path in accounting.)

A pit forms in your stomach.

Had Sukuna told someone about your situation? You want to say no—but once he’s had enough to drink, anything is possible.

But the one that concerns you more is the third item.

Could Satoru have already moved on? To a girl from the Zenin family?

Utahime presses her thumb between your eyebrows, smoothing out the crease. “Hey. What happened to taking these with a grain of salt? They’re probably not real. Aside from the shower shitter—that one seems pretty legit.”

You let out a weak laugh. “Yeah… you’re probably right.”

Even still, the pit in your stomach doesn’t go away.

☆

Music thrums against the walls, people packed in like sardines, moving with no particular rhyme or rhythm. Smoke fills the air, a thick fog that has no chance of dissipating. 

Sukuna’s arm is snug around your shoulder, something that you would have never thought twice about before. Now, though, you notice it like a thorn in your side. 

You try to scan the room, in search of your friends who you knew would be here tonight. Only, a hand on your face draws your attention elsewhere, and Sukuna is kissing your cheek in farewell before you can even realize he’s leaving you to fend for yourself.

“Later, girl,” he says, so casually, as if he had the right.

Fucking typical.

You huff and wave your arm through the air, coughing quietly. Once the smoke cleared just enough, your gaze locked in on something in the distance.

Satoru. Standing beside a girl from the Zenin family.

But even as he stands beside her, his glowing eyes are already on you.

Suddenly, it hurts to breathe. The walls are caving in on you. The music fades into a silence that becomes even more overbearing than the bass. 

Anger rises in your throat. Anger you have no right to feel. 

After all, Satoru wasn’t yours. You weren’t his. He can do what he wants, as can you. How could you forget that? And why did you want to?

If you were a braver person, one who could be honest with herself, you would walk across this room. You’d tell him how you feel. You would say it now, out loud and to his face. At least then, he’d know how you felt.

The problem, though, was that you weren’t any of these things. You were terrified and hesitant—so all you could do was this. Look at him and hope he can put the puzzle pieces together on his own. You can only hope he likes how it looks once it is completed. 

Your feet are moving before you can realize it. A moment later, you find yourself in the bathroom, pressing your back against the door to slam it shut. 

You release a sharp breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hands cover your face as you approach the sink, palms pressing against the countertop.

Then, you catch your reflection in the mirror. 

You know better than this.

You know better than to wish for something that you have no right to.

You know better than to want Satoru. You know better than to envision a simple life with him. To want him in a way that is uncalculated and real.

Dropping your head, you close your eyes. Squeeze them shut, and hope that you were anywhere else but here, in this dingy bathroom with a flickering lightbulb above your head.

The door opens and shuts behind you.

You pick your head up, and there he is. 

Satoru.

His chest presses to your back, his hands bracketing yours on the counter as he dips his chin into the crook of your neck. “Were you not going to come say hi?”

You roll your eyes despite yourself, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. “No. Seems like you were a little preoccupied.”

Silence stretched thin between you. 

Then his hands find your waist, spinning you around to face him.

“Don’t do that,” he says, voice soft and almost pleading.

You swallow. “Don’t do what?”

“You know what,” he replies, “act like… you don’t care. Like you don’t feel anything for me, just because you’re upset.”

You avoid his gaze. “I’m not upset. It’s not like we’re dating. You can do what you want with…whoever you want.”

Satoru huffs, forehead knocking into yours before he pulls back. “How long are we going to keep doing this, baby?” he asks, hands finally coming to settle on your waist. “I don’t want anyone else. Not like how I want you.”

Finally, you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his.

It almost made you want to cry, realizing how easy things with Satoru were. How he opened himself up to you without fear, because he didn’t want an ounce of doubt to live in your head.

Maybe it was your turn to return the message.

“Me neither,” you finally admit. 

His expression softens in relief.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing your hair away from your face. 

Your lips press together. “But why’d the blog say you were with a girl from the Zenin family?”

“The same reason that the stupid blog says you and Sukuna are together,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a rumor. People see you standing next to someone—at a very healthy distance, by the way, a very platonic and normal distance—and run with it.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t go around letting my rumored girlfriends kiss me on the cheek, though.”

You tilt your head, knowing full well that Satoru was capable of knowing that there were no feelings between you and Sukuna. “Careful, you almost sound upset.”

He shrugs his broad shoulders, tilting his head in the same direction you did. “Depends. Is he a good kisser?” 

Your fingers are still gripping the edge of the counter. “He is.”

Satoru glances over your face, the corner of his mouth twitching once he notices the slight pout on your lips. “Better than me?”

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you’re not a liar. “No.”

A small smirk. “Good.”

“Maybe you should get back to your friend,” you retort, shaking your head.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” Satoru coos, hand cupping your cheek, thumbing over your bottom lip.

You splutter. “What? I’m not.”

“No?”

“No.”

Satoru’s hand starts to pull away. Panic sparks in you, and your hand shoots up, wrapping around his wrist to keep his palm against your face. He smiles softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“...Only a little,” you finally admit.

Satoru’s fingers thread into your hair, guiding your forehead to his lips. “That’s okay. I was jealous too.”

“Jealous? You?”

“Jealous. Me.”

You clear your throat, and for the first time in your life, you decide to prod for further reassurance. 

“Do you like her?” you ask, voice small.

He seems distracted, his lips on your cheek now in a chaste kiss. “Hm?”

“Do you like her?” you repeat, hands prodding at his chest to make him meet your eyes. “That girl you were talking to.”

Satoru scoffs, like the answer was obvious. “No. I’m a one-lady type of guy.” 

That answer shouldn’t make your face feel warm, but it does. He’s turned you into mush, putty in his hands. 

His thumb brushes over your hip bone. “Did you let Sukuna kiss you because you like him?”

You shake your head. “Maybe I just like kissing people. It’s fun, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, nose brushing yours. “But do me a favor, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, heart rate doubling in your chest.

“The next time you wanna kiss someone, come to me instead,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your sides. “I’m better at it, anyway. Said it yourself.”

You can’t bite back your smile now, nor do you try to. “Okay.”

“Okay, baby.”

You hoped no one noticed how long you’d both been gone from the party, but when you exited the bathroom together—lip gloss smeared on Satoru’s mouth and your hair messier than before—it likely told the entire story for you.

☆

You wake up wrapped in a Digimon throw blanket.

A small, sleepy groan leaves you as you try to move—to stretch your limbs after a night of sleep.

Only, the heavily weighted blanket on top of you, known as Satoru Gojo, doesn’t make it very easy.

His arms are wrapped so tightly around you that you’d think he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night—so he set up precautions beforehand. His cheek is pressed against your bare chest, using your breasts as pillows.

The best pillows on the market, he says.

Blinking blearily, you scan his bedroom. Now, after only two months of dating, it looks like a shrine to you.

A framed photo of you hangs on his wall, another propped up on his bedside table. There’s one on his desk too—taken on the first day of your internship—set beside his computer.

Because, as he says, “seeing you smiling in that pretty little dress motivates me to study, ‘cause I need to pay for your tastes somehow.”

You’re smiling now, glancing down at him, his cheek squished against your skin. Your fingers glide through his hair before smoothing down his back, soothing the faint sting of the scratches you’d left the night before.

A quiet whine leaves him, and he fumbles blindly for your hand, guiding it back to his hair so you’ll keep playing with it.

“Good morning to you, too,” you murmur, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Morning, baby,” he mumbles, voice rumbling against your skin.

Without opening his eyes, he presses a kiss to the underside of your breast, his mouth already trailing down the column of your stomach.

“What’re you doing?” you ask, smiling.

“Eating breakfast,” he replies simply, mouthing at your hip bone.

Just as he reaches for the hem of your panties, his phone begins to buzz on the bedside table. Undeterred, he tugs them down an inch.

“Ignore it.”

Then his phone buzzes again. And again.

A moment later, yours buzzes too.

Slightly concerned now, you reach for it, unlocking the screen to a message from Shoko.

shoko 💗: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

shoko 💗: [article link]

You tap the link, your eyes widening as you read the headline.

“What?” he asks, already pouting slightly at the interruption. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, you turn the phone toward him.

Satoru Gojo and Y/N L/N were spotted on the Gojo family’s personal yacht, indulging in promiscuous activities.

And to make matters worse, front and center is a picture of you sitting in his lap—his hand squeezing a handful of your ass like he’s afraid it might run away from him.

You press your palm to your forehead. “I told you we shouldn’t have taken the yacht out that day.”

Satoru hums, clearly distracted. “How do I save this picture? You look really sexy in this.”

“Satoru, focus!” you say, lightly swatting his shoulder. “What should we do?”

He shrugs, fingers resuming their slow work of tugging your underwear down your legs. “Right now, I’m thinkin’ I’ll finish my breakfast. We’ll figure the other stuff out later.”

You think you should protest—but the moment his mouth finds you, every argument dies on your tongue.

Because you know that he’ll make good on his promise. This will be figured out, one way or another.

And as long as you have Satoru by your side, you think you’ll be just fine.

Rumor has it you brought him home the next weekend to meet your parents.

Rumor also has it that from that moment on, the arranged engagement with Sukuna was off.

a/n: heyyyy yallll!!! how are you?

me?? posting 2 fics in one month?? #imonaroll #unstoppable

no, but seriously, if you read this all the way through thank you so much!! it’s the longest fic i’ve ever written so it’s a lil experimental for me. this is also my first time writing for gojo in about two years and it’s my second time writing him ever sooo i’m still figuring out how i want to characterize him lol

TV and radio are good for the news— but neither is better than the information you can collect with your own two eyes. Stock up on food and keep important phone numbers on hand. Rest when you can because preserving energy is crucial, and you never know when you'll find yourself needing it. Lastly, it's good to be skeptical, but be careful toeing the line between skepticism and paranoia. Your neighbor urged, implored even, that you don't let yourself succumb to your inevitable spiraling thoughts.

It may feel like isolating yourself is the best move. After all, most think that you won't get harmed, betrayed, killed, if you're alone. But having company may just be the one thing that saves you.

When you crawled into bed after his visit, you laughed to yourself about how serious he was, about how improbable an apocalypse was. You were tucked under the covers, blissfully unaware that it was both the last time you'd get a full night's rest and the last time that you'd see the sun.

But you had to hand it to your neighbor— he knew his shit. He didn't let anyone's judgment or mockery sway him, and when you turned on the news the next morning, you felt a whole lot more grateful to know him.

He was right about everything.

Reporters on every channel were covering the same story. News outlets not just in your city, state, country, but all around the whole world, were providing everyone with the same information.

Scientists recorded a massive solar flare, larger than anything that could have been predicted, and the cause was unknown. But as a result, it was no longer possible to go outside during the day. Global temperatures reaching a record high and still rising, they advised everyone to not only stay indoors during the day, but to keep the curtains shut, or even better, board up their windows.

Because the sun and the heat weren't the only things that were threatening to creep into your home. Reports of human-like creatures crawling out from the dirt spread like wildfire.

It was a little unbelievable just how accurate your neighbor had been with his intel, but you hardly had room to complain. You were able to keep your panic at bay knowing that you were at least somewhat mentally prepared for all of this.

You moved quickly, using whatever you could to cover the windows and barricade the doors until your house was shrouded in darkness, eerily silent. You'd repeat your neighbor's words in your mind, over and over, they served as a distraction when you felt the claws of anxiety starting to dig into you.

You clung tight to the counsel he offered you before everything went to shit, treating his word as gospel. Well, most of it.

You were still alone.

The first few days, your mind was only able to focus on the present, taking things one step at a time lest you collapse into a depression. You'd lost the daylight, the inexplicable catastrophe creating a world where you had to hide inside while the sun shone, careful not to catch a glimpse past your curtains.

It was difficult, your daily routine not just being flipped upside down, but disintegrating completely. You wandered aimlessly up and down your hall, fighting the urge to look out the windows during the day.

No one alive really knew what it was like outside from the hours of 7:00 am to 7:00 pm. Anyone foolish enough to chance a look, or worse yet, leave their house, was left with their eyes scarred and blind, their beings reduced to ash. You could only speculate that they were met with a blazing white heat, too bright for our sensitive human eyes, too hot for our soft flesh.

So you resisted the urge and just plopped yourself down on the couch instead, letting your thoughts run wild. You thought about how in just a day, Earth was flipped on its axis.

Around the world, lives were taken, and if not, they were left in ruins. Money no longer meant anything, nor did the previously commonplace rules of society.

You thought about the stories of families turning on one another, with shoddy alliances being formed instead. Relationships were held together by mere necessity, and once someone outlived their usefulness, you couldn't predict what would become of them.

But you also thought about how, in a way, you were lucky.

You lived alone in the countryside, just outside the city, which meant that when things were in chaos miles away, it remained relatively quiet for you. You had time to prepare. Barricading the doors and windows, ensuring your backup generator was working properly, and stocking up on food and water.

Others were left scrambling, trying to create a place for themselves in this new era even though the last one was already much too crowded for them. You heard it all on the news— bodies turning up at alarming rates, friends attacking one another out of desperation, suspicion, individuals finding themselves homeless after their apartments became a cesspool of bloodshed.

And you knew they weren't exaggerating. Not when you started getting knocks on your door in the middle of the night— the only time that humans and those alike could move freely anymore.

You were too scared at first to let them in. Keeping the door blocked and shouting through the worn wood that they ought to move on to the next house if they knew what was best for them.

But your neighbors words would ring out through your mind each time you turned someone away. You couldn't completely ignore the urgency in his voice when he told you not to stay home alone.

You were never one who particularly enjoyed keeping company, and you much less enjoyed it during the apocalypse when everyone seemed to be losing their senses. Not to mention the fact that any one of them could be a visitor, and it would be up to you to figure out who. So days went by and you remained by yourself, your house empty and quiet.

It was foolish to think that you'd be able to ride out this catastrophe all on your own.

You see that now.

This morning, you'd woken up and crawled out of bed like every other time, getting ready to survive another pointless night. Sometimes, you found yourself wondering why you kept trying so hard, why you felt a life like this was even worth it.

But truthfully, you just hope that things will get better. You know the government is still active, some jobs are still being done. So, you hold out hope that eventually society will rebuild itself at some point during your lifetime.

You'd trudged down the hallway as you always did, towards the kitchen for breakfast— if it could even be called that at 8:00 pm. You'd checked the windows, a new habit, pulling the curtains aside to peer out through the dusty glass with your own two eyes.

Your fingers gripped the moth-eaten fabric, tugging gently to expose the view to your tired eyes. You expected the same scene as always. The drooping, scorched skeleton of what was once a fruitful wheat field and a beaten-down path leading off towards the city.

Much like your home, the scene was always empty, always quiet.

The view outside your house causes you to still, your body rigid and muscles tense while you let out a shaky breath. Silently, you urge yourself to shut the curtains and replace the wooden planks you'd just taken off the other day, to push the couch across the front door again. You tell yourself to just move.

But you can't. Frozen, you remain glued to your spot, eyes locked on the figure standing just a few meters from your window.

He's tall, unnaturally so, and broad. He's clearly strong in a way that makes you question whether wooden planks would even be sufficient protection should he wish to enter your home.

Intricate black tattoos decorate his pale skin. But those aren't even the most eye-catching things about him. You can see them from where you stand— the deformities. Four muscular arms protrude from his torso and there's a hardened mask that covers half of his face. His skin rippling oddly, like it doesn't fit him properly, you can see that little about him is human.

From where you are, you can tell he's staring right at you. The weight of his gaze sends shivers running down your spine, bringing goosebumps to your skin because you can feel it boring into you.

You no longer want to be alone.

With trembling hands you draw the curtain shut and turn until your back is against the wall, legs buckling as you slide down to the floor.

Knees pulled into your chest, your forehead rests upon them, your back rising and falling rapidly with each too-small breath that you take. Not enough air is filling your lungs as an overwhelming feeling of dread courses through your veins, being pumped to each and every part of your body and leaving your chest tight.

You don't want to check if he's still there. You think you know the answer anyways.

You're not sure how much time passes while you're there, sitting on the dusty hardwood with your face tucked away. But you don't move until the trembling subsides, until there's oxygen flowing into your lungs once more and you can finally think straight.

Only then do you rise to your feet, smoothing down your pants as you take one more steadying breath. Because hiding away and panicking on the floor will do nothing to help you, that much you're sure of.

It's unclear what exactly he wants. He's obviously different from the visitors that have been mentioned on the news which were described as creatures that looked and acted just like humans.

The most rational assumption is that he wants to kill you, of course, but then you're not sure why he didn't. Instead he just stood there, waiting and watching without moving a limb.

Ultimately, you suppose it doesn't matter. For whatever reason, he's still outside and you're still inside— alive. And you know now that it's time to follow that last piece of advice that you've been ignoring.

As if on cue, the knocking comes.

Three short raps on the door. Once irritating, the sound now comes with a wave of relief as you move to look through the peep hole.

You let them in that night, two of the three people who found themselves on your front porch. You talked to them as much as you could through the door, tried to vet them as visitors and see if their stories were suspicious or inconsistent— but there was only so much you could do without first letting them in.

Tomorrow, you'd have to test them for signs of being a visitor. There was information on the TV about some things you can do to check if someone's a visitor, but to be honest, you were skeptical about them.

On the first report, they had talked about 'perfect white teeth' being a sign, but their theory had only been corroborated by one story before they were broadcasting it all over the news. You're no scientist, but the confidence with which they were spreading this information had you very skeptical.

Not to mention, what if someone had just been to the dentist? What if they had really white veneers? Or used a lot of whitening strips before the whole world fell apart?

The other signs weren't solid either.

Red eyes? They claimed that visitors were more sensitive to the sunlight, which may be true, but aren't humans sensitive enough? And as if everyone hasn't been crying, wired off energy drinks, or high out of their minds lately.

Dirt under the fingernails? That was supposed to tell you if they'd recently climbed up out of the ground, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes and scoff at the TV when they said that. If a visitor crawled out of the ground, then all they'd have to do to cover their tracks was find a working sink and get to scrubbing. Also, it's the apocalypse. Chances are pretty fucking high that there's regular humans out there that haven't been able to keep up with their hygiene and have dirty hands because of it.

You sigh, a hand coming to pinch the bridge of your nose in an attempt to ease the throbbing between your eyes. Aside from the death and destruction that only seemed to worsen with each passing day, you were starting to find the most stressful thing about this whole catastrophe to be the uncertainty.

Each day it felt like you had more information forced down your throat, and with each addition you were left feeling like you knew less than before. Everything was said with utter conviction, despite the fact that it never made that much sense— sometimes completely contradicting something you'd heard another day.

It's exhausting, feeling like you're stuck in limbo, trapped in some middle ground where you're fighting to find any sort of footing.

And the worst of it was FEMA. The new Federal Emergency Management Agency.

They're the ones peddling all these theories about visitors, always urging viewers to "help their cause," though you have a feeling they don't even know what that cause is.

They talk about how they're conducting research on visitors. And despite the fact that they go door to door abducting people from homes to "experiment," you feel like they've collected no concrete evidence. But of course, they act like they have.

They claim they're eliminating visitors, using those "signs" to identify them— as if those really mean anything— when you know the truth. You heard it from your neighbor, the way FEMA has started rounding up whoever they can, dragging them out to the country and just shooting. Unloading clip after clip into the crowd until everyone's laid out on the ground, lifeless or almost there, their bodies resting until the sun takes what's left of them.

That doesn't quite seem like something one would do if they had a way to pick out the imposters.

This whole epidemic shows no signs of stopping, and quite frankly you'd rather that they just be honest about the gravity of the situation. Instead, they're still pretending that they have shit under control when it's clear that they don't.

The pounding in your head only gets worse with each uncontrollable thought. Still, you hope you're at least able to get a couple hours of sleep before the sun rises as you climb into bed, ready for a night of tossing and turning.

At least your guests were quiet. Without the energy to test them tonight, you let them take up residence in different rooms in the house before locking yourself in your bedroom— you can only hope everyone is still alive when you wake up in the morning.

The house stands still, you can hear the wind whistling outside, an owl somewhere in the distance.

And the next morning, you receive the first piece of information since the cataclysm that feels certain. The bug-eyed reporter's confirmation of a gut feeling that you haven't been able to shake since you let the curtain fall last night.

"…if you see this man, do not open your door. Do not tell him that you are alone."

He's there, on the TV screen.

The man they're calling the "pale maniac." A shoddy police sketch version of him, sure, but it's all there. The piercing stare, disfigured face and ornate tattoos, more limbs than what's normal— a graphite representation of eye witness testimonies.

Sukuna:

It's all a giant, steaming pile of bullshit. That was Sukuna's first thought when he saw the news report alleging that there was a solar flare and people were crawling out from the ground.

That's what news reporters did, they hyped up things to be more exciting than they really were, because otherwise no one would care to watch. So surely, this whole fiasco was being blown out of proportion. He was certain that he'd go to sleep, wake up the next day and see people still able to go about their daily lives.

He's never been more wrong in his life.

Sukuna doesn't even make it until the morning, woken up in the middle of the night by the screaming. A raucous, piercing sound spilling through his too-thin walls from the apartment beside him. Curious as he is, he doesn't move, doesn't make for the door to see what's going on or if everyone's alright.

Would another person check in on their neighbors if they heard what he did? Probably. But Sukuna isn't that kind of person.

He's never been the neighborly type. He keeps to his own— goes to work, the gym, back home, repeat. In all honesty, Sukuna thinks if he shows up next door, whoever is there might end up even more scared. He knows he doesn't have the most approachable appearance, and judging by the old types he's seen around the building, they'd probably shit their pants if someone like him just popped up in their doorway.

So he stays put. With his eyes shut and ears straining, he's able to pick up on a few words here and there underneath all the shouting.

…dead now…

…had to…

…visitor…

His brain is working overdrive to piece together the rest of the puzzle— though his gut is already telling him the situation.

Either the news is true and there was one of these "visitors" next door, or these reports have gotten everyone jumpy and paranoid, leading to an accidental death.

Sukuna wonders if this has happened anywhere else. Surely, it has. And considering that it's been less than 12 hours since the first report aired, he can only imagine how much worse things are going to get if this situation doesn't slow down.

He supposes that even if the news are exaggerating, it might still be best to lock himself inside his apartment for a while. Slinking to the kitchen, Sukuna opens the fridge and pantry to take stock of his food situation— he can afford to stay home for a few days at least, before he'll have to get some more groceries.

Perhaps by then things will have settled down.

Sukuna tries to reason with himself, tries to get the rest of his body to believe his brain when it says that everything is going to be fine. But the muffled sobbing that's replaced the screaming, coupled with the ringing in his ears and the shaking in his hands betray him.

They betray the fact that, ultimately, he can't ignore the feeling that this is just the beginning.

Sukuna doesn't sleep the rest of the night. Just sits alone in his apartment with the lights low, the TV playing in the background with endless news reports on the global crisis. He's tried to call people— Choso, Yuuji, Toji, even Satoru— but he hasn't heard back from anyone.

Before too long he's ripped from his worrying thoughts by incessant knocking on his door.

He tries to ignore it, thinking that whoever it is might just go away. But when it becomes clear that they plan on sticking around until he answers, Sukuna sighs, stretching as he stands before making his way to the front and peering through the peep hole.

It's an elderly couple, their eyes darting around, huddled close to one another.

"The fuck you guys want?" Sukuna barks through the door, trying to ignore the slight pang in his chest when he sees the woman flinch at his harsh tone. But a slight pang is all it is.

Maybe he should feel worse, be a little more compassionate— but he's having a hard time finding it in himself to care about that right now. With all the shit he's seen on the news as the night trudged on and the chaos he can hear from the streets below his window, Sukuna's certain that it can't hurt to be a bit more jaded.

Plus, he's seen enough zombie movies to know how things end when you're too trusting during the apocalypse, and this is starting to feel like an apocalypse.

Satoru was always pushing those films on them. Sukuna remembers the way his eyes would light up at any mention of zombies or anything of the sort, always looking for an excuse to talk about his hyper-fixation. The white-haired man had some sort of affinity toward the topic. Not exactly in the way that preppers did— Sukuna was almost certain that Satoru had no real plans for how to deal with a disaster like this— he just loved to talk about different theories he had, usually theories that he came up with after watching another movie.

Sukuna wonders where Satoru is right now. Thoughts drifting from the couple on the other side of the door as he holds his phone out once more, a frown tugging at his lips at the sight of the empty screen. He's sent so many texts already, to the whole group. Some delivered, some didn't. Though he supposes that just because a text was delivered, that doesn't mean someone will actually see it.

"Please sir, we've got no where else to go." The old woman's voice is small through the door, weariness laced in her tone as she pleads with Sukuna one last time. "We'll only stay a couple days, then we'll be out of your hair. We're just tired and need a place to sleep."

He has to say no. Or he thinks he does. Too scared to say yes but even more scared to admit to himself that he really doesn't know what to do. Stuck in a world he hadn't believed possible and faced with dilemmas he'd only heard of in fiction, the current situation is leaving his mind racing and his back sweating.

And even with all the unexpected circumstances, still, the least predictable thing must be how much he wishes he could talk to Satoru. Now that, was something Sukuna never thought he'd experience.

But he seriously can't help but wonder, when he's left feeling conflicted and lost, if that stupid friend of his might have some sort of guidance to offer— probably baseless guidance, pulled from old movies with bad acting— but guidance nonetheless.

Instead, Sukuna is left with nothing but his own judgment when he makes the decision to turn his visitors away.

And as the hours tick by, they trickle into days spent locked away inside his apartment. Thankfully, delivery services are still running— if Sukuna had to go to the grocery store at a time like this to get food he'd probably just starve to death.

The elderly couple never completely left his mind. Sukuna still found himself thinking about them when the news ended and his apartment was drowning in silence. The lights low and the air chilled, he sits on his couch nursing a drink— one of the only good things left— and recalling their faces as he turned them away.

With a light shake of his head and another swig of the amber liquor in his glass, Sukuna pushes the memory from his mind. No use dwelling on what's been done.

Sukuna rummages through his pocket for his phone. The notifications are empty. He was half looking for any missed texts, and half looking to track his delivery order, an old habit he hasn't been able to shake.

There's no delivery tracking anymore. Such a simple thing that you don't realize you'll miss until it's gone. Sukuna had to call the delivery service directly and tell them what he wanted, and they just replied with a an estimate of when someone might come by and hung up the phone.

It leaves Sukuna feeling antsy, his leg bouncing with repressed energy as he waits for his food to arrive with no knowledge of how long that'll even take.

So when that knock finally comes, he's acting on impulse. Nearly jumping to his feet and heading straight for the door, Sukuna only reins himself in at the last second to quickly look through the peephole— an action that's become commonplace, necessary even.

He's expecting some weary delivery man on the other side, standing on his odl welcome mat with a large bag on his back and an order in his hand. But there's no face. No tired eyes and dark circles, just the yellow plastic and rubber of a hazmat suit.

Shit.

Sukuna knows what this means. He knows who is at his door. Even though he hasn't left the house since the solar flare, he's watched TV and listened to the radio. He's heard the whispers from down the hall and the conversations through his bedroom wall.

FEMA.

At first, he tries to ignore them. Stupidly pretending that no one's home even though everyone is home right now. The only people that aren't are those that are dead or had to relocate— and after the fifth knock something tells Sukuna that FEMA knows exactly who is where.

Relenting, he reaches for the doorknob. Fingers wrapping around the cool metal as he cracks the door open an inch and peeks his head out.

"Good evening, I'm from FEMA." The man's voice is low and muffled through the suit, but its commanding nature shines through. "We're making our rounds in this neighborhood, there's been a mandatory evacuation notice."

Sukuna's brows knit together, confusion morphing into his features. Since when was there an evacuation notice? "I never heard anything about that."

"Don't worry. It's for a routine assessment, but you'll be informed when you're able to return to your residence in the future."

There's hesitation in Sukuna's reply, born from the vagueness in the masked man's reply. "What assessment? Never heard shit about that either."

"That's really none of your business," the agent snaps. His tone curt and irritated, a sense of unease begins to settle within Sukuna, a feeling that only grows stronger with the longer he looks at the man at his door. Hidden from view by his uniform, there's really nothing that gives any indication of who he really is. "Just pack what you need and come with me."

Sukuna inhales deeply, trying to undo the knot forming in his chest. "Is everyone evacuating?"

There's never an answer to that question, the FEMA agent choosing to instead respond by barking at Sukuna to go pack a bag and prepare to evacuate, lest he continue to impede their work.

Sukuna moves swiftly through his apartment. Phone, phone charger, t-shirt, food, boxers, toothbrush. He grabs whatever he can fit into his backpack before finally heading back to the front door.

The FEMA agent still awaits him in the doorway, stoic and silent before turning, wordlessly commanding Sukuna to follow.

It's surreal— the entire situation.

Packing whatever he can of his life into a single bag before leaving his home with no one but a mysterious man whose face he hasn't even seen.

The only reassurance comes when Sukuna makes it to the street outside his building and sees some of his neighbors there too. They seem to be in a similar state as him. A little frazzled, but primarily worried as they clutch a fraction of their belongings and look to one another for guidance.

They shuffle in place, sweat beading on their foreheads from the heat despite the sun long having set. They wait for instructions from the hazmat suits and Sukuna stands in silence, his mind racing with endless questions as he glances at his phone once more.

He's not expecting to see anything new, but his lasts texts delivered at least.

And it's not much at all but it's something. It's a sign that at least his friends' phones are still on, still connected to a cell tower somewhere that's providing enough data to at least receive a message. Now he just has to hope and pray that he gets a response.

Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Sukuna looks up once more at the crowd around him. His neighbors, their friends and family, they surround one another with chatter, conspiracies and questions sprouting from their conversations and Sukuna can't help but eavesdrop, his own unspoken questions starting to rise.

"I heard they're relocating us to another neighborhood."

What's wrong with ours?

"Yeah, there's another building across town that has space for us."

Where did that space suddenly come from?

"I heard they're building houses in the country for the city folk to stay in."

And how the hell would they get a bunch of houses built so quickly in a time like this?

"No, that's not it— they said people have been staying in houses in the country because of all the chaos in this cities."

Now that is plausible. Intuition tugging at the corner of his mind, Sukuna can't help but feel like that piece of information will become useful eventually, his thoughts drifting back to his friends.

It's not like the countryside has ever been known for having lightning fast cell service.

He's brought back down to reality when the constant buzz around him dies down. Words that were on their way out are sucked back in and saved for another time, another conversation, when the men wearing yellow approach the crowd.

If Sukuna's ears could perk up, they would right now. Straining to focus on the muffled voice coming from in front of him as he awaits what are sure to be instructions on where to go—

"The sun will be rising in roughly six hours. To improve your chances of finding a place to shelter during the day, we suggest you disperse now."

That's it?

The uproar is immediate. Every individual, man and woman, old and young alike erupt into shouting— and rightfully so. These agents went door to door, telling residents that they had to leave behind everything they owned, everything they knew, at the drop of a hat, and they had no plan for what to do afterwards?

No shelter set aside for the evicted. No food, no water, no transportation.

Not even a measly suggestion of where to start looking.

These guys were fucking ridiculous.

And as fucked up as it all was, the most fucked up part was the fact that there was no use even arguing at this point. Any time and breath spent yelling at those responsible would be wasted when it could be used to begin searching for a place to stay— and those who didn't find one would become nothing more than melted flesh and scorched bones atop a bed of dirt.

With that, Sukuna turns his back on the individuals he shared a residence with for the last couple years of his life, and he retreats. His stomach flipping with unease, his gaze rests upon the expanse of land that stretches out before him and he reminds himself that he has no other option.

Hours that feel like days trudge by, slower than the dragging of Sukuna's feet along the unpaved road he's been following aimlessly. He has yet to find a house, an shed, a trailer, that's willing to take him in.

His tongue sits heavy and dry in his mouth, leaving a sour taste as he pants softly, the exertion beginning to catch up to him. He can't even imagine what this would be like for the others.

He's always been on top of his physique, eating healthy, working out regularly. And he knows that not everyone shares the same level of discipline as him— not everyone can. Like people with disabilities, people that are sick, or maybe too busy, or just too old.

Sukuna's mind wanders to the elderly couple that had stopped by his door. Shaking his head, he tries to push the image of their faces from his mind, swallowing thickly.

His throat is scratchy from inhaling the dry dust around him.

It was never this dry where he lived but he supposes this is what happens when the earth practically gets air fried. Water sources start to dry, moisture gets sucked out of the ground and leaves the air stale and the land a desert. Humanity is living in a place that's quickly becoming incapable of sustaining the life it once did.

Fuck, this is depressing.

Sukuna's pulled from his thoughts when he see the tell-tale glimmer of a porch light in the distance, just barely blocked by some trees at the entrance of a sparse forest.

His destination.

Turning on autopilot, he re-routes his path to head toward the home, silently praying for entry. It's worn down, the paint peeling off the walls and the windows dirty as he approaches the house. Wooden planks creak beneath his heavy feet, tired with age, they fight to support his weight as he raises a fist to the door and knocks.

Once. Twice. Three times and then he waits.

There's some shuffling just behind the door before a gruff voice calls out, "what do ya want?" His accent is thick, southern, and his tone is skeptical. There isn't a peep hole on the door but one look to the side and Sukuna sees a curtain fluttering closed.

"Just tryin' to find a place to sleep," Sukuna replies, voice loud in an effort to be heard clearly through the barrier. "Sun's gonna be up soon."

"I know that, boy. You ain't gonna find what you're lookin' for here."

Sukuna tries to put on his best face, whatever that might be, before he responds. "There's no room for me in there?" He knows he's not the most conventional looking man. Riddled with tattoos and piercings, pink hair, not to mention his size. He got used to the stares a long time ago— but he knows some people never got used to him.

Usually older folk, those who have more traditional views on what a man his age ought to look like.

When he'd seen there was no peep hole on the door he was relieved. But that relief was quickly swept away when Sukuna realized that the owner of the home had been eyeing him already through a window near the entrance.

He sighs, long and tired as a hand comes to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Look, I've been walkin' for hours and I just need a place to hole up for a day. I'll leave right after, I swear."

And he really means it. Sure, it would be a pain in the ass to set out on foot once more to find another place to stay, but he also wasn't going to force anyone to let him hang around where he wasn't wanted. So, one day— that's all he's asking for.

But even that he can't get. The old man in the home is firm on his decision, his voice unwavering each time that he tells Sukuna to get off his porch. Until finally, he stopped replying and Sukuna got nothing but silence from him. The man had ceased to continue even listening to Sukuna as he pleaded for shelter.

With the disappointment comes exhaustion. Sukuna's last ounce of hope begins to die out, leaving him all too aware of the way his body aches. His skin is sticky with sweat and dusted in a layer of dirt, his muscles straining and joints stiff as he starts walking again. Step after step, he drags himself forward despite having no real direction.

He's going to die out here.

That's the one thought he can't escape now. The gravity of his situation hits him like a semi-truck as he sees the color of the sky changing. No longer a deep black speckled with white, he can see it morphing, lightening as a deep blue hue begins to creep in.

He's going to die out here and fuck, it's going to hurt.

Being burned alive is quite possibly the last way he thought he'd go out.

With a sharp exhale and a groan, Sukuna decides he's done walking. It's getting hotter, his feet are throbbing in his sneakers, and he simply cannot find it in himself to keep going as dawn draws nearer.

Shrugging off his backpack he lets it fall to the ground with a thud before slinking down and settling under a tree. Obviously he's not expecting the shade to do much, but it's nice to have a place to rest, his head falling back against the trunk.

Crimson eyes drift along the horizon as they search for the East. That one spot where the blue above him will soon begin to be replaced with violet and tinges of orange and pink.

It's odd, how he seems to have skipped the 'panic' phase that he always assumed people go through when they realize they've met their end. Instead, he's only been met with an initial wave of dread, and then disappointment.

Disappointment that he will die under a scraggly tree in the middle of nowhere, all alone during the god damn apocalypse. He's not even getting killed by a zombie, 'visitor', whatever.

Talk about lame.

Chest rising and falling deeply, Sukuna's breathing slows with acceptance as his eyes flutter shut. Things really come full circle— he supposes this is his karma. In another universe, perhaps he would have opened his door, welcomed those in need into his home with open arms, and maybe that would have saved him.

Snap!

Sukuna's eyes fly open. They scan the scene around him, rolling slowly over the landscape as a bead of sweat trickles down his temple.

He can feel it.

A presence he hadn't even noticed before. Now overwhelming, Sukuna is pinned in place by the mere awareness of his proximity to whatever is there. The energy radiating from It burns into his side, leaving his hair standing on end, goosebumps littering his skin.

Where did it come from?

How had he not sensed it earlier?

The air is barely reaching his lungs as Sukuna twists his neck, head slowly turning to the side, finally moving to look at what he knows is right beside him. And nothing he has seen before, nothing he could even imagine, comes close to what awaited his gaze.

With no face, no legs, It drags itself forward on two arms.

It's body is pitch black, lacking any definition that comes from shadows and highlights, and yet there is more to It. The essence of what lies beside Sukuna is something to be understood, rather than to be seen— and now Sukuna is much less certain that the sun will be what causes his demise.

His legs are made of lead as he tries to stand or simply back away. A wave of nausea courses through his stomach as he feels the bile rising in his throat which he fights to swallow back down— he's already dehydrated enough.

A silly thing to care about in this moment, but his thoughts are scrambled. He's unable to focus his thoughts as his body finally registers the panic that it seemed to bypass earlier, and all that is rational becomes secondary.

A limb reaches forward, outstretched in Sukuna's direction before landing roughly on the ground a few feet away. Digging into the dirt, the creature pulls itself forward, inch by inch. The putrid smell of burnt flesh fills Sukuna's nose, causing him to gag. He's smelled it before, when he stupidly opened his window on one of the first nights after the cataclysm.

It's a scent he'd never forget.

Sukuna opens his mouth to make a sound, maybe to scream, to cry for help or beg for whatever is approaching him to turn around. But when the hot air hits the back of his throat, any words die in the dry heat as nothing but a small cry escapes him.

Each expansion of his chest is too shallow and his heart is beating too fast as he finally scrambles backwards. Shuffling in the dirt and kicking up dust as he fruitlessly tries to get away.

Thinking back, he's certain he's never felt this way before.

Memory after memory plays in Sukuna's mind, only reminding him that he's lived a comfortable life, one where he's always been bigger than most people, stronger. He'd walk alone at night and sleep with the door unlocked sometimes. He'd watch horror movies alone in the dark and not once would his heart rate increase in the slightest.

And here he is— probably about to have a fucking heart attack with the way the poor organ is hammering in his chest.

An incessant ringing in his ears makes him clutch his head in his hands, eyes squeezing shut and even with them closed he can see It. In his mind the image is clearer, something he can't escape even if he were to claw his own eyes out, and with each passing second he fears he might.

The longer that Sukuna is stuck in this being's presence, the more he finds himself praying for death to visit him.

His hands feel numb, tingling slightly as the oxygen in his body is cut off from them, rerouted to more important parts of his body— the ones fighting pointlessly to help him survive.

Tears that were forming in his waterline begin to fall, little streaks appearing in the layer of dirt on his skin. Then, Sukuna's blurry vision speckles, a grainy film settling over the scene before him as black begins to seep in from the corners of his periphery.

Has It already started to kill him?

Or is this an effect of the sun beginning to rise?

Maybe his body has started to shut down from the rising temperature. Is this what a heat stroke is like?

It's difficult to think.

Each thought dissipates as quickly as it forms because Sukuna can't focus on anything but the shuddering in his chest as he struggles to take in another breath.

He can feel the water on his cheeks and taste the salt on his cracked lips but his vision is black when he slumps forward. With his head between his knees, Sukuna collapses to the side, a cloud of dust kicking up around his limp body.

likes, comments, reblogs always appreciated ! i have more works here ♡

A/N: yay finally starting this series :p again ty for the patience on this! i really don't want to rush it, and i might even end up writing 5 parts instead of 4. anyways i hope yall enjoyed, would love to hear your thoughts (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)