niamh's secret library

“A waste?” It’s not like you ever even wanted to have sex with someone before. Your jaw sets now, eyes shutting for a moment, another tear traitorous in its escape. “Not all of us love to whore around.”

“Whore around huh,” he crosses his arms now, watching your eyes flicker open. “Admit it.”

“Admit what!?”

“That you’d do anything if I asked,” you swallow down the pain, biting down on your lower lip as his voice drops an octave, a mean caress that sends shivers down your spine. “If you asked pretty enough maybe I’d let you suck me at least.”

Your pause earns his smirk.

“Holy fuck, you would? Hmm,” his cruel gaze gets darker, snowy lashes flickering just a bit. “I guess I’d consider that, but I wouldn’t touch you.”

“I don’t want to,” you finally breathe out. “I wouldn’t… do that with someone who hates me, who doesn’t even want me to exist.” Satoru blinks a bit when you slip your bag higher on your shoulder. “I’m glad that you didn’t.”

It’s utterly quiet.

“Please move.”

He steps aside and you pass by his dumb fucking secretary sitting right at the chair you do, her blouse unbuttoned, just smiling at you, the anger rising like bile in your throat. You’re humiliated again, and you almost said you would – you’d do damn near anything if the man you’d been infatuated with – promised to at that, gave you a tiny bit of attention.

It was all a game to him.

“Have fun boxing,” she has the audacity to say, laughing just a bit at you in the fucking place you live in, in the chair you cry in. You feel so much rage it doesn’t even feel like you – it’s like it belongs to someone else. “Your gloves are so cute!”

“Jennifer,” ah, that’s her fucking name, coming from Satoru’s lips. “Come over here.”

She hops up obediently and you turn to gaze at Satoru by his bedroom door, eyes unreadable, smirk off his face, you don’t even want to know what’s in his mind, even if it’s something half way decent for you. You don’t want to live like this, to have someone so blatantly disregarding your feelings.

“Could you all please keep it in the room?” You ask then, she giggles and Satoru raises a brow. “I live here too, for now.”

“You think the maids wouldn’t clean up all the cum from every surface?” you can’t believe him at that moment. “But yes, we can while you’re still in my home.”

His home.

He makes it dead ass fucking clear, as if you didn’t already know he hates you here, that none of this is going to last because he can’t wait to fucking have you out. You shut your eyes for a moment, hands pressing into the wood of the door before you rush out of the opulent, ostentatious home.

It was once a dream, to drive by Gojo’s home and imagine yourself as his wife, so enamored with the man you thought he was and the kindness you remembered as a child that it felt like a dream come true. Yet it was anything but that, it was all just a cruel joke, much like your life.

Satoru was right on one thing, you did everything to live up to your parents expectations, and that included remaining ‘pure’. If they even knew that you were headed in your car to go boxing of all places and things to do, they’d likely be appalled at you.

Ladies don’t do that – Satoru’s wife doesn’t do that.

Just the small thing for yourself makes you smile a bit, hands gripping the wheel tightly, you swear you see Satoru’s curtain flutter, who knows maybe he’s got her pressed up on the window, pleasuring her and making sure the world knows how he wants anyone but you.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad, you were trained to be the perfect wife even if Gojo did cheat, and you could handle it, as taught.

Yet he didn’t even touch you, his words echoing in your ears and making you so ill you almost throw up remembering. Proving his point – you had so desperately been eager to sink to your knees right for him, if he’d just look at you with anything other than hatred, if he’d brush your hair back and give that look he had when he was with other women.

You can’t be everything your parents want if he divorces you anyway, it’ll bring so much shame on your family and there’s nothing you can do to salvage it, so you have to try to find who you are. You don’t even know – it’s so sad, if someone asked you what you liked you wouldn’t know what to say.

Who are you?

The thoughts keep coming as you sit in front of the boxing gym, so nervous now, not to do something new completely.

Sukuna makes you nervous.

You’ve not felt whatever it was when those ruby eyes hit you, whatever that gaze was on his handsome face. You’ve been hit on plenty, you’ve had boys have crushes on you, yet you had to remain ‘all intact’ and ‘proper’ so you never explored that. Even so, Sukuna looked at you differently, and it felt like a physical touch.

Satoru, it felt like an assessment – Sukuna, it felt like appreciation.

He saw things in you that you’re not sure are there from one meeting – that you weren’t eating, that you’re a mess, things you keep so hidden from even yourself, the perception terrified you. You don’t know what to think about it, how to interpret it, maybe you’re over thinking it too.

The dream last night didn’t help, him kissing up your throat, hand gripping your hair at the nape of your neck. To get him involved in any capacity was dangerous for your family’s reputation, and you’re ‘married’ so surely he wouldn’t want that. Yet those images make you blush.

Even as you walk in now and see a boy standing next to him that looks almost identical, just a shorter, younger version, you smile nervously and wave.

You feel Sukuna’s gaze assessing you, and just that alone is more than Satoru has given you in your marriage. The way he looks at you makes you feel…

Good… Was good the word?

Nervous, apprehensive, tummy fluttering. You swallow nervously, trying not to overthink it – You’re here to get stress out, and maybe to learn who you were, to find an existence away from being ‘Satoru’s wife’.

******

Sukuna

"Sukuna seriously," his annoying little nephew Yuuji is up at the gym with him today. The kid has a hell of a right hook and a hell of an annoying way about him.

Sukuna couldn't help but let him stay with him when he also wanted to get away from all the pressure that came with their family. But now the kid stays over far too much, bringing his friends over and soon dragging them all to the gym too. Sukuna has a bunch of teenagers constantly annoying the shit out of him.

Yet he can't complain, it's good for the business, and it keeps Yuuji and the other kids out of trouble. Yuuji is only eighteen after all, Sukuna is twenty-four – thus the 'mentor'.

Hah, what a mentor he must be.

"She's married!?" Sukuna glares now at the blurted out fucking statement, and Yuuji quickly hushes. "I mean... I know you're all ‘anti the family’ this and that but really?"

"Will you shut your trap kid," Yuuji glares right up at Sukuna, he's damn near a smaller version of his cousin, just with brown eyes instead of red. "I haven't done anything, she's just..."

You walk in then, as if on cue, holding your hands together in front of you nervously, some cute pink pair of boxing gloves that are ridiculous, pink duffel bag slung over one of your shoulders. He can't help but smirk a bit at how… cute, you’re fucking cute. Shy and adorable.

Yuuji eyes you as well, then him, curiously.

"Shit," Yuuji never cusses, so Sukuna raises a brow at him, seeing him run a hand through identical pastel locks. "That's her?"

"Don't say shit in front of her, if you do I'll make sure not to take you to Cabo this summer," Sukuna threatens, but Yuuji frowns, looking intently as you come closer. "Get it out now. Your moral high ground on my thoughts."

"She is very pretty," he murmurs, frowning. "And she does look... she looks so sad."

Sukuna pauses then. You give your best effort with a tremulous little smile, walking up to both of them, taking a breath and holding a hand out to Yuuji.

A forced smile, but it’s as pretty as you. What’s a real one look like?

"Hey there!" You say, Yuuji takes your hand in his, smiling sweetly at you.

"Hey there, welcome to the gym," He's friendly, sweet even. "We have lockers over there if you need!"

"Perfect I'll be right back," your eyes catch Sukuna's and his breath falters. He's never felt anything like wanting to fuck the sadness right out of your body. He knows it's already obsession, already fucking ridiculous. It doesn't stop him. "Sukuna, it's good to see you again."

"You're late," he teases gruffly, you sigh and glare a bit all cute, a look he didn't think he'd see, it does something to him. "Just a few minutes though. Go get ready."

You rush off and Yuuji puts a hand on his chest over his dark blue hoodie, wincing a bit. "Her pain, like I feel it?"

"Yeah," Sukuna mutters, the kid has always been... fuck, what's the word? Empath or some shit. "I know."

"Just... be careful Sukuna. You don't know who she's with."

"I'm not afraid of anyone, have you seen me?" Yuuji rolls his eyes.

"Yeah I saw you, and you couldn't even stop the drool from coming out of your mouth." Sukuna scowls, fists clenched at his sides, one step making Yuuji back up. "I've um... gotta go!"

"Nice to meet you!" You wave at Yuuji as you come out, in a little sports bra and shorts, as if to fucking torture him. Yuuji waves and smiles sweetly at you, leaving Sukuna alone with you in the quiet of the gym. "He looks just like you! Your little brother?"

"Annoying nephew," you laugh a little, the sound doing something to him again, fuck he doesn’t know what it is. Yuuji is right, he has to be careful, to try to hold back.

But holding back really isn't Sukuna's thing.

"So," he draws on the words, seeing how you hug yourself a bit around your waist, as if you're nervous to have it bare.

It takes a lot of effort not to just touch your body, make you feel as pretty as you are, see how those eyes could light up if you came all over his mouth, if he drank you. He knows he can't say that shit, so he instead teases you, tugging at the little ponytail you're wearing.

"Tell me where you got these dumb gloves, and you better tell me you've fucking eaten something too."

“They’re so cute, excuse me!” You cover your mouth then, eyes lowering. “Sorry that came out so rude-”

“I like it, see if there’s something feisty underneath all this,” he gestures to all of you then. “Perfect little girl, time to mess you up. Get you all sweaty and wrecked.”

He watches a blush dance on your cheeks underneath the bright lights overhead, you shift just a bit, nodding. “I want to see if there is, too.”

“You don’t know?” He asks, and you sigh, blinking back tears again.

Fuck what’s happened to you to make you constantly on the verge of them? Sukuna wasn’t some ‘mr fix it’ especially when it came to women. He liked things simple, fun, unattached, never has he been so obsessed with what’s going on in a mind like he is yours.

Be careful. Could he be?

“I want to learn who I am, I know I’m like twenty four and don’t know,” you shake your head a bit and sigh. “Quarter life crisis?”

He snorts at that. “You make jokes?”

“I don’t know,” you answer softly. “I’m trying?”

“Meh it wasn’t that funny,” he shoves playfully but you’re so damn weak you stumble, he grabs you quickly, holding you too closely. “You said you ate.”

“I did, I swear, just still feeling it I think?” Your hand rests on one of his biceps, he sees that blush up close, spreading down your neck. “I really ate dinner and breakfast!”

“Can’t box if you’re falling over and shit,” he sighs, his hands still on your waist, shaking his head a bit. “I’ll show you some basics, you just pay attention for now. I’m grabbing you a protein bar.”

“I’m okay!” Sukuna ignores you, coming back with a bar and shoving it unceremoniously in your hand. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck, your eyes are too pretty looking up at him like that, and he needs to make you comfortable. Not do every filthy thing he keeps thinking of – fuck that sadness right out of you. How can he fucking think that? “Come with me, and you better finish it.”

“You’re bossy,” you tease, he snorts and rolls his eyes, feeling the warmth of your skin with your close proximity. “It’s good!”

“Hmm, you’re just starving, those suck,” you sigh, chewing thoughtfully, when he shows you to the training area. “You need some muscle so I suggest doing some light weights first, then next time maybe I’ll let you hit a bag.”

“Got it,” you murmur, mouth just a little full, the wrapper crinkles a bit as you down it. “Maybe I was hungry? I’ve not had an appetite.”

“Yeah, sounds like…” He trails off now. “You have stress at home.”

You laugh a little without humor. “You could say that.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens just a bit, feeling his teeth press together in irritation at the thought of whatever has you like this. Yet in just a good twenty minutes you relax your shoulders just a bit, you smile a little more real and not forced, he watches as you ease just a bit with every movement.

“These are tiny weights, I can do more,” you pout as he puts ten on each arm. Sukuna shakes his head. “I can!”

“Yeah champ okay,” he grabs twenties and watches your arms drop down, stabilizing you and smirking. “You’re a regular Arnold.”

“Oh hush!” He takes them and tugs and your pony tail again, you dab just a little sweat off your brow.

“You are bratty, see?”

“I am so not,” you get a little quiet at his hands on your wrists then, clearing your throat and looking down so shy and cute.

Sukuna would just corrupt you.

You’re clearly an innocent little thing and his thoughts are about as far from that as they could be, it’s hard to pull back and act casual – as if this is normal and he just grips on his clients’ fucking biceps. You’re so fragile then as he studies you for a heartbeat too long, you don’t move away, just staring up at him. Your pupils dilate and make your eyes too damn pretty.

“You good?” He manages to ask, rubbing the back of his neck, annoyed by whatever the fuck effect this is.

“I am, thank you Sukuna,” if your lips would stop moving like that, if your voice would stop sounding that way, maybe he would be all right and not throbbing just inhaling your scent. “You’re very sweet.”

“Me? Tch, m’not sweet,” he rolls his eyes as you giggle again, turning away so you don’t see the dopey grin on his face before he gets rid of it, turning back and raising a brow. “I’ll show you some movements and you can come hit the bag tomorrow.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sukuna wraps his knuckles as you look around a bit. “You are seeing me after the gym closes, you don’t have to.”

“I usually stay after anyway,” he just wants to fucking be alone with you. “Not a problem.”

“I’ll come a little earlier tomorrow, if that’s okay?” Your brows draw together.

“I don’t care, whenever, come hold this for me. I won’t accidentally punch you, don't worry.”

“I didn’t think so,” you go over and hold it, gasping when you feel the impact, looking at him curiously. “You think I’ll really be able to hit this thing?”

“Mmhmm, of course you will,” he takes it easy, even if you’re behind the bag he doesn’t want to scare you. He typically doesn’t have girls in the gym.

He shows you a few of the basics, and you study him carefully, he doesn’t realize he’s getting distracted until he stops punching and focuses on you, you’re watching him intently, your eyes flickering down his body, then to his lips before shooting back up to his eyes quickly.

Sukuna smirks a bit at you, walking around the bag to stand in front of you. “What is it?”

“N-nothing,” you squeak out, lashes trembling. “You look – I mean you are very good.”

He snorts at that, you’re too fucking cute. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He leans against the bag now, stepping closer and looking down at you “You’re were staring.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, eyes lowering. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be, I don’t mind,” he murmurs back, his eyes lowering to your lips, watching them part just slightly. He leans in a fraction, your breath catches – he hears it, a sharp little inhale. “I’m just teasin’ ya, okay?”

Sukuna’s voice is soft to his own ears, he almost feels the need to be gentle when it comes to you, you’re so delicate and afraid. You nod and wring your hands a little bit in front of your lap. “I couldn’t help it.”

“I look that good?” He’s chuckling as you cover your face all cute. “It’s okay, I already know I do.”

“You’re teasing me!” He eases your hands down, sighing at the contrast of his huge hands around your wrists.

“Yeah, I was, don’t take me serious, yeah?” You nod and just stand there, when he drops his hands and clears his throat. “Finish up, then I’ll walk you out.”

You just stand there for a moment, breathing softly as he watches you bite your lip now, staring at him nervously. He wonders what you’d do if he just kissed you? He wonders how you’d taste, if you’d melt into him, if he could kiss you on every inch of your body.

He can’t be this way.

“Okay,” you whisper, turning away to grab your stuff quickly. He walks you out silently to the back exit, the cool air whipping your hair around – this time of year, it was chilly and dark early. “Time went quick.”

“Yeah,” he looks at you carefully then. “What had you almost in tears this morning, or can you not tell me?”

You tug your bag closer, sighing. “The other woman was just… in my fridge and on my couch and it threw me off.”

“Other woman?” You nod. “In your house?”

“Yeah, I could handle it if maybe he could keep it to his room,” Sukuna’s brows raise now and you hesitate. “It had me upset more than usual.”

“You just… are okay with it?” You look down at his lips once more, if you don’t stop doing that he’s gonna lose his tentative control. “Why?”

“It’s arranged, that sounds archaic–”

“Nah,” Sukuna sighs now. “Let me guess, rich family?”

“Yeah, are you?” He smirks. “The name sounded familiar? I don’t know how I didn’t put it together.”

“Yep,” he drags out that word with a pop of his lips. “I’m from that shitty ass line of family, I just decided to tell them all to fuck off. You should try it, it’s fun.”

“Saying ‘fuck off’ huh?” You giggle again, shaking your head as he smirks down at you. “That’s impressive to not bow under pressure.”

“I just wasn’t one for rules, decorum, I just don’t give a shit,” he shrugs a broad shoulder. “Arranged shit was in my parents’ plans but in that I also told them to fuck off. But that’s enough therapy.” He flicks your forehead, you rub it and glare.

“Ah, stay all mysterious,” you tease just a bit, hesitating and then turning. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mhmm,” you turn to look at him one more time, suddenly stepping forward and tip-toeing, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

Fuck.

You should not do that.

“Thank you again,” you murmur shyly, stepping back quickly and rushing to your car like you’re embarrassed by the little action.

Sukuna jerks off that night to a kiss on the cheek from a shy, sweet little woman who is married, and wishes he felt worse about imagining decorating you in ropes of cum, but he really doesn’t. Moreso he’s irritated you’ve made him so pathetic in the span of a couple days.

He was fucked.

*****

You

You’re wolfing down eggs and bacon when Satoru walks out the next morning, eyeing you curiously at the array of food on the counter. You should tell him to fuck off really, just like Sukuna said you should tell everyone but some part of you would like to not hate Satoru Gojo, some part would like some sort of peace or even an understanding, for him to stop his cruelty to some extent.

So you smile, and he pauses, shirtless and just in his boxers, but your smile freezes on your face when you observe the dark hickies littering him right over his pelvis. It’s his turn to smirk as he walks closer to you, putting a coffee pod in casually, as if it’s normal to have hickies on your v cuts by your happy trail.

Why are you hurt, you knew he was with her?

“Good morning,” you manage to try to be cordial. “I made a big breakfast if you’re hungry.”

“You know I have cooks,” he says, nibbling a muffin then moaning, his snowy lashes fluttering shut. “Oh fuck.”

“I like to bake,” you say with a little shrug, he pauses as he watches you nibble your own. “It gives me something to do. I think I may… get a job or something.”

“Why, you have enough money you never need to even without me.” 

“Why, to give me… something?” You say, shrugging a bit. “I’ve never been able to work other than at charity functions, so I guess my resume would be kind of shitty though.”

“You don’t need to work while you’re here, it would just look bad,” you blink again. “Maybe work with me but…”

“Yeah, no,” he chuckles, as if it’s funny. “Bad enough the secretary is over at my… your house, now.” You correct yourself, tension between you both rising as you stand in the kitchen, his eyes sweep over you.

“Going to box again?”

“I am,” you’re wearing a sweater over your top this time, hanging just a bit off your shoulder, his gaze drifts down to it. “I think I like it.”

“Ah,” he steps closer, leaning down. “You ever figure out how to touch yourself?”

“If I did I wouldn’t do it thinking of you,” he glares and you smile now. “You’d be the last guy in my mind.”

“Sure, sweetheart, keep tellin’ yourself that, I see how you look at me,” you scoff, tensing when he brushes his fingers on your shoulder. “I can tell by every reaction you want me.”

You smack his hand off and he smirks. “You told me we’d never do anything, be anything, so stop trying.”

“Ah, you gave up on your little goal? Don’t wanna leave better marks on me than Jennifer?”

You feel sick.

“You know what, Gojo?” He raises a brow. “You’re not just mean, not just cruel, you’re sadistic, like you don’t just want me gone, you want to torture me.”

It’s quiet now, you blink back tears of frustration, of pain, feeling your heart pound in your chest.

“I said I’ll not try again, and I mean it,” you look away. “Whether I want you or not, I never will.”

He continues his silence, when your gaze meets his it’s softer, blue eyes unreadable, as if there’s a hint of humanity in him. What a joke, what a delusion to think he’d have even the most basic empathy for you.

“I didn’t do anything to deserve how you act,” your whisper breaks in the middle, traitorous tears leaking. “All I did was try. Now I give up, you get what you want.”

Satoru’s fists clench at the sides, taking a breath now. “You’ll thank me.”

“I’ll what!?”

“You’ll thank me,” he murmurs again, slipping your sweater up over your shoulder, fingertips brushing. “For not letting you be with me, for letting you have your own choice.”

“Acting like you’re being such a great fucking guy,” you never cuss but it spills out, when out of frustration you shove at his chest, not like he’ll move, glaring up into his eyes. “Mr. ‘hold on let me cum’ really? There’s no world where I’ll thank you for what you’ve put me through these past few weeks.”

You rush out past him and hear him murmur your name, you ignore it completely, gathering your things and rushing out, tears swimming even as you drive over to the gym. How can Satoru continue to hurt you like this and then have the audacity to act like he’s being kind!?

You barely get yourself together, peering in the mirror to fix yourself up, dabbing concealer to hide your sleepless night. It was hard to sleep when your husband was loudly moaning across the house, and when you kept thinking about Sukuna and the little kiss on his cheek.

Was it too far? Would it be weird?

Why do you want his lips so bad? Sure, he’s handsome, but the pull is more than that, as if you know he’d be able to kiss you the way you always dreamt – as much as you’re trying to hold back, it’s there. The feeling when you step into the busy gym, seeing Sukuna training in the ring with his nephew, he tackles him down and laughs so loud it echoes off the walls.

“Hey! Off me!” Yuuji shoves at him, but he’s way bigger, you blush as you think just how huge Sukuna is, he’s even taller than Satoru and you thought that pretty impossible. “You cheated!”

“Didn’t cheat, kid, you just weren’t paying attention,” his gaze hits you then, and he falters, only to get slammed down by Yuuji quickly.

“Hah! Got you,” Sukuna smacks his hand away as he grins, he’s literally adorable, the sunshine to Sukuna’s grumpy nature. Your heart tugs just a bit with affection at the sight, when Yuuji sees you and waves. “Hey, did you see me stomp his ass?”

“I did,” Sukuna snorts and stands on his own, brushing off his gym shorts, leaning a bit against the ropes and taking you in. “Hey Sukuna.”

“You’re actually on time,” he peeks at his watch. “Early.”

“Breakfast too,” you grin and he chuckles, suddenly it’s like that gym is just white noise and it’s all him, hopping over the ropes and down the platform, the sounds of sneakers squeaking on hardwood and punches drowned by your beating heart. He comes to stand and cross his arms, ruby eyes assessing you. “Protein, it was all protein filled.”

“Good,” he ruffles your hair like you’re Yuuji, you huff a bit, but part of how touch starved you are? You want him to keep patting your head, almost leaning into the quick little touch.

What’s wrong with you?

He’s friendly, kinder than you are used to – your own parents were not much better than Satoru, yet their cruelty was more in dismissing you, in the strict nature they raised you, the coldness. You grew up privileged and know you shouldn’t feel sorry for yourself, but the pain was there, only having been made better by the dream of Satoru taking you far away.

Some dream, a cinderella tale, you’re not sure what the fuck you were thinking, were you enamored with his pretty eyes, his kindness? With Sukuna you had those butterflies like you did that night Satoru unzipped your dress, but it was without that sinking feeling in your stomach.

The next couple days you spend at the gym – sometimes watching him, sometimes training a bit, the people there are all so friendly it feels nice. You find yourself there longer than usual, a little stronger, you keep waiting for Sukuna to let you spar or something cool, but he eases you into a few different things.

You enjoy him so much you find yourself staying after and wiping down equipment, seeing him raise a brow and laugh at you, telling you to go. But what’s waiting at home? Satoru and whoever he decides to bring home for the evening? It’s not just the secretary, you wish that it was only her in fact, she at least pretended to be a little nice to you.

You’re not sure if Satoru even works or if he just gets his dick wet.

You pass him in the morning and see one of them knocked out in his bed with the door cracked open, and that’s when you feel a deeper pain, eyeing him sleeping next to her. They’re not cuddling, but she’s sleeping in his bed. Alone in the room that was made for the two of you, staring up at the ceiling and touching your lips, thinking of kissing Sukuna then.

You can’t.

You shouldn’t.

Two wrongs don’t make a right, but something about that sends you over the edge – pushes you to where you don’t feel so terrible thinking of what you want to do. It’s just a step further even for him, your interactions get even shorter, he doesn’t taunt you as much since you got upset in that kitchen, but now it’s like living in a home where you’re unwanted.

You can’t wait to leave, for whatever he needs to figure out to cause the least scandal, you’re tired of smiling on his arm for the get togethers, only to sit on opposite sides of the backseat of that limo in the quiet. You’re lonely until you go to that gym, but you know it’s nonsense, Sukuna has not tried to kiss you or cross that line, even when his touches linger.

He’s a good man, a good uncle clearly, maybe a good friend – and all you can think half the time is those tattooed hands touching you longer, in places you know you shouldn’t want them. Trailing your hands up his biceps and feeling the strength in them, falling into his kisses until you’re dizzy.

It’s hard not to think of it when you watch his body move.

He’s shirtless today as if to distract you more, the way he’s built is enough to make you miss your punch, earning his chuckle, teasing glint in his ruby eyes. “Distracted?”

“No,” you’re such a liar. This morning threw you off seeing that girl in his damn bed, and now you can’t stop staring at your trainer’s body. “Just a bit.”

“What’s on that mind of yours?” Everyone has left for the day, you and him are all alone in the enormous gym, your pink gloves on your hands.

“A lot,” you murmur, punching the bag again and again, remembering to cross as he showed you, then wincing a bit as your wrist twists. “Ouch!”

“Bad angle, lemme see,” he carefully slips it off, thumb brushing your inner wrist, you suck in a breath. “I think you just kinked it a bit. Does it hurt to move?”

You shake your head, but you don’t move your hand, you keep it in his grip, biting down on your lip so hard it hurts. He’s too close, too fucking big all over – you shouldn’t think of everywhere. Not like you’ve even seen one aside from Satoru after he’d been inside that ‘jennifer’ whatever the fuck her name was, and that didn’t make you ‘excited’.

You’re curious at times, at how wet you get around Sukuna, but as a sheltered girl who was hardly allowed friends – and they’re all trad wives – there hasn’t been much talk. ‘Let your husband do anything and just live that way’ was damn near their advice – though that did land you here, after all.

“You’re real distracted,” you sigh, nodding. “Lemme guess, your husband has a new girl over?”

“She slept in his bed,” you blink back emotion, shaking your head, Sukuna just quietly checks your wrist, moving it a bit. “You’d think I couldn’t hurt anymore, couldn’t feel anymore pain about it.”

“I think you’re surprisingly calm about it,” he says then. “Arranged or not, how would anyone not want you?”

Your world shifts on its axis at his gruff little confession, you’re blushing furiously now, stepping a little closer, feeling his warmth near you sink in. “Sukuna, that's sweet.”

“You keep trying to call me that,” he shakes his head – thumb slipping across the delicate veins raised on your inner wrist. “I’m not sweet.”

“You are to me,” he scoffs. “You make me feel better, that is sweet.”

“The things I’m thinking are as far from fucking ‘sweet’ as they can be,” you gasp then, when his hand slips up your arm, before he stops himself, pulling back when you wish he wouldn’t. “How innocent are you?”

“Very,” you admit. “But you could tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Hah,” he has one arm on either side of you when you press against the bag you’d just been hitting, he’s right behind you, cupping your face with a calloused, rough hand so big it takes you over. “You’d run out the door if I told you half of it.”

He backs off then, leaving you trembling, hand on your chest, going to open your mouth when he hops down as if to rush away from you. Terrified you’ve fucked it all up you hop down too, rushing to get your bag, Sukuna comes back with a little brace for your wrist and glares.

“You running off?”

“I made it weird,” you mumble, suddenly so insecure. If your own husband could fuck anything but you, what made you think Sukuna would want you being married, complicated, messy.

“I was just getting a wrap, get over here,” he tugs you over to him, sitting you on one of the cool metal benches. “Your wrists will toughen up in time.”

“Okay,” every time he touches you it sends waves of desire, your teeth clamp down on your lower lip, trying to focus. “Thank you, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry you hurt your wrist?” You nod, making Sukuna sigh now, shaking his head. “Stop apologizing for the dumbest shit. You’re fine.”

It’s awkward when you leave this time, too much between you both, your doubts raging even as you come home. For once, Satoru has no girl there, dressed in a suit and gazing over at you, gaze rushing across your body. He has no business looking that pretty and being that cruel.

“You’ve been training a lot,” he mentions, tilting his head curiously. “Every day seems excessive.”

“I like it,” you slip off your sweater, a little warm with the heat blasting, and then you feel his eyes hit your breasts. “Sorry it’s warm.”

You’re apologizing again.

For ‘dumb shit’. Is that just what you do, what you’ve always done?

“We have an event in an hour.” You nod and rush off to get ready, struggling into your dress so you don’t have to ask him for help again, he stands by the bathroom, the door open, crossing his arms. “What happened to your wrist?”

“Oh, I twisted it,” you take off the little velcro now. “It probably would look bad with the outfit.” He just shrugs, eyeing the marks left from the brace. “Do I look all right? I don’t think I have time to do makeup.”

“I guess,” that’s his answer.

‘I guess.’

You suppose it’s better than him telling you he’s unattracted again, you already know that now, looking at yourself in the mirror and hastily trying to do something with your hair. “What’s the event?”

“Some dumb fucking charity auction,” he eyes his phone now. “I thought that Jennifer told you.”

“No, she did not,” you scoff then, looking at him. “You ask your mistress to send me your itinerary?”

“She’s my secretary so yes, that’s what she’s for,” you can’t with him, especially his mean little smile. “That make you mad?”

You say nothing, you’re not taking his obvious bait – pushing past him quickly and grabbing your clutch, seeing a pair of black lace panties underneath the little glass side table then. Your jaw sets, glaring over at him.

“I asked you to keep the fucking to your room,” he frowns, looking down now, sighing. “What the fuck, Gojo?”

“I didn’t fuck her out here,” he answers with a shrug. “Just fingered her.”

You blush and he laughs softly, walking up to you, tilting your chin so that you’re forced to meet his gaze.

“Haven’t been fingered even?” You refuse to answer, jaw setting, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, his fingers drifting down your dress, achingly slow, blue eyes dilating just a bit. “You’re all heated thinking of it, huh?”

The backs of his knuckles drag against your puffy folds over your dress, you bite down on your lip, hating what his eyes do, when they look for a moment like maybe he would want you. You grip his wrist firmly though, shocking him for a moment when you shove his hand off.

“Aren’t we late?”

*****

Gojo 

“Satoru,” his best friend frowns at him, seeing you across the room sitting alone, avoiding everyone and everything. “She looks miserable, the fuck are you doing?”

“She’ll be free soon enough,” Suguru narrows his eyes, Satoru’s mind goes to earlier when you gripped him so damn strong out of nowhere.

What sort of working out were you doing, and with who? The thought of someone touching you makes him unreasonably jealous, considering any time he did you froze like you did. He almost felt your heat, imagining the slick, perfect little cunt you must have that he actively turned down.

Now it’s driving him insane, you are gone all the time, not even bothering to look at him. Isn’t this what he wanted, you to hate him, to get over your dumb crush and realize he’s not worth it? Satoru will never love anyone, he knows that he's not capable of it any more than his parents were capable of loving him.

He supposes Suguru was as close as he got to ‘loving’ someone, though even his best friend was done with his shit clearly.

“She seems really sweet,” Satoru sighs.

“She is annoyingly sweet. And perfect. And pure.” He says it with disdain.

“So you need an average, slutty ass secretary?” Satoru rolls his eyes, sipping on his whiskey. “I’m sorry everyone knows.”

“Good, give the Gojo name a scandal,” his lips quirk up. “She is too sweet for someone like me anyway.”

“I don’t understand why you’re going that far,” Suguru says, shaking his head. “Have you even looked at her? If you had to be arranged, wouldn’t you want it to be someone like her?”

“You like how she looks so much, you go fuck her,” Suguru glares at him, and Satoru tenses when he realizes you’re walking past right behind Suguru, looking up at him with devastated eyes.

Those eyes.

He didn’t love to hurt you, despite what you thought, he just needed you to give up, to not have any feelings, and you still seem to. Still seem to respond to him, still try for whatever reason. He’s given you no possible sign that he feels what he feels, that he does want you, he does think you’re beautiful, he couldn’t say that shit when he’s finally got you shoved far enough away.

Yet he hates himself for it, loathes himself for the tears in your eyes as Suguru turns and sees you, flush on his cheeks, scowling back at his own friend. Satoru opens his mouth then closes it, seeing that you’re about to break apart hearing it – that he told his best friend to go fuck his wife because he won’t.

“Let’s dance, hmm?” Suguru asks you, and Satoru watches you take his hand and nod, swiping a tear with a tremulous smile.

“Yes please,” Satoru watches you both, leaning back against the wall, studying how his hand takes over your waist, how you seem…

Happy at that moment.

“Satoru Gojo,” his mother’s voice is in his ear, right next to your parents, he blinks just a bit. “We’d like to know what’s going on.”

“Is she not doing good enough?” Your mother asks, Satoru frowns then, blinking just a bit.

“We tried our best to make sure she was perfect for you,” that’s your dad, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Is she giving you trouble?”

“Is she giving me trouble?” He’s dumbfounded at their question, looking back at you on the floor.

“You could stand to keep your affairs discreet,” his mother chides. “You don’t need to flaunt them around even if she’s not adequate.”

Not adequate – you.

This is why he fucking hates this.

“We can keep her for a bit, if she needs more polishing.”

“She’s not a fucking golden retriever who needs training,” he says then, earning their surprised looks. “She’s polished to a tee, I assure you.”

“Then surely there’s more we can do, she does look disheveled," your mom says, Satoru swallows down guilt now.

This would only look bad on you. He’s a Gojo, he can do whatever the fuck he wants, he’s a man and you’re…

“I’ll dance with her, yeah?” He gets them to shut up for now, he’s still got too much going on, trying to find the best way to annul the marriage without you getting hurt in the process.

Well, more hurt.

When he cuts in, you’re stiff in his arms, he tugs you against him, remembering the first dance he had, where he had the maid’s cunt all over his fingers. You tried even then, pathetically trying when you look like that, and it all starts to make sense why you are so desperate, meeting them.

“Act like you enjoy it, they’re on my ass,” he says gruffly. He doesn’t want to hear more shit about you ‘training’ or getting ‘polished’ but he doesn’t tell you that, his hand on the small of your back. “Smile like you did at Suguru.”

“I like Suguru,” you say softly, a mean smile on a usually shy, soft face, stabbing Gojo in the heart. “I don’t like you.”

He chuckles now, leaning low and murmuring your ear. “That’s perfect.”

*****

You

You’re extra aggressive after that night, after hearing him so casually not just dismiss you as a woman but tell his friend to ‘have at it’.

You’re imagining his dumb pretty face as you punch the bag over and over, Sukuna is quiet, it’s early before he even opens the gym but when you asked to come he had no problem, he was there early anyway. You couldn’t stand one more moment not hitting something, all of the energy you’ve spent crying over Gojo, over your fucking parents.

Coming to you all ‘disappointed’ when you’ve done NOTHING but try, what’s it got you, what’s anything get you? Perfect, perfect, perfect – for what. It keeps racing in your mind until you feel sick to your stomach, breaths coming in short little pants, hitting it so hard you almost tweak your sore wrist, but you welcome the pain, until Sukuna steps back.

“Hey,” Sukuna is dabbing a little washcloth on your brow, you're shaky and overheated from punching that bag so damn hard. The cool cloth feels good against your clammy skin, you sigh, eyes fluttering shut. "Feel better?"

"Actually yes," you look up into those ruby eyes that hold so much in them, lost for a moment. He grabs you a water and twists it open, you drink from it – a little drop slipping across your chin, he swipes it with ease, making you tremble.

Fuck you want him, you want to feel what it’s like, whatever he thinks you’re ‘too sweet and innocent’ to hear. You want to know what’s behind those eyes, so fucking guarded, but you don’t know how to say it when you stand in that ring with him. It’d be so selfish to drag him into your fucked life, but for some reason he deals with you, he spends the time.

Your friend, he’s your friend right?

Yet when Sukuna’s sooty pink lashes lower, and his hands gently fix one of your bobby pins up, you catch his wrist without thinking. He pauses, teeth glinting with his little grin. "Practicing self defense against big ass pink haired men who touch your hair, huh woman?"

You know he's joking with you, but you step closer, breath catching when you inhale his scent in your nostrils. Not that obnoxious cologne Satoru wears, it's real and male and musky – sweat mixed with something inherently him. It shoots straight to your core, the need for him in every single way, drawing you in like a moth to a flame, like his gravity is pulling you.

Sukuna exhales, letting you put his hand on your cheek, so big and tall over you, shadows casting across the boxing ring.

“Treading in dangerous territory, brat,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move your hand, letting you slip your fingers across the jut of his jaw, feeling his pulse fluttering when it slips across his neck. 

"I don't want to get you involved in my mess, Sukuna," you say then, catching his attention, pulling back ever so slightly.

"Maybe I don't mind a mess," you sigh, looking at his plump lips, his tattooed hand tugging you closer by the waist until you’re almost against him. "Messes are my specialty. Wanna know why?"

You swallow nervously, trembling in front of him, sweat making you shiver just a bit as the AC kicks on overhead, cooling sweat soaked skin. "Why?"

"Because, I'm damaged too, I just hide it better than you," you shut your eyes for a moment.

"I've only kissed once," he blinks a bit, frowning. "So maybe I'll suck at this."

"What now-"

That's when you - Mrs. Gojo - tiptoe and kiss Ryomen Sukuna on his lips.

And that's when he drags you against him and presses your back on the ropes around the boxing ring, moaning. Hard body, hot and heavy, a thigh pressing where you've never been touched, making you whine out, lifting you like it’s nothing. His tongue slips past the seam of your lips, gripping you so tight you can’t breathe.

You don’t want to though, you want him to take all your breath away.

For the first time maybe ever, you feel so wanted, the way he devours you like he's waited forever for it, moaning against your skin and easing you down then, letting you slip down his body, cupping your face. Huge hands taking it over – his breath coming in pants, this look in his eyes, his pupils swallowing those irises until they’re black underneath those pink lashes.

“Don’t do that,” he huffs, shoulders heaving up and down. 

“I’m sor-”

“I’ll fucking break you,” your tummy clenches in response, pussy drooling at his desperation, looking at you like you’re it. “Ruin your perfect little cunt, is that really what you want?”

“Ruin my… um… you…” You don’t even really get his terminology, but the way he says it just makes you slip your arms across his neck. “You didn’t mind the kiss, then?”

He laughs, shaking his head before a sorrow hits his eyes, brushing your hair back with one hand, the other pulling you close. “Do I mind it?”

“I haven’t done anything,” you admit, the insinuation clear as hands drag along the curve of your waist. “I don’t know if-”

Sukuna cuts you off with another kiss, tongue delving into the recesses of your mouth, holding you up so his thickness presses your needy cunt through the thin layers of your yoga pants and his gym shorts. You taste a hint of that coffee he had earlier – mixed with the light salt of his sweat dripping from his lips, groaning as he feels your thighs wrap him.

“Mmm, if you don’t go I’ll fucking break you,” you’re too far gone, just rolling your hips, making him suck in a breath while precum leaks and makes him sticky. His breaths mingle with yours, all the tension of this week coming to a head, he’s done holding back yet he still tries to. “M’not fucking kidding. Should go.”

“Do you want me to go?” His answer is somehow gently landing you on the white floor underneath your feet – now on your back – and spreading your thighs, pressing up between them so hot and thick. “Sukuna…”

“Don’t say my name that way, fuck,” his lips are all over you, tongues dancing so messy with that saliva dripping you blush. Your fingers trail down his abdomen, over the rippling muscles, feeling them tense and bunch. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, finding him then, watching his eyes flutter shut. “I wanna hear the things you won’t say.”

“You don’t.” His grip is on your wrist, pinning it over your head. Your breasts heave up and down, one of his hands slipping under your top, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“I’ll tell you something I think,” he raises a slutty eyebrow, two barbells that make it even sluttier, just that look has you writhing under him, as you bite down on your lip. “Deal?”

“What’s your cute little comment, hmm? Wanna hold my hand?” You glare and he chuckles. “I love when you scowl.”

“I have never touched myself,” Sukuna’s face goes into shock, red eyes wide. “Never um… came. And last night, I thought of you and… I tried to. I don’t know what I was doing and it didn’t work, but I thought of you and was…”

“Don’t say it.”

You sigh, suddenly feeling bold with him.

“Wet.”

“Fuck me,” Sukuna’s taking back over your mouth, kisses more desperate and hungry by the moment, you’re soaked when he finds your puffy cunt for the first time, tentatively slipping a fingertip inside and hissing, you gasp out. “Cunt is way too small, I’d split you in half.”

Whatever he means you’re just wetter, gasping when he pulls it back before he gives you what you crave. Slick fingers on your lip, watching your blush for a moment before kissing your cunt off him, a hand now under your head so it doesn’t hurt pressing into the ring’s floor. Your thighs spread for more, arching your hips.

“Too fuckin’ pretty,” you shake your head, blinking tears and making him halt, scowling. “You are.”

“You’re-”

“If you say sweet I’ll bruise your cervix,” you’re a flustered mess at that, earning his groan of frustration, taking your hand in his, nipping your finger with his teeth, sharp pain pressing in. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“Deal?”

“If you can make yourself cum for me tonight, I’ll let you use my fingers tomorrow,” your fingers slip down your puffy folds guided with his own, before he pushes yours up. “Your clit, rub it.”

“It’s… ah!” Sukuna watches you jolt at your own touch, pulling your fingers away as if burned, cheeks flushing. 

"Twitching I bet," he sighs, amused, hovering over you and putting your fingers back down. “Do you want me to make you cum tomorrow?”

You nod eagerly but you don’t feel ‘pathetic’ with Sukuna, he wants you just as desperately. “Y-yes.”

“Be a good girl,” you whine out, making him smirk just a bit. “Touch it again, little circles."

Those fingers find your clit again, this time obeying him and testing the little movements, shaky breaths overtaking you. Sukuna's eyes darken as he watches, his own fingers guiding your movements. “Sukuna… mnh!”

"Do it slower," he whispers, looking at you in this way…

Is this what it is, to be desired?

You’re shaking, wantonly playing with yourself in Sukuna’s boxing ring under his hungry gaze, rubbing circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves, hips jerking. A whimper escapes when you accidentally press too hard, when it jumps and gets so slick your fingers slip off almost.

“Too much!”

Sukuna's knuckles brush your inner thigh where slick has trailed, moaning and spreading it around until it’s glossy. "Keep going, imagine it's my fingers."

The thought sends heat from your core – little movements feeling so fucking good that your eyes are rolling back in your skull, his hot lips pressing kisses on your upper breasts, letting them gently bounce from your yoga top. When his tongue flicks over your nipple you’re about to shatter, whimpering in Sukuna’s ear as he keeps guiding your fingers.

Your slick drowns both of you.

“Go ahead,” he urges, looking down at you. “Lemme see how pretty you are when you cum for the first time.”

It’s heady and insane, lewd and filthy him watching you fall apart – you whine out as the first bit of that orgasm fucking destroys you, hips lifting off the cold mat as white stars burst behind your eyelids. The pleasure makes you dizzy, head falling back, back arching up as you ride it out, gushing in spurts in embarrassing amounts.

Your fingers fall weakly, opening your eyes to the blurry vision of Sukuna watching with lidded, dazed eyes.

“You did such a good job today,” you almost cry then.

Praise was something you’ve never gotten. Your breaths quicken, tits almost slipping up and out where he’d tugged at them, Sukuna gently moves your hand, his crimson gaze locks onto yours as he brings your fingertips to his mouth. 

“Sukuna! You’re…” His long tongue swipes against your fingers in a circle, before he slips a filthy drag between them, lapping up all of your juices. “Tasting me?”

“Mmm, fuck,” he hums low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut as he sucks each little digit clean, his cheeks hollowing. He looks like he’s cumming – you think, you’re not sure.

You do know it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, the sight of it pulls another broken moan from your throat, the obscene sound echoing in the gym's quiet, until there is no sound but that suctioned pop.

“I wanna bury my face in you,” his words are insanity, things you never thought you’d hear, hovering over you and pulling your thigh up so you feel him. “Then I wanna bury my cock, wreck you until you won’t walk out of here, pump you full until you drip me when you get home to your fuck ass husband.”

“Sukuna… I… you really…” He kisses you quiet, pulling back and laughing softly, huge body casting a shadow across you both, eyes dangerous, grin psychotic – white against his skin.

“That’s just a bit of my thoughts, you need to go before you’re not a virgin anymore,” he touches your lips thoughtfully. “I’d fill all your holes though.”

“All!? Um…” He pulls up and gently adjusts your clothing with precise fingers, kissing you again and again.

“Don’t let me corrupt you, just run off,” his words hurt, as if he’s not good enough for you, when that’s so not the case. “Shouldn’t even come back.”

“No,” is your answer. A firm answer you almost apologize for, his sigh loud as he runs a hand shaky through his hair. “I don’t want to run, if you don’t want me to.”

“Dangerous and dumb idea,” his hand entangles in the nape of your neck, his own breaths erratic. “If you do good tonight I’ll make sure you have my fingers. Will you cum thinking of them?”

“I’ll try to do it right,” you blush now, letting him stroke your back, sending shivers as you fall into another kiss.

You don’t want to go home.

When you go to leave, he pauses you, a hand on your shoulder. “He doesn’t hit you or some shit, yeah? Because I swear-”

“Never, I smacked him,” Sukuna sighs in relief. “It’s mental pain, not that. I promise.”

“Still fucked but,” he shakes his head. “If it ever got there I have a champion belt I can throw on.”

“I bet you do,” you smile, feeling cared for was new.

“Go.”

“One more?”

“No, won’t stop there,” he shakes his head and you turn, just for him to drag you back, kissing you over and over, as gone in you as you are in him, pulling back to brush your cheeks, sighing. “Now go.”

You don’t say anything, the intentions were clear, Sukuna wanted you in ways you knew nothing of other that watching Satoru and hearing things here and there, in ways that makes your clit still twitch. Cunt pulsing around nothing, hands shaky as you drive, a mix of pleasure, desire, and more.

Feelings, brand new and blooming, intense.

And guilt.

Why?

You walk up quietly to see Satoru standing in front of the porch, gaze flickering to you, as if he fucking knew somehow, smoking a cigarette. You blink for a moment, you didn’t know him to smoke, but then you don’t really know him, not at all. You walk up and go to open the door as he blows some of it out, leaned back on the railing, crossing his legs at the ankles.

“Your lips are swollen,” you suck in a breath, freezing and turning to look at him. “You bite them or get them bitten?”

“How would you even notice? You don’t notice me,” your words are carried by the chilled breeze. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Hah,” he inhales a drag, stepping near you, exhaling up and away. “I do smoke. I have.”

“Ah,” you look away then. “It’s shit for you but… I can’t say I care enough to tell you to stop.”

“Ouch,” his hand brushes your hair back, frowning. “Hair’s a mess.”

“Yep,” you won’t deny it if he asks, but he’s not owed a fucking explanation either. “You eat dinner?”

“Yeah there’s food in the kitchen,” he flicks his cigarette out, quiet.

“Where’s Jennifer? Or… Chloe? Is that her name?”

“I don’t have a woman every night,” you laugh then, Satoru eyes you. “I don’t.”

“Okay, it’s ‘not my business’ right, Gojo?”

He says nothing.

You’re tired of trying to see something in him, when he presses against you, your front against the door, tilting your chin and eyeing your lips carefully, thumb brushing over them. “You were kissing or sucking cock?”

“Wouldn’t tell you,” you lift your chin, looking up at him, feeling his grip tighten on either side of your chin. “I’m gonna eat.”

“Yeah.” He lets you go, you struggle inside, trying to catch a breath.

That night you think of him – of Sukuna’s ruby eyes and vermillion lips, of his hungry kisses and the way he looked at you. Even if it was fleeting, even if he was just in the moment, you never knew you could feel that way, feel so wanted, so beautiful.

You can’t stop thinking of the words.

Break you.

Fuck all your holes.

Fuck you’re pretty.

You touch yourself alone for the first time in your life tonight, and Satoru Gojo may have heard you outside your door, he may have stroked his cock right outside your door, head resting on it. He may be regretting things, he may desire you, hearing your sharp gasps as he knows you’re touching yourself, imagining you gripping those sheets and fucking yourself with your fingers.

It’s a sick thing to do, to jerk his cock to a girl he turned down, a girl he’s made hate him on purpose, one he’s acted like he doesn’t want, one that soon will be long gone and think of him as a traumatic fucking memory. Yet it doesn’t stop him from pumping his cock up and down with his fist, moaning quietly as you reach your peak so loudly.

Yet he doesn’t hear his name.

He hears you mumbling – Kuna.

Welp it just gets messier from heeerree <3 A/N here, plz don't hate on reader for being a 'doormat' she literally is traumatized and will have more character development as we go. You can hate on Gojo though LMAO!!! I hope you enjoy, I am so thankful for the love and look forward to hearing your thoughts!

But isn’t he just a disappointment anyway?

“Am I having fun watching you with another woman at my engagement party?” You ask softly, shaking your head. “I get it, I’m not your type. I knew that from people telling me so.”

He pauses, right in the center of the dance floor.

“Yet I expected some decorum, I expected you to at least be respectful, not to show the world how unappealing you find me,” you whisper, biting down on your lip, shaking your head now. “I wanted to at least try here, with you.”

Satoru can’t speak.

Until he spins you, and catches you, his big hand taking over your waist, thumb pressing under the swell of your breasts. He almost falls then, from just a look, yet he holds himself back, he stops every insane thought and action, laughing easily, like he’s amused.

Satoru is good at hiding.

“Ya thought we’d have some story book romance, huh? Oh… you’re a fairy princess and I’m from another kingdom? And oh…” He leans down, so low to you, lips a breath away. “I fall for the princess, she’s just so beautiful, how can’t I?”

“Gojo…”

“News to you, perfect little fairy princess, I’m not interested in marriage, or any of this shit, this show, I fucking hate it,” his words are harsh, as he squeezes you too tightly, so tightly you’re shaking, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Your prince from another kingdom just stuck his fingers in a waitress. That’s reality, sweetheart.”

You tremble in his hold, and he knows then.

He hurt you.

Good, he thinks, shit will be easier that way, safer if you hate him, if you smack him, tell him to fuck himself. Yet you tilt your chin up and spin as the dance calls for, giving a little curtsey as he steps closer, not showing a hint of emotion aside from your tears that you seemingly can’t stop.

“I see,” is all you say then, stepping back into his arms, as the crowd of gossiping families speaks of it all, you hold all of your composure, even as he raises a brow, looking down at you. “Maybe I am foolish, to have thought it that way. Yet I still don’t understand why you’re…”

“What, little princess? So mean?”

You just look down again, quiet, swallowing visibly, you smell too good, invading his fucking senses. “I didn’t think you were mean when I met you as a child.”

“As a child?” Satoru pauses, and you sigh, shaking your head.

“Of course you wouldn’t remember, I’m not very special.” You step back as the song ends, and your tragic eyes meet his, before lowering them and bowing a little bit. “Have a good rest of your evening, I’m feeling a little…” You look at the girl he’d just kissed. “Sick.”

When you rush off, politely excusing yourself, Satoru feels this sinking in his heart, questions simmering under the surface – what if he just was kind to you? What if he at least didn't make a fool of himself?

But he doesn't go after you, no that would have been the ‘right’ thing to do. The thing is, you're much better off without him. So he's dancing with women who make his family furiously whisper amongst themselves, and he just knows -

You will hate him, and you’re better off for it.

*****

You

You didn't expect a fairy tale marriage. Even marrying the man who is basically the ‘prince’ of all the families, all of the clans, the Gojo heir. You may as well be the ‘princess’ of your own, both of you promised as children to each other, knowing no love or match would come to anything.

This was it, your future, but you met him when he was just a little kid, he's two years older than you. His blue eyes and spiky white hair were enough to make your heart race, but mostly you noticed how sad those blue eyes were.

He wasn't mean then, he was kind and reserved, not boisterous, laughing and acting a fool. He was cautious more like you are, both of you not wanting to disappoint your very harsh parents who had so many expectations. Satoru had given you his hand, holding it tightly, pressing a little kiss on the back of it.

So you'll be my wife some day

Yeah…

You're um… pretty.

That was it, just a moment and then he'd had to run off. And you only saw Satoru in bits and pieces, here and there from afar, watching and knowing he didn’t notice you. Yet that moment gave you hope. 

Just to fucking crush it all.

It's your wedding night, and his staff is carrying all of your luggage inside the expensive mansion. Satoru is drunk, you notice he is around you, as if that helps with the pain of having to be married to you, stumbling just a bit and chuckling darkly when you try to help him.

“I'm fine,” he yanks your hand off like you burned him. Your tummy is in knots, you feel sick. “Let me show you your room. Princess.”

He says it always mockingly, tonight you know he was with someone again, he's made no attempt to hide kissing others. You're sure he probably does more, but you're innocent yourself so you don't exactly know what's what. Your parents pounded innocence and propriety in your head.

You'll be Gojo’s wife, you must be pure for him.

What a joke, really, to be pure for someone who will never want you, to watch him kissing on necks in the gardens, laughing until he sees your face. You never have been a very confident girl, but everyone has always told you that you're pretty, lovely, so you sort of didn't think your looks were an issue.

Then again, it could just be you. Maybe you're boring, maybe you're too proper. Your mind wracks with doubts as he leads you up the winding staircase of the Gojo mansion up to a dark hallway. He opens a door and you pause, breath catching in your throat at how beautiful it is.

“This is our room?” You ask softly, the blue silk bed and gossamer canopy snug in a room of soft whites and blues. He chuckles, making you look at him.

“They had it made for us, pretentious isn't it?” You blink a bit.

“I think it's beautiful,” it's quiet when you step in, still in your beaded and saying white wedding gown. You slip off your veil and take a breath. Looking in the mirror.

You look gorgeous today.

No matter what he says or doesn't say, you see it in that reflection. In your lashes, in your eyes, in your lips, painted a pretty crimson. Your body is showcased to perfection, modest but still sensual, just hints of your lines and curves outlined, the material glinting in the soft light.

“Your room,” he says at the doorway, and you pause, making him smirk. “You didn't think we were fucking did you?”

You blush furiously, looking down nervously at your hands entwined in front of you. “I did think we would… make the marriage official even if you don't find me attractive.”

It's dead silent, lingering in the air – your insecurities rampant.

“Why? Because our duty?” He asks, stepping inside, his dress shoes echoing on the floor, coming to stand behind you, reflection in the mirror making you tremble.

“We will need to have babies, it's expected of me. Or I'll be… a failure as a wife.” Your voice breaks, and for a moment you see blue eyes soften, you feel fingertips slipping over your straps, yet they halt, and his eyes narrow. 

“I won't fuck you, not for duty or expectations, fuck them and fuck that.”

It's like a slap to the face. You take a breath, trembling now. “Gojo, am I that displeasing really? I tried so hard to look-”

“Nothing will make me fuck you,” he murmurs coolly. “We will ride this shit out till I find a way to end it somehow.”

“End it?” your brows draw together, eyes swimming in unshed tears, his fingers slip off now, going to your back, slowly undoing the little rows of buttons methodically.

“An annulment, divorce, whatever… fuck this shit, I'm not staying married.” he is casual as he helps you out of your dress, knuckles tracing up your spine, then he smirks. “Oh shit. You want me? Hah… that's cute.”

“I… um… you…” You're flushed, reflection in the mirror blushing, as you look at him, his cruel smirk, his mean eyes. “Am I not supposed to want you?”

“Of course you do, I am Satoru Gojo,” he presses those straps down, pausing when he gets a view of your breasts as you hold the dress against them, your back exposed and bare. “You can always touch yourself and think of me, who am I to deny that? But I will never touch you.”

It's like he just stabs you in the stomach. You turn, facing the cruel, tall man now, on the night you hoped for something, anything, but you're just met with a mean curve of his lips. “So what, you'll just… fuck anyone but me?”

“You can cuss?” He laughs a bit, fingers curling along one of the carefully coifed ringlets.

“Yes, I can. I just don't usually,” you take a breath. Trying to remember. 

Obey him.

Treasure him.

For your family

“You don't know me and you won't even try to, will you?”

“You want dick that bad, huh?” You gasp, slapping him as hard as you can then, he winces and rubs his cheek, glaring at you. You falter, looking at his pink cheek and gasping.

“I'm sorry. I…”

“Let's get one thing straight, princess,” Satoru Gojo leans over you, an arm on either side, tilting his head as you grip your wedding dress tightly to your chest. “We can do our own things. I get it. You have to live here for now.”

For now.

“But don't you dare fucking hit me,” he grips your wrist, bruising with his long fingers, you gasp out at the pain, tears falling. “Not used to men not wanting you, huh?”

“What!?” You're blinking in confusion, his grip tightening, your heart sinking.

You feel so sick.

“Never been turned down because you're the family princess, aww. So cute,” he leans down, touching your cheek, eyes a cruel bluee. “Everyone after that money, after a chance with you, so special. Well you're not fucking special to me, we are just the same.”

“I don't think I'm special or anything!? I never said that.”

“Don't have to, I can just see it.”

You're shaking in his hold. “I just thought we could try, you don't even know if we have anything, a connection or-”

Gojo laughs at you.

He laughs. 

“Try what, fucking you? You want my dick real bad.”

“No!? Just if we could feel a connection? I… like you haven't kissed me, how do you even-”

Satoru grabs your face, leaning low and pressing his lips against yours, capturing them and making you lose your breath. You melt when his plump lips work yours, when a hand comes to entangle in your hair, your hands slipping off your dress so that your nipples hit the cool air.

His tongue slips in your mouth, exploring the recesses with far too much finesse, hot and drooling as he presses you against the hard wood of the dresser.

You've never kissed.

You try to move your tongue back, knowing you're awful at it, your arms slipping around his neck. He's mean, he's cruel, but you want to try, you want to have this. Feel whatever this dizzy sensation is, one of his hands gripping your breast as he pulls back, lips glossy, eyeing them now.

“I'll give you this,” he murmurs softly. “You have perfect tits.”

“Um…” You're stammering again, whimpering when his thumb brushes your nipple. 

“Perfect posture, pretty face, nice little body. It's not enough though sweetheart," he pulls back now, grinning and crossing his arms as you just stand there. “There, your kiss, and there's nothing between us. Is there? Enough to shove that fantasy out of your head?”

Nothing!?

“You think keeping your tits out will make me hard?” You gasp, covering them up, blinking back more hot tears.

He wipes his lips with his thumb. As if to remove the kiss from his memory. You look down, pain making you dizzy – deep pain.

“I just… you’re so sure that this won’t work that you’re not trying!” He laughs softly, without humor.

Charming. Handsome. Cruel.

Satoru’s two fingers brush down your collarbone and across it, a mean smile on a devastatingly pretty face as he watches goosebumps dance across your skin. "You want me to touch you. Hmm?"

"I just…" you cover yourself with your arms now, suddenly so insecure, you were anyway but this was more. It was worse, having the man you've been infatuated with since a kid turning you down, on a night you felt so beautiful. "I just thought we could try to find some common ground, to maybe make this work. Become… more?"

He leans down, his sweet breath against your lips, tickling them as his blue eyes glitter, cold like the most beautiful sapphires, and just as hard, there’s no emotion in their depths. So cold you shiver, swallowing nervously.

"Oh sweetheart, I don't want any of it. What they tell me to do, what they expect, no... I'll burn it all to the fucking ground, and them with it.”

“Burn it to the ground?” Your whisper is soft, his lips curve mean when he grips your chin.

"You're a pretty girl, but I'm not for you. That's the most you're getting from me.”

Not. For. You.

"What is so wrong with me?” You hate how desperate you sound.

Was this who you are?

Do you know yourself outside of becoming Satoru Gojo's wife?

“It’s not…” he trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. “You just don’t seem to get it, little princess. It’s an inconvenience, this entire thing.”

Great.

You’re just a fucking inconvenience to your ‘husband’.

“We will let them think we're good for a year, maybe two. Then I'll get out of this, you should thank me really, it's not like you chose it either.”

He turns now, leaving you close to collapsing, with the pain, with the casual cruelty. “Satoru…”

“Don't fucking call me that,” he snaps, looking back at you. You step back and bump into the elegant dresser, shaking as he looks at you with such hatred. “You don't get to call me my first name.”

“I am… I am sorry if I messed something up. If I did something wrong…” You're sniffling your tears, trying to keep it together. “I haven't even kissed before and I probably am just bad at it. Just give me a chance to-”

“Stop trying,” his voice is softer, like he fucking feels bad for you. That's worse than his cruelty – pity. “Just keep to yourself and I will too, until I find a way out of it. It's useless to try.”

“Useless to?”

“Sweetheart,” his tongue is honeyed, a lilt to his voice. “I'll never want you.”

The knife in your heart?

Twisted.

“Oh, I see…” You take a breath, just nodding then, hands gripping the beaded material so tightly they ache.

Obedient.

Sweet.

Serve your husband.

It's what you were trained to be, a traditional wife who follows her husband's orders, even your stinging palm was beyond what you're used to. How can you serve a man that doesn’t want you, how can you obey someone when their only order is for you to quit trying?

As he walks out, with just one look over his shoulder before he shuts that door, leaving you alone in the room on your own in tears on your very wedding night… how can you act like that kiss meant nothing to you? How can you not sink down on that bed all alone, and sob.

The boy you fell in love with doesn't remember you.

Doesn't want you.

No, he hates you.

And you'll have to endure this and be a failure to your parents, the worst of all your fears.

You don't stop sobbing until dawn breaks into the windows.

*****

Gojo

It's been a month of having you in his home, you're trying to be so perfect too. Dinner ready every night, you sit there and wait for him, smiling so pretty, wearing some new outfit as if he will ever touch you again, trying to talk to him, to get to know him.

Satoru can't stand you.

All you do is make him want to end it quicker, so that he has no feelings in this. No amount of slutty little slips or lingering before bed time is getting him to consummate the marriage, to give in to what his family and elders shoved on him, controlling his entire life.

Nah fuck that.

Satoru is balls deep inside his secretary right now, condom dripping with her cum as he lets her bounce up and down his latex covered cock. He leans back and moans as she works him like a pro, bouncing her ass and letting it jiggle under the shoved up pencil skirt.

Of course he thinks of you, fists his cock to images of those tits, imagines those lips around his tip. All the more reason to not fuck you, imagine if he did? You were a virgin, probably would lay there and not know how to do shit, you could barely kiss him back.

He'd have to be all gentle, not slam you down and bottom out like he could right now. She's moaning, too loud, he has to slam a hand on her mouth, lips against her ear.

“We're at work,” he reminds gently.

“Sorry Mr. Gojo. Mnh!” Satoru's big hands work her up and down, bottoming out as she cums, covering her own mouth as she screams out.

“Hah, so messy,” he taunts, she's squirting all over his Armani slacks, right when the door opens.

Fuck.

Did he not lock it?

He pauses, and its…

You.

You quickly shut the door and turn away, as his secretary gasps, panicking and lifting up. Satoru drags her back down, eyeing you.

“Wife,” he teases, you turn to look at him, lunchbox in your hands. “Didn't expect you at my work. Can I cum real quick, then we can talk?”

You say nothing, obedient little thing that you are, not an ounce of fire in you aside from a little smack. He supposes that's how you were raised, how boring really, but he shoves the woman down once more. Toying with her clit and making her moan in front of you, right as he busts in that condom, groaning softly.

“Fuck, there we go,” he taps her and she hops off, giggling when she tugs her skirt down, rushing past you.

“Mrs. Gojo.” she says, you just step back and nod.

“Hello.”

‘Hello’ is what you say, to the woman who'd been riding your husband's cock?

He tosses the condom in the trash under his desk, sighing and smirking over at you, when you turn and see him, still hard and covered in milky seed, turning back around again.

“I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry?” He demands, slipping his boxers up now. “I was fucking someone and you're sorry?”

“I should have called first,” you turn back again, as he zips up, cheeks tinged pink.

You look beautiful today.

He wouldn't tell you. But you do.

“I was just… I learned to make sushi? I was so bored lately. Then… they kind of look ugly? But they're um… yummy and-”

“Just stop, fuck,” you look at him, tears in your eyes, clenched fists at your side when he takes the bento box. “Stop trying so hard, it's not gonna happen.”

“Gojo-”

“Stop, don't hurt yourself more.”

“But why am I so… why would you never ever want me?” you whisper brokenly then. “I am not trying to be mean but her? She's not even… attractive!? I don't-”

He laughs at you again, shaking his head. “You are a spoiled rich girl, a mean little thing. Because she's not drop dead gorgeous I couldn't want her? Looks mean nothing really, little princess. It's just you who I don't want.”

Your breasts heave up and down, finally a glare on your otherwise sad little pretty face. “I am trying!”

“I don't want you to fucking try, constantly acting like the perfect wife. I don't want it. Don't want you, how clear can I fucking make it!?”

You step up to him then, tilting your head to look up at the tall, cruel man, lipstick on his fucking neck, smirking at you. “Well maybe I don't want YOU, but I fucking TRY.”

“Oh. You want me,” he tilts your chin up, grinning at you, feeling your skin hot to the touch. “Bet you're so desperate you'd lick her pussy off me. Wouldn't you? For a chance.”

“I would never,” you shake your head. “Fine, you win. I won't try anymore.”

“Good. It's for your own best interest,” he pats your cheek and smiles. “What's on your plans today, hmm little perfect wife?”

“Not making dinner.” he smirks at you again. “Not trying for you ever again.”

You rush out of the door, dejected, shoulders slumped, when you look back at him though?

That look.

Heartbroken, devastated, done for. Like you just lost all your goddamn will to live.

That one hurts.

Satoru was not cruel before you. Sure he was a dick, he played a lot, he was conceited, but to make you give up trying made him have to push you away. If even fucking in front of you didn't he had to push it further, and he thinks that's the moment you gave up on him.

It's for your own best interest to end this when he can, to be strangers.

Your eyes are burned in his brain as he opens your dumb bento box, and sees these pretty little Sushi. Shaped like little hearts with pink paper instead of the traditional.

He swallows down his guilt when he sees them laid out with a cup of soup, rice, a drink even. And a little note on pink paper.

He hates himself more when he opens it. 

Gojo, I know you don't want me, don't want this, but if we could just try… I think there could be something, truly. When we kissed I did feel it, somewhere buried under the surface. 

I know I'm not who you chose, or who you want, but I hope one day we could grow to like each other. I am trying my hardest and I just hope that it can be enough.

Have a great day at work, I will see you at home.

Tears slip onto the note, bleeding the ink through the paper, he looks at the shut door you'd walked out of, remembering your eyes..they'd always fucking haunt him. That look of defeat written all over them.

You were bringing him lunch and love notes when he was letting a secretary ride his cock.

“Mr. Gojo?” his assistant opens his door, and he pauses, looking up at her. “You have a two a clock.”

“Right…” He just stares at the sushi, at the note, before shutting his eyes, swiping off tears he hasn't cried since he was a little kid.

That night, no dinner is made by you. No it's the chefs as it should always be, but it's a sign, as is you not in that dining room waiting for him. He walks around the mansion, looking for you, for any sign that you're in his home.

Why does he care?

He hears your sobs from the room you are supposed to share, and rests his door on it.

Why did you have to try so hard, when he told you not to?

“He will never w-want me…” You're sobbing and hiccuping. “Never enough.”

He swallows down his own self loathing, resting his head on the door, wondering at just who he is. Is this Satoru Gojo, or is this Satoru Gojo trying to be anything else but what he's always been pushed into?

He walks off to his own room, shutting the door. He'd have to end this marriage soon as he can, in whatever way that meant – to get you the fuck away from him. You may hate him for it, but at least you'd have a little bit of a choice in your life.

*****

You

You come home from an event with Satoru, a press junket where you have to act like a happy newlywed. And you do just that, you play your role, giggling with his hand on your waist, the most contact you've had since that kiss – the one where he felt nothing for you. The one that you felt shaken from, suddenly fucking delusional, in spite of the fact of one thing.

Satoru Gojo made sure to let you know there was no chance, he didn’t mince words, didn’t lead you on, it was your own hope that made you keep trying that first month, that hope that even after seeing him with his dick inside a woman, maybe he’d feel anything. Fuck, he made sure to cum before she got off of him, didn’t even stop mid fuck.

That’s how unimportant you were.

Yet even then you tried, until he made that disgusting comment – licking another woman off him? Calling you pathetic?

Well, you were.

You were not going to be cruel to him despite the rage in your heart, however, you just no longer try, it’s quiet when you take off your heels at the door, and he slips off his dress shoes. You both say nothing, but you feel his eyes on you at times, as if he expects some word out of your mouth.

You no longer say good morning, good night, you just live your life with Satoru for another month like this, he’ll have a girl over in his room, but you keep to yourself, living so alone… yet, with him.

Your few friends you have get worried for you, every time you get to see them over the next couple months you look more tired, you don’t look like you’re eating, you have dark circles under your eyes, the eyes that don’t glimmer any longer. They share their concerns quietly, over a nice brunch, but you act like everything is just fine.

Tonight your mother had pulled you aside, making sure to dissect your looks to a fault, including said dark circles – As if you didn’t have enough insecurities just being married to Satoru Gojo, a man who’d fuck anyone but you.

“You have to keep yourself together, look he’s all over those women,” she whispers, you would laugh but you know better, the woman who beat submission into your head was right here. You just look down, nodding.

“He always is.”

“So you need to get his attention,” you sigh, wanting to explain how hard you tried, even in lieu of him fucking that secretary in front of you, but you merely nod once more. “Get yourself together, you look like you haven’t slept in a week, your hair is oily even. What’s wrong with you!?”

What’s wrong with you?

You peer over to your tall, white haired husband surrounded by women in the ridiculously extravagant event, glamorously dressed when you chose a thin silk number, not caring anymore. You didn’t do your makeup, what did that matter? It’s not as if he’d ever look at you anyway.

“You’ll make him look bad, make us all look bad, you must gather yourself together and try more. Have I not raised you to be the perfect wife?”

The perfect wife.

To a husband who hates you.

“You did indeed Mother,” you manage to say, clearing your throat that night, feeling the eyes of so many curiously flit between you both. “I shall try not to disappoint you and father.”

Yet you are done trying, as he asked you to be, walking up the stairs now with him slowly trailing behind, as if to make sure there was enough space between the both of you.

Try a gym!

Or a spa day?

You need self care babe!

Yeah, your friends advice about self care was not enough for what you’re going through, but they ring in your head, as you head to your room, and reach around to try to unzip your dress. You curse, moving your hand in every which way, you then try to tug it up off you, but it’s half stuck with the tight material.

Fuck, you’re gonna have to ask him.

“Gojo…” You say, standing by his door, he’s up typing away on the laptop, shirtless, his body cut and chisled, muscles moving as he sits up straighter, eyeing you carefully.

“You, coming to my room?” You flush furiously, looking down.

“Don’t worry, I’ll never, ever ask to be intimate again,” you whisper, the pain still piercing your heart, your soul. He just looks down. “I just really can’t get out of this dress, and I swear to god it’s not a hit on or seduction.”

“Ah,” he doesn’t gloat like usual, standing up now, his sweats falling down his hips, you wish he didn’t look so good like that, coming up to you carefully, everything flexing as he walks. “Zipper stuck?”

“I think so, and it won’t go up over my damn hips,” you grumble, when he comes closer. “I’m sorry.”

“You apologize constantly,” you just nod again. “Turn around.”

You do that, lifting your hair off the nape of your neck for him, two of his fingers grasp the metal zipper, slipping it down achingly slow, the noise loud in his quiet room, mixing with his own catch of breath. It’s quiet, a few tendrils falling against the nape of your neck, as the zipper jams just a bit, stuck in the middle.

“Hang on…” He mumbles, clearly irritated, holding the dress tight together and then grasping it, jerking you just a bit as he finally gets it down. “There.”

“Thank you, Gojo,” you say softly, as he looks at the smooth expanse of your back, and for a moment neither of you move, you turn to face him, still holding your hair up. “I didn’t mean to bug you.”

He doesn’t say anything, knuckles brushing down your spine lightly, enough to make you ache in your core, something you’ve never really felt before this moment. You swallow nervously, blushing and looking away, you can’t make a fucking fool out of yourself again.

You will not push something he clearly doesn’t want, it’s just not right – even in the name of ‘marriage’ it should be Satoru’s choice too, and he so clearly would never choose you, in any world. You turn now, straps slipping down your shoulders, his bright blue eyes get dark and lidded when his gaze hits your tits, the tops of them showcased with the little dress half off.

“I’ll let you um… sleep.” You say, he just blinks a moment, clearing his throat now.

“Yeah.”

You slowly walk out, wondering if it is just you looking for something, anything, the way you damn near begged him to notice you, to want you, it was as he said – pathetic. Even knowing he’s fucking women actively, that he doesn’t have the time of day for you at all, you still crave it, you still don’t retaliate.

His phone rings, and you hear him murmuring while you’re in the hallway – 

Hey sweets, hmm… I bet you do miss me.

You feel your feet get heavy, you’ve been barely eating because you’re just fucking miserable, but hearing that as his door shuts and you walk to your lonely room sinks in. The miserable realization that he doesn’t care about you, that even if he gave you a glance, it was nothing, you were nothing to him.

You slip that dress off when you’re in your bedroom, looking at yourself in the mirror, even just his proximity always put a blush to your cheeks, as if your body was betraying your mind. You remember what your friends told you the other day, their concerned gazes, and the way they tried to be supportive when they barely know the half of what you endure.

Having to hear your husband jerking it on the phone and talking another girl through it when he has never touched you?

You are tired of crying, so tired.

You look up gyms in the area, sure that’s not really going to help a damn thing, but it might be enough to keep you busy, considering you can’t even work as a Gojo wife, and you’re left alone too often in the quiet, thinking too much. You pick one and map it, while laying in your bed and snuggling, yawning a bit as sleep starts to drag you under.

“All right, let’s see if self care will help me at all,” you say to yourself quietly, drifting off into a dreamless sleep, as you have been.

What’s there to dream about anymore?

*****

Sukuna

His knuckles are aching from hitting the big heavy black bag, punching it over and over, his class is done but Sukuna always loves to blow some steam off, and the best way is to beat the bag to a pulp. His ruby eyes are locked on the target, exhaling and controlling his breathing.

One, two.

One, two, punch.

Cross, jab, hook.

It’s methodical, it’s easy, even as his muscles ache – that ache is sweet, it’s so perfect to feel, he grins as he imagines beating the fuck out of so many people then. Start with his shit father – his mother gets a pass only due to being a woman – and then, all the little pretentious shits he went to college with.

Sukuna was supposed to be training to become a CEO, to take over his father’s position, and be a nepo baby like the rest of those damn men he partied with at the frat in college. Yet, he never, ever wanted that, and he built something for himself – several gyms, he’s trained pro boxers, national champions.

This was what Sukuna wanted to do.

Mostly, he loved to box, he cared just a little bit enough not to join those matches himself – oh, what would that look like!? The Sukuna heir going into a boxing ring!? Yet, at the same time, he had dreams of it. Of being in a ring and knocking everyone out, pushing that ‘family disappointment’ name even further.

For now, however, there is peace in the quiet gym.

That is, until you walk in.

Tired and fucking beautiful, these dark circles that sit under your eyes, a shy little nervous smile, about five minutes before he closes. You stand at the door and look around, frowning then and staring at your phone, wearing some pretty little yoga outfit and a big sweater, like you were getting ready for pilates rather than kickboxing.

“I’m sorry, first off for coming so late, second… ugh I thought you were a regular gym! Where is my brain…” You smack your forehead, turning, when he literally runs up to you, stopping you before fully thinking of it.

Sukuna, running.

You really are that pretty, when he sees a giant rock on your finger he curses internally, sighing.

“I do other things here, a whole room of workout machinery,” he says then, his voice just a little gruff, when you turn and look up at him, so shy, you look right back down at your feet, hugging yourself a bit. “I can show you, just need to lock up.”

“You probably want to get home, god I’m sorry, I slept all day like a miserable… oh… so sorry.” You have said sorry again, rambling now, making Sukuna wonder.

Just who has you this down? This shy? This clearly hurt?

“I meant to come earlier,” you blink back tears, looking up again with them swimming in your pretty eyes, so pretty he can’t decide what color they are, but the way they look at him almost takes him out. “I set an alarm, and promised I would make myself do something, then I just… hit it over and over. And now I’m rambling.”

“And crying,” he smirks a bit, swiping off a tear. “Rambling, crying, coming in late too, huh?”

“I know I’m so-”

“I’m teasing,” he chuckles softly, shaking his head and tilting your chin up. “If you want to do any sport, you need eye contact. Even when they’re all red and bloodshot.”

“Well your eyes are red too! I mean, oh my god!?” You cover your mouth, he laughs again softer this time. “I’m sorry, I like their color, they’re beautiful. Not to say I am hitting on you! Oh dear god…”

“Will you take a breath?” You shut your eyes, nodding. “A deep one, in… there you go, and out.”

Your breasts rise and fall, the sweater slipping further off a shoulder, as he takes in the mess that’s come to his doorstep – a beautiful, tragically broken mess that does something he can’t explain. When you swipe your cheeks and try to give a tremulous smile, you break whatever heart Sukuna has in his chest.

Who fucking hurt you like this?

Damage recognizes damage, but this…

“Don’t apologize a fourth time, yeah?” You nod then, sniffling a bit and attempting a better smile.

“I really just want to… apparently I need self care, my friends say, and I thought a gym might… help. But I can’t box, or kickbox.”

“Why not? You've got a lot of pent up tension," his hands brush down your shoulders softly, feeling the tenseness. "Bet you’d kill it."

"Me!?" You giggled nervously but he was serious, a huge handsome man crossing his arms and raising a brow, leaned back a bit in the quietness of his gym. "Kickboxing, huh?"

"Think you can't?"

You shake your head, and he sees it all over your face –

You don’t think you can do anything.

“Why not? Husband wants you all girlie or something?” He addresses the ring with a glance, you laugh without humor, your face darkening then.

“He doesn’t give a shit what I do, no, we’re not,” you trail off, shaking your head. “I dumped enough trauma on you just walking in here. What’s your name?”

“Sukuna,” he takes your hand, feeling yours just a little sweaty in his grip. “What do you mean doesn’t give a shit?”

“He doesn’t like me.” He blinks at that. 

“Trouble in paradise?”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “Let’s say he’s done more with his secretary than me so far,” Sukuna frowns at that, raising a dark brow. “It’s okay, really don’t feel bad for me. I just need something to get my mind off it.”

Who the fuck wouldn’t want you?

He almost says it, but he holds back, nudging his head now. “Lemme show you around the gym.”

He locks the door behind you so no random people try to come after hours, and you follow him through, looking up at the ceiling – it’s high, wooden beams running across it, it was once an old factory before Sukuna bought it off the guy. The walls are all red and orange brick, some of it is painted white, with graffiti art.

“That’s so cool,” you murmur, walking up to it then, touching it gently. “What is all of this?”

“Some of the guys like to come tag it,” he says, there are all sorts of images scrawled, along with Sukuna’s name in big red letters, little demon horns over the U. “I think they’re callin’ me the devil.”

“No!” You laugh, the sound so foreign to your own ears, he can just tell when you sober up a bit, smiling gently now. “You, the devil?”

“Mmm, you don’t know shit about me yet,” you blush a bit at the insinuation. “You’d run out if you knew what I was thinking.”

“You don’t have to be so… nice to me, okay? Because you feel bad.”

Sukuna blinks his pink lashes. “Huh?”

“I can tell, you’re a really good person,” you walk up to him, touching his hand now, sucking in a breath at the contact, fingers tracing his calloused, beat up knuckles. “Thank you though.”

“You think I’m pretending to find you attractive?” He almost can’t take you serious, but your face says it all. “Yeah, no, I’m not that nice. Now follow me before I say something real fucking dumb.”

You’re a flustered mess, letting your hand fall and nodding.

“This is where you’d like to be,” he mentions, toward the room with all of the normal equipment – treadmills, ellipticals, rowing machines, all sleek and black. “So you can just do your normal little workouts. Yoga mats and all.”

“Oh! I see,” you’re just a step behind him, he can inhale that perfume, he doesn’t know what scent it is but it’s driving him insane, when he stops and you bump into him. “Ah!”

He catches you quickly, frowning a bit at how weak you seem, assessing you. “You eat anything today?”

You blink a bit.

How'd he notice?

“No.”

“It’s six?”

“Yeah, not for a couple days,” you mumble. Sukuna glares at you, far, far too attractive and you’re not even fucking eating.

“If you have some… problem, you gotta tell me if I’m gonna train you, yeah?”

“No, nothing like that, just can’t eat when I’m sad,” your words are soft, barely over a whisper, running your fingers along the arm of a treadmill. “It’s been a few days I guess.”

“A few days, the fuck?” What sort of husband lets his wife just not eat?

He supposes the kind that makes her an unconfident, sad girl that cries the moment she enters a gym. Sukuna knows damn well he shouldn’t get involved in the shit, but just looking at you hurts him, in a way he’s not sure he’s felt, recognizing a version of himself so long ago, when he was young, when he wanted that approval, when he craved it so badly.

But more than that.

“If you don’t eat tomorrow I’ll be shoving food in your mouth,” you laugh at that, covering your mouth again. “I’m serious, the fuck you mean days?”

“I will make myself eat before I come.”

“And you’ll come at a decent time, yeah? Not before I close. Do I need to set three alarms to get your bratty ass up?”

“Bratty!?” you laugh again, shaking your head, the sight so fucking cute it destroys him.

God he’d drop to his knees just to kiss up those thighs, fucking lick you right over those leggings, the ones just a little snug against your puffy lips. And he can tell when you’re close how excited you are, the way your pupils blow out, the way you bite down on that lower lip, the one already chapped from likely biting it to death.

“No one has ever called me bratty,” you muse softly. “The opposite, actually.”

“Well maybe they don’t see it buried all in there, under a cute little fucking yoga outfit,” he brushes your hair back. His mistake, his undoing, and not kissing you is maybe the hardest thing he’s done.

You’re married.

He’s trying to give a fuck about that.

“C’mon brat,” you giggle again. “Here is the ring.”

You pause, looking at the huge rectangular boxing ring, surrounded by mats, boxing bags hanging heavy and worn all over, red and black ropes surrounding it. “Is this where you all practice?”

“Mhm,” he leads you over to a bag, touching it, old and black and hanging, one of his big hands touching it now. “Tomorrow you’ll punch it, today you didn’t eat so you don’t get to.”

“Mean,” your lips twitch though, the color to your face just brighter, your eyes glittering. Fuck you’re pretty sad, and happy, he can only imagine more. “All right, I promise, full breakfast.”

“Eat some dinner, too, then I’ll let you kick it.”

“The bag?”

“No, me.”

“What!?” You laugh again, Sukuna snorts and rolls his ruby red eyes, those pink lashes fluttering. “You’re joking, oh!”

“Yeah, a joke,” he tugs on that pony tail your hair is thrown in. “Two pm, don’t be late.”

When you’re gone he’s locking up, watching you slip into some bmw, waving a bit before you back up, wondering what’s this feeling in his heart, in his gut.

Sukuna loves women, he loves being inside them, pleasuring them, but he’s never just enjoyed making someone smile that much. Knowing you’re married should be a hell of a deterrent, whether he’s clearly a dick or not, Sukuna can’t just swoop in and be with married women.

Right?

Yet when he’s in bed that night, he finds himself throbbing, thinking of seeing your pretty face in pleasure. And he knows damn well whatever ‘morals’ he should have about it aren’t going to help him not make you feel good, in just any fucking way you need him to.

*****

You

“Never seen you eat so much,” Satoru murmurs when he walks in, lipstick across his neck, you’re downing some soup, realizing just how starved you were. “Have the chefs make something.”

“I just haven’t eaten in a week,” you say softly, Satoru’s eyes widen, then narrow a bit, while you dab at your mouth with a napkin. “I guess I’m hungry.”

“A week? What nothing here good, they can order anything.”

“I was too depressed,” the honesty is something you’d usually hold in, but something about meeting Sukuna today…

Everything about him.

The way he looked at you, that smirk was teasing, not cruel – he listened to you, he seemed to care, him a stranger. You know it’s nonsense, a man trying to be kind to a crying woman, but it meant a lot, even if that’s all it was. You’d walked in with a smile you haven’t had since you married him.

Satoru Gojo.

“A week? You can die from that shit,” he glares now, and you laugh, but this time it’s a mean little sound. “You think you can’t?”

“Sure, but what would you care?” You take a sip of the wine you’d poured, Satoru’s finest vintage, letting it dance along your tongue. “Wouldn’t it make your life easier if I did?”

His lips part, brows drawing together. “I don’t want you to fucking die, okay? Fuck.”

“You wouldn’t care,” you swirl the wine around, leaning back in the seat, eyes locked with the man you’ve tried so hard to make like you. To just come near you, to give you a chance. “I’m nothing to you.”

He says nothing in the quiet of the dining room.

“You didn’t notice.”

“Well, no I don’t eye your every move, figured you eat before I get home or some shit,” he runs a hand through his silky white locks, eyeing you carefully. “Do you want them to order something specific? Just because me and you will never be anything, doesn’t mean I want you to starve in my fucking house.”

“Nah, I like everything they have here,” you finish the wine in a gulp, an unladylike one that makes Satoru raise his brows, standing then, sighing. “It’s hard to eat when you can’t stop crying, when you constantly feel sick to your stomach knowing the man you live with hates your existence.”

You walk up and he says your name, you pause and look back at him. “I never said don’t eat, yeah?”

“No, you didn’t. But her lipstick is all over your neck, and up on that collar,” he touches it then, looking at the crimson on his pale fingertips. You step up to him, so close you inhale that scent. “Can you buy your sluts some decent fucking perfume, aren’t you rich?”

“What the fuck!?” You smile, you’ve never cussed, but it feels amazing in that moment, seeing him sputter. “What are you going on about, and what’s got your ass so fucking peppy?”

“Their knock off perfume, it’s all over you, every night. Buy them some Chanel or something, yeah? Not like you have to buy me anything, I have my own money. The scent makes me nauseous,” you turn again, Satoru grips your wrist, making you pause for just a moment, shutting your eyes.

Nothing, he feels nothing.

“Thought you didn’t cuss?”

“You don’t know me and you don’t want to.”

He lets you go, no argument, just quiet.

“I’m starting training at the gym,” you mention quietly. “I’ll be going there tomorrow.”

“Some yoga class?”

“Boxing.”

Satoru blinks, you just smile, tugging your wrist out of his grip. “You? Boxing?”

“Mhm, good night Gojo.”

You head up the stairs to your room, falling back on the bed, shutting your eyes, feeling good for the first time since that engagement party, for the first time in months there was something brimming under the surface. Some sort of hope.

Tonight you don’t hear him moaning, or talking to his girls, it’s quiet, and you’re thankful, shutting your eyes and falling into a deep sleep.

You’re haunted by two sets of eyes, two sets of hands, blue ones that are glaring, red ones that are hungry, long thin fingers choking your neck, suffocating you, thick ones painted black freeing you. Torn between them, claustrophobic in the darkness, where all you can see are their eyes. 

You wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, holding your racing heart, thrumming against your palm, before you fall back asleep, and there is only one pair of eyes.

And they’re red.

Tysm AGAIN for 30k my loves <3 this will be a doozy

Tap.

Your already frayed nervous system completely misfires. A choked, involuntary shriek of pure terror tears in your throat before you can smother it. Your hands slam down and frantically shove off the desk, sending your chair crashing back until it hits the wall. Even then, you can’t look away from the disgusting thing sitting on your papers.

It’s a completely desiccated eye, or at least you think it is. It’s a shriveled, leathery ball about the size of a big grape, dull gray in color. It isn’t wet or slimy—just dry and brittle, more like something preserved than a living organ. The black pupil is still  horribly visible, a tiny frozen dot that seems to stare straight at you.

Sukuna gives himself exactly five glorious seconds to simply watch your complete breakdown. Then he throws his head back and lets out a loud, booming laugh, full of pure, unadulterated delight. He looks at your shaking, panicked form against the wall and leans on the edge of your desk, crossing one arm over his chest while the other large hand rests right beside the specimen.

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” he rasps, his voice thick and shaking with the raw force of his amusement as he takes in the white-knuckled, death-grip you have on the chair’s armrests. A slow smile stretches his lips when he nudges the dry sphere a centimeter closer to your side of the desk with the tip of his finger. “It’s not even wet or moving. Why are you screaming?”

You didn’t even realize you’d made a sound. Heat rushes to your face in a deep blush of embarrassment, but you can’t peel your eyes away from the grotesque thing.

“The first-years wiped out a nest this morning,” he says casually, tilting his head slightly. “Grade 3. Weak, pathetic little parasites.” His grin sharpens while he watches your expression carefully. “This one kept staring after they crushed the rest of it.”

“What,” you manage to choke out after an agonizing moment, your voice a pitiful croak, your throat feeling impossibly dry, “is wrong with you?”

That only makes him laugh harder. The sound crashes heavily through the office as he looks entirely pleased with himself and the terror he’s effortlessly caused.

"Consider it a souvenir... princess," he purrs, the condescending title dripping from his lips as he actively savors the tight, painful hitch in your breathing. “I knew you’d like it.”

Your stomach clenches and twists into a tighter knot. You hate the genuine enjoyment on his face. The worst part is that the thing itself barely matters now. The eye is disgusting, yes, but not truly dangerous compared to everything else about him. What bothers you most is knowing Sukuna saw some shriveled thing during the mission and immediately thought of you.

He finally lets out the last bit of laughter and straightens from the desk. A faint, triumphant amusement lingers in the corners of his mouth, but his attention is already drifting, bored with the aftermath of his game. The pressure of his cursed energy doesn’t fade, staying heavy in the room long after his gaze leaves you.

There’s no real need for weaving today, but Sukuna wants it anyway. The feeling from yesterday surprised him. For him, the state of his energy after fighting is like a dull toothache he’s constantly aware of and can’t easily ignore, or a phantom itch deep in a muscle he can’t reach. It’s a constant background noise he’s simply learned to live with.

The first time you touched him, the difference was barely registering, but yesterday it was distinctly, and strangely, bigger. A small part of that constant, grating awareness had simply gone quiet. It wasn’t entirely gone, and he doubted it ever could be, but the constant itch has eased a fraction, even if he cannot pinpoint where the change originates. Today, he can still feel it less irritating than it was forty-eight hours ago, and he wants more of that silence.

“Stop shaking,” he barks, his voice dropping into a dangerous, flat tone that cuts through your panic. “Get up.”

He doesn’t need to explain for you to understand. Your fingers grip the chair’s armrests while your body stays stubbornly frozen for one second too long, exhaustion still weighing heavily in your muscles. Your reserves didn’t recover nearly enough for another full session so soon. Judging by Sukuna’s look, he doesn’t care.

“I... my reserves haven't fully recovered,” you whisper anyway, the honesty feeling like a confession of weakness.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, a cruel curve to his mouth mocking your hesitation. “I didn't ask for a status report. I said get up.” The second command is colder.

Before he decides your reaction time has become irritating, you force yourself upright. The abrupt movement immediately sends a wave of dizziness over you. Your body is still so strained that even this simple act makes your balance waver for a second. Sukuna watches the entire pathetic process with mild disdain before pushing away from the desk.

“Move.”

The command sends you shuffling uncertainly to the center of the office, farther away from both the desk and the couch. Cold dread settles in your stomach as soon as you stop. Yesterday, you at least had something nearby to brace against when the cursed energy overload began tearing through your nervous system. Here, you have nothing.

Sukuna follows you slowly. The pressure in the room grows heavier with each step he takes until your pulse starts to race before he even reaches you. Your body remembers too well what happens when you touch him: the overload, the nausea, and the violent pressure of his cursed energy crashing through your senses, blurring your vision as your technique pushes against the tangled buildup.

He stops directly in front of you, gesturing with a lazy, almost bored flick of his hand to you. “Do that again.”

There’s no mockery or amusement in his voice now. It’s more unsettling than if he had laughed, because for the first time since this arrangement started, Sukuna sounds truly impatient for the weaving itself.

Even though fear still claws relentlessly at your chest, your body moves faster this time when you finally raise your hand toward him. Instinct has already taught you that hesitation accomplishes nothing but making the wait worse before the inevitable contact.

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, visibly irritated by the minimal delay anyway. “About fucking time.”

After trying to swallow a hard knot in your throat, you press your hand against his chest. The impact of touching his cursed energy still slams through your nervous system, making your breathing catch.

Even in a somewhat improved state, every pulse of Sukuna’s colossal cursed energy crashes brutally through your senses as your technique hooks into the fractured buildup again. It’s still overwhelmingly compacted, almost solid, but the small section you smoothed yesterday still exists somewhere deeper within the structure, like microscopic channels forced between layers. Unfortunately, the difference it creates is still far too small to let you weave as you would with anyone else, leaving you with no choice but to take the exact same approach as before.

Without wasting energy exploring the structure again, you press most of your cursed energy hard against the first compacted section you find, forcing a narrow separation between the layers. The immense strain tears through your limited reserves, leaving just enough for the thinnest threads of your technique to slip in and smooth the splintered, jagged edges before the structure threatens to collapse in on itself again.

“Tck. The weakest, most pitiful output on this campus,” he mocks dismissively, but weaving steals all your attention, and the insult barely registers.

It’s grueling, repetitive work that leaves your head spinning. The heat of his presence mixes with your heightened senses until your world shrinks to the small patch of fabric under your trembling fingers. Your breathing turns ragged and uneven from the effort, and exhaustion drains your muscles far faster than you’d like. Sharp pain shoots up your arm from the constant output, and your hand shakes harder the longer you keep contact, but you don’t let go until the jagged edges finally yield and smooth out.

Sukuna stays perfectly still, watching the sweat on your forehead as he takes in the rough, almost violent way you have to use your delicate technique on him. When your hand finally slips away from his chest, your fingers are numb and your vision flickers with black spots.

The sudden loss of contact makes dizziness crash through your head, and your balance immediately tilts sideways. Your knees nearly buckle, your body finally giving up the fight to remain upright after burning through almost all your cursed energy. Your reserves just aren’t big enough for weaving sessions this close together.

You barely manage half a step before a large hand clamps tightly around your upper arm. The grip jerks you upright so hard your shoulder aches. Sukuna lets out a low chuckle; letting you fall and crack your skull open on the floor would be an inconvenient nuisance he has no desire to deal with, especially now that the weaving has finally yielded what he sought and left him craving more.

“Pathetic,” he says lazily, watching your chest rise and fall desperately as your breathing struggles against the pressure filling the room. He can sense that you didn’t manage to ease the itch as deeply as you did yesterday, but a subtle difference is still there. The silence you’ve forced into his energy is undeniably real. “You can barely handle a fraction of it without looking ready to collapse.”

Sukuna’s grip on your arm stays crushingly firm as your body struggles to steady itself under the lingering overload tearing through your nerves. Your vision still isn’t steady either. The room keeps spinning at the edges every time your pulse spikes too sharply from the aftermath of the weaving.

He watches the tremble in your legs and the effort it takes for you to remain standing as his cursed energy presses through the room around both of you. Then, abruptly and without the slightest warning, his grip vanishes entirely.

The sudden loss of support almost sends you stumbling sideways again before you manage to catch yourself this time, forcing your exhausted body to lock your knees so you don’t fall. Your skin throbs where his fingers dug in just moments ago.

Another quiet, dismissive laugh leaves him at the reaction.

“You look worse every time,” Sukuna muses lazily, a faint amusement replacing his earlier irritation. “Maybe your body’s finally realizing what it’s touching.”

Your stomach clenches into a cold, unpleasant knot.

The strangest part of this arrangement is that the weaving is over, he got what he wanted, and there’s no real reason for him to stay, and yet he does. After his boredom with simply watching you reaches its limit, he turns away and strolls back to your desk.

The dried eye still sits on your paperwork where he left it. He picks it up between two fingers, glances at it, then drops it back onto the report with another hard click. Then he throws himself onto your couch, sinking into the cushions like he has every intention of settling in for the foreseeable future. All the while, he makes absolutely certain to flood the room with his cursed energy, keeping it heavy and pervasive enough that your body never fully relaxes, even with several meters of safe distance between you.

You stand and stare at the disgusting object on your desk for a long, exhausted moment. Meanwhile, Sukuna stretches one arm across the back of the couch and closes his eyes, as if he belongs here now.

-

The days start to blend together. You wake up, go to work, sit at your desk, and at some point, the door opens without a knock. After that, the next few hours become harder to track. Sukuna doesn’t need an excuse or a mission to show up anymore; he just appears whenever he wants, taking over your office. What used to be a frightening surprise when the door opened has become a predictable, daily intrusion you’ve learned to endure in silence.

He’s there every day, stretched out on the cushions, while his cursed energy fills the room and makes it hard to focus even before he starts interfering directly. He’s relentless in his boredom; sometimes he watches you work in complete silence for almost an hour, then grabs your reports and reads them out loud in a mocking tone. He wanders around, touching things just to distract you, or leans over your shoulder to watch your hand tremble as you write. One afternoon, he snaps a pen in half between his fingers while staring directly at you the entire time, just to see how you’ll react.

What’s worse, you start adapting to his presence without realizing it. You find yourself instinctively shifting your body and adjusting your movements carefully around him to avoid even the slightest accidental contact as he makes himself at home in your space. You stop leaving stacks of paperwork near the edge of the desk because he always knocks it off, or you start working on reports late in the evening because experience has already taught you that if you start in the morning, there’s a decent chance he’ll eventually show up and ruin your focus, or, on not-so-rare occasions, your work.

The cycle of his activity leaves you with less and less time to recover between the moments when your hands are pressed against his chest. While the big missions happen less often now, his demand for the weaving only grows more persistent because he can feel the contrast by now and has gotten used to the calm you force into his energy. The parts you’ve already worked through stay intact, but new splinters form whenever he uses his techniques again. Even so, there is less of it than at the beginning, and the frayed edges aren’t as tightly packed, but you still end each session more exhausted than you expect. That’s why it never gets easier.

You reach for things on your desk and notice they’re not where you left them. It never stops bothering you, but you keep working anyway. More often than not, however, you feel trapped by the endless biting and mocking comments, and the mess he leaves behind serves as a permanent, stinging reminder that he doesn’t see you as a person—just as a fascinating, resilient toy he hasn’t quite figured out how to break yet.

By the end of the third week, you sit at your desk, staring at the door after it closes behind Sukuna. The room is quiet again, but it still doesn’t feel empty.

After a moment, you push away from your desk and head to Yaga’s office before you can talk yourself out of it. When you get there, you don’t give yourself time to hesitate and knock right away.

“Enter,” comes the muffled command.

You slide the door open to find Yaga sitting at his desk, surrounded by his half-finished cursed corpses. He looks up, his dark sunglasses reflecting the dim light of the room. For a long moment, he simply studies you.

“I need a favor, Principal,” you start, surprised that your voice is steady, though you find yourself smoothing the fabric of your pants to keep your hands from shaking. “And I think it will help the school as much as it helps me.”

Yaga pauses, letting the doll in his hand go limp for a moment. His shoulders tense, as if he’s expecting a tough request. His gaze remains fixed on you, unreadable behind the tint of his lenses.

“I’ve been looking at the curriculum for the first and second years. Or, rather, the lack of it. And I’ve seen Ijichi’s schedule,” you say, shaking your head as the image of the man's perpetually exhausted, graying face flashes in your mind. You take another step into the room, your gestures growing more animated as you speak. “Between driving sorcerers to mission sites, setting up curtains, and acting as Gojo’s personal errand runner for everything that isn't in his contract, he’s barely surviving. He doesn’t have the time to properly teach trigonometry or calculus, and the students are the ones suffering for it.”

Yaga lets out a low, barely audible hum of agreement, finally looking back down to adjust a piece of fabric on his desk. He knows better than anyone that Ijichi is the school’s most overworked resource.

“I’m already here full-time. If I take over teaching math, it would really help Ijichi,” you say, twisting your fingers behind your back as you try to sound logical. “I can’t just sit in my office for ten hours a day, waiting for the door to open. I need something else to focus on, something with rules and logic.” Your voice gets quieter as you admit, “If I have a routine that isn't just... him... I think I'll be more effective when he actually is there.”

The principal leans back. He’s acutely aware of the orders you received from the Higher-Ups and that you’re essentially stuck in your room when Sukuna is on the campus. He weighs the pros and cons. If you teach, it takes a big load off the Windows and assistant managers, and the students get a teacher who cares about them. More importantly, it gives you a chance to be someone besides Sukuna’s Weaver.

“Ijichi has mentioned that trying to teach the first-years anything while also handling mission reports is a losing battle. Itadori, especially, seems to have a unique talent for avoiding understanding math, no matter how simple it is,” Yaga says, with a faint frown on his face as he looks at you over the top of his glasses. “General studies have always come second here. The assistant managers do what they can, but their main job is mission support.”

He pauses, pulling a thread tight with a sharp snap that fills the room. “Satoru, even if he wanted to teach, is many things, but a provider of a stable learning environment isn’t one of them. He’s too chaotic and unpredictable. Atsuya’s patience is far too thin for that, and Sukuna...” He lets out a dry huff, almost like a laugh, and shakes his head. “Well, Sukuna only cares if they survive a hit.”

He picks up his needle again, showing he’s already made his decision.

“If you want the job, it’s yours. It’ll give Ijichi one less thing to worry about—maybe even keep him from crashing his car from lack of sleep—and it’ll give the kids some structure they really need.” He pauses, holding the needle in the air, then adds bluntly in a lower voice, “Just remember, math is logical. Sukuna isn’t. Don’t let the comfort of numbers make you forget who you’re dealing with. He might follow my rule about not killing the students, but he’ll make your life a headache if he thinks your new job is amusing.”

“I know,” you say, nodding quickly as genuine relief washes over you for the first time in weeks. “But I’d rather deal with that kind of headache than go crazy staring at my walls all day until I lose my mind.”

“Fair enough.” Yaga nods, already focused on his work again. “I’ll have the materials and class schedule sent to your office. Just don’t expect the kids to thank you when they see how much homework you give them.”

-

The first-years’ classroom is just three doors down from your office. It’s smaller than you thought it would be, but it feels much cozier than the classrooms you remember from your own school days. Morning sunlight slips through the windows, lighting up dust that floats slowly in the air. Outside, you can barely hear the muffled sounds of birds and the second-years’ training drills. The room feels strangely calm.

You stand by the board for a moment before class officially starts, shuffling your lesson plans in your hands out of nervous habit and running your fingers along the edges of the papers. Your attention keeps drifting unconsciously toward the door to the hallway.

The building is quiet, but after almost three weeks of Sukuna showing up without warning, you’ve started to listen for the specific, terrifying weight of his presence. Your heart beats a little too fast, like a quiet survival instinct is always there, whether you want it or not.

A fluttery lightness replaces your dread for a moment as the first-years come in. Megumi is first, seemingly bored until he sees you at the front. He blinks a few times with a frown, surprised to see you instead of the always-tired Ijichi. You give him a small, reassuring nod and point to the desks in the middle of the room.

Nobara comes in less than a minute later, looking annoyed by the concept of morning itself, and drops into an empty chair. Yuji is the last to arrive. He almost trips over the threshold because he’s already bowing and apologizing for being late before his feet are even fully inside the room.

“You’re actually thirty seconds early, Yuji,” you say, glancing at your watch with a small smile.

“Oh!” He stops mid-step, almost stumbling forward from the sudden stop.

He tilts his head at you, looking genuinely confused for a heartbeat, then suddenly brightens. A big grin spreads across his face as he shuffles to his chair and sits down with the boundless energy that seems to define him.

Once they’re settled, you set your papers on the teacher’s desk and lean against it. You consciously pull your focus away from the hallway and pin it to the three students in front of you, determined to give them at least an hour of normal, boring education.

“So. I’m officially taking over your general math classes from the assistant managers,” you announce.

Nobara perks up, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. “Ijichi finally died?” she asks, sounding hopeful.

“No, he’s very much alive,” you reply, unable to hide a small smile. “But I think trying to manage Gojo’s schedule almost did him in.”

Yuji snorts into his sleeve, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Megumi lowers his head, but you notice him biting his lip to hide a small smile.

“Actually, I had a long talk with Principal Yaga, and we agreed that Ijichi has too much on his plate. With Satoru’s unpredictable requests and all the mission planning, he’s barely keeping up,” you continue, your tone softening with genuine sympathy for the man. “He shouldn't have to worry about your general studies while he's busy driving you across the country and handling everything else.”

“So no more solving for X in the back of the car?” Nobara asks, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes, sounding skeptical but not too upset. “I’m pretty sure half my last test was marked wrong just because his driving made my handwriting impossible to read.”

“Exactly,” you say, smiling as you turn to the board. “I want to see where everyone is. We’ll work through a few problems together and—” You notice Yuji’s shoulders slump and his face fall into despair. “—Relax, Yuji. It’s not a test. No grades today.”

“Somehow,” he mutters, putting his forehead on the desk, “that sounds worse.”

Nobara huffs loudly and rolls her eyes at him. “You’re definitely the reason we’re doing this. I hope you’re happy.”

“I’m literally not!” Yuji protests, sitting up straight and waving his arms defensively.

You grab a marker before their bickering turns into a real argument and decide to take it easy on them. You write the first equation on the board:

2(x - 3) + 4 = 10

“I’m less interested in the answer and more in how you get there. Talk me through your reasoning out loud—no silent thinking,” you say, stepping aside so they can see the board. “How would you start?”

“Oh, I got this!” Yuji blurts out. He doesn’t even reach for a pen or paper; he leans so far forward he’s almost out of his chair, eyes narrowed at the board with intense focus. Nobara looks annoyed that he volunteered first. “Okay, so ten minus four is six, right? And then the thing should become three, and three minus three is zero, so x equals zero.”

Megumi already looks tired and rubs his temples. You stare at Yuji for a long, silent moment, trying to figure out the mental gymnastics he just performed to get to that answer.

At the same time, Nobara’s hand shoots out to point at him. “That made absolutely no sense.”

“It DID in my head.”

“That’s the problem!”

Yuji turns to you with wide, hopeful eyes. “I got close, though, right? The logic was solid?”

“You skipped so many steps, I honestly don’t know how you arrived at zero,” you admit.

Nobara snorts and stands up before you can even think of calling on her. She grabs another marker from the tray and rewrites the equation under yours: 2x - 3 + 4 = 10

“Six,” Megumi says before you can stop her from writing further.

Nobara freezes, then slowly turns to glare at him. “I know that, Fushiguro. I was getting there.”

“You just wrote it wrong,” Megumi points out, gesturing at her work and already sounding tired even though class started less than ten minutes ago. “It’s inside the parentheses. Two multiplies both terms.”

Stepping closer to the board again, you tap the marker against your palm and rewrite the equation under Nobara’s attempt. As you explain the order of operations, you notice your shoulders finally relax. Your voice steadies, and by the time you finish solving the equation with them, you’re gesturing naturally, the marker becoming an extension of your thoughts rather than a distraction.

The second problem goes more smoothly. You write the new system under the first equation while the students copy it down.

x + y = 10 x - y = 2

“This time,” you say, setting the marker down, “don’t try to solve it right away. Tell me what the equations are describing first.”

Yuji frowns at the board, mouthing words to himself for a few seconds as he thinks. Suddenly, his expression changes and his eyes widen.

“So one number is bigger than the other by two. And together they make ten,” he continues, leaning further over the desk now and talking faster. “So if they were both five, then one of them just needs to steal one from the other. That means… six and four.”

A moment of stunned silence settles over the room because, despite the wording being unconventional and bordering on ridiculous, the logic itself is completely correct. Nobara glares at him like she’s absolutely pissed by this.

“There’s no way YOU understood that faster than me,” she hisses, slamming her pen on the desk.

Yuji points triumphantly across the room with a grin. “I told you I’m not bad at math.”

“You absolutely are.”

The hour passes in a rhythm that feels surprisingly pleasant and grounded. It isn't smooth, exactly—Yuji continues to approach half the problems with just enthusiasm, and Nobara gets more irritated each time Megumi finishes an equation before she’s even halfway through. Still, it all feels real.

But the chaos gets easier to handle once you figure out how each of them thinks. Yuji isn’t lacking smarts, but he needs the concepts explained before the notation itself starts to make sense to him. Nobara understands more than she shows, but her impatience leads her to rush through the fine details. Megumi knows the basics so well that sometimes he explains things to the others before you can cross the room to assist.

By the end of the lesson, the board is covered in equations, corrections, arrows, and half-finished ideas. The students start packing up, and as you watch them argue about who’s buying lunch, you almost feel like a normal person in a normal world again.

“Yuji,” you say as he grabs his backpack, “can you stay for a minute?”

“Ooooh,” Nobara teases, dragging out the sound obnoxiously as she throws her bag over her shoulder. “Someone failed the non-test.”

“I didn’t fail!” Yuji protests, his face turning red.

“You absolutely failed,” she counters, nodding firmly.

“It wasn’t even graded!”

Megumi looks completely uninterested in the argument and is already heading for the door with his backpack. Yuji keeps defending himself with increasingly questionable logic until Nobara clicks her tongue, mutters something about him being a hopeless idiot, and drags Megumi out by his sleeve when he doesn’t move fast enough for her liking.

The classroom gets quiet as soon as the door closes. Yuji stands awkwardly by his desk, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He watches you with a mix of curiosity and worry as you start erasing the board.

“Am I in trouble?” he asks after a moment.

The question surprises you, and you pause with the eraser on the board.

“No, not at all,” you answer, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs and drops his eyes down to his shoes. “At my old school, teachers  only asked me to stay after class if something bad happened or I broke something.”

His honest answer leaves you feeling uneasy.

“You’re not bad at math, Yuji,” you say, turning to face him.

Yuji stares at you for a moment, then points back at the board behind you as if the messy calculations are physical evidence of his failure.

“I’m pretty sure that’s proof I am,” he says, giving a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“You’re not bad at math, just at structure,” you tell him, putting the eraser back. “Your logic is actually really good. You see the connections faster than you can write them down.”

He tilts his head and blinks at you, thinking it over. The reaction is small, but it hits you that no one has probably ever bothered to explain the difference to him. Most people probably just saw the disorganized mess of his work and thought he was careless or not smart. But during class, you noticed that under all the clutter, his reasoning was sharp. It’s chaotic and impulsive rather than a neat process, but it’s still smart thinking.

“You have a good instinct for answers, but your basics are a mess right now. When the problems get harder—and they will—your intuition won’t be enough to keep up.”

Yuji sighs and his shoulders drop. “Yeah, I figured. Ijichi usually just sighs and gives me the answer when I get stuck.”

“But you pick up the main ideas really quickly when I explain them,” you continue, leaning back against the desk and meeting his eyes. “The problem is you skip steps because your mind jumps ahead before you properly organize your work.”

Yuji looks startled by the assessment.

“That’s…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s actually exactly how it feels. I think.”

You nod. “If you’re up for it, come by my office a few times a week after class. We’ll work on the basics together before they turn into bigger problems.”

Yuji’s entire face brightens almost instantly, the gloom vanishing as if it were never there. He’s clearly used to being treated as an academic afterthought, so having someone offer to sit down and help him with his messy algebra seems to catch him completely off guard.

“Really? You’d do that? That’s awesome!” he exclaims, his voice booming in the quiet room. “I actually want to get this stuff! Before, teachers either gave up entirely or treated me like I was five the second I struggled.”

You look at him for a few seconds and let out a quiet sigh.

“Well, I’m not planning to do either of those things.”

A huge grin spreads across his face so wide and so fast it almost feels physically impossible to stop once it starts. It’s so infectious that you can’t help but smile back.

“Okay. Yeah! I’ll definitely be there!” He beams, shifting from foot to foot.

There’s no hesitation in his answer whatsoever, no hint of embarrassment about needing extra help.

“Then it’s a deal. Let’s start with twice a week,” you reply, feeling a sudden, genuine sense of purpose. You’re already thinking about how to make space for a second chair in your office. “Maybe three if necessary.”

“Ouch, three times? You’re a tough one, Teach,” he jokes, though his eyes are still bright.

“It’s only until you catch up, Yuji,” you laugh softly at his dramatic reaction, and a sheepish, lopsided grin pulls at his lips. “Come by tomorrow after you finish your physical training. I’ll have some practice sheets ready.”

“You got it! I'll be there!” The boy gives you an enthusiastic thumbs-up, already spinning around and heading for the door with a renewed bounce in his step. “See ya tomorrow!”

The casualness of the statement barely registers until he’s already disappeared into the hallway, leaving the classroom quiet behind him once more. Only then do you realize Yuji said it the way someone might talk about visiting a friend rather than meeting with a teacher for extra work.

—

Meanwhile, a little over two hours away from Tokyo, another district is already falling apart.

The curtain covers almost six city blocks. Outside, abandoned emergency vehicles clog the roads, left behind when the curse moved too quickly for the managers to keep up. The main commercial area is already in ruins, crumbling under relentless, brutal impacts.

Broken glass sparkles across the asphalt, catching the chaotic flashes of emergency lights. The remaining managers wait, with their shoulders slumped from exhaustion and faces pale with undisguised fear, knowing there’s a Special Grade inside the veil. And now, they strain visibly, trying not to look directly at what approaches the curtain.

Sukuna doesn’t slow down as he reaches the perimeter. The managers tense up instinctively as soon as he passes them. One of them tries to give a report, but Sukuna tunes him out before the first sentence fully leaves his mouth. The man’s palpable fear is already grating enough without adding unnecessary talking and irrelevant explanations on top of it.

Sukuna steps through the shimmering, oily curtain without a backward glance. The barrier ripples violently under the pressure of his cursed energy, then seals shut again behind him.

Inside the barrier, the air is heavy and hard to breathe. The district stinks of pulverized concrete dust, the acrid tang of burning electrical insulation, leaking gas, and the deep, metallic scent of fresh blood. The taste of iron lingers on his tongue, carried by the air.

Cheap construction materials, too. Sukuna notices it immediately. Most of the structures lining the street are newer, with decorative facades and weak support systems. They may look sturdy but are built with thin concrete, minimal reinforcement, and poor load distribution. Half the district is already collapsing under pressure that older buildings might’ve endured longer.

He clicks his tongue in contempt at the sight of it as he moves deeper into the ruined street.

Fucking pathetic. The Higher-Ups really dragged him out here to clean up garbage again.

Up ahead, the ground trembles violently. Another massive strike sends roofing material and shattered masonry cascading from already-pocked buildings. A distant, raw scream cuts through the air, only to be cut short moments later. Sukuna dismisses the sound with a brief spike of irritation.

A mountain of debris blocks the street ahead. Twisted steel sticks out from slabs of crushed concrete and broken glass, showing where a building’s upper floors have collapsed. Sukuna doesn’t bother searching for another way through, since such inefficiency is a human limitation. He instead walks straight toward a department store front, not slowing his stride as his hand rises in an almost dismissive gesture and slices the air.

Dismantle cuts perfect squares through the concrete wall as he walks by, leaving holes behind him. He hates the filth of these places, the gritty dust and the stale, awful smell left by those who didn’t escape.

He’s halfway through the shattered lobby when the atmosphere changes. The pressure flooding the district suddenly surges, so the drifting dust hanging in the air seems to freeze for a moment. Deeper ahead, cursed energy flares, rupturing several surviving windows all at once before the attack even comes.

The curse emerges. It’s a huge humanoid figure, taller than Sukuna even with its back hunched. Long limbs slam against the ruined floor, leaving new craters with every step. Its body is packed with dense, layered muscle under dark, taut skin that moves strangely over its joints. Its face barely resembles anything human beyond the placement of eyes and jaws, but those are stretched far too wide across its skull.

All morning, it has been demolishing buildings and infrastructure. Now, sensing the sheer threat Sukuna poses, it hurtles across the lobby, launching itself directly at him.

Good. At least this one understands territory.

The creature is brutally fast, but Sukuna stays calm and doesn’t flinch. He lets the curse believe it has an opening and that its reckless charge gives it an edge. The huge fist flies at his head. At the very last moment, Sukuna tilts his head. The movement is so slight and effortless that it seems an insult to the creature. At the same time, he attacks.

Not bothering to fully extend his arm, he flicks two fingers, sending a series of Dismantle slashes that cut through the air.

The curse’s dominant arm is instantly cleaved away at the shoulder and segmented into three pieces before the creature’s nerves can even register the injury.

The invisible blades continue their destructive path, leaving deep trenches in the wall behind the monster. They slice across the street beyond, shearing the roofs off a row of parked cars and cutting down a traffic light pole. A moment later, the sound of the destruction catches up, filling the air with a deafening eruption of collapsing stone and the hiss of broken utility lines.

The curse lets out a wet, guttural shriek of pain as it staggers backward. Already, the mutilated stump of its shoulder begins to bubble and reform.

Sukuna finally pauses, his lips curling slightly. “Huh,” he rasps with slight curiosity in his voice. “You actually survived the first touch.”

A flash of genuine, malicious interest crosses his expression. He realizes that this might actually provide enough resistance to be worth the dirt on his boots. A pleased grin slowly stretches across his face as he watches the graying flesh stitch itself back together. The arm is entirely whole in seconds. The curse immediately forgets pain and charges again, driven by the pure instinct that standing near Sukuna guarantees death.

The rest of the store explodes around them. The curse's frantic movements tear through supporting walls, collapsing them completely. Shelves and shattered displays fly out into the street as Sukuna sidesteps to avoid a blow. The curse is now so fast that just moving causes more incidental damage than its actual strikes. Every missed swing leaves deep craters in the floor or walls, or sends parts of the storefront crashing outside.

Sukuna grins wider. The fight finally breaks the crushing boredom that has stuck with him since he accepted this assignment.

The curse attacks again, its claws shearing the air where Sukuna’s torso was just moments ago. Sukuna answers with a light, shallow Dismantle across the creature’s ribs.

The cut opens the curse entirely from shoulder to hip, but doesn’t fully sever it. Layers of muscle and tissue are briefly exposed beneath the gaping split, then blur as the fissure welds shut. Sukuna stands perfectly still, close enough that dark blood splashes his uniform as he watches it heal.

He lands a heavier strike that shears through the curse’s thigh. The curse roars, shaking the ruins, then counters frantically, ripping a jagged slab of fallen concrete from the ground and hurling it at him. Sukuna doesn’t even bother to block. He walks forward, and his technique cleaves the projectile into a shower of harmless cubes before it reaches him.

The curse stomps, making the floor buckle. The rest of the ceiling collapses, sending concrete and steel crashing down. Sukuna dodges effortlessly, jumping up and landing lightly in the wreckage moments later. The curse bursts from the dust cloud, immediately throwing massive chunks of rubble toward him.

Sukuna carves the flying debris with slashes before the curse can close the distance. Each slice instantly atomizes huge chunks of concrete, reducing them into pebbles that scatter through the ruins. The creature's movements remain stubbornly aggressive despite the damage it sustains, regenerating injuries almost as quickly as Sukuna inflicts them. For minutes, the fight is a relentless, chaotic barrage of impacts violently shaking the whole district.

Buildings around them  continue to collapse under the pressure. The curse breaks supporting columns to trap Sukuna, but he just tears down walls whenever the space gets too tight and starts to annoy him. Floors keep collapsing, forcing him to constantly adjust his stance. Dust fills the air, quickly reducing visibility across the street until the ruins begin to disappear behind clouds of pulverized concrete.

By the third building collapse, Sukuna is clearly running out of patience.

They crash through the storefront onto the wide, ruined street. The curse is desperate, throwing derelict cars and ripping up the asphalt to make obstacles. Every time a section of the road caves in and he has to shift his weight, Sukuna feels a spike of irritation. He’s truly tired of having to adjust his footing.

“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, stopping dead in his tracks and dropping one hand to the broken asphalt. “Cleave.”

Cracks spread across the asphalt in a spiderweb pattern, and the whole street erupts from below. Dust and debris fall back down, leaving a massive crater. Sukuna stands untouched on the only solid ground left. He’s just destroyed a big part of the street just to give himself a flat surface to stand on.

A moment later, the building they had just left groans and slowly starts to collapse, its foundations irreparably damaged by the Cleave as well. The curse screams through the falling debris, half its torso reduced to shredded muscle. Skin races to regenerate over the raw tissue as it launches itself at Sukuna again.

Far-off emergency sirens wail, but are drowned out by another crash that bursts water lines underground, sending water shooting into the air.

Sukuna laughs sharply, his voice echoing over the crashing storefronts. He’s honestly amused; the creature has lasted this long only by stubbornness while continuing to embarrass itself, even though the outcome was inevitable the moment Sukuna stepped past the curtain.

“You’re still trying?” he asks, tilting his head with curiosity, but the curse replies with another attack.

Good. At least it hasn’t started running yet.

The tide turns several minutes later. The curse finally realizes the gap between them isn’t closing, no matter how aggressively it attacks. It changes its tactics, growing cautious and using shattered infrastructure and blind spots created by debris to put distance between them instead of fighting head-on.

Sukuna’s smile vanishes, his expression hardens, and all enjoyment dissipates. He loses interest the moment the curse starts fighting defensively. Now he just wants to get it over with.

The curse smashes through the side of a nearby office building, trying to get away from Sukuna. Without slowing down, Sukuna sends slashes that cut through whole sections of the building ahead of the creature. The building splits into massive pieces, burying  terrified civilians hiding in the lobby. The curse keeps running, heading deeper into the maze of ruined blocks.

This fucking thing.

It’s only still alive because the district itself keeps getting in the way, and Sukuna is quickly running out of patience with both the curse and this place.

Finally, trapped in the empty shell of a parking garage, the curse realizes its stalling hasn’t worked. It’s panting heavily, and its healing can’t keep up with the constant cuts appearing on its body. Good, because Sukuna’s getting really tired of looking at it.

For the first time during the fight, he sees hesitation in the curse’s behavior. It’s not fear, but more like instinct—the moment survival overrides every previous aggressive impulse.

Suddenly, the space around them twists. Damaged buildings groan, their upper floors bending at strange angles. The ground under Sukuna fractures and splinters. Windows implode, shards of shattered glass reversing their trajectory midair, as the curse’s innate technique violently compresses the environment. Entire sections of the district are dragged in, collapsing toward the center of the street in a swirling funnel of dust, debris, and twisted infrastructure.

Sukuna actually pauses for a moment. “Oh. So you did have one more trick,” he says, sounding pleased.

Maintaining the technique is ripping the curse’s own body apart. Its skin splits along its limbs and torso faster than regeneration can fully repair the self-inflicted damage. Roads break open, structural columns twist through the concrete floors, and tons of building material from nearby buildings hurtle toward the curse, trying to crush Sukuna under the weight.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, hundreds of intersecting slashes appear in front of him. Everything the curse pulled in is instantly cut to tiny floating fragments before the mass can reach him. Sukuna steps calmly through the dense, drifting cloud of dust and blood and reaches out, closing one hand around the creature’s throat as it attempts one last weak attack.

Cleave activates instantly, perfectly matching the curse’s durability. The creature’s body is severed so completely that regeneration never even begins this time. Flesh, bone, and cursed core divide cleanly beneath Sukuna’s grasp, falling into the rubble in wet, messy pieces before turning to dust.

Outside the barrier, the managers stay tense as sudden silence falls over the district, nervously exchanging glances. Emergency teams wait farther back behind the containment line. Then Sukuna finally steps out through the curtain.

They stand up straight as soon as they see him, covered in dust and clearly annoyed but otherwise entirely unharmed. The assistant manager maintaining the barrier lowers it almost right away, revealing damage so bad that several people freeze in shock when they see the full scale of the destruction.

The area looks more like a bombing site than a sorcerer’s operation. Roads are torn open, exposing broken tunnels beneath the asphalt. Flames spread through ruined storefronts, and sections of the street keep collapsing without warning, unable to withstand the cumulative structural stresses from the fight. Rescue workers hesitate at the edge, recognizing the danger posed by the infrastructure and how close everything is to falling apart.

Sukuna ignores everything and heads for the car waiting for him. Daichi walks up as Sukuna gets close. He glances briefly at the ruined district behind the sorcerer, then quickly looks back at Sukuna’s face, gauging his mood first and foremost.

Smart.

“Fifteen minutes, Daichi,” he says flatly, walking past without looking at him. “Then I’m done standing in this shithole.”

Daichi nods immediately, not wasting time responding aloud, and heads for the edge of the perimeter. The other managers jump into action the moment he starts giving orders. Operations surrounding Sukuna’s missions are always larger than standard deployments for exactly this reason. Normally, a sorcerer’s assignment just needs one assistant manager and a report written once everyone has safely returned. But Sukuna’s missions require an entirely different, specialized setup, since once the barrier is lowered, vast sections of the city may no longer physically exist.

Full support teams are mobilized before he even arrives. Extra managers wait outside the curtain to coordinate the inevitable emergency response, and separate staff is ready to start preliminary structural assessments right away. Everyone knows that when Sukuna fights, the destruction always goes far beyond the curse itself.

As Sukuna moves toward the sedan waiting farther down the blocked street, Daichi performs a quick sweep of the outer area, noting the most significant structural failures and the most immediately visible damage patterns before rescue teams move in. His role isn’t to conduct a thorough investigation, as no one assigned to Sukuna has the luxury of time for that. He notes the scale of roadway collapse, the number of buildings visibly beyond salvage, how far the destruction spreads, and which sections still seem too unstable for responders. Around him, city emergency crews start moving carefully into the ruins.

Sukuna, meanwhile, waits exactly as long as he said he would, not a second more. As soon as Daichi jogs back, Sukuna gets in the back seat without acknowledging the chaos behind them. Another staff member takes the driver’s seat, since keeping up with Sukuna is, unfortunately for everyone, the top priority. The car pulls away from the disaster zone, and Daichi starts working from the passenger seat, with a tablet balanced on one knee.

The report for Yaga, written during the drive back to Tokyo, is inherently incomplete. It’s based on Daichi’s quick notes and incoming updates from the teams still on site. These updates include detailed damage reports, casualty estimates from first responders, municipal emergency data, and rushed infrastructure reports from local officials desperately trying to stabilize the area. That’s why almost every report from Sukuna’s missions uses the same standard line: “Secondary destruction patterns not yet conclusively attributed.”

What Daichi finishes before they reach Tokyo is just a first draft. The final report, sent to the principal and the Higher-Ups later, adds in new data and the remaining reports collected long after Sukuna leaves. Even then, it’s almost impossible to fully capture the scale of Sukuna’s fights on paper once whole parts of the city are reduced to collapse zones and debris fields.

—

MISSION INCIDENT REPORT Tokyo Jujutsu High Filed by: Daichi Sera Mission ID: 2018/SZK/021 Operational Details Location: Shizuoka, Shizuoka Mission Start Time: 12:16 Mission End Time: 12:49 Assigned Sorcerer: Ryomen Sukuna (Special Grade) Original Threat Assessment: Special Grade Post-Operation Threat Assessment: original assessment correct Curse Status: Exorcised Damage Civilian Casualties:   · 40 deceased  · 96 hospitalized  · 17 critical Sorcerer Casualties: — Structural Damage:  Extensive structural failure was documented throughout the central commercial district and adjacent mixed-use sectors within the curtain perimeter. At least eleven buildings experienced partial or complete collapse during the engagement. Additional surrounding structures sustained severe damage to foundations, load-bearing systems, and segmentation, necessitating ongoing engineering assessment. Severe roadway deformation was also observed in the central district, including multiple large-scale asphalt ruptures that exposed underlying utility infrastructure. Significant secondary collapse persisted after curtain removal due to compromised structural integrity in adjacent sectors. Infrastructure Disruption: Severe disruption to municipal infrastructure was reported throughout the affected zone. This included widespread roadway collapse, ruptured underground utility tunnels, compromised gas and water mains, electrical grid failure, and loss of emergency access corridors within multiple sectors of the operational area. Several evacuation routes became inaccessible during the engagement due to cascading debris collapse and ongoing structural instability. These conditions resulted in delayed emergency response deployment and prolonged civilian extraction timelines. Restoration estimates remain pending due to unsafe conditions in portions of the district that are still undergoing stabilization assessment. Additional Notes  · Secondary destruction patterns within the operational zone could not be conclusively attributed exclusively to recorded curse activity at the time of preliminary assessment.  · Multiple structural collapses continued after the curse exorcism as a result of cumulative foundational destabilization sustained during the engagement.  · Emergency response mobilization required expanded support coordination because of ongoing infrastructure instability within the affected district.  · Post-operation assessment was delayed across several sectors due to residual collapse risk and restricted responder access.  · Full reconstruction of the engagement sequence remains incomplete due to extensive overlap between curse-generated and secondary environmental destruction patterns.  · Preliminary civilian casualty estimates are expected to increase following debris clearance and completion of secondary search operations.  · Civilian casualty figures are believed to have been significantly reduced as a result of successful early-stage evacuation procedures initiated under emergency tsunami and seismic response protocols prior to full curtain deployment.

You’ve been staring at the report for half an hour, trying to make sense of what you just read, but you stopped really reading a while ago.

Your eyes are stuck on the same section, somewhere in the middle. The words blur, and the ache behind your eyes just keeps getting worse. Casualty numbers and infrastructure assessments repeat in your mind, no matter how many times you try to stop thinking about them. Forty dead. Eleven collapsed buildings. Secondary structural failures continue after curtain removal. Emergency extraction delayed due to roadway instability. Everything is written in the same cold, official language that somehow makes it all feel worse.

Three weeks ago, parts of the report would have felt distant, and your mind would have softened the details to protect you from imagining too much. Now, the details stay with you much longer than you want. The collapsed roads, the delayed extraction routes, and the ruined buildings all leave mental images, even though you never saw the destruction yourself.

The thirty minutes you had before feeling the spike of pressure in the building definitely weren’t enough. Your shoulders tense before your thoughts fully catch up, while the familiar weight of Sukuna’s cursed energy fills the corridors of the school heavily so that the air itself seems denser several seconds before he actually reaches your office.

The door slides open and Sukuna steps inside, still in the same uniform from the mission. The dark fabric is torn in several places from falling debris, with a thin layer of concrete dust clinging stubbornly to the sleeves and shoulders, and dried blood splattered on the chest.

He walks closer and leans over the desk, glancing at the sheet of paper in front of you. Even from here, the residue around his cursed energy feels much worse than last time, but after a mission like that, it was bound to be.

“That thing was stubborn enough to stay entertaining for a while.” He lets out a low, rasping chuckle. “Almost made the trip tolerable.”

Sukuna stares at the report for another moment before losing interest in it entirely and dismissing it with a flick of his hand. His gaze shifts back to you, and the amusement in his expression grows sharper.

“Well?” he asks lazily, tilting his head. “Fix it.”

Your stomach tightens, a cold knot of dread forming in your gut, but there’s no point in delaying. After three weeks, you know the drill well enough that your body moves on autopilot, even while your mind is still stuck on the words from the report.

Slowly, you push up to your feet and move around the desk toward him. You want to ask him to lie down again, but you’ve been through this many times, so you swallow down the urge.  As soon as you get close, the full change in his residue hits you, and your whole nervous system recoils instinctively before you force it back under control with a shaky breath.

Sukuna notices your expression tighten the second you feel it. “Too much this time?” he asks mockingly, his voice dropping an octave as he watches you struggle.

You ignore him as best you can. At least, you try to. Your heart rate climbs, thudding against your ribs, as you reach out to bridge the gap. Your hand presses against the center of his chest, feeling the heat through the uniform. You curl your fingers into the fabric and carefully force your cursed energy into the fractured buildup around him. The process is exhausting right away.

Three weeks of repeated weaving sessions have taught you to recognize the structures faster and locate the worst compression points without wasting energy blindly searching through endless overlapping layers. But knowing the process better doesn’t make the actual strain any easier to handle.

The residue is tightly compressed and still needs your technique to force the layers apart before you can properly thread through the gaps. You focus harder, breathe slowly to calm your heart and save stamina, and push more cursed energy into the structure.

The layered compression surrenders reluctantly under pressure, countless splintered sections grinding against each other before finally separating enough for your technique to slip between them. Sweat slowly gathers at the back of your neck as your reserves steadily drain from the effort.

After several minutes, the structure finally starts to respond to your control and the sections separate. Your cursed energy carefully flows through the narrow gaps you’ve forced open, weaving through fractured layers before they can collapse again.

Sukuna watches your concentration tighten under the strain of weaving. He leans down curiously, resting one hand on the desk behind you, boxing you in between his body and the wood.

“What exactly are you staring at so hard?” he asks, and his face is suddenly so very close to yours that it fills far too much of your vision at once.

The proximity jolts your nerves, and a sharp spike of panic throws off your rhythm. The layers you just spent minutes separating collapse back together the moment your focus slips. Everything wedges together again, and you feel it through your technique as it tears free from the structure all at once, instantly shattering the connection between your energy and his.

He keeps his face dangerously close, watching the tremor in your fingers. The flow of your cursed energy against him vanishes, and as it does, a realization settles on his face as he pieces together your reaction.

“Oh,” he murmurs softly.

Humiliation burns under your skin while you struggle to steady your breathing again.

“You can lose it,” he says, almost thoughtfully, and his smile widens slowly. “Interesting.”

You pull your hand away, but Sukuna catches your wrist before you can retreat fully, tightening his grip around your arm. His gaze stays on your face with open amusement now that he understands what just happened and knows your concentration during weaving is yet another thing he can control or manipulate at will.

“Start over.”

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a/n: small note before someone comes for me with a math textbook. yes, i know this isn't the level of math most 15 year olds would normally be doing. i just needed a few simple equations for the scene and decided to keep them easy enough that nobody would have to solve an entire set of algebra problems while reading a fic.

tldr: yes i know. no i don't care. we're here for sukuna, not algebra.

taglist still open

As you walk past the open training grounds, you feel the change in the air right away. It’s not the harsh pressure of a direct confrontation, but it’s still there, just less intense. You stop short, your heart skipping as you spot a massive figure sitting on the stairs by the running track.

Sukuna isn’t even wearing his uniform. He’s in a dark, oversized hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms and loose gray sweats, looking less like a jujutsu sorcerer and more like someone dragged outside against his will. He might seem almost normal, if it weren’t for the heavy, dense cursed energy pouring off him.

The students are gathered several meters in front of him, scattered across the grassy field, with their bags and weapons carelessly tossed beside them. Even though you haven’t met them yet, you recognize them as second years from the reports you read yesterday.

Maki leans back on her hands with a wooden practice spear resting beside her, while Panda sprawls nearby with his arms folded behind his head. Toge has his phone in one hand, scrolling through it, and Yuta sits off to the side with his elbows on his knees.

It’s an utterly bizarre sight. Sukuna’s very clearly meant to be leading a class, but he isn’t speaking, demonstrating techniques, or even encouraging them. He’s just staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, his eyes narrowed as if the very existence of the sun and the presence of the students were a personal insult to his intelligence and time.

All the while, the students just… sit there, patiently waiting for time to pass, talking in low, hushed tones. Panda mutters something under his breath that draws a quiet snort of amusement from Maki, and Yuta fires back a quiet response, making Toge lower his phone and glance between them.

"Is he actually going to start today?" Yuta whispers, looking toward the man with a look of cautious exhaustion.

Maki huffs, shifting to lean back onto her elbows. "He’s been sitting like that for twenty minutes straight. I honestly don't think he even remembers we're here."

“Salmon,” Toge says softly, adjusting his collar.

Their casual attitude makes your head spin. They’re sitting right in front of someone who could destroy the whole campus without even standing, yet Maki checks her nails, and Panda rests his head on his paws like he’s just napping in the sun.

"Hey," she calls out suddenly, her voice a bit louder now as she tilts her head toward their teacher. "Are we actually doing anything today, or are we just here to watch you breathe?"

He turns his head slowly toward her. All she gets is a deeper scowl, a clear command to stop talking before he gives her a reason. The pressure in the air grows heavier as he lets more cursed energy fill the area to make his point.

The students go quiet right away. Maki straightens under his stare, her shoulders tense, while Sukuna says nothing for several long seconds. Even from the walkway, the silence feels uncomfortable. Then he clicks his tongue.

“Did I tell you to talk?” he asks flatly.

The girl sighs. “No.”

“Then shut up.”

Sukuna turns his attention away again, clearly more annoyed by the question than it’s worth. The students settle back into silence, looking used to this routine, as if this is just how class goes sometimes.

Several minutes go by with nothing happening. Yuta finally mutters something to Panda, who snorts loudly, breaking the silence. Sukuna reacts right away. Without even looking, he grabs a broken piece of concrete from beside the steps and throws it.

The chunk whistles through the air and slams into the grass, narrowly missing Panda’s head. It explodes on impact, scattering fragments everywhere. Panda jerks to the side with a loud, surprised, “Shit!” and Toge almost drops his phone.

“Too loud,” Sukuna rumbles, his voice low and rough, sounding more tired than angry. He keeps staring into the distance as if he hasn't moved a muscle. "Your voices are grating on my nerves."

Panda brushes dust and grass fragments from his fur and glares in the teacher’s direction. “You almost took my damn head off!”

“You still have it,” Sukuna replies dismissively, still not looking at him. “Now, keep quiet, or the next one won’t miss.”

Maki snorts under her breath again, and Panda mutters something you can’t quite hear from where you stand. Still, no one panics or leaves. Within seconds, the group settles back into the same spots as before. Panda keeps grumbling quietly, Toge goes back to scrolling through his phone, and Yuta lets out a heavy sigh, like this entire interaction falls somewhere between mildly irritating and completely expected.

The normalcy of it all unsettles you more than any open threat could. This is the same person who once painted the Heian era red, but now he just looks like a grumpy teacher who would rather be anywhere else than here, babysitting four teens in the sun.

You stand there for a few more seconds, struggling to understand how they can be so relaxed around him. Just two days ago, you could barely stand in the same room as him without shaking violently, and now you’re watching four students sit nearby while he throws concrete at them if they get too loud.

Taking a careful step back, then another, you slip away before he can possibly notice you standing there awkwardly. The reports clutched tightly in your arms suddenly feel ridiculous. You hurry toward the main building, reach the heavy office doors, and slip inside, your footsteps echoing as you rush to your desk.

On the training grounds, a full fifteen minutes pass without Sukuna moving or speaking one bit. At some point, Maki gives up pretending class is going to happen at all and stretches out fully on the grass, laying her head down comfortably on Panda’s massive stomach.

“This might actually be a new record,” Panda mutters under his breath, his voice a low vibration against her head. “We’re almost forty minutes in, and he hasn’t properly threatened anyone yet.”

“You almost got brained with a rock,” Maki replies without opening her eyes.

“That barely counts as threatening.”

Yuta exhales quietly from where he sits. “Do we actually think he forgot we’re here?”

“No,” Panda answers immediately. “He’s ignoring us on purpose.”

Toge nods without lifting his gaze from his phone, “Salmon.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Panda replies.

The group sits in silence for a while, with only the faint sounds of movement from elsewhere on campus breaking the quiet. Eventually, Sukuna gets bored with the ordeal of sitting there. He stands up without saying anything or looking at the students he’s supposed to be teaching, then walks across the training grounds toward the main walkway, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats.

The second-years sit up and watch his unhurried steps, all of them a little confused. Normally, Sukuna follows a predictable, if frustrating, pattern: he either refuses to show up entirely or sits in his sulking silence until the very end of the period. Leaving halfway through is new, and it makes the space feel oddly empty.

“Uh…” Panda slowly lowers his phone and looks between the others. "Did we... do something?"

"Inumaki?" Maki glances at Toge, who only shrugs, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Yuta blinks several times, processing the sudden change. “Wait.”

Maki pushes herself to her feet, her brows pulling together slightly as she watches Sukuna walking away. “Is he… leaving?”

“He’s definitely leaving,” Panda confirms.

“But class isn’t over yet.”

Maki looks at him flatly. “You say that like class started.”

“That’s not the point.”

Sukuna reaches the walkway, and Yuta finally speaks, his voice a little louder and more urgent from behind him, “Um… sensei?” only to receive absolutely no response whatsoever.

Then, the pink-haired man disappears around the corner, and silence drops over the training grounds for several seconds. The group just stares toward the walkway like they genuinely expect him to reappear and explain himself somehow.

Panda looks between the others one more time. “Did he actually just ditch us?”

“That’s new,” Maki mutters, a hint of grudging interest in her voice.

Toge lowers his phone again. “Salmon roe.”

“Right?” Panda says immediately. “Usually, he at least threatens us.”

Yuta continues staring toward the gate with visible confusion. “Do you think something happened?”

“With him? Probably.” Maki snorts.

Yuta still looks uncertain. “Should someone check where he went?”

“No,” Maki and Panda answer immediately and in perfect unison.

“Fish flakes,” Toge replies at the exact same time, shaking his head.

Maki clicks her tongue, pushes herself to her feet, and stretches. “Whatever. If he’s not coming back, I’m not wasting the rest of the period sitting here like an idiot. Let’s spar or something.”

-

In your office, you’re trying, and mostly failing, to lose yourself in the familiar, tedious rhythm of paperwork. The routine is a comfort you desperately need to wade through, but even the crisp rustle of mission reports offers little distraction. You’re halfway through sorting a stack of them when the door slides open without warning.

The cursed energy immediately floods the room. It’s so immense and abrasive that your body recognizes it before your conscious mind even registers the man standing there. You don't need to look up to know it’s Sukuna.

The class he was supposed to teach had been boring from the start. It’s nothing new, though. Those brats never truly resisted or challenged him, and today was no different. They sat where they were supposed to, spoke in low voices when they thought he wasn’t paying attention, and waited for something to happen. Sukuna had stayed just long enough to confirm that nothing of interest would happen. Even throwing something at the loud one had failed to stir anything but a flicker of annoyance, only reminding him how little interest he had in the whole farce.

But this is so much different. And because of that, Sukuna doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside as though the office has always belonged to him, and you’re merely a temporary fixture.

The effect of his presence hits you instantly, sharp and obvious. There’s no attempt to hide it yet, no control or delay, merely a direct, instantaneous terror at his proximity. And that reaction to him being in the same room, without needing to be provoked or forced, is finally something that doesn’t bore him to death.

Sukuna’s attention, which has been wandering all day, finally settles fully on a single, gratifying object—you. His gaze lingers on your hands, which give away everything, and your breathing, which speeds up no matter how hard you try to calm down. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a person desperately try to force themselves to act normal when every instinct tells them to run, hide, or simply drop dead. He hasn’t seen such an intense, uncontrolled reaction as yours in a really long while.

Pathetic, he thinks, and a lazy, amused smile curls at the edge of his lips. She’s trying so hard to pretend I’m not here, but her whole body shakes like I could tear her apart just by looking at her.

You have no idea how to control your reaction, and that makes you much more interesting than the students he left behind. The way you keep trying, even though you know you’re failing so miserably, only adds to his enjoyment.

Finally, through the paralyzing fog of your fear, you force a breath into your tightening throat in a small, desperate act of defiance. Then, you make a sound, which is something you haven’t been able to make in his presence until now.

"I... I wasn't informed you'd need... Weaving today," you stammer, and the sentence barely holds together.

Your voice breaks halfway through, and the slight, undeniable stutter makes the humiliation worse once the words leave your mouth.

“I don’t,” he states flatly.

Unlike the first time, he decides to take a seat. He grabs the bottom of one side of the couch, drags it effortlessly away from the wall with a horrible, scraping noise, and drops it right across from your desk. Then he sinks into it, somehow looking even bigger in the small space, like he’s taking up all the air just by leaning back.

He sits there for several long minutes, saying nothing and just staring at you. The silence drags on, making every second feel longer. His stillness only adds to the pressure, letting your mind imagine all the things he might do.

You lower your gaze back to the reports. Staring up feels impossible under the weight of his attention, but the words on the page have turned into meaningless black smears. You force yourself to grip the pen, but the moment you continue writing, it becomes painfully obvious how badly your hands are shaking again. The nib digs into the paper with too much force, leaving a jagged, ugly trail of ink where a simple, smooth line should have been.

Sukuna watches closely, noticing when your hands start to shake too much to write and when your breathing grows short again, even though you try to hide it. You react to him like a trapped animal, calming when the pressure lifts, then panicking all over again when it returns. He finds this endless cycle of fear and relief so fascinating that he wants to stay just to see what you’ll do next.

“Don’t let me… stop you,” he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly sound that scrapes against your frayed, exposed nerves. He knows, with absolute certainty, that you can’t write even one coherent word now.

The sudden sound of his voice being so close startles you so much that your hand jerks and the pen rips through the paper. Heat floods immediately into your face in a flush of shame.

The sorcerer stands without warning, abandoning the couch to occupy a space far more intrusive and sitting on the edge of your desk. His massive frame casts a shadow that swallows the document you were just trying to fill. He leans back, bracing his weight on his hands until his face is barely inches from yours, his heat radiating off him like an open furnace. He does nothing but just stare.

Your mind is utterly unable to hold onto the concept of the paperwork while he’s this close. The mission reports, the ink, the dates—it all evaporates. You try to pull back and create even a fraction of space, but you’re pinned between the leather of your chair and the massive, unyielding wall of his presence. Your hands are a disaster, shaking against the desk so violently that you can no longer hold the pen.

"You're making a mess of the ink," he says, his tone sharp and expectant. He moves a single finger and slowly drags it through the wet ink of your attempted signature, smearing it across the page until it’s an unrecognizable blot.

This time, he stays in your office much longer, content to simply exist in your space and watch you unravel, piece by piece. He reaches for a small ceramic paperweight on your desk. You flinch hard, bracing for the sound of it cracking under his touch, fully expecting him to crush it simply because that’s what he did the last time. He doesn’t break it, only rolling it under his palm, watching your pupils dilate with each slow rotation.

Sukuna pulls away and opens one of your desk drawers without asking. You watch as he glances through the contents, clearly uninterested, then clicks his tongue and leaves the drawer partly open.

For one brief, hopeful moment, you think he might finally leave, but he only grabs one of the reports from the edge of your desk, stands up, and lazily flips through it as he begins to pace around the small office. His lingering stretches on for nearly another half hour after that. At one point, he sits on the windowsill, blocking the light. He opens one of your drawers again, not to look through it, but simply to open it. He picks up random objects from your shelves only to set them down somewhere else moments later. Every single time your breathing starts to stabilize, even slightly, he either speaks or moves unexpectedly close, and your body immediately betrays you all over again, plunging you back into full-blown panic.

Suddenly, he stands and leaves without a word, leaving the door open, the couch out of place, and a trail of your things displaced in his wake. The  silence he leaves behind feels almost overwhelming after how long he stayed.

You stay seated stiffly at the desk, doing nothing productive, while your breathing refuses to settle back into a normal rhythm. Every inhale feels slightly too short, not severe enough to tip into panic but uneven enough that you keep noticing it anyway. That awareness only makes it harder to stop focusing on your own body.

The strangest part isn't even the all-consuming fear anymore, though that is still a heavy presence. It’s a paralyzing, hollow disorientation and disbelief, followed by a surge of helplessness as you stare again at the skewed couch.

You can’t stop thinking about how he walked in here without actually needing anything. It wasn’t for Weaving, and you’re sure no one sent him for any other reason. He abandoned an entire class halfway through just to come here, moved the whole piece of heavy furniture for no reason other than to sit there, watching you panic and struggle to hold a pen properly, then wandered around, touching your things because… what exactly? Because he was bored? Is that what Satoru and Shoko meant?

Your stomach knots at the thought. The more you dwell on it, the heavier it feels, because there’s no practical reason you can find to make sense of what happened.

Slowly, you force yourself to stand from the chair, your legs unsteady enough that the first few steps feel clumsy and awkward. The office suddenly looks unfamiliar, even though it’s exactly the same room as an hour ago, but a drawer remains slightly open from when Sukuna looked through it earlier; one of your books is on the wrong shelf; the reports spread across the desk look terrible now, with several pages visibly damaged from him smearing the ink of your name and your repeated, panicked mistakes.

You look around at the mess for several seconds before rubbing your hands once against your pants in a useless attempt to steady yourself. There’s just no way to fully process that he came here simply because he was bored.

After a while, you walk over to the couch, staring at it as if the situation might make sense if you look long enough. Then you quietly start pushing it back to its place by the wall.

It takes a surprising amount of effort because your arms still feel tense, and your muscles are tight and exhausted from holding your body rigid for far too long. By the time the couch finally stands back where it belongs, you’re already a little out of breath again.

You press both hands briefly against your face and exhale slowly through your nose, trying desperately to calm your breathing before anyone else finds you like this.

—

Soon after, you leave the office and step into the fresh air. Without Sukuna's overwhelming cursed energy, everything feels strangely off, almost dizzying, after spending an hour with him.

You slide open the infirmary door and see Shoko slumped in her chair. The blue glow from the computer screen highlights the dark circles under her eyes. She doesn't move at first, just exhales a thin stream of cigarette smoke toward the cracked window, then slowly looks over at you.

"There you are," she says, leaning back, the chair creaking under her weight. "I was wondering how long it'd take before you came hiding in here again."

The word hiding should probably sting, but you’re too drained to care. You just let out a weary sigh and pull the door shut, leaning against it for a second.

"I'm not hiding," you mutter, though your lack of conviction makes it a lie.

"Hm." She hums, a skeptical sound as she taps ash into an overflowing tray without looking away from the screen. “Sure.”

Looking around, you notice there’s an assortment of medical instruments on the counter that weren’t there yesterday. At this point, you figure half the things in this room exist purely for show, to intimidate, or because sorcerers have a knack for getting hurt in increasingly creative ways.

She turns on the electric kettle, then pushes the chair near the supply cabinet toward you with her foot.

“Sit down before you fall over. You look exhausted,” she says. As you sink into the chair, she asks, “So, how’s the roommate behaving?”

You almost choke in surprise, your eyes going wide. Shoko doesn’t react, just takes a slow drag from her cigarette.

“He…” You hesitate, your fingers twisting in your lap as you try to figure out how to even describe what happened in your office without sounding completely insane. “He came into my office today, but he didn’t need Weaving.”

“Mhm.”

“He just... was,” you say, and Shoko hums, waiting. You let out a slow breath, look down at your hands, and go on, “He dragged the couch to the middle of the room, sat for a bit, then moved to my desk, and spent almost an hour touching things. I don’t even think he was looking for anything.” Remembering how his eyes followed your every move makes your skin crawl.

Shoko stares at her monitor for a beat before offering a flat, "Sounds annoying."

You blink at her, stunned by how much she’s downplaying it. "Annoying? That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?” she asks, finally turning her chair to face you. “He gets restless when he’s bored.”

“He started going through my drawers, Shoko.”

“That’s rude," she says, her tone as dry as bone, and picks up the medical report from her desk.

“He smeared ink all over my paperwork.”

“Extremely rude.”

You stare at her in disbelief while she calmly turns a page.

"And he walked out of the middle of his own class to do it."

"Huh. That's a new one," Shoko admits after thinking for a moment, a hint of real interest showing. The kettle clicks off, and she stands up to pour hot water into two ceramic mugs. “Usually, he at least waits until after hours to become a public nuisance.”

"Nobody else finds this alarming?"

“Alarming compared to what?” She hands you a mug, her eyes showing a tired hint of amusement. “You’re talking about Ryomen Sukuna. His baseline behavior is already a natural disaster.”

You let out a surprised laugh, and Shoko gestures at you with her cigarette.

“See? You’re adjusting.”

“I think ‘losing my mind’ fits better.”

"No." She sinks back into her seat, the tea steam curling around her face. "Give it a week.”

The thought weighs on you. You’re not sure what’s worse: Sukuna himself, or how everyone else acts like his presence is just another part of daily life.

"If it helps, you aren't the only one having a miserable morning. Utahime is in from Kyoto, actually. She came by earlier looking like she was ready to explode.”

You look up, glad for the change of topic. “Dark hair, looks very traditional? I think I saw her. She seemed… focused.”

“Oh, she was," Shoko snorts. “Focused on not murdering Satoru. He accidentally wiped her entire inbox and her favorite playlist when he borrowed her phone.”

You stare at her, the mug halfway to your mouth. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. She cornered him outside for almost twenty minutes. I could hear her yelling from all the way down here… Honestly, I think she cared more about the music than the emails.”

“And what did he do?”

“Stood there with that stupid, clueless grin, asking if she’d tried turning the phone off and on again. And that’s not all, of course. Later, during the exchange planning, he kept sending her photos of herself with curse spirits edited into the background.”

A genuine, quiet laugh bubbles up from your chest, surprising both of you. Shoko doesn’t say anything, but her expression softens ever so slightly.

“It’s always the same when she visits. I don’t know why she still talks to him.”

"Does he ever actually apologize?"

"Satoru? Never. He just waits for the yelling to stop, then asks if she wants to get sweets. It’s so frustrating." Shoko shakes her head, pulls out a fresh cigarette from a package, and tucks it behind her ear. "And then there’s Mei Mei. She’s trying to convince Yaga she needs a proximity bonus on her contract because Sukuna is on campus. That woman literally wants to bill the school for the stress of walking past his door."

“Wait, seriously? She’s actually trying to charge for that?" you ask in disbelief.

"She’d charge for the air you’re breathing if she could find a way to invoice for it.” Shoko rolls her eyes, and a flicker of genuine irritation crosses her face. "With Gojo’s ego and Mei Mei’s greed, it’s a wonder this place is still standing. Sometimes I think the students are the only adults here."

You laugh again, this time more freely. "Speaking of them," you say, shifting in your chair to get comfortable. "How are the first-years? I haven’t seen them since my first day."

"They’re fine. Satoru took them to a warehouse in Saitama for a field trip yesterday. It was just a couple of weak curses that Megumi could have handled with one hand tied behind his back, but Yuji still managed to trip over a pallet."

"Is he okay?"

“It’s just a scratch,” Shoko says, waving her hand dismissively. “But he came in here about an hour after you left, acting like he’d survived a massacre. Can you believe he actually had the nerve to ask me for RCT for it? I think he just wanted an excuse to hide from whatever training Satoru has planned for them later in the evening.”

"I don’t blame him," you say, leaning your head back against the cool tiled wall. "I’d stay in here all day if I could."

Shoko snorts again, reaches into a drawer, and slides a few small foil-wrapped chocolate pieces across the desk to you. "Eat that. Your blood sugar is probably in the basement, and I don't feel like explaining to the Higher-Ups why their favorite specialist fainted in my infirmary."

—

The next afternoon, you sit at your desk, deep in thought, when someone knocks on the doorframe.

“Come in.”

The door slides open and Takashi, the young official who informed you of Sukuna’s arrival a few days ago, steps in with a thin folder under his arm. You’ve seen him enough lately to recognize him right away.

"Principal Yaga asked me to bring this to you personally. It’s the preliminary report from the Nagano mission this morning,” he says, crossing the room before placing the folder onto your desk.

You automatically glance at the front page. MISSION INCIDENT REPORT. Your stomach tightens before you even realize why.

Takashi notices the shift in your expression immediately, though he says nothing about it.

“Sukuna is currently returning from the mission site,” he continues in the same even tone. “Should be back on campus within the hour.”

Hearing the timeframe stated so plainly unsettles you more than you expect. Your fingers start their usual, nervous twitch against the desk as you whisper, "Already?"

The man gives a brief nod, then turns toward the door again without lingering. “If Principal Yaga requires anything else, someone will inform you.”

The door clicks shut, and with a long sigh, you open the folder. This isn’t a polished summary for the Higher-Ups; it’s a raw report from Daichi Sera, Sukuna’s assigned assistant manager.

MISSION INCIDENT REPORT Tokyo Jujutsu High Filed by: Daichi Sera Mission ID: 2018/NGN/042 Operational Details Location: Nagano, Nagano Prefecture Mission Start Time: 10:40 Mission End Time: 11:27 Assigned Sorcerer: Ryomen Sukuna (Special Grade) Original Threat Assessment: Grade 1 Post-Operation Threat Assessment: original assessment correct Curse Status: Exorcised

A Grade 1 curse, a Special Grade sorcerer, and a successful exorcism. It looks simple on paper, but your eyes linger on how long the mission took.

Everyone knows Grade 1 curses are dangerous. You saw what they can do to sorcerers like Sota, whom you had to weave just before you were brought here. Still, you don’t have to be a combat sorcerer to know it should be a non-entity to a Special Grade sorcerer.

You have felt his cursed energy, stood directly in it, and touched it. Your body nearly shut down from the sheer scale of it pressing against your senses; the memory still sits uncomfortably beneath your ribs whenever you think about it too long.

Someone like Sukuna shouldn’t need forty-seven minutes to exorcise it. It should have taken seconds, just a flick of his wrist and it’s done. But he was there for almost an hour. That feels disturbingly long for someone so powerful.

Damage Civilian Casualties:  · 26 deceased  · 41 hospitalized  · 12 critical Sorcerer Casualties: —

You stop reading and close your eyes as a wave of nausea hits you. Curses kill people; you’ve known that all your life. But after seeing how long Sukuna stayed on site, the numbers don’t add up.

The memory of how he looked at you, smearing ink across your paperwork, with chilling indifference on his face, flashes behind your eyelids. A second later, another one follows, of Yuji saying people only get in the way of Sukuna. And now twenty-six families are being notified of deaths. To him, these numbers aren’t a tragedy; they’re likely just a byproduct of his afternoon.

Structural Damage: Four commercial and residential structures were confirmed to have fully collapsed within the primary engagement zone. Seven adjacent buildings sustained partial structural failure, including compromised load-bearing walls and severe façade collapse. Road deformation was observed across approximately 80 meters surrounding the curse appearance site. Secondary fire damage was reported following the rupture of underground gas infrastructure. Structural assessment remains ongoing.

That paragraph you have to read twice. Your breath catches on the words road deformation. That, along with four collapsed buildings, wasn’t just a curse being exorcised, but the result of violent, overwhelming power. You remember how the pressure changed when he walked through the building’s threshold, and if that was what you felt from him in a hallway, you can only imagine the destruction he leaves behind when he actually fights.

Infrastructure Disruption: Localized power outage affecting approximately 460 households within the containment radius. Water main rupture confirmed beneath the eastern roadway sector. Emergency transit services are suspended across the central district pending debris clearance and structural inspection. Civilian evacuation perimeter established in cooperation with municipal emergency response teams.

Still, your mind keeps circling back to those forty-seven minutes. The curse should have been dead long before this much damage happened.

For the first time since arriving at the school, you realize the fear you felt around Sukuna inside your office was only a fraction of what he can actually do. The extent of his power isn't just about killing a curse, you realize. It’s about the total disregard for everything surrounding it.

You sink back into your chair, the paper crinkling under your whitening knuckles. You’re a Weaver. Your job is to smooth his energy so it stops eroding the environment, but looking at all this collateral damage, the task feels impossible—like trying to polish a hurricane.

Additional Notes  · Observed structural damage exceeded both the projected impact range associated with Grade 1 curse manifestation and preliminary curse behavior assessments.  · Secondary destruction patterns could not be conclusively attributed solely to recorded curse activity.  · Current casualty estimates remain preliminary pending continued recovery operations within collapsed structures.  · Recovery operations ongoing.

Exceeded projected impact. The report very politely suggests that the curse, dangerous as it was, shouldn’t have been able to cause this much damage. That last line weighs on you. People are still trapped, and somehow that feels worse than the casualty numbers.

You lower the report slowly onto the desk afterward and sit there staring at it in silence.

Less than half an hour later, the atmosphere in the office changes. It’s not an explosive burst of power, but a slow, creeping heat that seems to seep from the floorboards. The pressure gets heavier and more suffocating, thickening the air until your throat feels too tight to breathe deeply.

Before you can even make a conscious effort to calm your breathing, your door slides open without the courtesy of a knock. Sukuna walks in, and the office suddenly feels half its size, filled with his oppressive presence. His cursed energy feels way rougher than before, its jagged edges scraping against your senses as soon as he enters. He must have used his techniques a lot for it to be this frayed.

His uniform is a mess. The heavy fabric is shredded across one shoulder, another deep rip runs along his side, showing part of the tattoo on his stomach, and a long tear runs down the side of his hakama, fluttering as he moves. Strangely, even with his clothes in this state, there’s no blood anywhere on him.

Sukuna clicks his tongue sharply. With his brow furrowed in irritation and his eyes burning with danger, he looks like he’s exactly one minor inconvenience away from setting the whole building on fire just to watch it crumble.

“Insolent little fucking parasite,” he spits, the words dripping with pure, unadulterated loathing. He doesn't look at you, but the venom in his voice makes your pulse skip a beat and then race as he crosses the office.

You watch with wide, wary eyes as he drops heavily onto the couch against the wall. He lands with enough force to make the frame creak under his weight.

“That idiot followed me across the entire campus.” Sukuna leans his head back against the cushions, while visible disgust twists his features into a grimace. “He wouldn't shut up for a second. Spent the whole walk from the gates pestering me to ‘teach him properly’ like I’m some pathetic coach he can just summon on a whim."

His cursed energy continues to fill the room heavily, making your bones ache. You grab the report just to have something to hold, already knowing that weaving after a mission like this will be an insufferable, grueling task.

"I told him to get lost, and he just kept going,” he growls, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if the mere memory of the conversation is enough to ignite his temper all over again. “Rambling about how since I'm 'already here,' the least I could do is help him with his cursed energy output.” His upper lip curls back to reveal a flash of teeth. “I should’ve ripped his fucking throat out halfway through that sentence.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and your fingers grip the paper until it crinkles as his energy flares and the images of destruction you just read about flash through your mind. Somehow, even without him saying it, you know exactly who he means.

“I put him through the concrete divider outside the training hall instead,” he mutters after a moment of silence, sinking further into the couch and closing his eyes. You can already picture Yuji stubbornly picking himself up and starting all over again. “Didn’t help. He got back up and kept asking. Irritating little shit.”

Of course, your guess was right, and you hate it more than anything. Your eyes drop back helplessly to the report and the casualty numbers. Sukuna’s eyes snap open, sensing your distraction right away.

“Hm.” The sound rumbles in his chest as his gaze flicks lazily toward the paper in your hands. For a second, his eyes linger on it. “They gave you that already?”

A cold feeling settles in your stomach, but you can’t say anything, even if your throat would let you. Your thoughts are stuck between the reality of destroyed buildings and dead civilians, and Sukuna lounging on your couch, complaining about Yuji asking him for training advice. The lack of remorse feels impossible for your brain to process.

“The curse was annoying,” the man says at last in an entirely dismissive tone. “It kept running every time I cornered it.”

Clearly, nothing else about his mission matters to him or is worth a single mention. For Sukuna, the worst part of the afternoon was just Yuji talking too much. He stares at your pale face for a moment, then lets out a quiet, mocking snort. His mouth curls with cruel amusement.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Sukuna’s voice drops to a low, taunting purr as he studies your visible discomfort. He’s right—a small part of you actually wants to, given everything that’s happened. “If you’re gonna be sick every time I kill something, this arrangement’s going to become very exhausting.”

The words hit with the sting of a slap, but you stay completely still, unable to move even a muscle. The silence that follows stretches through the office, growing heavy and thick enough to choke on.

Sukuna tilts his head, his eyes glinting. “What? Seeing the numbers made you forget what you’re here for, little thing?” he asks mockingly when you still offer no answer.

A new wave of nausea and fear tightens your stomach, but you force your clenched fingers to relax from the crumpled pages. You set the report aside on the desk, and even that small movement felt stiff and exposed under his intense gaze. The palpable roughness of his cursed energy presses heavily through the air, vibrating through the room, brushing every one of your senses raw, leaving your hands already faintly numb and tingling at the thought of touching him again.

Your fingers tremble slightly against the desk as you manage to push yourself upright from the chair. The motion alone sends a dizzying sensation through your body. The closer you move toward the couch, the worse his cursed energy feels. It’s heavy, leaden, and rolls in restless, violent waves. You stop beside where he’s sitting, glancing first at the space on the couch, then quickly back to him.

You desperately try to find your voice, but your throat is so dry you have to swallow hard first.

“The couch,” you manage after a moment, hating how weak and thin your own voice sounds compared to his. You gesture vaguely with a quick, nervous flick of your hand toward the length of the furniture. “It would… it would probably be easier if you lay down.”

It’s not even an unreasonable request. If he just lay down, you could actually sit and focus fully on weaving instead of fighting to stay upright the whole time. It’d make things easier for both of you, with less wasted energy and less chance of you passing out before you even get through half the splinters.

Sukuna stares at you, his crimson eyes unblinking, but the cruel curl of his smile does not reach them. Instead of doing as you requested, he rises to his full height, reminding you that there’s only one person in control here, and that person is him. You instinctively back away, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, as he takes step after deliberate step into your personal space. You continue retreating until the solid wood of your desk presses against the backs of your legs, and you’re effectively trapped between him and your workspace.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. By standing, he’s effortlessly destroyed the small advantage you just tried to create. More importantly, while the weaving might be useful, your fear and agitation amuse him. If he can have both usefulness and entertainment at the same time, there’s no reason he would deny himself either.

“I think I’ll stand,” he says flatly.

The first weaving session flashes violently through your mind all over again, and your mouth instantly goes dry. The memory of his hand locking around your wrist and dragging you bodily against his chest is still vivid enough that your nerves seize in a painful spasm of panic before anything has even happened yet. You can already feel the phantom echo of that overwhelming contact crawling beneath your skin.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow faintly as he watches your hesitation. Something ugly and impatient flickers briefly through his expression when your breathing stutters in your throat.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, mockery dripping from every syllable, letting more of his cursed energy surface. “You were so eager to touch me before.”

The overwhelming presence floods the entire room, pressing down like a physical weight, and when it almost swallows you whole, your lower lip trembles involuntarily. You know he’s doing it intentionally, but it doesn’t make the suffocating pressure easier to endure.

The shredded fabric hanging from his uniform brushes faintly against your skin when he leans down slightly to look at you properly and purrs, “Don’t tell me a little property damage scared you out of touching me.”

Carefully, you lift your hand. This time, he doesn’t move to grab you, which somehow feels worse. The anticipation becomes almost unbearable as you force your arm to close the final gap, every nerve in your body tensing as your palm nears his chest.

“Come on. Do it—and try to be less of a disappointment than you were on Tuesday."

Even before you make contact, you sense the heat radiating from his body, thick cursed energy rippling beneath and above his skin as if alive, ready to burst the instant you touch it.

The moment your skin touches the fabric over his chest, the world tilts sharply, and a muffled gasp escapes your lips. The energy slams through you, sending a physical shockwave up your arms that settles in your teeth. You had foolishly hoped the second time would be easier, but his power overwhelms you all the same. This time, though, you curl your fingers into his uniform right away, willing it to keep you from swaying or falling completely.

As your technique properly activates, the difference in his cursed energy startles you, and your concentration almost breaks immediately. Even from a distance, you could tell it was in worse condition than last time, but now that you touch it, you realize how much of an understatement that was. Given what you’re seeing right now, it’s hard to believe the walls in your office haven’t actually cracked and split since he arrived.

During the first session, the splintered edges shifted constantly, catching and grinding against each other before eventually slipping free. Now, the entire structure feels compressed and hardened beyond that point. The countless layers still move, but there’s no longer enough space between them for the fractures to separate properly once they catch. Instead, they wedge together, locking tightly against each other until the buildup around them forces them to grind harder rather than release.

It creates a second obstacle almost immediately. The fractured buildup has become so compacted that it’s paradoxically easier to clearly define a section, but there still isn’t enough room between the locked layers for your cursed energy to properly thread through them. Every small gap that you used during the first weaving is gone now, crushed shut beneath the sheer density of accumulated layers.

What’s worse, you realize, is that targeting a small fragment won’t make any meaningful difference today. So you isolate a much larger compressed section and abandon any hope of a delicate touch. Forcing nearly all of your cursed energy directly against that section, you press into it. It’s an agonizing strain.

“Your output’s dropping,” Sukuna notes lazily, leaning in slightly to watch you with cruel attention. “Already running out?”

Sweat pools coldly at the back of your neck despite the oppressive heat saturating the office. The sustained effort sends sharp pain shooting up your arm, and your hand shakes harder the longer you maintain contact with him. Black spots flicker across your vision, your knees shake beneath you in a sudden spasm, and Sukuna’s grin widens, savoring your weakness.

“There it is again—that look,” he murmurs, his voice laced with satisfaction.

You grit your teeth until your jaw aches. Slowly, under the pressure of your technique, the wedged layers begin to shift apart by infinitesimal fractions. Barely enough space opens between them to matter, but it’s sufficient. Seizing the opening instantly, you send the small reserve of cursed energy you held back and guide it into the sliver of a gap before it can lock shut again. You don't try to comb, but rather press, smoothing the frays and splinters on both sides while they’re temporarily separated.

When you finally let the structure collapse back together, the two sides no longer catch. They slide smoothly against each other, flat and realigned, so you can finally release the technique completely.

Exhaustion hits you so hard that your vision blurs. Your hand jerks away from his chest almost instinctively, as if burned. For one awful second, your balance threatens to go with it, but you catch yourself on the edge of the desk before your legs give out beneath you. You breathe shallowly and unevenly, fighting for air.

It’s a bigger win than last time, but you’re almost completely wiped out, and your reserves are almost depleted. If every mission like this keeps compressing the residue tighter, you aren’t sure you’ll ever be able to smooth it all out unless your output improves far faster than it currently does or your reserves somehow grow.

All you want is to sit in your chair and put some distance between you and him. You just need a little space to gather your thoughts without feeling like your nerves are on fire.

But Sukuna doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching every twitch of your face, blocking the path to your chair. His cursed energy continues pressing heavily through the office around both of you. The realization that he expects you to somehow move around him settles unpleasantly into your stomach.

Avoiding contact with him feels absurdly difficult right now. Your legs are still weak from using so much cursed energy, and getting closer to Sukuna sends another wave of overstimulation through your body.

You twist awkwardly sideways between him and the edge of the desk, desperately trying to avoid brushing against him, even accidentally. Your breathing turns shallow the moment his shredded sleeve shifts dangerously close to your arm. He makes no move to help you; he just stands there like a mountain, watching with a glint of amusement as you struggle to squeeze through the narrow gap he’s left you.

At one moment, you think you’re going to stumble into him, but you manage to steady yourself against the desk once more. Finally breaking free, you force your body to take the final few steps to your chair, where you practically collapse. Your head drops into your hands as you try to stop the world from spinning.

The relief is agonizingly brief. You hear the slow shift of fabric, then footsteps. Every muscle across your shoulders and the nape of your neck locks tight. The office already felt too small after being so close to him to weave, but the moment Sukuna stops behind your chair, the remaining space seems to disappear entirely.

He reaches past your shoulder to tap the folder, then leans forward, bracing both hands on the desk on either side of you. His head is so close you can feel his breath, and you’re trapped without him ever touching you. If you pull your chair back, you’ll hit his legs; if you stand, your head will be against his chest. It makes you feel small and even more disoriented.

Sukuna is entirely unconcerned with how your heart is hammering against your ribs. His attention is fixed on the report, his eyes scanning the lines of casualties and structural damage purely for his own satisfaction. A low, vibrating sound eventually rumbles through his chest, almost a purr of contentment that you feel as much as hear.

“Observed structural damage exceeded projected impact range,” he reads the words with a slow, mocking cadence. In your peripheral vision, his lips curl into the widest grin you’ve seen on him yet. “No shit.”

As his eyes continue moving across the page, he moves a little closer. You hold your breath, your chest aching with the effort to remain still, as you wait for any sign of remorse or a comment about the twenty-six dead, but it never comes.

“Secondary destruction patterns could not be conclusively attributed solely to recorded curse activity.” He lets out a breathy chuckle full of genuine amusement. “Cowards. Just write my name next time.”

A sharp knock on the door cuts through the room before you even have a chance to respond to Sukuna’s mocking words. The sound is so sudden that your entire body jerks. Your shoulders jump, and the wheels of your chair screech as it skids several centimeters across the floor. You realize with a jolt of terror that the movement almost sent you into Sukuna’s legs, and you freeze, eyes wide. He just laughs again, a rasping sound at the back of his throat, clearly enjoying your jumpiness.

The door slides open, and Satoru walks in with several folders tucked loosely under one arm. He’s already speaking before his second foot is even inside, “Hey, Shoko said you need the—”

The air in the room feels so heavy it’s hard to breathe, and he scuts himself off as his eyes sweep the room. He takes in everything at once: you, tense and worn out behind the desk, your shoulders so tight they betray you’re still panicking despite your obvious attempt to hide it, your breathing quick and shallow; Sukuna, standing over you with his arms on either side; and the space, or really the lack of it, between you. Gojo knows stepping in would only make Sukuna more interested in you, so he tries to keep things casual.

"Wow," he chirps, his voice bright and jarringly out of place in the pressurized heat of the room, tilting his head. Your face burns immediately. “I leave campus for a few hours, and suddenly you’re hanging around offices voluntarily. Should I be worried?”

You glance at the white-haired man, and your heart beats even faster now that someone else is here to see this nightmare.

A low, vibrating chuckle rumbles through Sukuna’s chest. “Watching people struggle passes the time better than most things.”

“Fair.” Gojo nods like that’s completely reasonable, stepping further into the office. “Honestly, this might still be healthier than your usual entertainment.”

You try to swallow, but your throat is dry as you watch them speak over your head, neither of them looking in your direction.

Satoru leans over to see the report on your desk, then glances back toward Sukuna, his grin widening. “So, how many buildings this time?”

“Not enough,” Sukuna says simply.

Satoru actually laughs for a moment, but the way they talk about it so casually makes your stomach twist. You squeeze your eyes for a second, trying to block it out.

“See, this is why nobody likes mission paperwork when you’re involved. Anyway, I only came to drop these off.” He waves the folders in the air before dropping them on the desk in front of you, right in front of your hands. “I’m gonna head out before I accidentally become productive. Have fun and don’t work too hard.”

He winks, though you can't see it behind his blindfold, and turns to the door.

Sukuna cornering someone just because he enjoys watching them struggle around him isn’t surprising, but his staying voluntarily in another person’s space this long is definitely strange. You’re clearly terrified, which Sukuna finds openly entertaining. Combined with the fact that Sukuna hasn’t given you even a bit of space since the door opened, the entire thing becomes completely unpredictable… and something Gojo knows he needs to watch closely.

Once the door slides shut behind Satoru, Sukuna turns his full attention back towards you.

“Now…” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, “where were we?”

You close your eyes, and your breath catches as you try to pull yourself together.

Unfazed, he returns his gaze to the casualty report. He reads the words “Recovery operations ongoing” in a bored tone that feels awfully threatening and makes your skin crawl. “Hm. Sounds tedious, doesn’t it?”

A strong shiver runs through you at how little he seems to care. Sukuna notices and gives a last, rough laugh close to your ear. Satisfied with the reactions he has wrung out of you over the time he was here, he finally pushes off from the desk. The suffocating pressure of his energy slowly fades as he walks to the door and leaves without looking back.

You’re left trembling in your chair, staring at the report of twenty-six dead—a tragedy that, to him, is nothing but less than an hour’s worth of fun.

← prev chapter ◦ chapter 3 ◦ next chapter → series masterlist

a/n: before anyone asks: yes, i know the pacing is slow. unfortunately for all of us, sukuna enjoys psychological warfare and i fear i accidentally matched his freak while outlining this fic, so now i’m making you suffer intentionally

trust me though, sukuna's starting to enjoy himself a little too much around reader, which means he's about to become an absolutely unbearable problem for literally everyone involved

Your eyes roll back down.

“Mhm.”

"And it was such a good question.”

You turn a page. "Really?”

“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”

You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."

It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.

It had not.

Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—

…

Wait.

Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?

Fucking great.

“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”

Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?

With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby.  But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.

He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…

Oh.

That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.

Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”

It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.

“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"

“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.

But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.

“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”

Lips parting, you blink.

…why is he so observant?!

For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.

You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”

His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”

Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.

Oh.

Way too observant.

Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.

His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”

Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”

You blink.

Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.

Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.

After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?

Last month, you still answered her phone calls.

Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.

Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

“Oh—uh, hi mom!”

Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.

“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”

“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.

Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”

“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"

"—have you booked your flight yet?"

Your mouth flattened.

Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.

“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”

“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”

A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.

Every week is a crazy week?

Yeah. No shit.

Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.

You’re the one people relied on.

Just… never the one people chose.

“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”

“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”

…

Keep forgetting?

She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?

How convenient that she forgot that.

The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”

"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”

Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.

No thanks.

“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”

“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”

Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.

Shit.

“I-I—I didn’t say—"

“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”

“—Mom, I—"

“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”

Love?!

Who has time for that?

And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!

“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”

And she was off.

Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.

“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”

Click!

And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.

‘We’ve been so worried.’

…

If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?

Funny how that works.

Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.

“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”

Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.

The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.

But…

None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?

“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”

“Huh?”

Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.

“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”

“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”

For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.

But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"

“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”

And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.

"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"

“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”

Why does he sound… bitter?

No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.

You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"

He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"

Your lips purse.

What does he care? He’s not your mother.

“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”

“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”

You frown.

What the fuck are you supposed to say!?

Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.

Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

“But I—”

“Drop it.”

He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.

“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”

The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.

God.

Of all the places to hit.

“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.

He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"

“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”

Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.

His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.

Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”

Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.

“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"

“Oh, finally.”

Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.

Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"

You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.

Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.

Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.

You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.

It doesn’t.

And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.

Un-fucking-believable.

He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.

…

He could fire Kento.

Should he fire Kento?

As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.

'Grow up, Satoru.'

'Apply yourself, Satoru.'

'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'

Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.

Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!

He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.

The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.

It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.

“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”

His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”

The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”

"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”

“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”

…

Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?

Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.

“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”

"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"

"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."

He’s been her intern for that long.

That’s the question, right?

"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”

He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.

“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”

Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.

"…sorry. Who is thi—"

“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"

Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:

📞 Mom

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—

"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"

"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”

"Stop. I-I really think—"

“—Satoru, what are you doing?’

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.

Oh, fuck.

“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.

He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.

“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"

"Mom."

"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"

"I'm at work. Gotta go."

"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"

Click!

The phone sits in your hand like evidence.

And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.

“Sooo… funny story…”

“—what did you do?!”

Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.

Great. Fucking great.

You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.

But cry?

Never.

And this had his fingerprints all over it.

"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"

"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"

Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.

God. How fucking humiliating.

"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."

“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”

Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.

God. Stop it.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Think.

Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.

But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.

…what look will she give you when you show up alone?

"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"

Single.

The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.

And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.

"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"

You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”

"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.

"Huh… okay."

Okay what?

You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."

No biggie?

Your mouth dropped.

That wasn’t even an option, was it?

…is he crazy?

“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."

You stared at him. Genuinely stared.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Yup. He’s crazy.

"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."

“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"

He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.

"…that is not the point."

“Mm… feels a little like the point."

He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."

He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.

…

His family’s in Japan too?

You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.

But…

"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."

Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.

"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."

"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"

Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.

“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”

He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?

Shit…

That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂‍↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖

“Ryo,” your mom used to call him that, you remember hearing the shit being screamed out from her room. You couldn’t blame her if she was getting dicked down like that. “I’d love you to come spend some time with the family after this, just us, she’d love if you came.”

“Yeah,” he looks at you, so uncomfortable in that moment, trying to smile and be happy for your sister. “You sure?”

“I am, plus I’d love it if we could talk,” her fingers trail down his chest, and sure he also should feel guilty that he came inside her daughter last night but… not really. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I mean sure, I’ll come, I’m in the suite right by your place.”

“Even better! Isn’t she a beautiful girl? I’m so proud of her,” she then eyes you, frowning with disdain. “Her though.”

“I mean, she’s just a young girl, she’s not in any trouble…”

“She’s bumming around doing music of all things,” he is sure you hear by how you tense up. “I just tried to raise them right.”

“What’s she even done wrong?” She looks up at him, eyes narrowing a bit. “I mean, she was a good kid, seems like she’s a good woman too.”

“Sure, she’s just normal, average, I expected better.” His jaw clenches a bit at her statement, he knows you’re not ‘perfect’ but jesus. As someone with stupidly harsh parents who put too much on him, he wonders if that’s the connection he felt last night.

Was it the connection of both having parents who didn’t care about you?

“Don’t you remember all the trouble she caused us?”

“Shit, she was a teenager, just let that go…” He turns then, suddenly uncomfortable, looking over at you in your ugly ass dress, still pretty as can be. “Wanna practice dancing or some shit?"

“Me!?”

“Her!?”

You and your mom ask at the same time, your sister just smiles, giving him a friendly hug. “Yes please dance! It’s so good to see you again.”

“You too, kid.” He pats her back, your sister has always been a sweet girl, before he holds out a hand like some lifeline. “Wanna help me practice? I’m shit at it.”

“Yeah, of course,” you let him lead you out, big hand swallowing yours, when he pulls you against him with ease, your heart hammers in your chest.

Sure, you fucked him, but to feel this?

His eyes lower just a bit, flickering depths of ruby that rush through you, big palm burning the small of your back, as every memory of last night courses through you, rushing through your fucking veins, you feel shaky from it. A little sheen of sweat on your brow as your tummy clenches, feeling the eyes of everyone on you, as if they're as surprised as you are.

"Why dance with me?" You ask softly, he sighs then, looking back at your mother, then down at you.

"Because she was being a bitch." You snort in laughter, shaking your head while he turns you around in a little half assed pirouette.

"Ah, is it the dick or are you not that bad?" Sukuna's brows lower, your giggle cut short when his gaze drags down to your lips.

"I should occupy that mouth," you practically drool thinking of having him in your throat, he chuckles, sound so deep and throaty, you ignore the fact that it makes your thighs press together. "Didn't get to do that, did we?"

"No we didn't, because nothing happened," you say with a glare, his grin just gets bigger, him and his fucking slutty eyebrows raising. "We played darts."

"You squirted on me."

"Oh God," he spins you again, pulling you against him. "You're a good dancer, why lie about it?"

"I guess I'm fine," he dips you over an arm, sooty pink lashes lowering, big ass hand gripping your waist tightly. "You seemed like you needed to get away from her."

"Yeah," you sigh then, shaking your head as he helps you up. "Thank you for that."

"Don't worry," you eye your mom then. "She's gotten even bitchier."

"Your mouth probably had her pretty happy," his smirk comes back. "I mean you're kind of good at that."

"Mmm, I am I guess," his lips brush your ear as he bends down. "She never got that wet, never made a fuckin' mess on me like you."

Fuck.

"N-no?"

"Nah, your cunt is slutty," you almost hit him, but you almost drag him down for a kiss, aching for him to give you that again, make you mind shut down. "It's okay, I liked it."

"Oh joy," he snorts and spins you once more. "I guess I did too."

"Your body loved my cock."

"Shh!" You look around, scowling up at his laughter. "We can't do that again, I almost feel kind of bad..."

He snorts at that. "Almost?"

Do you feel bad? Your mom has been a constant source of back and forth regarding your feelings, but how could you go this far?

"How mom is looking at you so dick hungry yes. I didn't realize she was."

"You loved every minute of it," after the song ends he just eyes you. "Stop lying."

"You're ridiculous, was just a... one time thing."

"Uh huh."

Sukuna's broad shoulders flex while he spins you again, his thigh between yours brushing up for just a moment, you're soaking wet and trembling, gasping out at the sensation. "I'm very um... serious."

"I see that," he tilts his head, pink locks falling across his face where some of it's come loose from it's typical slick back. You brush it aside for a moment, and the two of you just look at each other, lost. "You've never cum that hard."

"Psh," you haven't but you're not giving him that satisfaction. "I said you're good okay?"

"Good... mmm..." the song is almost ending, and his hands feel too good over your dumb yellow dress, heating up your skin and making your thighs press together. "I'll only be in town for a few days."

"Oh yeah?" You try to act casual, feet moving along with his in steep.

"Mhm, and my suite is right next to yours. If you need my services."

"Conceited man, think I'll just come to you?"

"Hmm," he pulls your hand up to his lips, he doesn't kiss them though, his teeth nip the delicate skin on the back of your knuckles, you gasp. "Hah, did you think I'd kiss it?"

"No I'd have some heart attack," you like him holding your hand too much. "I won't be running to your room begging for dick, I'm not desperate."

"I didn't say you were... well - you were desperate to have it in-"

"Shut up!" You wanna smack the grin off his face.

"Well it's all yours if you want it," he hears how it sounds, cursing internally as your eyes shoot wide at him. "Barely got a taste of me."

He barely got a taste of you - of your perfect cunt that was so yummy and messy, of your thighs gripping his hips. God he'd love to fold you in a mating press as much as he'd love to rip your dumb fucking bridesmaid dress off, bend you over and break you for anyone. It couldn't just be him feeling this way, could it?

He's too addicted to everything about last night, playing over and over in his head, did it not mean shit to you, did it mean shit to him? Confusing him to no end, he doesn't know how to process it, he hasn't dated in years, and you're a little younger than him. He shouldn't be having feelings from getting his dick wet.

Your mom steps up then, clearing her throat, smiling in that way she does when she's faking being 'kind'. you wish she'd just be the bitch she truly is, maybe you could respect her a little more. Seeing Sukuna with her does something fucked up in that moment, his hand gripping hers, fingers entwining, the other on her waist.

Did it... hurt?

No, fuck no, you're damaged and hungover, maybe everything she fucking thinks about you is true.

You get stuck dancing with your ex then, he was a sweet enough boy who happened to actually take your virginity back in high school. So to say this was awkward was the biggest understatement of the century. His fingers are all sweaty and clammy where Sukuna's had been dry, calloused and rough.

Why are you comparing!?

"So how have you been?" He asks, trying to make conversation, you catch sight of crimson eyes staring across your mom's head, a little set to his plump lips that you're not used to. He's not smirking, it's almost as if he's displeased at you.

"You know, living the dream," you curse then. "that's the most lame response, please forget that."

He laughs softly, nerves easing a bit. "So you are still the same, I was a little intimidated, your singing is blowing up."

"You're the only one who thinks so," you sigh a bit, letting him spin you, your mom is all heart eyes as her former lover dips her just so. Your sister is the center of attention, as she should be, but as she always is. "How have you been?"

You strike up conversation, you talk to relatives and family friends, and eventually you all are seated at the enormous banquet table, you're sitting next to none other but Sukuna, your mom across the way with your sister. She's tapping her champagne flute, smiling brightly, everyone's enamored with her, as they should be.

She's perfect.

Sukuna however looks at you, disheveled and looking like a bright yellow dumbass bird, your hair is a mess and your dark circles apparent, yet the man can't rip his eyes off you, drifting your direction every time you don't notice. You feel his gaze finally, eyes meeting his, and for a moment his pulse races.

No, he can't show that shit, he's confident and he's been with many women, fuck he was dating your own mom, living with her. He got engaged two times but never made it as far as even this rehearsal dinner, always realizing he better stop before he goes too far. His family never stopped letting their disappointment from being known.

Sukuna, the heir to an entire corporation, and no bride? That was just the worst thing their could be for him. Pushed and pushed for years, they only recently shut the fuck up when he had to step up and run things after his father wanted retire. Here he was, shunning tradition, not living up to expectations.

Maybe that's why he understood you somewhat.

Never 'fitting in' fully and being the family disappointment? Sukuna knew all about that, in fact he reveled in that shit. You come from an upper class family too, yet from what he's seen you live in a shitty little apartment, and from what he hears your half broke. But you do it all on your own, the shit he respects.

He didn't want to take over, but he did it anyway, seeing you makes him curious, not just the scent of you, or your looks driving him insane, something about you, even when he saw you he knew you were just different. Yet, you hated his ass, and he can't blame you for it, he was nothing but a dick to avoid an inevitable truth.

That he was heavily attracted to you, and you were eighteen at the time. that made him feel very fucked up, no not 'creep level' but he liked women his age or even older usually. Experienced and able to take his cock, women who wanted to fuck and that was that, that way there wasn't some fucked excuse he'd have to come with when it got serious.

Here you are, perfect for that, you all fucked and you're seemingly good - but he wants it again and again, fuck he just wants to kiss you-

"Are you staring at my feathers?" You ask with a pout, plucking one off.

He snorts in laughter.

How can he not at that, at you?

"Yeah, you're missing some."

"I keep yanking at them, god this is itchy and tight," you're shifting a bit, that ugly dress slipping up your thigh then. His hand comes on top of it, and you glare, but you can't say much, not when your mom is speaking. "Stop."

"Stop what, big bird?" You dig your nails into the back of his hand, he hisses at the pain. "Fucking brat."

"My beautiful, amazing daughter, my pride and joy!" Your mom stands up now, a hand over her heart. "I couldn't be more proud, or more happy to call you my daughter. I love you more than anything in this world, truly, you are my everything, and now I'm giving you away."

She's crying, and your jaw tenses.

Everyone looks at you, including your sister with a sympathetic frown, fuck even your mean old aunties and uncles are frowning.

"My only daughter is-" She trails off then, as if remembering you.

You're used to this shit, it's how she is, but in front of everyone, it's as if she forgot her fake fucking act, her dumb stupid face now in a gasp, as if she realized she's revealed to an entire room full of people how she feels.

You're not her daughter.

She said it the day you left college and pursued music, and she seemingly meant it, but it doesn't mean it hurts less. You plaster on a fake smile, taking Sukuna's hand under that heavy white table cloth, and slipping it up. His eyes note the motion, pressing higher and higher, and your legs spread right for him.

Fuck her.

You'd let the man she wants finger you if you're not even her fucking 'daughter' and it didn't hurt that you just wanted him to touch you again. Yeah, it's fucked and wrong, but in that moment it's oddly supportive, little circles higher and higher, closer to your soaking wet panties. He's squeezing your thigh tight, almost making you gasp as your eyes lock for just a moment.

"Of course I have two daughters, the champagne and the wedding planning!" She's laughing it off, and awkward laughter is followed, but it's clear as day. "This may be my only wedding I plan is what I meant, you are a bit of a lone wolf."

"I am," Sukuna's fingers brush your cunt, right over your slit, you smile right at your mom as he touches you. "It may be your only wedding, and she deserves all the praise."

"You're being sweet," your mom's tone changes, eyes narrowing, you bite your lower lip while Sukuna's slipping that cotton to the side, and instead of a tease, he shoves both his fingers deep in your cunt. You gasp out, gripping your fork so tightly, you shove food in your mouth to avoid a moan. "Ah, there's my daughter."

You hear everyone laugh, but you roll with it, shoving another bite and giving a thumbs up, while he's massaging that spot. You're gushing down his fingers, and Sukuna revels in it, in how tight you are, in knowing he's helping you tell your mother to fuck off in your own way, he knows you need it.

Damaged, fucked up, like him.

Fuck you weren't even as close to as damaged as him, he just held it together well finally in his thirties, at your age he was more of a mess than you could ever be. Your hand slips to his thigh then, running over his cock, and he tenses. He's played with women under tables, but he's never had them play right back.

"You're pulsing," he murmurs in your ear, breath dancing across it.

"Bet you are too, leaking pre for me?" Your eyes meet his, and he almost cums from your mean little smile, your hand brushing up and down quicker and quicker.

"Fuck..."

He's never felt whatever you're doing, never had someone talk shit right back, touch him with that confident hand, gripping his thickness over his slacks right in a room of a hundred people, many of whom remember him being with your mom. Yet you both saw the real her, maybe you were the only ones.

"Bet you're gonna cum so loud everyone notices," he taunts, pumping again, you're not one to back down from a challenge, but his long, thick fingers hit a spot that blinds you, that almost makes you drool. "Wanna, huh you brat? Cum right where she can see?"

"Fuck her," you grumble, stroking him over that fabric again, hearing the softest hint of a whimper. "You did fuck her I guess."

"Help me forget," you laugh softly, shaking your head at him. "No, just gonna let me finger you, not fuck you again? Not press your head into the pillows and arch that ass f'me?"

Fuck.

You're met with those red eyes, ones no one should have, like the demon he truly is deep down, as if he recognized how fucked you were and didn't judge you for it - no he fucking relished in your damage. In your horrible decision making, he was right there with you, like some kindred spirit with a huge cock and issues.

"If you can keep quiet I'll meet you in the suite tonight," he lifts a slutty ass eyebrow.

"What now?"

You unzip him, looking around, seeing everyone just standing, nibbling, talking, some are eating and they're all drinking. "Who'd notice if I was under here for a bit, really?"

Unzip.

His eyes almost bulge out of his head, as you fucking disappear like you've dropped some fork, leaving only the stupid yellow feathers from your dress across the seat like they're shedding. Then you've got his huge, veiny cock out and you're lapping your tongue along the underside of it, he almost doesn't hold back his moan, tugging at your hair so tightly you whine out at the pain and pleasure.

"The fuck are you doing, brat?" He huffs now, feeling your soft laugh as you run your tongue up and down his tip, swirling and sucking up that milky pre. "Fuck..."

"Keep quiet if you want me in there tonight," you look up and whisper as he's moved the cloth to look at your smeared lips, coated in his white seed. "Shh."

You're the sluttiest brat there is.

He's never met his match until now, right at your sister's wedding, where you're deep throating your mother's ex boyfriend's cock, you the prodigal daughter who's known as the black sheep just relishing in it, one upping it, deep throating him in one go. He's furious anyone ever felt your mouth, the way it wraps him, and he still has to act unaffected, like he doesn't hear the slurping from you.

"Slutty little brat..." He grumbles, then your mom walks up, touching his shoulder, he tenses since now you decide to start stroking his cock quicker, little fist movements up and down, so good he wants to bust already. "Hey there!?"

"Sukuna, you seem nervous," she says softly, sitting on the edge of the banquet table and crossing her legs, showing far too much in a high slit. "I am so glad you could come."

"Come, yeah," you laugh out against him and he tugs your hair tighter, shoving you so deep you can't breathe. When you're choking on that thick, monster cock inside your throat, you're close to cumming, just from that plus his touch earlier. Hearing your mom's voice just makes you go deeper, as if to show him she couldn't.

You were so fucked up, you both know it.

Yet it makes your sucking even sweeter, every messy slurp and bob, glistening on his veiny length while his huge hands pin your face, sucking your breath away. "Yeah, I'm glad I was able to come..." inside your daughter last night.

"I'm so sorry you got stuck sitting next to her," she earns a glare from him now. "Seating arrangements were made by last names i'm afraid, and she has her father's. Is it too inconvenient?"

"She's not at all," she's perfect, damaged but so perfect, sucking his cock like she's made for it. He gives you a little breathing room, thighs spreading like he's the slutty one here, he can't help but lean down a bit, give you more. "She's a good girl."

Fuck.

You almost cum again just hearing it, even with your mom's nasty laugh, that makes you work harder for it, for him, his hand brushing your hair back so gently, so protective almost, encouraging you. You need it, you want more of it, of him. You suck so hard his cock starts pulsing for you, leaking pre, thickening in the narrow expanse of the throat he's stretching.

"You are sweet," Sukuna laughs at that, you moan softly, and your mother tenses, looking around then. "Where'd she run off to, taking shots?"

"She's just in the bathroom, freshening up she said," you bob again, and he's so close to cumming, every movement just milking him more and more, until his sooty pink lashes flutter. "She'll be here soon I'm sure."

"Surprised she shows up at all, she's just such a-"

"Good girl?"

"No," she blinks then, in confusion, leaning close. "Is she trying to hit on you, flirt with you or something? I saw the way she stared."

"Her hit on me? No."

Sukuna was trying to fucking be with you, with the filthy girl sucking his cock with her mom right there, God he'd give you anything in that moment, depraved and sucking desperate now, head moving up and down in filthy strokes. He almost can't keep his composure, when your mom laughs a bit, hand brushing across his cheek.

"I miss you Ryo," she murmurs, lips against a high cheekbone. "I'm in a suite right over by you, if you want to come by."

You pause, but Sukuna guides your head again, gently this time.

"I have company, from out of town, m'sorry." Your mom huffs a bit, looking away, she's not used to being turned down in her life.

"Another time?"

"Maybe," he almost cried out as you bottom out, slobbering all over his dress pants, leaking against his heavy balls. "I'll l-let you know."

"Of course," she kisses his cheek again and hugs him, right as you swallow.

When you swallow he's done for, as soon as your mom walks off he's busting so hard he can't think, you're choking on how much cum pumps out of that little hole on his mean red tip, drinking it so greedy, whining out at the taste. Salty, a little bitter, but addictive, so fucking good you want more of it.

You suck every drop.

"Cock thirsty," he whispers, you hear it too, as he lifts the cloth, brushing the cum and spit aside. "Perfect little cock sleeve, sucked it all?"

You aren't a submissive girl, but you nod, eating up his praise, looking up at him between his spread thighs, your fingers pressing in just a bit as you swallow the rest of his cum down your throat. He looks around then, peering.

"Coast is clear, hop up real quick."

You do just that, and something shifts in that moment, no it's not the sexual nature, you two have fucked, and you're not inexperienced either.

It's like he knew you needed him?

You're probably just traumatized and seeing shit where it shouldn't be, but it doesn't stop the sense of belonging that happens next to him, his hand running a soothing circle up your back, as he hands you some water. He leans close, as everyone didn't notice you, when do they really?

"I'd have noticed you missing," he murmurs, you tense then, eyeing him.

"Don't say that."

"Yeah, like I fucking want to," he's so raw then, leaning back down, adjusting himself, he then grabs a pen and jots down his number and the room he's in right on a pretty folded napkin. "I didn't make noise, did I?"

"You did not, so I'll come over, a deal is a deal," you smile as if it's all fun, but Sukuna is serious in that moment, jaw set, taking a breath. "Sukuna..."

"I'm leaving now, but I will see you at eight."

"You're telling me when I'll be there?"

He leans too close, far too fucking close.

"I'll see you at eight."

No way that dom shit will work on you.

*****

Knock Knock Knock.

It's 7:59 pm.

Sukuna smiles.

hehe the full version is already on Patreon but I am converting this story fully to here - so l will be posting all of the chaps here every week <3 tags open <3

And not the cute, fluffy kind the boy down gravel road had. 

A werewolf pup. Somewhere between human and wolf, caught between two different forms and completely, totally feral. With scraggly pink fur and searing red eyes, barking out a low growl at you as he struggled to get out of your trap. There was…something in there with him. A small animal you must’ve snagged before he tried to steal it, only tufts of brown and orange left of it and bits of bone. 

But when you looked back at his face, the shape of his quivering mouth and the way his eyes widened with pure panic, you couldn’t help but feel awful for him. He was even smaller than you, scrawny and starving, his fingers trembling as he fought to break free. 

“It’s okay,” you tried to soothe him, swallowing hard to quell your own fear. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

You pulled out your knife, moving slowly to not scare him as you showed him the blade. From what you’d pieced together from your parents late-night hushed conversations over the town’s werewolf problem, they were intelligent. Had families too. Made their homes in caves rather than out of wood and stone. 

Was he your age? Maybe a year younger? 

Did he have parents out there waiting for him to return to them like yours were? 

“I’m just going to cut you free,” you half-whispered, careful to keep your tone even as you started to dismantle your own handiwork. 

You didn’t know if he could understand you. 

But his growling had turned into low huffs. 

If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think he was impatient.

You worked faster, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you nervously stole glances back at the pup, hesitant to even think of him as a beast when he was so…scraggly? You’d always thought werewolves were vicious, too smart to get caught by a silly contraption like yours, strong enough to bust their way out of it if they did. 

“Okay, there you-” 

You didn’t even get to finish your sentence, the second he’d been released, that scraggly body of his was launching off the ground – and on top of you. Knocking you onto your back, all the air forced out of you as you let out a sharp gasp, trying to shove him off only to get the knife knocked out of your hand. 

And your wrists pinned by your head just a moment later, his claws digging into your skin as his iron grip bit into your bones. 

You were sobbing before he had even leaned in a little, big fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you squirmed and attempted to roll out from underneath him. “Pl-please don’t hurt me, I-I-” 

Blubbering like a baby, shaking your head desperately as fear struck a dagger of its own straight through your core, primal terror setting in as you began to sweat. Your whole face felt wet, your lip wobbling as you tried to stammer out another desperate plea for your life, as you realized what a moron you were for having pity for him. 

Starving dogs would always bite. 

He was growling, barring sharp teeth as his canines glinted in the afternoon light, ready to sink into your throat and tear it out. You had a momentary surge of strength at the thought you really might die, managing to almost wrestle free as you screamed for your family, one hand slipping out of his grasp only for him to lunge forward, his teeth sinking into your wrist to stop you as a flash of white hot pain shot up your arm and-

Stopped? 

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, squinting almost accusingly before the hurt morphed into a relaxing tingle, like your body was being bathed in warmth, shivering at the strange connection in his locked stare. All the apprehension disappearing, your anxieties melting as if you weren’t in danger, as if you weren’t surely seconds from death. 

And then he was letting go, recoiling away from you like he tasted something rotten, nose scrunched up before he started to sniff the air. 

Blood was dripping down your wrist, leaving red splotches on the plants beneath you as you scooted backwards, breathing hard and heavy as you debated on trying to make a run for it now, weighing the risk of if he’d pounce again. Feeling for where the knife landed, unable to bring yourself to break eye contact with him. 

His mouth opened again, not in a snarl this time, but before he could bark or speak, there was the rustle of branches behind you, your parents calling out your name with worry in their voices. You glanced over your shoulder, just for a moment, but by the time you looked back, he was gone. 

Disappeared deeper into the forest, into the safety of the thick brush. 

Leaving you with a wounded wrist and a funny flutter in your chest as you stumbled to your feet after grabbing the knife, stumbling back towards the sound of your parents shouting for you. 

You made it out of the woods with your life. 

A story that got you scolded for years to come too, not to mention a scar that made the townsfolk sneer at you for doing something so foolish. 

And a werewolf who just wouldn’t stop coming around. 

Although, it had taken you until your teenage years to figure out that you were being stalked by the creature you made the mistake of saving as a child. You found his fur on your family’s porch, tufts of pink left behind in the mornings your family never seemed to notice. Scratch marks etched against the walls, grooves left in the wood from claws that were meant for slicing through flesh. 

You caught glimpses of him. Sporadic at first, spread out between months and weeks. A flash of sharp teeth through the treeline. A phantom stare that seemed to constantly trail after you as you carefully kept your distance from the forest during the days while you tended to the farm. Hair pretty much perpetually raised on the back of your neck as you pretended you didn’t feel like you were being watched the second you walked outside. 

The livestock had stopped disappearing, at least. 

No more waking up to missing chickens or goats left with gashes strewn across the yard. 

Your parents thought that all the werewolves in the area had moved somewhere else. Retreated deeper into the woods or somehow all slaughtered each other, victim to their own instincts, their own aggression. 

You knew better. Kept waiting for the beast lurking and lingering around to…well, do something. 

Not just watch. 

You wondered if he was hoping for your guard to slip. If maybe he liked to play with his food before he scarfed it down. 

Every time you’d step foot into the forest, he would seemingly be there. One hand on a silver dagger, not that you thought it would be much use if he’d been able to pin you down back when you were still bigger than him, especially now that he had a massive frame that lumbered between the trees, too big to be stealthy if he tried. Yet, not a single other person had seen him. 

But you didn’t really have a choice. Someone had to collect herbs, had to get fresh water from the river, had to bring back branches and berries. 

And no one believed your stories of the pink werewolf who just stood there and stared without ever attacking. 

Everyone in town thought you were just a crybaby who called wolf. 

“Stop staring and hang those clothes up,” your mother huffed, an elbow digging into your side snapping you out of your daze. Daydreaming about a world where they all listened to you instead of ignoring every word that left your mouth. “The neighbor’s boy will be by soon.” 

Of course. 

You wouldn’t be their problem much longer anyway. 

Soon you’d be married off, sent to be the bride of the farmer’s eldest son next door. Most people married their daughters off the second they came of age, became adults who were too much of a burden to keep around, but your reputation had bought you a couple extra years. 

No one wanted to wed a woman who weeped about creatures the rest of the folk were desperate to forget about. 

Except for the boy with the bad temper you whispered to through the fence. 

You had only started speaking to him a handful of months ago, back when you were hanging the sheets on the line and overheard a rustling sound through the rotting wooden planks separating your family’s land from the neighbor’s. 

“Hello?” You called out, glancing over your shoulder anxiously, picturing a mass of pink on the other side. Considering the chance that you had gone crazy, cringing as you realized your paranoid mind might just be playing a trick on you. “Is someone-”

“Hello?” A man’s voice had echoed yours, equally uncertain. It came out all gruff, like someone was dragging a wooden rake over gravel, a rough rumble to it you automatically liked. 

He didn’t try to sound smooth or honeyed. No pretending, nothing pretty or pompous. 

And more important than anything else, real. 

“Oh, um, my apologies,” you awkwardly cleared your throat, not sure what to say to him, belatedly realizing it had to be the boy your parents kept bringing up as a potential marriage prospect for you. “I just heard a noise and-” 

“Did I scare you?” 

“A little,” you admitted, laughing it off as you stared at the wood blocking him from your sight. “There’s a werewolf that roams around here.” 

You waited for him to mock you for suggesting it. To dismiss your claim the same way everyone else did. 

“Oh?” 

He didn’t. 

You informed your mother that night you wouldn’t mind marrying him after all. 

And before long, you were confiding in him about everything. Sitting by the fence whether the weather was warm or cold, picking flowers while you poured out the years you’d spent looking over your shoulder, scared that you wouldn’t make it through another season. 

He never told you your suspicions were stupid. 

But he did tell you that if the werewolf hadn’t attacked you yet, there might be another reason it was there. Suggested one drizzly day that the object of your fear might actually be protecting you, that he could’ve scared off all the others that used to wreak havoc on your family’s farm. 

You had never considered it before him. 

But he made a point you were doing your best to talk yourself into believing. 

It had helped calm some of your nerves. Turn your nightmares into something more…managable. They weren’t scary anymore, just, well, strange. 

Your werewolf was still there. 

But your body no longer tensed with terror when he came close and crouched low. Your heart still thrummed, pounding against your chest as you reached out a hand, but the beast who occupied so much of your brain had begun to let you pet him in the scenes it conjured up. Stroking his surprisingly soft fur as his mouth parted to purr, sharp teeth hidden behind his curled-up lips. 

You had told your future fiancé about it, excitedly recounting the details as he gruffly hummed along. You asked about his dreams too, tried to return the favor he’d done you by easing your fears by getting to know him.  

But he avoided that altogether, always redirecting the conversation back to your day. What you had for breakfast or what chores your family would be making you do later. 

He didn’t flirt, never made any kind of crude suggestions of sneaking over the fence to spend the night — despite the rather unsavory reputation you heard he had around your village. 

When you got close, your knees pressed to your chest while you rested your cheek against the wood, sometimes you could almost swear you felt some invisible string tying you to him. A natural pull you had a hard time resisting, reluctant to ever end the conversation or step away when your heart wanted to plant itself on the spot. Fingers itching to pry apart the boards so you could see his face, touch his skin. 

You told yourself that it was a pretty fantasy.

Something your mind was weaving to keep yourself from actually going crazy from sheer loneliness. 

Despite all of your stolen conversations, the minutes you snuck away to speak to him, you had never met him in person.

Until today. 

You hurried to hang the clothes per your mother’s request, hands trembling as you worked and your head snapping over your shoulders as you hoped to hear his voice. 

“Are you there?” You called out, aware that you’d look as crazy as everyone said you were if you got caught. It was a miracle in itself that you hadn’t before now. 

But you didn’t get a reply. 

Brief disappointment burned through you, but you shut it down. 

Ignored the way it stung as you finished up, casting a wistful look back before returning to the house, stepping over trampled wild flowers and dying grass until you were climbing back up the stairs to your porch. 

Your head hanging low, mulling over what you’d actually say when you got to see him. 

“Ahem,” your mother cleared her throat, and your stare snapped up to find her waiting for you with-

Oh. 

Your shallow disappointment immediately deepened into a lake you could drown you. 

“Hi,” you breathed, struggling not to let your dismay show for the man in front of you. He wasn’t awful looking. No, he was attractive, you guessed, in his own way. 

But he didn’t fit what you had in your head. He was too…clean? Normal? 

His eyes weren’t filled with the warmth you dreamed they’d have. They were cold. Slipping over your frame cautiously, as if he was calculating what he should make of you. 

You didn’t feel that tug towards him, no spark or gravity drawing you in. You didn’t feel anything for him. 

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” he greeted, nodding as his stare dipped from your face to your chest. 

He didn’t even sound the same either. 

Could a piece of wood really change the quality of his voice that much? 

“I’ll leave you two to it,” your mother chirped, disappearing back inside like she wouldn’t be watching through the window. 

“You don’t have to pretend like you don’t know me,” you said once you were sure she at least wasn’t eavesdropping. Telling yourself that you were surely just overthinking everything, trying to claw back some comfort in your one safe person. “Speaking to you has often been the highlight of my days these last few months.” 

He looked at you incredulously, mouth curling up in a sneer you’d seen so many times before. 

It was the one you usually got in the market from the townsfolk who thought you were mad. 

The delusional farmer’s daughter. 

“We’ve never spoken before.”

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

Would you be mad at him for murdering your fiancé? 

Sukuna mused on how hard it would be to catch that imbecile off-guard and slice through his throat as the idiot scoffed and sneered at you. 

He always knew it was a matter of time before you figured out your future groom wasn’t the man on the other side of the fence. 

But he thought he had a little more time. 

To warm you up a little more on the whole werewolf thing. 

He heard the fear in your voice when you first talked about the pink beast stalking you through the woods without realizing it was the creature you were so terrified of that you were crying to. 

It wasn’t like he wanted you to think he was a fucking creep. 

But the longer he stayed away, the harder he fought and resisted the bond tying you to him, the more of a monster he became. Slowly becoming more animalistic, giving into the primal parts of him, pain scorching through every muscle and limb and threatening to melt his mind when he strayed too far from your side. 

Werewolves needed their mates. 

And you were his. 

Bonded from the moment he bit you, his heart claimed to only beat for you from that day forward. Most werewolves had packs to keep them sane. Families they counted on to maintain their control on the monstrous parts of them that would go unchecked without that connection.

He had been an orphan. An abandoned pup who figured out how to survive on his own. 

Lone werewolves, the ones like him, eventually became more wolf than man if they never found their other half to hold onto. Too aggressive to ever come close to someone that could tame them. 

Sukuna had learned to make due with what he had. 

You’d gotten good at avoiding him, running from him the second you caught so much as a glimpse, which honestly, was rather rude if you asked him. 

Forced to creep up to your house at night, prowling around your porch to protect your farm from any other predators that might come sniffing around. Sleeping beneath your window at night just so he could stave off transforming into more of a beast, telling himself that he wasn’t being weird as long as he didn’t peek through to watch you dream and drift off in your bed. 

He only ended up talking to you through the fence out of impulse. 

Creeping along the other side of it to stay close to you and keep his instincts at bay, knowing those morons next door barely tended to their fields enough to notice him even during the day, caught off guard by the sound of your pretty voice calling out to him. 

A single conversation was enough to have him hooked though. 

And he was nothing if not addicted to the tiniest tidbits of your attention. 

Desperate to feel the faintest warmth of your affection.

Sometimes, he was tempted to burst through the rotting wood, rip the whole fence down until he was face-to-face with you, shake your shoulders and beg you to see that it was him, that every part of him belonged to you. 

Humans didn’t feel the bond the same way werewolves did, but he wanted to believe you could sense it too. 

You had kept coming back. 

And now you were standing on your front porch, frozen with a different type of fear that he could feel from here. 

Your emotions seeping into his, curdling with his own shame for screwing everything up with you from the start. 

He couldn’t hear what you were saying, but he could tell you were stammering, your lips quivering just for the man in front of you to laugh. Reaching out to pat your head condescendingly before jutting a thumb back towards his own property. 

Sukuna was silently begging you to shake your head. 

To keep your feet firmly planted on your porch. 

You were too soft. Too trusting. 

The sort of girl that set him free. Let a wild wolf pup loose with no regard for your own safety. And apparently you never learned your lesson judging by the way you began following that fool back to his house. 

Clueless that his own family had conveniently left it empty for him to have his way with his future bride. 

Sukuna had listened to your complaints about the way you were treated by everyone else. How no one else ever seemed to see what you did. No one else cared to believe you when it was more convenient not to. 

You had trusted him. 

And now you were putting this faith in that man because he hadn’t told you the truth? 

Sukuna knew what would happen if he let you go inside with him, snarling as his claws started to grow, the bones in his fists cracking and popping as they formed a fist, creeping just deep enough to not be spotted as he trailed after the two of you until you crossed over onto his property. 

He kept hoping you’d turn around. Tell him that you weren’t sure this was a good idea. 

But you didn’t. 

Even if the look on your face was nothing short of sharp discomfort as you walked up a winding path to his house. 

Shit.

Sukuna was really going to scare you this time, wasn’t he? 

But he wasn’t just going to let you stay there alone with an even bigger predator. 

One who wouldn’t hesitate to bruise your skin or make you bleed for his own pleasure. 

He stepped out, his canines barred as his chest quickly began to rise and fall with heavy breaths, aware that there really might be no going back from this as he waited for just one of you to look back. But no, that asshole just slid his hand down the small of your back, attempting to grope your ass through your dress and ignoring the way you were recoiling from him as you tried to politely brush his arm off. 

Rage ripped through him in one hot burst, spilling over and souring any chance of his sanity winning out. Only half-monster this time, pink fur sticking out across his back as he lumbered forward. He didn’t have a real plan. Or any plan. 

Just the deep-seeded instinct to protect you at any cost. To not let another man lay a finger on you.  

Your husband-to-be never saw him coming. 

Blood splattering across the grass as he hit the ground from just a shallow scratch, whining in pain like a baby before Sukuna delivered a swift kick to his skull. 

It wasn’t particularly powerful, but he supposed humans really were just that much weaker given how fast it seemed to knock him out. 

“Sorry,” he growled, glancing over to you, expecting you to scream at any second, give him away. But you were stuck in place, those big eyes that had haunted him in his memory for so long finally locked onto his. More tears welling up in them, your shoulders shivering as the explanation on his tongue died. 

Your hand reflexively reached for your wrist, the scarred skin there still raised from where he’d clamped down on it as a child, and he flinched, guilt curdling in his stomach. 

He hated that he hurt you. Hated that he was terrifying you now. 

The bond burned, being so goddamn close to you, able to feel all your fear, all your messy emotions tangled and twisted together, your heart racing so fast he could hear the wild thumps as he tried to force his body to revert back to his most human form. 

“He was going to hurt you,” Sukuna defended himself with a low growl, kicking his limp body on the ground for a second time, like it would make himself feel better. A man like that would only waste your life. Force you to work the fields for him, bear his children and still pretend you were the burden. 

You blinked, sucking in a broken breath as you stared at him. The terror that had been radiating off of you fading faster than he expected as your pretty lips parted, as if you pieced together the rest of who he was on your own. 

“You’re-” You started, unable to finish the sentence. 

“I’m protecting you,” he grunted, before you could come to any other conclusion. 

You’d given him this life. He was devoting it back to you. 

“Why would you do that?” You whispered, unsure of whether or not to stay or sprint as far from him as you could. Your stare quickly shifted back to the body on the ground, biting your lip when you realized he was, unfortunately, still breathing. 

“You’re my mate.” 

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

The werewolf you’d spent well over a decade running from had declared you were his mate – and the man you thought you’d marry was bleeding in the grass. 

Great. 

You were blinking back tears, torn between twisting away and taking a step closer. Your blurred vision started to clear as you hastily wiped away the damp streak from your cheeks, starting to see the werewolf in front of you as what he might have been this whole time. 

Your protector. 

Were you a moron that misread everything? 

Maybe. 

Or were you once again a fool about to fall for his trap? 

He’d done it to you before, hadn’t he? 

A small voice in your head suggested that you were thinking about it wrong. You had set him free. And now he was repaying that favor by saving you from spending the rest of your years chained to a stranger.

“What did you mean about him hurting me?” You tentatively asked, jaw tensing as you stole another peek at the man bleeding onto the already dead grass. 

“You’re not that naive,” he scoffed, his mouth twitching when he looked too like he was tempted to kick him a third time. 

Your mouth pressed together in a thin line, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you replayed the way he tried to grab you despite how derisively he laughed at you before. How he commented that he didn’t really care if you were crazy before glancing down at your cleavage. 

But you had still walked with him anyway, starting to think that maybe you were losing it, that you were simply so lonely, you’d made up all those long conversations. Convinced that some jerk who just wanted you for your body was the best you’d be able to get. 

“So it was you? This whole time?” You asked, trying to make the pieces fit together in your mind as you pictured him on the other side of that fence. Listening to you complain about him. “You never said-” 

“Can you blame me?” He grunted, shrugging his massive shoulders up like it didn’t bother him.

“I called you a creep, like, a thousand times,” you pointed out, bottom lip quivering as you found yourself teetering on the verge of an apology you couldn’t decide if he deserved or not. 

“Yeah,” he grimaced. “If I stay too far away from you, it’s hard to stay human.” 

Your heart lurched. 

Eyes lingering over him as you realized that he could almost pass for human. 

Disarmed by how different he looked up close. His broad chest outlined with defined muscles, bulky and thick with scars and markings crisscrossed and etched deep into his tanned skin. There were sparse spots of fur that appeared to almost…shrink the longer he stood in front of you. 

And not a scrap of clothing to cover his rather large cock. 

You’d never seen one in person before. But you had overheard some of the girls gossiping about the men they were seeing in the market, comparing sizes to fruits and giggling about how they rarely seemed to make good use of them. 

Were werewolves just more well endowed? 

Heat coiled in your stomach, more enthralled than you should be as you got distracted by the shape of it, the way it curved a little to the left, a thick vein running along the side of it as your breath got stuck in your throat. 

His tail wagged behind him as he stepped closer, something irritatingly familiar inside you instinctively aching to move towards him too. 

That invisible string pulling tight, tensing up at the proximity of his presence, trying to draw you into his space as you felt what little resolve you had to resist him crumbling by the second. 

You didn’t want to stay here. 

Didn’t want to spend your life as the wife to an asshole or be the disappointment of a daughter your family treated you like. 

You were already an outsider in your own village. 

Why not give being a werewolf’s mate a try? 

It wasn’t like your situation could get much worse. 

“So,” you started, clearing your throat as you dragged your stare back up to his face. “What now?” 

“Would you run away with me?” 

In a strange way, his serious grumble felt romantic, his hand outstretched and all those sharp claws retracted waiting for yours as his red eyes pried apart and pierced through your soul. 

Somewhere deep inside you, you knew that you were never going to say no. 

That your path was always going to wind back to him one way or another the moment you slid your palm into his. 

Still, you kind of thought he’d be taking you back to some poorly-constructed hut in the forest made out of twigs and branches – not an actual cottage of his own. 

Buried deep within a twisted grove of trees tightly-spaced, tucked away far enough you doubted any hunters or folk from your village would ever discover it on their own. 

It was old, vines sprawling over the walls, the thatched roof freshly-repaired as he pulled you through the front door. The inside was nice, a little small, but comfortable. Furniture mix-matched, most of it either roughly handcrafted or well, stolen, you supposed. 

“This is yours?” You asked, stepping inside as he shut the wooden door behind both of you. Slipping off your shoes, not sure if that was considered polite or not in werewolf culture. 

“Uh-huh,” he wryly nodded, not even glancing around when his gaze was focused solely on you. Looking at you sort of like you might be his next meal. “

“And I’m your mate?” You continued, mostly just wanting to hear him say it again. Confirm whatever this funny feeling inside you was. The connection that seemed to just intensify with each passing breath, each step he took closer. 

“You’re mine,” he murmured, bridging the distance in just two long strides. He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just let his calloused palm hover above your cheek like he was considering it – and using every ounce of his restraint not to cave in and caress you. “And I’m yours.” 

“Do you want to be?” You swallowed hard, finding it hard to hold yourself back too. To not feel how firm his chest was, to not skim your fingers over his defined jaw. “Or is it just part of your werewolf-” 

“I want to be,” he shook his head, like he didn’t even want you to entertain any other idea. “I want you. I think I’d want you even if we weren’t bonded.” 

Enough to sit there and resist the bond between you for months while you whined and whispered about your boring life. 

Enough to stop you from being sent off in an arranged marriage. 

You got up on your tiptoes, letting your fingertips ghost over his cheeks as you pressed your lips to his in a timid kiss.

It was meant to be soft and slow. 

But the second your mouth connected with his, it was like someone had set your skin on fire. Pleasure you hadn’t planned on racing through your limbs, across your body in one massive rush. Shuddering at how sensitive everything abruptly was, abruptly aware of the breeze in the air, the pressure of his hand as he grabbed your waist and pressed your body up against his. 

As if it hurt for there to even be an inch between his chest and yours. 

His tongue danced across your bottom lip, asking for entry you quickly granted, exploring your mouth with a flattering fervor. 

Your thighs were already pressing together, warmth pooling as your walls clenched around nothing. But in between the heat, you felt a funny throb starting to build, begging for attention. 

“W-what’s your name?” You asked, belatedly realizing you still didn’t know it. 

“Sukuna,” he muttered, fingers sliding around to splay possessively over your spine, his steps guiding you back as he kissed you again. 

His tongue slipped back in your mouth as his hand travelled over the rough fabric of your dress, pausing to tch at how it rubbed against your skin. 

Sukuna was quick to pull it up over your head, throwing it down on the creaky wooden floorboards as he pushed open the door to his bedroom. 

You had a brief flash of contemplation, wondering whether or not you were really about to offer your virtue up to the beast that had been haunting you for well over half your life. 

But then you gave him another onceover, felt that fierce tingle travelling straight to your core, and you were committing to the animal inside you too. 

He pinned you to his bed in a flash, although it looked more like a nest. A few of your clothing items, shawls and dresses that had gone missing over the last couple years you assumed your mother had thrown out were all bundled up on the surface along with a tattered blanket, the warmth of his own scent mixed with your sweeter one striking you the second your back hit the thin mattress. 

“Are those-” Your voice died in your throat at how alarmingly cute the sheepish expression that crossed his face was. 

“I’m sorry,” he begrudgingly grunted an apology, jaw tense as he paused on top of you, his hands on either side of your head, hesitating like you might slip out and make a break for it. 

“What else did you steal?” You tried to tease, fingers loosely running over your old shawl close by.

“Nothing,” he grunted, not particularly believable as your lips curled up in a smile. 

Was it morally questionable? 

Yes, but when you’d wasted so long thinking that no one would ever like you, finding a man obsessed with you was too intoxicating for you to second guess it. 

You leaned forward and kissed him again, trying to match the frenzy behind his lips, a fever of your own starting to make all your thoughts feel loose, fuzzy. 

Limbs relaxing as your cunt started to ache, your fingers brushing through his soft hair, feeling his furry ears as his tail thwomped against the bed fast. 

His cock was digging into your thigh, throbbing and twitching with every little move you made. 

“You smell so fucking good,” he groaned, moving down to leave a messy trail of kisses down your jaw, over your throat as he began to sniff you. 

Sucking in deep inhales, grunting as he ran his tongue in sloppy circles over your nipples, lapping over your exposed skin with no real rhyme or reason. Skimming his teeth over the sensitive peaks, letting out lewd noises like he was the one being driven mad with his mouth. 

Nipping at you lightly, travelling lower until he was hovering over your pussy. 

“Jus’ need a taste,” he breathed, and before you could even fully spread your legs for him, his tongue was pushing inside you. 

It felt like he was trying to devour you. 

Lick up every single drop, dragging his tongue against your walls in messy strokes, dipping in-and-out at a mind-melting pace. 

Nails clawing at anything on his bed for grip, gasping for air as he lifted your hips off the bed so he could dive even deeper. 

None of the girls had ever talked about this. 

His thick digits were digging deep into your thighs, keeping you there as he worked his tongue in and swirled it with a devotion you were struggling to handle. 

You were losing it. 

Unravelling at a rate you never expected, wiggling and whimpering at how good it felt. How right it was to run your fingers through his soft strands. 

And despite it all, you were still greedy for more. 

Aching for him to stuff you with something bigger than his tongue. 

“P-please take me,” you whined, ruffling his hair as you peered down at his position between your soft thighs. 

His dark eyes widened, pupils completely blown, just a thin ring of red left as he processed what you had said. 

You didn’t take it back. 

Lips parted as you sucked in a shallow breath, silently daring him to do it. 

Before you blinked again, your thighs were being pressed up against your chest, squished and squeezed as he lined his leaking length up against your entrance. 

“Yeah?” He huffed, eyes narrowing as he saw the sweat starting to drip down your forehead, the way your thighs tensed and trembled before he even slid in. “You want me too?” “I do,” you nodded, feeling almost like you were making a vow you wouldn’t be able to take back as he pushed the first few inches in.

The pressure seared. 

Your stomach twisting into knots as your walls desperately squeezed down around him. He had to go slow, not desperately rutting or shoving, just slowly sliding into your warmth, his saliva and your slick making it easier for him to enter. 

“You’ve been keeping this from me this long?” He asked, his voice raw and reverberating through you as you found yourself looping your wrists around his neck. Thick tendons straining and flexing as he unclenched his jaw, your thighs straining from the way his fingers dug into your supple flesh. 

“I thought you were going to eat me,” you argued, pouting as he tilted his head back, using every ounce of his focus when his cock slipped in deeper, starting to rub against all those sensitive spots you had a hard time reaching yourself. 

Your own hand was nothing compared to him. 

“I might,” he chuckled, low and gritty. 

Tension thrumming thick in the air as you looked down and realized he still hadn’t bottomed out, your lips parting as you stared at the connection between your bodies. 

That intoxicating tingle you’d felt when he kissed you back had returned, your body squeezing and clenching and…changing? 

It finally struck you what was happening. 

His cock was literally molding you around him. 

The bond working its weird werewolf magic to make sure you’d be able to accommodate him not just comfortably, but pleasurably. So you wouldn’t be in pain as he pushed you to your limits. 

“Is this normal?” You gasped, not sure if you should be grateful or freaked out as he slipped another thick inch in. 

“You’re my first,” he shrugged, the lump in his throat bobbing like he was currently too preoccupied just by the way you were wrapped around him to think straight. 

“And werewolves don’t have multiple mates?” You questioned, lips pursed as you felt his cock prod that soft, spongy place in the back, your back arching up off the bed just for him to press you right back down. 

“You can’t be serious right now,” he froze, his cock twitching in time with his mouth. 

“I’m just asking,” you frowned, but he was quick to fuck your pout off, pounding back into you as you saw something in his face shift. 

Crack. 

Coming undone as he struggled to slow down once he started, his pace just picking up as he kissed you to wipe away your silly assumptions. 

“You’re it for me, got it?” He grunted, the taste of you on his tongue as he kissed you again. 

How were you supposed to not fall for that? 

Not turn to putty for him to play with when his calloused hand slipped down the inside of your thigh, the tantalizing tips of his claws lightly tracing over your skin to tease you. Swirling the tip of his fingers over your clit, toying with the bud there too as he ruthlessly rutted into you like an animal in heat. 

Was that all the two of you were now? 

“M’sorry,” he moaned, his mouth right next to yours as you sucked in a broken breath. “I can’t hold back.” 

“You don’t have to,” you whispered back, your voice all airy, half a pitch too high right as he rolled his hips forward, forcing the last few inches in. Your eyes rolled back in response, a whimper ripped from the back of your throat. 

Perhaps you should’ve asked Sukuna to reign it in a little. 

Because moments later, the base of his cock that already barely fit started to get bigger. 

He was knotting you. 

And somewhere in your lust-addled head, you liked it. A primal voice in the back of your brain begging to be bred. 

For him to fill you up and never let you go. 

“It’s-” You started, struggling to get any coherent words out when it didn’t feel like you had any room left in you for anything.

“Too much?” He grunted, starting to slip back out, to release you before it was too late. 

But you pulled at his hair, squeezing your thighs and sorta wishing they were wrapped around his waist instead to stop him. 

“No,” you spat out, straining to shake your head as he stalled there. “I need it.” 

You needed him. 

The idea of being apart, separated just a little suddenly seemed hellish, like it would be sheer torment to not feel the full force of him lodged inside of you. 

His knot stretched you out, your nails raking mean scratches down his massive back as the base of his cock continued to swell. Unable to so much as squirm, stuck in place as he split you open on his thick length. 

And truly? You wouldn’t trade him for any farmer’s son. 

Wouldn’t want to be anywhere other than here, in this cozy cottage being fucked stupid by a werewolf. 

He might be a beast, but at least he was wholly yours. 

His fingers returned to rubbing soothing circles over your swollen bud, coaxing you towards a climax as he staved off his own. Lips leaving kiss after kiss across your face, your thighs still held against your chest by his weight alone, folded and straining as he fit all of him inside of you. 

“You don’t know how crazy you make me,” he growled into your throat, and you were starting to think you had an idea. 

Infected with his intensity, itching for release as he dragged you to higher and higher peaks of pleasure. 

Sukuna rocked into you hard and fast, those pointy teeth sinking just above your collarbone to claim you, hard enough that you were sure you’d bleed, but it just heightened the bliss still burning beneath your skin. Unlatching just to drag his tongue over it in warm licks, his sniffing not stopping even as he sucked and kissed the sore spot better. 

“Make me wanna put pups in you,” he continued, half-delirious and drunk on you alone as his hips smacked rudely into your skin. 

“Do it then,” you half-whispered, so close yourself as his thumb pressed down delectably over your clit, the thin string in the pit of your stomach holding you together ready to snap right there with him. 

Sukuna’s head snapped up to you for just a second, the fading light of the day casting shadows across his face as he let out a ragged little laugh like you didn’t know what you were requesting of him. 

He looked softer somehow, shoulders more relaxed, his thrusts slowing as he stared, becoming more steady as you felt blinding need warping what little sense of reason you had remaining. 

You were digging at his shoulder blades, thighs trembling as you leaned up to kiss his throat this time, craving even more of him. Tearing at his skin as you started sucking on his collarbone, leaving lovebites that made him grit his teeth and groan your name while he fought the parts of him that made him so different from you to start with. 

“I’m gonna cum, fuck,” he hissed, barely holding on as you nodded along.

His fingers roughly massaged into you faster, to make sure you came right as he did, your body shaking as you broke down for him, pretty little stars splashing across your vision as you scrunched your eyes shut and probably left a fresh set of scratches across his skin, feeling him shudder and shake on top of you as he called out your name again. 

You let out your moan, something that was supposed to sound like Sukuna but just came out strangled, too stuffed to really care about anything other than the size of him still filling you up so entirely. 

Unable to move back or forward, feeling something wet on your face as the scent of sweat and sex and something sweet invaded your senses. 

You let go of his shoulder blades, blinking a few times as you went to rest your arms over your head instead – just for him to snag your wrist and flip it around to examine the scar his old bite had left there.

“I guess I’m your problem forever now, hm?” You asked, the bond between you feeling a little less like a thin string and more like a heavy chain tying you to him. 

Unbreakable. 

“You’re not a problem,” he wryly muttered, not quite as amused as he tenderly dragged his thumb over the marred skin. “Just a brat.” 

Like he wasn’t the one whose cum was plugged up inside you thanks to his still-throbbing knot. Keeping him locked in place as you blinked up at him with damp eyes, tears of pleasure streaked down your cheeks this time.

Sukuna cleared his throat, his pretty jaw tensing as he stared down at the narrow space between your bodies.  

“So, uh, how do you feel about werepups?”

meanwhile reader’s fiancé

In the morning, you find yourself standing in the small kitchenette with a cup of tea cooling between your fingers that refuse to stay still. You tell yourself it’s just exhaustion, the strain of relocation, or simply the adjustment to a new environment. It doesn’t matter which one it is. You just hope that if you repeat it often enough, the words will start to feel convincing, even if your body doesn’t quite agree.

The campus outside the window looks deceptively peaceful in the early light, the traditional roofs of the smaller buildings catching the sun. It should be reassuring. Instead, it only reminds you how far from home you truly are, how completely and ruthlessly the Higher-Ups have rearranged your life without asking. You set the tea down untouched, smooth your uniform one last time, and step into the corridor.

The walk toward the main building is your first real chance to see the campus in daylight without rushing. It’s undeniably beautiful—a sprawling, quiet sanctuary tucked away in the forested mountains. The air is crisp and smells of pine, and there’s no sign that something like him exists here beyond the horrifying glimpse you experienced yesterday. For a moment, you can almost convince yourself that this is exactly what it looks like: a traditional school, and your body responds to that without hesitation, your shoulders loosening by a fraction.

But it can’t be too perfect, because you quickly notice there are way more cracks around you than you saw when you first arrived. The stone walkway you’re walking on right now is laced with gold-dust resin to repair deep fissures, and one of the tori gates looks like it’s holding on by a thread and is one small earthquake from crumbling completely. This place is beautiful, but it’s also broken.

"New face! And such a stressed one, too. You’ll fit right in."

The voice is jarringly cheerful, pulling you out of your head instantly. You stop so abruptly that your boots scuff against the stone with a sharp sound. Your heart gives a violent, panicky leap, thudding against your ribs with a rhythm that makes your vision pulse for a split second. Instinctually, your muscles tense, ready to bolt.

Looking to the side, you recognize the man immediately. Tall, absurdly so, with white hair, dressed in a high-collared black uniform, and a blindfold covering his eyes. Lucky you, seeing him twice already.

Now that he actually stands in front of you, and you’re not overwhelmed by the crushing weight of Sukuna’s power, Satoru’s cursed energy feels completely different, like an infinite, cold vacuum—a staggering absence of anything you can parse, a presence that is there and not-there all at once.

"Gojo Satoru," he says, shrugging his hands deeper into his pockets, his head tilting in what you presume is a curious gesture. “But you probably knew that.”

You can’t help but snort quietly at his casual arrogance before nodding curtly and managing to give him your own name, too.

"I hear the Higher-Ups finally found someone brave enough—or unlucky enough—to take the office at the end of the hall. I assume that’s you?

"I... yes. I was reassigned yesterday," you say, your voice sounding small and reedy even to your own ears, a stark contrast to his booming cheer.

"Reassigned. Such a polite word for being thrown into the shark tank," Gojo chirps, taking a single step that stops him right in front of you, not respecting your personal space at all. You have to tilt your head sharply up to look at him. "I wondered when you'd show up. Usually, the specialists they send have a lot more gray hair and a lot less... well, terror in their eyes. You look like you're waiting for the floor to open up and swallow you."

"I'm just... adjusting to the campus," you lie, pushing the words out with a forced breath, trying to regulate your breathing and sound convincingly bored, instead of terrified.

"Don't look so miserable about that. You’re the newest addition to the faculty! It’s a prestigious gig—well, provided you don't mind the neighbor." He tilts his head toward the administrative building. "He hasn't tried to eat you yet, has he? He’s in a remarkably foul mood after his last mission."

A tight, cold knot forms in your stomach at the words, but before you can respond, the sound of loudly arguing voices drifts from around the corner of the path ahead.

"I'm telling you, it was a total waste of time! We could finish that in twenty minutes if you hadn't insisted on observing the technique!"

"It’s called tactical patience, Nobara. You should try it sometime."

Three students round the corner moments later, their bickering halting immediately when they see Gojo. One is a girl with short, ginger-brown hair; beside her is a boy with dark, spiky hair and an expression of deep boredom, and on her other side is a boy with pink hair and a bright, open face that makes your heart skip a beat for an entirely different reason.

"Oh! Gojo-sensei! Is this her?” the pink-haired boy asks, his eyes widening with curiosity and kindness as he approaches.

"Indeed it is, Yuji," Gojo says, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Students, meet the newest addition to our faculty's survival list. She’ll be the one keeping the school from falling apart while Sukuna throws his tantrums." 

The sight of Yuji sends a sudden, cold shiver down your spine. He looks so much like Sukuna, especially in that shade of hair and the shape of his jaw. For a second, your knees feel weak, but the energy radiating from him is warm, vibrant, and utterly, wonderfully human.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his smile faltering into a genuine concern. He reaches out a hand as if to steady you, but stops just short of touching your arm. "You're really pale."

"I'm... I'm fine," you assure and force yourself to take a slow breath, focusing on the comforting weight of your bag. "Just... a long night of unpacking. It's a lot of change."

Satoru tilts his head, looking at you, but when you nod for him to continue, he gestures to each of them in turn with theatrical flair. "These are my delightful first years! Kugisaki Nobara—our resident fashionista and hammer enthusiast. The brooding one is my son, Fushiguro Megumi—“

“I already told you to stop calling me your son,” Megumi cuts in, his voice flat with annoyance.

“—And this,” he pats the pink-haired boy’s shoulder again, completely ignoring Megumi’s complaint, “is Itadori Yuji. Try not to hold his lineage against him.” He smiles at you, then adds, “Team, meet…” He tells them your name, that easy, confident smile never fading even as his gaze—if he’s indeed gazing under the blindfold—flicks over you, as if cataloging every detail in a single glance.

Nobara looks you up and down with a blunt, discerning gaze that feels unnervingly thorough. "Are all the sorcerers from the secondary branches this jumpy, or did Gojo just scare the life out of you? Honestly, you look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Leave her alone, Nobara," Yuji interjects, rubbing the back of his neck, and a wide grin returns to his face. “Nice to meet you! We heard someone new is coming to help with Sukuna’s... uh, energy acting up. Sorry about him, by the way. He’s kind of a lot."

"A lot? He’s a disaster," Nobara chimes in, crossing her arms and eyeing you again, but this time with a mix of pity and fascination. "I don't know what they’re paying you, but it’s definitely not enough."

"I... It's a pleasure to meet you all," you stammer, feeling the weight of their collective gaze. 

"See? Polite! We need more of that around here," Gojo says, his grin widening, clearly enjoying your discomfort. He leans in a bit closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that is still perfectly audible to everyone standing near. "Word of advice: if you hear him starting to grumble about the Higher-Ups or how annoying they are, just don’t answer. He hates it when people agree with him just because they're scared. Makes him bored. And you really don't want him bored."

"Gojo, stop scaring her,” Megumi sighs. “She already looks like she’s about to faint."

"I'm not scaring her! I'm providing essential orientation," the man protests, turning back to you. “And fair warning—the faculty meetings are even worse than the curses sometimes. And if you ever need a break from all the serious faces around here, my door’s always open. Or window. Whichever’s more dramatic.” He claps his hands together. “Anyway! We’ve got places to be, curses to annoy. Don’t let the Higher-Ups work you to the bone on day two, yeah?”

“Sure. I… I should get to my office too,” you murmur, clutching your bag tighter.

As they begin to walk away, Yuji lingers for a second, his expression turning a bit more serious and compassionate than his teacher’s. "Hey, if you need anything—directions, snacks, someone to complain to about the cafeteria food—I’m your guy. Seriously. This place can be a lot at first. It was for me, at least.”

He waves one last time before jogging to catch up with the others. You stand on the path as the campus’s silence settles back over you, and with it, the vibration, but it feels different now. The students know who Sukuna is and live with his shadow every day, yet they’re laughing and arguing about tactics. They’re functioning. So you try to convince yourself that you can get used to it, too, that this new terror can become a manageable routine.

But when you reach the door to your new office and fumble with the key, your fingers still refuse to stay still. The metal scrapes against the lock until it finally catches on the fourth try. You slide the door open, step into the room, and close it behind you.

It’s a modest space, but it’s yours—or at least, it’s supposed to be. You stand in the center of the room, taking a shallow, shaky breath, trying to force the rigid tension to drain from your shoulders, but the muscles along your neck and back are locked tight.

You had specifically requested that a few of your personal boxes be delivered here instead of to your assigned quarters, and you feel a slight spike of relief when you notice three stacked neatly near the wide desk. On them is a folder bearing the official stamp, with your full name written neatly across it.

Sinking into the chair, you reach for the folder first and flip it open to reveal the paperwork inside. Employment contracts, a schedule outline with more blank space than entries, several pages of medical waivers that make your stomach twist when you skim them, and a formal acceptance of your reassignment, as if you were the one requesting it. 

Unpacking slowly, you pull out a stack of pristine folders in different colors and line them up in a top desk drawer. You place your favorite mug with the chipped rim from the province on a coaster, then pull out a small ceramic lucky cat, a gift from Haruki back at the branch, and place it in the corner of the desk.

Reaching into one of the boxes, you pull out a black fountain pen that usually feels balanced in your hand, then try to write your name on the first form. You press the tip to the paper, but the ink smears into a series of jagged, ugly streaks because your hand is shaking.

You stare at the ruined signature, your heart giving a dull, heavy thud against your ribs. Trying again, you force your grip to tighten, but your fingers are vibrating with a fine, persistent tremor that you can’t suppress. The ink bleeds into the paper, creating a messy, illegible scrawl that looks nothing like your handwriting.

The pen drops from your hand and clatters loudly against the desk, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You pull your hands back into your lap, lacing your fingers together so tightly your knuckles turn white, trying to command your body to stop reacting. It’s just a job, you tell yourself, but it feels dry and useless. You’re a professional. You’ve done this before. But your lie rings hollow. You haven’t really, not with him and not when your mind keeps looping back to Gojo’s bright voice, “He’s in a remarkably foul mood.”

A foul mood. You try to picture what that translates to on the King of Curses, but the only image that sticks is the chilling memory of four eyes and that low, rumbling, amused chuckle. It’s enough to keep your breathing shallow and your palms slick with sweat.

A sudden, sharp knock against your door sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through you. You startle so badly that you jump, your knee hitting the underside of the desk, and the pen rolls off, skidding across the floor.

“Come in,” you croak, your voice sounding like someone else’s.

The door slides open, and a young man in a stiff suit and a tie steps across the threshold.

“Apologies for the interruption, ma’am,” he says politely. “I was asked to inform you that Ryomen Sukuna has returned from his mission early. He arrived early this morning and is expected in your office shortly.”

“Understood,” you manage to force out.

The official lingers at the door for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his mouth thinning into a line that looks suspiciously like a grimace of pity or deep unease. He takes in the state of your desk, the tremor in your folded hands, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes, and his resolve breaks just slightly.

"Good luck," he adds quietly, and then he’s gone, sliding the door shut behind him.

Now there’s only the silence that’s immediately filled with the sound of your own heart, a frantic, uneven drumming against your ribs that makes your chest ache. You look down at your hands. They aren't just trembling now; they’re vibrating so hard that you can’t even close them into fists, no matter how many times you flex them or press them against the desk to ground yourself. You try to reach for the pen on the floor, but your legs feel like they’ve been replaced with lead.

The wait stretches, minute by agonizing minute, and your body begins to anticipate him before he even takes the first step down the hall. You’ve been sitting like this for twenty minutes since the official left, staring at the door. The silence has become your enemy, as your ears now ring with a phantom roar of white noise. Every time a floorboard creaks in the distance, your breath catches in a shallow, jagged rhythm that never quite allows your lungs to fully fill.

Then, the very moment he crosses the threshold of the main building and steps inside, you feel the atmosphere shift violently. It’s a sudden, physical displacement of an enormous weight that signals the immediate return of something ancient that doesn't belong in this century.

It begins as a tightening in your chest, a sharp, localized constriction that makes the simple act of inhaling feel impossible. Something is fundamentally wrong with the space now, an abrasive quality to the air that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand upright and stay that way, vibrating in sync with a frequency you can’t quite hear. 

Trying desperately to regulate your breathing, you force yourself to count to five on each inhale, but the rhythm is jagged and unreliable. The static in the air is rising, a low-frequency hum you feel in your teeth and bone marrow, a signature of power so massive it doesn’t need to be visible to be felt. You keep staring at the door handle, eyes wide and unblinking, as your world narrows to this single, suffocating room and the growing, oily weight of the residue seeping through the cracks in the doorframe.

You manage to push yourself up on trembling legs, knees threatening to buckle, and manage to stumble the few steps around the desk, leaning a hand against the cool wood for support, just as the door slides open without the courtesy of a knock.

It’s a total sensory drowning. The air in the small office instantly becomes saturated with heat, smelling of ozone and the sharp, coppery tang of dried blood. Sukuna stands there, filling the space with so much of his cursed energy that the walls feel as if they’re shrinking to crush you. Every nerve ending in your body lights up in a frantic, screaming alert, and the simple act of remaining upright suddenly requires every bit of your dwindling stamina.

If you weren't too terrified to move, you might laugh at the sheer irony of expecting a true monster, only to see a man who looks exactly like he just finished a very long, very annoying day at work. He’s covered in the dark, drying, nearly-black stains of blood from a mission that must have been a slaughter. He looks profoundly irritated, his pink hair disheveled, and his four eyes are narrowed into a look of deep, dangerous boredom, as the petty, insignificant mission he returned from was a blatant insult to his boundless capabilities.

"So," Sukuna finally rumbles, the sound a dark, rich scrape against your frayed nerves, closing the door behind him. He completely ignores the couch that was prepared for him, unhurriedly taking a few steps until he stops directly in front of you, looming so close that the heat radiating from his skin feels like standing before an open furnace. "They actually expect this," he gestures dismissively toward you with a flicker of a hand, "to manage me?"

It’s enough for your brain to momentarily short out, leaving you staring up at him with wide, paralyzed eyes. He lets out a short, mocking huff of laughter, a purely malicious sound, as he takes in your state. He drinks it in like a fine wine, a slow, cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you shake so violently the desk behind you rattles faintly, keeping time with the frantic, sickening rhythm of your pulse thrashing like a trapped animal in the hollow of your throat.

"Well?" he sneers, his upper eyes narrowing with a vicious, expectant glint. “Don’t just stand there shaking, human. I don’t have all day.”

You know what you have to do, but right now, you can’t even force your legs, rooted to the spot, to take a single step toward him. Your brain is screaming one thing only: Run. Get out. Put a continent between you and this man.

"If you're this terrified of me just standing here," his voice dips lower, "how do you expect to actually put your hands on me and do your job?”

There’s simply no way for you to answer, because when you try, the words die a painful death somewhere in your rapidly tightening throat. But you manage to lift your hand, and it’s truly a pathetic sight—pale, utterly weak, and trembling so violently you can’t even keep your fingers straight. They hover just short of contact with the center of his chest.

“Do it before I decide this was a waste of my time, little thing,” he rumbles, and a cold sweat drips down your back, chilling you despite the heat radiating off him. “Now.”

You stop again, your breath catching sharply in your chest. Your entire focus narrows obsessively to the small gap between your hand and him, the distance suddenly feeling vast, impossible to close, even though it’s barely there. The sheer pressure of his cursed energy is like a physical, unyielding wall. The closer you try to get to him, the more it pushes back against your outstretched palm.

"Pathetic.” That single word drips with contempt so much that you flinch.

He exhales through his nose, a short, quiet sound that carries more impatience than any loud exclamation ever could. Suddenly, his massive hand shoots forward, closing firmly around your wrist before your nervous system can even register it, and yanks you forward. It forces your hand into contact with his chest, whether you’re ready and willing or not. The very instant it happens, he releases your wrist.

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. A dense, constant pressure surges through your hand the instant you touch him, spreading up your arm in a steady, high-frequency current that vibrates deep beneath your skin, settling into your bones. Your breath breaks in a sharp, painful inhale, your chest tightening further as your lungs fail to keep up with the sudden shift.

For a second, your body locks, unsure how to process his power, and your vision whites out completely. You nearly collapse right there, knees giving way, but his hand catches your elbow in a grip just short of bruising and holds you upright.

“Focus,” he growls, voice low and mocking, clearly enjoying the way you’re falling apart in front of him.

Your own cursed energy finally responds, activating your technique, but… it doesn’t slip into his the way it used to with every other sorcerer you’ve ever touched. You meet instant resistance. His energy is impossibly dense and uneven, pressed together so tightly that there’s no natural opening to follow. For a moment, your focus fractures and your control stutters as the structure beneath your hand refuses to yield or even acknowledge your presence.

The splintered edges aren’t just scattered, random damage; they’re layered over each other in uneven ridges, grinding and catching, constantly shifting in place without ever settling in a fixed pattern. When you try to guide your own energy between them, it doesn’t thread through cleanly but gets caught, snagging against something that feels too sharp and too rigid at the same time.

There’s simply too much to take in at once. Your instinct screams at you to pull back and withdraw before you lose control completely, but you resist the urge with every fiber of your being. If you let go now, you know, deep in your soul, you won’t be able to force yourself to try again. So, you compel your focus, narrowing it, no longer trying to take in the whole of it, but isolating a single section—one place where the splintering is tighter, more compressed, something you can define and target, even if you can’t yet comprehend the entire structure around it.

You don’t try to comb through it the way you normally do because there’s no space for that. It leaves you with the option to press against it. Your cursed energy spreads thin as you force it into the smallest gaps you can find. It isn’t slipping between the fractures but pushing against them, testing where they shift, where they resist completely, and where they might give even slightly under pressure.

Sweat beads instantly on your forehead and then rolls into your eyes, stinging them. Your fingers instinctively curl slightly, clawing into the fabric of his uniform as your knees threaten to give out once more.

Sukuna chuckles, a dark, low sound, the vibration traveling directly through his chest and into your straining palm.

“Look at you. Barely touching me and already about to pass out. They really sent the weakest, most pathetic one they could find, didn’t they?”

His words don’t even fully reach you. What you’re doing isn’t clean work by any means. It’s definitely not as controlled as you’d like it to be, but after a few seconds of struggling against it, you feel a change. It’s not in the entire structure, but in that one small, isolated section you targeted, where two jagged edges that had been grinding against each other start, ever so slowly, to realign.

It takes more effort than it should. Your control slips dangerously as you fight to hold on, your hand trembling where it rests against him, but you don’t let go until you’re absolutely sure the section you’ve forced into place isn’t collapsing back into the same fractured pattern. When you finally pull your cursed energy back, it doesn’t feel finished. It feels incomplete and uneven, as you pinned down only one part of something much, much larger that’s still shifting out of control around it. But the difference is there, small and localized, yet real.

The worst part is that now you understand exactly how much of it is still left to deal with, and how utterly exhausting and physically draining it is just to work on him. Every second feels like a minute; every breath feels like your last. Your technique is working, yes, but with the sheer volume of his power is like trying to hold back a landslide with your bare hands. 

Your energy output is significantly smaller than Sukuna’s, so when you pit your energy against his, it rapidly depletes your reserves. Vision begins to swim, the edges of the room turning grey and fuzzy as your body starts to shut down under the strain. Your legs are shaking so badly you can hardly stand, and the only thing keeping you upright is the iron grip he still has on your arm.

He releases you abruptly, and you slump forward, your forehead nearly hitting his shoulder. Your hand remains glued to his chest because you’re too terrified to let go. The man doesn't catch you, but he doesn't pull away either, standing there like a statue, watching with deep satisfaction how you struggle, how your fingers twitch against his heartbeat. He can feel your heart racing—a frantic rhythm against the slow, heavy thud of his own, and he visibly relishes the difference.

“Don’t die yet, little Weaver,” he whispers, leaning all the way down to your face until you feel his warm breath on your ear. “We’ve only just started.”

You jerk away from him instantly, catching yourself on the edge of the desk before you can fall, chest heaving. Sukuna doesn’t react, already focused on his cursed energy, checking the result. Its state hasn’t changed; the irritation hasn’t lifted or faded. Yet that one section you smoothed holds firm, and more importantly, it didn’t revert to its previous fractured state. He notes its boundary, how far the adjustment extends, precisely where it stops, and how it sits against the rest of it that remains unchanged. So this one isn’t completely worthless after all.

At the same time, you don’t move—you can’t, when your head feels light and hollow. Your body, held upright only by your survival instinct, feels like it’s melting as soon as the direct tether to his energy is severed.

It takes a lot of effort to even your breathing out, your lungs resisting the rhythm you’re trying to impose, your chest rising and falling in short, uneven pulls. The physical strain from the weaving hasn’t faded, leaving your limbs slower and your reactions delayed.

You need to sit down. It’s the only coherent thought your brain can hold onto, but your legs feel too heavy to move. You manage to shuffle a few stumbling steps, your hip bumping the corner of the desk, until you finally collapse into your chair. You don’t sit so much as fall into it. 

Your hands are a disaster, vibrating with a deep force you can’t suppress, no matter how hard you press them against your thighs. Watching your fingers twitch and jerk uncontrollably against the dark fabric of your pants, you realize you couldn’t even hold a pen right now if your life depended on it.

The comforting sound of the door sliding shut and the sweet relief of being alone don’t come. Instead, you hear the slow scuff of his boots on the floorboards as he turns away from you. For a few seconds, he stands there with his profile to you, broad shoulders still, head slightly tilted as if listening to something only he can hear. He doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry, and the silence stretches, filled only by the uneven drag of your breathing and the faint hum of cursed energy still clinging to the air.

Then he wanders toward the small bookshelf by the wall. One of his hands trails idly along the edge while his four eyes wander over the items you barely had time to place there. He doesn’t pause on anything specific; his attention drifts aimlessly, taking in the files and small personal items. There's no hesitation in his movement and no indication that he's somewhere he shouldn’t be. His profound disregard for you makes it clear that your presence doesn’t matter in this room as much as his does.

You watch as he continues his slow circuit, stopping beside your desk. His hand brushes lightly against your mug. For a brief moment, nothing happens. Then a thin fracture appears beneath his touch, a sharp, precise line spreading slowly across the surface.

There’s no force behind it, no pressure that should cause the material to fail. The ceramic simply fails to hold together where Sukuna rests his hand, because he allows it to. He could have easily prevented it, but there was no reason to.

Your gaze locks onto the crack as it deepens, your body tensing despite knowing you can’t stop it. A second later, the mug splits cleanly along that line, the two halves dropping against the desk before sliding apart. It isn’t sudden or accidental. It happens at a pace slow enough for you to see it coming and to understand that nothing in your office is beyond his reach, his control, or safe from his whim.

You flinch hard, but he doesn’t react beyond a low, disinterested, dismissive hum.

“Sloppy,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as if the broken mug is somehow your fault for being in his space.

Sukuna paces toward the window, staring out at the campus. His broad back blocks out the light and casts a long shadow that swallows your desk and your feet. You try to reach for a pen that rolled toward the edge, but your arm feels like it’s underwater, heavy and slow. As you brush against a stack of files, they slide off the desk and flutter across the floor.

You stare at the mess, at the broken mug and the scattered reports, and feel a hollow surge of helplessness. You want to fix it, to pick up the papers and pretend your day is still about administrative paperwork, but you’re pinned to the chair by nothing but the sheer gravity of his presence.

He lingers a moment longer without ever looking at you, his attention already elsewhere, the campus view already boring him. Then, without a word of explanation or farewell, he turns abruptly on his heel and walks out of your office.

You should be flooded with relief, but there’s none because the air still smells of ozone, telling you that even though he’s left, he hasn’t truly gone. This realization makes your head drop heavily onto the desk, and you try to force your breathing into a steady rhythm, but it still comes out a bit ragged. You remain hunched over the desk, listening to the fading rhythm of his boots. Even when the sound vanishes completely, you don’t move, your body paralyzed by the lingering density he left behind.

It takes you several long, dragging minutes to convince your body that the immediate danger has passed, and you eventually force yourself upright. Your gaze drifts to the side of the desk, landing on the broken shards of your mug. You know you should pick them up and throw them away so you don’t have to look at the evidence of his casual disregard, but you can’t bring yourself to touch it.

It feels contaminated. Even though he only brushed against it for a second, the ceramic looks different to your eyes now, still vibrating with the phantom heat of his fingers.

You try to return to the paperwork instead, reaching for one of the fallen sheets. Your fingers, however, refuse to cooperate, unwilling to close properly around it. Only after a third, slower attempt, do you manage to gather them up. When you pick the pen up, the letters you attempt to write come out as badly as before, the ink smearing under your unsteady grip. 

Setting it down again, you press both palms flat against the desk. You have to pull yourself together. You have to breathe. Driven by a desperate need for oxygen that doesn't smell of him, you force yourself upright, your chair scraping softly against the floor, and stumble toward the window. You reach for the latch, your fingers slipping slightly before you adjust your grip, and with a bit more effort than such a simple task should ever take, you push it open.

Cool air rushes in immediately. It doesn’t fix the shaking in your hands or the pounding behind your ribs, but it helps. Your breathing begins to deepen slightly, the tightness in your chest loosening by a fraction as you stand there for a moment, your hand still resting against the frame, simply letting the fresh air settle into the room and your lungs.

Slowly, even your frantic heartbeat starts to calm down. At least until two figures round the corner of the building and walk into your line of sight. 

Sukuna’s moving across the stone path with an unhurried stride, and trailing half a step behind him is Yuji. The boy is trying to keep pace, his face tight with stubborn, simmering frustration that seems out of place next to a man of Sukuna's stature. Then, he runs forward a few steps and stops the sorcerer dead in his tracks.

“…told you to stay out of my sight until the stench of that failure washed off you,” Sukuna doesn’t raise his voice, but the deep rumble of it carries through the opened window. Irritation is clear, low and steady beneath the words as he looks down at Yuji like the conversation is already wasting his time.

“I’m not the one who messed up that mission!” Yuji snaps back, loud and defensive. “I told you already—”

"Excuses are for the weak," Sukuna sneers, a sound of pure contempt. He takes a slow step toward Yuji, and your fingers grip the windowsill so hard the wood bites into your palms. "You lacked the stomach to finish it when the opening appeared. You hesitated."

"I didn't hesitate, I was helping the civilians get to the—"

The strike is so fast that your eyes almost miss it. Sukuna’s hand moves with terrifying speed and slaps the back of Yuji’s head with a sharp, heavy crack. It isn’t a playful tap; the force sends the boy stumbling as he fights to stay on his feet, his boots scuffing hard against the stone.

“Idiot,” Sukuna spits, the word dripping with disgust that makes your stomach churn. “If you ever prioritize a non-sorcerer over finishing a kill again, I won’t just leave a bruise. I’ll peel the skin off your back myself.”

Your heart gives a violent, panicked leap, your breath hitching in your throat, as you wait for the aftermath—possibly a massacre. You expect Yuji to drop to his knees, beg, or display the same raw fear that now leaves you frozen at your window.

Instead, Yuji rights himself, his shoulders tightening with tension. He turns to Sukuna, eyes narrowed and blazing with genuine, reckless anger. “Then do it! Stop talking about it and just do it if you’re so mad!”

Sukuna reaches out, curling his large fingers around the front of Yuji’s uniform hoodie, bunching the fabric and effortlessly lifting the boy off his heels, making him dangle. Yet, Yuji doesn’t break under this pressure. He glares back into the man’s eyes, his hands coming up to grip Sukuna’s wrist, trying to pull the hand away despite it feeling as heavy as solid iron.

"Be careful, Yuji," the man whispers, the low rumble of his voice carrying an edge of genuine malice that makes the air feel thin. "That blood in your veins is the only thing keeping you from being a smudge on this pavement. Don't test how thin that line is."

Yuji’s jaw tightens. For a second, he doesn’t answer, and you think this is it. You think he might finally stop, but… he doesn’t.

“You’re just pissed,” he says, the words coming out rougher this time. “That’s not on me.”

“And you think that makes you safe?”

“I think you don’t get to take it out on me every time something goes wrong!”

“Then don’t be in front of me when it does. Now get out of my sight," Sukuna hisses, shoving Yuji brutally away. The force that makes the boy have to catch himself against a stone of a nearby lantern to keep from falling. "If I see your face before the sun sets, I will give you a reason to truly regret your existence."

Sukuna doesn’t wait for a response or even spare the boy another glance. He walks past Yuji and continues toward the dorms, leaving the boy standing there, breathing hard and looking like he wants to throw a punch into the air the King of Curses just vacated.

You pull back from the window, sliding down until your back hits the cold wall beneath the sill. Your hands are shaking so violently now that they’re clicking against the floorboards. 

After an hour of sitting paralyzed beneath the windowsill and countless attempts to finish the paperwork that had resulted in nothing but a growing pile of mangled, illegible reports. Your thoughts circle the same conclusion over and over until it settles into something you can act on. You were told where to go when you weren’t needed, and right now, that instruction feels like a very good excuse to put distance between yourself and everything that happened since morning.

Even now, as you move through the corridors of the administrative wing, your knees feel brittle, as if the bones have been hollowed out and replaced with dry, cracking glass. You flinch at the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of sliding doors, your eyes darting toward every shadow, terrified that his figure would materialize from the pines. Fortunately, Sukuna is nowhere to be seen.

You’re nearing the western walkway when you spot a shock of pink hair. Yuji’s sitting on a low stone wall, hunched over and preoccupied with his phone. After what you witnessed from your window, seeing him sit there so quietly feels like a glitch in reality. You hesitate, considering continuing past him without saying anything, your fingers still twitching against the strap of your bag, but… you can see the faint redness on the back of his neck where Sukuna’s strike connected. Before the deeply ingrained instinct for self-preservation can talk you out of it, you change the direction slightly and walk over.

“Yuji?” you ask quietly, your voice still carrying that thin, unsteady edge, stopping a few steps away so as not to startle him.

He looks up, and for a split second, you expect to see a face mapped with trauma or hidden tears. Instead, his expression brightens instantly into that same sweet, open, and incredibly confusing grin he gave you earlier.

"Oh! Hey! It's the Weaver, right?" he says, his voice cheerful and unaffected. He hops off the wall and pockets his phone, looking entirely too normal. "Sorry, I'm bad with names. You okay? You look even paler than this morning."

You find yourself watching the minute details of how he moves, searching for a hitch in his breathing, a tremor in his hands, or even a flicker of fear in his eyes, but he’s as steady as the stone walkway beneath your feet. The normalcy of it feels fundamentally wrong. There’s no tension in him, no guardedness in his stance, nothing that remotely suggests what you witnessed barely an hour ago, and your mind stalls for a second as it tries, and fails, to reconcile the memory with the reality in front of you.

“I… yes,” you stammer and give him your name once more, your gaze drifting to the back of his head. "I saw you with Sukuna earlier. Are you alright? That looked... it looked incredibly painful. I was worried.”

Yuji blinks slowly, then lets out a short, easy, and almost endearing laugh that makes your stomach do a confused flip. He reaches back and rubs the spot with a shrug. "Oh, that? Yeah, I'm totally fine! My head’s pretty hard, honestly. I think it was just a standard slap. I’ve had way worse training with Gojo, trust me!”

You stare at him with genuine confusion. "A standard slap? Yuji, he was... he was threatening you. He looked like he was going to—"

"Ah, don't take it personally for me," Yuji interrupts smoothly, his tone shifting into something casually dismissive, as if he were explaining a difficult but predictable weather pattern. "He just gets like that after missions sometimes. If he doesn't get to kill something big enough, he comes back all prickly. Or, well, when he thinks I messed something up, even if I didn’t. Gets pissed over nothing and likes having someone to yell at."

Your mouth is slightly open, waiting for the inevitable crack and trauma to surface, for the fear to break through that sweetheart exterior, but there’s nothing but a teenager’s mild annoyance. 

"But he... he threatened you. He said he would—"

"Yeah, yeah, the skin-peeling thing," he interjects again with a thoroughly dismissive wave of his hand, rubbing the back of his head again, this time with a small wince. "He’s always been saying stuff like that—well, not always, but—since he—" He cuts himself off and clears his throat roughly, scrubbing a hand over his face before he looks back at you with a forced, tight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes this time. “Since… yeah. Doesn’t matter. Look, he’s my uncle, so you know. He thinks he can get away with being a total asshole to me whenever he wants. Family, right? You can’t really pick ‘em, no matter how much you want to.”

"Your uncle," you repeat after a pause that your brain needed to accept the phrasing the boy offers. "But if he's family, why does he treat you like that?”

"He's just pissed," Yuji repeats, starting to walk toward the infirmary, his hands shoved into his pockets. You fall into step beside him a moment later, your movements slower, still slightly uncoordinated as your body hasn’t fully caught up to your thoughts. "Honestly, it’s not even on me! I didn't even mess that one up that bad. I just made sure a few people didn't get crushed by a falling roof, and he acts like I committed a crime. He just likes having someone to yell at when things don't go exactly his way."

He kicks a small pebble across the path, watching it bounce, looking genuinely annoyed, but it’s nothing more than the annoyance of a teenager complaining about an overbearing parent.

"All he cares about is finishing the job. That’s it. People just… get in the way as far as he's concerned." He glances at you briefly, like he’s checking if you’re still keeping up, noticing the way your hands were still clicking against your sides. "Don't let it get to you, though. He likes it when people are too scared to look him in the eye. It gives him an excuse to be worse. If you just treat it like… like he’s having a childish tantrum... well, it doesn't actually make him less dangerous, but it makes it easier to breathe."

That word, tantrum, feels oddly small, considering how much bigger it seems in your own experience, but you cling to it nonetheless, testing it against what you felt earlier in that room.

“You should have seen him this morning—the Higher-Ups were practically tripping over themselves to get his report finished and signed so he’d leave the room, and he still looked like he wanted to set the desk on fire until they thanked him properly,” Yuji continues with a genuine, booming laugh, the annoyance in him disappearing completely. You’re struck, once again, by the sheer surrealism of it—the boy laughing about the man who makes everyone else tremble. "Just try to stay out of his way when he’s like this. If he starts grumbling, just nod and walk away. That’s what I do. Mostly. Well, not really. Sometimes I can't help but talk back, and then I get the 'regret your existence' speech again."

You can’t process the normalcy of his reaction. The words don’t match the memory, and no matter how you try to align them, they refuse to cohere. To you, Sukuna is a jagged, ancient disaster that makes the air toxic; to Yuji, he’s an annoying fixture in his life he has simply learned to live with. The realization leaves you feeling as if you’re the only one who can still smell smoke in a room everyone else has decided is no longer on fire.

Five minutes later, you reach the infirmary, which sits at the edge of campus, slightly removed from everything else. It’s far enough that the noise of the main walkways is softer by the time you reach the door.

Yuji walks in ahead of you like he’s done it a hundred times, which, judging by everything you’ve heard so far, is probably true. You follow him inside, and the sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic hits you.

Shoko is slumped in a swivel chair at a desk cluttered with medical journals and an overflowing ashtray. A cigarette dangles from her lips, releasing a plume of smoke that coils toward the ceiling in a grey ribbon. It completely ignores the "No Smoking" signs plastered on the walls.

Her cursed energy stands in stark contrast to everyone else you’ve met on campus so far. It isn’t the bottomless, crushing void of Satoru, nor the jagged, abrasive storm of Sukuna. Shoko’s energy is flat, quiet, almost silent—a deep, unwavering calm, like the stillness before or after a major weather event.

She doesn't acknowledge either of you immediately, her attention riveted to a chart in her hands. But as the boy approaches her desk, she lets out a dry, rattling sigh.

"Again, Yuji?" she asks, her voice low and weary. She finally lifts her gaze, her dark, tired eyes drifting over the obvious redness that is blooming on the back of the boy's neck. 

Yuji lifts a hand in a loose, almost apologetic, half-defensive gesture, instinctively rubbing the back of his neck as if that might somehow justify his presence.

“It wasn’t my fault this time!” he protests, sounding more annoyed than anything else, like he’s arguing a point that doesn’t matter. “He’s just in one of those moods.”

She pushes herself off the chair and gestures toward one of the examination tables with the lit end of her cigarette. "Sit. Let me see it before you start complaining about the headache you're inevitably going to have.”

Shoko steps closer, her attention fixed on the faint redness at the base of his neck, her fingers brushing lightly over the bruised spot as she leans in to assess it properly.

"Didn't I tell you?" Shoko asks, her voice low and steady as she starts to work. "Didn't Satoru tell you? Why do you keep doing it, Yuji? You know he has zero impulse control when he’s like this. Just don't argue with him.”

You watch, fascinated, as her reversed cursed technique activates. Her energy interacts with the atmosphere, but it doesn't fray or splinter after she uses it, as Sukuna’s energy does. It feels like a quiet, gentle hum, almost like a deep, dreamless sleep. Under the light, almost indifferent touch of her fingers, the angry red of the bruise begins to recede, the swelling flattening out as if the injury were being erased from the timeline.

Yuji clicks his tongue softly, dropping his hand back to his side. “I wasn’t arguing,” he insists, though the defensive edge in his voice makes it abundantly clear he absolutely was. “He just—”

Shoko’s expression doesn’t change until she’s finished. Then, without any warning, she gives him a light, tired slap to the same spot she just finished healing, effectively cutting his protest short. It’s nowhere near as violent as Sukuna’s had been, more like an exasperated older sister than a threat, but Yuji still yelps dramatically.

“Ow—Shoko!”

"That's for ignoring what we told you," she says calmly, her cigarette bobbing slightly as she speaks. "Stop doing that, Yuji. You're not proving anything to anyone, least of all him."

Yuji huffs out a breath, shoulders tightening for a second before relaxing again, the frustration still there but contained. 

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he mutters, though it sounds more like he’s saying it for himself than for her.

Shoko watches him for a moment, shaking her head. “Now, get off my table. Go straight to your room, stay away from the common areas, and for the love of everything, avoid Sukuna until tomorrow morning.”

Yuji grumbles something low under his breath that sounds vaguely like “self-righteousness” and “unfair treatment.” He slides off the table and stretches his arms over his head, looking entirely too refreshed and energetic for someone who just had a physical confrontation with the most dangerous entity in the world.

“Go.” The woman makes a vague, dismissive gesture toward the door with her free hand before turning her chair back toward her desk, a clear dismissal of any further conversation she has simply had too many times already to expend any more energy on.

Yuji opens his mouth to argue further, but then thinks better of it, catching the look in her eye. "Fine, fine. I'm going. See? Good as new. Thanks, Shoko!" He turns to you, gives you one last, bright wave, and then jogs out of the room. "See you later! And thanks for checking on me earlier!"

“And stop picking fights you know you’re not going to win!” Shoko calls after him.

Only after the door slides shut behind him, she turns fully toward you. She leans back, taking a long, slow drag of her cigarette, the smoke temporarily obscuring her face. "Sorry about that. He does that a lot. I’m Ieiri Shoko. You must be the Weaver they dragged in.”

"I am," you manage, offering a small, weary nod as you lower yourself into the chair she has gestured toward, then introduce yourself. "I was told to report here when... when I'm not needed."

"Thank god,” Shoko says, her tone calm, utterly deadpan, and yet subtly amused as she taps ash into the tray before moving to the small counter where an electric kettle sits. "I finally have company. If I have to listen to Gojo complain about his Infinity being lonely one more time, I might actually lose it."

It’s in that moment, sitting in this quiet room, watching a medic make tea while yet again completely ignoring a “No Smoking” sign, that your shoulders drop. For the first time since your arrival at the school, you’re starting to physically relax. It takes a second longer to realize your breathing has settled, too. The adrenaline that has been surging through your system for hours finally begins to recede. You no longer feel like you’re about to collapse; you just feel an incredible, deep tiredness as you think about the physical and mental toll the proximity to Sukuna has taken.

“Tea?” she asks, glancing over briefly.

“Please,” you murmur.

Humming softly in acknowledgment, she reaches for two mugs. While the water heats, she leans against the counter, studying you with calm, half-lidded eyes. “First session with him already?”

You hesitate, then give a slow nod. “Yes. This morning. It was… a lot. Overwhelming.”

"It always is with him, especially in the beginning. You'll get used to it. Or you won't," she says, her tone absolutely devoid of emotional judgment. "Either way, the Higher-Ups will keep sending you back until something sticks.” There’s no malice in her tone, only the flat practicality of watching this cycle play out before. She pours the tea and slides a mug across the table to you. “Here. It’s nothing special, but it’s hot.”

You wrap your fingers around the warm ceramic, the heat seeping into your cold palms, and take a careful sip. The taste is simple, slightly bitter, and grounding, pulling you back into the present moment.

"So," Shoko says, picking up her own mug. “Weaving. I’ve read the reports, of course, but theory’s never the same as practice. You’re smoothing cursed energy, but what does that mean exactly? How does it actually work?” 

“It depends entirely on what I’m dealing with,” you begin slowly, gathering your thoughts. Then, as you continue, the words keep flowing, “Back home, when a sorcerer would come in with deep tissue wounds, even after the injury was stabilized, their own cursed energy would keep irritating the site. Because their energy was... frayed, the splinters would snag on the damaged nerves. It slowed down natural recovery because the injured area was essentially being poked by thousands of microscopic needles from the inside out.”

Shoko nods once, like that part makes perfect sense to her.

“Weaving lets me feel and reach those frays and snags,” you continue, your hands moving in a slow, rhythmic combing motion through the air above your lap. "I let the thin, incredibly fine threads of my own energy comb between them and bind the individual splinters down, gently flattening the frays until the bulk of the energy is smooth and cohesive again."

“And that keeps the energy from further irritating the wounds, right?” When you nod, she adds, “So you’re more… maintenance than treatment.”

“…used to be,” you agree. “Now, my work only matters when massive amounts of energy are already used, and something gets left behind."

“Sukuna?”

You nod again. “With most sorcerers, there’s a slight instability after heavy usage. Their cursed energy gets uneven, but it eventually settles on its own. With him, it doesn’t. His output is so surgically sharp and so massive that when he uses his techniques, what's left behind doesn't return to a stable state. It… breaks apart.”

“Breaks apart how?”

You hesitate, searching for the simplest analogy. “Its structure changes completely. It turns so intensely frayed and jagged that there's no way it smooths out on its own." You glance down briefly, your fingers curling faintly in your lap, still feeling the phantom vibration. “It doesn’t just sit there, either. It builds up, constantly moves, and grinds against itself… and against everything around him.”

Shoko exhales softly through her nose, taps her cigarette, and mutters, “…that would explain the increasing damage.”

“And it would make anyone irritable because, I imagine, it feels like having static electricity constantly sparking under your skin.”

“And you can fix that?” she asks, a flicker of genuine professional curiosity cutting through her usual detachment.

“Technically, yes,” you sigh when the reality crashes in. “Practically, I genuinely didn’t know if I’d be able to keep my hand on him long enough to finish a single section today."

“And… How does it actually feel when you’re working on someone like him?”

You pause, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words for the overwhelming sensory input. "It’s like putting your hands on a running chainsaw. The vibration is... it’s physically exhausting. It’s not just the energy output; it’s the proximity. Being that close to him, touching the areas where the output is highest... it feels like standing next to a transformer that’s about to blow. It certainly doesn’t help that he mocks me the whole time," a flicker of genuine frustration finally cuts through your disorientation. “I think… I think he enjoys that I’m terrified of him. And when I react like that.”

"Sounds about right," Shoko says flatly. "He's a dick, first and foremost.”

She reaches over and picks up a small, ceramic tin from the counter, sliding it across the wood toward you. "Here. It’s a topical analgesic. Not for him—for you. It won't do anything for the fear, but your hands are going to be sore as hell by tomorrow morning if you're pulling that kind of volume and vibration. Use a generous amount."

You pick up the tin, the cool ceramic a welcome weight in your palm, as you process the fact that she’s giving you advice on surviving a long-term, inescapable tenure with him. The idea of a ‘tomorrow morning’ feels like a heavy, terrifying obligation.

“Does everyone here just… live like this?” you ask, looking around the room, seeking some kind of anchor in their normalcy. “You act like he’s a difficult patient, and Yuji treats him like an annoying uncle he can’t avoid. I watched Sukuna almost kill that boy, but an hour later, Yuji was laughing like it never happened.”

Shoko stubs out her cigarette in the tray. "He wasn’t going to kill him. If Sukuna actually decides to kill someone, there’s no ‘almost’ about it. What you saw was him in a bad mood. You need to learn the difference between when he’s irritated and when he actually means it, or you’re going to have a heart attack before the month is out.”

"Is there any… routine here at least? I received an almost empty schedule and zero instructions."

“Routine is a strong word when Sukuna’s involved,” Shoko answers, reaching for a fresh cigarette before pausing to glance at you, considering her words. “Most days, we just do what we’re supposed to. We have classes, missions, piles of reports that the Higher-Ups constantly nag us about.” She lights it, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “And then he decides something’s interesting, or he gets bored, and suddenly it’s everyone’s problem.”

Lovely.

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